Trading Dreams

AN: As usual, this story wrote itself in my head and all I had to do was, well, write it. The writing-style is new to me, so I hope it works out. Let me know! Oh…and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own. No money. No sue.

Spoilers: Everything until end season four. Alternative take on season five. One-shot!

Here we go…

Prologue: HARM

You wanted this. You were so sure of it. For as long as you could recall, this was your dream. And for the first time in years you are back living it.

Than what the fck is wrong with you?

Sure, for the first few weeks it was everything you were convinced yourself it would be. You showed them, showed yourself who's boss, who's master. Even the fact you are about ten years senior to most of them can't really get to you. Their jibes of you being the grandpa of the troops didn't hurt you one bit.

They still don't, that's not the point. But something's…off. You don't get that buzz, that vibe anymore. There's no jet-fuel in your veins anymore, the smell of the ocean mixed with after burn is no longer your favorite perfume. Even if you pull mag-7, even if you hit target every single time, even if your landings are close to damn perfect…the thrill, the zest. It's just not there, just…gone.

You've talked about it. First to Skates. She's your RIO, not to mention your friend. She could sense something was wrong with you, almost before you felt it yourself. She had to drag it out of you, but once she did, you were glad, relieved to get it out of your system.

After Skates, you talked to Tuna, in need of a male's point of view, then to the CAG when you needed a father's opinion and he was the closest father figure you could think of. All to find the reason.

And of course you know the reason, even if Skates (as a woman) needed to point it out to you, shove it in your face, rub your nose in it until there was no option left but to confess.

You are homesick. You miss D.C. Your apartment, your job, your friends. You hadn't even thought of bringing your guitar.

You miss her. Desperately so. The loss cutting through your system like a razor blade, leaving no place for any other dreams but the ones about her. Sometimes they're the good kind, where you two get you act together and a lot of steamy scenes follow after that. Sometimes they're the bad kind, where you get separated, never to see each other again. Either way, you wake up in a sweat. And missing her.

Not even a Tomcat can apparently replace her. It's her perfume you want to smell. Her skin you want to caress instead of the metal of your bird. Her body you want to hug instead of the male brotherly hugs you share with other pilots after a successful mission. And you crave to see a real female body, especially after showering with only males around you. And to compromise poor Skates? Oh, poor Skates your backside, no doubt she'd slap you with anything but a lawsuit. Not the point.

So now, now you know. Know the reason behind the feeling. And know what you have to do about it.

Are you gonna miss it? Of course you are. Miss the flying, miss Skates, Tuna, CAG…but your mind is made up. It took only a few phone calls, a few headshakes and a farewell party which left you with the mother of all hangovers, but now…you are coming home.

And you couldn't have picked a better day.

MAC

Happy birthday to you. Sure, whatever. This is, no doubt about it, gonna be the worst birthday since your fifteenth, when your mother finally had had enough.

If it were up to you alone, you would gladly opt to stay in bed all day feeling sorry for yourself, crawling underneath your covers as far as possible without suffocating (would that be so bad, by the way?) and maybe even allow yourself to have the ultimate 'I'm-over-thirty-and-I'm-gonna-die-an-old-spinster' cry.

Reminded even more of the sad fact by the scent of the pillowcase you 'borrowed' from his linen closet.

But even though it's a Saturday and technically, you could do just that, unfortunately, Harriet insisted on throwing you a party and you didn't have the heart to turn her down.

It's her way of letting you know she feels sorry for you. She isn't crazy. She knows. She never says anything, but she notices the bags underneath your eyes, hears your snaps, is the victim of your short fuse…she knows.

You miss him. You ache for him. Find yourself making excuses to drive by and even enter his apartment, glad he hasn't given up on it. Maybe it means he might, someday, want to inhabit it again. For now, you regularly 'check his mail' (it's being forwarded to him), 'water his plants' (the one you brought yourself so that he did have one to water') and think of any other excuse you can find. And whenever you are there, you are just roaming around in his place, picturing him sitting there with you to work on a case, or cooking for you…you are torturing yourself and there is nothing you can do about it.

So no, this is by no means a happy birthday. And you don't feel like playing nice with your coworkers. Crappy party. Why couldn't Harriet just leave well enough alone, huh? But hey, she means well and you are a Marine, so you will get through this day and through this party even if it kills you. You're just gonna have to save your tears for the solitude of the night.

The sound of the doorbell shakes you out of your stupor and you pad over barefoot, clad in one of his oversized shirts (the one you stole from him years ago that says 'property of the US Navy'), not caring one bit who's gonna see you in your less then decorative state.

You open the door to see a young delivery boy holding out a bouquet of lovely yellow roses (your favorite flower) and a manila folder. Upon careful inspection, the folder seems to have the Navy crest on it. Odd. Legal papers aren't usually delivered by young teens on inline skates and don't usually come with roses either.

Patiently, the boy holds both items out to you and you smile apologetically before you take it. You want to sign for delivery on the dotted line, but the boy (isn't he a little too young to be having this job?) just shrugs. You don't know that this is not a job, that he was just asked (and given a crisp five dollar bill) to take this flowers to this address. That he hasn't asked why the man couldn't bring them himself, since they were only a block away. But hey, for a kid his age, five dollars is a lot of money and he'd be crazy not to take it, right? But you don't know all this when he shrugs again and skates off.

Skates…Harm's RIO. Harm. You miss him. Damn it.

Still puzzled, you take the flowers inside. There's a thick card perched between the buds and you take it out, reading it with a curious frown forming on your face.

Happy Birthday, Marine!

Your gift's in the folder.

Harm.

Curiosity is quickly getting the better of you, but you force yourself to tend to the roses first; you don't want them to wilt.

But as soon as you're done, you sit down on your couch and open the folder.

Designation papers. Harm's name on them, his signature underneath. It puzzles you. Why would he want you to have these? You read them again, there must be some angle here you're missing.

It says here, black on white:

Harmon Rabb junior, United States Navy, transferring from…

That's when it hits you. He's coming back. Harm's coming back!

Another ring of your doorbell almost makes you jump out of your skin, engrossed as your brain was in dealing with this new info. You notice you're shaking as you stand. Whoever it is on the other side has little patience, cause the ringing won't cease. You hurry to open, you don't wanna disturb the entire building.

You yank open the door, but everything you wanna say gets clotted in your throat as you see him standing there. He looks shy, vulnerable. He looks amazing. And he's right there in front of you.

Without thinking, you throw yourself at him and he catches you instinctively, although he has to take a step back due to the momentum.

For long, long moments you just stand there in the hallway of your apartment building wrapped up in his embrace and nothing has ever felt this good before. You don't know why, or for how long he's here, but all that matters is that he is.

Finally, he lets go of you and nods to the living room, indicating it would be better if you close the door to the public and get some more privacy. Clearly, he has a lot on his mind. When he sits down on your couch, you sit next to him, giving him space to start talking. When it remains silent for too long, you realize you have to give him something, anything he can use as an opening.

"Thanks for the roses. They're wonderful."

"Your welcome. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks."

Another silence, but this time, you decide to let him be the first. He has to feel you're as nervous as he is.

"Have…ehm…have you seen your gift?"

"I have."

"So you know what this means, right?"

"You're coming back to JAG."

"I am, but do you know why?"

You think you do, you hope you do, but you're so afraid to be wrong, you don't know what to say for quite some time. But again, you have to give him some kind of answer. Maybe if you tell him what you hope is the reason…here goes nothing. Semper-Fi…

"You miss JAG?"

So it's not too revealing, but you hope he can hear the true meaning by the tone of your voice. All he has to do is just replace one word by another. Then again, since when is Harm any good at reading between the lines?

He nods, his gaze seeking yours, his hands fidgeting until you grab a hold of them.

"I do miss JAG. But Mac…I miss you. I'm coming back for you."

Is he saying what you think he is? He's nervous, you know, but would he be this nervous if all he wants is your friendship? Can this possibly, really mean what you want it to mean?

You want to ask, but then again, you don't. What if it's not, if he's not…what if you're misinterpreting this whole thing here? Wouldn't be the first time.

You've temporarily forgotten that it's your birthday, and that surprises are mandatory on a day like this. And a surprise he has.

"Am I making the right decision here, Mac?"

"In coming back?"

"Coming back for you. Trading in my childhood dream for a more mature one. For a future…for a future I want to have with you?"

Dear Lord. You can hear yourself gasp, you can feel wetness pooling in your eyes, but your brain is working overtime and heading for a short circuit.

"Mac? Sarah?"

The sound of your given name on his lips kick-starts your system back in working mode and for the second time in nine minutes and fifty-one seconds you fling yourself in his arms, your lips hungrily seeking out his and all you can do is hold on for dear life as he responds.

His tears of relief are mingling with yours and even though it's a salty taste, no other kiss has ever been this sweet. When you finally let go due to serious hyperventilation risk, he grins at you foolishly but lovingly, before, panting, he finds his voice again.

"Definitely the right decision."

You laugh and he kisses you again.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Happy birthday, Sarah"

It is. The best birthday ever. You're not gonna die an old spinster. Harm's back.

THE END

Thanks for reading. Reviews appreciated as usual.