the Light
Chapter 1 (Pt 1)
JAG Heardquarters.
The doors of the elevator swooshed open, and its occupant frowned disapprovingly, lingering at the threshold. Part of him hoped that his ride would somehow take longer, that this moment would never come. Secretly he dreaded it; dreaded having to face his coworkers, to withstand their concerned yet curious stares, the endless questions... He couldn't handle that now ... he just couldn't. He feared that any question directed at him would find him in a state of panic, scrambling for an answer; that any careless glance would see right through his fa�ade. He hoped to delay that somehow - much like a condemned man hopes against hope for even
a brief stay of his execution. But he had arrived; his time was up, and, sighing in resignation, Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. slowly and hesitantly stepped onto the main floor of the JAG office.
He felt a cool wave of relief wash over him when he realized that the bullpen was nearly empty. The unending nightmare that drove him out of bed at the break of dawn had also driven him to the office earlier than his usual time; earlier, in fact, than nearly anyone's usual arrival. Thus it inadvertently gave him a few more moments of reprieve that he so badly desired. Harm smiled grimly, appreciating the bitter irony of the situation. Then, giving a brief nervous tug on his uniform jacket to straighten some invisible crease in the impeccably pressed fabric, he walked briskly across the bullpen, heading toward the alluringly familiar confines of his office. He would be safe in there ... at least for a while. He would shut the door, close the blinds, and maybe ...
Abruptly, he cut his own train of thought, realizing just how ridiculous it sounded. He was running, trying to escape both the reality and the nightmare that was haunting him. But, in all honesty, he knew very well that there was nowhere to run.
As if to prove his point, a familiar voice called out his name; a voice that jarred his conscience, breaking through his fragile defenses and stirring up the poorly buried feelings of guilt. The same guilt that sent him on his dreadful journey into the abyss 3 months ago.
A friendly hand lay on his shoulder, and he started involuntarily, bracing himself for the encounter.
"Hello, Bud," he said softly, turning to face the Lieutenant.
"It's good to have you back, Sir." The younger man's face beamed with genuine happiness for his friend's return. But his smile faded, when he noticed the haunted expression that flickered in the other man's eyes at the sight of his cane. The expression disappeared almost instantaneously, replaced by an impenetrable mask of calmness.
"Are you all right, Sir?"
"I'm fine, Bud," he answered with the ease he did not feel. "How've you been holding up?"
"Better," the Lieutenant smiled ruefully. "It's gonna take a little while to get completely used to this thing," he added, lightly
tapping the cane against his prosthetic leg.
Harm cringed visibly at the muffled plastic sound, grateful only that his friend was not looking at him at that moment. The memories came flooding back: the report of Bud's injury; the long, agonizing hours of waiting to learn of his condition; the pallor of Mac's face;
Harriet's tears and her angry hurtful words. "Was she still angry at him, blaming him for what happened?" he wondered. "Probably," an implacable voice responded in his head. "Why shouldn't she be? And so should Bud..."
He drew a shaky breath, snapping out of his reverie just in time to catch the last bit of what Bud was saying to him.
"... I am sorry that we didn't come visit you more often in the hospital. The physical therapy sessions ... I - ... And Harriet was..."
"It's ... okay, Bud, really," he murmured hoarsely, shaking his head in silent disbelief. Why was Bud trying to apologize to him? It
was only natural that Bud wouldn't want to see him after what happened. And neither would Harriet. There was nothing for him to feel sorry about. "I was pretty out of it for most of the time anyway," he added aloud. "I don't really remember much of what went on around me."
That was partially true. His memories of the hospital days were sketchy at best. He did remember one thing, though; one person, whose comforting presence enveloped his whole being, soothing the memories of the horrors of his months in captivity - Mac. He remembered her sitting by his side, her fingers gently caressing the side of his face; her kind brown eyes watching him, glowing with the kind of tenderness that made him feel warm and secure and pushed aside the chilling darkness. He would fall asleep comforted by the knowledge of her presence. He was safe. And now... Mac was away on an assignment in California. A mishap investigation. For the past few days he's been facing the nighttime alone. And with his safety net gone, the darkness claimed him back with a vengeance.
He shook his head again, realizing with a start that Bud has been calling him.
"Commander, are you sure everything is all right?" he asked, concern coloring his voice.
Harm nodded, forcing a light smile on his lips. "Yeah, Bud ... I just got a lot on my mind." He gestured in the direction of his
office. "I guess I'd better get going," he said nonchalantly, "I have a lot of work to catch up on."
The conversation was over. Bud watched him enter the office and close the door behind him. Something was not right with his friend. Something just wasn't right.
"How is he?"
His wife's voice startled him, interrupting his musings, and Bud turned around slowly, meeting her concerned stare.
"I don't know, Harriet," he shrugged, his mind drifting back to the haunted expression in his friend's eyes. "I just don't know..."
He trailed off, uncertain.
Several minutes passed in silence, as they stood motionless by each other's side, their eyes fixed upon the closed office door.
"Maybe you should talk to him," Bud offered finally, shifting uncomfortably on his artificial leg.
"No!" she protested a little too adamantly, as she quickly cast her glance downward, avoiding the questioning look in her husband's eyes. "I just ... I don't think I could face him after what I've said to him that day when you were in the hospital...," she mumbled, the memories of the awful words she hurled at her distraught friend that day making her hot with guilt. "He probably doesn't even want to see me," she added dejectedly. "Why would he?"
Harriet felt her husband's hand on her shoulder and looked up hesitantly, expecting to find pity or reproach in his eyes. She was surprised to see neither.
"I think you're wrong, sweetie," Bud countered softly. "If I know the Commander at all, he's much more likely to shoulder all the blame himself." He recalled his friend's expression at the sight of his cane; his obvious discomfort throughout their conversation, especially around the topic of hospital visits (or lack thereof) on his and Harriet's part, a realization dawning on him. "I think he might believe that we didn't visit him in the hospital because we didn't want to see him. Because we blamed him somehow for what happened to me..."
"But that's not-," she gasped, horrified by his conclusion.
"I know," Bud assured her, lightly squeezing her shoulder. "I know that, but he may not," he added, leaving the phrase hang in the
air.
"Maybe I should go talk to him." Harriet looked at her husband expectantly, and the latter nodded in affirmation, watching as she
collected herself.
"I'll be right here if you need me." He smiled reassuringly, and she nodded in turn, giving him a tight smile before heading over to Harmon Rabb's office.