Beth O'Neill Was Right

March 30, 2004

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.

Author Notes: Many thanks to my tireless, anonymous beta readers. Feedback always welcome at aerm1@aol.com

1900
North of Union Station

How in the hell did we get to this point? There was a time when we brought out the best in each other, both personally and professionally. But now ... now it's the complete opposite. Ever since the Lucas court martial last year, we've turned into two petty, sniping brats who can't even always maintain a professional demeanor in the courtroom. I honestly thought that we'd gotten past whatever it was that had us slicing each other to ribbons every time we spoke in Paraguay, but it turns out I was wrong. We did our best to hurt each other every chance we got on this last case. I know we declared a truce and said we were friends, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time before we're at each other's throats again. And the day will come, I know, when one of us will go beyond forgiveness.

I told myself when I went back to JAG that I would do whatever it took to rebuild our friendship -- that I'd bite my tongue, leave the room, whatever -- before I said anything snide or mean-spirited to Mac. So much for good intentions. That resolution lasted right up until the moment Mac said I had been "playing spy." Christ! If that's what she thinks I was doing, then she doesn't know me at all. I never wanted to be a spook -- never wanted to work for the CIA. All I ever wanted was to be a naval officer. But when I had to choose between my career and Mac's life, I chose her. And the thanks I got is the knowledge that I saved her and Webb so they can be together, and I can be alone. I joined the damn Agency so I could pay my bills -- some of which I incurred traveling to Paraguay. And it wasn't exactly "playing." In her mind, though, I seem to have had a six month vacation from JAG. That's all -- not a thought about the danger, the risks, the times I almost got killed.

And Mac definitely doesn't have a clue about the aching loneliness that still threatens to choke me at times. I was trying to recapture some of our old closeness, but she made the crack about me "playing spy," and I responded in kind. And things went downhill from there, culminating in me embarrassing both of us by my nasty comment in the courtroom about her alcoholism. She was right. It was a low blow. I should have waited till we were in private to point out that she's harder on people with addictions than is reasonable.

I don't even recognize myself anymore. If someone had asked me to come up with a few words to describe myself as recently as seven months ago, I'd have said loyal, compassionate, and dedicated to seeing that truth and justice prevail. But today ... well ... I'm still dedicated to the truth and justice, but I think I'd have to go with bitter and disillusioned for the rest of the description. Every time I think I've gotten over the hurt from what Mac said in Paraguay, she says something that brings it all right back. And the pain is so intense that I lash out at her -- and succeed in making things worse.

You'd think I'd learn. It's not like I haven't survived crushing losses before -- my dad, flying, Diane. I survived all that and went on with my life. So why can't I do that now? Why can't I accept that when Mac said "never," she meant it? Why can't I just ignore the digs about my time in the CIA? Why do I always escalate the situation? Why can't I file all of this under "lessons learned" and move on?

And how long do I need to wait before I can request a transfer to another continent or at least the west coast? If I were thousands of miles away, it would be a whole lot easier to get over Mac. Working with her right now is akin to pouring salt in a wound and rubbing it in with a scrub brush. After every encounter, I come out feeling even more raw than before. Beth was right. I'd know it was over when we talked.

I think I'll call my detailer tomorrow.

The End.