Title: A Kiss To Build A Dream On Author: Anne (Deweycat@yahoo.com) Category: R [Webb/Mac] Rating: G Spoilers: Tribunal Disclaimer: I don't own JAG, wish I did. Feedback: Yes, please. Be gentle please--No flames Archive: Yes. Thanks to Rebecca, my intrepid Beta reader. A Kiss To Build A Dream On When do you fall in love? If you surveyed a hundred happy couples, how many of them could tell you exactly when they fell in love? I could tell you, almost down to the exact second, when I fell in love with Sarah Mackenzie, when I realized that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. It's not like I haven't known Sarah Mackenzie for years; I've worked with her, off and on, for at least six years. She could tell you, if you asked, just how long it's been, down to the second. And, despite all the practice I've had with deniability in the course of my career with the CIA, I can't deny the fact that I've always found Sarah Mackenzie...intriguing. She is "a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma"; in other words, a puzzle, and, God knows, I find it almost impossible to resist a puzzle. Sarah Mackenzie is, without a doubt, one of the most intelligent people I've ever met. She has a way of getting to the heart of an issue—of cutting through the crap—that is almost surgical in its precision. When she's working on an investigation, and Sarah loves a good mystery almost as much as I do, she's capable of making leaps of imagination that can lead to the solution in ways that leave me breathless, and leave her co-workers mystified. It's as if she somehow uses her intuition to find the answer and can then go back and find the evidence that supports that answer. Sarah can be unforgiving to anyone that she feels has betrayed her trust or friendship, and she is more unforgiving to someone who has betrayed a friend than she is to someone that has betrayed her. She is an implacable enemy. She can be overly harsh at times, especially toward other women in the military, when she feels that they are doing a lousy job of representing their gender. But she is most unforgiving toward herself, and toward the mistakes she has made in her life. No one I know has been more demanding of self-perfection than Sarah Mackenzie, and more ready to condemn herself when she hasn't been able to live up to her own impossibly high standards. But, at the same time, she can be unfailingly kind. The times that she has been caught between two conflicting loyalties have almost torn her apart emotionally. Sarah has an amazingly kind heart, which she tries very carefully to conceal under the façade of being a tough- as-nails Marine. If you're wondering why she conceals it, it is out of necessity—because she has learned, the hard way, that most people mistake kindness for weakness, and this is one lady who refuses to show any weakness in public. But that kindness exists, nonetheless— all you have to do is take one look at her dog, Jingo, to figure out that facet of Sarah Mackenzie's personality. One thing that Sarah has not yet figured out, however, is that sometimes it's cruel to be kind—witness her disastrous relationship with Mic Brumby. She didn't want to hurt Mic by telling him that she didn't love him, and, in the long run she ended up hurting him all the more. Sarah is incredibly vulnerable and incredibly tough, at the same time. She very carefully hides her weaknesses—all those things that she sees as liabilities—behind carefully constructed defenses. She's had years of practice at protecting herself, and her walls are formidable indeed. It's not very often that a crack in those defenses appears, or that Sarah feels comfortable enough with someone to voluntarily let them down. I find the most intriguing series of walls that Sarah Mackenzie has crafted to be the use of her name. At work, or when she feels the need to keep her distance, she is Colonel Mackenzie. With friends, she is Mac. But when does she allow herself to be Sarah? Who is lucky enough to be allowed the intimacy of using that name with her? I long to discover the answer to that question, and pray that someday I'll be allowed to call her "Sarah" someplace other than in my dreams. I find it ironic that one of the most beautiful women I've ever known should be so unaware of her own attractiveness. But, despite her best efforts to `hide her light under a bushel', as the saying goes, Sarah Mackenzie is often the most beautiful woman in any room. I sometimes think that her total lack of awareness of the way she looks, and the effect it has on men, only draws more attention to her beauty. I would imagine that Sarah has had more than her share of encounters with people who can't, or won't, look past her appearance, and who judge her on her ability, who simply make assumptions about her, because of the way she looks. And there are those who will always assume that Sarah Mackenzie has gotten where she has by using her looks to advance her career. The truth, I would imagine, is that Sarah has long seen her beauty more as a disadvantage to be overcome than as an asset to be taken advantage of. It is an interesting conundrum that, because of her job, Sarah is able to camouflage her attractiveness behind the utilitarian Marine uniforms. She uses those green and khaki clothes to help create an impenetrable armor, adding yet one more layer to her natural defenses. If someone asked me, I could catalogue her features one by one, detailing what is it about them that makes them beautiful individually, and how they come together to create true beauty. I've heard some people say that her eyes are the color of chocolate, but I don't think that's quite right. Her eyes are the exact color of the best, aged whiskey—the kind of whiskey whose flavor is incredibly subtle—smooth and fiery, all at the same time. The kind of whiskey that, once tasted, is never forgotten. The kind of whiskey that, once enjoyed, allows for no substitutes. The kind of whiskey that Sarah, because of her battles with alcohol, can never safely taste again. I sometimes think that it is her oh-so-expressive eyes that intrigue me the most. Behind the barrel of a gun, they are the eyes of a killer, remorseless, cold, calculating. There's a song—I can't remember the name of the band that sang it… "Sarah, Sarah, storms are brewing in your eyes..." Whenever I hear it, it makes me wonder if the author ever received a reprimand from someone like Sarah Mackenzie. Having been one of those on the receiving end of an angry outburst by that Marine, I can assure you that no one who has will ever forget it. The only outward sign of her anger is the expression in her eyes—her voice never rises above a conversational tone, even while she's shredding your soul to pieces. When her eyes look at an opponent, in or out of the courtroom, they are coolly appraising. But when they see a friend, a baby, a child, those eyes are unbelievably warm and full of affection. And when they look at a lover? That's the mystery that keeps all of us so enthralled. When you see eyes like Sarah's, you understand why Middle Eastern culture demands that women go veiled—the unspoken promise in those eyes could drive a man to murder—and has, on at least one occasion. I could talk for days about her legs, long and slender—a dancer's legs. How I've dreamed about having those legs wrapped around me, in the throes of making love. And have I mentioned her mouth? Those lovely lips, full and sweet, that can smile at you like an angel, or berate you like the toughest Drill Instructor the Marine Corps ever produced. A mouth made for kissing; a mouth made for sin. A mouth with a touch so gentle, so tender, that you'd swear that touch was made by butterfly wings. A mouth that offers kisses so hot, so soul searing, that the promise of touching those lips could drive a man to distraction. Unfortunately, being distracted, in my line of work, can get people killed. And that's what nearly happened at the Darya Bulkh Valley Detention Center, in Afghanistan. I let myself get distracted, for just a moment, by Sarah's presence, and I ended up almost getting her killed. I can't say that I fully understand the relationship between Sarah Mackenzie and Harmon Rabb, Jr., but I think I see it more clearly than most people do. Friends? Yes. Colleagues? Yes. Opponents in the courtroom? Yes. Lovers? Somehow, I don't think so. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but my instincts tell me that the kind of chemistry between two lovers doesn't seem to be there, somehow. Maybe it was there, at one time, but no longer. Maybe too much time, and too much heartache—on both sides—has made that kind of relationship between the two of them impossible, and, somehow, unnecessary. You might tell me that I'm deluding myself, but, in my line of work, you learn to rely on your instincts, and those instincts are seldom mistaken. Because of the nature of JAG lawyers, where all of the attorneys have played equally the roles of investigators, prosecuting attorneys, and defense lawyers, Rabb and Sarah Mackenzie have spent many hours on opposing side of cases, in and out of the courtroom. Neither one can stand to lose, or, perhaps more correctly, can stand to let the other win, and they've developed an intensely competitive quality to their relationship, the kind of edge that is more often seen in relationships among men than between men and women. So, when I needed one of the JAG lawyers to accompany me to the detention center for Al-Quaeda prisoners in Afghanistan, little did I know that a simple request would turn into a cut-throat competition between the two best attorneys in the JAG stable. Of course, I should have known, given Rabb's competitive streak. Rabb, as usual, insisted on going with me. Lieutenant Bud Roberts, however, pointed out that Mac was the more logical choice to go, given her language skills, because she might actually have a chance of getting some information out of one of the prisoners. At which point, the whole situation turned into a pissing contest between Rabb and Roberts. But, I have to admit, it was kind of nice to see Rabb on the losing end, for once, even if the result was a near disaster. We arrived at the Detention Center, met with General Abdullah, and met up with Victor Galindez, the Gunnery Sergeant who used to manage the JAG Ops office. The four of us threaded our way through the maze of tents containing both working and living quarters for U.N. personnel, U.S. military staff, and the ever-present Red Cross, finally reaching our goal, the compound where a number of Al Quaeda prisoners of war were being temporarily held. I can remember thinking, at some point, that Sarah, even in her unflattering khakis and green t-shirt, was a lovely sight, maybe too lovely a sight to place before men who had spent weeks, if not months, imprisoned in a detention camp with no female companionship. On sober reflection, I know that I should have listened to my instincts, which were screaming that the prisoner compound was no place for a woman. I should have insisted that the prisoners be brought to us, one at a time, and only after being thoroughly searched for anything that could be used as a weapon. But I didn't. I let myself be distracted. And I almost let Sarah get killed. I suddenly understand, with crystalline clarity, why we're not supposed to get emotionally involved in the people we work with, whether agents, contacts, or operatives. It's damned hard to watch a friend, let alone someone infinitely more precious, face a dangerous situation, a situation that you might, somehow, have prevented or ameliorated. I know, when this is all over and I'm back home in D.C., that I'm going to have to think long and hard about whether I can afford to work this closely with Sarah Mackenzie again, at least in potentially dangerous situations. I fear that I will react in one of two ways: I'll either be overly-protective, surrounding her with so many conditions and protections that she won't be able to do her job, and she'll despise me for it; or, worse, I'll try to over- compensate for those feelings of protectiveness, and thrust her into situations that are even more dangerous, and she'll get hurt, or worse, and I'll hate myself for it. If I do the first, I'll lose her respect; if I do the second, I risk losing her. That Sarah didn't get killed, or badly hurt this time, is no thanks to me. When I saw that brute holding a knife to her throat, threatening her life, I wanted to agree to anything he'd asked, just to keep her safe. I wanted to forget about how essential the information he might have could be, I wanted to forget about the hundreds, or maybe hundred of thousands, of lives that might depend on getting that information, and getting it in a timely manner. But I couldn't. And Sarah wouldn't have thanked me for it, if I had forgotten—she knows her priorities as well as I do, if not better. Luckily, the question never really arose. Sarah kept her head—acting like the consummate professional she is, the one that I've always trusted to get the job done, and get it done correctly, the first time. That she came out of that compound physically unharmed was not due to my abilities as a marksman, although it's not that I don't have the shooting skills to have handled the situation. After all, I've competed in an Olympic event that features shooting as one of its components. But, unfortunately, the prisoners were watching me closely, because I was the man in charge of this excursion, and I never got the chance to do anything but give her the signal to move on her own. Anyway, despite everything, we all got out of there alive—with the exception of the one prisoner we'd come to see, who lost his life to the exceptional marksmanship skills of Victor Galindez. And, as suddenly as the situation had escalated, it was just as suddenly over. Galindez and General Abdullah went back to the command tent to make the requisite reports to the necessary authorities about what had happened, while I accompanied Sarah to the medical tent, wanting to make sure that she had suffered no ill effects from our little adventure. I knew that there's be more than just A.J. Chedwiggen back on the Sea Hawk waiting to break my nose, or worse, this time, if she came to any harm while under my care. After all, in addition to the Admiral, both Rabb and Roberts were still on board, and, as friends and colleagues of Sarah's, they'd undoubtedly want a piece of me, too. I was leading Sarah, who was protesting loudly all the way, toward the medical tent, when, she suddenly stopped short. I looked over at her, to see all the color drain out of her face and her legs suddenly become wobbly, like the legs of a new born foal. The sudden surge of adrenaline from the fight in the prisoner's compound, which had sustained her for the past five minutes, had subsided without warning, and she was, all of a sudden, feeling the after effects of that life-threatening situation. Before I knew what was happening, she was in my arms, her face pressed against my shoulder. To this day, I honestly couldn't tell you whether it was Sarah, or me, who made the first contact. At first, she wasn't really crying, but her eyes were suspiciously bright, and she was trembling. And I found that I was shaking, too; whether from a reaction to what had happened, or to her closeness, I couldn't say. But I do know that I was completely blown away. Sarah Mackenzie, the most composed and controlled woman I've ever known— Hell, the most composed and controlled *person*, man or woman, I've ever known, outside myself—was giving me control, was showing me just how much she trusted me. It was the best gift anyone has ever given me—she was letting me see her, the real Sarah Mackenzie, with all of her defenses down, at her most vulnerable. And, best of all, in some perverse way, was that I knew that she'd never allowed, and probably never will allow, the other men in her life, the men she works with every day, to see this side of her. A.J. Chegwidden wouldn't know what to do, were he ever faced with a Sarah Mackenzie in this condition; it would probably just embarrass him. He's never allowed himself to treat Sarah as more than a subordinate and colleague, to treat her also as a friend. And, for all I know, maybe he's correct to keep those boundaries so carefully delineated. After all, Chegwidden is her commanding officer, and the Navy does not view fraternization as a minor infraction; it would be dangerously easy to cross a line that couldn't be uncrossed, where this woman is involved. Rabb is a different kettle of fish. I think that Sarah would have let Rabb see her, and all of her vulnerabilities, but only in return for him allowing her the same luxury. And Rabb's never going to give someone, especially a woman, that much control over him. And I think that Sarah realizes that, after all this time. Whether Rabb realizes it or not, he has created his own desert of loneliness, when he had a chance at paradise. Tough. I can feel sympathy for him—after all, I've suffered many of the same kinds of losses that he has, but, at least I hope that I've learned with whom it's appropriate to let down my defenses, and when it's appropriate to surrender control. And, while I can sympathize with him for another loss, one he doesn't yet realize he has suffered, I plan on giving thanks, fasting, every day for the rest of my life, for my own opportunity, celebrating the possibility of creating something, a life maybe, with this extraordinary woman. She finally stopped trembling, and then she cried, just a little. While I wasn't going to abuse the gift of trust she had given me by asking her to stop crying, or by ignoring it, as if it had never happened, I have to say that, on a certain level, she was scaring me to death. Is there anything more frightening, or more astonishing to a man, than a strong woman in tears? I really didn't know what I should do, so I let my instincts run the show. I just held her, letting her cry, murmuring into her hair, knowing that she couldn't really hear what I was saying, but being soothed by the sounds, nonetheless. I stroked her hair, reveling in the silky feel of it, and thinking to myself that she had the most intriguing scent—it was a strange and exotic mix of perfume and sweat and gun oil and woman, and was uniquely Sarah. I enjoyed every second of it, even as I told myself that I was a total bastard for doing so. After an eternity, probably only a minute or two later, Sarah stopped crying. For a moment, we both continued to stand there, simply holding each other. Then Sarah stepped back a half step, went up on her toes, and brushed my lips with hers. And changed my life and my dreams forever. What can I say about that kiss that wouldn't make it sound ordinary and commonplace? It was a kiss like no other I've ever experienced, and it did things to me, and to my imagination, that I could have never dreamed up on my own—and, believe me on this, I have a pretty vivid imagination. It was a kiss to build a dream on, to build a life around, to build a future with. There was so much promise, so much tenderness, in that brief moment of contact, that, in that instant, I knew, with a terrible clarity, that I not only loved her, I was *in* love with her. I am in love with Sarah Mackenzie. I want her in my life, I want her in my bed, I want to make her my wife, I want her to be the mother of my children, I want to grow old next to her, I want to die in her arms. But, most of all, I want her to be happy, and I will do anything within my power to see that she *is* happy. I'm hoping that her happiness will include me, but even if it doesn't, her happiness is now the most important motivation in my life. I felt so much, and yet, I couldn't speak. The awful irony of the situation amuses me now. After all, I'm known for my way with words. And, there I was, literally unable to say a single, solitary word, let alone anything that could express even one one-hundredth of what I was feeling. Which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing. Had she been confronted with a madman, babbling incoherently about love, marriage, and children, Sarah would probably have started proceedings to have me committed. Or, worse, have run for the hills, never to be seen again. In the past, she's faced too many men, making too many demands, for things she couldn't give them. I am determined to never demand anything from her that she can't freely offer me. Even if that leaves me with the cold comfort of being nothing more than a friend and colleague. But, I take hope from one small fact. Some small measure of what I was feeling must have shown itself on my face, because she gave me a gentle smile, and ran her index finger over my lips, like she couldn't quite believe it, herself. The smile was amazing, in and of itself—there wasn't a bit of superiority in it, just a gentle humor, directed both at us and at our situation. Amusement that here, in a place of death and destruction, in a place of hatred and war, we had discovered, in that kiss, in each other, something more timeless, more enduring, and more profound than the ugliness that surrounded us. And, though a prisoner of war camp, with transport waiting to take us back to a naval vessel of a country at war, was not an appropriate place for heartfelt declarations or spoken promises of the future, I am hopeful that, when I do finally get to return home, there just might be someone and something worth returning to. The End The title was was inspired by an old Louis Armstrong song that kept running through my mind as I was writing this. The lyrics follow: A Kiss To Build A Dream On (Words and Music by Bert Kalmar, Harry Ruby and Oscar Hammerstein II) Gimme a kiss to build a dream on And my imagination Will thrive upon that kiss Sweetheart, I ask no more than this A Kiss to build a dream on Give me a kiss before you leave me And my imagination Will feed my hungry heart Leave me one thing before we part A kiss to build a dream on When I'm alone with my fancies I'll be with you Weaving romances Making believe they're true Oh, gimme your lips for just a moment And my imagination Will make that moment live Give me what you alone can give A kiss to build a dream on Gimme a kiss to build a dream on And my imagination Will thrive upon that kiss Sweetheart, I ask no more than this A Kiss to build a dream on Give me a kiss before you leave me And my imagination Will feed my hungry heart Leave me one thing before we part A kiss to build a dream on When I'm alone with my fancies I'll be with you Weaving romances Making believe they're true Oh, gimme your lips for just a moment And my imagination Will make that moment live Give me what you alone can give A kiss to build a dream on