No Strings Attached

Pairing: Mac/Gunny, kinda implied Harm/Mac

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Vague references (I mean really vague, blink and you'll miss 'em) to the events in Lifeline, Adrift 1&2 and maybe a couple eps after that, Jag-a-thon… Set sometime this season, although a parallel timeline (that'll be more evident when I write the sequel).

Disclaimer: DPB and CBS and Paramount own these characters, not me. If I did, the show would be a little more *interesting* … and it wouldn't be able to air on network television. <g>

Feedback:Always welcome. Might help feed the resident starving artist. Send to stacey2545@yahoo.com

Author's Note: Initially written in response to the baby oil challenge on DogTagsJAGMature, it somehow got turned into my creative writing class (minus the smut, of course) before being posted on the list. All right, so there's no baby oil. But I plan on writing a sequel (when finals aren't looming before me and I can reclaim half my sanity)… I think I can work baby oil in then.

"I'm sorry but that's just the way I feel. What do you think?"

I look up from my cup of coffee and blink dumbly. I feel a twinge of guilt. Here's my best friend asking me some big important question and I haven't been listening to a word he's saying.

Harm sets the coffee pot back in the Mr. Coffee on the counter. "Mac? You okay?" he asks. A wrinkle mars his brow as he looks at me.

Suddenly self-conscious, I stand straight, moving away from the counter I'd been leaning against in the cramped break room.

"Yeah, why?"

He points to the cup of coffee I was absently stirring. "For starters, you like your coffee strong and black. You just added ten teaspoons of sugar to half a cup of weak coffee."

"Oh." I peer down into my mug where I can see the soggy sugar heaped up like sand. As if the answer to my problems could possibly be found in the bottom of a super-saturated solution of sugar and coffee. I probably shouldn't be drinking coffee anyway. Not if I'm…

I throw it in the trash, not thinking about it until I hear the crash of ceramic when it hits the bottom. Oh well, I wasn't too fond of that mug anyway.

Harm looks at me strangely again. "Mac, are you sure you're okay? You … haven't exactly been yourself lately."

I play innocent. Wide-eyed, I ask, "Really? What makes you say that?"

He snorts, and stares down into the dark coffee in his cup. Black. Black and steaming, the way I like it. The smell makes me nauseous. I wipe sweaty palms on my uniform skirt.

"For starters, Mac, you've been moody, irritable," he starts ticking them off on his fingers, "distracted, daydreaming during briefings, showing up late to court. I know you've been sick, not that you'd admit it, which may be part of it, but …"

"What makes you think I'm sick?"

"You mean besides everything I just listed? How about the nausea and dizzy spells?" He puts a hand on my shoulder. "You look exhausted. You should get some rest."

Thanks, Harm. I've been trying to forget about that. I don't want to remember what that could possibly mean.

I sigh. Time to cut this short. "Commander, thanks for your concern," I say curtly, addressing him by rank to let him know our little heart-to-heart is over. "But I'm fine. Just a little … stressed."

Before he can say another word, I turn and cross the bullpen, desperately seeking the solitude of my office. The bullpen's loud as always, phones ringing, copiers running. Bud is growling at the fax machine, jammed again; half the staff mills around watching the latest footage from Afghanistan on the bank of televisions on the wall. I weave my way through the chaos, not slowing down until safely ensconced in my office.

I slump down in my chair and stare morosely at the calendar on my desk. Seventeen days. Two and a half weeks.

For the hell of it, I count them again. Nope, still seventeen. Fuck.

I'm still staring at the calendar when he comes by.

"Colonel? Here're the files you asked for."

He's standing in the doorway holding up the aforesaid files. The khaki uniform shirt stretches tight over his chest, the white cotton of his undershirt peeking out provocatively from the collar. The crisp white makes his skin look even tanner.

He takes a hesitant step into my office and holds the folders out to me. Not surprising he doesn't want to get any closer than absolutely necessary. Just coming by himself instead of getting one of the yeomen to drop it off is an improvement.

"Uh, thanks, Gunny." I don't make any motion to take them from him and he's forced to come farther into the room. He must have gotten a haircut. His high-and-tight looks crisper, the dark hair on the sides so short it looks like a five o'clock shadow, on top just long enough to feel soft beneath my fingertips. Not that I'll get a chance to find out anytime soon. Damn, he looks good.

He takes a look at the mess on my desk. There must be thirty folders stacked haphazardly around the edges, worse than usual. A pile threatens to topple to the floor but it clings to the edge like it can't make up its mind. The white paper of my desk calendar in the middle stands out. I'm sure he notices. Whether he knows what it means is anyone's guess.

He's standing next to me now, dropping the folders in the middle on top of the calendar.

"Ma'am? You okay?" No one would think his concern out of place, just the normal concern of one colleague for another, but I can hear in his voice the effort it takes to keep the question professional and professional only. I guess we're both using protocol to hide behind.

"Why is everyone asking me that today?" I intended to make a joke out of it, but my voice comes out sounding sad and forlorn.

He casts a furtive glance over his shoulder at the bullpen, as paranoid as I am that someone will see us, and take it the wrong way. Or maybe the right way. Looking back at me, he takes a deep breath.

"No offense, Mac, but you look like hell."

Irritated now, I grab the nearest pile and start straightening it, if only to have something to occupy my hands so I don't wrap them around his throat. Or something worse.

"Gee, Gunny. You really know the way to a girl's heart." Shit. I did not just say that. That was hardly the best choice of words, all things considered.

He now looks a lot more worried. He glances back at the bullpen again. Everyone's going about their usual business. They could care less that he's in here. It's not like Gunny and I could be possibly be doing anything untoward in here, right?

"Something you wanna talk about, ma'am?"

I sigh. "Close the hatch." He lifts an eyebrow but does as he's told and shuts the door.

Safe from the prying eyes of the office, he walks around to my side of the desk and, after shoving a stack of files out of the way, perches himself on the corner. Except for an awkward moment in the break room two weeks ago, this is the closest he's been to me in a month. I can smell his aftershave-he's changed it-and the unique scent that I swear I can still smell lingering on my pillowcases no matter how many times I've washed them.

"What's wrong, Mac?" He crosses his arms over his chest. His voice is gentle and the tension that's been between us for the last month just melts away. He really is concerned.

"I'm late. I'm never late."

I shouldn't have just blurted it out like that. Men need … preparation for these kind of statements, otherwise they say the first damn thing that comes to mind and it usually isn't the right one. I resist the urge to babble and bite my lip, waiting for a response.

It takes a moment but when it clicks his eyes get big. He clears his throat nervously. Damn. There's that tension again.

"How late? Like, a few days late? Or…"

"Two and a half weeks," I mutter. He uncrosses his arms and grips the edge of the desk like he needs the extra support. He looks rather shell-shocked. He doesn't say it, but I know it bothers him that I waited so long to say anything.

"I didn't want to say anything until I was sure." That lame excuse is all I can offer him and I can tell by the way he clenches his jaw that he's biting back whatever angry retort he wants to say. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, crossing and recrossing my legs while I wait for him to say something. He doesn't.

"I, uh, bought a test, but I haven't taken it yet." Saying it out loud makes it sound ridiculous. Who the hell waits two and a half weeks to take a pregnancy test? Apparently I do.

Suddenly, I feel claustrophobic, boxed in by the wall, the desk, and the gunnery sergeant I never should have slept with. I shove my chair back and, avoiding him, I squeeze through the narrow gap between my filing cabinet and the desk. I cross the office to the window and stare out it, arms hugging my chest.

"I'm afraid of what it'll say."

"What do you want it to say?" The question throws me for a minute. I hadn't been expecting him to ask that. Maybe the anticipated "is it mine?" or even "what do you want to do about it?". But not that.

"I don't know," I finally say. "Maybe that's what scares me." The last part is said on a sob. Shit. Angrily, I wipe away a tear.

I can feel him behind me. He wants to touch me, to hold me. I know he does. But he doesn't. Neither of us can drop decorum that much. Not in uniform, not in the office. Instead, he stands there behind me, fists clenched at his sides, and waits, his breath light on my neck.

"Mac, whatever happens, no matter what the test says or what you decide, you know I'm here for you, right?"

I nod numbly. Of course, I do, Victor. The fact that we haven't been able to even speak to each other in weeks couldn't possibly have something to do with why I need to actually hear you say it, could it? Since that night we've hardly managed to act professional at the office. We avoid each other whenever possible, to the extent of taking the extra-long way around the building so I don't have to pass his desk. Most people haven't noticed, or if they have they haven't said anything. Except Harm.

Harm and I had been in the break room getting coffee a couple days after when Victor came in. As soon as he saw me the tension thickened. Harm would've had to have been blind to not notice it. Victor had quickly gotten his coffee, and rushed out. Harm made some joke, asking if Gunny and I had had a lover's quarrel. God, if he only knew.

"Mac?" His hand on my arm draws me out of my reverie.

I blink druggedly and look up at him, my gaze drawn to his strong jaw, sensuous lips… I don't think there's an inch of his skin left that I don't know intimately well.

"Mac, why don't I take you home? I'll tell the admiral you're not feeling well, which is the truth, and I don't think you should be driving." Which I'm sure is also true.

I was all ready to argue with him about it. But then I see the worry and the fear in his eyes. And I see something else. Not lust, not respect or camaraderie, or any of the other things that our relationship was based on.

I nod mutely and collect my things.

All day it seemed like the only thing I could think about was Victor. Victor kissing me, Victor ripping his uniform off, Victor pounding into me like there was no tomorrow… My day was absolute hell. The worst part was he knew exactly what I was thinking about.

He teased me all day. A bemused grin here, a subtle comment there. At one point he even brushed past me in the bullpen and made sure to caress my ass as he did so. I had been talking to Harm and he never even noticed, thank God. I can only imagine what he would say if he knew about me and Victor, about our extracurricular activities. Chivalry Incarnate would throw the book at Don Juan, if he didn't just kill him to avenge my honor and protect my reputation. Sometimes having a man for a best friend really sucks.

I ended up staying late that night to finish some paperwork that should have been done weeks ago. By the time I got home I was just one bundle of frazzled nerves. I wanted sex. I wanted sex with Victor. I wanted sex with Vic now!

But that wasn't going to happen. At 1430, just about the time I was ready to say to hell with regs and just screw Vic in the back corner of the stockroom, Bud enlisted Gunny's help with an interview and dragged him down to Norfolk. It would be late when they drove back, if they drove back tonight at all. Vic gave me an apologetic shrug as he gathered his stuff, but an apologetic shrug wasn't going to give me release right now.

Instead, I've stopped fantasizing about sex with Vic. No, let's be honest here. I've stopped fantasizing about sex with Vic every moment. Now one in three thoughts are about killing the lieutenant. And just like all my fantasies with Victor seem to come true, this one will too. Harriet might get a little pissed, but she'll get over it. If she knew what sex with Vic was like, she'd understand. Just so long as she didn't try to steal my man.

Steal my man? He's not my man. We're friends. Just friends… who happen to have a lot of sex. It's not like there's any love involved. Respect, friendship, sex, maybe. That's the whole point of this thing with us. We can fuck each other because we don't have to worry about fucking up a relationship. So why am I being so damn possessive of him?

Disgusted, I wandered into the kitchen, threw my keys down on the counter and opened the refrigerator. Wilted lettuce, moldy bread and chunky orange juice were the only things in my fridge that even approached edible. I slammed the door.

A bath. Maybe that's what I needed, a nice hot bath. I shed my clothes on my way down the hall to the bathroom. I was down to my underwear by the time I started the water and quickly dropped that last scrap of clothing on the floor as I waited for the tub to fill.

The water was hot. Almost too hot, but I figured if I scalded all that delicate flesh, maybe I wouldn't be so horny. It didn't work. I lay in the tub until the water got cold, at which point I realized I had been absentmindedly stroking myself, which only stoked the fire instead of quelling it. I didn't feel any better.

I gave up. Maybe a cold shower. Ten minutes later I stood under the icy spray. Damn it. I knew it wouldn't work. All it did was make me more frustrated. The icy spray made my nipples achingly tight. I dropped a hand down to my damp curls. Still wet. Still throbbing. I missed Victor more than ever.

When had I gotten addicted to him? It could have been that first night. I was feeling like crap and he comforted me. Comforted with a capital "c". He was amazing. I hadn't thought I could come so many times in one night. When we fell into bed, we'd said it was no-strings-attached. We said it was just this once. Then just that one night. Then just that one week.

By the time we stopped kidding ourselves, it was a virtually nightly ritual. Come home after a long day at work, kick off my shoes, grab a quick bite to eat, fuck Victor Galindez senseless. We'd easily go through a box of condoms in a week. Did that make us nymphomaniacs? Or horny teenagers trapped in thirty-something bodies?

We knew that if this got out it would ruin our careers. Quickest way to end my career, have sex with a man under my command. I'd face a court-martial, brig time. He could end up with a dishonorable discharge. We didn't care. We were willing to throw away our entire careers for nightly one-night stands. The sex was that good.

I started thinking about how good the sex was, remembering how good he looked naked against my sheets, how good it felt when he slid into me. One hand pinched my nipples, the other thrust in and out between my legs.

It was feeling real good by the time the shower curtain rustled and I felt a draft. I didn't even blink. I knew who it was. Guess he wanted to get back here as much as I wanted him to.

I leaned back and sighed when he wrapped his arms around me. He took over and I moaned. His hands felt so much better cupping my breast. His fingers felt so much better buried between my legs.

His fingers left and he turned me around. We kissed greedily and I stumbled back into the tile wall, nearly slipping on the shower floor. It seemed like only a moment before he broke the kiss. I whimpered.

"Turn around," he ordered. I could hear my heart beating over the pounding water. I couldn't move.

He repeated himself, this time with an impatient growl that nearly had the power to make me come all on its own.

I turned around and braced my hands on the wall. He braced his arms beside mine, the wet, slick muscles of his chest pressed against my back, his thighs pressed against the backs of mine.

He bent and whispered in my ear, "You know what I've been thinking about all day, don't you, Mac? Ever since this morning I've been thinking about how I was going to come here tonight…" His tongue was warm and wet on my ear. "And then Lt. Roberts dragged me off to Norfolk and all I could think about was how I was gonna kill him."

His hips thrust against mine, and all I could do was hiss, "Me too."

I felt his grin against my ear. "You know what kept me from doing it?" My knees started to collapse from under me and he wrapped an arm around my waist. "Brig time would keep me away from you even longer."

His hips were grinding into me, a finger slowly, maddeningly circling my clit. "I'm going to fuck you, Mac."

Thank God. I grabbed his hand teasing my clit and pushed it farther back between my legs. I groaned as I guided his fingers into me.

"Eager, are we?" I could hear his smile, that smug, sexy smile.

"Damn straight," I moaned. "Need you … now." I reached back for his cock.

He pulled back. "Condom."

"Screw the condom, Vic. Pill. Need you." I was doing good enough to form words much less a coherent sentence. Not that I needed to. I knew he wanted me. I knew he wanted nothing more than to take me at my word and go for it. But he held back.

"Mac…"

"Damn it, Victor. I need you in me now!" I pumped his cock for emphasis.

He gave up fighting me. I let go of his cock and returned my hand to the wall. One hand on my hip, the other guiding himself to my entrance, he asked me the same question he always asks me.

"You ready?"

I nodded, more frustrated by his hesitation than touched by his need to confirm my assent.

He slid into me. It was just the tip, but it was the first time we had done this without a condom and it felt so good. I've always been tight, his cock just long enough and thick enough to stretch me. The first time we had sex he almost stopped because he was afraid of hurting me. I hadn't given him a chance to quit then; a sure as hell wasn't about to now.

I shoved my hips back against him, enveloping his entire length before he could change his mind. From behind I was even tighter. A couple of thrusts and we were both gasping, hanging on the edge. Another couple and we were hurtling over the peak, groaning in unison. As amazing as the sex had always been with us, there was an added element, an additional layer of intimacy that had always been missing. With no layer of latex between us I should have been worried.

But STDs weren't an issue. I knew he was clean; he knew I was. As for pregnancy… I was on the pill. We used the condoms as a back-up. Okay, to be honest he used the condom as a back-up; I used the pill as a back-up, which I stopped taking altogether when he left.

Of course, that wasn't what we fought over. I don't even know if it was an actual fight. We were both still in the shower, Victor standing behind me, nuzzling my neck. And then he said, "Have I told you how beautiful you are?"

I murmured some kind of negative. Still nuzzling my neck, he whispered, "You are. Sometimes I … sometimes I can't do this with the lights on, Mac." He paused, his hands drifting down to my hips. He leaned in close, his lips right next to my ear.

An icy feeling started to seep into my gut and I held my breath.

"Or at least, not so I can see your face. You're so beautiful that if I watch your face while I'm inside you… I'm afraid I might cry."

I don't know when I pulled away from him, or when I started to cry. Damn it, that wasn't what we were about. We couldn't get emotionally involved.

The next thing I knew I was crying in his arms, cursing at him for making this personal, and he was whispering apologies. He knew he shouldn't have said it, just like he knew we shouldn't have been doing this. Any of this. That didn't stop him. It didn't stop me.

At some point we got out of the shower, and he got me dressed in a soft old tee-shirt and tucked me, still crying, into bed. Exhausted, I just wanted to sleep. One minute I was kissing him good night, and when I woke up he was gone. That's when I knew it was over.

Victor carries my things up from his car. As if I couldn't do it myself. He unlocks my apartment door, holds it open for me, and gets me settled on the couch before he makes himself at home. Maybe he's practicing for when the test's positive. If the test is positive, I remind myself. If.

He sets his cover on the end table and toes off his shoes. I smile sadly. He does that every time he walks through my door. At least, he did. Of course, it was usually followed by a game of who-can-take-off-their-clothes-the-fastest, but I'm not supposed to be thinking about that.

He shrugs out of his uniform jacket, drapes it over the arm of the couch, and sits next to me. He's so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body and I nearly have to sit on my hands to keep myself from touching him. Then he angles himself on the couch, reaches over and starts to rub my neck.

Yeah, I'm really gonna think straight with him turning me into a ball of putty. But damn, that feels good; he knows exactly where all the tight spots are.

He waits until I'm nice and relaxed before speaking.

"You want to take that test now? We can look at it together."

I bite my lip. I turn my cover over in my hand, playing with the gold eagle-globe-and-anchor pinned on the front. "I don't know. I mean, the test will make it so real."

He wraps an arm around me and caresses my belly. "It's already real, Mac."

"Make it feel more real then."

He sighs and pulls me back into his arms. I've missed this. I really have. He has too. He's sniffing my hair, remembering the scent of my shampoo.

"Mac, if you take the test, you can stop worrying about what you want it to say. You'll know what it says and then you can worry about what you want to do about it."

"Aren't they the same thing?" Even as I say it, I already know the answer. He knows I know.

"Come on, Marine. Semper fi."

My anger flares. Damn it. He's dragging the Corps into this. As if the Corps were ever out of it, I think miserably. Thoughts of a court martial flit through my head, but I shove them aside.

I stand up abruptly. "Come on. Let's go take the damn test." He tries to hide his smile, but I see it anyway.

He goes with me down the hall to the bathroom. We open the box together and we read the directions, multiple times, together. He even asks if I want him to stay in there or not when I do it. I tell him no. I don't need the added pressure, but it was really sweet of him to ask.

I shut the door quietly behind him. My reflection catches my eye. I turn sideways, examining myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Smoothing down the green fabric of my skirt, I place a hand on my stomach, still flat, and try and picture myself nine months pregnant.

I want to have kids. I really do. But how much longer can I wait? I'm not getting any younger. Thirty-five, focused on my career, still single. The last time I went on a date was before Mic broke up with me, and that was almost a year ago. At one point I thought maybe Harm I might … one day… But months after the Jag-a-thon we're still not any closer than friends. At the rate I'm going, I'll be fifty before I settle down and start a family.

I can just see the years stretch out in front of me. I'll still be living, alone, in a lonely apartment, or maybe base housing. My hair'll be gray, my face more wrinkled. And I'll have nothing to show for my life except my medals. Maybe there will be some gold stars on this uniform, but who the hell will I share it with? I'd thought the past month in my bed alone was unbearable. What about years of it?

I tear myself away from my reflection. Time to get this over with.

When I come out of the bathroom Vic's stretched out on my bed, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting casually on his stomach. He's taken off his shirt and socks, lying there in just his undershirt and pants, staring at me in the bathroom door. It reminds me so much of the first time he was there. I swallow hard.

"Five minutes," I say a little too brightly. Five minutes before we'll know officially.

He checks his watch to mark the time and pats the bed beside him. I flop down next to him. Unconsciously mimicking him, I pillow my head in one hand and caress my belly with the other.

We silently contemplate my ceiling in all its yellowed-white glory. Finally, I can't stand the silence anymore.

"What if I turn out like my parents?" I don't give him a chance to respond before I go ranting on. "I mean, what kind of role models have I had? My father was a drunk; my mother walked out on us when I was still a kid."

"And yet you still managed to turn out all right." He sounds half-rebuking, half-impressed. "You straightened yourself out, joined the Corps, built a promising career. Whatever mistakes your parents made, I'm sure you learned from them."

He rolls over on his side and tilts my chin until I look him in the eye. "And I'll be there with you, Mac. I'm not leaving you."

I sigh and turn back to the ceiling. It's easier than facing him. "I know you want to do the right thing." My voice sounds bitter. Almost as bitter as I am. "But, honestly, Vic, I don't expect you to."

"I'm not sure whether to feel insulted or not," he mutters quietly, but waits for me to expound on my statement.

"We had a deal, Vic. No-strings-attached, remember?"

"I'm not going to let you throw your career away on this, Mac. Me, I've put in my twenty. My pension's safe. You? You've got a promising career. You'll be up for promotion in a little over a year. Even the admiral thinks he's just keeping the desk warm for you. You have another twenty, thirty years you could put into the Corps."

I shake my head in disbelief. "I don't see how I can avoid it. Either I'm an unwed mother and have to resign, or I admit I slept with an NCO in my chain of command and face a court-martial."

He reaches over and pulls my dog tags out from under my shirt. "We could get married," he says quietly, turning the tags over in his hand. "I take a transfer, and I'm no longer in your chain of command."

"Two problems: A, no one will believe we didn't break regs before you transferred, and, B, we'd never see each other." Why the hell did I say that? What damn difference does it make if I see him or not? He'd just be marrying me to protect our careers. To protect my career.

I try to focus on the conversation and ignore the creeping sense of déjà vu. He'd done the same thing, playing with my tags, the first night after we had sex in this bed, when we were basking in the post-orgasmic glow and waiting for sleep.

He drops the tags and they clink softly as they slide down the chain. He waits until I turn and look at him.

"Then I get a discharge. Once I'm out of the Corps, they can't do anything."

I stare at him aghast. He made it sound so simple, like he wasn't talking about throwing away the air he breathed. Victor Galindez is a lifer. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if he left the Corps.

"Why would you…" I can't even get the words out, I'm so flabbergasted. He's left a lawyer speechless.

He traces a finger down my cheek and smiles a sad little smile. "Because it wasn't the sex that made all this worth the risk, Mac."

Our eyes meet and a tear slips down my cheek. I finally recognize that emotion hiding behind those dark chocolate pools. He's not doing this out of some misguided sense of duty. We said it was no-strings-attached. When did that change?