They have the conversation on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Neither one of them wants to have it; they are famous for not surviving it. But they find themselves gravitating to the words. She cannot stop the pull of the conversation. She watches helplessly as it devolves into a blow-by-blow account of who hurt whom worse.
Her fingers curl around his wrist and flinch as he describes his hurt. "I'm sorry." The words echo lamely in her ears.
"Why did you do it then?" He wants to shake her hand off, wants to grab her wrist and yank her closer. Caught between the two polar reactions, he remains motionless.
She shrugs. "I don't know," she sniffles a little. "I got scared I guess."
"Of what? You were safe." His confusion is genuine.
Her fingers slip off his wrist and he pulls her hand back and weaves their fingers together. "Not of the terrorists." She pauses and bites her lower lip. "Of you."
His eyes widen and his ribs stop expanding mid-inhale. Slowly, he lets his breath out. His reaction tells her he does not understand. His words confirm it. "Of me?" He points to his chest with his free hand. "I don't know what more I have to do to prove myself."
She huffs a breath out. "Nothing. But - I mean, can't you understand, at least a little bit, why I was so unsure? You, or I did, it was never really decided, disobeyed a direct order in order to stay with Bud. You were going to leave JAG to rescue Sergei. I wanted to believe you did it because you loved me, but I couldn't know for sure."
"Are words really that important?"
"Yes. No." She shakes her head.
"You said the Navy was all I had."
Her eyebrows dip low on her forehead. "I don't understand. Isn't it? You've been working towards it, for it, your whole life. Your whole life and then," she waves her hand between them, "poof, it's gone."
"I'd hoped I'd have you at the end."
"Oh." She feels smaller than the word. "Oh," she repeats it.
He nods. "Oh," he echoes.
"Why didn't you just say something?" Her tone is plaintive.
"I didn't know I had to."
"Obviously."
She tugs her hand free and he lets her. She crosses her arms beneath her breasts and heaves a sigh.
"Why did you turn to Clay?"
"Because. Because he said the magic words, at first. Then, when I realized I didn't love him back, to see you."
"Oh." He says the word this time.
"Why Catherine?"
"Clay." He studies her. The fall sunlight is setting slowly, washing her face in its rays. "What do we do now? We tried the beginning once."
"We ended it, too."
"That didn't work well."
"No," she agrees. She tosses her hair back from her face. She watches the last of the light catch in hair and create shadows on his face. She sucks the fall air into her lungs. "Harm?" she exhales.
"What?"
"Would you like to have dinner with me sometime this week? My treat?"
"I'll spring for dessert."
"Deal." They shake hands.