a/n: This is the prologue, written at least a year ago, to a planned re-write of Judgment Day that would have been called 'The Dustland Fairytale.' I am posting it here now because I have decided not to write the story. At the end of this piece, I will give a short synopsis of what the story would have been - but know that it would have been short, and be re-write of Judgement Day, I don't mean a version in which Jenny survived.
Sinking Ships
"...and the decades disappear like sinking ships
but we persevere
god gives us hope, but we still fear
what we don't know..."
The Killers.
William Decker was a friend, and his premature death would have come as a heavy shock in any case. It so happened that the timing of such a tragic event was the culmination of months of personal and professional stress, and on the evening that she was told – right as she was leaving the office, via a perfunctory, dutiful call from the Office of Human Resources – she had no strength left to power on like it was nothing.
She went home, dismissed her security and her housekeeper, and sat in her study in the dark. She was, for a very long time, curled up in the old, high-back leather armchair her father used to sit in, hugging a generous tumbler of whiskey to her chest, and staring emptily at the fireplace.
She felt very much like the life she had sacrificed so much to build was disintegrating; Decker's death seemed like a frighteningly obvious omen of her own.
She had barely returned from the extended personal time she'd taken after the investigation into her had been terminated; after her sins had been borne by Trent Kort, and her back had by Gibbs and by DiNozzo, who had nothing but a right to crucify her. The agency whispered that she was on celebratory sabbatical, luxuriating in her acquittal – but she'd spent weeks with lawyers, with doctors, hearing second opinions and facing the cold, hard fact that she had built no substantial life, no connections – she had no real reason to make the will that the logical part of her had decided she needed – she had no one.
Her life had been about one man and one mission; with that man dead, it all seemed futile.
The murder of Rene Benoit hadn't vindicated her father, and it hadn't made her feel any better.
It had left her with nothing, and no one, and the same diagnosis that had killed her grandmother – though she hadn't known that until two weeks ago, when she'd finished hunting down medical records to find out if this was genetic, if someone should have told her this could happen. If she had known – years ago – that she might be a ticking time bomb, she would have made different decisions.
And this – this sudden, young death of Decker – it hit too close to home, and it reminded her too much of their time together in Europe.
She closed her eyes tightly and tipped whiskey into her mouth, swallowing slowly to make it burn and simmer. She had spent so much of her life avoiding tears, knowing tears were viewed as too weak, too feminine; she had refused to cry for so long that it was physically painful now, but she was tired – she was worn down like some piece of rock battered by the elements – and she was alone, so what did it matter?
He had been a friend. Decker had been one of the few people she connected with, and understood; their relationship had been platonic – but that was why his friendship was so valuable, because so many of her relationships with men had inevitably strayed from platonic, and Will had never been anything but a brother.
She put her hand to her eyes and held her head, trying to will away the aching throb in her temple, trying to hold her hand steady, keep it from shaking. Her fingers felt stiff and immoveable, and she grit her teeth – signs and symptoms.
She hid her face from the world, and someone walked in the front door; she knew who it was when the door slammed instead of shut politely, and she pushed her hand back through her bobbed hair, tilting her head up.
He stopped in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her. He cleared his throat and looked around, as if trying to locate a light. He strode to a table, turned on a small lamp, and hesitated a moment before sitting down gingerly on the edge of the leather sofa.
He rested his arms on his thighs, leaning forward. He held in his hands his NCIS badge, covered with a black strip. She supposed he had found out from an agency e-mail; one would have gone out.
Gibbs cleared his throat.
"Heart attack," he said in a low voice. He ran his fingers over his bag. "How old was he?" he asked gruffly.
He sounded subdued; taken aback – she knew Gibbs had always liked Decker, too.
"Forty-nine," she answered carefully, her voice hoarse. She paused, and lowered her head, unable to stop her tears. "There was an incident report," she went on shakily, her voice cracking hard. "Some kids – shot plastic darts at him, playing a prank. They thought they killed him," she explained, "but it was a massive heart attack, early this morning."
Gibbs shook his head, looking away from his badge and up at her.
"Guess it happens," he muttered.
"He was in good shape," she said softly. "He – an NCIS agent, with physical activity histories like ours? He – "
"He's been retired for six years, Jen," Gibbs said gently. "He might've … you never know."
"It doesn't make sense," she insisted desperately, taking another drink. She squeezed her eyes shut and ran her hand under her eyes swiftly, shaking her head.
"It wouldn't make it better if it made sense," he told her, looking back down at his badge.
She downed the rest of her drink and turned, reaching for the bottle and grabbing another glass. She still cradled her head, wincing as she poured, and she slid one towards him. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her glass to keep her fingers from shaking; she didn't want him to notice that, and he was likely to do so.
"I looked over the bullpens today, and I realized no one in this office knew him," Jenny said softly. "Half of them will forget to place the mourning band on their badges."
Gibbs nodded. He sat forward and took his glass, studying her for a moment. She looked pale and drawn; she looked thinner than she had before she left, and her eyes were redder than he'd seen them in a long time – as red as they'd been after a brutal injury in Prague, as red as they'd been when he took a bullet in Paris.
"Didn't know you were so close," he remarked neutrally.
He wasn't trying to provoke her or make her angry, but it did come as a mild surprise to him that she was so distraught; he hadn't spoken to Decker in years and years – it hadn't occurred to him that Jenny had kept in touch.
"I worked with him for several more years after Paris," she said painfully. "He … sometimes he was my only American contact. He," she paused, taking a drink, squeezing her eyes closed again. "He was like a brother, Jethro."
She pushed her hair back again, wiping her eyes on her arm. She held her nose against her wrist for a moment, trying to compose herself.
"I can't believe he's dead," she cried, covering her mouth. She shook her head back and forth. "He can't be dead."
Gibbs sat forward a little more and tapped his finger on the desk insistently.
"Jen, c'mere."
She shook her head, covering her face, pressing her tumbler to her chest.
"Jen," he said again. "C'mere, come sit with me."
"Why?"
"'Cause I knew him, too."
She was still for a moment, and then she got up and came around the desk unsteadily. He watched her carefully; she didn't seem drunk, but she didn't seem easy on her feet, either, and he caught her hand and held it while she sat down next to him, close to him. He took a deep breath and leaned back, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. She stared down at her drink, her head touching his shoulder, and he looked down at her warily.
He let her decide how much she wanted from him, and he turned his head, downing his whiskey and examining the amber droplets left in the extravagant crystal glass. She put her hand on his thigh and squeezed, shifting her head, pressing her face into his chest. She still held her glass close to her chest, tipped into her shirt precariously, and she started crying harder.
He balanced his empty tumbler on the arm of the couch and shifted, running his hand soothingly over her shoulder, down her arm, and back again, applying a comforting pressure.
"When did you last see 'im?" Gibbs asked.
She swallowed hard, with difficulty, a few times.
"The week before I took the Director's position," she managed. " Leon – Vance and I did transition seminars at the L.A. office, and he was just retiring. He was the same as always, Jethro, you know – didn't take anything, anyone seriously, especially himself – "
Gibbs nodded; he remembered all to well. The number of times he and Decker had gotten into it over the latter's laid back attitude was too many to count; it was always Ducky or Jenny placating one of them and breaking it up.
Jenny laughed a little, choking on it.
"God, he – all he did was bust my balls about you, joke after joke – how Gibbs must love that I was in charge of him now, how it would be the only relationship he couldn't end with an alimony check – he didn't know I hadn't talked to you in – in –
"Six years."
She swallowed again, pressing her hand to her mouth. She ran her hand higher on his leg and looked her fingers into his belt loops and gripped hard, her knuckles shoving into his hip. She nodded, her hair moving against his shirt, knotting up easily.
"He knew about us?"
This time, she did laugh through her tears.
"They all knew about us, Jethro."
"They?!"
"They all knew before we knew. Your ex-wife made that clear to you."
"We didn't – "
"I know," Jenny said softly, miserably. "We waited. But she knew."
Gibbs fell silent. He looked down at her glass, and he reached over to adjust it, holding it steadier so she wouldn't spill it. She wrapped her smallest finger around his thumb, shifting, resting her head on his shoulder. She lifted the glass to her lips and drank the rest of it.
She coughed, and he snorted good-naturedly. She pricked him with her nail in silent protest.
She sat forward and wiped her eyes, cradling her head in her hands and shaking her head.
"He has this … baby of a girlfriend," she said huskily. "This little girl I had to call and notify. She cried like she'd been married to him twenty years but Decker – Jesus, Decker never let women in, not really. He dated them, he slept with them … he moved on."
She rubbed her eyes again, pushing her hair back. Gibbs watched her, his head heavy, and his chest tight. He knew what it was like to lose people who meant so much to you; to feel like there was nothing that would ever make it stop hurting.
He rested is hand on her lower back.
"You goin' out to Los Angeles?" he asked.
She nodded slowly, sucking in her breath.
"I fly out tomorrow afternoon," she answered, her voice hollow.
He was silent for a moment.
"You want me to go with you?" he offered finally.
There was something off about her; there had been since she left after the investigation, since Jeanne Benoit had accused DiNozzo of murder. There was something haunting about the look in her eyes these days, about the whiteness of her skin, and the way he spoke. She was different. There was more to this than mere sorrow over an old friend's death.
She shook her head wearily.
"No," she said hoarsely. "Leon is taking my place again," she added.
"He's been steppin' into your heels a lot, lately," Gibbs noted pointedly.
She turned her head a little, not quite looking at him, but making a point.
"Is that a question?" she demanded shortly, her voice cracking again.
Gibbs shrugged; said nothing. He thought of the blood and the scans locked in one of Ducky's drawers, and he studied her, the back of her head, the curve of her back, and the hunch of her shoulders. Was she thinner, paler? Was she lying, when she insisted she was fine?
She pushed her hair back roughly and leaned back, resting her head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling.
"You remember that bar in Positano?" she asked in a hushed voice. "He came to meet us, to check in after," she caught her breath, "after you took that bullet, and he – he wore that stupid goddamn floral shirt, and he faked that Boston accent – "
Gibbs smirked, nodding. She licked her lips.
"That cover didn't even make sense," she whispered. "He was just having fun."
"Cheered you up," Gibbs remarked mildly.
"Anything would have cheered me up then," she said breathlessly, her voice catching again. "You made me miserable."
"'M sorry," he said, sincere.
She feigned a gasp of surprise, and closed her eyes, compressing her lips. His apology didn't matter now, but it still meant something to her in a way. She felt nostalgic, desperate for the old days – not just to have them back, but to erase the years since, to live them again; make the right choices.
"He thought that ghastly farmhouse was such a great safe house – "
"Meant to thank him for that," Gibbs drawled.
Jenny turned her head a little and looked at him. She met his eyes and smiled a little, the line of her mouth unsteady. He turned towards her and reached out, touching her chin in an unexpected, affectionate gesture.
"He was a good agent," he said firmly.
Jenny touched is hand, her fingers brushing his wrist.
"He was a good guy, Jethro," she said tiredly. "Through-and-through. I can't," she paused, her mouth turning down angrily. "He didn't deserve – he's – was – young, he was good. He shouldn't drop dead, there are people who die young because they asked for it, they lived life wrong – he wasn't one of them – "
"Jen, Jen," he said, moving his hand from her face to her shoulder. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"
"Nothing," she muttered quickly, wiping her eyes shakily. "Nothing – I'm upset, Jethro, I'm very – I'm very fucking … upset."
He nodded, trying to be understanding. He put his arm around her shoulder again, turning towards her, trying to catch her eyes. She licked her lips a few times, taking a shuddering breath.
"I miss those days," she confessed hoarsely, quietly. She did look at him, then. "God, I miss it."
He arched his brow a little. Things had been so tense between them for so long that he was understandably taken aback; he assumed she was just emotional, re-thinking life as people often did after death struck.
"You ever miss it?" she asked.
Her lips parted, and he sighed, looking down quietly. He nodded a little, caught up in her need to reminisce.
"Told you I missed it, Jen," he reminded her haggardly.
"You said you missed me."
He shrugged.
"Don't remember much else."
She shook her head a little, reminded of the old charm he always held for her. She stood up and took his glass off the arm of the couch, holding both glasses in her hand. She lifted her head and looked at the half-empty bourbon bottle on her desk.
"You want another drink?" she asked uncertainly.
He shook his head.
"Nah, Jen," he said gruffly, standing up. He came over and rested his hand on her back again, bending to kiss her temple. He nudged her forehead with his and paused for a moment. "Think 'm gonna go home," he said hoarsely.
He stepped away, the warmth of his hand leaving her back hesitantly. She stared at the glasses in her hand still, and then put them down firmly, loudly. She blinked a couple of times, and then turned, leaning back against the desk. She dug her nails into the wood.
"No, you're not," she said – it wasn't a command, so much as it was a statement, and she looked at him like he was kidding himself, like they both knew he was full of shit; they both knew he was going to stay, and pretending otherwise was a waste of precious time.
He stood in the doorway of the study, silhouetted in the doorway.
"I can go home," he said half-heartedly.
He was trying to make this easy on them both, remove temptation, and take the night off the table. He shouldn't have come over if he wanted to avoid this; it was an inevitable thing. He wasn't so sure he wanted to avoid it, though, and she didn't seem to want him to leave.
She swallowed, staring at him, thinking – is this really how she was going to mourn Decker, mourn the steep drop her life was taking? By rekindling an old flame for a night, trying to dig her nails into something she'd thrown away long ago?
She walked towards him unsteadily – stumbled really – and it was part intoxication, part muscle weakness. She touched his arms, pushing him back against the doorframe. She shook her head back and forth; no, she didn't want him to go home, she didn't.
He must not have liked being the one pinned against the doorframe, because he pushed her arms off of him gently and spun her around, resting his hands on her shoulders, and then her hips – executing an old, familiar move with his foot - -he slid it between hers, and held her against the wall gently but authoritatively, and he leaned in, his lips hovering over hers.
"You first," he said huskily, giving her a last chance.
Her fingertips brushed his neck, pressed into his pulse, and she kissed him, hard and confident – he wouldn't be able to mistake her meaning.
His arms slid around her waist and he pulled her body tight against him, holding her so she thought he might break her. She caught her breath, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to keep her knees steady, and she parted her lips to draw in a short breath, moving her mouth along his jaw, to his ear.
"Bed," she murmured, her head thundering with rushing blood and the aching of all the crying she'd done tonight.
He nodded, and loosened his grip, letting her slip past him and lead him upstairs. He cleared his throat as he followed her, and she glanced back to see him raking his eyes over her hungrily, but warily, studying her. He looked up, caught her watching, and she looked away, leading him into her bedroom.
She turned to him at the edge of the bed – didn't bother with the open door, with the lights – she reached for his shirt, her fingers moving stiffly over the buttons. She stumbled over them, fumbling, unable to make her muscles cooperate – her dexterity was suffering, and he chalked it up to nerves, to emotion.
He loosened the shirt and pulled it off, and she sat down on the bed as if she was exhausted, looking up at him. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his abdomen. She felt his muscles jump, tighten, contract – his hand fell to her hair, resting there lightly, and she pressed her forehead against his ribs for a moment, grazing his skin with her teeth, breathing lightly on him.
His fingers moved through her hair in a massage, waiting patiently to take directive from her- - and when she seemed stuck, when she didn't move, rested her head against him in what seemed like defeat, he tilted her head up and crouched down, kissing her hard, trailing his lips down her jaw and her neck and then moving back.
His fingers brushed her lightly through her clothes – breasts, abdomen, thighs – and he loosened the zipper on her skirt and the straps on her heels before moving back up to the pearl buttons on her wrinkled shirt. He straightened up, and crawled over her on the bed, his knees on either side of hers, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders.
She reached up to touch him; his jaw, the firm muscles of his biceps and chest – his warm skin, his quick heartbeat, the steady but shallow way he started to breathe – and she tilted her head back when his lips went to her throat again, closing her eyes lightly, her breath hitching. She rose up on her elbows, shifting, sitting up. He moved to the side, giving her room, his eyes on her heavily as she removed her skirt, shrugged out of her shirt, let her shoes slip off.
She rolled towards him and lay on her side, fumbling with his belt the same way she'd mishandled his shirt – he took over for her again, shedding clothes without questioning her shaky touch until he was on top of her again, his skin warm and taut against hers.
"Jethro," she murmured, pulling him closer – pulling him down onto her, because she wanted to feel his weight pressing into her, skin meshing against skin.
He groaned against her lips, his hips pressing hard into hers, and she moved her thigh against his, arching her back, letting him slide his hands under her back and unclasp her bra.
She ran her hands under the waistband of his boxers and then pushed them down, palms running over bare skin, touching him possessively, desperately. She took a deep breath, biting her lip when his hand skated down her sternum, slipped her panties lower on her hips; his hand dipped between her legs and she gasped.
She drew herself up a little again, divesting herself and him of the last vestiges of their clothes. He moved over her, and she pushed him over, straddling him, naked and on top of him, and for a moment, she lost her energy; she felt exhausted – emotionally, physically – and she rested her cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
His hand moved through her hair, down her spine, running up and down her back in a way that gave her goose bumps, made her moan quietly – remember all the good times, in the good old days.
"Jen," he said hoarsely, his voice tight with desire. His lips pressed against the line of her hair, his thigh pressed into herself heavily. "You want to stop?"
She shook her head quietly, swallowing with difficulty. She lifted her head and looked at him; she ran her thumb over his lower lip and moved to kiss him slowly, lightly.
"No," she murmured huskily, shaking her head again. "I want you," she paused, struggling to swallow again, "to stay all night."
She sat up slowly, running her hands over his chest and then shifting her hips, moving her hands between them, taking him inside her in a quick, even stroke that made her close her eyes and gasp her breath harshly; he swore, and reached out, grabbing her shoulder hard.
"Christ," he groaned. "Jen?" he asked tightly, sensing she was uncomfortable.
She breathed out slowly, still, reaching for his hand. She laced her fingers into his, moved her hips slightly, and squeezed his fingers, taking a deep breath and licking her lips. She hadn't been with someone in a long time – that much was sharply clear to her for a moment, and obvious to him. She guided his hand from her shoulder to her thigh suggestively, and he moved his hand over her as she began to move her hips, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his collarbone, teeth and tongue moving over him.
He tilted is head back, concentrating on her mouth, on the movements of her body; he remembered sharply, and in a rush, how much he'd missed her – how good they had always been at this, and he moved his free hand to her hair, tangling his fingers up and pulling lightly.
"Mmm," she whimpered softly, her lips brushing his ear. "Jethro," she moaned. She straightened up, her hand pressing into his abdomen. "Ohh, God, Jethro."
He slid his fingers over her faster, with old knowledge and almost lazy confidence, and she bit her lip – bit her lip, and then tilted her head back, opening her mouth and half-closing her eyes. She ran her hands over her stomach and up over her chest, and he slid one hand over her thigh, pulling her against him hard, pressing his hand against her firmly.
She shuddered and leaned forward, falling into his chest, her lips moving against his chest – crying his name softly, repetitively, until she couldn't speak anymore and her teeth dug into his shoulder and she tangled her fist in the sheets next to him. He held her thigh tightly, possessively as she came, his jaw set, determined to get her off first – and when her bite turned into a relaxed kiss, he flipped them over.
She arched her back for him – she knew the angle he liked best – and she bit her lip, gasping contently as he thrust into her hard, his hips hitting hers in a heady, intoxicating rhythm before he held tight to her ribs and thrust into her one last time, his lips finding hers. He groaned her name in relief, his shoulders shaking under her hands, and then lowered his forehead to her shoulder, his breath hard against her skin. She ran her hand through his hair and pulled his head close, her hand resting heavily on the back of his neck.
He eased away from her gingerly, acutely aware of how she'd reacted at the start, and she winced, catching her breath again. He pulled her close, his arms binding her tight to him, his nose pressing into her neck, lips against her throat still. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her lashes and lips against his skin. Her eyes stung, and her head still throbbed – she still felt tired, drained, weak – and she clenched her jaw, using the willpower she had left to – trying not to –
He shifted away a moment, yanking around her sheets and heavy blankets – thankful her bed hadn't been made this morning – and he pulled the covers around them, his fingers running over her skin again, possessively, as an afterthought – he touched her as if she was braille: he read old memories, and felt old emotions, and he drew his thumb over her lip, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth.
"Jen," he murmured – her cheeks were wet again, eyes still red; he knew he wasn't why she was crying, but it made his throat feel closed, his stomach empty.
He made a soothing noise in the back of his throat, and she curled into him, silently asking to be held, to be comforted, to be – loved – for an hour, or an evening, or a day.
He took a deep breath, and he looked down at her – and he felt hollow, not because this meant nothing to him – but because abruptly, and unexpectedly, this meant a lot to him – more than he had bargained for – and with that realization came the heavy, gut feeling that something was wrong; that she wasn't – she wasn't okay.
"Jethro," she whispered thickly, her words hitting his chest warmly, tiredly.
She asked him to stay until the morning – then until the afternoon; she asked him to take her to the airport; he told her he would, and for a long time, they lay there awake, listening to each other breathe – and she was a thousand miles away already; she felt small in his arms, scared, defeated, and sad, and he didn't know what to say, because he had never known her as well as he had always thought he had – he knew that now, and he regretted it.
It was like that for hours; there was something desperate in the air, something daunting, something final and ominous in her kisses – but something nostalgic, too, something that dulled his mind and took him back – and he was still thinking about her when he saw her to security the next morning at Dulles; he was still thinking about her as he watched her walk away – and his NCIS badge, with the black mourning band hugging it, felt heavy in his pocket.
...this is a fairly good bit of writing, i've surprised myself.
anyway: this story would have been a re-write of Judgement Day, as I stated. the differences being that Franks, instead of respecting Jenny's wishes, notifies Gibbs of what's going on, and Gibbs flies out to California to face the mistake with her. however, Jenny explains that she's terminally ill, and she wants to go out this way. Gibbs is the one who goes out back to get water for tea, knowing what he's leaving Jenny to, and he's there to take out the rest of the bad guys and sort of be there when she dies. like i said, not a spectacularly happy re-write of the episodes, but my usual sort of really terrible angst. i'll also be posting a few snippets I had written & saved on my phone on tumblr (my url is .com).
I would say the 'Famous in a Small Town' series was my Jibbs Swan Song, but this is most likely my final NCIS story.
You have all been literally wonderful.
-Alexandra
story #305