"Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it." –Vladimir Nabokov
Leroy Jethro Gibbs smelled her before he saw or heard her. He was standing at his workbench, carefully sharpening a scratch awl when a soft, familiar scent wafted over the usually-overpowering smell of sawdust that was ever-present in his basement. He took a deep breath and put down the awl, leaning heavily on his hands as he bent over the workbench. He reached without looking for the Mason jar of bourbon and took a quick swig before setting his jaw and staring at the wall in front of him. "What can I do you for, Jen?" he asked roughly, the barest hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice.
It had been only a week since she had shocked the hell out of him, standing gracefully from the front row of seats in MTAC and turning fluidly to greet him, smirk all over her face. He had been so taken aback that it had taken him a few moments to register her scent as it slammed into him. When it had finally hit him, he had been both staggered by the force with which the pain came flooding back, and impressed that he had managed to form some sort of coherent greeting through the ache.
The week since had been an odd juxtaposition of perdition and nirvana. On the one hand, the pain of losing her—of being left, he mentally corrected—had been brought to the forefront once again, opening wounds that he had thought long since closed. Every time he was within ten feet of her, his senses were assaulted by the perfume that he had once loved so well. Beautiful, it was called, if memory served him. The scent of it had once brought him happiness; now, it was a slap in the face, a reminder of that which was no longer his. But on the other hand, he couldn't help but remember, as he watched her when she wasn't looking, what a good thing they'd had. When he was able to push the pain away long enough to remember the good times, he found himself smiling privately in appreciation of what once was. It had been a peculiar week for him, to say the least. He was unaccustomed to feeling uncomfortable in his job, and now he was walking on broken glass, wondering how exactly to tread in this new, reversed relationship. He had taught her everything she knew; now she was his boss. They had once been lovers; now she had made it clear that her leaving him in Paris was final.
"There won't be any 'off the job', Agent Gibbs." Her words rang through his mind as he waited for Jenny Shepard to answer his question.
"What would you like to do me for, Jethro?" she asked, and it was the faintest trace of a slur in her words that made him finally turn to face her. When he did, he was surprised to see her standing on his basement steps in jeans and a tight green long-sleeved cotton t-shirt rather than her usual business suit. He was even more surprised to see, through the dim light of his basement, that her eyes were somewhat glazed and dull. Their eyes met for a long moment, and neither of them said a word. Finally, she broke his gaze and descended the stairs, graceful as always, her steps belying the intoxication apparent in her eyes.
She stopped when she reached the bottom, her hand still on the railing. He looked at her, taking her in. He hadn't seen her dressed quite so casually in six very long years, and he was surprised at the visceral reaction the sight evoked. The green shirt—of course she would have chosen green, his favorite color on her—contrasted beautifully with her pale skin and brought out the bright color of her eyes. It was just tight enough to draw his eye to the shape of her breasts, and his memory filled in the blanks.
Still, though, as good as she looked standing there, the question remained: why was she in his basement? "Why are you here, Jen?" he asked, not unkindly. "Bourbon?" he offered before she could answer his query.
"Mmm. Yes, please," she answered, moving toward him. He grabbed a second Mason jar and quickly poured it half-full of bourbon before handing it off to her. She took a long swallow and closed her eyes in pleasure as the liquid burned down her throat.
Gibbs watched her with a neutral look on his face. "How much have you had already?" he asked.
"Not enough," she said, meeting his gaze.
He narrowed his eyes at her. "And how did you get here?"
She raised a delicate eyebrow. "Do I really strike you as the type to get behind the wheel after a few drinks?" He didn't answer. "I have a driver, you know," she clarified.
Gibbs nodded, satisfied.
Jenny watched him for a moment and continued. "Do you want to continue with the third degree or do you want me to answer your original question?" Gibbs spread his hands wordlessly in response, inviting her to continue.
Jen paused. The moment of truth was here, and she couldn't help but hesitate. Truth be told, the past week had proved much more difficult than she had anticipated. When she had told him no 'off the job,' she had meant it. The intervening days, however, had made her question both her judgment and resolve—not that she hadn't done plenty of that already in the past six years. Every time she caught his steely blue-eyed gaze, every time he walked past her and she smelled his shaving lotion trailing behind, every time she watched his masculine hands as they gripped a pen to fill out paperwork—she questioned herself. She had never quite reconciled with herself her decision to leave him—and in such a cowardly manner, no less—but when she had landed the Directorship of NCIS, she had almost—almost—convinced herself that her ambition was finally paying off.
Then came Jethro.
If she was being honest with herself—which she rarely was—she would have to admit that Jethro was the only man who had ever broken her. He was the only one who had ever wound his way into her heart, whether or not she had allowed to herself that it was true.
Gibbs stared at her, waiting. She took another long swallow of her bourbon and steeled her eyes on him. She allowed the bourbon to give her strength as she drew herself up with a confidence she did not feel and said in a deceptively steady voice, "I am here, Jethro, because I've come to realize that sometimes…when a person does what she thinks is best for herself…" she trailed off and looked down toward the floor before regaining her courage. She looked back up and met his eyes once again before finishing, "it turns out that it's not the best thing at all." Her face burned as she stubbornly held his gaze, and he saw what was written in her eyes: Paris. The letter.
He bent his head under the weight of her words, knowing that her vague statement was probably the closest he would get to an apology or outright acknowledgement of regret.
He could imagine what this—coming here like this, drunk and vulnerable—must have cost her, but the memory of the agony he'd suffered after she had rejected him was too vivid, too strong, for him to simply let her waltz back into his life without a thought. He had suffered—mightily and interminably—as the result of her actions,
"So, what?" he snapped, more harshly than he intended. "You finally made Director, so now you think you're going to have your cake and eat it, too?" He expected her to turn and leave at his words, but she surprised him by lowering her face, eyes flashing with muted pain as she looked down. He turned away, reaching for his bourbon once again. Her next words were unexpected.
"We all make mistakes, Jethro," she said quietly. "Even me."
He spun to face her, anger flashing in his eyes. "Yeah, Jen. We all make mistakes. But believe it or not, your biggest mistake wasn't that you left. It was that you were too much of a coward to actually tell me you were leaving." He paused. "Really, Jen? A Dear John letter in your coat pocket? " he spat in disgust.
Her eyes flickered with that soft pain once again, and it was almost enough to make him regret his words. Almost. She looked down and said in a voice that was so low he almost couldn't hear it, "You're right. It was cowardly." She looked back up at him then, and he saw naked regret on her face for the first time. "I couldn't face you. I knew what it would do to you, and I was too much of a coward to see your face."
"And how'd that work out for you, Jen?"
She dropped her head in defeat. "Not well," she admitted.
Jethro blew out a heavy sigh and turned his face up toward the ceiling tiredly. "So what are you sayin', Jen?"
She ground her teeth together as she willed her resolve not to falter. "I'm saying…" she paused. "I'm saying that I want to amend the statement I made on the stairs last week."
He looked at her, his face inscrutable. "No off the job."
"That's right," she nodded.
"You're drunk, Jen," he noted evasively.
"Not that drunk," she countered.
"Drunk enough," he returned.
She narrowed her eyes at him and her expression changed. "Fine," she said sharply. "I'll leave you to your boat. I know a rejection when I hear one." She turned smartly on her heel, intent on returning home to drown her mortification in bourbon.
He reached out and caught her waist as she turned, gently pulling her back against him. The tension between their bodies was palpable as he leaned down and whispered around the back of her head into her ear, "That wasn't a rejection, Jen." He swallowed hard as the smell of her perfume overwhelmed him, and he willed himself not to kiss her neck even as he pulled her tightly back, relishing the feel of her body against his once more. She shivered at the feel of his hand wrapped tightly around her waist and his breath on her neck and in her ear. He continued, "But I need to hear it when you're sober." He released her then, and she turned to face him, eyes immutable.
She gave a small, mirthless laugh. "So you're trying to protect me, then," she said flatly.
"S'not you I'm tryin' to protect, Jen," he said with meaning, before turning back to his work bench and resuming his former position, leaning heavily on his hands, with his head hanging down.
Her heart ached at the inference, and she silently kicked herself for coming here drunk and giving him reason to doubt the veracity of her words. She was done hurting him. She stepped up behind him and placed her hands at his waist, squeezing gently. "Fair enough," she murmured. "We'll talk tomorrow then."
She turned on her heel and exited his basement, leaving Gibbs standing at his workbench staring into his Mason jar of bourbon.
A/N: I chose Beautiful as Jen's perfume because it is my all-time favorite, but alas, I cannot wear it, as it smells like sewer water on me. So sad. It smells amazing, though.