a/n: so ... this kind of fell together. my muse is going wild. i'm having fun. let me say though - a bit of the banter here was hard to reconcile with the (conflicting) canon in the show ... so just bear with me. recent episodes don't mesh with episodes like Kill Ari, Enemies Domestic, etc. so this (whole story) is operating strictly on the most recent episode, which puts Rebecca as the 3rd wife, 2nd ex. placing her in the mid-nineties, pre-Jenny, post Diane. onwards:
"You are talking about a woman who doesn't know how to work a dishwasher."
.
-Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season 12 Episode "Check."
These days, when he didn't need to stay at work, he didn't necessarily spend time thinking up a reason to plant himself behind his NCIS desk and avoid his house; he left the Navy Yard and at a decent time and actually went home. On weekends, too, he stopped making up excuses to go into the office. He was cautiously content with his living situation at the moment – though he grudgingly doubted he could keep it together for long – and he warily spent more time at home than he had with his first ex-wife.
Uncharacteristically, he'd been doing nothing all day; he'd fallen asleep watching television on the couch – and Rebecca had been in the basement, painting something – or that's what he thought she said; he never really knew what the hell Rebecca was up to.
He didn't know how long he'd been out when he felt her sit down on the edge of the sofa and crawl over him, prowling like a jungle cat, until her nose nudged against his collarbone and she blew in his ear.
"Jay," she murmured softly.
She pressed her palms against his shoulders and jolted them a little, shaking him.
"Jay," she drawled, tilting her head.
He opened his eyes and was confronted with a mass of her silky, straight, red-gold hair. He lifted one arm and put it behind his head, propping himself up a little, and grunted, indicating he was awake.
She pulled her head back, and smiled at him coquettishly.
"Is laying on your ass all day that exhausting?" she teased abrasively.
"Got the paper this morning," he retorted, shrugging.
She looked over her shoulder at the black-and-white television, where an old western was flickering. She rolled her eyes, and he glanced down at her – she was dressed up for nothing, but she always was. He didn't think he'd ever seen Rebecca in sweatpants, and rarely saw her in jeans – she dressed up because she felt like it. It didn't make any sense; he joked about it once, and she said she did it to make him feel like a man, and he still hadn't figured out if she was kidding.
"Finish your thing?" he asked, without much interest.
Rebecca nodded. She pressed her lips to his jaw, and she smelled like perfume and –
"You drinkin' my bourbon?" he asked in her ear, feigning an angry tone.
"Had to see what the fuss is about," she answered, biting her tongue between her teeth and grinning. "You can't be artistic when you're sober, Jay," she reprimanded lightly.
He rolled his eyes a little – he was fairly sure Rebecca hated her job; that's why she had so many short-lived, intense hobbies.
She settled her hips on him, her skirt riding up her thighs as it stretched. She pursed her lips.
"What is all that wood for?" she asked.
"In the basement?" he ventured, somewhat distracted.
She nodded.
He shrugged.
"Boat."
Rebecca sighed, shaking her head.
"You didn't have to burn the last one," she chided.
"Named it after the other one."
"Hmm," Rebecca murmured. "Don't name this one after me," she said prophetically, and then shifted her hips and leaned forward to kiss him.
He put one of his hands on her lower back, tilting his head up to meet her lips.
"Jay?" she asked thickly.
He mumbled something incoherently; he was listening. She pulled back a little, and bit her lip attractively.
"I have a thing Monday night, for work," she told him huskily. Her eyelashes danced a few times – was she batting them? It was the subtlest batting he'd ever seen – and then she tilted her head fetchingly. "The dress I want to wear is dirty."
His fingertips pressed firmly into her lower back, and he smirked, catching her eye and giving her a look.
"You want me to do laundry?" he guessed, arching a brow at her. "That why you woke me up?"
Her lips parted, and she nodded her head sweetly, bright eyes on his.
"I'll make it worth your while," she promised seductively. "I'm hopeless at the bleaching, and the separating colours…" she trailed off comically, grinning.
"Colourblind toddler could do it, Becca."
"You know, I married you because you can do laundry."
"Can't get outta the Marines without doin' laundry," he muttered.
"I was never in the Marines," she pointed out.
It hadn't taken him long to figure out she was unfamiliar with most household chores – it seemed it was a mixture of having grown up with a maid who did everything, and a certain amount of not giving a fuck. He hadn't realized the extent of her total incompetence until they'd moved in together – it amused him, more than irritated him.
"I can teach you how to use the machine," he offered.
"Jay, I wear miniskirts around the house when I'm not even going anywhere – what more do you want in a woman?" she simpered, in faux exasperation. She licked her lips again, and grinned.
He slid his arm around her, bunching his fingers in her soft blouse. He didn't mind doing laundry – he didn't mind Rebecca crawling all over him in her tight clothes to coax him to do laundry – but he didn't understand how she'd lived on her own for so many years without knowing the basics of human functioning.
He didn't ask.
"I have to go to the thing, on Monday?" he asked.
She laughed shortly.
"Hell, no," she answered.
He smirked – he could definitely get used to that, since he'd been accustomed to being dragged everywhere Diane had gone, whether it had been benefit or a party or lunch with her college roommate.
He gave her a small nod – he'd do it; he'd been planning on it this weekend, anyway – mostly because he noticed her closet was getting emptier, and the basket in the hall was overflowing.
He'd get to it later tonight.
She caught her tongue between her teeth again, and pressed closer, touching her forehead to his.
"It shakes around, your old laundry machine," she murmured, catching his eye. She cut her eyes at him. "Let's have sex on it."
Scratch that; he'd do the laundry right now.
-it's interesting to flesh out Rebecca. i'm still seeing her as a kind of indifferent type, who's very wary of anyone finding out she's a pretty out of control addict, which is colouring how i'm writing her; and in my head, i've pretty much decided this is the marriage (as i mentioned before) that's not Gibbs' fault, per se. i don't think he loved Rebecca much, but i do think this fell apart more due to her adultery and her problems rather than HIS. not that he's blameless. anyway.
-alexandra
story #242