A/N: part 2/deux. trigger warning: abortion*.
"It takes your breath
'cause it leaves a scar
but those untouched
never got
never got very far."
[The Truth About Love; P!nk}
October. Paris. 1999.
The running water thundered in her ears like a raging waterfall. She never imagined the sound of a sink could be so loud. It was deafening; she focused on it, determined to let it drown her for a moment. Her elbow slammed into the cold tile counter as she leaned forward and cradled her forehead in her palm. She cupped her hand and splashed water into her mouth, spitting it back into the sink distastefully.
She closed her eyes so she didn't have to look at the white sticks laying over each other near the drain. She swallowed hard and splashed her face, trying resolutely not to get sick again. She took a few long, deep breaths to calm her stomach.
She was certain the severity of morning sickness was compounded by panic.
Jenny shoved her hand into the faucet controls and turned it off. Her hand slipped and she almost fell forward and busted her nose on the metal; her eyes flew open and she was looking into the sink again, staring at the three pregnancy tests. Ignoring a wave of violent nausea, she picked them up and threw them into the trash. She winced when she heard them hit the bottom.
She straightened a little and braced her hands on the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. She looked at her reflection in the smudged mirror and lifted her arm to push her hair out of her face. Her hand slid over her cheek to cover her mouth anxiously.
Three tests, all sporting the clear, unmistakable positive blue evidence. She had taken them seven days after the day she was supposed to start her period, though she had been symptomatic before then. One she took to find out, the second to dispel notion of a false positive, and the third to wake herself up—but she still didn't want to believe it.
She turned away from the mirror and let her back hit the locked bathroom door, sliding down to the floor and wrapping her arms around her knees. Marseille, Marseille—she had worked so hard to push the memory of forgotten condoms on the floor to the back of her mind, convinced it would be fine. They had been careful since then—but she had noticed, here in Paris the first time, when she'd handed him a condom, the stunned look in his eye when he realized they had been careless in Marseille.
He had said nothing.
She wished he had. It would make her feel easier about talking to him.
Jenny shoved her fingers back through her hair, tangling them, digging her nails into her scalp. The colossal stupidity of her actions washed over her and she struggled again with nausea and a bad taste in her mouth. She felt frightened, paralyzed, and alone—isolated, in a secluded safe house on the outskirts of the city.
She was cold, sitting on the bare bathroom floor in thin pajamas, but she didn't feel like getting up. She was afraid the room would spin or her knees would buckle, not from nausea but from stress. The strain put on her by the simple existence of the positive white sticks was unparalleled by anything she had ever suffered; she had a single option and no time to wrap her head around it.
In two weeks, they would be in the Czech Republic. Fast on the heels of that operation, they would be set up to take down their original targets.
She had been scared before, but the fear that gripped her now was a different kind of terror, coursing through her from a different part of her. She was blindsided. She felt as if her control over her body had been yanked away from her and she hated it. She felt guilty and she had nothing to be guilty for.
Her eyes stung and she bit her lip; her head hit the door behind her. She choked back a sob; bit back a scream. If she took—another test—the results might be—
Jenny swore, closing her eyes tightly. She was thinking irrationally. She was thinking immaturely. She had to get off the floor; she had to deal with this and deal with it quickly. A whistle squealed, somewhere below her. Ducky was making his usual morning cup of tea. His kettle always whistled comically loudly. This morning, it served the purpose of snapping her out of her hysteria for the moment.
Jenny stood up, using the sink the pull herself off the floor. She fumbled with the lock and wrenched open the bathroom door. Combing her fingers through her hair in a self-soothing action, she took the stairs down to the ground floor in her drawstring pajama pants and Gibbs' t-shirt.
She found Ducky in the kitchen, fully dressed, bustling around with intelligence files under his arm. NCIS had two bases in Paris; a flat in the heart of the city, and this roomy safe house on the outskirts. The four operatives—she, Decker, Gibbs, and Ducky, were never in the same place at once; Ducky was most often with one of them at the safe house. She had run a sting last night, and because of that she was here while Decker and Gibbs operated in the city.
He smiled at her warmly.
"Ah, good morning, Jennifer," he greeted pleasantly. "You slept well, I hope?"
She twisted her red hair in her hands, pulling at the ends. It fell over one shoulder, and she rested one hand on the back of a kitchen table chair. She shook her head, her eyes dull.
"No," she said thickly. "No, I didn't."
Ducky looked sympathetic.
"We've been under cover a long time now," he offered. "It often gets harder to sleep as time goes by."
"Ducky," she said hoarsely, interrupting what he'd said.
He looked at her, concerned, giving her his full attention. He was wise enough to know when there was trouble afoot, and the young woman certainly looked troubled. It seemed something had gone wrong on her sting last night.
"What is it, my dear?" he asked gently.
Her forehead wrinkled, and the corners of her mouth turned down. There was stress in every line of her face. She rested her hand against her neck, rubbing her skin subconsciously.
"I'm pregnant," she told him.
Her voice shook.
Ducky stared at her for a moment, his expression changing only a little to express a startled reaction to her words. Saying it out loud drained her, and the colour drained from her face—that spurred him to action; she looked as if she would pass out.
"Sit down, Jenny," he ordered calmly.
He turned to the teakettle to pour her a mug of hot English breakfast.
Ducky offered her cream and sugar; she turned it down, holding up her hand with a sick look.
"You feel ill?" he asked, worried.
She nodded slowly, her hands curled around the warm mug. She lifted her eyes to him.
"Can you run a professional test?" she asked quietly.
He nodded.
"I can," he answered slowly. "I would have to send it to a lab, I'm afraid," he warned her.
Her cheeks flushed. The lab Ducky used for his autopsy and medical work was the French Intelligence lab; it wouldn't do to have him send out a pregnancy test. Too many questions would be raised. She shook her head, lifting the mug.
"We can't," she murmured.
He, of course, knew and understood, and watched her take a drink. She swallowed slowly, the mug at her lips.
"How accurate would you say drug store tests are?" she asked.
Ducky shrugged.
"Fairly," he told her honestly. "They rarely tell you that you are pregnant if you aren't, that is. It is more common for them to tell you that you aren't when you are."
She smiled tightly and with no mirth. Of course it would be that way.
"I took three," she admitted. "Positive."
"They are also more accurate the later you take them," Ducky advised. "If you've taken them merely a week after forgetting birth control, I wouldn't trust the result," he hesitated delicately; he obviously did not want to pry into her personal life.
She took another drink of tea and put the mug down, leaning her head into her hand.
"August," she said softly. "It's been since August."
"Ah," Ducky said carefully. He calculated silently. "That has been close to ten weeks, Jennifer."
"I know," she said. "I know, Ducky. I'm sick in the mornings; I'm sensitive to smells," she paused. "I know I'm pregnant. I just wanted," her voice caught. "I wanted to hear you say I was wrong."
"I understand," Ducky said kindly.
He reached across the table and put his hand on hers, falling silent. She looked at his hand with resigned eyes, clenching her teeth together violently. She compressed her lips and closed her eyes, turning her face into her palm for a moment. She pushed her hair back.
"I need an abortion," she said coldly.
Ducky squeezed her fingers.
"Have you only taken the tests this morning?"
She nodded.
"You needn't make that decision so quickly," Ducky told her gently.
She lifted her head and stared at him, her face still pale. She moved her lips in disbelief.
"It isn't a decision, Ducky," she said tensely. "It's a necessity."
He hesitated. This was a bad situation to stumble across, and though Ducky was not one to berate a woman for this kind of choice, he had seen enough psychological damage of all kinds in his time to know very well that decisions such as this had to be handled with kid gloves.
"It isn't something to be done lightly," Ducky said.
She pulled her hand away.
"Don't lecture me, Dr. Mallard," she warned.
There was a cornered, scared look in her eyes—she did not want to be told she was wrong, or that this was immoral. She was upset enough already; she couldn't bear him chastising her or even looking at her differently, she was already going to have to deal with that when it came to—
"You've mistaken me, Jenny," Ducky replied calmly. He kept his hand on the table where she had abandoned it. "I have no intention of hitting you with a bible or any other shaming, ignorant action such as that. Abortions are invasive. They aren't easy. I simply want to make sure you can handle this."
She touched her lips with her knuckles, her eyes on him warily. She held her hand out, palm up, her eyes desperate.
"We are in this country on two aliases, Ducky," she protested hoarsely. Her fingers numbered them as she spoke: "Our cover names with French Intelligence, and our covers with the Russians. I can't be pregnant," she said, and a dismayed laugh escaped her lips, "I don't exist!"
If the mission wasn't carried out to the end, it would easily unravel. Extracting her from it would jeopardize the lives of her colleagues and their counterparts in DGSE. Aside from the logistical impossibilities of her doing anything but terminating, she did not want a child at this point in her life—she couldn't even define what she had with Gibbs. It was true they were cut from the same cloth and inarguably drawn to each other, but they were also two adults with darkness that plagued them. Their affair was a spiraling whirlwind of romance, sex, black ops, and bitter arguments.
It wasn't—it just wasn't stable.
"Ducky," Jenny said, her voice breaking. She couldn't steady it; she met his eyes patiently but firmly. "I cannot have it," she told him assertively. "I need you to find me a clinic that will get rid of it."
If he was shocked by the harshness of her language, he didn't show it. Across the table from him was sitting a very panicked, scared woman, and even if he feared that this was going to irrevocably damage her, he saw the urgency and the necessity of helping her take care of this. She was correct; there was no decision; there was only an action to be taken.
Her eyes pleaded with him. He nodded. She looked relieved and sick simultaneously.
"You'll need to rest afterwards," he advised.
"I'll call Decker," she said dully. "I'll get authorization for a few days' leave." Jenny sighed and turned her face into her hands again, her palm covering her eyes. She pushed her hair back, looking down into her cooling tea. "Will you give me some Valium?"
"I would be bad for the baby," he answered on a doctor's reflex, and saw his mistake.
His face fell; he could have hit himself. She held her hand up to him, biting her lip.
"Please. Don't call it that," she said hoarsely.
"I'm so sorry, Jennifer," Ducky apologized sincerely.
She waved her hand. She knew he hadn't meant to hurt her. He got up and went to get his medical bag, setting it in the chair next to her. She needed to calm her nerves, to sleep while he did the research for her, and she wouldn't be able to without help. Ducky pulled a chair up and sat down closer to her, taking her hand and pressing the Valium into her palm.
She reached over and touched his hand thankfully, meeting his eyes again.
"You should speak with Jethro," he advised gently.
Her lips trembled. She snorted softly—she should have guessed they couldn't get anything past Ducky. He had been on to them from the moment he picked them up off the train from Marseille.
"Why?" she asked bluntly.
She didn't see any reason to burden Gibbs with this. She didn't want to talk about it; the less she had to say it out loud, the better—the easier it would be to forget. She was wary of Gibbs. He was moral; he was old-fashioned.
Ducky smiled sadly.
"The two of you are very close," Ducky said.
Her brow furrowed; well, perhaps she was unsure if he did know.
"He's the father, Ducky," she confessed.
"I know, Jenny," he answered calmly. "It will help," he promised earnestly. "It will be easier on you if he can be there."
Her eyes flashed with distress. She bit her lip, her eyes filling with painful tears. She took her hand from Ducky and put the pill in her mouth, swallowing it dry, pressing her knuckles to her lips again.
"Trust me, you do not want this to suffocate you alone," Ducky pleaded.
"I told you," she retorted tensely.
He shook his head. It wasn't the same. She needed to understand that.
"You want to tell him," Ducky said.
She leaned back, shaking her head, tears lining her lashes thickly.
"I can't, Ducky," she said weakly. "I can't. He's Gibbs. He's—You look at the guy, and you know he doesn't condone it. He'd jeopardize the whole mission before he'd think this was right," she went on, her voice getting more breakable as she went. "He's too noble. I'm not like him; I always put myself first. He'd hate himself. He already hates himself."
She didn't know why Gibbs hated himself, but she was sure that he did.
Ducky reached for her hand again, but she pulled away from him, shutting him out. The tears spilled down her cheeks and her shoulders shook. She moved her head, her hair falling in her eyes as she leaned forward and put her head in her arms.
Her words were muffled, but he could hear what she said all the same:
"I don't want him to look at me differently."
Ducky was accustomed to Gibbs appearing at the safe house even when he wasn't slated to be there. It was part of the reason he had always known that something more than platonic partnership was going on between him and Jennifer. He was therefore unsurprised when Gibbs came in sometime after ten o'clock that night.
He was, however, apprehensive; he knew Jennifer was in a bad place. She had kept to herself all day while he dutifully did his best to find her options, and when she had come down to eat something—on his orders—after the Valium had worn off, she hadn't said more than two words to him. He had graciously left her to herself, brewing her a pot of tea silently to let her know he was around if she needed him.
"Duck," Gibbs knocked on the door of the sparse study and looked inside, his brow furrowed. "Somethin' go wrong on Jen's sting?" he asked gruffly.
Ducky shook his head mildly.
"She checked in on time, closed everything by the book," he said. He held up a manila envelope. "I have her report ready to file."
Gibbs ignored the file. He narrowed his eyes at his old friend.
"She say anything to you?" he asked.
"About what, Jethro?" Ducky asked, exasperated. "Aren't you to be in the city flat tonight?"
Gibbs shrugged.
"Deck's there," he said, and then added vaguely, "with some woman."
"Ah," Ducky breathed. He intertwined his fingers and looked at Gibbs mildly, quite capable of holding Jenny's trust. "I'm sure she's quite fine," he advised calmly. "These operations can be tiring."
It seemed Gibbs thought otherwise, and he was quick to tell Ducky why.
"You sure about that, Duck?" he retorted dangerously, a little on edge. "She's passed out drunk in the kitchen."
Ducky's eyebrows shot up.
"What?" he asked.
Gibbs gave him a hard, unforgiving look, as if he blamed Ducky for failing to notice. Ducky sighed and rubbed his head with his glasses in his hands; Gibbs turned on his heel and stormed back into the kitchen, ignoring Ducky, forgetting about him. He approached Jenny quietly and picked up the bottle of whiskey in front of her. He couldn't remember how full it had been when he'd bought it last week, but it was empty now. He took it to the sink, along with the glass she'd been using, and dumped them both. They clattered painfully loudly, and she stirred.
She moaned.
Gibbs pulled out the empty chair next to her and sat down, resting his hand on the crown of her head.
"Jen," he said gruffly, his voice quiet. "Jen?"
He tilted her head back, peering at her eyes. She looked at him drowsily, conscious. She must have been only sleeping, then, or so out of it she was ignoring him entirely. He raised his brows at her.
"How much did you drink?" he asked.
She just put her head back down and said nothing. He rubbed her shoulder, shaking her gently again.
"Jenny," he called firmly. He lifted her head again, cupping her chin in his palm. "Why are you drinking?"
She blinked at him heavily. She didn't answer, and he frowned, standing up. He coaxed her to sit up, slipping his hand around her back. He tried to get her to come up to bed with him. She leaned back and looked at him hollowly. He touched her cheek affectionately.
"Come on, Jen, let's go to bed," he suggested. "Can you walk?" he asked.
She put her hand on his shoulder and let him help her up. She stumbled immediately and crashed against his chest. He easily caught her, kicking the chair out of the way. He swore under his breath; his muscles were still sore and aching from a fight he and Decker had gotten into with a few Russian thugs.
"Jethro," she said into his shirt. "I feel numb."
Her words were slurred. He had to strain to hear them. He furrowed his brow and tilted his head, looking down at her. He supported her with one hand, taking a few steps, and she flung her arm out sharply, trying to balance. Gibbs realized it was futile to try to get her to walk and made a face, bracing himself to carry her. He grunted in discomfort as he swung her up, throwing her legs over his arm.
He ran into Ducky at the foot of the stairs.
"Oh no," Ducky said, wringing his hands.
"She's fine, Duck," Gibbs growled.
"Jethro," Ducky began hesitantly.
"I'll take care of it," Gibbs said, starting up the stairs carefully.
He was wary of losing his footing. She wasn't that heavy, but it wasn't easy to carry a full grown woman's dead weight up the stairs in any circumstances, much less when he was sore from hand-to-hand combat. Her breathing was deep and slow, like she was sleeping or concentrating hard on being still. He nudged open the bedroom door.
She shoved her hand into his shoulder, hitting him feebly.
"I'm going to be sick," she muttered.
He took her straight to the bathroom, and she nearly leapt out of his arms, falling ungracefully to her knees. He swept her hair off her neck for her and held it in his hand on top of her head. He sat down next to her, leaning back tiredly against the cabinets under the sink. Considering how much she had probably consumed, he didn't expect her to be done any time soon.
Gibbs set his jaw, his eyes never leaving her while her shoulders heaved; she got sick over and over again, emptying her stomach, and he couldn't think of anything that would have messed her up this badly. Ducky was right; under cover ops were difficult and draining, but she was fine—she had been fine. If nothing had gone wrong on her sting, then this had to be the result of something personal, and he felt uncomfortable when he realized he didn't know much about her personal background beyond their sphere of work.
They were having an affair, when they weren't working they were dragging each other around Paris like they were in a goddamn remake of Casablanca, and he didn't know enough about her history to figure out what might be wrong. He supposed she didn't know that much about him, either, but that didn't make him feel any better.
She was the one who had initiated in Marseille, but he was the one who had it bad for her, so bad it had taken him by surprise. He was just out of a brutal divorce, and he hadn't expected to be taken in by a woman for a long time—Jenny was different. He felt differently for Jenny than he had for any of his ex-wives in his sham marriages since Shannon.
Jenny lifted her head, and she reached behind her and touched his hand, gently extricating it from her hair. She sat back a little, her face pale. She closed her eyes, her hands shaking. She didn't want him to see her like this, though it was beyond too late for that. She started to get up.
He put his hands on her shoulders.
"Easy, Jen," he said.
She stopped, and slumped down against him. It was the same thing he'd said to her in the Marseille attic, in a much lighter tone—teasing her. She'd give anything to do Marseille over again, so maybe she wouldn't be half-conscious in his lap on the bathroom floor in Paris.
"I feel better," she mumbled. "I need water. I want to go to sleep."
"Yeah," he agreed.
He helped her up and opened the mirror, pulling a plastic cup out of the cabinet. He handed her the toothbrush in it, marked with her name, and filled up the cup so she could rinse her mouth.
"You gonna tell me what's wrong, Jenny?" he asked.
She spit in the sink violently.
"I made a mistake," she said vaguely, stumbling over the words. Her brow furrowed and she leaned forward heavily on the sink. "Don't want to talk to you, Jethro."
He fell silent. She moaned uncomfortable, her brow furrowing, and he took the cup and her toothbrush away from her before she could pass out and hit her head on the surface of the sink. She stared at the water as it spun down the drain, in the same position she'd stood this morning, when she hadn't been so drunk she couldn't see straight, but she'd felt almost as sick.
A mistake. Did she mean she'd made an operational mistake? He had to know what it was if she had—but then, it was best not to push her now. He needed her sober when she explained it. He pushed her hair back and gruffly asked her to go into the bedroom. She was walking steadier; she must have vomited a majority of the alcohol in her system.
She sat on the edge of the bed and he pulled off her cotton pants and her t-shirt, letting her roll over onto her side and curl up with the pillows. He went back into the bathroom to straighten up. He closed the mirror, looked at his reflection blankly for a moment, and then leaned over to throw the plastic cup away—and that's when he found them in the trashcan.
He picked up the small wastebasket and set it on the counter, pulling the recognizable white sticks from the bottom without regard for how sanitary it was. He fanned them out, narrowing his eyes at the unmistakable clear blue lines on all three of them. His heart stopped. He felt about as sick as she was—he could understand the panic that must have struck her; this was bad news.
It would have been unexpected in any sense, but this happening on an undercover op was worse than when it happened to female marines on ships or female cadets on deployments. He was twice as shaken by the discovery because this was very much his fault.
He set his jaw and threw the pregnancy tests back in the wastebasket, setting it back down on the floor heavily. He washed his hands and wrenched the towel off its rack to dry them, rubbing his palm over his face. He couldn't confront her about it if she didn't want to talk. He didn't know what to say. He had the horrible urge to forget what he'd just seen.
They were approaching the very crux of their operation; she couldn't be—
He heard a muffled shout from the bedroom and he snapped out of it, slamming his hand down to turn off the light and leaving the bathroom. She'd turned the lamp on and was blinking uncertainly. He crossed the room and turned the light back off, kicking his shoes off at the side of the bed. She must have yelled for him, but it didn't look like she realized it.
"Lay down, Jen," he said gruffly, turning to her. She mumbled at him and he crawled into bed with her, pulling the covers loose and throwing them over her. She shivered and lay down, curled up next to him.
He touched her face, his thumb running over her lip, and she looked at him, her eyes finding his. She winced when he looked back at her, almost as if she realized what he'd been doing in the bathroom. He shifted onto his side, letting his hand slide to her neck.
"Why were you drinking?" he asked hoarsely, a pleading note in his voice.
Why had she drunk so much? It would be bad for her, in any circumstance, but if she was pregnant it was reckless and dangerous. She could really hurt herself that way—she was looking at him desperately, silently imploring him to keep quiet. She turned away from him, flat on her back, her eyes facing the other direction.
"You know why," she answered bluntly.
He leaned over her and rested his lips against her collarbone. She felt him swallow hard, but he didn't ask. He didn't say anything—like he hadn't said anything when he'd noticed they were careless the first time. His silence made it worse. She wasn't sure he had figured it out, but she'd heard him in there messing with the trashcan. She knew how he worked, and he knew how she worked, and they were both pros at wordless communication.
His hand stroked over her ribs, touching her abdomen hesitantly. She shoved his hand away and turned onto her side, gripping the sheets.
"Jen," he murmured tiredly, putting his hand against her back.
She turned back over and kissed him harshly. He could taste the whiskey on her strongly, and his arms went around her, pulling her closer under the sheets. Her teeth pricked his lower lip and he rolled over, trapping her under him.
Her head spun.
The Valium, the whiskey, the unprotected sex—it didn't matter now. She would deal with it and none of that high stakes risky behavior would matter. She put her hands on his neck and gasped for breath. They weren't going to talk; they never talked. She didn't know what he was thinking.
"Look at me," she said, her voice breaking. "Look at me, Jethro."
He did, his blue eyes meeting hers much like they had in Marseille, and she knew it was the last time he'd ever look at her like that—with innocence.
Decker asked no questions when she told him she needed three personal days before Prague to take care of a female issue. She was sure he assumed what the problem was, though he was none the wiser concerning who was a part of it. He had plenty of sexual liaisons while he was in Europe; he only assumed Jenny had as well—and if she had to fix something, he wasn't going to pry.
She thanked Ducky quietly for his quick actions in finding her a clinic he knew to be safe and reliable, and on one of the days she was back at the safe house and Gibbs and Decker were at the flat, she made an appointment.
She wouldn't allow Ducky to drive her. She slipped into the coat Gibbs had given her at the end of September and insisted Ducky let her walk—she wanted to be alone. She would consent to him picking her up; she told him she'd call. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so, and she felt a little less suffocated and sick in the fresh air.
Ducky had given her plenty of background on the procedure, and she wasn't worried. She had never been delicate or prone to frailty. She violently wished this were unnecessary; she did feel tense and panicked, still.
It wasn't moral conflict. She didn't know how she felt about the issue, and she didn't give herself time to think about that now. She had never expressed an opinion in the debate because she had never imagined she would need an abortion. She had considered herself smarter and more practical than all of the woman who let accidents happen, and now she was tossed among them and she was scared and alone, and she fervently wished she'd never thought a single judgmental thing about it. She had no staunch view of whether it was right or wrong—she thought it absurd that humans would arbitrarily and arrogantly assign the start of life based on science rather than nature, but that was immaterial at the moment—she wasn't religious, she just had the thin veil of societal taboo that seemed to permeate women raised in America; abortions were stigmas—whether you supported or denied access to them.
She was thankful she had this choice. She didn't want to make it.
She didn't want to be alone, either, but she was—it was the reality of the matter. If she had let Ducky come with her, she would still be alone. It may have been that he was right when he told her she should talk to Jethro, and ask him to be here with her; it might be that he was the only one who could make her feel less isolated—but she hadn't had the strength to do it.
They hadn't spoken after the night he'd found her so drunk in the kitchen. She was aware he knew something; he was aware something was wrong with her—but he didn't ask, and she hadn't said anything. When this was over and nothing came of it, she wouldn't have to tell him and he could assume there had been a false positive.
She walked into the clinic and came to the window, pulling the name of the doctor Ducky had given her on a slip of paper out of her pocket.
"Name?" the receptionist asked.
"Jane Doe," Jenny answered coolly.
The French woman didn't understand the reference; she looked up Jenny's appointment and nodded, handing her a file to go over and sign, and then she directed Jenny to sit and wait her turn. Jenny chose a seat in the corner. There were pregnant women in the clinic; one with a small child next to her whom she was playing with happily.
Jenny bit her lip, and focused hard on the paper. It went over what would happen; the anesthesia they would use, how invasive the process was. It was medical and coarse; she felt like throwing up. The descriptions and diagrams seemed vulgar to her. She read the words extraction and vacuum aspiration and looked up at the child across the room.
She would have lost her nerve if this hadn't been the only option. She lowered her eyes again, and shook her head—no, she wouldn't; even if she could remove herself from the mission, she didn't want this.
Her hand didn't shake when she signed her name to the consent forms. She was unsure she'd ever be able to put into words what it felt like to go through this. She knew she didn't want to have a baby; that didn't mean by default, she wanted to have an abortion. The gray are between the two sides of the debate was a vast expanse of shades, and she was suddenly repulsed by the argument that seemed to divide so many people.
It was horrible personal and heartbreaking and she couldn't find a reason to justify there being a political commentary on something so intimate.
She turned her file in; the receptionist went over it, then stood and beckoned her back.
In a blur, she was taken by a nurse into a clean—too clean—room and asked to remove her clothing.
"The actual procedure will only take about fifteen minutes," the nurse explained.
It was all in French—somehow, it helped. It wasn't her native language. It wasn't her real name. It felt like it wasn't happening to her—she could pretend this wasn't really happening to her.
It was happening to her cover identities, to Clémence, to Agathe, to "Jane Doe".
"Before I administer anesthesia, would you like an ultrasound?" the nurse asked, holding a clipboard.
Jenny closed her eyes.
"No," she answered hoarsely.
She was handed another form to sign.
Gibbs slammed his fist into the bedroom wall and ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He grit his teeth and stormed down the stairs, barging into Ducky's study violently. He shot his old friend a poisonous look.
"Where?" he demanded.
Ducky looked at him sadly, shaking his head slightly.
"Jethro," he warned.
"Where is she, Duck?" he demanded.
She was supposed to be here. She was gone. Decker had mentioned that he'd authorized her medical leave. Gibbs had left the flat in the city immediately. He had no capability to handle the myriad of things he was feeling, but he was fiercely worried about Jenny, and he was angry she hadn't spoken to him.
"She's trusted me, Jethro," Ducky said calmly. "You know how highly I value my word. Her business is private."
"It's my business," Gibbs growled aggressively. He pointed to his chest. "You damn well know it's my business, too."
"She deserves my confidence."
Gibbs stormed into the room. Ducky stood his ground firmly. He glared at the doctor, his heart slamming against his ribcage. He had enough investigative prowess to figure out what Jenny was doing, and it was going to tear him apart. He didn't like the idea of her being alone.
"I'm not going to stop her, Duck," he said in a low voice. "I'm not going to berate her for it. Tell me where she is," he ordered.
"No."
Gibbs knocked items off Ducky's desk angrily.
"You're too upset, Jethro!" Ducky said tensely, startled by the violence.
"Yeah?" Gibbs retorted. "What about her?" he shouted. "You should have gone with her!"
Ducky looked taken aback.
"She told me she hadn't spoken to you," he said.
He hadn't realized Gibbs knew what was going on. He hadn't expected to be confronted about this. He had agreed to keep Jennifer's privacy and he was dead set on doing that, but witnessing this level of distress from Gibbs was unexpected.
"I'm not stupid," snarled Gibbs, leaning closer. "I've been with a few women, Duck," he snapped angrily.
"She felt she couldn't tell you," Ducky implored. "I can't allow you ambush her."
"I'm not going to ambush her," Gibbs barked. "I'm going to pick her up."
Ducky looked uncertain. Gibbs turned away, clenching his fists. He may not like what Jenny was doing—he may be furious with her for doing it without so much as a word to him to let him know that it's what she had decided. He knew there really was no other option; it didn't change the fact that he hated it and he was against it. He whirled back to Ducky.
"She shouldn't be alone, Duck," he said hoarsely, controlling his aggression. "I need to be there. I need to do that for her."
Ducky hesitated, torn. It was uncharacteristic for Gibbs to express so much emotion, and he knew that indicated that he was bothered to distraction. He could see the concern in Gibbs' eyes, and it touched him. He believed him when he said he wasn't going to interfere with Jennifer's choice. He was overcome with guilt for allowing her to go alone.
Ducky sighed heavily, and broke her confidence; he told Gibbs the name and address of where she was. Gibbs grabbed the keys from his desk and left, slamming the safe house door, ignoring the cold weather and taking off in just his polo and his jeans, a white knight in rusted armor.
She had her hands in her pockets and sunglasses on as she walked out of the clinic. She wanted to wait outside for Ducky. She felt groggy and drained. She had instructions to drink fluids, rest, and avoid sexual activity—common sense things. She already had vague cramping, and she was told minor bleeding was nothing to worry about.
She didn't feel like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders; she didn't feel better. She felt tired, and she felt hollow. She wanted to go to sleep and not think about it for a while. She wanted to get back to work; prepare for the Czech Republic.
She didn't want to see him sitting on one of the benches along the sidewalk. It was he; she had no doubt about it, silver hair, straight back, military posture, and familiar wrinkled blue polo. She almost choked; she froze, unable to move for a moment. Ducky had promised her—and she hadn't even thought Gibbs would be at the safe house today.
She was too compromised to face him with strength. She just didn't have her guard up.
He looked up, sensing her presence, and she took a deep breath, trying to fill her lungs, and walked up to him. She pushed her sunglasses off her face and flinched in the bright sun. It shouldn't be this sunny on such a dark October afternoon. She wrinkled her nose and looked around them, and then back at him.
The look he returned to her was very non-threatening. It was soothing, almost.
"Ducky gave me his word," she said blankly.
There was no trace of anger in her. She didn't have the energy. He didn't make an excuse or defend Ducky. Ducky didn't really have anything to do with this. She was grateful for his help, but she was now realizing she should never have put him in the middle. He had been right; she should have gone straight to Jethro. Even if he put up a fight, it would have been better to tell him.
"Why didn't you tell me, Jen?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged and looked away.
"You knew," she answered mildly.
"You didn't trust me," he said.
She was taken aback to hear him sound so hurt. She shook her head, looking at the pavement where his feet were.
"It wasn't that," she said softly. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, struggling to find words. She was dangerously close to tears, and he had never seen her cry.
Jenny pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I didn't want to make it harder," she said, scuffing her foot on the concrete. "I didn't want to hear you—tell me it was wrong."
He shifted tensely; she saw his head move from the corner of her eye.
"I wouldn't, Jen."
"But you think it is," she said confidently, her eyes snapping to his. "You have—old world honor," she paused and caught her breath, biting her lip. "I didn't want to see the look in your eyes when I told you I was going to—" she stopped again, and lifted her shoulders, holding her hands out desperately. "I had to get rid of it, Jethro."
He flinched horribly and she gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. The words had clearly shaken him. He made a noise and shook his head, as if trying to calm her down. She turned away, and he leaned forward, taking her hand tightly.
He understood on a fundamental level that there had been no other option. Their position in France was too precarious; too many lives depended on their executing their assignment and getting out clean. She would had to have been pulled from the operation, and that in turn would have given some ammunition to ban women from under cover operations all together for fear of something like this jeopardizing months of hard work.
The matrix of emotions he struggled with were too complex to navigate; it didn't matter that on a logical level he didn't fault her for this when he knew it was a technical necessity, on an instinctive level he was devastated. He had balked at the idea of fatherhood, but it was worse to know that life had been stamped out. He wasn't angry with her; he was angry with himself, angry that this was possible, that it was a reality.
He wanted to be back in Marseille.
He squeezed her hand.
"Jen," he said gently. "Jen, it's okay," he soothed.
He tugged her back towards him, reaching out to put his hands on her hips.
"It's not okay," she said hoarsely.
He swallowed. He leaned forward, putting his head against her ribs. She touched the back of his neck. He didn't want to ask her anything too personal. He wanted to know if she was in pain; he didn't know what was appropriate to say to her. He looked up at her, setting his jaw tensely.
"You need anything?"
He watched her mouth as she hesitated.
"I need," she started.
She fell silent. She put her hands on his and held them off of her gently. She sat down next to him on the bench cautiously—apprehensively. He hated that she felt that way around him, like she couldn't talk. What had he ever done to make her think he would be her judge? Hadn't he killed people right in front of her—hadn't he broken the rules of engagement in interrogations rooms out of rage?
"You feel sick?" he asked.
"Sore," she corrected in a faint voice.
She leaned forward, hunched over, and put her hands over her face. She broke down in tears; unable to hold them back any longer. It was too much stress to bear, and she was glad he was here now; even if she had been too much of a coward to tell him she needed his support.
He watched her shoulders shake violently, his throat constricted. It was as if it had broken something in her soul or her heart. He couldn't be angry with her; he tried so hard to force himself not to be angry with her. He couldn't see how anyone could ever be angry with a woman for it—she was in so much distress because of it-but he couldn't help the animosity he felt somewhere deep in the back of his mind, in the dark corners of his heart.
He ran his hand through his hair and gently pulled her towards him, wrapping his arm around her shoulders tightly. He tucked her head against his chest and let his lips brush her temple comfortingly. He just had to get her through the next few days so they could move forward. She'd be okay in a few days. He had to make sure he showed her he didn't fault her for it.
He was blaming himself.
She put her hand on his knee and held on tightly, pressing herself into him as if she was trying to disappear. Her tears were soaking through his shirt and she didn't seem to be able to stop crying—and for a woman who had never shed a tear in front of him, who never seemed to give in to the need, when she cried, she cried with everything she had.
He should have realized she would never be the same. He should have understood that their affair would never have the same levity and romance and sweetness that had ignited it in Marseille; he should have understood that the August heat that had infused their beginning would fade to winter cold because of this. He should have known.
He didn't.
*There is absolutely no political/personal statement on abortion contained here; I'm telling a story.
I know I'm Master of Tears and Queen of Angst (as decreed by some of you) but this is the first piece I've ever written that I considered not posting because of the content.
Feedback is appreciated.
-Alexandra
story#115