a/n: I have written another Hollis fic ... in the same vein as the last one, in that it's really a Jibbs fic :D [the setting for these is blatantly early season 5, circa the premiere episodes - Ex-Files]
She had woken when his phone rang, pretended to be asleep during the muffled, gruff conversation, and opened her eyes wide when he sat up and rubbed his face, pushing covers back, swinging his legs off the bed, leaning forward for his jeans. She rolled onto her back, and blinked at the ceiling, grinding her teeth together. The volume on his old flip phone was loud and crude, and she didn't have a soft-spoken voice.
Hollis turned onto her side, and stared at his back. She blinked, slowly and calmly, and cleared her throat quietly.
"Where are you going?"
"Work," he grunted.
She pursed her lips silently, rolled her eyes in irritation.
"It's after midnight," she remarked, her voice hazy with sleep.
He grunted, and didn't answer. She heard him yank his shoes on, scuff a heel against her hardwood floors. She licked her lips.
"Where's the crime scene?"
He didn't answer right away, and she thought, bingo: it's not a crime scene, not a legitimate one: it's that bitch in the corner office. She reigned in her callous thoughts, tried to swallow the animosity; she didn't rightly know that bitch; it wasn't fair to hate her.
"In house problem," he said vaguely.
It was, Hollis decided, fair to resent her.
"After midnight?" Hollis prodded sarcastically, rising up on her arm. She gathered the sheets around her, and he flipped her bedside lamp on, turning around.
His hand rested on the bed, and he held his knee at an awkward angle when he shifted, resting on the mattress, pointing towards her. He gave her a slight withering look and his jaw tightened.
"Ribbet," Hollis whispered to him, arching an eyebrow.
He blinked at her, a muscle in his temple jumping. She knew all about the Frog fiasco – the whole federal law enforcement circuit knew about that unfettered catastrophe, she just happened to have had the blessing of being in a relationship – ha – with one of the central figures, and her knowledge of the issue was more intimate than political: the federal agencies saw what the manhunt did to NCIS, but Hollis stood by while Gibbs dealt with what it did to the Huntress.
It was cosmically unfair that the woman behind the witch-hunt seemed to have Gibbs at her beck and call, when the woman in his bed could hardly keep his attention for longer than it took to consume Chinese take-out.
Hollis tilted her head, and blinked blonde hair out of her eyes.
"Is this a house call?" she asked.
"It's work, Hol."
"It's not work if you leave my apartment to throw yourself on your boss's doorstep," Hollis retorted sharply.
He rubbed his jaw and sighed in a frustrated way. He looked conflicted, and exhausted – she wondered what was behind the exhaustion, Jenny Shepard? Was he tired of cleaning up after her? Or was he tired of loving the dead – or was he merely tired of Hollis herself?
She reached up and pushed her hair back, gathering it in her hands.
"Whatever she wants, it can wait until the morning," she said bluntly.
His jaw tightened, and he shook his head stiffly.
"It's urgent."
"Did the Frog's body turn up?" Hollis asked mildly. She cocked her brow again. "She remember where she buried him?"
"Hol," Gibbs snapped dangerously. "Don't," he growled.
"We all know she did it."
"We don't," he said stubbornly.
"You do," Hollis said, just as stubbornly. "You're her old partner, covering her ass."
"You get it, then," he said flippantly. He blinked tensely. "The man killed her father."
"She thinks."
"Jen's a pro."
Hollis turned over, resting a hand behind her head, staring at the ceiling, seething silently.
She thought, can't believe I'm talking a man out of leaving my bed for another woman's – something.
She snorted, and murmured:
"She told me it was like being married to two people."
"What?" Gibbs demanded tersely, in the middle of turning his shirt right side out. His eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Your ex-wife."
"Which – " he started, and then shut his mouth – Stephanie, obviously. He grit his teeth.
Holly turned her head and looked at him in the dark, unafraid. Her eyes were bare.
"She meant Shannon, I think," she said boldly. A sour look touched her lips. "Though, she mentioned with the one before her, she had the feeling Jenny Shepard was part of the trio. Is polygamy a habit, with you?"
"They gossip with each other?" he asked angrily, ignoring both comments – the barb about Jenny, the lamentation of Shannon.
She saw him prepping for battle, and she felt tired; she should have known that this was all going to fall apart; the moment she heard the tape, the moment his focus was drawn from her to the Director – she should have known, in fact, the moment he teased Jenny Shepard in front of her – Hollis was never his girlfriend, she was the latest scapegoat.
"They have a club," Hollis snorted.
He grit his teeth.
"I never cheated on my sec—thir—Diane," he stumbled. He blinked like he was seizing, and squeezed his eyes shut.
She saw pain etched in the lines of his face, and he pulled his shirt on, moving to get up, gathering his things from the bed side table. Hollis didn't feel much remorse. She didn't feel sorry for herself, about Gibbs, not like Stephanie Bronwyn-Flynn obviously had; she felt mild disappointment at her failure to see this, and him, for what he was: not the man she wanted him to be.
"Her problems aren't our problems, Jethro," Hollis said definitively.
He shrugged.
"Not yours," he agreed.
She thought the comment audacious, but unsurprising: of course, he was only thinking of himself in terms of a singularity: because he didn't consider himself committed, because—
because he's an asshole, she thought grimly. A voice soothed, no no, he's grieving, and she silently yelled back: bullshit.
"If she does want you to hide a body, what will you do?" Hollis asked plainly.
Gibbs arched his brows.
"Get a shovel," he retorted abrasively.
Hollis sat up, sheets falling, naked, and looked at him head on – look at what the fuck you're doing, Jethro, you're neglecting a perfectly good woman, a beautiful woman, for a bitter bitch with who hunted game too big for her to bring down.
He leaned forward, shoving his phone into his pocket, and kissed her on the lips, a soft kiss, a kiss that pleaded forgiveness, but also asked her to shut up – it was a combination of kissing only Gibbs could accomplish, and Hollis yielded to the kiss. She knew now he'd probably never ask her to marry him, but at least she also knew now – she wouldn't ever say yes, if he lost his goddamn mind and did –
"I didn't sign up to be a sister wife," she mumbled.
He smirked, and then gave her a dry look.
"'M not married to either of you," he pointed out.
"You're sleepin' with me," she hissed, her hair brushing his face. "I count the scratches on your back."
He got the point, but shook his head at her, and kissed her again – and off he went, to find the big queen jungle cat, the one who left him for carrion and yet somehow remained in his affections.
Hollis fell back on her pillows, and she thought:
hell, I'll give him one more chance.
She heard about the investigation into Shepard, months and months later, after she'd left Gibbs to the lioness, and she heard he got her off clean, and she figured it must have been that night that the woman made her confession to such an unworthy priest.
writing Gibbs as more dick-ish than usual but hey, you understand your characters best when you capitalize on their flaws.
-alexandra
story #192