A/N: part 3/tres. trigger warning still applies.
"It takes your breath
'cause it leaves a scar
but those untouched
never get
never get very far."
[The Truth About Love; P!nk]
December. Paris. 1999.
The medical examiner's fingers moved methodically over the flayed skin on her thigh, and she shivered and turned her head away.
It was cold as Russian Siberia in the sparse kitchen of that impersonal, unimpressive safe house. The chill reminded her of the icy streets of Prague and blood stains on pure white snow. The agency hardly gave a thought to allowing a budge for heat. The director no doubt thought it a wasteful expense; she would have agreed, but for the fact that she was suffering the brunt of the decision in the bitter Paris winter. It was frustrating that she had to wear so many layers when indoors; it was worse that she had to have her cozy clothing off now so Ducky could examine her thigh.
He was courteous in his assessment of her injury; his calculating touch was firm enough to adequately appraise the healing bullet wound but gentle enough so that it wasn't in the least bit uncomfortable. The flesh was tender but not painful; the gore of the initial wound was gone, and the infection that had unfortunately followed had faded. Her skin was pink, raw, and tender—scarred, but slowly strengthening; rejuvenating.
Ducky smiled and leaned back, nodding approvingly.
"You're healing up nicely, Jennifer," he complimented.
She let her leg slide off the chair and reached for her sweatpants, unable to shake the hollow feeling that washed over her when he said she was healing. She felt that her injury healing so well should be reflected in her soul, but it wasn't. That bullet wound was the only thing that was healing up nicely.
"I've had worse," she murmured grimly, dressing.
He seemed to sense her unhappiness. He watched her push her hair back and reach for her thick wool socks, bending her leg with magnificent flexibility for one so recently injured. She slipped the socks on, and he chose to speak to her while he had the chance.
"Have you thought about talking to someone, my dear?" he asked gently.
Her hands stiffened in her actions and she didn't look up, moving to her other foot. She swallowed hard, fiercely angry with Ducky for going there. She was grateful that he had hardly said a word since October, but this therapy idea he had brought up once before, and she had made it clear he shouldn't ever do so again.
"I don't need my head shrunk, Ducky," she said abruptly.
"I think we both know that isn't quite true," he admonished in a grandfatherly way.
Her head snapped up and she met his eyes ferociously. He looked at her with a comforting little smile and she wanted to slap it off his face—she was scarily prone to violent urges when she felt threatened these days, and it upset her even more when she had to fight down the desire to act out.
"I am fine," she articulated brutally. Her eyes were sharp. "I don't think about it."
Ducky nodded. He leaned forward on his knees and reached out, his pointer finger extended. He pressed it against her heart kindly, shaking his head a little. She almost couldn't bear his wise old eyes on her, and he knew that, but he was bothered by her refusal to acknowledge what had happened. He was tired of watching Jenny and Gibbs act as if nothing had ever happened. It was killing her, and he was sure Gibbs was too busy making himself forget to notice.
"That's the problem, Jenny," Ducky said quietly. "You don't think about it," he stood up and leaned forward, resting his hand on her shoulder. He put his hand to the side of her head as if he were examining her skull for abrasions. "It's all in here," he said.
She was frozen still for a moment, and then she wrenched her head away, swatting at his hands. She turned her back to Ducky, her face set in a hard line. He didn't understand that she couldn't think about it. She didn't want to. She didn't want to think or talk about it; it wasn't October anymore.
October felt like a lifetime ago, just like Positano and Serbia felt like lifetimes ago, and Marseille—Marseille was like a fairytale, and fairytales weren't real. Fairytales didn't end like this.
Jenny put her chin in her hands, silent. She closed her eyes. She was tired; she was eager for it all to be over. She was desperate for the warmer climate Cairo promised, because she thought she'd never escape this stark Parisian cold. Winter had never held beauty for her, and Paris, once so full of light and romance, had lost its enchantment.
A door slammed; there was stomping in the hall—Gibbs returning with take-out.
Her eyes opened. She looked in front of her, blinking to life. Ducky met Gibbs in the hall, and she felt a brief flicker of fury when she heard him speaking about her in low terms.
"That girl needs counseling, Jethro," he said in a firm undertone.
"She's fine, Duck."
"You aren't helping her at all," Ducky returned, a little more loudly, a little more meanly.
Jenny smiled to herself. She looked down at the wooden table, tracing patterns into it with her fingertip. She was touched Ducky cared so much for her. She would find some way, one day, to tell him how much she appreciated it. His heart was in the right place, and he understood things she wasn't ready to face yet. She tilted her head back and stood abruptly, standing and stretching. She smiled and pushed her chair in. The injury was on its way to cured; she wasn't limping or even slightly favoring her leg any longer.
She put her hand on her hip, gripping the back of the chair tightly, and followed the Chinese take-out in Gibbs' hands with interest. He stacked them on the table and met her eyes cautiously; Ducky's words had set him off, had worried him. It made him think she had said something to imply she was hurting. He reached out and touched her neck, his fingers brushing her cheek lightly.
She felt like crying; instead, she forced a brave smile. She pushed his hand away gently and reached for a carton of Chinese.
"Chopsticks?" she asked.
He swept them out of his back pocket and twirled them in his fingers before offering them to her gallantly. She accepted and tore the paper off with her teeth, posing them expertly between her fingers.
Gibbs stepped back and looked down at her thigh. He grunted.
"How is it?" he asked gruffly.
She shrugged. Ducky's words came back to her, and she felt hollow again.
"Healing nicely," she said.
Her voice seemed thinner when she answered. He looked at her carefully, pain throbbing in his chest. He knew her better than she thought he did; he knew when she was thinking about it—she always was, in some ways-but he knew when it was really doing a number on her.
She looked away from him, down to her food, and poked around in the rice for a moment.
"Don't say anything, Jethro," she said mildly.
He rarely did—and she didn't know if it was because he couldn't, or because he was trying not to hurt her—but the few times he had tried, it had done more damage than good, even though she had never let him realize that.
Ducky interrupted, broke the tense moment. He reappeared with his cap and coat on, a thick scarf hung over his arm. He looked at the two of them in the kitchen for a moment, and he felt immeasurable sadness. He was bothered to see them weighed down with an anvil they refused to lift. Ducky had known Gibbs for much longer than he had Jennifer—but he was confident that she was someone who could have eased whatever darkness drove Gibbs' life, and now there was no chance of that.
He cleared his throat.
"I'll be off, then," he said cordially.
His flight out of Europe was late this evening; his job here was done. It wouldn't be a long separation from Gibbs, but he had no clue as to when he would see Jenny or Decker again.
Gibbs nodded. He approached him, clapped him on the shoulder, and shook his hand.
"Have a good flight, Duck," he said gruffly. "See you Stateside."
Ducky smiled at him. Jenny set aside her food and brushed off her hands, clearing her throat and giving him a look that said she would see him out. Gibbs watched her apprehensively, but stayed in the kitchen; he sat down at the table, his back towards the door to reduce the temptation to eavesdrop.
She folded her hands across her chest protectively, leaning against the door, her eyes on Ducky softly. He looked back at her with anxious hesitation; he wanted to get one more word in, advise her, promise her she would feel so much less burdened if she just found some peace and acceptance. He had wisdom to impart, and she stubbornly refused to take it—oh, she was so like Gibbs.
"Ducky," she said in a whisper—not a whisper of secrecy, just a soft, resigned voice.
"I wish you would listen to me, my dear," he pleaded quietly.
"Ducky," she said again calmly. She lifted her chin as if to override his words. "I can take care of myself."
He signed heavily. It wasn't at all what he wanted to hear, but encased in her simple words was a warning: this was the end of the conversation. He was not to mention it again, and he grudgingly accepted that and respected her tacit request. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her cheek.
"Do take care of yourself, Jenny," he whispered earnestly, a note of caution in his voice.
She may be fully capable of taking care of herself, but she was refusing to do so, and she couldn't tell the difference.
She opened the door for him and saw him out into the dreary, snowy French streets, closing the door quickly to trap the cold air out. As much as she liked Ducky, it was a relief to have him gone—his wise, sad eyes made her feel like a child; they made her want her father so badly it hurt.
She much preferred Gibbs' company. She felt both at ease and on edge with him, but he was her counterpart, her brother in arms, her lover—he was so much to her, and at the same time, he was part of the darkness that threatened to swallow her. She understood with hollow resignation that soon she had to separate herself from him in order to heal—to heal nicely, as Ducky had put it.
It had taken her so long to realize she wasn't okay, that she was broken and in need of repair. It had taken her almost as long to realize she couldn't move forward until she got away from him, and that was primarily why she had taken the position in Cairo. There were other reasons—ambition, thirst for vengeance, pride—but he was very much a deciding factor.
She sat down in the chair next to him and crossed her legs. Her knee pressed into his under the table, and she picked up her carton again.
"Decker's shutting down the flat?" she asked.
Gibbs nodded curtly.
"He'll join us here after midnight," he said gruffly.
She bit the edge of her chopsticks tightly. Tomorrow night they would carry out the final assignment of their operation, close up the safe house, and spend four days debriefing, in limbo, at a hotel. Her eyes focused narrowly on some spot on Gibbs' flannel shirt, her vision blurring slightly. She felt unstable and apprehensive. She didn't want to do this; she wanted to be in Cairo.
He was calling her name.
"Jen."
Her eyes met his.
"You ready for this?"
He was the superior, talking to his junior agent, and she flinched. She hated his expressing any sort of doubt in her. It always struck her as judgment for something else, though he didn't mean it that way. She couldn't find the words to tell him she didn't think she could do it, and so she just shrugged callously and nodded.
She stabbed her chopsticks into her carton and picked out the meat from her food, eating it first—her habit. He watched her intently, noticing the barest flinch in her right eye and unable to figure out exactly what he should ask to find out why she was lying to him. He tread carefully with her; they were both pathetically careful not to touch a subject that would pour salt in wounds that hadn't ever really healed. He knew he was staring, knew she could feel it, and he couldn't break his gaze.
He couldn't help feeling like he had failed her. It was a constant guilt that plagued him; Ducky was right, he wasn't helping her—but she said she didn't need help. She behaved normally, almost frighteningly so. She was herself, the same Jenny, and yet—she wasn't. It didn't make any sense. She had dark moments he was there for, but they never discussed them. They went on as if nothing had happened, and sometimes, in good moments, it almost felt like they had successful wiped the little clinic in the city from their history.
She looked up suddenly and her eyes crashed into his. Her lashes fluttered; she winced.
She hated it when he looked at her like that.
The urge to ask him what he was thinking, what he thought of her, was almost stronger than her desperate desire never to know what was in his mind.
She bit her lip.
"Jethro," she said hoarsely, expertly hiding the tears that seemed to be constantly in her throat, disguising the distress as seduction instead. "There's a bottle of Bordeaux in the bedroom we shouldn't waste."
The look was gone from his eyes the moment she spoke, and he smirked at her—she smirked back, and it was one of those moments that managed to erase some of the pain.
They did the expensive Bordeaux justice and finished it, and wine made her drowsy.
It was a relaxed, languid sleepiness. In the grip of it, she wasn't wary of falling asleep, and she was often anxious and stressed when fatigue threatened to overcome her. She had always had nightmares, but they were infinitely worse now.
She hadn't drank since—since before Prague. She thought she might never touch whiskey again; it reminded her too much of that night, the last time Gibbs had looked at her without it physically hurting her. It reminded her of her carelessness and her mistakes.
The wine had romance in it, and she was prone to chasing romance in a way she had never been before. If she could catch a scent, or a taste, or a sound, that made her feel like she was in Marseille, or eating dinner at the Eiffel tower, or in a farmhouse in Serbia, she clung to that—it was better than facing the sorrow that had stained everything since she had sat with Gibbs on a park bench in the heart of the city, crying until her lungs burned and she was coughing weakly and struggling to breathe through the tears.
Jenny tilted her head, her eyes steadily following Gibbs' fingers as he traced the lines of her injury. She had turned her head away from the wound when Ducky examined it; when it was Gibbs' hand on her, she was hypnotized, comfortable with seeing it. Gibbs had been there in Prague. He had been there for the gore and blood in the snow. His rudimentary military knowledge of battlefield medicine had prevented her from bleeding out while they waited in an alley to be extracted. He had kept frostbite at bay, tempered her hysteria, and handled the things she had said to him while delirious with stoic grace.
She could almost feel the bone-chilling, stained snow paralyzing her, and the fear she'd suffered when she thought she was dying. Gibbs had been there for her in two of her darkest hours; her white night in Prague and some sort of tragic consort in Paris.
His fingers pressed into the bullet wound and she swallowed, her ears ringing.
"It hurts, Jethro, I can't take it," she had gasped, sick and scared at the sight of the blood. "Fuck. It hurts. Make it stop. God, it feels...it hurts, it hurts!"
"Stay quiet, Jen, you've got to be quiet," he'd soothed, pulling her face into his chest so he could muffle her yells and swears of pain.
"I'm not supposed to bleed this much. It's sore, it's too sore, I don't want to hear its heartbeat, make it stop, get rid of it—"
"Shut up, Jen," he'd stroked her hair, his lips on her forehead, "please, shut up. Jenny, shut up."
She flinched and tensed up at the memories; Gibbs' hand stopped and he squeezed her leg gently, his eyes travelling to her face.
She hadn't known, in Prague, if he was telling her to shut up so they wouldn't be discovered, or because he didn't want to hear what she was saying. He had never mentioned it after; he was too much of a gentlemen. There was no morbid curiosity in Gibbs; there was only silent forbearance.
She rolled over and reached for her glass of wine, swallowing the last of it. She settled onto her stomach, supporting herself on her arms, and pushed her hair back, letting her hands linger in her hair.
"Jen," he drawled.
She smiled, inexplicably comforted. She loved when he said her name like that—sexy, confident, lazy. She looked over at him, her hair falling around her face beautifully. He had the glass of wine near his chin thoughtfully.
"I want you to move in with me," he said gruffly.
She surprised them both by laughing brightly—she rarely laughed anymore, and it touched them both with a bit of sweetness. She bit her lip and shook her head.
The wine must have gone to his head. He knew better. She knew better.
"You don't want that, Jethro," she said airily.
He turned a glare on her, clearly put out at being told what he did and did not want. She held his gaze for once, and he felt relieved; she so rarely looked at him like she used to. She seemed scared to look at him. He arched an eyebrow at her in a challenge. She shrugged her shoulders.
"I won't move in with you," she said bluntly.
She fought against the hollow, sad feeling that loomed over her again, fought to keep the heady happiness the Bordeaux brought. He said things to her sometimes that made her feel like he was trying to make it up to her. It somehow made her feel sick. She didn't like that.
He snorted.
"You'll change your mind," he said smugly.
She moved her head in the negative, her eyes on him thoughtfully. She looked away, running her hands up and over her own arms soothingly.
"No," she said firmly. "I won't."
She felt him glare at her again, and moved her shoulders carelessly.
"You can't love me, Jethro," she said in a raw voice.
Her words left utter silence in their wake. The atmosphere was tense, cold, stressed. He had no words; he could say nothing to her that would make her think otherwise. She thought it was because she was right—he would never love her because he hadn't forgiven her. He just couldn't get past the guilt he felt, or the sorrow of already losing so much in the past.
She knew instinctively that Jethro was her other half. He was the man she was supposed to be with. She wanted him. But circumstance had slaughtered their chances.
His glass clinked on the bedside table, and the next thing she knew he was pulling her towards him, pressing his body close next to hers, his lips trailing along her throat to her jaw. Her heart sped up anxiously and she put her hands on his shoulders, gripping firmly. His eyes met hers briefly before he kissed her, and she let her eyes snap closed, a warm, comforted feeling washing over her.
He usually stiffened up when they came to tough conversations; this was different—he was touching her, kissing her, comforting her. He was—helping. He didn't even realize it.
The kiss was slow, restrained on both ends. They hadn't had sex since October. It had been just over six weeks since she'd had the abortion; four weeks since the bullet had ripped through her thigh in Prague. Things had been so hectic, with the mission and the medical emergencies, that they hadn't thought too much about it—it was just an underlying symptom of the infection that had touched their relationship. It was understandable. They had slept next to each other constantly since that day; they hadn't slept with each other.
She parted her lips against his, tilting her head back and taking a shaky breath. She thought she would be more wary of the idea, but she was desperate to be this close to him again. It would ease her heartache some, convince her that maybe he wasn't as disillusioned by her as she thought.
His eyes found hers, and she looked for Marseille—the heat, the seclusion, and the levity.
"I want to fuck you, Jen," he said huskily, the same words she had said so aggressively and recklessly to him in the attic.
It wasn't a profession of love, but it was something. She wasn't sure she wanted, or would believe, a profession of love, anyway. It would be too much; it would scare and unhinge her. She pressed her lips to his hard and wrapped her arms around him, tangling her legs into his.
His weight felt good on her; it made her feel better than she had in a long time. In the back of her mind, she knew it was shallow respite, and she knew it was wine induced, and it wouldn't last, but she tried to believe it would.
It could be—Ducky was wrong, and she was—she was fine.
Decker fumbled through the cabinets, swearing madly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shepard stumble into the kitchen, rubbing her face.
"Where the hell's the coffee?" he demanded, annoyed. He held up the boxes he was trying to keep from falling on his head. "Look at all this damn tea."
She smiled vaguely. Ducky had left all of his many tea choices behind. She said nothing and went over to the drawer where Gibbs kept his bitter brew and got it out, throwing it to Decker lightly. The other agent grumbled and set about making it. She chose tea instead, heating water on the stove.
She yawned and gathered her hair in her hands, holding it atop her head for a moment.
"Everything clear?" she asked mildly.
"Like we were never in that flat," he answered grimly. "You'n Gibbs sleep in the same room?" he asked callously.
She plucked a box of tea bags from his hands, her eyes meeting his coolly. He had no doubt expected to crash on the couch when he arrived. He had instead found one of the bedrooms empty. She remained silent still, and fetched a mug from the sink.
"I don't care," Decker prompted, fishing for information. "Just curious." He arched an eyebrow.
Jenny held her hand over her simmering water. She shot him a look over her shoulder. He grinned at her and she turned her back, shaking her head a little. She liked Decker quite a bit; he was a damn fine control officer and he had handled everything that had come up while they were in Europe, good and bad, with effortless talent and precision. NCIS had done well in snatching him from the CIA—but it was precisely his penchant for noticing the tiniest details and latching on to them that prevented her from engaging in conversation with him; she didn't want him to put two and two together. She was afraid he'd ask about it.
"Ducky took his teakettle, but not his tea," Decker growled, nodding at the boiling water in Jenny's saucer. "Bloody Englishman."
"He's Scottish," Jenny corected mildly, transferring the water to a mug and steeping her tea bag in it. She leaned against the counter behind her.
Decker fixed his coffee, pouring a generous amount and adding no sugar or cream to it whatsoever. He was like Gibbs in that respect; he looked down on the idea of any sweet additives.
"Gibbs awake?"
She shrugged, eyeing Decker over the edge of her mug. Decker smirked and took a drink of his coffee.
"You know the drill for tonight?" he asked.
"Like the back of my hand," she answered calmly.
"You have to crush Svetlana's tracker," Decker instructed. "It's how you check in the neutralization of the mark."
She nodded. She didn't like the inhuman terminology any better than she liked what she was being sent to do tonight. She had always known the endgame of this operation; she hadn't thought it would be difficult until she was faced with the approaching reality of it. She never thought she'd doubt her ability to do her job, but things had changed and factors beyond her control had messed with her head.
She focused on a spot of colour on the counter, drinking her tea absently, wincing as the liquid burned her tongue. She felt Decker's eyes on her and set her jaw, teeth clenched. She hadn't wanted to be there when Gibbs woke up; she had woken up feeling too transparent and vulnerable.
"Hey," Decker interrupted her reverie before she could fall too deeply into it. His eyes glinted mischievously. "What're you gonna do your last days in Paris?" he asked.
Jenny tilted her head. She pressed her lips together—it was something she hadn't really thought about. She didn't want to be in the city; it still held true that Paris held no more allure for her.
Gibbs walked in, his hair sticking up, obviously awoken and summoned by the strong smell of coffee. He grunted at both of them, ignoring whatever they were talking about, and Decker gave Jenny a sly look.
"Fine, I'll go first," he said. "I'm going swimmin' naked in the Seine."
Gibbs caught her eye as he poured coffee and she touched her mug to her lips, laughing quietly.
She had already done that.
"Clémence Leroux."
She spoke the name coldly in the eerily lit study and stood up, her hands flat before her on her desk. A cold, inhuman smile graced the blonde Russian's lips and she turned up her nose in a sneer.
"I knew it would be you," she remarked in heavily accented English, the Russian lilt of her words sending shivers down her opponent's spine.
Svetlana Chernetskaya stared down the barrel of Jenny's gun without feeling, without fear, and she waited in the brittle silence that fell. She listened to the click as Jenny cocked the gun, and she raised her eyes, a cruel smirk touching her regal features.
"I told Zhukov one cannot trust the French," she mused icily. "He was foolishly taken in by your charm, Mademoiselle Leroux," Svetlana purred. "Men, they are the same the world around."
It had taken Jenny a split second longer than Svetlana to realize she was paralyzed, unable to take the shot, and in that split second, the brains of the Russian arms ring wrenched the gun from Clémence Leroux's hand and threw herself across the desk for a fight.
It was a violent, hard fought scuffle, and at the end of it, Jenny found herself on her knees at Svetlana's feet with her own gun jammed into the base of her skull. Her eyes closed and she locked her fingers behind her back, wincing at the pain of Svetlana pinning her arms tightly. The short, sleek black wig still fit snugly on her head, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Svetlana's mouth touched her ear.
"Where is Luc?" she asked dangerously, her voice snakelike. Jenny said nothing, and Svetlana kicked her violently in the back, yanking her backwards, shoving the gun more painfully into her neck. "Luc!" she demanded. "Has he gone to kill my Anatoly?"
Jenny met Svetlana's eyes, letting her glare to the talking for her. Rage flashed across the blonde's eyes and her hand shook. She bent closer, lowering her voice so Jenny could barely hear her.
"I will not kill you, Clémence," she hissed, spitting the name with contempt. "I will give you your pathetic life on the condition that you call Monsieur de Sauveterre off."
"He isn't my dog," Jenny returned in cold Russian.
"But you are his bitch," snarled Svetlana in English, "and Frenchmen, they do not handle it well when they find their possessions slaughtered," she threatened.
Jenny clamped her teeth shut. She closed her eyes, fighting down the panic. She didn't want to die at the hand of Chernetskaya; she didn't want to die now at all. She was unhappy; she was depressed—she was not suicidal. Suicide was still a subject that caused her heartache, that she wouldn't succumb to.
"I have something you want," Svetlana bribed icily. "Intelligence on Rene Benoit."
Jenny stiffened, and she felt Svetlana smile triumphantly. In their discussions on arms dealers the world around, Svetlana had noticed Clémence's eyes flare for Benoit.
"He rivals Zhukov in the middle east," she went on. "He has a child, a daughter. She studies medicine in the United States. There is more."
Jenny fought against Svetlana violently, and the gun clicked dangerously.
"Call him off," she ordered harshly. "Call Luc off Anatoly, and I will let you go. I will give you information on Benoit. I will not come after you if you leave me Anatoly."
The Soviet Union was falling apart. The arms of the Russians were scattered around the globe, fracturing, becoming less and less threatening. It would be Benoit who would threaten them in the twenty-first century, not these drowning post-communist ideologues trying to find footing in a western world.
And Jenny wanted Benoit.
She nodded.
The gun vanished from her neck and Svetlana threw her forward onto her knees. Her cover was still intact—the Russians knew they were French Intelligence; they had not uncovered the whole story: their American names, their agency, their mission. It didn't matter that by now, Gibbs had already shot Anatoly Zhukov. They would be gone without a trace by the time she figured it out.
It wouldn't matter that Clémence Leroux hadn't carried out her assignment, because it would never be connected to Jenny Shepard. And if she was, if by some cruel, impossible twist of fate, Svetlana found them, Jenny had no qualms about taking the bullet for Jethro.
She stood and turned to face the blonde, cold grey eyes meeting hollow green.
Svetlana stroked the gun in her hands tenderly.
"You and I are not so very different," she said silkily. "We are creatures vested in our own self interest," she mused, and then held out the gun to Jenny with the barrel facing towards herself. "The difference is, you are not a killer of those you must look in the eye."
Jenny took the gun from Svetlana and brought it crashing down against her skull with all of her might, knocking the woman unconscious and stepping over her carefully once she had fallen to the floor.
She tucked black strands of hair behind her ears, swallowed painfully, and cleaned out the office—taking everything with her; information, falsified documents, the computer. It would all be sealed away in the darkest corners of the NCIS basements.
She had lost her nerve. She had faltered, been bested, and failed. She was not worried that she might not get out clean; their covers were so intricate and so deep that it was plausible Svetlana would never figure out the story behind Clémence Leroux, but the fear that struck her in the face of her inability to execute her assignment threatened to drown her.
She had been taken in by the temptation of vengeance, but she had made her mistake before that, when she had been unable to take the shot. She was a mess of psychological confusion; she was struggling with morality and she had been since the day she walked into the clinic in October.
She wasn't okay—this was a continuation of that; an expression of that.
The respite she had found in bed with Gibbs last night had been fleeting, immaterial; it was a placebo cure for something she desperately needed to let heal.
No; Ducky had been right—she was not okay.
She crouched by the unconscious body of the Svetlana Chernetskaya, looking at her still, pale face for a moment. She took the ring from the woman's finger, set it on the ground, and crushed it—somewhere, on Decker's computer, a light went out, calling in her kill.
You are not a killer of those you must look in the eye.
Jenny woke up in a cold sweat, hotel sheets tangled around her legs, her hands clutching tightly to the pillow underneath her. She gasped quietly for breath, blinking in the dark, her cheeks and eyelashes wet. She lifted her head—he was still asleep, dead to the world, oblivious to her bête noir.
She sat up and cradled her head in her hands, fingers slipping shakily through her hair.
The nightmare was vivid on her closed eyelids—experienced through a bloody hue, comprised of fear and guilt, a gun held to her neck, bad decisions, a park bench in Paris, Jethro calling her Jane Doe.
She flinched and opened her eyes.
Her emotional distress had kept her unfocused since October. It had ultimately resulted in her failure. She was going to let this burden drag her to hell if she didn't find some light. It was why she needed to be somewhere she wasn't constantly reminded of it so she could work through it. It was why she had to leave him.
"What's wrong, Jen?" he asked sleepily, turning onto his back.
Either she had woken him up, or he was a lighter, more perceptive sleeper than she thought.
He put his hand on her lower back gently. He touched her like she was fragile and breakable and she hated it. She made a quiet, distressed noise in her throat and he sat up, his stomach clenching, worried about her. He was gripped with the same apprehension and distaste that usually assaulted him when he knew she was struggling with this.
He set his jaw and put his hand on her shoulders, coaxing her back towards him. She resisted him some, her lips moving silently. She closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths to calm down, and he swore to himself, consumed with guilt. If he'd just been able to do something to tell her it was okay or that he didn't blame her, maybe she wouldn't feel this way.
She said something.
"What?" he asked quietly, leaning back, pulling her head away from his chest.
"I didn't have any other choice," she repeated hoarsely.
He winced.
"Do you understand me, Jethro?" she burst out angrily, tearing away from him and sitting up.
He was stunned by the sudden aggression. He hadn't said anything to her to provoke it, hadn't made an accusation! He never had, and he never would, and so he couldn't understand the outburst.
"Jen," he started.
"You can't say anything to change it," she insisted. "You don't understand. Ducky shouldn't have told you—"
"No, you should have!" he interrupted roughly, his blue eyes hardening.
His anger that she hadn't confided in him flared to the surface; he felt defensive. Her eyes widened; her cheeks drained of colour.
"I didn't want to," she said desperately. "I didn't want you to suffer—I didn't think it would hurt this badly," she pleaded.
"I deserved to know before you," he stumbled violently over his words, "before you did it!" he lashed out gruffly.
She reached for him and put her hands on his neck, her eyes meeting his with passion and sorrow. She said nothing about it, but she knew-she had heard him catch himself before he said it, before he said-you killed it. Tears spilled down her cheeks and he was shocked—he hadn't seen her cry since she had cried for hours on the park bench, and he hated her tears violently, he hated to see her in pain.
"I deserve the Jethro who wasn't touched by it," she said hoarsely, her voice raw with emotion.
He didn't know what she meant—she knew he didn't understand. He didn't know he was looking at her differently; he didn't know that he hadn't forgiven her, because it seemed he didn't know how angry he was with her. She knew, though, she knew what kind of man he was, and she knew that neither of them could get past it while they were together, a constant reminder of their faults.
He leaned forward, and his lips brushed the tears under her eyes tenderly, questioning her silently—what do you need from me? She pressed herself against him like she had on the Paris bench; she let him wrap himself around her and curled into him, seeking physical and emotional refuge. She was sorry she had hurt him; she was sorry she was going to hurt him.
It would be better for the both of them when she was gone, and he would see that one day when things were brighter.
She folded the beautiful French coat he had given her and laid it out on the bed next to him. He was exhausted, drained after dealing with her, even though his strength had been spent mostly in silence—he slept like the dead, and it was better that way. She ran her nails lightly over the immaculate white envelope in her hands and then slipped it into the pocket of the coat, easy for him to see.
She would be cold without the coat, but she was used to being cold—and it helped ease the hurt sometimes. It would be warm in Cairo, and that gave her something to look forward to—a light at the end of the tunnel.
She had decided to leave him weeks ago; now that the moment was here, it was easier than she thought it would be. She had cried too much last night for there to be more tears, and she was too exhausted from the strain that being with him put on her to think too much about what she would miss.
She didn't have any doubt that she had fallen for Gibbs, but the dynamic of their relationship had been irrevocably damaged because she had to have that abortion. She had been right when she confided in Ducky that knowledge of it would make him hate himself, and she had been right in thinking he'd never look at her the same again.
The innocence and romance of their relationship had evaporated the moment he held her on the park bench.
She was a woman who prided herself on responsibility and careful planning in all aspects of her life, personal and professional. She had let that all slip through her fingers in an attic in Marseille, and she hadn't realize that the swiftness with which she had been forced have the procedure done to fix it would mess with her head and plunge her into a mire of self-doubt and moral conflict.
But, she didn't regret it.
She didn't think she was condemned. She couldn't explain how she felt, and that was why she needed to be alone—she needed to work through it alone, without his eyes on her, without his pain to worry about. It was first and foremost her trauma, and he contributed to that.
This hadn't killed her; the only thing to do, then, was to replace the weakness it had left with strength.
If they hadn't been so reckless in Marseille, things would be different. There wouldn't be this darkness in their affair; there wouldn't be so much weight and silence and uncertainty. She knew that conflict in relationships drew people closer, and made them stronger, but this was different. If they could change it—if they could turn back time and make it so that they weren't touched by this tragedy, they might have ended differently.
She wouldn't ever know what might have happened; that wasn't how the world worked. She would always be left to wonder if he would have shed some light on her life, tempered the need for vengeance in her blood.
She watched him sleep, still and silent, at ease. She had accepted that she couldn't handle herself healthily while she was with him—they had been through this together, and so it was a sort of Stockholm syndrome that kept them from moving on and finding peace. They each needed time to breath and to come to terms with their own feelings before they could look at each other safely again.
If he had been more selfish, like her, they might have ignored it and been able to pretend it hadn't happened. If she had more martyr in her, like him, there might have been a different decision entirely, and who knows where they would end up.
If the way he looked at her now didn't make her feel like a murderer, she might be able to stay.
She didn't understand that he wasn't mad at her—he didn't blame her. He blamed himself; he felt guilty because he'd contributed to the problem that she'd had to fix. When his eyes were on her so intently and so fiercely, it wasn't because he was judging her, raging at her—it was because he was trying to find a way to fix the break in her.
She just didn't understand that, because he couldn't tell her, and all she saw were his blue eyes, and the absence of the smirking, bold glint that had once always been in them when he gazed at her.
Jenny brushed her hand over the coat, smoothing it, and picked up her things from the sofa in the garish hotel room. Her hands weren't shaking, and she didn't feel sick—it was how she knew she was making the right decision.
She thought of Marseille, and she clung to that fiercely. She'd give anything to be back in Marseille.
She slipped out of the hotel room and let the door click softly behind her, leaning against it for a moment, her palm flat on the wood. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Easy, Jen," she said to herself, thinking of him.
She didn't regret him.
He knew she was gone before he opened his eyes.
He had fallen asleep with her so close to him he couldn't move for fear of hurting her, and there was nothing in his arms when he struggled to consciousness. The feeling of relief that struck him was quickly followed by guilt that threatened to swallow him.
He wanted her so much, but he wanted her whole, and he knew that he had been bad for her lately.
Ducky, ever wise, had been right—he wasn't helping her.
He hadn't forgiven her yet. Even if logically he knew there was nothing else she could have done. He wasn't sure how he could feel no anger concerning the actual act, but still feel wronged. He was still hurting, still struggling with it himself, and she didn't deserve to put up with it. He knew she needed help and he knew he couldn't give it to her, and he was going to let her go.
He rolled over in bed and put his hand on her coat, blinking wearily. Her side of the bed was cold; he wondered why she had left this with him—then realized she had been wearing it that day in October.
He pulled the white envelope out of the pocket, inhaling her perfume nostalgically—perfume that had hung humidly in the air in August. He was slow in opening it, anxious of what he would find. She needn't explain herself to him; he hated that he'd made her feel, somehow, that she had to.
Her handwriting, neat and feminine and elegant, swept across the paper.
The letter was short and sweet, optimistic—untouched by the misery and darkness of their accident.
Dear Jethro
There's no such thing as what might have been. This is what is.
You'll stop looking at me like I broke something in you one day.
You'll stop thinking you could have changed it.
Until then, think of Serbia, and Positano—and Marseille.
Jenny
He ran his fingers over her name. It left scars on his heart.
Those places seemed to exist in another lifetime.
He pulled the coat towards him, his eyes on it intensely, and he did think of that second night in Marseille, stuck in that cramped attic with no air, the first time they—touched.
He thought about her, just her.
He didn't regret her.
"There's no such thing as what might of been
that's a waste of time
drives you out of your mind."
[Tim McGraw]
The old argument always applies: is it better to have love and lost, should we stand outside the fire, remain untouchable, etc? Are we made stronger by what doesn't kill us?
Feedback is most definitely appreciated.
-Alexandra
story #116