a/n: so this is a bit of an au-ish fic in which Gibbs does tell Jenny about Shannon & Kelly. It's actually modeled after a scene in "Paris Nights". I toyed for a very long time with the idea of changing canon for that story and having him tell her, and you can see in the last chapter (Auld Lang Syne) where I made the final decision (actually at the last minute!) not to.
clearly this subject is always angsty, but towards the end here it took a nosedive towards angst city, man, i went a little off the deep end with that the conversation meant for the Jibbs relationship ... but I'm diggin' it.
so, er...enjoy?
Serbia
1998
It was Christmas Eve and there was a faint snow falling on the grassland. The late night was silent—eerily silent; the little white farmhouse with the thatched roof was the only inhabited home for miles of wild expanse, and the only thing that broke the tangible quiet was the crackling and popping of a roaring fire in the old hearth.
She turned her head to the side, lowering her lashes to shield her eyes from the blazing heat. He nudged logs around with a long, iron poker and added another three or four healthy pieces of firewood to the flames. She bit her lower lip, suppressing a yawn, and let her eyes run over him, from his bare feet, to the way his jeans fit him, to the movements of his shoulders as they flexed.
She rolled onto her side, her hipbone digging into the wooden floor beneath her—the woven rug was not much cushion at all, but the stiffness felt good on her thigh injury, if not her back. She pushed her hair back and then reached out and ran her hand over his ass, dipping her fingers into his waistband and tugging selfishly. She gave him a seductive look when he glared at her over his shoulder.
He abandoned the fire and crawled to her, placing one arm on each side of her shoulders. She shifted onto her back again and tilted her head up, her eyes meeting his. She smiled lazily and reached for his T-shirt, holding it loosely in her hands.
"Warm?" he grunted.
She nodded, and lifted her good leg, pressing her knee into his thigh. He lowered his head, his nose almost touching hers. She pressed her palm into his chest firmly, soaking up the warmth of his skin through the cotton of his shirt. She ran her tongue along her lower lip, enjoying the diluted languor in his blue eyes; he looked drunk, and that was rare for Gibbs—but she was glad of it, because she was drunk, too.
She tugged on him, pouting her mouth, and he lowered himself to give her a kiss, his tongue lingering superficially on her lips, and then dipping into her mouth intoxicatingly. She pushed her knee against him harder; he broke away and nudged her chin with his nose, clearing his throat.
Eyes closed heavily, he nodded at her coffee mug.
"More?" he asked.
"Mmm, hmm," she agreed, a sound in the back of her throat.
"Whiskey or coffee?" he drawled hoarsely.
"Mm," she murmured. She laughed. "Both."
It was what they had been drinking all night—they made the trek into the nearest town for something delicious and local and Serbian, and then they bought two bottles of whiskey that claimed in Cyrillic to be bourbon and brought it home to celebrate American Christmas while the Serbs laid in wait until the seventh of January.
He smirked at her and stood easily, and she gave him a pouty, jealous look. She had become increasingly jealous of his ability to move so fluidly since she'd taken the round to the thigh—and the bullet had wiped out much of her mobility and all of her grace.
He disappeared into the kitchen, and she flipped onto her stomach and pulled the unopened bottle of whiskey towards her, twisting off the sealed cap with impressive upper body strength. She inhaled the sweet, heady aroma and pulled her coffee mug towards her, peering into the bottom.
There was a cooling mixture of whiskey and coffee in the bottom, and she patiently waited for Gibbs to return with a hot pot of fresh joe. She arched her back, stretching, and shook her hair out of her face. She was so close to the fire she was almost hot—and she relished it; it was cold here in winter, and she loved the thin, sweaty-sticky feel the fire impressed on her skin under the loosely buttoned, over large flannel shirt she'd stolen from Gibbs and wrapped herself in.
He sat down in front of her abruptly and she blinked in surprise; she hadn't heard him approach. He leaned against the heavy couch and Jenny raised her eyebrows at it, struck once again by how ugly the floral patterning was. He poured coffee into her mug, and then his, and she tipped copious amounts of whiskey in after. Steam hissed up from the mugs; he pushed the coffee decanter away and she nudged the whiskey bottle over near it.
He stretched one leg out, propping his other up and resting his mug on his knee. She dug her elbows into the woven rug beneath her and took a soothing gulp of the spiked coffee, closing her eyes and letting it burn her tongue and throat just right.
He tickled her ribs with his foot. She jolted away, giving him a glare over the rim of her mug.
"How's your thigh?" he grunted, arching a brow.
She breathed out slowly, wincing.
"Throbbing dully," she answered honestly. She shifted, moving it a little, and flinched. "Sore. Still feels like knives if I clench the muscle."
He set his jaw and turned his head, looking into the fire. His eyes darkened and she felt frustrated—he was such a martyr; he thought everything was his fault simply because he was the senior officer. He hadn't—even been there when she'd taken the hit; he'd only been there when she came to consciousness, screaming.
She took a bold drink of her coffee and shot him a look.
"It isn't your fault, Jethro," she said mechanically.
He grunted stubbornly.
She reached out and ran her hand over his knee, kneading her knuckles into his jeans. She knew she wouldn't convince him, but it made her feel better to say it. He took a moody, stoic drink of his coffee and she bit her lip and bowed her head, smiling a little. The firelight flickered on his face.
She laughed. He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. She closed her mouth tightly—she didn't know why she was laughing; she felt lightheaded; buzzed. He looked like he was in another place—but then, he had been withdrawn since the holiday season started, it seemed, and worse, once she'd gotten hurt. He was like an injured bear.
She set her mug on the floor and shift, moving closer to him. She curled up her body and laid her head in his lap, blowing her hair lightly out of her face. He rested his palm on the crown of her head and tangled his fingers in the messy red curls, his fingertips beginning a slow massage into her scalp.
She closed her eyes, parting her lips slightly. She loved his hands—she trusted his hands. His hands had taught her how to shoot, how to incapacitate a suspect—his hands had made her moan, made her laugh, and stopped her bleeding. And now—they comforted her, and distracted her from the dull, persistent pain in her thigh.
She fell into a sort of soothed trance, concentrating on the heat of the fire and the flex of his muscles when he moved, shifting for comfort or taking a drink—he was drinking a lot, now that she thought about it. He held his liquor impeccably well, but she really hadn't seen him drink so excessively—then, maybe it was something about the Christmas season.
She always missed her father around Christmas, and he had so many ex-wives embittering things—
His hand moved down to her shoulders and he ran his fingers over her arm, tugging her a little closer. She let him, her muscles lax, and she shifted her head and buried her face in his thighs, taking a deep breath.
"You need a painkiller, Jen?" he asked in a low voice.
"No," she said, sated. "Whiskey did the trick."
He nodded, and ran his hand over her again. His thighs were hard and muscular, but somehow still soft and good for use as pillows. She could have fallen asleep there, and she decided she would try—while he was being docile and sweet. It had been—a terrible week, from the shooting in Prague to the unbearable way he acted when he was stressed or threatened.
She supposed she should be flattered that he was so manically concerned about her, but it was maddening in the worst way. He wanted to infantilize her—and she wished he'd instead just admit he was scared she'd been in such a bad way for a few days there.
She turned her head and brushed her lips against him. His hands were in her hair again, and the next thing she knew, he was setting his mug loudly on the floor—and it was empty. She blinked her eyes in surprise, opening them groggily.
"Jen," he said painfully.
She moved her cheek, nuzzling it against his jeans.
"Jethro?" she asked huskily, murmuring back.
He said nothing. She turned over slowly, gingerly, careful of her leg, and she looked up at him, blinking lucidly. He was staring at the fire—or the whiskey, this time she couldn't tell. Orange and yellow lights dance on the bottle and glittered on his skin, and she puckered her lips, studying him intently.
She reached up and brushed her knuckles against his jaw. She made a noise in her throat, and he twitched his head. A muscle in his jaw clenched violently. His shoulders seemed to stiffen.
"Hey," she muttered quietly, letting her knuckles fall against his chest with a soft thump. "What is it, Jethro?" she inquired softly, a tightness striking her chest.
The lines in his face looked so much more pronounced suddenly—his hair looked greyer, his eyes heavier; he just looked distraught, broken, unbelievably sad in the firelight, and her heart stuttered. What was he thinking about—what had it's claws in him? It couldn't be—her, he couldn't be worried about this stupid, silly bullet wound—
He didn't know why he was doing this; he didn't know why it struck him so definitively and suddenly that he should tell her—and he could always blame the Serbian whiskey that claimed it was bourbon—but it was coming out of his mouth before he could stop it, before he could remember that he hadn't—ever talked about it before, and he didn't know what he was really going to say at all—
"Jen," he said hoarsely. Her name cracked on his dry lips. He moved his head. She was still in his lap, blinking at him warily. "Lied to you," he grunted. Before she could ask, he went on: "Been married three times."
She didn't seem to react. She narrowed her eyes, her lips parted. She moved her tongue against the inside of her cheek and moved her head a little. He still wasn't looking at her, and that frustrated her. She moved her fingers.
"Stacy, Diane," she said edgily. "It's two—"
"It's three," he interrupted harshly. He grit his teeth roughly. "My first wife was," he did a funny thing with his jaw, as if he were chewing sandpaper, "killed."
Jenny became impossibly still. Her fingers, her eyes, her lips—frozen, as she stared at him, unable for a moment to process what he had said—killed? His—first wife? And—he was saying that wasn't Stacy, after all—well, of course it wasn't Stacy; she had met Stacy.
She swallowed hard, forcing her throat to unlock, and sat up, ignoring the pain that shot through her thigh. She planted one palm on the floor and rested one on his thigh, tilting her head, trying to catch his eye. Her hair fell in a hot, tangled mess over her shoulder, and the collar of the flannel gaped open—she wasn't wearing anything underneath.
"Jethro?" she asked.
He flinched as if she'd hit him.
She moved closer. She pressed her fingertips into his leg.
"She was killed?" Jenny asked. She felt tentative, and she was scared to ask him more. He liked brittle; like he might snap at any moment.
He nodded violently.
"She was a material witness," he said gruffly. He shifted abruptly and rubbed his hand over his jaw harshly. "Against a drug cartel, in California. Ninety-one."
The words crashed into each other in her mind, jumbled. She closed her eyes and shook her head.
"You were in Kuwait," she said, almost as if she were protesting, challenging his story, "in ninety-one."
He turned and looked at her.
"Yeah," he said, in one, heavy breath. "I was deployed."
She stared at him, and then the weight of it hit her—hard. He had been deployed when he lost this woman—he had been overseas, fighting, gone. She caught her breath, her lungs burning for air suddenly. She squeezed his leg, sitting in front of him, staring at him.
"What happened?" she asked hoarsely, desperately, her eyes wide.
He narrowed his eyes, and he looked away. He lunged suddenly for the bottle of whiskey, and his sudden movement made her jump—and she hissed in pain. She ignored it, and grabbed his hand, pulling his arm and the bottle towards her. She gripped his knuckles in hers, firmly keeping the bottle away from him.
"Jethro," she provoked carefully.
"The NIS agent protecting them was shot in the head," he growled at her. "He was driving them to piano lessons—it was a car accident—fatal," he ground out.
Her lips moved. She shook her head, blinking rapidly.
"Them-? He and—your wife?"
Gibbs pulled back from her, and leaned hard back against the couch. His hand was rough and clenched beneath hers, holding on to that bottle of whiskey. She lifted her chin, trying to catch his eye.
"My daughter," he said raggedly. "I had a daughter."
Jenny dug her nails into him. Simultaneously, she released his hand and the whiskey bottle as if she'd been burned. She expected him to take the liquor, but he didn't—he knocked it over, and it spilled. She ignored it, too distracted. Her throat locked up again. She scooted forward a little, ignoring the pain again, resting her palm on his chest.
She grit her teeth together. It was impossible—it was impossible to think of anything to say; she knew there was nothing in the world that would make him hurt any less. She understood the pain of loss—she remembered losing her father, and she knew innately that this—loss of a child—was more than she could comprehend, and infinitely worse than losing a parent.
She bit her lip until she drew blood.
"How old was she, Jethro?" she asked finally—all in a rush, all in a sort of weak attempt to fill the aching silence.
She watched his throat move as he swallowed. She thought he wasn't going to answer—
"Eight," he said hoarsely. "I missed her eighth birthday."
Jenny pressed her lips together. She ran her hand over his chest quickly, feeling ever muscle, seeking the beat of his heart. She leaned closer, touched her forehead to his wrinkled T-shirt, and took a short breath, a sob catching in her throat. She closed her burning eyes—she wondered why he hadn't told her earlier, and then wondered how he could even find it in him to tell her now.
He must—miss them—so much.
"Oh, Jethro," she murmured against his chest. She squeezed his leg around, and wrapped her arm around his neck. She kissed him gently and pressed closer, feeling small and useless, swallowed by the revelation and her lack of ability to understand him.
It made—so much about him infinitely clearer, and then made him so much more impossible at the same time. She could understand the manic focus on the job, the depressive tendencies he had to dwell on cases he couldn't change; it explained his irascibility, his restlessness, his tendency to keep everyone at arms' length and refuse to sympathetically connect with victims—but it confused her opinions of him, it made her wonder why, if he was so in love with this woman—and it was clear he was—why he had stumbled head first into volatile marriages, why he was messing around with Jenny herself in the first place—
She sat up straighter and looked at him. She reached for his jaw and traced it with her fingers; all of her fingers, patterning his skin with little touches until he lifted his heavy head and looked at her. His eyes were raw, red, and hollow. She sucked in her breath—she had never seen him look so drunk, or so distraught.
"Missed their last Christmas," he grunted. His words sounded muffled; forced. "Hadn't seen 'em—in six months, Jen."
She nodded helplessly—yes, Christmas was the worst when you were missing a loved one; it was when she wanted her father the most. And she knew—what it was like, to wait out those long deployments to see family when they returned. She couldn't imagine—coming home to nothing.
She struggled not to cry, because she didn't think he needed to see her cry over this loss of his. Her tears awoke an instinct in him to comfort—and he was the one who needed comfort. She forced—forced herself not to cry, so instead her eyes and lungs burned as if she'd eaten fire or sprayed herself with mace.
She touched his cheek, her thumb running over his lip.
"Why tell me?" she asked softly.
Her eyes met his earnestly, openly.
He moved his shoulders stiffly.
"Didn't tell the others."
Was it—trial and error, then? Had his marriages fallen apart because of this, because of this impossible secret he tried to bury? A wife, a child—something like that would always come to the surface, and she couldn't imagine what the fallout was like after something like that broke into the open.
He was sitting there, looking at her, letting her touch him and soothe him with her hands, and she realized he was suffocating, and he probably suffocated every single day—he was grieving, and he was doing nothing to healthily handle it, and that was at the root of everything that plagued him from bad marriages to boats in the basement.
She brushed her thumb over his lip again.
He was trying to tell her something—she sensed it; she felt it. He thought—somewhere, in his inebriated, shattered mind or heart, he thought he was opening her eyes, doing her a favor, and she didn't want to believe what he was telling her—but there was something so massively selfless in what he was trying to do—what she wanted to refuse to believe—that she almost felt better; she almost smiled.
She swallowed hard, and her voice did crack when she spoke.
"You," she started, and closed her mouth, before her face crumpled. She shook her head. "You won't ever love another woman, will you?" she asked.
She knew she interpreted it right—god, he had forced it all out, let her in, spilled it all, and only so he could maybe let her down easy—tell her in some vague, awful way that it wasn't ever going to work out for them, that he fought with her because he wanted her to push him away, he wanted her to leave him some day, because then he wouldn't have to hurt her like he had hurt the others.
His jaw flexed. He winced.
He shook his head, and confirmed her statement.
There was something—impossibly hopeful in that. That he cared enough—to tell her he couldn't love her, was maybe an indication that if he ever found it in him to deal with his grief, to get healthy, to drag himself out of this depression, she might be the one he found enough comfort in to try and salvage a relationship.
It was so twisted. So—heartbreaking.
She closed her eyes—and this time, she lost her battle with her tears, and she did cry—because she was already in love with him, and she didn't want to know this anymore than she wanted to lose him. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead into his, her lips brushing softly against his nose, and his cheeks.
Why couldn't he have told her—before he had her, mind, body, and soul?
She swallowed the sound of her tears, instead letting them fall silently, and she pulled him towards her and held him, arms around his muscular shoulders, gripping his hair, stroking his stubble-ridden, unshaven face. He gripped her hips, his fingers twisting in the flannel shirt, and he made a heavy noise in his throat—a cough, maybe, or a cry—she didn't ask.
She wondered if his first wife had red hair, and she wondered if his little girl had blue eyes.
And then she realized—she hadn't ask their names, and he hadn't told her, because he couldn't share it with her—and he couldn't love her; he could only drown in a hollow purgatory, struggling to move forward when all he wanted was to go back.
for: gibbslovesjenny
I hope it met your expectations.
-alexandra
story #155