Sadly I don't own NCIS... although if CBS was feeling generous, I wouldn't object.
Author's note: This is my first NCIS fic, so I hope I got at least mose of it right. I meant it as a one shot, but now the idea won't leave me alone, so i'm considering writing more. I'd love your opinions on whether I should continue or just leave it as it is.
Thanks to aserene for all of her help and advice.
There's a place for regrets. A time for reliving the past moments that you would change if given the chance. For you, the place is your study with a glass of bourbon in one hand and a case file in the other. The time is late - too late, rapidly nearing three AM. Part of you knows that you'll regret this in the morning, both the late hour and the memories. Another part argues that staring at the ceiling of your bedroom is unlikely to cure you of your insomnia, and that at least in here you can stare unseeingly at the case report and pretend that you're being productive.
You're rationalizing and you know it. You're not sleeping. You're not even trying to. You're not looking over the case report, in fact you've been staring at it for half an hour and still don't even know if you're reading about a murder or a sexual harassment complaint. You've read the same sentence ten times and still have absolutely no idea what it says, and it isn't until you take a sip of your bourbon and see for the third time that you've already signed this file, that you realize it. Your mind is a million miles away and you don't have the desire or the energy to pull it back.
Something is wrong. It's obvious the moment you step into the room. A small but expensively furnished office with framed diplomas decorating three walls and a large mahogany desk and matching bookcase set against the fourth. The light filtering in from the open window illuminates every corner of the room and something about the excessive sunshine has you feeling anxious, and you consciously curl your hands into fists to stop your neatly manicured nails from tapping against each other in nervous anticipation. It's not the white-walled exam room that you've come to expect, and that makes you nervous all over again. You stop in the doorway, silently observing the man seated behind the desk.
His glasses are perched crookedly on his nose, and his eyes dart rapidly from one side to the other as he stares intently at the paper in front of him. No doubt a lab report or referral request or something equally important. His skin is deeply tanned and the brightness of the sun-filled office makes him look almost orange. His brown hair is shaggy and falls across his forehead and into his eyes, he brushes it back impatiently and continues staring at the paper in front of him, his lips pursed in what could be either annoyance or confusion.
After a moment of you standing in the doorway and him failing to sense your presence, you clear your throat lightly. He looks up and for a split second you think you see irritation in his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced almost immediately with carefully crafted compassion.
"Jenny," he greets you warmly, having long ago done away with the pretense of titles and last names. He stands and motions to one of the chairs across from his desk, waiting until you're seated before sitting down again.
"Scott," you return the greeting, and the name sounds strange coming from your mouth. Even after months of seeing him on a fairly regular basis, the lack of a last name or even the title of "Dr," is one of occasional informalities that you're still waiting to get used to.
You stare at him silently, your shoulders squared and muscles tense. It's only a matter of time until he tells you why he called you at six-thirty this morning and asked you to stop by the hospital before work.
A matter of time turns out to be less than a minute. He sighs gently and removes his glasses, setting them on the desktop in front of him and leaning forward slightly. His sapphire eyes are focused solely on you, compassion and concern warring with professional detachment inside them, and it's impossible to name the victor.
"Jenny," he repeats softly, and his voice is exactly what you were expecting. Compassion, understanding, and something that might very well be pity all poured into one word and delivered with a soft sigh that tells of bad news to come and suddenly makes it much more difficult to breathe.
Compassion is a good thing, a necessary quality in both a good doctor and a good human being - both categories Scott falls into. Understanding isn't unwelcome either - even though you suspect it's fabricated, because you're not at all sure that anyone could truly understand the way you're feeling right now. Pity, however is something you neither deserve nor desire.
"Jenny," he says for the third time and you feel your chest constrict at the resigned finality in his voice, "You're dying Jenny. I'm so sorry."
You had long suspected this moment was coming, and had thought yourself prepared for what you had already suspected was the inescapable truth of your own mortality. But you were wrong.
You briefly think about asking how he knows, which test it was that had proved what both of you had long suspected. You almost ask if he's sure, but then it occurs to you that he wouldn't have told you if he wasn't. There's a note of finality in the way that he said it that allows for no questions, no doubts, no possibility that he might be mistaken. This isn't some sick idea of a prank. It isn't a lab mistake or a medical mix-up. It's the truth, and it's not something that you can fix by pretending it isn't happening.
You're dying, Jenny.
"Jenny?" he asks after you've been silent for more than a minute, and you know that he is scrutinizing your every movement, waiting for the tiniest crack in your composure that proceeds the inevitable flood of emotion that experience has taught it him to expect. But, whatever he's waiting for, whatever he's expecting, it doesn't come.
You force yourself to meet his eyes, and the concern and compassion in them has you pressing your lips together, and struggling against emotions that you can't afford to feel.
"Thank you Doctor Hamilton," you say softly, standing and extending you hand to shake his, fighting to keep both your gaze and your hand steady. He stands as well and shakes your hand with a small nod, already resigned to the fact that he has gone from "Scott" to "Dr. Hamilton" in barely five minutes.
"I'm sorry Jenny," he tells you again, and even knowing that he's sincere doesn't make you feel any better. "You'll need to keep taking the pills, but I'm going to up the dosage," he tells you, scribbling out a prescription and handing it to you.
You tuck the small piece of paper into your purse without really thinking about it, and before you know what's going on you're walking across the parking lot, the click clack of your heels echoing against the pavement with every step.
You make it to the car without stumbling and that in and of itself is a small miracle. Your security detail is waiting for you there, a compromise that was only agreed to when you were forced to point out that you were both willing and able to ditch them and go on your own.
Agent Andrew Jacobs is waiting by the passenger door and carefully scanning the parked cars around you, on the off chance that some sniper has positioned himself inside the nearby Dodge mini van or the red Mustang and is just waiting for the chance to shoot at you.
You reach the car, and don't even have the energy to flash a smile as Jacobs looks you up and down, no doubt searching for any possible injuries sustained in the twenty minutes or so you had been inside the building and imagining exactly how much trouble he'll be in if anyone were to find out that he and his partner had let you out of their sight.
Instead, you wait for him to open the door and slide into the back seat as soon as he does, buckling your seatbelt with slightly trembling hands and staring unblinkingly out the side window as the other agent pulls the car out of the parking lot.
"Director?"
You look up to see Jacobs looking at you through the small mirror in the sun visor, scanning your expressionless face for some sign of what might have happened inside the hospital to explain your unusual behavior and inexplicable silence. You keep your face blank as you meet his eyes, and raise a perfectly-plucked brow in acknowledgement of his question.
"Is everything okay, Director?" he asks gently.
You meet his gaze in the mirror, and can't quite repress the small sight that slips from your lips.
You're dying Jenny. I'm so sorry.
"Everything is fine," you reply, keeping your gaze steady and thanking whatever gods are listening that as far as you know Gibbs hasn't informed your detail of your "tell" because you can feel your right eye twitching.
A shrill sound jolts you out of your memories and it isn't until the piercing sound comes again that you realize it is you cell phone, its mechanical ring oddly loud in the utter silence of your study.
You instinctively glance at the clock. 2: 51 AM. You pick up the phone and flip it open, bringing it to your ear without bothering to check the caller ID.
"Hello Jethro," the familiar greeting falls from your lips without thought, and you don't bother with the pretense of pretending that you weren't (in some small part of your subconscious) expecting his call.
"Jen," he replies shortly, and if he's at all surprised at you answering after the second ring or the fact that you're much more alert and aware than you should be at such an ungodly hour, he doesn't say so.
"What can I do for you?" you ask slowly, closing your eyes and leaning back in your chair, suddenly acutely aware of how late it is and how tired you are.
Something of your exhaustion must have been evident in your voice because when his reply comes there is the slightest hint of exasperation.
"It's three in the morning Jen," he admonishes with a soft sigh. You start to point out that he has no right to lecture you about unhealthy sleeping habits when you know damn well he is not only awake, but probably down in his basement sanding his godforsaken boat.
You open your mouth and a thousand possible responses rush through your head, each of them as bitter and uncalled for as the first, and in the end you simply sigh, unwilling to start an argument because it's late and you don't have the energy or the willpower to fight with him right now.
"It's two fifty-three," you inform him, falling back on sarcasm because arguing won't get you anywhere and letting yourself acknowledge the hint of concern you hear in his voice is simply not an option, " and I trust that you didn't call to inform me of the time."
"No," he agrees after a moment, " I need the file on the Morton case."
"Why?" you ask leaning forward again, checking the name on the file you have been staring at for the last hour, and then glancing over at the depressingly large stack of case reports and vaguely wondering if the Morton file is actually in there somewhere.
"Just something I need to check out," comes the predictably evasive response and you can't quite stop yourself from rolling your eyes. You're silent for a moment, while you try your best to remember if his team had even worked the Morton case. You honestly can't remember, and you're not sure it would matter if you could.
"Your gut?" you ask after a moment, your tone not nearly as sarcastic as you had intended it to be.
"Something like that," he replies and you can practically hear him smirking. You spend a few seconds debating about whether you really want to push for details like you should or just agree so that you can hang up and go back to drinking bourbon and pretending to work like you want to.
"And you had to call me personally at three in the morning to ask me for it?" you ask finally, your professional obligation once again winning out over your personal preferences.
He is silent for just a minute longer than he should be, and yet that's all it takes to have you guessing at the real intentions of this late night phone call. If you weren't so exhausted and utterly unfocused, you'd have questioned the necessity of such a call much earlier in the conversation. There is no legitimate reason for him to call you at three in the morning to discuss a file that he could have waited to ask you about until tomorrow.
"Two fifty-seven in the morning," he counters, throwing your own sarcasm back at you in a poorly disguised attempt at evading your question.
"Uh-huh," you mutter skeptically, refusing to allow him to distract you from the fact that he still hasn't answered your question.
"I need it ASAP, and Cynthia said that you had taken it home with you," he explains, and you are almost certain he is lying since you're sure Cynthia was already gone when you had left the office just after ten.
You think about calling him on the lie, but it's late and the two glasses of bourbon you've already downed are having very little effect on the headache that you've been fighting since leaving the hospital this afternoon.
"You'll have it first thing in the morning," you relent, still completely aware of the fact that you have no idea why he wants the file or if the case was even his to begin with. But at the moment it doesn't matter. You have more important things on your mind and since he's as good at evasions as you are when he wants to be, arguing with him will likely do more harm then good.
"Jen," he says softly, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to reality, "is everything okay?"
There it is - the real reason behind the unusual, although not entirely unexpected, late night phone call. You vaguely wonder if he really needs the file at all or if he is simply using it as an excuse to repeat his question from late this afternoon. You quickly decide it doesn't matter, either way he called and he's waiting for an answer. Suddenly you're not at all sure that you have the courage or the energy to lie to him, but the idea of telling him the truth is more painful then you want to admit - if the thought of telling him is enough to have your mouth going dry and your heart rate skyrocketing toward panic, then you know that you can never face the reality.
"Jen?" he asks again when you don't answer. The concern is his voice is guarded, but it is there. He deserves to know the truth, but you're desperately afraid to tell him. Afraid of the silence that you know will follow, afraid to imagine the endless possibilities of what he might be thinking, and the inability to know if any of those possibilities are even remotely close to what is actually going on inside that infuriating head of his. Afraid to envision the pain that will flash in his eyes for a split second before they're once again unreadable.
You have a sudden mental vision of him throwing the mason jar filled with bourbon, that you have no doubt he's holding, against the nearest wall in anger and watching with grim satisfaction as it shatters into pieces and scatters glass across the floor of his basement. You can practically see him look at you with compassion and concern, false understanding, sympathy, and if he really dared - pity. You feel fury rising in your throat at the very thought of that look on his face because of you, and then feel it fade into something else entirely as your previous vision is replaced by a new one. This time he's touching you, holding you tightly and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple as you tell him everything, your sobs echoing throughout his basement and your tears staining his shirt.
This time you're not leaving him by choice, and you have no idea if that makes it better or worse.
"Jen?" his voice is harsher this time, the concern in it tangling with panic and you realize that you haven't said anything for almost five minutes.
He deserves to know the truth, but a lie is simpler, and you are selfish.
You're dying Jenny. I'm so sorry.
"Everything's fine Jethro," you say, forcing the words out layering them with just the right amount of exasperated irritation and only half-hoping he doesn't call you on the lie.
"I'll have that file for you in the morning. Goodnight Jethro," you continue, keeping your voice steady and your tone brisk and just a little bit too distant. The dismissal is obvious and part of you hopes that he asks again, questions your tone or your inflection or anything. You can feel your wall of resistance cracking and you're not certain that you can lie to him if he asks again.
You're spared from the weight of that decision because for once he doesn't argue. He doesn't ask again and you're not forced to answer.
"Goodbye Jen," he says softly, and hangs up.
And in that second the composure you've been trying so hard to hold on to, the illusion of strength that you've created for your own benefit as well as everyone else's, suddenly comes crashing down around you. Your composure doesn't just crack, it crumbles, and you're left sitting in your study with the phone to your ear, an empty glass of bourbon on the desk, and questions, memories, and regrets swirling through your mind at lightening speed - all of them centered around his parting words.
You suddenly wonder if he knows, but quickly dismiss the thought as impossible. There's no way he could have discovered the secret of your own mortality that you've so carefully guarded from everyone, and yet he hadn't said "goodnight" he had said " goodbye."
He hadn't seemed angry or upset. There was no note of sorrow in his voice, no poorly disguised pain or hurriedly concealed hurt. He hadn't said it as though it would be the last time. And in whatever tiny part of your brain has managed to fight of panic and remain relatively rational, you know that it won't be.
There will be more cases, more finance reports to review more video conferences to schedule and covert ops to oversee. There will be more shared coffee over case files, more worries about him pissing off other agencies or getting too involved in cases, more of him storming into your office without knocking and more of the ever-so-slight increase in your heart rate every time he does so. But at the moment none of that matters, because time is running out, and you're not ready to say goodbye yet.
There's a place for regrets. A time for reliving the past moments that you would change if given the chance. For you, the place is your basement with a sander in one hand and a make-shift glass filled with bourbon in the other. The time is early - too early, nearly three in the morning. Part of you knows that you'll regret this later, both the lack of sleep and the memories. Another part rationalizes that staring at the ceiling of your bedroom when you know you'll never actually sleep is a waste of both time and energy. At least in here you can sand the boat and find some sort of empty comfort in the repetitive motions of the sanding and the familiarity of the smooth wood beneath your fingertips.
You should be sleeping, but you're not. You're not even trying to. You're standing in the dim early-morning light of your basement, growing increasingly frustrated by the undeniable fact that neither sanding your boat nor sipping your bourbon requires enough focus to distract you from things you'd rather not think about. You've never been all that great with rationalizations because on one level or another they're just poorly concealed lies. But you're rationalizing now, telling yourself that at least you're doing something relatively productive. In reality, you've been sanding the same six inches of wood for half an hour and it isn't until you take a large gulp of bourbon and lean back to admire your handiwork that you realize it. Your mind is a million miles away and you don't have the desire or the energy to pull it back.
Something is wrong. It's obvious the moment you step into her office, not bothering to knock or announce your presence. The blinds on the window are pulled closed and the room's only source of illumination comes from the small desk lamp. It's too dark and too quiet. Something about it sets your gut churning and you suspect that it has a lot less to do with the state of the room than it does with the state of the woman behind the desk.
Her glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and her hand is busily scribbling signatures onto what are probably very important papers. She doesn't even pause, let alone look up, as you enter. Her skin is too pale, nearly translucent in the shadows of the dark office. Her lips are pressed together, although whether in irritation, concentration, or something else entirely, you're not yet sure.
After a silent moment of you studying her and her ignoring you completely she finally glances up, and for a moment her emerald eyes are dark and conflicted as though she's struggling with handling her emotions, but then she narrows her eyes and the conflict warring within them is gone, replaced immediately by carefully crafted irritation.
"Something I can do for you Agent Gibbs?" she asks, looking back down at the form in front of her and scribbling her signature again before transferring it to the pile on the other side of her desk and grabbing another file - purposely not meeting your eyes.
Something is wrong. Her voice is too brisk, too cold - icy almost, and the glare she sends you from beneath raised eyebrows when you don't answer is more than enough to send any other agent running for cover.
"Special Agent Gibbs?" she asks again, when you still don't answer, and although you've heard it before, the title sounds strange coming from her lips. When you were partners it had always been Gibbs, and then Jethro. The addition of your title before your name (a slightly-less-than-subtle reminder of her authority and your lack of it) is one of those occasional formalities that even after two years of her being director you're still waiting to get used to.
You stare at her silently. Waiting. It's only a matter of time before she gives up on the futile hope that you'll leave her in peace.
A matter of time turns out to be less than a minute. She sighs gently, and rubs the bridge of her nose, removing her glasses and setting them on the desktop next to her before meeting your gaze, conflict once again swimming in her emerald eyes.
"What do you want Jethro?" she asks, and her voice isn't what you were expecting . There's no trace of anger or frustration at being interrupted for what is probably the tenth time that afternoon. No hint of impatience layered within her tone. No blatant exasperation or raised eyebrow as though to ask without words what exactly you've done this time.
Anger you can deal with - have with her from within two days of your first meeting. Frustration you can understand, even sympathize with under some circumstances. Impatience is nothing new either, and exasperation would have been welcome - amusing even, since (as of yet) you've done nothing (at least that you're aware of) to warrant it.
"Jethro," she sighs softly, "I'm busy. Unless this - whatever 'this' is - is an emergency, it's going to have to wait."
You aren't prepared for the softness of her voice - barely above a whisper or the almost nonexistent note of sorrow in her tone that anyone else would probably have never noticed. But, you're not anyone else, and it strikes you for the third time that something ( although you have no idea what) is wrong.
"What's going on Jen?" you ask, unwilling to let her dismiss you without an explanation.
"Do you mean globally or just in the Eastern U.S?" she counters immediately, the bite of sarcasm infusing her words with what might pass for anger, but (to your ears at least) more closely resembles desperation.
You don't reply and after a moment she lets her breath out in a whoosh of air that flutters her bangs. She closes her eyes, massaging her temples as though to rid herself of a migraine.
"What do you want Jethro?" she asks again and this time her voice is defeated. She suddenly looks exhausted. The lack of light highlights the bruise-colored circles under her eyes and you're struck by the urge to take her face in your hands and brush your fingers over her eyes - forcing her lids closed in the hope that maybe they'll stay that way for a while.
You clench your fingers and then release them again, your eyes never leaving her face. "I need a search warrant," you say finally.
She raises an eyebrow, but when she speaks her voice is flat, devoid of frustration, irritation, or even curiosity, "I believe that the name on my door says Director. The legal department is down the hall to the right."
" Legal's full of idiots," you mutter darkly, thinking about the last time you had to fight with them over a warrant. It had ended with a young lawyer in tears, a very irritated judge, and the utterly destroyed home of a suspect who (as it turns out) hadn't actually committed the crime.
Jenny apparently remembers the incident too, because she snorts humorlessly.
"The judge is dragging his feet," you explain, " and it will be easier for everyone involved if you could just make a call."
She glares at you, and it's somewhat of a relief to see the spark of irritation in her eyes. "Do you have probable cause?" she asks immediately, continuing to glare.
You nod, although you're not entirely sure her definition of "probable cause" is the same as your own.
"Probable cause as in more than a gut feeling?" she asks, as though reading you mind.
You nod again, and it's not entirely a lie. Abby's still analyzing the print, but you know without question that it will match.
She nods and picks up her glasses, placing them back on her nose before sighing softly "I'll see what I can do," she promises, turning back to the depressingly large stack of files awaiting her signature. You know that it's the best you'll get for the moment.
"Jen?" you pause at the door, turning to look at her and waiting until she looks up and meets you gaze. "Is everything okay?"
She doesn't answer immediately, but nor does she seem surprised by the question. After a moment she nods slowly, "Everything's fine Jethro." The darkness and the distance makes it impossible to see her face clearly, but whether you see it or not, you know her right eye is twitching.
You stare thoughtfully at the boat and realize once again that the wood you're sanding is already smooth. You sigh and take another sip of bourbon, trying (and failing miserably) not to think about her. Before you realize what you're doing your cell phone is in your hand and you've already dialed the familiar number.
The phone's mechanical ring echoes in your ear, and you instinctively pull the it away long enough to glance at the small illuminated screen, squinting to make out the time. 2:51 AM. You think about hanging up, but her voice stops you before you can do anything more than contemplate the idea.
"Hello Jethro," two words is all it takes for you to realize that she's just as awake as you are and probably has no intention of sleeping tonight. You imagine her sitting in her study with her glasses perched on her nose, a glass of bourbon in her hand, and case reports scattered across the desk in front of her. You try to repress the involuntary sigh that the mental image evokes, and you're not quite sure you manage it.
"Jen," you greet her shortly, and it suddenly occurs to you that at some point you'll have to explain the reason behind calling her at three in the morning. You're still not entirely sure you understand the reason yourself and the idea of explaining it to her is not exactly a welcome one.
"What can I do for you?" she asks, and she sounds exhausted. You lean back against the boat, closing your eyes, and realizing for the first time how tired you are. It's three in the morning, you should be asleep, and more importantly she should be asleep.
"It's three in the morning Jen," you admonish, sighing softly. You know that you have no right to lecture her on unhealthy sleeping habits, and yet you envision her sitting in that damn study of hers sipping bourbon and looking over some kind of godforsaken paperwork, and you can't quite stop yourself.
You open your mouth again, a thousand remarks about the lateness of the hour poised on the tip of your tongue, each of them as unwanted and unnecessary as the first, and in the end you close it again, unwilling to start an argument because it's late and you don't have the energy or the willpower to fight with her right now.
"It's two fifty-three," she informs you, falling back on sarcasm because you know that she's too tired to fake anger, " and I trust that you didn't call to inform me of the time."
You think quickly, calling up the first excuse that comes to mind, "No," you agree after a moment, " I need the file on the Morton case," you continue, vaguely wondering if your team had actually worked that case or if it was just one of the many stories you've heard circling around the squadroom.
"Why?" she asks immediately, and your roll your eyes. You down the rest of your bourbon and set the jar aside, twirling the sander in your hands in an unusual display of something that you will never admit might be anxiety. You have no excuse for wanting the file on what you vaguely remember was some sort of robbery involving a navy base and several stolen weapons that ended in the death of a petty officer.
"Just something I need to check," you reply evenly, and you can practically hear her roll her eyes at your predictably evasive response.
"Your gut?" she asks in response and her voice isn't quite as sarcastic as it usually would be. You wonder if that is due to the combination of the late hour and her utter exhaustion or something else entirely. You really don't know, and you're not sure it would matter if you did.
"Something like that," you smirk and you know that she can hear the amusement in your voice. You wait a few second to see if she'll push for details like she should, or whether she'll just agree and go back to drinking bourbon and fighting off exhaustion like you're sure she wants to.
"And you had to call me personally at three in the morning to ask me for it?" she asks finally, her professional obligations apparently once again winning out over her personal preferences.
You're silent for just a moment too long, and you know that she's now busily questioning the real intentions of this late night phone call. You think vaguely that if she wasn't so exhausted and utterly unfocused she probably would have questioned the necessity of such a call much earlier in the conversation. After all, there is no legitimate reason for you to call her at three in the morning to discuss a file that you could have easily waited to ask about until tomorrow.
You squint at the cell phone's tiny screen again, "Two fifty-seven in the morning," you counter, reduced to throwing her own sarcasm back at her in a poorly disguised attempt at evading her question.
"Uh-huh," she mutters skeptically, refusing to allow you to distract her from the answer you know she's waiting for. You can't say you're surprised, you've never been all that good at lying to her.
"I need it ASAP and Cynthia said that you had taken it home with you," you explain, blurting out the first excuse you can think of and realizing as you say it that Cynthia probably left long before Jenny did.
You briefly wonder if she'll call you on the lie and what exactly you plan to say if she does. The truth might be the easiest. It's late and the two glasses of bourbon you've already downed are having very little effect on the irritating throb of a headache that's been plaguing you since leaving her office that afternoon.
"You'll have it first thing in the morning," she relents, and you briefly think about questioning her uncharacteristic lack of an argument, since you're completely aware that she still has no idea why you want the file. In the end you don't bother, because she's as good at evasions as you are when she wants to be, and arguing with her will likely do more harm than good.
"Jen," you say softly, when the silence has dragged on just a little bit too long, "is everything okay?"
There it is - the real reason behind the unusual, although not entirely uncalled for, late night phone call. Suddenly you're not sure you want to know the answer after all. It's obvious that everything is far from okay and the possibility of everything that could be wrong is more than enough to have your mouth going dry and your heart rate skyrocketing toward panic.
"Jen?" you ask again, and you can hear the guarded concern in your own voice. You deserve to know the truth, but you're desperately afraid to hear it. Afraid of the almost nonexistent tremble in her voice as she shares with you whatever bad news has been consuming her thoughts and leaving shadows beneath her emerald eyes. Afraid of the possibilities of what she might be dealing with and the inability to know if any of those possibilities are as bad as or worse than the reality. Afraid to envision the pain that will flash in her eyes for a split second before they're once again impenetrable.
You have a sudden mental vision of her throwing the glass tumbler of bourbon, that you've no doubt she's holding, against the nearest wall in anger and watching with grim satisfaction as it shatters into pieces and scatters glass across the floor of her study. You can practically see her look at you with her green eyes guarded against the vulnerability that she's refusing to acknowledge and her lower lip caught between her teeth to stop it from trembling. You feel fury rise into your throat at the very thought of that look on her face and then you feel it fade into something else entirely as your previous vision is replaced by a new one. This time she's touching you, clinging to you tightly, her face buried against your shoulder, her sobs echoing throughout her study, and her tears staining your shirt.
"Jen?" Your voice is harsher this time, the concern in it fighting with panic and loosing horribly.
"Everything's fine Jethro," she says, her voice softer than you expected as she repeats her assurance from earlier in the afternoon, although whether she's reassuring you or herself you're not at all sure.
"I'll have that file for you in the morning. Goodnight Jethro," she continues, her tone brisk and just a little bit too distant. The dismissal is obvious and you almost ask again, question her tone or her inflection or anything, because part of you knows that she's lying. But you're not sure that she's ready to tell you the truth, and even more importantly, you're not sure you're ready to hear it.
"Goodbye Jen" you say softly and hang up.
The sudden silence is deafening and uncomfortable as you flip your cell phone shut and pour another glass of bourbon, returning to the task of sanding the boat and trying not to think.
Not thinking lasts for all of thirty seconds before you're back to reviewing the conversation, and realizing exactly how much both of you have left unsaid. You focus on her last words "Goodnight Jethro," the standard ending to almost all of your conversations, and then your own farewell, "Goodbye Jen," anything but standard.
You weren't given the choice of saying goodbye the last time she left. But, whatever is happening and whatever is going to happen - you're saying it now, and you're not sure if that makes it better or worse.
You deserve to know the truth, but she's always been almost as bad at offering explanations as you've always been at accepting them. For the moment at least, goodbye is simple, and you are selfish.