a/n: aw: the wedding fic ! jenny gets married, the colonel is vaguely pleased with it, Ziva's husband can't tell his kids apart, and Gibbs is full of half-sappy gestures. voila - they're married.
Sunday
14 July 2012
Bastille Day
Tudor Place
Jennifer Shepard, twenty-three years old with a good head on her shoulders, sat in an ornate room in historic Tudor Place, perched on the edge of a satin covered stool and studying her reflection in an antique oval mirror with a statuesque wooden frame. The intricate carving of the vanity was so delicately antebellum that it seemed to authenticate the old-fashioned look she'd chosen for the day – she lifted her chin and parted her lips slightly: same green eyes, same long red hair, same not sun-kissed pale skin, same permanently, slightly cocked right eyebrow.
She looked much the same as she had since the day she turned seventeen, if only slightly older, with a more mature look in her sharp eyes – but she was not the same girl she was when she was seventeen – or nineteen, or twenty-one, even; the important thing was, she was about to marry the man who had been with her through all those defining years.
She had spent what seemed like an eternity trying to decide how she would wear her hair; it was settled in a delicate uptwist, with tendrils falling strategically, and perfectly curled, around her face and neck. Loose, long bangs danced in a breathy way across her forehead, just long enough to touch her brows. She'd chosen pale pink lipstick glossed over with something that shimmered, darkly lined eyes with a green-tinted black mascara – and an otherwise clean face; no blush or powder to obscure freckles.
She liked the effect, and she was calm as she looked in the mirror – calm, but smiling; nervous, but in the most carefree, thrilled manner. Dark blue manicured nails brushed lightly against the diamond pendant at her throat, and then she touched the heirloom tiara nestled in her hair. She had a deep red curl twisted around her finger when the door to the room she was in opened and her Matron of Honor slipped in, entering the room soundlessly – silence was second nature to such a lithe woman.
"Your father had it," Ziva Werth said smoothly, handing a bouquet of dusty lavender, white, and violet flowers to Jenny.
"He was supposed to bring it straight to me," Jenny sighed, bending her nose to the flowers.
"It seems he was lost in the gardens," Ziva said, arching a dark brow. "He was standing with an annoyed look by a very large tree."
Jenny laughed and shook her head – figured. It was her wedding day – her day to be a mess of nerves and stress, but she felt at ease and her father was the one who'd been running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
"The old Colonel's being such a fussy dictator about this whole thing you'd think my colours were blush and bashful."
Ziva tilted her head curiously, and Jenny grinned.
"Steel Magnolias," she said. "It's a film."
"Ah," Ziva said.
She inclined her head, and stepped forward, moving closer to adjust a sparkly pearl bobby pin in Jenny's thick, curled red hair.
"The venue looks lovely," the older woman complimented warmly. "Even Gibbs' Marines seem to have bathed for the occasion."
Jenny snorted – she'd glimpsed Pride, Hanna and Callen when she had sneaked a peak at the flower-strewn aisle half an hour ago, and they had indeed looked impeccably groomed and sharp. Vance, she knew she didn't have to worry about -but those three, she had wondered.
"Gibbs?" she asked, looking at Ziva via the mirror.
Ziva smiled, and rested her hands on Jenny's shoulder. She didn't say anything, but Jenny didn't need her to. She knew she didn't have to worry about him – he hadn't had qualms about this, he never had: he had been looking forward to it longer than her.
She was surprised at how suddenly she'd just wanted to be married once he'd proposed – she knew it was insane to plan a wedding in three months, particularly when she was in the last semester of her Master's degree and participating in a grueling internship, but she had wanted it so badly – so completely – that it had fallen together: venue, party, small guest list – and she was happy.
There was an explosion of nosie in the hallway, and then two children dashed into the room, one carrying a pair of black shoes. A moment later, Ziva's husband skulked in looking sheepish.
"Damon," Ziva growled mildly.
Damon checked behind him and strolled in, holding a third child effortlessly on his him.
"I forgot which one is the ring bearer," he admitted after a moment.
Ziva glared at him, and Jenny laughed. Ziva took the youngest – the baby – from Damon and then snapped her fingers; the other two boys immediately shaped up.
"Adam, put your shoes on," Ziva said calmly. "The wedding begins soon."
The slightly taller kid sat down and started to yank on black shoes. Damon looked relieved, and darted over to sweep up the other one – Noah, Jenny thought.
"Where do I take him again?"
Ziva gave him a look, and sighed, shaking her head with a small smile.
"Men," Jenny said, turning her nose up and feigning snootiness.
Ziva made a noise of agreement, and she gestured.
"He is walking with Kayla Vance," Ziva reminded Damon. "You take them to Jackie; she's the first bridesmaid. She's walking with them."
Jackie Vance was one of Jenny's three bridesmaids, and currently in charge of making sure everything was in order before the ceremony started. Jenny hadn't seen her since she had finished touching up the bride's mascara.
Jenny smirked as Damon gathered up the kids and led them on.
"Miss Jenny, you look pretty as a princess!" Adam Werth said, giving her a charming look. His father gave him a smug grin and ruffled his hair.
"Toda, Adam," Jenny said.
"Toda," repeated Noah, waving at Jenny. "You're pretty," he added, not one to be outdone – he and Adam were a mere ten months apart, which accounted for Damon's constant confusion of the two boys: they were nearly the same size, and looked exactly alike, which Jenny assumed was why Ziva had waited longer for the third.
Damon reached for the little one, and Ziva waved him off. She would keep him for a bit – and besides, Jenny was reaching out her hands, wanting to hold him.
Ziva passed him over, and Damon stopped in the door, smiling at Jenny. He shook his head.
"You do look fine, Jenny," he complimented tastefully. "You're a sight a man waits a lifetime to see."
Jenny blushed, and arched her brows. Ziva rolled her eyes and shooed her husband away curtly.
"Ah, leave the door open," she requested. "McKenzie and Jackie will need to touch up their make-up."
Jenny tilted her head and smiled animatedly at Ziva's youngest, stroking his soft downy hair.
"Za-cha-ri-ah," she trilled. "Look at your pretty eyelashes," she gushed. She looked up enviously. "Your babies and their to-die-for-lashes," she sighed, ever jealous of the strange genetic fortune of Ziva's children.
Ziva smiled primly, and took the moment while her baby was occupied to touch up her own lipstick.
"I do not want him to mess up your dress," Ziva said warily.
"He won't," Jenny said firmly. "There's a small champagne stain I couldn't get out," she added, "near the hem. It's been there since the fifties, so I'm considering it something old."
"The dress is old."
"Double the luck, then."
She had chosen to wear her grandmother's old wedding dress – the grandmother who had raised her for years in Tennessee while her father was deployed. It was gorgeous and old-fashioned, a demure off-white with a cupcake skirt and she loved it for all its age and history. Her grandparents had been married for over fifty years – she liked the idea of what had started in this dress. It was sentimental – but she was allowing herself more sentimentality today – this was a wedding, after all.
Ziva's baby tilted is head up and grinned.
"Ma Ma," he crooned, and Jenny wrinkled her nose and kissed him on the forehead, leaving a clear lipstick print.
There was the sound of a camera clicking, and Jenny looked around in time to see McKenzie lowering her iPhone wickedly, fingers moving over the keys. Jenny glared at her mildly, and Jackie grinned.
"A glimpse into the future," she joked wryly, nodding at the baby.
Jenny pursed her lips, and McKenzie giggled, turning her phone to shoe the picture of Jenny cuddling the baby.
"Twitter," she sing-songed.
"You may not post that on the internet," Ziva piped up sternly. "The groom cannot see her."
McKenzie snorted loudly.
"Yeah, because a guy who still refers to it as Tweeper is going to see it," she teased.
Jenny laughed, and shifted Zachariah, making a face at him.
"Ziva," she said, giddy suddenly. "Your boys have such straightforward, biblical names, so clean cut – and then this one's got like ten syllables," she laughed. "What - ?"
"Damon named that one," Ziva defended under her breath. "My only condition was that it still be Hebrew."
Jenny smirked, and Ziva arched a brow.
"I am lucky he chose Zachariah. Damon thinks Mordecai is a badass Israeli name."
"Then we could call him little Morty!" Jenny laughed, and Ziva gave her a distasteful look.
"Zach," she corrected neutrally, nodding her head.
"I want him," McKenzie said, skipping over and sweeping him off Jenny's lap. "You're going to wrinkle Jenny's dress, precious," she cooed, and the baby clapped at her.
Jenny turned around and looked at them all – Jackie, McKenzie, Ziva. She'd decided to have a very small wedding party – Ziva as Matron of Honor – she'd wanted someone older, who'd always felt like a guiding hand to her, since she didn't have a mother – Jackie and McKenzie as bridesmaids, because she was closest to them since high school had ended. It had been easier to plan with these three – Holly Daniels was, of course, at the wedding, with her Texas oil money beau, Whitney Sharpe had been on her own honeymoon and bowed out, unfortunately, and Nina had flown in from Russia – but they'd been too far away to be included in the actual party.
Aside from Ziva, Jackie, and McKenzie – Gibbs' best man was Leon Vance, his groomsmen were Pride and Callen, Kayla Vance was the flower girl and Adam Werth the ring bearer – there were forty guests, a small reception, a gorgeous, floral private venue, and a whole day to celebrate this.
She grinned excitedly and looked from Jackie to Ziva and around the room, parting her lips.
"I'm getting married!" she announced, and McKenzie leapt up and down excitedly – though carefully, with Zachariah in her arms.
"Girl," Jackie said, smiling a mile wide. "I've been waitin' for the day he got you down that aisle!"
"She has wanted to marry him since she was seventeen," Ziva said slyly.
Jenny scoffed, but her eyes glittered, and she stood up, slipping on her shoes, her bouquet clutched in her hand.
McKenzie straightened up, looking at her admiringly, and Jackie clasped her hands. There was no point in wasting time – they should get the show on the road. Jackie gestured for them all to come closer, and for a few moments, Jenny was trapped in a flutter of hands putting the finishing touches on her, and then Jackie kissed her cheek and McKenzie brushed off her shoulder and adjusted her necklace – and Zachariah giggled.
"You're Rita Hayworth, Jenny, you're Hedy Lamarr," McKenzie sighed, fluttering her eyelashes. "He's Bogey or Gable and it's perfect."
Jenny snorted, and tilted her head back. She didn't know what to say to that – she didn't think Jethro fit the bill of either of those, but she'd let McKenzie have her fantasies.
Jackie nodded approvingly.
"I'll get the Colonel," she said, giving Jenny one last look and smiling wryly. "You're gonna knock 'im dead, hon," she complimented.
She and McKenzie left – McKenzie taking Zachariah with her to hand him off to Damon before the ceremony started. Ziva stayed with Jenny a moment, alone with her, standing tall and staring at her.
"Are you ready?" she asked solemnly.
She had planned the shower, the bachelorette party, and seen to tiny details – from finding shoes to fit Jackie that were the right colour, to reconciling the Colonel with the fact that Jenny didn't want to be married by a priest. An officer from Gibbs' unit was performing the ceremony.
Jenny took a deep breath and nodded.
"Your feet are not chilly?"
"Cold," Jenny corrected with a laugh. She bit her lip and shook her head. "Warm," she said, and wriggled her toes in her antique shoes.
Ziva nodded, her dark brown eyes full of wisdom.
"Good," she said. "I do not believe in cold feet," she said dismissively. "If you are nervous, unsure, anxious before your wedding – it is not right."
Jenny's lips turned up lopsidedly.
"My father told me that," she said softly.
He had – he'd told her once never to get married if she had cold feet; marriages that worked didn't start off with doubts, they started off with certainty. He hadn't had cold feet when he'd married Jenny's mother, but Kimberly's had been ice.
"You damn well better remember it."
Jenny looked up, and there stood the Colonel – in full dress uniform, his hat under his arm gently. He nodded to Ziva, and she bowed her head respectfully, kissed Jenny's cheek, and slipped out, patting his arm smugly as she left. Left alone with his daughter, the Army Colonel stared at her, silent for a long time. Jenny held her hands out, showing him her dress, her hair, the final effect, her lips compressed tightly, her eyes on her father's. His jaw tightened and he stepped forward, stricken dumb for a moment.
"You look beautiful, Little J," he said finally. He swallowed hard, and shook his head, reaching out to put his hat on the back of a plush armchair. He laughed in disbelief, and reached up to rub his jaw. "You can't be getting married today," he said heavily.
He didn't know how time had gone by this fast. It wasn't as if she was too young – she was an acceptable age to take this step, and he liked the man she'd chosen – loved the idiot, even – but he was her father, and he couldn't believe this woman standing in front of him was the same two-year-old who had cut her teeth on the metal of his old enlisted uniform way back when.
Jenny lifted her shoulders, and took a deep breath.
"I am," she said simply.
He shook his head in disbelief again. He cleared his throat.
"You got everything?"
She nodded slowly, curling her hands around her bouquet. She had flowers, she had shoes, she had the man, she had – everything.
"The works?" the Colonel went on. "Old, new, borrowed blue?"
"Nails are blue," Jenny said. "Blue in the earrings." She had blue lace on her lingerie, as well, but that was for Gibbs and Gibbs alone. "Old dress, old tiara, old shoes, new pearl bobby pins," she paused, and lifted her shoulders.
The Colonel reached into his pocket.
"You need somethin' borrowed," he noted gruffly.
She bit her lip – she'd been planning on borrowing perfume from Ziva before she got ready, but she'd forgotten. She watched as her father fumbled with a tiny object in his hands. He took her hand and held her wrist, slipping a delicately rusted, sturdy looking metal bracelet with a sapphire embedded in it.
Her lips parted slightly, and she raised her arm slightly, looking closer. She hadn't ever seen it before.
"What is this?" she asked. "Is this yours?"
He shook his head.
"Jackson asked me to give it to you," he said gruffly. He gestured at it, patting her hand. "It was Gibbs' mother's."
Jenny took her wrist in her other hand and looked closer – the bracelet looked like it had been through the wringer, but the sapphire was still bright – and next to it was the engraving and a date.
"His wedding present to her," Jasper said sternly. "Said he found it in a chest a few days ago. She had the sapphire added for Gibbs' birthstone."
Jenny bit her lip, and closed her eyes. It was an important a symbol to her as her grandmother's wedding dress – like Jasper was saying Ann Gibbs would have approved of her.
"He's a good man, Jackson," the Colonel asserted. "No nonsense, hell of a guy."
"He didn't raise such a bad son," Jenny said softly, opening her eyes.
Her father looked at her seriously.
"No, he didn't," he agreed.
He fell silent, and then he stepped forward, resting his hand on his daughter's shoulder.
"Jennifer," he asked her. "These are vows I don't want you to break."
"I want to marry him, Daddy," she said in a rush, her voice light. "I don't have cold feet, or doubts … he's good. I won't find a better man than Jethro."
"You won't," he said, and he meant it – the Colonel had no reservations about his daughter marrying that stubborn Marine; she loved him, and Jasper knew without question that Gibbs would walk through fire for Jenny, and that was enough for him.
The Colonel stepped closer and pulled her into a carefully hug, wary of messing up her hair or wrinkling her dress. He pressed a paternal kiss to the crown of her head gently, and rested his arms on her shoulder a moment, damn near getting cold feet himself – after today she was gone: moved out to Quantico with Gibbs, then California – he was giving her away, really giving her away.
He squeezed her shoulders tightly, and then let her go, holding his arm out to her.
She took his arm.
"I wish Ike was here," she said huskily, her eyes stinging a little.
Her father smiled at her.
"You ready to march, G.I. Jen?" he asked.
She held out her bouquet gallantly, as Ziva appeared in the door and beckoned to them.
It was hot as hell on Bastille Day in the heart of the American capitol, but he wasn't thinking about the sunny humidity, the tightness of his tie, or the uncomfortable itch in the collar of his dress blues – he wasn't thinking of anything but Jenny, and the way she looked the first time he saw her on July fourteenth.
Wedding guests stood, and Vance stooped down to pick up Kayla and hold her so she'd stay still during the wedding – and Leroy Jethro Gibbs just stared, his jaw tight, as Colonel Shepard led his daughter down the aisle. Until this moment, Gibbs hadn't seen the dress, he hadn't known what her hair would look like or what lipstick she would wear – he hadn't even really noticed what their wedding colours were – and now she was walking towards him with that half-cocked smile and those clever, soul-hook eyes, and it was overwhelming in the best of ways.
Vance elbowed him, smirking like a fool, and Gibbs swallowed hard, half-tempted to march down there and take Jenny off her father's arm before it was time – he wanted to run his hands over her, and through her hair, take her home, screw the ceremoney – he wanted to marry her, of course – but he was still wary of all these people watching him tell her he loved her so much.
Jackie gave him a smug look and winked at him, and Ziva looked just as proud of her work – Jenny hadn't hired anyone to do her hair or make-up, just trusted her friends – and Gibbs swallowed hard one more time, and she was right in front of him, one hand in her father's, one clutched around her bouquet.
The officiator's voice startled him, so busy was he staring at Jenny.
"Who gives this woman in marriage?"
Gibbs' eyes went to Jasper's, and for a moment, he thought the Colonel wasn't going to answer – but he realized, Jenny's father was just trying to get it together; he looked like he was trying not to lose it.
"Her father," he managed finally, and passed Jenny's hand into Gibbs'.
Jenny stepped close, and Gibbs drew her hands together and grasped both of them, crowding her, her bouquet hitting his chest, his toes almost touching hers, and she raised her eyebrows – she laughed softly, and his fingers ran over her wrists, his eyes on her mouth and her eyes – all over her.
"Damn, Jen," he murmured hoarsely, desperately. "Who do you think you are?"
The Colonel's hand hit his chest and pushed him back a little. He gave him an annoyed glare - there, that was the Colonel he knew.
"Save it for the honeymoon, boy," he growled, and Jenny nudged her father away, and Gibbs resumed an appropriate distance – but still closer than most grooms stood –and set his jaw – ceremony, ceremony.
His eyes met hers, and she bit her lip, her lashes twitching earnestly. It was a damn good thing he said things best when he said nothing at all, because he couldn't have told her how good she looked if he'd tried – and it had been the hardest thing in the world for him to write out how he felt about her, but since he'd refused to write his own vows for her, he'd done her that favor.
He'd give it to her later, with the wedding gift he promised her so many years ago – now, he had to concentrate on getting the traditional vows right without tripping over himself like an idiot. He half-listened to the official, and instead reflected on everything that had brought them to this moment – the fights, the summer they'd met, the deployments – everything that somehow made them strong enough to make this commitment.
"I, Jennifer Morgan Shepard," she was saying suddenly, her voice ringing clearly in his ears, "take you, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, from this day forward, as long as we both shall live."
He swallowed hard, blinking, his jaw tight. He was next, they were going to ask him to repeat the vows next – he wasn't even sure he heard the instructions, but then he was saying it, finally, like he'd wanted to for years –
"I, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, take you, Jen," she laughed quietly when he shortened her name, and he smirked at her, pretending he'd done it on purpose, "to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, from this day forward, as long as we both shall live."
His delivery was gruff, husky, characteristic of him, and she leaned a little closer to hear it best, to memorize it. The officiator started to go on, and Jenny turned, murmuring to him softly, and then she looked up, and she squeezed Gibbs' hand tighter.
"I want to add something," she said softly – so quietly, he wasn't sure she cared if anyone but him heard her. "We're not the same as everyone else. I can't let my vows be a mimicry of vows failed brides and grooms have said, too – I have to add something," she explained. She licked her lips. "I wanted to marry you the day I turned you down. I wasn't ready then. I wanted to marry you when you walked behind me in the street in the pouring rain after that fight junior year, just to make sure I came home safe. I wasn't ready then. You waited until I was ready, even if you never understood me. 'Confusion now hath made its masterpiece.' I don't think marriage will make the fights any easier, but it doesn't matter; we are not going to fail – 'screw your courage to the sticking place, and we'll not fail.' Jethro," she said, and took a deep breath. She pursed her lips. "Come what come may, time and hour run through the roughest day."
He blinked, and she gave a quick nod to the officiator, who continued in a booming voice. His fingers twisted into the bracelet at her wrist, just noticing it, and his head wrapped around her words – knowing she had been trying to better herself all these years so she'd be ready to marry him when she knew it would last forever made the wait worth it, and a grin split his face.
The officiator called for rings, and Ziva nudged little Adam over with the pillow. She took his hand, and he lowered his head to hers as she put his ring on.
"How much of that was from Macbeth?" he drawled quietly, his lips brushing her ear as he thanked Ziva's kid gruffly and slid her silver ring on.
She smiled, pressed a swift peck to his cheek before drawing back. She winked at him.
He vaguely heard the words 'kiss the bride' – after he had already seized Jenny and was kissing her, his arms around her waist tightly, her bouquet pressed tightly against his chest as she was pinned in his arms, smirking at the show of affection. Vance gave a wolf-whistle, and she heard her father muttering under his breath –
"By the authority vested in my by the District of Columbia and the United States Marine Corps, I pronounce you man and wife – ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Leroy Jethro Gibbs."
Jenny covered her face and buried it in Gibbs' decorated chest as guests started to clap. She bit her lip and squealed, and he tilted his head back and laughed, his hands resting triumphantly on her neck – and that was the moment that someone captured a perfect picture of, the moment that sat in a picture frame on her fireplace for years to come.
The reception was relaxed, casual, and balmy – by evening, the sun had faded to subtle warmth, a breeze blew through, and the flowers made everything in the beautiful courtyard of Tudor Place smell sweet – a bloody day in French history was the set-in-stone anniversary of her wedding, and she relished it as she sat at a table near the front of the garden, perched on Gibbs' lap while his hand rested lazily on her thigh under her dress.
He'd already removed her garter – in the typical saucy fashion that had the Colonel about ready to smack him silly – and he'd flicked it carelessly in the direction of his grooms – Callen had caught it with a burst of laughter, and immediately taken it between his teeth and suggestively shaken it like a dog – Marines.
She'd tossed her bouquet soon after – a faux one, of course, because hers was too beautiful to throw to another girl –but in a twist of fate, her bouquet had hit her grumbling father smack in the chin and bounced into his lap – and Gibbs had decided to put his foot in his mouth and tell the Colonel he'd better get divorced and finally marry Noemi, earning him his first head-slap as legal son-in-law.
Gibbs had turned to Jackson with an outraged look for some help, and Jackson Gibbs had just laughed his ass off at Jasper's treatment of his boy.
He was still rubbing the back of his head, milking the injury beautifully.
"Domestic abuse is against the vows, right?" Gibbs demanded, poking her side.
She shoved her heel into his shin and shot him a look, arching her brow flirtatiously.
"Colonel didn't vow a damn thing to you," she pointed out.
"Think he'd get pissed if I started callin' him Dad?"
Jenny laughed gleefully.
"He'd wet himself," she said, and settled back on him, leaning closer.
It was that kind of evening now where the sun had set, but rays of light still streaked the sky – and things had calmed down; she had done her duty and spoken to everyone – caught up with Holly and Nina, entertained guests, laughed, eaten cake, done the rituals – and now things were easy and relaxed.
Gibbs ran his hand over her leg and squeezed gently, his nose pressed against her shoulder.
She ran her fingers through the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck and sighed contently – three months of planning, six years of dating, and in fifteen minutes they were married.
She was Jennifer Gibbs, and it felt more natural than she'd ever imagined.
Gibbs grunted and looked up at her, his brows raised.
"You want to dance?" he asked.
She shrugged, and then shook her head.
"I know we're supposed to," she said quietly. "But – I like to dance with you alone," she confessed. "We don't have to do everything we're supposed to."
He nodded.
"Alone, at the apartment?" she asked.
Tonight he'd take her home to his Quantico apartment – and tomorrow they'd begin moving her in with him for good. He was here until September, when they'd move to Camp Pendleton and she'd move to a CIA field office there as a full-time employee rather than an intern.
There was no honeymoon planned at the moment – he hadn't been able to get leave.
He nodded, and smirked.
"Frank Sinatra?" he asked.
"Seventeen," she said. "It was, you know, a very good year," she teased lightly.
"Why?" he asked, feigning innocence.
"The Giants won the Super Bowl."
"Did they?"
"Mmhmm, and the first black President was elected."
"Huh."
"Oh – I met you."
"That can't be why," he deadpanned.
"Nah, I hate you," she agreed.
He nudged her shoulder with his nose and looked up to kiss her, grinning. He loved sparring with her; he was glad that wasn't going to end just because they'd signed some legal documents.
"You know what we should do?"
"Hmm?"
She pushed her hands through his hair.
"Break in to that apartment you lived in back then," she whispered, "the one we first had sex in – "
"Jen," he interrupted, looking scandalized.
She laughed – she was kidding, but sometimes she daydreamed about how cliché and – well, cool – it would be if he'd had the same apartment when he'd been transferred back to Quantico after Camp Lejeune. He didn't, though – he had a bigger one, one she was going to buy a dog for immediately – Banquo was old enough now that he didn't mind.
"You know the first year of marriage is the hardest, they say," she drawled.
He slid his hand higher under her dress.
"Thought it was the first night of the honeymoon."
She pinched him playfully and he pinched the inside of her thigh. She shrieked and ignored the attention she drew – this was her day after all. She glared at him wickedly and he smirked.
"I think it's going to be easy," she said, and turned up her nose, "all you have to do is wait on me hand and foot, buy me things, and worship me like the queen I am."
"Ha," Gibbs snorted dryly.
She winked at him and shook her head, tangling her fingers in her necklace. He patted her leg and nudged her thigh so she'd get up, and when she stood, he took her hand and sat her back down gallantly.
"Owe you somethin'," he said gruffly.
He disappeared for a moment, and she looked around – her father was nowhere to be seen, and that was odd – but everything else was perfect – Ziva was yelling at one of her kids in Hebrew while Damon quickly ushered the other one away, Leon was dancing with Kayla under some fairy lights, Holly and Nina were laughing at McKenzie's 'college Jenny' stories.
A small part of her wished her grandparents were here to see she hadn't turned out like her mother, but she figured – hoped – they knew that somehow. She smiled to herself, thinking about a dramatic scene in a truck six years ago – his first deployment, his decision that the world was ending if she didn't marry him – and she laughed: she really laughed.
Gibbs pulled a chair up next to her and angled himself away from the people so he was facing just her. He held a square object in his hands, wrapped in brown paper, and then he handed it to her wordlessly. She looked at it, and she quirked her lips up a little – she knew what it was, and her cheeks flushed.
"Jen," he said huskily. "I know I pissed you off, not wantin' to do fancy vows," he admitted. He tapped the book as she started sliding paper off. "I, uh," he started gruffly, "took a page out of your book."
"If you ripped this book, Jethro, after all it's been through – after it saved your life – "
"S'not what I meant."
She let the paper fall away, and there was the old, battle-beaten copy of the Scottish play – but sticking out of it was a bent, folded piece of paper, and she remembered standing in an airport handing him the same book with a letter in it –except then, there hadn't been a bullet in the binding.
She looked up at him, and swallowed. He interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on his hands, pointing at her.
"Read it," he grunted.
She obliged him, and delicately opened the piece of paper to read. Her eyes ran over his messy handwriting, absorbing it slowly, carefully, so she got every word –it wasn't the esoteric writings of some poet or the sappy ruminations of a love-struck Romeo – it was Jethro in every simple word chosen and Gibbs in every carelessly thrown together phrase – it was about what she meant to him, what he'd do for her, and very bluntly, how much he loved her.
It was a love letter, and he'd never written her one before. She wrote him letters when he was deployed, but he just called – and now, for this, he'd written her a letter. She lowered her hand, pressing the letter tightly against the novel in her lap, and she licked her lips, her eyes stinging.
She was quiet for a long time.
"Jethro," she said huskily. "I still can't believe that I got it right the first time."
She leaned forward and put her hands on his neck, kissing him hard. He put his hands on her waist and did the same – drawing attention again, earning some scattered applause, Leon's usual whistle. She smirked and shot them all a smug look as she pulled away, and Gibbs yanked her chair closer, pulling her onto his lap possessively and showing her off.
He held up his hand until there was silence, and reached into his back pocket, shifting Jenny easily.
"Mrs. Gibbs," he said loudly, and she suddenly had the feeling he'd been keeping something from her, judging by the sly look in his sharp blue eyes. "I consulted with a couple of witches," – Holly cackled appropriately – "to find out where you'd like to go on our honeymoon."
He snapped an envelope dramatically in the air, and handed it to her.
She took it, her eyes wide, her mouth open.
"You couldn't get leave – "
"I lied," he said simply, shrugging. "I got six days."
She stared at him, the envelope in her hands – and then Nina groaned, and put her hand to her head.
"Jenny, open it, please!" she begged – and Jenny did, uncertainly, her hands fumbling with the –
Plane tickets.
Her lips formed the word before her shock let her say it –
"Paris?"
"You'd look good at Versailles," he said gruffly.
She held the tickets in her hand, and she couldn't speak – she hadn't expected a honeymoon – and something so elaborate – she could hardly think of what to say, and when she looked up, people were taking pictures, capturing her shock exquisitely, and she licked her lips, cleared her throat, and managed to joke –
"Let us eat cake."
She lunged forward and pressed her lips to his, and he held her tightly – as if he'd held her anything but tightly since the moment she said I do. She hid her face for a moment to brush away tears, and then she touched her forehead to his, and he tugged gently on a curl of her red hair.
"Layover in Marseilles," he said.
"I think there's a double meaning there," she laughed hoarsely, her lips shaking.
"I bought her half a mustang when she was seventeen, and I was damn sure it bought me the number one spot for the rest of her life," the Colonel boomed suddenly, reappearing mysteriously.
Jenny whirled around, her eyes bright, and he shrugged, looking at them with no malice, and with a mischievous look on his rugged face.
"I was wrong," he said, looking at Gibbs and giving him a nod.
Jenny stood up and started to go hug her father, lifting her arms – and stopped short.
"Dad – Daddy, what the hell is that?" she asked, eyes wide.
The Colonel blinked, and looked down – at the small, white and brown, wary looking baby goat on the rope he was holding. He looked back up at Jenny without changing his expression.
"Your dowry," he deadpanned.
He strolled right past her and handed the goat to Gibbs, picking the animal up and throwing it right onto Gibbs lap with no warning and a proud smirk on his face. The Colonel brushed off his hands and stood tall next to Gibbs, nodding satisfactorily.
"I don't want him returning you," he said bluntly, and Jenny put a hand on her hip, eyes flashing.
"You think I'm only worth one goat?"
The Colonel shrugged.
"Goat's quieter than you are," he said. "Name's Dowry," he repeated.
"Won't be quieter than her tonight," Gibbs muttered – too quietly for most to hear, but way too loudly for the ears of a decorated Army Colonel.
The Colonel gave him a thunderous, scandalized look, and drew back his hand for a head-slap; Gibbs winced, and glared, holding the goat awkwardly, and Jenny darted forward to protect Gibbs' head, biting back a laugh, losing a shoe as she ran –
That - -was the second picture that sat framed in her house from years to come – the Colonel mid-slap, Gibbs and the goat, and she, throwing herself between her father and her husband – Pocahontas style.
"This is what it's come to, Jennifer?" her father asked ominously, eyes on her protective stance of Gibbs. "Your man over your blood?"
She gave him a sweet look through her eyelashes.
"You gave me away today, Daddy," she said primly. "I am my husband's keeper."
To her delight, both Jasper and Gibbs gave her horrified looks. She burst out laughing – they knew she wasn't that simpering girl, and it gave her a thrill to tease them for a moment.
The Colonel slapped Gibbs on the back fondly, instead of in the back of the head aggressively.
"You take care of that goat, son," he said pointedly, and Gibbs nodded, standing to shake his hand. The Colonel snorted, and shook his head. "It's a damn good thing your boss was too shit scared of me to deliver that NCIS file himself, eh?" he asked.
Gibbs smirked, and nodded, giving the Colonel a small salute – and Jenny laughed, arching her eyebrows – because six years ago, if someone had told her the Marine who stared at her ass, admired her red mustang, and stole her copy of Macbeth, would be a gunnery sergeant who married her, she'd have launched into a cynical diatribe that ended in laughter –
-but here she was in a white dress, six years later, old, new, borrowed, and blue: Jennifer Gibbs, the gunnery sergeant's wife.
Sunday
14 July 2013
Bastille Day
Tudor Place
-that is actually a venue you can get married at in Washington, DC / technically, since the "real world" date is 2014, today is their first wedding anniversary.
-Alexandra
story #211