A/N: Oh, c'mon. We all knew my Gone with the Wind obsession was going to collide with my NCIS hysteria eventually. I think this turns out about as well as Sherman's march on Atlanta did, and ya'll can interpret that how you will.
[I can do a much more in depth analysis of Gone with the Wind and the characters/actions represented but really...don't get me started...]
When she called him and asked him to come watch a movie with her, he assumed the vague implication was that they would engage in something more than—well, actually watching a movie.
She opened the door wrapped in a thick, slouchy sweatshirt and black leggings that hugged her perfectly. Her hair was a tousled mess, she had only the lightest traces of yesterday's make-up on—yesterday had been a damn long day at the Navy Yard—and she looked relieved to finally have a day off. Her hands were curled around the edges of her sleeves and she smiled at him, jerking her head towards the study.
"Hey," she greeted, laid back.
"Hey," he answered easily, shutting the door behind him.
She pushed her hair back and let it fall generously, and he followed her back into the usually dark and quiet study. The lights were on today, and there was less heaviness present in the room.
His theory that this was a subtle sort of adult invitation to her bed was proven to be vastly wrong when he walked into the study and found the opening credits of an old Hollywood film sweeping dramatically across her television screen. He arched a brow and tilted his head warily.
She walked to the desk.
"Bourbon?" she offered.
She didn't see him nod, but she knew he wanted a glass full. She filled it up, turned, and handed it to him. He took it slowly, and his pinky finger jutted out towards the clear picture on the television.
"What're we watchin'?" he asked neutrally.
She bit her lip and turned, tilting her head towards the screen. She waited for the music to reach its crescendo, and then his question was answered—big, sprawling calligraphy appeared on the screen, and it read—
Gone with the Wind.
"Jen," he groused mildly, rolling his eyes.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and then wrapped her arms around herself, her hands cradling her tumbler of bourbon protectively.
"It's rarely ever shown on television," she said, her eyes meeting his with a slightly smirk and sparkly. "Unedited, on the classics network—I can't pass it up."
"I could've," he muttered to himself, strolling over to her bookcase. He knew he'd seen it in the many times he'd been here before—if he could just—aha. He took a drink of bourbon and tapped the spine of the VHS.
He glared at her.
"You own it," he pointed out. She had the DVD, too, and the book was shoved onto the shelf with them. Its spine was worn and tattered; well loved. He gave her a pointed look, waiting for an explanation.
She sighed, giving him a patronizing look.
"It isn't the same as catching it on the air, Jethro," she murmured, glancing around at the screen as the credits started to fade and the film began to roll. "It used to be we had to wait to catch the films we loved on television."
He snorted and pointed at his chest.
"I had to wait," he scoffed. He walked back over to her and pointed at her this time. "You had tapes."
"I am not that much younger than you," she retorted indignantly. "You act as if I were sixteen when we met."
He grinned at her.
"Guess you're old, then," he drawled.
She smacked the back of her hand into his chest. He pushed it away lightly, and took a swallow of the burning whiskey. It cleared his head a little, and he stepped back. He sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, drink clasped between his legs.
"We're really watchin' the movie?"
"Yes," she said firmly.
She sat down close to him, her leg resting against his.
"The whole thing?"
She smiled lightly, raising her glass to her lips.
"Did you think this was a booty call, Jethro?" she simpered sympathetically.
He gave her a look.
"Yeah," he admitted grudgingly.
She laughed, a sound he liked to hear—and hadn't heard much since she had walked back into his life as Director of NCIS.
"You know me better than that," she admonished, crinkling her nose primly. "If I wanted to sleep with you," she paused, and took a slow drink of bourbon. "I would have just asked."
He smirked at her and she laughed, tilting her head back. She was right—she was forward and blunt and she had never concerned herself with hiding her wants from him. He wasn't so sure she would end this little afternoon with her clothes on, though—Gone with the Wind was a long movie, and they had already cracked open the bourbon.
Gibbs glared petulantly at the screen.
"She's annoying," he grumbled.
"She's seventeen, Jethro," Jenny placated. "Her little heart is broken. Give her a break."
"She's a spoiled brat," he insisted stubbornly.
"The poor girl just married a total chump, and he widowed her with a baby!"
Gibbs shrugged rudely.
"Yeah, 'cause she's an idiot," he muttered, and earned a jab in the ribs from Jenny. "She doesn't have a baby," he pointed out suspiciously.
"She does in the book," Jenny said loudly. "If you're going to talk through this whole movie," she warned, threat hanging in her voice.
He tapped his tumbler of bourbon annoyingly loudly.
"Why'd you invite me over if you didn't want me to talk to you?" he demanded.
"You never talk to me, Jethro."
"Why, Jen?" He didn't relent.
"Hm, maybe I want you to cook me dinner," she teased, wrinkling her nose cutely. She sighed and tilted her head, her eyes on the screen for a moment while Scarlett O'Hara cried and wailed in her black mourning dress. She felt him glaring at her, and she shrugged. "I didn't feel like being alone today," she admitted, her voice getting a little quieter.
He looked at her intently for a moment, and then simply nodded in acceptance and turned to the screen. It must have been a worse week for her than he thought, and he remembered she always liked to be around people if she'd gotten her ass handed to her on the job.
She snorted derisively and cocked an eyebrow.
"What did I drag you away from, Jethro?" she asked skeptically. "Some new, hot little redheaded number?"
She knew there was no one in his life, and it was the only reason she made the joke. He was just as alone as she was since that blonde had bailed. He snorted a little at the jest and shrugged.
"Boat," he said vaguely. He took a drink of whiskey. "Basement," he shook his head. "Nothing."
She gave him a pointed look.
"Quit ya bitchin', then," she ordered. "I knew you wouldn't have come over if you had anything better to do."
"Better'n you, Jen?" he answered smoothly, and smirked when she gave him a look.
He grinned and she rolled her eyes, turning back to the movie. She extended her hand, gesturing with the glass of whiskey.
"Have you seen this?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. She wasn't completely surprised; he'd had four wives. One along the way had to have been a sucker for the classic.
"The whole thing, all the way through?" she prodded.
"Yeah, he kicks her to the curb at the end."
Jenny gave a gasp of horror.
"You will have to be much more sensitive when that part comes around," she said fiercely.
Gibbs shrugged.
"Least he didn't leave her a note."
Jenny's face changed. She looked at him warily and then turned away, leaning away from him a little.
"Oh, Jethro," she breathed into her bourbon. "God, you're a bastard."
He watched her drink, and then turned back to the movie. His words just slipped out sometimes, and he didn't think before he let them. He leaned back on the couch and rested his elbow on the back, his glass hovering between them.
"Which wife made you watch it?" Jenny ventured hollowly.
He grunted, and didn't answer right away. He felt he needed to make that barb about Paris up to her. It was better to keep the peace right now, because a relaxed, familiar afternoon felt good and nostalgic, almost like the old days.
"First one," he said finally.
"The real first one or the secret first one?" she bit out shortly.
He took a long drink.
"Shannon."
It was the first time he'd ever said her name out loud to Jenny. She tilted her head back and sighed heavily, regretting being so callous about it. She reached over and rubbed his knee. Gibbs let her touch him, and then, unexpectedly, he gestured to the television.
"She liked Mammy," he said gruffly, his face unreadable. "'Cause Mammy knew the brat was going to Atlanta to try'n honey trap Melanie's man."
Jenny let out a laugh of disbelief and bowed her head.
"You're making this story so inelegant!"
"That guy is such a putz," growled Gibbs.
He rolled his eyes.
She laughed abruptly.
"Putz?!" she quoted.
He glared at her.
"Putz," he repeated, deadpan.
She pursed her lips primly.
"Whatever you say, Fonzie," she teased. She winked at him. "Aaaay."
Gibbs either did not find her amusing, or refused to admit he found her amusing. He thrust out his palm at the television.
"Why's the brat want him so bad when she's got this other one chasin' after her? Never could figure that out," he griped. He shook his head as he watched Scarlett O'Hara try to coerce Ashley Wilkes away from his wife, right as she sent him off to war post Christmas furlough.
Jenny shrugged lightly.
"He's the only thing her charm never won her, Jethro," she remarked. She tapped her crystal glass against her teeth and tilted her head. "The one thing that never changes about people is that they want what they can't have."
Gibbs snorted skeptically.
"She's after a dream when she's got a flesh and blood guy who wants to give her everything she wants just 'cause he can," he pointed out. He shook his head. "Women," he muttered.
Jenny arched an eyebrow and glared at him derisively.
"All Rhett Butler wants to do is fuck her," she drawled.
Gibbs shook his head rapidly.
"No," he retorted. "Told you, I've seen the movie. That's just what he tells 'er, 'cause otherwise she'd hold it over his head."
Jenny shrugged.
"That is his own damn fault," she sighed.
Gibbs leaned back, his arm around her shoulders. His tumbler rested against her forearm and he snorted, still shaking his head as he watched the movie. He turned is head and studied her as she absorbed herself in the story, breathing in her proximity.
Gibbs poured them both another tumbler of whiskey and sat back down, leaning forward. Atlanta was burning, and the brat heroine had made it out of her beloved city, and now that rogue Rhett Butler was leaving her on the side of the road.
Gibbs grinned at the shrieking that followed.
"You think this movie's racist?" he grunted thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes.
Jenny made a choking noise.
"Impressively profound conversation starter," she mocked. He elbowed her knee and she pulled it away, giggling in a subdued manner. He'd startled her out of deep concentration on the scene.
Her eyes didn't leave the embrace on the television. She cocked her head.
"I think it unsubtly portrays the stark truth of racism in the antebellum south, but the film in and of itself is historical rather than inherently racist," she paused. "Argument could easily be made that it romanticizes slavery, though," she muttered distastefully. "Delusional southern mentality."
Gibbs leaned back and slouched down, turning his head towards her.
"I love it when you talk smart," he deadpanned, blinking at her sternly.
She bit her lip and shoved him playfully away from her. She leaned forward, her breath catching in her throat at the kissing scene. She pushed her hair back and ignored Gibbs' eyes on her.
Scarlett slapped Rhett, and Jenny winced.
"He told her he loved her!" Gibbs pointed out, annoyed. "What is she, deaf?"
Jenny punched him in the arm and shushed him. He leaned over closer, shoulder pressing heavily into hers.
"C'mon, Jen," he coaxed wryly. "Y'know he loves 'er. Why else does it get you goin' like this?"
She shrugged, her arm wrinkling his shirt. She twitched her nose, and bit her lip.
"You want her to kiss 'im back," drawled Gibbs obnoxiously.
"His timing is reprehensible."
"He's goin' to fight a damn war!"
Jenny turned at met his eyes.
"It would mean more if he wasn't afraid he'd die, don't you think?" she murmured quietly.
Gibbs lifted his chin, holding her gaze. Her lips parted.
"At least he told her," she said mildly.
When the film faded slowly and very epic theme music started, Gibbs narrowed his eyes.
"Hasn't been four hours," he growled suspiciously.
Jenny patted his knee good-naturedly.
"This is intermission," she said brightly. She stood up and stretched, her sweatshirt rising up to expose a bare strip of skin. She shook her hair down her back and yawned, tilting her head towards the hallway. "Hungry?"
She didn't wait for an answer; she moseyed down the hall and turned into her kitchen. She plucked a neat folder full of take-out menus from a clasp on the refrigerator and fanned them out temptingly.
"The intermission score plays for about five minutes," she said.
He selected a menu for the place that could only be referred to as their usual and flicked through it, pretending he was going to get something different this time. She clipped the others back on the fridge and leaned against it, watching him. She bit on her nail in the silence and rolled her shoulders back, still loosening up.
"So," he drawled, closing the menu. "Why do you like the brat so much?"
She stopped chewing on the nail and shot a glare at him.
"Scarlett?" she asked loudly, her tone pointed. He smirked and shrugged; he was calling the little heroine names just to rile Jenny up. She was cute when her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared. She turned up her nose and sniffed. "You can try to hate Scarlett, but no one really does."
Gibbs gave her a skeptical look. He rolled his eyes. She glared at him stiffly.
"Mark my words, Jethro," she said seriously. "You won't meet someone who blatantly hates Scarlett O'Hara. She's too admirable for that. I love her sometimes because she's so naïve and so stupid, but I love her other times because she's so damn tenacious. There are so many layers to Scarlett," Jenny paused, holding her hands out as if searching. "You love one of the layers, no matter who you are. She speaks to something."
"She's a shallow little fool, Jen," Gibbs retorted flippantly.
"I'm not talking about her intelligence. She's about as educated as a sixth grader. She's a woman with a place in a world that tells her to sit down, simper, and shut up. She isn't supposed to own property, but she does—she isn't supposed to be anything more than arm candy, but she is. She's ambitious and she's ruthless and she takes on this…yoke of what's societally perceived as immorality so others like Melly and Ashley can keep their righteousness."
Gibbs considered her for a moment.
"What good is all that if she can't wake up and realize she's throwin' away a good thing with Cap'n Butler?" Gibbs asked shortly.
Jenny plucked the take-out menu from him.
"He's Captain Butler, Jethro!" she said, her cheeks flushing. She laughed a little. "He's a womanizer and a cad and a pirate, he's no sure thing! Scarlett just cares about never being hungry again! She can't risk letting Rhett Butler sweep her away! What if," Jenny paused, flicking the take-out menu. "What if he decides he wants to shack up with Belle Watling? Scarlett isn't like Rhett; she doesn't buck society because she sees its flaws, she does so when she has to and she hates not being accepted."
Gibbs grinned a little at the fired up look in her eyes.
"Yeah," he agreed simply. "But, Butler understands her. She isn't gonna find that anywhere else."
Jenny rolled her eyes.
"She can't just let him sweep her off her feet," she repeated firmly.
Gibbs looked at her roguishly.
"Hell, but you would let 'im, Jen," he teased. "Wouldn't you?"
She gave him a guarded, striking look. Her eyes roamed over him and she smacked the menu into his chest, running her tongue along her lower lip in a smooth sweeping motion.
"I already did," she said in a soft, loaded whisper. She cocked a brow. "Kung-pow chicken," she requested—her usual.
She brushed past him lightly, and he turned, catching her arm. He pointed at himself.
"You think I'm Rhett Butler?" he asked capriciously.
Her lips parted in an indecipherable way.
"Do you?"
Jenny threw her head back and groaned, cursing angrily through her last mouthful of noodles.
"I hate this part. I hate it," she griped, shaking her head.
Gibbs washed down his egg roll with a swallow of bourbon, glaring at the screen.
Brat was getting married again.
"Below the belt of her to take her sister's man," Gibbs agreed.
"Oh, I don't give a damn about Suellen, she's obnoxious," Jenny sighed, poking around in the remnants of her dinner. "I know why she has to marry him but god if she'd just agreed to sleep with Rhett—"
"Agreed to sleep with him?" scoffed Gibbs, sounding offended. "She tried to swindle him in the damn barn, Jen, serves her right!"
"She's trying to save Tara!"
"Yeah, well, no reason for her to go stomp all over a man's pride like that," grumbled Gibbs, apparently personal miffed by Scarlett's attempt to manipulate Rhett by professing her love. "That guy has it bad for her, Jen, and she's eatin' him alive."
"She doesn't know that, Jethro, she's too vapid."
"Women know," Gibbs insisted stubbornly. "Women always know. You all play games!"
"We play games?" Jenny pointed at herself with her chopsticks. "Rhett is the goddamn Olympics, then, Jethro! Scarlett's superficial, she's a child, and she needs to be told!"
Gibbs narrowed his eyes. He poured them both more whiskey, shaking his head.
"Not buyin' it."
"You're not buying what?"
He threw his arms out, the whiskey in the bottle swishing around.
"Not buyin' that she doesn't know how he feels."
"If that makes you feel better about it," Jenny retorted sharply, coaxing the whiskey away from him protectively.
He glanced at her. She leaned back, a little closer against him now that they were hours into this and the whiskey was flowing freely and their hunger was sated. She sighed heavily, shaking her head again in annoyance at Scarlett's second wedding.
Gibbs shook his head in amusement as he watched the catlike, smug grin spread over Jen's face. She sucked on her ice cream spoon, holding it triumphantly between her lips as she watched the current scene unfold.
Brat O'Hara wasn't going to wait a hot minute for her dead second husband to get cold before she walked down the aisle again.
Gibbs snorted.
"She could wait half a second," he remarked loudly, just to bug Jenny.
The spoon popped out of her mouth. She shot him an outraged look.
"Did you just offer an opinion on marriage etiquette, Henry the Eighth?" she asked sarcastically. She rubbed her hand over his chest in admonishment, her breath hitching in her throat. "Shhh, shhh," she hushed hurriedly.
On screen, Clark Gable bent Vivien Leigh backwards dramatically and forced a kiss on her that literally made her swoon. While Jenny was occupied, Gibbs snatched her spoon and stole a few bites of mint chocolate chip ice cream. He made a face at the sweetness; tasted better off Jen's lips, if he remembered correctly.
She yanked her spoon back.
"No ice cream privileges," she growled, smacking his knuckles with the utensil. She pushed his cheek towards the screen.
"I can't go all my life waiting to catch you between husbands," Rhett Butler drawled.
Gibbs laughed. Jenny punched his shoulder. At his next line, it was Jenny's turn to mock.
"Did you ever think of marrying just for fun?" Rhett asked lightly.
"He's on to you, Jethro," she deadpanned.
He glared at her.
"None of the fools you've ever known have kissed you like this, have they?" Rhett Butler growled.
Jenny squeaked, smiling. Gibbs turned his head.
"That how you feel about me?" he asked seriously.
She smacked his chest and covered his mouth, shoving her fingers against his lips pointedly. He grinned, patiently allowing himself to be manhandled. Rhett was on screen kissing his lady senseless, and Jenny was drinking it in like oxygen. He extracted a marriage proposal with kisses and persuasion, and Jenny sucked down another spoonful of ice cream, her eyes glittering.
She turned to Gibbs, smiling, and he rolled his eyes at her girly behavior. She bit her lip and pinched his knee. Gibbs twisted his head to get his mouth out from under her hand and cocked an eyebrow at her.
"How do you rate the proposal?" she asked smarmily.
He leaned closer.
"Guy didn't even have a ring," he scoffed.
"Mm, just a pair of convincing lips."
Gibbs was almost kissing her. Her hand touched his chest, and lingered for a moment, as if she didn't know whether she would pull him closer or push him away. She clutched him instead, and ducked her head.
"No, Jethro," she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut. "That door, it's closed, let—"
"Finish the whiskey," he supplied smoothly, leaning forward, taking the bottle, and pouring her a glass to calm her down.
This was turning out to be the weirdest damn afternoon.
Jenny pushed her hair back. It was tangled and messy from the way she kept running her fingers through it.
"Ahh," she sighed, frustrated. "The one time she was innocent with Ashley—"
"That little broad is never innocent," Gibbs groused, glaring at Scarlett.
"But the one time she was just being a friend to him," Jenny sighed, annoyed. She chewed on her lip, her tumbler of whiskey full. "Poor Rhett. He's got no reason not to believe it."
"Some dress," Gibbs remarked, remembering Vivien Leigh in the sparkling red number appreciatively.
"Too bad she's a brunette," Jenny shot back coolly, and smirked into her crystal glass. She winced and leaned closer to him, grabbing his arm as Clark Gable dangerously wrapped his hands around Scarlett's head.
She caught her breath.
"I know modern feminism insists I should hate this scene," she breathed. "But when he carries her up those stairs, ooh it's so sexy," Jenny bit her lip, her thigh pressing into his as she watched the iconic scene. She squealed and leaned back, her hand still running over his. "She's got that pleased-as-pie little smirk on her face, she liked it!" Jenny said with a laugh.
Scarlett sang, Rhett was cold to her—and he left. Gibbs rolled his eyes.
"Then why doesn't she just tell 'im she liked it?"
"'Thank you for fucking me silly' isn't exactly in the repertoire of an antebellum southern belle, Jethro."
He burst out laughing, the rumble of it vibrating out of his chest and up her arm. He couldn't imagine hearing a woman say something like that ever—and the fact that Jenny had went straight to his head. He shook his head, pressing his tumbler to his lips.
"She had him, and she let him take that little girl and go off," he drawled.
Jenny sighed.
"Gone with the Wind is a classic lesson in communication," she said forlornly, shaking her head as she thought of all the examples. "If Scarlett and Rhett just talked to each other—"
"He wouldn't leave her at the end?" Gibbs guessed dryly.
"Or she wouldn't leave him," Jenny countered, and for what had to be the hundredth time, he felt like they were talking about more than the movie.
Jenny's face was sad as she watched Scarlett tumble down the stairs.
"The original line was 'Perhaps you'll have a miscarriage'," she said. "The censors wouldn't allow it. He had to say accident instead," she told Gibbs, eyes glued on the television and Scarlett's sick bed.
Gibbs frowned tensely.
"Good," he muttered. "Bastard thing to say."
Jenny nodded. She leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder, her bourbon glass supported against his bicep.
"He's so brokenhearted though, Jethro," she said heavily. "Rhett Butler crying, ah. It's like seeing Superman fall from the sky."
Gibbs rolled his eyes and snorted. He leaned forward and poured them more whiskey; they were nearing the end of the bottle—and that was good, he realized, because he knew what part was coming next, and he planned on leaving the room.
There was a tub of soupy, melting ice cream on the floor next to a nearly empty bourbon bottle, and hovering over the two were Jenny's sock-clad feet. She was curled up, her hand at her mouth, watching Bonnie Blue Butler charge a little horse jumping fence much too quickly.
She winced and looked away, always preferring to hear the death rather than see it. She blinked, and she suddenly realized that Gibbs had disappeared. She started to call for him, and then she looked back at the screen and closed her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek painfully.
He must have left before Bonnie died. She hadn't thought about—
Jenny got up slowly and hugged herself, stretching a little. She went looking, and found him in the kitchen shaking a bowl of popcorn. He was salting it, and he was doing an unnaturally meticulous job of it. She licked her lips and cleared her throat.
He glanced over at her, his face unreadable. He held up the bowl.
"Popcorn," he said. "Can't have a movie without it."
She nodded. She stood there a moment, and then crept forward. She touched his arm slowly.
"Jethro," she said softly. She leaned forward and put her hands on his arm and his back, pressing her fingertips into him. She shook her head. "I sort of forget about that part. I didn't consider," she paused. Her hand ran over his bicep. "I'm sorry, Jethro."
He shrugged lightly. He said nothing. He shook the popcorn bowl again and then set it down on the counter, picking up a piece and flicking it at her hair. He gave her a small smile when she looked up at him, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"It's over now," Jenny told him. "Melanie's about to die."
Gibbs gave her a long, pointed look. He didn't want to watch someone's wife die, either. He pointed to the bowl.
"Needs more butter," he said, in an impossibly gruff voice.
Struck by the grief in his eyes, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his arm until she felt the warmth of his skin through his T-shirt. She let her hand slide off of him until it reached his fingers and she squeezed briefly, and retreated to wait for him to return when he was ready.
Her eyes were red and her face was pale when he finally made himself go back in and finish the movie with her. He handed her the bowl and sat down heavily, throwing his arm around her without hesitation. She had poured the last of the bourbon into their glasses.
She popped a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth.
"I love Melly. God, I always wished I could be Melly," she said, her voice shaking. "She was so good to everyone."
"Nah, you're like Scarlett, Jen," Gibbs said, shrugging.
She snorted hoarsely.
"The brat?" she asked, reminding him of his griping through the whole move. He shook his head, and his arm pulled her a little closer in a subtle way.
"She grows on you," he said vaguely.
Jenny bit her lip, and smiled faintly. She leaned into him a little more as she watched Scarlett wildly chase Rhett around the house. The build-up to the final scene was gut-wrenching every time for her; she always hoped it would be different.
Gibbs grunted tensely.
"He waited all that time, and he dumps her when she finally gets wise," he growled. "Idiot."
"Oh, now he's the idiot?" Jenny asked softly. "It was too little too late. Scarlett should have known that. She tore him to pieces. There was nothing left of Rhett Butler when she was done."
"They had that chance," Gibbs muttered. "He just shut her down."
Acutely, Jenny suddenly remembered a very sharp, concise there won't be any off the job. She had just—shut him down. Her brow furrowed and she curled up a little, lifting her chin.
"Don't ruin this, Jethro," she warned desperately.
They both went silent.
"But Rhett, where shall I go, what shall I do?" Scarlett O'Hara cried.
And then, there it was:
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
He stretched his neck and shoulders out as he walked towards the elegant oak front door, well aware of her proximity behind him. They had wiped out an entire bottle of bourbon over the course of that four-hour southern classic, and there seemed to be so much unspoken history in the air between them.
She faced him at the door. She smiled wryly.
"Thank you," she said honestly. "For putting up with me."
"It isn't a chore, Jen."
She gave him an intent look.
"You like the ending of Gone with the Wind, Jethro?" she asked thoughtfully.
Taken aback, he shrugged. He tilted his head, thinking about it—its abrupt, somewhat unexpected, train wreck of an ending. He flexed his knuckles slightly and met her eyes, nodding slowly.
"Why?" Jenny asked bluntly.
Gibbs grunted.
"Never says Scarlett doesn't get 'im back," he said sagely.
Jenny smiled. She nodded and leaned her head against the door, pushing her hair back in a red waterfall. She laughed to herself. He opened the door, and she stepped away from him.
"Goodbye, Jethro," she said softly.
She ran her hands up her own arms. He considered her a moment.
"Jen," he said simply. "That stuff you kept sayin', all the bull we were throwin' around in there," he paused. He gestured between them. "You tryin' to say one of us is Rhett, and one's Scarlett?"
"I just like the movie, Jethro."
"Well, who's who?" he demanded.
She tilted her head back and bit her lip.
"Rhett and Scarlett…aren't Rhett and Scarlett without each other," she said hoarsely. "You aren't...just one or the other. They're halves of a whole."
He considered her a moment, and then nodded curtly. She gave a half-hearted little wave and turned away, pushing her hair back in that anxious way she had. He shut the door heavily, and she bowed her head—she didn't hear him reopen it ever so quietly, and she didn't hear his quick footsteps behind her.
The next thing she knew, he'd yanked her up into his arms dramatically, and she shrieked, grabbing onto his chest for dear life.
"Jethro!"
He lowered is head, his face close to hers. She opened her mouth, speechless for a moment. He jerked his head pointedly, gesturing up her red-carpeted stairs with his chin.
"You really think him draggin' her up those stairs is sexy?" he asked huskily.
She laughed.
"Jethro, what are you doing?"
His lips brushed hers as he smirked.
"Taking you to bed," he growled confidently.
Her breath caught in her throat. She tried not to be taken in by the theatrics but—there were some things that even she couldn't resist.
"If I wasn't a lady," she began wickedly, batting her lashes.
She laughed, amused by the absurdity of it all.
"You think this stunt is going to work, Jethro?"
He shrugged arrogantly as he started up the stairs, his arms holding her tightly.
"Frankly, Jen—"
She slid her hand over his lips, and he smirked, taking her hint immediately.
There were some things that only Rhett Butler could say, and for all his faults and follies, Gibbs and Rhett Butler were very different men.
"If I wasn't a lady, what wouldn't I say to that varmint!"
-Scarlett O'Hara
xxxxx
"My dear, I don't give a damn."
-Rhett Butler [book version]
Happy 18th Birthday, Flynn! ~my Scarlett O'Flynnra.
-Alexandra
story #149