A/N: As I wrote this, I thought: One day, I'll have to retire from writing Jibbs, not because I got tired of it (let's face it, I never will) but because at some point, literally every single possible plot line will have been done.
You run out of places to go when one of your two is dead. But nevermind that-have some nostalgia and some nOT ANGST.
In the dim lighting and the smoky atmosphere, it almost felt like they were smack in the middle of the old days again, when the anonymity found in secluded corners of foreign countries gave them freedom and wild abandon.
She pushed the empty baskets of devoured bar food aside and cleared the table in front of them but for the plastic salt-and-pepper shakers and a caddy full of real sugar substitutes. He leaned forward with his tumbler of bourbon in hand; she mimicked the action, the rim of her glass grazing her bottom lip. He took a drink, and she laughed, her brows rising and her eyes lighting up.
It was a celebration of the magnificent resolution of a brutal headache of a case that had been comprised of sleepless nights, shouting matches, and good reputations dragged through the mud. The team was out drinking to success as well, but they were here—alone, feeling good, feeling comfortable.
Like Paris.
The conversation hadn't touched work since she'd convinced him to go with her; it was just amused remembrances of what used to be and nostalgic, laughter-punctured stories of unforgettable things that had happened in Europe. They both knew the stories, but he listened to her tell her favorites, and she listened to him tell his—like they'd never heard the endings before.
He pointed at her over the rim of his tumbler with narrow, sharp blue eyes, swirling the amber whiskey in his glass.
"Biggest regret?" he asked in a low, husky voice.
It was a leap of intimacy, but they were half-drunk, and there was no harm.
"Hmm," she hummed, tossing her red hair and taking a long, thoughtful sip of bourbon. Her voice was hoarse from the alcohol when she spoke, her eyes meeting his, and her lips caressing the word confidently and surprisingly. "You."
He was taken aback; his brows furrowed and then arched. He cocked his head to the side, considering her.
"Sleepin' with me?" he drawled, taking a swift drink of the bourbon. "Or leavin'?"
She let his question hang for a moment, and then she said:
"I don't regret sleeping with you."
He smirked. She downed the rest of her bourbon, and when he went to sip from his, she commandeered it, her fingers brushing his hand and his lips as she stole the class, and downed that too, and then the whiskey seemed to burn in her eyes.
"And I am going to sleep with you tonight," she said huskily, the empty glass resting against her red lips, answering the unasked question his eyes had been getting at all evening.
He held up his finger stoically.
"One condition."
She cocked an eyebrow wickedly, her lashes lowering—perhaps because she knew he wasn't going to turn her down even if she refused is condition, and perhaps because she knew she was going to acquiesce to whatever it was.
He leaned forward.
"You don't leave," he ordered gruffly, "in the morning."
Her throat moved as she swallowed, and she parted her lips, inclining her head, their faces close.
"Jethro."
"Jen?"
"Take me home."
Ha, they're gonna do it. And then live happily ever after (at least in this story).
-Alexandra
story #120