A/N: Before I start this, I have only one thing to say: Please forgive me.

What is coming is the Biggest. Cliché. Ever. I hate myself a little for this, but A) my Muse won't leave me alone on this one, and B) I have a huge desire to see this particular cliché done in a less-crappy way than all its predecessors (not that I'm bragging on my own writing; it's just that the other stories I've read along these lines were so hideously written that there's frankly, nowhere to go but up).

Please note that this is A/U, so it will start out aligned with canon and quickly branch away into a new direction.

The French spoken herein is extremely basic, but I have included translations at the end of the chapter nonetheless. And if any of it is wrong, sue me. It's been twelve years since I've been in a French classroom.

"Whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide the fact that he possesses one." –Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Jennifer Shepard sat in the dark, clutching her coffee mug with a sweaty hand. Outwardly, she was the picture of poise and calm, but inwardly, her heart was racing and she could barely breathe. 'This is such a mistake,' she thought for the thousandth time. It already seemed like a lifetime since she had been offered the Director's job, but it had only been a month—a month filled with more activity, emotion, and inner turmoil than she had experienced in, well…the past six years. She cringed every time she thought about it, but she had to admit that it was the truth—this felt like making the decision to leave Jethro all over again. Only this time, she wasn't leaving—she was coming back. And he didn't know it.

And it was infinitely more complicated this time.

"He's your problem now, Director."

That was her cue. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and stood, pasting a smirk onto her face as she turned to face her former lover.

"Hello, Jethro," she murmured throatily.

OoOoO

The reunion in MTAC had been somewhat less awkward than she might have expected; except for the brief flash of pain in his eyes—a flash that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who knew him less intimately than did she—he had reacted stoically. It helped that the agency was knee-deep in a search for an agent-murdering terrorist, and his concentration was likely focused on that, but she wanted to address the elephant in the room as soon as possible, and get it out of the way.

She followed him out of MTAC onto the catwalk, and murmured a quiet "Jethro," to his back. He turned slowly, his expression something between a smirk and a look of wariness. He didn't speak.

"Jethro," she said quietly, "you have a job to do right now—a job that takes precedence over anything else for the time being. But, when this is over," she paused, "I would really appreciate it if you would come to my house for dinner. " He raised an eyebrow at her. "There's some unfinished business we need to discuss," she added.

"You always were one for understatement, Jen," he said wryly, as he turned to go.

'You have no idea,' she thought to herself. Aloud, she said to his retreating back, "Is that a yes, Jethro?"

He tossed up a hand dismissively. "Yeah sure," he muttered as he walked away.

Jen looked up at the ceiling and blew out a sigh. He had to be told; that much she knew. What she didn't know was how to accomplish it without someone—namely her—ending up dead in the aftermath.

OoOoO

Three days later, it was done. Ari was dead, Kate's funeral was over, and Gibbs had his closure. Jenny's nerves were a wreck, waiting for the opportunity to say her piece to him and let the chips fall where they may. She was beginning to think that the waiting and tortured anticipation of his reaction were as bad as any possible reaction he could actually have—but then again, she wasn't that ignorant.

"Jethro," she spoke from the catwalk above, as he gathered up his things, "I need to see you, please." She raised an eyebrow, a silent invitation, and he raised his own eyebrow in response as he headed for the stairs.

Ascending to the catwalk, he walked to her, curiosity in his eyes.

"My house, 8 o'clock, please," was all she managed from her suddenly dry throat.

He said nothing, only inclining his head in response as he turned on his heel to head back downstairs.

OoOoO

Gibbs sighed as he rang the doorbell of Jenny's brownstone. Much as he was curious as to what she would have to say for herself, he didn't relish the idea of re-opening wounds that had long since, if not healed, at least closed. However, if they were going to have to work together, he supposed it was best to clear the air.

The door swung open then, and Jenny stood before him, greeting him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good evening, Jethro. Come in." She stepped aside, allowing him entry, and he looked around curiously. The house was stately, elegant. "Follow me," she murmured, walking away from him. "I've got some bourbon in the kitchen." To herself, she thought, 'Not sure who's gonna need it more by the end of the evening...'

Jethro, for his part, hated beating around the bush, and so decided to cut right to the chase. He reached into his pocket and fished out a worn piece of paper as he followed her into her kitchen. He situated himself at one end of the large island there and waited. She reached for the bourbon, turned back to face him, and was taken aback to see the piece of paper that he had placed on the island in front of her.

"I guess you asked me here to explain this, Jen?" he said, the barest hint of a sneer in his voice.

Her face had drained of color, and her hands were visibly shaking as she held the tumbler of bourbon. She stared at the Dear John letter she had so cowardly left him, her lips trembling. Her lips parted, as if she was about to speak, but she made no sound. He wasn't entirely sure she was breathing.

He was just about to have mercy on her and put the letter away when he was startled by a high-pitched shriek coming from deeper in the house, followed by a loud thump and a series of giggles.

Jethro wrinkled his brow and narrowed his eyes at his hostess. "Got a guest, Jen?" he queried. Jenny managed a tight smile in response, but said nothing. Then, her head whipped sharply to the side as the source of the noise streaked into the kitchen and skidded to a halt at the sight of the strange man sitting at the counter.

Jen sighed in frustration and dropped her head into an elegant hand. "My housekeeper, Noemi, is supposed to be watching her," she said—explaining nothing—as Jethro looked from the little girl, to Jen, back to the little girl.

She was a lovely child, without a doubt. Her hair was too red to be called auburn and too brown to be called red. Her eyes were blue, framed with thick, dark lashes, and her tiny nose had a handful of freckles scattered across the bridge. The girl stared back at him, cocked her head, and narrowed her eyes curiously. "Parlez-vous français…ou anglais?" she queried.

Gibbs barely registered her question in his confusion. "Tous les deux," he replied without thinking, as he tried to get his bearings.

Jen, wide-eyed, finally recovered just as Noemi entered the kitchen, murmuring apologies. "Savie," she snapped as Noemi reached for the child's hand, "allez avec Noemi…maintenant!"

The girl pouted as Noemi gently guided her away. "Mais je veux parler à lui," she whined to Jenny as she reluctantly followed Noemi.

"Non!" Jenny snapped, and the child looked stricken. Jenny's voice softened then, and she said, "Bientôt," more gently, though stress was evident on her face.

'Soon?' thought Jethro in confusion. 'Why would this kid be talking to me soon?'

He didn't like where his gut was going with this, and sure enough, just as the little girl Jen had called Savie rounded the corner to exit the kitchen, Gibbs got a glimpse of something in the shape of her nose that was unmistakable.

He swiveled his head back toward Jenny.

"I assume you're not merely baby-sitting," Jethro said dully.

"No," Jen said with a shake of her head.

Jethro looked back to the doorway through which Noemi and the little girl had vanished.

"Yours, then?" A nod. "How old?"

He barely heard her reply. "Five," she whispered, her face still white.

"Damn, Jen, you didn't waste any time moving on, did you?" he said, a little more bitterness than he would have liked creeping its way into his voice.

Jen shook her head, her heart pounding. She felt like she might pass out. She swallowed hard and then sucked in a ragged breath. The time was now. She had taken the cowardly way out once, and had wallowed in regret since. Never again, she had vowed.

She forced herself to look him in the eyes as she said, "Jethro…the last man I slept with was you."

Translations:

"Do you speak French…or English?"

"Both."

"Savie, go with Noemi…now!"

"But I want to talk to him."

"No! ...Soon."