A/N: This is a piece that simply wouldn't get out of my head. It is based (loosely) on a combination of Michael Crichton's Disclosure, George Strait's "Write This Down", and an odd sort of Tiva influence. It is canon and not canon; set after season 3 and 4, but with nuances you just have to go with. It is deliberately vague at some points. I'm quite fond of it-and I hope you enjoy.


1

She stood on the stoop her head throbbing, trying to shield her eyes from the motion-sensor porch light and banging on his front door. The fact that she had to bang on his door made her feel sick; it was a bad omen—and things were already bad.

She had been shocked, a little angry, disoriented, and frightened when she turned his doorknob to open it and found her entrance impeded. His door was never locked. Leroy Jethro Gibbs never locked his door.

She bit her lip, holding back a shout of frustration. She hesitated to begin screaming for him to open the door; it was dark, the lights in his neighborhood were out and she did not want to cause scene.

She wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

She slammed her open palm against the stained glass, shaking his door with the force. Pausing, she curled up her fist, raising it back—

-and the door swung open. He stood there in shadow, looking stonily annoyed. His eyes showed a hint of surprise to see here there.

Jennifer Shepard didn't give him a chance to speak.

"Why was your door locked?" she hissed desperately, crossing her arms across her midsection.

She glared at him in the early morning darkness, shivering a little. It was not even cold, but she felt cold. She swallowed hard, standing there; waiting.

"It's a habit," he grunted blankly.

"Habit?" she repeated incredulously. She lifted her eyebrows and narrowed her eyes. She and he both knew it wasn't any damn habit for the door to be locked.

"When you're here, I lock it," he clarified shortly, shrugging his shoulders.

She blinked, opening her mouth and closing it. She had never noticed, and she had been here quite a lot lately. Since their relationship had started back up, it could be said she was practically living with him. Until two weeks ago, when they had hit the rocks—

"Where's your key?" he asked brusquely, giving her a look. He was clearly pissed of being attacked over his door-locking habits in the middle of the night.

"I don't have a key!"

"You don't have a key?"

He snorted derisively.

"The door is always unlocked!" she shouted, her voice breaking a little.

She clamped her lips together and glared at him, shivering again. His commitment issues would keep her from having a key even if the door was always locked!

He stared at her for a minute. His brow wrinkled slightly.

"Get in the house, Jen," he said finally, apparently deciding it was worth it.

She stepped over the threshold delicately. She had not been her much in the past few weeks, and she had not been here at all since she stormed out on him four days ago. She heard him shut the door behind her and she winced; it sounded so loud.

"It's late," he pointed out.

"Did I wake you?" she snapped, her back still to him.

"No," he fired back. "Think you probably woke the dead, though," he quipped, brushing past her. His shoulder brushed hers and he pointed to the basement, jerking his head. She shook hers in response.

"I don't want to go to the basement," she said in a strained voice.

He stopped, staring at her.

"Are you okay?" he asked abruptly. He sounded slightly irritated.

She shook her head in the negative.

He started back to her slowly.

"Where's your security?" he asked suspiciously.

"I ditched them," she answered blankly.

"Dammit, Jenny!"

"Shut up, Jethro," she snapped dryly. "I learned my lesson," she muttered.

He tilted his head towards her.

"What?" he barked, his attention snagged. He came closer. She rubbed her temples and started to walk past him, intent on getting to the sofa. He took her arm, firmly enough to stop her, but not nearly roughly enough to hurt.

"Did someone hit you?" he demanded.

She gave him a confused look, her brows knitting.

"Your jaw," he said sharply. "Your jaw is black and blue," he said, reaching out.

She tilted her head away from his hand and felt the spot he indicating, wincing a little. She moved her mouth around, straining to remember.

"I don't remember," she said. She squinted. "Is it? Bruised?" she asked. She hadn't seen. She had been shaking too much to even drive, for the first few minutes after she'd woken up.

Jethro looked angry.

"It's bruised," he confirmed in a growl. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"I want to sit down," she said.

She pulled away from him and walked to the couch. She sat down, looking at the fireplace. She covered her mouth.

"Can you light a fire?" she asked.

He started at her in disbelief.

"It's July," he said.

"I'm cold."

He looked like he would deny it. He made a noise in his throat and stormed off, returning with a lighter. He crouched down and lit a fire, poking around for a minute. Then he marched over and sat down on the sofa, glaring at her sideways.

She put her hands on her head and ran them back through her hair, turning towards him. She held all of her hair back from her face, chewing on her lip, and then swallowed.

"I think I was raped," she said quietly.

His arm twitched. He narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening. His face broadcasted numerous reactions before his features settled on outrage.

"What?" he hissed, the word snapping through his teeth like spat poison. "Raped?" he growled. "You think?"

She couldn't tell if the anger was directed at her.

She bowed her head and spread a palm out over her eyes, hiding her face. He reached out and wrapped his hand around her wrist, trying to uncover her.

"You think, Jen?" he asked dangerously. "Look at me," he snapped, dragging her hand away. "You can't 'think' you were raped. It isn't up for interpretation," he snarled. His hand felt tense and hard, wrapped around her wrist.

"I don't know what happened," she said in a high voice, sounding panicked. His anger was frightening her. It sounded like he was being protective, but she still couldn't discern if the anger was directed at her.

"Did someone touch you without your consent?" he asked harshly. She didn't answer. He turned towards her anxiously, his knee hitting hers. He reached over with his free hand and cupped her bruised jaw, drawing her head towards him. "Answer me, Jenny!" he ordered.

"I cannot remember!" she burst out, her breath catching. "I was drunk. I woke up in the backseat of my car," she said shakily. She closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I was at a bar, a few men hit on me," she trailed off, lifting her shoulders. "I don't know."

"You know something!" he insisted. "Something makes you think you were raped!" He grit his teeth and tilted her head up, eyeing the bruise. It was getting darker, taking up residence on her face. "You get slipped something?"

She shook her head in frustration.

"I don't let men buy me drinks," she insisted shortly. "I don't—I might have passed out," she broke off, lifting her head. "I was really drunk, Jethro," she said, her voice cracking. "Scary drunk. Blind drunk."

She tried to convey it. She had been drinking—drinking enough to hand her keys to the bartender when she sat down. She had gone out specifically to do such, because at home she felt the weight of her job, and she hadn't felt comfortable or willing to come here, to him, because of their fight and because he was why she needed to drink in the first place.

"I don't give a damn how drunk you were!" he barked, lowering his hand. He caught her eye forcefully. "You can't consent if you were unconscious! What happened, Jen?" he asked savagely. "Who laid a hand on you?"

She scoffed.

"I can't even remember the bartender's face," she snapped derisively. It wasn't as if she could give him a name so he could gallivant off on a white horse to beat the shit out of whomever they were talking about.

His hand slipped to her waist, touching her gingerly. He laid a hand on her thigh intimately, soothingly.

"Don't touch me," she said sharply, shying away.

He drew his hand back as if he had been burned.

"I'm evidence," she said grimly, holding herself away from him.

Jethro clenched his fist.

He was starting to sweat; the fire she had made him light was making the room hot as hell. She didn't seem to be affected. She was pale, her hands were shaking. The ugly bruise glowed eerily in the firelight.

"I don't know if it was rape," she said dully.

"Jen—" he began.

She shook her head abruptly.

"—or if I want to think that because if it wasn't, then I fucked some stranger," her voice cracked.

She covered her mouth, a sour look crossing her face.

She swallowed. She lowered her hand.

"I need a rape kit."

"No," he said stubbornly. "Tell me what happened."

"I don't—"

"Now, Jen," he interrupted sharply. "Right fucking now," he demanded. "What you remember," he ordered. "Some bastard hit you in the jaw, Jenny, you can't have consented!" He rationalized, pointing up to her face. "Unless you're into something I don't know about?" he asked rhetorically; sarcastically.

She looked at him, her lips parted, thinking about the bruise.

She flicked her eyes to her feet, nodding.

"I wouldn't let someone hit me," she murmured.

He nodded curtly. He knew she wouldn't. He knew what Jenny liked—he knew everything she liked. She didn't get off on abuse. She liked rough sex, but there was a distinct difference between going at it against a bookshelf in her study and cold-cocking her in the face.

She clasped her hands together in her lap.

"I took a half day at work," she murmured.

"Skip that part," he interrupted bluntly. "I know you left."

He knew because he had pointedly pretended not to give a damn.

She closed her eyes, and moistened her lips.

"I went home, and then I went out," she suddenly felt very reluctant to tell him any of this. It was personal. Her decisions were her decisions, and a bad one had probably gotten her in trouble. It was none of Jethro's business.

"You gave your guys the slip," he prompted angrily.

"I dismissed them," she snapped. "If I am not under direct threat and I am off the clock, I have quite a bit of leeway," she explained hotly.

"There are people out there aiming to hurt you, Jen!" he reprimanded, annoyed.

"There are people in here who hurt me!" she lashed back, glaring at him. Referring to 'in here' was abstract; she didn't literally mean inside his house, but she wanted to convey to him that she had been trying to escape.

He leaned back, as if repelled by the dig; he knew it for what it was. He knew their fight the other night had shaken her; hell, it had shaken him—but he was too stubborn to deal with her stubbornness about it all.

She chewed on her lip, gripping her wrist. Her knuckles turned white. She squinted her eyes.

"I only remember two shots of Patron," she murmured, almost to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut again, still biting her lip.

She opened her eyes dejectedly.

"I woke up in my car," she repeated dully. "I was dizzy, disoriented. I threw up, sat against my tires on the cold concrete for half an hour, and drove here."

Her voice was flat. There was nothing to her story, nothing. He ground his teeth together, running his hand over his mouth. He struggled to suppress the rage boiling in his gut; he had no one to direct it at, but it was there. Regardless of the fractured nature of their relationship, someone had injured Jenny—and it was instinctive, primal: he wanted to break the son of a bitch's neck.

Jenny was touching her cheek and then looking at her hand. There was nothing there; it was a gesture someone would make if they were feeling for blood.

"I didn't see the bruise."

He studied her. There had to be something. If her memory was so blank, what was it that had made her stumble into his house at this hour and declare up sexual assault? He leaned closer, and she leaned back.

He noticed the movement, but he did not think Jenny did. She moved away as a reaction. It stung him; he made a noise under his breath.

"And you think you were raped?" he prompted edgily.

A nod.

"Jenny," he growled, pushing her. "Why?"

Suddenly, she wouldn't look at him.

"The position I woke up in is not when I generally find comfortable to sleep in," she said tightly.

"What position?"

"Propped up against the car door, one leg hanging off the seat, my skirt was," she paused, "hiked up."

He suddenly looked down at her attire, because he hadn't yet.

Casual business attire; her usual. Her clothing was all rumpled. He reached out to her shirt and she lifted her hand to block him. He pushed her hand aside gently, grasping at her oxford. She was missing buttons. She looked down and fingered the frayed edges.

Slowly, she tugged down the collar, revealing a purplish-red mark below her collar-bone, situated above the edges of her bra.

"Bite mark," she muttered.

His expression darkened; blackened as if doused in soot. He swore.

She held her knuckles to her nose, drawing in a sharp breath.

"My panties are gone," she said, speaking through her hand.

He looked at her sharply, straightening.

"Stolen?" he demanded.

She closed her eyes.

"I don't know," she said, for what seemed like the thousandth time that night.

He clenched a fist on his knee, pushing his tongue against his clenched teeth. He sighed harshly, and stood abruptly, turning to face her.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked. There was an edge of courtesy to his voice, as if he were trying to be delicate. He lifted a brow, not in mockery or in a light tease, but in urgency; he didn't want to waste time.

She looked up at him, her cheeks flushing. She was pale and flushed simultaneously, and it made her look sick. Her eyes were large and wet. He noticed her press her knees together.

"I'm sore," she answered carefully. "But I'm sore sometimes after we have sex."

He crouched in front of her.

"No," she said sharply. She looked smaller, holding out her hand towards him. She put her palm on his chest. "Jethro, don't touch me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I don't want you to touch me. Don't touch me, Jethro," she said again, panic rising in her voice. She moved over and stood up, still holding her arm out. She shook her head as if to reinforce the point.

She closed her eyes, and suddenly felt dizzy, like her head was being slammed against something. Something flashed in her mind's eye; she heard the sound of a zipper too loudly, and saw a brief, fuzzy image of a leering smile.

Her eyes flew open and she gasped.

She tried to breathe.

"Jen," he was saying quietly. He picked his way gingerly over to her, holding up his hands to show he was no threat to her.

"Take me to a hospital," she said matter-of-factly. "I need a rape kit," she said again.

She pushed her hair back and her face blanched. She dashed for the kitchen; he heard her retching moments later.

Jethro turned and slammed his fist into the nearest object. He yanked his phone from his pocket and dialed DiNozzo.

"Good hello morning? Boss? It's sleep-time," murmured DiNozzo after a few rings.

"DiNozzo," snapped Gibbs. "Get your ass out of bed. Meet me at Bethesda Naval Hospital," he barked.

"Boss, what—"

He hung up with DiNozzo as he was walking into the kitchen.

Jenny was bent over the sink, her forehead resting on the countertop.

He started to reach out and touch her, but recoiled.

He was irate; the anger was making his head pound. He noticed she had a touch of blood on the back of her head, but he refused to touch that, or examine what wound it may have leaked from.

He stood there, adrenaline making his hands shake slightly as he held back from touching her while she stood there, her head bowed, hiding from him.

His emotions didn't mesh; they conflicted. It was all varying levels of anger.

He knew in the back of his mind some of that anger was directed at her.

He was angry she was hurt, angry her security had failed, angry someone had touched her—angry she had drank so much, angry she had been so stupid, angry that she might have—

Her shoulders heaved; she was crying.

Still, he didn't touch her. No comforting hand on the back of her head, or kiss pressed to her shoulder.

He couldn't. She wouldn't let him.

She didn't want him to touch her.

And that, too, made him angry.


Updates will be posted Tuesdays, night or day depending on my mood.

Credit to Miss Mila for playing Beta even in the midst of her IB classes and her own writing.

-Alexandra