A/N- About, eh, two months ago a friend of mine gave me this prompt that said 'Gibbs is dead'. Immediately, I blanched, and my little Jibbsy shipper heart died. I started it, got half way through it, and couldn't bare to finish it because it made me too depressed. Two months later, it's finally finished because, well, it's summer, and frankly, I'm bored as hell. NCIS is disclaimed. I have no Beta- and reviews are the most welcome thing on the planet. Enjoy! (or die from angst)- Alivia
Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
- R. W. Raymond
oOoIn college, she had never been any good at statistics- really; it bugged the hell out of her; the guesses, what ifs, maybes. Statistics weren't facts, no matter how much you wanted them to be. In class, they would throw out hundreds of probabilities, all of them flashing through a projector, none the more reassuring, and she hated it.
In a moment, her world went red and black, and imploded upon itself.
The phone rang, shrill and demanding, and she knew then it would never be a cautionary tell.
Not that it had ever been, when it came to Jethro.
oOo
It's only after his eyes are vacant skies and his body has been forced beneath the bitter earth that the impact of loss truly blows through her. The wind stings her cheeks that day; leaves them with a red hue he'd been accustomed to bring from time to time.
The night before the service, on a whim, she'd gone to the supermarket and bought the same shade of red he'd favored when they were in Europe. It was a cheap brand; it chapped her lips as much as the raging air did. She was careful not to lick her lips, but the tang of nostalgia and death still lingered on her tongue.
oOo
Jenny doesn't realize until he's dead that Leroy Jethro Gibbs may have been the only man to ever love her. That wasn't blood, at least.
And even then, what of the love they did have was jotted down in messy ink, hidden in the lapel of an expensive coat and nestled in a box, in his basement.
Whatever had remained was shriveled.
Or so she told herself.
oOo
He died on a Wednesday, and the detail is insignificant and trivial.
It was a joint operation, and if she's honest with herself, she's glad it was Fornell.
She's glad the last moments of Jethro's conscious state were spent with his friend, and she's never been more grateful than to hear the doctors say it was merciful. The pain of the bullet would have eased immensely with the blood loss, and within minutes he would have fallen into a slumber.
If the piece of metal had been an inch and a half to the right, it would have been in his shoulder.
oOo
Wednesday's hold no importance to her- except for that one. Abby had asked her to lunch.
And when she received the call from Tony, it was her who had to break the news to those wide green eyes, to those charcoal black lips. Any other day, it would have been anyone else.
But it wasn't any other day, and Abby's makeup left long, irrevocable stains on her suit jacket, the one she'd bought the week prior. She hadn't bothered with a drycleaner.
She remained the Director, amongst the sobbing and the questions.
No off the job. No off the job. No off the job.
Special Agent Gibbs.
oOo
"Jenny, it's Gibbs. Gibbs…..Gibbs is dead, Jenny."
In a moment, her world went black and red and nothing made sense.
oOo
Her eyes had closed, though, for a moment, just before she'd been forced to call SecNav. For a second, she had been allowed the shock. It nipped at her veins, and made her eyes itch.
The thought crossed her mind that Gibbs would never call her out on her bullshit again. Laughter bubbled to her throat, or maybe sobs. Maybe both.
oOo
It wasn't until after Jethro's death that she started paying attention to Wednesdays, and Abby never asked her out to lunch again.
oOo
The black dress she wore hung off her shoulders, but it's the best she could do on such short notice. Gibbs never was one for labeling expiration dates. (Or maybe that was more her.)
oOo
Ducky refuses to give a eulogy, and so she is appointed steadfastly. The man has more lines around his eyes than he'd had a week ago, and she probably does too. The medical examiner tells her he'll cut up as many bodies as he needs, but he only speaks for the living; not of them.
Jenny thinks that he's in denial, but she writes the speech anyway.
'Why don't you write a letter, Jen. You were always good at that.'
Her words are in fine print on note cards, and her jaw is set. The podium is her home, and the crowd is vast. Leroy Jethro Gibbs was a memorable man.
She so badly wants to tell them all the truth. That Gibbs was a damn good man, and a damn good Special Agent, and a damn good lover. That, if there are truly crowns, that Gibbs has the most riveting jewels of anyone.
She wants to tell them that love is bitter, and fickle, and never liked Jethro much at all. She wants to tell them his lips were rough, and his hands were, too, but his eyes were easy and irresistible. His mouth was smooth, and he tasted like Bourbon.
She wants to tell them that he was a bastard, and could never say enough, if he would say anything at all. He was insufferable, stubborn, and frustratingly hidden. Jenny wants to tell them his heart was broken, and that he was a man, above all else.
She wants to say how she loved him, but she was too selfish to agree to a relationship, and that five point plans are devilish and stupid.
Despite what she wants, she sets her jaw, and reads the words she's memorized.
The ones in black ink- the easy ones.
oOo
And, she thinks, however fleetingly, that if Gibbs could see this, he'd hate her even more than he did.
oOo
It makes her unsettled; how easily things go back to normal, or whatever semblance of that there is. She loathes the fact most of it is her doing. It's strange, to her, how quickly people forget.
Tony is appointed the new team leader, and she brings in a new agent to compensate.
The Probie is gone after two days. The only explanation given is 'personal'.
She knows how personal it is.
oOo
Ziva starts having wine with her after work, and one Saturday night brings a bottle of tequila to the townhouse. Her friend is intoxicated, and Jenny won't let her drive home.
The Israeli throws the glass bottle against a wall, blindly, and she knows something is very, very wrong.
"Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs," Ziva mocks wryly, to nobody. Jenny studies her through narrowed eyes. After a moment, she continues.
"Gibbs had these rules; you know this, yes? These rules, which apparently, everyone should follow if they want to remain holy." The last two syllables are an octave lower, and Ziva's eyes go a light shade of pink. She rubs them furiously. Her voice grows louder, and Jenny looks away, watches as the remaining alcohol still runs down her wall- almost like tears, or maybe, if she squints, blood dripping.
"Jethro is dead, Ziva," she says. It's all she can muster.
Ziva plays silence, ostensibly pondering. A long, heaved sigh is drawn from her lungs. She sounds far older than she is- and Jenny understands, like she always will.
"He is dead," Ziva agrees. "And so, Tony and I could- if we could-
The redhead cuts her off sharply, voice terse. "Fuck Rule Number Twelve, Ziva."
Jenny's eyes are wild, striking, and for a mere moment, even in the drunken haze, she feels that spark in her belly, that cradling of life, that passion for it, and she clings.
Anger is easy, like Jethro's eyes had been.
Her laugh is hysterical, mad. "Literally," she barks.
oOo
Some nights spent alone are quieter than others, and one of them she gets so drunk she takes the rest of her alcohol cabinet and sloshes it into the fire pit, envying the flames as they flicker and combust as if in that moment they are infinite and proud.
Safe to say, that wasn't a quiet night.
She wakes up the next morning, and thinks she's been hit over the head with a frying pan.
oOo
"Jethro," she moans, snapping her hips up uncontrollably.
His rough hands pin her to the mattress, and she is splayed before him like one of those pretty, old paintings in the museum. He works her body over, unrelenting.
She muffles screams in his collarbone, and breathes languid French into his ear, dirty things that are to never be repeated ever, ever again. When he breaks her, she shatters so hard she thinks they may never be able to find every piece.
"Jenny," his voice chants repeatedly, like the final battle cry of the dying. He suddenly stops moving, mouth slightly agape, overtaken with his own release.
"Jenny...love…..God."
It's the closest he's ever come, and she takes what she gets with a tired smile and a kiss to his temple. Paris did that to her.
oOo
Sluggishly, blood flows into her fingertips, and her eyes flutter open.
She swears sometimes she can still smell him on the sheets, but it's been years, years, and the thought alone makes her want to slap herself.
Jenny sits up in bed, hazy gaze lingering on the crevice in the pillow opposite to the one she slept on, imagines it was his head of silver. She catches herself before she even has the vacant opportunity to fall five stories.
Or.
Abruptly, her hand juts out, clutching the white fluff, digging her nails into the fabric. She must look crazy, hair is a blatant state of disarray from sleep, fingers unfurling around the pillow like an animal's claws.
She flings it across the room.
Eventually, she sets off out of bed, freshly numb, thinking about if she has enough eggs to make pancakes.
oOo
It never goes away, but with months and more drunken fits, she recedes into a position where the regret is stinging, bitter in her stomach, but she can keep it down with a cup of tea and a stack of paperwork.
oOo
They were no cautionary tale.