A/N: I have been wanting to write a story about Jean Taggart for a while now. This is what I came up with, I hope it works. This is loosely based on the Avril Lavigne song "When You're Gone" and set after the episode Black Orchid.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
When You're Gone
When you're gone
The pieces of my heart are missing you
When you're gone
The face I came to know is missing too
When you're gone
The words I need to hear to always get me through the day
And make it okay
I miss you
She watched as Michael got into his car; one final wave and then he was gone. She sighed as she closed to door.
She had meant what she had told him, Jim really did regard him as the son they had never had and, if she were honest, she did too. She had a real soft spot for the young man, and for Jackie, and she knew that Jim had as well.
Oh, he may have hidden behind his crusty exterior but Jim was as soft as the next man, if not softer; especially with children.
She sighed again; she knew that Jim would have liked to have had more children. She would have as well; perhaps that was why Jim had been so fond of the two young people.
She made her way slowly into the living room and looked over at Jim's chair. She still couldn't believe he was gone.
Nights were the worst.
She had never seen much of him during the day, but at night she still expected to see him coming through the door or to wake her up as he snuck into the house. She shook her head with a wry smile, sometimes he'd wake her up trying to sneak out of the house for a case.
In the end he'd snuck out so quietly she didn't even notice until the next morning, when she woke up and found that he was gone.
Forever.
She covered her mouth with her hand as she fought her tears.
People could never understand their relationship, could never understand what kept them together. Habit was what most people assumed, but the truth was even simpler.
Despite it all: the separate interests, his gruffness that bordered on brusqueness, the job; they had loved each other.
Oh, so very much.
She would never have been the patient and understanding wife with anyone else. He would not have allowed anyone to speak to him the way she did (not that anyone else would have dared) nor would he have exposed his weaknesses, his doubts, to anyone else.
He was never a man of grand gestures or sweeping statements of affection. He showed her he loved her through the little things: through the tone of his voice when he spoke to her or the fact that he did confide in her, that he valued her opinion. Sometimes it was even simpler: a look or a touch, sometimes he'd just run a hand over her head gently or tuck a blanket around her legs more securely.
It was enough.
She knew what he was trying to say, though she had often scolded him for fussing when he did the latter.
Besides, grand gestures and sweeping statements had never been her thing. She never knew whether she could trust them as genuine or not. Jim never gave her cause to doubt his sincerity, ever. His affection for her was as sincere as it was genuine and she had loved him all the more for it.
Now he was gone.
She would have to get used to her life without Jim Taggart.
On the face of it, it would be fairly easy to get on with her life. Despite her disability she had never allowed herself to become dependent on him and she had her own interests, she wouldn't suffer for want of things to do.
But she would miss him. Miss the little things he did to make her feel loved, even miss the things he did that made her angry; because they were all a part of him. Part of what had made him the man she loved.
Taking one last look about the room she turned out the light and made to leave the room. But not before she paused once more beside Jim's chair to gently run her hand along the armrest.
"Goodnight Jim," she whispered, "I love you."