DICLAIMER: NCIS isn't mine.
Love never dies.
People try to push it away, to hide or crush it, but it hangs on like a child who doesn't want to let go of his mother on the first day of kindergarten. And it comes up at unexpected times; sometimes all it takes is a look or smile to send the blood pumping and love rushing through the veins.
For them, it hasn't died either. Every time he looks at her; every time she sees him smirk or he stands less than two feet away from her; every chuckle and accidental touching of skin sends both hearts racing and lifts a desire to say those 3 infamous words that both think but don't dare speak.
But she can't. He won't forgive her, and he can't let go of Shannon.
He can't. She made it clear that they were over, and no matter how many times he tells his heart to let go, it won't.
Love never dies even when the person you love does.
She's scared. It's hard to admit—almost embarrassing to admit—but she feels so very afraid right now.
He is lying in the hospital bed; skull bandaged, face blistered and red, tube coming from his mouth and hooked up to two IVs, one in each arm. She barely recognizes him; this isn't the hardened Marine who stood in her office just last night. This is a badly wounded man in a coma who could very well die any moment.
She slowly lowers herself into a chair, leans forward with her elbows on her knees and stares at him. She knows his face so well—piercing blue eyes, beautiful silver hair, the way he smiles and frowns and can say everything with just one look. Memories chase each other around her brain: Paris; him waiting outside her window the night after she came; the countless times they have stood in her office; eating take-out Chinese and steak and Mexican; the thrill in her stomach when she saw him for the first time since Paris. She was such a fool to push him away; doesn't he know that she loves him still? Doesn't he know how much she would give to be in his arms again?
Slowly her hand moves out, hovers uncertainly and then descends to rest, very gently, on his bandaged forehead. She makes no move to wipe away the tears, instead taking a deep breath and finally giving voice to what she has been yearning to say for so long now. "I love you, Jethro."
Gone. She's gone.
The words echo hollowly through his mind as he stares, numb, at the black body bag lying before him. This can't be; she was speaking to him mere hours ago, about Tony and Ziva and her business in L.A. She can't be dead. Not her. Not his beautiful Jennifer.
He closes his eyes; at once, the cold walls of the autopsy room melt away and he is in Paris, sitting opposite from her at a café. Music fills the air as she laughs, and he drinks in the sight of her smile and long beautiful hair. She leans over; their lips meet and his nostrils fill with her scent. He feels her hair slip over his palm; feels her arms come around him and fill him with warmth. He pulls her close, pressing her head into his chest. "They told me you were dead."
"I am. But I'll never leave you." She pulls back, regards him with love shining from her dark eyes. He reaches out to her—don't go!—but suddenly Paris fades and he is once more facing the body bag.
Slowly his hand reaches out, fingertips brushing the cold black zipper. He grips it, gives a small tug—and stops.
He doesn't want to see her like this, covered in blood with her eyes closed. He wants to remember her forever the way she was: red hair smooth beneath his fingers, sweet brown eyes gazing into his own, the feeling of her kisses and how very safe she made him feel.
His throat tightens as he yanks the zipper back up. This is the last goodbye; fate has torn their paths apart forever. Once he leaves this room, he will never see her again.
A faint memory floats back to him in the grief-filled silence, then: of a hand tenderly touching his brow and a voice he loved saying three simple words that had stayed with him long after he left the hospital.
He swallows hard, moving his hand from the side of the bag up to where her head lies. His voice shakes as he says it back to her, something that should have been known long ago but was hidden out of fear.
"I love you, Jen."
And then he leans against the table, head bowed, and cries.