"It smells like a French whorehouse in here."
With that admission came memories better left unburied.
He let himself recall them just once, a rare indulgence, for Gibbs did not dwell on the past often.
Admittedly it occurred frequently as of late; perhaps he was maturing, to an extent.
Gibbs thought of twirling skirts on colorful dresses, bright hues that caught the eye swiftly. He singled out his female in the crowd and sat back in the chair, sipping coffee, a smile forming on his lips mildly.
Auburn hair such as hers obviously attracted attention – the male kind, that night. He chose not to remember the number of hands that had reached out to touch her as she passed by. Rather, he fast-forwarded to the two of them back at the hotel, her shoulders pressed firmly into the tile, steam engulfing them into a blind frenzy of sorts.
Washing the disgusting cigar smoke, the alcohol, the many varieties of perfume away – as well as the insatiable lust they'd uncovered.
This was how he preferred to remember Jennifer Shepard. Back before she had become so dauntingly untouchable, roughened impossibly after her departure.
Not six feet under a tombstone.
A/N: You guys probably don't appreciate the angst overload. XD The first line was taken from season 7 episode, "Mother's Day".