Wow. Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I'm glad you all liked it so much. I'm not quite sure how to update this fic, since I wrote all three first chapters at once and I don't want to spoil you guys. XD Still.

Oh fine. I'll spoil you lot. You kinda deserve it.

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

Something

It was easy for Gibbs to see that something was off with Jenny. He had avoided her ever since their argument in her office the previous day, hoping to postpone another fight for as long as he could. Deep inside, he was just as miserable as he supposed she must feel. Was that what it had come to? An endless fight over who was on top? Sometimes, he only wanted to make peace, but she'd act so arrogant and superior that he'd found himself fighting back. And sometimes, he thought she was tired, but found himself endlessly attacking her. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Yesterday, he knew that she had a point, but still attacked her for it. Next time, it could be the other way around.

He didn't know how much longer he could do this.

"Boss? I'm all finished with my reports, and I've de-fragged all of our computers." he heard McGee intruding into his thoughts.

"So, McBrownie? Waiting for a pat on the head and a Scooby snack?" Tony cut in, leaned back in is chair. It was obvious that his entire team was taking a little badly to their suspension from working active cases. They had had a report come in of a dead sailor, but the case had been handed to another investigation squad. Tony might complain, but he wanted to work on that case just as much as the rest of his team did. They didn't take this job to sit on their asses and fill in paperwork.

"Will you give it a rest already, Tony?" McGee cut in, more irritable than usual. "Unlike some people, I actually got my work done. Which might mean I can go home for the day."

"To what, McLonely? Video games and typing?"

The situation was about to escalate when Jenny walked down the stairs, glaring at the team."Agent Gibbs," she said in a cutting voice, interrupting any argument that was about to break out. All heads turned to her, then Gibbs to gauge the reaction. "Is control over your subordinates too much to ask for?" the Director remarked sarcastically, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised mockingly.

Gibbs was silent for a moment, regarding her coolly. It didn't escape his notice how she looked paler and exhausted. She might have been trying to instigate an argument, but he could plainly see her heart wasn't in it. Once upon a time, he would have cared. He would have ignored her barb and walked up to her to try and figure out what was bothering her. Now, she wasn't his concern - at least that's what he told himself.

"They're officially your agents, if I remember correctly, Director." he replied in a covert jibe. He expected Jen to bristle and chew him out. He was hoping she would cut the director-agent crap and really let it rip. Maybe get everything off her chest and yell and scream. They would have a proper argument, once and for all. One between equals, not the squabbles they were having now, where she tried to win just by being on top. That wasn't how they fought, and he knew it. Jen probably knew it too. But, just as she stiffened, he knew it wasn't going to happen. The Director would never lose control, much less in such a public place. It would jeopardize her position, he thought bitterly.

However, Jen didn't fail to surprise him. Instead of putting him in his place with a well-earned retort, like she'd been doing for weeks, the redhead sighed wearily and just headed up the stairs to her office. She didn't even attempt to fight him, fact which almost worried him. The rest of the team was oblivious but, as he didn't fail to remind himself, the rest of the team didn't now Jenny like he did.

He knew Jenny all too well.

The next few days served to solidify Gibbs' suspicions: Jen was acting strangely. Whenever he acted out of line or caused her grief, like pissing off a n FBI agent that came to the bullpen, she only asked he not do it again in a weary tone. When he undermined her authority or threw digs at her, she didn't rie to the bait, but instead sighed heavily. She looked even more tired than she'd looked on Tuesday; judging by the shadows under her eyes, he doubted she'd been getting much sleep. Or food, if the pallor of her cheeks was anything to go by. Cynthia didn't say a word to him, but he knew she was also worried by the looks she gave him when he went into her office. Something was wrong, yet he was fighting with his gut. A small part of him told him to not care, to just continue about his day. After all they weren't involved. Far from it, in fact. At the moment, they just weren't; not a team, not partners, not friends, not anything. The rest of him, however, and that was a dominant part, told hi that he wasn't that kind of a cold bastard yet.

'Yet' being the key word.

What had also begun to worry him, though he'd not yet admit to caring, were the empty glasses he kept finding by her side in her office. He knew those small, heavy glasses well; they were the kind she always favored for drinking Bourbon. He'd seen the bottle on the table at the far end of the office. It had been full only four days ago, a gift from that Senator fellow that had visited her to talk politics. Now it was almost empty, and he could swear he saw a new bottle still in its bag on the floor next to the little table. He'd actually caught her drinking several times in the early morning, even, knocking back the rosy liquid like it was her new brand of coffee. He hadn't seen her drunk in the office, yet, but he could only imagine what she got up to in her study at home – if she did go home, that is. He was sure he'd soon catch her drunk during work hours.

He didn't know how he would deal with that.

All he knew was that something was up, and his gut was beginning to act up intensely.

"Are your reports done?"

Some would call her question overbearing and snooty; she would call it masochistic. After all, what other than anger and pain would she feel when she joined Jethro's team down in the bullpen, especially after recent events? She could practically feel the hostility in the air. Tony was looking at her coolly, almost like Gibbs, in fact. Still, he had a right to hate her, and she would accept every shred of resentment he threw her way. Ziva might have once been on her side, but almost losing Tony had created a chasm between the two old partners. McGee wouldn't pick sides and Jethro... Jethro would look at her with anger and hurt; two emotions she hated on him, espcially when she was the cause.

She deserved every blow she got.

"Why yes, Director! Funny you should ask. It might have somethingto do with the fact that we've been doing nothing for the past three days!" Tony remarked sarcastically, eyes wide in mock-innocence. Jen's shoulders stiffened for a moment, then relaxed; she really didn't have the heart to fight anymore. Not when she knew she was personally responsible for all the anger directed right at her. She'd failed them all.

"I expect them on my desk, then." Jen replied defeatedly, turning quickly to hurry up to her sanctuary. Funny that; her sanctuary wouldn't protect her against her most violent assailant.

Gibbs watched her go, frowning as he stared her in the back. He didn't like that look in her eyes when Tony cheeked her. Not at all. As they heard the door to her office close, his gut twinged again. It was Friday night and they were the only ones still on the floor.

"McGee, David, DiNozzo, time to go home." he told his three agents, gaze pinned towards the director's office.

Jen wiped her moist eyes with a paper tissue, balling it up into the trash can at her side. As much as she deserved to feel this pain, she still didn't feel it cleansing her. Somehow, she'd thought that letting them hit her repeatedly would make them all feel better. She'd share their pain, and they'd get their revenge. But no one seemed to feel any better for it.

She really couldn't do anything right.

But she'd been wrong. She did have something left in her life. She had her Bourbon, which never judged and never forgave. Sometimes, it took away the pain. Sometimes, it only increased it. Now, as she downed her glass – God only knew what number she was on since morning – she resented it. She resented everything. It, for giving her refuge. Gibbs for indoctrinating her into the art of drinking it. Gibbs for hurting her. Herselffor hurting her. Still, at this point, it was one of the few things she had left on her side.

She got up to refill her glass, slightly unsteady on her feet. If she fell, the Lord only knew who would find her and when. Cynthia had left a while ago. Perhaps her security detail would come looking for her when it got later and she didn't call to tell them she was leaving. Perhaps they wouldn't. In her state of mind, she doubted they even cared, as long as she didn't die whilest in their protection.

Once she was in her chair again, drinking the alcohol like water, she opened her drawer and took out her personal weapon. Tenderly almost, she ran her fingers down the barrel and stared at the weapon. Like the Bourbon, it was something that wouldn't judge her.

Bourbon and a gun – it wasn't much, but it was something.Desperately, she clung to that something.

Carefully, she raised the gun and stared down the barrel, thinking of how her father must have felt when he had been killed. Did every person who was shot have time to contemplate their own death? What about those who committed suicide? Did they ever stare down the barrel, thinking of their fathers and how Bourbon looked a little like cranberry juice, if you squinted your eyes and tried to see it, really, really hard?

As those thoughts chased each other around and around in her head, she didn't hear the door to her office opening quietly. She did hear the voice that called out to her softly, in a tone so tender and frightened that it caught her attention.

"Jen. Jenny. Put down the gun. Please."