-Nicely done, you literature nerds. :) Robbie Turner is taken from Atonement (it seemed to be the one most-missed).
"Her Wings are Clipped; she opens her mouth to sing" [Two]
"It's getting worse, Agent Gibbs," Agent Sydney Carton muttered darkly, fingering the remote to the MTAC screens in his hands. The threat assessment arena was locked down bar Gibbs, Carton, and Agent Robbie Turner.
"The recordings detailing her movements stopped in the past two days," Carton said, "but we received this earlier in the evening. It's from—oh, a week ago," the agent hit 'play', and the MTAC screen lit up.
It was a grainy, poor quality film of Jenny in the sanctity of her home.
Jethro leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He rested his chin on his knuckles. Jenny was working late. Agent Kowalski was standing guard outside her office.
The camera was hidden somewhere in Jenny's bedroom; but there was another in her office, and in her kitchen. The film they'd been sent was patched together, so it showed Jenny's whole night a week or so ago.
Dinner in the kitchen, alone, leaning against her counter and talking to someone on a blue tooth headset. Four hours working in her study with a fire roaring and a glass of…scotch? And then, the grand finale, Jenny stumbling towards bed at an ungodly hour and stripping down to bra and panties, collapsing on her sheets and snuggling up.
"Turn it off," he barked. It made him angry. Really angry.
"There isn't much more," Carton said, as if it was a comfort. He made the screen go dark and the lights come up. He held out a folded piece of paper. It was plain white, and had neat type on it.
You only think Red is safe.
That's what it read.
Jethro glared at the threatening words.
"The threats aren't consistent with your typical stalker," Agent Turner remarked, straddling one of the office chairs backwards. "We're leaning towards the conclusion that it isn't one," he muttered.
"Then what?" Jethro asked curtly.
"The culprit is trying to psychologically break her down; make us and her paranoid, which translates to vulnerable…it could be an intelligent stalker; we haven't made conclusions," Carton said, giving Turner a look.
Jethro narrowed his eyes. He shook his head stiffly.
"It's a hit," he said coldly.
Carton and Turner hesitated. They seemed uncertain.
Jethro stood.
"Comb through past threats and any dangerous situations she's gotten herself into since 1999. See whose toes she stepped on that didn't get crushed enough to stop walking."
"Why stop at 1999?"
Jethro came down the stairs, heading for the exit in MTAC. It was time for Jenny to go home.
"Cases leading up to 1999 were either probie work—or those involved who'd put a hit on her are dead," he answered pointedly.
This was something she'd brought on herself since him; since Paris.
"This is absolutely uneconomical," Jenny growled, her arms crossed firmly. She stood in the middle of the catwalk outside her office, glaring at Kowalski to her side and Jethro halfway down the stairs.
"Under no circumstances are you allowed in your townhouse at the present time, Director," Carton reminded her calmly.
"I am only asking you to let me back for a damn minute! This is the second day you have carted me to Agent Gibbs' house and then in the morning bid me write down what I plan to wear so it can be retrieved. It's a waste of resources and frankly, it is demeaning. I don't see the harm in allowing me in for five minutes—"
"You won't take five minutes, ma'am, you'll take fifty, with all due respect," Agent Turner interrupted shortly.
Jenny turned an icy glare on him.
"I do not believe your opinion was asked, Turner."
"Mine's the one that counts right now," he fired back, unafraid of her. "One of us will get a bag for you."
Jenny scoffed impressively.
"That is hardly comforting, with all due respect," she snarled.
"She doesn't trust our fashion sense," Kowalski teased with a smirk. Jenny narrowed her eyes.
"Director, this is how it works. Either you allow one of us to pick you out a bag, or tomorrow, you'll write everything down, and Turner will go get it," Carton informed her with a shrug.
She glared at the lot of them, her jaw set. She disliked Turner more than the others. They didn't get along. He was bitter he was assigned to security and not homicide like he'd requested, and she thought he was crude.
Kowalski would bring home something black and brown, God help him, and she'd be mortified.
Carton was probably the best choice…
"Jethro," she said instead, surprising them all. He had to know it was the logical choice. "You're capable of packing me a bag for five days," she remarked. Five days, they'd spent in Marseille.
"Can't say the shoes'll match," he said with a shrug.
"Black goes with everything," she informed him shortly. She unfolded her arms and began down the stairs, sweeping past them. She was tired and sick of fighting this battle anyway, and of all of them, she trusted Jethro to remember her outfits enough to pick out something less-than-embarrassing.
They reached the ground floor instep and she paused as her guard kept moving, watching Jethro stride over to turn his desk lamp off.
"There's a book on my bedside table," she said.
"Yeah, I'll get it," he said brushing off her words.
She dipped her hand into her coat pocket for her keys and started to run her nail around the ring to remove her key.
"I have a key, Jen," he said, gesturing towards the elevator and her waiting guard. "Go."
She looked at him for the briefest moment before she listened, thrusting her keys back in her coat pocket aggressively. She'd forgotten he had a key.
She stepped into the elevator and didn't say a word to her agents. It was a tense atmosphere. She sensed something had happened that had heightened their protective spidey-senses. Jethro wasn't going to find a book on her bedside table; he'd have to look—it was in the drawer. She wanted him to find what else was there.
Now that she knew he still had her key, she felt more confident that she'd told him to get her book.
"Any cool new death threats, boys?" she asked sardonically.
Kowalski, always the joker, piped up immediately.
"Hillary Clinton seems to be itching for the trigger."
"She always was a jealous bitch," Jenny quipped.
He had a switchblade in his pocket that he hadn't seen since Paris. It had been laying on top of the worn paperback copy of the book Jenny told him to get. He'd stopped wondering where it went years ago. He must have forgotten he'd given it to her one night in Europe when he'd been incensed to find her without a blade on her.
And she had held on to it these past six years.
Jethro parked his truck in the drive and Agent Turner shined a light on him as he approached his front porch.
"Everything look tame at the townhouse?" he asked. It was generally his job to monitor activity there at night, but Jethro had taken that job this time since he'd been there anyway.
Jethro shrugged, and nodded. Same old sophisticated townhouse, except there were scars from where Jenny's old security system was being ripped out.
"Sciuto is running extensive scans on all the new equipment to be installed," Turner said. "Should be able to get it running by Thursday, if we feel like we've got a more stable hold on the situation, we'll take her home."
"You keep her here until you don't have any doubts," Jethro answered sharply.
"I think it's connected to the Mossad," Turner said out of the blue.
Jethro paused in opening his door.
"Mossad doesn't want her dead," he said.
"No," Turner shook his head. "Hell, not Mossad. The Haswari kid. Carton agrees, figures the few loners left in his cell are out for revenge, or maybe Mossad buddies of his who think he's innocent."
Jethro tightened his jaw.
"Kowalski worked with Shepard in Israel, he's looking into it," Turner said dully.
Jethro just nodded and went in. He locked the door behind him again tonight. He was unused to all the lights in his house being on when he came home, but his protectee tended to do that. This night, even though it was cold, his screen door was open and Jenny as standing just outside of it.
"Jenny," he growled sharply.
She turned around, a mug in her hands.
"Carton is on the porch swing with a gun," she informed him. "Kowalski, I believe, is hiding in the bushes," she glared at him, "with a gun," she added pointedly.
He ignored her comments and fixed a hard look on her.
"Get inside," he ordered in a low voice. She knew better than to be in open air with so many threats hanging about, particularly if Carton really did think the Ari fiasco was involved. Then snipers were involved. And Carton on the porch swing or Kowalski in the bushes wouldn't stand for nothin' against a sniper.
She didn't argue, but she looked like she wanted to.
He heard Kowalski and Carton slip in the house and begin locking up and checking around as he marched her back to her bedroom.
He chucked the duffel bag he'd placed her things in on the bed, and she spotted her favorite black stilettos on top. Good old Jethro. She knew she could trust him, even if he wasn't aware he had always been so in tune with her.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade.
"You could have left it in the pocket of the coat, Jen," he said darkly. It wasn't even 'her coat', then. It was THE coat. THE coat on the empty plane seat and THE coat with the Dear John letter.
"Got accustomed to keeping it in my boot," she answered impassively.
"You got a blade on you now?" he asked, arching a brow. She hesitated. That was his answer. He handed her back the switchblade wordlessly, but she held up her palm.
"No," she said softly. "Take your knife back. I'll take my key," she said. She swallowed hard.
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the knife.
"Take the knife, Jen," he said tiredly. "Might need it in an emergency."
She reached out after a brief moment and she took the switchblade. Her fingers brushed his and it was like six years of missing her crackled through his spine, right to his groin. She gently pulled the knife towards her.
"Keep my key," she said quietly. "Same reason."
It was like a glaringly obvious statement that what they had in Paris and all over Europe had not ended when she took the easy way out. Being in such close quarters, after the bickering and stolen looks of the past few weeks, was making it clear. If one of them had moved on and the other hadn't, it would be awkward. If they had both moved on, there would be no bitterness.
It wasn't awkward. It was bated. Like being the prey hunted in a forest, waiting for a trap they knew was there to SNAP.
He looked around the room, surveying it, noting its safety, and turned to leave, determined to let it be. His job was to protect her. He had thought it would be fun, mocking her, making her uncomfortable, witnessing her be held prisoner.
It wasn't fun. It was just overwhelming. It brought all of his bitterness and regret to the surface. It made him hostile toward her, but the less-than-vicious way she was acting brought all of the feelings back.
"Why did you leave?" he asked suddenly, turning back around in the doorway. He looked at her hard.
Her green eyes went wide. She looked a whole lot paler. He thought he'd get an honest answer, she was so taken aback. He knew she was ambitious, he knew the opportunity—especially now. But he wasn't dumb enough to think that was the only thing.
"You didn't give me a reason to stay," she said, collecting herself. Her lashes hid her green eyes briefly in a downcast blink.
"I didn't want you to go."
"You never told me that."
"You didn't ask!" he shouted.
She parted her lips angrily, her shoulders setting back. Her nostrils flared.
"Would you have given a damn?" he demanded. "Would it have changed, if I'd asked you to stay?"
"How the hell do I answer that now, Jethro?" she barked, her eyes blazing.
"You left me a note," he snapped. "You were a coward, Jenny."
"You were a bastard!" she shouted. She raised her voice.
She turned away and stormed toward the bed, folding her arms across her chest. She threw him a contorted, furious look over her shoulder. Her green eyes were wet and swimming.
"You haven't changed, Jethro, neither have I," she snarled resignedly.
His fist clenched at his side.
"Nothing changed," he growled, his words loaded.
She opened her mouth as he left the room abruptly. She bit down on her lip hard and flung the switchblade in her hand at the wall in distress. It hit the blinds covering the window and made an awful noise.
Jenny flinched.
A door slammed violently.
She thought at this moment she might take life-threatening stalkers over facing Jethro.
Because if he was right and nothing had changed—and everything was still there—then she still loved him, and he was still laughing at her for it. That'll be the day.
It was an uncomfortable, sleepless night. He stayed in the basement and tried to soften his hand enough to not destroy the boat as he worked on it. He drank a little, but not enough to smother his senses, because his job required he be perfectly alert.
He sent Turner to patrol her townhouse again, and early that morning, when he knew Abby Sciuto would be at work because she was swamped with another case at the moment, he called her.
"Hi Gibbs! Do you know how tiring it is to try and catch five murders at once? Blah, GANGS. They are sooooo annoying—and especially when they kill Petty Officer—"
"Abs," he murmured, interrupting. "You about finished with the Director's security equipment?"
"Oh, sure, that was easy. I double scanned everything and ran all kinds of diagnostics test to make sure nothing was bugged or anything. The guy from the security company got annoyed about it, too, seemed to think we didn't trust him—"
"We don't."
"—yeah I told him that. He was even less pleased."
Jethro couldn't help but grin; he could sense the Goth grinning herself.
"They can install it today, but they should let it settle over night, see if they catch anything before they let Director Shepard go home, because I don't want her to get hurt."
"Yeah, Abs," Jethro said.
He coaxed her off of the phone firmly and hung up, relaying the information to Carton when the other agent came in, stretching, looking worn out and stiff, searching for coffee.
"Turner has training in mechanics; he's going to do a lot of the handiwork. But he'll need help—"
"I can spare Agent McGee for a day," Jethro said.
"Can he be trusted?"
Jethro simply gave Carton a look that said it all. Carton cleared his throat and nodded.
"Of course he can be trusted…" he agreed. "She up?"
"Got in the shower twenty minutes ago," Jethro answered neutrally.
"Better have some coffee ready if we want her to be in a sunny mood," Kowalski commented, sitting up on the couch. He blinked, and stretched.
Jethro snorted.
"She's won't be," he muttered under his breath.
Not after that last night.
Jethro started coffee, and then he left the kitchen to change and get ready for another day at work. He was going to set his team on figuring out this threat situation with Jenny. He wanted it over with, and her agents working on it day and night obviously weren't cutting it. At this point, he thought it was best to get her out of his house.
The water shut off loudly as he was changing, and he knew she was out of the shower and getting ready. He pulled a clean polo over his white undershirt and brushed his teeth before he ventured back out, grabbing his sig, holster, and badge. He could smell the coffee.
Jethro walked out of his room and marched back into the kitchen, straight to the coffee pot. Agent Turner walked in the house, fists stuffed in his pockets.
"Director's house was clear this morning," he said gruffly. He looked at the pot of coffee balefully and then around at the room full of agents. "Somethin's off," he muttered.
"You said everything was in order," Kowalski said sharply.
"Yeah, perfect order," Turner returned. "Remember how we would find stuff on her lawn, cigarettes, broken shoelaces…" he prompted.
Carton nodded, frowning.
"All that's stopped since we brought her here."
"Yeah, the dickhead's got no one to watch," Kowalski stated.
"If it's a stalker, he would have broken in. Taken something, sent more threats to us—" Turner started.
Carton had been staring at Gibbs.
"It's being made to look like a stalker, and it's really starting to look like it's not," he muttered.
Jethro nodded slowly.
"There's no reason to make her feel unsafe in her home anymore," he growled.
"And whoever it is doesn't know where she is now, or we'd know," Carton remarked.
"You think this bastard wanted us to worry about her security at home, then pull something at work?" Turner asked.
"No one said this bastard wasn't a bitch," Gibbs remarked. "Tighten your hold on her at work."
"Oh, she's going to love that," whined Kowalski under his breath.
"Tell her to take it up with me," Jethro said stonily, shutting his mouth quickly.
"Shouldn't we be goin'?" Turner asked after a moment, checking his watch.
"She got out of the shower ten minutes ago," Kowalski said by way of answer.
Turner groaned.
"Give me some of that coffee, we'll be here another hour," he muttered.
Jethro smirked.
Jennifer Shepard was absolutely furious. There was an agent with her at all times. They had gotten it into their heads that an attempt to kill her would be executed while she was at work, and therefore, Carton was standing behind her as she worked at her desk, Turner was stationed outside of her office door, Kowalski prowled the building ominously and one of them ALWAYS escorted her every time she moved.
She was about ready to take her own Sig to her head.
She was tired. She hadn't slept at all last night. It was impossible to sleep with Jethro in the bedroom across the hall. He had revealed more of his emotions to her in the past seventy-two hours than he had in the duration of their entire affair, and it was threatening to break her down.
She didn't even have time to be scared anymore, and this stalker thing was scaring her.
It was late at night again. There had been a beast of an argument around seven when she'd been informed that her new security system, as well as bullet-resistant glass, was installed in her home and yet she wasn't allowed back until tomorrow.
It was foolhardy; they would have no way to tell if it worked unless she was there, that way they could see if this psycho could still see her every move or if she was safe.
Turner and the NCIS tech guy had removed six miniscule cameras and two phone bugs from her house.
The very thought made her shiver, and in the very deepest part of her soul and mind, she was thankful to be going to Jethro's house instead of hers. There was an overwhelming feeling of safety there, and perhaps it was because of how safe he himself had always made her feel when they were together.
"Director," Carton murmured behind her. He muffled a yawn. "It would be best for us to return to the safe house."
"I am working, Sydney," she answered shortly.
"You are finished with all of your required work," he pointed out.
Jenny sighed. She leaned forward, placing her forehead in her hands.
"It's nearly midnight, Director," he prompted.
She placed her fingers against her lips and closed her eyes briefly; thank bracing both palms on her desk and standing up. She began packing up her things mechanically, and swore she heard Carton's sigh of relief.
"Have you uncovered anything?" Jenny asked neutrally.
"Nothing off the tapes, notes, or townhouse lawns," Carton answered tiredly. "Abby Scuito, however, did manage to sift through the distortion of the one threatening phone call and discern that the voice was male, with Middle Eastern inflection."
Jenny pressed her lips together.
It was what she hadn't wanted to hear.
She needed to speak with Kowalski. He had been part of her team in Israel; he had worked with Ari as she had and he had known some of Ari's contacts. He would understand better who the culprit might be.
She locked her briefcase shut and picked up her leather coat off of her couch. Briefly, she thought of the one she'd sacrificed on the altar of leaving Jethro. She wished she hadn't left the coat. She shouldn't have left him.
Carton opened the office door for her and she shut off the lights.
Jethro was talking in a low voice to Kowalski at the catwalk rail, leaned over it, looking down over the office space like she sometimes did. He looked up at her. He just looked at her.
"Some of us humans need sleep, ma'am," Turner muttered at her thickly, looking pretty tired.
Jenny gave him an icy glare. She just didn't get alone with Turner. She knew what he thought of her; he thought she was selfish and inconvenient; she was independent, and hated the coddling of security. They clashed.
It still bothered her that he thought she was a robot; an ice queen.
"Hey," Jethro growled, looking over his shoulder. He shot a warning look at Turner and Jenny looked away from him, giving Turner a baleful look. She tried to ignore that Gibbs had just taken up for her.
"There is a couch in my office," she said with clipped civility. "You are welcome to it."
"Can't stop a bullet for you if I'm asleep," he snapped.
"Give it a break, Robbie," Carton said authoritatively.
"Everyone give it a break," Kowalski interjected. "Let's go, the last janitor left an hour ago," he said, reminding them how late it was.
Turner pushed off the wall with a sharp nod and headed down the stairs briskly, getting ahead to do a perimeter search of the parking garage. Jenny stared at the spot where he had been leaning and then strode forward, her lips pressed together.
She let her fingers danced over the railings as she walked down the stairs.
"Agent McGee cleared the security system," Kowalski said. "Ziva David is going to be staying in your townhouse tonight to bait this guy, see if he can get through security, or even if he tries."
Before the elevator doors opened in the garage, Jenny turned dark eyes and a harsh look on him.
"It is unacceptable to endanger the lives of my friends in order to ensure my safety," she growled seriously. "Do not tell me she volunteered; I know Ziva. I know she did. Do not ever agree to such a thing again, Stanley," she ordered.
Her heart skipped beats. If Ziva was hurt, if anyone was hurt in her place, she wouldn't be able to get through it. Fear gripped her heart on top of the stress, and she knew she was looking at another sleepless night.
With a ping, the elevator doors opened, and Carton and Kowalski led the way out, with Jethro taking the rear.
He took a stride up beside her and rested his palm on her back in a strangely familiar gesture. She turned her head very slightly in his direction; it was dark.
"Get back!"
The words were whispered harshly and in a panicked tone, and the elevator doors were already shut. The sound of three separate guns being drawn was heard, but nothing else was said.
Jethro grabbed her arm above the shoulder and yanked her back against the doors, shoving her down to a crouch. Something clattered to the floor, and suddenly the garage was flooded with light.
Jenny held her breath, her eyes closed tightly, and hid her face behind Jethro's shoulder.
"Fuck, Dr. Mallard!" she heard one of her agents yell, half-relieved and half-angry.
"You'll give an old man a heart-attack, pointing a gun at him like that!" was Ducky's indignant answer.
Jethro rolled his eyes and stood up, gently pulling her with him.
"Thought you were an intruder—" Jenny couldn't hear the rest of the conversation Turner was having. She took a deep breath.
"Take her to the car, Gibbs," Carton ordered, walking toward Turner and Ducky.
Jethro looked over at her and jerked his head in that direction. She followed, her feet moving quickly, frustrated that the false alarm had scared her so badly. At the car, Jethro pulled her in front of him and reached around her to open the door, so there was never really an open shot at her.
His hand touched her hip as he helped her get in.
"Jen," he asked curtly.
She looked at him.
"You okay?" he furrowed his brow, glancing over as Kowalski opened the driver door. Carton approached, and turner went to his own SUV to do another drive-by of her house.
The redhead parted her lips.
"No," she said sharply, and he didn't have an answer, so he slammed the door shut.
Ducky had evidently stayed very late to organize his autopsy files before a vacation he would be taking with his mother next week, and he had almost been mistaken for an assassin in the garage.
They were all on their guard now, even if the threat hadn't been real. Jenny had not made one sarcastic, biting comment to any of them regarding her 'captivity'.
After the perimeters had been checked and everyone was settled into their positions, Jethro retreated to his basement, wide awake and itching to have his tools in his hands.
He poured a mason jar of bourbon, just enough to burn his throat but not enough to intoxicate him, and set to work sanding, letting the soothing motion ripple through his muscles. He was still dwelling on his fight with Jen last night.
He had provoked it, and he didn't know why. Listening to her refuse to take responsibility for her actions just made him angrier. It was starting to make him feel guilty, as well, because in retrospect he could see the missteps he'd taken.
It didn't mean she had to leave.
He heard a creak above him, and then slow, careful footsteps on the stairs. He knew the sure but light steps were not those of one of the other agents; that was the Director creeping down the stairs and he did not acknowledge her presence.
She was dressed down in casual pajamas and a sweatshirt. She walked over to the workbench and looked at everything, before slowly perching on a stool somewhere behind him. He moved around the boat, still sanding without a word.
He would let her say something if she wanted to. He was tired of trying to figure out what she wanted or what her motives had been. It wasn't worth it.
She rested her cheek on her palm and looked at the sawdust covered dirty wood of the counter, tracing her finger in it. She pursed her lips and cleared her throat softly.
"When people hate you…enough to want you dead," she whispered thickly. Her voice shook and she rested her other hand on the counter. "It isn't a good feeling."
He looked through the ribs of the boat, but he didn't stop sanding, and he didn't say anything. She used the hand cradling her cheek to push her hair away from her face, and in the dim light from the lamp, he could see her biting her lip.
And he could see her periodically wipe her thumb under her eyes.
She sat still, crying quietly. After a few minutes, he set down the sander and went for another mason jar off of the shelf, pouring her a glass. Wordlessly, he pushed it over to her, and narrowed his eyes.
Her crying angered him. He didn't know why she ventured down her to cry in front of him when she had always, always preferred to cry alone.
He knew she was upset and stressed. She was hiding her face from him but she obviously didn't want to be alone. She placed her fingertips on the edge of the top of the mason jar and he could discern a slight shaking.
"I am scared," she whispered, wiping her hand over her eyes again. "I don't want to die now," Jenny sounded hurt. "I'm not happy enough with my…decisions."
He grit his teeth, reaching for his own jar of bourbon and taking a swallow. He pointed at her around the jar.
"This is what you wanted," he told her bluntly. He made it clear it had been her ambition. "You made your choice."
"I had to do what was best for me!" she snapped suddenly. Her palm hit the counter violently and her glass shook. He glared at her. His jaw tightened. Jenny opened her mouth and looked up at him, her lashes all heavy with tears. "I am allowed to regret my decisions," she said, soft and shaky.
He studied her harshly. Her relaxed shoulders and red eyes and shaking hands. He didn't doubt that this was scaring her, but he was tired of the way she seemed to think he hadn't been hurt at all by what had happened six years ago.
He downed the rest of his bourbon, started at her for a moment, and shook his head.
"You don't regret taking this job," he pointed out dully.
She blinked and cast her eyes down, curving her palm around her mason jar.
She chewed on her lip, and lifted the glass, swirling the liquid around.
"This is what I worked for—if I had turned it down, it would have been for nothing," she paused, breathing in and closing her eyes briefly. "It's all I have."
He wasn't sure how he was supposed to take being told he was the reason she'd kept striving for her current position. He was starting to feel less hostile towards her, but he didn't know what move she wanted him to make.
She had been in his house less than three days and all of this was in their faces. He should have known this would happen. It had been too volatile, and it was too bottled up, to ignore.
He pushed his mason jar away and picked his sander up, running his fingers over it absently. He lifted it to return to working on the boat and then grit his teeth again. He set it down and approached her.
"No one is going to kill you, Jen," he said gruffly, relating back to one of the first things she'd said. He rested his hand on her jar of bourbon and gently pulled it away, placing his over hand on her back. It had been a long time since he'd been close enough to smell the perfume on her.
He wasn't sure if he was trying to tell her he'd be there if she wanted to take back what she'd done. He didn't want to take her back. It would have ended back then anyway, and badly. He leaving had just given him a reason to hate her.
Then, they were older now. Hardened. More mature. And he had lived with the pain of losing her, and he hadn't wanted to.
She straightened up, pressing her lips together. She lifted her arm jerkily to wipe her face but, almost without thinking, because he used to, he did it for her. He brushed his knuckles under her eyes.
He looked at the curve of her lips and he wondered, does it feel the same way?
She must have read it in his eyes; her breathing hitched.
She reached up and rested her palm against his chest, just below his shoulder. She moved forward on the stool as if to get up, swallowing hard, her eyes still watery, and that only put her closer, made her scent stronger.
His hand fell to her neck and he felt her steady pulse. Jenny seemed to nod her head. She opened her eyelashes a little wider. Without warning, he brushed his lips against hers, slowly at first, and she took a deep breath in, kissing him hard back to repulse his hesitancy.
Her blood rushed dizzyingly to her head. Jethro braced one hand against the counter, his fingers threading into the long red hairs he could reach. It was a slow burn of a kiss with an undercurrent of chaos and urgency, and it stopped abruptly when he heard the door opening and shutting upstairs and turned his head away.
He felt her breathing softly, her lips parted close to his ear. He felt her hand fall to his waist and she pressed her fingertips into his ribs.
Jethro straightened a little, leaning back and looking at her.
He moved his hand swiftly from her neck to her shoulder and squeezed.
"Go to bed, Jen," he said gruffly, backpedaling. Of all the stupid things…
"You need sleep," he said. "Go to bed."
She looked shocked; she looked confused; she looked a lot of things.
She pulled her hand away.
Jenny got up gracefully, with a surprising amount of poise, and with her pointer finger pushed her mason jar of bourbon to him carefully. She met his eyes for the briefest moment before she turned and made her way silently up the stairs, shoulders back. She kept her head angled slightly away as she left his basement.
He picked up his hammer, threw it violently against the wall, and slammed his hands down on the counter, spreading them out and leaning his weight forward. He swore under his breath and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.
His resolve to never touch this again was snatched from under him. Paris, Europe, the softness of her skin, the sound of her laugh, it all came back and crashed into him full force. And he turned away from the counter and almost ran up the stairs.
He made a stop in the living room, checking to see if the sound of a door shutting had been Kowalski coming in from a perimeter check or leaving; it had been the latter. Jethro turned and went quickly down the hall, on his way to catching Jenny in Kelly's old room—
-she was standing in the hall, her arm on the door frame, staring into the barren bedroom. He came up behind her and gripped her arm above the elbow, pulling her around to face him. She stiffened in surprise and her eyes went wide.
Jethro stepped close to her, meeting her eyes as his sure movements backed her into the wall. Instinctively, she wrapped her arm around his waist. He placed his hands on her neck and tilted her head back; he kissed her.
It wasn't a fresh kiss, but a continuation of the one started in the basement. His hesitancy was unbridled and he wasn't sure she'd even been cautious to begin with. He felt the rushing beat of her pulse in her neck and moved his body closer to her, seeking the warmth of her curves fitting against him.
She pushed back against him, her other hand weaving around his shoulders. She had him in a tight embrace; it was like a movie kiss, all lips and teeth and tongue, felt like it lasted forever; breath-stealing.
When it ended, they were both breathing hard.
He let his hands slide down to her shoulders, trace the contours of her body, until her gripped her hip and pulled her away from the wall, jerking his head wordlessly towards his bedroom. She slipped past him in the dark hallway and he barely let her get by, his arm snaking around her lithe waist, hand sliding under her shirt, pressing into bare skin.
Jethro swung the door shut and she turned toward him, one hand darting up to run nervously through her red hair. He reached up and caught her hand, and ran his thumb over her pulse, and for a minute he looked at her, intensely.
He moved closer, holding her hand in his, holding it behind her back; she sat down on the bed and pulled him with her, let him crawl over her, reaching up to grip his arms and run her hands over his chest through his shirt.
Jethro kissed her again; she placed a manicured hand on the back of his neck. He held his weight over her carefully, letting her pull his hips closer at her own discretion; let her determine how much weight she could handle.
She felt good beneath him. She felt like six years of unresolved tension, and a whole lot of longing and emotion. He could barely catch a breath; if he pulled his mouth back for a minute, she coaxed him back, and when she pulled away to gasp for air, he was aggressive in his re-conquering; loathe to lose her mouth for a second.
But he could only go so long without feeling her skin against his.
His breath ragged in his chest, he trailed his lips down her neck, scraping teeth against her ear and her carotid artery, his hands reaching for the hem of her sweatshirt. He met her eyes as he pulled it over her head, a smirk touching his lips. She wore a white cotton bra, none of the usual lacy, provocative underwear that was her staple. She hadn't been counting on a bed partner.
Jenny lifted one of her knees, pressing her thigh against his, and she pulled his t-shirt over his head in one fell jerk. He drew his hand over her shoulder and over her breast, brushing his knuckles against her ribcage, a gentle, exploratory touch.
She murmured incomprehensively and reached between them to unzip his jeans. He let her fight with his jeans, lowering his head to kiss first the dips in her collar bone and then draw his tongue at the edge of her bra's fabric.
Her hands pushed back the hem of his jeans, dipping wantonly beneath the fabric of the denim and his boxers, and at the feel of her nails, the pads of her fingers, anywhere near his groin, he bucked his hips roughly against her and she arched up, drawing in her breath harshly.
He kissed back up to her neck and nipped her shoulder lightly, finding her mouth again and shoving his tongue in her mouth. She lifted that other long leg and hooked her foot into his jeans for leverage. She pressed her hand against his chest and pricked him with her nails, maneuvering his jeans down.
Jethro slipped one of her bra straps off of her shoulder, running his hand over her warm skin. He felt her heartbeat and slid his hand in the loose cotton material, cupping her breast in his hand. He brushed his thumb over her nipple; she moaned against his lips, the sound hitting him like an electric shock all over.
He stopped kissing her and brushed his mouth against the corner of hers; he reached down and grabbed her leg, running his hand roughly over her thigh and holding it against his waist. Jenny twisted and then pushed at his chest, pushed him on his side and then straddled him, her hair tumbling forward over her shoulders.
She settled her hips low over his half-off jeans, the pressure almost unbearable, and as she shifted, he bit back a groan that escaped anyway and she lowered her body to his, the flat, taut muscles of her abdomen fitting against his, her breasts against his chest.
He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled.
It all felt damn good; better than damn good. She smelled good, she tasted good, he wanted her more than he thought he ever could after she'd left in that airport. She kissed down his chest, reaching for his free hand and lacing her fingers into it. She squeezed.
He ran his hand from her hair down her back, feeling her spine arch under his urgent touch, and he pulled the drawstring keeping up her loose cotton pajama pants. Jenny bit her lip; she raised her head and gripped his shoulders, her eyes closing half-way.
He traced the dip of her pelvic bone, shoving cotton out of his way, and teased her. A whimper escaped her lips and she tilted her head back; she was hyper-sensitive to his touch, aching all over to let him touch every part of her.
Jethro reached up and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her down against his chest. He tilted her head back and kissed her hard, cupping her ass in his hand and then trailing his hand up between her thighs; Jenny moaned. He thrust a finger inside her and felt the shiver run through her.
She gasped and dug her nails into him, her breath catching.
"Jethro, god," she moaned, her voice throaty, hoarse. Her mouth was close to his ear and he kissed her neck, kissed her shoulder, a sensuous and yet aggressive move. He jerked his finger in a come-hither motion. She cried out, struggling for breath.
"Ah."
He abruptly pulled his hand away. He took her arm and pulled her off of him, rolling onto his side. He hooked one leg over both of hers, leaning over her possessively, protectively. She angled her body towards him, and she ran her hand down his sternum to his groin, bending her knee between his legs and applying pressure. She shoved his jeans and boxers down more; her hand wrapped around him.
He groaned, lowering his forehead to hers, not sure he could take much teasing. It had been a long time. He cupped her breast again and leaned over, lowering his mouth to it this time. She moaned his name again at the contact and twisted her leg out of his trap, struggling to get his jeans off.
"Jen," he groaned against her skin, clenching his teeth. He reached over her and gripped the bed sheets, leaning over again, supported on one arm. He reached between them for her pajama pants and pulled at them in frustration.
They hit the floor after a violent struggle, and his jeans and boxers followed, and the feel of her completely naked against him again, her sweat-slicked skin, the sounds escaping her lips, made it impossible to draw it out any longer.
Her intake of breath was sharp; he thrust into her hard and then he attacked her lips in a kiss, groaning, his head spinning, his muscles tightening; she was warm and tight—and he loved her more than anything, and he should have told her all those years.
Jenny wrapped a slender, smooth leg around his waist and dug her heel into his back, kissing him back with all she had. She breathed in, breaking the kiss, her eyes dark emerald, pupils dilated. Her hair was tangled over her shoulders and she gripped his bicep tightly, her other fingers desperately digging into the sheets.
She closed her eyes and licked her lips, tilting her head back against the pillows.
"Harder," she gasped. A cry escaped her lips and she arched up, tightening her muscles around him. "Jethro," she moaned, loud—probably too loud—and tossed her head. He lowered his mouth to hers again, his lips an tongue forceful. He groaned her name, his shoulders shuddering as he came, listening to her moan deep from the back of her throat, her lips moving soundlessly.
She dug her nails into him, and he felt her climax hit her. She threw her head back.
"God!"
He plunged his hand into her hair and made her look at him, his orgasm still surging through his blood. He kept thrusting, deep, kept seeking out her swollen, red lips with his until her moans subsided to ragged, erratic breathing and she relaxed, and her grip on him grew less tight and less passionate.
Jethro lowered his head to her neck, slumping, his lips resting against her neck lightly. He disentangled his hand from her hair and he rolled off of her; Jenny gave a soft squeak of pain and caught his hand as he moved.
He placed one palm on her neck, his fingers pressing into her sweaty skin, brushing damp crimson hair back. She turned toward him, swallowed hard, and looked in him, met his cobalt blue eyes.
She felt safe, she felt safe. She felt good, she felt sorry, she felt overwhelmed.
"Shhh," he said gruffly. "Shhh," he hissed again, not angrily, just softly.
He pulled her toward him and kissed her, softly on the lips, and he kept murmuring her name, quietly, huskily.
"Jenny. Jenny."
She tangled her legs up in his, touching him, kissing him back. It was the communication they were pros at, after all.