Title: Safe
Author: Fashiongirl97
Rating: T (Highly Emotional)
Her eyes closed, eyelashes brushing against the smooth shadowed skin that sat beneath her emerald green eyes. Mascara laden lashes, moist with tears long since fallen. Flecks of black, left over from old tears. Lines of worry, lines of fear . . . Her hand sat clenched in her lap, hair a mass of tangled curls swam around her face. The long red locks no longer tamed by the bobbles and pins that had formerly held it in place.
The room around her was a mess. Clutter and files strewn all over the place. Things once placed so precisely, now fallen ungracefully to the ground. Pictures with cracked glass splintered out like a skirt around it. Files mixed up, and scattered out like the golden dry leaves of autumn. Bourbon poured into a cut crystal glass and placed in front of her.
That was the single thing she had accomplished with shaking hands.
Anger, upset, worry annoyance, betrayal . . . she was fuming, and yet all she wanted was to see him, hug his muscular chest and cry in his arms. Listen to the steady, soothing, rhythmical beating of his heart beneath his chest. Let her senses be infused with his smell of bourbon, coffee and sawdust, and then feel herself relax.
Then the tear came again.
And then another.
She'd broken down.
The screaming, the shouting, the rage and the anger had faded out into just plain upset.
She'd thrown everything in sight on the floor. She'd trashed her entire office. Everything that could be broken was. Everything that meant nothing was gone. Everything that could, except for that one picture: their wedding photo.
The one where her hands were placed on his shoulders, he was crouched in front of her. She'd hiked her long straight white dress up to show the garter beneath, in the photo he had it between his teeth and both were laughing. Behind them there was grass and sun – the Parisian springtime. The white of her dress making her looked angelic, whilst his dress uniform made him look like the hero he truly was.
The perfect day; nearly a whole year ago.
He'd been recalled and deployed back to Iraq a month later, leaving his new wife home alone, running an agency and working her fingers to the bone so that she would simply not die of want for her husband. Ten and a half months since she last saw him. Eleven months since she kissed him, hugged him, felt his warm embrace…
Jenny wanted her husband.
Wanted to see his signature smirk.
She wanted to laugh at those rare and spontaneous jokes.
Wanted to tell him off for being over protective.
She wanted him to come home.
He had been due back in three days. She could deal with that. But then the call had come that the ship on which he had been travelling home on had been damaged; blown up.
He'd been blown up for a third time!
How unlucky could one man be?
How was she to know that his luck had not run out?
She hadn't heard the rest of what was said by the commander whose image had been displayed in MTAC. All she had heard was that they were sending all the members to Norfolk Naval Hospital, and yet no one was allowed to visit. No one was allowed to see the men and women who held places in their hearts. She'd stood there, in MTAC, saying all the right things. Yet she had stood there as a military wife and not as Director. As a woman who may never see her husband again. However as soon as the screen had flashed back: gone dead, the walls had risen back up and she had been Director all over again.
Standing there, Jenny was almost in a dream world – a nightmare. Every single person who surrounded her seemed to be moving in slow motion. The world had been slowed down. Every sympathetic look from technical support staff, who did not even remember the man who had caused this incident, seemed to last twice as long. Every whispered word seamed twice as loud.
Her feet moved without even being told to.
Heels clicking she walked out of the blackness. Out of the room where she could almost crouch into a corner and disappear, and into the world where she was out in the light. Out where she was the centre of attention.
Looking down on his old desk, now occupied by Tony, seemed too hard.
The desk where he had sat for years. Back when she was a probie and he was the king. When she was his partner and he balanced the equation. The days when she took centre stage and he was the understudy. Then the days she missed when they'd pass those secret looks.
That was his desk, and it always would be.
Fingers, cold and shaking traced the lines on his face. The smile on hers and the smirk on his. Eyes lit up like Christmas lights. The Parisian spring, there really had been no other place for them to get married. Memories on every street, and new ones being made on every other. Family desperate to know the past whilst their lips stayed firmly shut.
If only she could stay in that moment.
Live in that day and never come back.
The knocking on the door was almost hesitant. Evening had long since settled. Those few weekend agents had left. It had only been then that she had lost it, her pride too strong to be sheltered. Her voice didn't seem like hers when she spoke, too weak and feeble. "Yeah." That was all she managed, not trusting herself to say any more.
It was Tony who walked in. The man who she had done wrong by, and yet the man who had somehow found it to forgive her. His son, in so many respects, as well as hers. The man who had become a support system. Now, though, his eyes were reddened by crying, just as she knew so many others' would be. No cocky persona, smug smile or glinting eyes. He'd almost retreated into his shell.
"Tim is with Abby. She's a mess, Ziva is with Duck, I left them all talking." Never did he use Tim McGee's first name, and just in the same way Gibbs had used it all those years ago after Kate's death – he used it now.
Jen felt herself nodding, not knowing what else to do.
"Have you heard anything?" His tone was hopeful… wishing.
His feet moved as though he was dancing, avoiding each broken piece of a mucked up puzzle of pain. A crack signalled his failed attempt. A pair of nail clippers sat broken on the carpet.
Even his face which resembled that of a guilty child couldn't allow anything more than a sad smile to pass across her features. "Oops."
"I don't even know where the hell they have come from." She said voice hoarse, and threatening to break. Eyes were once more swimming with tears. Look cast down, her hand went to cover her mouth and muffle a sob.
Her spare hand reached out to grab the bourbon filled glass. The burning amber liquid slid down her throat almost painlessly. Not a wince visible. Long slender fingers which held the glass went white as her sorrow was replaced once more by rising anger.
"Why him?! Why did it have to be him?!" Her voice rose as anger spilled out. The crystal cut glass flying gracefully across the room.
Assumptions had already been made.
Could a man truly be that lucky?
"I'll kill him! I swear to god I will kill him."
Everyone stood in the doorway. Her walls were down; none of them knew what to do. Eyes were red, hands held, eyes cast down. "The kids don't like it when mummy and daddy fight." Abby spoke with innocence only a child could muster up.
A smile so small a magnified glass would almost be needed in order to see it fell across her red lips, but like snow on wet ground it would not settle. "We won't fight." Her voice was shallow, empty, as though she could not imagine it.
"No." Abby's words were happy, the only person in the world who ever could be. "No, he will go 'oh Jenny I love you, your red hair is so pretty!' and then you will go 'Oh Jethro I love you so much! With your sexy silver hair'."
Smiles fell upon all of their faces.
One hopeful person amongst the mix.
A grandfather stood back, worry so visibly etched upon his aged features.
Cautiously, with silent movements he made his way over. Steadily and with a presence that calmed even the most upset of souls. He sat down beside the weeping red head, and wordlessly pulled her into a warm embrace.
No one had ever seen their Madame Director cry.
Never seen her without her pristine walls and floorless appearance.
As she sobbed for her husband, they all cried for their father.
And Ducky could do nothing but pray to the lord that he would pull through.
"He'll make it my dear, and he will be fine." But his voice was forcibly comforting, as though there were a part of him he could not convince.
The streetlights outside of the window brightened at the ever growing darkness that surrounded the agency. Their mellow light filled the room with a soft glow, shards of glass sparkling like the most precious of gems known to man. Beauty was ignored, small insignificant aspects that did nothing but remind her of how his eyes would sparkle when he laughed.
To hear his laugh was all she wanted.
To see those sapphire irises light up with joy.
For him to be home.
Safe.
There he stood, as though through the mind's eye an image of hope.
But he was more than that.
She didn't see, with her head buried in her surrogate father's chest she didn't see.
"Jennifer my dear . . ." The man began, attempting to get her to see what the whole room was staring in disbelief at.
"I know, I need to be positive."
"No, my dear, it's not that."
His voice was soft, filled with concern yet gruffer than usual from smoke inhalation; concerned for her as she had been for him. "Jen?" The nickname only he dared to use, raised her from her pity. The redhead's eyes shot up, familiar and welcome.
Her legs made her run and she didn't think to stop them. Over to him and leaping from the ground into his arms. "You stupid stupid man!" Voice hoarse from crying, cracking with emotion. "You can't do this to me! You can't!" Her hand hit him on the arm, wanting to be harder than it was as the tears fell onto his mucked up uniform.
"I'm sorry."
His own rule broken by its creator, but she silenced.
Eyes closed at the familiar comfort as safety pulled her close.
"I love you."
Murmured by both before a searing kiss that left them with heaving chests and wanting so much more.
"You're okay?" A still timid and scared Abby said, from further back as she watched the scene unfold before her eyes.
The man whom they all cared about standing tall.
Face slightly cut.
Stitches above his eye.
Burns visible on the pale backs of hands.
"A couple a' cracked ribs and minor burns. I'll be fine."
Yet nothing would prove it to the child like one.
Only a hug.
His hand still intertwined with his wife's, he hugged his 'daughter'. Glad to see them all.
Each took a turn to welcome him home.
Knowing he would not go back again.
His wife still scared and worried.
The way a wife should be.
Neglecting the torn up room for the night, and leaving it for another day. Hand in hand the couple left, listening to the soundtrack of their family behind.
Standing up on the catwalk where he'd watched her so many times. They came to a stop.
Looking deep in her eyes, and looking deep in his, both knew they would not be separated for a long time.
He kissed her again.
She kissed him back.
Soft lips crashing together in their own unique language.
When they parted once more, to the sound of moaning from others, smiles finally found their way to both of their faces.
A tear fell down her smooth, flustered face.
Thankful, relieved and grateful.
Wiped away be a callused fingertip, foreheads touching perfectly.
Two pieces of the same puzzle.
The ying and the yang.
Strawberries and cream.
Like Ginger Rogers, and Fred Astaire.
Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Jennifer Shepard and Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
With his signature smirk placed fittingly upon his face, he spoke so only her ears could listen: "Let's turn out the lights and play in the dark."
Sweet laughter filled the room like music to their ears.
The couple ran off, the newlywed time they had missed.
No one was offended he wanted to be with her.
They'd see him the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that… because they knew there was no way their redhead would ever let him return.
Hours later, when the sun finally began to reappear. Silvers of light slipped through the thick curtains into their marital house, falling upon their sleeping forms. Absorbed in the embrace of their love, content at the fact they were finally together.
More than anything, they were safe.