A/N: Thanks to a'serene!


It was sunny in Paris, and all he could think was that Jenny would love it.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs walked purposefully up to the concierge's desk at the luxury Paris Hotel Decker had directed him to. He was greeted promptly, in that sweet, saccharine way the French had.

"Rooms under Vance," he said, giving the name Decker had told him to use. The agency most likely had them use the name of another agent in case anyone ever caught the scent of this mission and traced it; hearing 'Vance' would throw them in a new direction.

"Ah, yes, monsieur," murmured the young man, rummaging through some papers. He turned and retrieved two keys. "Located on the fourth floor, you are the third room and the fourth room. You are still waiting for the other guest?" he queried.

Jethro just nodded curtly, indicating he didn't want to talk, and shoved the keys in his pockets, removing himself from the lobby as quickly as possible.

It shouldn't have taken Jenny long to get out of Russia, and he expected she'd show up casually within the next few hours. He hoped everything had gone well for her. He was worried about her still. They way she'd looked when she came back from Zulov's place was still haunting him and making his gut churn.

Decker was around the hotel somewhere he was sure, but he was also sure the other agent had stumbled straight up to his room for some uninterrupted, much needed sleep. The security that they would have in Paris, out from under the heavy constraints the Russian Op had, was alluring and Jethro himself was trying hard to resist it.

He refused to consider relaxation until Jenny was safe.

By force of habit, he cleared the hotel room as he entered it, on his guard lest anything be out of place. Decker had arranged that their things from St. Petersburg be collected and flown to Paris on the respective flights they were booked on, and Jethro's baggage was in a pile on the bed. He eyed it and then left his hotel room, letting himself into Jenny's.

Sure enough, he found her things in there, and immediately moved them into his room, leaving the other room empty and cool—and probably unused for the duration of this Paris stay. He'd give anything just to lock himself in a room with Jenny for a week or so and never get out of bed.

There was a sharp, resounding rap on the door and Jethro went to it, peering through the peephole cautiously. A stern looking employee stood there and he opened the door, giving him a glare that clearly said he didn't like being disturbed.

"Papers for you at the front desk, Monsieur. I apologize that our concierge did not give them to you straight away," he said cordially, holding out a thick file. Jethro took it, resisting the urge to bark at the other man. He hated being called monsieur, he was just remembering.

The employee inclined his head in a polite nod, turned on his heel in cheap imitation of a well-trained soldier, and disappeared. Jethro shut the door, locked it loudly, and glanced at the sealed file. It was blank all over, except for the last name Vance scrawled in hasty script at the top.

Jethro held it uninterestedly and looked at the clock. By his guess, Jenny would have been on a flight either two or three hours after his; they weren't allowed to be on the same one. She could arrive anywhere from the next hour to the next three, depending on her flight conditions, her experience at the airport…he was going to drive himself crazy thinking about it.

So he thrust the envelope down on the table and ripped it open, pulling the files inside out blankly. His phone rang and he took it from his pocket mechanically, as usual hardly bothering to check the caller ID. It was one of two people: Jenny, or Decker. Morrow had this number, but it was hardly the Director calling for a chat.

"Gibbs," he grunted.

"You want a drink as bad as I do?" Decker asked bitterly. Jethro heard a thunk and a curse on the other line. "Christ Almighty I can't get anyone to speak English!"

"We're in Paris," Jethro said shortly.

"Yeah," muttered Decker, with a string of other curses following half-heartedly. "Got a sit-rep, Gibbs?" he asked dutifully.

"Checked in," Jethro answered concisely. "Shepard's still en route."

"Figured. She called in her kill 'bout eight hours ago. Might be another two hours before she gets in."

Jethro just grunted, spreading out the papers which he had discerned were his and Jenny's orders from this point on. They were entitled to a break, a period of downtime, and they were staying in Paris for that duration to let the dust clear from the Russian Op and see what happened from there.

"Shepard sound good?" Jethro asked, unconcernedly.

"Don't know, she was abrupt. Didn't wanna talk, I figure. Probably wanted to catch some sleep on the plane, if she's as deprived as I am," grumbled Decker.

Jethro laughed sarcastically.

"Ah, shut-up, Deck. Go find yourself a woman," he said, knowing exactly what would prompt the other agent to think otherwise of his fatigue.

Decker laughed.

"Yeah, yeah maybe I will. I'm second floor if you need me, but I'm out tomorrow afternoon for Los Angeles. I'm sick of this damn continent."

Jethro nodded, listening as Decker rambled for a minute.

"You gonna stop talkin' anytime soon?" Jethro growled finally, sick of hearing the other man talk and finding it hard to focus on the papers in front of him. Decker gave a low whistle.

"Maybe you need to find the woman, Gibbs," he quipped, and laughed. "All right, I'll let you go then."

"Yeah," grumbled Jethro, and he heard Decker's phone snap shut a split second before he ended the call on his side and chucked the phone down to the desk in front of him, suddenly irritated with Decker and his surroundings. It had been one hell of a past few months, and he wanted to be left in peace.

He wasn't even sure he wanted Jenny around right now. He just felt hostile. And then, as it always happened when he'd been away from his home for months and he was almost ready to return, that ache flared in his chest when he remembered how empty the house was. No Kelly. No Shannon. No matter how long they'd been gone, that hurt always reared its ugly head.

He didn't want to go home to that godforsaken empty house.

His phone rang again; shrill, piercing and obnoxious. He forced it open.

"What?" he barked, another wave of irritation hitting him.

"It's nice to hear your voice, too, sweetheart," Jenny said sarcastically. She sounded tired, but that snarky comment was more amusement than he'd gotten out of her since…Serbia, and it was such a relief it almost made him laugh.

"Jen," he mumbled, regretting it immediately and backing off. "It is good to hear your voice," he continued sincerely, lowering his.

"You too," she murmured back. "I'm at Charles de Gaulle. I figure I'll be at the hotel in another hour, maybe hour and a half," she said quietly.

He nodded, more to himself than her.

"Be careful," he said.

"Of what?" she scoffed bitterly. "They're dead."

"Hey, Jenny," he soothed. "It's over now."

There was a long pause.

"I thought it would feel better than this," she said numbly, and he heard the click as she hung up and snapped his phone shut tensely, thrusting it down on the desk.

He returned distractedly to the files and papers in front of him, trying to read and focus, but the words were swimming together. He was tired and stressed and needed to unwind. He wanted Jenny now, but short of taking a cab to the airport to find her, that wasn't going to happen and he had nothing to do.

The orders in his file were nothing more than he'd expected. Details on signs to look for in Europe in the aftermath of the mission to ensure they had gotten out clean. Reassignment to DC was imminent, with further instructions to be reached once they were back in the states.

He knew it would be a blessing for Jenny, being home in her house and in her country, allowed to be just Jen again and do the easy, every day work of investigating and cases. He knew that would make things easier between them. Then, he thought it was odd he was considering 'them' long-term in his mind. It was just natural at this point. He was thinking of Jenny and the future cohesively; even he didn't know exactly what that meant.

His vision blurred from exhaustion and tense emotions, Jethro shoved away from the desk, unable to even attempt focus anymore. He got up and paced across the room, scrubbing his hands over his face roughly. He checked his watch and it had barely been five minutes. Rolling his eyes at the agitation he felt, he put himself to work.

He called room service and ordered supper, timing it so it would arrive in about an hour. Then he threw caution to the winds and opened Jenny's neatly packed bag, dragging out her toiletries and placing them in the bathroom so she wouldn't have to do it. He closed the curtains in the room and then snatched some clean clothes and a razor from his bag and shut himself in the bathroom.

He took a long, hot shower, and pointedly did not think about Jenny because it simply reminded him how much he wanted her. He frowned as he washed his hair, making a face when he realized just how long it really was. Jenny had commented on it in Serbia, and he hadn't done much to it since; when he finally got out of the shower, he took his razor to it and trimmed it back to his usual crew cut, too heavily reminded of how shaggy he'd let it get those first few months after Shannon and Kelly's deaths to leave it long.

Ever since the corp, he just couldn't stand to have it long. He shaved his face, too, careful not to nick himself in his still-present distraction. He'd pulled on shorts—it was much warmer in Paris—when he heard a soft noise out in the suite. The door shutting.

He wrenched open the door and came out, thinking it hadn't been long enough for Jenny to be here yet, but it was her. She locked the door, and didn't notice him at first; she kicked the small duffle bag she had with her away feebly.

He walked over to her and touched her shoulder.

"Jethro," she mumbled thankfully. She didn't even look at him; she threw herself at him, burrowing close, her arms slipped tightly around his shoulders and her face buried in his neck. Her lips touched his skin and he felt her bite her lip; he hesitantly placed his hand on her shoulders and squeezed, rubbing gently.

She was shaking all over, like she was cold, so he hugged her tighter.

She clung to him almost as if she hadn't seen him in years.

"What is it, Jen?"

She shook her head and reached up to touch his newly cropped hair, her fingers slipping as she grasped for the length she was used to. She hesitated briefly and just rested her hand against his neck, shifting her head on his shoulder, and he heard her murmuring something in muted, rapid French.

He could hardly make out any of it, she was speaking so softly and so fast, but he noted it didn't sound pleasant. She stopped talking after a moment and he brushed her hair away from her face; he wasn't sure how long he stood there with her. It may have been hours or split seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

"I love you," she said to him, gripping the back of his neck gently. "I mean it Jethro, I really do. I really love you."

He tilted her head back and gave her a curious look, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to discern what was going through her head just by looking at her wide, liquid green eyes. She blinked, and averted her eyes.

"I know that," he said, shrugging, as he touched her cheek firmly with his thumb and forced her to look back at him. "I know, Jen," he soothed distractedly, because she was acting like something bad had happened to her, other than the initial sordid affair of the mission.

She bit her lip, and then she leaned up and kissed him, hard, cementing her earnest declaration.

He wanted badly to throw her into bed yet something told him that was the wrong idea right now. He kissed her jaw instead, and pressed his temple into her forehead gently.

"I ordered dinner," he offered placidly.

"I can't eat."

"I bet you haven't eaten in two days," he admonished testily.

"I'm not hungry," was her only answer.

"You'll drink something," he muttered.

"Not vodka," she answered rapidly, and looked at him through her eyelashes.

She smiled weakly and laughed hoarsely. He smiled and tugged her back towards the bed, where all of their stuff was. He maneuvered around it instead of simply moving it and lay down with her, tired, finally able to relax now that she was home. She shoved her shoes off of her feet and curled up, reaching for his face and touching the clean-shaven skin experimentally. He stared at her and she flicked her eyes away immediately, looking at his lips, then at his chest—anywhere but his eyes.

He hated to think it, but it made him suspicious; it made his stomach turn. Jenny never shied from eye contact. He reached up and stopped her hand, stroking her knuckles.

"Something's wrong, Jenny," he accused passively.

"I'm fine."

Her right eye twitched traitorously, unbeknownst to her. He glared, biting his tongue to hold back a scathing remark. The knock at the door announcing room service had arrived kept him from trying to fill the silence, and he got up to attend to it.

Dinner was a subdued affair and Jenny, contrary to her statements of earlier, did pick at something to eat. He tried to chalk that reclusive melancholy up to low spirits; he tried to convince himself she'd be fine once she got a good night's sleep and spent a few days carefree in Paris, but he knew it was something more bothering her.

She pushed her food away before him and went about organizing their things meticulously, placing suitcases and bags up against the wall and making use of drawers to compartmentalize. He shook his head disbelievingly and, after finishing his food, cleaned up everything and set the cart outside the door. Jenny was busy arranging things in a drawer. For the fifth time.

"You're making me nervous," he growled.

She paused and then shoved the drawer shut, turning slowly. She leaned against the bureau and looked absently towards the bathroom.

"I want a hot shower," she said quietly, and went past him, dropping the sweater she'd been wearing over a thin camisole onto the bed. He followed her and caught her arm gently, spinning her around outside the bathroom.

"Need company?" he asked, looking at her intently.

She swallowed hard. She reached out and pressed her palm into his chest.

"I…I can't," she said huskily. "I want to be alone a minute…Jethro."

He looked at her imploring.

"Pretend you understand," she ordered seriously. "It's a woman thing?"

"Fine, Jen," he agreed, releasing her unthreateningly.

She shut the door gently and he pushed his forehead against it roughly, pressing his fist into it with all the force of a strong right hook, yet not making a noise.

What the hell was wrong with her?


Jenny relished a hot shower.

And when she was done, dressed in something she'd almost forgotten existed—shorts and a t-shirt—she wandered out onto the terrace balcony of the suite, unable to find Jethro in the room. She hadn't a clue where he might have gone.

She felt numb. That was the perfect word to describe her emotional state—or lack therof—at the moment. She wasn't scared or angry or sick or depressed; she was numb. She couldn't find words to talk to Jethro, because she thought she'd say too much. She didn't want to look at him either, because he'd always read her like a book. He knew when she was lying; it was uncanny and frustrating.

She didn't know what she should be saying to him. She didn't even know if she was going to tell him what had happened at Anatoly's manor. She had told no one about her feat of acquiring the coveted number yet. The pride of such an accomplishment was still burning hot in the background of her troubled mind, and she tried to cling to that so she wouldn't go mad thinking about what she'd done.

Rather, what she'd let Anatoly do to her.

She stood by the balcony railing, her hand on it hesitantly, silently enjoying the enveloping warmth of the Paris night air. It was such comforting weather, and it avidly reminded her she never wanted to experience Russia again.

Her head was aching; it was a dull, almost judgmental throb and she closed her eyes, wishing it away.

If she brought up the number, it would raise questions, questions she wasn't ready to answer. She had to reveal she had it at some point; the question was, to whom? Decker? A direct call to Morrow?

Jenny tilted her head forward and moved it from side to side, trying to loosen the stiffness in her neck a little. She sighed and then took a deep breath, trying to forget about the stress for a moment just to enjoy the idea that she was safe in Paris again, and the mission was over, and she wouldn't have to don the black wig and name of Tatiana Ivanovich ever again. Hell, no one would ever call her Madame again.

"Jen?"

She glanced behind her, and heard the hotel door shut.

"Outside," she answered back softly.

A few moments later, the curtains shifted and Jethro shuffled out onto the balcony. He came up beside her and looked down without interest. He gave the skyline of the city an appreciative look and then put his hand on her shoulders and leaned over her to kiss her neck.

"It's good to be back," he muttered sincerely.

She bit her lip and her eyes stung.

"Yeah," she answered thickly.

Jethro paused, and she heard him grunt quietly in frustration. She squeezed her eyes shut and silently willed him not to say anything to her, to just let it go for once. He didn't. Honestly, she hadn't expected him to.

"Tell me what's wrong, Jenny," he said. She didn't answer him. "Please," he asked gently, grasping her shoulder and pulling her around. He cupped her face in his hand. She shook her head.

"I'm okay, Jethro," she said shakily.

Her eye gave her away and he clenched his jaw, swallowing yet another urge to challenge her. He sighed and stroked her cheek patronizingly, like he could get her to open up that way. She looked away from him pointedly.

"Come inside," he said shortly. "I got a bottle of bourbon," he added coaxingly.

She gave him a shadow of a smile and pushed away from the railing. Jethro drew the doors shut after she went in, pulling the curtains over them and fastening the lock. Jenny picked up one of the already poured glasses of bourbon and took a generous drink, pausing before the wooden desk next to the French doors when she saw all of the NCIS files among the disarray of papers.

She touched the top one inquiringly; tilting her head down to better read the small type.

"Orders," grunted Jethro, picking up the glass he'd reserved for himself.

Jenny nodded, and lifted the paper with her name at the top, her eyes performing a preliminary scan of the orders. Wind down time in Paris until they were in the clear, and then report directly back to Washington DC field office for a return to field work.

She chewed the inside of her lip, a hollow feeling running through her as she read the words. What an ordinary assignment. She didn't know what she'd expected, but she'd been working hard. She'd met the SecNav. She'd thought…she'd earn more than that. She damn well needed more than that, or the way she'd betrayed Jethro with Anatoly meant nothing, absolutely nothing, and the thought of it would kill her.

She put down her glass of bourbon and pushed the desk chair in, effectively shoving it out of her way so she wouldn't tangle up in it trying to get to Jethro. She grabbed his shoulders and kissed him like her very life depended on it; he grunted in surprise and held his arm away from his body so she wouldn't spill his drink.

He set it on the desk and pulled her back onto the bed, sitting for a moment with her scrambling onto his lap while he kicked his shoes off. Then he shifted around and pulled her under him, planting his knees on either side of her thighs.

Jenny pulled his shirt over his head while he struggled to fight her arms out of the way and return the favor; she pulled him down onto her heavily and snuggled into his warmth and his comforting smell.

It occurred to her they had all the time in the world for the next few days. Just to be together. To get lost in each other. And that was suddenly exactly what she wanted. She didn't want to move from his arms ever again.

Jenny moved her hand to the waistband of his sweats and coaxed the drawstring undone, feeling him tighten in response to her touch. She wound her leg around his and flipped him over, jerking the sweats down his legs and kissing her way back up to his chest, where she pressed her lips and her teeth to his shoulder and he tangled a hand into her hair and flipped her back over, crawling over her and hooking his thumbs into her shorts.

He slowly slipped them down, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her towards him. She lifted her knees and he reached with one hand for her panties delicately, coaxing them down expertly.

Jenny tilted her head back into the pillows, closing her eyes and breathing in sharply. He pressed his mouth to her inner thigh and she didn't miss the scratchy stubble of his unshaven face when he did. She clenched her fingers into a fist.

"Jen," he barked suddenly, and she stiffened, startled by the sharp reprimand in his tone.

He splayed a hand on her stomach and rose up on his knees, his eyes on her legs. She cursed under her breath and leaned up. He reached out and touched the inside of her leg, pushing it up so he could see it better. The bruises. She forgot about the bruises.

"What the hell happened, Jenny?" he demanded, touching the outline of the injuries softly. She winced a little, but it didn't hurt much. They weren't nearly as bad as they had been when it had first happened. Marks from Anatoly's knees, and later, his nails. Jethro scrubbed a finger tenderly over one of the red marks.

She didn't answer him and he looked up at her sharply, forcefully.

"Did he do this, Jen? Zulov, did he hurt you?" he asked, recalling her demeanor when she'd returned the night Jethro killed Anatoly.

"No."

Her eye, again. Jethro clenched his teeth, and tightened his grip on her leg in frustration. He couldn't stand not calling her out on the lying for much longer. She pulled her leg away from him sharply.

"You're hurting me," she said warningly, her eyes flashing suddenly.

"Jen," he said tersely. He swallowed his anger and tried to soften his delivery. He felt sick to his stomach about what was lurking in the back of his mind, what needed to be asked.

She looked at him, leaning her head back against the headboard.

"Did Zulov rape you, Jen?" he asked bluntly, preferring to force it out rather than beat around the bush. Because it sure as hell looked like it. He didn't know how else she'd get hurt between her legs like this.

"No," she answered hoarsely.

Her eye did not twitch.

He relaxed considerably, even if his confusion and anger was still there. Jenny twisted away from him out of his grip, and rolled onto her stomach, burying her face into the pillows. He swallowed hard and crawled up next to her.

He rested his hand on her back, feeling her suppressed shaking, and stretched out next to her.

"Why can't you tell me what's wrong, Jen?" he asked desperately.

He reached for her and touched her cheek, rubbing away the stray tears, and wrapped his arm around her, pressing soothing kisses to the back of her neck and her bare shoulders. She mumbled something softly, incoherently, and he thought it sounded like 'because I can't lose you, Jethro'.

And he didn't understand why the hell she thought she was going to.