Hi guys, long time no seen.
So, since seeing the announcement that Scottie Thompson will be guest staring in NCIS Los Angeles , but not as Jeanne, I had a little bit of a brain worm.
This takes place 12 years after Jeanne and Tony broke up. In this timeline, Jeanne never married, never got to have her heart to heart with Tony.
I hope you guys like it. Read & Enjoy and your feedback is always welcome.
xoxo Jade
Going down the steps of her second-floor apartment, Jeanne Benoit stops to adjust the strap of her purse. Dressed in a white and blue designer polka dot dress and holding a matching umbrella, Jeanne raises her eyes to take in the splendor of her apartment building's inner courtyard. Located in the 3rd arrondissement of Paris, in the Marais district, her building, like many of this district's, survived the Hausmann reconstruction of Paris and kept many of the medieval styled buildings. Deep green ivies adorn the walls of the 17th century building, some of it curled around her second story apartment window. At the heel of the stairs and around the rectangular courtyard fuchsia begonias spill down to the cobblestone floor from large terracotta vases. Wrought iron chairs and tables, belonging to the first-floor apartments, covered with cushions and potted flowers, sit there inviting. Yet the most beautiful feature remains the centerpiece of the courtyard, the stone well. A delicately carved circular base depicting cherubs and intricate vines steal glances the moment one walks in, while the elegant wrought iron sealed fitting well top, with its nestled colorful flowers makes the structure unforgettable. The sound of her low-heeled ballerinas on cobbled stone reverberates from the old stone walls. Momentarily blinded by the sunshine, the woman steps hesitantly into the archway of the door. With a strong tug the grand wooden door shuts, hiding her home from the inhabitants of Paris and tourists alike.
It had rained cats and dogs the previous night, but the sun had shone since the early hours of the morning. She expects the day to be hot, after all it is June in the city that never sleeps. However, it takes her by surprise of how crisp the air feels, and a lone chill makes its way up her arms.
Fixing the chic yellow beret and adjusting a strayed mahogany curl, Jeanne walks towards the old Jewish quarter. She loves browsing the shops here, finding hidden gems for her apartment or grabbing a bite to eat, but today is Saturday, meaning Sabbath. Consequently, most of her favorite shops and restaurants are closed. Instead of dwelling on the fact that she can't raid her favorite bookstore, her footsteps take her to a nearby antique market. No different from other great European capitals, Paris boasts a vibrant art scene. Marais has been home to artists, eccentrics and the occasional hippy for decades. The charming doctor loves the fact that here Paris is intact, a real time capsule, transporting visitors to another era.
Browsing countless stalls, Jeanne's heart is set on a few larger size sketches. Counting her euros, she thinks about how well they would look hanging from the living room wall. Her low ceiling, exposed beam apartment sways between the classical and modern style with a touch of farmhouse. The sketches, snippets of 19th century bourgeois Paris, will complement the heavy, renaissance like paintings well. Now, all she needs to do is find a shop where she can frame them, but this would have to wait until Monday. Only after hearing the bell of Saint Gervais Church announcing midday, did she check her watch. The soft rumble of her stomach lets her know it's time for lunch. She had slept in today and in a rush not to miss the market's colorful stalls, had forgone breakfast. Preoccupied with all the lovely items, craftily displayed in the shop windows, Le Grenouille's daughter fails to notice the road her feet are taking her.
"Bonjour mademoiselle Benoit. Ça va?" a voice asks.
Startled, she turns only to find a man in an elegant garb with a white, fine pressed, apron smiling at her.
"Bonjour Ayer. Ça va bien, merci." she replies, gracing him with a smile.
Ayer steps aside, stretching his hand out in an inviting manner. Walking slowly, a hand on her beret, smiling happily she heads for her favorite table in the right corner of the terrace. Once seated her gaze travels to the impressive building on her left. Probably not as well known to tourists, Saint Gervais remains one of her favorite buildings in Paris. Almost 600 years old, the gothic vaulted ceiling church is home to many of its original elements. She loves to walk in, on a Sunday afternoon, take a seat in the pew, underneath exquisite stained-glass windows and meditate. Jeanne was never much of a church goer, but her belief in God is strong and it had helped her more often than she can remember.
She shifts in her seat, observing that few of the tables are occupied. Her line of sight shifts, looking at the entrance of her favorite bistro. Tucked into a medieval street right under the shadow of the impressive Saint Gervais church lay L'Ebouillante. After her move to Paris and the countless hours of exploring Paris, L'Ebouillante felt welcoming in comparison to others she had tried. Evenings spent on the quaint terrace or bundled up in the cozy dining room of the establishment, have always made her feel better after a trying day at the hospital. A clash of styles, that to some could seem rather kitschy, had won her over the day she had walked in. The bistro with its early 20th century chairs, tables and narrow staircase, it's naive paintings and Lautrec like posters felt heavy, proletarian in a way. Design wise, it always makes her think of a European between the war type of restaurant. The contrast between austerity, insanity and coziness is what she loves most about it. She adores the embroidered cushions and the colorful chairs. She is fond of the way the canteen like cutlery matches the elegant curve of the wine glasses. Shielded from tourists, L'Ebouillante represents the essence of Parisian living. Ayer walks calmly towards her table, drops a menu, a glass of Pinot Noir and a cup of strong coffee. Over the past year, since her move to Paris, Ayer has quickly become one of her closest friends. Together with his wife, Claudette, the trio had spent a myriad of evenings exploring Paris, dining or enjoying movies. The couple had tried setting her up numerous times, but it never worked out.
"How is Claudette, Ayer?" she asks, taking a sip from her coffee.
"Oh, she's fine. Waiting on you to call her and set up that girls retreat you've both mentioned countless times." he replies.
"So today, do you want to stick to the usual or be a little adventurous?" the man inquires as she is turning, lazily the pages of her menu.
"Hmmm, I don't know. I do like my usual, but today I feel living risqué." she laughs. Handing him the menu she goes on; "Surprise me, won't you!"
He nods, takes the menu from her outstretched hand and walks back towards the kitchen. A delicious feeling of contentedness washes over her, and Jeanne takes the time to observe the way people gravitate towards the Parisian tavern. Having enough of the crowd, Jeanne pulls a worn novel from her bag. Leafing through the pages in an effort to find the paragraph she fell asleep to the previous evening, she pulls a face when her stomach makes its noisy presence known. Self-Conscious, she looks around, hoping that nobody has heard.
Focusing on her book once more she curses her lack of foresight. The previous evening, exhausted from a horrendous shift, reading on the couch seemed a good idea. Sleep came swiftly as she was reading on the couch. When the thunder woke her up, it was past midnight. Exhausted she dragged herself to bed, ignoring the closed book on the living room floor.
Finally, finding a page that seemed familiar she skims the text, yet her mind refuses to focus on the page. Her senses are stimulated by the loud chirping of birds, aroma of freshly cooked food and her stomach growling. Annoyed, she takes a sip from her wine glass, shoving the book back into her purse. Light reflects briefly on a shiny surface and Jeanne reaches into her bag once more, extracting a glossy magazine. Jeanne had forgotten when she picked the issues of L'Officiel. Opening the magazine, with no recollection of when she had purchased it, she scans the table to contents, trying to decide if she should read the articles or browse through the column dedicated to Paris fashion week. Still hearing the faint sound of people conversing, hurried footsteps and folding of maps, Jeanne, stubbornly, turns page after page. At the end of the magazine her favorite column, the crossword puzzle, attracts her attention. Ayer hands her a pen and she quickly becomes absorbed by the riddles, failing to notice that the waiter left her food on the table, a large piece of quiche and a generous side salad, next to her wine glass and forgotten coffee.
"Person with a passion for movies" 8 letters. I wonder what it could be" she muses, tapping her pen on the page. As she reached for the wine glass, the distinct aroma of cheese and spinach drift towards her, provoking another rumble from her stomach. After folding the magazine, she pulls the plate closer to her. Jeanne feels her mouthwatering as the piece of quiche touches the tip of her tongue. Her eyelids close as the explosion of flavor engulf her senses.
"FILMBUFF" she fills out the solution to the crossword puzzle, taking another bite from her salad.
Her fork stops midair. A memory from long ago dances before her eyes. Swallowing hard, she tried to push the thoughts aside and instead focus on her dish. However, any appetite she might previously have had vanished the moment she solved the crossword. Disgusted, she pushes the plate away, the word "filmbuff" a specter from long ago.
Ayer takes the order at another table, but when he sees her looking at him, he drifts smoothly towards her table. She requests another glass of wine and Ayer raises an eyebrow yet does not comment. It's not unusual for Jeanne to treat herself a glass or two on Saturday.
Meanwhile, the woman tries to regain her composer. Picking up the fork she forces another bite down her throat. However, her heart will not quiet down. Absentmindedly she toys with the crust of the savory dish. As the waiter drops her second glass of wine and picks up the empty one, Jeanne's mind begins to fill with images from long ago.
"Ayer, could you please bring me an ashtray?" she calls for, before the man could fully turn away from her table. A concerned look crosses his face.
"Jeanne, are you okay?"
"Yes, no worries. I just felt like having one, after all, it's such a beautiful day." she replies, forcing a smile, one that any bystander can see is insincere.
Doubtful Ayer passes through the entrance of the bistro and grabs an ashtray. Moments later he sets it down on Jeanne's table. "You call me if you need anything, ok?" Only when she nods in acknowledgment does he respond to the call at an adjoined table. She waits until he is out of sight and turns to retrieve her tote from the back of the chair. Impatiently she ransacks its contents until she finds the pack of menthols and a pink lighter. It's a nasty habit, one she picked up after he broke her heart. Leaving DC meant the beginning of an on and off relationship with cigarettes. There could be months when she would not touch them and others when she would smoke at least a pack a day.
The first drag makes her nauseous, but she washes it down with some more wine. She hasn't had a cigarette in months, but now she physically craves the nicotine, although aware that the lack of food, the wine and the additional cigarettes she intends to smoke will cause her a splitting headache later.
"Filmbuff. Anthony DiNozzo" she whispers, the words rolling in her mouth, covered in cigarette smoke. He has not crossed her mind in years, not after the whole Frog story. It was because of that breakup and subsequently, her father's death that she left DC and the US for good.
For the first three months Jeanne hid out in Main, mending her broken heart, getting drunk and swearing revenge on Tony, NCIS and the whole world. Wallowing in self-pity took up all her energy and gradually she stepped away from her job, family and friends until the only thing left was take out and cheap chick flicks. It was her mother, doctor Helen Berkley who finally tracked her down and managed to put her back together.
Smiling softly, she pulls her mother's elegant features from the depth of her mind. It feels like she erased everything from her memory the day she left the States, including her parents. Jeanne remembers well the day her mother stormed into the house, pulling all the curtains open and airing the rooms. It was her that forcefully stripped Jeanne naked and pushed her in the shower to scrub herself clean. It was her that called and paid for the cleaning service that scrubbed the house, from top to bottom, while the two of them went out and got lunch. She had handled her emotionally scarred daughter with kid gloves. During those long hours on the deck of a Bar Harbour restaurant, Helen had slowly talked life back into her daughter. Since Jeanne had refused to return to DC and to her hospital post, Helen had suggested she enroll in Doctors without Borders, an idea that Jeanne flat out refused. Long after her mother had flown back to DC did Jeanne open the brochure, skillfully left on her kitchen counter. It took her two more weeks to decide and apply for the vacant position, but finally, after five long months from her breakup she received that call that made her pack her bags and board the first flight to Yemen.
She spent the following ten years abroad, three in Yemen, three in Côte d'Ivoire and four more in Sri Lanka.
Deep in thought Jeanne didn't notice at first that her cigarette had burned to the bud, Annoyed, she throws it into the ashtray, takes a piece of her quiche and angrily tries to suppress the memories of her and Tony. Yet the gate is open, and their time together comes rushing back. Lump forms in her throat and tears threaten to spill, so she grabs the wine glass and signals the waiter for another one. Sniffling, on the third try, she manages to light another cigarette, inhaling deeply and turning towards the people strolling on the cobbled stone street. However, her thoughts rush back to Tony, to their past. "I wonder how he is? Is he dating? Maybe he got married. Is he thinking about me?" she thinks while taking another drag from her cigarette. A shiver runs down her spine at the thought of Tony being married to another woman.
"Why is this still affecting me?" Jeanne muses, reaching for the coffee cup. Ayer comes by her table and sets the glass down. Looking behind him, he leans in, whispering. "Has something happened? Do you need me to call Claudette?"
"No, Ayer, it's ok. Nothing has happened, I just feel the need to do this today." She explains, yet his concern is written all over his face
"I'll be out of your hair soon, I promise." She goes on.
"Ok. I'll let you be, but if I see you reach for the stronger stuff, I am getting my wife here." At his remark she nods and in turn he leaves her table.
"I'll probably need to find another place to drink." She tells herself, extinguishing the last of her cigarette in the ashtray. Her mind strays to the other Jeanne, the kind hearted one, the one she used to be. This Jeanne is no longer a girl, she's a woman, who has seen her fair share of suffering, who has been hurt and has become jaded. Come to think of it she wasn't all that sure that she likes this new Jeanne. Sri Lanka, Yemen and other places she had seen during her Doctors without Borders time surface one by one. She can see herself in the petite apartment, in Yemen, one shared with three other women, crying night after night and asking herself constantly what Tony was up to. Then there was Côte d'Ivoire, her heart and thoughts less messy, but still unable to commit. Finally, Sri Lanka, where she found peace and the strength to come back to a normal life, to a less adrenaline packed environment.
Her mother gave her the idea of moving to Europe, to Paris, when Jeanne mentioned she felt ready to return to a more balanced life. Through her mother's contacts came the news of her considerable inheritance in both real estate and liquidity. Her father had been a careful man when it came to money and in all his endeavors, Jeanne's well-being had always been in the back of his mind. Her father's London based solicitor handled the necessary paperwork, allowing Jeanne to book the first flight to Paris.
Hailing Ayer once more she orders a bottle of sparkling water. It takes tremendous self-control not to burst into fits of laughter when relief washes over Ayer's face. She lights another cigarette, at this point allowing her mind to wander freely through all the decade old memories.
She remembers her arrival in Paris well. The pilot had trouble landing the plane due to the violent snowstorm. It had been January and the worn jacket was too light for such nasty weather. With the address of the apartment scribbled on a piece of paper, she hailed the first taxi she found. It was well past midnight, when the cab driver pulled in front of the Montmartre apartment. Taking the elevator to the sixty floor she pushed the key into its lock and opened the door to her father's loft for the first time since his death. She was greeted by dusty floors and cold rooms. Exploring the apartment left her disconnected from her past. Stories from her mother had always mentioned the happy memories, as a family, the three of them had shared here. It came as a surprise to find out that this had been her home until the age of six. She couldn't remember living here, nor her parents ever being happy or not yelling at one another. That night, exhausted, cold and hungry Jeanne slept on the couch, fully clothed. The feeling of abandonment had overpowered her in the following days. To cope more easily she sketched out a plan, her bright Parisian future.
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur with Jeanne sifting through her father's belongings and sorting the things she wanted to keep. Exploring the streets of Paris, the young woman found the district that she best identified with and would later become her home. Months passed before the perfect Marais apartment was found, a cozy piece of real estate, rich in history and character. Although no recollection of her childhood spent in Montmartre ever surfaced, she did not have the heart to sell her father's beloved abode. Renting it out made sure that the apartment stayed in the family, as well as provide her with additional income. The tenancy at Saint Joseph's was secured by one of her Doctors without Borders fellow, a man she closely worked with for two years in Yemen and also dated. They had decided to get married, only to have Jeanne break off the engagement and move to Sri Lanka.
Shifting in her seat, Jeanne reaches once more for the menthols. She knows it's a bad idea to go on smoking, but today her demons are more active than they have been in a while.
Dating had never come easy to her, especially after the DiNozzo fiasco. At times she was mad at him, thinking that he was the reason why she is broken. All these years, she never managed to let a man come close to her again, allow herself to love. A part of her hopes that Tony struggles as she does.
She shakes her head, her hair, a thick curtain of chestnut curls smelling of lavender, tangle slightly from the movement. After putting the cigarette out, she grabs the glass of water, feeling calmer. Somehow it has hurt a little less today than last time, maybe next time will hurt even less.
The sun hides behind stray clouds, no longer providing warmth and Jeanne shivers. As the sun, occasionally, peeks from behind the clouds, the young woman follows the shadows cast on the cobbled street. Countless young couples carrying bags of fresh produce, holding hands, walk by. Some stop to read the menu, others marvel at the grandeur of St. Gervais and others walk by, hurriedly, laughing. She enjoys watching people, but what she loves the most are those old couples. Sometimes she sees them, smartly dressed, arms linked, enjoying each other's company. They are not the type of couple that need hand holding or kissing to convey affection, they themselves, together after all these years, are a testament of their love. Deep down inside she still hopes one day to have that, and in those rare moments, when being sober is out of the question, she longs to reunite with Tony and live out her heart's desire.
Scanning the crowd, Jeanne's heart stops. At first, she believes that what she sees is a figment of her imagination, a ghost of the past she conveyed. Leaning over the table to get a better look she is startled to notice that the chimera is getting closer to her table. "I must be drunk." She thinks hands shaking slightly, heart hammering in her rib-cage.
Putting down the grocery bag, he turns around to gaze in the direction he came from. An impatient foot tapping and a glance at the designer watch convey his irritation. "It's always the same when we go shopping." he chuckles. Truth be told, he loves these Saturdays with his family and wouldn't trade them for the world. Turning around he scans the guests of the small bistro in hopes that his wife and daughter beat him to it. In the beginning he glares shamelessly, trying to figure out if the woman, sitting alone at the table, is the one he thinks she is. Not being able to identify correctly he walks closer, after briefly checking behind him once more.
Jeanne's throat closes up, her hands clammy and cold.
"He is real." Her mind screams.
"Jeanne?" He inquires, squinting a bit.
"Ye, ye, yes." She stutters. Unconsciously she pushes her chest forward and arches her chin higher.
"Heeey, I haven't seen you in ages." He grins and she can only look at him, words avoiding her lips.
"Twelve years," the woman finally speaks.
" Has it been that long?" He whistles and she tries to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
"Yes." Taking a deep breath, she briefly closes her eyes, for composer. In an even tone she greets him. "Hello, Tony." his name escapes softly and her whole being quivers.
An awkward silence sets between them and they both take the time to study one another.
Time has been kind on him, his hair having few traces of gray, his body muscular and in good shape. There are more lines on his face then she remembers, but then again it has been twelve years. Hell, her face must have at least a dozen, that have not been there before. Her eyes glide over his frame in admiration. Even in his late forties he's taste in fashion is impeccable. Dressed in a crisp, white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and a pair of slacks paired with nice Italian loafers. A grocery bag is safely nestled in the crook of his left arm. And then her heart stops and she feels that all the air has been sucked out of her. The simple, gold band on his ring finger, mocks and shatters all her fantasies. "He is married." Her mind screams.
Although she tries to take her eyes away from the wedding band, she fails to be discreet and he notices her gaze. He does not answer the pleading gaze she sends him. "Please tell me it isn't true".
Instead she forces herself to smile and ask pleasantly. "So, I take it you live in Paris?"
Relieved he dives head first into her question. "Yes, I moved a while back here. Loved it so much that I decided to stay. How about you? Are you visiting? Living here?"
"Living." She answers a little more aggressively than she wanted. "I mean, I have been living here for almost two years now. What do you do here, Tony? I didn't know you are that fluent in French that you could jump into law enforcement with such ease." She claws at him and he swallows the sarcastic comment that comes to mind.
He never expected to run into her in Paris, come to think of it he hadn't spared her many thoughts in all these years. Last he heard, from a mutual friend, she had joined Doctors without Borders. Those rare moments she did come to mind he hoped that she had found happiness. Now, sitting in front of him he doubted that Jeanne's life had followed the dreams she had carved out more than a decade ago.
"Huh. My French is better than it used to be, but I no longer work in law enforcement. My priorities have changed considerably in the past couple of years so now I run a private investigation office." He explains, checking his watch once more.
"Priorities change. Sure, Tony, keep telling yourself that" she mentally snorts.
"What priorities do you mean, Tony?" Her voice trembles just a little too much, her heart racing at the thought of an explanation for the wedding ring.
As he is about to explain, Jeanne notices movement close to Tony's. He sways, looks down and grins and she shifts in her seat for a better view.
"Ima says I can have ice cream if you say so." The melodic voice chimes. "So, daddy, can I have some? Please, please, please!" She pleads.
For a split second she is sure that her heart has shattered into a million little pieces. She is grateful that her former flame is engrossed in playful banter with his daughter and cannot see her shocked expression. "His daughter." her mouth feels dry, thinking about their relationship years ago. The mere mention of marriage and kids sent him into a full-blown panic attack.
Jeanne freezes upon hearing the voice.
"Tali, first you need to greet daddy's friend and introduce yourself, then we can talk about ice cream." Tony explains, leading the little girl, by the hand, closer to the table.
Jeanne drinks her in. She is a beautiful child, her curly hair is wild, the green scrunchy, used to keep her hair in check, is lost in her mane. Brown, soft eyes, Tony's eyes, are filled with mischief. She seems shy but curiosity gets the better of her as she's inching closer to Jeanne's table.
"Daddy, in what language do I introduce myself?" her frown puzzled as she looks up at her father.
"English, little one." he replays, while Jeanne raises an eyebrow. Leaning forward to be on eye level with the little girl she forces herself to smile.
"Hello, I'm Jeanne. What's your name?"
"Hello, my name is Tali David DiNozzo."
Jeanne can feel the pride in her voice, and she swallows down the bile, stretching her hand out.
Tali takes a hold of her hand and shakes it firmly. "Nice to to meet you Mrs. Jeanne. I'm five. How old are you?" the girl inquires boldly, and Jeanne can't help but laugh.
"Tali, I'm close in age to your daddy." the doctor retorts and Tali's furrowed brow reminds her of Ziva.
"How many languages do you speak?" Jeanne pressed on.
Sticking her tongue out, Tali counts on her fingers. "Four. English, Hebrew, Italian and French." she brags.
The line of inquiry dries up and Tali becomes impatient, her eyes wandering from table to table.
"Just like Ziva." she thinks bitterly. The ache in her chest intensifies and for a split second the thought of a heart attack crosses her mind. Quickly she sets the thought aside. "That's just my heart breaking all over again." the pretty doctor detected.
She can tell Tali has lost interest in her so she focuses on Tony, who can't peel his eyes away from the child.
Rage surges through her veins. "It should have been me! It should've been us getting married, not you and Ziva. You should have fathered a child with me, not with Ziva."
Their eyes meet and Tony can see her rage, can sense it. Stepping closer to Tali, he grabs her hand and pulls her slightly behind him.
"It was nice seeing you Jeanne, but we better get going. There is an ice cream parlor that this little girl needs to visit." His tone is light, his eyes steel. She can read the warning clearly. Flinching she pulls away from the duo, not being able to hold his gaze. Tony, the man of a thousand jokes is fiercely protective of his family and it is clear to her that he would stop at nothing to make sure that his girls are safe.
Tali, oblivious to the silent exchange smiles broadly, says her goodbyes and waves. Jeanne smiles weakly and waves back, but deep down inside she can't wait for the pair to disappear.
They turn away from her, walking hand in hand, engrossed in each other. Tali gesticulates, explaining something to her father, who smiles broadly. She can't stop staring at them, stop thinking of the future she will never have. Although she would never admit it out loud, she had hoped that she and Tony would eventually reunite. Somehow, she was sure that they were meant to be, and it was just a matter of timing. Yet here she was, drinking wine and smoking at a Paris cafe, watching the love of her life and his daughter walk away from her.
Long ago, she would have gambled good money that, in spite of their chemistry, Ziva and Tony wouldn't amount to anything except for a one-night stand. In her mind, Ziva was fuckable, but Jeanne was marriage material. She prided herself on being more beautiful than Ziva, more successful, more appealing, but in the end Ziva had the final laugh.
Out of a nearby shop a petite woman walks towards the pair. She's wearing a light, summer, dress, her posture relaxed. Jeanne can't see her face from this distance but knows who it is. The couple embraces and Tali laughs, their happiness is palpable.
In between the two, Tali continues to chat, while the family walks towards the end of the street. As the distance grows, Jeanne has a hard time making out any distinct features. It takes her a while to understand that she can't spot them anymore due to tears, freely gliding down her cheeks. She had held them at bay for far too long and Jeanne knew that she was mourning the life she will never have with Anthony DiNozzo.
Ça va - How are you?
Ça va bien - I'm good