A/N: Just a short little angsty Jibbs one-shot. Set during season 5, after La Grenouille's death.
It started slowly. At first, her responses still came, but were completely devoid of emotion, as though she were functioning on autopilot. Then they became fewer and far between, with her only speaking when she was left with no other option. Eventually, they stopped altogether, and she spoke to no one. It wasn't until he needed her help that Gibbs even thought of confronting her, of asking her what in the hell was wrong with her, and when he walked into her office, he had to fight to keep his annoyance under control.
"Need your signature."
She glanced up at him briefly, in between typing lines of an email, and nodded. He'd noticed the change in her demeanour almost instantly, but he'd still been too angry with her to let himself admit that he cared. He watched her as she worked, noticing that even her movements were slower, and frowned.
"Jenny, what's wrong?"
She ignored him, still typing, and he sighed in irritation. He was severely tempted to turn around and leave her alone in the room, let her deal with the repercussions of her own obsessions on her own, but something about the way she was sitting in her chair made him pause. Before, she had always held herself gracefully, with an unmistakable authority, and while it had occasionally irked him, he had always admired it. Now, she sat behind the desk as though even holding her head up was a struggle.
He noticed the tumbler of bourbon on her desk, but it was still nearly-full. That was an improvement, at least. She'd been flirting with alcoholism so much in the past year that he wouldn't have been surprised if she had never been sober. Wanting to evoke some reaction from her, Gibbs reached for the glass, taking a long drink of the amber liquid, and when she didn't reprimand him, he frowned. Now he was beginning to worry. The Jenny he knew would have never let him get away with that.
"Jen, will you answer me?"
She raised her eyes to his, but still, she said nothing. Nodding at her once, he turned on his heel and made his way to the door, waiting to hear her call his name. It wasn't until he had closed her door behind him that he realised something was seriously wrong with the redheaded woman he'd secretly loved for the past nine years.
Sighing as she sipped her bourbon, Jenny leaned back in the chair of her study. She'd never felt more lost, more alone, more empty than she did at the present moment. She'd thought that once she'd avenged her father's death that she would feel a sense of accomplishment, of closure, but she felt nothing close to it. Swirling the liquid around in her glass, she closed her eyes and tried to remember why she had ever thought this was the best path to take.
Even when her front door opened, Jenny didn't move from her place behind the desk. There was only one person who would have the audacity to come into her house uninvited, and she didn't have it in her to care anymore. He stopped inside the doorway, looking at her seriously, and she met his gaze coolly.
"We need to talk."
She raised her eyebrow in question and he sighed.
"Come on, give me something. What's going on with you?"
Her head shook, hair falling loose from the clip she'd pinned it in, and he rolled his eyes.
"Jen...say something. You haven't said a word in over a week. I don't care if you yell at me, tell me to go to hell, anything."
Jenny was silent, her eyes locked on the crystal glass in her hand, and he looked at her sadly. There was still one thing left for him to try, and he took a deep breath.
"Please, Jen."
The silence hung between them, so thick that it was nearly palpable, and he sighed.
"If you change your mind, you know where I am."
He turned around, and began walking down her hallway, wondering what in the hell had happened to the Jenny he'd once known and loved.
"Why?"
He barely heard her, nearly falling as he whipped around and returned to the study.
"Why what?" he asked, hardly able to believe she'd responded.
"Why are you doing this?"
The glass in her hand was now empty and he frowned. It had been full a few seconds ago and she raised tear-filled green eyes to his.
"You've changed," he said carefully, "I wanted to know if you're okay. I'm worried about you."
She shook her head.
"Don't worry about me."
"Too late. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on with you."
Jenny shrugged, and he stepped closer to her, his eyes searching hers seriously.
"It didn't help. Knowing he's dead...I thought it would make me feel better, but it doesn't. I just feel...empty."
He nodded.
"I know. It never makes you feel the way you think it will."
Jenny poured another drink, downing it in seconds, and he frowned.
"Jen...put down the bourbon and get some sleep."
She looked at him, the pain and anguish in her eyes so strong that it almost physically hurt him to meet her gaze.
"I...I can't," she whispered.
He watched her sadly from where he stood, taking in her shaking hands, pale skin, and bloodshot eyes. He'd known on some subconscious level that she'd been spiraling out of control, had tried to ignore the signs that were right in front of him until it was too late, and he shook his head.
"Jethro...please"
Staring at her for a moment, he took a deep breath, and stepped back. His eyes locked on hers, and she reached for his hand. Pulling his hand away, he walked to the door, glancing over his shoulder as he took a step.
"I can't help you, Jen. You have to do it yourself."
The tears that had filled her eyes spilled over and she bit back a sob.
"Jethro..."
"Good night, Jen."
She stared at the place he'd stood for nearly twenty minutes after he'd left, pouring another drink with hands that refused to stop shaking.
A/N: Damn, the angst. Poor Jenny.