He was alone when he woke, the bed cold beside him. Grabbing for his jeans he yanked them on and strode through the house, stopping at the sight of her tousled red hair in the living room chair.
He moved quietly around to face her and was shocked to see tearstained cheeks as she silently sipped from her coffee cup. She met his eyes, but said nothing.
What's wrong? He knelt in front of her, willing to do anything to make her pain disappear. Instead, fresh tears trickled down dried tracks. She looked at the ceiling and blinked, then stood, graceful even in her sorrow. She'd put her blouse back on and he watched as she walked into the kitchen, hem grazing her bottom, strong legs giving her body its enticing sway. She returned a moment later bearing a second cup of coffee and he took her unspoken offering, restraining the hand that wanted to caress her hair, her cheek, cup the breast straining at the thin fabric.
She slid past him, careful not to touch him and sank back down in the chair. She stared out the window, enjoying the feel of having been thoroughly satisfied and wondering what the hell possessed her to allow it. The man who stood too close to her was a danger to her sanity; he diminished her with his presence in her life even as he sought to enhance her. Physically, being with, being part of Jethro Gibbs was everything she could have ever dreamed of; stupid woman that she was, now that she'd tasted the forbidden fruit she wondered if she would have the strength to walk away. Because she dare not let herself stand on that treacherous precipice and look down again. It had cost her so much to walk away last time, she could not risk what it might cost this time. She felt the hated wetness sliding down her face again; she loathed that her weakness leaked out so visibly. Rather than swipe at the salty tracks, she sipped at the cooling black liquid, praying for its acidity to burn away her pain.
Gibbs stood and watched her, feeling powerless. He drank from the cup she gave him but didn't taste the fresh brew that she'd made. Seeing her tears sent splinters through his heart; he'd never wanted to make her cry. Longing to take her in his arms and soothe her distress, he reached out a hand in futility to the closed-up woman in the chair. She saw nothing but what her inner eye showed her and he ran the hand through his hair in frustration, sighing. He finished his coffee and carried the cup back to the kitchen then stood in the doorway watching her. Try as he might, he could not simply leave her there. Slowly he walked back over to her and gently touched her arm.
It's three in the morning and it's chilly out here. If you don't want to come back to bed with me, then at least take the guest bedroom. You need some sleep. Her eyes slowly focused on his as he spoke. Then she dropped her gaze to the now empty cup in her hand.
I'll take that. He lifted the piece of ceramic from her cold hands. I don't know what's wrong, but I promise that if you come back to bed with me, we'll just sleep. He stepped away from her and took the cup to the kitchen, setting it in the sink with his. When he returned she wasn't in the living room. He turned and headed back to bed, surprised to find her already there. Still in her shirt, half asleep, she looked like a goddess with her red hair splashed like flame on the pillow and her strong, muscular legs and bottom beckoning him to nestle close. He stripped off his jeans, told his overactive anatomy that it was not that kind of bedtime and curled himself around her.