She didn't get sick.
That was mostly true, at least. She rarely got sick. She could count on one hand the amount of time she was actually ill within the last decade. Flu season always missed her. She rarely got a cold. Hell, she hadn't even had as much as a stomach ache in years.
And yet here she was, laying in bed mid day and not in her office because she was ungodly ill.
She has her face buried in her pillow, doing her best not to focus on just how horrendously her body aches or the throbbing in the back of her skull. The cough she could live with, but the headache? The headache was killer.
The lights suddenly turning on makes it worse.
"I will shoot you." She growls.
The lights turn back off.
"Someone is in a bad mood."
Despite the pounding in her head and the dizziness it brought along with it she bolts upright in the bed and glares at the man standing in the doorway.
"You of all people should know I always have a gun within arms reach." She growls.
Gibbs closes the door gently, and though the room is filled with darkness once again she can practically feel the smirk on his lips.
"Shouldn't you be arresting someone or writing a report or doing anything else but standing in my bedroom?"
She doesn't even know if he has a case, and as far as she can remember the entirety of his team had already submitted their reports from their last arrest, but at the moment she could care less.
"No case." He replies, "Went to your office and Cynthia said you went home early."
"I have a fever according to Ducky." She grumbles, finally letting her head drop down against her pillow.
"Hmm," He hums, "Wondered why you took an extra long shower this morning."
Sometimes - more so lately - it escapes her how aware he was of her daily routine. They had practically been living together for almost a year; together as a couple even longer. She more or less knew his daily routines and the idiosyncrasies that came along with him, but it would truly never hold a candle to just how much he knew her. Not that she would ever admit that, of course.
"Helped with the headache." She supplies, "I thought it was just stress. Cynthia took to liberty of calling Ducky to come check on me."
"Ganged up on you?" He snorts.
She doesn't grant him more than a groan as a response.
"Must be kicking your ass if you actually took a sick day." He continues, and she can hear him taking a few tentative step towards him.
"You're going to be extra sorry when I shoot blindly at you," She grumbles into her pillow, "Because I don't have the energy to sit up and aim."
Suddenly a hand grazes against her forehead, his finger tips brushing her bangs away from where they were plastered on her fever ridden skin.
"Still warm." He comments lowly, all trace of teasing gone from his voice.
"Meds haven't kicked in yet." She surmises, "I'm freezing still, so fever hasn't broken yet."
Her eyes are closed but she can hear him sit something down on her bedside table.
"Coffee?" She asks hopefully.
"Tea," He answers, "Herbal something. Abby said it would help your throat. Figured the coffee would keep you up. Need to sleep when you're sick."
She hums, this time contentedly and not out of annoyance. Being married four times and a father once upon another life certainly made him apt on dealing with sick individuals.
And as much as he tries to maintain his gruff marine exterior Jenny knows that Jethro Gibbs could be awfully thoughtful.
"Thank you." She mumbles.
"Anytime." He answers evenly, though she can detect the slightest bit of fondness.
"Are you going back to the agency?" She questions, though the words come out a bit more tired and slurred than she intends.
"Not unless a case comes up."
"Good." She smiles despite the fact that he can't see it.
Because even though she was a strong woman and beyond capable of taking care of herself even when ill, there is a certain type of comfort having him in her home brings that cannot be replicated by anything.
"You want me to stay up here?" He asks, hand running soothingly up and down the length of her side and she marvels in the sensation for a moment.
"No," She answers, "Don't want to get you sick."
Gibbs snorts, "I don't get sick."
Despite the coughing for she knew it would bring along, she laughs.
"I said the same thing," She says once the cough subsided, "And here I am."
"I won't get sick." He asserts, and it occurs to her briefly that he's asking not out of obligation, but because he genuinely wants to stay there with her.
Still, she doesn't think the agency can handle both of them out with the flu.
"Not now," She bargains, "Later, after the fever breaks you can come keep me company."
She waits for a response - perhaps a protest - but it never comes. Instead she feels his lips brush against the flushed skin of her cheek. They feel cool against her burning skin and she has to refrain from telling him to do so again. Luckily she's saved from doing so when he stands up from where he was perched on the edge of the bed and makes his way across the room.
"G'night Jen." She hears him say as the door opens.
They don't vocalize their affection for one another often. They don't find the need to. She knows just as well as he does they way they feel about one another, so it may be the fever letting her imagination run wild, but she swears she hears a quiet love you as the door closes.
Maybe being sick wasn't the worst thing.
A/n: Seeing as how I am sick in bed (two years into working at a hospital during a pandemic and I only just got Covid) I thought this would be an ideal time to start updating some things I haven't touched. Hope all is well with everyone.
