Part IV

Gillian is sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, nursing her fourth scotch, when she hears Gibbs come through the front door, closing it quietly behind him. He heads down the corridor towards the light in the kitchen, his footsteps heavy and unhurried. He barely looks at her as he grabs a mug and pours himself a serve of the smooth liquor.

"Did you get him?" she asks gently, after a long silence.

"Yep," he nods, taking a long sip: "Not before he destroyed half her apartment though."

Gillian sighs: "Well, the main thing is that she's okay," she states smoothly.

Jethro looks at her, his brow crumpled: "You checked her out?"

"Yeah," she answers, tipping her head to one side as her eyes scan his face: "He didn't go easy on her. She's got a few nasty lacerations and she'll be a bit sensitive for a while. But, I'd say," she sighs faintly, lifting her drink: "the wounds are mostly internal."

"Where is she?" he asks, leaning back on the kitchen counter and scrubbing a hand through his silver hair.

"She's lying down," she says in a hushed voice.

Gibbs looks up at her from under his bushy brows. He falters before frowning: "In my bed?"

"Yes," she replies sharply: "She needed rest. And peace."

He nods reluctantly in agreement, but is obviously uncomfortable with the idea. He moves forward, shoving himself off the counter. But before he can reach for it, she grabs the bottle of scotch and pours him another drink. He nods his thanks, unsurprised by her pre-empting his craving. He lets out a troubled breath as he withdraws again, settling back against the kitchen counter.

"I don't know why she didn't come to me," he mutters darkly, staring at the floor.

Gillian gazes into her scotch. "From what she told me," she says carefully: "this was a one time occurrence. She doesn't seem like the type to put up with long term abuse."

He glances at her once more from beneath his brows, his expression skeptical. She can see that he's not entirely convinced of her professional opinion concerning a woman who he has known for years but she has only just met. He's seen more than his share of scumbags in his work -- but she's seen more of their handiwork and aftereffects. And she's fairly sure of her impression of his young colleague.

"And anyway," she adds, more insistently: "She did come to you, Jethro. As soon as she got out of there, she headed straight for your door."

He raises his head, pinning her with narrowed, indignant eyes: "You make it sound like there's something wrong with that."

"No," she responds swiftly, shaking her head at him: "there's nothing 'wrong' with it." She shrugs, continuing in a tentative tone: "I mean…I find it a little strange that she didn't go to a friend or boyfriend, even an ex." She gestures at him with one hand, her voice remaining impartial: "She went to her boss…" she pauses, meeting his suspicious gaze with an open countenance: "but there's nothing wrong about that."

"Then, why do I feel like I'm being accused of something?" he demands brusquely, his eyes spitting icy daggers at her across the kitchen.

She sighs in frustration. "You're not being accused of anything," she assures him evenly, leaning across the countertop and trying to lessen the distance between them. They rarely talk this way with each other, and now she knows why. They really aren't very good at it.

"She trusts you," she tells him gently, her eyes holding his: "That's a good thing."

Jethro grimaces uncomfortably, averting his eyes from her perception and her understanding. He sets his scotch aside and runs a hand over his face, huffing tiredly. She watches his movements closely, studying every facet of how he looks and moves and sounds, both impartial and tender in her regard. Then, she pushes her unfinished drink away from her and slips off the high stool.

"I'm going to get moving," she murmurs quietly, straightening her skirt.

Jethro peers at her, his hand resting over his mouth: "You're not going to stay?" he mumbles, surprised.

Her mouth turns up in one corner: "Where do you suggest I sleep?" she asks lightly: "The couch? It's too late for dinner and I don't intend to watch you build your boat all night."

He stands up straight, shuffling on his feet: "But… what if she wakes up?"

"Well, you could try talking to her," she suggests over her shoulder as she turns and heads for the door.

He frowns as he follows her down the corridor, watching from a distance as she retrieves her bag and her coat from the stand by the door. She flicks her red curls out from the collar of her dark coat and turns towards him.

"But whatever you do, Jethro," she continues in a quiet voice: "be gentle."

He holds his hands out at his sides and demands exasperatedly: "What exactly do you think I'm gonna do to her?"

She steps forward, leveling him with a flinty stare: "None of this is her fault."

"I know that," he retorts indignantly.

"So tell her that," she urges, raising her eyebrows at his irritated expression: "She needs to hear it from someone she trusts. Maybe--" she stalls, turning towards the door before murmuring softly: "…maybe that's why she's here."

Gibbs strides forward, opening the door for her to exit and muttering mechanically: "I'll call you tomorrow."

"No," she replies briskly, turning to him on the threshold: "You won't."

He glares at her incredulously. "I won't?" he questions pointedly.

"No," she repeats, adamantly: "And I don't want you to."

"Why?" he asks, his face creased with confusion.

It takes her over a minute to answer him. She slips on her gloves, staring at her hands as she tries to put words to what she feels in her gut, as she strives to fashion some sentence he will actually buy. The reasons have always been there, against them. They've both known it. They've both ignored it.

But that's not what he's asking for. What she needs now is an explanation for what has changed all of a sudden, why all those reasons matter now when they never did before. She looks back at his face, as her mind lights on the simplest summation she can create.

"Because," she muses, hesitantly: "Because… we're not good for each other, Jethro." She sighs and shakes her head: "I'm not sure that we ever were."

"Don't you think I should decide what's good for me?" he retorts testily, his eyes piercing her with their resentment.

"Yes," she replies mildly: "You should. You really should. And," she moves a little closer to him, ignoring his hostility and laying a calm hand on his jacket: "if you would like my professional opinion on the matter, I would say-- go upstairs -- and talk to Kate."

"Kate?" he stutters, dazed and lost: "What's Kate got to do with this?"

"She's got everything to do with it," she tells him, a little irritation slipping into her smooth voice: "She's probably more a part of it than I am." She purses her lips and admits somewhat reluctantly: "And she'll be better for you than I ever was."

"So, I'm being dumped here?" he growls impatiently: "Is that what you're telling me?"

She wets her lips and takes a deep breath: "What's good for me," she tells him evenly: "is a clean break. So, do me a favor," she tips her head to one side, her eyes glinting sadly: "Don't call me… don't fight me… don't follow me…." She moves closer and puts a hand on his cheek: "Just let me go."

"Gillian--" he protests, but the words die in his throat as she leans in and plants a lingering, tender kiss on his cheek.

"Bye, Jethro," she breathes, drawing back, a thoughtful expression passing across her face.

She takes a few steps away from him, the silence stretching between their bodies. Stopping on the first step, she turns back to him, standing solid and stunned in the entrance, his hand gripping the door and his face stoney.

She swallows tightly, her heart softening. "Take care of her," she nods, holding his eyes for an instant. And when he doesn't give any response, she descends the rest of the stairs and walks away, slipping quickly into the chill night.

TBC…