Author: Morgan72UK
Title: Rite of Spring
It must have been spring. Though if anyone had asked he would have scoffed at the idea of being effected by something as ephemeral as the change of the seasons.
For all he followed the evidence he would never have made a connection between the end of the long, dark days of winter and a sense of rebirth and rejuvenation.
It might have been the spring. It was the first morning he emerged from his house without it being dark and in his yard the first shoots of green were starting to peep through – but of course he didn't notice that.
It couldn't have been the way he sat next to her in MTAC that morning and noticed, almost without realising it, that her shirt was a little lower than normal and his position afforded him a tantalising vision of pale skin and coloured satin. When she looked up from the file he'd brought her and realised where his gaze was directed she raised an eyebrow enquiringly and his rueful grin wasn't by any means an apology.
It might have been the scent of her perfume, because it stayed with him all day, as though it had sunk into his senses, conjuring up her presence at inconvenient moments.
It couldn't have been the moment later in the afternoon when he left the elevator in time to hear McGee say worriedly, "that's Gibbs' coffee…" and rounded the corner to see her perched on his desk, his coffee cup in hand – clearly having already taken a mouthful of his coffee. Her smile was as unrepentant as his had been earlier and she took another swallow of his coffee before she handed the cup back to him, her fingers perilously close to his.
It definitely wasn't watching Tony and Ziva bicker their way through the afternoon, because that evoked feelings of irritation, resulting in head slaps.
It might have been the moment when he strode past Cynthia, straight into her office – to stop dead in his tracks just inside the doorway at the realisation that he'd caught her in the act of fixing a stocking. The memories from the past assailed him, of undressing her and sliding his hands over stockings until he found flesh. Of watching her dress, seeing her in a hotel room, fastening stockings exactly as she was doing now – and then reaching for her even as she protested that he would make them both late.
He couldn't quite remember what he'd come to talk to her about – and his mumbled apology and hasty retreat was frankly pathetic. The long, smooth display of leg was distracting enough, but he wasn't sure how he was going to get through the rest of the day knowing what she was wearing under her skirt.
It wasn't the stockings, the perfume, the view down her shirt or her smile as she swiped his coffee. None of these things on their own were enough – and even in combination they perhaps wouldn't have been enough. But it was spring.
It wasn't late when he returned to her office, though the rest of his team had gone home. This time she was sitting behind her desk, glasses perched on her nose, files spread out before her.
"Remember what you wanted last time?"
"Haven't a clue. Did you eat?" She shook her head and then looked surprised as he rounded the desk and pulled her to her feet. "Let me buy you dinner?"
"Jethro?"
"Dinner – at the French place you like."
"You'll never get a reservation,"
"Already arranged."
"What's the occasion?"
"Have dinner with me Jen."
It might have been spring that prompted the invitation, though he likely didn't know it. He'd never believe that it was spring that persuaded her to accept, sending her away from the office in enough time to change into a dress the colour of her eyes, the front cut every bit as low as the shirt he'd been so interested in earlier.
The restaurant was discrete and out of the way, the food less pretentious than he'd expected and actually extremely good. The candlelight made the atmosphere soft and romantic and it was surprisingly easy not to talk about work. She watched him over the top of her wine glass and he knew she wanted to ask what was happening – he was relieved when she didn't, because he wasn't sure. He didn't know that it was the spring, the something inside him was loosening, unfurling every bit as tentatively as the early buds in his yard.
It might have been the spring that made him invite her back to his house for coffee – and it was certainly spring that meant they didn't get around to making coffee until the following morning. When they left the house together, so he could drive her home for a change of clothes, neither of them noticed there were a few early flowers in the front yard.
But that didn't matter – spring had done its work.
The End
