a/n: favorite so far.

Positano

He'd left behind smoky, chaotic, crowded bars when he'd gotten marred – the first time; the real time – and he didn't know why he was here now, why he kept letting Franks drag him out to this busted up old cantina.

He drank beer, he inhaled cigar smoke, he listened to loud mariachi music, he watched the half-naked women stumble around, listened to them flirt – but he didn't enjoy it; he wasn't interested.

He wasn't interested in the sweet little number dancing on that tabletop in front of Franks, and he wasn't any more interested in the sharp, demurely clothed barmaid – Camilla Charo, Franks' special contact in the city.

He nursed a Corona and observed, hardly even interested in his own lack of curiosity about these women; he was still to absorbed in the aftermath of the explosion two months ago to care that he hadn't had contact with a woman since –

- he came up short; another thing he couldn't remember?

"You want another beer, Gringo?" Camila asked, winking at him slyly. She flicked a soft towel in the direction of the dancing girl. "No interested in Marisa?" she teased. "What's the matter, Leroy Jethro, stud like you cannot keep up with the viejo pendejho?"

She laughed at him bluntly, and Gibbs turned to glance at his old mentor, shaking his head in disbelief – Franks, at his age, acting like some kid fresh on liberty – but then, Camila had a point; where was Gibbs' libido, lost in the past?

He couldn't remember the last woman he'd been with, the last time he'd wanted someone – he lifted the beer to take a sip; Camilla slammed a glass down in a metal sink and the sound rang some sort of old bell –

-she was slamming things around in the tiny kitchen. Ceramic banged on stone and water ran and metal clashed against plastic, and she muttered to herself, swearing, lines of frustration etching into her face.

"I'm not doing it for my health – if it were up to me, you could leave your bandages off all day, get an infection – get gangrene. I hope your torso falls off - but we need you for the mission," she went on and on, half to herself, half to him – she knew he was listening, "so Decker says I can't let you drop dead – but you won't sit still, you won't take your fucking antibiotics…"

Slam, bang, crash – was she even washing the dishes, or just trying to give him headache that throbbed even harder?

He rolled his eyes and poured another glass of bourbon, and she shot him a nasty look.

"S'all the medicine I need," he managed, gruff and hoarse – the deep, mildly infected bullet wound just under his left ribcage was killing him today, and she'd caught him letting it air out, exposing the ghastly hole to the Italian air.

"…don't know if you've noticed, but this isn't the goddamn wild west, Jethro, you can't just drink whiskey and pretend it's penicillin – if someone hadn't already shot you, I'd do it myself – "

"That's a good one," he said dryly. "Diane used a golf club, but I think I could book you on a bullet."

She slammed something down and turned around.

"This isn't funny!" she shrieked.

His eyes widened, and she stormed over and took the whiskey violently. She downed it, licked her lips, and then threw the glass so hard it shattered into the sink.

"You think you're tough, Jethro?" she asked, her voice threatening. "You think this turns me on, your bravado, you acting like it doesn't hurt?"

He grit his teeth, and she pushed him, looking a little too satisfied when he winced. He grabbed her hands to keep her from doing it again, and held her fingers tightly, and she wiggled them.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she murmured tightly. "You can give me that brave face all day, Gibbs, but you wake up with chills at night, and you beg for meds – and it's because you tricked me," she snapped.

"Tricked you?"

"You told me you were better, you told me – "

He ran his hands up her arms and touched her shoulders, glancing down at the bullet wound – it had gotten worse, and it was because he hadn't taken her or it seriously; he had tried to turn their banishment to this villa into a sexy getaway –

"Aw, c'mon, Jen," he tried, half-heartedly. "You wanted it."

His attempt at convincing her he was fine by showing her in bed hadn't gone down as planned –

"I want you to get better," she said, shaking him off. She stepped back. "I want you to get better, Jethro!"

"Thought you wanted my torso to fall off," he retorted dryly.

She turned back to the sink, and she started picking up glass. She swallowed hard, and he saw how tight her muscles were, how stressed and worried she was, and he felt a pang of guilt.

She shook her head.

"Memory is trying to inform me that I like your torso," she murmured, she glanced at him, and shrugged, "maybe if you take your medicine, let yourself heal, next time you can fuck me for longer than four seconds."

He glared at her, striding forward with a growl, turned on the sink water, and splashed it up to her aggressively – didn't lack of ability to perform get excused if you'd just taken a bullet –

-he remembered it clearly, too clearly, not only that fight, but the night she'd referenced, the night he'd stumbled through sex , handicapped by a bullet wound and an anti-biotic dulled sex drive –

And he remembered her face, the look that had always been in her eyes those few weeks – fear, anxiety, concern, while he'd only been aggressive, combative, annoyed that he was being coddled –

He found himself staring at that dancer, topless now, wondering if he stared long enough, if her long brown hair would turn red, and he'd be back in –

Positano.

Positano, Italy, that's right – a haven for him to recover in, before they went somewhere else on their clandestine tour of Europe – every time something came back to him, the question of just how much she'd meant lingered frustratingly in his mind –

Franks leaned over the bar, grinning, rapping his knuckles for another shot.

"Probie," he drawled. "You got any singles? Lola's up next."

Franks doubled over cackling, and Gibbs drained his beer, swallowing down an Italian villa, in a small town, in a year that had slipped away.

Positano

-alexandra