[A/N: This is the same scene from two different perspectives.]

She looks uncomfortable as she lays somewhere between her back and her side, trying to stay asleep. He knows she doesn't sleep much at night. Late, when the pain medications wear down and wear off, he hears her get up. But he never follows. He gives her all the space she needs. But now, on a Saturday afternoon, he's home and she's there and he can't help it when he stops to watch her. She's been living in his button down shirts and sweatpants for a week now. The first time she did it, he's pretty sure he gawked at her. The second time, he laughed. And by the third, he didn't say a word. But by then, he didn't have to.

His eyes scan over the coffee table and the orange prescription bottles side by side with a half-full water glass. Leaning over her, he picks up the bottle of Riluzole. Not one he's familiar with. The other two are an antibiotic and a painkiller-SOP after heart surgery.

"You smell like sawdust, Jethro," she mumbles without opening her eyes.

"And you tricked me, Jen," he answers with a small smile. Caught him, actually. He sets the pill bottle back where it was and sits in the space between the couch armrest and her head. They've gravitated towards each other like the Earth towards the center of the galaxy as he adjusts to her not being his boss anymore and she adjusts to everything.

"Just don't get it in my hair."

Too late.

"You okay?" he asks, watching her. She doesn't move from where she's laying and he wonders if she's as uncomfortable as she looks. Probably is. But he knows she won't say so.

"I'm fine," she answers as she opens her eyes. He can see the realization cross her face as she remembers she left her pills on the table.

"You're not. Tell me what's going on." He pauses a moment, waiting for her to answer, "Or I'll get Ducky to tell me. Your choice, Jenny." She continues to lay there silently with her eyes closed and her knees curled up and her bare feet dangling off the end of the couch. It's not even half as graceful and commanding as she used to be. For the first time in the entire time he's known her, he thinks she looks small and fragile. And he doesn't like it. His fingers comb through the strands of her red hair. "What are you waiting for?"

Finally she answers him. "Mike Franks asked the same thing. In the diner."

"And?"

"I didn't have an answer for him." She falls quiet again for a moment and he just waits patiently, running his fingers through her hair. "I should have died in the diner. I made the decision and I waited for it. It was on my terms."

"Why?" he prompts.

She keeps her eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of her. "Because I'm dying anyway. Jethro, I have ALS."

"How long?"

"Three years, maybe five," she answers softly, "And by then, I won't be able to do anything myself." She looks up at him and he looks back at her. He knows what she doesn't have to say: a quick death in the California desert would have been more merciful. A thick silence falls between them, but neither one looks away. Finally, she breaks it, "Franks figured it out and still said I have time to make it right between you and I."

He holds onto the silence a bit longer, watching her in his oversized shirt and sweats with NIS down the leg, a neutral expression on his face and pure affection in his eyes. "You do," is all he says.

She hears him come up from the basement and close the door softly. She's been trying to nap for the last however long, but she just can't seem to find a comfortable position. Not that his couch is uncomfortable. Between having an arm that's out of commission and that whole 'having her chest wired closed' thing, she's definitely had better days. She's lucky to be alive, but that depends on the definition of lucky. Though it's given her a fairly good excuse to steal his clothes. Aside from the fact that all of hers went up in flames. She's been living in his button down shirts because they're easy to get on. Buttons can be done with one hand. And they smell like him. She feels comfortable and safe.

Without needing to open her eyes, she knows he's in the room with her. She heard him walk in and she heard the lack of sounds after that. She knows he's watching her. Then she feels him lean over her, but to do what she's not sure. She doesn't care. For a brief moment, she likes having him that close. She can smell the boat on him and the scents of his basement.

"You smell like sawdust, Jethro." Her words are lazy and sleepy as they tumble off her tongue.

She feels him lean over her again, "And you tricked me, Jen." She smiles slightly. He knew she wasn't really sleeping. He squeezes into the space by her head, his thigh pressed against her hair and they couldn't get any closer if they tried.

"Just don't get it in my hair," she nuzzles the fabric of the couch and his leg in the process. She keeps her eyes closed, just focusing on the feeling of him so close to her. Sawdust and beer and him. And she doesn't feel quite so uncomfortable anymore.

"You okay?"

And there it is, the question he asks at least once a day every day since she started taking up space in his house. All things considered, she's fine. "I'm fine," she answers as she opens her eyes. And now she knows what he was leaning over her for. She left her pills on the coffee table. Usually she's more careful than that, but she's so out of sorts, it never even occurred to her.

"You're not. Tell me what's going on." She doesn't answer. She has no intention of answering. Even now, she doesn't want him to know. Stupid. It's right in front of him and she has no way out. He'll call her on the lie. "Or I'll get Ducky to tell me. Your choice, Jenny." Fuck choices. The last nine years were laid out because of her choices. Choices she wants to take back. She can feel his fingers in her hair now and she closes her eyes again. "What are you waiting for?"

And she still doesn't know. "Mike Franks asked the same thing. In the diner."

"And?"

And what? What does he want her to say? "I didn't have an answer for him," she responds truthfully. She lapses into silence and his fingers don't stop. What is she waiting for? Nothing. "I should have died in the diner. I made the decision and I waited for it. It was on my terms." It's all about decisions and choices and how she desperately wants to change them.

"Why?"

She opens her eyes and looks into his living room, getting lost in her thoughts. "Because I'm dying anyway. Jethro, I have ALS."

Now he knows. But he doesn't seem surprised. He already knew in part. But that doesn't make it feel any better. "How long?"

"Three years, maybe five." Again with that being lucky thing. An extra two years of being betrayed by her own body doesn't sound like luck to her. "And by then, I won't be able to do anything for myself." She looks up at him and he looks back. He'd take care of her, but she doesn't want him to. Neither one of them should have to go through that. And his last memories of her shouldn't be those. The silence gets heavy between them until finally, she speaks up again, "Franks figured it out and still said I have time to make it right between you and I."

And that's the truth of the matter. He's still quiet, watching her. Three years of him looking at her the way he is now and she might be able to make it.

"You do."