Finding it hard to fall asleep
She won't let anyone help her
The look on her face, a waste of time
She won't let go, gonna roll the dice
Losing her grace, starts to cry
I feel her pain when I look in her
The sun is low in the sky, barely over the trees, casting long shadows through the bedroom. Jen's been lying awake for an hour give or take. She can't see the clock and didn't bother to look. She knows it's early; does the exact time actually matter anymore? She knows it's Monday. That much still matters. Her circadian rhythms are so messed up, her body doesn't know if it's coming or going. A small part of her isn't sure she even really cares. She's been having trouble finding meaning in her life this past week. All of a sudden, she's nobody. A nobody for an agonizing three years. It's been more than a week if she's honest with herself, but at least she used to have plenty of distraction. And she had thought she'd found a solution. So much for that.
With a sigh, Jen rolls her head to the side and looks at him from under the bangs that had fallen in her eyes. Even if she didn't have her health, she still had him. Sort of. Blindingly obvious or not, they still hadn't admitted anything to each other. Briefly she wonders how long it'll be before his alarm goes off, but decides she'll just get up anyway. Her messed up sleep patterns have messed his up by proxy. Every time she wakes up during the night, she knows he wakes up just on instinct. But she wouldn't expect any less. She's run out of things to think about and the silence is starting to get to her. She swings her feet to the floor and stands slowly. Time to pretend she actually gives a shit.
Jen grabs her shirt-his shirt-from the day before and wanders into the bathroom to change. Funny how she still felt the need for privacy and modesty. They can share a bed but baring all for him was too much? Why? The long t-shirt she's been sleeping in gets peeled off with great difficulty and then hung on the back of the bathroom door next to the other shirt. She pulls on the sweatpants without trouble, but stops when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She looks thinner, the waistband hanging on her hips precariously. Her cheekbones seem more pronounced and angular in ways she doesn't remember them ever being. She looks like hell. She feels like hell.
As she stands there, green eyes stare back. She almost doesn't recognize them as being her own. Her gaze travels down to the swath of white gauze between her breasts. For some reason, she feels like she needs to ready herself to peel the bandage off every morning. She's not used to feeling like the Bride of Frankenstein. She goes to pull the tape off and has trouble grabbing at one corner, but eventually she gets it going. She's too distracted to notice her fingers aren't cooperating as well as they should. The tape and gauze comes away easily and she's left with the ugly stitches and the angry incision. She peels the bandage off the matching wound from the chest tube and finally off the incision on her shoulder. The evidence of the bullets themselves is barely noticeable.
She's a mess. Jenny Shepard is never a mess.
This isn't who she is. Or maybe it is. She's not even sure who she is anymore. She digs her teeth into her lip and screws her eyes closed. It worked for Abby sometimes. After a moment, Jen opens her eyes again and nothing has changed.
She doesn't want this.
And as soon as she realizes exactly what she's thinking, she hurries up as best she can-clean dressings on the incisions, button down shirt pulled on-and gets out of the bathroom as quick as she can. Because he must be awake by now and he'll worry if she takes too long, right?
Yeah. He'll worry.
Jen comes out of the bathroom, studying the buttons down her front. "Stop for directions?" he asks, standing across the room from her. Her head snaps up and she glares at him as she pulls the shirt closed more. No bra; can't clasp it. And hell if she'd let him do that.
"No," she answers abruptly, not inviting more conversation. She goes back to fighting with the buttons on the shirt. He just raises his eyebrows before walking around her and closing the bathroom door behind him.
And now she's having such trouble with the buttons on her shirt. She just. Can't get her fingers to do what she wants them to do. One-handed buttons are mildly hard to start with, but she could do it. And now she just can't. She feels useless and helpless but dammit if she won't keep at it. He comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later and walks around her again.
"You still fighting with my shirt, Jen?" he asks as he moves around the bedroom, readying for his day.
She shoots him another glare, but while she wasn't looking, she loses her hold on the button again. "Dammit," she spits, starting over yet again. She's getting frustrated that she can't manage a simple task that she had done hundreds of times before and she's really just wanting to throw the shirt at the floor.
Her swear catches his attention and he stops with his own buttons. He stands close to her, but doesn't reach out to help her.
"The button holes…they're just sewn tight," she says, keeping her head down and her eyes locked on the offending button, "I don't need your help. I can get it, Jethro." Except she does and she can't. When it slips again, she just drops her hand to her side and stands there. And in a heartbeat, she's losing it and he's gathering her in his arms. She just stands there, unmoving, crying deeply.