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Day 6: Wearing each other's clothes
Timeline: Married two months.
It was the first anniversary of the attacks since her remarriage, and through the approaching week Gibbs had kept that in the back of his mind. He still vividly remembered last year - she had struggled so much, and rightly so.
He hoped it might be easier this year - she wasn't alone, she had him to lean on - but then, he wondered if it might be so odd for her to find herself remarried that she'd freak out and stay at work - all in all, he didn't know what to expect, so around the time she was supposed to come home, he called his daughter.
"She left work, Daddy," Kelly said, answering the phone immediately. "But Tony thinks she's going to the cemetery."
Gibbs grunted vaguely, processing that. He supposed she wouldn't like it if he followed her there. He didn't know where Jim and Peter Lauren were buried, anyway.
"She seem okay?" he ventured.
"No," Kelly said bluntly. "She was awful."
Startled by the honesty, Gibbs fell silent. Kelly sighed heavily.
"Dad, I don't really know what to say about this or what to tell you," she paused. "It's just, you know, you can't really escape what day it is - news, memorials, the President."
Gibbs interrupted her with a grunt.
"Thanks, Kelly, I'll look out for her," he promised.
He hung up quickly, and stood there a moment, trying to decide what to do. He finally thought it best to just go downstairs, pour some bourbon, and work on the boat until his finely turned Marine ears heard a car in the drive - and that is precisely what he did.
He noted the car doors slam, the front door slam, the shuffling around - then, to his surprise, he heard her in the laundry room briefly. She turned, however, apparently changing her mind, and then the floor creaked, quieter and quieter until she found the bedroom.
He wiped off his hands on a towel, shot back some bourbon, and went upstairs. He rubbed his palms on his jeans and wandered into the bedroom. Jenny was sitting on the bed, in the middle of pulling in a flannel button-down that drowned her.
He arched his brows and approached slowly, his jaw tense. He didn't recognize the shirt. She rolled up the sleeves, flicking her eyes up at him to acknowledge his presence and clearing his throat. She sighed and pushed her hair behind her ears.
She looked up.
"I usually come home and get drunk," she said dully. "Mind-numbingly drunk - so drunk I just .. I sing, or talk to Ghandi."
He quirked his lips up a little.
"I know."
"Ah," she breathed out, pointing at him. "That's right; you do."
He looked her over, a little nettled by the shirt - he didn't want to assume it was her late husband's, but he really didn't recognize it. He set his jaw, and pointed towards the bathroom.
"Bath?" he asked quietly. "Massage," he offered, more of an order than a question.
Her lips trembled as she pursed them.
"I suppose that's in lieu of me getting piss drunk," she said ruefully.
He gave her a look.
"Didn't ever work, did it?" he asked, shrugging bluntly. "The drinking."
She didn't answer, but she acknowledged the comment silently. He went into the bathroom and started the water, dragging her candles and bubbles and whatnot out of the bath. He took his shirt off and threw it on the ground while he tested water, and then while it ran he came back out and folded his arms, staring at her.
She turned to him, pressing her tiptoes into the floor and bracing her palms on the bed.
"What?" she asked, ragged, apprehensive.
"That Jim's shirt?" he asked - he couldn't really let it go; that didn't bode well for him or their marriage.
She blinked. She looked angry briefly, and then she brought a hand to her nose, hiding her face a moment.
"No," she answered harshly.
"Never seen it," Gibbs remarked.
"I found it in your closet, on the floor, wrinkled," she said in a rush. She pushed her hair back, and threw out her hands. "I used to go home and put on his clothes," she burst out. "I thought that might be crass considering," she gestured between them. "Today, I was trying to think about my husband, and I kept thinking - but it's okay, he's home and he's fine -and then, what? Jim's not my husband anymore? I forget all about him?"
Gibbs listened to the outburst, and after a long silence, he said:
"He was. I am now."
He went back into the bathroom, stripped down, and grabbed a robe. He slipped it on, maneuvering a little, and then gave himself a grim look in the mirror before raising his voice -
"Get in here, Jen."
He thought she might ignore him, but she came in slowly, pushing the door open hesitantly. She opened her mouth, and to her surprise - and his relief - she burst out laughing.
"You look," she gasped, and leaned against the sink.
He'd slipped on her robe, in the hopes of getting some amusement out of her - and it had worked; he looked like something out of a comic, in the short, silky-satin-y thing with birds embroidered on it.
She covered her mouth with a flannel-sleeve covered hand, grinning, and then she stepped forward and slipped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly. He smiled and kissed the top of her head; when she started to cry, he didn't take it personally.
-alexandra