Rachel and Jenny sat at the kitchen table, eating their dinner. Noemi had gone home to make a meal for herself and her daughter. And while Rachel was enjoying the creamy fettuccine alfredo with chicken and peppers, Jenny was more occupied in pushing it around on her plate and only sampled it with the occasional bite.

Rachel kept an eye on her friend, noting the faraway look in her eyes as Jenny tried to pay attention to the story she was telling.

"It wasn't the first time I've gotten stepped on by a horse," Rachel finished, smiling, "but it was the last time I defied orders and wore running shoes. My boots have a much harder top. But I guess two broken toes and having to hobble for a couple weeks while they healed is a good enough lesson."

"You always did do things the hard way," Jenny commented, pushing her plate away and reaching for her glass of water.

Rachel took another bite, chewed it slowly and finally swallowed. "How long since you've eaten a full meal Jen?"

Jenny jostled her water glass and nearly spilled it. Her eyes pleaded with her friend. "Please Rach, can you just be the only person in my life right now who does not make a big deal about my eating habits or lack thereof?"

Rachel took a drink. "I could," she considered, "if I didn't care about you."

Jenny looked up, fire in her eyes. "That's what everyone is saying."

"Yeah, but you forget," Rachel said softly, "I've been there."

The fired died out of Jenny's eyes and she dropped her head. "I know."

"Don't you remember dragging me to the cafeteria, practically force feeding me cereal and toast in our room, that huge fight we had one night because you didn't understand I couldn't explain how I felt?"

Jenny nodded wearily, blurry images of that first six months dragging themselves up from the bottom of her mind. "I remember."

"So how long?"

"You know how long Rach. I've only eaten a few bites at every meal since the day I got back from that..." she paused, finishing quieter, "from that place."

"What's it feel like?"

Jenny frowned. "What does what feel like?"

"Your stomach, when you try to eat?"

"Half the time it feels like I'm going to throw up," Jenny admitted. "Remember when I ate some bad shellfish our first year?"

Rachel laughed gently. "You were sick for three days."

"Gotta love spending some quality time sleeping on the bathroom floor and spilling your guts into the porcelain every time you so much as twitch."

Her friend let the mirth die away a little. "Is that why you're not eating?"

"It's not even that I don't want to eat Rach. Sometimes Noemi will make something that smells wonderful, or Jethro will order Chinese, and it tastes good." She rolled her eyes. "For the first three seconds. As soon as it hits my stomach, it starts churning and I get that awful feeling like I'm going to throw up. I hate that. So of course I don't want to eat any more."

"Are you hungry?"

Jenny shrugged. "I don't know. I know I should be, I know this isn't good for me, I know Jethro worries when he can see how little I'm eating. But I don't know what to do to fix it." She looked up at Rachel. "How long was it before you wanted to eat?"

"After the first couple weeks, maybe a little longer, food started sounding good again. But I wasn't just not eating because my stomach was upset Jen, in some way I thought I could punish myself for what happened by withholding food."

Jenny drew her brows together and looked at her friend questioningly. "Rach...I didn't know that."

She shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. You didn't think it was my fault. It was all I could do to talk you out of trying to go after the guy who did it."

Jenny didn't like the insight she was getting. "Do you still think it was your fault?"

Rachel shook her head. "No, not anymore. Not after getting help." She looked into Jenny's eyes. "Are you talking to someone Jen?"

"You mean besides my wonderful husband?"

"Yes, besides him."

Jenny shrugged one shoulder. "Forced therapy comes with the territory of being part of a law enforcement agency. But Dr. Renway, talking to her has helped. Both Jethro and I have been to see her. I think we've learned some things."

"That's good," Rachel nodded. "I didn't get help for a long time because I didn't think I needed it, I thought I could handle everything on my own. So I did, but I did it badly."

"You never really talked about it Rach, what happened. You talked about the feelings: angry, guilty, shame, more angry, afraid. But you never talked about it."

Rachel's half-smile rested on her lips. "Talking about it would have made it too real Jen. I couldn't say it out loud. I didn't want it to be me this had happened to. But it was all still in my head, and no matter what I did, nothing made it go away. Thankfully, that was back in the day when I still journalled compulsively. Whenever I wasn't in class or you weren't with me, trying to make me feel better, trying to do something that would help, it would be me with my notebook and a pen. I wrote down everything: every detail, every moment, every memory, how I felt. Everything got poured out onto those pages."

"I remember how sometimes you would just curl up on your bed and write until I thought your hand must be ready to fall off."

"It was either a sore hand or the loss of my sanity Jenny, so I took the sore hand. Though I guess some might argue that I still don't have all my sanity."

The two friends exchanged smiles.

"Do you still have the journal Rach?"

Rachel shook her head and looked out the window. "I burned it several years ago, when I knew that I'd gotten to the point where my life didn't revolve around 'the act' anymore. When it was me, living my life, doing what I want to do, things I love, and not being afraid of it or feeling guilty, I knew I didn't need it anymore."

"How long did it take?"

"What?"

"To feel okay again?"

Rachel regarded her old roommate carefully. "To feel okay? A year, maybe more than that. But to feel normal again Jen?" She paused, letting Jenny take in her words. "A long time. Three years before it wasn't constantly intruding on my thoughts, five until I felt safe going out and wasn't constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for something bad to happen. It's not something that happens all at once."

Jenny looked down, drawing invisible patterns on the table with her fingernail. "And I'm not even at three weeks yet. Great."

"Jenny," Rachel put her hand over Jenny's, "just because that's how I healed doesn't mean your life will follow the same pattern. You have several things I didn't when 'the act' happened."

Jenny's tired eyes held hers. "Like what?"

Rachel tilted her head to the side, her expression sympathetic. "Like a husband who loves me, like a stable home, like a job that I was good at where I could take back some of the control I'd lost, like a therapist who can make me talk...lots of things Jen."

"What did you have Rachel?" Jenny asked, wondering how she fit in.

"You should know the answer to that one Jen. I had the same thing you have now, a best friend who loved me enough not to go anywhere. It took me a long time to come back Jenny, but this time you're stuck with me."

Jenny rolled her eyes in pretend sarcasm. "Goody."

"Come on Jen," Rachel stood up, "let's get these dishes done so Noemi doesn't have to worry about them tomorrow."

"I do own a dishwasher, you know," Jenny pointed out in mild protest.

"Jen," Rachel said, resting a hand on one hip, "I know you have a dish washing phobia. But contrary to popular belief, washing your own dishes does not cause rashes, hives, or permanently wrinkled fingertips. Now, wash or dry?"

"Dry," Jenny said immediately, not losing her chance this time. Jethro had beat her to it when they did dishes.

"Of course, should've known. I always did our dishes at school too."

"Hey, I helped!" Jenny put in.

"Yeah, you bought paper plates so there was nothing to wash after."

"I thought it was a great idea."

"Mmhmm," Rachel said, not believing a word of it. "I will see you wash dishes one of these days Jen Shepard," Jenny raised an eyebrow at her, "excuse me," Rachel corrected with a smile, "Jenny Gibbs, if it's the last thing I do."

"Rachel, you have no idea how many ways I can get out of washing dishes. I have a list."

"Yeah," Rachel smirked, "I'm sure you do. But just remember one thing Jen."

"What's that?"

"I am just as stubborn as you."

Jenny smiled at her friend and started drying plates. It sure was good to have Rachel back in her life. She might even help get Jenny through this with most of her sanity in tact.

NCIS

It was 1930. One hour since Abby had called.

"Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs, I figured it out!"

He smiled into the phone. "Figured what out Abs?"

She grinned and he could hear it. "How the evidence we used got in the Petty Officer's car."

"I'll be right now," he promised, heading for the nearest elevator.

Armed with new information, the team set to work tracking down the real killer. Luckily for them, the guy had gotten cocky, thinking he'd pulled off the ultimate cover up. When they walked into his place of work, guns drawn and announcing themselves as federal agents, the look on his face made Tony wish he'd brought a camera. Team Gibbs now sat contentedly in the squadroom, all involved in writing their reports. They each had separate plans tonight and all wanted to get through their paperwork so they could go enjoy, or at the very least attend to, said plans.

Ziva was the first one to drop her report folder on Gibbs' desk. "I am all over my report Gibbs."

Tony didn't look up. "'All through' with your report Ziva."

She rolled her eyes in his direction. "You know what I mean. It is finished." She turned back to gather her stuff. "Shall I meet you later for movie night?"

This time Tony looked up. "I'm almost done Ziva, like...one more page. Can't you just...sharpen your knife or something? It makes more sense to leave together."

Ziva sighed and dropped into her chair. "Fine Tony. I will wait. But patience is not my strong suit." She reached for the drawer that held her knives.

"No sharp objects," Gibbs said from one desk over.

She slanted her eyes at him. "What if I sharpen my pencils? Are they allowed?"

Gibbs looked up, considering. "What are you going to do with them? I will not have any blood spilled in this squadroom." He focused back on his scrawled report. "Maintenance hates trying to get stains out of the carpet."

Ziva was already twirling a dull pencil. "I promise not to use Tony for target practice...tonight," she added, in case it was necessary at a later date. She really didn't want to hurt Tony anymore, she just enjoyed watching him flinch whenever she threatened bodily harm.

"I am hiding all the pencils when we get to my place," he said grumbling.

"Tony, do you even own pencils?" McGee inquired from across the room.

"Back off McFlower Power," Tony shot at him.

For once McGee ignored the jab. "Got mine done too Boss." He set his report on the corner of Gibbs' desk. Grabbing his backpack he turned around. "'Night all."

"Good night McGee," Ziva answered, while Gibbs grunted and Tony leered after him.

"I wonder where he's going?" Tony said suggestively. They all knew he was going to see Abby.

"Tony, if you mind your own business for once, you might actually get your report done before I get bored and leave!"

"Okay, okay. Sheesh, impatient," he said, pronouncing the word slowly. "I'm almost done."

"You have ten minutes Tony, I'm timing you."

"Don't have a cow Ziva, I'll finish it."

Ziva frowned. "Why would I have a cow, Tony? Don't most women have babies?"

His eyebrows lifted. "Are you saying you want to have a baby Ziva?"

"Tony that is not what I said!" Ziva was beginning to take back her thought about not wanting to hurt him.

"Well that's what I heard," he countered.

"Get your ears cleaned!" she shot back.

"Enough already!" Gibbs bellowed. "Both of you shut up! DiNozzo, I want that report on my desk in five minutes or you stay here and organize old case files in alphabetical order by crime until even the Director is satisfied. Am I clear?"

"Crystal, Boss," Tony choked out, re-doubling his efforts.

Ziva just propped her feet up on a drawer and began sharpening pencils, watching him from under her eyelashes. Some people never learn.