Jethro Gibbs woke up with a massive headache, and was acutely aware of the fact that his body was stiff and sore. He blinked his eyes open tiredly, adjusting to his surroundings, and realized he had fallen asleep on his boat—again. He glanced at his watch, letting out a frustrated groan when he realized it was later than he had thought. He turned his head to the side, glaring at the bottle of bourbon sitting beside him.
He put a palm on his forehead and rubbed, inwardly cursing himself for drinking too much last night. He gingerly sat up, giving himself a couple of minutes to adjust. Flashes from his dreams swirled in his brain, and suddenly he wished he was in a bourbon induced state of sleep again.
He couldn't decide if he was grateful or annoyed that it was the weekend and there was no case. His headache was probably grateful, but the fact that there was nothing to distract him was grating. Normally, he would be at work anyway, distracting himself with paperwork and cold cases.
But things had changed.
Work was almost more depressing and torturous than being alone in the emptiness of his house. In fact, he didn't know which he preferred these days. At least he still had Ducky and Abby at NCIS...even then, their constant sympathetic gazes and veiled inquiries had been irritating.
The last 2 months had been hell.
He felt like he had almost lost everything again—he hadn't felt this bad since his girls were taken away from him in '91. With exception to Abby and Ducky—and hell, maybe even Palmer—he had lost everyone else at work that he deeply cared about.
He no longer had his team. Leon Vance had seen to that, the bastard.
He never thought he would miss DiNozzo and his big mouth, or McGee and his techno babble. He had grown a much softer spot for Ziva than he could ever actually admit.
He found himself staring at their desks sometimes, feeling irrationally annoyed at the people occupying them now.
It didn't matter that he had known both Agent Langer and Agent Lee before. It didn't matter that he had personally worked with, trained, and even liked Agent Langer. Compared to the team he had before, they were just plain irritating.
The only person more annoyed than him about the whole situation was Abby, who was ice cold around the new guys. She never visited the bullpen unless absolutely necessary, and was only comfortable with him visiting the lab for updates.
He knew eventually she would warm up to them, like she had warmed up to Ziva, and she'd be her normal, friendly, and cheerful self again. He didn't like thinking about that though—eventually—because it made everything feel so long term and permanent. He didn't want to warm up to his new 'team' because he didn't want to accept that this was reality.
He hated all the drastic change that had taken place so quickly—it all felt like some horrible dream he just wanted to wake up from. His complete lack of control and choice in his own damn team was infuriating.
At least he had chosen DiNozzo and McGee to be on his team, even if it had taken him some time to warm up to both of them. He hadn't chosen Ziva—she had been forced on him, and he had been uncooperative about it at the time—but she had turned out to be a damn good fit. Jenny's decision to place Ziva on his team showed just how well she knew him—sometimes better than he knew himself.
Jen.
His main solace was that at least DiNozzo, McGee, and Ziva were all alive. At least he would probably see them again. He was bound to run into DiNozzo and McGee from time to time, at least.
He was never going to see Jenny again.
He was still adjusting to the fact that she was dead—still hadn't fully accepted it or come to terms with it. As if adjusting to having a whole new team and Director hadn't been hard enough, he was just busy trying to cope with the fact that she was gone forever. Her complete lack of presence in the NCIS building felt strangely crippling.
There had been one particular moment just days after her death when he had looked up at the catwalk and saw Leon strutting about. He had thought to himself that Jenny must be feeling pissed if Leon was around—the two had never gotten along very well. He had smirked, thinking for a second that he might go up and bother her just to rattle her a little more. Then he realized with a sharp pang that she wasn't around to bother anymore. Leon was there because Jenny wasn't, because he had replaced her, because she was dead.
It had been an almost suffocating moment of realization, in which he had to excuse himself to go get coffee because he didn't think he could stand to be in the building another damn second.
He always felt disappointed when he went into the Director's office and was met with the sight of Vance, as opposed to the fiery, glaring, redheaded, ex-lover he loved to tease. He never felt any kind of emotional anticipation when he climbed up the catwalk stairs to head to the Director's office anymore. He used to barge in her door ready to either fight or enjoy some teasing banter. Now he felt weakened, like he could barely even grasp the door handle to open it, because he knew she wouldn't be there.
He hadn't realized just how much her being at NCIS again had meant to him, just how comforting, exciting, and energizing her mere presence was. He hadn't realized just how much she had meant to him.
The only other time she had affected him this much emotionally was when she left him after Paris. He would gladly endure the pain of that situation ten times over compared to the pain he was feeling now. This was so much worse—so incredibly final and inescapable.
He had spent everyday of the last two months cursing himself for being such an idiot with her.
He shouldn't have brushed off her confession of love so many years ago by saying, "That'll be the day". He should have admitted that he loved her too. His damn hesitancy was probably one of the main reasons she had chosen her career over him, and now that he realized it he couldn't blame her one bit for that decision anymore.
He had just felt so alarmed when she had confessed—intimidated because she had been the first woman since Shannon that he actually felt that same kind of fierce love for.
He shouldn't have let her get away with the damn "Dear John" letter, he should've gone after her.
He shouldn't have married Stephanie to try and get over her, in fact, these days he realized he could've married Jen instead had he gone after her. It occurred to him if he had, the last nine years would have been vastly different.
Nine years...nine entire years he could have been with her.
He also knew that had he ended up with her, he'd probably be a thousand times more miserable than he was now. No matter what could have been different in the past, she still would have died from whatever illness she had. He didn't think he could've survived the loss of another wife—he barely made it through alive the last time.
He wondered briefly if they would have had children.
He cursed under his breath and swung his legs off the boat, stretching a little to try and relieve his stiff muscles and sore body.
He had spent too much time thinking about her, thinking about all the things that could have been different. He hated himself for it, because he knew it was completely pointless. He wished he could just relax, wished his mind would quit overthinking every damn thing that he had no control over. No amount of thinking would bring her back or change the past.
He felt like he had just failed another woman in his life, and it bothered him.
He wasn't there for Shannon and Kelly like he should have been. He shouldn't have ever let Shannon testify.
He still felt like he had failed Kate on that rooftop.
He should've known that Jenny was still too inexperienced to take out her target in '99, he should've double checked everything and made sure there were no loose ends.
He should've insisted on going to Decker's funeral with her.
Instead, he had found himself at her funeral a week later.
He couldn't remember much from her funeral. It had been a very polite, business-like, political, government run ordeal—fit for the Director of a federal agency. He just remembered that none of it had really felt personal—none of it seemed fitting of the real Jenny.
The Jenny with vibrant green eyes, fiery red hair, and a personality that matched. The Jenny that was fierce in the field, passionate when she loved, and capable of conquering whatever she set her mind to. The Jenny with an enchanting laugh, bright smile, and sultry voice. The Jenny that had razor sharp wit and was always ready with a sarcastic comeback.
Instead, the whole thing had been about her career and political achievements. And her cause of death was one big charade—one that, though necessary, was not at all the way she had gone down fighting.
Jethro sighed and rubbed his head again, getting up and making his way to the stairs.
It wasn't just her funeral he didn't remember much of—the whole first month after her death was mostly a blur. He had barely gotten any sleep, lived on coffee, and spent every weekend with a bottle of bourbon and the boat.
He didn't know how he had managed to function, how he had managed to put up with Vance and his new 'team' without murdering someone or quitting. He nearly had quit, until he realized just how mind numbingly boring it had been the last time. Work was a useful distraction that could momentarily dull the pain sometimes.
In his darkest hours he almost half wished Mike hadn't shown up when he did, and Svetlana had taken him out. He hadn't been thinking very clearly in that moment—he had been being consumed by grief from sitting in her empty house, a house that contained far too many memories of her and their past.
He had originally intended to shoot Svetlana and exact his revenge, intended to finish what Jenny never had. And yet, he had done what he had fiercely taught others not to do—he hesitated—because being where his mother, Shannon, Kelly, and Jenny all were seemed almost welcoming.
He would shake himself out of those dark thoughts, knowing that it would have been the complete cowards way of going out. It would've been a complete mockery of everything he had worked for, everything he had taught—a mockery of what Jen had died trying to fix.
He paused in the kitchen, squinting from the bright light shining in through the windows of the house. He winced from the way his head was throbbing, and reached into the cupboard for a glass.
After gulping down some water he debated cooking some eggs, knowing he should get some food in his system, but feeling a little too nauseous to eat.
He suddenly heard the front door open, and turned around to look towards the living room. He stiffened, wondering who it was, not sure he could handle any company right now.
"Jethro?" A voice called out.
He relaxed, recognizing the familiar Scottish accent.
"Over here, Duck," he responded, walking through to the dining room.
"Good morning," Ducky greeted cheerfully as he walked from the living room into the dining room. He was carrying a bag, and placed it on the table, making Jethro wince from the clattering sound it made.
"Ah," Ducky said with a small smile, observing Jethro, "as I predicted."
Jethro just glared at his knowing look.
"Have you had anything to eat?" Ducky asked.
Jethro gave a noncommittal grunt.
"I came prepared," Ducky said, pulling out a teapot from the bag. "A cup of the Earl will help. It'll give you your morning caffeine boost that you would normally get from your coffee, only it will be more settling. Coffee is never the best idea with a hangover."
"Who says I'm hungover?" Jethro asked, glaring at the teapot.
Ducky smirked at him.
"I'm fairly certain it wouldn't even take a doctor such as myself to observe the obvious signs," Ducky said, gathering his tea materials and walking into the kitchen. "Putting that aside, I've known you long enough to guess how you've been spending your weekends the last couple of months," he commented from the kitchen as he busied himself.
Jethro sat in silence as Ducky went about making tea, not really paying attention as Ducky rambled on about historical facts that had to do with hangovers. "And during the Middle Ages in Europe, doctors would suggest consuming raw eel and bitter almonds to combat the effects of a hangover."
When Ducky was finished with the tea, he came back into the dining room with two steaming cups, placing one down in front of Jethro and sitting across from him.
"Best give it a few minutes to cool," Ducky said.
Jethro nodded and stared at the hot brown liquid in front of him, suddenly remembering how many times he and Jenny had consumed Earl Grey tea with Ducky when they were all undercover together in Paris.
"We've all been worried about you, Jethro."
"'M fine, Duck," he grunted, avoiding Ducky's gaze.
"Of course you're not 'fine'," Ducky replied calmly. "After everything that happened, if you were truly fine I'd be quite concerned about you. The others may have speculated on your past with Jennifer, but I was actually around to witness it. That little safe-house in Paris that we all lived in together...I may have pretended not to notice, but I would've been really daft not to pick up on how intimate you both were with each other," Ducky said with a chuckle.
Jethro rubbed his head. He had spent far too much time thinking about Jenny and their past already, talking about it was the last thing he wanted to do. He just wanted to forget, to move on.
"Why ya here?" He asked, trying not to sound too agitated.
"I wanted to check on you, you are my friend, after all," Ducky reprimanded. "You hardly come down to autopsy anymore, you don't answer my calls, and despite your usual behavior of being at NCIS constantly now you are only ever present when you absolutely need to be. Abby worries constantly and doesn't know how to help you, and while we all know you need your space, it's simply not healthy to be this distant from people for this long. You need people in your life, and we care about you."
Jethro took a drink of the hot tea, not sure how to respond.
"I do have one other reason for coming, though," Ducky added, reaching for the bag. "I was going through old boxes of things and found these, from our time in Europe," he said, handing something to Jethro.
Jethro looked down with interest at a thin little stack of photographs.
"You may already have some, I'm not sure. I know Jenny did," Ducky explained.
Jethro felt his throat constrict as he looked at the first picture. It was one Ducky had taken of Jenny at a museum they went to—she was standing by a statue admiring it. She'd always been beautiful, but he'd forgotten just how breathtaking she had looked back then.
He went to the next picture, one he had taken of Jenny and Ducky standing next to the little European car they had used for months. Jenny was looking at the car in an amused sort of way, and Ducky seemed to be laughing about something.
The next few were all ones either Ducky or Jethro had taken of Jenny, at various little tourist spots. Jethro was suddenly remembering just how much time he had spent avoiding having pictures taken of himself in Europe. He never minded taking pictures of Jenny, though.
He ran across one of him fast asleep on a bed, wrinkled sheets haphazardly thrown on him, part of his bare chest and his shoulders exposed. He couldn't help but blush a little, glancing up at Ducky quickly, who merely lifted an eyebrow at him and smirked.
"All that undercover work could be quite tiring at times," Ducky mused, taking a sip of tea with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Jethro cleared his throat, moving on to the next picture, hoping Ducky had never seen any of the similar ones he remembered taking of Jenny.
He smiled at a group photo of him, Jenny, Ducky, and Decker. Jethro had his arm snaked around Jenny's waist, and he wondered if they had always been completely oblivious to just how obvious they were—wondered how many people had simply pretended not to notice.
The next picture was one Ducky must have sneakily taken. Jethro and Jenny were sitting close beside each other at the little dining room table in the safe-house, Jenny's head resting on Jethro's shoulder. Files were in front of them that they appeared to be looking through. They both looked content, happy.
Another one of him and Jenny was next, in which they were both asleep on the couch in the safe-house. Jethro was spread out across the couch, his head on the armrest. Jenny was asleep on top of him, her head nestled under his chin, her hands on his shoulders. He had one arm wrapped protectively around her, the other dangling off the couch.
"Can't believe you pretended not to know that whole time, Duck," he commented, making Ducky smile.
"Well, it was quite entertaining to observe at times," Ducky said with a chuckle. "Had you two been aware of my knowledge, it would have taken all the fun out of it."
Jethro snorted, shaking his head a little in amusement.
Jethro reached a picture that made his eyebrows go up in surprise. It wasn't from Europe, it was much more recent than that, and he hadn't been expecting anything recent.
"Ah, those last couple are ones Abigail gave to me," Ducky supplied. "I asked if she had any of the Director, more specifically ones of you and Jennifer together. You know how she likes to carry a camera around during her little holiday events. That one, Abigail told me," Ducky said pointing to it, "is from when she was having a little Halloween bash in the bullpen after work had wrapped up, in '05. No surprise that you are not in the midst of the party."
The picture was of him and Jenny, both standing up on the catwalk, apparently watching rather than joining in on the festivities below in the bullpen. They were both laughing about something, and he wished he could remember what it was that had them both looking so entertained. Jenny's hair was long, spilling across her shoulders attractively. She would have been Director for only about a month at that point.
He drew a finger down the picture gently.
Damn, he missed that smile, missed her laugh.
He went to the next and last picture, one of him and Jenny in Abby's lab. They must have been fighting over something, as usual. Jethro was glaring at her, and she had an eyebrow cocked up at him, giving him that amused, triumphant expression she always reserved for him. The one for whenever she was right or simply playing the rank card. Jenny had a hand on her waist, and her short, red hair stuck out colorfully in the white lab. He couldn't help but feel amused that Abby must have been feeling quite bored and tired of their power struggle to be taking some completely random photo of them.
He shook his head at himself, wishing he hadn't spent so much time fighting with Jenny, glaring at her. He wished he had been more easy on her when she was Director, wished he would've been more respectful and shown more appreciation.
He put the photo back with the rest of the stack, aligning the edges of them together. He was suddenly wishing there were more pictures, more physical evidence of memories. He had felt the same way after Shannon and Kelly had died, violently wishing he had taken every opportunity with the camera as possible.
He looked up at Ducky.
"Thanks for bringin' these," he said gratefully, nodding at Ducky, trying to ignore the catch he felt in his throat. He slid them back towards Ducky.
"No, no, these are yours to keep," Ducky replied, sliding them back to him. "I made copies of the ones I wanted for myself."
"Thanks," Jethro said again, resting his hand over the stack reverently.
He felt a little better after looking at them, and at the same time he felt incredibly nostalgic and saddened by it all. Still, he was glad to even have them in the first place. He'd remembered seeing some of them before, probably had his own copies at one point—most likely he had thrown them out when he was steeped in hurt and bitterness over Jenny leaving him.
A few of the others he had never seen before. He felt like he owed Ducky and Abby for taking their little sneaky photos when they did, grateful to have at least a few pictures of him and Jen together.
"Jennifer was a wonderful woman," Ducky stated, looking towards the photos that Jethro still had his hand on.
Jethro merely nodded in response, drinking some more tea.
"I know you probably don't want to talk about it, about her," Ducky stated, cautiously watching Jethro. "You've never been a person who is particularly fond of conversation, especially if it could involve anything even bordering emotional."
Jethro said nothing, feeling there was no point when everything Ducky had said was true.
"I find words and conversation to be quite therapeutic myself, and while talking about Jennifer and relaying stories about her to people like Abigail and Mr. Palmer gives me some of that release, it isn't the same as someone who knew her as long as I did. You and I experienced many of the same moments with her, witnessed a whole other side of her than just 'the Director'. What I'm trying to say," Ducky paused, "is that I would very much like to talk about Jennifer with you, and reminisce about memories."
Jethro looked up at Ducky.
"I may deal with death everyday, but it doesn't make losing a friend any less difficult," Ducky said a little more hoarsely.
Jethro rubbed a hand across his forehead, feeling cornered and conflicted. He felt almost guilty that Ducky even felt the need to ask permission just to talk about something with him. On the other hand, he understood why, because the thought of reminiscing and talking about Jen felt painful right now. Not to mention, his head was still aching from all the damn bourbon he'd consumed the night before.
On the other hand, he had nothing better to do, and Ducky's company had been comforting and relaxing so far. Ducky was his friend—one whose needs came before Jethro's own as far as he was concerned.
"You don't need my permission. Go ahead, Duck, reminisce away," Jethro said, not able to hold back a smile when Ducky beamed at him.
Over the next hour, Jethro found himself not only responding to Ducky's stories, but chipping in with his own. Good memories were shared between them, Jethro finding himself laughing and smiling more than he had in months. By the time Ducky had left his house, he had even found himself roped into going to Ducky's house for dinner next week with Abby, McGee, and Palmer.
That night had been the first in two months that he had actually enjoyed a full and restful night of sleep.