a/n: a continuation of the "city series" i spontaneously started with "Eating Crow in Amsterdam." that one ties heavily into this, so a refresher might be necessary! i'm picking & choosing cities based on the ones i was lucky enough to visit on study abroad (though i don't think i'll do a story for every city) - but that's where the inspiration comes from (and why i chose some place like Osijek, which might seem odd!) anyway - here's a fic dealing with the immediate trauma of what made Jenny change her mind in the first place.

Osijek, 2001

In the midst of a particularly humid summer, he heard from her again – he was divorced at this point; his house cleaned out, the shell of a new boat looming in the basement – he was settling in to the work with just DiNozzo, with Moscow and old teams behind him – and yet it wasn't all behind him; not yet.

It was a quick moment of contact; a phone call, like the first time, except he answered this time – now, he always answered – he never dropped his phone in paint thinner these days, even if it was Stephanie calling. She didn't say much –

"Have you spoken to Morrow?" she'd asked.

Gibbs said he hadn't – not recently. He'd had a private conversation with the director when he returned from Amsterdam, and then there had been a conference with Agent William Decker – but since then, it was unspoken between Gibbs and Morrow that they would not mention this.

"I'm in a new place," she'd said vaguely. "He'll clear you to take vacation – if you want to do this."

He didn't know what she'd told Morrow about them – what she had said to convince the Director it was acceptable for Gibbs to be spared now and then – and he didn't ask; she was asking if he had been genuine, if he was going to keep his word – to try this, try them.

And in the middle of all the trying, the absurd fulfillment of romance on the job, there was the looming specter of her Parisian folly – and he'd wondered if Morrow would fill him in on what was happening – how the scrambling to rectify her mistake was turning out.

"Mossad has taken over the monitoring and protection of yourself and Agent Decker," Morrow had told him coolly, writing something in small letters on a tiny note of paper one evening as Gibbs sought him out on her suggestion.

Gibbs had countered; scoffed that he didn't need protection.

"You don't yet," was the clipped, gruff answer he heard.

The Director folded the paper and came around his desk, handing it to Gibbs.

"Excluding Agent Shepard herself, you are the fourth person in the world to know her location," he said in a low voice – as if even her, even now, they were being recorded. "Agent DiNozzo has years of police work under his belt; I'll keep an eye on him."

Gibbs took that as leave to go; to again fly off to Europe, to find this address – to see this woman again. He opened the note, read the address – memorized it, and before his flight, burned the piece of paper to nothingness, to ash.

Hours later – time zones later – he realized the strangeness of finding himself in a Croatian town; he wasn't unfamiliar with Eastern Europe, but the idea of her being here, hidden, sequestered, of all places – it was again a place he'd never been, new like Amsterdam; intriguing. The city seemed small; old world – old. He found his way to the address by wandering; he wouldn't risk even the slightest chance of giving her away by asking, and he'd been in Osijek for three hours when he found himself in a suburban area, staring at the balcony of a very European second-floor walk up.

She hadn't spotted him; he whistled lightly – and she turned her head. She was sitting in a lawn chair, sunglasses covering her eyes, and for a moment, those dark shades met his, and then she lifted them, and green found blue.

"Ca va?" she called in a light, high voice.

He lifted his shoulders; he vaguely remembered French, and he didn't know how to answer. She pointed at the metal stairs that seemed to twist up, and held up her hands.

"Key," she indicated, still speaking French. She mimed that it was in a nook near the door, and he nodded.

He took the stairs quickly, and found his way in – apartment six, with a generic Slavic name written in on the door. He let himself in; the place was an aromatic haze of recent cooking, burning candles, and something else, hiding under everything. He locked the door behind him; she came in, closing the balcony door.

"The neighbors think I only speak French," she said, her voice its normal timbre – and in English.

She lifted her shoulders, and stood there, looking at him. Her hair was a little longer than it had been in Amsterdam; she was letting it grow. She still looked thin, pale – and when she took a step towards him, she limped. It occurred to him, very sharply, that it had not been that long since he sat with her in that café in the Netherlands; she still looked beaten; tortured.

She hadn't healed.

He cleared his throat.

She reached up and touched her temple.

"Coffee?" she offered.

She came forward, her foot dragging a little. He took her arm as she went to move past him and stopped her, his eyes searching her face – drawn cheeks, as if she wasn't eating well; dark circles under her eyes, red streaks – no sleep, stress.

"You look like hell, Jen," he said hoarsely.

She pulled herself up, inadvertently moved closer to him. She reached for his hand, but just rested hers on his tiredly, as if she didn't have the energy to move it. She took a deep breath, and then closed her eyes, turning her head into his shoulder lightly.

"I'm so tired," she admitted finally, her lips moving stiffly.

He nodded, and turned, sliding his arm around her waist.

"Bed," he suggested.

She didn't protest; she rallied, and took his hand, leading him into a bedroom with an open window. The silver-metal posts reminded him of a bed in Marseilles, and he fixated on it, hardly noticing that she was undressing, wrapping herself loosely in a short, silk summer robe and falling into sheets and pillows, drawing herself up.

"You got a tea kettle?" he asked, feeling out of place; at a loss.

She moved her head, shaking it – she did, but she didn't want him bothering with the stove.

"Lay down, Jethro," she requested.

He removed his shoes, his eyes on her suddenly, taking in her. He realized abruptly that she wore nothing but the robe and some unadorned cotton panties – and though he'd seen her naked countless times before, the sight was suddenly humbling somehow. He hadn't seen this much of her in Amsterdam; the extent of the damage done in Cairo – the torture, and the near-death experience, that had prompted her radical change in career and life choices.

"You can take your clothes off," she murmured.

He didn't; no matter what she said she was okay with, he didn't want to put her in that position right now. Their meeting in Amsterdam had been brief, emotionally charged – the beginning of something, and he didn't think haste was the way to proceed; he had three days here to the one he'd taken in Amsterdam – there was time.

He sat down next there, back against the metal frame, his eyes on her surreptitiously. He swallowed hard.

"Jen," he started hoarsely.

He didn't know what he was going to say; he was glad she interrupted –

"I don't mind if you look," she whispered, "but don't start with the questions; start with something lighter."

She needed to talk about Cairo sometime, but she wanted to ease into it – Ziva, ever skeptical, ever guarded, had warned her about telling men what had happened; Jenny trusted Gibbs, but she could barely think about it herself.

She licked her lips, curling up on her side with a wince – her ribs still ached and throbbed sometimes.

"Is your divorce final?" she asked.

"That's light?" he snorted.

She laughed, admitting her mistake. He grinned, though it didn't quite touch his eyes.

"She let me off easy, on alimony," he grunted.

Jenny blinked, her eyes on him.

"You don't sound relieved," she murmured.

He hesitated. He wasn't used to this – talking. She wanted him to talk to her; she was the one who believed they could do this, fight their own issues – find a way to figure out what they could be. Would he ruin that irrevocably if he told her his guilt over Stephanie – over all of them?

He cleared his throat.

"I wonder if I'm as bad as she made me sound," he drawled.

Jenny laughed quietly.

"You're not easy to live with," she told him honestly.

He gave her a mild look of feigned surprise – he wasn't surprised she thought that, since she'd answered his offer to move in with a letter, and disappeared around the world.

"Did you try to love her, Jethro?" Jenny asked curiously.

He arched a brow.

"Thought we were stayin' light," he warned edgily.

She moved her shoulders, adjusted her robe. It fell off her shoulder; he could see bare skin – jagged scars down her side, where there'd been stitches – he hadn't seen that mark last time; only the marks on her arms, her legs; her face.

"Why Osijek?" he grunted, when she didn't say anything else.

"Yek," she murmured.

"Yak?" he repeated. "What?"

"Oh-sih-yek," she pronounced in a musical way. "Don't pronounce the J like it's English."

Gibbs nodded.

"Why Osijek?" he tried again, emphasizing the sound pointedly.

She looked a little bemused.

"Mossad," she said wryly. "Their safe house capabilities – would stun you," she explained dryly.

He looked about the cozy little apartment; it appeared homey, natural – normal. His brow furrowed.

"This is a safe house?"

"I'm still being hunted," she reminded him softly.

He shifted, sliding down the frame a little.

"Your classified hearing," he began, looking at her intently.

"It's next month," she said.

His brow furrowed; he frowned.

"What the hell are they doin', wastin' time?"

She licked her lips.

"They've been trying to resolve this," she placated huskily. "Neutralize Svetlana, eliminate the men who worked for her in Cairo," she recounted. "It would be easier to evaluate my mistake holistically – "

"Who gives a damn about holistic?" Gibbs sneered tightly. "They're just dangling you in limbo?"

She smiled dejectedly.

"They're waiting for me to resign."

He stared at her – and it only took him a moment to realize it was true. Her screw up had been magnificent, a significant threat to all involved – and it had come back to haunt her this spectacularly, yes, but it was a financial threat, disastrous to Decker, to Gibbs –

He tilted is head at Jenny, silently asking. She closed her eyes, lifting her shoulders a little, moving her head to look at him better.

"I don't know, Jethro," she admitted in a small voice. "I want them to hear why I couldn't kill her."

He didn't say anything; he kept looking at her, considering her intently. She sighed, her lips shaking.

"What's Mossad got on her?" he asked finally.

She licked her lips again, anxiously.

"You're still safe," she murmured. "She still thinks my true identity is my Mossad Irish cover – "

"Saorsie," he remembered gruffly.

Jenny nodded.

"She thinks the French cover was hiding my Irish identity."

Gibbs thought about their mission in Paris; three kills, only two ended up dead. Decker was a pro – he'd gotten out without a whisper of his real affiliation; Gibbs knew he had, too. He couldn't see how Svetlana could put it together, who they all really were. Jenny took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, and chewed on her bottom lip, pulling her knees towards her a little. Her feet tangled in the sheets, and she curled her toes, comfortable in the silence.

"Mossad is doing the legwork – they have the resources, and she's selling to radical Islamists now – NCIS will owe the Israelis, if they get her."

Gibbs shrugged – he couldn't think of a reason why that was bad; the Israelis had always been solid U.S. allies – but then, he wasn't much of a diplomat; he was a soldier, and a cop.

She rolled over, her cheeks flushing, and opened a drawer. He caught a glimpse of a jumble of medical supplies, and then she plucked two things out, and shut it again.

"Can you get me some water?" she asked quietly.

He got up and obliged, glad for a moment to himself. He filled up a glass, wondering where this was going to go this time – wondering what she was expecting of him, if he could even follow through with his agreement to fight for this.

He came back, handed her the glass as she sat up a little, and got back into the bed with her. He caught a glimpse of her arm – the one that had been held together with stitches in Amsterdam – and caught his breath as she swallowed a pill.

He touched her wrist, held the arm gently.

"This hasn't healed," he growled.

"It got infected," Jenny said, wincing even as his hands moved ever so lightly. "Ziva had to pull the stitches, treat it, stitch it again."

Jenny swallowed hard, and she lay back, something between her fingers, something sparking in her hand.

"She took the last few out, last time she was here."

"That David girl," Gibbs remembered. "She around?"

Jenny shrugged.

"She comes and goes; she's still my control officer."

Jenny sounded affectionate; graceful.

"She's army trained in field emergency medicine," Jenny said, sensing his gaze on her arm.

"Jen," he said, reaching for her hand. The flame of her lighter died out. "What're you smoking?"

She pulled away from him a little, turned her tired eyes to his, and twisted it in her fingers a little, a small smile at her lips.

"It's medicinal," she said hoarsely.

He arched his eyebrows – he'd never thought of her as someone who'd use drugs, even for something like this – but she had made a lot of changes in life. He swallowed, his hand still on her wrist, and she moved it towards him.

"Ever tried it?" she asked wryly.

He gently pushed her hand towards her lips, shaking his head – no, and he wouldn't; he liked his head clear, unless it was bourbon clouding it. She curved her lips around the joint, and inhaled.

"What's it medicine for?" he grunted skeptically.

She licked her lips, resting her hand against the pillow carefully.

"Pain."

He looked at her then, his eyes sharper, less wary of taking in the stress that had been put on her body. He leaned over, his hand slipping over her stomach brazenly. He paused at a healing burn on her rib, stretched, rubbery pink skin – and he looked up at her.

"You can touch," she said shakily, nodding her head.

His hand moved over her, leading his eyes, taking count of the injuries he'd barely been able to take in in Amsterdam. He swallowed hard – what had she said, then, that they had done to her? Needle marks – in the veins of her inner elbow; she said they'd shot her up. He wondered if she'd had to detox. His hand slipped lower, to the scars on her thighs – he thought he'd seen bite marks, a month ago; anger lodged in his throat somewhere. She moved her thigh, but only to press her legs together.

"Jen," he murmured huskily, his lips perilously close to her stomach – it wasn't lust that his voice was rough with, but some sort of desperation, horror at what must have happened to her – while he was in Russia, hating her; while he was married to someone else, hating himself.

The muscles of her abdomen tensed, and he pulled back, wary of startling her.

She tilted her head back, arched her body a little. He swallowed, his eyes sweeping over her again. His hand landed on the fresh skin, the evidence of a ghastly burn, and he wondered if their conversation had been light enough – he asked –

"What did this?"

She was silent; he saw smoke drift from her lips.

"An iron," she answered faintly.

His palm covered the wound. His eyes drifted to the crook of her elbow.

"Heroin?" he asked, remembering.

"Six different times," she answered, her words raw. She shook her head quickly. "It makes me sick, violently sick," she mumbled.

His hand moved gently over her ribs.

"Broken ribs?" he asked.

She nodded; standard for torture.

"Fingers?" he asked quietly.

"Both pinkies; one index."

"Cigarette burns?"

"My back is an ashtray," she quipped bitterly.

His hand rested on her him, skimmed over the thin material of her panties. His thumb ran over scars on her thighs, his hand drifted down to her knee and back up. He lowered his head, his lips near her abdomen again.

"Jethro."

She said his name softly, uncertainly. She swallowed, tenseness in her body she couldn't fight.

"Please do it," she whispered, as if she knew what he was thinking, how close his lips were.

He kissed her stomach, his lips lingering, drawing a trail along the edge of her panties. His fingers traced light circles on her thigh, he shifted his focus from exploratory to admiring – his teeth grazed her lingerie, and he was suddenly hazy on what he was doing, where he was going with this. He wanted her, but she seemed fragile – it didn't seem prudent.

"Stop," she choked suddenly. "Stop – stop."

He obeyed immediately, pulling away, stretching out beside her, his hands to himself. She was breathing heavily, her face pale; she sat up stiffly and put out her joint, pushing her hand through her hair.

Her robe slipped down her back, and he saw the myriad of scarred burns she talked about, the in-erasable marks of torture.

"I'm sorry," she said hoarsely, her breath coming in a rush. She closed her eyes tightly, covered her mouth.

He sat forward, eyeing her warily.

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I was – I was – " she began.

"Take it easy, Jen," he advised.

She sounded like she was having a panic attack. He set his shoulders back, eyes on her face.

"Can I touch you?" he asked, a little gruffly.

She nodded, and he placed his hand on her back lightly, massaging just below her shoulder. She took another deep breath, and sucked on her lower lip, her eyes watering heavily.

"I was afraid I wouldn't ever feel like that again," she managed, her words trying to fight their way through her teeth.

She breathed out slowly, relief starting to water down her moment of panic – she had been so accustomed to terror when a man approached her, touched her, so used to pain and humiliation in the darkness of her Cairo captivity – that she'd worried she'd never let a man, even Gibbs, near her again, and to feel that rush in her stomach, the spin in her head, when he pressed his lips to her skin –

She laughed hoarsely.

"I teased you," she said apologetically. "I can't have sex," she confessed, her lashes beating rapidly. She shook her head. "I needed to know I'd want to again," she said weakly.

She fell back, and put a hand to her forehead, gripping some of her hair tightly. She rested her palm on her stomach and then moved it lower, her hand clawing lightly at her thigh.

He laid down next to her, closer this time, his legs resting against hers.

"Can't?" he asked.

He wasn't asking because he was disappointed, and she knew that; he repeated the word with fear, with trepidation, distracted from any of his own qualms about what they were doing, back with each other, focused on her.

"Stitches," she gasped. "Stitches, stitches. That's how bad it was."

She'd heard a doctor, back in Israel, tell Ziva that they fixed her up the same way the fixed up women who'd recently given birth, and Ziva had said the stitches were dissolvable – it was the worst of the pain, worse than the leg, than the infected arm – it hurt physically, and it still hurt deep in her skin and bones.

"I should have killed her," Jenny growled. She bit her lip. "I should have just killed the bitch."

Gibbs didn't say anything – she was right; if she'd done her job, this wouldn't have happened. If she'd done her job, the world would be down one ring of arms dealers, not fighting a vengeful dragon risen in Anatoly Zhukov's place. If she'd done her job, she wouldn't have changed her mind; he wouldn't have found his way to Amsterdam – he wouldn't be here now, but maybe she wouldn't have been tortured.

His mouth felt dry, cottony – he wasn't glad she'd failed in Paris, but he wanted to be here now – he was glad he was divorced, he was glad he'd taken that chance and gone to Amsterdam. He didn't know how to voice any of that; he didn't know how to tell her anything without it sounding coarse, or insensitive. But she knew that – he'd told her that he'd been failing all these years.

She had seemed so sure of herself in Amsterdam, so ready – he hadn't seen all the stress underneath, how this mistake, and this torture, was going to stick with her.

He swallowed, and reached for her the hand she gripped her thigh with, slipping his fingers into hers, his knuckles pressing gently into her thigh.

"You wanted to start this up again," he muttered, gruff and ineloquent. He lifted his shoulders. "Try again?"

She nodded, listening. He smirked a little, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"'S not the sex we had trouble with," he reminded her.

He wanted her to understand what he meant – he wasn't necessarily here for that, although he'd missed all of her – body, mind, and soul. He could tell she was still healing; he didn't want to damage that process. He didn't have experience with raped women; he didn't want to make her any worse.

She laughed, the sound hoarse, but genuine. She turned her head to meet his eyes.

She relaxed, encouraged by his reaction – she didn't know what she'd expected; Ziva told her harshly and bluntly that men didn't have the energy to handle things like this. She had thought, that laying her recent trauma on top of her mistakes and asking Gibbs to do this again was too much – that he'd balk.

She licked her lips and turned onto her side, face to face with him.

"It was just everything else, wasn't it?" she asked facetiously – she didn't expect an answer.

He shrugged, almost sheepishly, and reached to take a strand of her hair in his hand, twisting it around his finger.

"You should've told me, Jen," he said quietly. "That night, in Paris, when you got back. You should have told me."

Her eyes shot down, defeated. He was right; she should have. She couldn't change it now, but she wished she had. She wished she'd been wiser, she wished she'd been stronger – there were a lot of things she wished she'd done differently; that was why she was doing this.

He looked at the strand of hair, and he thought about what she'd said in Amsterdam; how during the black, hollow moments in which she'd faced death she'd changed her mind – that her ambitions had been to seek power; he wondered what it was that haunted her past.

"They're going to ask you to speak at my hearing," she said abruptly.

He'd thought they might. Either a character reference, or a commentary on the events of the mission – something; Decker would probably be asked, too.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"Whatever they ask you, tell them the truth," she answered.

"Do you want your job back, Jenny?"

She bit her lip, clicking her tongue softly.

"I don't know," she said thickly, closing her eyes. "I changed my whole life for this – this job, this vendetta."

He was silent, frustrated – but trying to understand. He couldn't ask her, when he wasn't willing to open up himself.

But he did it anyway –

"What were you after, Jen?" he asked huskily. "Who were you hunting?"

She shook her head, opened her eyes.

"You told me in Amsterdam that there were some things you may never be able to talk about," she reminded him.

He swallowed hard, answering with his eyes – that was true, painfully so. She took a short breath.

"I told you – I had things like that," she murmured. "I don't think – it's true anymore; I can talk about it, someday."

The thought of discussing her father right now, of the injustice she still had to come to terms with – because if she was going to give this up, really stop the blind blood thirst, it meant she had to accept that history would remember her father as a traitor – was repulsive; it made her sick - she wasn't healthy enough for it.

He swallowed; he wasn't ready to make the same promise.

"I can't talk about it now," she said.

He felt relieved – it was too soon; this was too new.

"I don't know what I need right now."

He tilted his head up; this time, when she closed her eyes, tears slipped out. He shifted and leaned over her, resting his forehead on hers. He cleared his throat, shaking his head a little. He pushed his hand through her hair, surprisingly tender – surprised at himself for this intimacy, for how much he seemed to have forgiven her.

"You need another joint," he teased, so quietly she wasn't sure it was a joke.

She laughed, her eyes flying open, and caught her breath. Her cheeks flushed.

"I guess it's not much of a high if I burst into tears," she agreed wryly.

He grinned at her, a little more relaxed.

She bit her lip.

"How long can you stay?" she asked, reaching up to touch his neck.

"Three days," he answered. He snorted. "Got a Probie on the desk."

She smiled a little, shifting closer to him. She felt better, now that he was here; she had taken the step to keep up her word, her challenge that they could do this again, because she felt like she was falling apart – alone, hidden, still trying to recover from battle wounds – she wanted to know he was serious.

"How long will you be here?" he asked. "In Osijek."

He pronounced it thuggishly, in English, and she pinched him lightly, rolling her eyes a little – she had missed him; she was glad she'd swallowed her pride.

"I don't know what Mossad will do with me next," she murmured.

She looked around the room, breathing out slowly.

"I like it here," she said softly.

She held her breath a moment.

"You still want to do this, Jethro?" she asked.

He pressed his lips to hers without warning, holding her closer to him, her bare skin flush against his clothing. She put her palm against his chest, startled; she eased into the kiss – remembered it, and him, savored it. He pulled away just when she needed to breath, and she laughed, almost nervously, under her breath.

He studied her intently – he'd told her he did, that he would try, and when she had asked, he knew she meant harder than he'd tried with his wives – she wanted him to commit, really, to working it out, and when he agreed, he made a promise to himself to do that – for the first time – to really try to move forward.

He was struck with a moment of very real fear that he might fail, but he swallowed hard, swallowed it down.

He nodded.

"Didn't fly to some damn city I'd never heard of to jerk you around, Jen," he promised huskily.

He grit his teeth, and lowered his head, his lips against her shoulder.

"'M glad you called me," he admitted quietly. He closed his eyes, breathed her in. "I would have come to get you in Cairo," he growled meaningfully.

Her first voicemail, drunken, before Amsterdam, before Ziva had called him – that had happened before she was held hostage; he would have come to get her if he'd known.

She drew her hand up her stomach, and pushed her hair back, wiping her face.

"I think I can sleep," she said, her shoulders sinking, relieved.

She licked her lips; she felt easier with him here – she felt like she was back at the beginning.

He laid his head on the pillow next to hers.

She slept for through two sunsets and a sunrise, and he laid there next to her in a silent, anticipatory vigil – wondering where they would go after this; after Osijek.

Osijek, 2001

i'd say this is about a month, five weeks later.

-alexandra
story #260