Wow - so ending this story was a challenge. I'm not sure why, I wanted it to be angsty at the end and it didn't exactly turn out that way - but I'm not disappointed with the ending. Maybe I've just been thinking about it to much. Anyway, thanks for the reviews and for sticking with my first venture into the world of Jen /Gibbs. I think I'll be back - after all it's one of the most screwed up relationships around.
Seeing Red – part 10
"How's the red head?" Gibbs wasn't sure when Jen had become 'the' red head in Mike Franks' mind and he was fairly certain he didn't want to know. Mike would never admit it but if this phone call was anything to go by, he was in danger of viewing NCIS' current director with something approaching grudging respect.
"Sprained wrist, a couple of cracked ribs, cuts and bruises. The hospital kept her in overnight and she discharged herself this morning." The hospital had insisted on keeping her under observation because of the sleeping pills and a possible head injury, but it was still something of a surprise that she hadn't put up more of a fight. It was less of a surprise that she'd been at her desk shortly after 8.30 that morning, in the fresh suit she'd arranged for Cynthia to collect.
"And Fraiser?"
"Dead."
"Bet the paperwork's a bitch?"
"It is." There was silence on the other end of the line and Gibbs frowned – wondering what was coming, almost opening his mouth to warn Franks off certain subjects. But it was too late for that.
"And the two of you?" He looked carefully around him, the team seemed immersed in paperwork, but he did not for a moment doubt their capacity to eavesdrop as well. This was hardly the time or the place for this conversation, even though the same thoughts had been plaguing him for most of the day. "Probie?"
"It isn't possible,"
"You're telling me I spent two nights sleeping on the deck for nothing?"
"It wasn't for nothing – but not everyone lives on a beach in Mexico." Mike's snort of derision was obvious despite the distance that separated them.
"You're both idiots!"
"I'll be sure to pass your thoughts on to the Director."
"You do that – and when you speak to her, tell her she's welcome to drop in the next time she finds herself in Mexico," Gibbs hid a smile, definite evidence of a soft spot there.
"I'll mention it."
"You going to be all right?" He hadn't entirely decided about that yet. Letting her go for the second time wasn't something he was expecting to be easy – for all he knew it had to be done. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing her lying on her stomach, sprawled across the bed.
"I'll let you know."
The phone calls had been coming all morning; offerings of congratulations, sympathy, support - and those who couldn't get through by phone had sent flowers. Her office was overflowing with flowers sent by people who had been too cautious to back her 24 hours earlier. She was keeping a careful note, because she was too good at politics not to take advantage of this sudden rush to be associated with her survival. It was not an ideal way to accrue favours – the fact that they'd have celebrated her fall with the same élan as they were toasting her success was a salient reminder of the world she moved in. Still, if nothing else the last week had taught her who she could trust as well as who she couldn't.
She'd been carefully avoiding thinking about one Leroy Jethro Gibbs for several hours now, certain it would do her no good to dwell on things much better left alone, knowing that she would have to face him sooner or later. When she looked up to find him stepping through the door to her office it was clear that the moment was now.
"I'll have to call you back," she said to her caller, though in truth she'd stopped paying attention the moment he'd stepped into the room. Carefully she straightened up, ignoring the pain across her ribs as she moved. "Something I can do for you Agent Gibbs?"
"Just checking you shouldn't be at home, or still in hospital."
"I'm all right," his expression was sceptical and she wasn't surprised that she hadn't convinced him. He'd seen her at her worst and the day before had been as bad as it got. "I think the sooner things get back to what passes for normal around here the better, don't you?"
"If that's what you want." It had happened so fast she'd scarcely noticed – yet she was fairly sure he wasn't talking about the agency anymore or not just about the agency.
"Jethro," she began carefully; she didn't want to have this conversation with her desk between them, but at the same time she knew she needed the protection it afforded, the reminder of who they both were.
"It's all right Jen, I understand what 'getting back to normal means,'"
"It's not all right," she said quietly – but didn't dispute his interpretation. She could tell that he'd already imagined this whole conversation, "and I'm not sure I can forget what happened." His expression was suddenly guarded, clearly she had departed from the script he'd written for her. But she wasn't sure she had the courage to start afresh and she knew he wouldn't help her. "It just doesn't change anything."
She couldn't have this. It wasn't possible. Not because getting involved with an agent was a bad idea, though it was, but because it was Jethro she'd be getting involved with. They'd fight, take agency business home with them, keep secrets from each other – and end up with a mess. She couldn't afford that.
"It's OK Jen, give me a little credit."
She blinked and for a moment was lost in the memory of waking to find him leaning on one elbow, watching her in the almost light of early morning. She remembered feeling safe and then desired as his expression changed and he reached for her. It wasn't a memory from the distant past, from tangled liaisons after missions in Europe. The bed she woken in hadn't been in a hotel room in Paris; it had been his bed, in his house, just 36 hours before. She was going to give all of that up for the second time. And they both knew it.
She'd run away from him last time and she doubted he'd believe her if she told him how much it had cost her, how she sometimes thought about what might have been different if she'd tried to stay. It was going to be difficult, seeing him every day, seeing him with Hollis and knowing that she could be the one he went home with, if only she'd been brave enough to try.
Just for a moment she considered telling him that she didn't want to chalk this up to extenuating circumstances; that she wanted to be with him and she didn't care about the consequences. God – he'd probably run a mile.
"What are you thinking about?" He'd asked her that before – or had she asked him?
"Asking that in Mexico was what got us into this situation in the first place." He smirked, looking far too smug.
"I don't think it was the question that did it, you'd already kissed me by then."
"I was thinking how much I'm going to miss you." She'd been aiming for casual but the tremor in her voice gave her away. He ducked his head as though her momentary honesty had disturbed him and she vowed to re-learn the lesson, because he wasn't good at letting people get close and he didn't want to hear about what she felt. But then he surprised her,
"I'm going to miss you as well Jenny." In that moment all hell could have broken lose, worlds collided, the building fallen to the ground around them and neither would have noticed. She could feel the intimacy, though they weren't touching, weren't even that close.
"We can't," she whispered, an answer to the question their bodies and their eyes were asking.
"I know." The glimmer of hope that he'd argue with her, convince her that she was wrong, died. And she wished she had the strength to fight.
It hadn't been the best of days – paperwork, the closure of the Fraiser case, his conversation with Jen, the sense of losing something he had never really had. It had been a relief to leave it all behind; head home to his basement and the boat. But his memory was traitorous, thoughts of her and the regrets plagued him.
Should he have argued, fought for her the way he'd fight to protect a member of his team if they were in trouble or, to keep a case if jurisdictional issues threatened to take it out of their hands? He'd fought for Jen when her life was at risk, but he hadn't fought to hold onto her. He hadn't been able to give her what she needed eight years ago and though they'd both changed in the intervening period, he wasn't sure they'd changed enough.
"Damn it!" He slammed his hand against the wood of the boat – frustrated by what seemed to be unanswerable questions. He was relieved to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs and for a split second hoped it was Jen, come to tell him that she'd changed her mind. But almost immediately he realised how unlikely a prospect that was. He was sure that Ducky saw his disappointment, but his old friend was too wise, or too discrete to call him on it.
"I thought you might welcome this," he said, producing a bottle of bourbon as he reached the bottom of the staircase. "Dare I hope there isn't too much sawdust in the glasses down here?"
"You can always hope," Gibbs watched him pour them both a drink and wondered how long it would take him to get to the reason for his visit. The suspense was too much for him. "What's on your mind Ducky?"
"A number of things Jethro. For instance, how's the Director?"
"You could have asked her that."
"True – but I thought you'd have the necessary insight."
"Well, I don't. You know the Director, she likes to keep her secrets."
"She isn't the only one." He tilted his head in acknowledgement of his old friend's point and wondered, not for the first time, where Jen had learnt that. "Her injuries weren't too serious, but how is she dealing with the whole ordeal – emotionally?"
"I wouldn't know," Ducky looked at him over the top of his glass, his expression mildly exasperated. Gibbs half expected him to echo Mike and tell him they were both idiots. And perhaps they were. "But she's a survivor."
"That she is." This was rapidly becoming another of those conversations full of sub-texts and Gibbs knew that tonight he didn't have the strength for it.
The house was still and silent and she would have denied to her final breath that it was making her jumpy; but the other explanations for her reflective and pensive mood were equally unpalatable. She gazed into the fire, curled into the corner of her sofa, a glass of red wine within reach. The blanket wrapped around her shoulders was a concession to the fact that it was late and she ought to be in bed.
Except, suddenly, she didn't want to sleep alone. Her bed was too empty and too cold. This was why she couldn't get involved with him again – why she couldn't give up control. In three nights he'd brought turmoil into her carefully ordered life, if she gave him another inch he'd take a mile, take everything.
It wouldn't work, he'd be disappointed, she'd disappoint him. He wouldn't be getting his old partner, his old lover back. She was the Director and she knew Gibbs, knew he'd hate that part of her life, resent it and, in time, her. He'd be far better off with Hollis, who could be his equal without the politics and ambition he loathed getting in the way. Ruthlessly she pushed away the small voice that pointed out that she might not know him as well as she thought she did. That she was attributing a whole series of emotions to him that she didn't know he possessed – and he'd taught her that assumptions were dangerous. But what else did she have to go on?
She watched the flames dip lower, the day almost over, a day she hadn't entirely expected to live to see. As she'd fought for her life on the rooftop, feeling her strength failing her with every second, she had faced the fact that help might not reach her in time. It hadn't exactly been a moment of revelation; scenes from her life hadn't flashed before her eyes, there were no painful realisations, no questions of what might have lain in the paths she hadn't taken.
Now, without the demands of her office to distract her it was a very different story. Now, she had only silence, shadows and the dying embers for company.
But, the ghosts of four dead women and a dead agent kept vigil with her. Intellectually she knew she wasn't responsible for those deaths, but emotions were unpredictable. Fraiser had sacrificed complete strangers because he'd seen something of her in them. Yet she had lived and they had not. Their deaths were still with her, not quite on her conscience but not forgotten either.
Another good reason to stay away from Jethro. She felt, tainted by what Fraiser had put her through and she wasn't sure that she was in any position to really open up to anyone. She didn't trust herself and Jethro only trusted her some of the time – she was too good at deception, too comfortable in a world of smoke and mirrors and he was wary of her. It wasn't a basis for anything more than an occasional place to shelter.
Whatever was between them should be consigned to the flames, consumed by them. This week was nothing more than an echo of the past – to be let go. She bent her head, knowing that a single tear had escaped her. She hadn't cried through this whole nightmare and she'd be damned if she'd start now.
She dug her nails into her palm and wrapped her arms around her knees. It took all the strength she had to stop herself from picking up the phone and calling him to beg for the third chance she knew she couldn't have.
It had been a long night; his drink with Ducky had helped, but not enough. Thoughts of Jen had stayed with him – keeping him from the bed where they'd spent their last night together. Throughout the day that followed his temper was short and the coffee more necessary than ever.
It was lunchtime before he saw her. The paperwork on the Fraiser case had finally been completed to his satisfaction, Tony and the others were down in the lab with Abby and he was contemplating following them. But the prickle on the back of his neck told him someone was watching him and when he looked around she was leaning over the railing just outside her office.
He grabbed the file and climbed the stairs to join her, not sure if he was moving too quickly, or not quickly enough. Was he in a hurry to reach her, or reluctant to confront the way things had changed between them?
Up close she looked tired and he wondered if Fraiser had haunted her sleep, or if he'd been the cause of her restlessness. She was wearing black, which as well as accentuating her pallor, confirmed the rumour he'd heard earlier that morning.
"This is the final report," he handed her the file, "when's the funeral?"
"In a couple of hours," she ran her hand over the strapping at her wrist. "You going to tell me I shouldn't be there?"
"No," he wasn't certain that attending Crosby's funeral was a great idea but he knew she'd made up her mind and that trying to dissuade her was futile. He understood what had prompted her decision; the gesture of respect she thought she owed Crosby – and perhaps she did. She was the Director after all, it was her agency. But if she tried to go to any of the other funerals he was prepared risk her temper.
They lapsed into silence, standing side by side, watching as the agency went about its business. He glanced at her from time to time, wondering if she felt as awkward as he did. "I want you to take a look at this," she said at last, holding out a file to him. Their fingers touched as he took it from her and they both froze. With effort he wrenched his gaze away, flicking through the papers, before looking back up at her when he realised what the file she'd given him contained. "If he is in the country I want him found," she said. "I want him locked away before he starts hurting women, if he hasn't already started." He'd forgotten about the Serbian – but evidently she hadn't.
"What about the jurisdictional issues?" If he was running with the Russian mob, their involvement would be a stretch; the gangs unit wouldn't be too happy with their interference.
"I don't think we'll have to worry." He raised an eyebrow at her confidence.
"Calling in some favours Director?" He winced at how formal her title sounded, but knew he'd have to get used to it.
"It turns out I have a lot of friends this week – I thought we should make the most of my popularity."
"Worried it won't last?"
"Well, you know how difficult I can be."
"Better than anyone." She smiled and raised her eyebrow at him, her expression no longer guarded and he had to clench his fist to stop himself from reaching for her. "Mike called," he said, searching for a new subject and going with the first thing that entered his head, "he wanted to know how you were."
"What did you tell him?"
"That you were fine, that things were back to normal."
"And are they?" He hesitated, not certain what to say in response to that, knowing it was easier not to answer.
"He wanted me to tell you you're welcome to drop in, the next time you're in Mexico."
"It's not likely that I'll find myself on a beach that doesn't have a name anytime in the near future." He'd called it that when he'd wanted her to know that whatever they did there would have no consequences. It hadn't been true then, it wasn't true now. But the reminder was a salient one.
"I'm planning on returning – one of these days."
"Well, perhaps I'll see you there, one of these days." He looked at her, trying to work out what had happened. Were they flirting, or making promises for some indeterminate point in the future? He wasn't sure and she seemed a little shocked by the words that had escaped her. He almost smiled, almost told her that they'd find a way. But he didn't want to ruin the moment, didn't want to risk her changing her mind if the words were spoken aloud. Either it would happen, or it wouldn't.
"I better get going, take advantage of all that good will and political capital."
"I think I can hold off annoying anyone for 24 hours."
"I wish I shared your confidence Director." He lifted the file, "we'll get him."
"I know you will Jethro"
When he reached the staircase he glanced over his shoulder to see what she was doing. She hadn't moved, her gaze was on the bullpen, on the agency. But as he watched a smile curved over her lips, a smile he recognised; a smile that meant she knew he was looking at her - and that she liked it.
Nothing had changed, they'd made no promises to one another, but his gut told him this wasn't an ending – just another turn along the road.
The End