A/N: Here's a new Jibbs fic from me. I wrote a scene a while ago that was supposed to be part of another story that I never really got around to write, and I wanted to do something with it, and here's the result. I hope you like it, and please review and tell me what you think! Thanks for reading!

Written in the Stars

The silence of the bedroom is only broken by the breathy moans of the woman in the bed. …calloused hands roaming over her body…hot, slick skin underneath her fingers…Her head incessantly twists from side to side, restlessly, her red hair splaying all over the pillow, a few strands clinging to her sweaty forehead. …hot breath trailing down her chest… Her hand clutches compulsively at the cream-colored satin sheets, the other drags down her chest, between her breasts, slips from her stomach down to grab the sheets on the other side of her. …heat coursing furiously through her veins, setting her entire being on fire…One of her long, slender legs is tangled up in the sheets, the other is free, both twisting and writhing. …wrapping her long, slender legs around a firm body, feeling him move rhythmically above her…The silky nightgown that normally barely covers her thighs slips up, revealing black lace panties. …a hint of teeth grazing her bared throat, feeling her pulse race against greedy lips…She arches her back the slightest, another low moan escaping her. …she stares into mesmerizing blue eyes, sees the fire in the usually icy stare…his lips burns hers and time stops for a moment…Her eyes flicks incessantly behind her closed eyelids, as her body responds slightly too vividly to the dream …her breath hitches, feels his body tense for a second…ripples of heat spreading through her… her mouth opening to call his name…"Jethro!"

Her body jerks and she suddenly sits bolt upright with a breathy scream erupting from her throat, looking wide-eyed around the darkened bedroom. Her hands clutch the bed sheets compulsively, drawing heavy breaths as her head tilts forward, trying to get the visions to fade and the heat to subside. She lifts a hand to push hair from her face, for a moment struggling with the damp tresses that sticks to her skin and doesn't want to relent.

Deep, raspy breaths. Her chest rising and falling heavily. Trying to calm her heart. Gathering up her hair in her hand and moving it over her shoulder, letting the air cool her heated neck. She lets her eyelids cover her eyes and feels hot beads of sweat race down her pale throat, continuing down between her breasts. She shifts slightly and her still pebbled nipples scrape harshly against the silk of her nightgown, the lace of her panties damp between her legs.

She struggles to free herself from the damp sheets that are tangled around her legs before pushing herself off the bed and rising on shaking legs. She needs some fresh air; the air in the bedroom is too hot and oppressive. Her heart is still pounding furiously behind her ribcage, her pulse is still too fast and her breaths catches in her throat as wild arousal is still coursing through her veins.

She cracks the window slightly and a welcome gush of cool night air seeps in, along with the soft sound of rain clattering on glass and the fresh smell of spring rain. She can't help but to think spring is early this year.

She silently curses him. Curses him and the memories for haunting her in her dreams. She bangs her forehead lightly against the soothingly cool glass. It is not the first time she's dreamed about him, and she is sure it will not be the last. The temptations are too strong to resist – his touches are like the first sips of a particularly good bourbon, bitter, sweet, intoxicating and hot and burning – all at the same time. And in the morning after she always finds it difficult to look him in the eye. It always feels like he knows exactly what she'd been dreaming, that smirk on his face tells her so.

She can't look back at the bed; see the tangled mess of sheets and pillows. The memories are still too fresh, her feelings still too vulnerable and her body still too hot. From experience she knows it's pointless trying to go back to sleep, she will not be able to sleep anymore tonight.

Despite the cooler temperature in the bedroom, there is another kind of heat still present. And it is suffocating her. She needs to get out of the bedroom. Finding her robe and slipping it on, she sneaks out of the room.

Inevitably ending up in the study, by the bar cabinet pouring a large amount of bourbon into a tumbler. She looks at the window, a black rectangle of glass, closing her eyes and she hears the soft tapping of a branch against it, the distant pounding of rain against the windowpane.

…icy blue eyes…messy silver hair…that crooked, mischievous smirk…

She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the images of his face. But she knows that is never going to happen. He will haunt her for the rest of her life. What hurts the most is that she knows they can only be together in her dreams. Memories and dreams are as close as she'll ever get to be with him again.

She sips her bourbon and the taste sends her mind back in time and she briefly wonders what would have happened if she'd made a different choice. Would they still have been together? Would their love have lasted for ten years, maybe a lifetime? She doesn't know, will never know if it would have worked. Would it have made a difference if she'd confided in him? Would it have made a difference if he had confided in her? She is convinced she'll never know the answer.

The only thing she does know is that she still loves him, she never stopped. It was her five-point-plan, her damn career-driven plan that excluded romance. She'd left him because she thought it was the best thing to do for her, not because she stopped loving him. So therefore, technically, she is still as in love with him as she'd been nine years ago.

She watches her own reflection in the dark window and to her annoyance there's a lonely tear running down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away, even though there's no one there to see her crying. She hates her moment of weakness, but can't keep the tears from falling. She screwed it up, she knows that, she ended it and destroyed what could have been a life together with Jethro.

She is still standing facing the window with the tumbler in her hand, lost in her memories, when the shrill sound of her door bell breaks the silence, making her jump. The sound is so unexpected and loud in the almost painful silence that her heart speeds up slightly. Closing her eyes briefly, she begins to move toward the door just as the bell sounds a second time.

Very aware the nightgown she's wearing is slightly too revealing, she unlocks the door and opens it slightly. In the light from her porch lamp she sees his face clearly. She opens the door a little wider, knowing it's a bad idea considering what she's wearing, but when he shows up on her doorstep at 2am, something is wrong.

"Jethro?" She frowns a little, her eyes quickly skimming up and down his body. Discovering a dark stain at his side and threads of ice clutch at her heart.

"Oh my god, is that blood?" she tries to control her emotions but her voice holds a small trace of panic.

"Not mine." He says in a lowered voice and she sees pain in his blue eyes. Stepping aside, she silently invites him in. He wordlessly accepts the invitation and brushes past her, goose bumps appearing on her skin when the cold night air drifts in.

While he is hanging up his coat she walks ahead into the study, not even bothering to ask him if he wants a drink before pouring him a glass of bourbon and refills her own.

He accepts the offered glass with a barely audible "Thank you." He stares into the drink but flicks his gaze down her body and she is incredibly aware of his eyes on her.

"What happened?" her hushed voice breaks the silence. She is leaning against the desk and he stares absentmindedly out the window. She knows he's thinking about whatever event that brought him here, but she waits for him to tell her about it.

"I shot an innocent man." He says eventually, suddenly moving his gaze to hers and she is almost taken aback by the show of emotions in his beautiful eyes. Eyes that has haunted her for eight years. It pains her to see him this way; she understands too well what it feels like to shoot an innocent man. She wants to comfort him, to take him in her arms and just hold him, whispering soothing words into his ear, just as he once did for her. But she is not sure if she can do that, if she should do that. She's unsure of why he's come here in the first place, but wants to believe he's looking for comfort. But she doesn't move, just lifts the glass to her lips and takes a long sip.

"How?" is all she can think of saying, trying to slip her Director mask back on. He just looks at her, putting the untouched glass of bourbon down onto the coffee table. Before she knows it he is standing before her, slightly too close for what is wise, but the desk behind her is keeping her from backing away.

He looks at her for a long time, in his eyes she sees a mix of pain and something else she hasn't seen in years, but recognize all too well. Her heart starts to pound furiously and she curses him for having that effect on her.

"The incident report is on your desk for you first thing tomorrow morning." He says, voice low and husky and she can't help but to shiver slightly at the sound.

"Jethro…" her breaths hitches when he suddenly reaches out a hand to tuck a lock of red hair behind her ear, and then curls it around her neck.

"Jen," he whispers her name slowly, sensually, tasting it on his tongue and revels in the way the sound feels on his lips. It's been a long time since he's said her name in that manner.

The pleading in his voice is mirrored in his eyes, and she wants to curse herself for being so affected by it. She suddenly knows why he's here, but doesn't know if she can give him what he seeks.

"Jethro," her voice is, thankfully, as cool and steely as she wants it to be, and it's effectively stopping his advances. Her eyes close for a second and her hand curl around his collar and for a brief moment she wonders when did she put her hand there? But it doesn't really matter now. She uses the hand to push him away when he tries to lean into her. His hands move over the silk along her sides, his grip tightening slightly to resist her push.

"Jethro," she says again, though her voice has lost its steely edge, and to her great annoyance she is just sounding pleading.

He knows her control is cracking and that he's quickly wearing down the walls she's put up to resist his pull. He needs her tonight, but wants her to want it too. Doesn't want to force her into anything she will later look back at as a mistake. A foolish mistake because he took advantage of her obvious weakness for him, when she really wasn't ready to open up old wounds.

The hand with which she attempted to push him away has lost its determination and he can easily step in closer to her. The low rustling of their clothes – well, mostly his – their heavy breaths and the clatter of rain on the window pane are the only sounds heard and even though they are low sounds, they seem magnified in the eerily quiet house.

He sees too many emotions flicking past her eyes at a too fast speed that he cannot recognize a single one. Her chest rises against his and he can feel her breasts press into him.

She is unable to tear her eyes off his lips, the curve of his neck and his eyes that are watching her with an intensity that is slightly unsettling. She has almost forgotten how perfect he looks up-close. Almost. But she hasn't, not completely. It is hard to forget when she sees him every time she closes her eyes.

His hand is toying with one of the straps of her nightgown and she cannot suppress the shiver that goes through her body at his touch. It's far too dangerous, she decides. It's far too dangerous to have him this close, to have him touching her because she doesn't think he will be able to stop. Doesn't think she'll want him to stop and it starts to worry her how much she craves him. There are too many complications to their relationship and she is afraid of getting involved with him again only to have it end the same way as it did last time, with too many unfulfilled promises and broken hearts and betrayed trusts. She does not want to repeat the same mistake.

His breath is hot in her neck and his nose drags along her jaw line, up to nuzzle in her hair and he whispers in her ear, "I miss you, Jen."

His hands caress the silk covering her back, tracing the contours of her shoulder blades.

She wants to close her eyes, wants to wish there was nothing between them but she can't. She just can't.

"Don't make this difficult, Jethro," her voice is once again not as strong as she wishes, but it does have its desired effect. She too late realizes it's exactly what she said on the stairs that first day as Director.

He withdraws, reluctantly, but still he pulls away, because he's caught the underlying message in her statement. Hands slip over silk as he lets his hands drop from her back. He sends her a look, but turns his head away before she is able to read the look in his eyes.

She immediately misses his touch and his warm and his breath in her neck. The sound of his footsteps is drifting further and further away…

"Wait," her voice is quiet, she is not sure he's even heard her speak but the sound of footsteps suddenly stops. She lifts her head and finds him in the doorway to her study, silently watching her and waiting, like she told him to.

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she wonders briefly if it wouldn't be best to just let him leave. But it hurts to watch him leave.

He is surprised, has not anticipated her saying that last word, but he is gladly waiting for her to make her choice. He leans against the door post and watches her bite her lip, see that she is thinking and briefly wonders if he's the only one who's been dreaming about them lately.

She knows she has no where to run this time, she has fulfilled everything she thought she wanted but still a part of her feels incomplete. Her heart is missing a piece and she is almost certain he holds that final piece. Once upon a time she would have asked him to stay, and wouldn't have taken no for an answer. Nowadays she is not even asking him to stay, he comes anyway and she is the one to give him no for an answer. She has always known they didn't need to ask anything of each other, they knew what the other needed and gave it willingly. When did that change? Or did it ever change at all? She knows she can give him what he seeks, but there are consequences that scare her. Things they may not be quite ready to admit to each other.

She looks up and sees him still watching her, his posture stiff like a true Marine and his arms hanging along his sides. Waiting.

She knows he's not going to wait forever.

She knows he came here to get lost in her and try to forget the night's events. That he's realized she's the one who can make him forget and can offer him comfort. He took a chance coming here, not knowing if she would be receptive. But he must have known something, must have figure the past was still haunting her, might have seen it in her eyes when she was looking at him the way she does after she's had a night interrupted by dreams from the past. He offers her an opening and now it is up to her if she's going to take it.

She pushes from the desk and walks up to him, stands before him and runs her hands down his chest, in under his jacket. Her fingers find his shoulders and gently push off his jacket. It lands on the floor behind him with a low rustle.

His hand slips up her arm, feeling her soft skin and lifts the strap of the nightgown that has slipped down from her shoulder. He continues to trail his hand over every part of exposed skin he finds, until she leans her head against his chest and whispers, "I'm sorry."

She is not really sure what she is apologizing for, and neither is he, but he's willing to accept her apology for what it is.

He bends his head down and she feels his heavy lips on hers. His breath fills her lungs and she almost feels like she's flying, like she's weightless. She's once again falling down the headlong spiral that steals her breath and stops her heart. Her body comes to life for him, just like it always has and always will.

His calloused hands lift her nightgown to expose her body to him and she knows with every fiber of her being this is where she belongs.

It is written in the stars.

The End