a/n: so this is basically a really reflective piece that has Gibbs thinking about Jenny and generally self-analyzing how he's been. so set it maybe after Devil's Triangle, when he's thinking about Diane calling him her Shannon, he's thinking about all the failed relationships he's had, etc. the line of Stephanie's came to me as I was walking home from class and I built his thoughts on Jenny around it.

the title is taken from the Emily Dickinson poem included at the end; it's a comment on how flawed it is to place all the value on the people we lose.

The last bit is going to punch you in the face, sorry 'bout it.

"Broken Mathematics"

In the darkest moments, when their relationship was at its most fractured and strained, he thought about her and the Paris whirlwind, and the way it had all fallen apart in the end—like some laughable attempted caricature of Casablanca.

He would hole up in the basement with bourbon and the last remnants of his woodwork and he would hate how she'd let herself be so twisted by blood thirst and vengeance, and then he'd wonder if he was unfair to her—because he knew that feeling—and in the end, it was guilt that overcame him, the arrogant guilt of a chauvinist who thought he was a savior, and thought he somehow could have had an end in preventing her fall—if she'd trusted him enough to tell him she couldn't make her kill, if he'd made her feel like she could commit to him—and he to her—if he'd just shown her she didn't have to die like that—alone, thinking he'd never understood how she felt about him—

It was maddening—when he thought about her in this way, like he just needed a split second with her to fix things—he went back to Stephanie, of all people—Stephanie, and what she'd said to him as their marriage shattered. Stephanie had been so immediately after Jenny that his head was still half in Paris.

He'd come home from his rotation in the Mediterranean and caught Stephanie—caught her so red-handed it was almost sickeningly soap operatic—in bed with another man, and the fight that had followed was so brutal—he was so possessively angry, and so prideful and so indignant—that he hardly listened to what Stephanie was screaming at him—but years later it came back to him, during the case, when there were women and failed relationships all around him—Hollis, Stephanie, Jenny; all in one place—he'd remembered then the most prolific, haunting thing Stephanie had said—

She had been trying to defend herself, accusing him of neglecting her—rightfully, he understood now, calling him out on his abhorrent behavior towards the women he married, and right before she'd stormed off and started packing—and a good hour before the baseball bat incident—she'd grabbed him and she'd yelled—

'I deserved so much better than you ever gave to me! I deserved to be loved and taken care of and shown off—I never deserved to be shamed for not being another woman! And I never asked you—to be the boy who stopped loving me in high school, or some man I wanted six years ago—I just wanted you to be Jethro, and you did the worst thing a man can do when you married me and asked me to be Shannon. I can't be her—and if I'd tried, you'd only resent me more—and you listen to me, Jethro—you think of that woman you loved so much and you tell me if your Shannon would be proud of you for hurting me like this—you ask yourself, you had died in that war, and Shannon had married someone else trying to heal—would you want him to hurt her like this? You're so afraid of forgetting to love her that you won't love anyone else!'

He had shook her off of him then, and ignored her, but years later—after he buried the hatchet with Stephanie, and ended things with Hollis, and watched Jenny spiral into a dry desert grave, they came back to him—and they cut him; they hurt him deeply.

Stephanie had been the only woman to really dig into him and fight him over Shannon—she always had—and because Jenny was the only woman who really came back into his life—who he let get away, when she was the only living soul who could have made him happy after Shannon—he thought of her when that little speech of Stephanie's crept into his mind and he thought—

If he had just let himself explore those feelings that were there in Paris—if he'd just accepted that he might love another woman instead of balking and running and refusing to let go of Shannon, then maybe—maybe—Shannon's ghost would have been able to let go of him, and he could have moved on—found peace for both of them.

His marriages—to Diane, to Stephanie, to all of them—had been such a blur of alcohol and plastic emotions that he hardly remembered why he'd leapt into it, except he was expected to move on and live and that's how he thought he could—but with Jenny, in Paris, there had been clarity; and he knew damn well that the emotional content of their affair had been the realest thing he'd had since Shannon had died—and Stephanie had put it into perspective; it had scared him.

And because of it—he had been callous, and reserved, and emotionless; and he'd let Jenny think she couldn't rely on him, couldn't trust him, and he realized now that she was young then—and she'd really been in love with him, she'd told him that, and he'd done damage to her that couldn't be repaired—so when she came back, six years later, and she was cold and hard and a pragmatic ruler—he couldn't blame her for pushing him away when he tried to rekindle—

Because he had hurt her. So badly, that to get over it—she had wanted to hurt him, and that had only hurt her even more.

He wished he'd had Stephanie's wisdom in Paris—he thought maybe things would be different. He would have had the capacity to overcome the fear that struck him when he thought of loving anyone but Shannon—and maybe, he wouldn't be alone in this dark basement now, after another bitter altercation with another bitter ex-wife.

The part that bothered him most—the guilt that really swallowed him—was that Stephanie was right—her accusations were right—Shannon would have been devastated to see him afford these women so little respect, and his approach to life after Shannon never should have been denial, or desperately loving her even though she was gone—he should have lived, and he should have taken the love he'd learned from Shannon and given it to someone else he wanted—not to replace her, and not to erase his pain, but to honor what she would have wanted.

Shannon would have wanted him to be happy.

In his misery, he had created misery for the women he married—and he had broken Jenny's heart, and all of that had taken its toll on him, too, because he never wanted to hurt people; he liked to protect people, and save people—but after Shannon—and Kelly—had died—he had gotten lost; he lost his confidence in his ability to protect.

He knew he had wronged them—but it was Jenny he dwelt on the most, because it was Jenny he wanted back so desperately, and it was Jenny whose heart he regretted breaking most.

Stephanie had unraveled it all—he was so absorbed in his tragic love for Shannon—for a woman gone from this world—that he didn't bother to love the woman right in front of him, and the harm he'd done was reflected in Jenny's last actions—it scared him, haunted him, it plagued his nightmares, that she might have died for him—because she knew he was so very faithful in loving the dead.

As by the dead we love to sit
Become so wondrous dear-
As for the lost we grapple
Tho' all the rest are here-

In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize
Vast- in its fading ration
To our penurious eyes!
~Emily Dickinson

-Alexandra
story #169