A/N: This is basically a compilation of small one-shot ideas I had—which I decided to just stick together in a series, since they are all basically related to each other. Most likely comprising of about 10 chapters. I only have a vague outline of it all, and the chapters will all vary in length. Some may be just a couple hundred words, others may be over 5,000.

All of these are basically Jethro dealing with his feelings about Jenny after her death—at different points over the next 10 years.

You know the song "Ice Ice Baby"? Replace "Ice" with "Angst", and that pretty much summarizes the whole of this. Angst, angst, baby!

This first chapter is a tag to "Judgment Day Part 2".

Mike Franks walked up behind his friend, following him into his house. It had gone without saying that he needed somewhere to crash for the night, which was probably the only reason why Jethro Gibbs was silently letting him follow him through the front door.

Mike knew that his probie probably wanted to be alone, that he probably wanted to drink and sleep away the pain that he was obviously pretending not to feel. On the other hand, Mike was glad he was there to keep Jethro company. He knew full well that no matter how many years you had under your belt to harden and desensitize you—losing a close colleague, someone you cared about—wasn't going to be any easier.

He stared warily at Jethro's back, noticing that he had paused in the entryway to the living room and was just staring blankly at his couch.

"I'll get the bourbon," Mike spoke up, walking past Jethro before he could argue, heading towards the basement.

He shuffled around the basement looking at things, giving the other man a couple of minutes to himself.

There was an empty bottle of bourbon on the table, sitting beside an empty mason jar and a stack of large pictures. Mike walked closer. The pictures were sitting on top of a thick case file that they appeared to belong to. A bullet casing and magnifying glass were laying among it all.

He sat at the little wooden stool, and adjusted the file to look at the case name and number on the cover. He then scanned through the contents, glancing at the pictures and the rest of the information.

He wondered how long Jethro had been perusing the contents of this case—one that clearly involved the very woman that was no doubt on the raw surface of Jethro's mind right now.

Jethro would probably be torturing himself on the inside about some of this, probably blame it on himself for years to come, even though none of it was his fault. The whole thing had been a mess—loose ends always were.

Mike shook his head.

He wondered why those two had never gotten back together.

She was one of the main things Jethro had consistently brought up when he was crashing at Mike's house in Mexico a couple years ago. He clearly had feelings for the woman, and when he left and returned to NCIS, Mike had thought it was only a matter of time before he heard about Jethro getting hitched for the fifth time.

She clearly had feelings for Jethro as well, based on those last conversations she had with Mike himself. Hell, she died to protect the man.

She was a complicated woman though, as Jethro had told Mike in Mexico.

Mike snorted to himself. They were both complicated people—both stubborn as hell workaholics. He could understand them, because he had been the same way when he was at NCIS.

That was probably why it didn't work out between them. They both had probably been stubbornly waiting out time, playing some game with each other, waiting for the other one to break first and 'force' their hand.

Mike chuckled under his breath, thinking that if the two obstinate kids had gotten together, it probably would have ended in another divorce for Jethro. Unless Jethro would have wised up this go around and been more communicative and less uncompromising.

Mike closed the file, shutting out the thoughts of what could have been different for his friend with this woman. She was dead now. There was no changing it, and anything that 'could have been' died with her.

He got up and searched around the shelves and cabinets in the corner, looking to see if Jethro had any more bourbon. He felt relieved upon locating a bottle in the top shelves, grabbing it and heading back to the stairs.

As he exited the laundry room door into the kitchen, he grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, and then crossed into the dining room and placed the mugs and alcohol on the table. He looked up into the living room, feeling almost pained by the pitiful sight of Jethro still standing in the same exact place he had left him ten minutes ago, still staring at his couch as if lost to the world.

"Come on, probie," he called out. "Take a seat, got a glass of bourbon with yer name on it," he said as he uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount into both mugs.

He heard Jethro clear his throat, and start moving into the kitchen. They sat down across from each other, Mike handing Jethro his mug.

Mike looked at Jethro, watching as the man downed the drink far too quickly.

Jethro placed the empty mug back down on the table, and rubbed his hand across his chin, looking irritated. He rested his elbow on the table, letting his chin sit in his hand.

Mike poured some more bourbon in the mug, and they both drank silently for a few more minutes.

"Mike," Jethro finally said hoarsely.

"Hm?" Mike grunted in response.

"You said...in her house"—Jethro cleared his throat, looking on edge—"said she...cared—" Jethro's voice broke and he stopped talking, taking another swig from his mug.

"I remember," Mike responded, nodding his head, waiting for Jethro.

"Girl cared for you. Had a lot of regrets," he had said to Jethro earlier.

"We all do," was all Jethro had responded.

Jethro cleared his throat again, looking conflicted.

"How do you know—I mean...did she say...?" Jethro trailed off, his hard eyes looking into Mike's.

Mike pondered for a few seconds, debating how much of those last conversations Jethro should hear. He didn't know if it would bring comfort, or if it would simply bring painful regret.

"Think she must've known time was almost out, seemed to open up before it all went down. Talked a little 'bout you," Mike responded carefully.

Jethro rubbed his chin again before folding his arms and turning his head, looking towards the dark dining room window.

"What'd she say...'bout me?" Jethro questioned, his gaze on the window.

Mike snorted.

"Been a long couple o' days, probie. Lot has happened, don't remember every lit—"

"Mike," Jethro interrupted, turning to glare at him.

Mike sighed. They knew each other too well.

"You tryin' to torture yourself or somethin'?" Mike questioned.

Jethro continued to glare at him.

"Fine," Mike relented, drinking the last mouthful in his mug before he talked. "Said she made some choices she weren't proud of, said she was the one who left you 'cause you didn't fit into her 'five point plan'. Sounded regretful, bitter. Told her it came back to choices and she made her bed." Mike grabbed the bottle of bourbon and poured a more minimal amount into their mugs again. "Her response was; 'What if I don't want to sleep in it'. Then I asked her if you knew...she said; 'Would it make a difference'."

Jethro grunted, clearing his throat again, shifting uncomfortably. Mike could tell it was taking all of his strength to try and act neutral, but he could see right through it. His eyes were redder, slightly glassy, and he was clearly on edge.

"When you made it back in the diner...was she still alive?" Jethro asked softly.

"Damn it, probie, you really wanna know all the gory details?" Mike asked in frustration.

The bloodbath he had returned to—the dying almost unconscious woman laying on the floor that had been just fine a mere minute ago—had not been a pretty sight. Mike didn't like thinking about it, and he'd been shutting it out, just like he had learned to shut out all the other gruesome things he had witnessed in his lifetime.

Jethro stared at him silently for a minute, seeming to weigh the question. He shook his head, but then looked conflicted and opened his mouth, as if debating what to say.

"I don't like the idea of her..." Jethro said hoarsely, pausing to swallow, "dyin' alone..."

"She wasn't alone," Mike responded calmly, "I was there."

Jethro nodded, clenching his jaw.

It was silent again for a minute, the air feeling heavy.

Mike thought about how after he had fired his four shots, he turned to where Jenny was and called her name, bending down to check her pulse. It had been very weak—rapidly declining. She was breathing shallowly and seemed to be on the verge of being completely unconscious. She had lost too much blood, and more was just steadily pooling out of her.

He knew there was nothing he could do.

"Jenny," he had called out again, resting his hand lightly over her fingers.

"Jethro," she had responded lethargically, her voice so weak he almost hadn't heard.

Within the next twenty seconds she was unconscious, and he couldn't detect a pulse anymore.

It hadn't been some dramatic movie death where she shuddered, coughed up blood, and took a gasping last breath.

It was quick and quiet—almost peaceful in a sense.

"It was so quick I don't think she felt the pain. She went peacefully," Mike assured Jethro.

Jethro nodded again, clasping his hands tightly.

"Was she unconscious by the time you reached her?" Jethro asked softly, his eyes piercing into Mike's.

Mike studied Jethro's face for a few seconds, debating on if he should answer truthfully or not.

"Mike?" Jethro probed.

"Almost," he answered vaguely.

Jethro swallowed.

"She say anything?" Jethro inquired further.

"She was real injured, wasn't really—"

"Mike," Jethro interjected again.

Mike shook his head, cursing the fact that he had taught his probie to read people too well.

"She said yer name," Mike admitted heavily, Jethro's eyes widening. "Said 'Jethro', when I put my hand over hers. Was unconscious after that," he explained, eyeing Jethro warily.

Jethro sat there looking almost paralyzed, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the information. He shifted a little again, and then brought his hands up to his face, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

Mike then watched helplessly as his friend did something he hadn't witnessed him do since '91—he broke down.

The dam Jethro had always stubbornly kept up had finally burst as he covered his eyes with his hands and his shoulders shook violently.

Mike just sat there silently, letting Jethro get it out of his system. He needed to, it was better that way. Mike didn't like to cry, he didn't like to see other people cry—but he knew from experience that if you tried to hold it all in, it would eat you up inside. Every agent knew that. It was part of the job to act tough and keep it together, just like it was part of the job to allow yourself a breakdown when you were finally alone and off duty.

Mike couldn't help but feel a little guilty as he listened to Jethro's stifled sobs. If he hadn't gone out to get the damn water, the woman could still be alive, and he wouldn't be sitting here watching his friend cry.

He would do anything for his probie, and right now he was wishing he had let her go out and get the water—wishing he had taken the bullets instead. Hell, he wished they hadn't bothered with the stupid water in the first place. Judging by how she had taken out all those men, had they both been in there together it would have been a quick and easy job. He doubted either of them would've gotten severely injured. Like he had said to Jethro earlier, she was an artist with a steal.

He took another gulp of alcohol.

Then again, from the sounds of it she was going to die anyway. He wondered what would have been worse for Jethro—this—or watching the woman die from whatever sickness it was that she had. Dying from an illness was generally slow and painful—it would've been hard for Jethro to watch. On the other hand, at least watching someone be in pain and slowly die also brought a form of preparation with it. With something like this, there was no warning, no early closure or time to prepare—just pure shock, confusion, and an unexpected wave of grief.

After a couple more minutes of silence, Jethro was finally removing his hands from his face. He wiped his eyes and cheeks off with the back of his hands and took a deep breath. Mike got up and grabbed some napkins from the kitchen, handing them to Jethro.

"She was sick, ya know. Don't think she had much time left," Mike said as he sat back down.

"I know," Jethro responded, wiping off his face with a napkin.

"She said ya didn't know," Mike replied, chuckling under his breath.

Jethro snorted.

"Always knew when Jen was lyin', she had a tell," Jethro admitted, a small smile showing on his face.

"We all do, much as we'd like to pretend we don't," Mike said, chuckling again.

"I never told her, Mike," Jethro said hoarsely, his bloodshot eyes looking wet again.

Mike raised an eyebrow at Jethro, not sure if he was following.

"Never told her how I felt," Jethro explained. "You told me to tell her after I left Mexico, and I didn't listen," Jethro said, shaking his head at himself. "I kept holdin' onto the bitterness, kept bein' stubborn. Had all these opportunities, didn't take a damn one."

Jethro took a shaky breath.

"Why the hell didn't I listen to you?" Jethro asked, looking frustrated. "Damn it," Jethro swore, raising his voice, "she handed me an opportunity months ago, and like the bastard I am I said no!" Jethro said, slamming a clenched fist on the table, his eyes full of anger.

"What if you hadn't?" Mike questioned. "Then what? You get to sit here feeling even worse? If you'd opened that door again, you'd be hurtin' ten times as much right now, probie," Mike reasoned.

"But at least I'd have been with her again, at least she wouldn't have died wonderin' if I even gave a damn," Jethro retorted bitterly.

"Don't torture yourself with a bunch of what ifs. There ain't no goin' back, no point in questionin' it all," Mike stated bluntly.

"You think I don't know that?" Jethro spat out resentfully, his eyes flashing.

Mike ignored the angry comment, watching silently as Jethro rubbed his eyes in irritation.

He thought about earlier in Jenny's house, when he shot the lady who had her gun pointed at Jethro.

"You were gonna go for that, weren't you, probie?" He had asked Jethro.

He seriously wondered if Jethro hadn't been intending to go for the gun at all, if he had just been tempting chance, gambling with death.

Maybe he had just been feeling confident that the woman wouldn't actually pull the trigger. He had seemed to have planned the whole 'burn the body and the house' thing in advance, after all.

Still, Mike wondered if Jethro had hesitated because for a mad second there he had seriously considered wanting it all to end. He had looked almost betrayed after Mike had shot her—looked angry, sad, bitter, and doubtful all at once. He didn't even answer Mike's question.

"I should've been there, Mike," Jethro spoke up, his head in his hands. "I knew Decker. Worked with him n' Jenny just a couple of years after you retired. We were all on a team. I should've gone with Jen to the funeral. Wouldn't have let her out of my sight, could've helped her."

"Why didn't ya go?" Mike asked.

"She requested DiNozzo and Ziva, wanted me to hold down the fort. But I should've insisted on going, should've made DiNozzo stay instead, he would've been fine," Jethro replied.

"Judgin' by how things went with me bein' there, you could've ended up in the same position as me, probie. You wouldn't have wanted to see that," Mike responded heavily.

Jethro lifted his hands off of his face, his bloodshot eyes heavy and dull. He looked worn thin, looked more exhausted than Mike had ever seen him before.

There were a few things Mike was certain of when he headed back to Mexico.

He was certain that he would be there for Jethro whenever he needed him for the rest of his days. He had already known that before—hell, Jethro was the only reason he'd helped Jenny in the first place. He felt even more committed now though, like he owed it to him.

He had made it clear to Jethro that he could call him anytime. He had decided that if Jethro ever called and asked him to hop on a flight to DC, he would just do it, no questions asked. He was also determined to call Jethro himself and check up on him more often.

He was certain that Jethro would be okay. He knew that the hurt would take some time to heal, and that it would never go away entirely—but he also knew that eventually it would become bearable, and Jethro would accept it and move on.

He was also certain that when he died, he was going to leave Jethro Decker's insurance policy, as well as any other things that could be useful to him.

As Mike looked out the little airplane window, taking in the clouds, he also knew for certain that he had formed an even more special bond with Jethro than they already had. Considering the last couple of nights filled with drinking and emotional vulnerability.

Mike looked up and scanned the heads of the other passengers on the plane, and noticed a mop of red hair a few rows ahead. He wondered briefly if Jethro would find another spirited redhead to eventually fill the void—or if Jenny had been the last one to break his heart.