Deadline

It was inevitable. Spending so much time together, trusting each other, putting their lives in the other's hands, of course it was inevitable. Granted, she should have resisted, as workplace romances rarely work out, but it was inevitable. Who was she to argue with fate? And for a few blissful months, fate was on her side.

But somewhere, the universe had made a mistake. And that somewhere was Jethro.

'Bad mistake, universe,' Jen thought, slightly hysterically, sitting in her study and watching news footage that showed one Leroy Jethro Gibbs putting away another dirtbag. 'Pairing me up with the terminal divorcee with heartbreak in his past? Whose idea was that? How can I be soul mates with a man who hasn't had a smooth relationship last more than a year or two since his first wife died, nearly twenty years ago? How can we be soul mates when he pulls back every time he starts to feel a connection that rivals that of Shannon and Kelly?'

Because that's what they were, of course. Soul mates. There was no other word to describe their relationship, even now that she was Director. They were flawless. Each knowing what the other was thinking, doing, able to play off each other's strengths and more than adequately compensate for any weaknesses. They were like two parts of a whole. Except with them, the whole was more than the sum of the parts. Together they were explosive, both unstoppable force and immovable object. Able to complete any job, get out of any op clean, they were the team entrusted with the most confidential, crucial missions.

And now. Now what were they? Not a team, not since she became director while he remained a mere agent. They were only soul mates now, a fact that Gibbs would never acknowledge.

No, he never knew just how deep her feelings for him were, and soon she would die. So she had only one choice left. She would write him a letter.

Jen pulled out a piece of stationary. "Jethro," she wrote at the top, then stopped. How to start?

XXX

She was going to die. Jen knew it now, was absolutely certain there was no way out of it. If the disease didn't kill her in time, these men would. But that was not the worst part.

No, the worst part was knowing that Jethro would never know. Never know how much she loved him, how much she wished things had turned out differently. He would never know all those things that she had been waiting to tell him. He would find her unfinished letter, and would forever wonder what she had meant to tell him. The worst part was that it was her fault, all of it, the incomplete letter and the lack of time and the men trying to kill her, like they had killed Decker and like they would try to kill Jethro. It was her fault, and that was the knowledge that really pained her.

So Jen did something she had not done since she was a child. She closed her eyes and prayed. Not for her life, no, she knew that was forfeit. No, she prayed for more time. Just a little bit more time, so she could see Jethro one last time, speak to him one last time. And she would tell him everything that had remained unsaid between them all these long years, and she would kiss him one last time, and then everything would be okay. She prayed to God to give her a moment.

God did not answer. The next moment, she heard tires screeching to a halt outside the diner, and several car doors slamming. Jen knew that this was her final moment.

XXX

She lay under the table, blood spilling out from her wounds. She felt pain, lots of it, but it was moving farther and farther away, to be replaced with cloudy numbness. It was almost like falling asleep; you never notice when it happens. Her breath gusted out of her mouth for the last time, and Jen knew she was dead. Jen found time for one more thought.

Jethro... Jethro, I love you.