A/N: Something short and pretty run-of-the-mill. I wanted to write some Jibbs. This kind of drabble is a dime a dozen, I know, put it's posted-and badly beta'd!

He had learned, partly through intuition and partly through experience, that it was best not to wake her when peaceful sleep took a troubled turn for fitful. More often than not, if he took it upon himself to shake or shout her awake, it either scared her or angered her—or both.

He didn't know what plagued her dreams—nightmares—but he understood the gut-wrenching sorrow or the heart-stopping fear that could be induced by them, so on those times when her quiet murmurs, muted whimpers, or tossing and turning dragged him to groggy consciousness, Leroy Jethro Gibbs would simply roll over and watch her like a bleary-eyed, protective hawk—waiting for her to open startled green eyes up, or for the dream to fade without waking her.

Gibbs reached up and rubbed an eye roughly with the palm of his hand, narrowing his eyes tiredly. The past week had been nose to the grindstone, full of high-stress operative situations, and she was jittery about tomorrow's intrigue. The Czech Republic gave Jenny the chills, and he didn't know why.

He was exhausted and irritated, and for the first time he felt a flare of annoyance at her for having such trouble sleeping. He willed her to get over her stupid preoccupation with this bad feeling she was nursing. A little roughly, he shifted in bed, making sure his elbow would press hard into her shoulder—his way of accidentally waking her up.

He regretted it the moment she jerked her arm under her in shock, and her eyelids flew open to reveal disoriented, distressed green.

He pulled his arm back and leaned up a little, one of his hands flexing where it lay above his head on the pillow. He blinked, squinting in the dark, adjusting quickly.

"Jen?" he asked.

She blinked rapidly, staring at him, and then rolled onto her back, covering her face with one hand for a moment and then pushing her a handful of her hair back. She took a deep breath and he saw her move her legs, rubbing her ankles against each other. She turned her head towards him and reached over, her hand sliding along the space between him.

Her fingers touched his and she tangled their hands up tightly, squeezing to still the trembling in her hand.

She turned onto her side, turning her face into her pillow.

He was sorry again that he had woken her, even if it hadn't been in a forceful or concerned manner. He knew that, without letting the nightmare run it's course, he had induced it to remain racing in her heart and blood, playing in her mind, incomplete, consuming, and haunting.

Jenny cleared her throat hoarsely.

"Every damn night," she mumbled into the pillow. "It's too dark in here."

Gibbs sat up and turned the battered bedside lamp on, lying back down without a word.

He pulled the covers back straight around them and settled down closer, nudging her until she rolled onto her back again and his arm was thrown across her ribs, still holding her hand. He took a deep breath and buried his nose in her hair, holding her close to his chest.

She closed her eyes again, the intangible fear slowly starting to fade.

Gibbs lay next to her, his eyes open, watching her, for a few minutes before he laughed—low in the back of his throat.

"What?" she asked thickly.

"You're afraid of the dark," he teased gruffly, his words muffled in her neck.

She gently elbowed him in the ribs.

"Better to be a scared-cat than a creep."

This time it was his turn to ask:

"What?"

"I know you watch me in my sleep," she answered simply, her voice falling as it mingled with a fatigued yawn.

He smirked, and pressed his lips below her ear. Her remark was reproving and might be interpreted as a reprimand, but he understood it how it was meant—she knew she woke him up, and she knew that instead of acting, he waited for her to turn to him—and she liked it that way.

Story #81
-Alexandra