A/N: Surprise! I rather think /this/ was unexpected. The idea entered my head about an hour before my government exam, and after a huge final over 25 US presidents and their administrations, I give you a glimpse back into the 'world' of The Sixth.

Here we have a moment of insight into Jenny's reaction when Decker informs her-very belatedly-that she'll be working with Gibbs in Europe.

"I have to block out thoughts of you
so I don't lose my head."
Blue October; 'Hate Me' [Playlist]

There was a courtesy knock on Jenny Shepard's propped-open apartment door, and she gave a muffled yell that acknowledged he could come in. She had already buzzed him into the complex and used the latch to bolt the door open so she wouldn't have to get up from the living room floor again. She was preoccupied with carefully sorted piles of clothing that surrounded her and a large, empty suitcase.

"Hey, Jenny—whoa," William Decker broke off his greeting and held up his hand in front of his eyes, turning away to unlatch and shut her door tightly. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

She opened her mouth and let the panties she'd been holding between her teeth fall into her hands.

"Laundry," she answered blithely, holding up the garment and making a show of folding it primly.

"You had them in your mouth," spluttered Decker.

She shrugged, and laid the panties neatly atop a pile.

"So? They're clean. They're mine."

"In your mouth," repeated Decker, obviously still struggling with the concept.

Jenny rolled her eyes and cocked an eyebrow.

"Deck, what exactly do you think you're doing when you go down on whatever strange blonde you've lured to your apartment on any given night?"

He stared at her, stricken, and she nodded matter-of-factly.

"Essentially licking their panties," she supplied smugly, and used her teeth to straighten out another pair as she folded it. "I should be disgusted with you, really."

He gave her a withering look.

"Well, when you put it that way," he growled distastefully. "You know, I think I liked it better when we were just colleagues," he added dryly.

She smirked.

"Aw, don't tell me you're taking back that sweet comment you made to Vance about being my big brother?"

"Yeah, well, your brother doesn't need to see your undergarments."

Jenny stretched a pair between her fingers and slingshot them at him with a snicker. He dodged out of the way, glaring, and moseyed into the kitchen.

"Got any beer?"

"Heineken in crisper, Corona in on the side of the door."

"If you got Heineken in the crisper, where're you keepin' the veggies?"

"Veggies. Good one."

"You want one?"

"No," Jenny retorted, her voice muffled as she used her chin to help her fold a pair of jeans. "I broke open a bottle of bourbon when I started packing."

"Bourbon, great," Decker muttered under his breath, using his palm to twist the cap off a Heineken.

She was gonna need the damn bourbon, he'd bet.

He strolled back into the living room and sat comfortably on the arm of one of the chairs, looking around the mess of clothing, toiletries, and other assorted items that seemed to make up a sea around Jenny.

"You started packin' already?" he asked.

She shot him a look.

"We're leaving in four days," she said pointedly.

"Yeah," Decker drawled slowly. "I'm gonna pack in three days, then."

"Forgive me if I can't pack for an unspecified amount of time in Europe in the span of twenty-four hours," she retorted.

Decker grinned smugly and took a swig of beer. He surveyed the area, taking a mental inventory of her items, then extended his hand and pointed at her sagely.

"You need a coat," he said wisely.

She scoffed at him. Her coats were in storage in D.C., and she didn't think she'd need one in Europe. She was too used to the balmy, warm weather in California.

He shrugged, as if to say suit yourself, and tipped the longneck back to his lips again, closing his eyes and winding down after a long day of finalizing operational technicalities at the office.

He held his hands and the beer in his lap and watched Shepard pack in silence, his eyes narrow on her deft, quick hands and the silent decisions she seemed to be making as she sorted things. Her hair was messy, she was still in her casual clothes from the firearms training she'd done today, and she looked alert rather than tired. He knew she had about four briefings to deal with tomorrow before their final meeting pre-Europe, and even though he'd toyed with the idea of just springing it on her, he'd changed his mind at the last minute—and he figured now was as good a time as ever to break the news.

"McAlister got confirmation on our credentials today from DGSE," Decker remarked casually.

"It's about damn time," Jenny groused, rolling her eyes. She murmured something unflattering about the French bureaucracy. "French intelligence; what an oxymoron."

She shook her head and then leaned back, blowing air out throw her lips. She picked up a mug of bourbon from the floor next to her, drew one knee up to her chest, and pushed her hair back lazily, looking at him over the mug expectantly.

"Deck," she drawled, licking her lips. "You doubling as control officer and operative, or do we have our third?"

"Yeah," muttered Decker, reaching up and rubbing his jaw. "McAlister briefed 'im yesterday."

"Mmm," she muttered, resting the mug on her knee. "You end up asking for Callan?"

"Jen," said Decker warily, a blunt look in his eye.

Her eyes hardened immediately.

"Don't call me that," she snapped, right on cue.

"You better get used to bein' called that again," he grumbled under his breath.

"What?" she asked sharply.

"Look, I needed a certain covert skill set and an agent with military training to round us out on this one," he said curtly. "Callan's not a sniper—"

She moved her head, frowning.

"Who, then?" she demanded.

"I poached D.C., they wanted to cycle Balboa through a run as Senior Field Agent, anyway—"

"Who?" she barked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Gibbs."

She stared at him with a sort of stunned dread—as if she had simultaneously expected it, and yet been caught completely unawares. Her lips parted, and she compressed them into a tight line and set her jaw immovably.

She glared at Decker intently for a moment, and then arched one eyebrow icily.

"Gibbs," she repeated.

He nodded slowly.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs?"

Decker sighed and took another swig of beer.

"The one and only, Shep," he conceded.

She gave a sarcastic laugh, and ran her index finger around the rim of her mug.

"Oh," she said, as if enlightened. "Oh, okay—are you out of your goddamn mind, Will?"

"He's the best for the op, Jenny, he speaks Russian...you should see his redacted Marine files," Decker trailed off, falling silent under the look she was giving him.

She swallowed hard and looked into her mug.

"Did you forget what happened in D.C.?" she asked tightly. "Did you forget about that clusterfuck disaster?"

"No," Decker answered curtly.

He leaned forward and sighed heavily, peering with one eye into his beer.

"Jenny," he started.

She stood up abruptly and shook her head, taking the bottle of bourbon from the coffee table and her mug and storming into the kitchen. He listened to her slam some things around, turn the sink on, and the shattering of glass.

"How long have you known it would be him?" she asked, her voice far away.

Decker winced.

"Does it matter?" he asked warily.

She didn't answer for a moment.

"No," she said finally, storming back in angrily. He turned to find her standing there with a dishtowel clutched to her palm, her hand shaking, and her eyes hot and angry beneath twitching lashes.

"Jesus, what happened?" he groaned, leaping up and looking at the bloodstains on the towel.

"I broke a glass," she hissed, wrenching her hand away when Decker tried to look at it. "It's nothing," she swore, holding his gaze defiantly. "You weren't going to tell me," she said coolly, reading it in his eyes.

He didn't deny it, just looked at her in his blunt sort of way.

"You were going to blindside me," she went on, her voice cracking. Her cheeks flushed, but she looked pale at the same time. "What game are you playing, Deck? You trying to play matchmaker?"

"Fuck, are you kidding? I—"

"The way I remember it, you told me he was bad for me," she lashed out, ignoring his protest. "You told me to leave him, Decker, you went out of your way to tell me he was a no good bastard," she remembered.

"Yeah, I remember, Jenny," snapped Decker. "And I'd say it again, but this isn't personal, this is professional, and you can't deny Gibbs is good. He's the man you want in your corner when you won't know who else you can trust."

She swallowed and looked down at her hand, pulling the dishtowel away to look. She had cringed when he said his bit about Gibbs being the man she wanted; a sour, hurt look crossed her face and she bit her lip. Decker reached over to try and help again, but she yanked away and went into the kitchen. He followed her, and watched her turn on the sink.

"It's been two years," he said hollowly. "I thought you could handle it."

She slammed the towel into the sink with the broken glass and some dirty dishes and her lips trembled.

"You don't get it," she said in a low voice.

"Look, you left him, J, it's not like he kicked you to the curb—"

"You don't get it!" she shouted, turning on him. "You don't know how hard it was to leave him!" she burst out, tears springing to her eyes.

She held her wet, bloody hand to her face and wiped at tears that hadn't fallen yet. Decker swallowed uncomfortably and cringed, stepping back and leaning against her kitchen counter. She took a deep breath, punctured by catches in her throat, and shook her head, pushing her hair back with her clean hand.

"It's been two years. You say that like I got over him the moment I left; you say it like I just snapped my fingers and erased the entire affair," she burst out violently. "It's been two years of guilt and pain and heartbreak. It's been two goddamn years of me trying to forget him, Will! He was your boss, but he was my—he," she broke off, rubbing at her eyes.

The blood from her cut painted her face, and this time Decker did firmly step forward and grab her hand, forcing her to let him run it under the sink and dab at it with the soaking wet towel. She closed her eyes and hung her head.

"I didn't just stop loving him," she said harshly. "That affair, it was brutal. I wrecked a marriage. I think I really fucked him up when I left, and he—he did a number on me, Deck. And you—you waltz in here and tell me he's my partner again?"

Decker shook his head, turning off the water and holding up her hand to examine the cut. He took a deep breath and released her hand, stepping back and rubbing his forehead tightly.

"I was thinkin' about the job, not your heart," he said callously. "He's a son of a bitch, Jenny, and I know you two had a hell of a relationship, but this is the assignment and it ain't gonna change."

She licked her lips and threw her hair back, clearing her throat and staring at the ceiling. She pressed her lips together until there was a thin white line around her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed.

She had spent so much of her time in Los Angeles and San Diego trying to heal, to move past that turbulent, consuming affair in D.C., and here Decker stood telling her the man who still plagued her, who still ached somewhere in her chest and her mind and her stomach, was her partner—her lone partner in a dangerous under cover op. She was expected to lay her life in his hands—

I trust you with my life, Jethro. I can't trust you with my heart.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

"Can you do this, Jenny?" Decker asked tiredly.

He rested a hand on her shoulder.

"You think you can work with him?"

She shrugged his hand off her, silently fighting with herself against more tears. She could let herself lose it tonight, fall apart, drink, cry, struggle over the memories of those early days in her career, of rough, dirty sex behind his wife's back and how good he'd made her feel and then how badly it had broken her at the end-and then she could face him when the time came, maybe, and hold her own.

She straightened up and rubbed her nose, and then ran her hands through her hair, hissing in pain when the rough edges chafed the new cut on her hand. She leaned forward on the sink and looked over at Decker.

He looked apologetic, but stubborn, and she had never felt so conflicted about him; their friendship was the best she'd ever had with a man, completely platonic, trusting, and infused with the natural intimacy of brothers in arms, but she wanted to lash out at him, strike him, for shaking her to the core so abruptly with this blasé announcement, for reminding her in such a raw way that she wasn't over it, and she was never going to get over it.

"I can work with him," she conceded coldly, saying it out loud as she began to convince herself of it.

She shot Decker a ruthless smirk, and lifted her shoulders, a defeated, scared, grudging sort of look in her pretty green eyes.

"I can't promise I won't fuck him," she admitted—to him, and to herself, and then she turned away and started to cry.

This was her hour to cry, because tomorrow, it seemed—unexpectedly—she had to face the man whom one woman, a two years ago, had told her she shouldn't let ruin her.

Diane Gibbs hadn't known when she said it that the ruins of Jenny Shepard would always lie at the feet of her ex-husband.

"Falling into ruin was a bit like falling in love:
both descents tripped you bare and left you
as you were are your core.
And both endings are equally painful."
J.R. Ward; Lover Unbound

-The Decker/Jenny friendship in the original was a favorite of mine. I like the idea of her being comfortable enough to be honest with him about how much the idea of seeing Gibbs again just plain terrifies her. She was cool and collected by the time she met him in the epilogue, naturally, but we can't expect her to have been that way immediately, considering all that went down.

-Alexandra
story #131