The Writing of VegaWriters

The Next Big Thing!

2012-04-03T06:15:08Z

What if you’d been on the committee that made the decision to publish Harry Potter? The Hunger Games? Even Twilight? What would you have said? A resounding yes? A hearty no? What comments would you have made? What connections would you have wanted to make with the authors? What if you had been the one to help unearth a superstar?

Now, you actually have that chance. Pubslush is a new kind of publisher for the 21st century. Readers decide what books get published, and for every book sold, a book is donated to a child in need. By the people, for the people!

The process is simple. First, authors submit ten pages and a summary of their book. Then, Pubslush lets you, the reader, browse the submissions based on your preferences. You read a brief overview, and if it strikes your fancy, you click through to read a more in depth description. If you’re still interested, you read an excerpt. And if that leaves you wanting more, you support it (which is committing to preorder the book)! You don’t get charged unless the book is published, so there’s no risk. And for every book sold, Pubslush donates a book to a child in need.*

The key however, is support. Reader supporting writer and the writers cannot do it without your help. Publication doesn’t happen without preordering. Writers have 120 days to secure 1000 of those preorders and then, the publication process begins. But what’s great for you, the reader, is that if you pledge to support a book, you get the recognition of discovering something great.

So what does this have to do with me?

Well …

Inspired by the music of Queensryche, Iron Maiden, Queen, Metallica, Judas Priest, and more – Shadows in the Spotlight is the story of Marc Gadling, a young musician who is navigating the waters of the emerging metal scene in Los Angeles, the gay counter culture in the city, and the rising fears of what came to be known as HIV/AIDS. It tells the story of his family – the brother who loves him unconditionally, the lover who dies too young, the best friend who is the silent sentinel, and the young prodigy who proves that even after death, there is life.

Here’s how it works. Shadows in the Spotlight is one of the books available for preorder on pubslush.com. If you like what you read, place a preorder as a promise, a promise that you will purchase this book once it is made available to buy. The thing is, this book cannot get published without your preorder and time is running out. If you’re wondering what you’re getting, Shadows in the Spotlight has a proven track record. An excerpt was published in the 2010 QSalt Lake Literary edition and it won the Honorable Mention in the 53rd Annual Utah Arts Council Fiction Writing Competition (2011).

For the past 40 days, support has been growing. But it isn’t enough. 958 preorders are still needed in the next three months to secure publication. If you like your books peppered with heavy hitting doses of rock music, fairy tales of boys who make it big, and stories of how family is formed through passion and not blood, take note of what Shadows in the Spotlight has for you.

http://www.pubslush.com/book/view/198

*Language taken from Pubslush.com’s website.

Bluntly, the fic is being held hostage for a while, which is sad for me too ... ;)

2012-04-02T05:54:15Z

Here's what's up:

It hit me the other day, that the message isn’t getting out. So many people have come up and asked me “When is your book getting published?” When I ask them if they have pre-ordered it, they look at me blankly. So let me say this as plainly as I can: Shadows in the Spotlight CANNOT get published without your support. Here’s how it works. Shadows in the Spotlight is available for pre-order on pubslush.com. Pubslush is a social publisher that allows the reader, not the editor, to chose what is read. Authors place the book on the site, and you, the reader take a gander. If you like what you read, place a pre-order as a promise, a promise that you will purchase this book once it is made available to buy. In addition, for every book that is published, pubslush donates a book to child literacy programs around the world. Remember, this book cannot get published without your pre-order. Thank you for your kind words and your hopes for my success, but I need YOU to be an active part of that success. Thank you

http://www.pubslush.com/book/view/198

Shadows in the Spotlight!

2012-03-22T03:14:52Z

It's crunch time!

Inspired by the music of Queensryche, Iron Maiden, Queen, Metallica, Judas Priest, and more - Shadows in the Spotlight is the story of Marc Gadling, a young musician who is navigating the waters of the emerging metal scene in Los Angeles, the gay counter culture in the city, and the rising fears of what came to be known as HIV/AIDS. It tells the story of his family - the brother who loves him uncondtionally, the lover who dies too young, the best friend who is the silent sentinel, and the young progidy who proves that even after death, there is life.

Here's how it works. Shadows in the Spotlight is available for pre-order on pubslush.com. Pubslush is a social publisher that allows the reader, not the editor, to chose what is read. Authors place the book on the site, and you, the reader take a gander. If you like what you read, place a pre-order as a promise, a promise that you will purchase this book once it is made available to buy. The thing is, this book cannot get published without your pre-order. If you're wondering what you're getting, Shadows in the Spotlight has a proven track record. An excerpt was published in the 2010 QSalt Lake Literary edition and it won the Honorable Mention in the 53rd Annual Utah Arts Council Fiction Writing Compeition (2011).

For the past 30 days, support has been growing. But it isn't enough. 959 preorders are still needed in the next three months to secure publication. If you like your books peppered with heavy hitting doses of rock music, fairy tales of boys who make it big, and stories of how family is formed through passion and not blood, take note of what Shadows in the Spotlight has for you. Link here!

Where has the fic gone? Gone to pushing my book! :)

2012-03-15T21:23:15Z

In 1981, the world shifted. Heavy Metal climbed to the top of charts around the world, displacing older styles and bringing young rebels out of the closet to bond together under cover of ear splitting feedback and chaotic distortion. In a smoky bar in Los Angeles, two young musical brothers meet up with a leader in the scouting world and together they form a band that changed the way Metal was perceived for a generation. More than that, they formed a family that stuck together while drugs and disease brought down the nation.

Marc Gadling and Jared West made no secret of their relationship when they were on stage. As Marc’s soaring vocals took the world to higher levels and Jared’s guitar pushed the envelope with every new chord and riff, it became clear to all watching that they were lovers. But what they and band mates Jason Matthews and Tony Gadling did keep secret was Jared’s own battle with AIDS. After Jared’s death, Marc spiraled out of control and his problems with drugs and alcohol almost ended everything for the band. It took the birth of his son to bring him back from the cliff’s edge.

Even still, the Music Gods had plans for the boys in Time Machine. With guitarist Michael Wilson at the strings, they started over, again changing and challenging the world’s definitions of Metal and Family while being brought to the brink as they face the one crisis they might never recover from.

This is their story.

Dear Fellow Bibliophiles,

I recently uploaded my novel, Shadows in the Spotlight, to www.pubslush.com. This site is leading the revolution for a change in how publishing is done in this country. What’s cool about pubslush, and one of the reasons I chose it, is that it lets readers decide what books get published, and for every book sold, donates a book to a child in need. I have 120 days to secure 1,000 preorders. If I do, then pubslush will publish my book in physical and ebook format, and it will be sold everywhere.

So what is the book? Shadows in the Spotlight takes a look at how family is formed. This time around it isn’t just through the bonds of friendship or blood, but the passion of the stage. Five men come together and through their music, change how sexuality and Heavy Metal are defined for generations.

To support, please go to http://www.pubslush.com/book/view/198 and click “Support this book.” (It’s the green button on the left.) You can choose to pre-purchase an ebook for $10, a physical book and ebook for $20, or choose a higher support level for additional incentives.

Some things to remember about supporting a book on PUBSLUSH:

1. You are NEVER charged unless Shadows in the Spotlight gets published (aka reaches 1,000 preorders).
2. If it’s published, you will be the first to receive your physical book and/or ebook.
3. Your name will be in the book as a “discoverer.”
4. For your purchase, a book will be donated to a child in need.
5. You will be entered to win a free trip to Kenya to join PUBSLUSH on their first bookdrop.
6. PUBSLUSH is a full service publisher. This means my book will be edited, marketed, and designed properly to ensure you receive a high quality product.

In addition to purchasing your own copy, you can also gift the book to up to 10 people. Please consider this option for the people in your life who believe in good books and giving back or people who are scared off by ordering things on the internet.

Pubslush speaks to me because for once, the people get to decide what is important. I’ve had agent after agent and publishing company after publishing company tell me that it just “isn’t what they’re looking for right now.” Well, what about what people are looking for? But, because of that, I cannot be published without your support. Please consider forwarding this email to your friends and family to help spread the word about my book and pubslush. Let me know if you have any questions.

Thank you,
Shauna Brock

LiveJournal: crossingthegate
Twitter: @ShadowSpotlight
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Shadows-in-the-Spotlight/279396118798317
Pre-Order at PubSlush: http://www.pubslush.com/book/view/198

Paris to Serbia (Ch 10)

2011-11-04T04:43:58Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter 10: Answers
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jethro/Hollis (this chapter)
Rating: Adult
Timeframe: Early 5th season.
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: She was Jenny Shepard. Who in just a few years would be a blip in the history books, a special page in a fifth grade social studies text, the single page devoted to the women who made history.

2007

The fifth time she dropped her glasses, Jenny tossed the file she was trying to read across her desk hard enough that it slid and scattered papers to the floor. Her left leg bounced hard enough that she was sure she was going to pull a muscle, and she could no longer blame the caffeine that kept her going through the dinnertime conference call. Her late night coffee date with Condi had only soothed her nerves, not added to them. She shouldn’t be so twitchy. A tired glance at the clock brought forth a long-suffering sigh. Lunch was ten hours ago and Cynthia ordered dinner for her, but it was sitting in the fridge, ignored. But the very thought of food made her stomach turn and even the sip of now lukewarm water she took from her water bottle threatened to come back on her.

A flu bug has been going around the Director’s Club and she’d managed to avoid it so far even though Lou had been down on and off for two of the last four months. But she and Vance were scheduled to be on a plane to Cairo next week - which was really the last thing she wanted to do. If she didn’t have a security detail assigned, she’d fully expect for her deputy director to slip a knife between her ribs in her sleep. After Cairo there’s the UN and time with a different deputy director, but at least this one doesn’t want her dead. When she took the job, she knew she’d be sleeping when she was dead, but right now, death feels preferable. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Again, she dropped her glasses and she pressed her fingers into her eyes. Her head ached, her leg won’t stop twitching, and she really hoped that Cynthia hadn’t gone home because she needed to apologize for yelling like she did earlier. Jenny had no idea where the mood swing came from, but suddenly, the world had tilted and she had been yelling like her assistant had ruined travel plans rather than botched picking up her dry cleaning.

When she stood, her legs wobbled, and she blamed the lack of food. Really, she needed to eat. Her toes curled into the cheap carpeting in her office as she walked toward the door, and it took four tries for her hand to turn the lever. Cynthia jumped up when Jenny emerged.

"Cynthia," her voice felt very soft and far away, "I’m sorry for snapping earlier. I don’t know what came over me." Her assistant nodded an acceptance to the apology and then took a step forward.

"Are you okay, Director?"

"I’m fine. Just tired I think."

"Should I call for the car?"

The car. Going home. It sounded like a good idea but her couch was so much closer. "Yes." She refused to pitch forward in front of Cynthia - it was just the flu anyway - and headed back into her office to gather her things.

When she woke in her bed the next morning, she couldn't remember how she got there.

***
"You are lucky I like coffee the way you make it." Jethro chuckled as he padded into his kitchen. Hollis leaned against the counter, dressed in one of his t-shirts and a pair of very short running shorts. God she had great legs.

"You’re lucky you had coffee beans. I had to hunt for them. You know, keeping them fresh in the freezer only works when you aren’t keeping frozen fish next to it. So if this smells like trout, it’s your fault."

He chuckled and stretched. "Forgot to make a store run earlier." He walked to where she stood and wrapped his arms around her. Even first thing in the morning she always smelled good. Something about her body wash, or shampoo, or how he enjoyed the lingering scents of their nightly activities.

"Something about the hours you keep and how you live on takeout."

He smirked. "You live on takeout too, Hol."

Her arms went up around his neck and she pressed her lips to his. Jethro held onto her as they kissed, glad for the actions that didn’t have to lead to words. He’d almost said it last night, almost confessed how he felt, but didn’t want it to happen in a state of post coital bliss. In the light of day he felt no different, but he was terrified what saying the words might do to them. Hollis had made it clear that she wanted something permanent with him but he just wasn’t sure that the feelings in his gut translated to long term bliss. It was one thing to have fun and get along now, while they were both working and married to their jobs. What happened when she retired? What happened when they started bitching at each other for the little things? So rather than think, he kissed her, gently lifting her to the counter and stepping between her open legs. Her ankles crossed behind him and he sighed softly, feeling secure rather than trapped.

"I’ll talk to my boss about those hours," he chuckled. Hollis grinned devilishly and he groaned, knowing it was coming. "What?"

"Tell me about your boss," she teased lightly.

"She’s one of the most brilliant law enforcement officers in the country and I still think she’s a better field agent than director." The rush of emotion when it came to Jenny was obvious and he saw the slight change in Hollis’ eyes. But, she had no reason to worry. He wasn’t going to leave her for Jenny any time soon, but he had a feeling that if he didn’t find a way to balance his feelings, Hollis would leave him. Love or not, she was clearly tired of competing. "Why do you ask when it makes you uncomfortable?"

"Because unlike your other ex wives, she’s in your life every single day."

"Jenny isn’t an ex wife."

"She might as well be."

Hollis was right. And Jenny was everything but a former wife. "It’s long and complicated, Hol."

"I don’t plan on going anywhere any time soon, Jethro."

Squirming slightly, trying to not get lost in the memories of when he’d been completely happy, he tried to answer her question. "We were undercover in Europe together for a long time and then we were both recalled to the states. She was made the first female agent afloat in the agency and spent time out on the Ronald Reagan. I worked MCRT here. But then we went back to Europe." He didn’t want to get into the details - the mistakes made in Paris the first time, the state sanctioned executions, the gun rings and smuggling operations. He didn’t want to tell her about the engagement ring he still kept, along with a box of Jenny’s things he’d never managed to return. Her copy of War and Peace that he’d bought for her in Moscow. The green dress that brought out her eyes, the one she’d been wearing the night he proposed, when they went to dinner after she got off her dreaded agent afloat detail. After they’d made love in the backseat of his car she’d told him her new orders sent her to Paris. How lucky, he’d mused. They were going together.

Hollis just gave him a look and evaded his attempts to kiss away the question. Sighing, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looked into the eyes he wanted so much to fall in love with. "She’s the one who got away," he admitted, "but it was also a long time ago and it’s hard to work with her some days."

"So, when you told me, back when all of this started, that sometimes people want something different ... you really were talking about yourself."

"Yes."

"I thought so. Wasn’t sure." Her slim, strong hands rested on his shoulders and this time, she let him kiss her. "Remember when love was easier?"

"Real love never is," he countered. And, looking at her, he knew that he was willing to handle the bumps that came with loving Hollis. He only hoped she was willing to handle the bumps that came with loving him. She kissed him again and he fell into it, relishing in the smell of her body, the way she molded herself against him. They weren’t perfect, but that was the point. Perfect was only an illusion.

Most of the time.

He sighed and stroked her cheek as they broke apart. "You’re really planning your retirement?"

"Really, Jethro. I’ve devoted my entire adult life to the military. I want to enjoy what I have left."

He looked into her eyes. "And you want to stay in D.C?"

"I don’t know." She ran her hands down his arms and linked his fingers. "It depends on what I have to stay for."

He really didn’t know what to say. His brain was at war with itself, knowing that he needed to give her some kind of response, some kind of reason to not take her life and move it to Hawaii - which seemed to be her preferred destination at the moment. But if he was retiring, he was going to Mexico. He wanted sandy beaches and solitude. But he also wanted her. Maybe it was time to think about compromise. Actions were always better than words, so he kissed her, sliding his hands up under the t-shirt of his she wore, stroking his fingers along her rib cage and up, to the breasts he loved devoting time to. Her entire body was so responsive and she arched, lifting her arms, and he tugged the shirt from her. There was nothing but skin under the running shorts and he slipped one finger down, teasing her. Actions always spoke louder and they kept him from having to focus on the conversation they really needed to have. What worried him was that Hollis understood him and knew he was avoiding. She’d only put up with it for so long. But right now, she was willing to give him leeway to take her right here, on his counter top, with the coffee perking behind them.

He loved her. He just wasn’t sure what it meant for the future.

***

"You know what I’m suddenly thinking about?" Jenny said as the elderly doctor came through her door and locked it behind him. "Remember that op when I was first assigned to field work? We were running from Salvo through the streets of London. My feet were sliced up because I couldn’t run in those hooker heels and you had to stitch me up."

"I do remember," Ducky’s voice had a forced lightness to it. He was nervous. "I remember you were a very good patient as well."

"Actually, I was passed out from the pain, if I remember correctly."

"Yes." Ducky smiled but shook his head. "Jenny..."

"It isn’t just a persistent flu bug is it?"

"No." He let out a long sigh and Jenny stayed at the window, staring toward the river. Her hands shook. "The work I’ve done points to Huntington’s, Jenny. I’m sorry." He paused and she plunged forward, trying to tackle the problem like she tackled cases.

She swallowed hard, nodding. "What next?"

"Specialists, Jenny. You need to take this to the next level. There’s only so much my tests show. You need definitive proof."

"I take it to the next level and I lose my job, Ducky." She sighed and rubbed the tension from a knot in her neck. "How long can I still work?"

"Right now, you are in early enough stages that you can work until you can no longer do your duties. But you have to look at the long term ramifications. You have to start planning."

His earnest voice threatened tears, but she took a deep breath and forced them down. "So, what can you do?"

A long pause and she heard him shift a bit. "Clearly, I can learn more about Huntington’s."

She turned, finally, and forced a sad smile at him. "Thank you, Ducky. I’ll come see you later, all right?"

He nodded, matching her sad smile with one of his own before stepping back to the door. It shut behind the doctor and Jenny collapsed into her chair, trying to take calming breaths. She wouldn’t cry over this. She couldn’t. She’d known it was coming for years. She knew the signs: the tightness in her hands, the mood swings, the tremors in her legs. But the part of her that wanted to rail against the world wanted to send a letter to her mother, bitching about how it wasn’t fair that she’d developed the condition while her mother was still healthy and her sister showed no signs.

Biting her lip so hard it bled, she drew a knee up to her chest and rested her forehead against it. She was tired, so tired, and the thought of going to her dinner with Congressman Summers and then to a budget planning session just felt like too much. Would they somehow already know? Would they see her differently when they did? She was Jenny Shepard, first female head of an armed federal agency. She had more confirmed kills to her name than most military men. She was on the fast track to something more than running NCIS. Already, she knew, her name had appeared on short lists for positions at State and Emily’s List wanted her to run for office.

She was Jenny Shepard. Who in just a few years would be a blip in the history books, a special page in a fifth grade social studies text, the single page devoted to the women who made history. Jethro would get more face time than she would. No one elected senators with Huntingtons. No one put someone like her in a position in the cabinet. She’d serve her time and then Vance, fucking Leon Vance, would come into power. He’d taint the agency just by sitting in the chair. And no one would know what he did to her, to other innocents, all in the name of so called national security. She’d take the knowledge of what really happened in Serbia, Marseille, and Positano to her grave.

Her intercom beeped and she jumped, reaching for it. "Yes, Cynthia"

"You need to head out for your meeting with Congressman Summers, Director."

Jenny closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Life, for now, continued on.

"Give me five minutes, Cynthia. I’ll meet the detail downstairs."

All she could think as she gathered her briefcase and files was that this was going to kill Jethro when he eventually did find out.

TBC ...

Silk Stalkings Fic: Flight

2011-10-24T03:08:10Z

Title: Flight
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: Silk Stalkings
Genre: History, Character
Pairing: Multiple
Rating: Teen-16
Word Count: 8,934
A/N: This one is for the character who shaped me more than any other character has. She was there during my formative years and has stayed with me – even when I’ve put her to the side.
Disclaimer: Rita Lee Lance and all the characters in Silk Stalkings belong to SJC and Co. I make no money. The tears I cried writing this were my own.

Summary: She flees to a place of security – the loneliness of the unknown. It is comfortable. It is familiar. She is the girl on the track, the girl on the bicycle, the girl running from the disapproving gaze of a foster family who does not wish to understand her. Flight is all that makes sense to her, that and the subtle movements she can detect from the small life inside of her.

these tears i've cried
i've cried 1000 oceans
and if it seems i'm
floating. in the darkness
~Tori Amos – 1,000 Oceans

As an adult, Rita does not remember the day her life changed forever. She remembers watching her father grow quieter and quieter while he made plans to sell the house. She remembers sitting amongst her piles and piles of dolls and stuffed animals and being told she could only take one of each. She does remember the emptiness in her father’s eyes. She tells people that she remembers how her father would read stories to her over breakfast every morning, but the secret she holds close to her heart is that the thing she remembers most is the look of sadness and failure he carried until the day he died.

***

It’s a perfect Florida afternoon the day her world changes. A perfect little lady, she races out of the school yard, her pleated skirt bouncing against her knees, her socks pulled tight, her perfectly polished Mary Janes hardly hindering her scamper across the playground.

“Rita needs to learn to play with the other little girls. She only plays with the boys.”

Her father ignores the nun who has come up to speak to him. There is nothing wrong with his little Rita holding her own with the boys around her. It is a strength she will need from this day forward. As she waves goodbye to her friends, he wants to tell her to linger, to play with them for as long as she can. This will be the last time she sees them. He will not send her back to this school. The children here will only torment her because she is no longer one of them. By dinner, they will all know that the Fontana Family has fallen from grace.

Soon he will start her at the public school. There they will torment her because they will know she is now one of them.

For the first time since Rita’s mother died, he is glad Olivia is not here. He cannot bear the thought of her ever knowing what has become of them.

“Daddy!” He lifts her, looking into the eyes that are so much the copy of her mother’s. “Daddy! Why are you here? Where is Marcella?”

Marcella is looking for a new job. He cannot tell her that.

“I gave her the afternoon off. I want to take you for ice cream, Rita.”

***

Rita drinks wine and beer because she hates the smell of hard liquor. To her, it is all the same - the stale smell of an empty bottle next to the couch. People assume she does not smoke for all the right reasons. They do not know that even during her days of teenage rebellion, of all the things she did do, she never once picked up a pack of cigarettes. The smell lingers and reminds her of the man she still hero-worships. Instead of it being the warm, comfortable, faint scent that clung to her father’s clothes as he came in the door at the end of a busy day, it is the oppressive smell of a man who never leaves their small apartment.

***

Her afternoons never change. Leaving the two friends she has behind, she runs home from school, her tattered tennis shoes scraping against the sidewalk; her backpack, full of library books, bouncing against her hips. Her little legs take the big steps two at a time and she does not bother trying her key in the lock – the door will be open.

Rita never gives up hope that her father will be awake, waiting for her to tell him about her day. Before she turns the doorknob, she offers up a quick prayer. Maybe today will be different. She is greeted not by her father’s warm embrace but the nauseating smells of whiskey from the open bottle on the coffee table and the ashtray full of cigarette butts. Quietly, to keep from waking him, she cleans up and opens the windows to air out the musty rooms. The heat of the outside and the smell from the alley below is better than the oppressive feeling in the tiny, one bedroom apartment. Her father sleeps on, never knowing the difference.

It is in the afternoons that she misses the house. She misses running through the door ahead of Marcella’s teasing scolding. She misses the swing set and the fountain and the huge aquarium full of brightly colored tropical fish. She misses being dragged from the yard and sent up to change out of her school uniform. She misses the smell of Marcella’s fresh baked cookies.

Some afternoons Rita finds a photo album beside her father’s sleeping body. She always stops her cleaning and looks through it, staring at the photographs of a woman she has never known. Her favorite pictures are the ones from the wedding; her mother was dressed in a gown only princesses would be allowed to wear. She traces the image in the photograph and imagines that her mother is not dead, but is a princess back in Greece and she will be coming for her daughter and husband someday soon. It is on these days that she spends time staring at the front door of the apartment, dreaming that her mother will step off the pages of the photographs and make their family whole again.

But the dream never comes true. Rita puts the album away, puts the whiskey bottle into the freezer (once she poured it into the sink and her father yelled at her) and then sits on the floor under the open window and does her homework and remembers Marcella and Alfred and being swept into her father’s arms as he came through the door at the end of the day.

Books become a comfort. She reads and reads and reads. Her friends are Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and Suzy Pratt.

***

Chris teases her because of her soft spot for a hard luck story; she lets him. She knows he does it because he loves her. She knows he worries about how she attaches herself to the kids with no hope, but he also understands why she does it. He steps in her path only when she needs to be challenged, when she needs to be reminded that there is only so much one person can do. Someday, she swears she will tell him about the times she ran away from her foster homes and how, despite the angry words she threw in her direction, Sue never once gave up on her. But she also knows that somehow, he already knows. That is how it is with Chris.

***

One afternoon, there is a loud, angry knock on the door. Two men stare at her and demand to know where her father is. They are from Child Protective Services and she is sent to her room and she crouches at the door, listening while they talk to her father about the black eye she came to school with yesterday. They all but force their way into the bedroom and she begs and pleads with them. Her daddy loves her and he doesn’t hurt her. The bruise on her cheek came from when she bumped her cheek against the broken railing on the stairs. She even shows them the railing and knows they don’t believe her but there is no proof otherwise. They give her father thirty days to get into a sobriety program or they will take her away and give her to a new family. Rita lives in terror.

But suddenly, things are almost like they were before they moved. Her father reads to her over breakfast and then walks her to school. She is grown up enough to stay home alone after. He tells her he is looking for a job. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he goes to his meetings.

She pretends he doesn’t come home smelling like cigarettes and whiskey.

On her seventh birthday, her father takes her out for ice cream. They sit behind the Thirty-One flavors and he tells her he has a job and that he’s going to start doing better for her. Rita believes him and dreams that once he has been working for a while, they will get to go home and her mother will be there and her mother will love her. Marcella will bake cookies.

After he loses his job at the real estate company, her father never leaves the apartment again. Rita makes the walk to school alone and after, runs home to make sure he is okay.

***

Rita is a damn good homicide cop. She’s always been good at reading people’s emotions and her instinct almost never fails her. Her one weakness is the smell of the body. The decomp. The body fluids. It is a smell that haunts her dreams. She knows it’s technically a violation of crime scene policy, but she adds a touch of perfume to her nose before she gets out of the car. She keeps a small jar of numbing lotion in her day planner incase the smell is too bad. She loves her job but she wishes that dead bodies were like the ones on TV and in the movies. It never smells on cop shows.

***

One day, things are different. A different smell greets Rita as she comes through the door of the apartment. Her father is not on the couch, but the photo album is. It is open to a picture of her, taken at her sixth birthday – it feels like a lifetime ago. She giggles for the camera while a pony nibbles at her ear.

“Daddy?!” She calls out, wondering if maybe, he isn’t here. But there is a sound like water in the bathroom and she goes closer. “Daddy? Are you taking a bath?” He doesn’t answer and she knocks on the door, worried he might have fallen asleep in the tub.

He is there, but his clothes are on and that makes her feel creepy. She pushes her way into the room, confused by the utter silence. Why did he decide to take a nap in the tub? The smell of whiskey is over everything and she smells smoke, but not cigarette smoke.

“Daddy?” She asks again, going to touch him. He is cold.

And then she sees the gun and the hole in his head.

She tries to scream, but no sound will come out. She screams and screams and screams and screams, but no sound comes out. She does not know how long she stands there but at some point everything he has taught her comes back.

On legs of rubber, she stumbles to the phone and dials 911.

“My Daddy is dead,” she says into the receiver. “Come help him.”

Rita watches the men in jumpsuits as they lift her daddy from the water. The apartment is so busy and full that no one really notices the tiny little girl with the dirty face and the tangled hair as she stares at the orange bag that is zipped up around her father’s body.

“He left a little girl,” she hears a man say. “Fucking ass. If you really love your kids, you wouldn’t do that.”

But the man doesn’t understand. Of course her Daddy loves her.

“Did he leave a note?”

“Yeah. It’s been logged into evidence. Where’s the kid?”

“She’s the one who called it in.”

“Oh God. Where’s that social worker?”

A tall man kneels down in front of her and there are tears in his eyes but he tries to smile at her. “You must be Rita?” She nods. The man in the dark blue jacket just pulls her into a hug and she finds herself clinging to him. “I’m so sorry, Sweetheart,” the man says. “Don’t worry. You’ll be okay.”

The man in the jacket’s name is Neil and he sits with Rita until the woman from social services comes. She is nice enough, but she seems impatient. Rita gathers what she can – her favorite book, her teddy bear, the few clothes that will fit into her biggest backpack. On the way out the door, she stops, breaking away, grabbing for the photo album. She can’t leave this behind. It is all she has left.

***

More than once, Rita has thought about being a foster mother. Especially after Nicole’s few short days with her. But the pain is still too near and it is easier for her to hide in her work and to focus on succeeding and capturing the bad guys who kill people than to help scared teenagers find a sense of justice in the world. She also knows first hand that no matter what she says, nothing takes away the pain and the betrayal. So she gets up and she goes to work and she helps the kids who are lost in the shuffle of a stupid parental mistake get into good foster homes but she cannot open up her house or her heart. She talks a good game, but the truth is there are some wounds that will never truly scar over.

***

Rita quickly learns ranking in the foster homes. The newbie always gets the top bunk and the last shot at the bathroom. She will make her own breakfast and do everyone else’s dishes. She will be happy going last and be grateful for anything she gets. She receives no comfort when nightmares haunt her.

The child psychologist she is assigned to doesn’t seem to want her to heal but is instead absolutely certain that Rita is hiding some deep, dark secret about how her father used to touch her inappropriately. He can’t understand that her father loved her and that he’d never do anything like that. He doesn’t listen when she does break down, crying because her foster father comes into her room some mornings and watches her get dressed. They tell her she is exaggerating and that what she thought was inappropriate was her projecting what her father did onto the “nice man” her foster father is.

It makes no sense to Rita so she learns to keep quiet. She learns to observe what is going on around her. She says nothing that might get her into trouble.

She changes houses because she is too difficult and the mother believes that she is “bad to the bone.” The new house is next to a park with a bike path that leads down to the pier and a small beach. It is on that path she discovers the true freedom of running. Out on the path, alone, she feels safe. She runs and runs until she is too tired to move and then she runs again. Every day it is the same; she comes home from school and leaves her backpack on her bed. She puts on her tattered tennis shoes (the ones she stole from the thrift store) and she goes to the park and runs until the sun goes down.

One Saturday afternoon, she finds herself at the gates of the city cemetery. The large gate creaks as the rusty hinges turn. She slips through, feeling as if she is trespassing, and makes her way past the ornate headstones to the back of the solemn park. Rows of small, white cards line the lawn, each with three names and dates. It does not take long for her to realize these are the graves of the people with no money; the people no one cares about. Three bodies to a grave. She stays until the sun goes down, reading each name, saying good-bye to each of them. They deserve that much. The graveyard becomes the final destination of all of her runs. Some nights she does not have time to go in, but when she does, she moves, unnoticed, past the people visiting the loved ones with the headstones. It is always silent and deserted on her end of the cemetery.

On her ninth birthday she discovers her father’s marker. D. Fontana. November 6, 1971. The breath goes out of her and kneels down, her fingers moving over and over and over the small placard. S. Cummins. May 5, 1971. G. Luggins. August 17, 1971. D. Fontana. November 6, 1971.

Somehow, it makes her feel better to know that he is not alone under the ground.

The place becomes her new spot to run. She races through the cemetery to the marker next to the iron fence and tells him about her day and how she hates foster care and how she wants him to come back to her. One day she asks why he had to go away.

She never gets an answer.

A year later, Rita discovers her mother’s headstone. Her father had never taken her there, even though she had known he went to visit because sometimes he would go somewhere and come home with red eyes like he had been crying and then he would hold her and tell her stories about her mother. He never went to the cemetery after they moved.

But she is running through the cemetery, jumping over headstones like they are hurdles, when she comes face to face with the name that belongs to the woman in the wedding dress in the photo album. Olivia Eleni Fontana. Beloved Wife and Mother. Lost to this world too soon but with us forever in spirit. December 25, 1940 – May 16, 1964. In this moment it becomes real. Neither her father or her mother will ever come through the door for her.

She never steps foot in the cemetery again.

Rita does not celebrate her eleventh birthday. The foster family doesn’t care; in fact she knows they no longer want to deal with her. This time, her running brings her to the beach and, exhausted, she walks to the water and sits at the edge, watching the waves until it is dark. The next day she is sent to a new home; a small cottage near the beach.

***

She’s never forgiven Michael for abandoning her. It’s not his fault, she knows this, but the little girl who will never heal from being abandoned by her father never really heals from Michael leaving her behind. It’s unspoken between them but something they are both aware of in the silence that often fills their occasional meals together. She’s proud of him and what he has accomplished with his life and even though he teases her about being a cop she knows he is proud of her too. They are almost brother and sister. Almost. Bound not by blood, but by a pain that only those not raised by their parents can understand.

***

Sue is different. She ignores the social worker and kneels down in front of Rita and says hello at Rita’s eye level. “You’re too skinny, honey.” Sue touches her chin. When Rita pulls back, frightened, Sue glares not at Rita but the social worker. “Wait here,” she says to the woman. To Rita, she just nods. “Okay. Come on,” she reaches to take Rita’s backpack but Rita will not let go. Again, she just nods. “Okay. Follow me.”

Rita has her own room and a bathroom that is linked with another bedroom. A sullen, angry boy glares at her through the open doors and after Sue introduces him as Michael, she closes the bathroom door, giving Rita privacy. She shows Rita how to lock the doors and then lets her have her time alone. Three hours later, she comes in with hot cocoa.

“What is this, Leave it to Beaver?”

“Don’t drink it if you don’t want. I won’t be offended. But you didn’t come down for dinner and I thought your stomach would be empty.”

“You didn’t bring dinner up?”

“We eat at the table, Rita. And if you snooze, you lose. But you can have the hot cocoa.” She tilts her head. “You are going to need some clothes I’ll bet. We’ll go shopping this weekend.”

Rita sulks, but Sue is not phased. They go shopping and two hundred dollars of new jeans and tops later, Sue sits her down in a beauty salon. They cut her hair to her shoulders, removing the damaged ends. Rita cries, not because of her hair but because the woman looks like Marcella. Sue has already realized that Rita likes to go running and buys a good pair of running shoes. She never criticizes and when Rita misses dinner, there is always an apple and a jar of peanut butter left on the table.

Soon, Rita starts to make a point to be back in time for dinner.

They go to church every Sunday. After, they travel to Sue’s mother’s. Grandmother Anderson makes dinner. Sue’s younger sister is always there and it is Lisa who teaches Rita about makeup doing her hair. While the older adults talk, Lisa shows her the right way to do eye shadow and lip liner. Lisa is on the track team in college and Rita learns from her that it is okay to be beautiful and to be athletic. The next time she goes shopping, Lisa takes her and they buy skirts and peasant style blouses and Rita finds a pair of shiny Mary Janes that remind her of a time she has all but forgotten. When she gets home that night, Rita pulls out the battered photo album and clutches the image of her six-year-old self to her chest while she sobs.

Sue gets her into sports, hoping to channel her rage before it becomes self-destructive. There is dance (which fails miserably in a humiliating beauty pageant moment) and tennis (which keeps Rita in one place) and track (that she loves). Keeping busy seems to be the smart thing to do.

Her friends at school think Sue is her mother and she never makes an effort to change that perception but she always stops them short when Tom is mentioned as her father. “I have a father,” she always retorts, “and someday …” but she can never finish the sentence. They all think Tom is her stepfather and she learns to live with that.

She likes to dream but she knows her father is never coming for her.

Michael likes to tease her but they become friends. His mom is still alive – recovering from drugs and alcohol but she’s coming back for him. While Rita goes running, Michael sits at the window and waits.

On Rita’s thirteenth birthday, Michael’s mother takes him home. Rita doesn’t get to say good-bye but he comes back to see her sometimes and always brings a photograph of something. She gets to keep the one of the beach at sunrise. Rita believes that while was out running when her own mother came to get her and she wants to stop running but staying inside drives her crazy and on days she is cooped inside, the thin blade of a razor finds its way into the skin on the top of her thigh. Each slice relieves the pressure and each red line is color in her gray world.

In her dreams, this life is a mistake. Her father did not kill himself and her mother is really an heiress in Europe and someday soon her parents will come for her.

She refuses to think about the two graves under the grass in the City Cemetery of Palm Beach. They are different people than the ones who abandoned her. But her rage, which is always right under the surface, boils over after Michael leaves and she takes to riding her bike to the furthest end of the island and then running along the sand until she collapses from exhaustion.

***

There is a part of her that loves Chris’ desire to tell her everything about his sex life. She is comfortable in her sexuality and comfortable with her own choices, but his freedom with sex and his body (at least with her) allow her a sense of empowerment – even if she keeps her own experiences much closer to the vest. Her mother taught her that a Lady doesn’t kiss and tell.

***

She loses her virginity the night of her senior homecoming. The female half of the star couple in school – she the tennis star, he the star running back – she happily tumbles into the sack with Tommy Bartel. While most of her friends suffer through the teenage angst of boyfriends dumping them once they got what they wanted, she and Tommy only grew closer. He is the one to discover the thin scabs on her thighs and to keep her from cutting, he holds her and distracts her and goes jogging with her. She would have married him, but college ripped them apart. Tommy is picked up by the Notre Dame football program and on graduation day, they say good-bye. He is off to become a football star until a knee injury during his rookie year with the Patriots sends him into has-been oblivion.

Unlike most foster kids, she gets to go to college. A scholarship in track and tennis to Palm College opens the door and a scholarship from the Krane Foundation seals the deal. After her freshman year, she has saved up enough money to transfer to The University of Miami and so Tom and Sue load up the truck and drive her the hour South. It is in Miami she gets to study criminology and art history.

A scout from the national tennis association wants her to think about turning pro and another scout from the US Olympic team talks to her about her speed in long distance running.

She brushes them both off. Athletics is getting her through college but it is not her destiny.

“I wouldn’t recommend the police academy, Rita,” her advisor tells her one day. “Police work is meant for men. It would be best if you thought about focusing more on art history. It’s a better career for a wife. You can work part time in a museum or funnel it into elementary school teaching.”

Why is it that everyone thinks she should be an elementary school teacher?

She misses Tommy and wonders if he would have wanted her to be an art history major. But out loud, she laughs in the face of her advisor. “I’m not getting married any time soon. And I want to be a detective.”

Her advisor laughs and signs her application for graduation.

Three weeks before graduation, she receives a call from an attorney in Palm Beach. Lisa, Sue, and Tom have all been killed in a car accident. A drunk driver. She is the only one listed as next of kin. She returns to Palm Beach on a greyhound bus and hitches a cab ride to the morgue where a young looking man who introduces himself as Doctor Lincoln leads her through the hallways so that she can collect the belongings of her family. It will be nine-hundred dollars to have the county cremate the bodies, he tells her.

Somehow, she authorizes the procedure and manages to meet with the attorney. She has been left a car, what is left of the Lance’s money after debts are paid, and the small cottage next to the beach. Rita keeps the car and sells the house. The money goes into a savings account; her nest egg. Before she returns to Miami, she makes a stop at the courthouse.

***

When she told Chris the truth about her last name, he held her gently and let her cry. On her birthday that year, he showed up at her door with a thick manila folder containing as much as he could dig up about her biological family’s history. There were her mother’s immigration papers, newspaper articles about her father, and even her birth announcement. That was the day she realized that she didn’t just love him, but she was in love with him. But to tell him would mean that the fairy tale they shared might end. Love for her meant loss. So she held her breath and felt a strange kind of painful release every time he found himself a new girlfriend.

“We aren’t going to risk all we have just to tumble into the sack together,” she reassures woman after woman. Do they realize what she is really saying? Do they realize that she and Chris are in love but pretending they are not?

She hopes so.

But how was she to know his playboy antics came from his own realization that he loved her and he was scared she didn’t love him in return?

In retrospect, she realizes how stupid both of them had been.

***

She graduates from college on her twenty-first birthday and shortly after, the paperwork is finalized and her last name changes from Fontana to Lance. Though she’s glad to honor the two people who kept her alive, so much of her feels she is abandoning where she really comes from.

Then, while moving into her new apartment, which is three blocks away from the training grounds for the police academy, she meets DJ Martin, a short stop for the Florida Marlins. He is beautiful and charming and suave and he loves her almost as much as she loves him.

She falls in love at first sight. It’s not something she ever believed in, but he stood there, the sun glinting off the white of his uniform and for a moment he was not a person but a baseball God, sent from above to bestow a few moments of greatness on the mere mortals of Earth. She leans forward, resting her arms on the top of the dugout, and when he glances back, they share a smile. She waits after the game. He comes to find her.

DJ is perfect. Perfect in every way. He is well built and they have so much in common and he makes her fears of love fade away. He is gentle, he is passionate, and she realizes soon that yes, love at first sight does indeed exist. She knows this because she never stops feeling for him the way she did when their eyes first met. She finds she does not mind his hectic travel and it leads to even more passion in their relationship.

Their stability is the eight mile runs they share in the mornings. Without needing to talk, they fall into a comfortable rhythm of breathing and footsteps. Their conversation is physical and each run ends with a tumble into bed. He knows she is keeping parts of her history from him, but he does not push. After all, he has his own secrets.

Six months into their morning runs she moves in with him. His house reminds her of the long forgotten castle of her childhood dreams and when she cannot sleep, long after she should be worn out from how passionately he touches her, she wanders the rooms, listening to the ghostly giggles of a time that no longer seems like her life. Some nights, DJ finds her curled into the bay window in the dining room, her hand rubbing a tense spot on her neck and a finger pressed against her temple. He worries about her headaches, but says nothing. She does not like to be seen as weak and after all, he has his own secrets.

***

Seeing DJ again brings back every emotion she’d never dealt with. He’s right in one regard – she did run from him. He may have pushed her away, but she ran and did it as fast as she could. Running is what she knows best. Running is most comfortable. And the faster she runs, the easier it is to forget about the holes in her heart. The more she runs, the more she can forget about how those she has loved have abandoned her and the faster she sprints, the less she needs to think about the part of her soul that she left in Miami.

The secret she holds is darker than Chris can ever suspect and when he pushes for more information, she almost tells him, but it is her burden to bear. Let him believe the half-truth that it was drugs that pushed her and DJ apart. Her secret was her choice to make, but there are so few who would forgive her for it and she does not want Chris to think less of her.

***

Nine months into their morning runs, she starts to puke up her cornflakes. He is in Boston, helping to lead his team to a sweep of the series. He calls after the first game and knows something is wrong, but she isn’t sure of her suspicions yet and she doesn’t want to tell him. The next night is the first night he misses a phone call but she doesn’t worry. It was bound to happen and she is still scared to tell him that her breasts are tender and that she is a week late with her period.

He is in Atlanta, making fantastic plays, the day she confirms she is pregnant. The morning sickness hasn’t faded and the fitness tests at the academy are killing her. Her doctor sends her home with a set of pamphlets – none of which point her to the local Planned Parenthood. But she isn’t ready to make that choice without DJ at least knowing he could have been a father.

She couldn’t have underestimated his reaction more. Rita gives him credit for keeping his temper under control and after he gets back from his sudden need to get out of the house, he sits down with her and tells her that he’ll do whatever she wants – but it’s clear he doesn’t want the baby any more than she does. He loves her. He’ll support her. The promises sound rehearsed.

She was prepared for the cold feel of the room and the clinical bed side manner of the doctor and the nurses. He doesn’t go with her to the appointment and she lies there, counting the tiles above her. It lets her forget that there is something going on between her legs. She runs the Roe vs. Wade ruling through her mind. She replays every argument she’s had recently with DJ. She closes her eyes and prays.

The decision is the right one. She is a woman entering a man’s profession and it is only a matter of days until graduation. Babies aren’t part of her equation.

But when she feels the vacuum make one last suck, she bursts into tears.

When she gets home, he is passed out and doesn’t wake up when she climbs into bed with him.

As with all things, her sorrow pushes her forward. She graduates at the top of her class at the academy and is immediately picked up by Miami PD. The Marlins don’t make it past the first round of the playoffs and DJ’s contract is up. Boston wants him. He isn’t sure. She doesn’t want him to go, but she has a feeling he has never forgiven her for not having the baby – even though it was something neither of them wanted.

The day he signs his contract with Boston, she finds him at home with a bag of coke and an eighth of whiskey. She runs, finding solace in Robin’s arms. There is an opening in Palm Beach and she takes it, hoping that with her different last name, no one will remember her past.

***

The night Chris tells her that she is his best friend, she puts on a smile and shakes her head. “You’re my best friend too,” she tells him, laughing. But part of her heart breaks. It’s not like they haven’t acknowledged their attraction for each other or that they both don’t realize that they are too scared to cross the “sacred line” but she wants to know if it’s because they are running from each other or because sometimes two people really are meant to be best friends. But the questions don’t change the fact that Rita’s fantasies always revolve around Chris and his soft hands and the lips she can’t wait to get the chance to kiss.

***

She’s known who he is for some time now. Everyone knows Lorenzo. He’s the hot shot with the perfect shot and at twenty-five he got his gold shield and he’s part of an elite narco team that has a tendency to take down the roughest, nastiest, angriest dealers in South Florida. Somehow, they always come through Palm Beach. She meets him the night of her shield test; he is working undercover and is going down with the bust in order to save face. She arrests him and shoves him into the car, apologizing under her breath and promising to let him free once they get to headquarters.

When she looks into his eyes, her instinct tells her to run because he will hurt her more than anyone else ever has.

But how can her best friend be the one who will hurt her?

That year, they are partnered together in Narco. She is dating Brent, but it’s okay because Brent is Chris’ best friend. When Brent takes the job with the DEA, she’s happy to finally have Chris all to herself. Already close, they are soon finishing each other’s ideas, each other’s sentences, and together, they are an unbeaten shot. They almost cross the line the first few months they work together.

He likes to hold her when they talk. It is natural for them. More than one rumor circulates that they are sleeping together but no one can prove it and Rita only wishes it were true.

But he is dating Riki … or is it Lisa … or is it Vonnie?

Together, they are transferred to homicide. Rita is thrilled – it is where she’s wanted to be. Chris has been waiting for a chance at the elite unit since his first criminology class. They are young and beautiful and she is known for her diplomacy with the rich snobs and so, in a twist of irony, she finds herself often investigating crimes in the homes of the families who used to be friend’s of her fathers.

None but one remember her.

She meets Mark down on the beach. She likes the way he smiles. He likes the way she looks in a bathing suit.

Chris pays attention to the headaches that have become a part of her daily life. After a particularly bad migraine, he reminds her that she’s dating a neurologist and Mark agrees to do a CAT scan.

She stares, horrified, at the tiny little bubble in her head, the bubble that spells out her impending death. As a cop, she expects death to come in the form of bullets impacting, tearing at her flesh, and sending her, flying, into the afterlife. But now, it will come in small ways – a headache the grows and grows, shortness of breath, paralysis, and then death. There is no longer an if with death, there is a when. But there is no time given for when.

She is put on a migraine medicine that has been known to help with the pain. It is simple and won’t raise any red flags with IAD should they go digging into her personal life like they have every right to do. Mark also puts her on a once a day aspirin regimen, with orders to pop them whenever she feels a headache coming on. The aspirin will thin her blood, but it is the only treatment they know for her situation. She goes off her birth control pills. There is little else that can be done.

She tells Chris in a moment of weakness. He’s rubbing her shoulders and her head hurts and it comes out and he freezes. Just freezes. Later, she gives him credit for not pulling away, but she can tell he’s upset. It’s okay, so is she.

***

When she holds his son for the first time, her tears come from so many places. Frannie holds her hand, nodding her understanding, but no one knows. No one knows that she and Chris had their chance for long-term happiness but they froze up and freaked out. No one knows that the first time they crossed the friendship line was back when he’d thought she’d been killed. He hadn’t been able to sleep without holding her and while they hadn’t made love, the kisses they shared had proved their feelings right. They’d had their chance but walked away from it. As she names Chris’ son after him, Rita kisses her little boy and promises she will never let any harm come to him – even though she knows it is an empty vow. If she has learned anything in her thirty-two years on the planet it’s that no matter how deeply the promises are meant, none can ever truly be kept.

***

Her heart breaks when Gillian walks into the room. The other women, she knew he would love and then leave, but Gillian was the marrying kind. To this day, she wonders if Chris heard the words she’d whispered to him as he finished shaking off the effects of the sedatives.

“I love you” had never been so heart breaking

But instead, he fell in love with Gillian and she let herself love Eric – Eric who was a good substitute and was good in bed and it wasn’t until he came over one night, smelling of whiskey, that she knew she was in trouble.

He never hit her. Grabbed her twice when he was drunk and she learned quickly how scary and strong his hands could be. Instinct kept her safe. She had a feeling Chris suspected, but he never said anything and she didn’t want him to.

Her headaches were getting worse and her body ached the same way it had the first time. Chris was in the Bahamas with Gillian and she tried to convince herself it was the flu.

It wasn’t, but it wasn’t a baby either.

Chris didn’t do anything but support her and love her, but she could see how relieved he was when she wasn’t pregnant. He wanted any baby she carried to be his.

So did she.

***

It takes years before she is able to return to his grave. CJ stands with her, a rose clutched in his tiny hands as he says hello to his daddy for the first time. At five, he understands that his daddy died before he was born. He asks why daddy had to leave.

Rita wishes she could give her son an answer.

***

It takes a car bomb to get him to kiss her again. She melts into his arms, her mind racing with the truths he has confessed and she returns the kiss with everything she has. But then she gets scared, remembering the gut feeling that he would hurt her more than anyone else in her life, and she tries to run. If she doesn’t confess her feelings, if she ignores them, they will go away. But it’s too late. They’ve crossed the line and this time, there is no going back to the playful time they shared. It is up to them to create a future together. The future scares her, so she tries to run.

For the first time in her life, someone stops her. She’s held back from her escape and try as she might, Chris doesn’t let her leave. Chris holds on to her and together, they discover happiness.

His favorite thing to do is hold her after they’ve made love. He loves to wrap his arms around her and spoon against her body. In these quiet moments, when she feels more alive than she ever knew possible, their conversations turn to sleepy discussions not about the future but about everything they have always talked about. They talk about God and Sports and he says he finally understands crimes of passion. He’s always been protective of her but now, he understands how passion can turn someone into a killer. He is glad he has her to hold on to.

“If anyone were to ever hurt you, Rita. Before, I wanted to kill them. I hated them. Now, I know that nothing would stop me.”

In those moments, the instinct that tells her to run is quieted and she always, without fail, turns in his arms and opens her legs and he sinks into her again and again. He claims her with his lips and his seed and she allows herself to be truly owned by another’s soul.

But two months into their relationship, she finds herself rising before he does so that she can dry heave into the toilet. He hears her and holds her hair back and worries that it is her aneurysm. She knows better and tries to avoid the conversation.

“I’m fine. Quit worrying about me. I’ll survive.”

If anything, she will do that. It is what she has always done.

When she tells him, she is prepared for the silence but not his excitement.

“Look, I’m terrified. But I’m also excited.”

This time, she knows that if she decides to get an abortion, that he would go with her and they could hold each other. It is how she makes the decision to keep the baby. When she tells him she wants to risk it, she understands the fear in his eyes (her aneurysm) but his excitement is contagious.

This time, it will work.

***

She blames herself for his death. If she’d held on more, prayed harder, found a way to keep him from running. She still doesn’t believe that it was a part of the plan of the fabric of the universe and the day she put him in the ground, she stopped talking to God. Given full leave, she ran, hard and fast, as far from his memory as she could but as close to him as she could bear. When she brought Chris’ son into the world, she finally understood what had kept her own father alive as long as he had. Had her father been sober, he’d have been alive, she believes that.

***

For a few brief moments, she knew true happiness. She had the man of her dreams and they had a baby on the way. She was secure in her job, her finances, her life. For a few moments, life had been perfect.

She blames his death on her complacency. She’d let herself believe that it was finally her turn and because of that, God had taken Chris from her - a reminder from the here-ever-after that she was not important enough to warrant joy.

In her mind, there is little question as to where she will go. Anna has already promised use of the property she owns in Los Angeles and while the last place she wants to be is California, it is as far from Florida as she can get. She flees, packing up only what she needs and sub-letting her apartment to a young cop and Chris’ loft to a young baseball player who wants to live in Palm Beach and not Miami. The storage unit fills quickly and she takes only the clothes she needs, a few books, and the hundreds of photographs she has of Chris. Her world fits into the back seat of her LeBaron and she takes off, one hand on the wheel and the other on the small bulge that is the last link she has to the man she knows she will meet again in the next life.

She flees to a place of security – the loneliness of the unknown. It is comfortable. It is familiar. She is the girl on the track, the girl on the bicycle, the girl running from the disapproving gaze of a foster family who does not wish to understand her. Flight is all that makes sense to her, that and the subtle movements she can detect from the small life inside of her. As the wind whips around the car while she flies past the cornfields of the Midwest, she apologizes to Chris’ son for all the mistakes she is about to make. She apologizes for his father – he didn’t mean to die. She apologizes for running, but it is all she knows. She apologizes for apologizing. And at night, when she is curled up under thin motel sheets, she apologizes for her endless tears. She apologizes to her husband for her flight. She apologizes to Sue and to Tom. In the darkness, she forgives her father. She now understands his hopelessness and if it were not for the baby inside of her, she knows she would follow his same path. But every morning, the sun seems a little bit brighter – even if she feels that much more empty. Healing is a longer road than the one to the small Beverly Hills cottage where she will start her life over.

There is a note from Anna and the key is left under the mat. A gardener will be by on Tuesdays, there is a house keeping company on retainer, the appliances and phone are turned on, there is a small pool out back. The house is furnished and Anna and Benny are both going to help with any money she might need while Rita finds her feet. The number to a grief counselor is scribbled at the bottom. Anna is in Europe filming, but she promises to return in time for the baby’s birth. Numbers of family are listed. You are our family, Rita. Don’t hide. Let us know our grandchild … is the final plea. She hears the unwritten We never knew our son.

The silence is peaceful. Rita moves from room to room – a nursery has already been set up. A neutral room of blues, greens, and yellows. A bassinet, a crib, a playpen. Rita’s bedroom is one of fantasy – a canopy bed with curtains tied back to the bedposts. She can almost see herself at home here.

Taking a breath, Rita moves the first of her suitcases inside. The only thing she unpacks is the photo she and Chris took shortly after her promotion. They stand together in the gardens behind the station, looking into each other’s eyes. The golden frame goes onto the mantle and she sits, closes her eyes, and tries to find the strength that is demanded of her.

***

Rita smiles obligingly at the women at CJ’s preschool. They all gossip, friendly, knowing now that she is Anna Alexis’ daughter in law, and they would be more than happy to set Rita up with one of their single brothers or cousins. She only shakes her head and gathers her little angel into her arms and goes home, clutching the wedding rings that still rest on a chain around her neck. He promised her he would be with her forever, they would be together forever. He promised he would never leave her. She cannot turn her back on that promise. It is in these moments that her anger bubbles up and over and she cries and CJ only looks at her, confused.

She hates herself then. She does not want her son’s memories of her to be tearful ones.

***

The phone call from the attorney is surprising. The chaos in the house is typical – CJ is climbing over his grandfather and the dog is barking and she has to move outside to hear the caller.

Suddenly, she is twenty years old again, the only kin listed in a Last Will and Testament. She will be the executor of the Krane estate.

It is time for her to return to Palm Beach.

This time, the arrangements are easier. She has done this before. Karen Krane has the best funeral any society woman in Palm Beach could have and Rita sets about restoring the good name of a once great family. The money is set into an interest based trust – scholarship available to foster kids and children who have lost a parent in the line of duty. The home has been left to her and CJ and there is a smirk on her face the day her closest “neighbor” comes to introduce herself. She remembers Sherry Anne from school, but it is clear the feelings are not mutual and while there is a part of her that wants to remind her of the once powerful Fontana family, instead she simply introduces herself as a distant member of the Krane Family. Eventually, the truth will come out but right now, it isn’t important.

CJ rides his bike, full speed, up and down the streets in front of the mansion.

They spend their weekends with Harry and Frannie and Rita helps Frannie deal with Harry’s slow slide into dementia.

She discovers pictures and journals and histories, all kept by Karen, about a life Rita can barely remember.

One day, while CJ is in school, she starts off on a jog. She runs and runs until she comes to the headstone she has only visited once, when CJ was only five. She kneels before the marble, a headstone not far from her mother’s and one that somehow faces the small placard of her father’s. She touches his name and tears stream from her eyes.

Christopher James Lorenzo. Beloved husband and father. August 17, 1961-December 13, 1995

“I’m home, Chris,” she whispers. “I love you.”

For the first time in her life, she doesn’t feel like running.

Fin

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch 9)

2011-10-23T23:34:08Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter 9: Between the Shadows
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jenny/Gibbs
Timeframe: Pre-Series
Rating: Adult
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Despite being completely Matt and Kitty, they were also a schizophrenic combination of Jethro and Jenny and he was falling for her as Jenny, as Kitty, as anything and anyone that came along with the package.

Paris was intoxicating, but more so, she was intoxicating. The smell of her perfume, the way her hair trailed down to her shoulders, how the fabric of her clothing caressed the skin he’d been kissing only hours before. Watching her as she navigated the market, it was far too easy to forget they were here for a purpose. So he reached for her hand and they walked together, fingers linked, knowing that one of Salvo’s goons was following them. Despite being completely Matt and Kitty, they were also a schizophrenic combination of Jethro and Jenny and he was falling for her as Jenny, as Kitty, as anything and anyone that came along with the package.

Jenny gasped something in French and he wracked his brain, trying to make the translation. His Russian was better than his French but he was sure she said something about glass ornaments in the window and light in the bedroom. But he was also happy to admit any translations were garbled in his mind because he was staring at her ass. She pulled him over to a street vendor and held up one of the glass baubles the old man was selling. The light caught it right at the perfect moment and it splashed rays of light onto her hair and her bright green eyes reflected the rainbow around her.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered as he reached forward and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Jenny smiled and stepped in, closing the already miniscule gap between their lips. She moaned softly into the kiss, her hand reaching around his neck to pull him closer, his hands circling her waist, pressing their hips together. He wanted her now, right here, on the street if need be. Decker crackled in his ear to keep it clean but Jethro ignored him as, somehow, he pulled Jenny even closer.

“Keep it clean, guys. Really. It’s Paris not a sex club.”

In response, Jethro kissed her harder and Jenny moaned softly when they finally broke apart. Her gaze went over his shoulder and she cleared her throat. On pretense of looking at another of the ornaments, Jethro turned and let his eyes wander the crowd on the street. Fifty feet behind, a man from Salvo’s crew stood at another shop, flitting uselessly through the merchandise. “Two o’clock,” he whispered so Decker could hear him, “Fifty feet behind.”

“Right.” She slipped around him, put the glass charm in the hand of the vendor, and negotiated the price down a few francs. He stood behind her, pretending to look at a wind chime, watching Salvo’s man wander and try to look like he wasn’t following them.

She slipped the charm into her bag and then walked over and took his hand. “Dinner, Matthew?”

“I’d be delighted.” They kept walking, toward a small restaurant with a few tables on the sidewalk. Jethro could hear the man’s shoes on the pavement.

It was a small café and they sat at one of the smaller tables nearest the restaurant, sipping wine and staring into each other’s eyes. Salvo’s man hovered in windows nearby, waiting for his time to approach. A waiter not assigned to their table came by, left a piece of paper, and walked away. Jethro took it and looked. The name of a warehouse. A time. He committed it to memory and held the piece of paper over the candle and watched as it all turned to ash.

***

He was nervous and it bugged her. She didn’t want to go back into Salvo’s snake pit anymore than he wanted her to, but they had a damned job to do and they couldn’t do it if they were nervous and jumpy. They were supposed to be gun runners, money launderers. They were here to break apart gun smuggling rings, not celebrate a Parisian vacation on behalf of the US taxpayer.

Jenny set the makeup brush down on the vanity and turned her head, staring at him over her shoulder. “You’re with me this time, Jethro. Would you please relax? For me. I can’t work if you’re jumpy like this.”

“I’m not worried about you.” His blue eyes met hers, betraying the lie, but she gave it to him. “I’m worried about what we don’t know.” He leaned back on the couch, stretching his arms out across the back. He flexed his fingers and cracked his neck and she resisted the urge to walk over and rub his shoulders. “I’m worried about what you still haven’t told me.”

“What do you mean?” She crossed her arms and stared at him, adopting a look of defiance that used to get her in trouble back at FLETC. “You know everything.”

“No, Jenny, I don’t.” He returned the look and she squirmed. The look wasn’t one of a worried lover, but one of a senior agent dressing down his subordinate. She had become so used to operating on an even keel with him that she’d actually forgotten he was her superior officer in this situation. She hadn’t been giving him enough credit as an agent. “I know that Salvo was drugging you.” His voice was low and cold. “I know that you disappeared for weeks and came back with enough intel to take down the whole ring but yet we aren’t being allowed to actually do it. I don’t know if I want to know what you did to get that intel, but I’ve read the reports you turned in and I can tell you’re leaving things out and I need to know what they are before we get into the party.”

Foggy flashbacks haunted her. The cold, dark room. The voice. The men around her. One familiar voice chuckling. Money changing hands. “What do you mean?”

“When you came back, you sounded like you’d been speaking Russian for weeks. Salvo doesn’t know you can speak it. Or does he? Who blew that cover? Was it you or Vance?”

She sighed and turned back to the mirror. Party after party haunted her, flashing behind her eyes – her first time in the snake pit without Jethro, with only Vance as her backup. Vance, who had given her that first drink, who had whispered something to Salvo that had him pushing her up against the wall and hissing in her ear even while he hiked her skirt up.

“What else don’t I know about you, Kitty?”

The hard feeling at her back hadn’t been Salvo but his gun, pressed into her ribcage. His guards had grabbed her, dragging her. Before she’d blacked out, she looked over to see Vance standing there at the top of the stairs in the club, that toothpick in his mouth. But she’d survived. Telling Jethro would only … only what? She didn’t know if Vance had really had anything to do with her trip into hell, but he hadn’t dragged her out. Was this what it meant to be undercover like this? Did state sanctioned destruction mean selling her soul?

She couldn’t go there, so instead she shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest. “He knows,” she admitted. “Vance told him, it’s the only way he figured it out. But I played it, okay. Told him I kept it quiet cause I was able to get more done.” She rubbed her jaw idly, remembering how he hit her, remembering the questions he’d asked about what she already knew. There were some things Jethro didn’t need to know. “It’s how I was able to get such good intel. He used me as a go between with rival groups. It’s not as bad as you’re thinking. Mostly, I was window dressing.” It was the truth as far as she could remember it. Salvo was possessive of the women he wanted and she couldn’t run information if she was completely messed up. But she couldn’t remember everything and it scared her. The fog was ever present.

“Jesus, Jenny. Why …”

She shook her head. “Because you saw the bruises, Jethro.” Her stomach was starting to churn. “I just … I want to forget those weeks ever happened. As an agent, I know I can’t. But as a human being …” A long breath escaped her lungs and she turned, the churning in her stomach suddenly becoming the need to vomit. Her wig fell loose as she bent over the toilet and puked up what little food she’d eaten over the last day.

“Jenny,” he was rubbing her back while she caught her breath, “where the hell was Vance in all this?”

“Getting closer to the crew I can’t access.” It was a lie, but she wasn’t sure exactly what Vance had been doing, so she covered for him. Her legs gave out and she slumped against the toilet, wiping her mouth with the towel Jethro handed her.

“He’s your control officer. He sticks with you.”

“Apparently he has different ideas about what it all means.” She pushed him away, confused to his motives. One minute he was her team leader, the next her lover. On shaking legs she stood and leaned over the sink, rinsing out her mouth. She’d have to brush her teeth and start her makeup over again. “I’m alive. To him, that’s all that matters.”

“What else happened, Jenny?” His hand was on her hip, his fingers pressing into a bruise that still had not healed.

“That’s it, Jethro.” All that she could remember, anyway. “My cover is still good. Salvo thinks I’ve been fooling you about how smart I am. He thinks I actually control everything, not you, and that I’ve been jerking everyone around by their cocks. After he … established … the chain of command for me, everything has been fine.”

She closed her eyes against the pain in his. “I’m fine, Jethro.” His grip slipped a bit and she knelt down, grabbed her wig off the floor, and went back to fix her makeup. She had to stay focused and his torment between life as her lover and life as her partner couldn’t distract her. Her stomach churned again.

“How are you feeling?” His hands rested on her shoulders and his concerned blue eyes met hers in the mirror. She sighed and leaned back into his strength. “Really, Jen, how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” She gave him a soft smile. “Let’s get this done and over with so that we can get back here and forget about this god dammed assignment.” It was too simple a desire. Here she was bitching about his lack of focus and all she wanted was to leave it all behind.

This assignment was just the beginning. After this, they had to find the ship that was taking the guns and women out of the country. They had to follow the money through Serbia. If they were lucky, they’d be done in a year. What then? If she and Jethro were assigned together again, could they adjust to a life in DC or San Diego or Spain? Suddenly, she missed her desk back at the naval yard. She missed translating cables and reporting on chatter. She missed lunches with the director and dinners with different junior senators. She reached up and squeezed Jethro’s hands.

Suddenly, it hit her how much she cared for him and she wanted to say something, anything, but the words left her brain and stopped at her mouth. It was too soon for declarations of love, especially when all they knew was the rush of undercover. Would he care that she had a tendency to leave the cap off the toothpaste and leave her clothes in a line on the way to the bathroom at the end of the day? She didn’t drink bourbon. She wanted to be director. He liked being a field agent. She read Tolstoy. He read Clancy.

Maybe she just had to enjoy her time as a Bond Girl and then move on. But it didn’t change how she felt about him. None of it did. He leaned in to kiss her and she responded, wrapping her hand around his neck and pulling him closer. They had time and she didn’t care if she had to do her makeup again. She wanted to make love to him.

Jethro’s grip on her waist was gentle as he pulled her up against him and loosened the robe she wore. Naked underneath save for her garter set, he groaned at the sight of her. She went to step out of her heels but he shook his head. “Leave em on, Jen.”

Yes, Bond Girl.

He walked her back to the bedroom and with each step, her knees wobbled a little more. Decker was just in the next room but she didn’t care that Jethro left the door open. She slid onto the bed, opening her legs for his view while he unbuttoned his shirt and kicked his pants aside. He came at her, a tiger hunting prey, and as he covered her mouth with his, she gave into the excitement and the danger of what they had accepted for their lives. She could love him like this, in moments like this. The rest would have to take care of itself.

***
Vance met them at the back door of the club, helping them slide past the bouncers out front. He was chewing on a toothpick and the look he gave Jenny made her skin crawl. Covering her unease, she rolled her eyes and slipped past, stepping on his foot in the process. Her heel sunk into the soft part of his shoe and he winced. She just shrugged an innocent apology before grabbing Jethro’s arm and leading him deeper into the club.

Bodies writhed around them, a bizarre return to some ancient rite. But as much as she wanted to press her body to Jethro’s again, to feel his hands moving on her, they weren’t there to dance. At the far end of the club was a door that lead upstairs, to where Salvo held court. Giving the guard a look, he nodded and let her through so she went, leading Jethro and Vance up to the top floor. The stairs were rickety and filled with young women, none of whom were older than twenty-one. Her stomach lurched again but she focused on the case. Maybe they could save some of them from lives in brothels. At the top of the stairs, she let go of Jethro’s hand but turned back to him. “Here goes.”

He nodded. She cast Vance a passing glance and then walked into the club. Decker was outside in a car if things went South. She and Gibbs both had knives concealed and she knew where Jethro was packing his backup.

As she crossed the floor, Jenny completely fell away and she became Kitty, smooth and in control yet willing to be dominated by Salvo. He rose from his chair as she approached, leering at her while he took her hand and kissed it.

“Ahhh, Kitty,” he said slyly, in English for Matthew’s sake. “So good to see you again. I did not think your man would allow it.”

“Now you know who is really in control, Salvo.” Jenny kissed his cheeks and shooed one of the girls out of a chair. “So do you have a price for me?” Vance placed a drink in front of her but she didn’t sip. Not again. If he was the one putting the drugs in her drinks, she wasn’t giving him the satisfaction. If it was Salvo, she was done being his plaything. He’d string them along for weeks just to keep getting off and they’d never move this forward.

“Two million American.”

She grunted. “For what? That’s your starting offer?”

“I’d have gone lower, but you didn’t come alone tonight.”

“Keep it in your pants. That’s what you have groupies for.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and leaned forward, taking a light from one of the all too eager bodyguards. She smirked at him and then waved for Jethro to take a place behind her. He did, his hand on her shoulder, staring at Vance.

“So,” she slipped into Russian, “what is next in our deal, Salvo. Stop jerking me around.”

“Drink, my love,” he sneered.

“Business first. Then pleasure.” Jenny took a long drag of the cigarette. “When do things move into Serbia? You don’t get any money from me until you prove to me this is about more than sex. I don’t need you to get laid.”

Salvo choked. Vance stumbled. Jenny held her place perfectly and chuckled not at their reaction but at how Jethro’s hand tightened on her shoulder. She looked up, smirked, and then focused her attention back on setting up the next step.

***
He just didn’t care who heard them anymore. Jenny was gasping his name, loud in his ears despite her legs on either side of his head. She writhed, groaning, and if he wasn’t damned sure she was going to be still coming when he plunged into her, he’d give and let her release. But she was teetering on the edge and he loved torturing her.

“Now, Jethro,” she moaned, arching again. “Now. Please God.”

He gave in to her begging and bit her clit hard between his teeth. She screamed as her entire body convulsed and he moved up, parting legs that were trying to close, angled his body, and pushed into her. She cried out again, reaching for him, and he thrust, knowing he’d set a pace completely opposite what her writhing ached for. It was torturous bliss.

Her nails tore into his back, her heels urged him forward, and it wasn’t long before he emptied himself into her, gasping as he collapsed. She absorbed his weight without complaint, running her hands down the marks she’d left in the throes of orgasm.

“Fuck,” he whispered into her sweaty neck. “It’s never been like this.”

A part of him recoiled at the all too honest admission. Making love to Shannon had been special and perfect. Fucking her had been tense and passionate. Jenny wasn’t Shannon he not only wasn’t expecting her to be, he didn’t want her to be. He was glad she was just who she was. His arms went tightly around her as he shifted himself, not yet pulling out, wanting to keep her close and wrapped in him.

“For me either,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his cheek. He groaned and kissed her softly, letting it build but not expecting anything. They were both exhausted.

Slowly he rolled them, wincing as he slipped free of her body, and she adjusted herself, relaxing against his chest. Whispered words of love threatened to pass his lips, but he knew they were brought about from the euphoria of the moment, not the reality of their relationship. But he could love her. This much he knew.

“When did you lose your virginity?” He asked, teasing lightly, running his fingers through her sweaty hair. He wanted to talk about more than the case and wanted to do more than have sex. He wanted to know her.

“Hmmm. Three days shy of my sixteenth birthday,” she grinned into his chest. Her teeth nipped at his nipple and he groaned. “In the bed of Mike Hales’ truck, out by the river, with Cashmere playing in the background.” Another nip. Another groan. “My parents thought I was at a girlfriend’s house.”

“Hmmm,” Jethro moaned. He could see a young, fearless Jenny, sneaking out of her parent’s house, racing out into the night with a boy he was sure her father wouldn’t have approved of. “You at sixteen. I’d have liked to see that.”

“You’re a dirty old man.”

“Not that much older than you.”

She chuckled and nipped him again. “Quid pro quo.”

He sighed. “I was seventeen,” he admitted. “She didn’t mean as much to me as she should have.”

“You were seventeen,” she repeated. “No girl meant what she should have.”

“You have a point.” And he sighed, glad he’d avoided the Shannon question. Glad for the first time in his life that he hadn’t lost his virginity to her because he wouldn’t have been able to keep that part of his life from Jenny and he didn’t want her to know. She wasn’t a replacement. She didn’t fill the void. She was just Jenny and that was what mattered.

Maybe someday. When they were done with Europe. When they were more than agents. Someday he’d take her to the house in DC and open the door to the room that held Shannon and Kelly’s things and tell her everything. Right now, he just wanted to be with her and focus on her.

Jenny lifted her head for a kiss. Jethro pressed his lips to hers and pushed away the ghosts.

He’d rolled them again, moving the sheets out of the way, when there was a quick rap against the door. “Jethro?” Ducky sounded uncomfortable. “I hate to bother you, but we need to talk.”

He groaned and pulled back. “Give me a second, Duck.”

Jenny sighed and sat up. She ran her hands over her hair, but it was useless. They were both a mess. With an exaggerated huff, she stood up and reached for her robe. It was Ducky, he wouldn’t care about seeing them in any kind of state of undress but Jethro pulled on his boxers and Jeans, knowing, somehow, they were headed out. When Jenny was at least covered (if that slip of a robe could be considered covered), he opened the door and let the doctor in.

The older man smirked at them. “Hmm. Young love.”

“What do you need, Duck?” He knew he sounded short, but he wasn’t a fan of being interrupted. Jenny looked equally frustrated. Ducky looked smug.

“One of our marks has turned up dead of his own accord. NCIS and M-5 wants us to investigate before the locals get a hold of things. So, we need to leave now.”

Jethro groaned. Really, given what he’d just been doing to Jenny, he needed a shower. “Give me five minutes.” He looked at Jenny, who was suddenly the picture of professionalism, even sitting there in the rose colored robe he’d bought for her earlier. “You get ready to go and back us up. Get on the channel and be ready to roll with Decker.”

“No problem.”

“All right,” Jethro got to his feet, “I’ll be ready in five.” Ducky left them alone and Jethro moved to the bathroom. “Come on, Jen,” he teased.

“No. You’ve got to be ready in five. I’ll slow you down, you know I will.”

He chuckled and nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Anyway, I have to brush my hair out before I ever get in the shower.” She moved to the dresser and retrieved a brush. Jethro watched her for a moment, his heart warring with his professional side. But the professional side won out and he headed into the bathroom to make himself presentable.

TBC …

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch. 8)

2011-10-15T03:42:47Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter 8: In Too Deep
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jenny/Gibbs
Timeframe: Pre-Series
Rating: Adult
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: A knock on the door and the knob turned, creaking a bit in its setting. Decker and Jethro both reached for their guns; no one was scheduled for a drop off. But as the door opened, Jethro let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Jenny stood there, pale and tired, but whole.

The flat in Paris was far too small. Jethro paced like a caged tiger, resorting to occasionally pawing the window, looking past the people on the streets and the lights of the city to beyond, to wherever Jenny was. He could see it in his eye: Kitty, charming a room full of gun smugglers, using her legs to get attention, getting what she wanted with a soft, flirtatious smile. He’d succeeded at pushing away jealousy and accepting that whatever happened happened because she was doing her job. But she was out there actually doing their job while he was trapped in a Paris flat with Decker going over intelligence and following paperwork and money.

What if she was hurt and he wasn’t there to save her?

“Lay off it, Jethro. She’ll have the intel soon and come back and when she does, I promise to put in ear plugs at night.”

“Fuck off, Decker.” He stood at the window, watching rain drops spatter the sidewalk. The truth was that he wouldn’t care if Decker heard the way Jenny screamed just as long as he got her back safe and sound.

“It’s a bad idea to get involved with team members. Aren’t you the one always spouting that stupid rule?”

Really, the guy was itching to get his face punched in and he would have but the truth was, it was a rule he was always spouting. But then he’d met Jenny. Jenny with legs that went all the way to her neck and a brain that made the rest of her even sexier. In bed, she whispered Russian poetry while screaming four letter French words as she came. She could beat anyone at mental chess, hell, she could beat anyone at actual chess. She could go anywhere and do anything with herself and her career. She had her choice of lovers. And she chose him. Him. With his bachelors in hard knocks and a college degree in how to be a cop. He spoke Russian because he’d been trained to. He spoke French because Jenny whispered it in his ear at night. It was destined to fail but he didn’t care. He just wanted her. He wanted to go back to DC and start a life with her. A life that didn’t involve trying to replace Shannon but moving on from her.

“You think she’s okay?”

“It’s deep cover, Jethro. All we can do is hope she is and rely on her handler.”

“I’m supposed to be her handler.”

“Not once we got to Paris. You read the mission report. By putting Vance in deep, he can keep an eye on her while you play the jilted lover. It works better in the long run for getting you guys into the ring. We need your persona working things from a different angle. You have to let her work her side of this.”

“Those monsters are going to eat her alive.”

“There’s a good chance she’ll eat them, you know. Come away from the window, Jethro. You’re a sitting duck if there are eyes on us. We’ve got people to take out.”

Jethro swallowed. Decker was right, damn him. Be he didn’t trust Leon Vance as far as he could throw him. For a control officer, he was far too green and far too ambitious. Scuttlebutt was that Jenny was in line for the eventual directorship but all it would take to screw it up would be her being upset in the wrong moment. All it would take was someone close to her tainting her future. And Vance was the perfect person to screw everything up for her.

He moved slowly from the window, walking over to the couch and sinking into it. Weeks without a word from Jenny, since he’d last slipped into her body and felt her clench around him as she came. At the worst times, he swore he could still smell her. They’d had ten days in Marseille to be together and it had been longer than that since he’d seen her.

His mark stared back at him from the photograph. It was Salvo’s money man, the guy who was funneling the funds from Russia through to Afghanistan. Take him out, they broke the chain. Take out Decker’s mark, they split the divisions. Take out Jenny’s and the entire supply chain dissolved. They had the intel of the people, just not on the where’s and when’s. That was Jenny’s job. He wanted to shoot himself.

“Focus, Jethro. If she wasn’t okay, Vance would let us know.”

Jethro wasn’t sure he believed it, but he just nodded and settled into mission details. Work kept him sane. Crossing the line with Jenny had been a mistake. It distracted him. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was her smile. He was really going to go crazy.

A knock on the door and the knob turned, creaking a bit in its setting. Decker and Jethro both reached for their guns; no one was scheduled for a drop off. But as the door opened, Jethro let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Jenny stood there, pale and tired, but whole.

She was dressed simply. Black jeans, a white blouse over a red camisole, and three inch black heels. Her makeup was minimal, her hair up in a ponytail. But there were circles under her eyes and her step was wobbly as she came into the room and closed the door behind her. When she spoke, her voice was thick, tired, accented, as if she hadn’t spoken a word of English in the time she’d been gone.

“Hey.”

Jethro raced over and caught her around the waist. She fell against him, shaking so hard he was worried there was something wrong. Her skin was clammy. “Jen …” What the hell had happened to her there?

He walked her to the couch, grabbing the blanket from where it was draped over the arm rest and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. Decker ran to get her some tea.

“I’m okay,” she shook her head, “just absolutely exhausted.”

“You’re clammy, Jen.”

“It’s cold out there. Really. I’m fine.” But she was silent until Decker returned with the tea and even when she accepted it, her hands were shaking so hard Jethro had to grab it to keep her from burning herself. “Thanks.” She took a breath and her hands steadied enough to take the tea again.

“Jen, we weren’t expecting you.” Decker took a seat on the coffee table. “Where’s Vance?”

She cleared her throat and ran a shaking hand over her face. “I don’t know where he is. I wasn’t expecting to come either. I knew the safe house location. I was never in a place to get here until today. I shook Salvo, who is a leech and smells and I want to put him away just for that. But I shook him, saying I needed to go shopping.”

There was something about her speech that worried Jethro. She was all over the place, speaking quickly, in disjointed sentences. It wasn’t just the readjustment to English that was tripping her up. He worried his lip in his teeth and let Decker do the talking.

“Is it safe to be here, Jen?” Decker leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If you were followed …”

“Shut up, Will.” Jethro wrapped Jenny tighter in his arms. “Just shut up.”

“I wasn’t.” The Russian accent was starting to fade. Jenny pulled away and reached down to a purse Jethro hadn’t even noticed. She pulled out a dozen micro tapes and handed them to Decker. “Every important conversation I was privy to. I know there were more, but I did what I could.”

Will took the tapes and set them down on a file. “Thanks, Jenny.”

“How long do you have?” Jethro was starting to fret. He was bothered that Vance hadn’t been the one to deliver the tapes and Jenny looked absolutely terrible.

“What, till they miss me? Honestly, I don’t know. But I needed to see you.” She was still trembling, even with the blanket and the tea.

Jethro recognized the sound in her voice, the worry that he wouldn’t want her after what she’d been up to. He stared at Will for a moment, waiting for the other agent to get the hint, until Decker cleared his throat and made up some excuse about a girl on the other side of town. As soon as the door closed behind him, Jethro’s lips were on Jenny’s. Her lips were chill and chapped and he tried to kiss some warmth back into her body.

“I’ve been so worried,” he whispered when he finally pulled away.

“I’m okay, Jethro. Really.” But she was clinging to him.

“Do you have to go back in alone?”

“We’re so close …”

“You’re putting yourself and your health at risk.”

“We’re accomplishing the mission.”

He looked into her eyes. Her vision was glazed, pinpricked. It clicked. “You’re high.” His stomach caught in his throat. What had Salvo been pumping into her?

“Jethro …”

“No.” He took her chin in his hand, staring into her eyes, “What the hell is he giving you?”

She took a breath and put her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know. But I know he’s doing it. It makes me more compliant. Once I realized he was doing it I was able to pace my drinks better – cause that’s how he does it. It’s one reason I’ve been so intent on making sure conversations are recorded. Just in case I pass out.” Again, she shook her head, “I’m coming down off of it.”

“I’m putting you in bed. Now.” He scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom. Tucked onto the bed, he pulled her shoes off and tugged her hair free of its ponytail. “Jesus, Jen …” her eyes closed and he leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Sleep it off. We’ll deal with this later.”

She was sound asleep by the time he closed the bedroom door behind her.

* * *

An angry message from Matthew to Salvo let the bastard know that Matt was out of the whole deal if he didn’t get his Kitty back but Decker had to physically restrain him from walking out the door and delivering it in person. “Killing Salvo won’t do anyone any good. I’ll drop it off, okay?”

“He’s raping her,” Jethro fired back. “He’s drugging her to make her more compliant. Do you get that? I don’t even know if she gets that. She’s so focused on making sure the brass know how good she is that she’s letting herself …” He collapsed onto the couch. “Decker, he’s forcing drugs into her system. He’s got her in how many different situations. I mean really.”

“Are you worried about her as her partner or her lover, Jethro?”

“Why can’t I worry about her as both?”

“Because you know better. She’s your partner first and your lover second. She’s got a job to do and if she gets it done well, we will bust up an entire weapons smuggling ring that leads right into Al Qaeda. But this is the first link on the chain and she has to succeed at this. So back off and think like an agent.”

“And as an agent, my partner is being drugged.”

“She’s aware of it.”

“She doesn’t even know what’s in her system! Decker, she didn’t break cover just because she missed us. She needs help! She’s in too deep and Vance is nowhere to be found!” He tried to take a breath and keep his voice down. Waking Jenny was not in her best interest.

“She came here. She knew she needed out and she came here.”

“Yeah.” Jethro let out a long, slow breath. “Where the hell is Vance?” He repeated. “He’s her control officer.”

“Clearly he didn’t think she was that bad off.”

“Clearly Vance is full of shit.”

“It’s not that bad, Jethro.” Jenny stood in the doorway, arms around her waist, looking for all the world like she was in the first stages of withdrawal. Her hair hung limply around her face, her red tank top was soaked through with sweat.

“Jen …” He was on his feet and at her side in an instant, his hands on her waist. “Jen, let’s get you into the shower, okay? You have to take it easy.”

“Nyet …” she whispered, slipping easily back into the Russian she’d been speaking. “Nyet. I’m okay.” For a second, Jethro wondered how she'd managed to hide the fact that she spoke Russian fluently. Maybe Salvo already knew. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he was using Jenny and knew something was up. The maybes were going to kill him but he had to focus on Jenny today. Tomorrow, they'd figure out if her cover had been blown.

Decker cleared his throat and slipped out the door, presumably to deliver Matthew’s message to Salvo. Jethro just focused on Jenny. “Please. You need a shower and some clean clothes.”

“I have to get back. Salvo will already be …”

“Salvo is getting a nasty message from Matthew.”

“That’s only going to make him angrier, Jethro.”

He winced. Had Salvo been beating her? “Where the hell has Vance been in this?”

“Don’t shout …” she wobbled back and he grabbed her tighter. “Please.”

“Okay.” He took a breath and again ran a hand through her hair. She’d lost weight in the time she’d been gone. “But you will feel better if you shower.”

“Okay.” She nodded slowly and let him walk her into the bathroom. Her stomach started to heave and she hit her knees, her head over the toilet. Jethro kneeled next to her, holding back her hair. There was nothing in her stomach to empty, and she heaved until she was coughing and crying.

“Here.” He stood up and filled one of the small water glasses next to the sink. She took it, sipped, and promptly threw up the water, but it settled her stomach.

“Thanks.” She leaned back and pushed her fingers into her temples. “God I feel like shit.”

“You don’t look so great either.” He put his hands on the bottom edge of her tank top. “Hands up.” She obeyed and then made quick work of her flimsy red bra. Seeing her sitting there topless, it took everything Jethro had to not pounce on her. His gaze lingered on her breasts, on the raspberry nipples, on the pale skin and trails of freckles. But as he looked lower, he could see the outlines of her ribs. “What aren’t you eating?” He let his fingers move down her rib cage. “God, Jen.”

Gently, he unbuttoned her jeans and hooked his thumbs into the waist and the edge of her panties. She lifted her hips and let him pull the clothing down her legs but she tried to pull her legs up to her chest and he stopped her, staring at the bruises on her thighs. “Jenny …”

He’d never be rough with her again.

“I’m okay,” she said again. “It’s part of the package. We’re going to get this ring. We’re going to take them down. And before you start thinking all I’m doing is sleeping with our marks,” she tilted her head back … she sighed. “You’re not totally wrong.”

“Where is Vance in all of this?” He repeated, angry. Control officers were to make sure things didn’t get out of control. This was out of control.

Jenny bit her lip and reached over for the faucet on the tub. “Let’s not get into it.”

“Where is Vance?”

She shook her head and pushed away, standing on shaky legs so she could plug the drain and settle into the water. Jethro handed her some bubble bath, sat on the floor next to the tub, and waited. Her refusal to answer was bothering him.

She ducked under the bubbles and stayed longer than Jethro liked, but he sat still. He couldn’t get angry. She was drugged, had possibly been raped more than once, and her control officer wasn’t doing his job. When she surfaced, her wet hair sticking to her, he reached for washcloth and grabbed the soap, silently washing her down. She’d talk when she was ready. Too bad patience wasn’t his strong suit.

“Most of the bruises are from last night,” she whispered. “There was a party. Things got out of hand.”

“I can see,” he was carefully avoiding washing her breasts or between her legs.

“Vance was there,” she closed her eyes. “I don’t remember what happened, Jethro. It’s why I got the hell out this morning. All I know is that Salvo and his crew are selling more than guns.”

“They’re peddling women?”

She nodded. “Girls, really. That’s the middle eastern connection. The money for the guns is coming out of the old Russian mafia partners and down into Europe, where it’s laundered. Salvo and his crew select women, and put them up for auction, where they are sold to buyers in Asia. They travel through the Middle East, bringing messages and money for the traders.”

“Are you up for auction, Jenny?” He stopped in his ministrations and linked their fingers under the water.

“No. I’m too old.” They both shuddered at the implications. “And I have money of my own to bring to the table. I think he just wants me for himself. It pisses you off, so he wants me.”

“You’re done in there. We’ll get the intel another way.”

“I can’t be done. But we can go back in together. What did your message to Salvo say?”

“To keep his hands off my woman.”

She almost chuckled but the smile did reach her eyes. “Then we go back in together. He still needs your connections in Serbia. So you go in with me, say you’re done letting me be used, and that if he wants my money and your connections, you’re part of the package. It’ll get us through into Serbia, where we can break the chain and hopefully stop everything.”

“You’re half drugged and clearly in pain and you’re still thinking like an agent. You amaze me.”

“I am an agent, Jethro.” She opened her eyes and reached up, finally touching his cheek. “Before anything else, I’m an agent.”

He caught her hand and kissed each finger before leaning over the tub to kiss her gently. She responded, weaving her hand through his hair as she pulled him closer. For a moment, they both forgot about anything but each other.

TBC …

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch 7)

2011-10-09T04:51:37Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter 7: Marseille Interlude
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jenny/Gibbs
Timeframe: Pre-Series
Rating: Adult
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: If Matt and kitty lingered, they stayed in the hallway, giving Jenny and Jethro privacy.

No roadmaps, no signposts
No north star, no lifeboats
No cavalry coming in sight
But we're all right
Mary Chapin Carpenter: We’re All Right

Really, the pain wasn’t that bad. She’d survived the night in London with only a lightly sprained ankle and a couple of stitches on the bottom of her foot. Ice, rest, and some fabulous French Cabernet made everything better.

Jenny moved slowly, the limp hardly noticeable at a slower pace. The safe house was a dream – near the water, windows meant to be left open for air to flow through, secluded enough that the closest neighbor was kilometers away. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen even a novice chef could get excited about, a sitting room with furniture her mother would have wanted in her house, and a wraparound porch where she spent most of her time reading classic French literature. She was in the middle of Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame, trying desperately to not relate Salvo to Quasimodo. But both were evil, ugly thugs that belonged up in a tower away from real society. That was why people like her had jobs.

A soft breeze blew across the porch, tinkling the small bells that hung above her and tickling across her bare legs, toying with the cotton of her short sleeping shorts and tight tank top. Her hair, up in a ponytail, begged to be taken down so she did and scraped a freshly French tipped nail through the tresses.

This was how her mother had told her she deserved to live and although Jenny knew she’d eventually die of boredom, she was grateful for the peace of the Villa. Her toe twitched a bit and she stretched against the impending cramp.

She could get used to missions like this.

Movement in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and toast drifted out onto the porch and she smiled. Jethro was awake.

Three days since London. She’d woken in a cramped room, jolted awake by the gentle touch of the mission doctor, Donald Mallard, as he stitched her foot back together and wrapped her ankle. Sleep claimed her as they crossed the border into France and she’d slept almost twenty-four hours, mostly thanks to the drugs they’d poured into her system. Somehow, her dreams were free of nightmares and when she’d woken, her body hummed with need.

But, she and Jethro still had yet to really talk. He was quiet, brooding, which was how she suspected he always was. She was nervous. The “what if he didn’t want her now” question plaguing her. So they sat in surprisingly comfortable silence. They read. They sipped coffee and ate perfect French meals she prepared. But they did not speak. Not yet. Nor had they looked at the mission briefing, which sat sealed on the coffee table in the sitting room. They had time and by unspoken agreement, they wanted to take it.

“How are you feeling?”

The voice startled her and she looked up at him. He was dressed – jeans and a white t-shirt. His muscles shapely under his shirt, his jeans low on his hips. He was barefoot. Somehow, that was the sexiest part of the whole package. Jenny shifted her legs a bit, showing off an expanse of thigh that he followed with his eyes.

“Better,” she answered honestly. The book she was reading went onto the table and he handed her a cup of coffee and a plate with a piece of toast and a touch of neutella. The coffee was strong. Just like she liked it. While she settled into her morning ritual of a sip of coffee, a bite of bread, he took a seat on the lounge chair next to her, his eyes on her elevated ankle. “Thank you,” she said after the caffeine was racing through her system. So, he had decided it was time for them to talk. What did she get to decide?

“For the coffee? It’s no biggie.”

“No, for saving my ass in London.”

He shrugged, still staring at her ankle. “We’re partners, Jen.” He dragged his eyes from her legs to her face and there was a flash of terror in his eyes. He had been worried he’d lose her, she realized.

Quickly, the toast and coffee went onto the table beside her. She reached out her hand and he took it, linking their fingers. “I promise I’ll be more careful,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “You were super woman on that cruise and there in London. I don’t … I don’t ever want you to have to put yourself in that situation again.”

“I’d rather not myself. But if it gets us the information …”

He sighed, his eyes tortured. “No, Jenny.”

“Is that an order?”

Again, a sigh. Still tortured. “I wish I could make it one. But you’ve made quite an impression on the boys back home and I think they’ve changed the mission ideas.” He glanced back inside the house, through walls to the mission files.

“Good to know a girl can get ahead somehow.” Again, suddenly, she felt dirty, used not just by Salvo’s buddies but her own damned government. She stared out at the view rather than be tortured by the look in Gibbs’ eyes. It took a long minute to realize their fingers were still linked.

“Jenny …”

She liked how he said her name. It wasn’t that he sent shivers through her, though he did, it was the inherent respect he put into each syllable. Decker rolled his eyes at her. Ducky treated her like glass. Jethro respected her. Tired, she glanced over at him. “I wish I’d met you in a different way.” She didn’t know what hurt more, that he was her partner and what was building between them wasn’t supposed to happen or that he was still, legally, married and she didn’t want to be the other woman in any context.

He shrugged. “We still have this case. We have Europe. Possibly even Russia.” Under the blasé response she heard his meaning. He wanted to be partnered with her for a long time. He wanted her and when he leaned over, his bright blue eyes meeting hers, she smiled, letting herself forget about the still legal wife. “When you kissed me back at my place, what were you hoping for?” His voice was low, tempting.

“I think you know.” They were so close. How the morning had gone from the first conversation in days to this in a heartbeat surprised her, but this was the speed at which her life now operated.

“What’s stopping us now?” His hand went to her cheek, stroking lightly. Jenny let out a slow breath.

“Two weeks of being Kitty to your Matt.”

“That isn’t going away any time soon, Jen.”

“I wish it would. Why couldn’t we take down Salvo that night? We know he killed that girl. We have the intel on how the money is smuggled …”

“Because we want more than Salvo.” He paused. “Sometimes, it’s about a bigger picture than just one mark, Jenny.”

Rene Benoit’s face flashed before her eyes. Sometimes, it was about just one mark. Sometimes, it was about cutting off the head or slashing out the eyes because then the monster would die. “But if we cut off Salvo –“

“It isn’t going to happen that way. You might be right, but it isn’t going to happen that way.” Another pause. “As much as I want to take him out myself.” He was rubbing her thumb with his.

Jethro Gibbs, she’d realized, was a talker only when he wanted to be. He revealed himself through the questions he asked, not the answers he gave. There was more to be said in how he brewed a cup of coffee than how he started a conversation. Instantly, she wanted to hit Diane, to make her pay for whatever hurt she’d inflicted on him. But his self isolation went deeper than a bitchy ex wife. Maybe it was a lifetime of operations like these, of staying solo on a mountaintop, waiting for a mark. Maybe there came a point where trust just wasn’t an option. His rubbing her cheek with his thumb was what kept him grounded to her, reminded him that she wasn’t Kitty but Jenny, the girl he’d made out with on his couch before the op ever even started.

How could they go back there, to that place, a place that never should have existed for them. She could hear her FLETC instructor drilling it into her that when in deep cover, you never fell for your team or for the mark you were chasing. They could decide to send her in to Salvo’s snake pit. There was a chance she could go for days or weeks without seeing Jethro. She had to find a way to keep herself sane.

It was stupid. She was an accomplished woman with multiple degrees and the respect of her colleagues and superiors. But all she wanted was to erase the last two weeks and make love to him back when she was still pissed at NCIS for even pairing her up with him.

They weren’t even a real couple and she had regrets about their relationship.

The realization made her giggle. Jethro looked at her and she shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’m just …” she shrugged, “Being a girl.”

“I’d hope you were one. Otherwise you’ve been covering well.”

Courage grabbed her and she rolled her eyes at his dumb joke and stood up, cautious on her still healing feet. “You coming?” Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded toward her bedroom and then started walking. She could hear Jethro laughing as he followed.

Nervous, she paused in the doorway, waiting for the romantic gesture she suddenly needed. It came as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her, carrying her to the bed. “It doesn’t matter what you did with them, Jenny. You gotta let it go.” His voice was soft as he set her down on the comforter.

“It’s stupid …” she whispered, her hand moving down to the edge of his shirt and then back up against bare skin. “But I feel like you wouldn’t want me after what I did.”

“We’re adults and we’re agents, Jenny. I understand. You gotta let it go. It won’t be the last time you sleep with someone to get information.” He leaned over her to kiss her, taking the lead. His tongue demanded entrance, his arms moved tighter around her. “It’s just us,” he whispered as he broke the kiss, “and I’ve been wanting this for weeks.”

If Matt and kitty lingered, they stayed in the hallway, giving Jenny and Jethro privacy. His hands made quick work of her camisole; she tugged his shirt up and over his head, laughing when his arms tangled for a minute. He was between her legs, hot even through his jeans and her shorts. She arched against him, seeking satisfaction and he chuckled playfully. “Not too much of a foreplay girl, hmm?”

“We’ve had weeks of foreplay. Next time you can seduce me.”

His tongue invaded her mouth, his arms went down her sides, fingers sliding under the waistband of her shorts, pulling. She arched again, this time giving him access, and he backed off only long enough to tug her clothes out of the way and shuck out of his own jeans. He tripped on the leg and went sprawling on top of her.

Jenny laughed. “Don’t hurt yourself, rushing, Jethro.”

Any further smartass comment was cut off by his quick repositioning of their bodies and his sliding into her without any hesitation. She whimpered, trying to catch her breath, glad for a moment that sex turned him from gallant knight to normal male as he focused on himself. She had no doubt he’d bring her off before they were through, but his hormones were taking over and she was there, willing, as he thrust into her.

His hands were never still, one holding her hip ever closer to his. The other playing with her breast, rolling and tweaking the nipple until it was as hard as he was. She ached for release as his mouth came down on the sensitive nub, his tongue and teeth biting. Her body writhed even as he moved, splitting her open.

It was rough. Almost dangerous. And as he went flying over the cliff, she clung to her own reality, tingling, sensitive, so close she ached. With his eyes closed, he reached between them and stroked her once before pinching her clit between his fingers. The pressure sent her screaming into oblivion.

“GOD!” She dug into his shoulders, sure she was drawing blood, but he just held her while she trembled. Only after her body relaxed did he pull out and get up, coming back with a washcloth and towel. She chuckled at the gesture. “It’s okay. Thanks.” But she did lift her hips and let him set the towel in the wet spot. He crawled back over her and collapsed down next to her on the bed.

“Hi,” he teased lightly, “I’m Jethro Gibbs. Nice to meet you.”

Jenny cracked up and snuggled into him. Her hand trembled slightly and she curled the fingers tight, calming the tremor. They were rare, moments when her fingers twitched on their own, when her head seemed so much bigger than it really was. She took a breath and pressed back into him, secure in the weight of his arm around her waist and the feel of his breath against her neck. “Jenny Shepard,” she whispered softly, “and I don’t think I ever want to let you go.”

His response was only to tighten his grip and place a gentle kiss on her neck. Jenny drifted to sleep on the feel of his breathing in and out and wrapped in the musk of their bodies and the faint scent of coffee.

TBC …

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch. 6)

2011-10-06T17:52:53Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter 6: Dancing in Circles
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Gibbs/Jenny; Gibbs/Hollis
Rating: Adult
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Marseille was a promise. A break of more than twenty-four hours. The chance to leave Kitty behind and get back into her own head for a while.

Washington D.C., 2007

Propriety demanded that she not do what she was about to do. She was the director of a federal agency. She was in charge of the annual reviews of most of the people in this bar and to see them drunk and stupid might challenge her opinion of them. But Jenny needed a night off from paperwork and errant agents and secretaries of the navy who doubted their decision to put a woman in charge. She was damned good at her job and that was what scared all of them.

So what if she’d chosen this particular bar was because she knew he’d be there? So what if she’d chosen the jeans that dropped ten pounds and the heels that always made him hard? Her shirt was a modest long sleeve t, but it gripped her breasts just right, highlighting the lace of her bra underneath. It was an outfit like this that had caught his eye once before, a lifetime ago when she’d sat on his couch, files between them, and reached out for that first kiss.

Jenny could admit she was being an idiot. She’d drawn the lines but let him erase them when they both pretended he wasn’t coming back from his margarita safari. But since his return, the tension was unbearable. He looked at her the way he had in Paris, once he realized what she was telling him. He watched her like she was walking away from him again, like he had when she’d tugged her hand free and fled before they made the most perfect mistake of their lives. Somehow, she knew if she’d said yes, she’d still be Mrs. Jethro Gibbs. They might even be leading the MCRT together, kicking ass and taking names. But Leon Vance would be director and her hopes of tracking down Rene Benoit would be forgotten.

For a fleeting moment she’d entertained the idea of telling him the truth about her manhunt. He would understand. He might even help her go after him. But her revenge was hers alone. Maybe forgetting about Benoit would be better. Maybe she could live longer and do her job better. But her need to clear her father’s name was too entrenched and backing down felt like failure. Then again, backing down from her rule about reopening a relationship with Jethro was only going to expose all of her weaknesses. As much as she missed him, she couldn’t let him win this one. No matter how much she still loved the bastard. Yet, that resolve to win this battle of wills didn’t stop her from pulling her car into a secluded spot at the back of the bar’s parking lot, stepping out, slipping her ID and cash into a back pocket, and adjusting the cadet hat on her head in an effort to help hide her identity. She had no idea what she was planning to do or what she was going to say, but she had to do something. Anything. This couldn’t go on.

The bar was dark and hazy. Country music trilled from a jukebox in the corner. The bar smelled of wood polish, tired bodies, and spilled whiskey. No eyes turned as she entered even though she knew almost every man and woman in here – if not by name then by face. But away from her power suits and perfectly coifed hair, she was just another redhead in for a drink.

It was a wonderful feeling to be able to become anonymous in the blink of an eye.

She’d seen his car out front and she knew ambushing him wasn’t fair, but they needed to talk. Away from the office, away from files and politics and beeping phones, they might be able to have a conversation. This was on his terms, not hers. But it didn’t keep her from feeling like a nervous schoolgirl. It was like her first training run back at FLETC, when they wanted to see how she’d handle setting up a mark in a bar like this.

Laughter caught her attention and Jenny turned, bourbon in hand, to watch her tug him reluctantly onto the dance floor. He was only mock protesting; the look in his eye went far beyond lust. The gray blonde hair of the woman caught the light and shone for a second, a halo around her shoulders. She was in tight jeans, low heels, and a scoop neck sweater that left no cleavage to the imagination.

Hollis Mann was clearly not done with Jethro and Jenny realized she’d underestimated the competition. (Since when had she started thinking of Colonel Mann as competition?) She’d accepted there was something between her ex and the colonel but she hadn’t expected the gentle look in his eye or the way his arms settled so comfortably around the other woman. He spun her out and then in again, close to his chest, and Jenny stepped back into a shadow before they could see her. His hand was low on Hollis’ hip; her head was against his chest as they moved in tandem to the old song on the jukebox.

This was more than a fling. Jethro cared for her. He’d done exactly as Jenny asked and moved on and found in Hollis an equal, not just a sparring partner.

Even with the drink, her mouth was dry. Her hands shook. Her head started to pound. She was trapped, watching as they swayed together. Hollis reached up, her hand around his neck, and whispered something in his ear. He smirked and kissed her before taking her hand and together, they walked out the door. Jenny collapsed back against the wall, shaking.

He’d done what she demanded. Just as he always had. She’d left him in Paris, standing alone, tears running down both their faces as she ran toward a job that would secure her future and away from the life she’d never believed was for her. Self fulfilling prophesies hurt worse when they were a decade in the making.

London, 1997
“Dear, sweet, God.” Jethro groaned and came up behind her, wrapping strong arms around her waist. “I didn’t think skirts that short were legal.”

“We aren’t in the states anymore.” Jenny turned and brushed a strand of the black wig she was wearing out of her face. Kitty was resurfacing, set up on their second night in London, heading into a club (always a club) to gain more intel on Salvo’s London crew. The mission tonight was to observe, not approach, and if they were approached, they were under orders to get out. Jenny didn’t mind. She’d had enough of using her legs (and what was between them) to gather needed information. But even tonight, she was more Kitty than Jenny, feeling the cold pulse of adrenaline in her system. Kitty played with fire, much more than Jenny ever would.

She walked over to the couch and bent over, giving him a good view up her skirt while she pulled on her freshly purchased stilettos. His groan vibrated through the room and she bit her lip, trying to focus. That groan was much more Jethro than she was Jenny at the moment.

Marseille. The word echoed in her mind. They were to gather the intel tonight and in the morning get over the border and through to Marseille for a much needed debrief and break while the next step was planned. From what they’d gathered, Serbia was the ultimate goal. That was where everything flowed. But they had to get out of London, lay low in Marseille, track the cell through Paris, and make it safely to Serbia. Marseille was a promise. A break of more than twenty-four hours. The chance to leave Kitty behind and get back into her own head for a while. If they did it right, no one would follow them and all the papers would make it seem like Kitty and Matt were taking it easy on the English Countryside.

Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, she realized she’d stopped being a person and had become a shadow. They would be in France illegally. Serbia demanded anonymity. Even if she were to leave Kitty completely behind right now, she still wasn’t the same Jenny Shepard who had kissed Jethro back in his house in San Diego. She was colder. She understood her world now. Even sitting at an intel desk at NCIS, she hadn’t truly understood what the shadow agents did. The CIA and the Special Ops teams in the different agencies had been far away, part of the groups that fed her information but she’d always thought of them as people with identities. To survive in this world, she needed to forget who she had been and accept that when the op was over, she wouldn’t be the same woman. Maybe the new woman could leave revenge behind. She and Jethro could start over, maybe take over the team in Moscow. She loved Russia.

First, they had to get out of London.

Shoes strapped into place, Jenny grabbed her purse and made sure her knife was safe in the lining. They were without guns tonight – trying to just be civilians at a club rather than agents doing a job. Jethro – Matt – held open the door and lead her down to where the car waited. He drove, which was fine with her, and she sat with her legs slightly parted, her skirt up high on her thighs. Party girls didn’t care so much about modesty. She was tempted to torment him, to pull her thong down her legs and kick it aside but it wasn’t fair to tease him like that when she still hadn’t let him touch her. She still felt dirty. It confused her. She’d willingly gone to bed with Salvo and she’d given herself to his partner. But the daughter of Jasper Shepard wasn’t used to acting like a whore.

So her underwear stayed in place and she planned to sleep alone and in pj’s tonight, which she knew would confuse Jethro. But, the safe house was truly safe. They could talk freely, they were under constant surveillance. She didn’t need to keep up an act just in case one of Salvo’s goons was listening. Maybe she could talk to him. Maybe she could make him understand that her sudden distance wasn’t him but her. More and more, she felt like she’d crossed a line with this case.

She stared out the window as London flew by, lost in the memory of that night on the cruise, of how Salvo had watched while she was taken by his partner. He’d laughed and smoked a cigar and called her his American Slut. He’d even asked if there was a price Matt would pay for her services full time. Was it then she’d become a shadow?

No. Before. When they’d stepped onto the boat. When the only time she’d felt peace was against that railing with the water flying past them. That was when she felt human again. This was what the FLETC training hadn’t covered – dealing with the loss of who you were. Get the mission done at any cost. Any cost. Even if it meant breaking your heart.

The romantic girl in her wondered if Jethro even wanted her anymore. She was tainted now. Used. Touched by drug dealers and gun runners.

A hard hand landed on her knee and she jumped, realizing they’d stopped. The club was across the street and Salvo stood outside, a bimbo on each arm. She recognized one of them from the cruise. Follow. Do not approach echoed in her head.

“Come out of your headspace, Jen.” His voice was soft. “You can’t completely forget yourself.”

“I should have done more field work before accepting this assignment.”

“You should have done any field work before accepting this assignment.”

She chuckled at his dry tone. “Good point.”

“You’re a good agent, Jen. I like your instincts. Just trust me when it comes to the messy stuff, okay? You still have a lot to learn.”

The romantic girl wanted to ask if he still liked her, if he’d ever liked her. Instead she smiled and tossed her head a bit. “Thank you.” Across the way, Salvo leaned against the wall of the club, talking to three men. One of whom was the one Jenny had slept with. She could still smell the stench of rotting garlic on his breath. He pointed into the club and then pointed to Salvo. Watching him, something clicked.

“He’s the one really pulling the strings,” she said. “I told you Salvo shared me, acting like I wasn’t worth anything. But the partner actually demanded me. Salvo is an underling.” Her mouth tripped over her tongue as she tried to get the words out. “He’s the one we need to get to. Salvo wants power but he’s willing to get pushed around to get it.” Relief flooded her. For some reason it felt better to know she’d put it all together. Her brain ran through the conversations again, looking now for nuances she’d missed while lying on her side, glad for her ability to fake it. Yes, he’d been the one giving the orders.

“Do you have his name?”

“No,” she sighed. “He never revealed it.”

“That’s okay. We have a face.” Jethro grunted and snapped a series of photographs. Jenny waited, anxious to get out of the car and into the club. Her body buzzed, the energy of the case taking over. She reached for the door handle but he stopped her, his hand soft on her arm. “Easy, Jen. We hop out now, like this, they’ll get suspicious. Wait until they’re inside. Follow, remember?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed and sank back into the seat. He was so damned calm but she supposed it came from a life of doing some version of whatever this was. They’d been in all kinds of compromising positions and she didn’t even know his unit or where he’d served. She didn’t know anything about him, really, except – her memory taunted her – that there was a beach in Mexico he loved. “Where do you get the patience?”

He swallowed. She heard it. “Training.” Was his curt answer. She waited, having learned in the last two weeks that waiting gave her answers. “I was a sniper. You have to wait for your moment.” Again, she waited. Letting him speak. “Desert Storm,” was a soft answer to a question she knew better than to ask. “Columbia. More. Missions like this. Waiting and watching. It’s why they brought me to special ops when I left the Corps. This is what I’m good at.”

Nerves jumped around her stomach. Was he so good, then, that maybe everything between them had been part of the op? But no. There was that moment in his kitchen, with his hand on her back. There had been how he pushed her up against the boat he was ready to burn, how his hands took control and she felt him against her, hot through their jeans. It would have happened had the phone not chosen the wrong moment to ring.

“Can I ask a stupid question?” She took the binoculars and leaned forward, watching Salvo and the crew make some kind of choice. Perhaps this wasn’t the club for them tonight. Jethro’s hand was on her thigh, distracting her, but she did her best to ignore it.

“You can ask.” An annoying response. But one that gave hope he’d answer her.

“When we have been together … is it because you’re in the same headspace I’m in or do you want more?”

His hand inched higher. His voice was soft when he spoke. “What do you think, Jen?”

She turned and shook her head. He was chuckling, that same chuckle from the first night, before they’d even learned about their personas. She grinned and leaned over, stealing a kiss. He pulled back, trying to maintain some distance, wagging his finger playfully at her. “Later, Jen. I promise.”

Nerves hit her again and she focused her attention back on Salvo’s crew. “They’re on the move.” The change in location bothered her. She’d dressed up to go clubbing and if they were going to spend the night on recon like this, her dress was wasted. Well, not totally wasted. Jethro clearly appreciated it.

Jethro started the engine and pulled out onto the street. They followed the lead car at a distance, through to the other side of London and an out of the way warehouse. He turned down an alley and killed the engine. “Come on,” was the curt order. She followed it, wishing they had their weapons, worried for his safety. On wobbly legs, she stepped out of the car, trusting his instincts. Together they walked against the wall, as close as they could get to Salvo’s crew without being seen.

She held her breath, knowing that right now, she was a potential hindrance. They weren’t dressed for this, hadn’t anticipated this. Running in six inch heels was not as easy as the movies made it out to be. Suddenly, he grabbed her and shoved. “Against the wall,” he hissed, pushing her back, pushing her skirt up. The hooker heels proved to be a good purchase after all. Pressed into the dank alley, she looked like a prostitute and he the willing john. “To the right,” he whispered in her ear as he attacked her neck. Her eyes flitted sideways and she watched Salvo as he pushed one of the bimbos – Jenny couldn’t remember her name - to the ground. She looked lost. Confused. Jethro left bruises on Jenny’s arm as she wrenched forward to save the girl even as the gun was raised and the flash blinded her.

The girl lay dead on the street. She heard, in Russian, how the bimbo had been the one to betray his trust. The other girls looked terrified and bit lips. She had been their example. Jenny swallowed bile and closed her eyes. Her betrayal of Salvo had caused the poor girl’s death. Turning away, she jerked free and stumbled into the shadows, hidden behind the car. Somehow, she hoped, the movement would go unnoticed by Salvo. Glass cut her knees and palms as she dropped down, heaving silently. Jethro was at her side, shushing her, soothing her. She bit her lip, keeping the bile down until the last sound had faded around them. He moved his hand down her back, a signal she somehow understood, and she let go of the bile in her stomach. It burned, vile, and the mere taste brought dry heaves after she’d emptied what was in her system.

“We killed her,” she whispered, pressing the handkerchief Jethro handed her to her mouth. “We killed her.”

“No. Salvo did. But we need to get out of here. Fast.”

It was too late to escape by means of the car. Sirens already echoed in the distance and they’d notice a vehicle fleeing the scene. How long had she been retching? Yanking off She pulled off her shoes and nodded to the chain link fence at the back of the alley, ready to climb. Jethro had removed the plates from the car and tucked them into his jacket. It was a burn car, completely untraceable, but leaving any identification wasn’t worth the risk. She jumped ahead of him up the fence and then down, ignoring the crushing pain in her ankle and the slice of glass through her feet. He took her hand and together they ran, down toward the river, until it was safe enough to collapse under a dying tree. A signal from the burn phone let their control team know where they were.

“You’re bleeding, Jen,” his voice was low.

She was in pain too. Her ankle was most likely fractured. Her foot was bleeding. Her dress was torn. She bit her lip, still tasting bile, and closed her eyes against the agony. An hour ago they’d been laughing.

“I’m okay.”

“No.” He was gentle, but worried. They had to move, she knew. They couldn’t be picked up in the same location as where they made the call. A safe car would be waiting three blocks away. She could get checked out while Jethro was debriefed. “No you aren’t. But we need to move. Can you walk?”

“I’ll have to.” In the dim light, she pulled a shard of glass from her foot and then stood. Her leg buckled but she couldn’t let Jethro see the weakness. “Let’s get out of here.”

He grabbed her around the waist and they hurried, seeing a car pull up in the darkness. Behind the wheel was Decker, who took one look at Jenny as they climbed into the backseat and floored it. Only then did she realize something.

“Jethro …” she swallowed hard, “I bled all the way from the alley. They can just follow my footprints.”

“You’re untraceable once you hit the river, though. Where’s the car?” Barked Decker.

Jethro gave him the address. “Jenny needs stitches and she might have broken her ankle. We have to get her to Ducky.”

“On it. Talk to me Jethro,” Decker shook his head, “What the hell happened out there?”

Jenny leaned back, wondering just how much blood she’d lost. Her head was spinning, her vision hazy. She felt him pick up her leg and felt something pressed hard against her foot. Jethro was talking; she just wanted to close her eyes and let the night pass.

But every time she did all she could see was the dead woman on the ground and the look in Salvo’s eyes. It wasn’t just that she was responsible for the girl’s death, but that it wouldn’t take much for Salvo to do the same to her. Or even to Jethro.

Somehow, even with her vision swimming, she reached for his hand. He linked their fingers, calming her down, but there was more than security in his touch. He was worried.

How would it be if they were more than partners? What if something happened? What if he died on her watch? She was a girl, playacting, trying to be as strong as the big boys. She wanted to tell him to let go, to just be her partner, but partners were more than friends. Right? She needed to make the decision for them because he seemed more than willing to let what was going to happen run its course. What if he was hurt? What if she was? But his hand was so warm and she was floating …

Shelty, she remembered. The girl’s name was Shelty.

Blackness took away the images of the woman on the ground.

TBC …

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch. 5)

2011-09-29T17:18:25Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter 5: M-5
Author: vegawriters
Pairing: Jenny/Jethro
Timeframe: Pre-Series
Rating: Mature
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: She paused again, remembering. Salvo’s hands on her. The other man in the room. The locked doors. The drugs in the wine. The safe she’d cracked while he slept.

The applause in the M-5 office made Jenny blush. Over the course of the cruise, she and Jethro had infiltrated an entire operation, set the ground work to take down cells in France and Serbia, and isolated how money was flowing from Russia through Europe and into Pakistan and Afghanistan.

And all she’d had to do was give up a couple of nights of pillow talk. She was also planning the hottest shower of her life and possibly checking for crabs when she finally got some alone time. Salvo was disgusting and his partner had been worse. She felt bad. She hadn’t let Jethro touch her since her first night with Salvo but she had to stay in her headspace. Now though, she needed to shake it. The scope of the mission was changing and she needed to focus. But her hands were shaking and she had to force each step to make it look like she was holding herself together.

Tea and crackers waited for them in the conference room. Jenny collapsed into the padded leather chair, staring blankly at the refreshments. Her stomach churned at the thought of eating. Suddenly, the reality of where they were and what they were doing started to sink in. This was real. Next came deeper cover, new papers, and the next step of infiltration. Suddenly she doubted her ability to handle what was before them.

Hands landed on her shoulders and she glanced up, her heart racing, her body on alert to attack. But gentle blue eyes stared down at her. Jethro was concerned. She tried to smile, but with the pressure suddenly off, her emotions took over and the reality of what she’d done to get the intel hit her.

She was new to this part of the work. She was good at it, hell she’d been recruited for it before they’d found out her skills at translating, but with this op she’d jumped into the deep end and landed right on top of a shark. In the water, Jethro was her safety cage and right now, she needed him.

Somehow, he understood and as she leapt from the chair, he was ready for her. Arms she’d fallen asleep in now wrapped tightly around her and she clung, her face in his chest, inhaling the ever presence scent of sawdust and male musk. “It’s okay, Jen,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” She couldn’t speak, couldn’t reassure him. She just burrowed into him, letting him be her stability. The more she tried to control her shaking, the worse it became.

The door opened and out of the corner of her eye she saw Decker step in and clear his throat. Jenny didn’t even pull back and when Jethro’s voice rumbled through her. “Give us a minute, Will.”

“Yup.” The door shut and she clung tighter.

“Shhh,” Jethro stroked his hand down her back. “Shhh. Take your time.”

Jenny started to cry.

* * *
When she woke, it was dark outside. The debrief had gone for hours, long enough that it was decided new orders would come in the morning.

The suite had a pull-out bed in addition to the separate bedroom. Jethro had guided her to the bed, helped her undress, and left her to sleep. Somewhere during her nap, he’d come back in and pulled a clean pair of sleeping shorts and a fresh tank top out of her suitcase. He’d also left clean underwear, which for some reason embarrassed her. They’d already seen each other in almost every possible state, but that was as Matt and Kitty. As Jenny, it was slightly different. She wanted to court him, to tease and play. Whatever was between them already felt tainted. But she pulled on the clothes and ran a hand through her sleep rumpled hair as she made her way back into the living area. She found Jethro sitting at the simple, cheap hotel desk, working his way through a pile of photographs.

He’d changed into a pair of jeans and was wearing just a plain white t-shirt. Ever a marine. She wanted to walk up and put her arms around him, but suddenly she was scared. They hadn’t been just them since before the cruise. Now, for a little while, they were just partners again. Right?

“Hey,” his voice broke the silence. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah. Passed out, actually. What time is it?”

“Around ten.” He looked over at her and offered a smile that promised her a future she was suddenly terrified of. “There’s some food on the tray by the door.”

“Thanks.” She moved over to the room service tray, grabbed half a sandwich, and curled into a ball on the couch. The bread was dry, the meat salty. “What are you working on?”

“Signals.” He walked to her and showed her the photographs. On the bottoms of each were a series of what looked like dates, but the numbers were all in chronological order.

“These are coordinates,” she said, quickly putting the patterns together.

“Yes. Where we will be.”

“I didn’t think that was set yet.”

“Some things are. These are safe house coordinates in case something goes wrong.”

“Ahh.” Suddenly she wasn’t hungry. She didn’t want to think of something going wrong. Putting the sandwich aside she decided to focus on the specifics of the moment even though she didn’t want to participate in the process he’d already started.

“Hey,” he said again.

She focused on him.

“Now is your chance to talk, Jenny. It’s just us. We’re safe here.” She froze. Safe was a word she was starting to mistrust. He set the photographs aside, sat on the couch with her, and took her hand. “Jenny.”

The touch helped but she still couldn’t look at him while trying to put her thoughts in order. Would it be a good idea to tell Jethro about the other man? In the debrief, she’d mentioned Salvo’s partner, a runner she actually recognized from Benoit’s group of cronies, but she hadn’t given the whole story. He’d been someone who came into the room after Salvo was done with her, when she was no longer a threat. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d been given to the partner as a gift for the information he provided. A long, slow breath escaped her lungs and Jenny blinked a couple of quick tears away, reminding herself she was a trained operative. She could have pushed him away but FLETC enforced that everything was done for the sake of the mission. Everything. It had worked in her favor. Because she’d been their willing whore, they’d stupidly talked plans while she was in the room. After all, Salvo had asked once his friend was done and she was lounging on the bed and they were both molesting her, how could a stupid American girl know Russian?

“I just … I didn’t expect this. Even working the desk, knowing the realities of what the undercover agents do, I didn’t think it would be like this. It’s different when it’s … real. Not just a story on paper.”

“Were you forced?”

Slowly, she shook her head. The truth was she hadn’t been, even if she still felt dirty. “No. It wasn’t pleasant, but I wasn’t forced. I just didn’t expect it to unfold like it did. I feel like it was a newbie mistake, like I could have retrieved the information without sleeping with him.”

“Could you have?”

She paused again, remembering. Salvo’s hands on her. The other man in the room. The locked doors. The drugs in the wine. The safe she’d cracked while he slept. “No. He …” she swallowed. “They only assumed I was just your bimbo. They talked like I wasn’t in the room, like I was just naked and oversexed. Without that, I couldn’t have gathered what I did.”

She saw his jaw clench as he put together what she hadn’t said. But his hand reached out and stroked hers. “You did good, Jen.”

Another breath escaped her. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “Have you ever slept with someone to get information?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “And some were even married to me.”

The joke broke the tension and she started to chuckle. “Cute.”

He grinned and leaned back in the cushions. His arm went across the back of the couch, giving her an opening if she wanted to cuddle. She did.

“Do we have to talk about the case?” Her voice felt small.

“Nope.”

“Good. Tell me something you’ve done. Anything.” She was exhausted and just wanted to listen to his voice.

“I’m not so good at that, Jenny.”

“Anything, Jethro.”

He started to talk. Somewhere in her increasing haze she registered the words beach, Mexico, and horses. She fell asleep with his arm around her and his voice acting as a lullaby. She dreamed of riding Arabians down the beach and making love to him under the stars while the waves crashed against the shore.

***
She woke tucked into the couch, covered in a warm blanket. From the bedroom, she heard light snoring. Moving slowly, still groggy, Jenny pushed off the couch and went to peek. Jethro was sprawled on the bed, dressed only in boxers and that same white t-shirt. Her eyes raked over his form, from the salt and pepper hair to his muscled arms to the slight bulge that signified his morning erection. She grinned playfully, finally feeling the last of Kitty’s headspace fall away as she remembered exactly what he looked like naked. Yes, she knew Kitty would have to return, but for now she was safe as Jenny.

It had all happened so fast. From her desk in DC interpreting terrorist cables to his home in California to shopping in New York to seducing Salvo on the boat to getting the intel they needed. Two weeks ago she’d been in a back booth at Capitol Beat, hitting on Congressman Jones. Now she was in a safe house in England. And she was having the time of her life.

Temptation dared her to crawl into bed with Jethro, push her hands up under his shit, and connect to him as just them. Logic drove her to grab clothing from the suitcase and move past him into the bathroom and shower. They had a job to do and if whatever was between them was to develop beyond this op, it couldn’t all be physical.

Even though all she wanted was for him to step into the shower behind her and make love to her until the water ran cold.

The shower washed away the rest of the cruise. She shed Salvo’s hands and the way the other man had held her down and enjoyed her struggling. Stepping from the shower, she wrapped in the warm towel, let her hair drip down her back, and began her morning routine. In the bedroom, Jethro was stirring but she kept herself focused on getting ready for the day. Black pants, a white button down, a conservative bra and panty set, a simple gold necklace, low heels, her hair up in a ponytail, neutral makeup. When she stepped out of the bathroom, he grinned at her and slipped inside.

Alone for a blessed few minutes, she took advantage of the time and pulled out the file she’d brought with her, the one that had nothing to do with the op. A photograph confirmed her suspicions, that the second man was one of Benoit’s men. Quickly, she flipped open the burn phone she’d brought with her and sent a text message to her contact. It went back into her purse, tucked into a tear in the lining.

With a breath, she was fully Jenny again. Behind her, the shower stopped and she imagined Jethro moving around, getting dressing in his usual pants and polo shirt. When he emerged from the bedroom, he was as much business as she was, but there was a playful glint in his eye. For a moment, she wondered just what he’d done in the shower and if he’d been thinking of her while he did it.

“Breakfast? There’s a café downstairs.”

“I’d love it.” She slipped her purse over her shoulder.

He held out a hand and she took it. They walked together down the elegant staircase to the simple café and sat by the window, watching London fly by. A silent server brought tea. She recognized him from M-5 the night before. So, the entire hotel was really a safe house. She let out a low, slow breath and smiled at Jethro.

“Sleep well?” She asked.

“Almost as well as you.”

She chuckled and sipped her tea. “Thank you for last night.”

“They’re proud of you, Jen.” He paused. “I’m proud of you. I’ve forgotten just how green you are. Really, no one would ever know this is your first undercover op.”

“Thank you.” The tea was brewed just how she liked it. The fruit was already sliced. The staff had been waiting for them. Outside on the London streets a man in a black coat paused, looked over his shoulder at the front of the hotel, and then continued on. She watched him until he disappeared into the crowd. “Did you know I puked at my first autopsy? Hell, I’d probably still puke.”

Jethro laughed. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Thanks.” She rolled her eyes. “Did you know that in Mossad they terminate you if you puke at your first autopsy? You have to apply all over again but they won’t select you for field work.”

“I didn’t. How do you know anything about Mossad? No one knows anything about Mossad.”

Jenny sipped her tea. “It’s my job to know things about groups that no one knows anything about. When we’re alone, I’ll tell you all about the CIA”

He grinned playfully. “Where do you want to go with your job at NCIS?”

“The top.”

“Really?”

“So surprising?” She shook her head. It was the nineties and men still had problems with the idea that a woman could run the agency.

“I’m a chauvinist. But, I’m sure you could handle it.”

Jenny grinned. “Well, thank you. And thank you for your honesty.”

Again, she looked out the window. France was so close she could taste it. Rene Benoit was only a few steps away. She had to make contact with her contact today, before they moved forward with their assignment. Somehow, she had to get Jethro to let her out of his sight so she could go shopping. But it was so easy to get lost in his eyes, to forget about her goals to be director and her own desires to see Benoit strung up by the short hairs. But she couldn’t risk it, not as much as she wanted to.

Food appeared before them. Toast and eggs, just how she liked them. They ate in comfortable silence until someone appeared at the table. Decker pulled up a chair and grinned. “Hey guys. Sleep well?” He waggled his eyebrows. Jenny kicked him under the table. It was one thing to ogle Kitty and Matthew but she and Jethro were a different matter.

“Yes we did, Will.” Jethro muttered around his toast and eggs. “How’s your girlfriend?”

“Cindy’s cool. She’s glad I’m back in town.”

“I’ll bet.”

Jenny let them talk, fading away as she stared out the window. There was a bench with a low planter next to it. The man in the black coat had stopped there. Her eyes zeroed in on the planter, knowing full well there was information for her. She had to get to it, to get out on her own for just a couple of hours.

“When are we due back at M-5?” She asked as the men hit a lull in their conversation. Her heart was pounding, her palms sweaty, but she had to do this. This was real. It wasn’t just out there as an abstract plan anymore.

“After lunch. They wanted to give you guys some recovery time and to give the director time to finalize a couple of things based on the intel you provided yesterday.”

“Good.” Jenny popped her neck. “Because my suitcase is full of slutty clothes picked up just for the cruise; these are the only dress pants I have. I could use a quick shopping trip. So I’ll let you guys catch up.” She stood and walked around to Jethro’s side of the table, leaned over and whispered in his ear. “And maybe,” she teased, her hand resting on his shoulder, “I’ll pick up something just for you.” She felt him bite back his groan and smirked. Good, he was distracted. If he was distracted, he wouldn’t pick up on her other reasons for being so willing to travel to Europe.

“Will,” she smiled warmly, “I’ll see you later.” He nodded. Jethro was still trying to regain his balance. Jenny slipped out of the café and onto the street, making sure she walked past the planter where the man in the black coat had stopped. Pretending to twist her ankle, she went down, catching herself on the rim of the ceramic planter. Just under the lip, covered with a leaf, was a micro disc. Carefully, she righted herself, brushing off the politeness of the Londoners who walked by and wanted to help, and easily slipped the disc into her pocket without being noticed. At the last moment, she turned and looked over her shoulder, back into the restaurant. Will and Jethro still sat, talking, laughing about something. But Jethro’s eyes were watching her. She grinned, letting him know she’d seen him, brushed off the dust on her knee, and made her way toward the shopping district.

TBC …

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch 4)

2011-09-27T04:55:25Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter 4: Conversations in the Dark
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jethro/Jenny
Timeframe: Pre Series; References to Shalom
Rating: Adult
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: So what, now he’d come? Now? What was she? Just an old memory meant to be dragged up when he felt like thinking about a past he pretended to forget?

Go easy now
Go easy now
Later on the road I’m gonna
Lay my body down.
We’ll meet along the way
I know.
~Hem: We'll Meet Along the Way

Washington DC, 2006

The very idea that she was going to lose him put her into a panic even though she’d been the one to push him away. She’d been the one to draw the lines. But when faced with the reality that he might not wake up, she’d been reduced to a virgin field agent, flighty and nervous. Her hands and legs shook. Her heart raced. Now, she knew, he was fine. He was fine, but he was leaving. Leaving her.

Her rational self knew that it wasn’t fair to say he was leaving her. He was leaving NCIS. Leaving DC. He had offered himself to her with no questions asked, been willing to navigate the absolute impossibilities of being director and field agent and she’d pushed him away. She’d said no. She’d weighed the reality of her decisions against what she really wanted in life years ago when she’d left him in Paris, when he’d married Stephanie, when he abided by her rules at the office and now, as he was leaving.

Accepting the realities didn’t stop it from hurting whenever he stepped out with a beautiful redhead. It didn’t stop the ache when he told her that his return wasn’t final, that he was there for Ziva. But when he looked into her eyes and lied about Serbia, she broke. As he stormed out of her office, she put her head down on her desk and cried like she had when she’d closed the door behind him in Paris and not looked back as she headed to her new life. Then, he’d called after her, waited in the door he’d opened, but she had kept going, tears streaming down her face. With the roles reversed, with him leaving her, she didn’t go after him.

He did remember Serbia. She knew he remembered. He remembered the leaking roof she’d helped him fix and the garden they’d planted. He remembered the cold nights huddled by the fire talking about everything from the op to dreams forgotten. He remembered the panic when Salvo’s crew had abducted her and how he had refused to let her go for days after her rescue. He remembered the confessions of love. He remembered all of it and he lied to her to protect both of their hearts.

Then, he’d given her the picture. Her posing in front of that barn the day he told her he loved her. And she’d run out of the squad room, not caring what she revealed about their relationship by doing it, hunting in the parking lot for his silver hair and swagger and found nothing.

But now he stood on her doorstep, his long hair taking her back to when they were two completely different people, when they had time to just be them even while hunting down terrorist cells and tracing back gun runners. He’d let it grow on the cruise to England and by the time they reached Serbia it was long and shaggy and she loved to run her fingers through and hold on to while he held her captive with his mouth.

The moustache, however, would have to go.

She wanted it to be a romantic moment. She wanted to kiss him softly, with tears running down her face. She wanted him to sweep her close and lift her up so their noses met. She wanted him to stroke her back as they walked back into her bedroom. She wanted music to swell while she apologized for being an absolute idiot and if he still wanted her, she still wanted him.

Instead she stepped back into her foyer to let him out of the rain, crossed her arms, fought back tears and glared at him. “What do you want?” Maybe she really was an ex wife because she certainly wanted to kill him. She just didn’t have the divorce papers or the alimony payments.

“I’m not sure.” He was staring at her and she cursed the blue eyes that knew her better than she knew herself. Tucking deeper into her sweater she crossed her arms as she led him back into the kitchen where Noemi was still cleaning up the remnants of the day.

“Senor Gibbs!” She offered him her cute smile and Jenny almost fired her on the spot. But her rational mind reminded her that she wasn’t angry at the girl but the asshole who leaned in the doorway, thumbs crooked into the belt loops of his jeans.

“Hi, Noemi.”

Jenny sighed and put a pot of water for tea on the stove. “Thank you, Noemi. I think you can go if you want.”

“Gracias.” She smiled and slipped out before Jenny could change her mind.

Jenny stared at the stove and the small gas flame that leapt toward the tea kettle. She wasn’t sure she could look back at him and stay angry. Not that she wanted to be angry. But he’d left without saying a word. He’d gone to drink away his troubles, or build them away, whatever he’d done, and he’d come back not for her but for Ziva. Now he was selling his home. He was moving to Mexico. She was going to be filing his retirement package when he didn’t come back before the unused leave was used up. The instinct that made her such a damned good agent told her he was coming back. The man in her kitchen kept her from trusting herself.

So what, now he’d come? Now? What was she? Just an old memory meant to be dragged up when he felt like thinking about a past he pretended to forget?

“No, Jenny.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud until his breath blew the words across the back of her neck. His hands were on her hips, holding tightly, and suddenly she felt like an anchor in his storm. He was as confused as she was. Leaning back into his body, she inhaled that Gibbs smell – bourbon and sawdust and now a hint of sand and salt. He wasn’t reinstated. They could do this, could do anything, and it would be two people who still loved each other doing something they were damned good at together.

But if she turned around and kissed him, if she took it where she wanted it to go, they wouldn’t talk and she wasn’t sure she could watch him walk away without saying everything she needed to say.

Maybe it was too late to say anything.

“Stop.” Again, his breath on her neck.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking what you’re thinking. It’s just me right now. We don’t have to be agent and director.”

“And what happens when you get bored in Mexico and want to come back, Jethro?”

“Stop thinking.” He kissed her neck, reached past her, and turned off the stove. “Please, Jenny.”

She turned and kissed him. He put his hand on her back and pulled her close. She wrapped her arm around his neck as he pushed them back toward the nearest sturdy surface. Seven years of frustration took them into a chair with her on his lap and their mouths made love to each other. It felt so good to lose herself in his kisses again.

Groaning, she pulled back and ran a finger down his nose to his lips. “Come upstairs, Jethro.”

He chuckled, lifted her off his lap, and followed her up the stairs to her bedroom.

Somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, 1997

It had become their spot. Somehow, they found a place where Decker wasn’t hounding them and Salvo wasn’t tracking them. They could talk freely – the wind effetely obstructing anything that could get picked up by a bug, and so they sat, leaning against each other, existing.

They sat together at the very edge of the boat, tucked into a tiny edge of the deck behind their stateroom. There was just enough space for them to sit almost on top of each other, their legs hanging over the deck. From their vantage point, they could see only ocean beneath them.

Jenny had never been happier.

“Tell me about you.”

He’d pulled her hair loose from its ponytail and was running his fingers through it. She stared down at her freshly painted toes and then looked past the railings out to where the moon reflected on the dark water. They were going into a meet tonight and she needed to focus, but her headspace was getting to be a dangerous thing and she needed some space. Since the club in New York, Salvo had taken a liking to her and playing along was making her nervous.

She wanted to just be Jenny for a while and Jethro was more than happy to help with that.

“Well,” she grinned, “people keep telling me I should love Jane Austen, but I don’t. I open the book and I’m instantly asleep. I keep trying and trying to like her but I don’t.”

“Why do you keep trying?”

She chuckled. “There are times when I do want to actually be like people around me.”

“That’s overrated.” He grinned playfully. “I like you just like you are.” When she blushed, he kissed her. “Who do you like to read?”

“Depends. I like that whole era of post-Victorian era authors who were coming of age into writing during the First World War. I think they have a lot to tell us about who we are now, if we’re willing to listen.” She smiled. “And I love reading Chekov and Tolstoy – in the original Russian, of course. I have yet to read a translation that is suitable.”

Jethro chuckled. It was low and vibrated through her and she flashed back to that morning in the hotel, when they were in character but she’d still felt what it meant to be with this man. She was hooked and she wanted to make love to him, not just fuck him like her persona had done more than once. Maybe she was taking advantage of being Kitty, but he as Matt was not complaining.

She liked her headspace less and less.

They were silent again and she searched for something to say. “My favorite is Melville, though.”

“The white whale!” Jethro grinned. “That makes sense.”

“How so?”

“You seem to like following those impossible ideas.”

She chuckled. “Oh really.”

“Really.” His hand wandered up under her shirt and he toyed with her bra strap. She grinned when he didn’t undo it but instead smoothed his hand down her back. “I see it in your eyes, Jenny. You’re even willing to give up everything to make this op go smoothly.”

“What do you mean by everything?”

“Salvo and his goons are interested in more than Kitty’s money.”

“Yes.” She looked at him. “I know. I’m not a wilting flower, Jethro. I can handle this. Whatever it means. You know his profile. You know what I will have to do to get close.”

“I know. I also don’t like it. You don’t have the field experience that’s necessary to handle this.”

She couldn’t answer because she couldn’t argue so they were silent for a while, staring into the dark waters. Jenny watched the wake of the boat, wondering what they were churning up as they passed through. It was a strangely fitting metaphor. She knew these people needed to be taken down. She knew that if it was her gun that put bullets into Salvo, or any of his crew, that even Geneva would look the other way. But what if taking down one person led to a domino effect they could never predict? Who would rise up to take his place?

Jethro’s hand kept moving up and down her back. She closed her eyes, relishing the simple touch but she was still worried. “What’s happening here, Jethro?”

“We’re tracking mob money and terrorist cells.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He was silent for a long moment. “I’m not sure what’s happening.”

“If this is more than the op, and I’m okay if it’s not ... but if it is, I don’t want to just be some rebound while you’re getting over Diane. If it is, I don’t know if I can handle any more nights like this.” She felt shy, a teenager again.

“I got over Diane a long time ago, Jenny.” His hand stilled and he scooted closer to her. “As for you, I don’t know what this is. I really don’t. But I do know I’d like to kiss you. Just you. Not Kitty.”

She turned and obliged him.

It was slow and sweet, just like the first night back at his home, when she’d reached forward in an impulsive kiss. Lips played against each other, teasing lightly, until he slipped his hand up into her hair and tugged, taking control of the moment. The rough edge sent a shock through her and she moaned, opening her mouth as his tongue demanded entrance. He kept one hand tangled in her hair even while the other moved up her back and around to stroke the side of her breast through the lace bra. She whimpered, wanting more, and his calloused fingers moved inside the cup, tweaking her nipple while his mouth continued to plunder hers. It was so different kissing Jethro than kissing Matt. His headspace was colder; possessive more than protective. But here with him, there was tenderness to his roughness. He wanted her to enjoy it as much as he did.

Finally breaking for air, she realized she had moved to sit on his lap, her back against the railing. There was just enough room for him to lie back and he took her with him, situating them so she was straddling his hips, her hands braced on the floor behind his head. Her thin, low cut shirt gave him view down her shirt.

“God I want you,” he whispered, pushing his hips up into her center.

She responded by bending low and capturing his lips again. His hands stayed inside her shirt, stroking across her stomach and toying with the waist of her low riding shorts. He tugged on the button, freeing it, and slowly slid the zipper down, giving himself access. Jenny whimpered again, adjusting her hips to let him go further. He knew her sensitive places now, even if he’d been making love to her as Matt, he knew how to touch her, and his fingers danced along the edges of her panties, seeking those spots.

It was perfect. The boat rocking them, Jethro’s lips on hers, their bodies moving closer together. But she couldn’t relax. There was too much at stake tonight. Groaning, she pulled back. Balancing on one hand, she ran her knuckles along Jethro’s jaw line, cursing NCIS for bringing them together like this.

“What’s the plan for tonight?”

“Cancelling the meet with Salvo, taking you back to our stateroom, and making you scream my name over and over?” He pressed a finger to her center and she groaned.

“I’d like nothing more.”

“I don’t want his fingers anywhere near you,” Jethro kept his hand where it was. “I don’t want to sit in a chair and sip a drink while he pulls you onto his lap and fondles you. I don’t want to make plans to destroy the world.”

“If I pull back right now,” she pressed against his erection and hated herself for what she was about to say, “you’ll be sexually frustrated enough to want to destroy the world.”

His laughter made up for the disappointment they both felt. He pulled his hand free and sat up a bit on his elbows. “This is true.” They stared at each other for a long time. Jenny’s mind was full of questions. Everything from how he liked his steak to how many sexual positions he preferred to use. They had time to get to know each other and they had to stay focused.

Reluctantly, she rolled off his lap and stood. He took her offered hand and kissed her one more time, pressing her back into the railing. She lost herself in his mouth, in his hands on her body, and for a brief second pictured herself as his lover, not just his partner. But she was his partner and they had a job to do. The stateroom wasn’t far and as she walked, she swung her hips even as she fixed her loosened shorts. Jethro followed behind, but the tone in his laughter was much more Matthew than Jethro. He too was slipping into his headspace.

Inside the stateroom she stripped easily, teasing him, and he came up behind her, wrapping his still clothed body around her naked one. His fingers slid down between her legs, teasing her, and she arched back while he fondled her to climax, leaving her winded and flushed. His harlot. Matt’s harlot.

She glanced in the mirror, her hair windblown, her face revealing her freshly-fucked status, her eyes dangerously seductive. While he lounged back on the bed to watch, she took out one of her shortest dresses and slipped it over her body. The plunging neckline did not allow for a bra, the short hem and tight bodice made wearing panties impossible. She was hot and dripping and knew this was exactly what Salvo would want and she would tease him and he would take it.

Salvo would seduce her. She would give up the money. Matthew would seal the deal. They’d get the information on the drop and raid the exchange. They’d find a patsy for his organization to blame.

Swallowing nervously, Jenny kept herself in her headspace, slipping into her sultriest shoes, leaving her hair windblown. Makeup was the hard part but while he put on a clean pair of jeans and a crisp blue shirt, she added layers of eye shadow and mascara. Her lips were painted as red as her hair.

Suddenly, Jethro was around her again and she turned to face him. “Don’t let him do anything you are uncomfortable with.” His voice was soft, low enough to evade any listening devices.

She stroked his cheek, seeing that her partner had also figured out where tonight would lead. “Don’t lose me, okay?”

“I won’t.” He kissed her, all Jethro again, and she lost herself in him. This couldn’t go on. They had to get out of this quickly.

She took his hand and led him down to the club. They slipped past the bouncers and made their way to the corner where Salvo seemed to have set up camp. Two girls hardly old enough to vote were sitting on either side of him but it was Jenny he leered at.

“Kitty! Matthew! Have a seat.” He gestured to the one free chair and as Jethro took a seat, Salvo gripped her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. Jenny swallowed past the gag reflex and leaned flirtatiously against the gun runner. His hand was already wandering up the inside of her leg. “Your woman,” he nodded to Jethro, “runs hot.”

“It’s why I keep her.” He ordered two bourbons from a passing waitress and took the cigar Salvo offered.

Salvo had discovered her lack of underwear and smirked at her. Jenny opened her legs on the pretense of settling herself better in his lap and leaned in close. “Do your groupies have to sit so near? I hate discussing business with bimbos around.”

His laugh sent chills up Jenny’s spine, but the girls were waved away. In return, Salvo made no pretense about where his hand was and what he was doing. She was glad Jethro had taken her like he had right before she dressed. The lingering moisture kept her lubricated while her disgust dried her up. Jethro took a long sip of the bourbon, watching Salvo carefully. Jenny could see the way his jaw clenched; he was having trouble separating himself from Matthew.

“So, you want Kitty and her money, apparently. What’s left for me in this deal?”

“You will have the access. You will run guns for our friends in Serbia. They will make you rich. Richer than you already are. We just need to seal this one deal. We need to provide these weapons.” He smirked and pushed a finger clear inside her. Jenny whimpered at the sudden pain; Salvo took it for pleasure. She glanced at Jethro, realizing she wasn’t able to handle what this could entail, and he sprung to action, reaching for her hand and pulling her back onto his lap. Salvo sat back, smirking.

“You get her after we see more of a deal.” Jethro was growling. His hand on her stomach was calming. Behind them, Decker appeared, two more bourbons to replace things.

“Are you all right, Miss?” He handed her the drink and Jenny nodded. She needed to be okay. The success of the op relied on her ability to be okay.

“I’m fine.” She leaned in and kissed Jethro’s neck. “Thank you.” Once Decker had departed, she turned to Salvo. “Alright. Let’s talk.” She slipped off of Jethro’s lap and took a place in her chair. Her long legs were crossed tightly in front of her and she went from being a harlot to a gun dealer. “Where are your connections?”

“Not so quickly, my dear.” Salvo grinned at her and even in the dim light of the club Jenny could see the yellowing, cracked teeth. His breath smelled of decay. His hands of stale smoke. Sitting across from him, watching him watch her, she knew where this was going to lead. He believed the cover, that she was the money and Matt was the one with the connections and even though he needed her money to make the deal happen, he wouldn’t let anything go down without having his way.

“Salvo,” she ran her hand up Jethro’s leg, hoping that her signal that she was taking the lead would be interpreted correctly, “shall we dance?”

“Of course.” He smirked at Jethro. “Matthew, my friend, do you mind if I borrow your woman for a while? A long while?”

Jethro looked at her and despite his complete adaptation to character she could see the fear in his eyes. “Take her,” he said, even while he searched her eyes for answers. Jenny could only nod imperceptibly. They weren’t going to get this done unless she did what her profile was expected to do. They needed to know the location of the drop and they needed to make it look like one of Salvo’s men was the leak in his organization. Salvo’s profile told them that his weakness was women and that he didn’t trust any woman to be smarter than him. Jenny needed to get into his inner sanctum and this was how it was going to happen. She’d prepared for it, but it didn’t make it any easier to stomach as Salvo grabbed her hand and led her not to the dance floor but a dark corner where he pushed her up against the wall, hiked her dress up to her waist, and plunged his hand between her legs. She was meat to him, his ticket to Matthew, and she had to behave as such.

As she closed her eyes and thought of Jethro, she wondered for the millionth time just how smart an idea it was to have taken the job with NCIS.

Washington DC, 2006

They lay in bed, sweaty and spent. Jethro’s hand moved up and down her back, making trails across her skin. He wasn’t one to paint metaphorical images; everything he did had a reason, a purpose. Lying there, feeling the touch she’d felt before, she panicked. He would be back. This couldn’t happen again. Not as much as they wanted – needed- for it to.

Rolling over, she let the sheet fall away and reveled in his instant gravitation to her breasts. Sensitive and drained, she still pushed his head into her chest and held him there while he suckled her close to a new climax. His hand strayed down her stomach, toying lightly with her curls before sliding between her labia and tweaking her over sensitized clit. She screamed his name as stars exploded behind her eyelids.

How on earth could the sex between them be better now that they were older? She wasn’t as slender, he wasn’t as muscular, but it was better. It was full of memory and passion and lust and anger and knowing that they still loved each other, even if they couldn’t be together.

Jenny floated, her entire body trembling and tingling. He stroked her gently, bringing her down with touch. Aftershocks wracked her until he moved his hand, lifted his head, and brought his hand to her lips. She kissed his fingers, tasting herself on him, and even though he didn’t speak in metaphor, it was in fact just that. It was a bonding for them, a reminder that they were linked, that they had marked each other long ago.

He groaned and she could feel him, half hard, against her hip. For a guy his age, still recovering from a coma, she had to give him points. Already he’d rammed her hard enough to stop a train but in the time they’d been recovering, his body was getting ready for seconds.

“God, Jethro,” she moaned, finally catching her breath.

He grinned playfully. “I’ve missed you too.”

“I’d apologize …” she sighed, “But I don’t know if I’m sorry or not.”

“For saying no to me when you first took the job?”

“Yeah.” She ran her hand down his arm.

“I know why you did, Jen. I get it. It doesn’t make it any easier.” He collapsed on his back next to her, tucking one arm under his head. “It isn’t easy working so close to you and not being able to touch you.”

“I feel the same way, you know.”

“So … why …”

“You said you understood. Do you? Really?” She tried not to let her frustration show. “It’s different for me. The people I answer to all the way down to the kid in the mailroom seem to know our history. To have you in my bed … they’d know that too and I’d last ten minutes as director. I can do good things at NCIS.” She pushed the thought of catching Rene Benoit out of her mind. “But I can’t if all of my decisions are being second guessed because people think I’m bedding an agent.”

His sigh filled the room. “I know. I get it. But it doesn’t mean I like it. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

She leaned over and kissed him, pressing her body down against his. She couldn’t respond because she missed him too and she knew that he would be back at his desk soon so they had to savor this.

He hardened as she settled on top of him. It wouldn’t last long and she was past her own pleasure by this point, but right now wasn’t about her. He groaned and lifted her hips, guiding her onto his erection. She moved slowly, dragging out as much as she could, but he bucked, his body reacting to her. In a fluid motion, they were flipped and he was pushing into her as instinct took over and he thrust into her over and over. It didn’t last long but he called her name as he emptied into her and then collapsed down, barely catching himself on his arms. Jenny absorbed his weight until he was ready to roll away.

In the breath of the moment, she could have sworn he whispered “I love you” but it was so soft that she spared his pride and didn’t ask him to repeat it. It just wasn’t fair, not to either of them. But her skin retained the memory of his words and as they both drifted to sleep, she was grateful for the dark that hid her tears.

TBC …

NCIS: Purple Chiffon and Coin Bracelets

2011-09-24T19:53:38Z

Title: Purple Chiffon and Coin Bracelets
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Mentions of Ziva/Michael Rivkin
Rating: T
Timeframe: Post Good Cop, Bad Cop
A/N: Part of the Mockingbird Universe
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Ziva, Jenny, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Leaving the tea to steep on the counter, Ziva walked back into her bedroom, knelt, and pulled a small cedar box from under her bed. It was hand carved, old, passed down from mother to mother in her family.

Breaking mirrors of these patterns of ours
Blaming your father for who you really are
Placing ads for heroes cause you can’t save yourself
Lennon Murphy: Just One

There are some things about America she will never understand. She will never understand why they call football soccer and rugby football. She will never understand why they did not build their power lines underground, why the electric grids for civilians are so susceptible to sabotage, why they demand that homosexuals be segregated from their societal norms, and why they have such passionate attitudes about different foods for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Her personal favorite breakfast was rice and vegetables. It stems from her time in the military, from her time with Mossad, from her time as she sat in her room, feeling Nadia do gymnastics off of her internal organs. Rice and vegetables were simple, traveled well, and proved filling at any time.

Once, when she was home in Israel those months after Jenny died, she woke to hear Michael and Nadia giggling. Stumbling into the kitchen she found a host of breakfast foods, some not even kosher (she blamed Michael), and her staple of rice and vegetables.

“Mama! Come look!” Nadia bounced over, every step jingling. Michael had brought her coin bracelets and anklets from his trip to Turkey and now she was determined to be a belly dancer. “We made breakfast!”

Standing alone in her kitchen, staring at an empty table, Ziva fought down the bile that rose in her throat while the memories of a family danced around her.

“I see!” She laughed, lifting her daughter to her hip even though she was far too tall for it to be comfortable. They spun, Nadia jingling. “Oh thank you. I am hungry.” She placed her daughter on the floor and looked her up and down. She was dressed in a long skirt and loose shirt with a bright blue scarf wound round her dark curls. An idea hit her and she sank into a chair, taking the tea Michael prepared for her. “Nadia, there is a wooden box under your mother’s bed. Go get it.” Michael shot her a look. “Not the one with the lock!” She called quickly, “The other one!”

In her refrigerator were three containers of leftover rice and vegetables. Breakfasts for the week; chilled and flavored with different curry powders and ready to eat when she returned from her morning runs. A comfort food in the midst of her new life. She had lived in America for years, but this was new. This was permanent. She was not going home. No. America was her new home. She had to get used to it. This was her life, a life she’d dreamed of starting with her daughter. She wanted her to play in the parks and go to school with the dreams of all young American girls. She wanted her to have a choice about serving in the army or even joining Mossad.

Despite her desire to begin her life anew in America, she had yet to finish unpacking her few belongings. Most of what she owned had been destroyed in the explosion and she had not had time to reestablish a life in Israel. What she did possess, she had not cared to send for once she was safely rescued from Somalia save for photographs of Nadia, books she wanted to save, her religious items she had inherited from her grandmother, and a small box of some of the pieces she used to wear while dancing. She had intended to give all of them to Nadia as she grew into them.

Wrapping herself tighter in her big blue shawl, Ziva put on water for tea. It was a now common pattern. Her daughter would dance into her dreams, begging her to come and see her, and then an explosion would rip her from sleep and Nadia would again be lost to a wreck of tangled metal set aflame by the man she had not been able to kill. Sleep would elude her for the rest of the night.

Jingling echoed in the apartment. Nadia ran, her bare feet scuffing against floors while the coins draped over her clinked together. A dark purple chiffon veil trailed out behind her as she danced to the music Ziva had chosen for the morning. Her long legs, a gift from Ziva’s genetics, were lanky rather than gangly. She would be a beautiful dancer.

Ziva stared at her, tears welling in her eyes, praying that Nadia’s love of dance would not be perverted, turned into an ability to seduce the mark, to bring them close, to kill in the most intimate moments.

She’d been within a fingernail of her revenge before he rolled, knocking her off balance, nearly breaking her arm in the process. Ziva could defend herself against more than one attacker, but ten men with machine guns were too much. His guards had dragged her to a cell, thrown her to the ground, and she found herself praying for the death she had given herself up to. That was the truth of torture – that when you had given yourself up to God, the Devil would keep you alive.

It was not right that a mother outlive her child.

Gibbs’ words echoed in her mind, words she wished she could believe. “Nadia would be proud of her mother,” he’d whispered to her before setting her free from the interrogation room. Before letting her start her life anew with McGee and Abby and Ducky and Tony. Even Tony.

The kettle whistled and she poured the water over the leaves, waiting for the drink to steep.

“Let me do it, Mama!”Shaking hands poured the boiling water into the ceramic cup. “Papa! Come see! I’m making tea!”

Her eyes met Michael’s over Nadia’s head. They left for Morocco in the morning, but for a perfect moment, it was as if they were a family. He reached out and touched her cheek and she remembered why she’d fallen in love with him as a girl and why she was still in love with him now.

Ziva stared into the liquid, too tired and drained to curse the fortunes of fate, but not drained enough to not cry. Nadia was avenged. Saleem was dead. But she had failed in her mission. Tony and McGee could have been killed. Gibbs had made the kill shot, not her, and worse, she still lived.

At least it was Gibbs. He understood. He knew what it meant to stand over too small a coffin and feel that the world was spinning out of control. She recognized the look in her eyes; he carried the same weight. He still wondered what he could have done to save Kelly even though logic told him there was nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

A word a parent never wanted to hear.

Everything she had done had been for Nadia, to give her a better life, to break the family links to Mossad. But instead, Nadia had been used only as part of a greater plan to keep the violence going. Now she was a mother without a daughter and a daughter without a father. For all she had, there was more she had lost and she did not know where to start. NCIS would save her, but she had no idea how she would live again.

This was why wars were fought. Not for territory or for God, but for the mistaken belief that they could make life better for the children.

Leaving the tea to steep on the counter, Ziva walked back into her bedroom, knelt, and pulled a small cedar box from under her bed. It was hand carved, old, passed down from mother to mother in her family. A place for keepsakes of the children. Still kneeling, she opened the lid, staring down at the photograph in the stained wood frame that rested on top of the pile. Taken on Nadia’s first day of dance class, she was wrapped in a purple chiffon veil, coin belts and bracelets draped over her. She was posed perfectly, unintentionally, her long hair cascading down over her shoulders, her fingers touching lightly on outstretched hands.

“Am I as pretty as you, Mama?”

Ziva gently brushed her daughter’s unruly curls back into a high ponytail. The traditional dress changed for tights, a leotard, and a light skirt. “You are prettier, my ray of hope.”

“Do girls get to dance in America too?”

“Of course!”

“I want to go there with you next time you go.”

She turned her daughter in her arms and crushed her tightly to her. “I want that too. And if we can make it happen, we will go back. I have an apartment in a beautiful area and there is a dance school nearby.” She covered her tears by pressing a kiss to Nadia's temple.

Tears dripped precariously close to the photograph. She rose, her shoulders trembling, and moved back to the kitchen to retrieve her tea. The tea was cold and stewing, but she did not care. The strength of the flavor was what she needed. The chill of desert nights in dusty cells still had not left her bones. Sitting in her dim kitchen, she pulled out the photographs one by one, the purple veil Nadia had loved more than anything, and the one remaining coin bracelet. Everything else had been destroyed in the explosion. She had wanted nothing else from the apartment in Tel Aviv. What would she do with children’s clothing? Or Michael’s shirts?

“Why do you have to go? Why? Why can’t I go with you? Why can’t I go to America too? You said I could! Why do you want to go? Why don’t you want to be with me?”

The question haunted her. Then, she did not know the answer, had blamed American immigration and politics. Now it was clear. Her father had ordained it. Keeping her away from Nadia hardened her. Made her willing to kill, to hunt, to lose everything she could be and in doing so, she believed it was for Nadia. She knew. And while Saleem was responsible for planting the bomb that killed children while in their dance class, Nadia’s death had been her father’s godsend. It closed her off from everything. It turned her into the soulless killer her father expected her to be.

When Tali had been killed, Eli David’s face had changed. His eyes grew tight. His hand fell harder. Yet, Ziva still did not know if he hadn’t had some hand in his own daughter’s death. Or even his granddaughter’s. But for all her anger, she there is a small part of her that understood why he became the man he did.

Another photograph. Of Nadia at Hanukah when she was only three years old; Eli in the background. She paused, tracing her hand over the image of her father’s face. Nadia worshipped Michael like she worshipped her father and she cannot help but wonder if it is best that she died before she learned the truth, that her father was ruthless, vicious, and that he had possibly been under orders the night she had been conceived.

“Nadia would be proud of her mother,” Gibbs had whispered. Her whole life, Ziva had wanted her father’s praise and pride. Now, all she could do was hope that Nadia was proud. And safe.

“Mama! Come look!”

The one with her father went back in the box, hidden until she could look at her father’s face without cursing. She rose, taking the coin bracelet and the photograph of her daughter in the veil with her. They are placed on the mantle of her fireplace, next to the black dragon Abby gave her as a welcome home gift and the small menorah that was a gift from Michael on her eighteenth birthday. Next to the bracelet she places the photograph of Nadia in the veil. She is tired of hiding the truth. She could honor Nadia in death as she could not in life.

She’d walked her father’s path blindly, believing she was doing what was best for her daughter. Now she had to open her eyes and step forward onto a path of her own making. Maybe at the end of that road, she could be forgiven of transgressions.

Shedding her shawl onto the couch, Ziva turned and made her way back into the kitchen. She pulled a container of rice and vegetables out of the fridge, placed it and a bottle of water into a sack for her lunch, and went back into the bedroom to change for her morning run. Today, she would change her route.

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch. 3)

2011-09-20T22:21:39Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter Three: Introducing Matt and Kitty
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jenny/Jethro
Rating: Adult
Timeframe: Pre Series
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Decker was coming up soon to sweep for bugs and he needed to check in with the main office, but Jethro wanted to touch her again. He wanted a moment with her as Jenny, not as Kitty. She seemed to recognize the look in his eyes and rolled over a bit, giving him better access to the bed.

Who's the girl inside of the blue-screen light
The sun is just pouring out
And everything is out of sight
Hem: Not California

Jethro could only stare. He could count every minute since he’d been told about Shannon and Kelly, since he’d leaned on crutches at their graves, since he’d made it to Mexico and took out the man that killed them. He could count every heartbeat since he’d tried to move on with Elisabeth and then Diane.

And he could count every second since he’d laid eyes on Jenny Shepard.

Every single second.

Every moment when her long lashes fluttered against her cheek. Every touch of her lips against his. Every inflection in her voice.

She slept peacefully in the soft sheets on the bed, her bright red hair splayed out against the white pillows. He’d learned quickly her dreams were as haunted as his and learned that kissing them away hindered as often as it helped. She did not speak of her nightmares but did not expect him to voice his either. It was a peaceful understanding and part of him wanted to get on one knee and confess the truth not just of failed marriages but of a fairy tale that should have been but he was terrified that to do so would be to betray Shannon. He’d told Elisabeth and Diane about his first family and both marriages had fallen apart. If he kept Jenny from that part of his past maybe he could move on.

He’d known her less than a week and he was thinking long term relationship. His relationship with her needed not extend beyond this op in Europe, but he wanted more. She was the first person since Shannon that made him feel peace rather than nerves. Her pale skin belied the fire in her green eyes. She was hell in her heels, could speak five languages with any accent they needed, and the way she dispatched the political types in the San Diego office was enough for his respect. He wanted to reach across the room and take her hand in his. He wanted to lead her into the garage, and teach her not how to do build a boat by hand but why it mattered to him that he did it the way he did.

But first, they had to survive this op.

She stirred, the sheet falling aside, revealing the side of the breast he’d spent the better part of the night fondling. Last night had been about establishing their presence to the people who were waiting to vet them. The slinky black number she’d worn to the club had barely touched the top of her thighs and he couldn’t help but wonder if the see through underwear had been for his or their mark’s satisfaction. They’d taken to a corner of the dance floor – enough to be seen, not enough to be the center of attention – and she’d moved against him while he felt her up and showed her off. His Kitty. At one point, one very important point, one of the members of the group they were infiltrating had approached her and cut in for a dance. Jethro had spent the longest five minutes since Shannon’s death watching as the mafia boss manhandled her. When she’d been spun back to his arms, Jethro hadn’t missed how she shook slightly or how she kept smoothing the dress down as discreetly as she could.

Would he at some point have to give her over to them? Would it get to a place where they wanted some kind of collateral? He’d read the reports on this specific cell, read how they used women as bargaining chips. This was not a cell where women rose to the top of the ranks. Would he have to sit and laugh while Jenny was used against her will? Would she have to give herself up to them?

He hadn’t let himself think about that until last night, but Jenny had.

If it’s what needs to happen, it’ll happen.

She had been so matter of fact about the realities when they returned to the room even while keeping her back to him while she undressed. He’d pulled her gently onto his lap before she’d slipped into her night clothes, stroking her hair free of its tresses. In the tense silence, he’d pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder and waited for her to talk. Instead, she’d returned his kiss with one of her own and tumbled him into the sheets.

Call me Kitty tonight. Please, Matthew.

Enforcing their cover names made it easier for her to accept being treated as a piece of meat for gun runners, he realized. So he’d complied with her needs.

“What are you thinking about?”

Her voice startled him and he looked down to where she was still nestled in the sheets. She was half naked underneath, dressed in a pair of satin shorts and nothing else. Her scent was still on his fingers; her legs had opened last night and his hands had wandered up and inside her shorts. She’d helped him help her to climax, showing him all the places that mattered.

He wanted to tell her that he didn’t like where this was headed. Everything they’d read had led them to believe that they were merely a party couple who were out to make themselves a name with Russian gun runners and terror cells over seas. Kitty and Matthew had money and an agenda. Maybe it was time to add a level of protectiveness to his persona. Matthew wouldn’t want strange men touching his Kitty. Jethro didn’t want strange men touching Jenny.

Still unsure if bugs had been planted while they were out in the club, Jethro shrugged and cast the lecherous grin he’d adopted as Matthew. “How beautiful you are.” That much was true. She was beautiful and it was absolutely impossible for him to distance his feelings for her as a partner from his feelings for her in character.

This was going to be trouble.

She blushed at his words and the flush crossed her entire body. Slowly, he walked over to the bed and pulled the sheets lose so he could look at her. Decker was coming up soon to sweep for bugs and he needed to check in with the main office, but Jethro wanted to touch her again. He wanted a moment with her as Jenny, not as Kitty. She seemed to recognize the look in his eyes and rolled over a bit, giving him better access to the bed.

“God, Jenny,” he whispered into her ear as he stroked his hand down the side of her body. Her breasts were larger than he’d realized and he could lose himself in the flesh, tweaking the sensitive nipples. She was so responsive to his ministrations. Her back arched and her legs parted and she ran her fingers through his hair, tugging him closer to her.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted any plans he had of getting out of the pants he was wearing. Last night she’d returned his favor and stroked him to completion, but coming all over her hand wasn’t the sense of romance he wanted to instill. Last night, he reminded himself, he’d still been Matthew.

Jenny slipped from bed and pulled a silk robe over her body while he took a moment to cool down and let his body settle. He didn’t care if Decker saw him in this state of undress and if it was one of their contacts, it would serve their purpose. He just didn’t want the guy touching Jenny.

Decker stood on the other side of the door, dressed in a bellman’s uniform. He nodded politely to Jenny and stepped inside.

“I’m here to see if you need anything,” he said, all professional, while he walked the room, sweeping for bugs. He put his hand near the phone, setting down a pen with a frequency distorter. “The distorter should do the job. We’re safe to talk.”

Jenny nodded. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the cart Decker had wheeled in and then collapsed into a chair across from them. Jethro watched her carefully, worried about her state of mind. He didn’t care how prepared she was. Deep cover wasn’t easy. Decker, however, was staring at the messy bed with a smirk on his face. “You two have fun last night?”

“Shut up, Will.” Jethro stood up and walked to stand behind Jenny, protecting her even from the guys on their side. It was chauvinistic, but he didn’t care.

“Hey, you two get to live it up in five star rooms and top deck accommodations on this boat to Europe. Some of us are just along as the help.”

“And for good reason,” Jenny smirked. Jethro let out a chuckle at Jenny’s attitude. At least she was putting up a good front.

“And what reason is that?”

“I can’t fake an orgasm with you.”

Will choked on the water he’d just poured for himself and Jethro wanted to applaud his partner. When he recovered, Decker handed over a thick manila envelope. “Your cruise tickets and passports to go along with the other documents you have. In the envelope are current pictures of all the marks you need to know until you reach England. A limo will be waiting at noon to take you to the dock. Your staterooms are right next to Salvo and his current plaything. Get to know him. He’s your contact through the cell.”

“He’s the one from the club last night.” Jenny sighed as she looked at the picture. “The one with the itchy fingers.” She pressed her legs together a bit and Jethro frowned.

“Yeah. He knows you’re here and he knows who you are. We could have blocked the bug’s transmissions last night but we wanted to let you two do just what you did. It seals the cover. They were listening. Good performance by the way.” Decker glanced at the bed again.

“Good to know the US government likes using women this way.” Jenny was glaring at him. Jethro rested his hands gently on her shoulders and she looked up at him, part Kitty, part Jenny. This kind of thing was part of the package, they all knew it. The trick was not to fall in love with the people in the operation. Be it your partner or your mark. She touched his fingers gently and he smiled at her. It was going to be okay.

Decker ignored Jenny’s comment, which was best for all of them. “I’m the steward assigned to your staterooms so I will be sweeping your rooms for bugs twice a day. Don’t break character though. There are things we miss and one wrong name, one slip of any kind and it could go south.”

“Fair enough.” Jenny took a breath. Jethro squeezed her shoulders. They were in. Now came the next steps.

“See you on board.” Will headed out, leaving the pen behind. Jethro waited until the door locked behind him before he let his hands wander down Jenny’s arms.

“You okay?”

“Yes. I just …” She glanced at the pen then let out a slow breath. “I miss my desk back at the Navy Yard.”

He chuckled knowingly and bent to kiss her neck. “Jenny …” he whispered against her skin. It was a bad idea to do anything but make love to her in character, but he wanted her. He wanted to be with her and claim her before Salvo and his friends got their paws on her. Before he forgot himself in the cover and she became only Kitty. He wanted more from her. Wanted more with her.

Kitty was a play thing, a party girl. She’d have no problem playing the harlot while they made their way into this cell. But Jenny wasn’t that woman. He moved his hands down her legs and up again and she parted slightly for him, arching back so that her robe fell open.

“Not Jenny,” she whispered. “Not right now. I need to stay focused right now.”

She was right and he hated it. He could hear the regret in her voice even as he moved to the front of the chair, pulled her up, and led her back to the bed. Her robe fell loose and off her shoulders and as she walked, she pushed the satin shorts down her endlessly long legs. He slipped his own pants off and kicked them away.

“Kitty,” he said, swallowing back his nerves. He wanted to make love to Jenny, but this would have to do.

“Matt,” she whispered in return. Her eyes were colder, the eyes of the party girl from the night before. “Come on, we’ve got time before the limo comes.” He chuckled and pulled her down on top of him, grinding his erection up into her center. “Fuck me,” she whispered.

The cold word flipped the switch in him and he became Matt, her playboy lover, the man from last night who was more than happy to watch her be fondled by a mafia boss from Russia. Servo had fingered her in front of him, smirking as Kitty played along. This was who they were and they needed to solidify it. He rolled them, pinning her under his body, and pulling a pillowcase loose so he could tie her hands above her head. She struggled weakly, teasing him, and her breasts bounced with each movement. With a cold smile, he moved up her body, trapping her breasts between his knees, and he slipped his cock between them, tit fucking her while he held her hands above her head.

His whore. Matt’s whore. Did they love each other or was it all moments like this? Did it matter? No. If he was going to survive this, Matt had to love Kitty as much as Jethro knew he could love Jenny.

Quickly he pulled back, the part of him that remained Jethro refusing to come on her chest like that. Reaching into the bedside table, he pulled a condom from the drawer and yanked it open. He shoved her legs open and moved inside her quickly, fucking her without any real care to her pleasure. But Jenny – Kitty – met him stroke for stroke and she came around him even as he exploded into her body.

Matt loved Kitty he reminded himself as he collapsed on top of her, freeing her wrists from their bonds. She wrapped shaking arms around him, clinging to him. He wanted to make love to her, not simply fuck her, but they had a cover to maintain and from this point forward, every moment needed to be set perfectly. From her lingerie to his attitude toward her. Until they had privacy once they reached England, they were Matt and Kitty. Nothing else mattered. Except maybe these moments, when they could hold each other as Jenny and Jethro. He needed to find those moments for his own sanity.

“Soon,” he whispered in her ear. “Soon, I’m going to treat you the way you should be treated, Jenny.”

Her response was to cling tighter and lift her leg slightly around his hip. They held for a moment longer before he slipped out of her, disposed of the condom, and went to take a shower. At the bathroom door he turned back and met her eyes and offered a gentle smile.

When she smiled back he knew everything was going to be okay.

TBC...

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch. 2)

2011-09-18T21:30:28Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter Two: Waiting Games
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jenny/Jethro
Rating: Mature
Timeframe: This chapter is both Pre-Series and Kill Ari.
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Jenny counted to ten in English, Spanish, French, Russian, and Farsi. Then she counted to twenty.

Washington DC, 2005

Fuck Disney and their princesses. Fuck Gloria Steinem and the women’s liberation movement. Just the sound of his low, gravelly voice sent shocks through her. It wasn’t fair. She was a skilled, successful woman with confirmed kills to her name and just the sound of his voice turned her insides to mush. She was the director of a federal agency. His boss. And all she’d wanted to do was lean back on her desk, hike her skirt up, and let him help her christen her office.

Fuck professionalism.

It was why she let him push her up against his boat and why she wasn’t complaining as his hands wandered higher and higher up under her skirt. She should have worn pants today. Pants might have helped to deter this moment. She knew this was going to happen.

“God, Jethro …” If he wasn’t pouring his angst over Caitlin Todd’s death into every kiss he planted on her skin, she might have let him continue. Not twenty minutes ago she’d told him nothing outside of work and the moment the door had closed behind them she’d given in to those damned blue eyes of his.

She hated that she was still in love with him. She hated it more that he was still in love with her.

“Stop,” she whispered, pushing him away. “Jethro, we can’t.”

He groaned softly and she could feel his erection pressing into her hip. Just once, the devil on her shoulder told her. But to give in once would be to give in. She needed to maintain her distance. If their positions were reversed, no one would care if he was screwing her but every move she made was under scrutiny. As it was someone probably knew she was here. Someone probably had pictures of what they were doing.

“Go change.” Again she pushed him away but didn’t break his hold on her. Her blouse was half unbuttoned, her hair was risking falling lose, and her skirt was up high enough to be indecent. As always with him she was wonton. “Please, Jethro …” her voice caught and she bit her lip, pleading in a way that she hadn’t since Paris. Since she’d pulled her hand free of his and walked away, begging him to go back to DC and the job leading the major case team so she could take the job running anti-terrorism in Eastern Europe, bringing herself one step closer to this damned job she wanted so much.

He stroked her cheek gently and nodded. “I’ll be a couple minutes …” and she knew exactly where he was off to and what he was going to be thinking about while he jacked himself off. Part of her wanted to drop to her knees, to take him in her mouth like she used to, but it wasn’t behavior that was right and proper for the woman she was now. This was not Paris or Serbia. She was no longer his rich, beautiful lover. She was his boss.

His boss.

Oh God. How did that happen? How was it that her plan had actually worked out?

Each footfall on the stairs hammered a nail into the door she knew she had to keep shut. The part of her that knew how well they worked together knew that sleeping together would only strengthen their partnership. The part of her that wanted her to keep her job out-rationalized everything. She had set the rules. She had to maintain them.

Upstairs she heard the shower start. Jenny sat on a stool, pressing her legs together, thinking about the water dropping from him. Did that knee still act up in bad weather? Were his scars still so pronounced? His hand would be around his cock, his head thrown back while he stroked himself to completion. More than once she’d done the honors while water dripped around them.

Jenny counted to ten in English, Spanish, French, Russian, and Farsi. Then she counted to twenty.

He’d brought her back to his place on purpose. She’d followed to test herself. And sitting still, waiting for the shower to turn off, waiting for the sound of his feet on the basement stairs, was the worst torture of her life. And that counted those three days in Serbia when she’d been held hostage. Scanning the room she hunted for something to tease him about, anything to just get the conversation flowing away from much they needed to exorcise their demons with each other up against the nearest sturdy surface.

Just once wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

She focused on the boat. They could talk about his damned boat. She could yell at him. That way he’d know she still loved him. She’d wondered, seeing him stare at her, if he knew how much she still did care. How much she regretted walking away. Yes, she had her directorship, but she didn’t have him. It was silly and it was romantic and by telling him no, she’d effectively closed whatever door might have been left open. He respected her too much to fight her and she could tell he was still hurt over the decisions she'd made six years ago.

San Diego, 1997

She woke alone, which was how she’d gone to bed, but she was wrapped in the warm scent of Jethro’s body. His guest bedroom was packed up and being used for a storage space and so he’d offered her his bed and taken the couch like a gentleman. This of course after he’d ravaged her mouth with his and his hands had found their way under her shirt to unhook her bra and he’d almost made her come simply with his attention to her breasts.

The phone call from Decker had brought them back to earth and refocused their attention on the case and professionalism had returned – even though she’d left her bra off and she knew he’d watched the sway of her breasts under her t-shirt and when he’d kissed her goodnight, his hands had started to roam.

The problem was she didn’t know if he was already thinking about her as Kitty or if he was truly interested in Jenny. To be fair, she had no idea if it was his cover or him she was interested in.

This was not going to end well.

The scent of coffee tickled her nose and she moved slowly, rolling out of the cocoon she’d made in his sheets. This wasn’t a vacation. Even now she was on the clock. Every minute from this point out she was on the clock. One wrong step, one wrong glance, and the entire operation would end. As it was, she needed to start slipping the southern accent back into her dialect. She needed to sound convincing.

Stepping into the bathroom, Jenny pulled her hair free of its braid and stared at herself in the mirror. Six hours after the fact, she still looked thoroughly kissed. A small red mark on her neck showed off Jethro’s favorite spot. She shook her hair a bit, messing it up, trying to bring out the debutante she knew still existed somewhere inside the agent with the dual degrees in Spanish and Farsi and a masters in political science. She could hear her mother lecturing her – how a wealthy woman must be educated in today’s world. It now took more than money to lure a man.

Rolling her eyes at the sudden flashback to her teenage self, Jenny stripped the rest of her clothes off and stepped into the very typically male shower. Jethro had a bar of soap, scentless shampoo, and nondescript conditioner. Running the soap over her body, she couldn’t help but wonder if his ex wife had softened this place at all. Something told her the reason the woman was now an ex was because she hadn’t been able to break through the wall that he kept around himself.

Ten hours into knowing the man and she was already wondering about walls and wives. “Get a grip on yourself, Shepard.”

Rinsing her hair one last time, she stepped out of the shower, looking for a towel, and realized that somewhere in the time she’d been lost in the image of being the future ex-Mrs. Jethro Gibbs he’d snuck in and left her a pile of clean towels and her suitcase.

Her sexiest underwear set. The jeans that showed off her ass. The green t-shirt that brought out the color of her eyes. She left her hair in ringlets down her back, dripping just slightly. Chose only mascara and a hint of lip gloss. Somehow, even after the shower, she still looked thoroughly kissed.

Jenny hung up the towels, stowed her suitcase in his room, but as she stepped out into the hallway, she froze. There were voices, decidedly unprofessional ones.

“Diane, what the hell do you care?”

“How long has it been going on, Jethro? How many other women have come in and out of here?”

“You left me, remember? And I’m working. You ever thought of that?”

“I found her bra on your couch. Since when does NCIS encourage gigolo behavior?”

Jethro had married this bitch of a creature? God. Wait. She'd found the bra on the couch? Had Jethro never moved it?

Taking a breath and making a decision she knew was probably stupid, Jenny walked the rest of the way down the hall, grabbed a set of files from the coffee table, and moved into the kitchen. “Jethro,” she said, pretending she hadn’t noticed Diane at all, “I have a question about the veracity of –“ she looked up, blinked in faux surprise, and tilted her head. “Oh,” the southern belle slipped into her accent, “Jethro, I had no idea you had company. My apologies.” She stepped directly in front of Diane, dropped the files on the kitchen table, and then walked over to where he stood at the coffee pot. Jethro’s eyes were wide and she could tell he was barely holding back his laughter. He handed her a mug and she poured the coffee, taking her time to take a long sip and relish the strong flavor. He made coffee just like she liked it.

“I’m sorry,” she continued on in her thick accent, “you simply must be Diane, Jethro’s ex-wife. He mentioned you last night. I’m Jenny. His new partner.”

It was impossible to hide how Jethro’s hand wandered to rest on her back. Diane’s eyes zeroed in on it and she huffed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She was a severe woman – rail thin, graying blonde hair, and a nose that came to a mouse like point. Her hips were at odd angles with her shoulders, her legs could have been longer and her arms shorter. Making love to her must have been like making love to a machine.

“The papers will be delivered tomorrow, Jethro. Sign them or I’m adding infidelity to the list of wrongs.”

“Jesus, Diane.” He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t have time to sleep with you. You think I had time to sleep with other women?”

Diane growled, took a bag that she’d apparently come for, and stormed out. Jenny raised an eyebrow and turned to Jethro but any question she had died when his lips covered hers and his body pressed hers back into the counter. Apparently, he’d been as disappointed with the way things had ended last night as she had. As his arms wound around her waist and he pulled her up against his hips, she would herself wondering if he had jacked off last night while thinking about her. She’d certainly left her scent in his sheets.

“God, Jenny …” he groaned when he broke for air. They stared at each other, both weighing the need to get this need out of their systems. She wanted him. Wanted him to take her back to those sheets and to rip the clothes off of her body and she’d even sacrifice the bra and panty set if he’d take her over his shoulder and have his way with her in the bedroom. “I don’t even know you,” he said softly, “but I have a feeling I’m going to have a very hard time separating personal and professional.”

“Same here.” She gently shoved him away. “So maybe we should spend some time getting to know each other before whatever we want to have happen happens.”

“What do you want to have happen?” He stroked her cheek softly.

“I’d like to see if you are a better than my fingers.”

He groaned and kissed her again. “You are trouble, Jenny Shepard.”

“You too.” She grinned and pulled away, heading for the table. “Let’s get to know each other over the breakfast you are going to make for me and then we’ll settle down for business.”

“I’m going to make you breakfast, hmm?”

“Yeah. You are.” Jenny smirked at him and sipped at her coffee. He chuckled and turned to his fridge. “I have a question for you.”

“Ask away.”

“How come it smells like sawdust around here?”

“Because I’m building a boat in my garage.”

“You’re building a boat in your garage?”

“Yeah.”

“This I gotta see.”

He turned the stove off and held out his hand. Jenny took it and followed him through the door in the kitchen and into the garage. Instantly, she was enveloped in the smell of sawdust and bourbon – the same smell he wore, the one she’d wrapped herself in last night, the one that had his arms around her again. She groaned as his lips touched her neck.

“This isn’t a good idea, Jethro …”

“I am just showing you my boat.”

“Really?” She teased and pressed back into his hips. "And later, after breakfast, you can show me your tools.”

Jethro laughed softly and nuzzled her neck. “I’m good with that.”

Jenny grinned and pulled away. She walked over to the boat, running her hand over the smooth wood. There were hand tools on a bench. A pile of sandpaper. She leaned on the shell of the boat, watching him watch her. He approached slowly, reaching for her, and Jenny let him push her back against the wood. He caged her with his arms and leaned in close, so close she could smell the coffee on his breath.

“You’re beautiful. And you’re trouble.”

“Why am I trouble?”

“Because I don’t know what I want more, to get to know you or to do this op with you.”

“Why can’t we do both?”

“What do you mean?” He tilted his head at her.

“I mean that yeah, we’re going to be undercover as this wealthy couple. But we have the chance to get to know each other. Really know each other. We’re going to have a lot of time to talk.”

He grinned, that lopsided, head slanted grin and her heart fluttered a bit. Yes, it was going to be very easy to fall in love with Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

TBC …

NCIS Fic: Paris to Serbia (Ch. 1)

2011-09-15T17:38:47Z

Series: Paris to Serbia
Chapter One: Under Covers
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Jenny/Jethro
Timeframe: Pre-series
Rating: M
A/N: I’ve always had a problem with the idea that Jenny rose to her position in NCIS so quickly. So this series gives some history not only to Gibbs and Shepard, but also to Jenny’s past and where her skills lie.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Jenny, Gibbs, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: What he was missing was the extremist chatter that was starting to build in Afghanistan, Serbia, Chechnya, and those issues bled down through the terror cells into Spain and France. If there was a Russian mob worry, it was really that some groups were rumored to be feeding weapons and money into those very cells.

Jenny Shepard was pissed.

Oh, she’d heard of Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. The single most smart assed, cocky, brazen piece of ass in the entire agency. He never played by the book and the legal department had an agent specifically assigned to review his cases and make sure they could get through any kind of legal challenge. He went through women like toilet paper, rumor had it he was on at least his third wife, that he had no respect for female agents, and it wasn’t his fault his blue eyes triggered Disney princess fantasies of princes on white horses carrying her away to their magical castles. Of course she’d heard of him. There wasn’t an agent in the agency who hadn’t heard of him and who didn’t dread working with him.

“Are you sure this is the right fit?” Jenny paced the stuffy office. She was tired and it was hot and she missed DC and the Cherry Blossoms and her comfortable cubicle where she spent her days doing intel recovery and analysis. She fully expected to be put in the field at some point, but on home soil on domestic terrorism watch, not overseas tracking down former Soviet agents. In her mind, her career was going to be made by catching some break on intelligence on a terrorist attack and it would give her the career she needed to move up through the ranks. Director couldn’t be too far away, especially not with her father’s credentials to help her along.

So why in God’s name was she being sent to Paris with Leroy Jethro Gibbs of all people?

“I know you don’t have any field or even investigatory experience, Jenny.” She hated it when old white men in positions of authority called her Jenny. She was Agent Shepard and she was damned good at her job. She wasn’t some kitten there to bring them coffee. His deep Southern accent made her skin crawl and she hadn’t felt this patronized since her time at FLETC. They really needed to recruit more women. But the SAC droned on. “Even though your skills at deciphering and analyzing code coming out of Serbia have been invaluable, the director and I both feel like it’s time for you to get some field and undercover experience.”

Bullshit. She forced herself to not roll her eyes. Well, okay. The director she’d believe. They had lunch together every so often, discussing terrorist intel of course. She made a point to not drop her father’s name more than once a month because she couldn’t be seen to be pushing her own political agenda.

This dufus, however, was stuck in a cold war world, believing in Russian spy rings and KGB covert ops. The KGB could barely keep the lights on. What he was missing was the extremist chatter that was starting to build in Afghanistan, Serbia, Chechnya, and those issues bled down through the terror cells into Spain and France. If there was a Russian mob worry, it was really that some groups were rumored to be feeding weapons and money into those very cells. The only reason she was sitting in this hellhole of an office at all instead of challenging the decision to put her undercover and in the field was that one of those alleged ties led right to the man she was personally hunting. Rene Beniot spent his time cavorting between Paris and Palestine and Moscow and the States. If she could dig up some dirt when she was in Paris, it would make her plans unfold a lot smoother.

“Fair enough.” She swallowed her distaste of the man in front of her and absently scratched at her neck. Her necklace felt heavy and her white t-shirt was sticking to her. She knew the lace of her bra was catching this pig’s attention and it made her want to smack him even more. “Where is he? What’s the cover? We should get started.”

“Yes we should.”

The voice behind her promoted her to turn around and she instantly regretted wearing anything form fitting at all because she was sure her nipples popped right to attention and could be seen through the fabric of her shirt.

He was even more beautiful than his dossier photo.

His salt and pepper hair made his age completely impossible to determine, although Jenny knew he wasn’t all that much older than she was. A slightly tight shirt risked popping buttons around a slightly expanding middle, which was most likely leftover muscle from his time in the Marines. His tight, buttoned up look was adorable but she couldn’t help but wonder if his idea of relaxing was merely to take off his tie. He wore chinos but one look told her the man would look good in jeans. A sweep of his hands showed a slight tan line where a wedding ring had recently been.

From the way his eyes dragged up and down her body, she could tell he was assessing her similarly. Quickly, Jenny stood, resisting the urge to turn into a Girl and giggle and toss her hair while she flirted. “Jenny Shepard. I’m looking forward to working with you Agent Gibbs.” He grunted and shook her hand and she would have been insulted had his eyes never left hers.

“You too, probie.” He finally stated.

“I’m not probationary.”

“You’ve never been in the field. That makes you a probie.” He pulled away and took the seat next to hers. “Let’s get this party started, shall we.”

Quickly, Jenny regained herself and took the files that were handed over.

“You are a wealthy couple taking a summer trip in Paris. Cliché, probably, but it works for the people you will be pursuing.”

“Married?” Jenny swallowed nervously. It would be bad enough pretending Gibbs was her lover. Jumping straight to matrimony might kill her.

A gray box was passed across the desk to her. “Engaged,” came the SAC’s voice. Inside was a bright ruby and diamond ring. Instantly, she put it on. She needed to start slipping into the part now, or she’d never survive. “This trip is your engagement present to each other.” A pause. “Jenny, this is deep cover work. Do you get what that entails?”

She sighed and rubbed her neck. Why didn’t the CIA take care of these kinds of ops? “Yes,” she said softly. She did understand. It meant it would take months to establish their cover, that they were starting from the ground up. It meant they would be sharing a suite in their hotel. It meant sharing a bed because if they were being watched, it wouldn’t do to have a happy young couple sleeping in separate rooms. It meant she would be holding his hand and kissing him and making herself appear to love a man she did not even know. Her gaze fell to his hands and she wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to have them between her legs, stroking her softly. “Yes, I understand.” It meant giving up herself as Jenny for as long as the operation lasted. It meant risking losing herself completely. There was a reason she’d never wanted to do deep cover. Deep cover didn’t fit into her plans.

How many of these ops had Gibbs done? How many female agents had he charmed and then broken?

“Good.” Another stack of files surfaced. “Get to know these people. These are your marks. You will meet up with Agent Will Decker, who is already in place, in three days in New York. By the time you get on the plane at LAX, I want you two to be completely in character. When you leave here, I contact Decker and he starts letting the hints drop that a wealthy, well connected couple is coming to town and they possibly have information to share. Tomorrow, you book yourselves into the Hilton. Friday you get on a plane to New York where you will find yourselves set with a room at the Times Square Marriot. To set the timeframe, you are on a cruise to England where you will be set up with your contacts in Europe by M-5. Take your time getting to Paris. Let your marks get to know you through your patterns.”

Gibbs nodded. Jenny’s head was swimming. She’d gone through the training programs, hell, she’d aced them, but she’d never expected she’d actually be doing this. Gibbs, however, was already on his feet so she decided to follow, to at least pretend she understood what was happening to her. Gibbs had his stack of files. Jenny grabbed hers and followed him out of the office.

He didn’t say a word until they reached his car. Turning to her, he gave her that look again and then nodded to the files. “Were you picked up or did you drive?”

“I was picked up.”

“Okay. I’ll drive. We’ll go back to my place and order a pizza and get to know each other.”

His place. Of course. It occurred to her that they’d never given her a hotel room key. It was planned she’d spend the night with Gibbs. “I need to go get my suitcase. I left it inside.”

“Hurry it up.” He took the files from her and put them in the trunk of the car. Jenny all but ran, collected her carryon, and made it back to the car before he drove off. She slipped into the seat next to him and was instantly enveloped in the smell of sawdust and musk.

It wasn’t a long drive to his neighborhood. His house was a typical California ranch house with a perfectly manicured lawn a two car garage and a for sale sign in the yard. “You’re moving?”

“The owner is selling it. I just rent. Anyway,” he threw her a grin, “right now, I’m moving to Paris.” Gibbs chuckled and turned off the car, leaving it in the driveway. “Bring your stuff, Shepard.” She collected her suitcase and her files and followed him inside. His door wasn’t locked.

“You forget to lock your door this morning?”

“I never lock it.” He shrugged and dumped the files on the table. “I got bourbon and beer. What’s your choice?”

“Beer.” She said, standing awkwardly in the middle of a freshly painted living room. The furniture was minimal; he didn’t even have a television as she could see.

“Sit.” She didn’t. He grunted and rolled his eyes at her as he came back in. “Preferences on pizza toppings?”

“I’m easy,” she said, and instantly regretted it. Jethro smirked at her, looked at her chest again, and shook his head. “I mean …”

“Relax, Shepard. I’m not out to hit on you.”

Her heart sank a little. “Married?” She asked, still standing, holding onto the neck of the beer. She suddenly felt bold, like the power her chest seemed to have on him was a good thing.

“Getting divorced.” He sighed and there was a sadness that touched his eyes that went beyond a bad marriage. She was a skilled interrogator, she knew how to read body language, and he wasn’t upset so much about the wife as what she possibly represented. For a man whose psychological profile screamed “loner” he seemed decidedly lonely.

Jenny moved to the couch and sat, her back against the arm, one leg tucked up under her. “Then it’s probably a good thing you’re going undercover like you are. You can focus on this and not the case.”

He grunted again. “It’s this kind of life that ruins marriages. I should warn you though, I’ve got a thing for redheads.”

“It’s a good thing you’re supposed to be marrying one then isn’t it?”

They stared at each other for a long time before he chuckled and nodded. “Good point.” He broke his gaze long enough to order a mushroom and pepperoni pizza and she sipped her beer and focused her attention on the sparsely decorated room. Anything but staring at the man she was now under cover with.

She felt like a teenager again. How would he kiss her? Where would she put her hands? Would they go all the way? Not that she would mind making love to this man.

“I’m going to go change.”

She nodded and kicked off her shoes. The house was just chilly enough to make her wish for her sweater, but before she could get up to get her suitcase, he emerged from what she assumed was his bedroom, dressed in jeans and a US Marines t-shirt. In his hand was a white NIS sweatshirt. “You looked cold.”

“Thanks.” She slipped on the shirt and it smelled like him. Musk and sawdust again and it brought up a slew of questions. Did he work with his hands? What projects did he design? He watched her for a long minute and she worried her lip between her teeth, wondering how to ask the questions she didn’t know how to ask. “How much do we need to …”

“All the way, if we’re smart. Well,” he drew out the word and looked her up and down again. “At least, make it look good. They’ll be watching. We need to look like we’re really in love.”

“Don’t worry,” Jenny tried to tease him, “I do know how to fake an orgasm.”

“Pity,” he shook his head, “no woman who looks like you do should ever have to fake it.” She blushed. He just kept staring.

“We have work to do, Leroy.”

“Jethro.” He shook his head. “Everyone who matters calls me Jethro.”

“Fair enough.” She picked up her file. “And it’s Jenny, by the way. But those who matter call me Jen.”

“Fair enough.” He settled next to her on the couch and picked up his own file to study.

The files were identical. They needed to learn the ins and outs of every face of every person of interest they might come into contact with. She needed to know him as well as he would know her.

A knock on the door startled her and he went, paying for the pizza. For a minute, the room was silent and she watched him, admiring his ass in his jeans, how the t-shirt played off his body. The part of her that was bold and daring wanted to walk up to him, slide her hands into his pockets, and get started on the one part of their mission that would be the most difficult. The agent she was knew it would be best to fake the physical part. They needed to be professional.

“The Spartans used to require that the soldiers had a male lover.” Jethro was speaking. “They were partnered up with the idea that you would fight harder for the man next to you if you were sleeping together.”

“I think I remember learning that in a history class somewhere.” She took the plate he offered, suddenly regretting donning the sweatshirt. She liked how he’d looked at her before. “Are you offering, Jethro?”

“Maybe.” He chuckled and sat down again, this time putting the files aside. He looked at her for a long moment. “Jenny Shepard. Beloved daughter and only child of Jasper Shepard. Heir to the Shepard money. Ranking counter-terrorism expert back in DC but for as good as your French, Farsi, and Russian are, your skills are in domestic terrorism intel and making good with the politicians. They’ve already sent you to deal with more than a few problems up on the Hill and not just because you look good in a skirt.”

“You have me at a disadvantage.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not that hard to understand.”

“Something tells me you underestimate yourself, Jethro.”

“You like saying my name.”

“I like the way it rolls on my tongue.”

“You’re flirting with me.”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Sit down.” He grunted and settled down next to her on the couch. The pizza box went unopened as they stared at their files, getting to know their characters.

Katherine “Kitty” Dawson. Heiress to one of the oldest fortunes in America. On the surface as old, white money as the stereotype could be while rumor had it her political leanings were growing more and more radical. Her grandfather had been blacklisted from Hollywood. Her mother was Russian. Her fiancé, the handsome and rich Matthew O’Connor was a distant Kennedy cousin. Their marriage the reconciliation of North and South.

“You can do a southern accent?”

“I can speak French, Russian, and Farsi with a southern accent if you need me to.”

“We’re going to need you to.”

Jenny chuckled and reached for the pizza. Jethro was watching her, she could tell. His blue eyes raking over her and she knew he was imagining her underneath him and she tried to not imagine what it was going to be like.

Why the hell couldn’t they have found another agent?

“Tell me about yourself, Jenny.”

“You’ve read my file, clearly.”

“No. Tell me about yourself.”

Jenny’s fingers went limp and she put the pizza back in the box. She turned, tucking a leg up under her and rested her arm against the back of the couch. “All I ever wanted to do was serve my country, but my father had old fashioned ideas about women in the military.”

“So you became an agent?”

“The FBI and CIA were too covert for me. I wanted to work with men in uniform.”

“You have a type?”

“Maybe. You like red heads.”

He nodded and caught himself from stroking her arm. Jenny followed the path of his fingers with her eyes before looking back up at him. “I have goals, Jethro. And I don’t need to be ushered around by men in uniform to make them happen.”

“You’ve got scars from breaking that glass ceiling?”

“Maybe.” She shook her head. “I think the point is that we all have scars.” God she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to break the barrier. They were going to be in hotels and on cruise ships together. They were going to be killing together. Sex, suddenly, seemed like such a small thing.

No wonder Mossad actually encouraged romantic relationships with their agents. It prepared them for fleeting physical encounters. Maybe the states really were doing it wrong.

“We should get to know our marks.” His voice had dropped low and she could tell he was thinking about getting her naked.

Jenny leaned forward and kissed him.

TBC …

NCIS Fic: Mockingbird

2011-09-08T17:43:11Z

Title: Mockingbird
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Flashbacks of Jenny/Gibbs
Rating: T
Timeframe: Judgment Day.
A/N: This is, right now, a one shot. I might expand on it, but it’s an idea that hasn’t left me alone since Ziva’s “It’s complicated” answer to Gibbs when he asked her if she wanted kids. So, here it goes.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Ziva, Jenny, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Jenny doesn’t know what hurts Ziva more – when Hamas lobs missiles at Israeli settlements or when her people retaliate. She has never lived in peace and, Jenny fears, she never will. It is a world few in the United States can comprehend and one that is as foreign to Jenny as Serbia was all those years ago.

Step by step
Heart to heart
Left, right, left
We all fall down
Like toy soldiers

A song Ziva always liked is running through her head. Travelling through Europe with the beautiful Israeli assassin, Jenny learned more about music than she’d ever been exposed to even in Paris or Serbia. Of all the things she knows she is going to miss when the end comes, the deepest sense of melancholy comes when she realizes she will never share a late night drink –or car ride - with Ziva again.

In private moments she allows herself a smile when she remembers dancing under the Parisian lights with Jethro, how he spun her out and close again, how they fit so perfectly together. The romantic she pretended to not be had fallen in love when he stroked her hair back and kissed her and it was only that she was more frightened of love than he was that she pushed him away and left him sitting in Paris, wondering what he’d done wrong.

Now she sits in a dirty, abandoned diner with his mentor and she is thinking of what she learned from the girl she mentored. Ziva loved rap the way suburban American kids loved heavy metal. She’d watch as Ziva fell into a hypnotic state while the music danced in her mind, the wheels of the car lifting off dusty roads while they outran IED’s and ambushes.

In Israel and Palestine, music is a true form of rebellion, a way to spread the word about changing the system. Raging against the machine in ways American teens only dream of, they risk imprisonment and death simply to get on stage and sing. Once, standing outside a nightclub, Jenny watched three American agents storm the back door and haul the performers into a van. She is a patriot, she believes in her country and the missions assigned, but it was then that she started to understand why so many groups hated the United States.

Ziva is the next generation. A child of the wars between her people and Palestine, she has little patience for American imperialism, Palestine anger, or Israeli defensiveness. She is tired of watching people die. She is tired of killing people. Jenny doesn’t know what hurts Ziva more – when Hamas lobs missiles at Israeli settlements or when her people retaliate. She has never lived in peace and, Jenny fears, she never will. It is a world few in the United States can comprehend and one that is as foreign to Jenny as Serbia was all those years ago.

But the next generation is Ziva’s. Leaders to rise from the ashes of the messes caused by Jenny and people like her. Jenny knows why she fights so hard, why her eyes are so shielded. It is a secret even she was not supposed to know, one discovered by accident shortly after they were partnered together. She wonders if Nadia knows what a hero her mother is and if she understands the sacrifices she has made to help keep her safe.

The little girl dances before her eyes. She saw her only once; they made a pit stop in Cairo, anxious to shake off the cobwebs of their drive. Shaken by border check after border check and the IED they’d barely escaped, they’d tumbled from the car in front of a nondescript house and been ushered inside by a woman whose demeanor and style was so very similar to Ziva’s that at first Jenny could have sworn they were sisters. She’d been close. Cousins.

A little girl stood on wobbly legs in the hallway, curly hair poking out from all sides of her head, big round eyes looking up at Ziva with a mixed sense of relief and abandonment.

“Nadia!”

It was the first, and only time, Jenny ever saw the solider cry. They never spoke of that night; while Ziva kissed her daughter goodbye, Jenny prayed she would never need to learn her mother’s skills.

Children had never been on her radar screen. With Jethro, when she rolled with him on beds in Paris and Serbia and Moscow, she’d been grateful for protection they used. Children didn’t fit into her five point plan and the pain she saw in Jethro’s eyes whenever he looked at a child was enough to break her heart. She’d always assumed he wanted children but couldn’t have them. Knowing the truth, she wonders if he knows about Ziva’s loss. She wonders about Ziva’s own plans and what went wrong. A child clearly had not been part of them and while she solves crimes in America, someone else raises her daughter.

The gun is heavy in her hands. She won’t survive this firefight and she has made her peace with that. She knows that her image is of the tough-girl who is soft around the edges, but she does not relish a life of physical deterioration. Already her hands shake too much to control the gun safely. Her lips and tongue trip on her words. Her lungs ache when she twists the wrong way. Huntington’s is genetic and maybe that is why her father killed himself. She refuses to believe he was on Rene Benoit’s take, but she remembers his shaking hands and the headaches that came so suddenly. If it is true, she is glad to die believing otherwise because she could not have held back any more than Jeanne did.

It is the last secret she will forever keep. She ruined Jeanne’s life by sending Tony undercover, she will not reveal that the young doctor was the one to pull the trigger and end her father’s life.

Fathers and daughters. The endless cycle. Ziva never mentioned Nadia’s father, but Jenny suspects he is not absent. Rene loved Jeanne. Jethro, Kelly. Fathers and daughters. She only hopes hers is waiting for her at the end of the day.

It is not her generation that will break the cycle.

Dust catches her attention. They are coming.

~fin~

there's something in Jenny and Gibbs that reminds me of Sara and Grissom.

2011-09-05T20:54:42Z

Don't ask me why.

Anyway, as mentioned in a previous post, I've been participating in a writing for 15 minutes a day challenge. This idea came about for a lot of reasons, mostly because my girlfriend seems to think I'd be good for Harlequin. But hey, isn't most fanfic practice for that anyway?

Choices

The plum just wasn’t enough to curb her hunger, but tired eyes kept drifting in the direction of the bedroom. The huge bed, empty now for far too long, mocked her as she approached. The slight rumple from when she’d sat on the edge earlier to remove her shoes stared at her; she would only barely move the sheets beyond that tonight. When was the last time she’d woken tangled in sheets, smelling of musk and sweat, her legs sticky in their slickness thanks to activities from the night before?

A question to the philes out there ...

2011-09-05T02:43:27Z

If I were to start up the 2012_approaches blog again in honor of 2012 approaching ... would people be interested in reading and participating?

I mean, we may not get a 3rd movie, but we can at least honor the "final date" some way, right?

Consider it a comment fic of sorts ...

2011-09-03T04:43:28Z

Fandom: NCIS
Author: vegawriters
Pairing: Jenny/Gibbs
Rating: PG

In Serbia ...

It’s the little things that make her giggle. Like how their names start with the same letter – okay, technically his starts with an L and not a J, but no one in their right mind calls him Leroy. Jenny and Jethro. JJ. She’s a giggling school girl and that doesn’t fit into her plan, but she’s okay with that. For now. Until things have to change and she has to leave him, she is okay giggling over the stupid things. It’s been a long time since she let herself giggle and she has a feeling it’s been a long time since he really smiled.

Fic: Brief Bus Stop (Ch. 2)

2011-08-31T18:38:59Z

Series: Brief Bus Stop
Chapter Two: In the Night
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Timeframe: End of season three, before Shalom. References to Under Covers.
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Tony/Ziva; mention of Ziva/Sarah (OFC).
A/N: The Americanization of Ziva David. This chapter is for kittyknighton.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Ziva, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: His appearance at her apartment proved to her that he is nervous about more than tomorrow. They have been undercover as lovers before. But this time it feels different. Last time, they let themselves get caught in the moment. They had so little time to prepare or dwell on the ramifications of the line they were destined to cross.

In Southern Mexico
You forget just why you came
You run to Northern California
But, you forget to change your name
But, when I get to New York City
It won’t matter none of this will change
Ten thousand miles and running
All these songs will remain the same
Head PE ~ The Other Side

***

“America? You’re taking a job in America without talking to me about it first?”

“Since when do we talk about our careers, Sarah? You have your life and I have mine and I need to take this job.”

The pounding of her feet against the pavement matched the pounding of her heart in her chest. Her hair was heavy in the humidity and despite being tied up in a tight braid, it bounced uncomfortably against her shoulders. The weight of the water in the air made it harder to breathe; she missed the beaches of Tel Aviv and even in the cooler night air, she missed the dryness of Israel and the way the setting sun changed the world.

Ziva had always roamed the nights, her body trained to sleep only when she needed it most. Worried that spending her days investigating rather than hunting she would grow soft, she had taken to pacing, wandering the streets, learning her new home. Every neighborhood had its secrets.

In the early morning hours she gave in to her memories of Ari and Tali. When they were little, she and Ari would sneak from their bedrooms and explore the streets of the city. As children, they did not know their security came from who their father was and not the luck that God gave to children. Hand in hand, they would race down back alleys, gathering friends as they went. Sneaking into clubs, knocking over market stands, racing down the beach barefoot as the water lapped at their feet, they did not understand the greater political ramifications around them. They were children, dreaming of lives as astronauts and princesses. Ziva always wanted to be an astronaut. To her young eyes, the hotels along the sands were tall enough to touch the stars and she wanted to stand on the roofs and reach her hands into the universe.

But then Ari went to school and Ziva learned the hard way that the security offered her did not extend to her friends. The look on her father’s face after the bombing that killed Omar was always on constant replay in her mind, that brief second where he looked pleased as he surveyed the damage even while she was screaming for her friend and wondering why he did not answer. Her father knelt before her, his strong hands on her little shoulders, telling her that if she wanted, she could help to end the violence between their people.

What violence? She had shouted. She and Omar were friends! There was no violence between them! They celebrated and played together.

Innocence lost at twelve while rubble smoldered around her. Omar’s mother shouted curses at them while Ziva shielded Tali from the smoke and flames. Her father stared through her, into what she now knew was the future. Her mother had bundled her away from his influence, but she had never been able to shake the image of Omar’s mangled body and when her time to serve came up, she requested intelligence and the direct route into Mossad.

There are nights, when she is at her most contemplative, when she wonders if Eli did not also engineer Tali’s death. Ziva had told Tony that Tali had compassion. Maybe that had been her weakness. She was not cold enough for whatever her father had planned. Ziva had looked into men’s eyes as life left them, had waited until the moment of death and unloaded yet another spray of bullets into the corpses, seeking revenge still for Omar. And Tali. Now Ari. Not that she would ever admit it except to herself and the stars.

Approaching the front steps of her apartment, Ziva slowed her pace. Sitting outside, leaning back against the concrete, breaking some kind of rule about loitering, was her partner – now her boss. It is not the first time she had seen him lingering near her home since his promotion and Gibbs’ retirement, but it was the first time he blatantly violated her privacy.

“What do you want?” Her voice startled Tony from whatever reverie he was lost in. “It is near two in the morning. Why are you not with one of your women?” She took position on the step below him, reaching for the band in her hair to pull it free. Even without the binding, it stayed plaited. “If you do not come inside, someone will think you are stalking me.”

“Why aren’t you in bed, tucked in and sleeping to get ready for tomorrow?”

“Why aren’t you?” Stepping past him, she moved up the stairs, knowing he would follow. His appearance at her apartment proved to her that he is nervous about more than tomorrow. They have been undercover as lovers before. But this time it feels different. Last time, they let themselves get caught in the moment. They had so little time to prepare or dwell on the ramifications of the line they were destined to cross. She would be lying if she were to tell people she did not miss his lips on hers or the way he moved inside her body, but it had merely been an operation, something agents of all agencies must do from time to time. How many lovers had she passed in the night, connected to only because she was ordered to give of her body to an interrogation or an operation? So what if it ran the risk of eating at her soul?

She and Tony were not the first; she has seen the looks that pass between Jenny and Gibbs. She knows they worked together in Paris and suspects they did more than get to know each other as partners. Jenny never divulged details, but her face spoke volumes when they talked into the night over tea while trying to decipher intelligence cables.

Would she and Tony end up like that? Lost to forgotten chances? Staring at each other across rooms while they pretended to go their separate ways?

The inner voice that sounded so much like her father chastised her for giving way to romantic dreaming.

Tony followed her into her apartment and for a moment, Ziva paused at the window, wondering if she imagined the shadows in the car parked across the street. She would not put it past her father to monitor her actions and if he thought she was sleeping with Tony, he will believe she has truly won their trust.

She shouldn’t have to win trust. She should be trusted. But she knows part of her job is to send intelligence back to Mossad and NCIS is no doubt aware of her extra assignment. Jenny is not stupid and it is not the first time she has been sent this situation, so why is it this time that it feels dirty?

“What’s a girl like you doing roaming DC at night?”

Ziva chuckled and closed the curtains, blocking out the shadowy sedan. Dim light from the lamp by the couch cast shadows across hardwood floors. “Can I make you some tea, Tony?”

“Sure.” He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the counter while she slowly unraveled her hair from its braid. He was twitchy and trying to hide it. “You never answered my question, Ziva.”

“Why are you worried, Tony?”

“Because the last time we went undercover like this…”

Ahhh. Truth in the moment. “I did not get pregnant, Tony.” Ziva smirked before focusing her attention to measuring tea leaves into the decanter and putting the water on to boil. She hated American tea. Tea bags held the cast-off, the worst parts of the leaf. Stewing the tea only makes it dark and bitter. No wonder America was in such a state of shambles – they could not even be bothered to make tea the right way. The importance of tea is something the English understood. Thinking of it, she wondered if America was not doomed from the start. Who threw tea into a harbor?

Sarah had always liked tea.

A shift in the energy in the kitchen made her catch her breath. Tony’s hand was on her back, sliding up, under her shirt, tracing the edge of her pants against her hips. The intimacy was nothing new, but the boldness is. They had been drifting since Gibbs retired, since the bombing that the Navy covered up better than Mossad did its own operations.

The shriek from the kettle startled them and she pulled away, taking a pot holder to the hot handle of the small cast iron kettle. She sets the kettle and the tea cups down on the table, keeping her eyes averted from Tony’s. It is not that she does not want him, but that she has begun to care. This is not some moment they can walk away from. She will have to see him in the morning, go undercover with him, trust him, and then accept that they are not bound to each other because they slept together.

His hand is on her waist again and he is close, so close, to her. “Tony …” She spun and pushed him away slightly but his hand caught hers and she found herself pressed flush against his chest. Had they arrived then at the place where only sex would console them? He stroked her face and she gave in to the look in his eyes. They go undercover in the morning. Having this connection between them will make the chemistry even more believable. Right?

Tea forgotten, he walked her back to her bedroom, undressing her as they went. Collapsing together onto the bed, they became a tangle of arms and legs and sheets; drowning themselves in each other.

***

Sun touched the horizon and peeked through the cracks in Ziva’s blackout curtains, highlighting the shadows that still moved on her bed. Before she came to the states, the loss of a leader would have been chalked up to the process of elimination. But Gibbs was not just a leader and even in her year with NCIS she learned just how much he loved the people in his life and how quickly she would risk her own life for his safety. Not just Gibbs, but McGee, Abby, and Tony. God, Tony.

Back at Mossad, she slept with partners, woke, worked with them, and did not care if the next day they chose to share a bed with someone else. Why was it so different here? Had she already started to change her mentality about sex, sex in the work place, sex between friends? What was next? No longer tempting beautiful women to her bed? Had she already adapted American prudishness into her sense of self?

No. If she had, she would not be gasping and tightening her hands in the sheets as Tony worked between her legs. She knew that when they return to the office, this moment would be left behind, a dream, a secret they can carry. She will be able to carry on. Will he?

Any last logical thought exploded through the top of her head as orgasm gripped her. She trembled, her toes curling, her thighs tightening, her back arcing, her fingers tensing, her head shaking back and forth as she gasped out Tony’s name.

She reached for him, feeling the light sheen of sweat drying on her arms. He collapsed on top of her, half hard, nuzzling at her neck as he wrapped her tightly in his arms.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

There was a soft desperation in his voice that worried her. Gently, Ziva pulled back and ran her fingers through his sweaty hair. “What is wrong, Tony?”

“Nothing.” He kissed her softly. “I just … this was coming, wasn’t it?”

Knowing he is hiding something from her but not daring to push, she stroked her fingers down his back. “It has happened before. Between us.”

“We were undercover. Caught up in a moment. That was different.”

“Was it?” Ziva rolled them so she straddled him. He had more hair on his body than she preferred on her lovers, but she liked running her fingers through it. “It is still sex, Tony.”

“It’s more than that with you, Ziva.”

The tone of his voice worried her. “What is wrong?” She asked again.

“Nothing.” He shook his head and looked away and she knew he was lying and it did not take much for her mind to piece it all together. His own undercover operation then, something beyond what they were about to do, going into a club as young lovers, infiltrating a secret society, looking for a serial killer that was tracking down female naval officers.

“It is something, Tony.”

“Not that I can talk about.” He shrugged and Ziva nodded. She had to respect that there were things he would not be able to divulge. After all, he could not know of her own secrets, her own missions assigned by Mossad. Leaning down, letting her breasts brush the hair on his chest, she kissed him tenderly. “We should get ready for work,” he said as they pulled apart, his voice full of regret. “I need to go home and change.”

“All right.”

She rolled off of him and walked to where she hung her robe on the hook by the closet. His eyes were on her and she let him look for a lingering moment before covering up and turning back to him. In that moment they were again friends and partners and this diversion was something to file away and remember later. “I will see you at the office.”

“I’ll bring coffee.” He smiled and sat up and Ziva gave him the privacy to dress.

In the kitchen, the tea was now cold and stewed to chunky. She threw the leaves in the sink and poured herself a glass of water, waiting until she heard the front door close behind Tony to get moving again. Precise, tense movements got her through cleaning her kitchen and stepping into the shower before she sank tiredly against the cool tiles, hot water sluicing over her like there was enough for everyone in the world.

She had slept with friends and partners before. What made this so different? She missed Sarah. She missed the pretense of a normal life. Maybe this was her pretense of a normal life.

“America? You’re taking a job in America without talking to me about it first?”

“Since when do we talk about our careers, Sarah? You have your life and I have mine and I need to take this job.”

The water hid the tears that slid down her cheeks.

TBC …

Fic: Brief Bus Stop (Ch. 1)

2011-08-24T15:32:30Z

Series: Brief Bus Stop
Chapter One: lazuz le-eifo sheh-hu or (to move to somewhere)
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Timeframe: Kill Ari
Rating: The series as a whole, R. This chapter, teen.
Pairing: Brief Ziva/OFC (Sarah)
A/N: The Americanization of Ziva David.
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Ziva, and the team belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Her tea stewed and Ziva stared into the liquid, wondering exactly what lay before her. Ari was no longer of concern. Her team in the United States was dissolved. Now it was Tel Aviv and a life here what? Doing paperwork? A new team heading into Somalia or Iran or Afghanistan? Part of her didn’t mind the idea of sitting still for a while.

in this city
self-preservation
is a full time occupation
i'm determined
to survive on these shores
~Ani Difranco Talk To Me

* * *

“You will do this, Ziva.”

Her father’s words were shrapnel in her brain, keeping her awake even in the peaceful confines of Sarah’s apartment in Tel Aviv. Every time she closed her eyes, she was stepping through the front doors of NCIS, flashing her credentials to the security guard who let her step through without needing to use the metal detectors. If they’d frisked her, they’d have found her knives and her throwaway gun. Americans were far too lax on security in even their most important buildings. But she supposed it was part of their charm.

“Get his trust, Ziva. Gain access to who he is. He is someone we must watch. You will do this, Ziva.”

She paused at the window, wrapping the light purple and white sarong more tightly around her body. Outside, wind pushed across the nearly deserted streets. A dust storm threatened. Across the city, she could see the outline of her own apartment building. She could not yet set foot inside. Ari was still there; his image, his clothing, the letter he had written to her after Tali had been killed.

“You will do this, Ziva.”

Ari had never seen it coming. Ziva was not bound to American notions of honor and looking someone in the eye when you were going to kill them, but she felt Ari had deserved more than a sniper style bullet from someone he could not see. He’d trusted her. He’d believed he’d played both sides so well. If only he had charmed Kate into betraying her country and let himself fall in love. Instead, he had to get wrapped into the very game their father had been playing with them their whole lives.

Had Ari regretted killing Caitlin?

“You,” came a thick voice behind her, “need to rest, Ziva.”

Sarah’s thin arms slipped around her and Ziva leaned back into her lover’s embrace. Her encounters were usually only passing, flesh meeting flesh, a release of tension, but little more than that. When she loved, it was from afar, never daring to get too close. Sarah, she had wanted to hope, was different. But she was not Mossad and Ziva was forced to lie to her to maintain her security. So they were tethered, but not bound, circling each other as the rope between them frayed strand by strand.

“I wish I could.” She shook her head. “I will only keep you awake. You should go back to bed.”

“Your not being in bed is what woke me.” Dry lips pressed against her cheek. “Come on, Ziva. Speak to me.”

No one knew, save her father and Gibbs, what had really happened in that basement. No one knew that she had been the one to fire the shot.

“Do not worry about me, Sarah. Jet lag keeps me awake is all.” The lie made her words tense and even though Sarah kissed her cheek again before disappearing back into the bedroom, she knew she’d hurt her. Sarah wanted her to open up, to talk about it, but what good would that do? No one could know the truth. It could unravel all the trust Mossad agents had in Eli David’s leadership. His own son a Hamas agent? What did that make his daughter?

Tired fingers worked tight muscles and she walked to the tiny kitchen to boil water for tea. It was not long until sunrise and she needed to report in only a couple of hours.

If it had not been for her mission, she would have enjoyed her time in America. Jenny was one of her favorite people. She loved everything about the smooth redhead – from her way of looking at the world to how she smelled first thing in the morning. Timothy McGee was a truly beautiful human being – she could not help but think of Ari when she looked at him. Once, she had believed Ari to be that pure, that genteel. Not as awkward, of course. But McGee’s awkward sensibility was endearing. She wanted to protect him and introduce him to the world at the same time. Abby Sciuto exemplified everything Ziva loved about Americans. She was so free flowing and passionate. She was the ideal – what people thought of when they thought of American women. Anthony DiNozzo made her heart beat faster. She hated that she was attracted to him. He was so adolescent, but it was clear he used it as a cover. He, like her, never wanted to get too close.

She only wished that her relationship with Jethro Gibbs could have been different. He was a broken man, hiding secrets that rivaled hers. But he had gazed at her so softly, telling her in one look how sorry he was that she had been forced to do what she did. She did not blame Gibbs. She blamed Ari for putting her with these people the way he had.

Gray light eeked through the windows as the sun rose behind a dusty sky. Across the plaza from her apartment, a tarp blew off a market stall and three blocks down, the neon lights shut off on one of the Western department stores. She loved this time, before the city truly woke, when she could see it as it might have been once, in biblical times. Before the military lined the road with machine guns and before the population ducked suicide bombers in coffee shops.

Her tea stewed and Ziva stared into the liquid, wondering exactly what lay before her. Ari was no longer of concern. Her team in the United States was dissolved. Now it was Tel Aviv and a life here what? Doing paperwork? A new team heading into Somalia or Iran or Afghanistan? Part of her didn’t mind the idea of sitting still for a while.

Maybe she needed to step away. Maybe she needed a break. All the intelligence agencies in the world were starting to send each other liaisons. Mossad had requests from each of the major bureaus in the United States and England. She could pass intelligence along as she felt necessary, as her father felt necessary, but she could do something different for a while. She was tired of spying and killing. She wanted to make dinner for friends and gather for Sabbath dinner again.

0430 AM. It was time to get dressed, to get moving. She would be late. In the bedroom, Sarah moved around, also dressing. Ziva stared through the open door at her lover’s form, memorizing it, knowing that when she kissed her goodbye in just a few moments, it would be forever.

Keeping her truths from Sarah kept her safe. But sitting just a room away, she missed her.

***

Ziva stepped onto the elevator, crowded in with two women wearing too much cheap perfume and a man in a sports jacket at least a size too small. She could feel one of the women’s eyes on her and turned, raising an eyebrow in her direction. The woman flinched. If this was the caliber of agents here at NCIS, gaining access, gaining trust, and fulfilling her mission would be much easier than her intelligence gathering indicated.

Nothing had changed in the time she’d been gone. Orange walls and an ugly brownish blue carpet greeted her at her destination. Cubicles decorated with everything from pictures to case files to possibly confidential information assaulted her senses. Her eyes scanned each corner of the room, moving from the outside to a central point, committing everything to memory. Quick steps took her to an empty cubicle – Caitlin’s – and she stopped, surveying it. There was a thin layer of dust – the desk had not been touched in a few days. It was surprising, given what she knew of Americans, to not find some vigil of flowers set up in memoriam.

None of the team she was now a part of had made it in.

Carefully, she settled at Caitlin’s desk. The drawers were still locked, cases going cold while the team dealt with what her brother had wrought. Even the kit was there, a backpack embroidered with NCIS and Caitlin’s last name. She settled in to wait.

At 0700, her patience nearly at its limit, DiNozzo stumbled through the door, grumbling about burritos and not coming in and why had he and something else about weekends. He was disgusting, looking like he had possibly slept in a garbage dumpster the night before, but there was something appealing about the boyish mask he wore. His psychological profile told her she could get what she wanted from him by coming on to him, so she let him approach her, watching him as he watched her shake her curls loose. The humidity in Washington always made her hair unmanageable. Maybe building a city on a swamp hadn’t been such a good idea.

It was fun to flirt with him. He was an admirable opponent and, she had to admit, if she weren’t pining for someone left back in Israel, she might have even slept with him given the chance.

Who knew. It could still happen. She had left Sarah with a kiss and a prayer to stay safe.

Before her mind could be completely run off course, she looked back at her new sparring partner. She was out of her element. It was her place to blow in, save the day with some hard won intelligence and then flit back to Tel Aviv. But now, she was here to learn, to help, to keep the connection strong between the countries. She couldn’t piss people off. Well, not too much.

Staring at the look on Gibbs’ face as he processed her reassignment, she couldn’t help but thinking that requesting this assignment hadn’t been the best idea. Maybe it would have been better to head into Afghanistan or accept the assignment in Syria. She held her breath as he stormed up the stairs, away from her and her orders and the secret they shared.

For the first time in her life she realized the last place she wanted to be was home in Tel Aviv and it made her wonder if it had ever been home in the first place.

TBC …

Fic: Black Lines in Shadows (NCIS)

2011-08-07T17:19:22Z

Title: Black Lines in Shadows
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Brief mention of Ziva/Ray
Timeframe: Post Season 8
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Ziva, and Tony belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: Her tattoos are not black ink and shadowed, but invisible, stretched across her skin, telling a story that only she knows.

From your Door of Benevolence, cast your generosity upon me
Don't let me mix into the world of matters
Overlook my rebellion, show compassion
Take me, O Friend, to my goal - the ultimate destination
~From Beni Beni, as recorded by Niyaz. English translation.

Niyaz plays in the background while Abby dances around the apartment, her short skirt barely brushing across the top of her pale thighs. Ziva chuckles, watching from a spot near the window. Outside, a tropical storm is picking up speed; rain pounds against the window. Tony is gracious enough to clean the table; Palmer dashed back ahead of the storm to spend the night with his new girlfriend. Ducky felt the need to return home before the storm became dangerous. Gibbs sits still on her couch, sipping a glass of bourbon, his gaze focused on the empty glass McGee left behind on the coffee table when he bowed out to offer his soul to his muse. The dinner had been somber; thoughts are still on Franks and the losses of their own. What kind of people are they to sign up to take the risks they do every day? Only Abby’s lighthearted reaction to the music Ziva selected seems to ground them.

How far the two of them have come from those first few tense months when it didn’t take any kind of deep thinking to know that the beautiful young lab tech blamed Ziva for Caitlin’s death. Still not “best-friends-forever” as Abby might say, but there is an ease in how they work together. They trust each other. And as women in what America still considers work for men, they have a bond that the others on the team will never understand.

She also likes looking at Abby’s legs.

Outside, rain smashes onto buildings and tree branches scrape across brick. The storm is picking up and it is no longer safe to drive. Work and relationship protocol demands that she gives Gibbs her spare room and Tony the couch while she and Abby share her bed. She does not want to obey protocol. She wants to sit in her room with Tony, sipping wine and sharing secrets no one knows they share.

“Do you care if I change? I have an extra shirt in my purse. I always keep it in case McGee or someone spills on me at the lab.”

The questions startles Ziva but she and Gibbs both shake their head while Abby turns around to strip off the shirt she’s been wearing for the at least sixteen hours. In the dim light of the apartment, shadows dance with Abby’s tattoos and Ziva stares at them in wonder. Even Gibbs glances over, his eyes lingering, and Ziva wonders if his father figure protection of her is much more complex than any of them suspect. Not that relationships between fathers and daughters are ever anything but complex.

Abby is still rambling. “Once, Gibbs let me borrow one of his marine shirts. Do you remember that? I still have it and I wear it to bed sometimes. That isn’t weird is it? I just like being close to you.”

“It isn’t weird, Abs.” Is the soft, almost silent response.

Ziva agrees. She wouldn’t mind one of Gibbs old Marine shirts to wear to bed some nights. At first, her attraction to the older team leader was impossible to push aside, but soon the lust morphed into affection and finally a love that a daughter can only have for a father. She does not know what she would do without him. It is a silly admission, so thinks, to realize that she still needs a father, but she does. And so she has Gibbs.

There is a clatter in the kitchen and Ziva moves from her pose and hurries to join Tony. At the doorway she turns, watching as the other woman pulls a black tank top over the intricate cross on her back.

Abby wears hers tattoos like trophies, like soldiers display scars. Ziva is always happy to show off her scars; she walks taller and prouder because of what she has survived. But her tattoo is private. Her tattoo is nothing to be shared with anyone other than someone who she wants to let know her intimately.

“Are you okay, Tony?” She peeks into the kitchen. His shirt is wet.

“I just dropped a glass. Don’t worry. Nothing broke. Go back to the others.” He stares at her and she smiles softly before turning back to the guests. They are only friends, friends who know each other far too well, but there is an intimacy that dances between them, one that could spark into something more than friendship if he had not been the one to kill Michael. She has forgiven him, but the memories of that time are still too close and she still has not wrapped her mind around his willing sacrifice of his own life to save hers in Somalia. Could he really not live without her?

“Do you want wine, Abby?” Ziva moves to the wine rack. She has half a bottle of Cabernet left and at Abby’s affirmative, she pulls the stopper free and pours the blood red liquid into two crystal glasses. When she hands Abby the glass, she cannot help but stare. The tank top is tight, clinging to Abby’s breasts. She is cold. Ziva hands over the wine.

Ziva loves making love to American women. They come unhinged in bed, released from the false sense of propriety their society places on them. For as uptight as her own culture can be, she is amazed at America’s preoccupation with keeping people in their proper places. Abby is beautiful and if workplace relations were not so complicated, she would be willing to make a pass at her, but she has a feeling that McGee’s barely concealed feelings would end up putting her into an early grave. So instead she focuses on the black lines on Abby’s neck. “Why did you get your first tattoo?”

“Because I could,” was Abby’s light hearted reply. She pulls her pigtails free, brushing her hair and rebraiding them. Ziva sips at her wine, watching Abby, waiting for a real answer. “It was in protest.” She points to the spider web on her neck, “This is a variation on a common prison tattoo and I was in college and to protest treatment of death row prisoners, I got a similar tat. I’m not so sure how I feel about it anymore, but I keep it as a reminder. At least right now. The others followed.” Abby smirks. “Why, you thinking about it for yourself?”

Ziva’s “No!” was out of her throat before she could breathe. “No,” she said again. “It’s … frowned upon in my culture. I don’t have a tattoo.” Gibbs looks at her sharply, seeing through her hasty and clumsy lie. Behind her, she knows Tony has emerged from the kitchen. She glances away and waits for her moment to reveal her own truth. She asked Abby to reveal something, she should honor the agreement. Abby saves her.

“It’s frowned upon in this one too. Clearly I’m a criminal because of my tats, you know. Security guards follow me in stores.”

“It’s the skirts, Abby.” Tony walks across the room and pours himself a glass of wine. Ziva is rooted to her spot, her eyes on the window and the storm outside.

Before she can speak, to start to correct her lie of omission, Gibbs offers up his own explanation. “There are a couple of reasons that the Jews don’t really approve of tattooing, Abs. But there’s one really big one.” Ziva shifts uncomfortably, waiting to see if Abby understands. Abby stared at her for a long moment before her eyes grew wide.

“Oh my god, Ziva. I didn’t even think.”

“Don’t feel bad. Most people don’t.” She feels responsible for the other woman’s sudden discomfort.

Abby collapses onto the couch and leans against Gibbs, who puts a gentle arm around her. They look at each other for a long time in silence before Abby suddenly leans forward, unzips her boots, and pulls her feet free of the three inch platforms. She leans back again, tucking a knee up under her chin, and again Gibbs puts his arm around her. “Did you lose family?” Abby’s voice is childlike.

“Yes.” Ziva shrugs and stares into a point on the wall. “I don’t know what’s worse, knowing the past and being part of the generations after, or knowing that holocausts still happen around the world and feeling helpless to stop it.”

“Is that why you joined Mossad?”

“I joined Mossad because it was what I was meant to do. Some people get married. Some people stay in the military.” She smiles, “Some people become NCIS agents.” Gibbs chuckles at that and takes a long sip of his drink. “I wanted to serve in my own way.” She thinks of her tattoo, hidden from the world. Tony knows where it is. Michael. Ari was there when she was inked, shadows dancing in the dusty tent, the buzz of the battery operated needle lost in the wind in the desert. Black lines and shadow, a permanent reminder of her past, present, and unknown future. It was freeing, to shake off the painful history, to reclaim ownership of her body, and yet there is a sense of guilt she carries. She wonders what her mother’s mother would have said about Tradition.

Standing at the window, watching the storm ravish the streets of Washington, she is back in that tent, proving to her older brother that she is not merely her father’s pawn. She is marking her skin, is laughing in the face of authority figures that still haunt her people. God’s chosen ones still wander, lost, angry, beggars even in a land that should be theirs. If the United States, who claims to protect them, cannot educate its citizens to distinguish between Arabs and Jews and Extremists even while pointing fingers at these very people as the cause of their problems, how can Israel ever shake the burdens that keep them as servants? Maybe they should not have fled the Pharaoh. Maybe all these years they are still being punished for disobeying.

It’s silly to think that, she knows. But sometimes, her mind plays tricks on her sensibilities.

The song changes and in the reflection from the window, she watches Abby stand and return to dancing. The light plays off her tattoos and she moves like a modern belly dancer – all legs and arms but somehow, her body carries the movement.

Ziva smiles.

“Do you dance, Ziva?”

She nods. “Yes. In traditional ways and in your American ways.”

“Our American ways just lead to sex.”

Ziva laughs. “So do the traditional ways.”

Abby stops bouncing and grins. “Good point.” Gibbs is laughing.

Ziva wants to join her in the dancing, but there is nothing light in her soul. She thinks of Somalia and Israel and the lands that will forever fight over a few scarce resources. She thinks of Michael and Ray and Tony and Ari and her father. Mike Franks’ ghost lingers in her doorway. Her tattoos are not black ink and shadowed, but invisible, stretched across her skin, telling a story that only she knows.

Tony is behind her and she leans into him, not caring that their boss is watching. She wants him to spend the night with her. They will talk and laugh and hold each other and he will not cross the line they have crossed before. She is in a serious relationship with a man she loves. He respects that. So he will hold her while they sleep and in the morning, Tony will brush her hair back and kiss her and walk away and they will meet again on Monday and tease and flirt and he will still be the only one on the team who knows where her tattoo is.

“You should dance,” he whispers in her ear, his words caressing her more than hands ever could. She shivers and shakes her head, not wanting to perform for him in any public setting. Gibbs would look the other way if Tony joined her in her bedroom; he will not if she seduces him.

Abby is dancing for all of them, her tattoos spinning around her, a cloud of memory and future hopes, of wisdom and pain and choices made. An honoring of death as much as it is a part of life. As she turns, she winks, and Ziva starts to laugh. The music behind them speaks of lost memory and benevolent gods. In her living room, she hears the voices of the ghosts around her.

Somewhere in there, she hears herself. Hears her ghost from life past urging her to be more than the cold Mossad assassin or the assimilated immigrant.

Ziva sets her wine down on the end table, steps away from Tony, and begins to dance.

Fic Post: Prayer (NCIS)

2011-08-03T22:16:21Z

Title: Prayer
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: mentions of Ziva/Ray and Ziva/Michael. Ziva, Tony friendship.
Rating: Teen
A/N: She won’t stop talking to me!
Disclaimer: I keep falling in love with beautiful characters already written by other people. If CBS is looking for a young, up and coming writer who will devote herself wholeheartedly to the process, I’m the right girl. Otherwise, I make no money from this. NCIS, Ziva, and Tony belong to other people. I’m just walking with them for a while.

Summary: She dreams of being a mother and of her father as a benevolent grandfather, not a harsh, angry dictator who is willing to sacrifice his own children as a means to an end for his country.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, Who has made us holy through His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath light.
~Jewish Sabbath Blessing

Ziva hums an old folk tune as she steps through the door of her apartment and shakes the rain from her hair. There are some things about America she will never adjust to, and the East Coast rain is one of them. She’s contemplated moving to the deserts of the Southwest, but her job is too much her life.

It is a rare Friday when she is able to leave with enough time before sundown to make it to the bakery to pick up bread for dinner, change her clothes from work, and actually set the table. Most Friday nights she allows herself only part of the process – two lit candles, a prayer, bread – knowing that God hears her no matter the rituals she performs. But tonight, she can relax and even contemplate the rare appearance at Temple in the morning. It is the first weekend in months she does not need to worry about being called in. She is well over her overtime allotment and she covered the weekend before for Tony.

Leaving the apartment dim as she moves through the living space to her bedroom, Ziva sheds every bit of clothing and stands, stark naked in front of her closet, contemplating a traditional skirt and blouse but decides on a comfortable black tank top and a pair of gray lounge pants. For all her devotion, her traditional ways extend only to the white scarf she removes from a dresser drawer that holds her Tanakh and other religious items. Her eyes linger briefly on Michael’s Tallit, somehow in the explosion that destroyed everything she held sacred, this survived.

She misses him. He betrayed her, but she misses him. The story of her life.

Barefoot, she moves back across her hardwood floors. One of the boards in her bedroom is warped and her toes worry the groove for a moment. Out of a locked drawer in her kitchen she pulls two wooden candlesticks and two white candles and a small book of matches.

There is no real time to cook but she can reheat the food that she picked up the night before and never touched. It is always better the next day anyway and while dinner heats in the microwave, she sets the table.

When she is alone in her apartment, candles glowing, and the weight of her choices around her that she lets her mind drift to a fantasy for which she was never destined. It isn’t that Ziva David ever wanted to be an American Fairy Princess. In fact, until she met Jenny Shepherd, she never even wanted to be an American. In her mind, the two-faced support of Israel was detrimental to the area’s survival. The government’s willingness to destroy the Middle East in a blind effort to make an empirical point makes her skin crawl. She believes in her homeland and her country and lies awake at night listening to the ghosts of her family who had been killed before escaping Germany and Poland and Russia. She prays for a world where little girls do not grow up to be assassins but instead tough, single minded NCIS agents who investigate simple crimes, not murders and terror plots.

Alone, Ziva dreams of a world where she shoots guns not because she needs to but because she can. She dreams of being a mother and of her father as a benevolent grandfather, not a harsh, angry dictator who is willing to sacrifice his own children as a means to an end for his country. She dreams of a life with Michael. She dreams still that she will open her door and Ari will catch her in his arms and spin her around and they will laugh together like they used to.

Once, she told Tony that assassins did not have regrets. She lied. She is full of them.

But she does not regret her choice to stay in America. She has almost forgotten what it was like to walk into a coffee shop and check her surroundings for anything that might be a bomb. She is used to driving on the other side of the road and it has been over a year since her last accident. She’s discovered the beauty of American women and has fallen in love with an American man who, like her, is not homegrown from the soil. But she knows there is more to Ray than what he has told her and she fears that despite his best intentions, her heart will again be stepped on because of her family. She is not stupid and she knows to trust her instincts.

Maybe this, she realizes, is why American girls dream of being princesses in animated movies. It shields them from a reality that can destroy even the strongest of people. What harm is there in wanting to see life through innocent eyes?

A knock on the door startles her out of her reverie and she moves slowly, the motion of her hips intentional. Tony stands at the door, holding a bottle of wine. He is smiling softly.

This has become their ritual, something no one on the team knows about; when they have Friday nights off, he joins her for dinner. Gibbs might know, but Gibbs knows everything. And just like Gibbs knows, Ziva knows that Tony is more than an overgrown child still hung up on his hormones. She knows that his time loving Jeanne changed him and that he misses her much like she still misses Michael. A part of her wishes he was not so much like a brother to her, because that part of her wants to take him in her arms and to kiss away the hurts that haunt both of them. He offers the bottle and she takes it before turning to let him inside.

This too is part of the ritual. They do not speak until she has lit the candles and said the prayer. To speak is to ruin the spell and a part of her wonders if either of them ever settle down, will they still share this time or will they drift apart, as so many married friends do.

The microwave signals that dinner is ready and Tony beats her to the kitchen, smiling as he removes the dish and bringing it to the table. Ziva quietly places her scarf over her head and lights the candles as he takes a place across from her.

Ziva covers her eyes, feeling the weight of her faith upon her shoulders. She recites the prayer in Hebrew, remembering her mother and her father. Ari. Michael. Even Catelin. And then the ritual is over, simplified from how it was at her father’s table, and she will go to Temple in the morning. They sit. Tony serves.

Ziva pops a bit of bread into her mouth and focuses on the dripping wax from the candles. Her faith comes up so infrequently at work, although whenever Abby goes to get lunch for the team she is thoughtful enough to choose Kosher options. Gibbs tries to give her Friday nights off, though their schedules rarely allow for any faith celebration. She knows Abby attends church nearly every Sunday and she has a feeling that Gibbs does as well. Even after six years in the states, she is still caught off guard at the world seeming to stop on Sundays rather than Saturdays. She is also still caught off guard at the thinly veiled anti-Semitism that crops up in media reporting and political choices. For a country that goes out of it’s way to say it protects Israel, it has more than a few issues with Jews in its own borders.

She wonders what would happen if she spoke up to the team, telling them that she didn’t think the US presence in the Middle East was good for the long term survival of Israel even if she did understand their rationale for going in. She too often wanted to blow the heads off of anyone who ever dared to point a gun at her people. She hates the American insolence regarding the freedom to carry weapons. There is a lack of thought and a glory in violence that leads to young boys believing that violence is a means to an end and that women are to be held as trophies.

How similar they are to the enemies they kill.

But the same could be said between the Arabs and the Jews. She knows this.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

American idioms still make no sense to her. Shouldn’t thoughts be worth more than a penny? “Could you marry a Jewish girl?” The question comes unbidden and she realizes she is thinking about Ray, but there is a momentary pause in Tony’s eyes and she wonders if Ray’s suspicions about her partner are true.

He pauses, taking a long sip of his wine, and Ziva lets him think. The hesitation makes her heart sink and she realizes she has never asked Ray this question. The empty box he gave her, the “promise” he would return after his latest mission, took her buy surprise and now she wonders if he has put serious thought into what it means for her to marry. She wonders if she has accepted it. She had expected to spend her life with Michael.

“I could if she was you,” Tony says with a soft smile. He reaches across the table, through the candlesticks, to stroke her cheek. He touched her the same way in Paris, the morning they woke curled together under the covers, bodies pressed together, wanting more than they were willing to give. There is no need to diffuse the situation with humor and she leans into his touch, glad for his honesty.

“Why just me?”

“I could because of you,” he corrects himself. The smile spreads across his face and Ziva chuckles.

“So, before me?”

“I had images of Jewish grandmothers standing on porches, beating off suitors with their purses.”

“I thought that was Italian grandmothers.”

He laughs. “Not so different after all.” His hand lingers. Ziva lets herself break the moment. If it continues, she will have things to explain to Ray. So she hands him the bread and stares at the tablecloth. “Do you miss it?” Tony’s voice is soft.

“Miss what?”

“Doing this with your family?”

A sigh she did not know was in her escaped her lungs. “I have made my choices,” she says softly. “But I do miss the solidarity of a faith keeping a country together. I miss knowing that around tables all over the country, the same rituals were being performed. I miss the peace of the streets on the Sabbath.” She shakes her head, anticipating his comment. “Yes, around tables all over this country, the same ritual is being performed, but … it is different. And I love that and it only makes me miss Israel even more. But I love this country. I love it here. And so while there are things I miss, I am glad to be here.”

When he smiles, she is glad he doesn’t press the issue. Ziva sighs and lets herself chew another piece of bread slowly. The silence is comfortable. It always has been.

For a moment, she wonders if that is enough.

~fin~

CSI: Lights on the Water

2011-05-28T22:06:35Z

Title: Lights on the Water
Author: vegawriters
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: GSR
Timeframe: Post season 11
Rating: Teen
A/N: This is part of the Looking Glass series.
Disclaimer: I have no financial claim to these characters and when we go play, I do things that TPTB have said shouldn’t happen.

Summary: When Catherine and Nick had heard his time in Peru was up and there was a lag between assignments, meaning he’d actually be in Vegas, the party had been arranged. Gil was surprised at just how happy he was to celebrate the night with his friends.

Blue lights reflected on the water below the deck of the restaurant. The tables were set with white flower center pieces and long tapered candles tucked into hurricanes that cast flickering light around the space. Purple ribbons curled around the folding chairs, blowing in the light breeze. Greg had set up a small sound system and easy, jazzy music flowed from the speakers and close to the edge of the deck, there was space for dancing.

Gil and Sara had never had a reception. Their wedding announcement had been an email and photo of the two of them in front of the mission in Costa Rica sent en masse to their friends. They’d left the research team behind with plans to backpack through Europe for their honeymoon. While canoeing in a little harbor in Greece he told her about the offer from the Sorbonne and watched her face fall slightly at the idea of giving up their gypsy lifestyle for days of torpor and academia. To make it up to her, their first anniversary had been spent in an elegant bed and breakfast in Rome, but now for the first time, they could celebrate in their home, here in Vegas.

When Catherine and Nick had heard his time in Peru was up and there was a lag between assignments, meaning he’d actually be in Vegas, the party had been arranged. Gil was surprised at just how happy he was to celebrate the night with his friends.

It was a small gathering; the graveyard shift at CSI including Doc Robbins and Dave, Jim, and Sofia. But it was a party a long time coming. The team had never had time to congratulate them. They’d learned about him and Sara because of Natalie but before anything had really been explained, Sara had fled. By the time she’d returned to Vegas, his ring on her finger, they were settling into living life on opposite sides of the planet.

Tonight they could remedy all of the hiccups and missteps that had come along with telling their friends about their relationship. Tonight was something he’d never been sure he’d want to have happen, but to be here with Sara, he was glad. This was his wife, and every time he looked at her, he still got butterflies in his stomach and the world needed to know it.

Gil glanced around the deck, unable to truly relax. Even in front of close friends, showing off his bride was nerve wracking and the gentle, father-figure ribbing had already begun from Robbins and Jim. He still wondered how much to divulge, how much Sara was willing to speak to. They’d spent years hiding themselves and their relationship and even though they had grown past the people they’d been, there was still a sense of worry.

He’d been married to Sara for two years and loved her for almost fifteen, and he still worried what people might think.

But there she was, stepping onto the deck, dressed in an ankle length purple and white summer dress. A pair of pearl-colored high heeled sandals poked out under the skirt and a white orchid was tucked into her hair. It was the dress she’d been married in. Tears touched his eyes.

He loved her.

***

Until he married Sara, there were truths about himself that he’d always denied. He’d never allowed himself to be romantic, to send flowers and plants randomly, to leave mushy text messages for her to wake up to, or to dance the night away at romantic lake view restaurants.

But since saying “I Do” in the small mission church in Costa Rica, he’d learned married life was more than sharing interests. It was about reaching out and touching, holding. It was about spinning her across the floor and bringing her back into his arms. It was about her cheek resting against his and their fingers linked together.

The music spun around them as again, as the skirt twirled around her legs. A light breeze blew across the patio just as he dipped her and then brought her to her feet again. This woman, this beautiful, young creature had agreed to marry him. There were moments when the shock still overwhelmed him.

The song came to an end and their assembled friends, who were all standing at their seats at the tables, all burst into applause. Nick came to his feet. “Speech!” He demanded. “Speech!”

Gil chuckled, linked his fingers in Sara’s, and paused to look into her eyes. She winked playfully and he turned back to their friends. “I got a lot of guff over the years for being a lonely bachelor. The truth was, that I was. Even when Sara was here, I never … I was scared to allow myself to love her and because of that, I came so close to losing her. Too close.” Sara’s fingers tightened in his and he could tell she was blushing. She was so beautiful when she blushed. “But she took me back and she said yes, a second time, to marrying me.”

Sara laughed and ducked her head. The server came by with champagne and she passed on it, with a wink to him, and he chuckled. Gil could see Catherine’s brain working overtime, but the truth was that Sara’s upset stomach had little to do with success in their efforts to get pregnant. Her cramps were worse than usual this month and the amount of Midol she’d consumed had made her sick. Nick came over to them and smiled and Sara offered him a tight hug. The rest of the team followed.

“I never said thank you for finding her,” Grissom said to his former pupil. “I could have lost everything in the desert that day.”

Sara shook her head. “I was just taking a nap. I’d have been fine.” But the silence that greeted her attempt at a joke reminded all of them just how close it had been. Another hour and this dinner would never have happened.

“So,” Jim spoke up. It was his third bourbon and his inhibitions were lifted but he was sober enough to know that it was time to change the subject. “You’ve never actually told us how you two met. All we knew was that eleven years ago, Gil Grissom brought in this “friend” from San Francisco to help on a case.” He snorted and took a drink. “Friend my ass.”

Sara grinned slyly. “We met at a forensic conference in San Francisco.”

“No, no, no.” Nick shook his head. He too was flushing on too much to drink. “There’s more to the story than that.”

“Really, there’s not. Not to how we met anyway. There might be more to the story of how we got together, but that’s not what Jim asked.” Sara winked and sipped at her ginger ale. “He was presenting and I went up afterward and asked about a million questions and soon we decided to continue the conversation over dinner. And dessert.” She paused for effect, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Gil blushed but let her continue. “And breakfast.”

Gil smiled at how both Jim and Nick simultaneously coughed on their drinks. He took a sip of his own. Sara moved to sit and the discussion moved with her back to their table. Gil took a place behind her and rubbed her back lightly.

“Were you two together when Grissom asked you to come to Vegas?” Nick looked a bit like a lost puppy.

Sara sighed and leaned back into Gil’s hands. “Yes and no, Nick. And I can’t really give you more than that because it was a confusing time for us. It took us a long time to figure ourselves out.”

“Fair enough.” Nick smiled. Sara sipped again at her ginger ale.

“When did you propose?” It was Catherine’s turn to be nosy. She put herself in the chair next to Sara. “And why isn’t there an engagement ring?”

Sara giggled. “He was messing with this bee colony and he convinces me to take off my glove and while a bee is crawling on me, he asks me to marry him. Naturally, I freak, and the damned bee stings me.”

“I really didn’t think …”

Sara giggled again. Grissom pinched her lightly. She swatted him right back.

“What,” Greg laughed, “you were testing to see how much she’d freak out?”

“He says it was an innocent mistake.” Sara rolled her eyes. “But he made up for it.”

“How?”

“I followed her to Costa Rica,” Gil looked into Sara’s eyes, “and when she didn’t kick me out of her tent, I asked her to marry me. She told me she’d already said yes.”

“I think I just went into a diabetic coma from all the sugar in the air,” Jim snorted, but he was laughing. He put his empty glass down on the table and held his hand out to Sara. “May I have this dance?”

“Of course,” she smiled and took his hand. Gil watched his old friend lead her into the small dance floor.

“She’s different since she came back,” Catherine’s voice is soft at his side. “She’s grounded. She isn’t as angry.”

“She found her peace, Catherine.” He smiled. “We both did.”

Catherine grinned and put her hand on his arm. “Can I have this dance, Gil?”

He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor.

~fin~