One More Tomorrow (1/1)
Title: One More Tomorrow
Author: Calliatra
Rating: FR13
Category: Gen
Pairing: Implied Gibbs/Jenny
Character(s): Jenny, (Ducky)
Genre: Character Study, Angst
Words: 1,560
Warnings: Implied imminent character death
Spoilers: Second half of Season 5
Disclaimer: All recognizable NCIS characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: ‘She set her pen to the paper, but no words would come. She had no well-rationalized reasons for leaving him this time, no explanations to offer, nothing she could apologize for.’ Jenny, right before the events of Judgment Day. Written for the If Today Was Your Last Day Challenge at NFA.
* * *
Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day. Do it! I say. Whatever you want to do, do it now! There are only so many tomorrows.
- Pope Paul VI
* * *
‘Dear Jethro.’
That was all she had so far. Two words on a blank sheet of paper. Two words, and no idea how to continue. How could she put in one letter all the things she had to say? How could she even know what to say? Years of avoidance and games and leaving everything unspoken and what it came down to in the end was this letter.
“You have to tell him,” Ducky had said, gazing at her with kind concern.
“I can’t.” She couldn’t, couldn’t summon the words, the strength, or even the clarity of mind.
She was dying. Jenny knew that for a fact; it was a completely inescapable truth. She had accepted that there was nothing she could do. And still it didn’t feel like reality. It wasn’t that she was unaware of her own mortality - quite the contrary. She had faced death many times - often survived by pure coincidence - but it had always been a mere instant, a second of mortal danger that barely penetrated her consciousness, and once she had escaped she had always moved on. With her job death was a constant companion, something she acknowledged but didn’t brood over.
Now, however, it wasn’t just a statistical possibility she could brush aside in favor of focusing on real issues. Now it was an absolute certainty. She was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
At least she had got La Grenouille. It wasn’t a huge triumph, not even something to be proud of, really, but she had reached her goal and she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. She didn’t have much else. Most other things she had given up in the pursuit of her father’s murderer. It had left her with one victory and innumerable regrets. She had gotten her revenge, but in the cold light of the morning after she could finally see clearly what she had destroyed along the way.
She had thought she would have time to live her life after she reached her goal. Fate clearly had other plans. Jenny swallowed a bitter laugh. At least she wouldn’t be leaving many people behind to grieve. She had subordinates who trusted her leadership, counterparts in other agencies who respected her skills, and politicians who didn’t know what to think of her politics. But who was there, really, to mourn her passing in more than a perfunctory way? The few friends she had she had become estranged from over the past two years. Who was there left who truly cared for her? Not many. Ducky, probably. And Jethro, always Jethro.
“My dear,--”
“No, Ducky. I can’t tell him.”
So much history between them, so many secrets, so many regrets. So many might-have-beens and if-onlys. What if she hadn’t been so consumed with the search for La Grenouille? What if she hadn’t left? What if she had given them another chance when she’d returned? The roads not taken loomed in front of her, mocking. What if she had gone after happiness instead of vengeance? What if she had allowed herself to truly live?
There were many things she would have done differently, given a second chance. Starting, most likely, with her relationship with Jethro.
She’d known the news would be bad even before she got the test results. She didn’t believe in premonitions or sixth senses, but she had known. Perhaps she was attuned enough to her body to read the signals, or perhaps it had just seemed like too perfect a poetic justice for her life to end soon after she had ended her enemy’s. Whatever the reason, she had been aware her time was running out.
It hadn’t been a conscious consideration when she had asked him to stay that night a few weeks back, but it had to have been the deciding influence nevertheless. She was always in control, always thought at least five steps ahead and never did anything without proper planning. She never acted on impulse. That night she had.
Maybe it had been the very much familial situation she had unexpectedly found herself in. In a not-quite-conscious way she supposed she had always counted on having a family, someday. There were no concrete plans - those were all focused on her job and her final goal - but somewhere in the back of her mind she had always expected a family to somehow slowly materialize around her while she was focused on other things. A vision of her townhouse once again filled with laughter, life, and love danced before her eyes, a wish only recognized now that it was an impossibility. Maybe she had wanted to cling to the illusion that night, to grasp onto any part she could, as if prolonging it would somehow change it into truth by morning.
Maybe she had wanted comfort. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to face the world alone, isolated in her one more day in her office with only her worries for company. Maybe it had been a desire to he held and loved and shielded from the harshness of the realities outside. She had always prided herself on her realism, on disavowing anything not based in demonstrable fact, but looking back she had to admit that quite often she had been happy to delude herself. What had Paris been, if not a time when she had closed her eyes and chosen to ignore the outside world? If ever there was a time for her to take refuge in an imagined sanctuary, it was now. Maybe she had wanted to feel less alone for one night.
Or maybe she just didn’t want to have any regrets. She couldn’t change the past, but the present was still in her hands. She wouldn’t have to wonder about what might have been, she could say she had had it, if only for a brief time.
Not that it mattered. He had said no, and while it had hurt at the time she was glad now that he had. She had been selfish, given no consideration to the fact that he of all people didn’t deserve the additional pain.
“He would want to know.”
Her voice had barely been a whisper. “I can’t do this to him.”
“Forgive me for being blunt, my dear, but you are dying. You can’t change that.”
“I know. But I don’t have to make him suffer in advance.”
He would be there for her, of that she had no doubt. Whatever issues there were between them would vanish into smoke under the grim gaze mortality and he would be there by her side, caring and supporting and refusing to buckle under the agony. It was tempting, oh so tempting. To have someone with her to help her through it, to share the burden, to let her guard down around would be a relief, a comfort beyond measure. But she couldn’t do that to him, couldn’t make him sit there and watch her die, taken by an enemy he couldn’t fight or stop. After all the loss he had suffered she couldn’t put him through this.
“Being faced with death makes one value life, you know. When every day could be the last every day is precious, something to be treasured and well spent. Ideally we would all live our whole lives that way, but alas, we do not. That is why when death comes unannounced the survivors are so often left with regrets, things they would have done if they had known. You know.”
Maybe Ducky was right. Maybe she was kidding herself, saying that she was trying to protect Jethro. His losses had always hit him hard out of the blue. It might be fairer to tell him, to let him prepare and make his own decision about what he wanted to do. Maybe her reluctance to tell him had more to do with her feelings, her cowardice; maybe she just didn’t want him to know. For as long as she could immerse herself in it, her work gave her the semblance of normalcy every day; maybe she didn’t want that illusion destroyed. If he knew, even if he tried to treat her normally, she would be able to tell. She knew him, would be able to read it in the subtleties of his body language and the looks he threw her when he thought she wasn’t watching.
That was how she was sure he was still in the dark. He was worried about her and the tests Ducky had run, certainly, had even confronted her about it, but didn’t know the full truth.
“You have to tell him.”
That left her writing this. Once again she was leaving him with nothing but tainted memories and a letter. She would have said that the irony didn’t escape her, except it wasn’t irony, merely symmetry. She wondered what that said about them, about her.
She set her pen to the paper, but no words would come. She had no well-rationalized reasons for leaving him this time, no explanations to offer, nothing she could apologize for. All she had were fantasies of a life with different choices, and she couldn’t burden him with that, too.
‘Dear Jethro,’ the page still read. She sighed and set it aside. Right now she had a funeral to get to; there would be time to finish the letter tomorrow.* * *
Author: Calliatra
Rating: FR13
Category: Gen
Pairing: Implied Gibbs/Jenny
Character(s): Jenny, (Ducky)
Genre: Character Study, Angst
Words: 1,560
Warnings: Implied imminent character death
Spoilers: Second half of Season 5
Disclaimer: All recognizable NCIS characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: ‘She set her pen to the paper, but no words would come. She had no well-rationalized reasons for leaving him this time, no explanations to offer, nothing she could apologize for.’ Jenny, right before the events of Judgment Day. Written for the If Today Was Your Last Day Challenge at NFA.
* * *
Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day. Do it! I say. Whatever you want to do, do it now! There are only so many tomorrows.
- Pope Paul VI
* * *
‘Dear Jethro.’
That was all she had so far. Two words on a blank sheet of paper. Two words, and no idea how to continue. How could she put in one letter all the things she had to say? How could she even know what to say? Years of avoidance and games and leaving everything unspoken and what it came down to in the end was this letter.
“You have to tell him,” Ducky had said, gazing at her with kind concern.
“I can’t.” She couldn’t, couldn’t summon the words, the strength, or even the clarity of mind.
She was dying. Jenny knew that for a fact; it was a completely inescapable truth. She had accepted that there was nothing she could do. And still it didn’t feel like reality. It wasn’t that she was unaware of her own mortality - quite the contrary. She had faced death many times - often survived by pure coincidence - but it had always been a mere instant, a second of mortal danger that barely penetrated her consciousness, and once she had escaped she had always moved on. With her job death was a constant companion, something she acknowledged but didn’t brood over.
Now, however, it wasn’t just a statistical possibility she could brush aside in favor of focusing on real issues. Now it was an absolute certainty. She was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
At least she had got La Grenouille. It wasn’t a huge triumph, not even something to be proud of, really, but she had reached her goal and she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. She didn’t have much else. Most other things she had given up in the pursuit of her father’s murderer. It had left her with one victory and innumerable regrets. She had gotten her revenge, but in the cold light of the morning after she could finally see clearly what she had destroyed along the way.
She had thought she would have time to live her life after she reached her goal. Fate clearly had other plans. Jenny swallowed a bitter laugh. At least she wouldn’t be leaving many people behind to grieve. She had subordinates who trusted her leadership, counterparts in other agencies who respected her skills, and politicians who didn’t know what to think of her politics. But who was there, really, to mourn her passing in more than a perfunctory way? The few friends she had she had become estranged from over the past two years. Who was there left who truly cared for her? Not many. Ducky, probably. And Jethro, always Jethro.
“My dear,--”
“No, Ducky. I can’t tell him.”
So much history between them, so many secrets, so many regrets. So many might-have-beens and if-onlys. What if she hadn’t been so consumed with the search for La Grenouille? What if she hadn’t left? What if she had given them another chance when she’d returned? The roads not taken loomed in front of her, mocking. What if she had gone after happiness instead of vengeance? What if she had allowed herself to truly live?
There were many things she would have done differently, given a second chance. Starting, most likely, with her relationship with Jethro.
She’d known the news would be bad even before she got the test results. She didn’t believe in premonitions or sixth senses, but she had known. Perhaps she was attuned enough to her body to read the signals, or perhaps it had just seemed like too perfect a poetic justice for her life to end soon after she had ended her enemy’s. Whatever the reason, she had been aware her time was running out.
It hadn’t been a conscious consideration when she had asked him to stay that night a few weeks back, but it had to have been the deciding influence nevertheless. She was always in control, always thought at least five steps ahead and never did anything without proper planning. She never acted on impulse. That night she had.
Maybe it had been the very much familial situation she had unexpectedly found herself in. In a not-quite-conscious way she supposed she had always counted on having a family, someday. There were no concrete plans - those were all focused on her job and her final goal - but somewhere in the back of her mind she had always expected a family to somehow slowly materialize around her while she was focused on other things. A vision of her townhouse once again filled with laughter, life, and love danced before her eyes, a wish only recognized now that it was an impossibility. Maybe she had wanted to cling to the illusion that night, to grasp onto any part she could, as if prolonging it would somehow change it into truth by morning.
Maybe she had wanted comfort. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to face the world alone, isolated in her one more day in her office with only her worries for company. Maybe it had been a desire to he held and loved and shielded from the harshness of the realities outside. She had always prided herself on her realism, on disavowing anything not based in demonstrable fact, but looking back she had to admit that quite often she had been happy to delude herself. What had Paris been, if not a time when she had closed her eyes and chosen to ignore the outside world? If ever there was a time for her to take refuge in an imagined sanctuary, it was now. Maybe she had wanted to feel less alone for one night.
Or maybe she just didn’t want to have any regrets. She couldn’t change the past, but the present was still in her hands. She wouldn’t have to wonder about what might have been, she could say she had had it, if only for a brief time.
Not that it mattered. He had said no, and while it had hurt at the time she was glad now that he had. She had been selfish, given no consideration to the fact that he of all people didn’t deserve the additional pain.
“He would want to know.”
Her voice had barely been a whisper. “I can’t do this to him.”
“Forgive me for being blunt, my dear, but you are dying. You can’t change that.”
“I know. But I don’t have to make him suffer in advance.”
He would be there for her, of that she had no doubt. Whatever issues there were between them would vanish into smoke under the grim gaze mortality and he would be there by her side, caring and supporting and refusing to buckle under the agony. It was tempting, oh so tempting. To have someone with her to help her through it, to share the burden, to let her guard down around would be a relief, a comfort beyond measure. But she couldn’t do that to him, couldn’t make him sit there and watch her die, taken by an enemy he couldn’t fight or stop. After all the loss he had suffered she couldn’t put him through this.
“Being faced with death makes one value life, you know. When every day could be the last every day is precious, something to be treasured and well spent. Ideally we would all live our whole lives that way, but alas, we do not. That is why when death comes unannounced the survivors are so often left with regrets, things they would have done if they had known. You know.”
Maybe Ducky was right. Maybe she was kidding herself, saying that she was trying to protect Jethro. His losses had always hit him hard out of the blue. It might be fairer to tell him, to let him prepare and make his own decision about what he wanted to do. Maybe her reluctance to tell him had more to do with her feelings, her cowardice; maybe she just didn’t want him to know. For as long as she could immerse herself in it, her work gave her the semblance of normalcy every day; maybe she didn’t want that illusion destroyed. If he knew, even if he tried to treat her normally, she would be able to tell. She knew him, would be able to read it in the subtleties of his body language and the looks he threw her when he thought she wasn’t watching.
That was how she was sure he was still in the dark. He was worried about her and the tests Ducky had run, certainly, had even confronted her about it, but didn’t know the full truth.
“You have to tell him.”
That left her writing this. Once again she was leaving him with nothing but tainted memories and a letter. She would have said that the irony didn’t escape her, except it wasn’t irony, merely symmetry. She wondered what that said about them, about her.
She set her pen to the paper, but no words would come. She had no well-rationalized reasons for leaving him this time, no explanations to offer, nothing she could apologize for. All she had were fantasies of a life with different choices, and she couldn’t burden him with that, too.
‘Dear Jethro,’ the page still read. She sighed and set it aside. Right now she had a funeral to get to; there would be time to finish the letter tomorrow.* * *