Work Text:
She stepped out of her car and the cold night wind rushed into her face. She slammed the car door shut and the heavy sound echoing through the empty parking lot took her by surprise. She sighed silently, heading towards the elevator, left behind a trail of sharp ponding by her heels. She impatiently pushed the elevator button and in the seemingly forever wait, she rubbed her forehead trying to stop the unbearable migraine.
She kept her posture when she walked through the dark, empty squad room, until she locked her office door behind. The gradually stiffing sensation she has been feeling took over, accompanied by the pain she has familiarized with. She poured some bourbon and stared into the empty street.
In the still darkness, for the first time in a while, Jenny looked into her own reflection. Age has worked its magic on her face gracefully, but her illness has crawled under her skin and invaded her entire body. For the past few months, she went from panic and denial to now complete acceptance and…giving up.
The pain started as normal discomforts in disguise—headache, back pain, etc. She jokingly told Gibbs one day that she might start to understand what age can do to a woman. And then one evening, she collapsed on her kitchen floor suddenly while pouring herself some liquor. After she regained her consciousness, she dialed Dr. Mallard’s number. When he showed up, he saw Jenny exhausted and curled up on the couch, the thick alcohol liquid and broken glass reflecting the light from the chandelier. Jenny practically threatened him to not speak to anyone about this.
Two weeks later and after many medical tests, Jennifer Shepard knew that she was dying.
She stared into the empty night of navy yard. The pain has costed her many nights of sleep and she would rather spend the time in her office than at home. Here, inside of her office, high above where all the agents talk and work and travel during the day, she feels like she could gain better self-control. She was afraid that if she stayed at home alone washing her pain down with alcohol, she would not resist the urge to call Gibbs. But she must not do that. He must not know about her condition.
Jen remembered when she was first appointed the director. She paced through the building dressing up in a delicate yet powerful way, occasionally picking up on agents gossiping. She pretended to hear nothing, and more than often the conversation stopped abruptly after several agents turned around, giving her an embarrassed and horrified glance. Too young, they say. Too ambitious, they say. She never let anyone see her reactions, but deep down inside she wondered from time to time whether it was really like what her old partner said, that she was better as a field agent. Now, as she was slowly dying, those gossips and assumptions seemed all too trivial.
She sat down at her desk to ease the pain in her back. Swallowing down the remaining bourbon, she turned on the lamp and took out her pen. “Dear Jethro,” she wrote.
She stopped and watched as the ink slowly bled through the paper, forming tiny irregular edges at her cursive handwriting. What exactly did she want to say?
She sighed and folded the unfinished letter carefully before putting it in her drawer. Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow, perhaps she would work up the courage to face her mistake and finish this long overdue conversation through writing.
She turned off the lamp and let her thoughts drift into the silence and darkness.
--the end.