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He didn’t read too much into it at first. After all, guessing and reading between the lines were not his strengths. For God’s sake, he didn’t have any interest in solving non-work mysteries, let alone the patience required.
Gibbs’ squinted his eyes, trying to focus on that piece of paper in front of him. The texture and the smooth handwritings suggested a cheerfully voluntary Bishop arranging the signup for Ducky’s Thanksgiving potluck, probably as soon as she arrived the bullpen. The doctor himself had generously promised the group a turkey and stuffing, much to everyone’s delight and relief. Gibbs himself put his name for the effortless grab-and-go beer and wine without much guilt.
Then he saw it, nearly at the end of that list, “Sloane and guest—pumpkin pie and ice cream.”
Guest, it read. Singular.
“Uh, boss?”
He looked up and saw a slightly confused McGee sitting at his desk. Gibbs threw the signup sheet back on Bishop’s desk.
“Nah, just looking.” He left that before walking out.
When the autopsy door opened and revealed a silent and fidgeting Jack Sloane, something clicked, and he felt a slight twist in his stomach.
Palmer always thought he wasn’t the kind to bringing others comfort with words, but he knew he wasn’t inobservant. Jack has been sitting next to Nigel Ford’s body for a while. She was facing her dead friend, her back arched and Palmer guessed that her hands probably held together in front of her chest, reminiscing a guarding posture.
“Shall we divide and conquer?” Came that familiar voice of Dr. Mallard, ready to work on both bodies.
“No, let’s, uh, let’s both start here.” He decided otherwise.
He knew that Jack was self-conscious about displaying her mourning in the workplace, and he could tell she needed it.
“He meant a lot to you.” Jimmy paused his work and walked up behind her. “Uh-hmm.” He could see that she was a bit shaky, as if the unnecessary movements could ease her loss.
“So, did he…I mean, were the two of you…?” He didn’t have to finish or say it out loud before that velvety, yet raspy voice hit him. “Occasionally,” she tilted her head a bit and actually chuckled, “Uh, no, he was a, he was a really good friend. Shoot, I forgot to tell him that.”
Something in her voice seemed almost not sorrowful enough for this occasion, and that lack of blatant melancholy made her distorted and distant. Her one hand was rubbing her necklace, trying to fight the fidgeting that has accompanied her since the morning. In her mind she knew she wasn’t putting up that good of a front. Her other hand went up to the dead MI5 officer’s face, caressing his eyebrow and cheek in a nostalgic fashion.
Jack was still in shock, from the moment she realized Nigel was not speaking during the call he made. For a brief moment she thought it might be the result of three scotch, considering it was almost 3am, and that was absolutely against his gentleman’s habit. Could it be that the liquor and tiredness and lack of sleep finally peeled off the last remaining reservation he had? Now she’d never know.
She remembered how he comforted her when she was shaken up after their special joint operation two years ago. When the op ended, they were freezing in a little cabin deep in the Russian forest. She had to feel more pain to confirm that she was still alive, to cope with the guilt that she and Nigel had more luck than some others.
“Sloane—” she could barely hear his voice amongst the growling of the windstorm outside, “this wasn’t your fault.”
But she could feel the way his arms held her tight, preventing her from falling onto the ground and the way his shirt smelled, the soothing soapy scent, when she cried into his shoulder, and shortly after the heat and the moaning and the sensation of him sliding into her.
“Hey, you okay?”
She turned around at his caring tone, giving out a dry smile at Gibbs, and sat down next to him outside of the hospital.
“Well, I guess not bad, given the circumstances,” she stopped for a second, “or the alternatives.” The sense of sarcasm made him laughed and ached in his mind.
Less than ten minutes ago he witnessed her punching the guy responsible for Nigel’s death violently, to the extent that he had to hold her back and pulled her out of it. He glanced at her hands and saw the dried blood on her knuckles.
Sensing his attention, Jack took the opportunity of tucking away some hair strands, avoiding his eyes. Before she could drop her hand, she felt a jacket fell onto her shoulder.
“Cold in the wind, Jack.” Gibbs wrapped his jacket around her shoulders, covering that borrowed hospital uniform which was too thin for the winter. She looked down and let out a suppressed sigh.
“You want to know who Nigel was to me,” dipping her head a little she cast her non-question precisely on his face, “if I slept with him.” Looking back at this moment she was surprised that she could so easily open up to him. She decided to admit something to him, if not everything.
He averted his gaze, “he’s your plus one to Ducky’s potluck.” Another non-question, to diverge from the previous one.
“Not anymore.” The edge was still sharp.
He reached out for her hands but froze for a second—his arm was stretching out like a frozen tree branch, and slowly, he lowered his hand to cover hers.
“We did it. The joint op two years ago, I was a mess when it ended. He helped me to cope. I guess we both needed to know that we were alive.”
She looked down again, interlacing her fingers, shrinking herself into his jacket, surrounded by his scent.
“You don’t have to—”
“He never asked questions,” nonchalantly, and slowly, she continued, “but he was always there. Even after the op he would drop by San Diego when he could, and…and I never object.”
He swallowed, then let his soft gaze fall on that beautiful face. “Door’s open when you’re ready to talk, Jack.”
She raised her head and give him the best smile she could manage, “I appreciate it.”
It took her a while to take him on his offer, and it took them both a while to give each other the same open invitation. Little did Jack knew, years afterward she’d appreciate his offer even more. (the end.)