September 2, 2011: In Serbia

September 2, 2011

Inspired by a prompt in the 15 Minutes a Day Writing Group I am a member of. Yes, oh yes, it’s fanfiction. Thank you to NCIS for existing. It should be noted that I do not make any money off of this mess of words that came from my fingers. NCIS and everything involved with it belong to the powers that be at CBS.

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.

It’s the little things. Like how he sneaks out of bed early in the morning to brew coffee the way he likes it but how when he brings it to her, there’s just a perfect pinch of cream and sugar to tone down the strength of the brew. Strong enough to eat it with a fork, he says one morning. It’s better than putting hair on her chest, which was something her father used to say.

It’s those little things. He makes the bed, always with tight corners, and she swears he hears his drill sergeant barking in the background while he does it. How he has no concept of modesty as he traipses around the broken down farmhouse, but makes sure that the windows are covered every time he moves in for a kiss. It’s how he pays slightly more attention to one breast over the other because he’s figured out which is more sensitive.

Standing in a field, watching him pluck gourds from the ground, she lets herself imagine that they are not on some deep undercover mission, doing after terrorists and other gun running mafia enemy combatants but that they really do own and work this land and they are really Jeanne and Jorge, not Jenny and Jethro. If they could leave the badges locked away in a drawer, forget their missions, they could just be together. Get married. Have children. But he doesn’t fit into her plan to someday rule the world and he knows it. So they playact and enjoy the dumb little things like coffee and made beds and  sitting on the porch late at night, wrapped in a blanket, his hands wandering.

“That’s the last of it,” he says with a tired chuckle. She’s been run down, dealing with some flu bug that’s had her puking three times a day. But she wanted to stand out in the field with him while he dug up a squash, their squash for dinner. On the way back into the farmhouse he wraps an arm around her to keep her stable and she knows he worries.

“You gonna cook that thing?”

“Pop it in the oven, scoop the flesh out with a spoon. It’s all in the wrist you know.”

She laughs lightly even as her stomach rumbles angrily. The thought of food made her want to run for the bathroom again.

“I had no idea spoons made you laugh, Jen.”

Again, a giggle. Harder this time. There was nothing to laugh at except the image of Jethro covered with the flesh of the squash he carried under one arm, seeds sticking to the walls as he tried to fling them away.

“Yeah, didn’t think they were funny. I heard the assassination squad in Mossad know how to kill people with spoons though.”

“They could kill you eighteen different ways with a paper clip.”

“Good to know. I’ll keep my distance.” They reach the steps and she sinks onto the porch, her legs giving out after just that short walk. He frowns and kneels in front of her, his hands stroking her cheeks – and leaving trails of dirt behind she is sure. She doesn’t care. “Anything you want to tell me, Jen?”

“Just the flu, Jethro.”She leans in to kiss him, but the image of a spoon being used as a lethal weapon creeps back into her mind and she starts to giggle. The giggle builds and pours out of her, more and more, until she is lying back on the warped wood of the farmhouse, holding her sides and laughing. Jethro still kneels, watching her, and she knows he’s sure she has finally lost it. She’ll be sent back to the states. She won’t get to work anti-terrorist details with their allies. She won’t get made director. She won’t get to go after the bastards she wants to chase. But she’d be with Jethro.

It’s almost worth it.

She sobers up and sits up, wiping her hand along her sweaty brow. “I’m fine, really. The spoon image just strikes me as funny tonight.”

“I worry about you sometimes, Jen.” He stands and holds out a hand. She accepts it. “I’m going to go make dinner. Why don’t you lie down for a while.”

She nods and squeezes his fingers before leading him back into the house.


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