A/N: Thanks to Aly!

"The last time we had steak au poivre, six people died." --Jennifer Shepard, Season3Episode"Family Secret".

“Are we walking or driving?” Jenny asked quietly, the red dress falling to the ground at her feet.

She stepped out of it and shook back her hair, looking at Jethro across the bed as she sat down and carefully removed her pantyhose. He didn’t even look up from his examination of his weapon.

“Driving,” he answered, loading the SIG. Jenny nodded, though he didn’t see her.

She pulled on a pair of black jeans and a clinging grey sweater, neutral enough clothes to keep her warm and also keep out of the way. Jenny determinedly put on her flat-soled black boots and made sure they fit snugly around her calves, concealing her weapon at the small of her back beneath her sweater. Complying with rule nine, there was a switchblade tucked into the boot on her foot. She looked briefly at Jethro as she passed, walking into the bathroom and picking up a brush to fix her hair out of the way.

“How is this going to go down, Jethro?” she asked mechanically.

She listened expressionlessly to Jethro speak as she brushed her curled hair out mechanically.

“Vance orchestrated the meet,” he said slowly, “four targets. Two of them were directly responsible for Olivia’s death. Leon arrives with them, we wait for them to settle in, and we strike.”

Jenny wrapped her hair into a high ponytail that curled at the nape of her neck and tucked the escaped strands of her hair behind her ears. She laid the brush carefully down and exited the bathroom, leaning against the door as she fiddled with the light switch.

“We’re outnumbered,” she pointed out shrewdly.

“Only by one,” Jethro said gruffly, “and we have the element of surprise.”

She gave him a hard, calculating look.

“If one someone ends up dead?” she asked.

He didn’t answer her, instead standing up and holstering his gun beneath his windbreaker, giving her a pointed look that plainly ordered her not to think that way. He crossed the distance from the bed to the doorway, pausing to place one hand behind her on the wood and lean in, his blue eyes boring into hers.

He touched her cheek reverently and then lifted her chin up, pressing his mouth to hers quickly and reassuringly.

“The only deaths tonight are sanctioned,” he said roughly, pressing another kiss to her jaw before he released her and turned purposefully towards the stairs. Jenny gave his back a faraway look as he descended and reached out absently to flick off the bedroom light. She followed him silently, acutely aware of the gun at her back and the blade in her boot.

At the door, he picked the keys to the car up from the hook and Jenny reached up silently and took them, breezing out the front door before he had time to protest. She needed to drive; she had to be doing something. He had done things like this before, in this job, maybe—certainly as a sniper in the corps. She hadn’t. She was new at this, and she wasn’t sure she could sit and think about it for an entire car ride.

“Where are we going?” Jenny asked dully, when Jethro had given her a rude glare from the passenger seat for taking the keys.

“Monceau,” Jethro answered gruffly.

Jenny nodded curtly, revving up the car and starting off toward their destination. It was a picturesque garden in the Champs-Elysees district; one Jenny didn’t particularly fancy carrying out assassinations in. It was relatively nearby without being too near to their residence, and she knew how to get there. It would be closed to the public now and all but empty.

“Why a place so common for tourism?” she muttered, for the sake of conversation.

“Targets are in deep with the French police,” Jethro mumbled back, checking the glove compartment for the weapon and extra case of bullets they kept there. He rummaged through the other bits of things in the compartment absently. “Police turn a blind eye to them using restricted places for illicit business if they get kickbacks,” Jethro extracted a pair of leather gloves from the compartment and slammed it closed. “Tourist park like this will be empty of bystanders this late.”

Jenny nodded in understanding.

“And cops, if they’re turning a blind eye,” she asserted knowingly. Jethro grunted in affirmation. He watched the road carefully and reached over to lay the pair of gloves on Jenny’s thigh as she drove. She flicked her eyes down at them and over to him in question.

“Wear them, Jen,” he said forcefully, “You’re hands will keep warm and you’ll shoot better.”

“What about you?” she fired back, looking pointedly at his hands. She pressed her foot against the gas pedal to avoid a red light, earning a horn from another car as she ran it instead.

“I’m not cold,” Jethro said.

Jenny rolled her eyes.

She swerved around a corner and took a back road, a short cut; to the place they wanted to go, just for the hell of it and to get out of traffic so she could hit the gas a little faster.

“Easy, Jen,” he muttered in apprehension, giving her a look for the driving.

“I learned from the best,” she retorted, returning the look.

She quieted into tense silence, and he stared at her for nearly the rest of the ride. It didn’t occur to him that she was getting increasingly pissed with the concerned stare. As she found a place to park the car, rather away from Monceau Parc’s entrance, she quietly turned off the ignition.

She released the buckle on her seatbelt and turned to open the door; Jethro caught her hand. He placed a cold metal cylinder in her hand and she looked at it, wrapping her fingers around it tightly with a short nod. She pulled her gun out from its place at her lower back and fastened the silencer on it easily, looking up at Jethro as he did the same.

He ran his hand over the finished effect and without looking at her, said quietly:

“You need to relax, Jenny.”

Her voice brittle, she didn’t waste a second in responding:

“Unlike you, Jethro, I’ve hardly had time to prepare myself for this assignment.”

It was a cold reminder that she wasn’t yet forgiving him for failing to brief her. She got out of the car fluidly, shutting the door without a sound, and he followed suit, coming swiftly around the front of it to catch her before she could march off.

“Wait,” he said sharply, taking her arm gently. “You get pissed Jen, and you start making mistakes—dammit, yes you do,” he growled sharply, cutting off her protest before she could get a word out.

Her eyes flashed, but she stayed silent. Wordlessly, she slipped on the leather gloves Jethro had handed her, arching an eyebrow at him defiantly.

“Calm down,” he ordered tersely.

Jenny leaned back against the car, relaxing her shoulders into it.

“Time?” she asked quietly.

“Almost midnight,” he said gruffly.

“How very cliché,” Jenny quipped sarcastically.

“Not sure Cinderella bitched as much as you, Jen,” Jethro muttered under his breath.

Jenny lifted both eyebrows in mild amusement, pursing her lips a little. She gave him a small smile and straightened up.

“I never was one for glass slippers,” she mused, stepping off towards the park. She threw a teasing smirk over her shoulder. “Coming, fairy godmother?”

Scowling slightly at the moniker, Jethro followed, catching up in a few swift strides. He glanced up at the inky, cloudy sky, trying to find the moon. It was a sliver behind a cloud, thin and waning after its full peak on Halloween. It barely cast a ghostly light on anything.

His eyes adjusting to the murky dark of the Paris Night, Jethro began taking in the green surroundings of the park, noting places for cover and places it would be bad to be caught alone, keeping his trained senses alert for signs of movement or other indications of life. His phone, along with Jenny’s, was off and in the car. They couldn’t risk alerting targets to their presence by having cells on them.

The park was pretty, even in the dark. He could see the dark shapes of well-kept flowers and trees, cultivated gardens and paths. He and Jenny weren’t following anything specifically; when he caught a glimpse of statuesque stone columns, he rested his hand against Jenny’s lower back and turned her towards him with a sharp nod in their direction.

In a myriad of trees, the old columns surrounded a pond in a semi-circle, standing old, tall and proud. The pond was covered in a glittery sheen of ice due to the cold, and powdery snow coated the bushes and branches around it.

Halfway behind a column and in an alcove of trees and brush, Jethro pulled Jenny close in the shadows, his hand falling readily to his gun at his waist. Over his shoulder and past the column hiding them, the trees opened up to a clearing on the bank of the pond, where the path was lined by benches. Jenny looked away from the targeted area and up at Jethro.

Towering over her, he stepped close and angled his mouth towards her ear, so he could speak quietly without a chance of being over heard by any nearby, sharp listeners.

“You get the first shot, Jen,” he hissed strategically, his voice gone of emotion, “create the panic. Don’t miss. Vance cannot move until we do or his cover is blown and he ends up dead; I take the next two shots in quick succession and Vance takes the final. That takes care of all four. If you see Vance hesitate a second, Jen, or if you think he didn’t make a kill shot—take out his target,”

“You don’t trust him to?” Jenny whispered.

“I want this over,” Jethro growled neutrally. “I know you’ll make the shot.”

Jenny smiled to herself. It meant a lot to her to hear him say that. She stepped closer to Jethro and rested her gaze over his shoulder, watching the clearing sharply for the approach of people. She eased her gun out from the small of her back and rested her arm against his chest, the cold metal of the silencer cushioned against his windbreaker.

Mentally kicking himself for what he was about to say, Jethro turned his head so his lips brushed her ear as he asked:

“Can you make this shot, Jen?”

The warning growl he received in return was his confirmation that there was no way in hell she’d miss this shot. All he had to do was challenge her abilities and she’d prove herself beyond belief; it was a trait that made her excel.

“Hear that?” Jethro mumbled.

She shook her head in denial a few inches. With a marine’s ears, he listened again to the sound of a leaf crunching here, a pebble moving there. One of the sounds seemed off—no, a few. His brow furrowed slightly; he gripped his gun and started moving it out of his holster.

“Jen,” he warned, his hand brushing her stomach, his gut starting to wrench unexpectedly. She made an almost inaudible noise of inquiry in the back of her throat. He swore the approach sounded louder than it should, for four people, not including Vance.

“One in sight,” Jenny murmured calmly. “Two,” she added.

Jethro was still hearing noise.

“Vance,” Jenny murmured, having heard Jethro describe his tall stature and African American ethnicity. Jethro had to bite back a derisive snort when she asked, in an irritated tone under her breath: “What the hell is he chewing on?”

Jethro swallowed hard, trying to discern why he was feeling so uneasy. It was the feeling he used to get in the corps before something went wrong with a tactical move or in cases when he’d underestimated or figured wrong.

Something was off.

Jenny cocked her gun, and he was momentarily distracted by the fact that she was still pressing the tip into his chest.

“Jenny,”

“I’m not going to shoot you, Jethro,”

He wasn’t exactly sure he should trust her. She was a little displeased with him, and she could also easily make it look accidental.

Jenny lifted her gun and settled it on his shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him she was going to make her shot over his shoulder, and probably deafen him. He briefly wondered of the deafening part had occurred to her and cursed to himself, deciding it probably had and he was probably being punished.

“Three, four,” Jenny said in quick succession, her breath tickling his ear. She shifted her hand up, grasping her gun steadily between two leather-clad hands balanced on his shoulder.

“Wait,” Jethro breathed, straining his ears in the silence. He heard Vance’s deep growl of a voice murmuring in French, and the soft, feminine murmurs of the Frenchmen he was with.

Jenny’s muscles stiffened suddenly, and he felt her wrists tighten on his shoulder as she gripped her gun.

“Five?” she hissed hesitantly, and Jethro’s pulse quickened. He lifted his own gun against his shoulder, turning and catching her eye sharply as she glanced at him. Anger and slight confusion coursed through him. Outnumbered by one was dangerous enough.

Branches snapped to their right, towards the pond and clump of trees and flowery bushes. Jethro maneuvered his hand to rest around Jenny’s waist, holding his gun out in the suspicious direction.

“Scout…” he muttered, and cursed violently under his breath, “Fuck.”

Jenny startled a little, unaccustomed to hearing him use that particular swear word.

“Six?” she sounded uneasy.

“Arettez-vous!”

The cold, sharp shout from the right froze Jenny’s blood in her veins. It happened so fast. She turned her head sharply, saw the man step towards them, his gun raised—a damn big gun—his eyes sharp and foreboding, and then Jethro’s hand tensed at her back and his bullet ripped through the man’s jugular at an almost impossible trajectory, leaving her stunned again at Jethro’s shooting capabilities.

She gasped, half in panic, half in relief, a surreal, suspended moment in a second of time…

…before a volley of bullets from the clearing by the pond erupted violently around them.

Barely flinching, Jenny fired her weapon rapidly in quick succession.

“One,” she snapped, and he took it to mean she acquired her target.

“MOVE,” he shouted, pushing her backwards roughly. They couldn’t afford to be cornered. She caught her balance easily and he swiveled around, stepping out from behind the column and took a speedy assessment of the situation.

The element of surprise was gone, Vance’s hands were tied, and he was facing four combatants, excluding the target Jenny had incapacitated.

“Merde!”

Jethro dodged a badly aimed bullet, half-distracted by a sharp gasp from the direction he knew Jenny was in; He fired a pristine shot directly into the forehead of his closest opponent, watching with cold indifference as the target dropped to the ground like a rock. A spray of bullets erupted to his right—one of them marching forward with military precision.

Jenny’s slim figure appeared, a shadow, to the side, catching the man off guard. She double tapped his chest from a side angle, exhibiting a bit of talent she’d picked up from Jethro’s rigorous training on the range.

The two remaining produced weapons, one a sleek handgun and the other a formidable automatic that chilled Jethro to the bone.

Jenny’s resolve faltered as she saw Vance standing stiffly next to the man with the automatic, his hand awkwardly at his hip where a gun was no doubt holstered. A sharp shout from the man with a handgun towards Vance prompted him to draw a weapon and point it at Jethro—frightened by the action, aware of Vance and Jethro’s dislike for each other, Jenny turned her head, letting out a strangled shout. In the blink of an eye, Jethro was obstructing her view and all she heard was a loud, deafening crack! before he stumbled back heavily and fell into her, the entirety of his weight overwhelming her and taking her to the ground.

In a quick flash, she saw Vance’s gun switch directly to the man with the automatic and fire directly into the back of his skull. Her arm tightening vice-like around Jethro’s shoulders from the ground, Jenny whipped her gun over his shoulder, struggling under his weight, her breath knocked out, and fired with deadly precision between the eyes of the man who’s handgun was still aimed at Jethro on the ground, killing him instantly as the final bullets the automatic had released before its owner’s death whistled past her head.

Letting out a strangled scream that faded into a sob as her last victim fell, she turned her weapon on Leon Vance as he approached, his gun still out menacingly. Blinded by the panic that had suddenly over taken her, dizzy with the coppery smell of blood assaulting her, she aimed at him, fury and terror coursing through her blood.

His hand went up, he slanted his gun at an angle in a passive gesture, and when she noticed the action, she aimed slightly high and in a shot that would make Jethro proud, cracked off a shot that ripped through the first layer of skin on his shoulder as his penance for screwing them over.

“Goddammit!” she heard him curse in pain, his breath drawing in. He chucked his weapon away, but Jenny had already averted her attention. She dropped her gun like it had burned her, her hands frantically falling to the place at Jethro’s side where his jacket and shirt were slowly soaking through with blood. She pressed her gloved hand against the wound, willing herself to breathe, her vision swimming with tears, her ears ringing.

“Jethro!” she shouted hoarsely, looking down at him. He looked pale. His gun rested on the grass beside him. Wincing, Jenny extracted herself from under his dead weight, yanking him up with all of her strength, her arm still around his shoulders. “Jethro,” she said weakly, pressing into the wound.

He coughed and groaned, opening his eyes. He looked a little confused, his eyes clouded with pain.

“Jen, you’re bleeding,” he said gruffly, pushing her hand away from his side and touching her face. She shuddered as his hand smeared his own blood across her cheek and grabbed his hand, using it to help her stem the wound. She heard Vance’s quick footsteps halt next to her as she cursed at Jethro and brushed a second hand away from her.

“Not me, you bastard,” she shouted tersely, her voice trembling. So many emotions were ripping through her now.

“Keep your voice down,” snarled Vance, crouching beside her.

She turned a livid countenance on him, her cheeks red and her eyes ablaze with rage.

“You goddamn son of a bitch,” she hissed, and he looked at her with steely eyes. He ignored her and ripped her hand away, pushing aside Jethro’s windbreaker and yanking up his shirt to look at the wound.

Paling at the sight, Jenny gave a shuddering gasped and willed herself not to look away. Her head spun. Dark crimson blood stained his entire side, seeping onto everything, coloring the grass. The bullet wound was burned, nasty, and looked deep.

Jenny moaned, distressed, her eyes going in desperation to his face.

“He’ll live,” Vance said roughly, yanking the shirt back down.

“He damn well better,” Jenny snarled, violently wrenching Vance’s hand out of the way and replacing her smaller, gentler one on Jethro’s wound, noticing sharply that his skin tone turned ghostly white at the touch. She murmured incoherently under her breath hand then turned fiery eyes on Vance again.

“Get us out of here,” she ordered, shaking, unable to drive in this condition. “Stage the scene,” she ordered forcefully, turning her full attention to Jethro. Vance gave her a violent curse and stood up, going to it. She sensed in him a knowledge that he had done wrong.

He had caused this.

“Jethro,” she almost whimpered, reaching up to stroke his cheek while Vance was not near.

“You hurt?” he asked gruffly, but his voice sounded shallow.

“Stop worrying about me, dammit,” she almost shouted, hoarse and worried.

Struggling, Jethro sat up, brushing her hand at his cheek away.

“Don’t—“ Jenny protested in a strangled voice, but he ignored her, wincing as he straightened and drew a leg up, recovering. “You’re bleeding a lot, Jethro,” she said in a scared whisper, and he looked over at her through clouded vision to see the panic in her eyes.

“Had it worse, Jen,” he said, with a smirk.

“I’m going to kill him,” Jenny hissed.

“Not now,” Vance said from behind her, sternly, crouching down again to look at them. “We’ve got to get out. Now. There’s no way that shoot out wasn’t heard.”

“There were a few more guns than expected,” Jenny said sharply, coldly.

“I’ll explain later,” Vance snarled, giving her a short look, “let’s go.”

Jethro bent one leg under himself and was staggering up, using Jenny’s shoulder as a prop, before she could protest. She squeaked in surprised, winced under his weight, and stood up quickly to provide support, which he brushed off.

Sharply grabbing his arm, Jenny slung it around her shoulder and wrapped one arm around his waist, stemming the flow of blood as best she could from the angle. Jethro hissed at her in pain, leaning on her a little more than she knew he wanted to, hunching a little against his wound.

She shot Vance a look of hatred and he beckoned sharply, handing her both Jethro’s and her gun as he started to walk. With quick reflexes, Jethro took the gun and slipped one back at the small of Jenny’s back and held the other, still determined to protect even when he was the one down this time.

The walk seemed forever, and Jenny could feel her panic and emotional upheaval heightening as the darkness shrouded them further. Vance led them to an obscure path where three cars were parked; he picked out a sleek, deep red sports car from the mix.

“Unregistered,” he barked, opening the doors with the press of a high-tech button.

Jenny helped Jethro into the backseat, pushing him back against the opposite door as she slammed hers behind her. She shoved his windbreaker off of his shoulders and folded it haphazardly, pressing it firmly against his side.

“Drive!” she shouted at Vance angrily, without looking at him. He gunned it.

“I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances, Miss Shepard,” Vance said tersely from the front seat, almost sarcastically.

“Agent Shepard, you pompous bastard,” Jenny barked, receiving a weak smirk from Jethro, “and if by pleasant you mean you in a goddamn grave then yeah, likewise.”

She focused her attention on Jethro, her hand flying to his pale forehead. He was broken out in sweat, his breathing getting lighter. His pulse was still strong.

“I hurt you when I fell?” he asked.

“Shut-up,” Jenny snapped, her hand running over his torso, one hand resting briefly at his heart, irrationally making sure it was still beating. “Save your breath.”

She looked up sharply, trying to keep herself busy, at a loss of what to do for Jethro, burdened by the sudden need to spill her guts to him emotionally—something made impossible by Vance’s irritating presence. With calculating eyes, she glanced out the darkly tinted car window.

“Where the hell are we going?” she asked.

“Your safe-house,” Vance answered coolly, “it’s the only protected place.”

“He needs medical attention!” Jenny yelled viciously, almost jumping into the front seat.

“I’m afraid we can’t risk that, Agent Shepard,” Vance shouted back, obviously fed up with her. “The bullet wound is clean: get out the metal, cauterize the wound, don’t let it get infected and your boss is fine,” he turned and gave her a sardonic look, “though I’m sure with your nursing he’ll improve much faster.”

Anger flashed for the thousandth time in her emerald eyes and she dragged her self back into the backseat with Jethro, her jaw clenched tight to restrain herself from throwing a volley of marine-worthy curses in Vane’s direction.

Whatever he meant, whatever he was implying—she would kill him for it. She took pleasure in the red stain trickling down Vance’s arm from the clip she’d given him with her gun. She did not feel the slightest need to justify it as an accident. She had every damn reason to shoot him. He had all but ambushed them, and he made her skin crawl.

Kneeling in the floorboards uncomfortable behind Vance’s seat, Jenny pressed firmly against Jethro’s bullet wound, desperate not to let him lose any more blood than necessary.

“Jesus, Jenny, ease up,” he growled, knocking her hand away when she applied a little excess of pressure. He closed his eyes and rested his own hand against his side; Jenny drew her hands back, taken aback by the rough outburst, hurt a little. The car jerked and she was thrust forward into him. Jethro hissed and cursed sharply, reaching up to steady her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice breaking a little. She hesitated, her hand hovering above his side, briefly hypnotized by the amount of blood on him. It was such an arresting sight, so weakening and sobering. She’d never seen him injured before. Not like this.

“Snap out of it,” Jethro ordered, his hand touching her face. She felt the warm, sticky blood on his hand stain her face again and she closed her eyes, holding back tears. “Damn good job back there, Jen.”

“Stop talking,” was all she could whisper.

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything after that, for fear her resolve would fail her.

She fished the key out of his pocket with trembling fingers when Vance parked the sleek car on the street outside the Paris townhouse. She handed it to him with a cold look when he opened the back car door and got out, watching with trepidation as Jethro sat up—hiding his winces—and hauled himself out of the car using the door for support. He held the windbreaker, soaked in his blood now, against his side and grinned. He nodded at Vance as Jenny wrapped an arm around his and shut the car door gently.

“Who got him?” he asked.

“I did,” Jenny answered curtly, not batting an eyelid. Jethro lifted an eyebrow, looking impressed.

“On—“

“Damn right it was on purpose,” she snapped, pulling Jethro’s arm around her again and walking up towards the house.

Vance held the door open, and Jenny marched straight past him to the kitchen. Dragging out a chair from the table with her foot, she propped the back of it easily against the table and eased Jethro into it as much as he would let her, crouching down onto her knees next to him. She heard Vance locking the deadbolts on the house, and he appeared in the kitchen moments later.

“Gibbs, first aid,” he said gruffly.

“Bedroom at the base of the stairs,” Jethro answered, catching Jenny’s hand as she reached for his wound again and holding her off, “Under the bathroom sink.”

Vance disappeared.

Stubbornly ignoring Jethro’s staying hands, Jenny thrust them out of her way and removed the windbreaker, trying her hardest not to look at the blood covering it. Her throat locked up as she started pushing his shirt up next, peeling it away from the ripped and tender flesh, her hands shaking as she listened to his almost concealed intake of breath. Once she got it over his head, she immediately plastered it against his side.

“Hold it there,” she murmured, standing up and taking a washcloth out of a drawer. She ran it under lukewarm water in the sink, looking across the kitchen at him.

He leaned his head back in the chair, his eyes closed, and she bit her lip to steady it. His side, his pants, his hands, and the other parts of his clothing were covered in blood, pools of it, and random splatters of it. She couldn’t stand to see it and she couldn’t stand the smell of it. If this was how he felt when he found her that night Olivia disappeared, she forgave him for every overbearing, protective action he’d ever performed—even if his over-protectiveness has caused this.

Jenny swallowed hard, wringing out the rag. She returned to Jethro’s side as Vance entered with Ducky’s medical bag and a first aid kit. He placed them on the table and opened them both, rummaging around. Jenny watched him wearily as she took her cloth and dabbed gently at Jethro’s side, clearing away blood, trying to stop the bleeding.

Vance removed thick gauze, tweezers, a bottle of the same painkillers Jethro had given her for her ribs, sandpaper from the first aid kit, tape bandages, an antiseptic and—to Jenny’s apprehension—a metal instrument with a flat end. Ducky really was prepared for anything, and she thanked God for that.

“Hospitals,” Vance said mechanically, “are not options. Gibbs is lucky this isn’t fatal. The bullet is lodged right at the surface; the problem is the bleeding. You’ve stopped it enough, Jenny, for me to extract the bullet, but it will start again once it’s out,” Vance looked over the medical materials, examining them. From the pocket of the long coat he was wearing, he pulled a lighter and flipped it in his hand, laying it next to the metal instrument.

Jenny watched him like a hawk.

“Ducky doesn’t have a knife,” he murmured.

Swiftly, Jenny produced her switchblade from her boot.

“Rule number nine: always carry a knife,” she parroted sternly. Jethro snorted from the chair, peeking at her through an eye. Vance scowled at her. He picked up the gauze and started cutting strips of it, handing them to her.

“Place these around the wound to soak up blood,” he murmured. Jenny complied, using as much care as possible, her eyes stinging every time Jethro’s skin contracted beneath her hands or he tensed away from her.

“You sure you know what the hell you’re doing?” she asked tersely, turning a cold eye on Vance.

“I’ve done this before,” he said sharply.

“I’m comforted.”

“Gibbs has probably been through this,” Vance pointed out, picking up rather large tweezers from Ducky’s bag, “There isn’t always time for proper care in war,” he murmured, crouching beside Jethro’s chair.

Jenny stood up, folding her arms and moving in front of him, biting her lip.

“Give him that sandpaper to bite on,” Vance ordered, and Jenny, without a word, picked it up.

Jethro took it as if it were nothing, biting down on it between his teeth firmly. Vance placed his fingers around the burned, angry round wound on Jethro’s side and spread it open wide, quickly inserting the silver prongs into it. Jethro’s shoulders tightened and his muscles clenched; his knuckles turned white on his knees but he didn’t make a sound while Vance dug around to grasp the bullet.

Jenny stepped back, her hand going to her lips as she watched his face turn white. Vance pulled his hand back swiftly, holding up the tweezers with the bullet between them, and Jethro groaned; the sound muffled by the sandpaper.

“Get me the antiseptic,” Vance ordered absently, and Jenny was quick to distract herself, snatching it off the table for him. He opened the bottle and almost dumped it onto Jethro’s side, dousing the wound in it, and then cleaning up with the gauze. He took Jenny’s washcloth to stem the flow of new blood.

“Jen,” Jethro said hoarsely, and Jenny looked at him sharply. He sounded hurt. He looked hurt. She almost couldn’t stand it.

“What?” she asked quietly, as if Vance weren’t even there.

“Bourbon.”

She nodded; though he didn’t see it, and retrieved it, sloshing a generous amount into a glass for him and keeping the bottle to steady her own nerves. Jethro didn’t touch it right away though he gripped the glass tightly.

“Give him two of those morphine tablets,” Vance ordered, and Jenny could only comply. She pushed them into Jethro’s hand, her fingers desperately squeezing his, brushing his, trying to glean subtle confront she couldn’t derive with Vance watching her every move. He dry swallowed the pills, taking a long swig of bourbon only afterwards.

“Here,” Vance said, indicating she should take the cloth.

Jenny knelt next to Jethro and pressed her hand to the cloth lightly, stemming the blood flow and being careful not to hurt him all the same. She watched with dull eyes as Vance picked up the metal cauterizing instrument, flicking the lighter on and holding it. The other agent looked back at her and at Jethro, the flame cracking silently.

“I know what I’m doing,” Vance said, not as rude this time. Jenny nodded curtly.

Vance took up his place again, his shoulder touching Jenny’s this time, and as he focused on getting near Jethro’s wound to stop the bleeding and close it up, Jenny inched back, removing the warm cloth and drawing her hand up the inside of Jethro’s leg to his thigh beyond Vance’s field of vision.

She looked up at her lover as Vance touched the hot metal to his side for the first time and flinched at the first acute show of pain she ever saw from Jethro. He tilted his head back and screwed up his features as if trying not to yell, biting down hard on the sandpaper. She pressed her hand into his thigh, wanting to soothe him, unable to, as Vance pulled the metal back and then pressed it down again.

The smell made her sick to her stomach.

Jethro grunted and one of his hands threaded into her hair, jerking tightly at the pony tail, almost dragging it out. She ignored the sharp tugging, immune to her discomfort, hyper-sensitive to his. When Vance was finally finished, Jethro gradually released his hold on her hair but his muscle rigidity held and his breathing remained shallow.

Vance applied the antiseptic again as Jethro downed the rest of his bourbon, dropping the sandpaper to the floor distastefully. Vance stood up and Jenny reached for the bandaging on the table, taking the gauze and settling on her knees again, determined to be the one to patch him up.

“Agent Vance,” she said quietly, in a voice Jethro, in his stupor, recognized as dangerous, “Explain yourself.”

Vance turned away, pacing across the kitchen and turning back.

“My cover was on the fence,” he muttered, “One of the targets questioned my loyalty. I had to orchestrate a strategy to strengthen my credibility, keep my cover intact, and allow you to carry out your assignments,” he paused and turned around, rubbing his forehead as he approached Jenny.

He put his hand on the back of a chair, looking at her.

Jenny, her expression stony, looked up at him briefly as she cleaned the blood away from Jethro’s skin, her hair falling tangled and messy around her face.

“It wasn’t supposed to turn into a blood bath,” growled Vance.

“You gave us up,” Jenny prompted mildly, the underlying threat evident in her voice.

“No,” Vance said fiercely, “not what you think, Shepard, no,” he said. “I traded Intel. Told them I knew of a plot to trap them into extradition and fed them some bullshit about the American Government,” he paused very briefly and plowed on, “I told them I was CIA, and my agency was about to burn me, destroy my credibility, trap them into murdering me, and use that to get them.”

“Risky,” snarled Jenny, unimpressed.

“I had to do it,” Vance snapped. “Once they pegged me for a disgruntled CIA operative, they believed I was theirs, all through,” he looked her dead in the eye. “I told them about the meet. I said there’d be one shooter, one photographer in a car way off. I didn’t know how you and Gibbs would approach; I thought Gibbs would pick them off from farther away. The initial number was four, I didn’t know about the change of numbers—“

“I don’t give a damn,” Jenny said dully. She dropped what she was doing at Jethro’s side and stood up, her eyes hard and old. “I don’t want to hear it; I don’t care. This is the second time you’ve done something that’s gotten one of us hurt or killed for your goddamn cover,” she snarled viciously advancing on him, “If you think that’s justifiable, fine, maybe you’d better offer your services to the CIA because we don’t play that way at NCIS—it doesn’t work. We work as a team. You do not screw over your colleagues—“

Jenny broke off. She could barely contain her anger. She felt betrayed, hurt by Vance. Hurt by all of this. Jethro was hurt.

“I don’t trust you. I cannot trust you because you’re rogue, you’re unpredictable—someone’s given you too much rope and I hope you hang yourself with it,”

“Watch it, Agent Shepard,” Vance said coolly.

Equally icily, she responded:

“The last time I checked, Leon, you weren’t my boss,” she gestured to the chair behind her, where Jethro had raised his head and was looking sharply at them, “Your actions got my boss shot. I don’t take kindly to that. We upheld our part of the assignment. Now you make a call. You talk to Morrow. Goddammit, Vance, you make amends.”

She glared at him like she’d never looked at anyone before. A vein jumped violently in Vance’s temple, his eyes were wide and cold with anger at being spoken to like that. She didn’t care. She was almost distraught.

“Need I remind you, Jennifer, that you deliberately shot me?” Vance asked through gritted teeth.

Jenny smirked.

“Consider it a casualty of war,” she said, “Cementing your cover,” she spat as an afterthought.

Vance had found his phone. He looked sour, angry, disgusted—but Jenny thought she saw the shadow of regret in his eyes, of sorrow. She didn’t get a vibe of evil or treachery from this man, just ambition. Strong, unbridled ambition that took away his care for others.

His phone was in his hand, and he was flicking it open and closed.

“The two of you have an assignment lined up,” he said curtly, keeping the phone open on his last flick, “Its dangerous here after what happened. I’ll report to Morrow,” he hesitated for a split second, “I’ll have your transfer expedited to get you out faster, safer,” he glanced at Jethro, “And give him time to heal.”

Jenny glared at him, and finally nodded coldly.

“I’ll be in touch,” Vance said tersely. He received only a cold nod.

“Get out,” Jenny said softly.

With narrow eyes, he pushed past her, and as his shoulder roughly brushed hers, she scowled, her brows knitting, her eyes on Jethro. Without turning to look at him, she said in a calm, dangerous voice:

“If you ever call me ‘Jennifer’ again, Leon,” she paused as his footsteps stilled, “I will keelhaul you.”

She waited what seemed like an eternity for him to unbolt the door and leave, shutting it with a forceful slam behind him.

If it was the last time she ever saw Leon Vance again, she could care less.

In the bitter silence that followed Vance’s departure, Jenny re-approached Jethro and knelt beside him, tenderly returning to bandaging his side. His eyes were closed still, his breathing a little more even now, but his skin was still coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Jethro,” she murmured, carefully attaching a small bandage over his wound to protect it. “Oh, Jethro.”

“’M fine, Jen,” he mumbled.

He shifted his head and his eyes opened halfway, he looked down at her lazily, still clearly in pain. She slowly rose and pulled up a chair, sitting next to him, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. She looked at him eyelevel, her eyes stinging painfully again.

“Been shot before,” he muttered, looking away from her sad eyes. She bit her lip hard, ignoring the taste of blood in her mouth. She felt sick all over again, thinking about what could have happened. Her muscles ached when she thought of Jethro’s body slamming into her when he stumbled back with the force of the shot; she flinched at the memory of the cracking noise and his grunt.

She reached out with nothing to say, her throat deadlocked, feeling thankful and so scared at the same time. Her fingers brushed his chest, brushed the slightly feverish skin, and she found his heartbeat, pressing down against it.

It hit her in a staggering wave how much she loved him. It bothered her more than ever that she was finding it so hard to say those stupid words to him the way he murmured them to her after he first said them. It had been her fear that if she gave to freely, she’d lose. It occurred to her now that if she had lost him tonight, she would never have been able to tell him again.

“Your hands are cold,” Jethro said hoarsely.

She’d never heard him admit to being cold before.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his warm shoulder, covering his skin with kisses, touching her forehead to the crook of his neck.

“I love you. Jethro, I love you” she said huskily, murmuring it against his skin. The words eased her heartache a little and she kissed his shoulder again, her words catching in her throat. She started crying, turning her face finally against his chest, trying to muffle the sound. This fear of losing him she’d discovered scared the hell out of her.

Note on Jenny shooting Leon Vance: She shoots him because she's pissed and she can get away with it; it will help maintain his cover. Sound Familiar?:] Hint: I watched Season2Episode "Reveille" yesterday...