A/N: This is (clearly) highly metaphorical. I love me some metaphors! :D It makes a lot of sense to me.

'Samson': by Regina Spektor


Their story was a good one.

So no one knew it but them. So it was a secret. That didn't mean it didn't happen. That didn't mean what happened in Paris wasn't the best love story never told. Theirs was a story encased in a book sewn in bullets and stolen romance, with pages of worn case files, in between the lines of which was scrawled the tale of Jenny Shepard and Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

It seemed so long ago, now. After all that had happened. The pages of their unopened history book were yellowing, the spine frayed at the edges, because they couldn't bear to look at it and no one else ever would. They had been young.

They were by no means something as memorable as Caesar and Cleopatra, nor would they ever rival the fame of Samson and Delilah, but what they had, back then, under cover—literally, figuratively—had been everything to two people with so much to hide and so much solace to seek.

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go, I have to go
Your hair was long when we first met

It was taboo now. An immoral story in a banned book that could never be reopened; a sequel would never be written to ruin the fragile nostalgia of the original. Neither she, nor Jethro, spoke of it. They ignored it, and they bickered about it under the guise of veiled metaphors and bitter regrets.

So she had left him, and it was like betrayal. Jethro wasn't good at hiding his resentment and hurt when he looked at her, if it was just the two of them, even if they spoke of something utterly different than their unorthodox, storybook past.

But they were different people back then. Their work had consisted of the two of them, their instincts, and the flawless way they worked together. There had been no teams and no politics, it had been duty and the job punctuated by stolen moments of playfulness and coy romance.

It wasn't original to have an affair in Paris. It wasn't original to have an affair with your partner. But them? They weren't Casablanca, either. They were just a story untold.

Samson went back to bed
Not much hair left on his head
He at a slice of Wonderbread
And went right back to bed
And history books forgot about us
And the Bible didn't mention us
The Bible didn't mention us, not even once.

Black-and-white, indulgent memories teased her often. Out of the blue, she held on to the good ones, odds and ends in a photo book called memory. The strange ways she and Jethro had discovered things about each other without asking questions. The way they just knew each other. Felt each other. Understood.

She remembered fights that had shaken things to the core, and then fights that had ended in laughter, so trivial. How he used to eat toast in bed, after he ran in the morning, and get crumbs everywhere and she hated it.

No; they weren't Cinderella and Prince Charming, or Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler—though maybe, that was damn close in some way.

She wondered if he thought she was a mistake he'd made. A regret. An accident. She would never call him that, when she read their story to herself at night, or now, when there was nothing else to do but sit and wait. Jethro wasn't a mistake. He had been a downfall, a stumble. And damn, she wished she'd just let herself fall.

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the stars came falling on our heads
But they're just old light
They're just old light
Your hair was long when we first met

She thought she'd loved men, until Jethro. Maybe she had. She hadn't loved anyone like she loved Jethro, then and now. She hadn't fallen as hard. She hadn't held on to that feeling. Not until Jethro.

Their story was full of humor, sorrow, hatred, and hurt. He was no knight-in-shining-armor and Jenny herself could never be mistaken for a damsel in distress—no, not the conventional kind. She was a Joan of Arc, rather than a Mary Magdalene.

It wasn't like the age-old, well-loved, romances. Not at all. It only had the words that the two of them knew, and they were mixed, written in their blood, metaphorically.

Samson and Delilah, maybe that was it. Maybe that was close; biblical. Stories of choices and right and wrong. Except she hadn't been Delilah; she had really loved him. She had just turned her back on that. She had shredded that into pieces.

So maybe she was Delilah. She saw it in his eyes, how much she had hurt. What she had taken from him, when she made her choice. She had a heart though. No; maybe he was Samson, and she had cut his strength away.

And she was just a downfall?

Samson came to my bed
Told me that my hair was red
Told me I was beautiful and came into my bed
I cut his hair myself one night
A pair of dull scissors and the yellow light
He'd told me I'd done all right
And kissed me until the morning light, the morning light
And he kissed me until the morning light

What genre was their story? Ecclesiastic? Romance? Drama? Fiction, nonfiction, science, fantasy? It was everything and nothing. It was just history. Real. Tangible. Untold and locked like a diary by their silence and unresolved issues.

She wished she had a chance for a better epilogue. One that left him, Jethro, the only other reader with some soothing feeling of closure. She wished it wasn't like this, but it was. She almost wished it was a story everyone would know, so he wouldn't let it die.

She had killed it first, though, when she slammed the book shut and made the last page a Dear John letter instead of a happy ending.

Samson went back to bed
Not much hair left on his head
Ate a slice of Wonderbread
And went right back to bed

Was he Samson? Was she Delilah? Was she Jezebel, a different biblical woman and a lamentable one all the same? Was she comparable to any woman, when theirs was a story unique in its unfolding.

Had the story really ended, or was it just waiting to be finished, was this part the end? She knew the fire still simmered, even if she had tried to stomp it out with her cowardly footsteps as she left him. She hadn't succeeded.

Theirs was a story like no other because they hadn't been able to kill it. It had ceased to carry on for a while, but it hadn't ceased to exist. It was beyond their control.

We couldn't break the columns down
No we couldn't' destroy a single one

It was still unwritten. It was only known to them.

It was over now. And this didn't make it Romeo and Juliet, because Juliet didn't die so Romeo would stop aching for her. Juliet died because she was a stupid teenager, and Romeo followed suit. Juliet didn't die to save his life because she'd ruined it in Paris nine years ago.

Jenny did. Jenny wanted him to let go.

She read their story in her head while she waited. And she smiled.

And the history books forgot about us
And the Bible didn't mention us
Not even once.

No Shakespeare play, no Hollywood epic, no Biblical myth. Nothing would immortalize their story. It would remain known only to them, her favorite bedtime story, with an epilogue undesirable but full of closure all the same.

Yes. Their story was a good one.

It's still a good one.

But every story has its end.

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first.


Sometimes, I think I should write metaphorical prompts for the AP Exams. Then they would be fun:)