Within Range

by the stylus

A post-ep for Dog Tags, after a fashion. Because Gibbs is too dogged to let things go that easily.

All of the characters you recognize belong to someone else.

A/N: An unbirthday fic for elflordsmistress, who says the nicest things, even when they aren't true. Which is most of the time. She wrote me the amazing and HOT "Chomping at the Bit," and if you're old enough you should head straight off to read it, because I got much the better end of that exchange. E, just let me know when you want your money back.

I've got reservations about so many things, but not about you. --Wilco

He had expected the basement range to be empty. It was, after all, eight o'clock on a Saturday night. The bullpen was silent, hollowed out of its usual human bustle and darkened except for a few forgotten circles of light standing sentry over empty desks. But as he stepped out of the elevator, he could hear the sound of shots being fired. One person, to judge from the cadence, and an experienced shooter. He paused outside the door, counting shots until he could be sure the clip was empty.

As he pushed the door open, familiar smells drifted toward him: the blood-sharp tang of cordite and warm metal, saline sweat, and the dampness of the basement that lingered underneath. There was also, however, a scent he hadn't expected-- perfume. The red hair, stark against the bright orange ear protectors, gave her away as soon as he stepped across the threshold. She gave a quick glance in his direction, and he smirked a little as his insistence on the supremacy of her agent skills was borne out. There was no way she could have heard him open the door-- she must have felt the change in the air currents.

She spared him no more than a moment before returning to the task of reloading. He settled against the back wall, hooking a pair of ear protectors over his ears, and watched her work. He'd always liked to watch her work. He had been surprised the first time they were in a firefight to realize that, despite puking at her first autopsy, her hands were always steady. She slid the bullets into the clip methodically, then slammed it back into the grip.

As she raised the gun, he could see the slight tremors skating down her muscles that indicated that she'd been at this awhile. It didn't stop her from putting all eight rounds through the center of the target that her previous shots had blown out. As she popped the clip out, he schooled his features to hide his grin. Better to know what sort of mood she was in before he committed to anything.

Pulling the ear protection around her neck, she turned, blowing her bangs away from her forehead. "Enjoying the view?"

Testy, then, but not irremediably so. "Keeping an eye on placement. I'd hate to think your time behind a desk had atrophied your skills."

She gestured with her chin toward the target. "Pass muster?"

"Eh." He shrugged and pushed off the wall with his shoulder. "'Spose it'll do."

He brushed past her to place his own gun on the ledge, deliberately crowding into her personal space in a move he knew would irritate her. He'd always relished that little frisson of annoyance. She stepped aside, taking up his position against the back wall, her nonchalant stance a clear challenge.

He checked his gun, feeling her relentless gaze in the tightness between his shoulder blades. Letting out a long breath, he raised the gun and centered his sights. The first shot was slow, but he quickly settled into the rhythm, sending all eight bullets into the tattered center of her target. This time, he did allow himself to grin.

"Not bad," she acknowledged without a hint of a smile. "Could be a fluke, though."

His grin widened as he reloaded. The bullets were smooth against the side of his roughened thumb and slid in easily, a routine as familiar as the movement of the sander against the wood of his boat. When the clip was full, he unloaded it again through the absent center ring-- faster this time. As he lowered the weapon, he rolled his shoulders, relishing the feeling of his muscles relaxing.

"Nice shooting," she said. And was gone.

He gave it twenty minutes. Time enough to clean his gun, take the target down, wash his hands. Not enough time to think too much about it. Or too little.

Up the stairs to her office, taking them two at a time-- his feet were flat, heavy. His shoulders were loose. He found her at her desk, where he had known he would find her, although the overhead lights were blazing. He had expected more darkness.

"Jethro," she greeted, smiling a little now. He smiled, too.

"Buy you dinner?" He was prepared for excuses, demurral. Even for irritation.

"I know how much you make. I'll buy." She swept up her coat and briefcase in a single fluid motion and was out the door. He followed silently, afraid to shatter whatever temporary truce had been called.

He didn't like being chauffeured, so he smiled at Bruce, the new kid on the Director's security detail, and gave him an unexpected night off before opening his passenger door. She quirked an eyebrow at him but kept quiet as she slid in.

He headed for a small red-sauce Italian place he'd eaten before, figuring neither of them was up for a gourmet meal. Jenny was dressed as casually as he'd seen her lately, in a v-necked shirt in some soft material and grey trousers that sat low on her hips. The latter had made following her down the stairs an exercise in self-discipline.

Only his low conversation with the host broke the cocoon of silence that enveloped them. He wasn't a man of many words, but he wasn't sure he'd ever known her to be this quiet. She studied the menu more intently than it deserved, especially since she always ordered the same thing. When the waiter inquired about wine, she let him choose without so much as a twitch of her gaze—another sign that the evening wouldn't conform to the patterns he knew.

"Thank you," she murmured as the Chianti was poured. He watched her take the first sip, then lower the glass to regard him levelly. "And thank you."

He nodded. "Shouldn't spend a Saturday night in the office."

She opened her mouth and he tensed, ready for a comment about his nights and his boat, but she checked herself and instead took another long drink. "Whatever the reason, thank you."

The unaccustomed silence fell again. They had been many things to each other over the years, but they had never lacked for conversation. He watched as her restless hands unwound her napkin and set out the silverware, aligning each piece with a studied precision.

"Jen," he started and her head snapped up. But he didn't finish the sentence--didn't know how to. They didn't do small talk—had never really discussed sports, or books, or current events. He supposed as Director she did talk about those things, had a stable of subjects on which she was glib and intelligent and charming, but not with him.

She gave him a little twisted half-grin that had no malice in it. "Let's not talk about the weather."

"What should we talk about then? You've made it clear that certain subjects are off limits." It slipped out before he could stop himself, breaking the tacit promise he'd made that this evening wouldn't be about recriminations. They'd had enough of those.

Instead of taking it on, though, she just looked away for a moment. "Tell me about McGee and the other Jethro," she said when she looked back, and he knew it was as close as she would come to pleading.

So he did, and she hung on his every word. Laughed in all the right places and asked the right questions, even though he realized midway through the story that she'd heard it all before. She'd become closer to Abby than he realized, and he wondered how he could have missed it. He kept talking, though, recounting the pride with which the canine Jethro had brought McGee a dead rabbit and his agent's discomfort, even days later, with the memory of the bloodstains and the lingering scent of the dead animal in his apartment.

"Poor McGee," she sympathized with real warmth in her voice. "You have to admit, Jethro does seem to take after his namesake."

"And how's that?"

"Well, he's a man who prefers to demonstrate affection through actions. And you did once bring me a dead rabbit. Though," she poked her salad fork at him, "you had the good grace to wrap it in butcher paper."

He remembered. It had overmatched both of their culinary skills, and they'd ended up feeding the ghastly results to the local stray dogs. At the time, they hadn't needed much of an excuse to skip meals, anyway.

"Speaking of rabbits," she said, and she was off, recounting a hunting story that she'd heard from one of the bigwigs at a Congressional function. She was a good storyteller—better than he remembered—and she still talked with her hands when she was happy.

So this, he thought, is how she does it. This is what Director Shepard looks like outside the walls. It was a beguiling picture and maybe went a long way toward explaining their recent budget increases.

But she'd also been an agent. One he'd trained well. "You have that look again," she said softly.

"What look, Jen?"

"The look that says you want to ask me something."

"I do."

She shook her head, studied her fork as it wound circles in the pasta. "Don't."

He heard: Please. Didn't know whether to push or back away; hated the uncertainty that she brought out in him. Nodded. Said: "Fair enough," and saw something wounded skitter across her face anyway at the echo. Wondered if it showed on his.

The feelings that had been on slow burn all day, some icy amalgam of anger and fear, twisted in his gut. He put his fork down, his hunger gone. They'd done their best work together undercover and he didn't want to think it was because they were only friends when they were other people.

But in the next instant he knew it wasn't true, because she read him with a glance. "Jethro, it's not your fault."

"I didn't say it was." He wasn't even sure he knew was it was.

"I know." He waited, because with Jen that sort of mildness was usually a prelude to something fiercer. But she went back to her meal.

In silence they finished. She paid. He drove. At her front door, she turned to him. "I would ask you in…"

"But you have to do what's best for you?"

Hers was the saddest smile he'd ever seen. "I'm thinking less about what's best for me these days."

He reached one hand up, cupped her cheek and felt the fine nap of her skin under his fingers. Saw her huge, luminous eyes close as she turned her head to kiss his palm. The pulse in her throat was steady, and he could feel his own leap to answer it as he leaned in, breathed her name.

It was a single kiss, and relatively chaste, though it flared with all the intensity he remembered. But she pulled back after a long moment, running her hand down the front of his jacket with a briskness and precision that was forced.

"Thank you for dinner," she whispered.

"Anytime."

"I'm going in now," she said, not moving.

"Okay."

She didn't turn right away but stayed there, backed against her door and refusing to meet his eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them away from her body and studied the crown of her bent head. He was lightheaded, a little bloodless—like the first moments after a concussion.

Finally, she twisted away and put her key in the lock, swung the heavy door open and stepped in to silence the whining alarm. He didn't move, just watched her walk into the darkened house with the sure steps of long acquaintance.

When the wailing ceased, she turned back, her hand on the door and met his eyes. "Don't follow me, Jethro. Not tonight."

He nodded as she swung the door gently closed. Some part of him tracked the sounds as she rearmed the alarm, as her footsteps faded down the hall and up the stairs. The rest of him just waited, as if for a blow that never came.

Fin