AUTHOR: Ashleigh Anpilova
PAIRING: Trent Kort/Jennifer Shepard
SUB-GENRE: Established Relationship
SUMMARY: There are some things Jenny likes to keep private.
WORD COUNT: 1,175
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for alidiabin: P - Private
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, nor am I making any money from them. I merely borrow them from time to time.
If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance – George Bernard Shaw
Jenny's job often makes her feel as if she is always on display; as if she is always under scrutiny; as if people are always watching her, just waiting for her to fail.
She knows (as Gibbs once, in his blunt way, pointed out) that she is the 'Junior Director'. Even after just over two years of doing the job, she is still the Junior Director of the Federal Agencies; still the new girl; still the lone woman in a man's world. And because of this she feels she has to try a little bit harder to always look well groomed, well dressed, to always have a smile, to always be ready to defend her agency, to fight her corner; not to fail - she feels that way inside and as well as outside of the agency.
So much of her life is an open book for everyone to see; they see the failures as well as the successes; in the world of Federal Agencies there really is no place to hide. Little is private in her life and it rarely has been. But lately she has something in her life she fully intends to keep private - she'll die before she lets this become known about. In fact even after she dies, she hopes it will never become known about.
Trent Kort. The man who came into her life in connection with La Grenouille. The man she wanted, still at dark times wants, to despise for stopping her from letting Ziva take the shot, thus ending the life of the man who had ended her father's life. The man who despite working for the CIA she still isn't certain as to whether he wears a white hat or a black one - sometimes she thinks he doesn't know either. The man who always seemed to be there, always seemed be around, interfering with her personal vendetta - because that is what La Grenouille had been, no matter what she had told Gibbs. The man who had saved La Grenouille once, but who couldn't in the end save him again. Maybe he even chose not to save him, maybe he had even been ordered not to save him. Who knows what the CIA do? At times she thinks that not even the CIA seem to know what the CIA do.
Trent Kort. The man who flirted with her in a brazen fashion from the moment they met. The man whose voice has always made her shiver with pleasure. The man who called her chérie. The man who had sent her to Russia. The man who knew it was she who had killed La Grenouille. The man she had flirted back with. The man she had allowed into her life. The man she told herself at first she was going to use, given she couldn't get rid of him.
Trent Kort. The man who has shared her bed for the past five weeks. The man she is addicted to; already loves; wants more than she has ever wanted a man; the man she trusts, even though she knows she shouldn't. The man who wouldn't be above using her, the man she sometimes, when she is alone in her big bed in her big house, allows herself to wonder if he is using her. The man she can't get enough of. The man who knows all her intimate secrets - well nearly all of them.
Trent Kort. Her secret. Her privacy. Her private pleasure.
It can't last; she knows that. It won't last; she knows that. He isn't part of her plan, but then she isn't certain she has a plan any longer. For the first time ever she is living for each day rather than for the future. It isn't just her relationship with Kort that has changed her, it isn't just the way he looks at her, the way he speaks to her, the way his mouth, lips and hands do things to her that delight her, make her crave more, make her question herself, make her question him, occasionally make her ashamed that she isn't ashamed by the level of intimacy he bestows on her.
It's also the other thing she is keeping to herself; her death sentence. She hasn't even told Kort about it; she doesn't see the point in doing so. As intense as their relationship is, as deeply in love with him as she is, he could walk out of her life tomorrow with a kiss and a 'take care, chérie'.
Besides she doesn't want him to know. She doesn’t want to spoil what time they have left together thinking about, talking about, her illness. There is no cure; Ducky had told her that. There are medicines she can take, does take, that help to keep the symptoms at bay for now, but that's all they can do. With all the advancements in medical science, she will still die from a disease that cannot be cured.
So she won't tell Kort; just as she won't tell Gibbs. Yet she knows Gibbs knows or at least suspects something is wrong with her from the looks he keeps giving her. It doesn't surprise her that he knows; when she'd gone to Ducky for help she'd always known the chances were high that he would in some way let Gibbs know.
She knows he'd never betray a trust openly; she knows he would never have come out directly and told Gibbs. But Gibbs has a way of getting things out of people, if only by a non-admission or a look - and the one person Gibbs has always been able to read even better than he read her has been Ducky. So she is certain he knows something.
Maybe she should tell Kort, maybe it would be fairer, but she won't. She will keep her death sentence private from Kort, just as she keeps Kort private from every other part of her life. He'll be home soon and he'll sweep her into his arms, as he always does, crushing her lips with his, calling her chérie, telling her he loves her, before lowering her onto the bed and doing wonderful things to her.
She hears the front door slam, she doesn't know what Noemi thinks, she doesn't care what Noemi thinks. And then she hears quick footsteps on the stairs and her bedroom door is thrown open.
"Chérie," he calls, dropping his briefcase and coat onto the floor, while pushing the door shut behind him before striding across the room and sweeping her up in his arms. "My chérie," he whispers, as his mouth meets her and she's pulled against his hard body.
As she gives herself up to the pleasure of his hands and mouth on her body, she doesn't know how many more such times she'll have; she doesn't know how long she has left. But what she does know if that she will live her last few months, weeks or days, day by day, taking her private pleasure while she can.