The Whipping Turn

Paris - A suggestion

Jenna was sprawled out on her bed, her assignment papers everywhere. Some Russian ego had felt it necessary to have his extensive and rambling literature review provided to the good people of France which was faring bloody hard translate. She'd spent a lot of time in the dictionary.

Luckily, that was something Jenna had a lot of these days, with her useless ankle and that stupid, clunky, itchy godforsaken moonboot propped out wide to her left side. Sitting with her long legs stretched out on her bed, her ankle elevated on a cushion, was far more comfortable than the dining table, and not for the first time in the long, boring weeks, Jenna was grateful for her crazy big bed. Furthermore, her tiny but quiet and private room didn't require her to dress up and since Jenna felt like just having a shower today was an achievement, her track pants/hoodie combo with messy hair in a high bun, was more than acceptable.

Voices from the lounge drifted in, briefly interrupting her thought process. Shawna's team likely, or, noting the low tones, perhaps her brother. Jenna thought nothing more of it, engrossed in her words. When there was a knock before her door clicked open, she was slow to respond and reluctant to shift her brain, to lose her train of thought.
She straightened slowly from her bed-desk, opening her body up like the ballerina she always will be, to see, with shock, two familiar and unexpected faces.

What the hell?

Oliver and Jean were hesitantly watching her as they filled her doorway, taking in her mess and her boot, unsure of her reactions. They stepped in, Jean gently closed the door, and opened his mouth in greeting but Jenna beat him to it. "What are you doing here?"

Her was voice flat and eyes hard and cold and she noticed Jean glancing at Oliver. Was he nervous?

Well, she didn't care.

"We came to see you. Uh, we wanted to talk." Jean was trying to be authoritative.
"Please." he added.

"Go for your life." She replied and bent back down to her work. She hoped she sounded bored but in reality was pissed to find her heart thumping and palms sweaty. Damn these guys and all the feelings.

It had been a couple of months since they had ended things, and for her, they had been filled with hard, painful weeks and she found she had nothing to say. That her ex-fuck buddies had dropped in for a chat was confusing. Who just dropped in these days anyways?

Oliver's curious gaze didn't go unnoticed by Jenna. This was a side of her he'd never seen before – a tough exterior, a shield she'd raised to protect herself from getting hurt again.

Oliver and Jean found a spot by the wall, lent up against it and slid down so they sat on the floor, knees raised. Jean rested his arms on his knees, straight out in front of him, playing with his signet ring, around and around his finger. Jenna watched, her thoughts swirling. These guys weren't strangers to dealing with people who shut them out. She realized they were making themselves vulnerable, sitting there lower than her, creating a different kind of connection. With her head bowed, she also knew they could now see her face – a face that held a mix of defiance and the traces of hidden hurt.

"Are you ok, Jenna?" Jean looked pointedly at her foot. She raised her head, glared at him and said nothing.

Jean continued. "Um, ok, well I'll start then. Uh."
He cleared his throat. "Jenna, we're sorry. We were wrong. It wasn't just sex and we knew that and we didn't know how to take it any further, so we just stopped. And we know that was shitty. We know it was cowardly. We, we want..we thought..." he faltered slightly, glancing at Jenna's expression.

"We miss you," Oliver filled the gap, shrugging and holding out his hands in apparent openness. "We want more. We want you. With us."

All of a sudden, there was no more pretending to work. She eyed them and let the silence grow uncomfortable.
To their credit, they held it and Jenna was quiet and unfeeling when she finally spoke. "It's been two months. Two months."