And a Live Wire
Rating: T
Who: McGee, Abby, and Gibbs.
Summary: Blindly but surely.
I.
"There are words I need," he writes, "and they are not here."
It's come to this, then: writing, forcing a pulse into his words and finding a pulse in someone else's. It's the only way to move without leaving the room.
"The marvelous thing is that it's painless," he reads. "That's how you know when it starts."
He flits through eras. Light and sound, he moves through these barriers, too. The wounds from his car accident are defined by stories that prevent his world from being so far away. Some have taken on a cynical tone, because: don't believe anything you read.
"Shakespeare," he writes when the pins are out of his leg, "tragedies and sonnets depicting love in stereo."
The day he leaves the hospital he picks up a book on Greek mythology. Later that night he's become fascinated with the life of Daedalus, writing sentence after sentence and refusing the man pronouns—
(Daedalus, the skilled artisan with fowl in his future, the rebellious man whose child soared into the arms of Death. Trustworthy until the kings turned their backs. Daedalus, who had a riddle as a shield.)
—while laughing at how easily he dies inside.
II.
"Gibbs is definitely going to kill us." He couldn't keep the panic out of his voice as he realized Abby's naked body was starting to look familiar. "And where's my belt?"
"Don't know about your belt," she told him as her feet dangled over the side of her coffin, "and what about Gibbs?"
"Rule number twelve: never date a co-worker."
He gave up on the belt and bent down to tie his shoe. As he finished, Abby walked over to him and handed him his watch.
"Here's your watch." She held out her hand. "And what makes you think we're dating?" she added before leaving the room.
She's been leaving him clues. It's the start and stop of a period. Something only understood through empty silences that made him wonder why he bothers to write at all. Gibbs doesn't get short declarative sentences. McGee is jealous of unscripted moments and the miles so visibly underneath their feet.
III.
The first time he fired his weapon the slide pinched his hand, as if telling him, "You're new at this." Now he can pull a trigger without hesitation and wonders when exactly the novelty wore off.
Later, much later, it'll be the same with Abby; one day he'll realize his hands are running over the hips of the wrong woman.
IV.
A firefighter has his thoughts suppressed while books are burned. A girl's death is a catalyst when he realizes (too late, nearly) that books have always something to say.
That night he started a new novel. No title. Lead female character.
(Nothing but three pages of endings:
despite those odds, she lived.
It was unbelievable, no one thought—
… she survived.
And other such beautiful things.)
Poetic license and a warm firearm for inspiration.
This was never his story to tell.
