A/N: This is a tag to 'Shalom'. No, well, I suppose it is actually a tag to Hiatus, Part 2-I know, crazy throwback, yes? Well. I watched 'Shalom' the other night, and I just was accosted by ideas. Out came this little one. It's quite short. I hope it is enjoyed.
Although he by no means wanted to stop by Abby's apartment, he entered the complex with resigned resolution. He had been here once before, to end the life of a scorpion that had evidently trapped her in her kitchen.
It was with a very different objective that he visited now, and he dreaded her reaction. It was late. He had an hour to catch a flight to a secluded beach in Baja.
And Abby was going to cry.
He pressed the round, smooth button that called her room on the third floor, and when she answered, her usually happy voice subdued, all he said was:
"It's Gibbs."
He heard her gasp, like the sun had suddenly appeared at nighttime, and the inner door to her complex opened. He went in, his grip on his Marine backpack tight. He set his jaw and took the stairs, wincing with every movement.
His body protested at the weight of the bag and the strenuous action, still recovering from the explosion that had incapacitated him just days ago. He grit his teeth and pushed passed the physical pain; it was nothing, nothing.
His memory was back, but the grief and misery of fifteen years ago felt fresh, searing his soul like a branding iron, reminding him anew that his wife was dead and his daughter was dead, and he tried desperately to adjust again to the crushing realization that he'd never see them again.
His faithful Gothic lab tech must have been waiting with her green eye pressed to the peep hole; the heavy door swung open before he had a chance to raise his hand and knock, and she made a small leap forward, as if to hug him violently.
He held up a hand.
"Abby," he placated quietly, firmly. He didn't want her to hug him. He didn't want to feel her touch; he wanted to be alone; he wanted solitude and alcohol. Mexico had all of that. Mexico had no memories.
"Gibbs," she cried, her voice quivering. She clasped her hands together, her shoulders slumping a little at his rejection of her hug. "Come in," she said.
He shook his head a little, shifting his feet. He looked at her steadily.
"Please Gibbs, come in," she said sweetly, her eyes wide and hopeful. He swallowed hard; her green eyes sent him flashing back to the dark, suffocating interior of MTAC, to Director Shepard's green eyes and the look of horror that flooded them as the US government stood by, watching its military men be sacrificed in the name of political maneuvering.
He bristled with anger. He thought of all of the military families, those waiting at home who had lost loved ones at the hands of politics. The anger was penetrating; personal. He knew what it was to lose someone who anchored you to sanity, anchored you to all of the good in the world.
The world was just dark without Shannon and Kelly, and it was even darker now that he could see no decency left.
"You can't leave, Gibbs," Abby said softly. She frowned, her lip trembling. "You're El Jefe. Please stay."
"No, Abs," he said quietly. Firmly. He reached into his pocket, flinching inwardly as his hand grasped the small, folded piece of paper. He held it in his hand and pulled it out, holding it between them.
Abby stared at it, raising furrowed eyebrows and confused, pursed lips back up to him.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It's a number," he said gruffly, inconclusively.
It was the one and only way to contact him in Mexico. He wanted to be cut off. He wanted to be unreachable, and damn rule three to hell a thousand times. But something stopped him. A soft touch, a memory, and the arresting green eyes of a redhead stopped him from disappearing totally.
"A number?" Abby was confused.
Gibbs nodded curtly.
Abby shook her head a little, still not understanding.
"It's for emergencies," he said roughly. "If it gets bad. If she needs it," he added.
"Who—Gibbs, who are you talking about?" Abby asked fearfully, softly. She reached out to take the number. She looked at his handwriting, the name scrawled on it.
Gibbs looked at her oddly, as if he was surprised she did not know. But then, he did not really know. His memory was still fuzzy. He didn't know if he and Director Shepard—Jenny, he figured she was Jenny to him—had a relationship now.
"Jenny," he answered gruffly, as if it were obvious.
"The Director," repeated Abby quietly, nodding, and folding the note in her hand. "She doesn't want you to go either, Gibbs," Abby tried.
He shook his head in the negative, warning.
Something drove him to do this. To make sure she could get to him if she could. Jenny had woken him up in that hospital. Aside from the obvious erotic feelings that were lit up by her touch and the flashes of memory that assaulted him, there was something else.
A sense of trust. A sense of fragility. He knew, inherently, that at some point, she had been one who had assuaged the debilitating pain that weighed him down.
And he couldn't quite remember what had ended it, but on some level, he felt that leaving her a note had irony in it somewhere.
He turned to go, tapping Abby's closed fist gently.
She stepped out into the hall, watching him, her eyes full of tears. She bit her lip.
"Gibbs," she said in a choked voice. He stopped.
She ran forward a little, ducked around, and she hugged him.
"I'm sorry," she said, her effervescent voice muffled in his neck. She sniffled, holding him tightly. "I know it doesn't mean anything. But I'm sorry they died," she leaned back, her eyes red. He pulled away from her gently, his lips compressed tightly.
He looked away from her and back silently. He had nothing to say.
"We love you Gibbs," she emphasized. She held up her fist with the number in it. He thought of Jenny. He heard the same words, sort of, in her voice, a voice from the past. Saying, 'I love you, Gibbs'.
"Please don't go," Abby said again.
Except he was yanked back to 1991, and Kelly was hugging him in the driveway, kissing his cheek and begging him not to go to war. War was bad, she said. Daddy, please don't go.
"Goodbye, Abby," he said in a gruff whisper, ducking past her swiftly.
He left. He didn't look back. He just left Abby, and left the number—left the number for the redhead who, once upon a time, might have been his saving grace.
He couldn't remember.
He only knew that he couldn't let go of his wife and his daughter and, like them, he couldn't let go of Jenny.
Initially, this is written because I wondered how Abby got the contact number for Gibbs when Ziva asked for it in 'Shalom'. Yes, I'm aware Abby probably found it forensically, but I wrote this, so OH WELL.