He'd started a case the day after she'd left and finished it in under seventy two hours. He started another the day after that and finished that in just about the same amount of time. Neither of them took him far enough out of the Metro area to distance him from the vacancy of her presence. Neither case encompassed him enough to really and thoroughly cut the concern for her from the very bittered base of his lungs.

Two days after she'd left, Abby was listing the most prominent tourist attractions in the city of Lisbon from studied memory, forcefully jamming a red pin into the city on the map behind her desk. She didn't stop referencing Portugal until Day Four, maybe Day Five. He'd stopped paying attention, really. Tried to anyhow – because it seemed as though Lisbon was to be a semi-permanent port of call and Abby had an arsenal of trivial cultural trivia.

No movement was reported through MTAC, no sound, no traffic nor reference to her team.

At least, not that he was privy to hearing about.

But then, even McGee couldn't seem to trace back anything but her very first check-in.

His gut was telling him that she probably wasn't going to be gone for all that terrifically long.

(How long did it really take to kill a man?)

His gut was twisting misshapen in a form it hadn't taken on in years.

(If he was the man in question, about as long as she was gone it seemed.)

Day Six said he would no longer find any relief in sleep in any shape or form. Not in the bed that now routinely smelled of her shampooed hair and the sweet of her perfume. Not on the couch with the remote laying across his chest and his arm stretched on the table, fingers toward his coffee mug but really resting on the sketchbook she'd left behind while he stared blankly at the late night replays of a football game. Not even under the ribbed slopes of his boat as he stretched his middled aged and aching back along the center of it and stared at the ceiling, holding the base of his bourbon filled mug balanced against his chest.

Day Seven (had it really only been a week so far?) Snyder surprisingly came back alone on a middle-of-the-night transport out of Lajes Field. The transport had been headed farther west, but they'd stalled long enough at Andrews for him to sleepily roll out into a cab and show up at NCIS with a shiner round his right eye that should have gotten stitches at least two days before. And he hadn't gotten the chance to even speak to the man before he'd just nodded a jaw tight silence between them on his way upstairs.

Day Eight and Snyder'd been in a five hour debriefing with Morrow, representatives from the CIA and Naval Intelligence.

Day Nine and (despite the most wrathful of looks he could muster) he still hadn't gotten the man to spill a word beyond "She's fine, Gunny.".

Well, except "I swear, Gibbs.".

Day Eleven and he'd accidentally broken a part of the boat when he'd, maybe, intentionally pushed it (and himself) too hard. Maybe he'd done it so he had an excuse to curse, loudly, throughout an empty house.

He heard her steps upstairs in the hall on Day Thirteen and he chuckled in silent irony at how lucky the unluckiest of men could actually be.

"Privét, krasavitsa."

He knew teasing the term at her had been a minor mistake when she'd paused herself still halfway down the steps, both her hands white knuckling the railing as she stared at him from a couple yards of distance. She seemed strangely immobile, her body shored up tight and clean and seemingly perfect from his vantage point. Her clothing was pristine, its usual perfect fit and cut. That long sleeved green shirt he adored and her pants slung low on her hips, gracing her toned curves. Her hair was tied back but prettily so, the ponytail smooth and swept back off her face. She looked no different than she had a little over a week before, really.

Except for how indescribably pale she was. Except for the fact she'd taken off her shoes and jacket oddly at the top of the steps and left them forgotten on the landing.

Except for the fact that it seemed she was unable to move any closer to him as she stared across the room with a look that said she was just as likely to throw up over his railing as McGee probably would have over the side of a trawler.

"Kate?"

"Harden up," she murmured and he'd had his breathing held just still enough to hear it.

But at least her body had somehow decided to move, something in her had tricked her engine back over and she was breathing rhythmically again as she loosened her fingers from the rail.

He watched one of her small hands pass gently, guardingly, down the rail as her steps went slow and controlled to the bottom of the steps. "What?"

"Secret Service." She nearly pulled herself still at the base of the stairs but the lift of her head had her matching his glance and he reflexively nodded into it, keeping still as she slowly pressed away from the railing and toward him. "When they're drilling you it's the call sign for imminent danger. In training those words mean the worst possible scenario is about to take place."

Her voice was quiet, expectantly so. But it was icily controlled in such a calmed manner, a precise pronunciation to her gentle words that had him simultaneously concerned by the danger of despondency and impressed by her choke hold of control.

"So you fall in. Close ranks." Gibbs supplied quietly, reaching his hand down to casually lift his mug and aim it toward his chest as she made her way toward him, her eyes focused on his movements rather than the room.

She shrugged but the movement didn't seem to relax her in any way. "You harden up."

"You ever hear it used after your training?" He kept his voice as quiet as hers, testing her acceptance by reaching out to tug against the ride of her belt.

He exhaled when she nodded in response, letting her hip lean marginally into the touch as she curled fingers against his forearm.

"September 11th?" He watched her nod again in response. "Ever use it yourself?"

"Once." A huff of near laughter puffed past her lips as she leaned into his hand coasting up along her lower back, tucking her closer. "With you."

Unconsciously he lifted the still warm cup toward her lips, a shift of a smile tugging on his mouth as she let him tip it so she could take a small sip. "Yeah?"

But she still wasn't necessarily looking at him. He still hadn't gotten to enjoy those brilliant eyes up close.

"And again yesterday." Her tongue skimmed her bottom lip as he lowered the cup, letting her take it away from him without explanation. "Didn't even realize it until now."

"With Yates?"

"She's phenomenal, ya know?" She took another supposedly blasé swallow from the cup, a look marring her features that said maybe it had been a mistake before she set it back down into the half built boat frame. "She didn't blink."

He didn't want to ask. He needed to ask. Or, maybe, she needed him to ask. "Did you?"

Kate finally lifted honesty darkened eyes at him and he felt his ribs gate closed against his lungs. "No."

Despite how aloof her posture was supposed to be he jerked her close, noting the way her eyes flinched thin at the movement and her lungs shunted still as he palmed against her sides. "Good girl."

Her face was suddenly dropped rubbing hard into the center of his chest, both hands clenched up into the fabric of his shirt as she mumbled into his chest, "No, I'm not."

"Katya - "

"Just don't, okay?" It was a snapped whisper that skipped heat against his throat. "Nothing you say is gonna change... just don't."

She tugged once, jerking her small palms tighter into his shirt in a way that dragged them up closer while her head dug farther down his chest. "Okay?"

"Yeah, I get it." Gibbs lifted his hand against the back of her head, wrapping the ponytail into his fingers while he rubbed his lips into her hair on a nod. "Okay."