His nightmares always began in Autopsy. He would enter to find the tables full of people he loved, or he would unzip a body bag to reveal a mangled corpse he recognized. Perhaps it was because that was his greatest fear—some would argue his only fear. He lived in terror of those he loved being taken away from him. It had happened before. He tried not to care for anyone, it was easier that way, but the feelings remained.
Tonight was no different. The doors leading into Autopsy slid open, and he entered. It was dark, and all he could see was a long, black shape on the nearest table. Trepidation filled him. Cautiously he approached, wishing to forestall the moment when he would discover who it was beneath the black canvas. Too soon, he was standing beside the table. Procrastinating, he memorized the length and breadth of the shape inside. He ran a hand over it and shuddered when he felt the hardness beneath, then wrapped his fingers around the zipper and pulled. The noise of the opening bag was painfully loud. Peeling the flaps away, he glanced down at the cadaver's face. He looked as way just as quickly.
This was not only a dream, it was also a memory. He forced himself to gaze again at the still, white face. Cloudy brown eyes met his own, but did not brighten with recognition. Under any other circumstances, he could imagine Kate smiling, laughing even, at the absurdity of the scene. Even now, years later, when he had accepted her death, he half-hoped that she would sit up. He looked away from her eyes, and searched for other familiar details. Her dark hair was uncharacteristically messy, a few strands falling into her grime-and-blood streaked face. The bullet hole in her forehead was even and precise. Kate had not suffered; he could be comforted with that.
He left the bag open, but turned to look at the rest of the room. Was he really so fortunate that only one corpse would haunt him tonight? One that he had already seen so many times it had almost lost its sting? Almost. But no, he had never been very lucky. Another bag appeared on the table that was beside Kate. He slowly moved around her and, steeling himself, opened it. As he had with Kate, he sucked in a breath and looked away.
Tony was quiet and still. His eyes were closed, and his face was oddly peaceful. A small smile was even playing around his lips. Swallowing difficultly, he pulled the zipper farther. Tony's white, button-down shirt was stained with large splashes of crimson. His fingertips brushed through the younger man's hair, and he almost smacked the tousled mess. Why hadn't DiNozzo been wearing a vest? It was foolish, careless. The Special Agent knew better.
The third table was occupied by Ziva. He let out a low moan as he gazed at her ravaged face. The Israeli agent's body was torn, her clothes and skin mangled and soaked with blood. As with Tony, he ran his fingers through her thick, dark, hair, and stroked her cheek. He could not image how this had happened to her, how someone had caught her so unawares that they had managed to mutilate her before she had a chance to kill them. Who was powerful enough to do this? A small smile, dry and humorless, crossed his face when he realized he was taking the scene too seriously. It was a dream, only a dream. Kate was gone, but Tony and Ziva were alive and well; he had just spoken with them before falling asleep. Just a silly nightmare.
Or was it? Because the body lying on the next table belonged to someone he had never dreamed of before, not like this. He always awoke before recognizing the face attached to the familiar body, but now he saw it. Fear jerked him backward, sent him stumbling into Ziva's table. There was no body bag. She lay as though Ducky was about to start an autopsy, although she was still dressed in her customary, eccentric clothes. Her hair was even pulled up in its usual pigtails. He approached again, more cautiously, breathing heavily. Her green eyes were open and shocked. Dark lips slightly parted. Someone had slashed through her leather collar, opening a deep gash in her neck. Blood lay thickly on her pale throat. The sadistic bastard had then proceeded to trace, none too gently, her spider-web tattoo, dying the black ink red. Anger, revulsion, and an inescapable grief filled him, and he turned away.
And so it continued. His dream did not seem aware that Autopsy could not hold the number of tables he saw. Ducky, Palmer, Vance, his father… Everyone he had ever spoken to seemed to be laid out. The final body—he looked around several times to ensure there was no more tables—belonged to McGee. He was small and frail-looking, but his bloodless face was intent. Cadaver's expressions were not so pronounced, not that he had ever seen, but Tim's was. Whatever he had been doing when he died, it was something he believed strongly in. The knife wound in the man's throat was similar to Abby's, and he wondered if McGee had been killed protecting her. It was something the young agent would have done.
He paced through Autopsy, staring intently at each body again. In most cases, he experienced the same stabbing sensation in his heart as when he had first seen them. When he reached Kate's body, he turned and searched the rest of the room. There were no corpses in the cooler, no one hiding beneath Ducky's desk. The only bodies were the ones he had seen.
Something was missing. In most of these nightmares, in nearly all of his dreams, good or bad, he was haunted by the images of two people who were truly gone, not like most of the people lying in Autopsy now. His wife, his little girl. Why were they not here, so that the pain of seeing them again would throw him over the edge, would force him to wake up? Maybe they were lurking somewhere else in the building. Abby's lab? The squadroom? A sudden noise behind him caused the troubled agent to turn…
There. Smiles radiant, arms welcoming—they stood in the doorway. He moved swiftly, lest their shapes wither before he was able to hold them. Scooping the little girl into his arms, he was pleased to find her warm and solid. She giggled, and the sound echoed strangely through the dark room of death. His wife watched him, beaming with pleasure. He moved toward her, kissing her lingeringly. They stood close, an inseparable unit, together at last.
Another sound, from behind, caused him to automatically move his body in front of theirs. He set Kelly down beside her mother and spread him arms out in front of the pair. But the noise was not a threat, he realized. One of the bodies had risen. As she moved off of the table and began to walk toward the Gibbs family, she began to change. The hole in her forehead sealed over. Her hair began to shine again. The blood and dirt disappeared from her face. Her eyes brightened and she smiled. Then she was running toward him, across the last few feet that separated them. He hugged her, pressing his lips to her hair.
Kate didn't seem surprised when he introduced her to his wife and daughter. She smiled knowingly, nodding as if it made perfect sense. He kept one arm around her, one around Shannon, with Kelly now clinging to his side, not wanting to let any of them go. But it was nearing the time when he would wake up, leave them. He never wanted to. This nightmare was turning out to be a better dream than he had anticipated. He'd pay for it in the morning, however, when he woke to go to work and realized that Shannon was not beside him. That Kelly was not sleeping in the room down the hall. And that he would not walk into NCIS and see Kate sitting at her desk.
Shannon's expression began to change from peaceful jubilation to a sad, resigned smile. Knowing what this meant, he lowered his head. She sighed, leaning over their daughter and kissing him on the cheek.
"I'm sorry, Gibbs." Gently detaching Kelly from his side—her arms stretched out for him and he squeezed her small hand—she began to move toward the entrance, the exit, of Autopsy. He darted forward before she could get too far from him. Kissing them both, he wrapped them in a desperate hug. Shannon's eyes, green and brown and blue and beautiful, all at the same time, begged him to understand. He nodded, kissing her again. She felt the unspoken goodbye this time. Stepping back, he watched them move away. Kate automatically followed. At the doors, she stopped, looking confused.
"Isn't…isn't Gibbs coming?" she asked Shannon. His wife looked at him. Again she smiled that sad, sad smile. He wanted to step forward, to assure Kate that he was coming, to promise Shannon and Kelly that he would never leave them again. But instead he turned and looked over the autopsy tables. Tony, Ziva, McGee. Abby, Ducky, Palmer. His father. The living, breathing family he could not desert. They would never forgive him…and neither would his wife.
"No, Kate. He can't." A tear slid down Shannon's face. An understanding tear. She wanted him to come with her, wanted it so much it pained her. But when he stepped forward, she shook her head. Kelly was sobbing, too, and Kate looked like her heart was breaking.
"Gibbs—" she began.
"G'bye, Daddy," cried Kelly.
"We love you, Jethro," whispered Shannon.
He awoke.