Gibbs Has a Bad Week. Is it time to retire?

Summary: This is a Gibbs story. It's crossed with Stargate character Jack O'Neill, but that's it. I know Gibbs hasn't been the nicest, especially about how McGee gets teased most of the time, but this story is about Gibbs and how a strong man can be pushed close to the edge by sarcasm and ridicule.

Time Frame: Um... probably early season 9

Rated: K+

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just borrowing.

"Chink in your armor?"

Gibbs glared. It had been a long week and he'd come close to either bashing in heads or telling Vance he was putting in for retirement. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face before pressing the heels of his palms to his tired eyes. The ache in his head had lessened, no doubt due to the extra strength gel tabs he'd swallowed earlier, but it was still there and it was still irritating.

"I don't know why this is bothering me now," he confessed, closing his eyes.

"Tell me."

Silence.

"It'll help."

Silence.

"You're not weak, Jethro. You're human."

Silence.

"Okay, I'm going to guess."

Gibbs opened his eyes and looked at the man sitting in the chair. They'd been friends for more than 30 years and had gotten closer again when Jack accepted the job at the Pentagon. Experience had taught him to trust Jack. The man understood a lot more than he'd even been given credit for, but he'd never wanted or asked for credit. Just did his job, kept his team and others safe and let everyone around him say and think whatever they wanted.

"It's a straw, isn't it?"

Blue eyes narrowed as the jaw clenched. Jack knew. Had endured the same. But could he burden him? Gibbs hung his head and stared at the coffee table in front of him.

Jack picked up on it and was not without compassion. Comments about his friend's hearing, eyesight, gray hair, age, hobbies, IQ, failed marriages, ex-wives and private life had gone on for years and almost everyone in his NCIS family had pried into or certainly meddled where they didn't belong and weren't wanted. It seemed almost everyone respected Gibbs for his NCIS work, but that's where the respect stopped, especially from his team. Jethro had a thick skin and swallowed his pride on a regular basis, so Jack knew the long week, which consisted of many long days and not enough rest, had contributed to something punching a hole in the man's armor and exposing his vulnerability.

A tired Jethro finally spoke.

"I never kept track, didn't even remember most of the time."

He hung his head and stared at the floor in front of him. He cared about his kids, would do anything for them, but lately the ganging up and piling on was getting to him. They didn't respect him. They didn't respect boundaries. Seventeen times in three days he'd overheard them mocking his reading glasses, his hair, his not understanding of technology or some science thing, his three failed marriages and his housekeeping of all things.

Minutes passed.

A cup of tea appeared on the end table to his left. He took a few sips before setting the cup down. He leaned into the sofa cushion, laid his head back and closed his eyes.

More minutes passed.

Jack sat thinking and watching until finally realizing sleep had claimed his friend. A pillow was placed to the left at the end of the sofa. Legs were lifted gently and eased over and in his slumber the man helped and stretched out. Shoes were removed and he was covered with a blanket. The cup was washed and placed in the dish drainer. The end table light was turned off and the front door locked.

Gibbs woke feeling slightly confused. He was on the sofa, not a big mystery there, but he was still dressed in the slacks and shirt he'd worn to work the day before. Memories from the night before came rushing back. He'd called Jack late, about midnight, just to chat, but his friend had known something was wrong and 15 minutes later was in his house. He didn't remember much of the conversation. Headache. He remembered a bad headache and gel tabs. He remembered the piling on and the mention of straw. Jack had known and understood.

After a shower and clean clothes, Gibbs was ready to leave and get coffee at the diner. He reached for his weapon and saw the note. "Kick their asses." He chuckled and thought about scheduling gym, track and range time for the team. He'd have no problem at the firing range, could even best Ziva any day of the week. He could do as many or more sit-ups, pull-ups, push-ups and leg lifts as any of them, bench press more than DiNozzo and he hadn't scored less than 100 in defensive and pursuit driving in the last 15 years. Yeah, Jack had the right idea. He couldn't make them respect him, but he could do something to make himself feel a little better. Cold cases and retirement could wait.

The End

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