Your happy ending (depends on where you stop the story)
Disclaimer: I do not own or make any claim on NCIS; it is the property of its respective creators.
Summary: For just because our heroes came through it all relatively unscathed, doesn't mean everyone else did; the story of a wife of an agent waiting with their baby boy for news, desperately hoping one of those unknown, unnamed casualties, is not her husband. An episode tag bridging the time between the end of 9x24 to the start of 10x1, and beyond.
Author's notes:
This story was written after 9x24 aired but before 10x1 premiered. I gave this another read through after the premiere, to try and make sure it followed the cannon now established by that episode, but if you notice something I missed, please kindly tell me in a review.
Title taken from the quote "If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story," by Orson Welles.
Warning(s): for original character narrative and focus, major angst, disturbing imagery, and mentions of off screen deaths of federal agents. Please do not read if any of these subject matters will upset or offend you.
Rating: F15
Spoilers: major for 9x24's Till Death Do Us Part and 10x1's Extreme Prejudice, but to be safe, the whole Harper Dearing arc.
This story is written in honor of and dedicated to all of the loved ones who support our protectors, and who've ever sat at home, waiting for that dreaded phone call. You're the unsung heroes of those stories, and I thank you for all you've done and will do. This story's for you. I wish you all a happy ending.
She's learned to live with the fear. It's a constant weight in her chest, as steady as the beat of her heart. The urge to beg him to stay home, to not take whatever call telling him of a crime he'll inevitably get, is overwhelming. But she knows he needs this, that he loves his job, his teammates, helping people. She's seen what happens when a cop's wife makes him choose between his family or his job. While she knows he loves her, loves his son, their precious little boy, she's not willing to take the chance that they're not who, what, he would pick. He wants to make a better world for their son, for her; lives to catch the guilty and help the victims. She just wants him to come home to her, to them, safe.
She dreads every ring of the telephone, terrified that today will be the day some stranger calls to tell her that the love of her life is crippled, brain-dead, in a coma, or now a corpse. (She's spent many sleepless nights thinking up all the horrendous possibilities.) Every time he misses one of his scheduled calls to her, she wonders, runs through the list. Is he being held captive? Is he bleeding out in a ditch somewhere? Is he in pain? Is it quick? Was it slow? (Did he think of her? Did he wish to hold their son one last time, and kiss her once more?) Then he'll call, and she'll say his name like a prayer and he'll say nothing while she says something biting in reply to his "I was in a meeting, in interrogation, doing some paperwork." He knows how much all of this costs her. Even if all he says is he'll be home for dinner, and he misses her cooking, and that his rookie messed up, she grips the phone like it's her lifeline. Knowing that right at this moment, he's alive, he's safe, and he's talking to her. None of her fears have happened; none are true (yet). She can breathe again until the next phone call.
When their son calls for "dada," and he's working late, all she can do is hold him closer. He's still too young for preschool, just a toddler, barely more than a baby. His father hasn't missed any baseball games or parent teacher conferences he swore he'd be at, yet. Sometimes, when he comes home from a long case, working overtime, she knows it hurts him that their son doesn't want him to hold him, is afraid of this man who looks like but isn't his smiling, loving daddy. (Her baby doesn't like this grim, tired, sad version of "dada" any more than she does. She's just better at hiding it than he is. After all, she's had far more practice.)
She knows he's been on high alert lately. She knows that someone is targeting ships, the Navy, NCIS. Oh, he never said it in so many words, but she's learned to read between the lines. She had to, to get anything but the "official" story all these years. Bombs have been going off on ships, he's been working overtime, he told her not to let anyone, especially men, she didn't know into the house, asked her to keep the personal handgun he bought and made her learn to use years ago, that she hates with a passion, close by. And she knows he's out there searching for the person setting these bombs off, this person with no regard for human life.
If she's a little clingier, if she hates the ring of his cell phone a little more with each noise it makes, if the weight in her chest feels like it's choking her, well, that's just a bit more of the same. (She pretends she doesn't notice that he also takes any chance to kiss her, to hold their son, every time he's home, that she doesn't see that as more bad news comes in he also comes to regard the ring of his phone as the messenger of death and destruction, he's resigned to the fact he won't like whatever he hears; but she won't be purposely oblivious to his pain and distress, even if he wants her to be. Between the two of them, there is much that does not need to be spoken to be heard.)
When the news breaks about the bombing of the NCIS, Washington, D.C. Headquarters building, she falls down and backwards, jars the back of her elbow as she stares up at the television in horror. Stumbling to her feet, using the wall for support, she goes into the nursery and scoops her baby out of his crib, into her arms, with shaking hands. She sits them both on the couch right in front of the television, which she puts on full volume, in a daze. Is today the day of her nightmares? Is he in pain? Was it quick? Was it slow? Is he still alive? Massive Casualties flashes on the screen. Is he bleeding out? Will she be going to the hospital to see her husband crippled, comatose, brain-dead, to identify him in the morgue? (She does not include perfectly fine on her lists of horrible outcomes. That would be an impossible, wonderful, joyful miracle. And while she hopes for it with every fiber of her being, wants it more than she's ever wanted anything before in her life, draws on all her optimism and love, life has shown her first hand just how rare miracles are. That's why her husband, unfortunately, has never had a lack of work in his chosen duty, after all.)
She looks over at their baby, lying next to her on his back, numbing his teeth on the ear of his stuffed rabbit, the one his father gave to him the day he was born. He never goes anywhere without it, she has to leave it in his line of sight when she gives him a bath, or else he cries. Will that be all that he knows of his father; a flag, a grave, the victims he saved, a heartbroken mother, stories, pictures and a stuffed rabbit? Is that all that will remain of her husband's love for their son, who she knows he adores? Will those things be all she has to give her son, to take the place of his father, all she has to show of a man he never had a chance to know? All she has to work with to give her baby an illusion of memories of him, whether or not they are actually his own? She never wants her son to know the answers to these questions.
She runs her hand over his head, looking down at him. He gives her a wide smile, waving his rabbit in the air at her. She kisses them both, first him on the forehead and then his bunny on its tummy, and hits the speed dial for his father. Each ring makes her feel like she is breaking apart, every breath feels like she must drag it through time and space simply to inhale and exhale, and then it restarts. "The number you have called is out of service…"
She doesn't remember the phone falling from her hand to the floor; she doesn't realize she can no longer hear the news from the TV. She feels like she is in limbo, stuck in-between making sure she inhales and exhales. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, for she knows something is terribly wrong, knows why, but she doesn't have the answers she so desperately needs. She looks at the screen; reporters and families members, all civilians are being asked to stay away for their own safety; danger, crime scene, she hears them say. She couldn't drive anywhere right now, she can't even stand up. She just sits on the couch, not moving except to feed and change the baby, which she does, almost on autopilot.
Almost, for she takes every chance to run her fingers over his head of hair, looks at him, seeking to memorize every inch of him; from his brown eyes, the same color and shade as his father's, to his chubby little round thighs, his tiny nose, and ten perfect fingers and toes. She doesn't put him down, out of the safety of her arms, once, except to change his diaper, and she keeps a hand on his left foot that whole time.
The long, agonizingly slow and tauntingly fast day bleeds into night, and her cell phone keeps ringing, but the one number she needs to see isn't among them. She lies down on the couch at some point, her feet curled up, the baby on her chest, and her phone in her hand. She doesn't remember slipping from being wide awake to sleeping, but she must have.
She dreams of blood and fire, burning up so quickly and so slowly, the pain, God, the pain, she hears screaming and crying, those of family members and those who know they are dying, who didn't get a quick death, she feels herself running as fast as she can to him, but never getting to him, running endlessly, uselessly, for she can't change the outcome, can't reverse death. She dreams he called her name right before the fire burned him away, before he was buried by debris, hopes he felt nothing at all. She dreams of what their life could have been like if he'd followed his passion for math, if he'd become an accountant after all. She sees what a world with no worries of him dying every day, where she wouldn't fear the ring of the telephone, where their son would know his father, where they'd be safe, and someone else would be the protector, would have been like. She wakes up screaming, because she was identifying a burned up husk as all that remained of her handsome husband's body.
The baby starts to cry, and she rocks him, fetches a bottle, sings to him, until he calms down again. She checks her phone. Many people have called her, but he hasn't. It's morning now, only a little more than half a day since this while nightmare started. She thinks of fire and screaming, and grips her baby tighter. ID Process Started the TV says. She twists the band on her ring finger. Is his all right? He'd leave it in his desk draw in the box she bought him for that purpose if he thought something might happen to it. Did he know something was wrong? Did he have a chance to know? Is his ring safely in its box, or on his body? Does she even know which one of those options is better?
Her cell phone keeps ringing, numbers she isn't interested in keep flashing on its screen, the baby babbles at his rabbit, the sunshine streams in through the window, bright and cheerful, and she feels like she is standing on a rapidly crumbling cliff, everything she knows and treasures, loves, this life she's build, could fall into the abyss if the wind blows too hard.
(She's always known the odds. That is why even though she hopes and prays, she doesn't really believe she will get a miracle. For this is the real world, this is her life, not a fairytale, she is not a princess, her husband is not a knight off to fight a dragon, going to defend his kingdom, who'll return safe and victorious; they won't have a happily ever after, both of them living to old age to die side by side in their sleep, their son full grown and happy, was never very likely.
No, this is the real world. Her husband is off being a hero, fighting a human monster, while she is the love interest left behind with his young son to show what he is fighting for. Heroes fight for what they believe in, for the right thing, for their loved ones, they die for those things. She'd trade a hero for a living husband. Heroes don't make stable life partners, never have. She should have listened to her mother when she warned her to never marry a man who longs for adventure. Real life is not a fairy tale, except when it is.)
The doorbell rings, loud and intrusive in the noise of her own thoughts. She looks up towards the door, then down at her baby, looks over at her cell phone, which still hasn't rung with that one number she needs to see. She closes her eyes, and for one inhale and exhale, for one round of feeling like she is breaking apart, for one breathe she feels she had to drag back through time and space, she pretends it's him on the other side of the door, battered, charred, and a lot more broken, but safe and whole for her to cling to and never let go of again. She holds on, and then exhales, feels reality once again overpowering her dreams. She stands up, their baby boy in her arms, and braces herself for the free fall off of the cliff she's called her life that she knows is coming. Her feet move, each step towards the door making her feel like she is getting a little closer to falling, for she knows she is leaving the safe, solid ground she's been standing on her whole life, behind her with every step. She grips her son tighter, closer, he's hers, and nothing or one will take him away from her. She breathes deep, closes her eyes, and turns the door handle, opening the door.
The person on the other side isn't someone she knows, she's never seen this man before, and she doubts she will see him for long. But she will never be able to forget him; she doesn't need to hear his words. She can read the message he's been sent to tell her on his face. He tells her.
She feels the ground she's called her life giving out under her feet, and she feels like she's falling, with no idea of who she is, of what her life is, she's losing a part of herself, all she's known and she wants it back, wants the earth to go back to its rightful orbit, wants the rock under her feet not to move, wants the solidness of her life she always feared would crumble to merge back together. She wishes she could be surprised at how she feels. True, she never knew it'd feel quite like this, but she's been waiting, dreading, this day for a long time. She thinks she is still falling, for all she feels is lost. She grips her son tighter, feels his solid weight in her arms, and feels less lost. He is her anchor, he needs her, and she'll never leave him.
She has things she has to do. She's been waiting; praying this day would never come. That doesn't mean she didn't expect or plan for it. For her life is not a fairytale, and there were no victories or miracles for her prince. She never expected there to be. She's hoped, but never truly believed, in a happily ever after. (This was hers, and she spent it wondering, dreading, when it would end, for just because this is a fairytale, with a prince and a princess, really, it's a love story, doesn't mean they'll be okay in the end, doesn't mean a happy ending is guaranteed. Romeo and Juliet can attest to that.)
As she lets the man who had to play messenger guide her and her son to the waiting car, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, her baby boy is giggling, waving his bunny rabbit in the air, the earth is still moving, and she thinks her husband should have followed his passion for math and become an accountant. Real life is not a fairytale, except when it is, and she'll have to forge herself a new happy ending.
By Valerie Portolano
Written June 13th, 2012
Finished November 28th, 2012