Nocturnal Demons
Rating – T for language (although nothing you wouldn't hear on the show) and violent imagery
Pairings – Brieflyportrayed McAbby but otherwise none
Disclaimer – Gibbs, Kate, McGee, Tony, Abby, and Ari are not my characters. No infringement intended.
Summary – They are haunted by dreams.
Author's note - Most definitely post-Twilight, this was written the summer of 2005, long before the start of season 3.
He scrambled up the steps to the roof. The barrage of gunfire he'd just heard over the course of the past several minutes had set his instincts on high alert. He dreaded what he knew he'd find, but nonetheless prayed that he was mistaken.
His eyes reached roof level and surveyed the scene, his head and eyes barely peeking over the edge of the roof. The first thing he noticed was the blood - more blood than he'd ever seen in his life - and the silence. The silence was deafening, roaring in his ears and overtaking his senses like a fighter jet flying low. He climbed the rest of the way up, and stepped on to the hard concrete of the roof.
He saw her on the ground first. The hole in her forehead was vivid against her pale skin. The wound was a through-and-through, and her hair was adhered to the concrete by the drying pool of blood under her head.
He looked away, feeling faint.
His eyes fell on their leader. He was laying face down, in a prone position, his eyes wide with whatever emotion he had been feeling at the moment of his death. The hole in his neck bore witness to how he had died. He turned away, swallowing back bile, and his eyes fell on his other colleague.
The last of the three who had been on the roof was flat on his back, a single bullet wound in his chest. The round from the high-powered sniper rifle had cut cleanly through the Kevlar vest and most likely had penetrated his heart, killing him instantly.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He felt the impact before he heard the shot.
The shock froze him in his tracks, and his body began to feel like something foreign as he looked down at his own chest, saw the blood. His knees buckled, and he fell. As he sunk to the ground, his voice betrayed him, and instead of being able to damn his killer to Hell, his dying breath was nothing more than a ragged wheeze. Everything faded to black.
McGee woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed, gasping for air. His heart pounded in his throat, thundering inside his head, and his breath was so frantic he thought he might suffocate.
Abby lay beside him, awake. She sat upright and reached out, touching his arm gently. He jumped, startled back to reality, and turned to her, eyes wide.
"Another bete noire?" she asked quietly. She seemed calm, unsurprised, because this wasn't the first time this had happened. He closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing and calm his heart. He nodded and slowly sank back down against the sheets, laying his head back down on the pillow. He swallowed hard, and Abby moved closer to his side of the bed, laying back down and gently coaxing his head into the space between her neck and shoulder. She draped a comforting arm across his chest, and after what seemed an eternity, he finally surrendered to his exhaustion and fell back into restless slumber.
He just needed a little water. That would wash the blood away. Her blood away.
He looked in the mirror, crimson streaks staining his skin. He ran his hands under the hot water, wiggling his fingers, watching them turn cherry red under the searing stream. He cupped his hands and brought the water to his face, splashing it and scrubbing with his fingers and palms. He looked back into the mirror. The blood was gone, but something was wrong. As he watched, before his eyes, it suddenly reappeared. He felt it, felt the spray, closed his eyes against it. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. It was still there.
He pumped some soap from the dispenser into his palms. Once again, he ran his hands under the water, then rubbed them together, working up a lather.
He scrubbed his face again, this time a little more vigorously. He closed his eyes tightly against the stinging of the cleanser, then rinsed his hands, and again splashed his face until the pinkened soap had been washed away. He looked into the mirror once again, and once again, he watched in horror, as the streaks of crimson reappeared.
He closed his eyes, and screamed.
Tony awoke suddenly to the sound of screaming. It took him a moment to realize that he was alone, and the anguished, primal sounds were coming from his own throat. He threw back the covers and sat bolt upright.
He sat a moment, gathering his bearings, blinking back the images that he'd just experienced. He swallowed, his mouth dry and his throat raw. He swung his legs around and planted his feet on the floor, then arose and stumbled into the bathroom.
He flipped on the light switch, and his eyes closed reflexively at the sudden assault of light. He blinked rapidly, impatient for his pupils to contract, then turned to the mirror and looked at the face reflected back at him.
It was clean, as clean as it had been when he'd last looked at it. He brought his hands up and he touched his face, feeling the smoothness of the skin on his forehead and cheekbones, and the subtle abrasiveness of the stubble that adorned his cheeks and chin, waiting for him to remove it in the morning. He looked at his hands, not sure what to expect. Just as his face was, they were clean, dry, and unblemished.
He took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror, then reached out and turned off the light before heading back to bed.
"You bastard."
So much blood, so much death. She stood before him, glaring at him accusingly, the hole in her forehead terribly, horribly vivid against the pallor of her death complexion.
"You did this, you son of a bitch," she said, her voice dripping hatred. "This is your fault."
His mouth opened, but his voice wouldn't work. "It should have been me," he tried to say.
He turned, looking for the other agent that had been with them on the roof. He saw him standing there, blood spatter and tissue on his face.
"What kind of leader are you? Look what you just let happen. She trusted you, we ALL trusted you, and look what you did. You failed us, you son of a bitch."
He shook his head, and again tried to speak. "It was supposed to be me," he tried to say, "I never meant it to be her."
He turned away from the accusing stares, looked towards the steps they had all climbed to get to the roof. He saw his youngest agent, eyes wide with shock, staring in disbelief. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low growl he never imagined him to be capable of, full of tightly controlled rage. "You bastard, is this what you're trying so hard to teach me? How to let down my team, how to get them all killed one by one? You're not worth the dynamite it would take to blow you to Hell."
"No," he finally managed to say, his voice barely a whisper. "It's a mistake. It was supposed to be me. Why wasn't it me?"
He turned and looked at his team, one by one. The loathing in their eyes unmistakable.
He turned again, searching for a face as he heard another voice, terribly familiar, terribly calculating. "Such a pity Caitlin had to die. You're next, Agent Gibbs. Or… ARE you?" the disembodied voice with the distinct accent said. The cold, evil laughter echoed in his head and chilled his blood. He turned, trying to escape it, and suddenly, mercifully, the scene faded to black.
Gibbs awoke with a start, cussing himself out for letting himself fall asleep. He'd be fine if he could just avoid falling asleep. Because sleep brought dreams, terrible dreams, and images so terrible they haunted him his every moment.
He sat up, rubbing his face, then reached over and grabbed the bottle. He thought a moment before pouring a shot into the glass, still glistening wet on the bottom with the remnants of the last drink he'd had from it. He thought better of it suddenly, and slowly got to his feet, leaning on one of the sawhorses that held his boat, for support.
He headed up the stairs, intending to have coffee instead.
Anything to keep him from sleeping.