a/n: so, this is something that's been rolling around vaguely in my head for a while, and i sat down and wrote it so maybe i can move on to other things. it's all angst, but that's my usual thing. it's also (i'll straight up admit) right along the lines of my usual favorite "tropes" to write (if you haven't noticed).
Blood
He had gone to bed with Rebecca; that in itself was rare - avoidance was the tactic he usually chose when something was wrong, and within their marriage, something had been wrong for months. He was trying, though – perhaps because he'd actually learned something from his first ex-wife, or maybe just because he had a sick need to make it look like she was the bad guy while he tried to make it work – because at least this time, it wasn't all him; Rebecca was hanging off a proverbial cliff, and he was tired of holding on to her.
He had gone to bed with her – but she'd been tossing and turning, asleep, it seemed, but restless; he couldn't bear wakefulness in a dark bedroom with her, so he'd left, retreated to the basement; it was morning when he dragged himself off the cold, reprimanding concrete floor and trudged upstairs, rubbing his jaw.
He sought coffee, something easy enough to find in his kitchen – he brewed it, and turned to the sink, eyeing the mess of dirty dishes ruefully. He felt out of place, when this domestic annoyance washed over him; he wasn't used to being the one who wanted things cleaned – he wasn't used to telling his wife to get her shit together; it had always been the other way around.
He moved towards the sink, poking around – he was surprised dishes were even dirty; she usually ate off of paper plates, out of Styrofoam to-go boxes. The sink was mostly full of bowls – one empty wine bottle – and spoons. He picked up a coffee mug and smelled it – mint; maybe tea. Wary, he reached for two cut crystal tumblers – wedding gifts – and sniffed at both of them.
Both were sticky, filmy; one smelled like red wine, probably from the bottle – one like rum, which he expected; both seemed days old, dirty. He brushed his hand over the counter, and felt a thin powder; he lifted his hand and through he saw a glimpse of white; he wrote it off as dust. He grit his teeth and put them down, unsure if he was angry with himself, or with her. He wondered if he'd come home one day and find her dead.
He left his coffee to brew, and went to shower, shave, and find a fresh pair of clothes – all of which he could do quickly.
Rebecca was still asleep, curled under the covers like an animal, hunched into herself. He looked at her a moment, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. He showered without bothering to let the water get warm and got out, tying a towel around his waist. He opened the door to let the steam out while he shaved, and spared her a glance again – she hadn't even moved. He didn't necessarily want to wake her up, but he felt a twinge of something in his gut, and his head throbbed a little. He cleared his throat. He dropped something loudly on the sink.
Then, with a sigh, he said:
"Rebecca."
She shifted, rolled over, and pulled the covers off of her head. She blinked at him a moment, and made a pained noise, pulling a pillow towards her.
"You alive?" he provoked, sarcastic.
"Please stop talking to me," she growled – at least, that's what it sounded like.
He set his jaw and shrugged. He'd done his part. No one could accuse him of being oblivious – she was just being Rebecca; hung-over, and no doubt on the road to being late to work – again.
He went back to shaving, but it was as he was drawing the razor slightly over the last strip of foam that she stumbled past him – he nicked his chin roughly, and as he swore and reached over to catch the blood on his fingers, she started vomiting, her hand wrapped tightly around her stomach as she bent over the toilet.
"Christ," he muttered, throwing the razor down.
He rubbed at the blood on his chin and glanced at her. He watched her for a detached, listless moment, and then he reached out and half-heartedly pulled back her hair.
Rebecca groaned and straightened up, her eyes closed tightly. He slowly let go of her hair.
"You done?" he asked, unsympathetic.
She pushed him away, putting her hand to her forehead. She opened her eyes and looked balefully around the sink and, spying no cup, took a deep breath and dragged her feet back into the bedroom. Gibbs looked down at the blood smeared on the counter and then turned sharply; she wasn't usually that antagonistic when she was feeling the effects of her drinking – she usually whimpered and begged for sympathy.
He grabbed a towel and wiped at his face, following her.
"Rebecca," he said sharply.
She stretched out on her stomach on bed, burying her head in a pillow.
He stood over her, peering down.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked curtly.
She shook her head.
"I'm sick," she answered him vaguely.
She swallowed, and her cheeks managed to look flushed and pale at the same time.
"Go to work," she said. "My head hurts."
"How much have you had?" he demanded.
She groaned, her brow furrowing.
"I've been asleep, you asshole," she managed, raising her voice tiredly. "I'm sick. Haven't been drinking."
He gripped the towel in his hand tightly, doubtful. His teeth clenched and he bit back a smart retort. He thought about pushing her, putting his hand to her forehead to call her on her bullshit, but he didn't; after standing there a moment longer, he finished getting ready, his muscles tight with frustration, and he left her in the dark – if he was lucky, she'd sleep it off before he got home; if he was unlucky, she'd have started over.
It was after lunch before he thought about her again, and then only because his beeper went off with a number he didn't recognize and when he called back he got the advertising agency she'd started working at a few months ago. When they answered and asked whom he needed, he said someone had just called him from the number.
The voice suddenly changed.
"Oh," she paused. "Hold on."
He heard shuffling, and he leaned back in his chair, annoyance rising in his chest. He surveyed the bullpen, making sure his team was making themselves useful, and then snapped back to attention when she was back.
"Is this Rebecca's husband?" the woman asked softly. "Your name is Jethro, right?"
Gibbs cleared his throat. He was silent a moment, and then he grunted.
"Yeah, Rebecca's my wife."
The woman sighed, sounding relieved.
"Okay – I'm Lauren, I'm a friend of hers – do you know where she is?"
Gibbs paused. He rubbed his knuckles against his knee roughly, and grit his teeth.
"She's not there?" he asked abruptly – Rebecca started at nine, on the days she went on.
"No," Lauren said carefully. "And – ah, well," she paused. "She's been late frequently," she said finally. "I tried your home; no answer. I don't want to intrude, but I'm – I like her," Lauren admitted, "and I don't think our – boss – is going to put up with," Lauren broke off again. "I'm just wondering if you know where she is."
Gibbs grit his teeth harder, silent. He said nothing; he couldn't think of what to say.
"I'm not trying to pry," the woman spoke up sincerely. "I'm just trying to help."
He leaned forward, and sighed heavily, rubbing his jaw.
"She's sick," he said shortly.
He didn't want to start lying for Rebecca; he saw rock bottom ahead if he had to start covering for her and making excuses. He started to say something else, and then shook his head. He wasn't going to go any further than he had to.
"Doctor's note sick?" Lauren pressed hesitantly.
Gibbs smirked a little – Rebecca was getting sloppy at covering her tracks. He didn't answer, and the woman clicked her tongue.
"Okay," she said, mustering a brisk tone. "Okay – thank you, er, Jethro. I – she usually doesn't just completely skip work."
Lauren said a quick goodbye, and Gibbs was left holding a phone to his ear, listening to the ringtone. Her words echoed a little, and he felt a sharp twinge in his gut again – the woman had a fair point; Rebecca usually made half an effort, otherwise she wouldn't be so effective at hiding her addiction. He frowned, and let the phone dangle in his grip, staring at nothing in particularly. Had something happened that pushed her off the edge? He thought of the powder on his hands this morning, dried tumblers littering the sink.
"Boss?"
He looked up, dragged out of his reverie, his temple aching, like he'd missed something. He reached up and nudged at the razor cut on his jaw, glaring at one of his agents, waiting.
"We got a body?" the kid asked.
Gibbs looked at the phone, realized he was still hanging on. He hung it up violently, and got up, grabbing his coat. He grunted a vague order to the team, and snatched his keys and identification – and he left the office, at an unexpected and unprecedented two in the afternoon.
Gibbs got home to a quiet house – no soft music, which usually played when Rebecca was home alone amusing herself. He slammed the door, and tossed his keys and badge into a bowl on a table. To give her the benefit of the doubt, he checked the basement – maybe she was painting – and when she wasn't there, he went up the stairs and into the bedroom.
The lights were still off; she was lying on her stomach under the covers, her arm covering her face lightly. The only difference was, there was an half-empty glass of clear liquid on the table next to her. Angrily, he stormed over and picked it up, raising it to his nose – only to stop short in surprise: it was water. He held it back from his face and looked at it, then placed it back down, noticing there were two small pills next to the glass. He crouched down and picked one up – nothing sinister; just Tylenol.
He frowned, and some of his anger faded. He reached over and put his hand to Rebecca's forehead. She felt hot – she still had that same pale-flushed look to her; pale, because her skin was white and clammy, and flushed because patches of hot red were lighting up her cheeks and her neck.
He ran his hand down to her neck an then squeezed her shoulder.
"Rebecca," he said gruffly, shaking her lightly. "Rebecca."
She opened her eyes unhappily and took a shaky breath. She looked confused when she saw him, and moved her arm, clutching at the sheets.
"What time is it?" she asked. A look of panic crossed her face. "Have I been – asleep all day?"
He shook his head.
"It's three," he told her, and pulled his hand back, letting it rest on the bed. "You didn't call in sick to work," he said.
She blinked at him, her focus hazy. She shook her head.
"It hurts to get up," she mumbled. Her brow furrowed. "Why did you come back?"
"Some Lauren woman called me," he grunted. "She's worried about your job," he added testily.
Rebecca closed her eyes and moaned, gritting her teeth.
"Fuck them," she hissed, and waved him away.
Gibbs looked at her another moment, and with a distinct sense of dread, he realized that something was wrong with her, that he shouldn't have left this morning without trying to get more out of her. He lifted his hand again, and placed it on her arm.
"You take somethin'?" he asked finally, his eyes narrow.
She feebly tried to shake him off of her.
"I haven't – "
"'M not talkin' about drinkin', Rebecca," he barked, cutting her off. "Did you take something with somethin' else in it, somethin' you didn't know about?"
She shook her head, and squeezed her eyes shut, until her lashes pressed heavily against her skin.
"I haven't been drinking," she said hoarsely. She opened her eyes with accusation. "You haven't noticed?"
He stared at her, skeptical, and she swallowed.
"I've been feeling sick," she snapped. "I haven't drank in … a week," she said uncertainly, licking her dry lips.
He gave her a grim look. If she hadn't - really hadn't – been drinking at all, and she was admitting that it was an issue instead of nastily accusing him of being some sort of controlling maniac, then it was possible she'd tried to quit cold turkey – and this was the effect. He'd never seen withdrawal before, but he knew it sometimes needed a hospital.
He swallowed hard and gave her a serious look.
"You need more water?"
She shook her head.
"I can't even take the Tylenol," she whimpered, pushing back her hair. "Swallowing anything," she began, and shook her head tensely.
Gibbs nodded. He got up and went to the closet, trying to find something comfortable for her to put on. He knew she'd violently resist medical treatment, so he didn't mention outright that he was going to take her somewhere. He grabbed a soft t-shirt, and a pair of pants with comfortable, stretchy material and draped them over his arm, walking back to the bed.
He pulled back the sheets in an effort to get some Goosebumps on her skin, to motivate her to get dressed – and he dropped the clothes in his arm and leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed.
"Rebecca," he said sharply, a sharp pain throbbing in the back of his head. There was blood on the sheets, and it wasn't – it didn't seem – like a normal amount of blood for – a woman.
He threw the covers back gingerly, and turned towards her, his hand running over the large t-shirt she'd been sleeping in. He pulled it up, and rested his hand on her thigh.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice edgy.
She turned sharply, pressing her knees together, and her row furrowed sharply. She looked terrified.
"It stopped," she said – she sounded half-confused, half-certain. She licked her lips and shook her head. "I wasn't this morning."
He stared at her, mesmerized by the look on her face – wondering what she'd done to herself – and then he straightened up and set his jaw, forcing himself to take action – the first decision he had to make was whether he was going to call an ambulance, or drive her himself.
-thoughts? feedback appreciated. it's building on my other characterization of rebecca, with more seriousness, obviously. later in their marriage.
-alexandra
story #252