Just A Casualty
by Very Special Lee
They had been evacuating the HQ. You knew there was a bomb too close to the building. The sound of the Bomb Squad told you. And the controlled chaos told you as was the panic plainly written on more than a few faces. They had every right to be frightened. Who knew if they would be blown up the next moment?
There was entirely no reason for you to stay behind in the bullpen; you should've been outside and safe like your friends and colleagues. You should have. But you haven't. You have been too close to the explosion.
The shock wave had shattered the huge glass front and had thrown you to the floor. It hurts to breathe, you notice. The air is filled with smoke.
There is blood on your hands. It can't be yours. You don't feel any pain apart from the pressure on your lungs.
At first you are unable to hear anything at all. It feels like the world had turned mute. The noise of sirens is ringing in your ears, yet they sound far away.
You see Juliet lying only a few feet away from you. Beautiful Juliet. She had been running past the glass front just as… as the bomb went off. Juliet doesn't move and you know she is dead because her eyes are unfocused and glazed over.
You can hear screams and the creaking of tires. You cough as you take a breath, a deep and shuddering breath. God, your torso feels wet. Hot and wet. Like there is a sticky substance, smelling of salt and copper. Blood. You can't be dying.
You are not dying. Why should you? Just because some lunatic decided to attack the Head Quarters of NCIS is doesn't mean you are one of the casualties. Juliet's one of them, but not you.
It is so hot that you are shivering. The building must be on fire. You are a federal agent. For crying out loud, it was always your fate to die in battle! You are not dying.
Your eye-lids feel suddenly so damn heavy. When was the last time you slept? You can't remember. Every inch of your body is screaming for some rest, for sleep. You can't move.
Your hands are shaking like a leave as you are reaching for your mobile phone. But it's gone. A cold hand gently touching your neck, apparently searching for a pulse startles you and your eyes flatter open. You can't remember having fallen asleep. Why is it so hard to stay awake?
You've always been the one for the all-nighters, never had any trouble staying awake for more than thirty-two hours straight. Someone is bending over you. Hands are running down your body trying to find any sign of injuries. You are not hurt. If you were then surely you'd feel some pain, right?
"Hey, stay with me," you hear a voice saying above you. The voice sounds rough, but there is fear in it. Fear and vulnerability. "The medics will be here soon, you hear me?"
You are afraid. Why would you need the medics? You are fine! Just a few scratches for sure. You feel someone taking your hand, holding it and squeezing gently back as your fingers twitch.
You are a federal agent. You are trained not to be afraid and yet here you are being afraid.
You uncle was so proud when you graduated from FLETC as the best of your year. He wanted you to work for the FBI, but you chose NCIS over it. You had never wanted to be some bloody FBI guy. People are barely aware that NCIS exists at all, but for you NCIS is home. It means safety, family and all-nighters, cold take-aways and a hurting back.
You wince in pain as someone applies pressure to your torso. Breathe, you are telling yourself. Just breathe. You are freezing. You squeeze the hand tighter.
What time is it anyway? You promised your son to pick him up from ballet tonight. He'll be disappointed if you're not punctual.
You rarely are punctual outside from work. One of your quirks.
You need sleep. Now. You can't remember ever having felt so tired in your life before.
"Don't die on me, mate." You hear the concerned voice again. But there's no underlying fear in it anymore. You must have imagined the concern. "Hang on in there." Yes, the voice is flat. Free of any emotions.
Where should you hang in? You can't speak.
There are so many things you want to say. How the hell could this have happened! You planned to propose to Juliet this afternoon. She is, was, pregnant with your second child. They can't be gone. There must be some cruel mistake. You are sorry. You have always wanted to be a better father than your own and you failed, miserably. You just want to apologize.
Pain crashes down on you and you are unable to make it go away. This agonizing pain is so much worse than not feeling a damn thing.
"You gonna be fine."
No, you are dying. You are not going to be fine. You won't go and see the ballet show of your son this Saturday. You won't be standing in the crowd and catch his searching eyes.
You don't feel your legs anymore.
Why you? Why Juliet? And why all the others? What the hell have you done!
Your head hurts.
You clutch even tighter to the hand. You don't want to be left alone. Be rejected.
"Keep your eyes open," you hear the voice again. It takes you more effort to keep them a tiny crack wide open than it takes an ant to climb the Empire State Building.
All you wanted was becoming a federal agent. You can hear your mentor saying "Even greener than the meadows in spring this one, I tell ya". You are just causality. No one of importance.
You doubt the director would notice if you weren't working for him tomorrow anymore. You are just a name printed in black on a white paper.
Someone is still holding you hand, not letting go. You look up and find yourself facing Tim McGee.
He is the guy who helped you passing your IT class at FLETC. You are the one he first told he'd be writing a book. He is the guy holding your hand as you feel how you slowly lose consciousness. You are the one looking at him with a smile on your lips as he squeezes your hand again, still not letting go.
MAY 15, 2012
A DAY OF LOSS.
A DAY OF SORROW.
A DAY TO REMEMBER
AND VOW THIS WILL
NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN