Melius Cras Fore
Description: "We did everything we could've done, this... this was no one's fault," he said hoarsely. His answer was met with a soft, toneless laugh that set his teeth on edge. "Is that so? Well, if your conscience is so clear Mr. Semper Fi, why is it you can't even bring yourself to look at me?"
/-Or: What if this time, there were no more "almosts", what if today was the day they ran out of second chances? Alternate ending to fic 'Nine Lives'. Not a standalone; definite tissue alert.-/
A/N: So, here she be: the unhappy ending (set to the tune of the 'Black Hawk Down' soundtrack, 3, 9, 11 and 13 especially) that could have been in 'Nine Lives', were it not for the lynch mob that would've hunted my ass down if I'd put it in there :P – Sorry for the delay, for those that were interested in it – I didn't want to post a half-assed, mushy angsty mess, and it took me until now to get it as close to how I wanted it as I could, in hopes that it would be at least somewhat the way you guys wanted it as well. Fingers crossed on that one!
And I normally don't like to give tissue alerts, since I'm totally against spoiling a story like that, but this time, everyone who's read 'Nine Lives' knows it's coming anyways, so I figured, what the hell? I'll follow the unspoken rule, just this once ;)
Pretty well, this picks up at a moment described through Gibbs' memory of it in Chapter 10 of 'Nine Lives', the moment where he's dragged out of Tony's room in the ICU. Except here... well, if you honestly can't guess, you'll see soon enough :)
Reviews are love! XD
After the surgeon had broken the news to them, he'd led the group immediately to Tony's room in the ICU, taking his leave and leaving them with heartfelt apologies that there'd been nothing more that he could do. The rest of the team had been through, saying their goodbyes or whatever it was they'd felt they needed to say, each emerging with singular devastation written across their faces, and then suddenly it was Gibbs' turn, and he was sitting next to a bed which supported a heavily bandaged shell that looked sickeningly similar to, yet entirely unlike his friend, trying his best to be able to think above the obtrusive whooshing of the respirator and the achingly slow beeps from the heart monitor. And he didn't remember reaching out his hand, but then he was speaking lowly, and he was holding on to the arm closest to him so tightly that a part of him worried about bruises, but only a little part, because the rest of him was certain he'd crumble if he loosened his grip in the slightest.
Funny, how at the time what he was saying felt so important, and yet now he couldn't really remember what it was he'd said exactly, only that he'd pleaded with a dying man who couldn't even hear him to do the impossible.
Then his memory became a blur of panic – alarms were blaring, the heart-monitor's beeps frantic, shrill, and then he was being hauled out of the room and held back by an orderly and a nurse. He couldn't hear himself yelling, but he could feel his lungs and throat burning from the force of it. He couldn't feel himself struggling, but he could feel their hands keeping him away from where he needed to be, able only to watch, terrified, through the room's glass panels as the body on that bed convulsed so violently, then became so still...
This wasn't real.
Gibbs knew it couldn't be, because this was too much like the nightmare he'd had all too many times. He'd already seen almost this exact scene play out, knew all the steps, and counted them off as they passed: Tony convulsing grotesquely on the hospital bed, surrounded by a swarm of doctors who could do nothing to stop it as the heart monitor's beeps turned into a single, continuous tone; alarms blaring, shouts for a crash cart, Tony's body arching as jolts of electricity were ineffectually forced through it; the moment where the efforts ceased, the alarms were silenced, and the time of death was quietly announced to be recorded on the chart.
He saw it all, and knew that this should break him... but it couldn't. Because it wasn't real. None of this was happening. This was a nightmare.
"Gibbs! Jethro! Let me through, or I promise you, you will both be fired and formerly charged by this evening!"
Hands were suddenly gripping Gibbs' face, pulling it down so that his eyes locked onto ones in an older, haggard face, eyes filled with tears, and an emotion he refused to put a name to. This was only a dream, this wasn't real.
"Jethro, please, you must calm down, or they will be forced to sedate you, and we need you here... your team needs you. Please."
Even in a dream, he found he couldn't ignore Ducky's words, not when they were spoken with such a plea, and he suddenly felt the bodies pressed against his own, pinning him to the solidity of the wall at his back, at the same moment as he fully registered the straining in his muscles and the grating of abused vocal cords in his throat. Feeling these things, and seeing how upset the doctor was, he forced himself to go silent and still.
The relief on Ducky's face was worth the effort, as was the loosening of the holds on him that would have ached, if this were real – if Ducky were really grasping him by the shoulders, with grief too profound to comprehend twisting his face into a terrible expression, his grip stronger than Gibbs would've thought him capable of at his age... if he were really being led back into that room, walking on his bad leg without the assistance of his crutches, which were still leaning up against the wall next to the bed...
...where a body lay covered to the waist. A body that Abby was clinging to as she wailed, a piercing, painful sound, even half muffled as it was, with her face pressed into its shoulder. A body McGee seemed unable to bring himself to touch as he sat in a chair next to it, his face hidden in his hands, his shoulders hunched as though he might collapse in on himself; one whose limp hand Ziva was holding between her own, pain of broken bones forgotten as she clutched it tightly to her, eyes squeezed shut, struggling to whisper a Hebrew prayer in a voice that shook as much as the rest of her. Tears, such a foreign sight on the toughened Israeli, were somehow staining her face in a slow, continuous stream.
Even though this couldn't be real, Gibbs felt something inside him seize at these images, and he almost wasn't able to move when Ducky urged him towards Abby before himself moving haltingly towards the other two with Palmer trailing mutely, almost shell-shocked, behind him. As it was, he forced leaden feet forward to stand next to Abby, laying his hand lightly on her trembling shoulder only to have her turn and launch herself into his arms, making him stumble with the force of the collision as she buried her face in his neck, wrapping herself tightly around him, seemingly never to be moved. Her cries hurt to be this close to, and as he automatically tried to soothe her, his gaze at last landed on the face of the body, a sight that stole his breath and froze the blood in his veins.
Light hair was matted, the respirator having been removed to reveal normally clean-shaven skin bearing five-o'clock shadow under scattered cuts and dark bruises, the flesh a sickening shade of gray. Eyes that had always been alight with intuition, humor, intelligence, anger, determination, mischief, compassion, strength... they were at half-mast now, the color washed, flat. They were empty of everything that made the man –
"Tony." The name, whispered through unwilling lips, brought reality crashing back into Gibbs like a freight train, and he shuddered bodily, fighting a losing battle against the tidal wave of emotion that hovered threateningly on the horizon, eager to engulf him, and slam him to dust against the rocks.
So, this was it – all of their hoping, all of their fears, their desperation, their hours of literal blood, sweat, and tears... none of it had made any difference, it hadn't changed anything. They had failed in their efforts, had failed this man at the precise moment when he'd needed them the most, and there was no denying it now, not now with Tony laying cold and empty before them, tangible proof of a life fought for, and lost.
This couldn't be real... but it was – Anthony DiNozzo was dead.
They had killed him.
Another shudder rippled through him, Gibbs' fingers curling jerkily into fists as his heart hammered and his breath caught in his throat, but just as he felt that wave begin to descend, Abby's hands clutched at him even tighter, her wailing having quieted some to an exhaustion-softened, but no less agonizing tone, reminding him of the others still in the room, of the team still suffering around him. With that, he beat it all back with an iron will – it would come soon enough, but not here, not yet. Ducky had been right, he was needed here, he was needed to keep this loss from tearing them apart before they could even think to hold strong against it.
There would be time enough later for regret (and oh, how much he regretted, would always regret), and for the full weight of his pain to overtake him, but he was first and foremost a leader and now (because of him... Oh God, he'd let this happen...) the only one the others had left to turn to – without Tony there to pick them back up, the job fell to him.
And he would die (like he should've last night... it would've been so much easier if he had...) before he failed in this too.
And so with herculean effort, he kept the storm at bay, eventually after a time hugging Abby back for a moment before gently loosening her grip on him, pulling another chair closer, and lowering her into it with a quiet promise that he would be close by. He then went over to where Ducky stood quietly, sorrowfully next to Ziva, the arm around her shoulders having no visibly calming effect, and leaned forward to whisper into the doctor's ear.
"Nobody else touches him. You do whatever you have to do, call in whatever favors you need to call in – take care of him..."
...like I couldn't.
Gibbs nearly bit through his tongue keeping that last bit from coming out, and was grateful when Ducky only nodded so that he needn't speak again, as he wasn't sure he could just then. He moved on to the phone on the night table that had been pushed off to the side, and made the call to the director, stiffly informing her of the outcome, brushing over her empathy and consolations, and asking for a car to be sent to pick up the four younger team members within the hour to be brought to the hotel he knew would have been claimed for the agency's use by then. Without waiting to hear her acknowledgment, he promptly hung up on her, staring silently down at the phone for a long moment after he did.
When at last he looked up again, it was to find himself suddenly drowning in Abby's tearful gaze as it locked onto his, her broken heart spilling out through them across the room to wrench his own from his chest.
"Gibbs..." she whispered, then as her lips moved to speak again, her voice died, and she could only shake her head, but Gibbs easily read the one word they formed.
Please.
He was by her side again in an instant and pulling her tight against his chest in an embrace that he feared was as desperate as he felt – because she was begging him to fix this, to make this okay, and he knew that no matter how far they got from this room, from this moment, he would never be able to change the terrible outcome, nor fill the hole it had left in each of them.
This would haunt their team, their lives, forever.
The rest of that day was passed in utter silence. Even the sounds of the world around them did nothing to alleviate it – not during their trek through the hospital when they escorted Tony's body as near to the morgue as any besides Ducky could stand to get, nor afterward when they returned to the main lobby and were retrieved and carefully herded into agency cars. None among them spoke to each other, nor answered when spoken to. There was nothing left to say.
After he'd seen the others off with low assurances that he'd follow as soon as he could, Gibbs sat on a bench outside the hospital's main doors and let his eyes drift shut as he settled against the backrest with his crutches balanced against the wood beside his legs, considering, unwillingly, the process taking place down in the morgue.
By now, Ducky would have filled out all the necessary forms and settled Tony's body onto one of the metal tables. He'd have started the process of removing the dressings from his wounds, cleaning residual grime and blood from his skin. After that... the autopsy would follow, to determine exactly which wound directly resulted in his death for the official reports and death certificate. Once finished, he would put a tag on his toe, cover him with a new white sheet, and place him in his new home: a numbered and labeled cold-storage drawer, where he would wait until he could be buried.
The pain the doctor would have to endure to survive the process left a sick feeling behind, especially knowing he'd given him no choice but to face it. Still, he knew Ducky understood the need – no one but Tony's family should be allowed near him, and Ducky was as protective and stubborn as he was, when it came to the younger man.
"For all the good that did yesterday, huh Gibbs?"
The words hit him like shrapnel, that voice the driving force behind them, sending them tearing through his body, each razor sharp and twisting as they went. A jagged intake of air only spread the pain, setting his body instantly to shaking, and he lurched up and off the bench, staggering unsteadily on uneven footing and a bad knee, deaf to the loud clatter of the crutches he'd knocked over. Swaying where he stood, he kept his eyes squeezed shut for fear of who he knew he would see, and answered the quietly spoken statement, not sparing a thought for any who might be near to overhear.
"It wasn't supposed to end like this. We did everything we could've done, this... this was no one's fault," he said hoarsely, wishing as he said it that he could believe it was true. His answer was met with a soft, toneless laugh that set his teeth on edge.
"Is that so? Well, if your conscience is so clear Mr. Semper Fi, why is it you can't even bring yourself to look at me?"
Gibbs shuddered, head bowing and shoulders hunching under an unforgiving weight.
"Tony..."
"Jethro?"
Ducky's voice and the gentle hand on his shoulder startled him into opening his eyes, and he was relieved beyond measure to see only the doctor before him when he did, acknowledging the worry churning in the doctor's expression only fleetingly. After a moment, he realized that it was far too soon for Ducky to be finished already, and his stomach twisted at the reminder of what was needed to be done.
"What is it Duck? Why're you..."
"I have situated our boy comfortably, for the moment," Ducky reassured, his sorrow evident in his every word. His face was almost gray it was so pale, every crease and line pronounced, his expression pained, eyes nearly washed of their color from hours of sleeplessness, then of tears.
Dull green eyes, sunken in a face pale beneath the blood.
'Go back Boss...'
He flinched minutely away from the unbidden memory, and the hand tightened its grip on his shoulder.
"It occurred to me you may well have not left as you should have, and so I have come to offer you a ride home to retrieve some clothes, then to the hotel with the others for much needed rest."
The tone in which the 'offer' was phrased made it clear that it was not an offer at all, but a decision already made. Too worn to argue, he merely nodded his acquiescence and waited idly as Ducky retrieved his crutches from the ground, following on them wordlessly behind the older man as he led the way to the rental car he'd been assigned after leaving the military transport that had brought Palmer and himself back from Seattle.
Throughout the entirety of the silent drive, it was with exhausted indifference that he ignored the furtive glances he kept peripherally seeing directed at him, watching the streets and people they passed along the way without ever seeing any of them. In the back of his mind lay a trove of memories and whispers, and he fought each back like he had in that hospital room – if he was going to lose control, it would be in private, away from prying eyes and unwanted platitudes; he didn't hold it against the doctor, but he knew Ducky's first instinct would be to comfort, and that was the very last thing he wanted, or deserved, right then.
It felt as though he barely breathed until they'd pulled into the driveway of Gibbs' house, and Ducky bid him to stay put after which he did a quick run in to get the necessities for him. With the car to himself, Gibbs allowed a closer examination of where he stood right then, and knew immediately he was in trouble – all of his control, his poise, his ability to distance himself in order to do what needed to be done hung on the edge of a yawning darkness that was the backlash of the previous night, and the loss that day. He knew that if he allowed himself to feel more than a sliver of it all, he may well lose himself to it, no coming back.
So, with this in mind, Gibbs did the only thing he could do for the time being: he did everything possible to shut it out, to build a wall between it and him, lock it away where it wouldn't be felt. If he numbed himself to it just enough, he thought he might survive it just long enough to do his job and see them through this. It wasn't that he was running from it, he thought firmly; he wasn't trying to hide from what happened, and his failings therein. He simply needed to delay, to deal with it when there was time and when there weren't so many people counting on him.
"Liar," came a whisper next to his ear. "Coward."
Cringing away from Tony's voice, quiet, yet with the force of a scream in the otherwise silent car, Gibbs resisted the urge to cover his ears to block him out and waited with gritted teeth until Ducky returned with a duffel of his clothing. When he did, he dropped it into the back seat and was quick to get back behind the wheel and get them back on the road.
If he noticed Gibbs' changed posture, tight as a wire ready to snap, or the muscle in his jaw that jumped with how tightly it was clenched, he didn't comment.
In fact the doctor was unusually and completely silent in their drive to the hotel as well – there were no stories, no diatribes, no carefully phrased inquiries as to how he was coping. Instead the silent glances continued, though less frequently the closer they got to their destination. Once there, the older man retrieved Gibbs' bag and slung it over his own shoulder before Gibbs could insist on carrying it himself, accompanying him and his crutches on the slow, steady journey inside the hotel. An NCIS probie was waiting for them in the lobby and gave them keycards and directions to their team's set of rooms, seeing them as far as the elevator before returning to his post.
The ride up was as eerily quiet as the rest of the trip, as was their walk to their rooms at the end of the hall on the twelfth floor, a quiet only broken as they entered the room that Gibbs would share with McGee, which was flanked on either side by Ziva's and Abby's room and the room Ducky would share with Palmer.
Gibbs was wondering idly if Ducky had been the one to recommend the living arrangements to the agency shrink, keeping them grouped all together for comfort in familiarity, when the doctor spoke at last, his voice soft to keep from waking McGee who was already in a restless sleep in the far bed.
"I know you Jethro, and I know the love you had for that boy and the responsibility you've always taken upon yourself in the area of his well being... in this, I know also that you are in a struggle at the moment that I can only begin to fathom in comparing it with my own. I ask only that you believe me when I say that you are not to blame here – his death was no more your doing than it was dear Abigail's," he said, and Gibbs, staring straight ahead, stiffened even further and would not look at him.
Ducky paused then, perhaps waiting for an answer or any sort of reaction, and sighing resignedly when he got neither. He deposited Gibbs' bag by his feet, reached out a hand to touch him then apparently thought better of it and let it drop by his side. Informing him he would be just next door if he should need anything at all, he retreated, shutting the door behind him and leaving the room in darkness broken only by the light of the clock on the nightstand, given the blackout curtains that had been drawn over the windows. As quietly as he could, he moved over to sit on his bed, propping the crutches against the wall next to it and stretching out, not wanting to sleep but recognizing the need to try anyways.
Just as the lull of exhaustion began to pull him under, that voice, equal parts coveted and dreaded returned, and Gibbs knew if he turned his head, he would find its owner in the chair in the far corner.
"Do you really believe him Boss? Or do you know better?" The jab held a sharp undercurrent that was entirely unlike the Tony he knew, but the difference didn't matter – it struck deep and held.
Aching and raw even in spite of his best efforts, Gibbs shut his eyes against the burning in them that he would not acknowledge, and knew he would find no rest tonight.
The days immediately following the bombing were hell.
The agency had taken a staggering blow, and had suffered a loss in strength and personnel that left them vulnerable like they had never been before. Naturally, in response to it all, and to the flood of the grieving that craved answers for how their loved ones had been lost, every surviving field agent that wasn't hospitalized was called upon to help in the investigation. Every one of them lived and breathed this case. While they were all still at the hotel, they slept in shifts in their rooms, and spent the rest of their days in the conference rooms, sorting through reports, survivor accounts, photographs of the scene, analysis of the explosives, everything. When at last a secure building was lent to them by the government for their uses, they used whatever cots or couches they could drag in, only occasionally leaving to visit their families if they had them to visit.
Gibbs' team, on the other hand, never left at all.
They became fixtures in the investigation, always seen moving around from station to station, contributing what they could, directing where needed given their close proximity to the entire incident in question, never too far from the front line of it all as it progressed. For all outward appearances, they were the picture of a model team, exemplary in their manner of work and poise, examples to follow in knowing and showing how things were done, and done right, in a crisis.
At a closer look, they were barely hanging on.
That first week especially, they were a ghost of the team they once were – not in their abilities as agents, which remained as steadfast as ever, but in everything extra that had once made them the kind of closely knit unit that most teams could only aspire to be.
At best, they talked about only the case and the pertinent facts. At worst, they didn't talk at all. They drifted around each other like distantly orbiting planets, passing by without ever truly connecting. Like any planets, they had had their sun, their center of gravity, something that normally kept them near and in sync. In their particular case, they'd had two – now one was dead, and the other dimmed almost to nothing in the aftermath.
The ease with which Gibbs connected to each of them before Tony's death had nearly evaporated afterward – the quiet encouragements, the subtle wry humor, all of what made him more than just team lead to them... all of it was muted, brittle. He still lead but with a tightly reigned, numbed countenance that only reinforced the atmosphere of grieving that hung over their heads. He ate, sometimes, when the others ate, slept when Ducky badgered him enough, succumbing with only flickers of his usual annoyance at being babysat; he pushed forward in his work with all his usual obsession, but now without Tony's inherent exuberance and vitality to pull him back, to ground him in the present with them.
Very occasionally, his gaze would appear to be drawn off to the side to linger on open space for a time, or his head would angle ever so slightly, towards a sound it would seem, and he would flinch as though stung, but return to whatever he was doing without explanation or further reaction. As the days passed, they learned to ignore such occurrences all together. Just like they ignored whenever one of them returned from a long absence with red eyes and a down-turned face, or were caught calling a number that each had harassed the phone company over keeping connected, listening silently and with sunken expressions to the answering message on the other line before eventually hanging up and returning to their work.
With each moment such as these that went unchecked, however, the atmosphere only became darker and more barren, a hopeless cycle that none seemed capable or willing to break. After a week, it was becoming almost unbearable, each wondering if there was going to be a team left to salvage when all was said and done.
In the blink of an eye, it was the start of the second week, and there came a moment that brought them dangerously close to hoping, only for their reality to slap them back down just as quickly. It was nearing dinner time that day, most of the day shift leaving to make way for the night shift, when Ducky approached their pseudo workspace, Abby and Palmer in tow from their makeshift labs, carrying bags of food from one of their usual haunts and firmly informing them that they all were to take a break. Now.
Food had been doled out and chairs filled, and as they ate, what started as McGee's comment about chopsticks versus forks turned into a full on debate about the merits of each, with lessons in their respective histories from Ducky, and mixed reviews from all parties. In the midst of their tame but involved antics, an inadvertent smirk and quiet huff of laughter escaped Gibbs, leaving the others scrambling to keep from staring at the first real sign of their Boss they'd seen since a week before.
Sadly, the lightness was short-lived after that. Ducky had busied himself securing a rubber band around a set of chopsticks for Palmer's rather incapable hands, prompting Ziva to comment that she had seen such a technique used once before in a movie, though she could not remember its name. McGee had snorted and blurted an answer without thinking.
"Referencing a movie, Ziva? Man, Tony really has rubbed off on you."
The effect was akin to a douse of cold water, stopping conversation in its tracks and leaving everyone at the table pale and silent. After a long moment, Abby, tears overflowing, excused herself and shakily walked away from their table, and Ducky immediately left to console her while McGee remained staring down at his plate, lost for the moment in his own pain over his slip. The remaining two watched the brief light that had returned to Gibbs' face shutter and then blink out as he slowly stood and returned to his desk without a word.
And the question remained for those watching him, and watching Abby cling desperately to Ducky by the elevators as she cried: was there anything left of them to put back together, if ever they could begin to try?
For Gibbs, the days passed by in a blur of information and meaningless conclusions. For the first time in his career, the answer to all the questions surrounding a case didn't matter to him. All that mattered were the people they'd lost, the person his team had lost, and the fact that the man responsible was forever beyond their reach. Justice (Revenge, Tony whispered to him) would never be found for what Muhannad Ganim had done.
That point was in the back of his mind constantly throughout the case to its inevitable conclusion, and throughout the remembrance ceremony, with its solemn march through the city, and its heartrendingly long list of names read out at its end. It was the only piece of him that felt keenly solid in a world that had become surreal with the distance he purposely kept, a thorn embedded in his skin that he could not remove or ignore. Its sting was a close companion to the constant hovering presence; whether directly in front of him or from the corner of his eye, Tony's face said all of what he felt, which only served to make him pull further away, more desperate than even he realized to keep from feeling it all like he would have otherwise.
His first truly grounded moment since that night, it seemed, was two days after the ceremony at Tony's funeral, which had been delayed for the sheer number questions to be answered and the sheer number of agents to bury. So many were in attendance at the cemetery to pay their respects, everyone from government officials and White House representatives to people from the legal department and from the place they usually went for coffee before and after office hours, those mourning him as diverse as the man himself.
Like Kate had years ago, Tony, for his selfless acts and bravery (and thanks to no small amount of endorsements from countless fellow agents and the Director), had been awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, a medal to be buried with him. It was after the speech to do with that award that Gibbs found himself standing at the podium in front of a cloth-covered grave, looking down at the coffin resting beside it (...too many visible wounds for an open casket service maybe...) and entirely unable to read the eulogy he'd been asked by Tony's father to write.
Away on a business trip in Paraguay on the day of his son's funeral, Anthony Sr. was nothing if not consistent in his absenteeism and practiced indifference... though he'd at least payed for a very nice casket and headstone beforehand.
For a drawn out moment of heavy silence Gibbs looked down at that polished wood surface, pictured the empty shell of the man lying within as he last saw his body in the hospital, saw the imagined version of him watching, expression flat, from his place leaning against a tree off to his left, and then he folded and tucked away his pages in his jacket. He couldn't bring himself to raise his gaze from that wood as he spoke, plaintively, feeling the iron clad control that had become second nature these past two weeks slipping away with every word.
"Anthony DiNozzo was an exceptional agent and a loyal friend, with a devotion to his job, to his team, and to even complete strangers that was unmatched by any person I've met. To everyone who knew him, his death is not and will never be fair – to him, it would seem worth it... because given the choice to either stand idle or give everything for the possibility of saving a loved one, he wouldn't ever think twice about forfeiting his life, just like he didn't this time. That's just part of what made him the man he was, just part of what made him special. He will be missed, more than words can say."
Gaze fixed firmly on the ground as the last words were waveringly spoken, he returned to his seat on legs that shook, flinching equally at the shots fired by the honor guard into the air, as at the hand from a nameless someone that rested on his shoulder to offer comfort but felt as though it burned instead.
By the time the service ended and the crowd began to leave for the reception, Gibbs knew he wasn't going to make it through even twenty minutes of it. Images and emotions and memories streamed through his mind: fights, with suspects and each other, all-nighters in the bullpen, jokes and sorrows shared in equal measure, takeout, cases, near misses and full out disasters... a constant shadow on his six, unconditional support, whether or not he always deserved it. All of it, it was all overtaking him in a rush – that tidal wave was at last, weeks later, crashing down. And he knew, just as surely as he'd known two weeks ago, that he needed to be alone for it, because this was going to be ugly.
"Duck, Ziva's riding with you," he ground out, his body practically vibrating with the tension of keeping up that last thread of restraint as they all moved as a group to the parking lot. Ducky glanced over at him and instantly recognized what was coming, brow furrowing over worried eyes. He opened his mouth and closed it several times before his lips sealed against whatever he'd wanted to say, thinning into an unhappy line though he nodded, likely realizing that there was nothing he could do to either to change what was going to happen, or Gibbs' decision to handle it alone.
"Very well Jethro – I am a phone call away if you should need me," he said quietly, looking as though it were against all of his better judgment to be letting him out of his sight. Not giving him a chance to reconsider letting him leave so easily, Gibbs strode immediately away as Ducky drew Ziva with a gentle grip above her cast towards his own car instead.
As Gibbs drove, his tight grip on the wheel did nothing to still the shaking, and the longer the drive lasted, the less he really saw of the road. The memories were coming faster and faster and with each one, his chest grew tighter, his breathing more shallow, his heartbeat more rapid, his grip tighter until he was sure the wheel would break.
It felt like hours of this torture passed before he'd reached his house, thrown his car into 'park', and rushed inside and down into the solitude of his basement, not sure or caring if he'd remembered to take the key out of the ignition. Once there, he paced dizzying, restless circles around the space, his body a livewire, unsure of where to turn or what to do to bring himself back down, if he even could, or should.
A few words, spoken in that voice he hated and missed equally right then, decided for him.
"So, this is the place where Ari died... but you didn't kill him, did you? After all that guilt, and all that crusading, Ziva did it for you, and you never repaid him for what he did to Kate." Disgust entered the tone. "Just like you didn't have to lift a finger to handle the bastard that got me killed. But what does it matter, right? The bad guys still got what they deserved. And we're still dead on your watch."
In that instant, that livewire pulled tight... and snapped.
With an agonized roar, Gibbs grabbed the nearest thing, a jar filled with nails, and threw it as hard as he could. The shattering of glass against the wall only spurred him on, and he moved like a hurricane, throwing everything within reach, desperate and furious in a way he couldn't understand or control, his momentum building almost to the point of insanity. Eventually, and he couldn't pinpoint when or how, his clawed hammer found its way into his hand and he whirled on the large solid mass of his boat behind him. With every swing, the jarring impact rang through him and adrenaline sang through his veins; he couldn't hear anything above the rush of blood through his ears, could barely even see with the sweat that dripped into his eyes as the storm raged on, and he lost himself to it gladly.
At the storm's end, when he stood in a room and blinked dazedly at the destruction around him that he only vaguely recalled causing, the hammer fell from a numb hand and he dropped to his knees, the scrape of jagged pieces of wood under him going unnoticed. All he saw, or felt for that matter, was the complete and radiating disappointment that had replaced the disgust on Tony's face as the younger man stared at him from his place by the stairs, shaking his head minutely.
A sick feeling took over in the stead of the fire that had sputtered and died in the wake of the demolition, and though now exhausted beyond measure, he couldn't bear to stay in that room, or that house even. So he surged to his feet, passing Tony as quickly as he could manage and stumbling up the stairs and back out the front door. He all but fell into the driver's seat of his car, which he realized unfeelingly that he'd left running, and jarred the shifter into reverse, getting back onto the road.
Calm, or a portion of it at least, crept back in with each passing minute, but with it came that awful, encompassing ache, the one that reminded him quietly, painfully of the loss that brought him to this point. After driving aimlessly for an indeterminable amount of time, and feeling that ache only grow stronger, he finally admitted defeat and drove towards the only place he could think to be right then.
When he swung the door to Tony's apartment open, and pocketed the spare key he'd been given several years and several more hospital stays ago, he was only a little surprised to find the lights already on. He closed and locked the door once he'd entered, draping his jacket over the small table by the entrance before venturing further in.
Gibbs spotted McGee first, sprawled out on Tony's sofa, remote on the cushion by his hand, the TV's volume on low as he lay sound asleep, still in his suit though his tie and shoes were on the floor below him. The laxness of his features, the peace on his face, was a relief. That first week, he'd barely slept at all, and when he had, it'd been in fits and spurts – Gibbs knew, because he'd slept even less, and had been keeping track. Now though, the simultaneous strain and release of this day seemed to have been the beginning of his turning point, something he was incredibly grateful for... though, he thought with a twinge of self-loathing, he could take little credit in helping to get him there.
When he turned from his studying of their team's youngest agent, his eyes landed on Ziva sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, her uninjured hand wrapped around a steaming mug of what he assumed to be black coffee. As he walked quietly towards her, her eyes followed him, and the closer he drew the more he could see her normally sharper edges softened by her surroundings, while her grief, though still present, was tempered by her inherent strength.
As strong as he knew she was though, he also knew that it was when she was struggling the hardest that she appeared the most stoic. Pride for her abilities to endure mingled with a resurrected worry and protectiveness he was careful to keep hidden – his support would not be welcome if offered outright, especially in light of its lack of consistency to this point. It would be a matter of subtlety... which he was capable of, when he needed to be. No matter what his well-earned reputation said.
Coming to a stop by her side, their gazes locked in a wordless sharing of raw, barely restrained emotion that flowed in a near overwhelming torrent for the briefest of moments. In that instant, he bore witness to a similar, yet altogether different agony from his own; there was the pain of the loss of a valued partner and dear friend, yes, but there was the loss of possibility as well, a host of 'maybe's and 'what if's never explored that amounted to precious time wasted, and led into a near-consuming regret that hurt as much to imagine as to see even a glimmer of.
Then Ziva stiffened and closed everything off from view, as though afraid even now of showing how deeply her wounds were capable of running, and gestured with her head in the direction of the hallway that led to the master bedroom. Knowing where she was telling him he was needed without having to ask, and knowing also that staying with her would only make her control harder for her to maintain when she needed now more than ever to hold onto it, he nodded his understanding and moved off down the hallway.
When the door opened with a long creak, Gibbs winced at the intrusive sound, and darted a look at the bed's sole occupant, laying curled in the center on top of the blankets facing him. For her part, Abby didn't seem to have heard a thing. She didn't move one inch, nor did her grip on the frame he noticed wrapped in her arms slacken in the least.
Drawing closer with silent steps, he froze when he was close enough to see the picture it held: it was Tony's copy of a picture of the team's last Christmas, all of them grouped close together so they could all fit into the shot. Glasses of eggnog were held high in a toast, smiles on all their faces, even Gibbs'. A bright red Santa hat from somewhere had found its way onto Ziva's head to match the one Ducky wore, and McGee could be seen grinning beside Palmer, his hand snaking up behind the autopsy assistant's elf hat to make a pair of bunny ears.
And at their team's center stood Tony, one arm wrapped discreetly around Ziva's waist in a gesture the ex-Mossad agent subtly leaned into, while his other was wrapped around Abby's shoulders, his lips pressed to the Goth's cheek in a sloppy kiss that had allowed a freeze frame of her face mid-laugh.
That laugh was a distant memory now. Abby's face was pale and tear stained, pained even in sleep, the same as it had been these past two weeks.
A creak off to the side drew his gaze instantly, and he watched as Ducky rose from the chair where he'd been sitting, keeping vigil in Gibbs' stead. The elderly doctor approached him, an appraising look on his face, then nodded in quiet satisfaction and pride, offering a slight smile of encouragement before silently leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.
Without a second's more hesitation, Gibbs toed off his shoes and climbed carefully onto the bed to lay behind the scientist, draping an arm over her to hug her carefully to him. A bolt of fresh pain had shot through him at seeing that picture, but he quashed it now, furious with himself for indulging in such pathetic wallowing for so long – for all his intended efforts to keep his team from falling apart, he had only to look at the other two and at Abby to know that so far, all he'd been doing was letting them down; he had to pull himself together, and damn well try harder. They were all in this together, and forgetting that even for a second hurt everyone in a way they couldn't afford, if they ever hoped to pull through this. Like they had to pull through this.
There was a quiet laugh from across the room then, making him once more aware of his constant shadow. This time though, when Tony spoke, there was a note of satisfaction in the place of the usual quiet accusation.
"There, now. Now you're getting it."
Instead of answering, he pulled Abby closer, and shut his eyes.
Gibbs had been doing okay. He really had been. Better, even.
Refusing let himself be as distant as he'd been when it had first happened, he made sure to talk to each member of his team throughout the day every day, keeping subtle tabs and doing what he could to keep them interacting with each other if he felt they were starting to draw away. He ate and slept without having to be badgered by Ducky about it, and was even making an effort to join in on nights out with the team, convincing himself with some effort that it would do him as much good as it seemed to do them, to be together away from the office and the constant reminders. Daily he took strength and hope from them, as each of their smiles grew a little less strained, their laughs a little more genuine, their silences a little less mournful.
He spent as much time as he could with Abby, knowing that no matter what she said, she still blamed herself for what had happened, and likely always would to a degree. Though she too had begun slowly to come back to life since that night, her silences were always the heaviest; her inadvertent part in Tony's death was a harsh truth for anyone to have to bear alone, and so Gibbs took special care to be there to help shoulder it in every spare moment he had. Thankfully she hadn't put up a fight when he'd suggested she talk regularly with Ducky about it as well, knowing that the doctor would provide much needed balance in helping her cope.
And the mirage of Tony, though still present each and every day, had gradually lost its betrayed and disappointed looks after that night at the apartment, adopting more of Tony's relaxed, easy presence. If Gibbs were honest with himself, the hallucination, or daydream, or whatever it was had become a sort of comfort – even though he'd stopped speaking to it, and it had stopped speaking to him, it allowed him to keep a piece of his lost friend with him, it didn't even matter that it could only be an imitation. It may have even been the only reason he'd been able to keep himself together at all that first month – in spite of the harsh words it spoke – when the loss was at its freshest and he was plagued constantly by the sight of the others' pain and the empty chair that remained, wherever they sat.
Then Jenny Sheppard called him into her improvised office one afternoon at the end of the second month and dropped a fresh bombshell, and it was all Gibbs could do to keep from demolishing his surroundings like he'd done his boat and workbench that night after Tony's funeral. He seethed and growled and was met by an infuriatingly calm and sympathetic gaze as she informed him of the time and place he needed to be that coming Monday, saying it would have happened sooner had she not requested it be put on hold until the backlash from the tragedy had had a chance to wear off some. She met his sharp protests with that same mix of calm sympathy, refusing to budge no matter the scathing remarks and looks he gave her.
After that, he knew there was nothing more he could say, except to mutter that he was going home, which he stormed away from her to do without waiting to receive the okay. Right then, he really didn't give a crap. She could fire him for all he cared, although according to what she'd told him, that was the very last thing she would do.
He didn't stop as he passed by the tables where his team sat, only tossing over his shoulder as he went his order for them to finish up whatever they were doing and leave for the weekend, ignoring the confused and concerned stares he could feel following him to the elevator.
Barely aware of the drive from their temporary building back to his house, Gibbs only really came down from the red haze that had overcome him at the first burn of Bourbon as the gulp he'd apparently taken slid over his tongue and scalded a path down his throat. Gasping, he glanced down at his already half-empty mug, then drained the rest and filled it back up to the brim, emptying it a second time in short order. It was filled a third time and on its way to being emptied once more when a sardonic comment, the first words in weeks, made him falter in the movement.
"Yeah, 'cause this'll help. Think maybe you should stick Poison Control on speed-dial-one while you can still feel your fingers."
With a deep scowl, he kept his eyes forward, downed the mug's contents in two swigs, and poured a fourth. "Shut up, DiNozzo."
It was Sunday afternoon by the time Gibbs was entirely lucid again, having spent all of Friday night and most of Saturday morning more drunk than he'd been in what felt like his entire life on what was fondly and suitingly known as 'paint stripper' to all who drank it, and the rest of Saturday brutally hung over before sleeping for a little over twelve hours afterward.
Unfortunately, even the leftover thrumbs of his splitting headache did nothing to dull the significance of the news that had felt like a sucker punch when he'd heard it, and he was left with nothing to do but make his traditional hangover cure of the strongest black coffee he could stomach, and wander with it into the basement that he'd avoided since he'd trashed it.
The disaster before him seemed a decent enough substitute to thought and to attempting to kill his liver in record time, and so he gladly immersed himself in cleaning it all up, starting with the broken glass of thrown jars and working around to dismantling the scattered chunks of boat into more orderly pieces, stacking it all in a pile against the far wall. Falling into the rhythm of movement was his own brand of therapy, as much as building the boat in the first place had been, and he let himself step out of the world for that little while, calls from his team and from the Director going unanswered, messages screened for any importance then deleted for the duration.
By the time he'd gotten it looking something like it had before, though noticeably without a near completed boat at its center, it was well into the night, and creeping into the early hours of Monday morning... the knowledge of what was to take place later that morning enough to undo hours of calm focus, and make him wish again for a hangover to take his mind off of it.
It was then, as he was organizing the last of the debris, that he came across his lock box in the pile, and he paused for a moment, hand hovering over it before he picked it up and carried it over to his workbench. A quick search through one of the in tact drawers turned up the key for it, and he unlocked it, laying it open at the same moment as he became aware of a familiar presence in the room.
"Being kinda overly dramatic, don't you think?" Tony commented mildly, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, watching him unconcernedly. The older man looked from him to the open box on the bench in front of him, then after a moment's hesitation, reached a hand in to retrieve the weapon inside. A gift from Mike Franks when he'd first started with NCIS, when his mentor had told him any agent looking to stick around for a while was best served to have at least two backups stashed somewhere on their home turf.
"They actually want to give me a medal like yours and Kate's, for my 'valiant efforts' that night. I guess they figure they can't keep giving it just to the ones who die – bad for PR maybe," Gibbs muttered bitterly. Then he shook his head, his anger draining from him in the action, only leaving him more tired than before as his voice dropped to a low murmur. "I'm too old for this bullshit."
Gibbs' mind wandered as his fingers glided over the barrel and the butt of the .9 mil. It went against everything he was to even entertain the thought, and he wasn't really... but he'd known his share of soldiers and agents that had done more than just think about it. And like he had sometimes in the past he couldn't help but wonder at the losses that drove them to their breaking points... and wonder if or when he would reach his.
A derisive snort from the corner caught him off guard, shaking him out of his reverie, and he shot a glare at the man residing there, who merely smirked that familiar smirk in return.
"You've been too old for decades Boss – offing yourself over it now would just be redundant," he chirped, that damn smirk turning into a shit-eating grin.
Gibbs drank in the sight, realizing for the thousandth time just how much he missed it, how much he missed the man all together, would always miss him. But the realization, he was surprised to note, was a little less painful this time than it had been that day nearly two months ago. Almost against his will, it seemed that raw, open wound that had felt like a permanent addition in his chest had, without his knowledge, begun the arduous process of knitting itself closed; even if it would never heal completely, it felt now as though someday it would dull enough to be shouldered without crushing him, to be tucked away with the memory of Tony into the same place he held his wife and their daughter, and Kate, and the rest of his collected ghosts... always to be missed and thought of, but no longer to be a burden.
This revelation combined with the unfaltering cheer of this version of Tony began, ever so slowly, to erode the edges of that hovering darkness, and gradually a small, bemused smile found its way onto his face, feeling foreign but comfortable after months of near complete absence. Eventually he shook his head and looked back down at the gun, then set it back in its box and locked it with a slight laugh.
"It wasn't on my to-do list. Smart-ass," he huffed, and looked back at Tony in time to see his grin widen, that familiar glint of mirth in those lively green eyes inciting both sadness and warmth in equal parts, both of which left their marks on Gibbs' face as he spoke again. "Damn it kid... I'm really gonna miss you – I wish I would've told you just how much when I could've, and how proud you've always made me. I'll never forgive myself for that," he said softly, unashamed of the declaration, wishing only that the real Tony could hear him.
Across from him, this Tony's smile softened, becoming understanding. "You've always been a man of few words, Boss – but I knew... you know that I did. I wouldn't have stuck around all those years if I didn't." A sadness found its way into his smile, turning it bittersweet. "And I may be just a figment of yours, but we'll call this tidbit divine intervention on your sanity's behalf: what happened to me wasn't your fault – what happened, happened, not a thing more you could've done to have changed that. And what you said, at the hospital, just before... for argument's sake, let's just assume I heard you, Gibbs. You have to know, I would've stayed, if I could've. I wanted to... it just wasn't in the cards this time."
Swallowing with difficulty around the lump in his throat, Gibbs nodded, wanting more than anything to believe those words... and deciding after a moment that he would.
After all, this was Tony DiNozzo – a man of impossible feats, to the very last. He'd heard his every word, of that Gibbs now had no doubt – this time though, it had simply been out of both their hands.
And he knew just how easy it would be to hold onto his guilt, to let it eat away at him until there was nothing left – just like he knew if Tony were around to do it, he'd kick Gibbs' ass for it... or at least he'd try. So, for Tony, and more than a little bit for the team he still had left, he would do what would be far harder: he would work to forgive himself. It would take time and a lot of it, but someday, he swore, he would let it go.
As though he could sense the exact moment Gibbs started to come to terms with it, Tony's smile brightened once more, and he straightened from where he'd been leaning against the wall, walking soundlessly over to stand before him. Then Tony was reaching towards him to grasp his shoulder and squeeze it reassuringly, and Gibbs was shocked at the imagined solidity of it – it felt nearly as real as Ducky's hand had, that day outside the hospital where Tony had breathed his last.
"I think you know where you should be right now – you should go," Tony said softly.
Gibbs did know. Suddenly though, he knew with a certainty that this would be the last time he would see him, this man who had gone from subordinate, to friend, to adopted son, one whom he'd trusted with his life and who he would have given up his own for in a second if he could've, one that had always been and would always be an integral part of him.
There were so many things he wanted to say, and 'goodbye' wasn't one of them, so he settled instead on the words that rang the truest.
"Thanks Tony... for everything." He let himself grin, glad at how natural it felt. "I'll see you later."
Returning the grin as only Tony could, he nodded, and lowered his hand back to his side. "See ya later, Boss."
Not wanting to give himself time to reconsider, Gibbs looked at Tony one last time, then turned for the stairs. He was at the top, hand hovering over the light switch, before he glanced back down at the place by his workbench.
The spot was empty, the room silent.
The ache of loss renewed itself for a moment in his chest, but he tucked it carefully away, turned off the light, and shut the door quietly behind him.
It was by mere minutes that Gibbs made it to his medal ceremony mid-Monday-morning, held on the cleared grounds of the late NCIS building, where the new building was being erected, slowly but surely. The sea of chairs that had been set out in front of the podium were filled with NCIS agents from every department, and countless high-ranking officials... though his team had somehow managed to procure spots in the front row, he suspected through their Director, who sat beside them exuding a pride for him almost as strong as that which was written across their faces.
The President made a long speech, filled with words like 'duty' and 'bravery' that hummed in the air, a brilliant juxtaposition to the image of their home, nearly rebuilt, visible behind where he stood. Then, as he was pinning the Presidential Medal of Freedom to Gibbs' jacket, the golden eagles and white star gleamed under the sunlight and the flashes of cameras and the audience flowed to its feet with a wave of applause that reverberated through him and the very ground he stood upon. On and on it rang, chasing the last of the darkness away from this place it had nearly destroyed and replacing it with the hope of renewal, and the strength to keep pressing onward.
Gibbs shook the hand that was offered to him, and understood fully then that this was as much for him as for all that had fallen that day, and all that had survived to the next – this was a moment that belonged to all of them, for all that they had collectively lost and sacrificed, and was his to accept on their behalf. So he did, with a solemn respect and a sharp salute becoming of a Marine.
Once all was said and done, once hands had been shaken, congratulations passed along, and the last pictures taken, Gibbs returned to his team and was willingly engulfed in Abby's hug, and embraces from each of them, and once released, agreed readily to their planned location for a celebratory dinner, which he would meet up with them for just as soon as he'd made one small detour. They parted ways at that, and drove off after the last of the dissipating crowd.
And at long last, he came to be standing in front of Tony's grave, for the first time since the funeral. Standing at attention, he drew his hand up in another salute, this time to a man who in so many ways had been a driving force in his life, like few others had ever been.
So many cases, so many battles and losses that could've well done him in... were it not for Tony, pulling him back together the way only he could, whether or not Gibbs had ever realized that that was what he was doing, by his side every step of the way, every single day. It was the way he'd always been, in all the years since the very first case they'd worked together... and the way he had been now, this final time.
With all that Tony DiNozzo ever was, he was to the very last the strength that would push him back up to his feet from a staggering blow and see him through to tomorrow, and all the days that followed it.
Slowly he lowered his hand back down to rest on top of the marble gravestone. "Thanks Tony," he whispered in the same way he had last night in his basement, and smiled at that last memory of Tony's answering grin, as clear as day in his mind, like he knew it always would be.
Before long, he made the walk back to his car, and drove as promised to the pizza place a few blocks from the site of their half-rebuilt building, the place that had always been Tony's vote whenever the decision of a takeout source was left to him. The others were waiting inside at the team's usual table, drinks, including his own, already ordered and waiting on the table in front of each of their respective seats.
When he walked up to them, medal pinned proudly to his jacket, they all stood, taking their glasses in hand. Gibbs came to a halt in front of the place set out for him and picked up his drink, regarding the chair purposely left open, tucked in between Ziva and McGee. One of Abby's black roses was propped primly in it to rest upright against its back, a ribbon tied delicately around its stem, and in front of it, the team's framed Christmas photo, its captured moment bright and gleaming within it.
He paused, gathered his courage and the warmth of memory, and raised his glass high, the action mirrored by the family around him.
"Tony... this one's for you."
'Credula vitam spes fovet et melius cras fore semper dicit' - Credulous hope supports our life, and always says that tomorrow will be better. (Tibullus)