Title: Broken
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Rating: PG13-ish. It depends on your views, really.
Spoilers: Heartbreak, and tiny references to Yankee White
You're awfully glad you got over your fear of being in Autopsy, because Gibbs asks you to go find Kate, and that's exactly where she is. And, of course, you aren't about to leave her standing next to that cooler drawer all by herself while you stand outside the door.
Not with that 'lost little girl' look on her face.
Gibbs didn't tell you what happened, and it doesn't seem appropriate to ask Ducky right now. From the look on Kate's face, it's doubtful that she'll be able to tell you what happened either, but that's okay. Between the dime-sized hole in that man's chest, and the way Kate's left hand seems to hover over it, most of the pieces fall into place pretty quickly.
You aren't sure what to say under the circumstances (are there protocols for consoling your lover in the workplace? What about comforting a coworker over a dead body in the morgue?), so you're a little thankful when Kate looks up at you (and oh, god, she's already got tears in her eyes), finally breaking the silence.
"I murdered him."
It's not what she says that stuns you; it's the voice in which she says it. She sounds defeated and exhausted, like somehow it wasn't enough that she killed him, but that she betrayed him as well. And maybe she did, in her mind at least, but when you look at her all you see (aside from the dark circles under her eyes and that little tremor in her bottom lip), is a tired woman standing in a morgue at midnight on a Tuesday.
If you were being completely honest with yourself, you'd admit that it all freaks you out more than it really should.
"Let me drive you home," you say to her then, because you're afraid that if she drives, she'll be back in here in the morning, and it won't be you who sees her first.
She nods slowly, but makes no move toward the door. She's gone back to staring at the man between you (only, it's really just a boy, you see now; he can't be more than 18), and if you didn't know any better, you'd think she was listening to him. Of course, Ducky is the only one of you who converses freely with the dead in this room. If Kate starts, the team dynamic you've been building over the past few years will surely shift into irreparable pieces.
Kate walks with you out into the parking lot willingly enough, the slightly vacant look in her eyes letting you know that the shock of the night is beginning to settle in. She doesn't say anything during the ride to her apartment, so the trip is completely silent. You wisely chose to keep the stereo off; listening to Kittie at 1am won't ease any of the tension.
The drive takes longer than usual, or at least it feels that way, because you keep glancing over at Kate every three seconds. She doesn't seem to notice.
Once you've pulled into her driveway, it takes her a moment to realize where she is. She fumbles with the seatbelt latch as she's getting out of the car, and doesn't look at you until you're both inside with the door locked behind you.
She won't answer when you speak to her, so you try another time-honoured method of eliciting a response: kissing. You don't put any force behind the move, of course, but she pushes you away anyways, hard enough that you stumble a bit.
"Kate, come on. Say something, could you? Anything, please. You're freaking me out, here." She's walked away and is standing on the far side of the room with her back to you. Her reflection in the print above the fireplace lets you know that she's staring blankly at…well, nothing.
"Gibbs told me to get over it. Those were his exact words. That's what he said to me, that bastard." Kate drums her fingers on the edge of the fireplace slowly. Her voice is a little thick, like she's trying not to cry, and it throws you a little. Since you've known her, you've only seen Kate cry twice; once during Major Kerry's funeral, and once after a stakeout where she'd gone five and a half days without sleep, and was too physically exhausted to do anything else.
You slip an arm around her waist tentatively. "Hey, don't cry. I'm sure he didn't mean it like it sounded. You know how he gets sometimes."
"Don't bring him into this." She almost growls this, and it causes you to remember that she could break your bones on a whim if she felt like it (does the Secret Service teach arm breaking, or is it something she's picked up from Gibbs?). She won't, of course, but she certainly could if she wanted to. And you can't imagine how you'd even begin to explain it to Gibbs (or Ducky) on Monday morning, so you decide it's best to let her do whatever she feels is necessary for right now.
What's necessary, it seems, is spinning you around, pressing you against the wall, and kissing you until it feels like you'll pass out from lack of oxygen. Her mouth is hot and insistent on yours, and she's holding your arms tight enough that you're sure to have bruises by morning. Three days of long sleeves it is, then.
"Kate, what are you—" The rest of your question is drowned out in a moan, as she brings a hand up and pinches your nipple lightly.
"What do you think I'm doing?" She leans back to look at you, and there's the barest hint of a smile on her lips. It's the look in her eye that truly worries you, though. It's harder, somehow, than you've ever seen.
It's that look that causes you to pull away completely, ducking under her arm and stepping away.
"Don't, Kate. Just because you've had a hellish day, and Gibbs was an asshole, don't think that you can do this just to make yourself feel better. It won't help."
She doesn't expect to hear that; you can tell by how she blinks rapidly for a second, and brings a finger to her lips, like she can't believe that you can say such a thing immediately after kissing her. You've rendered her speechless, and it's nearly a full minute before she opens her mouth to speak.
"Abby, I…" She trails off then, chewing on her bottom lip, working the words around in her mouth. You can tell by her expression that she'd be more comfortable with a mouthful of gasoline. Or maybe some of that high-grade stuff Gibbs drinks.
"Dammit!" She slams her hand against the wall then, hard enough that the pictures hanging there rattle in their frames. You stay where you are. Not because you're a little apprehensive about Kate's outburst, but because you don't want her thinking that you're trying to crowd her.
"Kate…" And here's where it gets tricky. If you aren't very, very careful in choosing your next words, it could end in tears and pain, for both of you. At least now Kate is watching you to see what you'll say. She's leaning against the corner of the fireplace, cradling her right hand in her left, and you'd better talk fast so you can get her some ice. If she can't make a fist or hold a pen tomorrow, she'll only be angrier with herself.
"Kate, I don't know exactly what happened tonight, but I'm sure that you had no choice in shooting that guy."
She lets out a shaky little laugh then, just bitter enough to be real, but you know it's forced. Damn; that wasn't the right thing to say. But she's moving to sit on the couch, so it couldn't have been too far off base.
"He had a gun." She pauses. That one tiny sentence has such an effect on her; it looks like she's choking on it. So you wait, because you know she can't swallow it back down.
"Gibbs told him to put it down, and he...he did. But then he raised his arm, just a little, and I—" She breaks then, and it all happens so fast. She's crying, with her head down, hands linked together on the back of her neck, and the sobs are pouring out of her one right after the other.
The only right thing to do now (if there is such a thing) is put your arms around her, and whisper words in her ear that you hope will offer some small comfort.
"He was innocent." Kate takes a deep breath, still trembling. Her hands are freezing. "He was innocent, and I shot him. I didn't even give him a chance."
How do you respond to that? No instructor you've ever had told you that one day, you might have to deal with situations like this. "Kate…it's…I'm sure you did the right thing. At the time, what you did was exactly right."
"Yeah? No offense, Abby, but you don't really have years of field experience on which to draw this conclusion." She spits these words out, but they don't sting you as much as they should. You both know she's right.
"Hey." You draw away from her, and place a hand under her chin, lifting her face to meet yours. "You did the right thing, Kate. I know you did."
"How do you know?"
Time to shift the line of conversation. Misdirection can be a very valuable tool sometimes. "What would you have done if I'd been there, instead of Gibbs? Would you still have shot this guy?"
"Absolutely." This answer comes immediately, without hesitation.
"Why?"
Kate pauses. "Because-you wouldn't be able to…I'd be too afraid of…"
"Too afraid of me getting hurt?"
"Yes."
It's your turn to pause now. "Kate, don't you think that it scares the hell out of me? Every time you guys leave the office, there's this little voice in my head that reminds me that there's a chance one of you—hell, all of you—could end up riding back with Ducky."
She's never even entertained the thought. It hits her all at once, and a few more tears escape the corner of her eye.
"God, Abby…I never—"
"I know." She still thinks that all the leather and vinyl you wear keeps you invincible.
You've seen the way Kate looks at you sometimes. You'll be curled on the couch with a Stephen King novel, in the lab bickering with McGee, or talking with Ducky on your way up to see Gibbs, and you'll catch her out of the corner of your eye. She gets this tiny little smile on her face, and she'll shake her head just a bit, almost like she's trying to snap herself out of a dream.
It didn't take you long to figure out what she was thinking. After all these months, she's still trying to figure out exactly what made her fall in love with a woman like you. Someone who wears leather and spiked collars, and who keeps her tattoo artist's business card right behind the organ donor card in her wallet. Someone who is, for all practical purposes, the complete opposite of anyone else she's ever been with.
Of course, it's not just your physical appearance that intrigues her. The first time you made her dinner, she'd watched, fascinated, as you moved around the kitchen with just as much ease as you do in your lab. She'd been stunned when you told her that you've been making pasta by hand since before you could tie your own shoes. You wisely decided to delay letting her know that you speak five languages and had toured Europe by yourself twice before you graduated high school.
She asked if you'd teach her to sign. In exchange, you got to choose what she wore to the office Christmas party. Tony still hasn't gotten over the sight of Kate in that dress. It's possible Gibbs hasn't, either.
"Don't beat yourself up about this too much, Kate. It won't help."
"Yeah? How do you know?" She doesn't snap at you like before, but she's still a bit edgy; you can feel the tension in her shoulders and across her back.
"Because I've dealt with this before." You don't stop kneading her flesh while you speak. She's just as tense as you expected, and tugging off her shirt only exposes the stiff muscles.
Kate remains silent, and you remember that you never told her. She doesn't understand, and she's looking at you too intently for you to just brush it off. "My parents died in a car accident when I was 19."
"God, Abby, I'm sorry."
"It's-you know what? You shouldn't worry about it, not now." You try to take her mind off it completely by rubbing harder on her left shoulder, and it works; Kate moans slightly and lets her head fall back onto your shoulder.
Once it's clear that Kate won't bring up your past (at least, not for tonight), you take your hands off her back just long enough to move from behind her and stand up.
"Come on, let's go to bed."
On your way into the bedroom, you make sure to turn off both your cell phones, as well as Kate's house line. Tonight, you only need each other. Everyone else will have to wait.
END