Grief
After Judgment Day, Gibbs reflects on the grief of losing his lover, his children, once again.
Just a warning, guys, this is pretty sad. As in, I'm a little sad now from writing it. But I hope you like it!
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Gibbs comes to consciousness slowly, aware first of the hard surface beneath his cheek: concrete, he identifies. Coupled with the smell of varnish, the sensation tells him he is in his basement. As Gibbs puts the thoughts together he also registers the bile coating his throat and tongue, and swallows sluggishly with a dry mouth.
He coughs and rolls onto his back, letting his eyes fall shut again against the reeling he feels as he moves.
The alcohol has numbed him thoroughly enough that for the first time in days Gibbs can think about what has happened without reaching for a tumbler or jar. He sat here so recently, thinking of Jenny, remembering the tumult over Rene Benoit. And he had to know the truth, had to talk to her. Truth be told he'd come to prefer talking to her over the phone, when he didn't have to face her Director's dress and demeanor, when he could imagine her as the woman he remembered. But she hadn't answered, DiNozzo had.
Gibbs had demanded to know why DiNozzo was answering the phone, had grown more and more worried at Tony's silence until Ziva finally snatched the phone and said coolly, gently, "Jenny was killed. Shot." The words had felt like a vice around his chest. Killed. Shot.
The flight across the country is a blur in his mind, a memory fuzzy-edged by alcohol that had worn off far too soon as he found himself in a diner in the desert, staring at a pool of blood in the middle of the floor. He could remember her first shootout, how terrified she'd been, how she'd shaken later that night in his arms as the shock finally registered.
When he called Ducky, he forced the words out simply: Jenny's dead. It was as bad as he remembered; after Shannon, with each friend he'd had to tell it had been a new heartbreak to say the words. But at least he'd had the practice, so he went on.
Gibbs blinks slowly, dehydration making even his eyelids ache. That was just the beginning. He'd had the case to carry him through, Franks to keep him from letting Natasha kill him when it was solved—he might have otherwise, he's still not sure. He could see in her face the same grief he was feeling, over the loss of her partner at his hands. But Mike had been there.
He set the fire alone, walking through the lavish rooms with a can of lighter fluid, remembering when he'd been there years ago, on leave between missions in Europe, how he had luxuriated in her sheets and her body in their one moment of pleasure outside of work. There had been women before and since her return, but they fade now as he mourns not the woman who'd lied to him but the girl he remembers.
Franks and Ducky both tried to tell him that she'd chosen her death, but he couldn't believe it. Because the Jenny Shepard he'd lived with in his memories for a decade was a younger woman, not yet political, not yet powerful, but impetuous and vibrant. She would never have resigned herself to illness, would never have conceded her life. As fiercely as that morning in Paris when he read her letter, Gibbs finds himself mourning a future with her that they never could have had.
Yesterday...he wonders through his stupor if it still counts as yesterday or was two days ago already...they wanted him to speak at the funeral. Vance had said nice things about her professional capacities, a few old friends had described her childhood, but there was no one to say what kind of woman she was. Gibbs had shaken his head, mute, glad when Ducky finally stepped up to speak. Gibbs thought of the blank sheet of paper, addressed to him. They'd never had words for each other.
But then. Back in the office, they were called up to the Director's office, and the unthinkable happened. Though Gibbs would never admit it to Vance, or even to any of them, as hard as he'd fought vulnerability with women since Shannon's death, he had always felt safe thinking of his team as family. He didn't socialize with them outside of work, but he relied on them to be there when he went in, relied on DiNozzo for his openness and humor, Ziva to have his back and understand his ruthlessness, McGee to be unwaveringly loyal, Abby for her unfaltering love...Losing Kate had been terrible, but DiNozzo and Abby and McGee had been there, and even then there had been the adrenaline of having to find Ari, of fighting for the people he had left to protect. Now there is no fraction of a thought for anything but this second family, destroyed in a matter of days.
This morning—yesterday?--they had had lunch together, all of them, one last time. Tony had caught Gibbs' elbow in the parking lot as they entered, and Gibbs had turned to face him.
"Boss," he'd started nervously.
Gibbs looked him over, suddenly noticing the lines in Tony's face that had emerged over eight years, the way his style had matured from the cocky young detective he'd been. There had been a day shortly after they'd met when Tony had derisively referenced his father, and without a word Gibbs had rested his hand on Tony's back, just a moment, a silent act of adoption.
"Thank you," Tony said finally. "For everything."
Gibbs nodded, the emotions of the past days still too raw, and pulled Tony into a hug, clapping him on the back. They went inside.
Gibbs reaches a hand out in the darkness, sweeping it slowly across the floor until it collides with a mason jar, and he greedily takes a sip. Bourbon. Just what he needs.
At one point in the subdued meal, Gibbs had gotten up to use the restroom, and as he glanced down the hallway he caught sight of Tony and Ziva saying a private goodbye outside the bathrooms. They hugged, long and hard, and then Tony pulled back to slide a hand into her hair and kiss her fiercely.
Gibbs could see how Ziva clung to Tony, returning his kiss, and even as he saw the feelings between them, Gibbs wished he could tell them how deeply he'd been hurt, how dangerous it was to love anyone in such a hazardous line of work.
But it reminded him, too, of that most exhilarating sweetness of sinking into the body of a woman he trusted more than anyone else alive, of sharing pleasure with his partner, his closest friend. And so he returned to the table, allowing them their kiss goodbye, jealous and regretful that he never got one.
He'd had a few drinks before leaving, enough to make Ziva's embrace and farewell tolerable. It is one of the last things he remembers before waking in the basement. The others delivered Ziva and Tony to their transport, Ducky dropped Gibbs at his home. It is clear to him as he lies here that they are not his children; even if they come back to DC they will have no reason to see him again. It crosses his drunken brain that there is no one it is safe to love in the entire world.
Struggling upright, Gibbs pulls himself up on his workbench and flips on the light.
A sigh behind him makes Gibbs whirl and the room reel. He blinks in the shocking light. McGee and Abby are curled at either end of the boat, heads pillowed on cushions from the couch upstairs.
Gibbs takes a long swallow from a jar of water on the table. He can feel himself shaking as he flips the light off again and sinks back to the floor, pulling off his sweatshirt for a pillow. He was wrong for once, and he is grateful. He was never alone.