Unarmored

Summary:Gibbs and Ducky. Their relationship, from Ducky's point of view.

Chapter One: Enigma Walking

He remembered when he first met Gibbs. His first day at NCIS, all those many years ago. He had his dead body, and the man came down to ask questions. He had to admit, he was intrigued from the first. The clipped answers, the brusque questions, the restless energy. He wanted to know what caused all of them. He also wanted to know why a man who looked to be at least a decade his junior had grayer hair than he did. And darker, more haunted eyes.

Of course, in that fragile beginning, Gibbs had told him nothing. Only called him 'Dr. Mallard' with that dry, quiet tone, and snapped out questions impatiently. The sharpness stung, until he learned that the younger man was from a military background, and had come straight from the Marines to NCIS. From the the front lines to the home front, as it were. The habits still stuck, in the straight back and the economy of word and movement. So he accepted it, did a little more talking, in a slightly easier fashion, and answered the questions. And every now and then, he asked one or two of his own, just to see if the ice would thaw. If he could get past the impenetrable armor around the man's heart, the steel wall that hid his emotions.

It took months. Over a year even. But then, gradually, Gibbs had begun to answer those questions. First with enigmatic one or two word responses. Then with whole sentences. And finally, with real, actual responses. He'd learned that Gibbs really disliked bombs, having had a few too many go off nearby when he was in the Marines. And that, for some reason, cases involving women and children disturbed the man more than anything else. He'd go after the...dirtbags, as he called them, with the same intensity as a bloodhound after deer or rabbit. Why, he never said, but every now and then he would watch Gibbs and see the rare flash of empathy or pain in the eyes, and wonder. Not about the empathy, he knew the agent was a good man, but about what memories flashed through those crystalline deaths and darkened that face. What put the gray in that hair that had once been as dark as his own.

They'd been working together for just over a year when Gibbs had first called him Duck. He hadn't quite been able to believe his ears, that first time, and had looked up with a startled, "I beg your pardon?" Not that the reference hadn't been made before, at least half a dozen times, but he hadn't expected it from Gibbs.

Gibbs had looked at him with a small, sardonic grin. "Can't keep calling you Dr. Mallard. Too bloody long, too formal, and it sounds like something my dad used to hunt. And Donald makes you sound like a cartoon character."

He hadn't been able to figure out what he wanted to say. Express startlement that the stoic, quiet man even knew what a cartoon character was. Maybe ask more about those hunting trips for mallard. Maybe point out that you weren't supposed to hunt mallard ducks. Maybe even point out that Dr. Mallard was far from the longest or hardest name he'd ever heard. But all he'd managed was, "I see."

Once he got used to it, he even realized why it had startled him so. It was a sign of friendship, of relaxation. Something he'd seen Gibbs give no one else. It was the first, tiny chink in the man's armor. And, he had to admit, he did rather like the nickname, even if it was a delicacy in some parts of the world. So Duck he remained, until Abby had been hired, and affectionately changed it to Ducky. He even began introducing himself to others as Ducky. Gibbs, of course, used both.

The nickname led him to another realization about the man. Gibbs came across as stern, and remote to most people. And he had sarcasm down to an art form. But he also had a quick and vibrant sense of humor. It was dry, fitting for his personality, and as often directed at himself as anything else. But he seemed to find the quirks of humanity to be highly amusing, and, if one knew how to look for it, he was willing to share the joke. It was subtle, unless you knew him. A sparkle deep in his eyes, and a wry quirk of one corner of his mouth, upward. It came across as sarcasm, unless you knew what to look for. But observing things was his job, and both he and Abby were quick to catch on to it. And both he and the young forensic scientist could tell the agent appreciated their efforts.

He'd waited to be sure that Gibbs meant the nickname to stick, and then began looking for an equivalent. There was no nickname, no play on names that really suited the sober, quiet individual, but if he was going to be 'Ducky' then he was not about to leave the other man at 'Special Agent Gibbs', 'Agent Gibbs' or even really at just 'Gibbs'. He'd wanted to show the man that the trust, the relaxation, was a two way street, that he did not need to fear the openness that was so slowly developing between them.

A quick reference to his file revealed his full name. Leroy Jethro Gibbs. The name didn't suit him, really, but why it didn't he couldn't say. Perhaps because he associated Leroy with quiet days on the farm, or western movies, in some strange way. He couldn't imagine the agent in either setting. So he'd settled on the second name, and waited. Then finally, Gibbs had come in with his usual 'What you got for me Duck?' and he'd been able to respond. "Ah, Jethro."

Gibbs had stopped dead in the middle of the doorway. "Jethro?"

"It is your name, according to your file. And since we seem to be on a less than formal basis these days, I thought it would be preferable. Unless, of course, you really do prefer your first name, Leroy."

Gibbs had made a face. "Hate it when people call me that."

"Then Jethro it is. Unless, you have some name from your Marine days that you prefer."

Another head-shake. "Got called Gibbs, or gunny, there." A shrug. "Gibbs is fine."

"Perhaps, but I think I prefer Jethro." He'd smiled. The conversation had ended there, and skated into his autopsy results, but the name had stayed, and Gibbs had let it. From that day, he'd been Jethro. And some time later, he'd realized that the younger man had begun using the name as his introduction. But, oddly enough, he never permitted anyone else to call him that, not by choice. One or two others, FBI Agent Fornell and much later, Director Jenny Shepard, used the name once in a very rare while, but it wasn't encouraged. The name remained Ducky's to use, but he was the only one to do so consistently. Even Abby, whom he was outspokenly fond of, called him Gibbs.

It had been the first signs of a long thaw. But gradually, Jethro Gibbs had spoken to him of other things. It began with thoughts about various cases. Gibbs would hit a snag, and wind up in autopsy, talking out his questions, his observations, and sometimes, his answers. And, every so often, his feelings. As the talks got longer, more of the emotion began to seep in, more of the man began peeking out from behind the mask. He was never very open, of course, it wasn't the type of man he was. But it was as if the armor that had once been solid plate armor had gradually been exchanged for chain mail. Still solid and defensive, but he could see through the rings to the strong, and sometimes wounded man beneath. He never probed too hard, not wanting to make the man shut down again, but he had seen enough to know there were scars under the mail, and that, for all his strength and ferocity, the man he called Jethro was remarkably compassionate, and...oddly vulnerable. He didn't know where the hole in the armor was, only that there was one. But that too, he didn't probe too closely. He knew the younger man would tell him, in time, or not.

The second break had come some time later. He'd gone to work early, to find Gibbs already there, already at his desk. But not working. Leaning on the desk, head cradled in his hands, in the dark. He'd found it odd, spoken his name, intending to ask if he'd stayed all night, if he needed some coffee, or just what was going on. But at the sound of his name, Gibbs had gasped. "Duck?" Then his head came up, and he saw the bruises and the blood on his face.

He couldn't remember clearly what he'd said. Only that, a few minutes later, they were in Autopsy, with Jethro sprawled on his table in the dimness. He'd have preferred more light, but it was very clear, even in the brief time it took to get that far, that the man had a rather definite concussion. Equally clear that he did not, under any circumstances, wish to go to the hospital. So Ducky had taken him down, stretched him out on the table and given him an examination. Under protest, of course. Gibbs didn't want to be there, and was clearly uncomfortable with his vulnerability. He'd cleaned, examined, and dressed the injured head, forced the man to down something for the obvious pain and dizziness, and used a whole host of gentle questions and seemingly unrelated stories to pry the truth out of his very determined friend.

Jethro had finally spoken of his unhappy marriage, and impending divorce. Why it was unhappy, he couldn't, or didn't, explain. Ducky had noticed then the rather biting sarcasm and harshness when he spoke about his wife, but it underneath was a note of self deprecation and hurt, and an odd puzzlement, as if there was something else going on. And he wasn't...unaffectionate. Simply honest about the fact that he didn't love the woman, and they no longer got along. But he hadn't asked. He had assumed that the head injury and unhappy home life were enough for the battered man, and had simply offered his silent support. He had walked with Gibbs that day, and the next few, aiding him through the questions, the recovery, and through the divorce. He thought it odd, how a man as unyielding and tough as Gibbs had let his wife nearly walk all over him, but that was Gibbs decision. He didn't question. It wasn't what Jethro needed. Besides, he wanted, more than anything, for Jethro to know his vulnerability was safe. That the revelation of his weakness would not affect their friendship negatively, nor their professional relationship.

It had worked. Three nights after the divorce had been finalized (several after the woman in question had left) he'd been invited over to Gibbs' home. The first invitation he'd received since they began working together. It had been an interesting night. Gibbs cooked, and decently. He stocked beer, whiskey, bourbon, water and coffee, and had joined Ducky in a cup with the ease of a man who regularly drank some of everything he'd offered. He'd even led him down to the basement, to see the half-finished boat. There was something completely unsurprising about the fact that the man used hand tools instead of electric ones. And even novice as he was, he could see the love and care Jethro put into his project. He'd wondered what Gibbs used as therapy for tough cases, and the answer both surprised him and delighted him. The night had been spent in gentle drinking and in trading half stories and odd thoughts, while Jethro quietly worked. And when he'd finally gotten too tired to keep talking, Gibbs had ushered him upstairs and let him rest. He thought it odd that he'd found Gibbs sleeping under his boat the next morning, but then...he knew well the experience of dropping off in mid hobby, and chalked it up to that.

The next few years had passed in a slow, flowing time. Gibbs became senior agent, and built his team. Anthony DiNozzo, and Abby Scuito, who loved the stoic, gruff individual as a father figure. Then later, much later, Agent Caitlin Todd. A bold, bright young woman. And after that, young Timothy McGee, and finally, Ziva David. And he'd remained, Gibbs' friend and oldest partner. And somehow, without even being truly aware of it, he became the man's confidant as well, his adviser, and the man he came to.

He wasn't precisely sure how it happened, or when. Probably there wasn't a specific date. He nursed Gibbs through the remnant of his divorce, and the next two disastrous relationships, and their aftermath. Gibbs came to him with both the physical and emotional injuries for both. And he came to him for tough cases, and personal problems. And gradually, he realized that there were nights when Gibbs did most of the talking, when the younger man would pull away a section of the chain mail that protected his battered soul, and let him see the damage beneath. That some days, after a rough day, he would have Gibbs wind up in Autopsy, and they'd share a quiet drink, and he'd suddenly be talking to Jethro, the strength in his blue eyes replaced by pain, or confusion, or even anger. And they would sit together, there or in Jethro's house, and speak until the anguish ran dry, and the wound closed over. He never minded, not even when the man lashed out at him in anger or hurt.

He knew Jethro never meant it. And though the man had developed a rule about never apologizing outright, the eloquence of his words, the way his tone would go from angry to resigned to sad, and then to warm and oddly embarrassed, was apology enough. He never said "I'm sorry" but the body language said it well enough, and after a few times, Gibbs started bringing him silent apologies. A bottle of wine or whiskey to replace one they'd drunk. A new set of surgical tools, when one of his had broken. He'd come in one day to find the man meticulously cleaning and resharpening every scalpel and other bladed device in Autopsy. He'd never explained, but it had happened two days after he'd mentioned that his tools needed new edges, and that it frustrated him. And one day after a traumatic ending to a case involving a young navy man had left Gibbs in his office, ranting and frustrated for well over an hour.

It warmed him, that the younger man had taken him into his confidence. That he trusted him. He knew there were things Jethro still hid, particularly about his past, but it didn't matter all that much to him. There was time, after all, and any comfort Jethro would take from him was a blessing. He even thought, with time, he'd be able to reach the heart of the matter, possibly even seal over the wounds and scars that so plagued his friend.

Ari was a disruption of the rhythm they shared. It wasn't simply what he'd done, taking Ducky, Gerald and Kate hostage in Autopsy. It wasn't even the bullet he dug out of Jethro's shoulder after the maniac was gone. There was something there, from the beginning, a kind of wild, helpless anger that drove Gibbs, in a way he'd never seen before. He tried to get Jethro to talk through it with him. He knew Jethro tried to tell him. But whatever emotion Ari had caused, whatever wound he had tapped and set to bleeding, even if it was only Gibbs' fanatic desire to protect his team, was too deep in his mind and heart for Ducky to entirely stop the wound. Too deep even for his friend to bring himself to pull aside the armor around him, and reveal the damage. Until Ari had pushed him to, and perhaps over, the edge.

If Ari's infiltration into the lab was a jolt, his cold blooded murder of Caitlin was worse. Jethro came to him for that, though they both knew he could offer only limited comfort. He'd let the man talk, getting the poison of what Ari had done out of his system. But the one moment that stood out, that startled him, had come just before Jethro left.

"He's torturing you." The words had slipped out, and it was only as Jethro disappeared that he realized what he'd said. Not that Ari was trying to torture Gibbs, but that he was succeeding. With the knowledge came the realization that Ari had found the hole in the armor that surrounded the man, found the wound he protected even from his nearest and dearest friends, and was driving the knife in and salting the wound. And that there was nothing he could do in the moment, because even though Jethro had brought his agonizing grief over Kate's death, and his fear for his team to him, there was something else there that the man couldn't even begin to touch. He watched Jethro's eyes, and wondered if even Gibbs consciously knew what Ari had done and was doing to him.

Ari's death brought a measure of peace to both of them. But the next year was filled with a sense of something being...just a little bit off. The armor that he was so familiar with was mended, but the mending was far from perfect. He caught glimpses, throughout the year, of something wrong. Something terrible. More than once, he thought Jethro might tell him, but then the man would retreat into silence. It left him feeling vaguely uneasy, but he chalked it up to the fact that Ari had, after all, deliberately attempted to drive the man insane, and done a very good job of it. Of course, the wounds needed time to heal, and Jethro needed time to sort everything out. And then...the world exploded. Jethro's world exploded.

It was a shock, an almost painful one, to hear that Gibbs had been caught in an explosion. Even more so when he finally had a chance to visit his wounded friend. He'd seen Jethro vulnerable before, but never like that, never wounded and unconscious. He never thought he'd see the day when his stubborn friend had to be intubated. When Leroy Jethro Gibbs, of all people, would refuse to wake up. He wondered at the time, what could possibly be holding such a strong man back.