Disclaimer: I don't own these characters (sadly, they belong to some other people), nor do I own the song "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol.
AN: I've had this idea for a really long time & I needed a break from my chapter story. This fic relates to the song "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol. Hope you like it :))
Water trickles down her neck, droplets come to a halt, but Kate is still shivering. The ice she's been using for her swollen lip is melting, along with her conviction. Both Ducky and Abby had offered to take her home and Tony had suggested they saw a movie tonight – the one with Matt Damon and that other guy, in which they go on a mission in Paris and –
She'd turned them all down, insisting she was fine.
Then she'd come home to an empty apartment, Thai takeout and the scorching kiss of ice. Yeah, she is making out with ice – it's so cold, it's hot – and she's doing alright. Ari got away, but hey, it doesn't matter if he is one of the good guys. Kate might be rolling her eyes even though no one can see her. So what if he took her, a federal agent hostage. At least she broke the spell and fired her gun more than once. On her own, no back-up. With the helmet over his head, there was no way to see his eyes, no way to be pierced by 'kindness'.
The ice cube slips between her fingers, falling to the floor.
He shot the bastard in the shoulder, just like Ari shot Gerald (and himself) a while back, and that's poetic justice right here. Gibbs did the right thing; he can feel it in his gut. No one messes with his people. No one takes one of his own hostage without paying for it. The FBI sure as hell wasn't, isn't going to punish Ari, or take down his immunity. They say he is one of the good guys. But are you?
And the good guys ain't wearing red, white, or blue.
The sanding block is an extension of Gibbs' arm. The motions, regular, determinate, are set to a soothing rhythm, but he is still mad. It's as if shooting Ari multiplied his anger tenfold. Maybe psychologists are right. If you let your anger out, it gets worse; you get angrier. Gibbs doesn't know how that's even possible. God.
She would never admit it, but sometimes Kate wishes that her takeout order is different. That instead of one pad Thai, she'd take two (so what if the portion sizes are huge, it's the sentiment that counts), or another dish altogether and they could mix and match, share. That when she stays up after midnight because she can't sleep, there'd be someone to watch crappy reruns with. That a date would turn into something more. She sometimes just needs the comfort of another person after a horrible day at work, a little domesticity. Alright, there, she said it.
She wraps her arms more tightly around her middle, turning her attention to the TV.
It's the calm after a storm: the empty NIS coffee mug rests on a polished, corner table – was it coffee, or Bourbon? What difference does it make, anyway? Gibbs is sitting on the hardwood floor, back against the boat's frame, sanding block by his side. His chest expands in even intervals as he takes slow, deep breaths.Anger, interrupted. It might seem that he is drifting off to sleep. He's not.
She stirs awake after having fallen asleep on the couch. A black and white movie is playing now and she smiles, before turning the TV off and walking to her bedroom to finally get proper sleep.
Time passes and in the silence of the room, it's the hiss of sheets, of Kate turning yet again to lie on her other side, that finally have her hit the switch on her night lamp. It's eerie; the way light brushes certain spots and leaves others in shadow. Kate props herself up on her elbows, eyes scanning the room for inconsistencies, anything that would explain why she can't fall asleep here.
She turns the light off. No matter how tired she is – and who wouldn't be after such a day – she is still restless, reliving what's already happened. She grips the edges of her comforter until her knuckles turn white. That's it for comfort.
She might as well have spent the night on the couch.
Get over it!
The thing about advice is it's useless. If you're the advisee, you rarely listen to what you're told, 'cause you know better. If you're the advisor, you never listen to your own advice.
Get over it!
The floor is cold, he should be sleeping and yet, the only thing on his mind is, should have known something was wrong. He closes his eyes shut, a basic attempt to turn his thoughts off, but it doesn't work this way. If anything, it gets worse.
Should have known something was off. What if we hadn't figured it out? What if she hadn't called at all? What if we hadn't figured it out on time?
His breath catches in his throat at the last one. He would never admit it, but sometimes Kate leaves him on edge, worried sick. Damn, does she ever call for back-up? And why does he feel the need to go check on her when she's certainly asleep, and well, fine. She's a federal agent, his federal agent, or at least, she's on his team. She can take care of herself. But it's not about that, now is it.
The moment she hears the knock, her heartbeat goes crazy, a metronome on steroids. She puts the book down, pulls her Sig out of the upper drawer. In no time she is standing at the door, considering her options. Perhaps they'd go away.
Another knock.
She looks through the peephole and lets out a sigh of relief. Just Gibbs. My boyfriend. It was the perfect cover, okay. She opens the door.
"Kate, hi," he says, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Can I come in?"
She steps to the side, letting him in. It's only then that she realizes she is still wearing shorts and a flimsy tank top. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, self-conscious.
"What are you doing here, Gibbs?" she asks, too tired to pretend it's okay that he is in her apartment at this hour.
Instead of answering, he walks into the living room and Kate, Kate has to follow him.
"Gibbs?"
"He hit you?" he asks, and she can feel his eyes on her mouth.
She runs her tongue over her lower lip, and damn, it still hurts. "It wasn't Ari, Gibbs. It was one of the others - What are you doing here?" Her question is a breath, a plea, because she is getting impatient and Gibbs doesn't seem to be bothered. He is sitting on the couch now, looking at her with a strange expression in his eyes.
"I didn't get the chance to see you. Just wanted to make sure –"
"Make sure what, Gibbs? That I got home okay?" She sits down next to him, happy to find her cardigan draped over the arm rest and putting it on. She tries not to think about the way the edge of her tank top lifts up in the process, exposing a sliver of skin.
"Are you okay, Kate?"
"Fine. You could have called," she whispers. She doesn't want to be abrupt, but it comes out this way. She just wants to know the real reason why her boss is here. Because everything that comes to mind at this point belongs to one of her dreams. "Wait, Gibbs – is it Ari? Did something else happen?"
"Ari's a bastard, Kate. But everything's alright now – I just, I came to see you. I care, Kate."
His touch is unexpected as he takes hold of one of her hands and she can feel his thumb press against the center of her palm.
She looks at their hands, thinking, so much for professionalism, but then again, it's not about that anymore. They've been through so much; they're more than a team at work. They're a team, always.
"Gibbs –" She wants to say thank you, me too, or you know, anything. Instead, she inches closer and lays her head on his shoulder. Because it's past midnight, she can't sleep and he's here.
"It's alright, Kate," he murmurs, wrapping one arm around her waist.
It's been a while since she's been this close to him. Last time, it was on Air Force One. She can feel his warmth, her fingertips can feel his heartbeat, as they recklessly abandon her and come to rest on his chest. She is pretty sure she is, they are crossing a line that has been drawn. But it's a line in the sand. Come high tide, and it's gone.
"Stay, Gibbs?"
She leads him to the bedroom, still holding his hand.
"Are you sure?" she asks, but in the dim light of the hallway she can see his nod.
They lie on opposite sides of the bed at first. Before she turns to her side and he comes closer, his hand weightless on her shoulder.
"Kate?"
His voice is tired and she knows he hasn't gotten any sleep before he came here either.
"Mmm?" She lifts her hand, fingers running over the top of his hand. Their contact is layered: her shoulder, his hand, her hand…
The next time he speaks, she feels the words brush against her ear. "You got me worried today."
It's a confession, as much as it is a plea, both of which are incompatible with him being Gibbs. But one thing Kate knows, he's honest.
"It's alright, Gibbs. I'm fine," she whispers, a reiteration of what's already been said, yet it seems to content him. She hadn't realized how close he was – not until she shifts slightly and her back presses against his chest. She doesn't return to her former place.
He lets his hand slide over her arm, lets his fingers rub circles onto the inside of her wrist. Lets his hand rest on her stomach; allows himself to smile when she sucks in a deep breath, but relaxes soon after.
This doesn't change anything. They're colleagues, friends and there is no just, because that's enough, in and of itself. No need to complicate things. No need to –
A gasp. Because, because he brushes a strand of hair and presses his lips to the side of her neck.
"Good night, Kate."
"Night, Gibbs."
