This isn't what happened:
Tony did not glue McGee's fingers to his keyboard again. McGee didn't retaliate by getting Tony soaking wet thanks to some sprinklers . . . again.
It wasn't December. Gibbs didn't just tell the two of them to get back to work on the crime scene.
DiNozzo didn't develop a cough that turned into a cold. He didn't wave off any attempts at concern until he was doubled over coughing a week later and Gibbs told him to go home and get some rest.
DiNozzo didn't drop off the radar for the next two days. Abby didn't show up at his house, worried, and then drag him to the hospital.
The doctors didn't throw out words like "scarring on his lungs" and "complications".
Gibbs didn't stay the night by the hospital bed. McGee didn't come by every day, stammering for the first time in years. DiNozzo didn't tease him mercilessly between coughs.
He didn't get worse.
The monitor didn't flatline.
Gibbs didn't go home and punch the wall and yell at first the world, then McGee, then the director, then -
It doesn't matter, because it didn't happen.
This isn't what happened:
DiNozzo didn't go on an undercover assignment. He didn't smile and joke and seem supremely confident that everything would be fine. He didn't tease his boss about getting old as he peered at the notes with failing eyes.
It didn't go perfectly for two weeks.
DiNozzo didn't get made on the third.
It didn't take them too long to realize this.
It didn't take them another two weeks to find him.
It wasn't too late.
Ducky didn't examine a body abused almost past the point of recognition.
The team didn't stay at the building until they figured out who was to blame only to realize the evidence would never hold up in court.
Gibbs didn't go rogue and shoot the men responsible.
They didn't have to go after him. Too many people didn't find out so that it was impossible to cover it up.
Gibbs didn't know what would happen next. He didn't raise a gun that the agents didn't know was empty.
A rookie that had been filling in for DiNozzo on the team didn't get jumpy and put a bullet through -
It doesn't matter, because it didn't happen.
This isn't what happened:
A threat wasn't made against Gibbs. DiNozzo didn't stick closer to him than glue.
They weren't on the street to go get coffee.
There wasn't a shooter waiting on a roof.
DiNozzo didn't push Gibbs to the ground and fall on top of him.
The bullet didn't hit DiNozzo in the head.
Gibbs didn't -
It doesn't matter, because it didn't happen.
Gibbs wished that had been what had happened. He could have lived with those scenarios.
(Or wouldn't have to have. One of the two.)
Not his fault if DiNozzo got sick. Not his fault if DiNozzo got made.
(He was the team leader. Everything that happened to his team was his fault.)
It would be his fault if DiNozzo died protecting him, but DiNozzo wouldn't have minded. He loved the job. The idea of dying on it, dying like that - there were worse things.
(He knew that all too well.)
This is what happened:
He wasn't as young as he used to be. Eyes weren't as good. Reflexes weren't as fast.
He was still good enough for fieldwork. All the tests said so. Not as good didn't mean not good enough. He'd been the best. Was still the best according to his team.
It was a routine takedown or would have been, if not for the breakdown in communications and the fact that they'd been caught off guard and didn't have vests. He thought DiNozzo was still on the left of the house, not behind him.
When he heard the noise, Gibbs spun. It was dark. DiNozzo started to say something, but his voice came out wrong. He'd yelled at a suspect a lot earlier. His voice was probably hoarse.
Tony had his gun out. Of course he did. They were looking for a suspect.
Gibbs knew all that. Later. But the case had hit too close to home - former marine, family dead, dying alone - it was dark, DiNozzo was just a little too different to be easily recognizable, he wasn't where Gibbs thought he was, he had a gun -
Gibbs fired.
He wasn't as good a shot as he used to be either. Not even at that distance. He didn't hit the head or the heart. He wasn't sure exactly where he hit, couldn't tell in the dark, but DiNozzo went down just as Gibbs realized what he'd done.
He was on the floor next to him in seconds, putting pressure on the wound, calling for backup on the comms that didn't work.
"Boss?"
The word came out soft, almost inaudible, choked at the end. Lost. Confused.
"Hold on, Tony, hold on. You stay with me!"
But the body can't keep running on sheer stubbornness. Not for long enough. Not when it's lost that much blood.
Shannon. Kelly. Kate. Jenny. Franks. Jack.
(How many others?)
DiNozzo.
(How much can one man take?)
He'd avenged them all. All those that had needed avenging. He'd done what he could.
(What did Ahab do when the white whale was himself?)
"Boss?" McGee called over the crackling comm. "I think I fixed the problem. We've got the suspect. Where are you? Have you seen Tony?"
("Boss?" Tony asked.)
"Now he fixes it," Tony grumbled. "He always did want to be Senior Field Agent. Guess probie's gonna get his chance now."
Not real. Just like Kate hadn't been.
"Boss?" McGee called. "You read me?"
Nothing to shoot. Nothing to do. No one to blame but himself.
Just a dead agent and a mocking ghost and a gun.
Jack had never wanted him to touch that gun.
"Boss?"
That was what happened.
It matters, because it happened.
But even Tony, with his hard edged words, didn't have any suggestions for what on earth he was supposed to do now.