Disclaimer: Nope. Not gonna own it. Wouldn't be prudent at this juncture.
Spoilers: Up through what's aired of season 6, but specific ones for Broken Bird, Caged and…technically Broken Bird pre-ep, I guess. Nothing before that is safe. Release the hounds.
Summary: So, remember when Abby freaked out one week and then she didn't the next? Maybe she spent the week working on it. Y'know, because she realized she's not seven.
Abby went about her preparations methodically: spraying the mirror with Windex and wiping it down, placing a pile of ice in the bathtub and keeping it together with a towel dam, removing eight of the twelve beers from the box and lining them up in orderly rows. After a moment's consideration, she added the last four bottles to the bathtub bar. It wouldn't look like she was drinking as much as she suspected she would be if she started with more. There had to be some complex psychological explanation for that, for which she would normally consult Ducky, but it was really too late to start calling people to explain trivia, especially trivia that would require one to explain why one was requesting an explanation.
She hurriedly unscrewed the cap of her first beer. This was going to be harder than she thought. Maybe starting slowly…she already had plenty of examples of bad things that could happen.
She kept her voice calm and even as she stated, "McGee is being held hostage in a women's prison." She watched herself carefully, looking for any indication of panic. There was no reason to panic, especially because she already knew McGee was fine and even better than he had been when he'd been captured, although better probably wasn't the word because McGee had been great to begin with. Different. Good different. No, that still sounded like better and… "This is not starting well. Abigail, be serious. You can do this."
As she finished her first beer, she focused on the mirror again. "Gibbs is in a coma." Not bad. "Tony has the plague." Going well. "Ziva was grazed by a bullet." Even smiling now. "A bad guy shot at Jimmy." This was easy. "Director Shepard has been murdered."
Not easy. Maybe that one didn't count because she knew it didn't end happily.
Abby turned away from the mirror and uncapped a fresh beer. A few swigs into it, she suddenly perked up. Had she just discovered the secret to surviving bad news? Was it as simple as imagining the happy ending and not accepting that any other outcome was possible? That sounded pretty Gibbs-y. Well, not the picturing the happy ending, but the premise held.
She stared hard into the mirror and picked something simple. "Gibbs has been in a car accident." As she did her best to keep her eyes from widening, she repeated to herself, Fender bender. Gibbs was in a fender bender. Minimal reaction; that was good.
Over the next hour and four beers, she concocted more and more frightening scenarios, forcing herself to maintain her composure as her friends were shot, stabbed, blown up and tied up with their eye propped open in front of a TV playing OxyClean infomercials. She didn't even flutter an eyelash when she informed herself, "McGee was thrown from a horse while pursuing a suspect at a Renaissance Fair."
Feeling proud, she made her way to her living room and sank onto the couch. She was now prepared for any bad news, especially since she knew that the hangnail Tony hadn't really suffered in the made-up plane crash would heal and the eyebrows Ziva hadn't lost in the pretend fire would grow back. Abby giggled. A practical test of her newfound ability to deal with potentially traumatic news would be the next step. An experiment! That was the scientific way! She scrolled through the numbers on her phone, knowing exactly who would be the one to challenge her.
The call connected on the second ring, "Yes?"
"Ziva, I need a favor."
"What?"
"I need you to call me."
"When?"
"Right after I hang up. No! Wait a few minutes and then call me."
"Why?"
"Good point. I should explain. I'm trying to teach myself to be less emotional."
Ziva skipped who and where, repeating, "Why?"
"Didn't I explain, with the twitching and insomnia and the general basket case I turn into, given the right circumstances? I want you to call me back in a few minutes and tell me the worst thing you can possibly think of, something that will upset me beyond anything. I need to know that I can cope."
A long pause followed. "Abby, have you been drinking?"
"Maybe. But will you call me back in a few minutes and tell me something horrible?"
Ziva sighed. "All right."
"Thank you!" Abby snapped her phone shut and placed it on the coffee table in front of her. It sat there, not ringing. That was fine. Ziva was just building up the suspense. She probably had something really good up her sleeve – dismemberment or torture or something really scary. It didn't matter, because even if someone lost an arm at least they'd….be able to get a really cool prosthesis? Abby tried to prepare herself for what it could be as she tottered back to the bathroom to move the remaining beer bottles from the tub to the refrigerator, wondering briefly why it was taking her only one trip to carry the unopened ones.
She was on her second trip from the bathroom to the recycling bin when her phone rang. Dropping the bottles on the counter and rushing across the room, she tried not to sound too excited when she answered, "Hello?"
"Abby." Ziva took a deep breath that was audible over the line. "I have some bad news."
Oh, this was going to be good, Abby could tell. She did her best to sound concerned but not overanxious. "What happened?"
"Bert is dead."
"W-what?" Fear. Alarm. Panic. Where was that new control she'd worked so hard on?
"Bert is dead. I suggest you call in sick tomorrow, because it will take quite a bit of time to gather all the batting strewn around the lab. The body was very difficult to identify."
"Is…he…who…" Unsure of where this experiment had gone careening off the tracks, Abby let out a mournful wail before bursting into tears. "No! Dying is against the rules!"
"What rules?"
"I never even got to say goodbye!"
"Abby, what are you…"
"He was always there for me and…oh, why do I leave him in the lab at night?" She jumped off the couch and began pacing. "He should be here at home with me!"
"Bert is fine."
"You don't know that, Ziva! What if something terrible did happen and the building blew up or a maniac broke into my lab? I have to get to NCIS right away!"
"You cannot drive if you have been drinking as much as I suspect you have. Just sit down and relax. Nothing bad has happened."
"Don't try those Jedi mind tricks that work on everyone else on me, Miss Moussad! I can call a cab! Or…McGee! McGee will give me a ride."
"You are trying to learn to control your emotions, yes? To not let them get the best of you in every situation?"
"So?"
Ziva sighed. "So perhaps the best thing you can do is stay home and force yourself to remain calm."
"I am calm!" Abby shouted.
"I will see you tomorrow."
A dialtone sounded in Abby's ear. "Fine. Don't help me. I can cope perfectly fine on my own."
Wait, coping. Wasn't that what she'd been trying to do when she'd started this whole thing? She forced herself to sit down on the couch. After a few minutes digging her fingers into the cushions, she decided lying down might be the best option.
Her phone woke her the next morning. She reached for it without opening her eyes, keeping her other hand pressed against her aching head. "Hm?"
"Abby, is everything all right?"
"Why wouldn't it be, Gibbs?"
"Because it's after ten and you aren't here."
She sat up too quickly, causing a lurch in her stomach. "Oh my God! I'm so sorry, Gibbs, but I fell asleep on the sofa so I didn't hear the alarm and…and…" she trailed off, as she could hear Gibbs conversing with someone on his end.
He eventually returned his attention to her, saying, "If you aren't feeling well, I'll put through the sick day for you. We were just concerned that you hadn't called in."
"I know, Gibbs, and I am so sorry to make you worry, but…"
He cut her off, "And Ziva asked me to tell you your hippo is fine, for some reason."
"Really?" Abby flopped back onto the couch cushions, her hangover-related regrets melting into relief. She made her decision. "Maybe I will see you tomorrow, Gibbs."
"Feel better, Abs."
She stared into the mirror when she made her way to the bathroom to find a painkiller a few minutes later. "Bert is dead." Her lips quivered even with that. This was going to take a lot more work and a lot less beer.