Deeper than any wound that could be inflicted by a weapon, heartbreaks leave scars that only true love and honor could even hope to conceal.
NCIS is the intellectual property of Donald Bellasario and Don McGill. No harm or malice is intended in using the characters, settings, and plotline for fictional work.
"It was not my intention to..."
"I don't care!" Gibbs roared, slamming his hand down on the director's desk. "Whatever intentions you had...or didn't have...do you have any idea what you've done here?" He glared, his light eyes a few shades darker than anyone had ever seen prior to this very moment. "Rules number one, three, six, seven, twelve...these rules exist for a reason, Ziva!"
Ziva David, stone faced and still, blinked only once before saying, "It was not planned, it will not happen again, and it did not mean..."
"Ziva," Gibbs interrupted, leaning over to her. "Don't lie to me, don't pretend for my sake." He righted himself and rubbed his crinkled forehead, ignoring the throb building behind the flesh and bone. "I don't know what to do about this. I can't..."
"Jethro," a voice that until now had been silent spoke, a smirk playing at the lips of the woman to whom it belonged.
Gibbs looked up at her, then back toward Ziva. "I'll figure it out. Until I do, you're on warning, do you hear me? So is he!" He closed his eyes and jutted a thumb toward the door, telling Ziva to leave the office. He took a breath, yawned it out, and rubbed his temples. "Don't say it," he warned the bemused redhead.
"We worked just fine together after we made things personal," she told him.
He looked her way, his eyes gleaming with obdurate haughtiness. "Until we didn't," he paused to make sure his next words were laced with mild animosity, "Director Shepard. That's why Rule Twelve exists."
Jenny Shepard grinned at her former paramour and current subordinate officer. "Trust them to handle it better than we did, then. You know DiNozzo is the consummate professional, he is just like..."
"Me," Gibbs nodded. "That's what I'm afraid of." He took another breath and allowed himself to look around the office, taking in the wood-paneled walls, the plethora of ephemera peppering the walls, mementos which spanned Jenny's entire military career, and he chuckled brightly when his eyes landed on a pair of old dog tags, hanging on a hook beside her most recent commendation. "You kept them?" he inquired, pointing.
"Of course," she said with a nod. "That was a promise I am holding you to, Jethro, whether you intend to keep it or not."
He woke with a start, eyes fixed on something invisible as he struggled to calm his labored breathing. It was the fourth time he'd had that dream. Or was it a nightmare? He blinked rapidly as he pushed himself up, the sheets falling off of his bare chest. He scratched at his chin and his cheeks, making a mental acquiescence to the part of himself that begged him to shave.
He coughed and sniffled as he rolled his neck and shoulders, got out of the bed, and padded naked and barefoot into his bathroom. He heaved a lamenting sigh as he fixed the water for the shower he was about to take, and then grabbed his toothbrush and razor and climbed over the side of the tub. He let the hot water hit his face first, hoping to scald away the remains of his midnight memories of Jenny Shepard.
He cleared his throat and turned, allowing the liquid heat to run down his back, and he lifted the razor to his face. He held the skin taut with one hand as the other carefully guided the Gillette across his stubble, mowing it all away. He squinted then, pensive and presumptuous, and he wondered why the focus of his dream was not recalling his trysts with Jenny, but scolding Ziva and DiNozzo. Was his subconscious merely substituting his team for himself and Shepard? Or was his gut truly trying to warn him that history was repeating itself?
Smooth-faced and minty-fresh, he turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and watched the grime and grit of the night, along with his dreamings, swirl away down the drain. He dressed, grabbed his keys, gun, and billfold out of his bedside table drawer, and walked out of his house, heading for work.
The elevator doors hadn't fully opened yet, and he heard her voice.
"Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs!" Abby Sciuto, the forensics specialist, was hopping up and down excitedly, her combat boots producing loud, clopping sounds with each jump.
He stared at the pigtailed young woman, sipped his coffee, and waited.
She stared back, her deep-purple stained lips stretched into a wide grin, waiting as well.
"What, Abs?" Gibb questioned, giving her a wide-eyed look of frustration.
"Okay," Abby said with a chipper skip. She walked beside Gibbs as he headed to his desk. "So the pink stain on Petty Officer MacGinty's shirt is SW thirty-one, thirty-six." She made a theatrical gesture with both hands. "Precious Pink."
Giving her a befuddled expression, he asked, "What the hell is that?"
"It's wood stain!" Abby seemed surprised. "You work with wood! I thought you..."
"Do I look like the kinda guy that goes around staining things 'Precious Pink,' Abs?"
"No, you do not," Abby said, two fingers pointed in the air and jutting forward a bit, making a gesture of agreement. Her hands then splayed open, palms out. "But wait," she said, her smile only getting bigger, "There's more." She moved her hands in wild wiggles as she spoke, her silver skull shaped rings reflecting the light and forming pretty patterns on the walls. "It's designed, manufactured, and sold exclusively for Sherwin Williams."
Gibbs took another sip of his coffee, then leaned over and kissed her cheek, taking a moment to whisper, "That's good work, Abs," in her ear. He was about to walk away when her gravelly voice stopped him.
"Gibbs!" she whined, stomping her heavy-booted foot, her fisted hands punching downwards as she pouted.
He turned, rolling his eyes. "What, Abs?"
"I already told McGee and we ran a few searches," she said, trotting toward him again. Her skirt bounced when she walked. "The only store in the area that stocks SW thirty-one, thirty-six is in Stafford, and only one person has purchased it in the last three months."
"We got a name?" Gibbs asked, louder, looking around at the rest of his team.
Tony DiNozzo picked up a black remote control and pushed a button, turning on a large screen near Gibbs's desk. "Yup," he said with a nod as a driver's license photo popped up on the screen.
"Yea, boss," Timothy McGee said, staring at Abby. He refocused his eyes toward his silver-haired supervisor. "His name's Paul Doyle."
Gibbs gave Abby another kiss on the cheek, making her break out into a satisfied smile. "Connection to our dead Marine?" he asked anyone who had an answer.
Ziva David rose from her chair and walked over to stand between DiNozzo and McGee. Her long, dark, ponytail swayed when she moved, almost robotically, and she folded her strong arms across her chest. "They went to high school together," she said. She tapped DiNozzo on the shoulder once, hard, with two fingers.
He gave her a downcast look and a crooked smirk, his chiseled jaw clicking as he huffed at her.
She watched him hit a button on the remote and she continued as a new photo came up on the monitor. "They were best friends, both on the football team, until Jason MacGinty stole Paul's girlfriend."
"Monica Dillard," DiNozzo said, grinning as he hit the button on the remote control again. "Or as we know her, Monica MacGinty." He brought the remote up and rested it on his chin as his brow scrunched and he said, "I'm not sure if I would kill anyone over any of my high school girlfriends. That's a long time to hold a grudge, I mean, and she's not even that attractive. Pretty enough, but not drop dead..."
"Tony," Ziva stopped his babbling, giving him a tacit warning with her glare.
"Just sayin," DiNozzo muttered, staring back at her.
Gibbs took a step toward the center of the floor. "Where is he?" he asked, looking at McGee, the resident computer geek and hacker extraordinaire.
McGee typed rapidly, his fingers a peach-tinted blur over his keyboard. "No activity on any of his accounts since Tuesday, no incoming or outgoing calls on his cell, and GPS on the device has been disabled. Last recent known location is his house, which we..."
"Find him," Gibbs ordered, pointing to DiNozzo. "Now!"
"On it, boss," Tony said, grabbing his pack and hooking his gun into his holster. "Wait, alone, or..."
Gibbs rolled his eyes and threw his head back as he said, "McGee...just...go!" and waved a hand at the younger man.
Ziva stood, waiting. "And I am to do what, exactly?"
"You're coming with me," Gibbs said, gulping down the last of his coffee. He threw it in the trashcan next to his desk and walked, knowing Ziva was following him, up the stairs toward MTAC.
Ziva held her breath as she began her ascension. Nothing good ever came from climbing those stairs.
Building up to something great, I hope. Reviews and feedback are much appreciated.
Peace and Love
Jo