I own nothing. Enjoy.
When he asked, this morning, how was her weekend, Kate had replied that she paid bills, did some laundry, went shopping and vacuumed. What she didn't tell him was that she half of the laundry was Gibbs's, or that she vacuumed his house. After all, he didn't ask where she was this weekend. And he never got close enough to notice the slight scent of sawdust clinging to her cheerful blue coat. What's more, he never noticed she smile on her face or who put it there.
She might not know much about dating, but Kate definitely knew a lot about a relationship. They didn't date.
After the conversation with Abby, she is more determined than ever to keep her relationship with Gibbs out of the office. She knows their boss doesn't approve of the relationship, but she's still a little stunned that he's tolerating it. It's turning an insecure Probie into a passive-aggressive distracted mess. Distractions mean mistakes. And Kate knows how deadly mistakes can be. They drill that into you pretty quickly in Secret Service.
What's more, this whole McGee/Abby thing—or McAbby, Scuigee, and the other asinine names DiNozzo has created—has distracted the best forensics scientists they've ever known. It's not just that she's moody and melancholy (and a moody Abby is never a good thing, although a passive-aggressive McGee might be even worse). It's that Abby's missing things. Things she never misses. She was horrified to later learn the D-links were different. She should have caught it in the metal breakdowns, in what normally would have been thorough testing and research.
"Hey," he calls quietly, nodding toward her picked-over plate. "Finished with that?"
She shrugs, and when he gives her that look, Kate finishes off her green beans and pushes the plate towards him.
For all the names she can call him, and sometimes he deserves them, he doesn't push and doesn't parent her. He simply takes what remains, slides it into Tupperware and pops it in the fridge in case she changes her mind later.
Kate's still a little zoned out when the soft clunk of a tumbler landing in front of her brings her back to reality. Two fingers of bourbon. Neat. Her fingers slide over the glass, tracing the curve of it. "That wasn't very nice of you, up on the lift today."
He shrugs and leans against the counter, sharp blue eyes watching her as she takes a sip and hisses when it burns. "You were strapped in. I didn't let DiNozzo touch it."
She scowls a little. He's right. Even if the look on Tony's face had been maniacal, not to mention Gibbs's smirk, it had taken him a while to get her into the harness. He'd adjusted it twice before they even stepped into the lift. And at the top, he practically fussed over her, pulling straps and cinching her in. It left a small bruise on her thigh, one she knew he was going to feel guilty about later. Hopefully he wouldn't see it… but she was pretty sure he would.
But she is still nursing bruised feelings over the push. He knows her. Better than anyone. He knows that sometimes he has to push her to get the best out of her. And while he would never lay a hand to her, never hurt her, he had launched her forward into one of her greatest fears: heights. The lift had challenged her, panic spiking even though she was clutching solid metal and half harnessed. But empty air and only a small amount of equipment… She trusted him to know what he was doing with that stuff… but this case itself was proof that it only took one small equipment malfunction to end it all.
Kate stands slowly, pushing herself up from her seat. She's tired, and not merely sleepy. It's a weariness, and she feels like her faith is conflicted for the first time in years. Ever reliable Catholic guilt. "It's late," she states, one arm draping across her stomach, and some clinical part of her mind observes that it's a gesture of self-preservation. Holding back. But she's too tired to deal with real emotions tonight.
He nods, still watching her closely in that way that made her hover on the edge of uncomfortable and insecure during her first months at NCIS. Before she realized it was his way of gauging people, trying to evoke a reaction. Evaluating how someone responded and what it could tell him.
It's evoking a response now. One that's growing, and she remembers when her grandmother once told her to never make an important decision, never to speak about something important when she's tired. "I think I'm heading out."
Gibbs nods slightly, and his silence is deafening. The slight glint in his eyes is all she needs to see to know it wasn't the answer he wanted.
She lifts the tumbler, which feels like it's made of lead. It's not like they stay together all the time. There are nights, here and there, when they're in their own homes. It amazes her how empty a queen size bed (that she's slept in for years, many times alone) can feel. And every now and then, she still catches herself setting the timer on the coffee pot for extra cups when she's spent the night on her own.
When she crosses the room, she sets the glass carefully in the sink and pauses a moment, one hand reaching out to give his forearm a gentle squeeze. He's holding himself back, too. "I'm not … I need a night in."
His lips press into a thin line, and he gives another small nod and follows her to the door. He's the one who opens it for her, some ingrained sense of manners holding it. "Call when you get there."
"I will," she murmurs softly, shifting from foot to foot while she dons her favorite blue coat and grabs her purse and keys.
There has been a moment, that fleeting second, when he had her full attention in the evidence garage. In the middle of guide hand and pulling the rope up to her butt to stop, the words were snuck in there. "Remember what I told you." They were intimate words, murmured for her ears alone, the tone firm.
For several moments, she had grappled with their meaning before she was pushed forward, into thin air and a terrifyingly sudden descent. Over three-fourths of the way down, instructions has processed through her cerebral cortex and channeled themselves into reaction in her arms and fingers. And she'd stopped just short of crashing to the ground with alarming clarity.
Kate shifted from foot to foot, chisel in one hand and hammer in the other as she stared at the wood. "No, I'm going to break it," she protested, turning and stopping short of moving again when she came eye to with him… or rather eye to chest.
Gibbs turned her back around, firm hands settling on her shoulders and making her face the doubts in front of her. "What's the problem?"
"I'm going to break it," she repeated, lifting the tools expressively.
His hands slid around her, positioning them, angling the chisel just so. "Sometimes," he spoke quietly, lips just an inch from her ear, "you have to take the risk. Apply the appropriate force and watch it fall open."
When she didn't move for a long moment, he took her hand with the hammer and guided it in a slow demonstrative tap to the chisel. A small mark appeared, and she could feel him nod against her shoulder. "What you gotta remember, Kate, is that I'm here. And sometimes you have to take the risk, and trust that it's gonna fall into place."
She turns now, stepping onto the porch and giving meeting his gaze. "I'll see you in the morning."
He nods slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, and she knows he's struggling to stay silent. To stand still. And she's not sure she can take the next breath.