This was not how things were supposed to be.
See, Gibbs belonged in the headquarters of NCIS, barking orders, drinking coffee, and slapping heads in that solemn, secretive way of his (that was not, in any way, sexy to me) which everyone respected and obeyed. All the while exuding strength, determination, and confidence almost reminiscent of William Shatner in Star Trek, only way more awesome.
Gibbs did not belong confined to a hospital bed, bruised and scraped, being kept on sedatives without the knowledge or the memories he had obtained and harbored for fifteen years. He did not exude vulnerability and weakness.
This was not how things were supposed to be. This was not how my hero was supposed to look.
I knew that I also was not supposed to be there, but I figured that because all my preconceived notions of my own world were shattered, I could visit Gibbs. No matter what Director Shepard had said.
He was sleeping anyways. I guessed that it didn't matter then, and pulled one of the cheap, uncomfortable, and lightweight recliners beside his bed to watch him sleep, which truly is not as creepy or as voyeuristic as it sounded. I just needed to see it all for myself, because I just couldn't even begin to wrap my head around a hurt, much less forgetful, Leroy Jethro Gibbs. He never gave up, never forgot at least the important stuff, and never let a dirtbag get away.
So the man in front of me couldn't be Gibbs, it was impossible. I had to be looking at some long lost twin of his who got the weak Probie genes, like Danny DeVito in Twins, only he was an identical twin, and the whole thing wasn't comedic at all, but the idea was the same. This Gibbs had to be, like, Leonard Jiminy Gibbs, who only cared about himself and was a coward who deserved to get blown up, not Leroy Jethro Gibbs, who had gotten through wars in the Marine Corps and put dirtbags behind bars for a living.
If I told myself that enough times I would believe it and therefore my reality would be restored. Yet, somehow, it wasn't quite working like how it worked when I told unimportant girls that I loved them and meant it until the next one came along.
His eyelids fluttered for a moment, before slowly opening to reveal bloodshot eyes that used to intimidate me whenever they looked in my direction but now they just filled my stomach with this queasy feeling that unsettled me. "Who are you?" He asked, his voice low and gravelly like he was really thirsty so the least I could do was pour him a cup of water. For some reason there were ripples on the surface and even a little bit sloshed on to the tray, which made me pause and ponder the likeliness of Godzilla raging through our lovely state (didn't he attack Tokyo or Hong Kong or some other major Asian city?) before I realized that it was me. I was the one shaking, not some impossible beast.
"My name's Anthony DiNozzo," I said as I pressed the straw against his lips, hardly daring to breathe in fear that the shaking would worsen, which would be catastrophic because DiNozzo men do not freak out. "But everyone calls me Tony. I'm the senior field agent on your NCIS team." He stopped sipping so the cup was returned to the tray, trying to ignore the clouded look in his eyes that divulged his lack of recognition.
"I have my own team?" Amazement, incredulity. He didn't remember NCIS. He didn't remember me.
This was not the way things were supposed to be.
"Yup, you're the boss man, alright." I leaned back in the chair at an attempt at nonchalance even though my heart felt as though it were about to explode. After all we had been through, after all he had done for me and my pathetic attempts at compensation for it...and he couldn't remember who I was..
I shouldn't have been reacting this way because I knew he had amnesia, we were all told it. I had been expecting to have been forgotten. It shouldn't have hurt this much, because stuff like this doesn't hurt DiNozzo men.
"Anyways, I should probably get back to work." I rose, still looking at the burnt skin on his face, the bandages wrapped around his head, the weakness which comes with such injuries. "I...I just wanted to see you, boss. To make sure you don't die on me," I weakly joked, even though I knew he wouldn't understand. He was watching me as I was leaving, curiously, wondering. Not like a Gibbs Stare. Something about this made me stop, turn, and start back to his bed, holding out a business card so like his own. "In case you need a memory-booster. Or...if you just want to talk."
It wasn't until after I left did I realize my face was wet from the tears pouring out of my eyes.