Gibbs stared into the blank space in front of him, with an equally blank expression. To an onlooker he may have looked mildly comatose, but underneath the silver hair, the keen mind was whirring.
And he wished it would stop.
He gulped down another mouthful of burning bourbon from a mason jar, and absentmindedly began to rub a hand over his latest boat.
He had planned to take his beautiful goddaughter out on this boat, with her grandfather.
That was now impossible.
That man…her grandfather, had been in the cold ground for five days now.
The infamous silver brow furrowed in pain as another trickle of this seeping realisation forced its way into his brain.
It was like a poisonous IV drip… this realisation. It poured in just another little splash of raw anguish just as the last injection of misery began to subside.
A knot began to form in his throat as his thoughts drifted off to the years gone by of their own volition.
He had been reeling.
He had been spiralling…on the cusp of an all consuming depression when Mike Franks had come barrelling headlong into his life as a discharged Marine, who knew nothing other than being a Marine.
Who breathed the corps.
He had been a discharged Marine, clutching onto alcohol and hopelessness to tide him over the embryonic days of losing his wife and daughter.
He couldn't help the upwards twitch of his lips as he recalled Mike's gruff, no nonsense job offer.
The man had given back a purpose.
A reason to live.
His hand caressed the boat some more, his fingers trailing along the delicate engravings along the hull.
Mike had seen him for what he was…broken.
He hadn't tried to slap a band aid on him, hadn't thrown a support group at him.
He had helped him heal, in the full knowledge that he would never again be whole. Both men knew this, and to this script both men had worked. Little by little, and day by day, the unbearable pain that pierced his heart began to lessen.
He knew his pain would never truly go away…but, Mike had given him the best palliative care out there.
A reason.
It was the reason he clung to, day in, day out.
The reason was the reason that he had several scars, both mental and physical. The reason he had organs that would cause the most steadfast doctor to raise a brow and back away. The reason he had multiple ex wives, and an amassed reputation as being a hard ass, hot tempered ogre.
Them.
The reason, was them.
Every day on the job was for Kelly, was for Shannon.
He never would have found that reason…that life raft if it wasn't for Mike Franks.
The knot in his throat formed a vicious blockade to his oxygen supply, and he gulped reflexively.
Mike's teaching…his brusque caring, had led him to his own team.
To Tony, to Tim…to Ziva, to Abby.
He would never even have met four of the most important people in his life if hadn't been for Mike. Probably would never have even known they existed.
The knot kicked up another notch.
He absentmindedly felt the back of his head, where many of his mentor's headslaps had fallen with their usual force.
His lips twitched again.
How many habits of his old boss had he brought to the table with his own team?
A sad smile crossed his face.
He knew the answer to that question wasn't capable of any sort of numerical evaluation.
He treated his own team, the way Mike had treated him. Taught them, protected them…the way he had done for him.
The agent that he was, was down to the agent that he had been.
He had learned from the best, and he had become the best.
His face burned as tears sprang up in his eyes, the first that had invaded those blue pools since he had cradled his dying friend and mentor in his arms, rain streaming offensively over his rapidly paling face.
He hadn't been able to shed a tear since that night, because he didn't know how to.
At the funeral… his own pain was out of the question.
Abby in particular had taken an instant shine to Mike, and he to her. She was his main priority, and as she had sobbed into his shoulder, he had resolutely pushed away his own pangs of all absorbing misery.
He leant his head against the cool frame of the boat in front of him, and gasped slightly as the lump in his throat seemed to grow in indecent strength with every breath.
Why hadn't he ever told Mike what he meant to him?
Why had he let the man die without knowing how much he appreciated all he had done for him?
How could he have him bleed out in his arms without telling him that?
The tears that had been held hostage in his eyes made a break for freedom as these torturous questions rattled around in his brain, and they streamed mercilessly down his face.
For the first time since losing his little girl and the only woman he had ever truly loved, LJ Gibbs was crying.
Really crying.
Hot, salty tears streamed down his face, dripping with an almost mocking haste onto his collar, dampening the fabric with his own pain.
With an effort, he pushed himself off of the boats hull and clutched his mason jar with a firmness that surprised him in that moment.
Looking up with bleary eyes, that still shone with his usual piercing blue stare, he fixed his gaze on the photo of a much younger him, and a still active Mike Franks that hung on the wall.
He forced himself to relive the memory that allowed for the grins that were plastered on both of their stationary faces, to remember the feeling he'd had with Mike's arm draped loosely around his shoulders.
The lump in his throat was swallowed down with a Marine Corps force, as he cleared his throat and raised his impromptu glass in the photo's direction.
"Goodbye, Boss."
…
A/N: Just a short drabble on how I feel Gibbs might have dealt with Mike's shooting. Always felt the show kind of glossed over it, considering the relationship between the characters!
Thanks for reading!