Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction. Apart from my original character, Doctor L.P. 'Lipps' Redmouth, the characters are borrowed from the CBS network show NCIS for personal entertainment purposes only. No profit is or shall be made from this fan tribute to the show which is owned by TPTB. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

Set in time: NCIS 2012, early season 10

Spoiler warning: Applicable to all seasons covered by time frame

Characters: Gibbs, Ducky, OC (Lipps)

A/N: This story takes stock of injuries Gibbs has accumulated throughout his adult life. I'm trying to keep this close to canon, but forcibly I had to speculate a bit about pre-series injuries mentionned on the show. In some spots I've used stronger language than I usually do, but I expect it still meets the rating (T).

Please enjoy my view of Gibbs, and let me know how I'm doing! Reviews are most coveted! TIA.

A Matter of Injuries

(by VG LittleBear/vglb)

Gibbs was pulled out of his thoughts by the insistant shrilling sound of his landline. He'd just sat down with his breakfast coffee and the paper. Landline, that surely couldn't be related to work! Indeed, the team was off rotation, and after solving a case just before the weekend, there was no reason for him to be called up on this fine morning. The ringing started up again after a short break. Sighing, Gibbs got up and grabbed the handle of his old fashioned phone.

"Gibbs", he grumbled into the receiver.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs? Sir, this is the cabinet of Doctor Redmouth. I'd like to confirm your appointment for Monday morning at 0730. Please do not eat or drink later than Sunday 2200 so we can get valid test results."

The slightly breathless instruction from the doctor's young assistant had ended in an expectant silence. The kid had used military time, but then Jethro hadn't contacted just any civilian doctor.

Gibbs answered "I'll be there," and crashed the receiver back to the phone base. That was something he'd never had to worry about with Ducky, confirming an appointment.

Gibbs hadn't been hurt in the explosion at the NCIS offices in May 2012, but when he learnt that Ducky had suffered a heart attack, he'd realized that he needed a General Practicioner for the times Doctor Mallard was unavailable. Ducky had been acting as his personal family doctor for so long, but now he needed to lighten Ducky's burden for the foreseeable future, and maybe beyond. He'd asked among his Marine friends, who had pointed him towards Doctor L.P. 'Lipps' Redmouth.

The experienced doctor had once been a Marine, until he'd badly hurt his legs on a mission and was invalided out. In the long months recuperating he had started his medical studies, and once he'd gone into practice had become a favorite family doctor for many a Marine returned to civil life. That was sufficient common grounds for Gibbs to feel comfortable about using his services. Not that he'd felt sick, but after the stress of hunting and killing Dearing, he'd been having tension headaches. The doctor had prescribed fresh air, and getting away from D.C. for a while. Somewhat grudgingly Gibbs had driven to Stillwater to spend a few days with his father, and came back a week later feeling the better for the change of scenery.

Like Ducky, the doctor had insisted on being called by his nickname at first acquaintance. Not too surprisingly, Lipps had known Ducky privately. With Gibbs' tacit agreement, they had talked about him while he was on R&R. Ducky had given his fellow doctor a drawing showing most of Jethro's injury placements. There were an impressive number, even though Jethro's childhood accidents had been excluded. Some injuries Jethro had sustained while serving his country as a Marine, and then he'd accumulated more as a Special Agent. Ducky knowing his way around him, had seen him through many a painful recuperation, sometimes letting him supplant medication with a dram of bourbon.

When Gibbs showed up for his consultation on Monday, once the usual stuff taken care of, and the blood pressure cuff removed, Lipps asked about the injuries as a possible source of his recent headaches.

"Gunny, even if you feel better now, tell me about your injuries. Once you're hurt, or sick, is not the time to tell me about your old wounds. Tell me now, so I have an idea what could possibly be a factor in your recovery. Let's start with your head, before we move down to other body parts. Ducky didn't tell me much, but apparently years ago, you'd been bleeding badly from a glancing blow to the left side of your head."

Palping the left side of Gibbs' head, Lipps had soon localized the old scar under the hair.

"Well, that one was a seven-iron," said Gibbs evenly. He hadn't thought of this injury in years.

"Did this happen at a golf course?" tried the doctor.

"No, I don't play golf. My ex-wife did though." Oops, that had slipped out despite him. Gibbs resolved to be quiet.

"So how did it come about to hit your head, Gunny? insisted Lipps.

Gibbs wasn't about to spill anything more: "I'm taking the fifth amendment."

"We're not at court, I'm your doctor, not a judge!" Lipps stared at him, but couldn't outstare the master. He continued, "I suppose Ducky knows?"

"Oh yes, he knows!" admitted Gibbs, leaving out that Ducky had patched him together after that bit of domestic violence. He hadn't wanted to get his wife in trouble just because he drove her to distraction with his refusal to talk about their marital problems. He should have known better after Diane had given him a concussion with his own baseball bat. But he'd repeated his silent treatment with the next marriage, and the one after, too.

Ducky had drawn cycles around the head on paper, twice. Lipps pointed to it, silently asking what it meant.

"2006, explosion on a ship. I was close to the blast, but protected by a washer and tumbler. Concussion and surface blast wounds on face and hands. Went into a coma, my second." was Gibbs' terse description.

"How long, and consequences?" said the other former Marine, unimpressed.

"About two days, temporarily lost several years of my memory." There was already a doctor who knew way too much about it in Gibbs' opinion. Having the extra years back as a buffer between his immediate memory of losing his girls helped. Not that it hurt any less, but he'd gotten better at living with his memories, allowing himself the confort of newer memories to fill the devasted places in his heart. Giving happy memories a chance to predominate his thoughts when his thoughts inevitably turned to his lost family.

"It all came back to you? All at once?"

"At first only bits, then most all at once. Talking with an old friend helped getting the rest of the details over time."

Gibbs wasn't going to mention the four months he'd spent with Mike in Mexico, nor the pained expression in Tony's eyes when he absentmindedly called him McGee, or bestowed Kate's name on Ziva for weeks after his return to work. Tony had been remarkably amendable to being busted back to Senior Field Agent after being defacto Team Lead. He'd only learned much later that Tony had refused a promotion to Rota to make sure he'd be alright.

"And your first coma?" Lipps had moved on.

"1991, Desert Storm. I was running through a minefield, one mine exploded real close to me." Gibbs had a shrewd guess that sounded familiar to the other.

"Care to elaborate?" this time there was a dark shadow in the doctor's eyes. No doubt remembering his own ordeal.

"Shrapnell mainly in my left knee, blast wounds, concussion, and coma for 19 days. I was on crutches for several weeks." Gibbs kept the description succinct. "I can run fine now, and getting up the stairs is no problem. I sometimes take the elevator to go down, though."

And if getting to the basement sometimes hurt, there was always a bottle of bourbon waiting to attenuate the dull throbbing in his knees after a bad day. Of course massaging his knees helped too. He'd astonished Abby with his knowledge about horse remedies, but he'd tried them all one time or another.

Lipps had gotten his feelings under control again, and followed up with: "No memory loss?

"None I'm aware of", deflected Gibbs. After all, there had been no one close enough to quizz him. After burying Shannon and Kelly he had stopped talking to his father too. And his Marine friends didn't exactly like to dwell on the past.

"So tell me Gunny, your comas, they were related?"

'Not bad for a physician', thought Gibbs, but he left it at "yeah".

Doctor Redmouth could tell where this was heading. "You're not going to tell me more, are you?"

A long silence answered that question.

"Okay, let's move on to your limbs. Now, would you show me your upper right arm, please? Do you have trouble holding your arm up for any length of time?" said Lipps barely leaving the Gunny time to get out of his clothes.

"No trouble, no", said Gibbs while pulling off his white T-shirt, too.

'Not now', thought Gibbs. It had hurt plenty when that black sheep of a CIA man had demanded that he'd face him with hands up in the air. He'd only been able to do so for a few moments, before his bleeding arm had started to sink back down. Fortunately 'Black Jack' had not paid it any attention, and had wrestled his hostage in the open anyway. Jack had tried to mock him then, but Jethro had kept baiting him with his answers instead. Comparing the murderer to his ex-wife had done it. The very moment Jack moved his weapon from the Marine's neck on to him, Tony and Kate had shot him dead, only nicking the hostage's right ear in the process. He honestly couldn't say if it had been Tony again. Maybe it was Kate. After all she had shot her own camera during training.

"So what caused this large scar?" wondered the doctor looking at the uneven scar tissue on his arm.

"Grenade, door splintered, got hit with some of the wood. It's been a long time though, 2004 I think." Gibbs remembered Kate's big eyes as she'd wondered at the blood that had shown up on her, not realizing it came from him. He had only been relieved she had not been hurt.

At that time he'd worn a polo shirt, but maybe this scar was one of the reason he'd taken to wearing a T-shirt under his shirts, it kept the cold away from his healed wounds. With age, sensitivity to cold had increased. No wonder Mike had liked Mexico so much, the weather in El Rosario was so much warmer, even the rain was more pleasant.

"Stretch out your fingers, both hands, please."

Gibbs rolled his eyes as the doctor compared the fingers. Why the hell had Ducky signaled injuries there? Admittedly, he used to hit his fingers regularly when working on his boat and drinking bourbon until he'd passed out. Nowadays he seldom drank much, even if there were plenty of things he wished to forget.

Finally Lipps took his right hand and looked closely at Gibbs' index finger. Jethro remembered the bus, blood obscuring his sight in one eye, his finger bone sticking out. He'd changed the Sig Sauer to his uninjured left hand. And then came the news little Amanda was safe. Agent Lee had mouthed 'do it', and he'd shot her, three times. It was enough to kill the dirtbag who had first blackmailed her into treason and murder, and then had used her as a shield.

Michelle Lee had died a few moments later, traitor and hero, both, as he'd been left to explain to Amanda. It had been the thought of the brave little girl, that had prompted him to take Lee's shield after her eyes had broken in death. He'd made sure no blood was on the shield while Ducky had stabilized his finger, and wrapped his hand. He'd been beyond upset with Lee, but Amanda deserved to know how strong her Michi's love for her had been, regardless whether she'd viewed the girl as her daughter, or her sister. And the shield was all he could offer her to accompany his sad words.

"Broke my finger during a firefight." was all Gibbs would say.

Lipps obviously realized that he wouldn't get more and moved his eyes to his right shoulder. Gibbs couldn't help the quick upturn of his lips. He had enjoyed making McGee drive him around, run for coffee, and obsessing about his comfort. Even if it had been long weeks until he was free of the sling holding his arm close to his body, so his shoulder could heal. He'd even let Fornell drive his beloved charger. And then joyfully bickering in their undercover personae, not so far off from normal, truth be told. Their suspects hadn't twigged on that he'd slipped Ziva earwigs, while Tobias and Damon provided distraction for their marks.

"Car hit my shoulder. Took some weeks to heal."

It could have been worse, if he hadn't pushed Tim out of the way of Daniel's car speeding straight at them. Gibbs hadn't planned on getting hit himself, wouldn't have if he'd jumped the other way, but Tim had just stood there, frozen. 'Accident!' he'd told a jet lagged Tony and Ziva, when DiNozzo had berated McGee for letting Gibbs get hurt.

There were scars on his left shoulder, too. If Rose Tamayo had not stumbled across his poor hiding place, he'd have died that time in Columbia, and none the wiser. He'd been delirious by the time she'd gotten him hidden away from the eyes of the militant force of the drug lord he'd sniped. She'd been an excellent nurse, cleaning him up and dealing with the wounds. He'd been out of it almost completely.

It took him days to recuperate, and she'd stayed by his side all along. He'd talked about Shannon and Kelly with her while he healed, as she'd held him when he'd been crying out for them in his delirious dreams. He'd in turn listened to her tell her own nightmares, about the rape and abuse suffered on the hands of the dead druglord. She'd been so grateful he'd taken out the bastard. When he was well enough to leave, he'd given her his service number adding G to the numeral just for her. He'd asked her to call Mike Franks to organise his extraction from Columbia, knowing there was less a chance it could be traced, rather than contacting his C.O. who probably had him listed MIA.

"Classified, doc!" Gibbs hurried Lipps along, sensing where his eyes had stopped. "It just looks bad as the healing wound had to be reopened to remove a splinter that had detached from the bone. It hasn't bothered me since."

But then he remembered the more recent injury on the same shoulder. It had been a small caliber, and it had only stopped him from getting to work because the police took his statement while he rested in ER. The hospital didn't insist on admitting him, and he'd called Ducky to take him to his car that had remained outside of the diner. For once he'd driven slowly and carefully the few minutes it took to make it back home.

Ducky had followed him in, and made sure he was comfortable on the couch before handing him Elaine's club sandwich she had gotten to Gibbs as he switched cars. Then Ducky had given him a glass of water and two pills that he'd refused before driving. Although he'd not bled much, he'd gotten sleepy and bedded down, hardly noticing, Ducky slipping out after flicking on the TV for him. To the sounds of "Do not Forsake me, oh my Darling" he'd fallen into a light doze. That day had made one thing clear to him: he was not done living, despite all the losses. His loved ones would always be waiting, but there were still many things he wanted to accomplish in the here and now.

The doctor's eyes had moved to a scar high on his left breast.

'Ari, Ari shot me there', went Jethro's thoughts. What he said was: "Gunshot, through and through." Every time his thoughts turned to Ari, his hand moved up to lightly massage the scar in a move reminiscent of a Pavlowian response.

Gibbs turned slightly to display the corresponding area on his back.

Lipps wondered: "Do you feel it still?"

"Not enough to matter," dismissed Gibbs. After a pointed stare by his doctor, who had noted the self massage, he shrugged his shoulder and said: "On rainy days, sometimes."

When the patient turned, a white batch had been revealed on his lower back. The scars had nearly entirely faded to white lines. Lipps looked closely and said "Playing target, Gunny?"

"Wasn't Gunny then, I was still a young PFC when we got into a crossfire out in the boondocks. I owe my company's corpsman my life."

"You wanna tell me about those wounds?" inquired the doctor.

"From Marine to Marine, they were deep, they hurt like hell, and three month later I was back out there fighting. What more is there to say?"

"No shit!" responded Lipps in the same lingo.

There was also a deep gauge on his breast, close to the heart that Lipps was staring at presently. This wound had nearly been the end of him, Gibbs knew. Jenny had told him, the first time he was up long enough to remember what she'd said. He'd have been pissed to screw up his own statistics of never loosing an agent undercover by dying on the job.

"Gunny Gibbs!" with a jolt Gibbs came back to the present. From the look he was getting it was not the first time the doc had adressed him. He refused to feel guilty. He didn't usually spend time contemplating his old injuries.

"Gunshot, a .45 caliber, it nearly killed me."

Almost a week later in Positano, he'd kissed Jenny, got her all hot and bothered, and promptly fell asleep, exhausted. Jenny never stopped teasing him about it. And he got flustered every time, even in MTAC in the middle of an operation with Tony and Ziva playing house on the big screen.

"Does it ever bother you?" asked his doctor.

With a crooked smile and a toss of his head, Gibbs answered: "Not the way you mean it, Doc."

Suddenly Gibb's cell started ringing. Rising an eyebrow at the doctor, he got a wave to go ahead.

It was DiNozzo: "Dead sailor found in Anacostia, you coming, Boss?"

- finis -