Title: The Empty Desk
Author: Tearsofamiko
Rating: K
Disclaimer: Sadly, I only dream I own them. . .
Spoilers: "Twilight"
Summary: The enormous impact of an empty desk on one tough, old Marine.
Dammit, his cup was empty again. Gibbs scowled at the cardboard coffee cup, slapped the case folder he was reading onto the desktop, and hauled himself to his feet. He leaned his hands on his desk and stood there for a moment, his eyes closed. Getting coffee meant walking past that empty desk and the mysterious knot in his chest seemed to tighten every time he had to do that. He didn't know how DiNozzo could take sitting and facing the empty desk each day; Gibbs' location next to it was bad enough. Heaving a tired sigh, Gibbs chucked the empty cup into his trashcan, and headed to the elevator. He didn't breathe normally till the doors closed behind him.
The three weeks since Kate's death had been some of the hardest he'd lived through, almost on par with the weeks after Kelly and Shannon's deaths. The claustrophobic feelings of grief and failure weighed heavily on him and, try as he might, he just couldn't seem to shake them. Coupled with some powerful hindsight revelations, Leroy Jethro Gibbs felt eons older than his years.
Caitlin Todd had been his second chance, his saving grace, and he'd been too hung up on his past and Rule Twelve to realize it. She had been there, all warmth and verve and Kate, since he'd first set foot on Air Force One. Spunky and as fiery as the red-heads he used to favor, she'd put up with him for two straight years and had never once backed down from his challenges. Nor had she taken any of his crap. As he'd quickly learned from her bickering with DiNozzo, Kate gave as good as she got. Looking back now, she had been everything he'd ever looked for in a woman. And now she was gone.
It was his fault, too, because as hinky – to use Abby's word – as the situation had been, he'd been too caught up in catching Ari to listen to his gut. And Kate had paid for his mistake. The chime from the elevator brought him back to the present. Gibbs sighed and looked up, seeing nothing but Kate's face, staring back at him. She was always there, in the back of his mind, the way she'd been on Air Force One, the way she'd looked in her ball cap, the way she'd appeared every one of the days he'd taken for granted. He slumped against the wall of the elevator and put a hand over his eyes, as the elevator doors slid shut again.
He stayed there and let the memories take him over. He remembered his Katie in a million different ways, working a million different cases, in a million different situations. He thought of her empty desk and felt something twist in his chest. He gave into the emotion and the feeling and let himself understand how much he truly missed her. He submerged himself in all he had left of Kate and was more than willing to let it pull him under. Something seemed determined, though, not to let him drown in Kate.
"Boss, you okay?"
Abruptly, almost painfully, Gibbs was jerked out of his memories. His visions of Kate, the ones he'd managed to pull so close, vanished, and the weight of his guilt enclosed him again.
"Can I help you, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, in a low, tired voice, as he pulled his hand away from his face.
"Uh, no, Boss." Gibbs saw Tony's uncertainty, met his eyes and recognized the younger man's sadness and concern for his boss.
Gibbs stepped out of the elevator and briefly placed a hand on DiNozzo's shoulder. Their eyes met and Gibbs nodded slightly, acknowledging Tony's unspoken questions. He turned and walked past DiNozzo into the hallway. "Just needed another cup of coffee."
"Right, boss." Tony stepped into the elevator, then turned and put his hand on the doors. "Oh, uh, boss? Abby said she had something for you."
Gibbs nodded again and walked down the hallway. They had a case to solve, witnesses to interview, and evidence to review. He sighed and squared his shoulders. Drawing on time-worn habits, he shoved his grief back with all of the sadnesses and losses and failures he'd gathered before. There was work to do and he'd deal with it later. He closed himself off from his grief and moved forward, both physically and mentally. Kate would want this, he convinced himself. He'd do his job, the same as always, and he'd deal later. Because Kate was dead and there was nothing he could do.
That empty desk in the bullpen killed him a little more, daily.
Because he missed her more than he could admit to himself.
And nothing would change that.