Title- Cuffed

Author- PTBvisiongrrl

Complete

Date- 9/10

Rating – T

Pairings/Characters- Gibbs/Abby friendship

Spoilers- not really; just slight reference to Conspiracy Theory

WARNINGS- Deals with cutting and suicide attempts. If this makes you uncomfortable, DON'T READ.

Disclaimers- Unfortunately, I don't own any of these characters, and make absolutely no profit from taking them out to play…although Gibbs can frisk and cuff me ANYTIME, and Abby is a goddess.

Summary: Why does Abby always have wrist cuffs on? It's not just to match her collar….

The First Time

The first time Gibbs saw Abby Scuito without her wrist cuffs on, it was at a bar after a particularly grueling child murder case. Hard work by his team had turned up nothing concrete; they had been one step behind the bastard every bit of the way. There was no confession or tripped up questioning; the case rested solidly on forensics and a lucky break.

Given the case, Gibbs had suggested that his team, including Duck and Abby, let off some steam and meet for a drink at a bar close to the Navy Yard. One drink had become several drinks, actually. Abby had several more than anyone else, quickly hammering them back. When she took longer to return than necessary from a trip to the ladies room, even in her inebriated state, Gibbs became worried and excused himself to go look for her.

She was new, back then, and barely out of grad school, completely unused to the harsh realities of criminal behavior outside of a textbook. As good a student and scientist as she was, no matter how many tattoos, she was still a baby in the ways of the world as far as Gibbs was concerned. When Burley and Pacci looked haggard, Cassie severely shaken, and even Ducky had no stories to be reminded of for this one, Gibbs knew his soft-hearted lab tech must be in inner turmoil, though she hadn't said much about it. He, of course, only saw Kelly whenever there was a child involved, and had fought his internal demons over the course of the case along with the bastard responsible. His demons, though, were old and worn by now; Gibbs had begun to best them, freeing himself from constant memory at least for part of the day. His soul was callused enough to take this; Abby's, he knew, was not.

He found her easily enough in the alley, once he ascertained from an older woman exiting the rest room that his 'daughter' was not inside. The dark corridor was near enough the exit door and lights to be only semi-dangerous. Abby was leaning back against the crumbling brick wall with tears freely falling down her face. Her right leather wrist cuff had been removed and roughly shoved into her coffin shaped pursed; her left hand was rubbing her bared right wrist, almost without thought. Even in the uneven light, shadows playing across Abby's pale figure, Gibbs could see the scar her fingers roughly traced over and over again.

In the years he'd been a Marine and an agent, Gibbs had seen those types of marks before. He knew what it was without asking, and a piece of Abigail Scuito fell into place in his brain. Amid her stories of coon dogs and junkyards in Louisiana was a silent one she had never told him. Grasping her wrist gently, running a callused thumb lightly over the thick, encircling scar, Gibbs gave comfort with an arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer.

Abby didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes, for the first time in their acquaintance. Gibbs knew, though, that it was not that she was afraid to do so, or that she didn't want to see the pity in his eyes. She was simply lost in her past, and began speaking almost mechanically, unaware that she was telling the story as she relived it. "I was 12. I never saw him coming, until he already had me. He kept me there for a week, handcuffed to an old iron radiator on his back porch. I fought so hard, once I realized what was going on, that I almost caused permanent nerve damage. It took three surgeries and months of physical therapy before I could button my own clothes, sign my name, or pick up a hairbrush again. The scar—even the plastic surgeon couldn't help with that, it was so infected by the time they found me, in that sticky wet heat and the filth of his shack."

Gibbs saw that scared 12 year old in the self-proclaimed princess of the night. The Goth façade was less a façade than protective armor. If you take what scares you, and own it down to its core, it simply can't scare you anymore. Abby hadn't been able to save herself back then, but she had learned how to save others, how to get them justice, in her place.

Gibbs wasn't the only member of his team with a difficult past. While he had never questioned Abby's hyper exterior persona, he began to wonder what really lay beneath in the deeper layers. Sure she wouldn't want to go back inside, he leaned his head against hers, brushing a kiss against her temple. "You are in no shape to drive home, and I don't think you should be alone tonight. I have a spare bedroom and some decent liquor."

Abby pulled herself together and agreed. "More alcohol is going to be necessary for me to get any sleep tonight, and drinking alone is not a very healthy behavior, so- sure. Thanks, Gibbs."

Keeping his arm around her, he walked her to his car and opened the door for her. She was asleep before he turned at the street to his house. Carrying her to the house, he tucked her into the guestroom and went to work on his boat.

~~~~~NCISNCISNCISNCISNCIS~~~~~

Part Two

The second time Abby bared her wrists in front of Gibbs, it was again completely unintentional.

After proving that the young officer had not, in fact, been able to hang herself, Abby had retreated from the evidence garage to her lab to write up her report. Gibbs had taken the information and run with it, trusting that she had given him the pertinent details, but it all still needed to be written up for the court. Clear, precise scientific terms, explained simply and summarized for the lay person, that showed how the officer had been murdered.

The killer couldn't get away with it. Abby wouldn't let him.

Yet even as she examined the crime scene photos and analyzed the evidence, she also evaluated the efficacy of the suicide plan. She thought about all the possible ways the delusional officer could have off'ed herself in the institutional setting, trying to understand the deceased's state of the mind. Abby understood the mechanics of death as well as the emotions of suicide better than most. In the officer's place, drugged and deluded, there were still better ways to accomplish the grisly task—faster, less painful, more opportune. And no matter how troubled, most would reach for the easiest method possible, in order to avoid failure or a last minute change of heart.

Abby had learned that one the hard way.

Considering the cold clinical report, Abby sent it on to Gibbs via e-mail, and a paper copy printed out as well. As the printer in her office spun up and died down again, she unbuckled the wide leather band on her left wrist. Laying the arm in front of her, turned on the desk to expose the inner wrist, the dim desk lamp harshly exposed the lesson she had learned years ago.

Her pale wrist was rippled with two separate sets of scars. One set, at least thirty or so one inch, diagonal, wire-thin slashes across the wrist, was perpendicular to the other, a single, thick cord of scar tissue that ran a good three inches from the edge of her palm up her arm. The first set had been—preparation. Thin cuts, left to run red, helped calm her inner turmoil. She had been 14 when it started; 16 when it ended with the final deep cut up her arm, when the smaller cuts no longer helped.

There were still times when Abby was unsure if it was a good or bad thing that her best friend had found her before she had bled out. Usually, she felt that it had been a good thing. Abby had tried to turn the mess of her teenage self around and make the life she had nearly discarded in disgust have meaning.

Abby was so lost in her past, again, that she did not hear Gibbs approach her desk, nor stop and study her as she sat. "Abs?" he asked in a low voice, trying not to frighten her more than his sudden appearance would.

She looked up, eyes haunted, before the usual sunny Abby replaced her face like a mask and she tried to distract Gibbs's eyes by replacing the cuff.

Gibbs clasped her hands to stop her. "Did you finish the report?" he asked, kneeling beside her desk.

"Yes, bossman," she answered, her hands stilled but the tension in her body obvious.

"Good," he nodded, moving her hands so that he could see the wrist more clearly. "Wanna tell me about those?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head. "I actually don't—"

"Abs," Gibbs said in his gently warning tones. He had as many tones and inflections as a grand staff, each one with a specific meaning that Abby had fixed in her head. She knew there were several notes to go before he would become exasperated with her; she also knew that this was his stubborn voice that would demand an answer eventually, so it would be easier to just get it over with before he got to the exasperation point.

Abby sighed, and gave in. Gibbs had that effect on her, always had. His eyes seemed to hold so much understanding, so much pain, that he surely understood her own.

"I was an angsty teen, Gibbs, and did angsty teen things." Abby shook her head. "I cut myself when life got to be too much. It made me feel better- a lot better. And then it didn't. That's the big scar." Abby ran her fingertip along the raised ridge of skin. "It wasn't a cry for help. I meant it. But my best friend found me, and that was that."

Gibbs couldn't picture the happy-go-lucky Goth depressed enough to do that to herself. Then again, he thought, no one now could picture just how happy and how often he had laughed with Shannon and Kelly. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss on top of the mass of scars. Looking up at Abby, he smiled at her. "I'm glad your friend did."

Abby smiled back, the morose memories pushed away at a genuine Gibbs smile. "Me, too. After all, if I wasn't here, you'd never get a lab tech to put up with that bastard senior agent upstairs."

Gibbs laughed back. "Turn off your 'babies,' and get your stuff ready. I'm driving you home."

Abby gathered her things as Gibbs waited. She removed her other cuff, placing it into her bag with the one from her desk. Gibbs had seen them all now and knew the stories of her visible scars; she didn't need to keep the show up for him anymore.

Being able to be the real Abby, even in these tiny moments, was a soothing relief.