Authors Notes: Oh dear I haven't actually written a fic in ages! Not really since 2007! I've dabbled a bit here and there, but never got anything finished. Feels like I'm missing something, then again, it has been a LONG while since I wrote. This was written for the Xanthe H/C Athon when Xanthe broke her ankle. Only her ankle has healed way over by the time I finally got this done! I'm still not all that happy with it, it only took two years to finally get it posted over here.
Spoilers: Anything Seasons 1-3 and first half of season 4
Disclaimer: The usual, I don't own them, they belong to their owners, yadda yadda, don't sue me, I have no money.
His head hurt. There was nothing else to say, that really just summed it up. He could wax on about how it feels as if howitzers are firing or Sherman tanks were rumbling through but he was never a man of many words. Why go through all the extra work when it all came back to one thing; his head, it hurt.
It started right between his eyes, and for the first few hours pinching the bridge of his nose brought a small amount of relief. The real relief would come when he could turn in the budget worksheets he had been trying to finish all morning. His other paperwork—case updates, personnel reviews, requisitions—he had knocked out that morning before his team arrived. This, the budget worksheets were a thorn in his side, one that was nudged not so gently earlier by Jen's assistant Cynthia.
Taking his glasses off, Gibbs rubbed his eyes, pressing them back into their sockets, before looking at his team. His sight was a little blurry for a moment, his eyes protesting the pressure he put on them, but it was clear they were getting restless, no active case at the moment and all of their required paperwork was in. If they weren't called out, Tony and Ziva had fire arms rectification to complete this afternoon and he would probably send McGee along to practice at the range.
Gibbs surveyed the rest of the bullpen, taking note of new faces and nodding to a few he recognized. McGee was on the phone, talking in some foreign language involving acronyms that Gibbs couldn't keep up with. In the corner of his vision, Gibbs saw something fly across the aisle from Ziva's desk to Tony's. Tony gave a small squeak as whatever it was met its mark and looked ready to retaliate when he noticed Gibbs.
"Oh, hey Boss. Ziva and I were just um…" Tony trailed off, waving his left hand between him and Ziva as if it explained everything.
"Going to lunch." Gibbs answered for him. Going to lunch, leaving, taking McGee with them before their petty argument escalated and Gibbs was forced to consider bodily harm. HR frowned upon bodily harm, and he really didn't want to sit through any more seminars about getting along in the workplace.
"We were?" Tony gave him a confused look before catching on. "Of course Boss, come on Ziva."
"Boss?" McGee was off the phone and looking questioningly at Gibbs, seeing Tony and Ziva getting ready to leave.
"Lunch, McGee." Ziva answered, securing her weapon on her belt and snagging the jacket off the back of her chair.
Gibbs jerked his head to the right, motioning for McGee to go with the other two.
He waited for them to leave, the elevator doors softly grinding shut, before using both hands to scrub his face and rub at his temples. That small budget worksheet stress induced headache was doing it's best to go into a migraine. Pain, searing down the middle of his scalp to the base of his skull and wrapping around the right side of his head. Maybe lunch was a good idea, coffee at least, his stomach suddenly felt unhappy at the mention of food. But coffee, it usually helped his headaches, and maybe one of those pills the Gelfand had given him when Gibbs finally admitted that sometimes, the pain didn't go away.
He should have knocked on wood this morning. Gibbs wouldn't say that he was paranoid, or superstitious, he left that up to Abby, but he did believe in covering all of his bases. He should have knocked on wood this morning after thinking they would have an easy day. He knew it was the headache/migraine talking but he was actually looking forward to letting his team knock off early and have the weekend off.
The three had made it back from the firing range, bickering with each other as they came off the elevator and Gibbs was getting ready to send them home and out of his misery when his phone rang. It wasn't dispatch for a change, or Cynthia asking for paperwork—he'd dutifully turned that in two hours before—it was Stan Burley. Gibbs worked with him for five years before Burley transferred to Agent Afloat on the USS Enterprise. Now Burley was stationed at the Marine Corps Base in Quantico and found himself with three dead civilians, a dead Marine Sergeant, and enough weaponry to invade a medium sized country.
After hanging up with Burley, Gibbs told them to 'grab their gear' and tossed the keys to the sedan at McGee. The nearly hour drive to Butts Corner, Virginia was quiet as McGee, in shock from being allowed to drive—Gibbs never let anyone drive—didn't make any attempt at conversation. Gibbs left his team working the house with Burley's team and headed back out to the truck to collect more evidence markers and to see if Ducky had managed to arrive. Both Ducky and Palmer had terrible luck when it came to driving to crime scenes, it didn't matter who drove. Reaching the back of the truck, Gibbs took his hat off and scrubbed at his head. His head was still killing him, the pain splitting right down the middle and settling at the base of his skull. He'd had just taken one of the pills from Gelfand when his team got back from the firing range.
Ducky arrived right as Gibbs stepped out of the truck. He nearly stumbled and fell as the ME's van turned smoothly to park next to their truck, the sunlight bouncing off the windshield and right into his eyes. Gibbs recovered easily, hoping no one noticed, and waited for Ducky and Palmer to exit their vehicle.
"Jethro!" Ducky called as he rounded the passenger's side of the van. "We would have been here sooner but Mr. Palmer turned to soon and we had to back track from Clifton."
Gibbs gave a small smirk, it was always something, and not even one of those fancy GPS devices was able to help.
The back doors on the ME van opened and Palmer stepped out, turning to pull the gurney out and load gear on it. "I'm sorry Dr. Mallard, but I honestly thought the directions said turn left on 645, not State 641."
"No matter Duck, you're here now." Gibbs cut them off before they could get going on who was at fault or it tailspun into another story. "Three civilians, one Marine, all dead, are waiting.
"Quite right, Jethro." Ducky reached over and picked up his kit from the gurney. "Mr. Palmer gather everything we need, and…"
"Make arrangement to transport the other bodies, I'm on it Dr. Mallard."
Palmer led the way back to the house as Gibbs and Ducky fell into step behind him. They were just shy of the front porch when Gibbs felt a hand on his arm pulling him back slightly. He looked down at the hand on his arm, following it upward until he came to the worried face of his older friend.
Ducky's voice was quieter than usual, but heavily laced with concern."Are you all right Jethro?"
"I'm fine." He lied, even though he was well aware that of all people, Ducky would not buy it.
"You told me you were fine when you almost bled out after being shot."
"I'm not bleeding and all my limbs are attached. I'm fine Duck."
Ducky stared at him, eyes crinkling as he looked him over before giving a small 'Hmph' and turning to go help Palmer with getting the gurney up the few stairs into the house.
Gibbs sighed and pulled his hat off again. Balancing the evidence markers on his left forearm he carefully squeezed the bill between his hands, helping it to achieve a good curve; he hated breaking in a new hat. Settling it back on his head, he was getting ready to step up on to the porch when something caught his attention. A reddish smudge on the white frame around the cellar doors.
Gibbs quickly stepped into the house, exchanging some of the evidence markers for a camera and some swabs before heading back to the cellar doors. He worked quickly, the gravel in front of the doors digging into his knee as he knelt swabbing, labeling, and photographing; he'd need to see if they could lift some finger prints from off the door and around the frame. Carefully Gibbs scouted over the area around the door, looking for any other evidence that might have been left behind. He almost missed it, a footprint, in dirt on the other side of the gravel path he had been kneeling in.
He smirked to himself, he wouldn't even need Abby's help to identify the type of shoe, Gibbs could recognize the familiar tread of a Converse Chuck Taylor All Star any day. Placing a marker and photographing it, Gibbs spotted another footprint this time with blood. He placed a marker and photographed, repeating the procedure as he followed the trail that led up to the woods on the far west side of the property.
Stopping, Gibbs looked back at the house, debating on whether or not to keep following the trail, or return for get back up, or at least tell someone where he was going. He'd head slap a member of his team if they went off without telling someone. Gibbs put the camera strap around his neck and let it hang, using his now free hands to adjust his hat as he debated what to do. Sighing, he pulled his cellphone from his belt and flipped it open, he'd call Tony, have him meet him here before following the trail any further.
Finger hovering over the green call button, Gibbs heard a noise and swung around to face the trees, squinting, trying to see what caused the noise. His headache, that had subsided a little as he followed the trial, chose that moment to come back to life. A spark of pain blazed across his skull and he missed the movement on his right.