KATE
Gibbs; As a Marine sniper, I used hand-loaded Lapua .308 boat-tail, full metal jacket, moly-coated bullets.
Abby: Gibbs...
Gibbs: You know what a sniper calls a Bravo 51?
Abby: No.
Gibbs: A 'Kate'.
The look on his face as he says it... Abby's never seen that expression on him before and it scares her, badly. Sadness, grief, and something more hollow and empty and painful, his voice lowered to an aching whisper, and then he's gone and she's left with only questions and regret.
Todd was your agent, but Kate was my friend.
She wishes she could rewind, take those words back. The implication she somehow lost more than he did, that he simply doesn't care as much as she does. That he isn't hurting.
The idea Kate was only his colleague, when to Gibbs, his agents have always been more like family. With Kate? Abby'd known, from the get go, there was something else there.
She still remembers the gum and the 'Please?' She's sure Gibbs does too.
To this day, she has no idea what the 'something else' was. She's not convinced he knows either, for that matter, or that Kate did.
They flirted, sure - Gibbs couldn't seem to help himself.
But then, he's the kind of guy all the ladies love even when he's trying to repel them, and she's fairly convinced he doesn't realise how flirtatious some of his behaviour comes off. It isn't his fault, after all, that he has those baby blues and a lopsided smile charming enough to melt underwear at twenty paces, or that something about his voice can make a simple greeting sound like an invitation to a weekend involving a bed, whipped cream, and no clothing whatsoever.
So the flirting she could probably discount, more or less. It's the way he looks at Kate sometimes, when he thinks no one can see him, the way his eyes soften; the quiet pride he has when she follows one of his rules instinctively, because it's become part of her.
Looked, Abby. The way he looked at her. Is she ever going to get used to referring to Kate and Kate related activities in the past tense? Somehow she doubts it. And given his reaction to Kate's death, she doesn't think Gibbs is gonna get used to it anytime soon, either.
She replays his expression in her mind, and wonders if there's anything at all she can do or say to erase those words, or at least to let him know she regrets them, without making it worse. There's a strong possibility, after all, that he's doing his best to bury whatever he's feeling.
She clenches her hands on the edge of her desk and screws her eyes shut. Maybe if she concentrates, really concentrates, she'll wake up from the worst nightmare she's had in her entire life. Maybe if she clicks her heels together three times, she'll find herself back in a world where Kate isn't dead and Gibbs isn't broken and Tim and Tony don't look like their lives have been turned upside down and inside out.
Maybe, if she wishes hard enough, her best friend won't be dead and lying cold and pale downstairs. If reality can be shaped by sheer force of will...
When she looks up again, nothing has changed. The rain is still beating down as if the sky is in mourning, and Kate's likely murder weapons are still bold as brass on the computer screen, and Abby still wants to curl up in a corner with Bert and cry her eyes out.
"I really miss you, Kate," she murmurs. "We all do."
She blinks a few times, and ignores the tears escaping down her cheeks. There's one constructive thing she can do right now, and that's to help nail Ari Haswari to the wall. Her jaw set, she gets back to work.
~ fin ~