AN: Inspired by Ingrid Michaelson's "Over You" if you want to look up the lyrics ;)
When he enters the room, you are of two minds; to peruse that old report again or to face him, admit to yourself that it's over. You are over him and the two of you were never anything to begin with. How you get over nothing is yet to be determined (it's like releasing a fistful of something when the something is – air).
Instincts die hard – harder than Bruce Willis – and you look up, wishing you hadn't. You hardly ever wear black, but it suits him. Brings out his cerulean blue eyes and you sob a little – on the inside – because you never meant to say his eyes were cerulean blue. They're just blue. He is going to a conference and you are feeling that odd mix of longing and frustration and pure, unadulterated joy because when he is not there, getting over him should be easier, lighter on the soul. And it's going to happen – it's on your agenda for today and all hell would break loose if you didn't check it off your list.
Tony makes a joke about Gibbs' suit, murmurs a thing or two about Cary Grant, but you don't have half the heart to laugh; you don't have a heart at all. You know, it's over and you want to run away and never come back because it is, over. And you keep telling yourself that. Even if that vest looks nice on him. And you allow yourself to think that because nice is sort of a neutral word. You're not about to call him dashing nor handsome. Neither one is safe.
When you look at him again, – oh, that wandering gaze, how shall you ever tame it? – he is struggling with his blue necktie. You turn to one very special Anthony DiNozzo and he shakes his head. A boss in need is a boss indeed, a boss on leave is better? Nah, that doesn't sound right. Now, it is up to you to help him and it makes you angry how you don't think twice before getting up and crossing over to his desk.
He is fidgeting with the unruly fabric that simply won't submit to his efforts, when you place a hand on his shoulder and he startles. You bite back a smile and look him in the eye. The Simple or the Windsor? He ponders that for a moment, then leans in closer and your breath hitches in your throat. Take your pick, Katie, he whispers in your ear and you blame the open window for the chill that runs down your spine. He pulls back and you concentrate on the tie, on tying the knot, and damn, that evokes images that shouldn't be brought up. You don't look at him while your fingers deftly work the fabric, but you know he is looking at you.
You hear Tony clucking his tongue because it is taking you long, longer, to finish the task, but you want to get it right (the warm puffs of air that hit your forehead are distracting, too). When trembling fingers smooth down the tie at last, you step back. There, you say and muster up a smile. You alright? Just fine. No one ever admits otherwise, right? He pins you down with his stare, unconvinced, and you wish you could tell him everything. And then some. But you can't. This wouldn't make you forget; if anything, it would make forgetting that much harder.
You excuse yourself and go to the restroom. You splash cold water on your face, but it doesn't help in slowing down your racing heartbeat. You think back to the time when you first met, to Air Force One and to another encounter. To struggling fists and to arms, wrapped around you in quiet comfort. You'd realized he was a bastard then and there, but a bastard you could learn to trust unlike the other men in your life. With your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you look in the mirror, taking a few calming breaths because you need to go back to work. You are not crying over him. No, you aren't. See, water droplets, not tears. Besides, tears taste like sadness and salt, like anger...like this.
Back in the hallway, your chin is up, head raised high, and there is just the click-clacking of heels, echoing between walls. The acoustics are great, everything is great. Until you bump into him and you don't even know how it happens. You don't hear but rather feel his laughter as it rumbles in his chest and his hand lands at the small of your back, steadying you in place. You sure I'm the one who needs glasses, Kate? You take a deep breath and pull back. He told you once eyes never lied, so you meet his gaze, unflinching. You sure you are alright? His frown clouds his face, and you let out the air that was trapped inside you. You hesitate, but you take his hand and lightly squeeze his fingers. Have a safe flight, Gibbs.