Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Sadly, they belong to some other people.
AN: I don't know how this story came about - inspiration strikes at midnight, I guess (or when you really want to sleep, but it's not happening). Written during study breaks with very few edits. Review, if you feel like it :))
The first time it happened, he had forgotten his sweater in the NCIS gym, so he went back to look for it. He rushed through the door, but the sight in front of him stopped him dead in his tracks. It was Kate, dancing to a song only she herself could hear, completely unaware of her surroundings, of the fact that he was there. She was lost in the moment, her eyes closed as her arms communicated what words couldn't, reaching for an unreachable point in the distance. Then she started adding movement to this picture, fluid motions that connected the dots, until it all made sense. A turn followed by an extension, a leap. Gibbs was sure there were technical terms for this, but he didn't know shit – it was probably in French anyway.
He took a few steps back, retreating to a spot where he couldn't be seen. Then she jumped, her toes pointed and the planes of her legs forming a perfect line, parallel to the floor. Gibbs had seen her stretching before and he knew she was capable of doing this; he knew she was flexible. But, he thought, it must be different; it had to be more difficult to accomplish this in thin air. It took strength and grace, and for one, he felt at a loss for words at the realization. She was graceful and strong. Strong, when she landed on the floor after another leap. Graceful, when her left leg lifted up to the ceiling, her back flat, her eyes focused on the floor and she never lost her balance. It seemed that he was in some kind of trance, drawn to her movement, and its – soothing? – quality. He felt more at peace now, than after beating the crap out of an inflated dummy and that in itself was a problem, he thought.
He had almost forgotten why he had come back to the gym in the first place. Gibbs hesitated a tiny bit before walking off to the benches where he had left his sweater.
The moment he came into sight, her eyes locked on him and as if sensing that, he turned to face her. Gibbs kind of expected her to look away, to pretend she was not doing what she was doing – dancing beautifully – in light of his revealed presence. Instead, Kate appeared unfazed. Her gaze was calm and he almost apologized for walking in. But it was a tip-of-the-tongue sensation; he never said, I'm sorry. Partly because he was drawn to her movement again, as she started turning, and turning, and turning. Then came the last pirouette – he knew the word! Time stood still as she extended her right leg to finish the turn before wrapping a hand around her calf and stretching that leg even further up. Gibbs wasn't a critic, but that looked aligned, controlled, flawless. She was untouchable and Gibbs was a fool; if she was a siren, he was a sailor.
He draped the NIS hoodie over one arm and headed for the door. She hadn't said anything, but he felt like an intruder, a voyeur even – he wasn't meant to get those glimpses into Kate, the person. Not the talented special agent, but the woman, the dancer, who needed a break from reality and had found a most beautiful escape.
Before he left, he glanced over his shoulder – just one last look – and for a moment right there, he thought he saw her smile.
She doesn't dance every night and he doesn't watch her every night she dances. It's on days like today that he allows himself to stay with her in the dimmed room as they both pretend the other one isn't there. But they feed off of each other's presence, because they need it after having wrapped up a hard case. No matter how experienced you are, how unfaltering your gaze is at the sight of blood, sometimes, it does not come down to this. There comes a time when you strip down the feeling of detachment, which has always been a façade to begin with. You overcome the desire for justice and professionalism and you're left with skin and bone and pure, human fragility. Because how can you live with yourself having faced these tragedies; knowing how helpless you are in preventing them from happening.
She starts off slowly, just breathing – this is a dance form in itself, as she takes deep breaths, her lungs expanding to host the air that will make her feel lighter. That will stop her hands from shaking by her sides. Then her eyes close and she shuts him out just as he is about to get immersed in her, in her movement.
A head roll, measured, in control. Then she dives in, while her legs cut through the air, one after the other, defying whatever law of gravity is left in the world. He gasps for her, as her forehead gets dangerously close to the floor. Isn't this what ice skaters do? But she has long since moved on and is now on the floor, head buried in her hands, resting. It's those peaks and troughs that leave him wondering and wanting to see more.
This time, when she gets up, she is more frantic, more desperate in her effort to put any leftover energy into good use. He is losing count of the leaps, of the turns, of the rare moments of stillness, when she catches her breath. It's a balancing act, between the two of them; the more agitated she gets, the calmer he is.
The easier it gets for him to reach out to her.
He can see her resolve to keep it together crumble, but he is there to pull her into his arms, into another dance. He can feel her heartbeat, her syncopated breathing, yet they sway together in place and pretend everything is alright; it's their own lazy waltz. Even when sobs threaten to break her apart, he doesn't let go of her. He leads the way, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four…
In the aftermath, they are still again. Her arms are loose around his neck and his hand is light on the small of her back. It's time to go. Still, he inches closer and kisses her cheek.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Katie."