Not very many people called him late at night. Most of the time it'd be Lewis or someone from the station letting him know that there was a body. Occasionally it'd be a member of the band needing a lift home. Even more occasionally it'd be someone from the parish if there was something particularly important. Tonight, though, it wasn't any of those. It was a US number and he nearly didn't answer. It had been ingrained in him that calls were answered unless one had a damned good reason not to, though, and even then they ought to be answered. So he did.
"Hathaway," he said crisply.
"James?" a tiny, tinny voice said on the other end, and he had to think for a moment to place it, not least because the voice sounded very different from the way it usually did. Then he had it. It was Abby from NCIS in Washington. She didn't generally call. Mail him snickerdoodles, sure. Email relevant journal articles, of course. Bother him about when his band was going to have something else to release, always. Call him late at night? Not really.
"Abby? What's wrong?" he asked, immediately concerned about why she was calling and why she sounded like so unlike her normal bouncy self.
"Do you ever think that it's not worth it?" she asked without preamble, and he collapsed back onto the sofa with a sigh.
"God, yes," he admitted, lolling his head back to stare at the ceiling. He often thought it wasn't worth it. It'd been getting worse lately, too. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep doing this.
"What do you do when that happens?" She sounded as tired as he felt.
"Smoke a lot. Drink too much," he admitted, and she chuckled weakly.
"No smoking for me. And drinking is a bad idea. I'm kind of a weird drunk," she admitted. "Plus I sort of got over the wild-oats-sowing when I was in college."
"What's going on, Abby?" he asked again, although he knew from interviews that no one answered before they were ready. She might not be, which meant he was in for a few more minutes of rambling non sequiturs. Fortunately Abby's non sequiturs were usually very entertaining.
"There's this case right now. And it made me think about another case. And that made me think about whether it was worth it; whether I do enough good to outweigh the bad," she said haltingly, which was so at odds with the way she usually spoke that he knew whatever happened must have been particularly difficult.
"Gibbs says I do," she continued forlornly. "Gibbs says I make a difference. But it's hard to think so, y'know? And I couldn't really talk to anyone here about it. But, I dunno, I thought you'd get it."
He did know. And Lewis said he made a difference, that he did enough good. But it was hard to think so. It was hard to believe that.
"Yeah," he agreed heavily. What else could he say? He did get it. He got it entirely too much.
Abby chuckled weakly.
"We're a pair, aren't we?" she asked wryly. "Two people who are way too introspective and way too intelligent for their own careerly good."
It was his turn to chuckle weakly this time.
"What are we going to do, James?" she asked, and it sounded like she really wanted him to tell her, but he'd gotten beyond the point of telling people how to live their lives. He'd left that behind when he'd left the seminary. Every life was its own to live.
"Lewis says we keep going. We keep working. That it's enough," he said, but he knew he didn't sound convinced.
"And if it's not enough?" she asked, because that was the obvious response.
"I really don't know," he admitted. He didn't know for himself, and he didn't know for Abby. He suspected it would be enough for Abby. She loved her job, she truly did, even on the bad days. She was never down for long, Abby.
He didn't know if it would be enough for him. He didn't know if he'd stay with Lewis, with the job. He just didn't know.
"James?" She was starting to sound tired even though it was only early evening there and she usually had the energy of a perpetual dynamo even without all the caffeine she drank.
"Yes?"
"I'm tired. Will you play one of your songs for me? On speakerphone or something? Those chords make sense. My chords don't."
"Of course, Abby," he agreed, and put the phone on the side table so he could get the guitar. She was right. Those chords made sense, and right now, both of them apparently needed that.