The silence in the bull pen is currently unnatural, making my already foul humour even worse. The raw anger is still bubbling in my gut, and the coffee I'm throwing down on top of it probably isn't helping matters. But, apparently… matters just can't be helped. Because I have tried, and I have tried to help matters. Those efforts? Well, let's just say I've been putting in those damned efforts from day one, and today, was a stark reminder that I'm apparently, still losing the battle.
The computer in front of me flickers annoyingly, attracting my ire but for a split second. I have more important things to be annoyed about, to be enraged about. Not for the first time, my gaze flickers around the room. First stop, Tim. Staring at the top of his bent over head, it's all I can do to remain in my seat, and not stomp over there and shake the life out of him. He was the sensible one, the analytical one. He was the one I could always rely on to stop the other's hair brained, half assed schemes before they got to me.
But not today.
Today, there'd been a glitch in the calming influence that was Tim McGee, and he'd been swept up in their collective madness. I feel my eyes narrow. Tim…was one hell of a good kid, usually. An over achiever, placid, but no pushover. Smart, very smart, but not superior. I'd taken to the boy in a way I never thought I would an MIT grad. I've taken to him, and I know him. I know him inside and out, which I guess, is why today's behaviour all the more jarring.
I know that Tim can say no, if he really wants to. I know that he can stand up to Tony, Ziva and Abby when they're dragging him into their crazy ideas. But today, he didn't. And today, was when he really should have. Because, today, was when it really mattered. As I stare at him, I know I'm still furious. I know I'm in no condition to open my mouth to him again, hell, to any of them. So I keep it shut, I stare, and I chew. Suddenly he senses my scorching gaze upon him, and looks up nervously, hell fearfully from the pile of reports I'd slammed them all with.
My eyes, which I know are on fire, locks with his saddened green counterparts, and he winces. He looks at me like a damned wounded puppy, before throwing his head back into his paperwork. My gut now twinges a tad, just enough to break through my ire, just for a little bit. I find myself sighing heavily, and…well, sadly, I guess. I never want any of them to look at me in fear. I mean sure, I know they jump when I walk into a room, and quail under my gaze when I'm pissed…but, that's not the fear that I've just seen from my youngest boy.
It wasn't just the usual, run of the mill, don't piss off the boss anticipation. I know that anticipation, because to cause that anticipation, I had to learn that anticipation. And, did I ever learn that gut churning feeling from Mike. As I continued to lay my gaze on the kid, I wonder briefly, could it have been this hard for Franks? Did I cause him to suffer through these….these blasted emotions? Did I cause him to think long and hard before he opened his mouth to me?
I don't know the answers to those questions, and I realise, that I don't really need to know.
It wouldn't help me now. Wouldn't help one bit with the anger that's still flooding through my gut. And the fear. I don't scare easy, I really don't. The Marines will do that to you. It'll knock every ounce of normal fear out of you. It'll replace it with a cool composure in the face of chaos, and potentially imminent death. So, no, I sure as shit don't scare easily.
Until it comes to them.
My glare shifts now, to my oldest boy, and I know the anger is still burning in my eyes as they take in his slumped stature. He knows…he knows just how angry I am. It's why the bull pen is so quiet, not even he wants to open his mouth. I stare intensely at the top of his head, and once again, am forced to refrain from physically shaking sense into him. He should know better. Hell, he does know better, because I damned straight taught him better.
That kid, he's my protégée you see. Not in the touchy feely cliché sense either, he's literally my damned protégée. I see so much of myself in him it scares me sometimes. Sure, he's got better hair and a toothier smile than me. He's much more personable and likable than me. But at his core, he's an agent. He was always meant to be agent, and no matter where life takes him, he always will be an agent. It's in his blood, just like it's in mine. I ponder, perhaps in an unconscious attempt to remove myself from my own anger, just how uncannily alike that kid is to me.
Every time I've bawled him out for something, I get a flashback of being yelled at by Mike, for the exact same transgression. Every time he goes off the reservation, I know where and I know why. Because it's what I would have done. It's what I would have believed to be the right thing to do. Sometimes, I guess I find it tough being so hard on him. And yes, contrary to what people think, I know I'm as hard as nails with the boy.
Because, as Ducky once told me, I'm a tough love kinda guy.
And this is one of those times. I'm livid as all hell, and I know I've got to punish him. I know I've got to make him think twice in the future about pulling the same stunt. But there's a part of me, and maybe it's the non Special Agent Gibbs part, maybe it's the Probie Gibbs part, but anyway…a part of me just wants to give him that "atta boy," I know he needs. I don't give them often, and I sure as hell don't give them easy, but when I do…the look on the kid's face usually makes up for all the extra grey he puts in my hair.
But, I can't be Probie Gibbs with him. I have to be Special Agent Gibbs, and that's one of the worst parts about this job. Now, I have no delusions. I'm not as oblivious as everyone thinks. I know my team, we're more than a federal grouping. Tim, Tony, Ziva, Abby….I'd die for them. Not, that heroic Tom Cruise kinda die for them either, I mean… I would literally stop my heartbeat for them. Any of them. They've grown on me, over time, kinda like a damned four part weed. They started off as subordinates, honestly they did.
And then, a couple of years later, I turn around, and they're camped out in my living room, watching god knows what, eating god knows what, for god knows what reason. And I find, I don't mind. I don't mind at all. Quite the contrary in fact. Even though I pretend to huff and puff as my spot on the sofa is taken, and my Western turns into a James Bond whatever they call it, I don't mind. I…well, I like them there. I like the house full of laughter, and life.
Squinting in Tony's direction, I sigh. I'm getting old, and I'm getting sentimental. Slap a bowtie on my, give me a British accent, and I'm Ducky. Much and all as I love the man, I shudder. Continuing to stare silently at DiNozzo, I sternly remind myself to stop thinking about all his good points. This is not a good point time, this is a bad point time, and I sure as hell have plenty of food for fodder. This kid, this agent of mine, is supposed to my second. He's supposed to be me, when I'm not there. He's not supposed to agree, orchestrate and execute moronic plans with my other three.
He's just not.
I know, I know I expect a lot from him. That I demand a lot from him, but….I have to. Ducky-like or not, I am getting old. This… agent business. It's a young man's game, and I can't play it forever. Sure, I still have a few years left in me, but there is going to come a time, when my badge comes off for the last time. There is going to come a time, when Mexico isn't a brief sabbatical. When that time comes, it's my desk Tony is going to be sitting at. And it my calls he's going to calling.
I need to make sure he's ready.
Like Tim, he abruptly feels my gaze on him and looks up slowly. His eyes don't hold that look of sheepish chagrin when he looks at me. He doesn't even bother with the puppy eyes. I can tell he knows just how badly he's screwed up and how furious I am. I refuse to soften my features as he looks at me, clearly guilt ridden. He looks slowly back down at his work, the most boring I could find, and his shoulders sag miserably. My jaw clenches as I feel that misery myself. I might seem like a bastard, and actually, I'm quite proud of that fact. But, with my team…its different. Being the bad guy, is a damned lot harder than I ever thought it would be.
Sighing, I throw down another glug of coffee, and my eyes slide sideways. To my youngest. Her face his hidden from me by her untameable mop of hair, but I know she's chewing her lip. I know her eyes are scrunched up, and I know she has three deep frown lines etched onto her forehead. She…was possibly, the most emotionally developmental leap I'd ever made. If you discount my ex wives that is, and really, I do tend to discount them.
Especially Diane.
I shake my head and shudder.
Damn Diane.
The others, Tony, Tim, Abbs…they'd all grown on me, organically. Over time, and lots of it. Ziva…was slightly different. I took to her, and I took to her fast. Well…sure, when she first came and sat herself down at Kate's desk, I…well, didn't like her that much. I didn't like her at all. I sure as hell didn't trust her. But then…the whole Ari situation, in a weird, very screwed up way, brought her close to me. I don't know how to explain it, and I don't do all this touchy feely therapy crap, but…since that day, she was a much a member of my team as the other three.
She was incredibly able, naturally so. But…she was impulsive, and had a tendency to buck against my authority. Especially in terms of decisions I make that are for her own safety. Which, really pisses me off. Nuclear level, pisses me off. Looking at her now, I know she's not as repentant as the two boys. I know she still thinks they were right in what they did. I know she thinks that I'm being an unreasonable bastard. Shaking my head wearily, I remove my gaze and stare blankly at my monitor.
Sometimes, I wonder…if the way I discipline my team is the right way. It's sure as all hell not the NCIS approved way, I know that. I don't give a crap about that, never have, never will. But…sometimes, I wonder…would a suspension, would a permanent mark on their records, the risk of failed progression work as a more effective punishment. As I think it of it now, the resistance burns inside me. I hate paper punishments. I always have, I always will. They're counter productive, ass-covering, useless pieces of crap.
Looking around the silently writing three, I know, I won't use them. As much as I threaten to, I know I won't. Maybe I'm right, and maybe I'm wrong, all I know is I'm doing what I think is best. Looking down at my own formal reprimand, from an enraged Vance, I roll my eyes and toss it in the trash. As if a letter in my file matters to me at this stage. But…Leon, much as I hate to admit it, had a point. The point he'd roared at me in his office, about half an hour ago.
My team needed to be reined in.
Their behaviour, collectively, was so far out of line it made even my head hurt. The rage is burning in me now, as I think of it. This always happens. I get mad, and then I second guess myself for being mad. Not that anyone would ever guess, that I second guess, because I really don't come across as the second guessing type. But…when it comes to this, when it comes to disciplining my people, I agonise about it.
Every. Single. Time.
Is there a way to get the message across without using my unconventional methods? Am I being too much of a hard ass? Can I write whatever it is off as youthful exuberance?
I swallow as I look around them once more. The main hesitation, the main spanner in the works…was the same every time. The question, was the same, every damned time. It was a pathetic question, one that had no business being in the mind of a damned Marine. But…I can never help it, as weepy, and as spineless as it is. Shaking my head, I curse myself. I need to get a damned grip. They screw up, they know what happens. It's not a surprise to them, so I shouldn't care about the answer to that moronic question.
But I do.
I really do.
I feel myself flush as I think about the inane nature of the question, and stare unseeingly down at my desk. If Mike could hear the question that always caused me so much hesitation, he'd cave the back of my head in with a slap. And I wouldn't blame him. It was ridiculous, that as a team lead and a damned Marine, that I, to this current moment, struggle with that damned query.
Its selfish, is what it is. I shouldn't be thinking about me, I should be thinking about them. That's my damned job. But…again, I can't help it. It eats me up the same way caffeine deprivation does. It consumes me when it shouldn't even be a consideration. I know I can be a selfish son of a bitch, but this is a consistent level of selfishness, even for me.
What if they hate me?
It's pathetic. I know. It's snivelling, cowering and useless. But I ask myself the question every time. You see, aside from Abbs, my team…weren't all that blessed in the father department. Tony…I can't even think about going there with DiNozzo SR, it makes me too damned mad. Same with Admiral McGee and its sure as hell is the same with Director David. My personal opinions on these…men, clouds my judgement when it comes to their kids.
I fear bringing up bad memories.
I fear forging an association between me, and them.
I fear causing them pain. Mental pain, that is. I know physical pain…is inevitable. And it kills me, don't get me wrong, it does. But I can live with it. Mental pain however, I just can't.
I fear all these things.
Of course, I'd never tell them that. Hell, I have trouble giving those rare "atta boy's" to Tim and Tony. Granted, I'm slightly better at openness and affection and all that new age hippie crap with the girls. I don't know why, but I am. But…I'm not capable of telling them that. That I sometimes risk not doing what's best for them, albeit it unpleasant, because I'm acting like a piss poor excuse for a leader.
With one last sweeping gaze across the deathly quiet room, and the now empty coffee cup, I shake my head and stand. I need air, and I need more caffeine. They all look up the sounds of my rising, which are freakishly loud in the equally freakish quiet. My thundering glare has them hastily retreating to their stacks of paperwork. I clear my throat.
"If one of you even breathes out of line while I'm gone, I'm not going to wait until I get you back to my house to deal with you. Is that, perfectly clear, to all of you?"
They all look up once more.
Tim and Tony look chagrined as all hell and nod their head instantly, guiltily. Ziva eyes me for a moment, before jerking her head in answer, but there is no similar degree of repentance from her. I stand and appraise her for a moment, and as usual, she stares right back at me, as if daring me to call her on it.
I don't.
I know enough of her to know when she's pent up, riled up and generally too stubborn to listen to reason, I'm better off picking my battles. So I do, but I shoot her a deathly glare as I leave. She is the most like me when it comes to stubbornness. I'm too angry to deal with it now, so I shoot one last look and leave. As soon as the elevator doors ping shut, I know the whispering will start. The strategic planning, the blame game, the whole works.
I find, I don't really care.
I bypass Abby's lab, and head up to exit level. It's rare as all hell that I don't drop by daily with a Caf-Pow for my favourite lab rat, but today, was definitely not a Caf-Pow day. Leaning back against the cool metal, I realise how angry I am with her. She doesn't know jack about the field, she sure as hell doesn't know jack about how to protect herself in the field. Therefore, she had no business being in the field, and the other three had no business letting her.
My groan echoes around the metal box, and I know it won't be the last that bursts out of me today. Before long, the fresh air is ramming itself down my throat and the hustle and bustle of the DC afternoon is like music, after the suffocating silence of the bull pen. Ten minutes later, and I'm throwing myself down in my usual spot, in my usual coffee place, with my usual drink.
I sigh, in brief contentment.
Peace, even for just five minutes, was a damned blessing.
The chair that suddenly creaks out from the table, therefore startles me. And not in a good way. More, a I'm going to rip your freaking throat out if you sit there, kind of way. But the interrupter is not someone who's throat I'm comfortable with ripping out. However, I'm equally not in the mood for a lecture.
Ducky smiles his usual calm smile at me.
I know I'm being rude. And I know I'm being an ass, but I frown in response. "Duck," my voice grunts, startling me some more, "no offence, but I'm not really in the mood for a spiel about how I need to ease up, or calm down, or watch my cholesterol, ok? Not now. Not today."
He just stares, and I just scowl. I know he's not going to give in, or go away. Throwing my hands up in surrender, I kiss goodbye to my fleeting peace. "I take it I have your permission to speak now, Jethro?" he asks politely, but with a certain coolness, reinforcing my summation that I'm being an ass. Breaking from my usual rule, I incline my head, with a tinge of sheepishness.
"Sorry Duck," I mutter, gesturing to the extra, extra large coffee in front of me, "its been…a bit of a day." The smile that looks back at me is knowing, and I suppress a sigh. Clearly, the grapevine is in full swing and my lots sudden lack of brain function is a well known fact back at the yard. I feel my teeth grind together of their own accord. I wasn't in the mood for sanctimonious bastards judging my team. I force myself, with reluctance, to open my mouth once more.
"Clearly, you've heard."
I like Duck. Hell, I really like Duck. Generally, I don't like people. But Duck, is an exception. Has been for years. But right now…I'm just not in the damned mood. I'm in the mood to be told that I need to calm down, or to lighten up. Or that my lots intentions were good, and I needed to be more permissive of their youthful enthusiasm.
I just…don't want to hear it.
To my surprise, and not entirely my pleasant surprise, that's not what I hear.
"Jethro," he murmurs, his eyes boring into my freaking soul, "you need to get your house in order. The whole yard is talking about it, the Director is livid…and you're sitting here, in the middle of the day, indulging in a little me time and a ridiculous amount of caffeine? Forgive me, old friend, but…surely you should be righting the wrongs of your current situation?"
Ok…it definitely wasn't my pleasant surprise. Instantly, my ire increases and my eyes are narrowing across the table. Like I say, I like Duck. He's one of my closest friends. Of which, there sure as hell aren't many. But…whilst I don't want him making excuses for my team, I sure as hell don't want him telling me how to run my house. My thoughts on the matter are obviously splashed across my face, because he hastily holds up what I'm sure he thinks is a soothing hand.
It isn't.
In this moment, I'd quite happily bite it off.
Like my namesake, the K-9 Jethro.
I feel a sudden bout of envy for K-9 Jethro. He has a good life. He doesn't have many needs. Neither do I. Swap the wooden kennel for a wooden boat, and I'm sold. Let someone else clean up the mess that my team make. Why should it always be me anyway? Why should I always be the one with the answers, I'm just a guy.
Just a freaking guy.
But, it's Duck, and I can't bite or snarl at Duck. He's the one of the very rare few that has this ability to put manners on me. I don't know is it that he's so impeccably mannered, and some strange part of my brain mirrors that, or is it the fact that a disappointed look from the man actually hurts…but I bite my tongue around him.
I do.
Therefore, I manage a simple "excuse me, Duck?"
There, that sounds about right. I sit back, pick up my coffee and nod at myself. Not rude, but not an invitation for my management style to be criticised. I know, I do know that I'm a flawed beast. I know I'm big on the tough love, and I know I should probably pat DiNozzo on the head more than I whack him upside it, but give me a break.
I have four of the most different, most prevalent personalities under my wing that the Agency has. If I don't maintain some kind of order, some kind of discipline...all hell would break loose. Now, in a twist, far from berating me about how I'm too heavy handed and all that bleeding heart bullshit, it sounds like Duck is pissed because I'm taking a minute to cool my heels.
I drink my coffee slowly. Savouring the taste. Coffee, is good, she never changes her tune. Never makes my head hurt with long spiels, that given twenty fours, will be delivered again but in complete contradiction to the most recently endured lecture.
He's talking now, and I reluctantly place the cup down and focus. I was hoping he'd take the hint, assess that my question could either be rhetorical or warning, and gallantly leave, citing dead folk and the like. But, he doesn't, and I sure as hell should have known that. Seems, there's a lot of that going around. Things happening under my very nose, that I should know about, but don't.
I push away that stabbing, familiar fear.
A coffee shop, under direct scrutiny from Dr Mallard, was no place to re-experience that fear.
That I'm past it, too old, and need to get out of the game, fear.
It's a bastard of fear, it really is.
"Don't you think," he silkily begins, breaking my chain of thought, "that you should be dealing with the situation, Jethro? In a productive manner? By productive, I mean not bawling your four out, killing trees with the paperwork you've foisted on them, and storming out of your bull pen like a truculent teenager?"
I sip, and I pause, and I stare.
I'm not sure what this truculent means, but I don't think it's intended to be complementary. It actually sounds like a tart. Treacle tart? Man, Diane, she was the worse ex wife, but she made one hell of a treacle tart. Apart from that one time she slammed one in my face. Actually…no, that still tasted pretty good, considering my eyebrows were in it.
He's staring.
I blink.
He's still staring, and his complexion is beginning to match his rosiest of rosy bow ties. I feel my brows knit together. Perhaps, I missed the memo where Dr Mallard is now my boss, and I therefore am obligated to run my disciplinary measures past him.
No, really, perhaps I did.
I don't read memos
I don't do that.
Before I can think of a suitably scathing, and witty, and utterly brilliantly dry retort…I'm sort of famous for those, he cuts me off. And whatever thoughts of word domination I had, escape me. His voice loses some of the impatient bite that always seemed to be reserved especially for me, and his eyes are sad now.
Like sad, British bull dog eyes.
Actually, I think Duck is Scottish. I think he made a point about explaining the intricate differences between the British and the Scottish. I also think I threw down enough bourbon during that enforced conversation that I've forgotten the entire point of it. Anyhow, he's talking, and his eyes are sad, and his next words are also sad.
Today, was just a sad day.
"She was crying, Jethro," he mumbles softly, "when I just left, just now, she was literally weeping."
I close my eyes. I don't need to ask which girl he's talking about. I already know. Ziva, would rather die before being caught weeping. Now, she's sobbed into my chest many a time, but like I say…we were oddly fused in that whole Ari moment, and she knows she can sob, scream or sing into my chest, and that's ok.
Suddenly, I feel an annoying pang of guilt.
I hate, and I do mean hate, seeing any of my lot upset. I know I come across as a heartless bastard who couldn't care if their heads were falling off, but that's just a front, really, it is. I don't like people thinking I suffer from such common ailments such as…emotions. I really don't. I'm ok, I'm very ok with my reputation as a cold, calculating, ruthless son of a bitch. A terror to work for.
Really, I am.
But…not when it comes to them. Not when it comes to my two boys and my two girls. They somehow manage to melt my icy exterior, and make me go all warm and fuzzy like some kind of mindless moron.
The kind of mindless moron who only drinks organic, vegan freaking water.
That kind of mindless moron.
The kind of simpering fool, who winces when one of his brood cries, or groans when one of them has their fingers glued someplace they damned shouldn't. So, as I stare into Duck's face, who knows he's won the war, smug son of a bitch that he is, I sigh. Loudly. The passing waitress looks askance at me, as if I am directing that exasperation at her.
I'm not.
Though I could, she makes piss poor coffee.
But, I'm not. That exasperation is for myself. I…sorta lost it today. I screamed and roared, and bawled out my four with an anger that surprised even myself. That was a mistake, and the pang of guilt is slowly brewing into something more. I should have waited until I was calmer, and I didn't. I know better, and I still damned well did it anyway.
Fear, it does that to me. Fear of one of them with a bullet in their skulls, turns me from a grunting mute into a screaming nutcase. I know better, and I still damned well did it anyway. Now, I'm still angry as all hell, with each and every one of them. And they're all going to know about it, but…this separation that I'm doing, this removal of myself from the situation, it isn't helping.
I've spent the last near half hour wallowing in self pity, when I sure as hell should have been getting my ass, and my house, in order. I know that Ducky isn't waiting for a verbal response, he knows, knowing son of a bitch that he is, that mentioning the fact that my Abbs is crying, is nuclear level ammo.
The kind of ammo that will have me rip a guy's head off, that kind of ammo.
Sure, I know she'll cry some more, actually, a lot more, before the day is out. But I know the kind of crying she's doing now, isn't ok. And the looks on my two boy's faces, they weren't ok either. And Ziva…well, she'd take some more getting through to, she always did, but she always came through.
I abruptly stand, bringing my coffee with me, caffeine addicted son of a bitch that I am, and jerk my head at the door.
Ducky, also stands, that omniscient smile on his face that makes my eyes roll in their sockets. Plopping his hat on his head, he shuffles out of the tables confines, and falls into step beside me. We walk in silence for three and a half minutes, and I know that my luck is running out, and soon…words would be a part of the equation.
And I'm right.
They are.
"They'd never hate you, you know. And walking out on them, is never the right thing to do."
His voice is quiet, like it always is. But his words seem oddly thunderous, like a freaking megaphone, blaring my pathetic, whiney insecurities to the whole damned world. And their freaking dogs. I stop in my tracks, and operate quickly. I school my face into one of complete and utter confusion, but the damned look in his damned eyes, let me know it was a losing battle.
He knew, knowing son of a bitch that he was.
I grunt, not really knowing what else to. Sort of like a chimp on display at a new Zoo.
I need to regain my composure, and be treated like the hardcore, no nonsense former gunnery sergeant that I am. Like the man I was, before that operation in Baltimore, before that transfer from Norfolk, before that extension of the forensics programme and before that initial Mossad liaison programme.
I need to sound like that guy.
I take a breath, and prepare to be seen and heard, as that guy.
"You sure, Duck?"
I close my eyes.
….well, crap.
…
TBC
…
A/N: Ok, so still, super nervous. But, writing first person is actually a lot of fun. Leaves a lot more room for more in depth fiddling in character's heads. Ok, so, there's two ways this can go. I can either carry on the resultant…erm, conversations from Gibbs' view point, or I can do it from each of the four's view point.
Doesn't really matter to me, both are enjoyable to write, so lemme know!
(Also, I know the language is coarser than my usual fics, but…well, this is Gibbs' mind, we're talking about!)
Thanks for reading!
