The slow tread of weary feet heralded the arrival of the young agent. The silver-haired man paused in his careful sanding at the sound of the basement door. He made sure to return to the methodical motion as his second approached. Expecting the familiar sounds of the Italian lowering himself onto the third stair from the bottom, Leroy Jethro Gibbs was mildly surprised to find the younger man standing just to his right. It was a familiar position, Gibbs had grown well-used to facing all manner of evil with the steady presence at his back. He had missed it when the younger man had been at sea.
On this particular night, however, something felt terribly off with the scenario. Still facing his boat, gut churning, he could very nearly feel the emotion churning beneath his agent's skin. Unable to quash the feeling that his family was facing yet another irrevocable shift, he hesitated a moment more before turning. Somehow he knew, he knew that the moment he faced the other there would be no way to halt what would then unfold. Which didn't mean he wouldn't try. With the sigh of a man facing the firing squad, he slowly revolved to face Tony.
Even anticipating the worst, Gibbs was taken aback by the sight before him. The always lively man was gone, replaced by a much older, much more subdued version. Lined face and stormy eyes, the silent figure had clearly been to hell and back. Or perhaps he had not yet made it back.
Over the past eight years, he had watched the younger agent plummet to the depths again and again. Helping where he could, he had watched with pride as the man climbed painfully back with a grin and a joke. The absolute defeat looking back at him from green eyes inspired a rare thrill of fear. Maybe this time it was finally too much. Maybe the building exhaustion from each of the previous trials had finally overcome him. It didn't seem like he could come back this time. Worse, it didn't look as if he even wanted to.
With those deadened eyes, Tony wordlessly reached to his belt and offered the shining gold badge as a last ditch sacrifice. Shaking his head slightly, Gibbs murmured his name even while realizing its futility.
The younger man mirrored the slight headshake.
"Boss-," he began softly, "Please."
The pleading tone caught him off-guard for what seemed like the hundreth time that night. Being thrown constantly askew that way stole the gruff refusal he was searching for. Instead, all he came up with as the question.
"And just what the hell does this fix?"
The responding sigh held the same not-quite-pity his own voice had echoed with as he tried to explain death to Amanda Lee. The words rang out as clearly as if they'd been spoken: some things just can't be fixed. The realization, while hardly new, made him fell simultaneously very young and very old.
"I can't be responsible anymore," the words were soft, but as resolute as a grave. "Not for Abby's tears, or the destruction of McGee's naivety, or for you shouldering even more loss. I can't carry any more death. It's too much."
And maybe defeat was contagious, because it wasn't until the closing of the front door echoed through the house that Gibbs even realized he had wanted to fight this.