(A/N: Again, it's a little rough, so sorry for that. This chapter is from Gibbs' POV, just to state the obvious. Dedicating it to the Beatles (yes, I know, two of them are dead) for keeping me sane through exams, and for making amazing, beautiful music.)

2. Forgive Me

Forgive me

Is all that you can't say

Years gone by and still

Words don't come easily

Like forgive me, forgive me

Gibbs watched his senior agent leave, his heart heavy for some reason that he could not quite identify. Well, it wouldn't have taken him long if he'd stopped to think about it, but thinking was something that he didn't feel like doing right at that moment. So he sighed, and turned to look instead at the only other team member still present; McGee was the very picture of hard work, huddled over the keyboard, tired eyes wide and staring.

He jerked his head towards the door. "Go."

McGee looked around, as though there was someone else he could be talking to. Then, taking the message, he grabbed his coat and bag and made ready to leave with a grateful smile. Gibbs sat perfectly still until he heard the ping of the lift doors; suddenly he slumped, exhausted, as the tension suddenly dissipated. It had been a long day – a long week – and he was seriously considering giving the team a few days off to get over their remembrances and regrets. He wasn't sure he could take much more of this, and to be honest a break would do him good as well.

He knew what they were going through. Usually he would have tried to offer some words of comfort, but here they would just sound trite and thoughtless. What could he say, anyway? "Sorry I fucked up?" He could hear the indignant protests that he had done nothing wrong, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Apologising was not something Gibbs was good at. In this case, he'd already apologised to the person who mattered a thousand times over – on the rooftop, on the autopsy table, at her graveside – but whether she could hear him or not he didn't know.

Saying sorry – asking for forgiveness, in a sense – was unthinkable. Who to ask? God… now there was a laughable idea. He'd lost any faith he'd ever had after the death of the only woman he ever loved and his beautiful daughter; Kate's death had only cemented that lack of belief. No, he wanted forgiveness from Kate herself, to hear that she did not blame him for not protecting her as he should have done, to hear that she did not think he had let her down.

But that wasn't all. Sure, he felt phenomenally guilty for the death of one of his agents, but he would never forget that his first thought on seeing Kate fall was nothing to do with her; it was relief that it was not Tony lying there on the concrete with a bullet hole in his forehead. After almost losing him to the plague he'd realised how much he meant to him. And after Kate's death, seeing him cut up and not being able to offer any solace… well, that was almost worse than letting one of his agents get killed.

And recently, if he was honest, there had been more than platonic feelings in the mess that was his mind. Having… feelings for men – and not just any man, his second-in-command, his subordinate – was not something that Leroy Jethro Gibbs did, on principle; call it an unspoken rule. On top of that, there was Rule 12 to consider, though he wasn't sure how much that helped. McGee and Abby, for a start, and he was sure there'd been something between Tony and Kate, however unacknowledged. That, of course, would have made it even harder for the boy, never mind that he was there when she died. And what did it mean for him? He was Gibbs, and he knew they all thought he was uber-straight, what with his track record of wives. Tony wasn't much better with his string of ex-girlfriends. Sometimes, he'd thought that Tony was maybe flirting with him, just a little bit, but every time he dismissed it as wishful thinking. Who'd want him?

He sighed, and stretched. He had cramp in his legs from sitting in the same position for too long. It was time to go home and drink bourbon in his basement from a jamjar. Somehow the thought was not as appealing as usual, but what alternative was there?

Standing up, he shrugged on his long coat and edged out from behind his desk, running a hand through his hair. On impulse, he stopped as he passed Tony's work station, staring at the imprint in the chair and the debris scattered over the surface.

Amidst the rubbish something caught his eye. Gingerly he picked up a small slip of paper labelled 'Gibbs' in large letters, and unfolded it. The message was brief but comprehensive.

Don't want to be alone tonight, Boss, and neither do you, or my name's not DiNozzo. You'll find me. Look for the car.

See you downtown?

Tony

And… was that a kiss at the bottom, half-hidden? Stowing the paper away inside a pocket, he shook his head. He must be tired if his eyesight was going that badly.

Before long he was out at his car, sitting behind the wheel and staring out into the gathering dusk. He supposed he might as well get it over with; no use in procrastinating, pretending to himself that he wouldn't go, that he had a choice at all. Starting the engine, he pulled out onto the road, preparing himself for whatever the evening ahead would hold.

(A/N: Please tell me someone liked it? It'll probably get more slashy and angsty from the next chapter onwards, with a fluffy conclusion, so consider yourselves prewarned.

Nice to get so many reviews for once - I guess asking a question is the way to go! So, anyone any de-stressing tips? (And poor McNozzo!))