Disclaimer: NCIS not mine. I caveman.
Okay, I know this isn't exactly a happy story, but have a little faith okay? Also, I'm using a really really shitty computer at a hotel, so you're damn lucky I'm updating lol. Anyway, continue on my fine friends :)
For the first time in a very long time, Special Agent LJ Gibbs hesitated.
The whole street was blocked off, lined with bright yellow police tape and guards ensuring the privacy of the crime scene. But there were no eagerly vigilant specatators behind the lines, save for the handful of neighbors who called it in upon hearing gunshots. Luckily, they were mostly blocked from view by the two large NCIS vans parked next to several towncars from Metro PD that were waiting and watching, siren lights flashing and illuminating the darkened pavement with dull shades of red and blue. People flitted in and out of the area, just doing what they came here to do.
On another night, in another world, it could have been serene.
Gibbs just observed silently as he stood by the car, leaning on the still open door.
"McGee," he called, his voice quiet and firm. He didn't bother turning his head to address his junior agent.
There was no yes Boss? or I'm on it or anything of that nature. The younger man raised his head, brow furrowed, but his eyes holding something that was strangely blank. His backpack was slung awkwardly over his shoulder.
"Witness statements," he commanded while moving from his spot and slamming the car door shut. He didn't wait for a response, and he didn't even notice that there wasn't one to be had anyway.
He approached Ducky with no expression on his face, no indication that there was anything going through his mind. When he reached the sidewalk and found the friendly medical examiner, he stopped.
You would never know it by looking. He was stoic, reserved. He was a man who played everything close to the chest, and thought very little of it. He was a man who chased and interrogated criminals, brushed with death every other week, and lost family and friends to a job he took so seriously. An emotional wall, a rock. But here, now, he felt like none of those things.
Stunned could never cover it. There are no words to describe what happens when you see what you know is the body of your agent being lifted onto the gurney. How do you describe the endless black of a body bag, zipped closed but open to holding your deepest regrets, your darkest thoughts? How do you describe the dark crimson stain that taints more than just the concrete? How do you describe the eternal sadness in the eyes of a man who can talk about anything and everything, suddenly silent at the task before him?
Naturally, the colors should stir something up. The red and blue of the lights, the gray of the concrete, the black of the body bag. Light and dark, or life and death. No, he thinks, frowning. Just death.
Palmer solemnly loads the gurney in the back of the van, eyes downcast and no goofy smile etched on his face. Gibbs meets the eye of Ducky, and they share a look that means so very much and so very little at the same time.
"I am so sorry, Jethro."
A nod, a reflexive look around, seeing nothing. The rock stands.
"Time of death?"
Ducky sighs, fiddling with his glasses.
"About forty-five minutes ago."
He nods again, checking his watch out of habit. He turns back to his friend in front of him, pushing back the sudden wave of dread he felt. Before he can open his mouth to ask the next question, Ducky reads his body language and readily provides the answer.
"Over there," he says lowly, pointing to an ambulance parked at the other edge of the street. He offers a quick thanks and heads over to the car, which seems to be about the only emergency vehicle whose lights aren't flashing. His walk is slow but full of purpose. Sad and strong.
When he approaches the back of the bus, he signals with a light jab of the thumb for the paramedics to give him a minute. They retreat to somewhere else, leaving just him and the woman sitting there, shadowed eyes glued to the ground. The blanket she had been given lay next to her, ignored and unused.
"Ziva," he started, taking a moment to really look at her.
Her hair is in a messy bun, having been thrown back hastily in the haze of confusion following the arrival of response teams. There is blood all over the front of her shirt, sticking to her arms and chest in small unpatterned patches. Some of it is smeared on her face from her hands, which are not yet completely dried with the crusted maroon of dried blood - she either does not notice or just doesn't care. Either way, it cannot take away from the dark brown of her eyes, which seem smaller than usual and are lined with the tight red that accompanied whatever tears may have been shed. There is shame and confusion in it, more noticeable than anything else.
Plain and simple, she looks lost. And she doesn't look up when he calls her name.
"Hey," he tries again, softening his tone and shifting a little closer into her line of vision. This time, she lifts her head.
She gazes at him briefly, and he has no idea what she is thinking.
"I was right there," she said suddenly, her voice thick and so clearly holding something back. Gibbs craned his neck with the little characteristic bounce in his step, trying to figure her out. She sighs heavily, bowing her head and putting her hands behind her neck as an involuntary sign of defeat.
Her words were low and almost unreadable, working to mask her pain. Small lines of tears run down her face, but her expression remains empty and the same. He can count the number of times he has seen her cry with half a hand, and without a doubt he knows that the woman he sees in front of him is nowhere near being ready to talk. But she'd never tell him otherwise. Instead, he gently grips her elbow and encourages her to stand.
"Come on," he says gently, pushing her lightly. She doesn't ask where they're going, and she doesn't shake him off.
He leads her towards the car slowly, still lightly holding onto her. When they cross in front of the stain on the concrete and the open doors of the autopsy van, she retracts from his grip and practically falls to her knees, retching. She coughs a little and breathes heavily when she's finished. Tears are falling more freely now, and it takes until Gibbs shuts the passenger side door next to her for her to realize she isn't on the pavement anymore.
A part of her wonders why she wishes she was, and a part of her already knows the answer.
Tony.
She closes her eyes, and Gibbs drives off without a word.
Hours later, McGee stands hunched before a brown wooden door, fist clenched and prepared to knock but unable to do it just yet.
The things around him seem foggy, blurred. It is a swirling, floating notion of a wooden doorframe, a small golden number, and an empty hallway. There are a few cracks in the ceiling and gravelly flecks of dirt are under his shoes, but the solid ground does nothing to calm his wavering instability. With no apparent trigger, no real reason, he feels a squeezing pressure and his throat constricts against his will. He is surprised that he doesn't feel it as much as he should.
He raises his hand, which feels like lead, and knocks on the door. He is strangely detached from his repetition of the hollowed action.
When the woman opens the door brightly, her face falls as she takes in the sight of her visitor, slumped, defeated, and soft eyes watering.
"Timmy?" asks Abby, opening the door a little wider.
Abby, who doesn't know yet. Abby, so full of life and flair and all things happy. Abby, who is supposed to seek him out for comfort.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
He takes a step forward, closer to her. He needs to be closer. She grips his arm tightly, looking for some sort of answer. In one word, one whispered and wounded word, he tells her. He breathes it out, lets it sink in, and it just doesn't feel right on his tongue. How could it?
She makes a wild noise, somewhere between a gasp and a scream, and her hands fly to cover her mouth. She immediately pulls him closer and embraces him eagerly, letting her own tears of shock fall into his shoulder. His mind is blank, his eyes and face are wet, and his heart aches.
In the end, he can't tell who is clinging to who.
In the home of their leader, miles away, Gibbs sits idly on a stool in his basement.
Ziva was sleeping upstairs, tired limbs sprawled out on the couch. She was right where Gibbs left her, having refused any food or the offer to clean up and still wearing the clothes she arrived in. She wasn't snoring, but she wasn't tossing and turning either. Just sleeping - nothing peaceful or troubled about it. So here he was, retreated into the dull warmth of his basement, breathing in the musky scent of sawdust and whiskey.
To his left, a dusty mug rests on the wooden workbench, a small bottle of reddish-brown bourbon lying right next to it. He takes a small sip, realizing with a strange clarity of mind that its sedative effect is doing little to erase the thoughts in his head. To his right, a half-finished boat glares at him. He picks up a sanding block, tosses it around lightly in his hands, but he can't bring himself to get up and start working. He doesn't.
Tonight, there are no questions. No why, no how did this happen? On the most basic level he thinks like a soldier, a cop, an investigator, but tonight he can't think like that. The words don't come and the questions don't form and he doesn't ponder the answers. The gut remains untouched, still. No demands, no action. No mourning or grieving or crying or yelling or searching or driving or fighting or anything. There is no anything.
Tonight, it just hurts.
Heated, thick, and sharp. The sensation is nothing new, and yet somehow it is. It's the feeling of a loss that cannot be recovered, and the full capacity of it that he knows hasn't quite hit him yet. The knife is plunged in, and with it comes the shock, the anger and denial, and the thought of being betrayed somehow. But later, when the smoke clears and the dust gets swept off, the knife is pulled out. And he will be left with guilt, a void, and the biting emptiness of feeling alone beyond reason.
Which is worse, he does not care. At the end of the day it's all the same. Pain. When he rises from his seat and stares at his boat, he can think only of the family he is forced to lose, again and again. Just like that, they are gone.
Suddenly his muscles tense and the heat rises in his veins and he slams his foot down on the wooden frame of the boat, snapping the piece in two. He continues to kick forcefully until that whole section is destroyed, not caring about the noise or shattered wood chips and not giving a shit because he hates on the deepest, most raw level that the thing is sitting unfinished, untouched, and unmoving. Always the same thing, and for what?
Upstairs, Ziva does not stir, unaware that her mentor is just as lost as she is.
He practically slams the sanding block down and reaches for his mug of bourbon, relishing the slight burn it gives as it slides down his throat. Tonight, he does not want the comfort of his basement.
So yes, he really is dead :( Thanks for reading and reviews welcome!