Chapter Two: Confrontation
If Jethro's wounds had shocked him, it was nothing compared to what he felt when Jethro woke. Woke with a muted scream, agony in his eyes, his body convulsing from torment that was entirely in the mind. It hurt, that the man didn't know him, didn't recognize him. But as the first rush of hurt pride subsided he realized what really bothered him wasn't the lost memory. It was the lost armor. He was so used to dealing with a man who could protect himself, but Jethro's armor had been ripped away, leaving him vulnerable and mentally and emotionally bleeding, the wounds he'd fought so long to protect open and visible. And finally, though he wished he hadn't, he found the hole in the armor, the wound that was the source for all the pain Gibbs would never explain to him. His wife, his daughter, and their deaths.
That was a series of shocks all it's own. The revelation of a wife and daughter that Gibbs never referred to. But what appalled him most, after that first shocked rush of empathy and pain, was the sheer anguish Gibbs had suffered. He couldn't, for the life of him, understand why the man hadn't caved under the force of it. And how, how in heavens name, had he missed all the tell-tale signs of loss, of hurt, of old grief? He'd had enough of them since Ari's arrival that he felt he ought to have guessed.
He was angry, of course, in an understated way, that Jethro had never confided in him, never told him, even after helping him through three failed marriages. But...he had secrets of his own, and he'd been around long enough, known Jethro long enough, to know there were some things that simply couldn't be discussed. Besides...it embarrassed him, that he hadn't guessed. That with all those glimpses underneath the guard, he hadn't put the pieces together. The shock of it had been so great he hadn't returned to the hospital. Much as he was worried for Jethro, he couldn't bear to see him as he was. He was desperately terrified that, with all his confusion and Jethro's, he would hurt him further.
It hadn't helped, the night Jenny had returned after speaking to him. Like her mentor, she'd developed the habit of coming to him with her troubles. Not surprising, since he was Gibbs' confidant, as much as anyone could be, and most of her problems revolved around Gibbs. She'd gone straight to his special cabinet, poured herself a stiff drink, neat, and then downed it and gone back for a refill. Only then had she told him what had happened. That she knew Gibbs remembered her, in a vague sort of way, from when they'd been lovers. He'd been embarrassed about it, at least. And then...she'd asked him a question about the Abu Sayev plot, and he'd lost it.
He had to admit, he was glad he hadn't witnessed it. Unfortunately, he had a very good imagination, and it wasn't hard to picture. Gibbs' frustration when he couldn't remember, frustration that escalated into helpless fury. And from fury, then into the wretched grief that truly hurt him. Jenny spoke, and his mind supplied the images. Gibbs, seizing the front of her jacket, struggling against the nurses and doctors who were trying to hold him down and sedate him. Then the collapse into pain, falling into the bed as grief and agony overwhelmed him. Jenny's description of the moment was terse, and trailed off, but he didn't need more detail. He could see it, Gibbs curled on his side, body locked in that position. The tears etching their way down his face as he clung to whatever was nearest and wept. Jenny had told him the words he'd spoken in a nearly dead monotone, pain in her eyes. "I want my family. I want Shannon. I want Kelly. I want to...I...oh god...I miss them. I miss them so much." Tears streaking a countenance that had always been so strong, before Gibbs turned away to hide his torment and his shame, that anyone could see him like that.
He wanted, desperately, to make it right. To be there for his friend, and soothe the hurt and the pain. He doubted anything would ever make it go away, but he wanted to talk him through it, as he had so many other problems. And when Ziva had called in, told them that his memory had returned, that he was coming back, he'd believed he had a chance to do just that. Even when Gibbs had broken in MTAC, and emerged to pass his gun and badge on to Tony, he'd thought he had a chance. After all, he had been asked to drive the man home.
He didn't get the chance. Gibbs disappeared to Mexico without a word to him. It hurt, more then he'd expected. More than hurt, it made him angry, and he wasn't sure who he was angrier with. Gibbs, for not even saying goodbye? For walking away from their decade long friendship so easily? Himself, for not having realized what was going to happen, even though he'd seen the look in the other man's eyes? Or for the fact that he hadn't guessed sooner, what had hurt the man so? That in all their years of friendship, he'd never guessed at the loss Gibbs was hiding? Or perhaps he was simply angry at the fact that, after so many shared confidences, Gibbs turned to another to work through things, and he honestly didn't have a single defense to explain why Gibbs made the wrong choice. And though all of them knew the number they could call to reach him, he didn't pick up the phone. He felt like Gibbs had quit on them, given up on everything, including the friendship they shared.
He would never admit that the lingering sense of hurt was what drove him to study forensic psychology. Yes, it was useful in his chosen field. Yes, he enjoyed learning new things. But under that was the knowledge that he didn't want to get blind-sided like that again. And the faint, irrational hope that somewhere in there, he'd learn enough to understand how it had happened, and find closure. He'd thought he might even succeed, and then Gibbs returned, brought back by Ziva's cry for help, and Fornell's demand for aid. Closure was suddenly no longer necessary, and he found himself wondering how they were going to right things. And admitting that he was still angry and hurt enough not to want to. Or at least, not to want to make it easy. He wanted an explanation, and an apology.
Gibbs, for his part, did nothing. He didn't offer an apology. He made friendly overtures, but let it lie when he was rebuffed. They got by in professional, icy, politeness.
Ziva finally ended it, drawing him aside to ask him when it was going to be enough. She wasn't critical, only gentle about reminding him that there had to be a stopping point. And Gibbs seemed dead set on waiting for him to make the first move. He knew from experience that, as temperamental as the man was, he could also be incredibly patient.
He chose to confront Gibbs in the darkness of the bullpen, because it was as close to neutral ground as they could find. He waited until the others went home, so there would be no witnesses should it end badly. But, as he approached, he found himself with nothing to say, for once. No way to lead into the conversation. He was used to using stories and analogies to work into the topic he needed to discuss, but he had no personal anecdotes for this sort of thing. Nor had he read anything, anywhere, that dealt with the confusing mass of hurt, betrayal and plain uncertainty that gripped him. The only thing he could even begin to think of was a rather odd analogy about marriage. And that, he knew, was wrong. But it was all he had.
Gibbs had saved him from that, at least. Cut him off in the middle of his roundabout apology for using marriage as an analogy. "Then don't. Just tell me what I did to piss you off so bad."
He couldn't address what was really on his mind. Not at first. He settled for the lesser of the two evils that plagued him. "The night you retired...you asked me to drive you home. And you never said a word. Not one word."
Gibbs looked at him with those solemn blue eyes. "I was kinda recovering from a coma, Doc."
Out of context, it sounded like a rather pathetic excuse. But...it reminded him. Reminded him that Jethro had suffered through a terrible trauma, a sort of emotional torture and mental upheaval that no one have to endure. And he had undergone it, and returned to NCIS, even in his shaky, barely functional state, to stop a terrorist plot. He also remembered how the military leaders had ignored Gibbs, and the bomb that had gone off, killing hundreds of Marines and Navy men, just so they could hide the fact they'd come so close to getting infiltrated by a terrorist group. It occurred to him, only standing there in that darkened room, that the action had been a slap in the face. Cavalier, as if all the suffering Gibbs had undergone was worth nothing. And in a very real sense, it had been a betrayal. A deep, deep betrayal, and one he had taken while still vulnerable and reeling from the after-effects of his injury.
Perhaps it wasn't so surprising, nor so wrong that the man hadn't spoken to him that night. Drained, hurt and betrayed...perhaps he had done the best he could do. But that left the second, and much more painful accusation between them.
"And Shannon, and Kelly? Your wife and child. All those years, and you never mentioned that you have a family..."
Gibbs cut him off. "Had, Duck. I had a family."
Six words. Barely a sentence and a half, technically speaking. And it said everything. In six words, Jethro laid aside his mask, and stripped away his own armor, and watched him through open, vulnerable eyes, unprotected.
The silence that fell between them allowed him to see, again, the pain in those eyes. In his anger, he had not quite remembered how much agony Jethro had truly suffered. The silence reminded him. Reminded him too, of what numerous psychology texts and several decades worth of living experience told him of the kind of pain such loss would produce. And the man sitting across from him had endured it, not once, but twice. He saw in those eyes the silent question. What do you want to know? And realized, rather shakily, that Gibbs was willing to touch those painful wounds again, was willing to let him touch them, if it would make him less angry and heal the breach between them.
Perhaps Gibbs misinterpreted the silence, or perhaps he knew all along what he'd originally wanted. He stood and came around the desk. "You know how I feel about apologies."
"They are a sign of weakness."
And the man surprised him again. "Not between friends. I'm sorry Duck. I should have told you, a long time ago."
It was the apology and the acknowledgment he'd been wanting, but it suddenly seemed meaningless, weighed against the man's vulnerability, and the fact that he had both the trust and the love to reveal it. It shamed him, and melted the ice, and the words that came to his tongue were a relief, and a balm to both of them. "And there is something I should have told you, months ago. Welcome home, Jethro."
That Gibbs took his hand was unsurprising. The embrace, and the whispered "Thanks Duck." were unexpected, but worth everything, to both of them. He had a feeling that Abby and Ziva would have been proud of them.
They fell back into their old patterns after that. He would have said nothing had happened but Gibbs was more...open, than he had been before. He watched the man put himself back together, and wasn't surprised that the armor didn't fit nearly as perfectly as it had before. He talked Jethro through it, and watched him compromise and find his own way through the tangles. In the main, he thought it was hardly noticeable, unless you knew him well. But his team noticed a new, rough, uncertain kindness in him, and openness. And Fornell came by more often, no longer pretending to be antagonistic.
