Disclaimer: Really? You're giving me NCIS? Fantastic.

A/N: Some very slight Jibbs in this chapter. Focusing on everyone at NCIS for a bit.


Gibbs was never late. It was just a fact. Gibbs was never late. Occasionally he was out getting coffee, but he was never late. Gibbs just wasn't late. He didn't do late. Tony stared at Gibbs' desk. He was late.

"Something's wrong."

"He could just be late, Tony," said McGee, sounding unconvinced of his own words.

"An hour late? Gibbs? While we're hunting Ari? Gear up, McGee. We're going to the boss-man's house."

-----

Tony nudged the door gently with his foot. It fell open.

"Is that unu-"

He shook his head, cutting off McGee.

"He always leaves it unlocked."

Silently, guns in their hands, the two men moved slowly through Gibbs' house.

"Boss?" called Tony tentatively.

No reply. They continued toward the door to the basement, knowing he was most likely to be there, if he were in the house at all. Tony softly pushed open the door, and began to creep down the stairs. McGee saw Tony's reaction before anything else. The agent stumbled, as though his knees had given out under him, and grasped onto the banister. His gun clattered to the ground and a dry, choked sob came from his throat. Terrified, McGee followed his gaze. His boss, his mentor, Gibbs, lying in a pool of his own blood, bright blue eyes staring up coldly, lifelessly, a neat hole through his forehead. His boss, his mentor, Gibbs, dead. And though they say your life flashes before your eyes at your own death, it was Gibbs' life, at least, all they had seen of it, that was forced upon both men as they stared at his. The countless head-slaps and gruff words, the rare displays of emotion, of pride, every smirk, every glare, every moment of amusement, where his eyes sparkled and smiled even as he yelled or reprimanded them. It was five minutes before either could move, and then it was Tony, making his way down the last of the stairs to kneel at the side of the man he had always considered a father, the tears gathering in his eyes, but refusing to fall.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, not Gibbs. Gibbs doesn't, Gibbs can't . . ."

McGee had to strain to hear the words, even in the oppressive silence. But the words didn't matter; the pure pain was all he really heard. He found himself next to Tony, staring at Gibbs, knowing he would do anything, anything it took, for that hole to melt away like a bad dream fades into the depths of memory when bathed in cold morning light. For Gibbs to reach up and head-slap them both, telling them to get back to work and stop staring.

"Anything but," he heard himself whisper, "anything but this, boss, I'll do anything."

Tony reached out to lay his hand on the dead man's, but quickly withdrew after one touch. He didn't want to feel the unnaturally cold flesh, as if it would bring a sort of formality to this nightmare. He didn't want to have this confirmation, as though as long as he kept his distance he could retain the hope that he would be woken up at his desk by a gruff yell, and curse the fact that Ari had now also invaded his dreams. He didn't want confirmation, and he had to drag his next words out of his mouth, for they were just that.

"Let's call Ducky."

McGee nodded. Neither man reached for their phone. Tony shook himself. He may not want to call a pathologist for his boss, but neither would he leave him like this.

"Ducky."

"Anthony? My dear boy, what's wrong?"

"Ducky, I'm . . . it's Gibbs."

Ducky was silent, the usually astute ME trying to work out the implication behind those words, not quite believing that . . . oh God . . .

"Oh. Oh, no. His house?"

He heard Tony swallow, and knew that the boy had just gestured something.

"Aloud, Anthony."

"Yeah. Yeah, his house."

"I'll be right there."

-----

Director Jennifer Shepard eyed a particularly appealing bottle of bourbon. As she poured a glass and raised it to her lips, she suddenly imagined Gibbs there with her.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, half amused, half disdainful.

"I thought I told you we drank when the day was over."

"Piss off, Jethro. As if you'd never be tempted."

"That's why I don't bring bourbon to work with me, Jen."

"Screw you."

Jenny considered that she was probably insane, talking to a Gibbs-hallucination.

"Not very nice. I'm dead, you know."

"Then I'm not in much danger of hurting your feelings."

"So how do you know Ziva David?" he asked, both eyebrows raised now.

"In death as in life. Abrupt. Worked with her on a joint mission," she replied, taking a gulp of bourbon.

Gibbs winced.

"It's a good drink, Jen. If you're aiming for blindly drunk, go for vodka and wait to savour the bourbon."

"Seriously, that's the most important thing right now?" she questioned sarcastically. "I made a mistake on Ziva. I thought I could trust her."

"And I trusted her because you did. It's your fault, Director," he accused, face suddenly becoming an image of blame.

She sighed and took another drink. Would Jethro really blame here? Why not? Maybe she was flattering herself that he would place his life in someone's hands because she vouched for them, but what other reason was there for him to trust Ziva?

"I missed you, Jethro. I miss you," she whispered to the empty room.

-----

"When I find them, I'm going to put bullets in the centre of their foreheads. First her, then him. Just so that, if she is anything to him, he watches her die."

Ducky looked at Tony with sympathy. The younger man's voice was not full of rage or passion, just cold certainty and hate. He shook his head.

"You are so very much like Jethro."

"I'll need to be. I shoulda backed him up, Ducky, should of been there," his head jerked slightly forward.

Gibbs walked out in front of Tony, hand still descending form the slap.

"Get off your ass and quit moping, DiNozzo. That bastard's still out there, save your guilt for later."

"Yes, boss," he muttered softly. "Sorry, Ducky, got to go. Gibbs would kill me if I weren't working to get this guy."

Ducky watched him all but run out. He sighed.

"So very much like Jethro."


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