Title: Crash and Burn

Author: MindyH

Part IV

Gibbs is sitting on his back porch in a deep and ratty chair, watching the sun set and feeling rather deep and ratty himself, when, seemingly from nowhere, Kate Todd appears, wading through the long grass in the burnished light, like an exact manifestation of his constant, intensive thoughts.

From her dress, he guesses she has come straight from work. He watches with increasing unease as she carefully treads in her low heels through the knee-high scrub that has recently consumed his formerly neat backyard. When she makes it to the stairs, she lifts her head and meets his eyes, a slightly nervous look crossing her face. Stepping up onto the porch, she leans against the railing post and tips her head to one side.

"Hey stranger," she murmurs liltingly, offering him a quiet smile.

He hasn't been to work for weeks. Kate resumed full control of the team again after his doctors advised against him returning to full-time work. They seemed to think his condition had deteriorated somewhat and Director Morrow was unwilling to contest their judgment. He hadn't fought the decision – Kate had, but to no avail. She assured him, however, that his desk would be kept clear for him and he would be welcome back whenever he was ready.

He hasn't seen a soul in days, has not spoken a word to anyone in longer. He runs a hand over his unshaven jaw and glances down at his grubby clothes. His fist clenches around the glass in his lap and his mouth opens and closes a few times experimentally. He feels Kate's covert but astute gaze run over the unkempt length of him and he dully hopes she hates what she sees.

"What are you doing here?" he grumbles, hoping that if the smell of him doesn't put her off, his ominous tone should.

Kate casts a lazy look out over his untamed backyard, her eyes filed with the sunset's last rays. She appears utterly unperturbed by his lack of a proper welcome and he should've known better than to expect anything less. Kate has long since grown immune to his incessant grumbling and growling.

She turns back to him, peering coyly at him from the corner of her eye: "I was in the neighborhood," she tells him in a softly pointed tone of voice.

Gibbs immediately averts his eyes, ignoring the playful reference. "Drink?" he grunts, holding up his precious bottle.

"Please," Kate nods, moving closer and dropping her bag to the floor.

"What can I do for you?" he rumbles, pouring a small portion of bourbon into his tumbler and handing it across to her.

Kate gives him a smile as she leans forward to accept the glass from his hand. Then she settles back against the wooden railing, facing him with her ankles crossed and her hair glowing red from the distant sunset. He hoists himself a little higher in his chair and watches her take a tentative sip of the liquor. He can tell she hates the harsh taste but she doesn't say so.

"I, ah," she swirls the liquid in the glass, her head bowed and her voice slightly shaky: "I wanted to talk to you."

"'Bout what?" he answers, knowing that if Kate wanted his advice on a work matter, she would just have phoned. What's left of his body tenses with anticipation and fear.

She shrugs nervously and feigns levity: "Bora Bora?"

Gibbs clears his throat. "I hear it's great this time of year," he jokes morbidly, earning a withering look from his new drinking buddy.

"Gibbs…" she starts hesitantly, looking at her feet and nursing the drink she doesn't want: "-- about that night…." She lifts her head to look at him and he finds his steely gaze faltering. "About what happened…" she murmurs delicately, holding her breath.

Gibbs turns away, grimacing at the long grass: "I never apologized," he admits, plainly.

Kate shakes her head faintly. "I'm not looking for an apology," she replies, her voice urgent and gentle.

He looks up at her, a little surprised. "What then?" he asks warily.

"Well…" she sets her drink on the railing and moves closer. She drags the other, equally ragged chair next to his and gingerly takes a seat: "--an explanation, I guess."

Gibbs stares at her blankly and gulps. "I was drunk," he tells her after a moment.

She leans towards him, allowing his guarded gaze to scan her face, fixed in expression of understanding and searching. He finds it simultaneously exasperating and enticing. He both wants her to leave and doesn't.

He's completely at a loss as to what she's wanting from him -- or her point in dredging up whatever occurred, or might have occurred, between them over a lifetime ago.

"Yeah, I know," Kate sighs, nodding her head and looking at her lap. "That's why I stopped it," she continues, her voice soft and wavering: "But it doesn't mean…" her face rises and her brown eyes pin his, full of meaning and intent: "doesn't mean that I didn't feel it, Gibbs."

"Feel what?" he mutters obtusely, leaning back in his chair as the grasshoppers commence their nightly song.

This is the best part of his day and he's missing it. He feels a touch on his hand, as gentle as the wind, and he quickly looks down to see his hand pull out from under Kate's. He hides it in his lap, sinking back further into his deep chair. Slowly, she reaches over further, cautiously resting her hand on his closest knee.

He looks at it unfeelingly for a moment then mutters sharply: "I can't feel it."

Kate shifts her hand slightly higher on his leg. "You can't?" she whispers anxiously.

He glances at her darkly then picks up the hand on his leg and shoves it back at her: "I don't feel anything, Kate. You know that."

He turns away again, her patient awkwardness creating tiny pinpricks in his armor as she sits back in her chair, the minutes passing in silence. He gazes out towards the horizon, feeling more and more protected by the deepening night.

"It was wrong then," he mutters finally, his voice dormant and deflated: "and now…" He huffs and shakes his head heavily: "it's even worse now."

Kate hesitates before insisting gently: "Give me one good reason."

He shakes his head again, his voice becoming more vehement: "The reasons are obvious, Kate."

He reaches for his wheelchair, drawing it close. He starts to lift himself from the wicker chair into his wheelchair and Kate rises to her feet, reaching out to help.

"Don't--! Just--!" he snaps sharply, gritting his teeth: "don't touch me!"

He feels his face turn red as he lifts himself up with his arms and shifts his heavy body from one seat to the other. He sighs, falling back into his familiar chair and swatting her helpful hands away. Kate takes a step back, watching quietly as he catches his breath.

Then slowly, carefully, she bends down and lifts his limp legs, one at a time, onto the foot rests. He watches in defeat, his breath coming rough and his hands gripping the wheels tightly.

"Gibbs… it's not wrong," Kate tells him, her head bowed and her voice so soft that he barely hears her. She gazes up at him, from her place at his feet, her eyes swelling with earnest emotion: "It never was. I'm sorry I--" She swallows and looks down, taking a moment to gather her thoughts and her courage. "The reasons aren't obvious to me, Gibbs," she murmurs, tilting her head back and looking him in the eye.

He holds her gaze but refuses to see the truth of what her eyes are presenting him with. She's ambushed him tonight and he resents it. He doesn't know what incited this outpouring in Kate and he doesn't want to. He wants her to go back to her life -- and leave him to waste the rest of his.

He propels his wheelchair backwards, retreating from her touch and her gaze. "Why're you here?" he questions impatiently, his brow creased in confusion: "Kate, why're you pushing this?"

Kate gets to her feet, holding her hands out at her sides. "Because I care, Gibbs," she flusters, her cheeks turning pink: "because, because I--"

Gibbs turns to the porch door and opens it for himself: "I don't need your pity," he barks over his shoulder, before he disappears inside and lets the screen door slap closed behind him.

"It's not pity, Gibbs--" she calls after him, her voice trailing off and her hand reaching out in entreaty. She takes one step forward, but stops in her tracks. Letting out a big breath, she brushes her forehead with her fingers. "It's not pity," she whispers to herself.

"God…." she sighs, her head bowed: "it's love."

But her old boss is long gone and only the crickets and the stars hear her muffled confession. She turns to the railing, picks up the remaining bourbon and downs it in one hit. She gasps and gags.

"Well, that went well," she mutters gloomily to the night sky.

TBC…

Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing. It's always appreciated. :)