Since the reviews were so nice and all, I decided to go ahead and post the last chapter. It's a little more intense than those previous, but when is it NOT intense between Gibbs and Kate? Anyway, hope you enjoy. :)
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He stands motionless, holding the plane in a grip so tight it hurts. Slowly he turns his attention to it, to the dull edge and dusty handle. He reaches behind him for an old rag, worn and dirty from years of use. He wipes the dust off, rubs at the blade, and throws the rag back on the desk, not caring where it lands. From the debris on top he unearths a file and sits down in the chair, the plane tilted away from him as he works. He files carefully, meticulously, with the deliberation of a man who is used to taking good care of his tools.
When the edge is sharp and gleaming, he sets down the file and steps toward the boat, staring at it as if he's never seen it before. He thinks about another slug of bourbon, but decides that he's got the whole night to get drunk and he might as well do something with his hands while he's still reasonably sober. And so he moves down to a spot where the wood is still rough and unworked, sets the plane against it, and begins to shave off the detritus with a practiced hand. Little curls of wood land at his feet, get caught on the fabric of his jeans. He doesn't notice. All he sees is the slide of metal against wood, the play of shine and shadow in the yellow light. And in the depths of his mind he hears a song.
In their line of work, there would always be those cases. The cases that made you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, the ones that haunted your dreams and flashed behind your eyes when you awoke. The cases that could be solved but never settled, the ones you would remember until your dying day.
He'd had cases like that before, would have them again. It was part of the job. But this one was particularly bad—a little girl, raped and murdered by a crazed pedophile, her small body terribly bruised and mangled. The bastard had left a stuffed toy lying beside her, a soft white rabbit with a little pink bow around its neck. Somehow that was the one thing that pushed him over the edge, put the grinding nausea in his stomach. He'd watched as Ducky examined her, watched as they zipped her into the impersonal black body bag and carried her out to the truck. And had vowed that he'd find the man who did this and make him wish he was dead before Jethro Gibbs was done with him.
They'd found him. In the course of two endless days they'd tracked him down, found him hiding in plain sight. He'd almost captured another little girl, almost started the nightmare over again. They stopped him just in time. But it still burns, down deep in his gut, that the bastard was so damn confident, so sure that his position as a senator's aide would keep him safe, that he was staying under his own name in a D.C. hotel. That he was eating caviar and drinking champagne while he tortured an innocent child. That he would have done it again without a second thought, certain that he was untouchable. And even though the bastard's behind bars now, will spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars, the sickness still swirls in his stomach every time he thinks of that little girl's battered face.
He knows she feels the same, that her heart broke too at the sight of that pathetic little body. He saw the pain in her eyes, the burning rage at the monster who did this. But during the investigation he didn't have time, didn't have the strength, to talk to her about it. For two days they've been nothing more than agent and boss, just members of the same team. It's the first time they've had a case like this since the two of them have been together, and now that it's solved and his brain can move past the urgency of evidence and leads and deduction, it starts to worry him.
Will she be angry that he shut down emotionally during this case? Did she expect him to still be her lover as well as her boss? Does she feel that he let her down, that she needed him to help her deal with the pain and the anger and the grief and he wasn't there? There are too many questions running through his mind as he pulls into his driveway and swings open the car door. And her silence isn't helping answer any of them. He's been on the receiving end of the silent treatment more times than he can count. He can't remember a single time when it turned out well.
She opens her own door and steps out, walking around the side of the car to join him. They walk together towards the door, but she doesn't touch him and she still doesn't say a word. He doesn't dare make the first move, isn't even sure he can. Somehow he feels that whatever is between them is so fragile right now that it could break at a single whisper. And so he too is silent as they climb the steps and cross the porch to his front door.
He digs out his keys, lets them both in, releases a soft sigh as he looks out at the moonlit lawn before turning to close the door. He reaches out a hand for the hall light when suddenly he feels her hand grab his, forcing it away from the switch. Startled, he doesn't make a move in protest when she takes him by the shoulders and pulls him away from the door. Moving assuredly in the dark, she shuts the door, locks it, and turns back to him.
He can barely see her in the faint light from the narrow windows on either side of his door. But somehow he senses her determination, her purpose as she moves toward him. He knows that normally he should be the one doing this, he should be the one reaching out to comfort her. But he can't make himself move, can't take control of the situation the way he wants to, the way he should. He just stands there, confused and heartsick and with a mind-numbing ache pounding behind his eyes.
Then he forgets all about what he should be doing as he finally gets a glimpse of her face. Most of it is in shadow, but the light plays across her eyes and he nearly gasps at the depth of pain he sees there. He doesn't have long to think about it, though. She steps close, so close he can smell her perfume and the shampoo she uses, so close that he can feel her breath against his skin. She reaches up and locks both arms around his neck, brings her body flush against his. She's so tiny she has to stretch to do it, but nevertheless she pushes up on her toes and brushes her lips against his jaw.
He jolts at the sudden sensation, at the feel of her against him, her scent in his nose, her warmth melting the coldness he's felt for two interminable days. Suddenly something in him breaks, something wild and dark and dangerous. He clamps both arms around her, nearly driving the breath out of her in the process, slides one hand up to hold her head in place, and takes her mouth in something far too intense to be called a kiss. It's harsh, ruthless, almost brutal, and if his brain were functioning he'd realize that he's holding her too tight, that his hand in her hair has tightened into a fist. She doesn't protest, though, doesn't pull away in shock or anger. And as his mouth continues to plunder hers, as his hands roam roughly over her body, leaving marks that will be bruises in the morning, her arms never loosen their hold.
He doesn't know how long he's been standing there, brutalizing the woman he loves, when he finally comes to his senses. It hits his brain like an electric shock, and suddenly he drops his hands, pushes her away from him as he pants for breath and a return to sanity. He notices that she's panting too, though he can't tell whether it's from fear or desire or a strange mixture of both. Gradually he begins to remember what he was doing seconds ago, the way he exploited her body, the roughness of his hands and the fury of his lips. Sick, ashamed, he turns away from her, plants his fists on the wall and hangs his head. He's burned his bridges for certain this time. There is no excuse for this, no reasoning that can smooth over what he's just done. He cannot blame her if she walks out that door and never comes back.
And so he is shocked beyond belief when he feels her hands on his arms, tugging him away from the wall to face her. He can't meet her eyes, doesn't want to see what his mindless need has done to her. But her warm hand reaches out to cup his cheek and forces him to look at her, see her as she really is. He can't turn away again, can't move as he realizes what she's telling him without speaking a single word. Suddenly he understands what she's saying, that her need is as great as his, her pain as terrible. That after two days of facing unimaginable evil, together they can make something good and right. That this has nothing to do with lust or desire and everything to do with the overwhelming need to hold on to someone until the raw memories begin to fade. That she knows the maelstrom of emotions churning within him because she feels it too. And that neither of them will have to be alone tonight.
He takes her in his arms again, not gently, not tenderly, not as he should. Their need for each other is too great, too fierce, too desperate to let them take the time to be kind. But this time he realizes that it is a shared ferocity, that she needs him every bit as much as he needs her. And the knowledge soothes him somehow, is the first step to healing the wounds that, at the moment, are still raw in the depths of his soul. He doesn't kiss her, doesn't explore her body with questing hands and a fire in his gut. As she wraps her arms around his neck once again, he simply holds her close, buries his face in her hair. They stand there for a long moment, emotions running perilously close to the surface, before she sighs once, long and deep, and breaks away.
He's not afraid now, doesn't question whether this is some form of carefully devised punishment calculated to torment him for all the things he's done wrong tonight. He just stands there, waits until she holds out a hand, her eyes unreadable in the darkness. He takes it, wraps his fingers around hers, lets her lead him down the hallway and up the stairs to the bedroom at the top. He is silent as they undress each other, as they fall to the bed, as they rediscover the comfort of each other's bodies in the encompassing darkness.
And as the sensations spiral downwards, as the feelings swirl in a maelstrom of grief and need and desperation, he loses himself in her…drowns in the silence and the darkness and the understanding in her eyes, until he no longer remembers what drove him here and only knows the depths of this bottomless passion.
And as the storm quiets, as her arms lock around him and his lips bury themselves in her hair, he could swear he hears the echoes of a song drifting through the quiet house.
"Don't think about tomorrow / It don't matter anymore
We can turn the key / And lock the world outside the door
I need you so now / Come on, let go now
Kick off your shoes / Turn out the light
And love me tonight."
The light still sheds a small circle of yellow light in the darkness of the basement. It glints off the bottle of bourbon on the corner of the cluttered desk, bounces off the liquid in the bottom of the coffee mug beside it. It shines on the edge of a newly sharpened plane, glistens on the surface of smooth, silky wood.
But it cannot reach the eyes of the man standing by the skeleton of a boat, tool dangling forgotten from one hand, forehead propped on the arm he rests against the wood. His breathing is harsh and choppy in the small room, almost overriding the tinny music that still drifts out of the radio in the corner. But when he finally raises his head and looks over in the direction of the sound, his cheeks are dry, his eyes burning.
He drops the plane he sharpened with such care earlier that night into the shavings at his feet, moves over to the desk with lurching steps. He doesn't touch the bottle or the mug beside it, doesn't even seem to notice that they're there. Instead he reaches over to the radio, his fingers trembling, and slowly turns the knob until the music fades, until there's a faint, protesting squawk, and then…silence.
He braces both hands on the desk, bent over as if he's trying to catch his breath after a long run. He lets his head hang between his arms, allows his eyes to drift shut for a brief moment. Then he raises himself with a tangible effort, grunting as the weight shifts onto aching joints, and walks over to the stairs. He pauses for a moment, one hand resting on the rough slat that serves as a banister. He doesn't look over his shoulder, though, doesn't turn back. Then slowly, painfully, he climbs the stairs until he stands before the blank face of the closed door. He lifts a hand toward the knob, stops, and turns around to look back at the basement one more time.
And as he moves, one hand reaches over and turns out the light.
"I need you so now / Come on, let's go now
Kick off your shoes / Turn out the light
And love me tonight."
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A/N: Yes, I know the last section of Gibbs' flashbacks changes tense. There's a reason. (Actually, I started writing it in present tense and didn't realize what I was doing until I was about halfway through. It just seemed to fit.) But then I realized that this is probably the most powerful memory that we see in the story, and for him it's like reliving what happened, in the moment instead of just remembering it. In that case, the change in tense seems to make a little more sense. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!! (And my apologies to those of you who don't like song fics.)