A/N: So, needless to say I apologize for just how long it took for me to get this completed and posted – I won't bore any of you with the long details, but this past little while has been one of the toughest times in years, and the delay in updating couldn't be helped.
But, at long last, here it is: the conclusion to another story. Thanks so, SO much to all of the absolutely wonderful reviews you guys have left me, making this my most successful story I've ever posted on here – I love you all, you've made writing even more fun than it already was!
And special thanks to shywr1ter, who once again, in checking to make sure I was still alive and kicking, reminded me to get my butt in gear, and not keep you guys hanging any longer :)
So, without further ado, R&R and enjoy!
P.S: I implore everyone reading to read all the way through, before they decide whether or not it was the ending they wanted :P
P.P.S: I am certainly willing, if the interest is there, to come up with an alternate ending, to deal with the other side of the picket line, who had a different take on how this one should turn out. Let me know!
The Sedan crept along the road, sunlight glinting off tinted windows which hid the passengers within from surrounding vehicles. It was one car in a procession of many, moving slowly but surely through the streets of DC on a route they all knew well, to a place none had seen since that one fateful night, a night that none would forget.
Two weeks had gone by, and the investigation into the bombing of the NCIS building was only now coming to a close, the details having at last been sorted through and organized into a report that the survivors and most every agent had all read, whether or not their clearance levels would normally have allowed for it.
No terrorist group had lain claim to the attack, no indications of any parties responsible being picked up in the regular chatter or through the usual informants, all initial attempts at leads at first going nowhere. Ultimately, it was a dead woman that led them to the answers they sought, the recovery of her body and the analysis of her 911 call pointing them in the direction of everything they needed to know.
Born Hooriya Ganim, she and her twin brother, Muhannad Ganim, had been raised by their parents in Iran for the first eighteen years of their lives before immigrating to the US on student visas to attend university, Hooriya for her law degree, Muhannad for a dual major in bio-chemistry and mechanical engineering. Both graduated with honors before applying for and receiving their citizenship papers, after which they were each hired into government positions, the brother in research and development, the sister in the district attorney's office, where she met and married her husband, attorney Salim Kouri.
Due to the high-profile nature of their respective employments, each had been put through thorough screening and background checks, and it was found their only communication to their home country was with their parents, who'd elected to stay in Iran rather than follow after their children. Three years after the twins' graduations, a Navy fighter pilot was sent on a mission to bomb suspected enemy strongholds in a village near the capital. He missed his target. Whether through navigation equipment malfunctioning, or dire human error, he dropped his payload instead on a village of civilians five miles south of the intended target. Nearly two hundred innocent Iranians were killed, the parents of Hooriya and Muhannad among them.
In the wake of the deaths, several agents from NCIS were dispatched to investigate the incident, and eventually deemed it to have been an accident spawned by equipment malfunction, the conclusion in the report stating that the bombing was along the lines of, "a terrible tragedy, but ultimately blameless."
When these final determinations were made known, Muhannad, according to his friends and coworkers, became obsessed with the idea that it was a cover-up, that the government had ordered bombs dropped without knowing or caring where their 'enemy' was, and that the NCIS agents had been coerced into looking the other way in their investigation. For a time, he used his position in his firm to protest the injustice, and demand the truth, eventually leading to his being fired on the grounds of mental instability, after which he disappeared from sight.
Until he resurfaced with his government ID, tampered with to be updated to the current time codes, and strode into the NCIS building with specially tailored, undetectable explosives stitched into the lining of his satchel.
According to his cell phone records, he'd called his sister en route to his attack – whether to justify his actions, or to seek forgiveness for the lives he was going to take in his act of retaliation, they would never know for sure. Whatever it was he'd said, it'd brought Hooriya Kouri to NCIS, her DA's office ID getting her into the building, and it'd allowed her the chance to make the call that had saved so many lives.
Saved so many... but so many were lost, regardless. Too many families were called that night, to hear the worst possible news, news that had deposited a heavy weight on all those who'd survived and even those who hadn't been there that night, a weight which they bore still.
It was that same weight that pressed upon those inside the Sedan, that had a stranglehold over their voices and left them mute, creating a silence that would not be broken save by the humming of the engine as they continued along in the long procession towards the site of the bombing. None of the three inside that car had spoken a word since they'd gotten in, had barely even looked at each other, or anywhere else besides straight ahead through the windshield to track the car ahead of them. Each were dressed in pristine black, McGee in a new suit and tie bought especially for today, both of which gave him a harder look when paired with his clenched fists and pale face. Gibbs was in the same suit he'd worn to Kate's funeral, looking just as uncomfortable in it now as he had then, only now with an undercurrent of weariness that hadn't been there before, though of course it would go unmentioned.
Ziva, with Abby's help that morning, had worked around the black cast that enveloped her hand from near the tips of her fingers to mid-forearm to slip into a modest, but figure-hugging black dress. She'd even allowed the Goth to pin her hair back into a loose bun, though she'd insisted on handling her own make-up one-handed.
When she'd gone out yesterday to pick out something to wear, and had found this dress, she'd very nearly been reduced embarrassingly to tears when she'd tried it on with some difficulty and thought immediately, instinctively, of how entertaining the look on Tony's face would be, were he to see her in it, how much fun it would be to pretend not to see the way he looked at her, while he pretended to believe her attention was elsewhere. That had always been their game after all, and they'd played it well for years.
She hadn't so much as glanced at the price tag before bringing it to the counter and shoving her credit card at the cashier, retrieving it without a word and folding the garment bag carefully over her arm before stalking back out to where Abby had been waiting in her car. Thankfully, the scientist hadn't asked her why she'd held on to the bag all the way back to her apartment. Likely, she'd already known the reason, words were simply unnecessary.
Between them all, there wasn't a single one who'd slept easy these two weeks, who hadn't shown up at their temporary offices for paperwork, reports, and debriefings looking frayed. No one claimed to be 'fine', because they knew the others would know they were lying, but especially, no one was called out on any of their new habits - if someone was seen lingering over team photographs in the middle of the day, or making calls they knew couldn't be answered just to hear the voice on the machine's recording, or catching themselves setting aside food for an empty place at the table on take-out nights, well, then... it was understood that you just needed to look the other way.
After picking up McGee and then Ziva, Gibbs had gotten them to the designated start point for the procession, and for the first time in his career, found he couldn't object to formalities and ceremony; a police escort had been arranged, cordoning off their route to allow them unobstructed passage, and an honor guard marched at the very front, the Director's car following behind them. All the way through the city were flashing lights and precisely timed steps, quietly held flags and bowed heads from the officers they passed, and Gibbs, always the first to cringe at bureaucratic solemnity knew that this was anything but.
All told, sixty-five agents and three civilians had been lost that night, leaving a sea of mourning parents, friends, siblings, spouses, and children. And they deserved every bit of the respect and remembrance they were being shown here today.
All too quickly, their progress came to a halt, all cars pulling to a stop on the opposite side of the street from their destination. Director Sheppard, and the directors of several other agencies followed immediately behind the honor guard in crossing the street to traverse the isle laid down in the middle of rows upon rows of chairs filled with the grieving. The agents from the other cars mingled and followed close behind, claiming the seats reserved for them near the front, all eyes turning to the raised podium that stood as close to the cleared and leveled ground zero as they were yet allowed. Positioned on stands in front of it were sixty-eight laminate pictures, the smiling faces of those they knew, those they lost, looking out over the gathered masses as the speeches began.
Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder between McGee and Ziva, with Ducky and Palmer next to them, Gibbs fought along with them to remain composed throughout the proceedings, managing well enough until the list of and tribute to the fallen began. He was sure he'd ground down most of his teeth by the end of it, even with the occasional tap of a finger to his bad knee to distract himself.
All around him tears were being shed for the cruelty that had brought them there, that had taken their loved ones from them, and while he understood and supported the respect being payed, the longer it went on, the more his calm eroded, and the more desperately he wished for the privacy of his basement, and the comfort of the boat and the hard liquor that resided there. With each word spoken, and each agent acknowledged, he became more and more aware of the raw ache in his chest that the last two weeks had done little to dull. Not for the first time, he wished that Muhannad Ganim had survived the destruction, that one of the bombs he'd built hadn't detonated prematurely, killing him before he could make his escape. Apart from wanting that man to be made to listen to the lives of each of his victims, he wished more than anything that he was there to be made to pay in full for what he'd done here, to be on the receiving end of this corrosive coil of anger and pain that ate at Gibbs' insides whenever he allowed himself the time to think of it, which of course he couldn't help but do in this place.
Muhannad Ganim had gotten off easy by comparison, and the injustice of it was very nearly unbearable.
A light touch on his shoulder pulled him from his churning thoughts, and it took him a moment to register that the ceremony had drawn to a close, and the rows of chairs had begun to empty around him. He looked up at Ducky, whose hand maintained its touch, warm and steady, and saw reflected in the older doctor's eyes everything he himself felt, exactly as he was feeling it, and likewise in the pained gazes of the other three. For a long moment the group remained in worn silence, until Gibbs stood and led the way back into the isle behind the last of the crowd, posture stiff as a board as the team afforded one last glance at the pictures, each turning quickly for the exit without allowing themselves to focus on any familiar faces.
They were the last to reach the gate, and were met there by Director Sheppard, who extended a hand that Gibbs shook, her gaze all-too sympathetic for his comfort.
"It's good to see you well, Jethro," she said, eyes drifting intermittently between his knee and the side of his head, where a patch of new hair was growing now that the stitches had been removed. She gave a small smile. "Looks like you're healing as fast as you always have." He nodded, but otherwise didn't comment. He barely kept his teeth from grinding again when her eyes and tone grew even softer. "How's Abby?"
"Good, better – the bug she was fighting before all this was pretty nasty, took even longer to go away after, but she's tough. She'd have been here, if she could, but she... couldn't," he finished haltingly, hoping Jenny would know to let it be, hoping she already knew enough to know not to push just now, to know why she just shouldn't.
He felt some of the tension leave his body when the Director simply nodded in understanding, and shook each of their hands before wishing them well, asking them to pass along her regards before she turned to head back to her car.
Their group was on their way back to their own respective cars when they were approached by a young man with dark hair and and tan skin, a sleeping boy, no more than a few years old, held securely against his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot as though he'd been crying, but his jaw was set determinedly when he came to stop beside them, and looked to Gibbs.
"Agent Gibbs?" he asked, his accent faint, but still discernible. Gibbs nodded, and the man shifted his son to his left arm to shake his hand. "I am Salim Kouri. I am told you... you were with my wife when she..."
Salim choked on the rest of the sentence, swallowing hard and looking away for a moment to collect himself. When he looked back to him, the lines around his eyes and mouth were more visible for his struggle to not fall apart, but Gibbs did him the courtesy of keeping a level gaze, and waiting for him to be able to speak again, while trying not to remember the condition of this man's wife at the time of her death. It was one of a few things he'd devoted plenty of time to not thinking of these last two weeks.
"Did she suffer?" was the question Salim finally managed, and for a moment Gibbs wasn't sure how to answer – a lie may reassure him, perhaps soften part of the blow, but the truth was that she had, most definitely. And maybe a lie would only make light of a woman that deserved better than that. And so the decision was made for him.
"She was in a lot of pain, when I found her," he admitted quietly, gaze never wavering even as he watched a part of this young man break. He straightened his back even further then, and squared his shoulders, virtually standing at attention. "But she was strong to the end, and what she died trying to do... Mr. Kouri, it was an honor to have known her, for even those few minutes, and it is a privilege to meet her family now." The mix of pride, and love, and agony the shone in the man's expression at that was one that Gibbs knew too well, and one that hurt to have reflected back at him.
Handing over his card with an invitation to call him when he was ready to collect his wife's belongings, now that the investigation was through and they'd been released from evidence, he shook the man's hand again, and the others watched with him, as silent as they'd been throughout the exchange, as the widower returned to his car, head held high despite the grief that haunted him.
By the time the three had seen Ducky and Palmer off, and gotten back in their own car and back onto the highway, it was late enough that there wasn't really any time to spare for each to go home and change first, since Ziva was very nearly late for her appointment at the hospital. Given the severity of the breaks to her hand, and the fact that when she'd passed on immediate treatment it'd taken three days to get her the surgery she'd needed, the surgeon who'd taken care of her had instituted mandatory X-rays once a week, to ensure everything was healing properly and no damage had been missed.
Gibbs tried to see it as a good thing that she'd voiced not a word in protest to the additional annoyance and the assertion that she would not be allowed to drive herself, only calmly and quietly accepting a ride from the lead agent twice now, when it was offered. The truth was that he was worried about her, though of course he wouldn't admit it – she just needed time, they all did, to come back from what had happened. It couldn't be done overnight, all they could do was be patient and be there for each other whenever and wherever they could. Hopefully, that would be enough.
They walked into the Bethesda with a few minutes to spare, and Ziva checked in at the front desk, and then was given a form and directions to the lab a few floors up. The three caught the next available elevator, and strode to the nurse's station when they got there, somewhat startling the young nurse on duty with their collective dress and demeanor, though she recovered quickly, and filled out the needed paperwork before informing them of the wait, and lending Ziva a gown and pair of scrub pants for her to change into. The two men picked the nearest set of chairs while Ziva went to the ladies room down the hall.
The thoughts of each unavoidably strayed to the ward on the floor bellow them, to the room where they'd all spent the night two weeks ago, hoping for a miracle through long hours of waiting, only to be told that that miracle wouldn't be coming. And what came after that...
Suddenly too restless for waiting, Gibbs stood and declared a need for coffee, blatantly ignoring the all-too knowing look on McGee's face as the younger agent nodded and watched him head for the stairway.
Once there, he paused to lean up against the closed door, trying and failing to settle his thoughts into something resembling rationality. When it became clear it was useless, he looked down the stairs, then up, deciding after a second's stillness that up would do just fine. Mindful of his knee, and his need to make his wandering last as long as possible, he kept his pace slow, not bothering to really keep track of the floors as he passed them.
At first, he counted the stairs as his feet touched them – ten... twenty-five... fifty – then he gave up even on that, allowing himself to focus simply on the act of one foot after the other, up one step, then another, and another, trying to allow himself to be lulled into the monotony of the activity. He should have known better than to think it would work.
Like every other time since that night, now that he was on his own and there was nothing else for him to distract himself with, all he kept coming back to was one moment two weeks ago.
After the surgeon had broken the news to them, he'd led the group immediately to Tony's room in the ICU, taking his leave and leaving them with heartfelt apologies that there'd been nothing more that he could do. The rest of the team had been through, saying their goodbyes or whatever it was they'd felt they needed to say, each emerging with singular devastation written across their faces, and then suddenly it was Gibbs' turn, and he was sitting next to a bed which supported a heavily bandaged shell that looked sickeningly similar to, yet entirely unlike his friend, trying his best to be able to think above the obtrusive whooshing of the respirator and the achingly slow beeps from the heart monitor. And he didn't remember reaching out his hand, but then he was speaking lowly, and he was holding on to the arm closest to him so tightly that a part of him worried about bruises, but only a little part, because the rest of him was certain he'd crumble if he loosened his grip in the slightest.
Funny, how at the time what he was saying felt so important, and yet now he couldn't really remember what it was he'd said exactly, only that he'd pleaded with a dying man who couldn't even hear him to do the impossible.
Then his memory became a blur of panic – alarms were blaring, the heart-monitor's beeps frantic, shrill, and then he was being hauled out of the room and held back by an orderly and a nurse. He couldn't hear himself yelling, but he could feel his lungs and throat burning from the force of it. He couldn't feel himself struggling, but he could feel their hands keeping him away from where he needed to be, able only to watch, terrified, through the room's glass panels as the body on that bed convulsed so violently, then became so still...
His feet stumbled, bringing him to a halt as he clutched the railing, the memory overwhelming him, leaving his heart pounding and stomach twisting as he gasped quietly and struggled to get a hold of himself. It was neither the time, nor the place for this, and once he was able to reaffirm that fact in his head, he once again became aware of his surroundings. Looking up at the door on the next landing, he decided instantly that this would be a good place to leave the stairs behind, and jogged up the last couple of steps to do just that.
It took only a moment to reorient himself once he stepped back into the bright fluorescent lighting typical of any hospital, and he worked on looking as casual as he could, strolling down the hall in his suit. He'd ditched the tie in the car, which helped, and was glad that everyone he passed either didn't notice him, or had better things to be doing than to bother with him. Gradually he slowed, indecisive for a second before grabbing hold of a door handle, turning it and letting himself in, closing it most of the way behind him to shut out the ambient noise from the hall. The quiet sounds of the room calmed him just as surely as the sight of the one occupied bed against the opposite wall, relieving the ache in his chest and the twist in his stomach like nothing else seemed able to.
Still managing to be gentle, even in her sleep, Abby had tucked herself in to curl around Tony's unbandaged left side, ever mindful of avoiding his healing injuries and collection of IV's. With the agent asleep on his back, Abby had draped her leg over one of his, curling her arms around his left shoulder, and tucking her head into the space between them, and Gibbs was again glad for the size of the bed to allow for the extra occupant because he'd swear in front of a judge and jury that Tony's breaths were easier, and his sleeps deeper whenever Abby stayed with him, as always seemed to be the case whenever the agent landed himself in another hospital stay.
He moved quietly towards the chair on the right side of the bed, wincing when his hip accidentally caught the edge of the tray on the table at the foot of the bed, and he suddenly found Abby blinking blearily up at him.
"Gibbs?" she whispered around a yawn.
"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he whispered back, settling into the chair and scooting quietly closer.
"S'okay. What time is it?"
"Somewhere after six. How was he today?" he said, unable to keep himself from watching him as he slept on peacefully. The same seemed to be true of Abby, it seemed, as her eyes stayed on Tony while she answered, the fingers on one hand idly smoothing back a bit of his hair.
"Not as good as they'd hoped, but a little better than yesterday," she said with a soft smile that bellied the worry in her eyes. "He still doesn't have a whole lot of energy, but his fever broke late this morning, so he managed to keep down the broth, and sit up with some help." She looked to him then, the smile growing a little brighter. "We watched Abbot and Costello on my laptop after lunch, and he was quoting it the entire time."
"Now we definitely know he's getting better," Gibbs said with a quiet laugh, then paused to take in her rumpled appearance. "You should probably head home for the night though, Abbs. You could use a night in a real bed, some breakfast outside of hospital food, a shower..."
"Are you saying I stink, Gibbs?" she whispered with a grin, carefully disentangling herself to stand with a long stretch. He returned the smile, then stood and walked over to give her a warm hug and a kiss on the forehead.
"Definitely. Now go on, I'll stay with him." Giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, she turned for the door, but paused to shoot him a look.
"You'll call me if you need me, right?" she asked seriously, and he was reminded unpleasantly of the few times these last fourteen days where one of the more stubborn infections Tony'd come out of surgery with had left him feverish and disoriented, soothed only by Abby's touch and her soft voice singing quieter versions of her favorite songs in his ear.
"I will," he promised, and after a moment's more scrutiny to apparently decide if she believed him, she nodded and yawned again, then quietly made her exit, shutting the door behind her.
Gibbs returned to his chair then, and when he looked back to the bed, was startled to find half-open green eyes staring back at him. He was wondering if he should speak first, when Tony settled the issue for him.
"I was dreaming again, I think," he said softly, not a whisper, but tired enough that it carried little pitch all the same. Gibbs raised a curious brow.
"About what?"
"I... it's hard to say," Tony answered, voice gaining a little more volume as he blinked himself more awake. "I've had this same one a couple of times, since..." He trailed off uncomfortably, glanced away with a slight frown, then back again. "In the dream I'm in a car, a really nice one. And it starts out okay, and I think I'm happy, then there's voices, and pain, and I start to panic, but then you -" Tony cut himself off abruptly, flushing and looking away again at Gibbs' obvious surprise at being mentioned. He cleared his throat quietly, the shrugged with a small wince. "Forget it. It was just a dream."
By the look on Tony's face, Gibbs doubted it was quite so simple, but was willing to let it go given how exhausted even so little talking had clearly left the younger man.
"Director Sheppard sends her regards," he said wryly, knowing roughly how Tony had felt, justly, about their director since the debacle surrounding La Grenouille. To his credit, Tony's face gave nothing away.
"Does she, now. Well, guess I shouldn't have expected as much as a get-well card, in lieu of a visit," he breathed, shifting slightly with a grimace.
It'd been a long two weeks, right from the moment that Tony had come crashing back into consciousness, fighting the respirator so violently that they'd had to partially sedate him to keep him from tearing it and his many stitches out, allowing him to wake just enough to test pupil reactions and reassure him of where he was, and why before giving him pain medication to let him sleep. Since that point, it'd been a constant rotation of saline and blood transfusions, post-op infection and antibodies. His body was a mess of fractures, bruises and internal bleeding, along with a pierced intestine, and a lacerated kidney. To add to it all, hours of exposure to the thick clouds of smoke and dust had played hell with his plague-scarred lungs, the resulting swelling and fluid build-up being enough to stop his breathing like it did, right before their rescue. Without enough pain medication, he couldn't sleep. With the full amount needed to dull the pain, days went by where he was so lethargic he could barely keep his eyes focused, whenever he managed to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time.
Tony was facing a long and difficult recovery, but he was alive, a wonder that never ceased to amaze and thrill his team, and be the only thing that kept their recently developed habits in check, no matter how much he complained whenever the burly Nurse Gordon, Tony's least favorite but most constant caregiver, was in charge of changing his dressings.
Speaking of which. "So. How was Nurse Gordon today?" Gibbs asked, looking for an easy conversation to break the silence with. Predictably, Tony scowled.
"As cold-handed as always. And the bastard confiscated my back-scratcher, convinced I was using it to scratch at the stitches. Which are doing well, according to the sadist that handled the cleaning and debriding today." The sentence, though delivered flippantly, was highlighted by Tony's hand carefully finding its way to rest over the part of his scrubs top that hid the thick gauze and the previously gaping hole beneath it. The gesture made his heart pound, and it was a conscious effort to push aside the image of Tony as he'd first found him. Flat eyes in an ashen face. Pinned. Motionless. Slipping away...
"This... this was too close. We came too damn close on this one, Tony," Gibbs said, trying and failing to keep the residual fear out of his voice. Tony sobered immediately, his expression as serious as Gibbs had ever seen it.
"I know," he responded quietly, a thousand emotions flitting across his face, too fast for Gibbs to keep track of, some of the more painful ones inspiring a rare moment of complete honesty in him before he could think better of it.
"Don't think I could take having to bury you."
With a careful sigh, Tony shook his head. "Wish I could say it wouldn't happen, Gibbs, but neither one of us would believe it – it might never come to that, or you might end up having to someday... but at least not today."
It was so close this time, God, what would we have done if...
"Yeah. Not today."
Tony gave a tired grin, wanting to turn the conversation in a lighter direction. "Looks like I got a few more lives to spare though, huh Boss?"
Gibbs managed to hide a flinch at the memories Tony's words easily brought back to mind, of ruined buildings and unspoken goodbyes, of an encroaching loss that would have left a wound in all of them, in him, that would've never really healed; probably Tony didn't even remember having said what he did, otherwise Gibbs doubted he would've ever willingly broached the topic, joke or not.
He was able to keep down any outward reaction only by reminding himself that they had, against all odds, made it through, even if it might take a while for them to be completely back on their feet again. At least for today, they hadn't run out of second chances, and he was damn thankful for it, every single second that went by that he was talking to his boy, and not trying to make himself strong enough to be able to let him go. He couldn't imagine ever being that strong. If he had anything to say about it – and he sure as hell would – then he'd never have to be.
So instead of flinching, he allowed only a quiet smile, and nodded, rising to turn off all lights but the small wall lamp, and pulling the blanket higher up the younger agent's torso, discreetly ensuring that it was snugly situated. "'Course you do, DiNozzo – I lent you a couple of mine. You seem to need 'em a hell of a lot more often than I do," he said jokingly, as he settled back into his chair with a pillow behind his neck, ready to spend the night in it. He shut his eyes, and there was a long moment of silence where he started to drift off, thinking Tony already had.
Until, "And if I tell anyone you tucked me in?"
Gibbs smirked, not bothering to open his eyes. "Then you'll be needing a few more."
"Understood."
Another small pause, during which he could fairly hear the gears in the other man's head turning, and he resisted the familiar urge to sigh, knowing all he had to do was wait. He didn't need to wait long.
"When did they say I could leave? 'Cause I'm already almost sitting up on my o-"
"DiNozzo."
"Yeah Boss?"
"Sleep. Or I'll have them keep you here another month."
"Could I at least-"
"With Nurse Gordon in charge of your baths."
"Sleeping, Boss."