A\N: Let's say that this, the previous chapter and the next one are a three-part, shall we? This one is from Gibbs' point of view, and the last one was from Ziva's.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.

"Welcome to the Black Parade" – My Chemical Romance

II (Gibbs)

Gibbs wasn't one to say It's over. I've given up. It's too late. Forget it. Accept it. Move on.

Never had he done such a thing.

But now he was ordering a stricken McGee away from his computer, and he was telling him to clean up all the take-away food and all the empty coffee cups and to go home, because It's over. It's someone else's case now. It's too late. Too late. Move on. Forget it. Move on. It'll get easier. Move on. It's time to grieve. Move on. It's normal to feel angry. Move on. It's just how you cope. Move on. You'll accept it one day. Move on. Move on. Move on. Move on.

They're gone.

Move on.

And as he watched McGee's shaking hands do all he had said and more, as he watched him pause by his empty teammates' desks and pretend not to burst into tears before walking past without a word, Gibbs had never felt so disgusted with himself.

Oh, yes, this time he'd done it. Besides losing Tony and Ziva (which he'd only known about when he'd frantically called McGee in the middle of the night with the warning that both their phones were disconnected, and then found their doors wide open for everyone to see the blood and the complete mess inside the apartments), he'd now officially ceased looking for them. Forced the unwilling McGee, who'd undoubtedly continue his search from home, away from his computer, and dropped his entire useless weight into his chair, and that was how he sat, because it was over.

This wasn't like when they'd gotten themselves trapped inside a container. No, back then it wasn't premeditated. This time Gibbs had the sheet of the poorly veiled death threat to his agents as proof that this was plainly crystal clear retaliation for the damn investigation. It was the only reason he'd found out about their kidnapping this early in the first place. Their suspect was snugly and smugly confident he wouldn't be found.

So was Gibbs.

He had an unquenchable urge to pick it up and rip it to tiny little shreds, evidence or not, as if it were the cause of all his troubles. But the paper was with Abby, downstairs in the lab. Instead, some important piece of red-tape lost its life, and Gibbs was sullenly reminded that he still had to go tell the furiously determined forensic scientist to stop and go home. None of that, none of that, made him feel anywhere close to better. It had been a completely pointless endeavor. Just like their tireless search of their missing coworkers.

But he didn't move. He didn't have the heart (or the emotional stability) right now to go give her the news. He couldn't be a rock and let her hug him, and he couldn't be comforting and let her cry and bawl and sob into his chest, and he couldn't be the voice of reason and let her scream against the unfairness and I can still find them in time.

But she couldn't. Twenty-four hours. In the sheet that had been slipped under Gibbs' bedroom door, those two numbers (two and four, two and four, Gibbs was sure he'd be dreaming about that for a long time) were written in the biggest size possible, just to taunt him. And taunting him they were. Very well too.

That was all the time Tony and Ziva had. All the time every other victim had had.

And it would be over in the next ten minutes.

Gibbs' mind strayed away. Every other serial killer they'd taken down – P2P, the woman with the toe-eating husband – it had never come to this. He had never let it come to this. His head hit his hands, and he struggled to breathe without spilling anything but carbon dioxide.

He could see in his mind, very well, Ziva narrowing her eyes at Tony, who had decided to be purposefully annoying just so he could get a reaction out of her, just so he could have her attention. He could also see the amusement she tried to hide (mostly for Gibbs' benefit) as she doused a peculiarly chosen area of Tony's pants in (mildly) scolding coffee, and he could see Tony's wide eyes as he hurried with dramatized cries to the bathroom. Only then would Ziva burst into poorly contained giggling, and Gibbs would pretend not to see a thing.

He could remember, on top of all that, every single look those two exchanged, but no, not ever again, because, again, Gibbs had managed to fail, and they had been funny, but never again, and now he had the Director of Mossad (and he hoped that, for the duration of that conversation, he would turn into Ziva's father instead) and Senior to answer to. And none of this line of thinking was helping.

He abruptly shoved the desk forward and the chair back, and he decided that a phone-call to Abby would have to suffice, because no way he had the ability to handle someone else's sorrow right now.

And damn this, damn everything, because there was one bastard that had to hope he never ever came within the reach of Gibbs' hands, and what that bastard was currently doing was the reason for that.

This was the problem. This, right there, because he'd never let it go. He'd never move on, never forget, never cope or accept. He'd hunt him down like a dog with a prey, and it would be worse than Ari, because Kate had been two years, and that had been enough, but it had been twelve years with Tony and eight with Ziva, and if the way he was murdering the elevator button and gripping his coat was any indicator, his resolution with their killer wouldn't be pretty.

And his phone ringing was startling, because Gibbs had fire roaring in his ears, and, from the way his face burned, his head, and he had been driving worse than Ziva – "She almost killed my entire team yesterday." "How?" "Driving home from a crime scene." - and he almost missed it.

He slammed on the breaks and did some questionable parking before he barked a would-be-greeting into it.

Then froze.

He hung up without a word and reared the car back in a way not even his badge would excuse him from, and suddenly, despite his strange tunnel vision, he was able to breathe properly.

And drive faster when he did.