He has had many faces throughout his long years. He's been a student, a poet, a lover of women, a worrier and a soldier. He's been the force to be reckoned with, a friend, a mentor, the hard place and the rock. He has been a care giver, a mourner, a jester and a liar. He's held those who cried, and shed a tear or two himself. He's fished bodies out of rivers and trudged through the entrails of the dead. But, above all (and at this, the sunset of his life) he is the NCIS Chief Medical Examiner who has no business sitting impatiently in the ME van, waiting to be summoned.
Jimmy drums absently on the seatbelt he still has striped across his chest. They both understand the danger that assignments like these hold for Gibbs and his team and perhaps his young assistant leaves the belt buckled to anchor himself to calm, only his fingers free to dance staccato against the leather. The movement brings to mind a long forgotten memory of a childhood meeting with the great pianist, Eileen Joyce. The vision of her hands floating across the black and white keys of his family's piano swims to the forefront of his mind and he longs to regale Jimmy with the exhilaration of watching the Scottish woman play. He sighs, knowing full well the young man will know nothing of the famous pianist.
'Oh,' he dialogues internally, 'what else have we got to do?' but all that comes out is:
"Jimmy."
The fingertips against leather stop and his assistant shrinks sheepishly inward with a muttered apology. The van feels empty without his noise.
It's an inconvenience, sitting here waiting to be summoned. He's been promised a crime scene but unknown voices have come across the radio to stop them in their tracks while a manhunt is underway. He can only guess at who they are looking for and they sit now in the silence waiting for the all clear. Two crime scenes in one night… He can't quiet explain the inexplicable draw Leroy Jethro Gibbs has to those around him, but when the NCIS agent summons, Ducky Mallard follows. He tries to ascertain if this realization bothers him or not.
They are far from the chaos that is unlikely unfolding at this moment. Ducky Mallard has had enough of warzones. His place, coming in and investigating, cleansing the wounds and sewing closed the holes, he accepts. There was a time in his life when perhaps he would have been happy in the mêlée, but fire fights are no place for a wizened old Scot and his wet behind the ears assistant. This thought startles him and he appraises his quietly fidgeting protégé.
Perhaps wet behind the ears is not an appropriate label for James Palmer. When he first started in Ducky's lab, the young man had come on the coat-tails of disaster and had settled in surprisingly well. Gerald being a fresh wound, the bumbling yet sincere Jimmy had been a bit of a salve on his psyche, bringing a youthfulness and excitement back to the Medical Examiner position. Mr. Palmer had been through kidnappings, betrayals, attempted murder and through it all had proved to be a most loyal and adept colleague.
And, dare he say, friend.
He remembers explicitly whose hand it was holding his when he awoke in hospital so many months ago. No, wet behind the ears may have described Jimmy Palmer many years ago, but certainly not today, where they sit flirting with the edge of other people's wars. The tapping is back and Ducky's radio whines to life.
"Doctor Mallard, we need you here NOW." Again, it is not Gibbs voice that summons him, but an unknown voice and he shares a terrified glance with his assistant who starts the van without being asked. They screech through a quiet neighborhood, the evening sun casting odd and wavering shadows that come and go behind gathering storm clouds. Ducky knows he should have something to say to Palmer about his driving, but he's too busy trying to hail someone, anyone , through the radio. They remain stubbornly silent until a voice crackles through.
"Dr. Mallard, Gibb's requests you move your ass," and relays directions to their location. The ME does not have to pass this information to Palmer who is maneuvering them deftly towards a crowd of red and blue lights, a riot for dominance in motion. They are waving at him and Jimmy slams on the breaks, the seatbelt constricting on Ducky's chest almost painfully. Whatever discomfort he thinks he should be feeling is quickly forgotten and he's jumping out onto the pavement.
Someone yells his name and he's running faster than he's run in a year. Through a yard and into the back past officers and soldiers, over the river and through the entrails to a prone figure amidst a flurry of activity.
Gibbs looks to him with fear in his eyes and blood smeared on his cheek. The raw, unguarded terror he sees there is so completely out of character for Gibbs that it springs him into action immediately. Before he knows what he's done, he's pushed Jethro away, batted Ziva's hands from off of his patient and rips the shirt completely from his torso. There are trenches carved into his patient.
This body he's been given is not dead and not presented for autopsy. This specimen is alive and leaking his lifeblood into the grass. He grabs the pressure bandages someone is holding out to him and he replaces Ziva's hands to stem the flow, not sure if he's been speaking his orders or working silently. The lights are too bright, the scene is too close, too personal yet he finds himself inquiring calmly after an ambulance.
"ETA 7 minutes" someone says to his left.
"He doesn't have 7 minutes."
"Doctor," its Jimmy, holding out the paddles of the defibrillator from the back of the ME van. Rarely needed and rarely used. The thought strikes him as funny because neither is his medic field training. His hands feel unskilled as he removes his bloody fingers from a pulse point and shakily takes the paddles. He doesn't recall asking for them, but he's been working with Jimmy for so long, perhaps he didn't need to.
Plastic pads to chest, paddles to plastic, one, two, three, charged. CLEAR!
He'll never get used to the sight of the convulsion the electricity elicits from the body, but if it saves the dying man, it's worth being endured. His finger finds a pulse point again and there is faint movement under his touch. He looks to those around him and announces the pulse as a father announces a new addition to the family and is met with stares of relief. However, this is far from over, but the sirens are audible now, even over the chaos. Paramedics will swarm soon and Ducky Mallard will be relegated back to Coroner. He's okay with that. For soon he'll take on another face. He's had many faces throughout his long years, what's one more.
