Chapter Twenty-Six: Us and our Goodbyes
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McGee's desk is stagnant, an island of calm in the bustle of the bullpen. Gibbs watches it from his post at his reclaimed desk. A jacket hung thoughtlessly over the back of the chair, waiting for rushed hands to scoop it up. A couple of tattered post-its hang off the monitor, waiting for McGee to return to attend to the tasks listed.
Fortunately, they have that option now.
Gibbs closes his eyes for a moment, remembering that split-second of overwhelming anticipation and relief when Tim had drawn a long, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Sarah had flung herself over him, wrapping her arms around her brother and holding him as close as if she intended to never let go. Tony and Ziva had been right there, clapping him on the back and jovially pretending that they hadn't been out of their minds with fear. Ducky and Abby were too exhausted to celebrate, merely grinning blankly up at him from their seats on the floor, a grief-stricken Palmer curled up next to Abby mourning his hound. Gibbs understands that pain. It's one thing to lose a friend; another to send a friend into danger knowing the risks, and having that friend fail to return.
The Admiral Magus had kept his distance, watching the proceedings with heavily hooded eyes, expression tired but detached. Gibbs had stood next to him. "You will endeavour to keep him in one piece this time?" the Magus had asked.
Gibbs had huffed. "Always been my intention. You should stay. He almost died. Good time to heal old wounds." He'd paused, knowing he was overstepping the mark. "He might want a father in his life."
The only sign of emotion on the man's face had been a bristle of his moustache. "'We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us'," he'd quoted, rubbing his fingers thoughtfully on his robe. "No, Agent Gibbs. I think you'll find that bridge well and truly burnt. He already has a father in his life, I hold no part in it anymore."
And he'd left, just as swiftly as he had arrived.
Movement to his side brings him back to himself as Tony saunters past, eyes flickering around the room with a slow contemplation that sends a cold tingle of warning down Gibbs' spine. Tony's barely spoken a word to him besides what's needed for work in the week since he'd returned, but more than once Gibbs has looked up to feel the burn of his regard locked on him. He's a man coming to a decision. Gibbs wonders if they can live with the outcome.
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Tony walks into the director's office and finds her holding a carefully typed report with an intrigued expression on her face. "Necromancy has one weakness, do you know what it is, Agent DiNozzo?" she asks him as he enters, waving a hand to indicate closing the door. He does so and stands in front of her desk, posture ready.
"No, ma'am."
"Contact. It's blood magic. A lot of what it does requires prolonged physical contact. Which, as you can imagine, would be rather difficult when faced with an angry Mossad assassin."
"Or a pissed off werewolf."
She laughs, putting the report down. "Indeed. Which was the final fate of the last of our little necromancy ring in the end. Taken out by one Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Conveniently, enough evidence on his body to also nail him for the murder of Charles Sterling and draw the attention of interested parties away from NCIS."
"Better men have died at the same teeth."
His voice is a monotone, and he can tell that she's watching him with considerable interest at this point. "You're not here to ask about the loose ends of your last case, are you?" she asks.
He meets her gaze without flinching. "You once offered me a chance to be out from under his shadow. Is that offer still open?"
She's silent, examining him carefully for any sign of hesitation or anger on his part. One sign that he's doing this out of spite, and he knows she'll refuse him the op. "Why now?" she asks instead, unlocking a drawer and pulling out the folder that's begun to haunt his dreams, sliding it across the desk to him.
"I've learned a lot from Agent Gibbs, more than I could have learned anywhere else," he tells her. "The last thing he taught me is knowing when it's time to move on."
"And now?"
He grins, showing his fangs in an easy leer. Tony DiNozzo wouldn't have dared to be so disrespectful to the director, but that isn't who she wants. She wants the Tony DiNozzo his father had tried to make of him. "It seems about the right time for the prodigal son to return to the fold."
He flicks the folder open and stares down into his sire's eyes.
Time to go home.
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Abby turns on the lights to her lab and almost jumps a mile when Gibbs' profile is illuminated by the sudden brightness. "Gibbs!" she yelps, still not used to his sudden return. "What's happened? Has something happened to Tim? Is he okay? Are you okay? Oh gods, you're not leaving again are you? I'm running out of blu-tac…"
He stands, taking her free hand and raising an eyebrow at her in the 'calm down Abby' expression she's missed so goddamn much. "Alright, Abs?" he asks in his steady, gruff voice. There's a hint of reproof in his tone, and her heart sinks when she realises he's come down for that talk. She'd known this was coming eventually.
"I know it doesn't make it at all better, what I did, but I just want you to know that I did it to find you," she admits, looking down at her boots as her vision begins to waver. "Do you know what it was like to almost lose you, Gibbs?"
He wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a hug, smelling like wolf and sawdust and Gibbs. She was right—Tony isn't anywhere near as good a hugger as Gibbs is. "I think I got some small inkling," he says tautly, and she remembers the lost look in his eyes when faced with the prospect of Timmy's death. "You saved Tim's life, Abby. I think that makes up for this."
"Does it?" She really is crying now; horrible, wet, sloppy tears that make her nose red and eyelashes clumpy.
He brushes his lips against her cheek. "Yeah. So long as you don't do it again. Ever."
She thinks of the slow way Timmy speaks since his return, the way he struggles to reach for words and thoughts that once would have come easily to him; the cane that Ducky has used since that night that he leans heavily on as he walks; the pallor of grief over Jimmy's shoulders as weeks pass without Echo's return. "I won't," she promises. "We've suffered enough from it."
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Echo's bed is empty, and Jimmy can't walk past it without feeling remorseful. On the fifth day, he put her bowls away, unable to stand the cheerfully painted letters of her name staring accusingly at him anymore. Even his rats fail to lift his spirits, their desperate attempts to clear the melancholy in the apartment by doing increasingly complex acrobatics shattered every time he glances over at them unexpectedly and finds them glumly looking down at her empty bed.
He'd do it again in a heartbeat, and that's the worst part.
Abby lets herself in after a week and a half, and Jimmy isn't sure how he feels when McGee follows her, his eyes instantly finding the dusty basket. Abby ignores him, moving straight over to it and placing an unlit candle in the centre. "In case she comes back," she says firmly.
McGee sits next to him and Jimmy can feel his misery emanating off of him, the knowledge that he's the cause of her loss. "She'd do it again in a heartbeat," Jimmy tells McGee, echoing his earlier thoughts.
"I know," McGee carefully states. "Thank you."
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For the first time in his very, very long life, Donald Mallard feels his age. He climbs out of his car wearily, the weight of his centuries resting heavily on his shoulders, and grips with a shaking hand the blasted cane that has become his constant companion. Nothing he hadn't expected, what with the momentous spell casting he'd participated in, and certainly better that he bore the brunt of it than young Abigail. After all, had it gone terribly wrong, he had enjoyed quite enough of those centuries to go peacefully onto the next world. Abby still has all of her life left to her and, now, thanks to them both, so does Timothy. Not that he isn't glad that he had survived the resurrection of Timothy. There is a concert next month that he's greatly looking forward to, especially if he can coax Jethro along. The man needs some culture, and not the kind found in a basement.
"Nice stick, Duck," the man in question comments, coming up silently alongside him. "Didn't know you were coming today."
Ducky takes a deep breath and observes the gathered crowd with a careful eye. He can pick out the ones who have come to gawk as easily as he can see the ones who had been directly affected. Not that it matters in the end. They're all here to reminisce. "Get the flowers from the car, Jethro, there's a lad," he instructs him, holding back a smile as he jumps to do his bidding. It's a comfort to see him acting so normally once more. "Let us go pay our respects to those who have fallen."
"The Dead Men who never left those pits," Gibbs comments, keeping pace with him as they hobble slowly to the statue erected in memory of those who had never escaped the slavers. A man standing above a winged horse laid down, delicately sculpted wings mantled against its back. At first glance, the man is threatening. It looks as though he is binding the horse with chains, the horse's head thrown back in terror.
Up close, Ducky can see that there isn't fear in the curve of the equine neck, but trust, and the man's hands hold broken chains to be cast aside. This is no imprisonment; instead, a liberation. Under them are the names of those lost, endless lists that cover the entirety of the podium. His heart sinks as he noted names such as 'young boy with brown eyes and blonde hair' or 'female Canis mesomelas therian with one brown ear, one black'. Many had died without names, their identities taken from them. Gibbs steps up beside him and reaches out to run a considerate finger along the carved 'Zach Tanner, Canis familaris therian, aged 6'.
"Too young," says a female behind them, a grating quality to her voice that Ducky recognises as the one Gibbs himself had carried upon first being rescued. A voice unused to being used. They turn and there's a woman behind them, her two children clinging warily to her despite looking about eleven and thirteen respectively. Children long devoid of their mother, frantic to have her home.
"Is there an age when it becomes right to die?" Gibbs responds. Ducky's breath is taken away by the pain in his gaze when he looks at her. There's iron scarring around her neck, and a wolf in her eyes. She nods to them, laying a single flower down and walking away without looking back once.
"Friend of yours?" he asks when she's out of earshot.
"Victim," Gibbs says heavily, and that's the last they speak of it.
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Tim finds that everyday more and more of himself returns from the foggy place he'd fallen into. Eventually, he feels confident enough to venture from his home where he's been hiding with Sarah to fuss over him, sure that he can manage a trip to the supermarket without stumbling over his words and fumbling for thoughts that slip away from him like smoke. He even goes into work one day, intending to see if there's any paperwork he can do while on prolonged leave, exchanging confident greetings with the security guard as they let him into the building. The bullpen is empty, his teammates out on a case probably, and he takes his time over his computer, delighting in being back in the workplace. Finally, he prints out what he'd wants and goes to leave a sheet on Gibbs desk awaiting his signature.
Except, there's something already there.
Tim picks up the credentials that sit atop the gun and flicks them open to find Tony's face grinning back at him, and his heart sinks.
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Tony had not listened to her when she had told him to get better locks. The ones on his door have been picked multiple times before and give way easily under her tools. She is a little miffed to open the door and find Tim standing motionless in the passage. He could have at least let her in if he had heard her scrabbling about at the lock. Although, judging by the distant expression on his profile, he has not even noticed her.
"McGee?" she calls, edging around him, and sucking in a shocked breath at the sight that awaits her.
"You know, he left every other job after two years," Tim states, voice echoing endlessly in the empty apartment. "Guess he got packing up in a hurry down to a fine art."
There is not even a whiff of Tony in the apartment, the carpets freshly cleaned and the walls washed down. Even Abby would be hard pressed to find any trace that Anthony DiNozzo had ever even set foot into this building.
Except for two items on the counter.
Ziva pads across the damp carpets and picks one of those items up, a battered volume of nursery rhymes. When she flips it open, the title page has a rough 'Kelly Gibbs' scribed crookedly across it. Tim follows her and touches the tiny muzzle of a finely hand-carved wolf with one finger.
"What are these?" Ziva asks him, curious as to why they had been left behind when he has taken everything else.
Tim swallows and picks up the wolf, cupping it as though it is precious. "Memories."
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Fornell scents him first, but only because he is the only one there attuned to the man. Ignoring the soft calls of those wolves unsure about this scarred stranger approaching them, he lopes out of the bustle of the pack with his tongue lolling and tail held at a friendly height. "Long time since you last blessed us with your presence," he sends cautiously to his old friend, unsure as to why the man has finally chosen to return.
Gibbs looks about at the milling wolves with something akin to longing in his eyes. "Long time since I ran with anyone," he admits, the ghosts of Shannon and Kelly still haunting him. He'd left the pack after their death and hadn't returned.
"Run with me?" Fornell offers to him. "See if Mexico slowed you down at all."
Gibbs barks a laugh as he bounds after him, keeping pace easily despite the deep scarring on his flanks and neck. "You think there's any chance of slowing down running after Franks? The man doesn't know the meaning of retirement." Fornell doesn't answer, sensing a lost loneliness in the other wolf that hadn't been there in years. There's no point in prying, Gibbs will tell him when he's ready and not before. And, finally, he says, "DiNozzo's gone," with his tone carefully controlled. They scent a buck on the wind and turn as one, slowing their pace to travel silently. "Handed in his badge and gun and left without a word. House empty. Cell disconnected."
"And you let him go?"
"Didn't really get given a choice, Tobias. He waited until I wasn't there to pull this stunt."
Fornell snorts, rolling his eyes. "He'll come back. Give him time. You came back in the end."
Gibbs slows to almost a stop, considering and starts to nod, before snapping his head around as they both become aware that they're not alone. Fornell's mouth gapes open when the dragon steps out from the trees, long, brightly-scaled body seemingly impossible to miss, and yet they'd run practically under it. The beast is taller than they are, cobalt blue and peering down at them over a haughty muzzle with slitted reptilian eyes.
"Wolf Leroy?" it sends, voice old and booming in their heads. Fornell shakes his head to try and clear his brain of the echoes of the loud call. Gibbs doesn't move as the dragon lowers its long head to peer intently at him. "You are the wolf Leroy?"
"Yes."
It nods and trills, a long note that makes Fornell's teeth tingle. "I was sent to give you my son's regards, and this." Delicate talons reach out, depositing a small bag on the floor in front of them. "Some of his scales. I believe that humans will pay rather a high price for them, if you are inclined to sell. They are willingly given, so you needn't worry about being cursed. Or, if you so wish, you may keep them and if you ever find yourself in need, you can use them as tokens to request our aid. Our family is indebted to you for your services to our son."
Gibbs is staring at the bag as though he doesn't understand, tail and ears low and muzzle furrowed in confusion. Fornell stays back, wisely deciding to avoid antagonising the giant, magical lizard.
"Your son died," Gibbs says slowly, haltingly. "I didn't… I couldn't save him."
Another lilting noise, this time laughter with a hint of bells. "Hardly. Do you think it beyond us to create the illusion of his death? Your acts sent the rats scurrying from their holes with our son as their captive and flushed them straight towards us in their panic. He is alive, and recuperating. And much less likely to wander away from our homelands again."
Gibbs doesn't answer, seemingly frozen with shock, so Fornell awkwardly steps forward, flinching when the dragon's regard turns to him. "Thank you, sir," he says, gratitude infusing his voice. "You do my brother a great honour."
Its eyes flicker with a multitude of colours. "Ma'am, I believe is the correct term of respect," it corrects. "I am female, or so far as your kind understands it. But I have completed my purpose here, and wish to be home. Farewell, brother wolves."
She flickers, form shifting and wings slowly opening from where they'd been almost invisible against her back. Fornell is struck anew by the beauty of the creature as she takes to the air, colours shifting endlessly as she melds into the scenery.
Gibbs startles to life. "Wait!" he barks, bounding forward a few steps. "Your son's name, what's his name?"
There's a distant whistle of laughter. Apparently, dragons find everything very humorous. "We named him Skysong as a child but, as is the custom of our people, after suffering great hardship he was allowed to choose his own adult name."
"What is it?"
"Wolfwind."
There's long silence as the sound of her wings fades, before Fornell finally shakes himself awake and turns to his old friend. He can hear the calls of his pack on the wind. "Coming home?" he asks.
Gibbs hesitates, then turns to follow. "Yes."