Mike was a lightweight, despite his talk.

It didn't particularly surprise me.

It was maybe an hour after dinner that we found ourselves out on the beach. There was already a preset area a few yards to the left of the house. The towels were weighted by stones on each corner, half covered in sand from all the damn wind. There was a pile of burnt wood that Gibbs quickly worked into a fire, as I dusted off the towels. Mike had appeared with more beers, which I had refused.

My headache had now calmed to a soft pulsing bruise in my skull. I did not wish to make it worse.

I sipped water from a bottle Gibbs had brought instead.

And Mike started talking.

After a while, it became clear that the mustached man had planned out a good and proper list of embarrassing 'probie' stories for this fireside chat. Starting day jitters, a fall into a pool during a chase, a sea of women that a bright eyed bushy tailed junior agent Gibbs had greatly offended in dive bars. As he drank more, his usual hand motions with speech turned into arm motions. Beer split in the sand and soon, he was standing up and gesturing wildly. His Corona was a gun, his Corona was a woman, his Corona was a whiskey at a bar in New York.

His hair didn't help his image. It flew far away from his forehead, at points looking like bird wings. His shirt had long since been untucked and his shoes were next to the towel he was once sitting on.

Across from him, Gibbs didn't protest any of the stories. He added to them.

Not with the bird gestures his friend did, but with smirks and smiles. Most of his comments were insulting to Mike, which led to a mid story banter off.

Mike was a filthy old dog and Gibbs was a shy hermit when he was younger, seemed to be the basic summary.

There was a light ringing and suddenly, Mike began very focused on reaching into his pocket. The sound was artificial, which sounded odd next to the crashing of waves that had been the background hum for however long we had been there. Out of his pocket came out a black beat up thing. A pager, I realized.

"One sec, yeah?" He half slurred. He swayed rather than walked towards the house.

My concern showed on my face since Gibbs then reached over and poked my right shoulder with his beer bottle. "He'll be fine."

I had been sitting to Gibb's left, the only person in the strange triangle facing the ocean. I had been hugging my knees to my chest, not out of cold but out of habit. I let my arms down and stretched out my legs for the first time in hours. I let out a small huff of satisfaction and my knees crack. I don't even mind the sand in my toes.

"You sure?"

A short laugh. "Oh yeah."

Silence.

It felt awkward, only because I knew Mike is not coming back anytime soon. Other than his general alcohol blood level, he had asked several times, rather drunkenly if he needed to 'step aside' for the night. I had choked on my water the first time and Gibbs had puffed out a "Jesus, Mike."

I half would bet money the pager ring was scripted.

Not that I would have this debate with Gibbs.

Instead, I looked out to the ocean and tried to ignore my stomach doing backflips.

I had promised Abby I would try. Try to talk…'sense' into Gibbs.

"He's just being stubborn and angry Gibbs, and I get it, and he made a stand and - " I was in Abby's apartment building, watching her pace back and forth in front of the elevator as we waited for it. Her jewelry jingled usually, but it was heavily intensified as whenever she paced. Her black platforms squeaked under the stomping stress and once again, I wondered how often she replaced their soles.

Her ponytail whipped around as she turned to look at me. "Am I crazy?"

I had opened my mouth to reply but she started pacing again. "No, I'm not crazy. I am just a concerned, loving friend that wants the best for-"

"You here?"

I blinked before turning to look at Gibbs. He was no longer wearing a visor, since it was in fact night. The glow of the fire made his hair look shorter than it actually was.

His eyes were always the same though. A guarded concern of sorts.

My eyes narrowed and I bit on my bottom lip, dragging my front teeth back into my mouth slowly. A bad habit.

"What is it?"

It was probably a tell he knew. Or something.

"I'm supposed to make you come back."

His eyes didn't change for a second. Then he turned to set down his beer bottle. He had been sitting, as manly as ever, on his towel, one knee bent to balance his hand holding his drink.

After he set it down, he went to lying straight on his back, hands loosely gathered on his chest. He turned his head a tad towards me. There was a brief moment of more concerned eye contact before he turned to look up at the sky.

My gaze turned to the fire.

"Supposed to, huh? They paying you or something?"

My cheeks threatened to pull into a smile and I had to think about it to make it stop.

"Well?" He asked after a while.

"Well no." I stated, almostly guiltily.

"So you are not supposed to do anything. Do what you want."

I looked back at him, or rather his hands. They were more worn than I had ever seen them, probably from yard work, based on Mike's tales. They rose and fell with his chest as he breathed rather leisurely. I was having trouble with my lungs in the meanwhile.

"You're happy here." I said it like a statement. Testing.

"There's alcohol and woodwork."

As if that answered the question.

"You don't miss anything from DC then?"

He chuckled, and I watched his knuckles jiggle from the motion. "I miss things, yeah."

I waited.

"You're going to make me say it?"

"Yes," I replied rather firmly.

A breath. "I miss the team - I miss everybody. I miss...my front door, I miss Nancy, I miss you, I miss decent coffee." He paused before adding, "And decent haircuts."

He finally turned his head and I looked up from his hands to see his eyes.

They were stern, harsh even. "But I'm not going back."

AN: What is writing dialogue, how does one write the dialogues