The Things We Do Not Say

by mahc

This was second-nature to him, and he had no doubt that, under normal circumstances, he could out-guess, out-distance, and out-last his adversary. But the pain that pulsed in his head, the raw burning that ate through his side, the blood that trailed down his arm, hip, and thigh, and the nausea that pushed into his throat, all reminded him these were not normal circumstances.

1. One More Evening

The Things We Do not Say

by MAHC/RoxanneRolls

XXX

The things we do not say, the

thoughts we rather lock inside

our heads, and the feelings we

just keep hidden in our souls;

these are the things that

either keep us sane or drive us

to madness. - Daniel Saint

XXX

Chapter 1: One More Evening

Monday, 0135 hours

Gibbs stole almost silently over the fallen pine needles that covered the ground between the trees, his movements flickering like an Edison Kinetoscope beneath the scattered light cast by a Harvest Moon. Marine Corps training took over every step, every breath, every thought. This was second-nature to him, and he had no doubt that, under normal circumstances, he could out-guess, out-distance, and out-last his adversary.

But the pain that pulsed in his head, the raw burning that ate through his side, the blood that trailed down his arm, hip, and thigh, and the nausea that pushed up his chest into his throat, all reminded him these were not normal circumstances.

XXX

Sunday, 1630 hours (7 hours earlier)

The crispness of a Virginia afternoon in early fall welcomed NCIS Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and he embraced it. It had been a trying two weeks on a case that brought up more questions than answers by the time they had managed to put it to bed, and though it was technically closed, those dangling loose ends nagged at him. Despite Leon Vance's order that he take a weekend off so his team could shake their feet of the clinging dust of the case, he could not keep his mind from going back over the details that had not quite been resolved.

A female ensign on 24-hour shore leave was discovered tied to a birch tree by a couple hiking along the Rappahannock River, her body showing evidence of rape and mangled from torture before she was gutted with a hunting knife, according to Kasie's forensic findings. The case was chock full of coincidences, and that did not sit well with Gibbs' gut and Rule #39: There is no such thing as a coincidence. The pieces of the puzzle had fallen neatly into place – too neatly – and Vance had declared the case solved and closed.

Richard Logan, the Navy lieutenant that Gibbs pegged from the beginning, had walked when Petty Officer Sanchez, the murdered ensign's boyfriend, conveniently turned up dead, a suicide note admitting his guilt. Gibbs had a theory about Logan but no hard evidence, and that stuck in his craw.

Sighing, he shook his head and concentrated on pushing the frustrating thoughts back into the mental compartment he had established for solving puzzles. Somewhere above him, a mockingbird chattered away, showing off the versatility that gained his species its name. In the distance, water rushed over rocks that had been smoothed by the same creek for Millenia. Gibbs drew energy from the snap of the air and the calming sounds of nature. Already feeling the chill of the approaching evening, he set about chopping wood to make sure his fireplace was stocked enough to last the night. He would rise before dawn the next day to head back to D.C. and work, but he wanted one more evening listening to the chirp of cicadas, the bark of tree frogs, and the occasional hoot of a great horned owl while he lay beside the glow of a crackling fire.

He had already worked up a good sweat and just reared back to swing his axe down again when the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot cracked the air. Before he could even process that, he felt a hard punch to his lower left side, knocking him off his feet and onto the stones that lay in front of his cabin. Even in mid-air, he had the presence of mind to throw the axe away from himself to avoid a serious injury, but as he lay on his back, stunned and staring up at a fading blue sky, birds scattering in alarm, an excruciating pain erupted where he had felt the punch.

"Damn it!" he half-groaned and half-grunted, clutching at his T-shirt, already soaking red as blood welled from the hole in his side three inches below his rib cage. Reaching back, he felt a larger, ragged exit wound and was somewhat relieved to note it was a through-and-through. Still, he had to stop the bleeding before –

Another shot zinged through the air, ricocheting off the woodpile and sending a jagged splinter into his scalp just above his left temple. With blood streaming down his side and face, he scrambled up the steps and into the cabin, shoving the door closed and grabbing his own rifle from where it was perched just inside.

Falling back against a wall, he managed to prop the gun so that it pointed directly at the cabin door before sliding his right arm out of the sleeve of his flannel shirt. With as deep a breath as he could take, he set his jaw, then eased the left arm out, unable to hold back a gasp when the movement jarred his side. Gibbs' eyes stung from the salt of blood that had splattered across his face, and he took a second to wipe them with the sleeve of the shirt he had just removed. Knowing the next step would be harder, he braced his right boot against a table leg and reached with his right hand to drag up the remaining T-shirt. With a pounding head and burning gut, he blinked back the sweat that broke out across his forehead, struggling, and finally managing, to free himself.

Even though he had burned Rule 10 a year before, Gibbs had no plans ever to toss Rule 9 into the fire. While his trembling hand clutched at the knife, sawing through the cotton fabric to create rough strips for bandages, he tried to focus on hearing any outside noises – until the swirl of darkness closed in on him, even as he chanted to himself…

Do not pass out. Do not pass…out. Do not…pass…out. Do…not…pass…

TBC