Silent Misery R&R - Chapter 23 by HidingInSight
Gibbs spent the rest of Saturday in bed. Fornell didn't go home. He read the paper, watched cable news, did some laundry. He took a glass of juice upstairs every hour or so and stood by while Gibbs drank it. On the first trip, he noticed Gibbs hadn't fixed the bandage on his wrist. Without comment, Fornell got out the bandaging supplies and took care of it. They didn't speak, though Fornell couldn't have said why he knew he shouldn't. He just knew.
Fornell made chicken soup for lunch. He went upstairs to roust Gibbs and found him pretending to sleep. Fornell ignored the fake and told Gibbs lunch was ready. Gibbs didn't respond. Fornell went into the bathroom and brought out a glass of water and two pills, then poked Gibbs until he growled and sat up. Gibbs accepted the Reglan, refused the Vicodin, and rolled away from him. It was clear he didn't want to eat. Fornell let it go.
The afternoon went like the morning, only longer. Fornell watched more TV, spent some time snoozing on the couch, read most of one of the books on Gibbs' mantel, finished the laundry. He heard Gibbs get out of bed only twice. Both times, Jethro went to the bathroom and returned to the bed. By the time Gibbs' evening meds were due, Fornell figured his partner had been alone with his thoughts long enough. He went back to the bedroom intending to make Gibbs come down and eat something.
This time, Gibbs really was sleeping. Fornell stood in the doorway watching him for a few minutes. He seemed to be sleeping deeply. Fornell hated to wake him. He checked his watch: Just before 7 p.m. Fornell stepped into the room and carefully sat in the rocking chair next to the bed. Goetz had said another half hour wouldn't make that much difference. Fornell would let him sleep, at least until Gibbs sensed him and woke on his own.
Half an hour later, Gibbs still hadn't woken. Or moved. Fornell had begun to wonder if Gibbs might not have taken a sleeping pill. He went into the bathroom. The pill bottles he'd used at noon were still where he'd left them, and if memory served, the sleeping pills hadn't moved either.
Fornell figured he might as well get the meds organized while he was in here. The noise might bring Gibbs up from sleep a little easier. He prepared the wash, counted out the ARVs and returned to the room. Gibbs still hadn't moved.
"Jethro," Fornell said loudly and firmly. No threat, no surprise. Also, no response. Fornell tried again. "Wake up, Jethro."
A deep, sudden breath and Gibbs sat up hard, looking around the room.
"Jethro," Fornell said once more, softer this time. Gibbs' head jerked that way. He caught Fornell's eye and let out the breath.
"It's 7:30," Fornell said. After a few more breaths, Gibbs nodded and fell back onto the mattress. He lay there, catching his breath. Fornell returned to the bathroom and scooped up the pills, bringing them out with a glass of water. Gibbs sat up with a groan, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
"How you feeling?" Fornell had to ask. Gibbs nodded and took the ARVs and the anti-nausea med. He was getting better at it, tossing back the pills in one shot. Fornell held up the Vicodin bottle and Gibbs once again refused. Fornell withheld comment. He could see Gibbs was hurting by the deep lines on his face and the stiff way he was sitting. But he'd let that go too, for now.
"I've got the wash ready," Fornell said. When Gibbs sighed, he continued. "Only one more after this."
Gibbs nodded again and pushed to his feet with only a slight grimace. They took care of it, the procedure sadly routine by now.
"Come downstairs. I'll make dinner," Fornell said when they were done and Gibbs was once again dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt.
"No," Gibbs said and returned to the bed. Fornell looked him over.
"You have to eat," he said.
"Not tonight." Gibbs took a breath. "Why are you still here?"
Fornell shrugged. "Nothing better to do," he said.
Gibbs considered him. "You need to go home."
"Why?" Fornell asked. "Diane's got Emily this weekend. There's nothing waiting for me there."
"I want you to go home," Gibbs rephrased. "I don't need you here."
Fornell bit back his instinctive response. He heard echoes of Gibbs' request from the night he'd been so sick. Two days ago? Was that all it had been? For the same reasons now as then, Fornell's reply was measured.
"What's going on, Jethro?" he asked.
"I wanna be alone for a while."
"You've been alone all day," Fornell said.
Gibbs' expression hardened. "Go home, Tobias."
Fornell could think of a half dozen reasons why leaving wasn't a good idea. Chief among them the potential danger of leaving Gibbs unprotected in his current state with no loaded firearms in the house. Realistically, though, Fornell knew the neighborhood was relatively safe and no one specific was after Gibbs at the moment. Still, it rankled. And lead to the bigger question of why. Why was Gibbs trying to get rid of him? He sensed it was more than just Jethro's need for control, but he wasn't sure what else it could be. Fornell considered and rejected several arguments before finally speaking from the heart.
"I am home."
Gibbs stared at him, searching his face. Fornell stood for it, waiting. After a minute, a small smile twisted the corner of Gibbs' mouth.
"C'mere," he said, beckoning Fornell over. When he was close enough, Gibbs reached for him and pulled his head down. Gibbs kissed him gently on the mouth.
"Go," he said, but the hardness was gone. "I'll be fine."
"Alright," Fornell said. He straightened. "You need anything?"
"No," Gibbs said.
"Will you call me if it gets bad?" Fornell asked.
Gibbs sighed. "Yes."
"Good. Try to eat something. I'll be back in the morning."
**NCIS**NCIS**NCIS**
Though he briefly considered spending the night in his car outside Jethro's house, Fornell decided to just go home. Jethro would be alright, security-wise anyway. And Fornell believed Gibbs when he said he'd call.
The drive between Gibbs' house and Fornell's was a little less than 20 minutes without traffic. Not that that ever happened. On a Saturday evening, traffic around the District was heavy with tourists and locals looking for "the" place to be for the night. It took nearly 45 minutes to pull into his driveway.
First thing he did was remove the bagged rope from his coat pocket. He'd have to log it into evidence, the sooner the better. But for now, he'd secure it here. A small safe was anchored to the floor inside the front closet, and Fornell put it inside before hanging up his coat.
His next stop was in the kitchen. He pulled out a glass, reached into a high cupboard, and took down a bottle of Gentleman Jack. For a moment, he stared at the amber liquid. He ran his thumb over the engraved signature on the bottle, considering. With a small nod, he unscrewed the cap and splashed two fingers' worth into the glass. He put the bottle down and threw back the whiskey in two swallows. He cringed a little as it burned.
Tobias poured another shot and wandered deeper into the house without turning on any lights. The sun had set on his way home, but he didn't need light to get around. He had lived in the one-story ranch-style house in a newer suburban neighborhood a little less than five years, having bought it new after splitting up with Diane. He wanted someplace Emily could call home when she stayed with him. It was three bedrooms, two baths laid out in an "L" shape with a small backyard in the crook of the house. The entryway spilled immediately into a modern great room, the kitchen separated out by a granite counter top. His bedroom was at the back of house, Emily's was at the front. With Jethro's help, he'd turned the bedroom in the middle into a library with floor to ceiling, wall to wall shelves. It was his favorite place in the house. Jethro had his basement and his tools; Tobias had more than 2,000 books he'd collected over the years.
Tobias turned into the library and sat in the easy chair in one corner. There was a lamp on an end table next to the chair. He pulled the chain to turn it on and sipped at the whiskey. Most of the nights he ended up at his house alone, Tobias spent a little time watching television or sitting in the library – reading or not – and went to bed. He saved his chores for the weekends, when he had weekends.
Over the past few months, he'd spent far more nights at Jethro's house than here. Fact of the matter was that Jethro rarely came over. He preferred the dark comfort of his old house to the modern newness of Tobias'. Occasionally they shared an evening here, but it was rare. So his routine was pretty set: hang up his coat, take off his shoes, secure his sidearm, turn on the heat or the air conditioning, grab a snack – or a drink – and pick a place to wind down.
Tonight, Tobias felt a little… lost. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with Jethro. To hold him, comfort him, protect him. To keep his own mind focused on Jethro's recovery instead of on what had happened to him. What had been done to him. To them. The pain Jethro had endured, was still enduring. The brutality. The indignity…
Tobias slammed the glass down on the end table with a yell. It exploded, alcohol spilling out over his hand. He hardly felt the sting as the thick glass cut his hand and the alcohol flowed into the wounds. He lurched to his feet and took two steps forward to a row of hardbacks resting between carved wooden bookends atop the half shelves that divided the room. He grabbed one of the bookends and threw it, hard. Screaming out his rage, he used one arm to sweep the books to the rug. It wasn't enough. He pulled at the free-standing shelf unit and toppled it, dozens of DVDs and old VHS tapes spilling out in a wave. Tobias kicked the unit, hard, cracking the thin backing.
Tears blinding him and his cries getting louder, Tobias pulled over the next small shelf, scattering the media across the carpet with a crash. He stepped over the mess, slipping a bit on the slide of DVDs, and dragged another row of books to the floor. A row of service awards was his next target. The brass and stone clattered.
Nothing was safe from Tobias' rage. Books, trinkets, mementos and memories flew across the room and piled on the floor. When the shelves were empty, Tobias tried to pull over one of the tall shelves. It wouldn't budge. He yanked, pulled and tore at it, finally collapsing in defeat atop a pile of books. He lay there, wordless cries tearing out of his chest.
It took ten minutes or more for the rage to finally abate. Spent, Tobias lay on the floor catching his breath. He'd been holding it in for five days. For five long days, he'd dealt with Jethro's pain without letting any of his own show. Tonight, it had escaped. He wasn't surprised. He was actually surprised it had taken this long.
Tobias used the heels of his hands to wipe at his eyes. Noticing the sting now, he looked at his hands: the right featured four or five small cuts, still bleeding slightly. He glanced around himself, shook his head slightly at the mess, and closed his eyes again.
His ringing cell broke the silence. Tobias fumbled for it and looked at the display. Not Jethro. An unfamiliar number in Silver Springs. He considered not answering it, but finally did on the last ring.
"Fornell," he choked out, and cleared his throat.
"Agent Fornell, I think I found him." It was McGee.
"Who?" Fornell asked.
"Alejandro's boss," McGee replied.
It took a second for that to penetrate. When it did, when Fornell realized the kid was talking about the bastard who was responsible for all of this, he stiffened.
"You know where he is?" Fornell demanded.
"I know who he is, and I know where he might be tonight," McGee said firmly.
"Where are you?" Fornell asked. He struggled to get to his feet amid the piles of books.
"At home," McGee replied.
"Meet me at the Navy Yard," Fornell said.
"Now?" McGee asked.
"Now," Fornell answered.
"Okay. Should I call Gibbs?"
"No. I'll take care of it." He hung up. Fornell looked around himself and sighed at the damage he'd done. It was going to take him hours to put things back to rights. He certainly didn't have time to do it now.
Fornell quickly moved through to his bathroom. He popped open his first aid kit. Not bothering to apply disinfectant – the alcohol had undoubtedly taken care of that – he wrapped his hand in gauze and tape.
Pausing only a moment to consider the effect of the alcohol he'd consumed, Fornell grabbed his coat and hurried back outside. If it affected him at all, it'd take longer than the drive to the Navy Yard. If necessary, McGee could take over front there.
McGee's news had… not exactly eliminated his rage; more like supplanted it. The idea that they might get their hands on that bastard tonight made hope bubble up. He still wasn't sure he wouldn't kill the skell on sight. But he thought maybe letting Jethro confront him face to face might be just what his partner needed to banish the ghosts that kept knocking him for a loop. Not to mention kick his recovery into high gear. It was reason to hope.
**NCIS**NCIS**NCIS**
Fornell beat McGee to the Navy Yard. His federal credentials got him through the gate. An access code that hadn't been changed in a decade got him into the building. He sat behind Jethro's desk in the dimmed room and waited impatiently. He thought about calling his love, just to see how he was doing, but decided against it. Jethro had said he'd call if he needed anything.
McGee showed up 10 minutes later.
"Show me what you got," Fornell said before McGee could take his seat.
"Where's Gibbs?" McGee asked. He shed his coat and jiggled the mouse to wake up his computer.
"He's not coming. What did you find?"
McGee looked over at him and frowned. "Not coming? Did you call him?" Fornell saw him notice the bandage on his hand, but the younger agent didn't ask.
"He's sick," Fornell said.
"He said we're not supposed to move on this without him," McGee reminded him.
"Things change, McGee. From what you've seen the last few days, you really think he's ready to be on the street?"
McGee paused, considered that, and gave a small nod of acceptance.
Bringing a picture up the plasma, McGee briefed Fornell on what he'd found. It took six minutes. It was good. Not water-tight, but still good. Alejandro's boss – the apparent head of the loan shark operation, the man who'd raped Gibbs – was a 56-year-old Paraguayan named Rafael Montero. He had a long rap sheet, though nothing in the last ten years. McGee had discovered multiple real estate holdings, including a house in North Bethesda and a popular restaurant in the District. He was known to have dinner at the restaurant most Saturday nights, usually with one or more of his lieutenants. Odds were better than even that he'd be there tonight. Might even be there now. Fornell stared at the mug shot of the bastard, committing it to memory.
"Alright, let's go find him," Fornell said.
"Um, alone?" McGee asked.
For a minute, Fornell considered it. But Jethro's voice in the back of his mind stopped him. He shook his head. "Gibbs would kill us both. We need to put eyes on him first. Then, I'll bring in a team and take him down."
**NCIS**NCIS**NCIS**
...to be continued...