Title: Gold Dust
Author: Revanche
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB. Bradbury wrote "The Concrete Mixer."
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: "Twilight."
Feedback: Welcomed and treasured.
Notes: Everybody and their brother. Yeah, I know.
Tony considers the future.
xxxxx
It's twilight, calm and hushed, and it will be night, soon. He can't wait. This past week has consisted of nothing but daylight, sleepless and stabbing him in the eyes, a constant headache and dizziness, the sense of unreality, of something about to break through, to crash in. Like a sudden death, except that's what caused this, and maybe he's just waiting to wake up. For real life to resume.
He wonders what Gibbs is thinking. Maybe nothing at all. There's a lot that can be thought about nothing, a lot that can be said, and he's spent the past week relearning this. He wonders if Gibbs has any tips, any hints for surviving the loss of a partner. A brother in arms, but never, ever one of the guys. Does it ever get any easier? Is the impact lessened with each body?
Maybe for some people, he decides, but not for Gibbs. Not for him, either. Each one's like the first time, and he wonders how long it will take to start moving again, for this freeze-frame sensation to wear off. For him to really start tasting things again, and for him to start seeing more than the details. More than just the gleam of red in the balloon drifting high in the pale sky, more than the minute trembling in Gibbs' fingers as he realizes that he can't make the shot from here, more than the terrible richness spattered across his own skin. A sick, sick baptism, he thinks, and he remembers something from an old kid story, treehouses and already good at avoiding. Bradbury, he thinks, paper worn thin and fading.
Baptism. Is it like being shot?
And the answer, he thinks, is yes. So now he knows, and what's he going to do with this knowledge? He's already said Mary Mother, so many times, enough to make up for his not being Catholic. He'd go to his knees if it would make this end. He'd go to her gravesite, kiss the stone like they're in fucking Ireland, if that would help. He'd cry again, if that would make a difference. But he knows it won't, and there's no point in going through these meaningless rituals. She won't even know.
So now Gibbs is working on his boat, silent and thousands of miles away and probably completely unaware of the blood, his own blood, on his hands, and Tony's here, watching him from the stairs and trying not to remember asking him if he locks his door, a long time ago, right after all of this started. Because there wouldn't be a point, and regrets, he knows, are futile. Carpe diem and all.
And McGee's with Abby, somewhere else, and who knows where the hell Ducky is, and what it really comes down to is that they're apart. They're a team, but haven't there always been divisions, always been cracks and faultlines, waiting to split? And now they've split and this is what's left. Not that tomorrow won't bring brighter things, but --
But right now, he highly doubts it. It's been a really bad winter, he thinks. Starting maybe with Jeffrey, and the not-entirely-accidental death of the ensign at her hands, and then they almost lost Ducky and even Paraguay didn't live up to expectations. WHFS went off the air and now people are dead, she's dead, and he can honestly say that he didn't see it coming. Maybe if it had been a movie, if he'd sat back and watched them all in wide-screen, waited for the all-too-predictable angles and the hell-breaking-loose dialogue. Maybe then he could have planned. But instead all she got was a thirty-second stay of execution, and all he can say was that she didn't know what hit her.
It doesn't help. She's still gone and they're still here, and what exactly do they do next, anyway?
There are things he knows.
It's summer. Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, this meant freedom. Last year, it meant freedom.
It's Tuesday, which means that she's been dead for exactly one week and four hours.
She's gone, and she's not coming back.
There are things he knows, and none of them really matter.
"Don't," Gibbs says.
"Don't what?"
"We'll find him." Spoken over the grating of sandpaper over already-smooth wood.
"Yeah." Nothing else to say. He knows that they will. Him, too, this time. Not just Gibbs.
"He'll pay." Because this is about vengeance, too, but there's nothing they can do that will bring her back, will make it the same, make it the way it was. They can't put a bullet through his head, right through the center of his forehead, say a few words and watch breath flood back into her body, color back into her skin. It doesn't work that way.
"It won't bring her back."
"He. Will. Pay."
"And then what? We'll go back to work? Pretend that all of this never happened? Even the score and forget about the game?"
"What the hell do you think, Tony? What are our choices? What do you want to do?" He's not yelling, but Tony wishes that he were. "What else is there?" Because this is almost weakness and so unlike Gibbs. So unlike him.
But they're all feeling a little different, these days.
So he nods, slowly, and tries to ignore the burning in his throat. "It won't be the same, though." Because even though Gibbs has recalled his resignation, even though they've still got an office and desks and weapons, there's still going to be an empty seat. There's still going to be a hole, an empty place, a pause in every conversation.
Because, even though it's not official, they're out.
And he doesn't say this, because he doesn't need to. He tries to smile and fails miserably, but it's sort of dark so maybe it doesn't matter. He thinks that he would really like to go insane, to snap, to escape from all of this, just for a little while. But there's no way, and that's not real life, and this is.
"So," he says. "What are we gonna do now, boss?"
And it's quiet for a very long time, and night falls very, very slowly.
xxxxx
The End