Battlefield – chapter 2: Fire

Even more than caffeine, Gibbs needed a cigarette. He could almost smell the warm phosphorus scent wafting from the freshly lit match head and taste that first sweet draught. Smoking: a legacy of the hurry-up-and-wait world of war where nobody waited without a cigarette in their mouth. The armed forces were not an occupational health and safety stronghold. It was difficult to convince a Marine platoon staked out on the front line awaiting their next melee, that the main factor in shortening their lifespan was the cigarettes.

Now McGee was in surgery, Ziva and Tony were fending off investigators back at the crash site and Gibbs was …..in purgatory: sitting in the barren hospital corridor and waiting. He examined the back of his gnarled, weathered hands. They were shaking: he needed more coffee. He stood up into an on coming doctor.

"You Gibbs?"

"Yeah."

"Your man's in recovery."

"And?"

The doctor ran an exhausted hand through his hair. "He's skirted back injury but his neck took a bit of damage. One of his ribs punctured a lung but we've got that under control. We've splinted the arm and tied off every bleeder we can find. He's lost a lot of blood, there's probably going to be concussion..." he petered out as he caught Gibb's blank expression. He changed tack. "Next twenty-four hours are critical; we'll know more after that."

"Why couldn't you just say that?" Gibbs hand rose menacingly behind the doctor's head but he was distracted by a familiar voice interrogating an orderly on the technical aspects of performing surgery.

He looked around the doctor and caught sight of a bed being wheeled down the corridor. Barely recognisable under a mound of bandages and sheets was McGee, talking as if his life depended on it. Under similar circumstances, Tony would have been joking or flirting with the nurses but not McGee. His attempt to convince the world and himself that he was fine manifested itself as data flow and analysis – asking questions, making deductions. All at a pace that would make Abby's head spin.

Gibbs waited for the bed to pass then followed it down the corridor, leaving the doctor in his wake. The nurse stopped him at the room's door. "Just give us a minute."

Then the door opened and Gibbs stuck his head in. The smell was the first thing that hit him –the pretence that all was clean and healthy. Then the ominous hum of electrical equipment coupled with the unnerving silence of McGee's unnatural sleep. He wondered lightly how they had managed to shut him up so conclusively so abruptly, and if he could get some for DiNozzo.

McGee's injuries were well hidden by the criss-cross pattern of bandages that covered ribs and chest. The swelling on his forehead seemed smaller than he last remembered and the gash now sported a neat hedge of stitches. The face, however, was grey and puffy: a reminder that all was not well.

Gibbs eased himself into the single chair and ran his eyes down the full length of the bed. Somehow he had forgotten how large McGee was. In the early days, he was like a naive child rattling about in a man's body, as loosely fitting as his clothes. Over time, he had grown into himself and suddenly, almost overnight, he was a mature agent.

Regardless of popular opinion, it was not the double degree or computing expertise that had convinced Gibbs to include McGee in his team: it was his tenacious character. Gibbs had seen a young man who would not back down. Sure he would stammer and blink obsessively under stress but even when he himself was at McGee's throat during the dark Ari times, he did what had to be done, regardless of personal consequences. McGee was man of conviction, a man with fire in his soul. It was that passion and determination that would see him through the next twenty-four hours.

Gibbs looked up suddenly as the door opened and Ziva and Tony walked in. There was an awkward silence which he initially took as accusatory until he realised it was more complicity. They too felt the guilt. "He'll be OK," Gibbs assured them.

The tension melted and Tony's face broke into its native grin. "Of course he will: it's Probie!"

Gibbs smiled gruffly. "What took you so long?"

"It took me a while to convince Leon that the accident was not my fault," Ziva explained.

"Leon?"

"The tow-truck driver, Boss," Tony cut in. "They're on first name terms, probably exchange Christmas cards."

Ziva punched him on the shoulder.

"Hanukah cards?"

Gibbs felt himself relax: any banter was a good sign. The team was closing up around the gaping wound.

Then the door opened again and he stiffened abruptly as he met Abby's steely glare. He rose from his chair as the guilt bit deep. In all the years he'd know her there was only one person she had immediately and unreservedly welcomed into her laboratory playground: McGee. They had fallen into step the moment they met, with no apparent effort on either part. Sure they had slept together for a short while but Abby's bedfellows were as fluid as Gibbs' wives, no Abby and McGee shared a special bond: two completely opposite halves of the same entity.

McGee would forgive them all in a heartbeat, Abby's forgiveness was not so easily won.

Gibbs ached as Abby sought no comforting hug, just information. "What happened?"

"Car accident, no one saw it coming."

They watched in silence as Abby took in the scene. She seemed overwhelmed by the severity of the situation. A couple of faltering steps and she turned tearfully to Gibbs. "He's going to be OK, right?"

"Yeah."

She turned to him and buried her head in his shoulder. Gibbs held tight. She needed him and he needed to be needed. Abby pulled away took up vigil with Tony and Ziva.

Gibbs suddenly felt old and out of place. "I'm going for some fresh air," he announced gruffly.

On the bench outside the hospital main building, Gibbs savoured the sweet tobacco scent of the unlit donated cigarette and stroked the smooth fresh paper between his fingers. He lit the match and held it to the cigarette until it absorbed the flame. Then he watched the fire as it burned brightly down the match to the tips of his fingers. Twenty-four hours to wait, at least he was waiting in style.

Author: Note: I do not condone smoking in any way: it killed my father and even the merest hint of passive smoke is enough to trigger my son's asthma. BUT there really is no point in lecturing those in the armed forces. Believe me.