Title: Coffeeshop, Ch. 4

Rating: Still K+

Spoilers: "Heartbreak"

A/N: Thanks very much for all the lovely reviews. Here's the next section, with plenty of KIBBS for all the ardent 'shippers out there. Enjoy!!

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I got my explanation three weeks later, to the day.

It was a chilly night, cold enough that you could see your breath in the air if you stepped outside. We'd had more of a run that evening than usual; a drop in the temperature always meant that people scuttled to get coffee. I think it's kind of a preprogrammed human instinct or something, sort of like fight-or-flight…only stronger.

It was getting to be almost closing time, and for once I'd shed the horns and tail and let Mike take off half an hour early. He had a date planned with some girl he'd met on an online role-playing game site, and he wanted to spruce up a little before he picked her up. I thought that, considering the circumstances, he might have been better off working the extra half hour. But then, it was none of my business, and I consider myself a master at the art of never nosing around in other people's business…at least not where they can tell.

So I was alone in the shop, puttering around with a dishrag and humming the theme song from That 70s Show under my breath, when all of a sudden I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned around to check it out, and that's when I saw them—framed there in the big plate-glass window like a fleeting little vignette, spotlighted in the yellow glare of the street lamp.

At first I didn't have the faintest clue what the hell was going on. I noticed that he had an arm around her waist and one hand on her upper arm, half-pulling, half-supporting her. She was leaning on him like she was either drunk or sick, maybe both. She had on that red coat she'd worn when I first saw her, but no scarf. The scarlet material looked like blood against the bone-white pallor of her face.

As they slowly made their way forward, I began to realize that she could barely walk. She was stumbling in his grip like a man after a three-day drunk and I had the feeling that if he let go of her for even a second, she'd end up on the ground without so much as lifting a hand to break her fall. But before I could actually process any of this, they turned suddenly and walked through the door.

I moved out from behind the counter, thinking that maybe I should get her a glass of water, call the doctor, do something useful, when he stopped me with a raised hand.

"Get me two black coffees," he said quietly, in a tone I'd never heard from him before. "I want the strongest thing you've got."

I headed over to the bean grinder, but watched them closely out of the corner of my eye as he led her over to a chair and set her down in it. She was surprisingly docile, almost limp, and I noticed that her eyes were unfocused as she stared out the window into the darkness. Beneath of the whir of the machine, I heard the scrape of chair legs as he settled into the seat opposite her.

They were silent as I dumped in the ground coffee, positioned the cups under the spout, set the timer. Glancing briefly in their direction, I noted that her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the tendons standing out and the knuckles turning white with the pressure. It was odd—the rest of her was slumped loosely in the chair, seemingly relaxed…except for those vise-like hands.

At the beep of the timer, she jumped a little, her eyes darting nervously in my direction. I saw him slightly incline his head towards her, his eyes scanning her face for a clue as to what was going on inside her head. Apparently he didn't get the answer he wanted, because I heard a faint huff of breath as he leaned back in his chair and watched her empty gaze return to the darkened glass.

I moved as quietly as I could as I carried their coffees over to the little table, wincing inwardly at the scuffing of my sensible black shoes on the tiled floor. He glanced up briefly and nodded as I set the cups down and retreated swiftly to the safety of my counterspace. With those piercing eyes trained intently on her expressionless face, he pushed one of the cups over to her side of the table and waited for her to pick it up. When she remained motionless, he leaned in a little closer.

"Kate," he said, his voice a low rasp in the silence of the empty shop. "Kate, drink up. You need it."

She didn't move, and I gradually edged closer to the end of the counter, unable to contain my rising curiosity. Fascinated, I watched as one big hand reached out to cover her tightly clenched fingers.

"Kate," he said again, his tone preternaturally calm. "You haven't had anything to eat in over ten hours. Your system's running on empty. Drink up."

I was confused for a minute. If she hadn't eaten in that long, then there was no reason for him to be pouring coffee down her throat, especially a brew of that strength. The caffeine alone would tie her stomach into enough knots to double her over. Why was he pulling an asinine stunt like this?

Then it hit me. The glassy eyes, the stumbling walk, the complete lack of response. The fact that she hadn't eaten for ten hours and the reason he was trying to jump-start her system with coffee that could easily strip the varnish off wood.

She was in shock.

As soon as I realized what was going on, I headed around the counter with the intent of doing something to help, I wasn't sure what. But before I could open my mouth, she shifted her gaze away from the window and looked at him for the first time.

I nearly did a double take as I caught the look in her eyes. They were expressive anyway, big brown pools that seemed to reflect every mood that flitted across her face. But now they held such depths of pain, such anguish that my own heart twisted in involuntary sympathy. I could hardly believe the intensity of that single look—or of my unthinking reaction.

He must have felt the same way, because his lips twisted briefly before he schooled them back into a firm line. But his eyes never left hers as he pushed the coffee toward her again.

"Drink it, Kate," was all he said, but I caught the undertone of aching sadness beneath the matter-of-fact command. She ignored him, her hands vising tighter around each other on the table in front of her.

He shook his head, jaw clenched, frustrated at her unwillingness to cooperate.

"Kate—dammit, this isn't going to help anything. You have to snap out of it."

She drew in a sharp breath, like someone had dunked her in a tub of cold water, and sat up a little straighter.

"I killed a man today, Gibbs." She said it quietly, flatly, without a trace of the emotion I'd seen in her eyes a moment ago. "I pulled out a gun, I sighted, and then I put a bullet through his head."

She paused for a moment as if mulling the statement over. When she spoke again, it was more of a statement than a question. "And you want me to snap out of it?"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, though whether it was in relief or concession of defeat I couldn't tell.

"Kate, it's part of the job. You did what you had to do."

Her eyes half-closed and a bitter little smile curved the corner of her mouth.

"Killed in the line of duty—isn't that what they say?"

He looked down at his hands for a moment, silver hair gleaming in the muted light.

"That's for cops that get killed, Kate. Not suspects."

Something seemed to move beneath the stoic mask of her face, something dark and sinister and menacing.

"Maybe it should have been in the line of duty, then. Maybe I wouldn't be sitting here now wondering what would have happened if I hadn't pulled the trigger, if I hadn't taken that boy's life. Maybe I wouldn't have to go down to autopsy and look at a body on a tray to finally feel something, Gibbs."

I heard him suck in his breath slightly, and the movement of his head reminded me oddly of a man who's just taken a blow squarely on the chin. But when he spoke his voice was the same calm, expressionless monotone.

"No, Kate. The one who wouldn't be sitting here is me. You took that shot to save my neck."

He paused for a moment and then forged ahead, the lines around his mouth suddenly sharper than before.

"And if you can't live with that, I'm sorry."

Her head snapped up and a mocking gleam came into her eyes.

"I thought you never said you were sorry, Gibbs. What rule is that? Number seven?"

He tilted his head to the side and smiled at that, a full-blown smile that would have been absolutely charming if it weren't for the utter emptiness in his eyes.

"Number eleven, Kate. Number seven is when you lie, always be specific." He looked out the window for a moment and then turned back to her. "Are you gonna drink that coffee or not?"

She tossed her hair back and looked straight at him, her eyes hard as nails.

"No, I don't think I will, Agent Gibbs. It's a new rule I just made up. Never drink coffee after you've killed an innocent man. Too hard on the stomach lining."

He almost flinched at that. His teeth caught the edge of his lower lip and bit down hard, but his thumb kept making lazy circles around the rim of his cup as if nothing had happened. Only the slight tightening of his facial muscles gave him away.

She could see it, I knew, but it didn't seem to make a difference to her. Rising, she tugged her coat a little closer around her and shoved her chair under the table with one foot. I didn't know how she was doing it, but she didn't seem the least bit shaky or weak. Remembering the wreck she'd been when she walked in, I thought it must be pure adrenaline that was keeping her on her feet at the moment.

Apparently he did too, because he pushed back his chair and got up quickly, worry in his eyes. She turned on him in a flash, her face blade-sharp.

"I don't need your help, Gibbs. I've had enough of that for one day." She rummaged around in her pockets for a minute and came up with a single folded bill that she threw casually on the table between their untouched cups. "You can keep the change."

And with that she stalked out, shoving the door open and stepping out swiftly into the crisp night air. He didn't look back, just headed after her with long, ground-eating strides. He had almost reached the door when it hit her.

I watched as she literally crumbled, sinking in on herself like whatever had been holding her up had suddenly melted away. Her hands came up to cover her face and she was about to fall to her knees when he caught up with her. He grabbed her shoulders with both hands, pulling her close until her head was resting against his chest and he was bearing most of her weight. Gently, he wrapped both arms around her, held her close as her slender body began to shake with what looked very much like sobs. He didn't try to comfort her, didn't move her or make her sit down, just stood there and held her while she poured out the pain and guilt on the shoulder of his worn-looking brown coat. Trapped behind the long pane of glass, I looked on as he silently pressed his lips into her hair, his weary eyes staring bleakly out into the darkness.

I didn't move as he waited for her to quiet, as he murmured words to her I couldn't hear, his mouth hovering close to her flushed, tearstained cheek. I was motionless, frozen in place as she nodded weakly against his chest and pulled back slightly, letting him take her arm and guide her toward the dark sedan that was parked on the curb nearby. I stayed there, pressed to the window, as he put her in the car, shut her door for her, and then climbed in his side and pulled out into the street at a much more reasonable speed than usual.

It wasn't until his taillights had vanished beyond the edge of the window frame that I let myself move, finally released the taut breath I'd been unconsciously holding ever since I saw the two of them come down the sidewalk and realized who they were. And that was when I grasped the two things that were to bug me for the rest of a long and very sleepless night.

First, that there was a hell of a lot more between Agents Todd and Gibbs than anyone else had suspected, including me.

And second, that I had a hell of a lot more interest in that relationship than I really should.

(A/N: Just a few little things to clear up before you think about what you just read and come after me with a baseball bat or a nine-iron (a lá ex-wives nos. 2 and 3). First, I realize that in the actual chronology of the episodes "Chained" comes after "Heartbreak," not before. But, for the tempo and dynamics of this story, it made more sense to reverse the order. I also realize that "Heartbreak" did not occur in late fall. Again, it just fits the story better. Secondly, I did a little research online and discovered that "Never say you're sorry" is apparently one of Gibbs' rules that doesn't have a number attached. Since number eleven was unclaimed and I liked the sound of it, I took the liberty of just sticking it in. Finally, I know that Kate hasn't exactly been a merry little ray of sunshine during the last two chapters. Just look at it as a necessary bit of angst before the happy KIBBSness that will come in due course when I publish the following sections. :)

And that's more than enough explanation…so, I hope you enjoyed it and do let me know what you think!!)