a/n: half of this has been on my phone for a while. i decided to write it, since i've been in an airport for 12 hours, and misery loves to angst it out on Gibbs.
February, 1991
Of all the times he had imagined coming home early – dreamt of it, ached for it, prayed for it – he had never imagined it like this.
He hadn't imagined special orders, immediate emergency flights, strings pulled by strangers – he hadn't imagined feeling sick and terrified and panicked as he left the war zone, and he hadn't imagined he'd be taken off the front lines only to so desperately wish he was back – because he'd rather be in a ditch in Kuwait than in a hospital room in California – because maybe if he was in a ditch in Kuwait, fighting a godless war for a politician's pride, she would be okay.
He was still in dirty, sandy field camouflage when he arrived; he smelled like smoke and gunpowder and jet fuel and sweat – it was a balmy, blasphemous sort of cool in California, and he wanted the blistering desert sun back so suddenly – he was jet-lagged, disoriented, and his focus was streamlined on one subject, one woman:
Shannon.
He looked around wildly in the lobby of the hospital with his escort behind him – some damn NIS agent who looked about as old as sin; the guy ran behind him, trying to slow him down. He shook him off.
"Shannon Gibbs," he barked at the nurse's station.
The agent caught up with him, his face grim.
"Jane Doe," Mike Franks clarified, when the nurse looked confused.
Gibbs swallowed hard – he vaguely remembered being told they hadn't brought her here under her real name, just in case the cartel came to finish the job before they could get him home – what he'd heard, though, was that the job was already finished.
The nurse nodded, and made a call, and Gibbs' knuckles turned white against the counter as he waited, his muscles so tight they almost shook. He clenched his teeth tightly, glaring daggers – and when the phone hung up, her lurched forward, and the young nurse's eyes met his.
"She's still coming out of the coma," she said quietly, and came around next to him.
She took his hand, ignoring the NIS agent, and gently pulled him; they disappeared down a hallway covered in red and marked intensive care. Gibbs looked away from the words, looked at the white, threatening walls, the immaculate nurse. Her shoes squeaked against the floor, and she took a short breath.
"Your wife," she began very gently, "is experiencing massive internal bleeding and total shut down of her vital systems. We've had her in a barbiturates induced coma to ease her pain, as well as a ventilator. When we remove her, she won't have long. She has documentation that instructs she is not to be kept alive artificially?"
Gibbs didn't answer. He couldn't. He knew that was true, but he couldn't confirm it. He stayed silent, and let himself be led. The walk seemed endless. It seemed to get further, and the walls seemed to close in – and when the nurse stopped, he yanked away, and leaned against the wall outside a heavy door.
He looked up, swallowing hard.
"I want to see my daughter," he said hoarsely.
The nurse looked wary, and pursed her lips delicately.
"Gunny, I don't think that's a good idea," she advised softly.
He licked his lips, searching her eyes.
"Why?" he managed.
He saw the answer in her eyes – because she didn't look like Kelly; because she was blood and bone and glass and squealing tires. He pressed his mouth closed to hold back a wave of nausea, and then straightened up, his face going blank. The nurse stepped up hesitantly, and made a gesture, asking if he was ready, and he knew he never would be – so he nodded.
She took him inside the dark hospital room, and turned on a bedside lamp. She said something gently about sending in a doctor, and Gibbs shuffled a few steps in, staring at the figure in the bed, unable to step closer.
The nurse said the doctor would be in momentarily to shut off the machines, and he closed his eyes, imagining sand and gunfire, orders shouted from Marine commanding officers – he tried to hear Arabic, and frenzied shouting, but all he could hear now was silence, and soft laboured breathing, and beeps. He stood there for a long time and then he forced himself to walk forward; slowly, as slowly as he'd walked away when he left them for Kuwait – no; slower. That had just been a routine Marine goodbye; this –
He almost choked on his own thoughts, and he stopped, running his hands over his thighs. He wiped his forehead, and then he moved forward quicker, and collapsed into a chair next to her bed.
The room smelled like medication – it smelled clean, and yet it smelled familiar – had her mother been here? Had someone sat with her, held her hand, stroked her hair, until they dragged him out of the desert to let him have one minute to tell her –
He let his eyes roam over her figure under the covers, searching for her hand – and he reached out hesitantly, timidly, slipping his fingers into hers – he expected cold and limp, but her hand was warm, and soft – except for some raw burns on the palm – and that spurred him to grip tighter, and he looked up at heard a doctor enter, and he ignored it. Her eyes were moving, and her lips were slightly parted. He looked down slowly, and saw her chest rising – shallowly, barely moving, painfully moving.
He tried applying a slight pressure to her hand – and her fingers twitched, squeezed back.
"Gunny," the doctor said quietly. "She's had a lot of morphine to keep the pain at bay; I don't think you want to prolong this." He spoke surely, but calmly. "I am carrying out her wishes, but you are her medical proxy in this matter. Do you consent to – "
Gibbs just nodded, slowly. He could see, without much concentration, the pale, pinched pain on her face, and he didn't want her to suffer any more than she had to, and he didn't want to be selfish, and make her live a nonexistent life for – him.
He heard clicks, the cessation of humming, and the quiet slowing of machines' work – and he looked up, and cleared his throat.
"I want to see my daughter," he repeated, sternly.
The doctor gave him the same look as the nurse, but his look was more resigned.
"I'd advise you against it," he said dully.
Gibbs looked defiant. The man nodded.
"See that you find me," he instructed, and inclined is head – and he left them alone, the door shut, the lights dime – just him, and his wife; what was left of her.
Gibbs moved closer, and squeezed her hand again, and this time her response was a little stronger – but so much weaker than anything he'd ever felt from her. She tilted her head and opened her eyes, and he saw how much it was hurting her to move, to breathe on her own; to think.
"Gibbs," she breathed out hoarsely.
He smiled; even through the haze of pain and drugs, she recognized him, and his smile was genuine at that. He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it, a soft, reassuring kiss.
"I'm here, Shannon," he soothed.
She swallowed, and her face paled; her eyes closed slightly. She winced visibly, and he moved even closer, covering her hand with both of his now, holding her knuckles to his lips.
"You're home," she said quietly – whispers didn't seem to hurt. She smiled grimly, her teeth glinting. "It means," she started, and took a moment for some strength. "It means … I must be dying."
"Shannon," he said hoarsely.
He couldn't tell her that wasn't it; because it was – the only reason they had brought a key Marine sniper home was because his wife had been assaulted by a hit man for a drug cartel, because his daughter had been murdered, and there was a slim chance he'd be able to see one of them one last time, and someone, somewhere had convinced the powers that be to let him have that chance.
"Damn," she murmured, and then coughed weakly, and grit her teeth, her face ashen. "I want to testify."
"Shhh," he hushed gruffly, pressing his lips to her knuckles again. "Shannon, just take it easy."
"Mmm," she whimpered, closing her eyes.
She didn't seem to be fully aware of her surroundings, of her circumstance, and he moved forward, sitting down next to her on the bed gingerly, his body against her legs. He pushed her hair off of her face and watched her resting, and he looked at the machine that kept track of her heartbeat – slow, laboured; dying.
He swallowed down that nauseated feeling, swallowed it into hollowness.
"I'm tired," she murmured.
He nodded, even though her eyes were closed.
"I know," he muttered. "You don't have to talk to me."
"I want to," she insisted. Her voice sounded like it was being dragged over razors in her throat, and it grated on his heart. "Jethro?" she asked.
"What?"
"I want to go home," she confessed in a small voice.
He wanted to go home, too – not base housing in California, but home, to Alexandria, where their house was, and the boat was, and things were – better. He wanted to go back, and tell them not to come with him to California, not to go to Oceanside that day – he wanted to go home, too.
"I'll take you home, Shannon," he said, to comfort her.
She nodded. She held on to his hand tightly, and opened her eyes again. She looked alert for a moment, and then hazy again, and then her lips trembled.
"Jethro," she said softly. "I'm scared."
He tucked her hands against her chest and leaned forward, moving his face close to hers. He pinned her wrists gently against his heartbeat with one hand and reached forward to cup her cheek, shaking his head slightly.
"I want my rosary," she said weakly.
He didn't know where it was, or if it had survived – it usually hung from the Station Wagon's window. He just hushed her quietly again, and drew circles on her wrist, his hand still resting against her cheek.
He felt her jaw move as she swallowed, and licked her lips.
Her face crumpled suddenly and she sucked in her breath harshly.
"It hurts, Jethro," she cried hoarsely. "I'm sorry – I'm trying not to – don't feel bad," she gasped.
He shook his head again, and pressed his forehead to hers; her skin was cold – not cold as if she was chilly, but cold; and her face was pale, and her fingers weren't gripping his anymore, they were just there; in his hands.
"It's okay," he soothed gruffly. He paused, and swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He didn't want to scare her anymore; he didn't want her to think she couldn't let go. He didn't want her to hurt – but god, he didn't want to lose her.
He pressed his lips to her cheek; to the corner of her mouth, afraid to kiss her.
"Talk to me," she pleaded tensely, her lips brushing his cheek.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked through gritted teeth. "I don't – I can't," he broke off.
Her eyes were alert again suddenly, open, staring.
"You have to talk to other people when I'm gone," she said. "Practice."
He just shook his head – if she thought he'd say a word to anyone after losing her, a word that wasn't work-oriented, she was kidding herself. He'd barely be able to open his mouth, without her.
"I love you," was all he came up with.
He squeezed her hand hard.
"Shannon?" he asked, when her chest took too long to rise.
"Yes," she said, almost matter-of-factly. Her fingers wriggled a little, and he felt her wedding ring. "I know."
He set his jaw hard, waiting – and he felt small, and stupid, and immature, but he had to – he wanted to –
"Shannon, will you say it –"
"Yes," she said again.
"Yes?"
"Yes, I love you, Jethro," she managed, her eyes fluttering rapidly suddenly, and turning red.
He bit his lip, and slipped his hand under her head, tilting it up a little, and his eyes on hers.
"Shannon, please," he begged, in a moment of weakness. "Don't leave me."
He didn't know how he'd live, without her – without both of them. He couldn't get through this. He couldn't even fathom – beginning to get through this. He hoped they'd send him back to Kuwait, and he hoped someone shot him dead, the minute he walked into the fire.
"I'm not," she insisted feverishly, her face contorted with pain. She relaxed, and swallowed. "I'm not."
He nodded this time, and closed his eyes tightly.
"You can't lose your mind over me, Gibbs," she said.
He felt like he'd been sucker punched – she'd said that to him on one of their first dates, laughing, like she was warning him not to act like an idiot about her, and he always had, and she'd always feigned aloofness.
"Shannon," he said desperately.
"I liked being married to you," she interrupted vaguely, and then she opened her eyes, and sat forward in a surprising show of strength - last strength, he knew, and he shifted, slipping his arm around her and pulling her against his chest.
She looked at their hands, and looked up.
"Is Kelly okay?" she asked weakly.
He almost choked – his heart stopped; they hadn't told him she didn't know, but how could she have? She'd been unconscious, half-dead already, when the carnage had been discovered and they'd brought her in – and Kelly had been dead on the scene. He couldn't – he couldn't bear to tell her, to watch her suffer like that in these last few moments –
"Yes," he lied. He pushed her hair back. "Yeah."
The lie almost killed him, because he wanted it to be true so badly.
"Take care of her," she insisted.
"I will," he answered automatically.
"Fall in love with someone else."
"No."
"That's an order, Marine," she teased – he thought, that small smile on her face, was her last smile.
"No," he snapped forcefully.
She licked her lips, and swallowed, and she sighed softly, her finger relaxing in his hands.
"I don't," she started. She was quiet a long time. "I don't want you to remember me – like, like," she stopped, "like," she was quiet again, and then finally: "like the ending of a stupid tragedy."
He almost laughed – of course Shannon hated this; dark rooms, whispered words, desperate, saccharine goodbyes; none of this was who she was, but he couldn't – let her go, without her knowing –
"I love you, Shannon," he said again.
"Okay," she said. She curled up a little. "My chest hurts."
He nodded – he understood the feeling, but his would never go away.
"It hurts."
He moved his hand, and rested it against her heart, pressing. He didn't think it would help, but maybe it would trick her. She started breathing oddly, and he clenched his teeth together heard, and eased her back down to the bed – he didn't want to hold her while she died; not like that – not against his chest. He wanted her to open her eyes again –
She did.
"Kelly," she insisted.
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. He looked back down, and her lashes moved, and then were still; and her chest was still under his hand, and he felt nothing – and her fingers twitched, and slipped out of his.
"No," he said hoarsely, as if telling her again – no he would not move on; no he would not be happy without her.
He leaned down and put his head next to hers, flat in the pillow, buried in her hair, breathing her in – but this scent wasn't here; this was all medicine and chemicals and blood; he'd have to go home, to get in the bed where she'd slept, to try and hang on to her scent, to – her.
He stayed there, his muscles protesting the position, every bone in his body aching like he'd been beaten bloody and left to die; he stayed there until his jaw hurt, and his throat was sore, and his eyes were dry – and when he got up, because he couldn't stand it anymore, and he left the room, he didn't care how red his eyes were when he spoke to the doctor and the nurse – waiting – and he didn't' care that his voice cracked, like a sob of disbelief, when he demanded:
"I want to see my," pause, "Kelly."
He was escorted to see her – He was escorted to the morgue.
if you're sad, i'm laughing, because i'm too pissed off to feel anything but joy at other people's pain
but, on a solemn note - wanted to write this for a long while. poor gibbs :(
-Alexandra
story #199
p.s. : if anyone compares this to a John Green novel I'm going to go ape shit.