A/N: The film from the last chapter was "Brazil" of 1985. Good job to those who guessed correctly.

Lesson III -- Stage N3 of Sleep

Memories often come hand in hand; it's difficult to pick and choose those which stay and those which get lost in the void. He doesn't want to forget them completely. But there are some things he'd rather forget. He doesn't want to block the memories of their short, but happy lives together. But there are some memories that shouldn't have to be remembered. But to forget it all, that would be rude of him--inexplicably disrespectful of him. But it's too painful otherwise.

Those who are close to him know the days that are to follow will hit him hard. But they are prepared, as they are each year around this time.

McGee keeps his explanations short. When he is ordered to locate the suspect via a cell phone, he doesn't ramble on about the complications of the signal bouncing aimlessly across the globe. He simply tells him it is impossible but soon finds the suspect by a different method.

Ziva suppresses her assassin instincts. When she is ordered to apprehend the suspect without killing him, she doesn't brake a single bone in his body as she throws him to the ground. She simply arrests the culprit without a word, leaving the others standing behind her in awe.

DiNozzo refrains from making comedic remarks, sexual or film-based. When he is told to tail the attractive brunette after she has left the interrogation room, he doesn't bask in the luck of his assignment. He simply follows her and soon brings her in again as the accomplice.

Ducky saves his meanders for another time. When he is asked what caused the detachment of almost every major joint in the victim's body, he doesn't digress into the topic of medieval torture devices and methods. He simply explains that the victim had been pulled in two very opposite directions.

Abby knows better. She understands that he doesn't want to be treated differently on account of his misfortune. If anything, he'd want to be left alone. Knowing this, she keeps to her normal, happy self. She waits patiently in her lab, contemplating on his next arrival.

When he comes to her, he seems to be himself. He strides in, an air of tired strictness about him, with two cups held firm in both hands. With the normal greeting, followed by swift bribery, she looks at him, searching for something. What she finds, a man weary of life, leaves her heart aching. She takes him in her arms and holds him close, fearing he may soon be wanting to leave.

Though he is as clean-cut as ever, beyond the surface, she sees the anguish. The wrinkles of his face sink deeper with his every thought concerning the past. The bags beneath his handsome eyes show hours of his sleepless weeping. The calluses on his hands roughened as she touches them in the exchange of caffeine. The sureness of his gait weakens with every step. He is tired.

She wants to grieve for him and for his troubles, but decides against it. He wouldn't want that. Her showing any pity would only prove a sign of her weakness. He's lived through it all, only the strength of his volition to anchor him to reality. She would do the same for him.

At the end of the day, he leaves the Navy Yard, for once, desperate to go home--the home he had shared with his family. He hopes to find solace there, knowing it sometimes dwells within his many bottles of bourbon. He cannot bare to be away, yet he dreads the thought of remembering. His body pines for rest, and so he drives, fearing for the worst, but not giving a damn if it comes.

He thrashes his way through the front door, not turning around to check if it's closed behind him. A single thought occupies his mind--the thought to get drunk--and he makes his way to the basement in search for his remedy. Passing the living room without regard, he fails to notice the figure curled mutely on his couch. She would call to him, embrace him, kiss him, but chooses to stare at him in silence instead. She waits for him.

Tonight, the burn of alcohol will be his cartharsis. He binges carelessly for hours until he can handle no more. He falls asleep beneath the hull of his boat. His face is sullied by the mixture of tears and sawdust. His breathing is labored as he struggles against the nightmares of his sleep. He doesn't realize that there are worse things than bad dreams.

Hours have passed and she's worried. He's been down there, alone, with a strong intoxicant and hand tools. She shivers at the combination. The idea of going to him, to help him, has entered her mind more than once, but she figures he'll want to be by himself for some while--hopefully, to think things through. For the time being, she's been reading one of the few books she finds on his shelf. She doesn't exactly know what it's about, since she begins to drift into sleep after the first several pages.

A sharp cry wakes her, and her head turns aggressively in its direction. It's a shrieking sound, tearing through her ears and erupting from her chest. The dire pain that follows the voice pulls her to her feet, and she runs to him.

In a panic, she anticipates of the worst. She sees him lying there, motionless, underneath the spine of his boat. When she moves closer to him, an arm's length from his mouth, she reaches for his breath and finds it. She gives herself a mental slap for thinking so negatively.

She sees his brow drenched in sweat, and the hem of his white undershirt doused in moisture. She tries to wake him when he begins to tremble. Soft moans of agony flow from his lips as she calls to him in vain. Her efforts are futile, and only the shock of a second, more afflictive cry can raise him from the depths of sleep.

Eyes open and wide, he gazes blankly at the ceiling past the spine. For a moment, he is at peace and away from the avid unconsciousness. But he finds his mind in disarray, a state of unaccountable terror, and soon panics at the confusion. He moves to sit, his hands scrambling to find something to hold onto.

"Gibbs! Gibbs, it's all right! I'm here. It was just a bad dream." She kneels beside him and gathers his head against her chest. His arms wrap around her, seeking the life to pull him from obscurity. It was no dream. It was something far worse.

"Where…where am I?" He manages to gasp. He clings to her helplessly as he waits for her answer.

"Your basement, inside your boat. You passed out." Her hand moves to the back of his neck, caressing the short grey hairs.

"I don't remember," he says, choking in realization. He can't remember how he got this way or why he feels such consuming fear. The sense of being incapacitated, defeated by his own insecurities--it enrages him.

With a force he never intends, he pushes away from her and stands. He slams a fist against a slender rib of his boat, sending the entire structure shaking in reception. His head soon follows, coming in contact with the polished wood in a loud thud. "I can't remember!"

She watches him for a moment, waiting until he's calmed. She stands to meet him, ignoring the hurt in her chest. She's afraid for him and of him. Subduing the fear--she could never be truly afraid of her Gibbs--she places a soft hand on his shoulder. Seeing no change in his demeanor, she steps closer, wrapping her body behind his. Her hands tremble, but she tries hard to conceal it. Her palms flat on his chest, she can feel his heart slow and his breathing wind down. Not satisfied with the makeshift diagnosis, she puts an ear to his back, and confirms what she feels with what she hears.

"It's alright, Gibbs. It's over." It's a desperate endeavor to assure him, but she knows he won't take much heed. To him, it'll never be over.

"They come back, Abs. They always come back!" He shouts in frustration, furious at his own frailties and failings. To her, it's something else. The guilt is long past, but the memories still dawdle and they squander his thoughts. A perpetual cycle of rumination--the memories constantly arise, but he forever represses them. And now this terror. It never seems to end.

The memories are full and blatant, the terror shrouded and masked, yet they are one in the same. They come to him, never unitedly, but always in concert. Together, they wreak havok on his mind as one seizes the day, the other the night.

"Let them. Sometimes, it's better we don't remember everything. Sometimes, things are too painful, so we lock them up inside, hoping we'll never see them again. But that doesn't always happen, Gibbs. Those things, they only grow--grow until they bust out and eat you alive. You've got to let it out, Gibbs. Let them go and they'll stop haunting you." She mumbles between his shoulder blades. She hugs him tighter, hoping it'll encourage him to take the advice. "Just let them out."

She nuzzles into him, tip-toeing to match his height. Angling in, she kisses the back of his neck, trailing the hem of his shirt slowly. Her lips linger at his jugular, then move upward to structure of his ear. The heat of her breath makes him shiver and she ceases her advances.

An eternity passes, and he swears she has fallen asleep on his back. With a deep breath, he turns to face her, only to be slightly taken back. As bright as ever, her green eyes are wide and awake, staring deep into him. It's a look of understanding, and he knows she only wants to offer her help. This time, he'll accept it eagerly.

The ferment of his night terror beginning to dwindle, he brings a hand to sign against her cheek. He holds her head in place and leans in. Kissing her lips briefly yet tenderly, he pulls back to meet her bemused gaze. Their eyes are still glistening, but the tears have stopped falling. She looks into his iron blue eyes, now partially fixed with the confidence and authority as once before, and receives a soundless 'thank you.'

A/N: I had a bit of trouble with this chapter and I'm not too fond of the outcome. Tell me what you think.

Stage N3 - Stage N3 (now combined with N4) is known also as deep or slow-wave sleep (SWS). It is characterized by delta waves and is the state in which certain phenomena, which the sleeper cannot remember when awoken, i.e. sleepwalking, night terrors, etc., occur.

Night Terrors - A night terror is a parasomnia disorder characterized by extreme terror and an inability to fully waken. The subjects suddenly wakes during Stage N3 or deep sleep, screaming or gasping, only to fall back to sleep without any recognition of the ordeal; only the feelings remain. It is often difficult to wake the subject during a night terror. A night terror is not a dream and has no scenario, theme, images or noises. Rather, the subject feels only the emotion of fear itself. The lack of a dream may leave the subject in a state of disorientation once awake, often including a short bout of amnesia. In adults, night terrors are often trauma-based, rather than genetic or chronic. Sufferers of night terrors have characteristics such as suppression of aggression, anxiety, impaired memory, self-directed anger, passiveness, and the ability to ignore pain.

Next: Lesson IV -- REM Sleep.