Lesson VII -- Restless Legs Syndrome
It's a seemingly normal day. Gibbs enters the lab, caffeine in hands, ready for results. Abby is dressed in a black t-shirt, adorning a signature dog collar choker--the one with the single ring in front. She sports a short plaid skirt of red and black. He notices that these skirts seem to be getting shorter as the years go by.
Her back is to him, as she is apparently occupied with a hair sample under the high-power microscope. A foot propped up against the metal bar at the bottom of the table, she shakes her leg up and down in slow rhythm, flaps of her skirt moving in unison. She seems normal enough. Well, as normal as Abby can be.
He stands only inches behind her, but with the music and sample to distract her, she doesn't notice. "What've you got for me, Abs?"
She jumps back, startled. He spreads his arms out wide to evade a collision between her and the drinks. Instead, her back thumps hard against his chest, and he let's out an audible 'oomph.'
"Gibbs! Thank God, you're here! Caffeine! Now!" She spins around and grabs the Caf-Pow out of his hand. After a ten-second swig which he doubts could have left more than half the liquid still in the cup, she sighs in delight. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Gibbs!"
With a kiss to his cheek and another giddy 'thank you,' she proceeds to give him the results of her analyses. Flying from machine to machine, the movements of her skirt catches his attention.
That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the caffeine withdrawal.
He gets into his car and promtly shuts the door. She is already in the passenger seat, coffin back-pack and Bert in lap, ready for take-off. They give one another mutual grins and he starts the motor. It's just past 1900 hours and they're both starving.
She suggests a nice Italian joint somewhere downtown, but when she hears her stomach growl, she quickly changes her mind and proposes someplace closer.
Turning a right corner, he catches glimpse of her legs. In the millisecond he has to see, he notices Bert, still firmly on her lab, moving up and down. Her legs must be causing the steady motion.
"That hungry, huh?" He questions. They're only a few blocks away from their destination.
"I'm practically dying, Gibbs! Can't you drive any faster?" He laughs at her zeal, and does as he's told. So far, she's been the only one who never once complained about his driving. In fact, he thinks she likes it fast.
They arrive at a local diner, not far from the Navy Yard. Shifting into the parking gear, he tells her to stay put. He gets out and in a flash, he is by her side, offering the door open.
"Love ya, Gibbs." She lands another brief kiss against his cheek, a smile ever present, as she steps out from the car.
He walks her to the doors of the diner and again, opens them for her. Looking down, the whiteness of her knee-length socks against the bright red tiles of the floor catches his attention.
That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the hunger.
The diner is full, but they manage to snag a table near the back of the restaurant. Unfortunately, they are a menu short. The waitress gives Gibbs the last one, under the say-so of Abby. She already knows what she wants to order.
He suggests she still take a look at the menu, to see if there's anything else that might catch her eye. Sitting opposite each other, he pats the seat beside him and tells her to come over. He schooches toward the window to allow her room. They share the menu and within minutes, order enough food to feed the entire squadroom.
When the food arrives, she doesn't bother to move back to other side of the table. She likes to sit beside him, and he doesn't mind at all.
Gorging down a Coke, a burger, and fries at once, there's no doubt that something might miss its target. She drops a fry on her lab and looks down to retrieve it. Both her hands are occupied, the Coke in one and the burger in the other. Gibbs comes to her assistance. He recovers the fry and pops it in her mouth. He hears a gargled 'thank you,' and they continue with their meal.
He finishes up his fries and notices she has a few left on her plate. He feels a bit of shaking from where he sits. He looks down to see her legs bouncing up and down again, the stain where the fry from before had fallen moving with them.
"You're going to have to wash that, Abs," he says matter-of-factly, concerning the stain.
"No prob. Happens all the time. Good thing it's machine washable, huh?" She looks at her skirt, disregarding the stain with a shrug of the shoulders, shoving the last handful of fries into her mouth.
He follows her gaze and stares back at the skirt. The intricate tartan design beneath the oily smudge catches his attention.
That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the greasy satisfaction.
He pays for dinner and intends to drive her home. It's barely 2100 and she tells him she wants to help him build his boat, knowing that's probably what he'd do once he gets back to his place. He doesn't disapprove.
They reach his house and make their way to his basement. She marvels at his boat, always impressed when she sees it. Running a hand over a smooth rib, she's ready to help make this baby.
He sets out the necessary tools and a bottle of bourbon. At first, he gives her only the simple task of polishing the wood. Seeing how quickly she excels at that, he orders her to begin drilling holes in designated places. He leaves the sawing and other small chores for himself. The first hour of their operation is accompanied by random chit-chat, of mostly eager babbles on her part and quiet chuckles on his.
Drilling is a laborious activity, and it leaves her arms flabby and tired. She casts her tool to the side and flops down onto his workbench. Grabbing the bottle of bourbon, she takes a gulp and sets it down beside her. She lets out a loud sigh at the aesthesis of the rigid alcohol.
"Too much work for you?" He calls to her, though his eyes are focused on the job in front of him.
"Tired. Just a little bit. Give it a few minutes and all this lactate should be on its way to my liver." She gestures to the muscles in her arms and then to her lower abdomen, despite his not looking.
Turning in her direction, he sees her sitting cross-legged, left thigh bobbing up and down. She tinkers with a small hand tool, holding it close to her face for further inspection. The bottle of bourbon seated between her folded legs catches his attention.
That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the alcohol.
In the middle of the night, they lie together in his bed. Dressed in his worn attire, she's curled to the side, fast asleep. His arm is slung loosely around her waist and his chest is pressed lightly against her back. Her hair, close to his face, tickles his nose and he wriggles it unconsciously.
For hours, they sleep peacefully. The soft orange glow of nearby street lamps stream seamlessly onto their dormant forms from between the slides of the blinds. The sharp siren of a passing ambulance causes her to stir. Even in unconsciousness, he pulls her closer in a protective gesture.
A swift kick to his shin, and he's awake. He blinks a few times to clear the murkiness in his eyes and he thinks of what hit him. He waits to see if it comes again, and when it doesn't, he eagerly drifts back into sleep.
Another kick, and his eyes shoot open once more. He leans over her to check if she's awake and finds that she isn't. Reclining against the headboard, he remembers the events of the past day and recalls the four times he'd noticed her moving her legs. He had attributed her motions to certain stimuli present, or lacking, at the time. For her movements now, he can think of no such stimulus. It begins to worry him.
As his mind remains focused in its train of thought, he is unprepared for the next attack to his lower extremities. A hard heel jabs him in the shin, and he cannot help but growl in pain. The raspy sound wakes her and she turns around to investigate.
"Woah, Gibbs. What's the matter?" She yawns and raises a hand to rub her eyes.
"Abs, I think you've got a problem." He sits up, careful to not disturb the sheets, to rub his aching leg.
"What are you talking about?" She props herself onto one arm and looks at him quizzically.
"I think you might have some nervous disorder. You keep shaking and moving your legs about. Haven't you noticed this?" He places a steady palm to her cheek, concern written in his expression.
"I've known it for a long while, but it's no disorder. No need to fuss about it." She laughs at his unnecessary worry and puts a hand over his.
"Abby, if there's something you're not telling me--," he begins, but she cuts him off with a strict finger to his lips.
"Gibbs. It's your silver hair. Gets me all tingly inside, remember? Makes me wanna move, ya know." She leans in to kiss him softly on the cheek. "My legs shake because of you. They shake whenever I'm with you. They shake only when I'm with you. That's all. Got it?" She removes her finger from his lips to let him speak, bringing her hand to rest against his chest.
With a trusting smile, he nods. "Got it."
She slips back into a peaceful slumber as he watches her silently. He instinctively thinks of a way to stop the constant shaking.
When he feels her beginning to stir, he puts his theory to the test. Scooting closer, he wraps his legs securely around hers, the warm smoothness of her gams exciting him. He restrains the temptation, keeping a focused mind on the problem at hand. He waits for a minute, then ten, another thirty, until he can no longer stay awake. In the last moments of consciousness, he surprisingly finds that she no longer moves. With a lazy smirk, he congratulates himself on success of his cunning solution. And his final thought--he must do this more often if he intends to fully resolve the problem.
That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on himself.
Restless Legs Syndrome - Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS) is a condition characterized by an uncontrollable urge to move one's body, most commonly the legs, to stop an odd sensation. It usually occurs during sleep, but can also extend throughout the day when awake. Don't believe me? Google it.
Next: Lesson VIII -- Hypnophobia.