Disclaimer: For the last time, (but of course you people know it's not) I don't own NCIS, no matter how bad I want to. This sadly popped in my head when I saw this last scene. Awww, poor Gibbs is what I always think. What? Can't I feel pity for a fictional character? When I was four, I had a crush on SpongeBob, so why can't I feel pity for an actual humanoid character, even if he is fictional? Quit looking at your screen weird and start reading! *Ahem* Please. Set at the end of 'Under Covers,' oneshot. Also, I couldn't remember what was inscribed on the little flask Gibbs had, so I just made something up. Not much.
Everyone followed Director Shepard and Doctor Mallard, but Abby stayed behind for just a single moment, only to say three words. "Happy birthday Gibbs." Happy birthday. He hadn't heard those words in years. He never really thought that anyone knew when his birthday was except for his father… and well, of course, two other special people in his life. He opened his desk drawer and got the flask out. He read what was inscribed on the silver object.
Happy Birthday
Love,
Shannon and Kelly
Shannon and Kelly. The two women in his life he could never forget. They loved him, and he had always loved them back. Gibbs looked at the bullet beside Kelly's name. That bullet meant so much. It could've been his death, if he hadn't put the flask in his jacket pocket. What the terribly cruel irony was, a bullet was one thing that caused their death. The bullet was not aimed at them directly, but at their driver. He crashed, and they died. He had killed the man who shot the driver with a bullet from a sniper gun. He said another three words he hadn't said ever since they first died: "I miss you." He always thought that, every day since he heard they were gone, but it seemed different as he said it. His voice seemed heavy with… what? Tiredness? Regret? Sadness? Most likely all of the above. In his mind, it was just a passing thought. Saying it made it seem as if it had much more meaning, and those words meant more than anything, because he knew they were gone. He ignored whatever difference there seemed to be in saying and thinking the words and opened the flask. He took a long, slow drink from it. Yes, it was filled with bourbon, but he was no longer on duty. He felt the amber liquid trickle down his throat. It was well aged, since the first and only time he had filled it was when he got home. Each year, he only took one drink from it, and after fourteen drinks, it was only close to halfway empty. Sometimes he thought that tiny flask would never run out of bourbon, kind of like his love for them.