Title: Crash and Burn
Author: Mindy
Rating: T for now, with some adult chapter(s) later on.
Spoilers: nothing major.
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me, no copyright infringement intended.
Summary: KIBBS, AU. Things always get worse before they get better.
-x-
A/N: This is my 50th fic and I want to say a BIG THANKYOU to those who have taken this journey with me and shared their love of KIBBS with me! I appreciate your continued support and enthusiasm.
I want to particularly mention the "Friends of NCIS" board where I first posted and found so many cyber-buddies. Special thanks to Sammie for her opinion and encouragement on this one.
I wanted to do something really big, something a bit different and also combine many elements of my past stories into this one. It felt like a bit of a risk but I hope it pays off and everyone enjoys the ride.
Please review and let me know.
A/N2: This is partly inspired by Michael Weatherly's character in "Dark Angel" and partly by Gibbs' illness in "Hiatus". And also partly by the Crowded House song below, lyrics by Neil Finn.
A/N3: There are time gaps of at least a few weeks between most of the chapters. They do not follow directly after each other. There is also at least one major shift in tenses – this is deliberate.
A/N4: While this is not what I would term an Adult fic, there are adult chapters to come later on, so if you wanna read them, seek out the NCIS Fanfiction Archive and let me know if you have any problems.
Final Note: I've dedicated fics to pretty much everyone. But this one I want to dedicate to Mark Harmon and Sasha Alexander who REALLY own the characters of Gibbs and Kate because they made them come to life and made them fascinating to watch throughout everything. They probably have no idea how much we love them for it.
Now, on with the show! M.
-x-
"…You're hiding from me now,
There's something in the way that you're talking.
Words don't sound right,
But I hear them all moving inside you.
Go now,
I'll be waiting when you call.
And whenever I fall at your feet,
You let your tears rain down on me,
Whenever I touch your slow turning pain,
The finger of blame has turned upon itself,
And I'm more than willing to offer myself,
Do you want my presence or need my help?
Who knows where that might lead?
I fall…. at your feet."
-x-x-x-
Part IGibbs hadn't thought his life could get any worse. He'd been wrong.
His childhood was an endless exercise in disappointment and loneliness. He'd never had the comfort or companionship of siblings. And his family moved so often because of his father's naval career that making friends and forming attachments became increasingly difficult. He lost his mother at an early age and never quite connected with his stern and unforgiving old man.
While serving his country in the Marine Corp, he witnessed firsthand the tragedy and futility of war. He saw friends and enemies obliterated before his eyes. He saw children without homes and old women without hope. He saw his own ideas of the world fade away in harsh contrast to the reality of injustice and death.
He'd lost a loving wife, Shannon and a precious daughter, Kelly in harrowing circumstances. Somehow – he's not sure how -- he'd married three other women who he loved in his own way, but who he came to pity and despise for their folly in falling for him.
He always wanted children – even after Kelly's unnatural death – but that deeply held and much longed for dream never came true for him again.
It was even less likely now.
But he'd really thought that Life had no more surprises – or painful shocks – left in store for him. After his last divorce, he'd gradually eased into a comfortable, if misanthropic, rut with his life – or lack thereof.
He'd thought the Universe had done it's worst to him. They'd squared off many a time, and while he usually came out the worse for wear, he constantly emerged alive and kicking, in defiance of all natural, logical laws.
In his fifty-one years, he'd been blown up, beaten up, shot at, run over, captured, stabbed and sunk. He had the scars to prove it. He was almost used to it, particularly in his line of work. He almost looked on the wounds as badges of honor.
With each one, he got stronger, sharper, wiser. He'd gotten used to being a survivor. He'd become accustomed to scraping through every dangerous situation that arose.
Then, early one gray fall morning, he'd woken up in a hospital bed, bleary and disoriented -- and he couldn't feel his legs. From the waist down, he couldn't feel a thing.
Many months later, he still can't remember the day that he incurred the injury to his spine. He has vague recollections of leaving the office with his team and of maneuvering the car through rush hour. For some reason, he recalls that Kate was wearing a blue shirt when she grabbed his arm and shrieked that he would kill them all if he didn't slow down.
He didn't. He sped up.
He was too focused on the case, too close to revenge. He'd been reckless and thoughtless. He'd put his entire team at risk. He could've killed them all. It was a miracle that he didn't.
The crash wasn't actually his fault. But if he hadn't been driving at such speed, he might've seen the drunk driver who came zooming out of nowhere and caused a five-car pile up. If he hadn't been so fixated upon the road ahead, he might've had time to turn the wheel and stop him from plowing into the driver's side of the vehicle.
At least, that's what they all tell him happened. He can't recall a thing past Kate's shirt and his own target fixation.
When he finally awoke from the coma, all his doctors told him he was lucky to be alive. They all told him repeatedly that he should be thankful not to be a vegetable for the rest of his life.
His mind is as sharp as it ever was. He can speak, see, think and remember. He can even shoot. He has perfect use of his upper body. He just can't walk.
From the waist down, he is nothing, he does nothing, he feels absolutely nothing. And he almost wishes that inescapable deadness extended all over his wasted frame.
At first, they gave him painkillers and plenty of them. He became very used to the feeling of hazy neutrality. He craved it; he craved more and more of it. But soon, they even took away that comfortable nothingness – which was fine, because a bottle of scotch by his bed did just as well.
From the outset, he'd stubbornly refused all therapy – physical or emotional. He didn't care what anyone said. His friends, his colleagues, his doctors, even the nurses all had a go at trying to convince him to participate in his own healing.
But the chances of him ever walking again were slim. The chances of him returning to work or living his old life, he was told by the experts, were practically zero.
He'd just wanted out of that damned hospital before he expired there. He needed somewhere that he could breathe. Somewhere where he could think clearly, try to comprehend what had happened.
His next-door neighbors helped him move everything he needed downstairs. He set up his bedroom in his old, dusty study and went about creating his new, hermitic existence of depression and isolation.
The hospital kept sending him nurses but he scared them all away within no time at all. After a while, he just stopped answering the door or picking up the phone or even opening his mail.
He didn't see the point. Life seemed easier that way.
In the past few months, he'd become more and more reclusive. The only person he saw was Ducky who talked at him until he dully agreed to visit the outpatient clinic at least once a week. He would come around every Thursday, good-humoredly chiding him for drinking too much as he drove him to his physiotherapy.
Not that it seemed to do him much good.
Despite the overly perky optimism of Chelsea, who reminded him more of a high school cheerleader than a qualified nurse, half his body just didn't seem to have the will to live anymore. And he really couldn't blame it for that decision.
Sitting on the landing at the top of his basement stairs, Gibbs uncorks the dusty bottle in his lap and takes a large sip of old scotch. He blinks with bloodshot eyes at what used to be his one solace in life, wheezing as the hard liquor burns its way down his throat and descends into the guts of his half-deceased carcass.
Frustrated and furious, he contemplates the impossibly steep flight of stairs that separates him from the only thing to ever give him any sense of relief in recent years.
If he could just reach out and touch his boat, maybe he wouldn't have to drink so much tonight. If he could just feel the soft grain of the wood beneath his palm; if he could just reignite the pride of making something, fixing something fine and strong with his own hands, he might have something to wake up for tomorrow.
But it's no use.
Restopping the bottle, he lays it back in his lap. His boat might just as well be in China as down those sixteen unyielding steps.
He's counted them. At least once a day, he sits there and counts them, trying in vain to devise a plan to get down there; to once more lie, eyes closed, hands behind his head, under the sheltering heft of his unfinished creation. But then there's always the problem of getting back up again.
Gibbs drops his hands back to each side of his wheelchair and slowly turns towards the door. He pushes himself into the kitchen and flicks off the light to the basement. Then, faltering once-- and twice -- he grabs the jumble of keys from the nearby hook and yanks the door shut, locking the basement door securely.
He's about to pull the key off the keychain and throw it away somewhere when he hears the phone ring in the other room. He never picks it up anymore but he wheels into the darkened living room, sitting in the threshold as he listens to the incoming message.
"Hi, Gibbs," comes a familiar and missed voice. She pauses: "Don't want to bother you," she continues after a short moment, her voice soft as she tries to sound casual: "but… well, there's a case that's got us all stumped." He can almost hear her roll her eyes slightly and smile at him: "We could really use your help. So….call me." There's a tiny silence before she mutters: "Bye," and hangs up.
He moves closer to the machine, setting aside the bottle of scotch and the handful of keys. Slowly, he reaches out in the darkness and hits the glowing play button. Her voice cuts through the permanent quiet again; that voice which brings back so many memories.
There's at least one memory he'd like to forget altogether. She'd been there the first time he'd awoken after the crash, with her left arm in a sling and her face marred with cuts. She'd been so happy to see him wake and he hadn't even told her how sorry he was.
"…Bye," says Kate's quiet voice and he presses the button again: "…Hi, Gibbs…"
She sounds just like she always did and he smiles a little. It's good to know something hasn't changed, especially her. His small smile is enough to make him pick up the phone and dial her number. He rings twice but she doesn't answer. He's about to return to his scotch and self-pity when he decides to try her at work instead.
She picks up on the first ring: "Agent Todd."
For a moment he doesn't respond. He can't. He sits there, holding the phone to his ear, with a lump in his throat and a strange prickling in the corners of his eyes.
"You called," he finally croaks into the handset.
"Gibbs," she breathes, surprised and pleased.
"At your service," he shrugs, leaning back in his chair.
"It's good to hear your voice," she offers warmly and he imagines her sitting at her desk in the lamp lit squad room, poring over her work as she sips sweet coffee.
He clears his throat and hesitates before replying hoarsely: "Yours too."
"Boy!" she sighs nervously, a little laughter beneath her tone: "Do I have a case for you."
"Oka-ay," he replies slowly: "Lay it on me."
TBC...