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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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2,624
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1/1
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Final Moment

Summary:

Website: no
Permission to archive: yes
Fandom: NCIS
Genre: Implied slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: FRT-13
Summary: It only takes a moment for everything to end.
Warnings: Language
Notes: Creative Writing_101: Assignment #2 (moment in time)
Submitted through the CreativeWriting_101 mailing list.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Final Moment
by Matt

I've stood a long time out here in the quiet, nearly-deserted hallway just across from the ICU nurses' station at Bethesda, keeping my aching back pressed firmly against the cool, intitutionally-painted wall, shoulder blades tight and neck muscles steadily growing stiffer with each passing moment. I wish I could, not for the first time, somehow simply make my tall, conspicuous body smaller or magically blend in with steely-gray surface behind me but I know that's impossible. I've tried to quell the restless shifting and stifle the heavy sighs but know I've failed miserably each time I'm nailed with an all-knowing, stern glance or suspicious glare of a nurse or aide currently on duty. But they don't understand my position and I just can't come right out and tell them I'm not suppose to be here right now.

I actually find a strange measure of comfort as my eyes settle on and follow the curvy form of a petite nurse as she leaves a room not far from my position, her dark, kind eyes intensely different from all the others who've looked my way so far. I can see she senses my unrest and for some reason, that suddenly bothers me more than what I'm getting from the others. I don't want her to look too closely...it's just too dangerous. I find I can't hold her gentle gaze long and I wonder if I'm afraid she'll be able to see something in me I don't want her to see, like worry or frustration or...fear. I can't afford to let *that* emotion show, so I merely offer a small, sharp nod and quickly glance away, focusing on some imaginary scuff mark on the floor near my feet. Huh, since when have I ever looked away from a pair of soft, understanding, feminine eyes? Never, that's when. Shit, I'm so screwed...

Sighing softly, I raise my chin and allow my head to fall back against the wall with a soft, almost-hollow sound, closing my tired, stinging eyes, and trying to find a bit of energy somewhere in my exhausted, aching body. With the surrounding sights momentarily blocked out like this, it's almost like a different world, and I begin to listen carefully to the near-silence of the environment: voices are muted, dampened, and there's a strange, almost oppressive feeling that makes me swallow thickly. I realize I've felt this exact way before, long ago, when I'd been stuck back in the rear of the research section of the OSU library during my senior year of college. I'd been desperately trying to do some last-minute cramming for a final, in a room full of silent, agonized companions, and feeling like all I wanted to do was scream out my frustration and rage, barely managing to hold myself in check only because I didn't want to risk being forcably ejected.

Like now.

I blearily wonder if I opened my mouth and shouted out at the top of my lungs, would someone quickly rush forward to toss me out? Or would I suddenly find myself subdued and restrained, hustled away to some nice, cozy bed in an equally comfortable, padded room somewhere only a couple of floors below.

Hell, get a grip DiNozzo...

Suddenly, bile rushes up into my throat and I have to grit my teeth tightly together against the bitter, sour taste, riding out the cresting wave of nausea, and forcibly swallowing back the sensation until I'm sure I won't end up splattering the blue-gray walls or the shiny floor in a fit of projectile vomiting. There's not much in my clenching stomach right now but I'm sure whatever came out wouldn't be pretty...or mix well with the decor. I breathe through my nose and, somehow, deal with the situation. No one here will ever believe I'm in control if I scream or puke, so I just have to suck it up and manage the best I can.

The only problem with that is I don't know if I have the strength anymore.

Someone quietly clears her throat and I slowly open my eyes, surprised to see the nurse assigned to Gibbs standing a few feet away from me, her dark, intelligent eyes filled with compassion and understanding. I don't want her fucking sympathy and am immediately furious...with her but, mostly, with myself...and I scowl openly at the innocent woman, pushing away from the wall, and forcing myself to my full height so I can look down upon her.

Intimidation, pure and simple...and I learned it from the best.

It only takes a moment for this to register because her dark eyes change and flash hotly up at me and there's suddenly nothing sweet or understanding about her posture. I've pissed her off and now I have to pay the price.

Good. I don't give a rat's ass. Let her be pissed.

So, I'm not at all surprised when she doesn't speak but, instead, merely tilts her head back in the general direction of Gibbs' room, silently indicating it was now all right for me to go in for a few minutes and visit.

Visit. Yeah, like *that* will happen...

He's comatose...has been since his arrival...but the doctors seem to feel, at this point, there's nothing to be concerned about. He's taken a pretty rough lick and his body is protecting itself the only way it knows how. I'd seen some of the horrific damage done to his body when I'd managed to enter the devastated laundry room aboard that crap piece of a ship and it was hard to believe he'd actually be in one piece. The doctors talked about possible scarring and such but, hell, I don't care what he looks like...I just want him to live.

Do you hear me, God? I just want him to *live*.

Gibbs' nurse has already turned away and I hesitate for a moment more. This is it: my first real good look at him since he was admitted. If I'm going to do this, I have to be fast because I'm not even supposed to be here. Both Director Shepard and Abby have left but I imagine old Jen will be back pretty soon, just to show who's important, and I can't let her catch me. This is something I just *have* to do by myself. All I have to do now is step forward and cross the threshold, moving into his private space. That's all I have to do.

If that's all, why can't I get my fucking feet to move?

Swallowing once more and taking a deep breath, I immediately understand: I'm afraid...more afraid than I've ever been in my entire life. Afraid for Gibbs, afraid for what this could all mean, and afraid for me. I shake my head at my own folly. When did I become such a coward?

Rotating my head from right to left and back again, I can hear the soft pop and crack of too-tense joints. It's now or never. I straighten my posture and move, one foot in front of the other, crossing silently into unknown territory.

And there he is.

God.

He looks so much better than he did as they were taking him away at the scene but he's so pale, so still, and so void of the almost-tangible strength I've come to depend upon from him. Instead, he looks washed out, weak, and...old. Frighteningly old.

I take another step closer and examine him more carefully. There's all kinds of wires and tubes and crap around him and the bed, some even snaking under the lightweight sheet to places I don't even want to think about. I can't help focusing on the one occupying his mouth, the clear tubing looking vaguely obscene and invasive. My fingers itch to yank it out, to clear his throat and lips of all obstacles, so he'll be able to speak when he awakens but I recognize the significance of its presence: it's breathing for him, keeping him alive, providing what his body just isn't able to do at the moment.

Another step closer and I'm right by his side, looking down into his face, seeing the raw, open patches on his forehead and cheek and so very close to his eyes. Oh, God...his *eyes*. No one has said anything about his eyes yet. I know there are other hidden, injured areas across his body but I just can't worry about them right now. The explosion was intense, there's no denying it, and he's lucky to even be here and alive. So, what if he now can't see? What if that damn bomb has blasted away his sight and left him visionless?

The thought makes me want to puke again...but not because he'd be blind. Hell, if Gibbs couldn't see, I wouldn't care, I'm just so grateful he's still alive, but Gibbs would care. Oh, yeah. The consequences for him would be devastating. He'd lose his position at NCIS, he'd be given a medical retirement, and tossed away because he'd no longer be 'productive' for the agency. He'd be classified as a risk, someone not able to function to his expected capacity and, therefore, unnecessary.

And *that* would absolutely kill him.

I lean in close, trying to push my anguished, betraying thoughts away, and realize I've been thinking only of myself and of my relationship with Gibbs. I don't care if he's blind, hell, I don't care if he's scarred or maimed or honest-to-God butt ugly when he leaves this place. All I care is he's alive and breathing. Anything else, I'll take.

But Gibbs...

No, this won't do and I know I have to change my pact with God, for Gibbs' sake. Without his sight, he wouldn't listen to any words of support or comfort or believe his worth in my life. No, all he'd bee able to understand would be his supposed uselessness.

"Gibbs," I can't stand it any longer and whisper almost breathlessly, letting the fingertips of one hand lightly touch his hair. I notice it, too, is singed in places but quickly look away. "Come on, Gibbs...open your eyes."

This is risky. The nurses have been very specific in their instructions and no one is suppose to disturb his rest. When his body deemed it ready, he would awaken from coma...and not before. But I can't help myself. I want him awake now.

"Gibbs...Jethro," I try again with obvious tenderness and I'm dimly aware I should be glad Director Shepard or Abby or, hell, anyone isn't around to witness this. They wouldn't understand...I'm not even sure *I* understand...but I just know I have to keep trying. I bend until my lips are close to his right ear and speak again. "Jethro, I need you to come back to me. Can you open your eyes? Try...please just try."

I pull back and look down. Watching in amazement, his eyes begin to dance and flit under the closed lids and I immediately recognize what's happening. It's REM...he's dreaming...and I selfishly hope I'm in there somewhere, playing with his subconscious and making him dream of me. His eyelids look thin and fragile, bruised and puffy from the trauma of the explosion, and the small, fine lines at the corners tell a silent tale of the events he's witnessed in his lifetime. Some may even be caused by the smiles I've evoked from him during the past several years but I'd be a fool if I didn't think there's eveidence of others in that face as well. Other friends, other co-workers, other...lovers.

Unbelievably, the lids flicker and part a bit, only to close immediately but the slight movement fills me with joy. I hastily murmur reassurances, trying to calm my soaring spirits.

"Jethro, it's me...open your eyes and look at me. Come on...I know you can do it."

There's a tiny shift of his head on the starched pillowcase and a little scrunch to the tight, shiny skin across his forehead but the eyelids miraculously crack open once more, staying apart slightly longer. I'm allowed a brief glimpse of the red, angry eyes, the whites almost obliterated by the presence of blood and the blue is shockingly brilliant against that horrendous backdrop of injury. My heart plummets in my chest as I get a quick peek at their terrible condition.

"Jethro..." I manage to whisper before I lose the ability to speak, my throat closing and the salty taste of tears floods the back of my tongue.

I hover right over him, my face mere inches from his...and then the ruined-looking eyes shift and look straight at me. He can see! He can see *me*!

I'm overjoyed at the realization and let the tears come without embarrassment, smiling foolishly down into his blank face, oblivious to the sheer emotions filling my body: graditude, happiness, satisfaction, thankfulness...

Gibbs can see and, if the doctors are telling the truth about his other injuries, all will be well and we can eventually just get on with our lives again. It may take some time but...

And then I realize something is wrong...and go cold all over with the resurgance of fear.

There's a frightening blankness to his stare. The tired, blue eyes are shuttered and dim from the meds coursing through his system but I can clearly see the problem. With crystal clarity.

He doesn't recognize me. He doesn't know who I am.

Oh, God...

I can see a tiny spark of confusion starting in those tragically blank eyes and I quickly push aside my feelings and move to assure him. I let my fingers ghost through his hair again and swiftly begin to soothe, trying to rein in my raging emotions.

"Sshhh, it's okay," I rasp, choking slightly on the words, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest, "go back to sleep. Everything is okay...everything is okay..."

Everything is *not* okay.

I stay like this, bent over Gibbs' bed, stroking his hair with as much gentleness as I can muster, whispering quiet, comforting nonsense, and feeling my carefully constructed wall of contentment begin to crumble and fall. Almost immediately, his damaged lids flick and droop, remaining closed as I continue to pet and appease, and only when I'm very sure they won't reopen do I finally rise and straighten back up.

He didn't recognize me. He looked right at me and didn't even know me. The thought leaves me cold and numb and, suddenly, empty. Very empty.

I stay by his side for a few minutes more, silent in my observation, and finally reach an understanding, deciding this must be some kind of cosmic justice for all the things I've done in my life. I should have known something like this would happen, I should have been more specific in my initial request, but I got everything, *everything*, I asked God for, nothing more and nothing less: Gibbs is alive and he can see.

But he just doesn't know what he's seeing and I'm left out in the cold. Again.

Turning away, I leave as silently as I entered, never once making eye contact with any of the staff. It's a short walk the to the elevator and I go as quietly as I can. As the doors part and I step inside to begin the ride down to the parking level, I force myself to remain facing toward the back of the small compartment, and start the difficult process of hardening my heart and letting go. I've done it before, it's nothing new, but this time...

...this time will be the last.

end

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author Matt51.
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