Killing Time.

 

The first weeks are not the worst of his life, but they come pretty damn close. The emptiness inside, the anger.

The regret at knowing the pain he has caused.

Time after time he hears laughter in a crowded bar, sees a dark head in a crowd and hurries to catch up, only to find he has scared the hell out of a total stranger.

It’s the guilt, the loss, the awareness of betrayal of all he held true.

It’s sharing a cramped beach house, the lack of privacy. It’s sleeping on a sofa without the comfort of strong arms surrounding him. It’s the odour of stale beer and stale sweat and cheap cologne that pervades the air.

It’s rough cotton sheets and instant coffee, tabloid newspapers and the all-day drone of daytime TV.

It’s not living, it’s existing.

~~~~~

He exists for a week.

Then a month.

Franks takes him in and promises it will be like old times.

He swallows his pride and mends the roof because the government screwed up his pension and it’s the only way he can pay for his keep.

Franks thinks it’s funny, not bothering to read the pain behind Gibbs eyes.

He holds onto the threads of hope because he knows this will end one day.

~~~~~

One month rolls into two, two into four.

The storms come and he spends his days trapped in the beach house.

They play chequers and poker, and live on take-outs swimming in grease, and Franks watches football all day and porn all night.

And the emptiness grows, the uncertainty eating away at him like a cancer..

He lives in memories and tries not to dream.

~~~~~

Sometimes Franks brings home a girl from the cantina. He offers to share her but Gibbs declines.

He goes for a walk on the beach instead. It’s raining but he doesn’t care.

It’s better than listening to them fucking.

And the rain hides his tears.

~~~~~

Five months.

He rents a cottage near the marina and leaves Franks to his sport and his porn and his whores.

He gets back into his old routine, starts looking after himself. He cooks and cleans and fixes up the cottage, shaves off his beard and cuts his hair, and life drifts back towards normality once more.

The emptiness still lingers, the guilt still hangs heavy on his shoulders, but he knows he will never escape them so he wraps them up and hides them in the darkest corner of his memory.

Just like he did with his wife and daughter.

~~~~~

Six months.

Half a year.

Yolanda Martinez has a chair that needs fixing. Ignatio’s door is off its hinges. Gibbs fixes them – and more. They can’t afford to pay him and he doesn’t need it anyway, but Yolanda bakes him a cake and Ignatio brings a brace of Rock Squirrel, and suddenly his life has purpose again as others turn to him for help.

He buys a fishing boat and spends his time fixing it up. He paints and patches from dawn to dusk and there is familiarity in the feel of the wood under his hands and peace to be found in the rhythm of the work.

One by one he takes out the memories, letting them flow through his thoughts like sun-warmed sand through his fingers. Some are still too painful to look at so he tucks them back into the dark recesses, keeping only those that cause him to smile.

~~~~~

The season is over and he’s pleased with the results. Running fishing trips for tourists will never make him rich but then, rich isn’t what he wants to be. He has finally found his niche in this world and with it comes an odd kind of peace.

Once in a while he meets Franks at the cantina and they share cold beer and reminisce. They will never be true friends, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. Franks belongs to the past.

Gibbs knows he has a future now.

~~~~~

One morning in the grocery store he buys a postcard: white sand and sailboats beneath an azure sky. He sits in the cantina for an hour, drinking coffee and staring at the picture, trying to think of something to write. Wondering if the card will even be welcome after so long.

Would he be welcome?

Maybe he should leave things as they are.

Maybe  it would be better not to know.

But he can’t ignore the ember of hope that glows deep inside as he drops the envelope in the mail.

~~~~~

It’s a year plus a day and he’s back on the boat, splicing new wood into a broken handrail, losing himself in the sanding and planning.

If only he could mend his life as easily, cut out the bad parts and fill them with something good, but he knows things don’t work that way. At least, not for him.

He stops for a while, towels the sweat and dust from his face; takes a soda from the cooler. Tthe thought flashes through his mind: if his friends could see him now.

Be careful what you wish for.

A familiar shadow falls across the deck and he shivers as the torrent of memories is unleashed.

He remembers hands stroking his body, touching, caressing, their rhythm attuned to the cadence of shared breathing.

He remembers the scent of sandalwood and citrus and warm skin and breath sweet with the taste of chocolate.

He remembers soft laughter and whispered words and the silken slide of skin on skin.

And he smiles.

He sets the bottle aside and picks up the sanding block, feels the boat rock gently as the watcher climbs aboard.

And the world rights itself once more.

Tony has come home.

~~~~~~

End.

 

Close the window to return to the NCIS Index