THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS
By
Ashleigh Anpilova
Gibbs is dissatisfied with certain aspects of his job.
An established relationship story.
Written: March 2006. Word count: 602.
Occasionally Gibbs despised his job.
And himself.
It wasn't the never-ending circle of crimes and criminals and cases and convictions that he hated. It was what he had to do in order to solve the cases and obtain the convictions.
He had been called, and knew he was, the best investigator and interrogator NCIS had. And usually he was happy to be so. But sometimes his abilities sickened him.
Usually he walked out of the interrogation room pleased with what he achieved, content in the knowledge that he'd gone a long way to putting another dirtball behind bars where he or she belonged.
However, there were a handful of times when he walked out sickened to his gut by what he'd done. Feeling ten times worse than the person he had just destroyed. Not that he ever condoned murder. He didn't. He couldn't. But sometimes he understood it.
Take the young man he had just shattered. He was barely more than a child in many ways, but an adult by law. He'd seen what had been done to his elder brother, the man who had all but raised him, at the hands of the Naval officer, who shouldn't be allowed to command a chimps' tea party, let alone a ship. The elder brother, who finally unable to take the bullying and abuse, had taken his own life, leaving behind a devastated young man to take his revenge when the proper authorities failed him.
If Gibbs could have gotten his hands on the bastard he'd . . .
Except he wouldn't. He couldn't. But if he could just have had five minutes alone with him in the interrogation room. Five minutes without cameras or tapes or anyone else in sight. The bastard would never bully anyone again.
He deserved what he got. The young man's brother wasn't the only one he'd bullied. But the law was the law. The law said that Gibbs had to do his job. Had to use his skills and his abilities to bring in the murderer and break him.
Not that it had taken much breaking. Billy had been pathetically keen to tell his story. But the little he had done had been enough to sicken Gibbs. And what good would locking up the young man do anyone? Hadn't he already paid enough? Wouldn't he spend his life paying for what he did? He had. And he would. He was a good kid, and good kids always paid and paid dearly. The circle would never end. They never did.
But it was out of Gibbs's hands now. All he could hope for was a sympathetic judge and jury. Tomorrow would bring a new case. Tomorrows always did.
Tonight, however, he had, as he always had, the one honest constant in his life: Ducky.
Ducky's arms would form a circle in which Jethro could shelter.
Ducky would know what to say and what not to say.
What to do and what not to do.
Ducky would listen with more than just his ears.
Look with more than just his eyes.
Touch Jethro with more than just the physical.
Speak to him with more than just his voice.
Take away enough of the self-despising to enable Jethro to get back up tomorrow, return to the office, and once again begin the daily cycle that formed Leroy Jethro Gibbs's life.
Ducky was the only part of Jethro's circle that he welcomed without any hesitation. The only part that he never hated. The only part that was always good and never bad.
Ducky and his love made Jethro whole.
It completed him.
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