Ashleigh Anpilova


Ducky is dead and Gibbs is fighting so many different things.

An established relationship story.

Gibbs/McGee as a pre-slash couple are mentioned in this story.

Warning: Major character death.

Written: March 2009. Word count: 1,000.



Every part of Gibbs's life involved a fight.


He had to fight to get out of bed each morning.


He had to fight not to go crazy in the quietness and solitude of Reston House.


He had to fight to go into the office.


He had to fight not to constantly slap DiNozzo around the head.


He had to fight not to yell at Ziva and tell her she shouldn't still be screwing up the language.


He had to fight not to snarl at McGee when he talked geek.


He had to fight not to snap at Abby when she bounced.


He had to fight to go down to Autopsy.


He had to fight to be even marginally polite to the new ME.


He had to fight not to completely scare Palmer.


He had to fight to show Vance he gave a damn.


He had to fight to keep up the 'game' he and Fornell had played for years.


He had to fight to go home each evening.


He had to fight not to put every light on in the house.


He had to fight not to fill the house with noise.


He had to fight not to drink a bottle of bourbon every night.


He had to fight to go to bed.


He had to fight not to put his gun to his head and pull the trigger.


Each day he fought all these things.


The hardest being not ending his life; ending the need to fight.


He didn't do that because Ducky had made him promise that he would go on; that he would try to live his life.


Was he living his life?


Was he even living?


He doubted both.


But he went on. Day after endless day after endless day he went on.


Fighting to put one foot in front of the other.


Fighting to get through each minute; then each hour; then each day.


It was a fight he knew he'd ultimately lose. He just hoped when he did Ducky would forgive him.


"Fuck it!" he snarled, as again his computer failed to obey him.


That was something else he had to fight!


In recent months things had become even more computerized. And while McGee was in his element and DiNozzo was proving a quick learner, Gibbs felt like the dinosaur he was. Technology was another fight he'd never win.


He pressed a button on the keyboard, viciously stabbing at it repeatedly. The screen went blank. Livid now, he raised his hand to slap it, but it was caught and held.


He glanced up. "McGee?" He glared at his agent, expecting McGee to let go. He didn't.


"It won't help, boss," McGee said, his tone gentle. His words ambiguous. Before Gibbs could reply, McGee leaned over him, let go of his hand, and put his fingers on Gibbs's keyboard. "Let me."


Gibbs was trapped in his chair, trapped under the sudden onslaught on his senses. He could small and taste McGee's cologne, light, fresh, clean. He could feel McGee pressed against him; in turn his body was pressed against McGee's. McGee's breath was warm on his cheek, and he could hear McGee murmuring something to himself.


Gibbs's mouth was dry. His body was beginning to tingle in a way he hadn't experienced since Ducky's death.


He had to fight the urge to push back his chair and shove McGee away from him.


He had to fight the urge to push back his chair and pull McGee into his arms.


What the hell was he thinking?


He didn't want McGee. Did he?


"There." McGee straightened up and deliberately brushed his hand over Gibbs's shoulder. "It'll be all right now."


Gibbs swallowed. "Thanks, Tim."


He thought McGee would go. Instead he perched on the edge of Gibbs's desk and said softly, "If there's anything else you need, boss, anything. I'd be happy to . . ." He trailed off, but the look he gave Gibbs made it clear exactly what he was offering.


Gibbs had to fight to keep from groaning.


Had to fight to stop himself from inviting McGee to Reston House.


Had to fight to stop himself from inviting himself to McGee's apartment.


Had to fight to stop himself from standing up and ordering McGee into his 'office'.


It would be good. McGee would give him whatever he wanted, needed. He knew that.


Maybe if he said 'yes', maybe if he allowed himself to be taken into McGee's arms, to be kissed, held, made love to, then maybe, just maybe he could, for an hour or so, stop fighting.


As he was about to open his mouth to tell McGee there was something, he stopped.


He couldn't.


Not because of Ducky. Ducky would want him to. Ducky had told him: 'try to be happy'; 'try to find someone else to love'; 'try to find someone else to love you'. Ducky would like it, and Ducky had been very fond of McGee. Ducky would even approve.


But he couldn't.


Because it wouldn't be right.


Not because he'd be breaking his own rule.


Not because he was easily old enough to be McGee's father.


Not because he thought McGee would brag about it.


But because he didn't, he couldn't, love McGee, and for a man like McGee, love was necessary. He was like Ducky in that respect.


He couldn't, he wouldn't, use the young man he liked, cared about and respected. It wouldn't be right.


No, he'd just have to go on fighting every minute of every day until a bullet took his life. Or until he finally had the courage to end it and face Ducky.


"Thanks, Tim." He patted McGee's hand. "I'll let you know."


He saw the look in McGee's eyes and knew he knew Gibbs would never be 'letting him know'.




His fight is over.


As he closes his eyes and prepares to meet Ducky, he feels a kiss on his lips.


He knows Tim's report will state he didn't have time to draw his gun.



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