This was written as a birthday present for a friend who wanted a Gibbs/DiNozzo slash story where Gibbs has permanently lost his sight. Thanks to C for sharing. Everything is, as usual, solely my fault. The NCIS guys, of course, do not belong to me.

Post Tenebras Lux -- "After darkness, Light"

The curiously whitened pane of the storefront window bowed and cracked then surged toward them like a sheet on the wind. Gibbs' hand pressed hard on his shoulder and the tone of his voice was deepened and stretched out, pulled into a frightening bass growl as he ordered, "Dooowwwnnn." Then Gibbs pivoted on his left foot, gaze fixed on the young boy who had just skateboarded past. He managed only a single step in the child's direction before the flying tide of splintered glass caught the small body and surged, unheeding, onward. On his knees, Tony instinctively hid his face and neck behind his upraised arms. And then the shards burst over them.

The tray, a turquoise rectangle, flew out of the hospital room door, plastic bowl and stainless utensils clattering against the floor, a thin trail of soup branching creek-like into the warp of the worn tile. Tony DiNozzo stepped over the mess, shrugged apologetically at the tearful nurse's aide he met coming out the door as he was going in, and greeted the figure shifting uncomfortably on the mussed hospital bed. "Good aim, boss."

"I was aiming for her," Gibbs muttered, running a hand through silver hair spiked wildly above the sterile gauze still wrapping his eyes and forehead.

"No, you weren't," denied Tony, audibly crumpling the bag he held in a hand freshly freed from twenty sutures. "I've got pastrami on rye from Vecchio's."

Finger food, he'd figured out, would be accepted; where anything that required utensils, if forced, would inevitably end up on the floor. Although the actual hallway was a bit more of a fling than Gibbs normally mustered.

Interested, Gibbs sat up a bit straighter only to wince, the movement pulling the dozens of neat rows of stitching on his face and neck and arms.

"Coffee?" he asked, wetting still-healing lips.

"Decaf." At the groan of disappointment Tony settled the bag and pulled the top of the Styrofoam cup. "Best I could do, boss."

Gibbs' left hand, with its intricate inlay of sutures, made a stiff "gimme" motion. "Give it."

Tony noticed Gibbs carefully kept his bandaged and misshapen right hand resting on its pillow, the tips of the fingers barely visible in the swathing of white. Gingerly the fingers laced in stitching tightened around the cup until Tony finally let it go, though he stretched to keep his own hand under it, just in case Gibbs couldn't hold on.

"Agent Gibbs!" The not-unfamiliar bark of the unit manager, the one Gibbs openly called "Nurse Ratchet" startled them both. Luckily, Gibbs' reflex was to tighten his grip, not release it. The cup bowed under the awkward clench of fingers still half-numb themselves.

"I'm sorry." Gibbs' apologies were on automatic repeat now; he didn't even go through the motions of trying to make them sound genuine.

"No, you're not," retorted the nurse, shooting a glare at DiNozzo who ducked his head to hide the smile that threatened.

Gibbs buried himself back in the warmth of the cup, muttering into the depths of the drink. "No, I'm not. I can feed myself."

"'Can' and 'will' are not synonymous, Mr. Gibbs."

"What do you care if I eat that slop?" retorted her patient.

"Frankly," the petite woman rubbed at her temple for a moment, "at this point I don't; but the longer you don't eat, the longer my staff has the dubious 'pleasure' of your company."

"I'm eating." Gibbs stuck the now thoroughly-emptied cup in Tony's direction. "Give me the damn sandwich, DiNozzo."

"Sure, boss." Tony fumbled with the paper wrapping, lifting half the delicacy out. "Here." He brought Gibbs' hand to the food. "Got it?"

The reply was an impatient, "Yes, DiNozzo."

Lips stretched painfully, Gibbs took the first bite. "See," he mumbled through a full mouth, "eating."

The sound of the door closing pointedly was the only reply.

"Boss ..." began Tony when he was sure they were going to remain undisturbed.

"No."

"I haven't even asked yet," protested the younger agent.

"Abby, Kate and McGee." Now that he'd started, Gibbs was devouring the sandwich half with decided hunger. "The answer is still 'no'."

"Boss."

"No."

"Why?" questioned Tony. "They just want to see you."

"No."

Tony shook his head. He was silent for a moment, watching Gibbs finish off the last corner of rye. "You want the rest of the sandwich?"

"Yeah."

Handing over the remainder, he watched it disappear with equal rapidity.

"I live for these one-syllable conversations. You know that, don't you?"

Mouth full, Gibbs merely grunted.

"Hey, Ducky." The medical examiner glanced up to see the young agent heft himself up to flop supine on the empty autopsy table. "I don't know how long I can take it."

"You have been to see our fearless leader," surmised the physician.

"Oh, good news. His aim is getting way better. The lunch tray made it all the way out the door."

"Physical therapy," shrugged the Englishman. He smiled a bit when DiNozzo rolled to look at him in disbelief. "Of a sort."

"He's hungry, Duck. And he throws his lunch across the room. Explain to me how that makes sense, even twisted Gibbs-sense."

"'Pride costs more than hunger, thirst and cold.' Your Thomas Jefferson said that."

"Yeah, well, I'm starting to feel like some kind of weird enabler in this battle he's fighting."

"Fighting is the only thing Jethro knows," observed Ducky quietly. "The true worry will come when he stops."

Tony covered his face with his hands, opening his eyes and contemplating the temporary blindness made by his palms. "Great," he agreed, disheartened, "something to look forward to."

"Go away."

"I'm afraid not, Jethro," Ducky declined, patting the lean, pajama-clad shoulder.

"It's a private unveiling."

"I'm a physician, if you remember," countered Ducky as he roamed the exam room that was festooned with oversized posters of the right and left fundus of the eye. "There is very little about the human body I haven't seen before."

Gibbs head turned so his ear followed the footfalls. Where DiNozzo was standing was something of a mystery, but he knew the younger agent was there; he could hear Tony's slightly fast respirations coming from somewhere to his right in the unfamiliar acoustics of the exam room.

"Then get DiNozzo out of here."

The soft breaths picked up speed but were drowned out by the clatter of the door opening, the exchange of medical greetings between the ME and the ophthalmologist.

DiNozzo watched Gibbs' already tight posture go rigid, saw his face set in a studiously neutral mask.

"Agent Gibbs," the ophthalmologist greeted.

The muscles in Gibbs' throat rippled as he swallowed convulsively. "Let's just dispense with the pleasantries and get on with it."

"All right," the ophthalmologist agreed. "As I explained before, the flying glass caused severe lacerations. The concussive force caused additional injury. The vitrectomy we performed removed most of the blood; but your retinas are detached, and your corneas badly scarred. At this point we hope for some light vision, perhaps even the ability to see certain shapes, but you should not be alarmed if that is all. To regain any usable vision will, in all likelihood, require several more operations, if it is even proves to be possible."

"I've heard it, doc." Gibbs shifted uncomfortably in the exam chair, his left hand clawed into the padded arm of the seat, his right arm immobilized against his chest, the injured hand wrapped protectively.

"Then I'll begin," said the ophthalmologist, shaking his head at Ducky in a kind of physician's body language Tony wasn't privy to, a communication of which Gibbs was unaware.

Coolness brushed his forehead as the layers of gauze were stripped away and Gibbs concentrated on keeping his own breathing even, a deception well-practiced in a dozen undercover operations. Practiced, he knew, not so well here.

"Now the shields."

The pressure of the shallow metal cups lifted, leaving the newly bare skin around his eyes feeling vulnerable and overly sensitive. Automatically he raised his hand to rub the sensation away only to find it caught and held. "Duck?" he whispered. The reply was a strong grasp on his fingers.

"Now the gauze pads," continued the ophthalmologist. "When I remove these, I want you to keep your eyes closed."

The gauze was gently withdrawn. Despite this, Gibbs rocked his head, the air on the tender lids causing a purely reflexive flinch. But even if he'd wanted to open them, his lashes were caked shut with dried tears.

Tony winced in empathy, sucking in a breath. Gibbs looked ... bad. The raw upper lids creased with red, half-healed scars; the secretions holding the lids shut were tinged a disturbing pink.

"Easy, Jethro," soothed Ducky when he tried to pull away as pads of sterile solution were rested on the sore skin.

The fingers holding the ME's tightened as the crusted lashes were delicately wiped.

"Okay, I think we can try it now." The ophthalmologist put down the gauze. "I want you to open your eyes, slowly."

Gibbs obeyed, painfully furrowing his forehead as he tried to lift lids that had been closed for more than two weeks. Eventually, a sliver of bloodshot sclera was revealed, then a hint of cloudy blue. Then the other eye opened, showing the same thin arc of painful looking tissue.

"That's it." A fresh pad was wiped along the lower lid and the ophthalmologist's thick fingers gently separated the lids further.

He reached in his pocket for a penlight, and when he turned it on, Tony saw all too clearly that even the doctor's pronouncements of a slim chance of retaining meaningful vision were probably optimistic. Turning to help the boy had placed Gibbs' right side closer to the storefront. It was the reason his right hand lay clawed and paralyzed, the shards cutting through nerves and tendons, a particularly large piece of glass nearly severing the wrist. It was one of Tony's few memories of the scene: Ducky's hand clamped firmly around Gibbs wrist in an attempt to stem the blood loss.

Gibbs' right eye was fixed and glassy. Stilled, like his hand. While the left moved fitfully as Gibbs tried to follow the faint dip and sway of the penlight, the right merely rolled upward a little, leaving the faint arc of white visible beneath the cloudy cataract.

"You see a little light."

"Really far off and dim," confirmed Gibbs, squinting into the sharp illumination.

"Good," said the doctor, lifting the right lid to examine the stilled eye further, shining the bright white light directly into the pupil. "Now?"

"No," said Gibbs.

"It is about what we expected." The pen light was shut off. "There is still some hope we can return vision to your left eye."

Gibbs nodded then jerked in surprise as the door slammed. Ducky still knelt beside him, a steadying grasp on his hand. He turned his head, trying to see past the patch of gray that made up what remained of his vision.

"DiNozzo?" he whispered.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Ducky was surprised to see an actual smile grace Gibbs' face, if only briefly. The last of the stitches had come out over the past few days, giving some relief, restoring some expressions that had been too painful to make.

"Why do you think I'm going anywhere, Duck?"

"The lack of hospital attire is a start."

"Ah, nice to know your forensic skills are as sharp as ever." Gibbs felt his way along the edge of the bed with his left hand, his right still bound against his ribs. "You see a file folder?"

"I do." Retrieving it, Ducky pressed the thick folder into a hand that refused to take it.

"It's for you. Legal stuff."

"Legal stuff?" repeated the ME. "May I ask how you ..."

"Managed it?" finished Gibbs. "I called Jolie."

"You called Jolie," echoed slowly back at him.

"Are you gonna repeat everything I say, Duck?"

"No. It's just that she –"

"Hit me in the head with a baseball bat. Yeah, I remember." Gibbs' scarred hand touched his temple in brief remembrance. "She's a lawyer," he reminded. "She also never thought that much of my looks. A currently advantageous combination." Gibbs jerked away from the unexpected touch on his cheek. "Don't Duck, all right? I'm so cobbled together I look like Frankenstein's monster."

"That a direct quote?" Ducky asked acidly.

"No. The direct quote was 'I looked like wall-eyed shit.'"

"That makes no sense, Jethro."

"You know Jolie," shrugged Gibbs, as if that was self-explanatory. "And I know what I look like."

"No," pointed out Ducky, "you don't."

Gibbs put a hand against the end of the bed to steady himself. "Scary enough to make DiNozzo turn tail and run."

"That wasn't—"

Gibbs cut him off. "She found a rehab place up in Vermont." He gestured vaguely in Ducky's direction. "The house is for sale. If you'd keep an eye on it until ..."

Ducky opened the folder and frowned down at the contents. "What about the boat?"

"What about it?"

"Where is it?"

"Where it's always been, Duck. I always thought I'd figure out how to get it out of there if I ever got it finished. The new owner can chop it up for firewood."

"Jethro." Gibbs took a couple steps back from the ME's approach, stumbling against the rolling tray table, unable to right himself before Ducky stepped in and grasped him by the shoulders. "You don't have to do this."

Gibbs closed his eyes self-consciously. "Yeah, I do."

"And you're going to leave without saying goodbye?"

"I am saying goodbye, Duck."

"To me. Not to Tony and Kate. Not to Abby. They're not going to understand."

"Tell 'em to ask DiNozzo how enjoyable the experience of seeing me was for him. I think he can fill them in."

Ducky's grip tightened on his shoulder. "You're not leaving here thinking Anthony fled because he couldn't stand to look at you."

"I thought his motives were pretty easily apparent," said Gibbs, stepping out of the hold.

"There's a reason she hit you in the head with a baseball bat, you know."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm a bastard."

"No, because sometimes you're a stupid bastard," retorted Ducky. "You're the one that convinced your staff you were nigh onto invincible. NCIS Agent Gibbs, the always-right. Don't act shocked that they don't easily take to finding out you lied, especially the young ones. The impressionable ones, like Tony."

Gibbs reached for the edge of the mattress to sit down and missed, knees already giving, but Ducky caught him by his good arm and safely settled him. "Why do you think I wouldn't see them?" Gibbs whispered.

The ME drew a deep breath. "Why can't you let them support you for once? They'd do anything for you. You've got to realize that."

"I think you just answered you own question, Duck." Gibbs shook off the hand still stabilizing him. "There's supposed to be a car waiting out front. If you'll get the discharge papers ..."

"Damn it, Jethro. What am I going to do with you?"

"You're going to let me go, Ducky. That's what you're going to do."