Title: Tearless Grief
Rating: T
Summary: It's been a year and a half, and he hasn't cried yet.
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
A/N: For Natalie, who wanted a red sweater and Gibbs/Kate angst.
He finds the sweater when he's cleaning out his closet, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's unfolded it and holding it up to his face. It's unbelievably soft, made of some ridiculously expensive wool, and he imagines it still carries the barest trace of her perfume.
He can't breathe.
He closes his eyes, sees her on the roof, her blood as red as this sweater, and the pain that cuts through him is so sharp that he thinks he's having a heart attack.
It's been a year and a half, and he hasn't cried yet. Even now, he cannot cry. This is a grief too deep for tears and as he falls to his knees, clutching the sweater against his chest, he sees her in front of him.
"You want to build a snowman?"
"Don't be such a grouch, Gibbs." She pauses, tilts her head, then smiles. "Or should that be Grinch? It is almost Christmas."
"I have nothing against Christmas."
"Just snowmen."
"No. It's just – snowmen are for kids."
Kate looks at him for a long time, so long that he starts to worry. Her tone is mock serious when she says, "Okay, Grandpa."
"Grandpa?"
She's halfway to the door before he jumps up and catches her, keeping her in place with an arm around her waist. She leans into him, completely unresisting. "Well, did you have something else in mind?"
He runs his hand over her belly; her sweater soft beneath his fingers. "Yes, actually. Something a little more grown-up than building snowmen."
He's not dying, he realizes. Still, he cannot get up from the floor. He's half-sitting, half-leaning against the closet, and he cannot let go of the sweater.
Kate, he thinks. Kate, Kate, Kate.
He's tried so hard to keep from thinking of her, has refused to mention her name, has tried so hard not to feel anything, and it's as if eighteen months of pain has hit him all at once.
Katie.
She died for him, because of him, because that twisted sociopath Haswari knew exactly what would hurt Gibbs the most.
He sees her falling backwards, her sightless eyes gazing up at the sky. The coppery scent of blood fills his nostrils and he gags; the smell is strong and there's nothing else, only Kate dying in front of him. Only Kate, already dead.
"Kaaaaate." The word drags out, half a whisper, half a groan. He doesn't sound human.
He doesn't feel human. He doesn't feel alive. He hasn't felt alive since Kate fell.
He manages to crawl across the room, to his bedside drawer. He opens it, reaches blindly inside, and his fingers curl around a small box.
"Why me?" They're in bed; he's spooned behind Kate, both of them in a post-coital haze.
"Hmm?"
"I'm too old for you. And I have three ex-wives. And I'm your boss—"
"I love you," she says quietly, as if it's just that simple.
Maybe it is, but he can't say the words in return yet. He wants to, and he tells himself he will soon.
In the mean time, he thinks, it won't hurt to start looking at rings. For the day when he can say the words.
He flips the box open; the unworn ring is as perfect as it was the day he bought it. He wonders what she would have said if he had given it to her, if he'd said the words he wanted to, if he'd asked the question he'd been planning to.
He thinks he knows, and the ache inside him grows even sharper.
He should have told her before it was too late, but he thought there would be enough time. He wishes he'd told her, and wonders – hopes – that she knew how he felt about her.
"Love you." It's just a whisper. Then, stronger, "I love you, Kate."
And he thinks, somehow, she hears.