Author's Notes: This fic was originally written for the Be Very, Very Quiet Challenge on the NFA Forums, which challenged to write a fic featuring no spoken dialogue. However, after re-checking the challenge, I noticed that one of the things not allowed in the fic submissions is in fact the center-point of this fic, so I won't be entering it. I'll just have to come up with something else within the next seventeen days. With that explained, I'd like to thank my friend TheSpazzo for beta reading and giving me feedback.

Disclaimers: I do not own the television series NCIS or its characters and storylines. Those are property of Donald Bellisario and CBS. Nor do I own the song "American Pie" or its lyrics. Those are property of Don McLean.

"But February made me shiver, with every paper I'd deliver/Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step/I can't remember if I cried, when I read about his widowed bride/But something touched me deep inside, the day the music died." – Don McLean, "American Pie," American Pie, 1971.

A Somber Hole in the Ground

February 3.

That date was branded into Gibbs's mind, and would be until the day he died. Before a few days ago, it was just another day. The third day of the second month, the thirty-fourth day of the year, one more day gone until winter was a thing of the past and spring could warm things up. The thought of spring melting away the winter with its warm sun made Gibbs think of Abby. And that made him hurt even worse.

February 3. It wasn't just another day anymore.

As Gibbs took another swig of the bourbon (Gonna need to get some more soon) he suddenly remembered something, one of those useless facts people learn and file away in the back of their minds, sometimes to forget completely, others to remember at the most unexpected of times. He remembered that that day had a label, one from a song he'd heard back in his younger days, back in Stillwater.

That was the day Buddy Holly and a couple other rock musicians who were big in the late fifties died in a plane crash. It was a big loss for musicians, and one such musician wrote a song about it in the early '70s. What was it called? Oh yeah, "American Pie." He couldn't remember the name of the guy who wrote and performed that song, Don something-or-other, but he could remember the chorus. It was one of those catchy ones you could hear and remember even after years of not hearing the song itself.

February 3. The Day the Music Died. That was what Don Something-or-Other was singing about in that song, the one about that plane crash. Then with another vice grip of pain in his chest, Gibbs realized how apply fitting that name was. The Day the Music Died.

Like her. And he'd probably never hear her music again. Abby's music.

Gibbs didn't believe in coincidences, but he'd be damned if he knew what else to call that.

February 3, when Abby was driving home after working late. She'd used her '31 Ford Coup hot rod instead of her hearse, and Gibbs was glad for that. If she'd been driving her hearse it happened it probably would've driven him mad. It was as cold as one would expect for winter on the east coast, particularly D.C. There was ice on some of the roads, and she had the misfortune of blowing a tire. Gibbs could imagine the look of terror on her face when the car started skidding…but he could also picture the sigh of utter relief she gave when she managed to safely stop the car on the side of the road. He wondered if she was griping about the cold or her dumb luck when she crouched by the front left tire, the one facing the road, to inspect the damage.

She was probably hoping Gibbs the Superman would show up right then and there to help her out. That thought, and the guilt that came with it, warranted another swig. He started to lower the jar, but then saw just how little was left and went ahead and finished it off. He continued to brood on that which hurt the most as he refilled his makeshift cup. Yeah, he was definitely gonna need to get a new bottle. This one was almost empty. He'd do it tomorrow though, when none of it was left in his system. He didn't wanna do something stupid and inflict the pain he was feeling now on someone else.

Yeah, she was probably expecting Gibbs to save the day like he always did. But instead of Gibbs, the next thing to come down the road was a Mack truck. His initial speed as he neared the scene, according to the accident report's transcription of the nearby traffic camera, wouldn't have caused such a drastic accident when he hit the ice patch, but all the pieces fell in place like a fate-driven bullet: the driver suffered a seizure at the wheel and his speed accelerated. His foot had probably jammed the pedal to the floor. The now much higher speed gave the truck such momentum that, when it hit the ice patch, it careened to the side and zigzagged repeatedly because of his flailing arms still gripping the steering wheel.

The first zig brought the front right side of the truck cab to collide and scrape along Abby's car, like the Titanic and the iceberg. She never even saw it coming, and apparently the tape showed that she'd just started to turn her head towards the road when she was pancaked between two much larger bodies of metal and steel, one scraping along the other at high speeds. She'd been simultaneously scrunched together, knee to chest, and unraveled like a ball of yarn. Metro had had to scrape her off the vehicles and road in pieces and take her away in bags. There was a wet red streak of blood and clumps of gore running alongside the right side of the truck's cab and the left side of Abby's Coup going in opposite directions. Despite the nighttime sky and the car's candy apple paint job, that streak was still very visible. Apparently they'd even found an earlobe twenty feet away, one of her unique earrings still in it and undamaged.

Gibbs felt the jar of bourbon suddenly slip from his grasp, but he caught it before it hit the workbench before him. A good bit of the contents spilled onto said workbench, but he saved most of it before slowly setting the jar down. He placed his hands on the edge and lowered his head, his fingers gripping so tightly the knuckles were white as snow.

The Day the Music Died indeed.

It had been quick, at least, and she never felt a thing. Gibbs could take solace in that, and the fact she never saw it coming. Back in '91 he'd spent entire nights sitting and sweating, unable to sleep or even feel drowsy because he couldn't stop imagining the screams of absolute terror Kelly was most likely making as the van neared final impact. But Abby didn't even see it, and probably only had time to think What the-

Gibbs suddenly felt a strong need to sit down. With a mighty sigh, he released the workbench and walked over to the stairway, where he plopped down on the bottom step. Yeah, too fast to even finish wondering what was happening. Then nothing. Painless.

The truck driver might've had a similar situation. Just driving along when suddenly the seizure hit. Gibbs didn't know what it felt like to have a seizure, but that driver found out. He'd never get a chance to share though; he'd been killed when the truck crashed into a brick building on the left side of the street. Gibbs wanted to at least feel some satisfaction that the bastard who took his favorite away from him had also bitten the big one, but he didn't even feel that. It was just more loss and bloodshed, more sadness for whatever family he had. Plus any satisfaction he did feel would've been pointless. It wouldn't have brought her back.

Gibbs looked at his empty basement and wished suddenly that he had a boat to work on. He'd finished his latest one and donated it to be auctioned by a Marine Corps charity for injured veterans. It was now featured in some watercraft showroom somewhere, covered in signatures and doodles made by Marines who'd wanted a reason to use their new prosthetic arms.

Right now though, Gibbs was wishing he hadn't donated it, just so he could take it apart and start all over again. He'd start a new one right there and then, but he didn't have any wood on hand, his last boat having finished the supply. He'd have to get some new wood tomorrow, after he got his new bourbon maybe.

But the prospect of tomorrow seemed impossible to Gibbs. Tomorrow would be another day without Abby. So would be the day after that and any and all days to follow. Frankly he didn't want to see that. All those days without his spring sunshine, it seemed inconceivable. Putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, Gibbs let out a sigh from deep within his chest, and wondered how he could face this much longer…or even if he could.

A Silent Void of Nothing

Loud music and noise was such a normal thing for the lab that any time someone entered and found it quiet, it either meant Abby was gone or something really bad had happened or was happening. McGee reflected that all three possibilities applied now as he stood in the doorway, his eyes moving along every inch of Abby's domain.

It was late in the night, well into the graveyard shift, that McGee found himself on auto-pilot, driving to NCIS Headquarters, walking inside and through the halls ignorant of the glances he got from the few people there. Not surprising since he'd barely managed to shave and shower on a daily basis…and since everyone knew his past with her. He wasn't surprised when he found himself here, at her lab. It saddened him how empty it was.

There was machinery lining the back wall, cabinets and tables all around, and computers and screens taking up all sorts of space. But it was so quiet. Unnaturally quiet, especially for the mistress of this domain. As McGee slowly walked through and around the lab, it hit him just how much life Abby gave this place. How much she filled it up, like a sun at the center of a solar system. And like a sun after its life ended, she'd left a black hole. All the sound and sense of reality seemed to be sucked away in the lab. He could only hear his own breathing, heartbeat, and footsteps. Everything felt empty, felt liked he could reach out and touch anything in here and find it wasn't really there. Just an empty shell.

McGee found himself standing before the large plasma on the wall that sectioned off the main lab from the office area and the ballistics lab on the other side of that. The few lights that were on gave a small reflection on the black glassy surface of the screen, and McGee could barely make himself out in it.

The hairs on the back of McGee's neck stood on end, and he felt that shift of air that came with someone else standing in the room looking at you. He turned around, his eyes going straight for her spot at the computer, where he'd seen her face framed by the workbench countless times before. There was nobody there. Just him.

McGee lowered his eyes and sighed, disappointed both at not seeing what he was expecting and at expecting it to begin with. Once again on auto-pilot, McGee heard his feet carrying him to a new destination and watched as the façade of Abby's lab passed by, and then the façade of her office area, before he found himself in the ballistics lab. It still smelled of gunpowder and…incense candles. He took a seat in the same chair Abby had handcuffed him to during the Benedict case, wanting him to stay there until he'd relaxed.

He sat there, closed his eyes, and breathed. Inhale. Exhale. He let the smell and the feel of this place flow through him, and found a kind of peace he hadn't felt since he'd been told the horrible truth. Again, he felt that sense of someone standing in the room with him, but this time he didn't try to see it. He simply sat and breathed, and when he opened his eyes that feeling was gone. But the peace wasn't. No, it was still there, and though he was afraid it'd leave too once he stepped out of the ballistics lab, he stood and walked out the door. It didn't leave him.

McGee didn't arrive at his next stop in the lab on auto-pilot. He went of his own drive, and there he stood before Abby's radio, his eyes focusing on it and it alone. That music had added its own sense of life and filling to Abby's world, and to have it gone was both almost and nowhere near as bad as having her gone. He began to seriously consider reaching out and turning it on. His hand reached out, hovered over the power button…and stayed there. For several moments, it simply hung frozen in conflict. Then, McGee lowered it back to his side.

No. It wasn't time yet. The wounds were still too fresh. But they'd heal someday. So would this façade of a lab that once was and no longer would be. A replacement would come and turn it into his or her own world, most likely with the help of an assistant or two. Because nobody could do the job alone like Abby. And nobody could fill this lab like her.

So it would become someone else's, and they would make it their own. But the music…it would stay. Something about him was certain of that, something that was beyond a gut feeling. It would stay, and someday when the wounds were healed and life could really go on…then it'd play. McGee nodded resolutely at that, stood in that spot for a bit longer, then turned and walked out. He walked through the lab and out the door, down the hall, and into the elevator at the end.

Yeah. Someday that music would be ready to play and live again. Not today, or any day soon…but someday.

Written by

Sergeant Conley