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That, Doc - is closure".
He grips her shoulders, his eyes flicking between a spot on the floor and her face, his fingers squeeze into her, as if to push the point further.
“Now the rest is just memories. Nothing wrong with memories.”
She looks ahead at nothing, finally letting in one of her memories, as if she can at last get some answers from it. All she learns is that she really could do with the drink he’s holding out to her.
She needs the sip to give her courage to admit it. “Never went to the funeral. Just couldn’t do it.”
He knows that feeling, God knows he nearly couldn’t do it.
“Well, families grieve in different ways,” Because they were a family. Just a different type of family than she was.
She walks over to him, stepping into his space. “Let me ask you a question, Gibbs, see if you can answer. A man walks into a bar and asks the bartender for a glass of water. The bartender pulls out a shotgun. Fires a blast just missing the man. Man says thank you, puts a tip on the bar and leaves. Why the tip?”
“Guy had the hiccups.” He smiles, half laughing. He knows the answer. And he knows the answer to the question she can't seem to bring herself to ask either.
“It’s all about responses, Gibbs. You, Vance, your agents. If you keep things bottled up inside, even the harshest response seems appropriate.”
A shaky breath escapes her, one neither of them realised she's been holding. She takes a sip of bourbon, looking into its depth as she battles to swallow her emotions with the liqor.
A step takes him to her, and he wedges his hip against the bench, turning to face her. He wraps his hand around her hand that's gripping the jar, yet still managing to shake. His warmth seeps into her fingers and the shaking lessens. He gently squeezes her fingers and she acquiesces, loosening her grip. He slips the jar from her fingers, and in one swift move places the jar on the bench next to him and envelops her in his arms, her head fitting perfectly against his neck. He breathes slow and steady, until he feels her body rise and fall in tandem with his own.
"Physician, heal thyself." It's little more than a whisper, tinged with a rueful half-embarrassed laugh.
He smiles against her hair, feels her relax into him and he wipes the stray tear off her cheek, his hand coming to rest against her neck, thumb strafing.
“Not that I'm complaining,” he begins, “but why now?”
He feels the shrug of her shoulders against him, but he was never one to give up easily. Or at all.
“Why.” he asks the question against her hair, with the softest of kisses.
He can almost feel her brain working, her head pressed tight against him. He can wait. He's almost as good at that as she is. He feels the intake of breath before she speaks.
"I realised I'd gone a day without it hurting. A day, a week, a month."
He waits for a moment, but she's burrowing back into him.
"And you want it to hurt again." It's not a question. And he already knows what the answer would be anyway.
"You need it to hurt."
She pulls away from him, steps out of his space and shrugs off her coat, which he tugs out of her grip and lays on the counter next to him. She feigns interest in the space around her, turning away from him.
He takes a sip of his drink, puts it back down. He's content to wait.
“You said there's nothing wrong with memories.” She won't look at him, so he remains silent. “But it can't be just memories. It's not enough. There has to be more than just memories. There has to be...a...there has to be a future. A hope of happiness. A life.” She throws a glance at him.
“You learn to find the balance.”
She turns to look at him, arms wrapped tight around herself. It's her turn to wait.
“You walk a line between the two. Your life becomes a mix of the memories and the now. A blended life. Nothing wrong with that. Just takes time.”
“How long did it take you?” Her acknowledgement that he's got the jump on experience is implicit and he appreciates it. But he's not handing it out either.
He shrugs. “Some. Everyone's different. There's no rule book on this. You'd have no job if there was.” The words are softened by the quirk to his lips and she catches it, lets out a breath of laugh.
“She really loved her job, you know. Working with you, Abby, even Tony.” A smile in unison. “She worked so hard, to try to be the best, the agent you wanted. To get your approval.”
“She didn't need my approval. If she hadn't been doing a good job I'd have let her know.”
“She wanted it. It mattered to her. You mattered to her.”
“Wading into quicksand there, Doc.”
“Uh huh. For both of us. Still true though.” She walks over to him, takes a sip of his drink.
He takes the jar back out of her hands, takes a drink. “Ya got one of your own.”
“Yours tastes better.” The shrug of her shoulder, a spark coming back.
“Can you stop being so like your sister for a moment?”
She looks at him, cocks her head, trying to work out if he's serious or not, but he's being that Gibbs, so she's not sure.
“Never really saw it myself. The likeness, I mean. Not until last Christmas. There's a photo, she...” She grinds to a halt, and looks at the floor. He holds out her jar to her, and she smiles as she takes it and finishes the contents.
“Your smile's all yours, but your eyes are the same. Same colour, same warmth. Same flash when I've pissed her off.”
“Same when they're closed.” She hands him the jar back, reaches for his, but he moves it out of reach, places her empty one on the bench behind him. He brushes his thumb against her chin, and kisses her softly, then pulls back, his hand coming to rest against her neck.
Her breath hitches in her throat and she swallows hard, and he strokes his thumb along her jawline. She turns her head, kisses his palm, then presses her cheek against the reassuring curl of his fingers.
He reaches behind him with his free hand for his drink, takes a sip, and brings the jar to her lips. She takes a mouthful, swallows slowly.
“I was right” she says.
“Probably” he replies, swallowing the last of the drink.
She rolls her eyes at him. “Yours does taste better.”
He silences her with a kiss.