Story Notes:
Made for last year's (2005) NCIS ficathon.
Author's Chapter Notes:
It angered him that maybe they thought, or perhaps wished, that it was him that Ari shot, him that fell with blood pooling behind his head.
Happiness is possible only to a rational man, the man who desires
nothing but rational goals, seeks nothing but rational values and
finds his joy in nothing but rational actions.
- Ayn Rand
Late afternoon was swept into sunset and the slanting rays of the sun slid down his walls like a lingering caress. Shafts of red tinged amber stretched out, broken only by Jethro's shadow.
He knelt down and lit the tall blue candle. It was a gift from Kate during one of her shopping sprees with Abby, a time that felt light years away. Some part of him that had not been ruthlessly indoctrinated into his so-called faith wondered if the simple act of lighting a candle could somehow open up a conduit to the Other Place.
The Other Place that Kate, if faith was to be believed, had gone to.
He had never lost an agent to death. He had lost them to better opportunity, better (and less grouchy) employers, and new lives. Never to death. He had always struggled against death, hell-bent on tearing his agents from the bony arm that constantly reached out towards them.
But as with every case, it was just another move and the game of chess went on. He lost a valuable piece in his team. He should move on. What he didn't expect was that the piece was so intrinsically important to him.
Kate's death had rocked something fundamental. The image of his invulnerability that he had been building up for all these years did not soothe the sharp sting of reality. The reality was that his armour, pretend though it may be, could not and did not protect one of his own.
He failed.
The word and the realization struck him like a slap on the face. The weight of the shame and his anger was at times nebulous, undirected and undecided as to where to be directed, but often sharp, sleek and choosing the quiet times between too late to sleep and too early to be awake.
Once or twice, he had been angry at Kate. Laced with shame, he still riled against the memory of her. The last smile of the shared teasing and the sudden closing of her smile behind her eyes the moment that Ari's bullet tore through her remained in his mind's eye with such picture-perfect clarity.
When the shame let him be, his anger at Ari became palpable, bitter bile around his throat, coating his tongue, making him wish for blood to wash it down. His skin crawled like some hideous beast wanted out of the structure of his bones and the rigid controls of his humanity. It became so that he had to cover his mouth with his hands, afraid that if he opened his mouth, an unearthly cry might issue forth from him.
Then, like an insidious fog that rolled in from the moors of his subconscious his anger for the man with empty eyes that looked back at him every morning seeped into his bones until he could not breathe, his own body choking him of its own vicious volition. At that moment, the mistakes that haunted him every step of the way cried out from some hollow place inside his chest, where his soul once lay. And a short sob would escape the frightened grip of his control.
It angered him that this caused him to lose control of his body, his senses and his thoughts. It angered him to see himself fall apart, for DiNozzo to be so still, McGee to be so withdrawn, Abby to be so melancholy and Ducky to be so nosy that he had to call everyday to check up on Jethro as if he was a little child.
It angered him that maybe they thought, or perhaps wished, that it was him that Ari shot, him that fell with blood pooling behind his head. That maybe they wished that it was him who died instead.
It angered him further to realize that if it was so, he did not blame them.
He sat back and drew his legs up to his chest, still drawn by the steady flame. Closing his eyes and leaning his head on the wall behind him, he could still vividly remember the day when Kate asked him if he was happy.
"No, Kate. I'm not happy" he said to the candle, surprised by the harshness of his voice. It sounded disused, like an aging pulley in an ancient well. Then again, it had been some time since he had taken to talking to ghosts.
No, he wasn't happy. What he couldn't explain to Kate then was that he never sought happiness, because by all rights, happiness was only possible for a rational man with rational wishes, who did rational things.
And, Jethro thought, rational men didn't have a half-finished boat in their basement that would probably never see the light of day. Rational men did not have three ex-wives would sooner wish them to fall down dead than to wish them to be happy. Rational men did not drink potfuls of coffee a day in exchange for sleepfuls of nightmares. Rational men did not sit in front of candles, talking to dead friends.
"No, they don't" Jethro said softly and blew the candle out.
Chapter End Notes:
Made for last year's (2005) NCIS ficathon.