Fic: Patterns
Title: Patterns
Author: Evan Nicholas
Summary: It's easy to fall into a pattern and not realize it.
Warnings: Soup. Sap. Ye Olde Memorie Layne.
Disclaimer: Don Belisario is my alter ego. I'm only a pathetic student with a massive debt load on the weekend. No, seriously.
A/n: For the "role reversal" challenge. Note there's a backstory spoiler, if such a thing exists. Nothing major.
"Duck?" The door hissed open and closed again, footsteps moving through the cool room. "Ducky? Hey, Duck?" More footsteps. "You in here, Duck?"
He sighed, raised his head from the surface of his desk and scraped his chair back, loud enough to draw attention to himself. He looked down at the file he'd been napping on, and wondered if the ink had even been dry before he'd lowered his head and closed his eyes.
Jethro Gibbs turned towards him and wandered up, hands in his jacket pocket. Everything about him screamed three-day weekend. Donald Mallard tried not to feel too envious.
"Where've you been?" Gibbs asked cheerfully. "I phoned you twice."
The phone had rung twice, and both times he'd ignored it. There hadn't been much point in picking it up either time. There was no current case, and the only paperwork he was behind on was his own.
He looked up at Gibbs and shrugged.
Gibbs stopped just behind him, dropped a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
He shrugged again, pointed at his throat. It had started as a little tickle yesterday, and even though he'd been drinking enough water to dilute his urine to near colourlessness, it had still escalated into full-blown laryngitis. He supposed he could have stayed at home, but he had lots of paperwork to catch up on and it wasn't as though his patients were going to catch anything from him, was it?
"Cold?" Gibbs guessed.
Another shrug. It didn't matter, he was well enough to sit at his desk and plod through his backlog, even if he did have to take a break now and then.
Gibbs touched his cheek, an oddly gentle gesture that had Ducky raising an eyebrow in surprise. He noticed the look and grinned. "You've got writing on your face," he said, dropping his arm back to his side and stuffing his hand back into his pocket.
He what? Oh - the ink. He touched his skin where it was still warm from Gibbs' finger, and rubbed at it. His pen was fade-proof, water-resistant. He sighed. Whatever it said, backwards, it was going to say for a while. Not that it mattered.
Gibbs touched him again, a hand cool across his forehead this time, and pursed his lips. "You've got a fever, doc," he said in distressingly parental tones. "You should be at home in bed, not sitting here in the basement, on ice."
He wanted to say, It's not that cold in here; he even got as far as opening his mouth, then he gave up. All it would do was irritate his already-unhappy throat, and Gibbs had that Gibbs Look in his eye, the one that would brook no dissent.
So he held up his hands in surrender, stood and stretched, scooped his files together and pocketed his pen.
Gibbs' hand shot out and plucked at the files he was holding. "I know you heard me say 'sleep', Ducky."
He wanted to say, I'm an old man, Jethro. I don't sleep a full night like the rest of you mere mortals. He wanted to say, I'm quite capable of looking after myself, you know.
Instead he sighed, relinquished his self-imposed homework, and pulled his jacket and hat off the coat rack by the door. He patted himself down for his keys, touched the brim of his hat in a goodnight gesture to Gibbs, and headed down the hall to the garage where he parked his car.
A hand caught his elbow after three steps, and he was pulled gently but firmly towards the elevator.
"You're not driving," Gibbs told him. "Not like that."
Not like what, he wanted to ask. Not with pen on my face?
Gibbs smiled at him, that disarming smile that he missed when he didn't see it in a while, and he gave in as gracefully as he could. He sighed again, and followed his friend into the elevator, up to the main floor, out through the lobby and to the parking lot. He blinked at the sun and felt his eyes water, and he sneezed.
"Get in," Gibbs told him, opening the passenger door like a valet. "I'll take you home."
--
Gibbs made soup, looked after Mrs Mallard until she was happy to sit and spoil her corgis, then came and sat with Ducky in the kitchen.
"You know," he said as he watched him spoon his broth with something approaching exhaustion, "this reminds me of the time you had pneumonia. Where was that, again? Bangkok?"
Ducky shook his head.
"No," he went on, "I guess it couldn't have been. You were nursing a broken heart from Claire, so I guess it would have been... Sri Lanka?" A nod. "Right. You were too damned stubborn to admit that you were sick, waited until you'd actually passed out, would have drowned in your own fluids if I hadn't noticed you."
Ducky shrugged, slurped at his soup.
Gibbs laughed. "You haven't changed a bit," he said. "Except this time I didn't have to pick you up out of a ditch and rinse you off. That's maturity for you, huh?"
He watched him crumble a cracker into his bowl, and considered the man before him. They'd known each other almost thirty years now, and didn't that make him feel old. But it was strange to think of that span of time, though, because it really didn't seem that Ducky had aged any.
Now, Mrs Mallard was a different story. He remembered meeting her for the first time when she was still working, ignoring everyone's firm instructions to retire and enjoy herself. She enjoyed herself just fine at work, all those handsome soldiers coming through her ward who looked at her as half-mother, half-siren. She'd been a hell of a nurse, flirted shamelessly with anyone who seemed down and wore kid gloves with those who were close to meltdowns; and beautiful. Full of laughter and spontaneity and the electric thrill of life.
And now all she had was her son, her dogs, and wandering holes in her memory. It damn near broke his heart.
"Remember the Christmas you brought me home with you?" he asked. "Immediately after Wife Number One kicked me out. Your mother made this amazing roast of... of something, I don't know what it was but I can still taste it." He grinned. "And she wore that ridiculously over-the-top dress and danced all night, with me, with you, with the neighbours, with anyone who knocked at the door. The carolers, Duck. Remember them? She made them all come in, have tea, dance... embarrassed you to no end, if memory serves. She played the piano and made you sing. It was priceless, you going back for eggnog after every song and getting more and more drunk, and your mother playing these increasingly inappropriate songs, and the carolers sitting around looking shell-shocked..."
Ducky shrugged as if to say, The folly of youth, and Gibbs shook his head in nostalgia.
"Best Christmas of my life," he said. "I've never laughed so much."
Things with Ducky were complicated, in a terribly simple way: they both felt the tug of attraction, or at least he told himself they both felt it, but they kept their distance. He wasn't sure why, not anymore, but it was habit by now. They had settled into a holding pattern of sorts around each other, moving a bit farther apart while he was married, coming a bit closer again after his possessions were divided in two.
He wondered if Ducky was as scared as he was, or if he just felt the fear coming off of him in waves whenever they got too close, and respected those boundaries. He lived in a space between frustration that the older man never made any advances, and giddy relief that he hadn't. But he knew he'd always felt a thrum of regret every time he walked down the aisle, and a little stab of irritation whenever Ducky started dating someone.
It had never stopped either of them, though; the pattern was familiar, after all this time.
--
He endured another bowl of soup and a cup of tea, then stubbornly refused to be fed any more. I'm sick, Jethro, he wanted to say. Stop feeding me like a racehorse.
Gibbs had followed him upstairs, leaned against the doorframe and watched him change into his pajamas, a haunted look of loss not leaving his eyes.
Ducky climbed into bed and pulled the blankets up over himself. Of all the times, Jethro, he felt like scolding. Of all the times to decide that you're in love with me, you would choose the one when I'm contagious and feverish and exhausted.
He pushed himself away from the door, and perched on the edge of the bed. "That little boat," he said with a grin. "The one we stole, and took across the English Channel? I can't remember if I was drunk or not when we left, but there must have been some beer or wine or something on board, because I sure as hell was drunk when we got there."
Ducky smiled. He remembered. Scotch, Jethro. You found a bottle of old Scotch and a stash of cigars.
"That was fun," Gibbs said. "Being a fugitive with you. It took, what, two days? Yeah, it must have been two days. Two days of me drinking, and you puking over the side. You weren't born for a life at sea, were you?"
He shook his head.
"You practically kissed the ground once we'd made the beach. Those two ladies who saw us arrive, started calling you Pope Donald the First and me Captain Jack - man, that was a long time ago."
Ducky yawned then, although he tried not to. He enjoyed listening to Gibbs dredge the pool of their collective memory. He'd always liked his voice, and he'd always treasured their madcap adventures together, and the lull of recitation was comforting in a way that a bowl of soup could never be.
He tried to hide his yawn, or disguise it as a stretch, but Gibbs saw it.
"I'm talking your ear off, aren't I?" he said with a wry smile. "Sorry. I should let you get some sleep."
Don't go. Stay a little longer, talk me to sleep.
Gibbs reached out to touch his face again, and hesitated. "You're contagious, aren't you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, his hand an inch or so from contact.
He smiled and shrugged, and leaned forward enough that Gibbs' hand touched his cheek. It was absurd how good a fit it was, cheekbone-to-palm, as though they had been measured for it.
Gibbs left his hand there for a few seconds, about a second longer than he probably should have, then he smiled awkwardly and let it fall to the bedspread. "So I guess I'll leave you to it, then," he said. "I'll make sure your mother's okay again before I go, and if you need anything-"
Ducky raised his hand, crooked a finger at him. Lean over here for a moment.
The slightly haunted look flashed across his eyes again, but he leaned forward again, slowly. "Seriously, Duck," he said quietly, "if I catch your bug from you..."
He reached out and smacked the back of his head, lightly, affectionately; and he ruffled his hair. I suppose that's as close to a kiss as we'll come, he thought ruefully. But in your own particular sign language, my dear, that's as clear a declaration of affection as anything.
Gibbs blinked at him, blushed, and stood up. "Get better," he said with a nervous smile that only made him blush harder. "And call me if you need anything."
Ducky gave him a thumbs up and a wink, and watched him retreat, half-shuffling, out into the hallway. He waited until he heard him on the stairs, and then the creak of Mother's door and a murmured conversation, and then the front door, and then the car leaving the driveway.
Only then did he close his eyes and drift, his fingers holding onto the memory of the grainy silk of hair.
-- end --
Author: Evan Nicholas
Summary: It's easy to fall into a pattern and not realize it.
Warnings: Soup. Sap. Ye Olde Memorie Layne.
Disclaimer: Don Belisario is my alter ego. I'm only a pathetic student with a massive debt load on the weekend. No, seriously.
A/n: For the "role reversal" challenge. Note there's a backstory spoiler, if such a thing exists. Nothing major.
"Duck?" The door hissed open and closed again, footsteps moving through the cool room. "Ducky? Hey, Duck?" More footsteps. "You in here, Duck?"
He sighed, raised his head from the surface of his desk and scraped his chair back, loud enough to draw attention to himself. He looked down at the file he'd been napping on, and wondered if the ink had even been dry before he'd lowered his head and closed his eyes.
Jethro Gibbs turned towards him and wandered up, hands in his jacket pocket. Everything about him screamed three-day weekend. Donald Mallard tried not to feel too envious.
"Where've you been?" Gibbs asked cheerfully. "I phoned you twice."
The phone had rung twice, and both times he'd ignored it. There hadn't been much point in picking it up either time. There was no current case, and the only paperwork he was behind on was his own.
He looked up at Gibbs and shrugged.
Gibbs stopped just behind him, dropped a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
He shrugged again, pointed at his throat. It had started as a little tickle yesterday, and even though he'd been drinking enough water to dilute his urine to near colourlessness, it had still escalated into full-blown laryngitis. He supposed he could have stayed at home, but he had lots of paperwork to catch up on and it wasn't as though his patients were going to catch anything from him, was it?
"Cold?" Gibbs guessed.
Another shrug. It didn't matter, he was well enough to sit at his desk and plod through his backlog, even if he did have to take a break now and then.
Gibbs touched his cheek, an oddly gentle gesture that had Ducky raising an eyebrow in surprise. He noticed the look and grinned. "You've got writing on your face," he said, dropping his arm back to his side and stuffing his hand back into his pocket.
He what? Oh - the ink. He touched his skin where it was still warm from Gibbs' finger, and rubbed at it. His pen was fade-proof, water-resistant. He sighed. Whatever it said, backwards, it was going to say for a while. Not that it mattered.
Gibbs touched him again, a hand cool across his forehead this time, and pursed his lips. "You've got a fever, doc," he said in distressingly parental tones. "You should be at home in bed, not sitting here in the basement, on ice."
He wanted to say, It's not that cold in here; he even got as far as opening his mouth, then he gave up. All it would do was irritate his already-unhappy throat, and Gibbs had that Gibbs Look in his eye, the one that would brook no dissent.
So he held up his hands in surrender, stood and stretched, scooped his files together and pocketed his pen.
Gibbs' hand shot out and plucked at the files he was holding. "I know you heard me say 'sleep', Ducky."
He wanted to say, I'm an old man, Jethro. I don't sleep a full night like the rest of you mere mortals. He wanted to say, I'm quite capable of looking after myself, you know.
Instead he sighed, relinquished his self-imposed homework, and pulled his jacket and hat off the coat rack by the door. He patted himself down for his keys, touched the brim of his hat in a goodnight gesture to Gibbs, and headed down the hall to the garage where he parked his car.
A hand caught his elbow after three steps, and he was pulled gently but firmly towards the elevator.
"You're not driving," Gibbs told him. "Not like that."
Not like what, he wanted to ask. Not with pen on my face?
Gibbs smiled at him, that disarming smile that he missed when he didn't see it in a while, and he gave in as gracefully as he could. He sighed again, and followed his friend into the elevator, up to the main floor, out through the lobby and to the parking lot. He blinked at the sun and felt his eyes water, and he sneezed.
"Get in," Gibbs told him, opening the passenger door like a valet. "I'll take you home."
--
Gibbs made soup, looked after Mrs Mallard until she was happy to sit and spoil her corgis, then came and sat with Ducky in the kitchen.
"You know," he said as he watched him spoon his broth with something approaching exhaustion, "this reminds me of the time you had pneumonia. Where was that, again? Bangkok?"
Ducky shook his head.
"No," he went on, "I guess it couldn't have been. You were nursing a broken heart from Claire, so I guess it would have been... Sri Lanka?" A nod. "Right. You were too damned stubborn to admit that you were sick, waited until you'd actually passed out, would have drowned in your own fluids if I hadn't noticed you."
Ducky shrugged, slurped at his soup.
Gibbs laughed. "You haven't changed a bit," he said. "Except this time I didn't have to pick you up out of a ditch and rinse you off. That's maturity for you, huh?"
He watched him crumble a cracker into his bowl, and considered the man before him. They'd known each other almost thirty years now, and didn't that make him feel old. But it was strange to think of that span of time, though, because it really didn't seem that Ducky had aged any.
Now, Mrs Mallard was a different story. He remembered meeting her for the first time when she was still working, ignoring everyone's firm instructions to retire and enjoy herself. She enjoyed herself just fine at work, all those handsome soldiers coming through her ward who looked at her as half-mother, half-siren. She'd been a hell of a nurse, flirted shamelessly with anyone who seemed down and wore kid gloves with those who were close to meltdowns; and beautiful. Full of laughter and spontaneity and the electric thrill of life.
And now all she had was her son, her dogs, and wandering holes in her memory. It damn near broke his heart.
"Remember the Christmas you brought me home with you?" he asked. "Immediately after Wife Number One kicked me out. Your mother made this amazing roast of... of something, I don't know what it was but I can still taste it." He grinned. "And she wore that ridiculously over-the-top dress and danced all night, with me, with you, with the neighbours, with anyone who knocked at the door. The carolers, Duck. Remember them? She made them all come in, have tea, dance... embarrassed you to no end, if memory serves. She played the piano and made you sing. It was priceless, you going back for eggnog after every song and getting more and more drunk, and your mother playing these increasingly inappropriate songs, and the carolers sitting around looking shell-shocked..."
Ducky shrugged as if to say, The folly of youth, and Gibbs shook his head in nostalgia.
"Best Christmas of my life," he said. "I've never laughed so much."
Things with Ducky were complicated, in a terribly simple way: they both felt the tug of attraction, or at least he told himself they both felt it, but they kept their distance. He wasn't sure why, not anymore, but it was habit by now. They had settled into a holding pattern of sorts around each other, moving a bit farther apart while he was married, coming a bit closer again after his possessions were divided in two.
He wondered if Ducky was as scared as he was, or if he just felt the fear coming off of him in waves whenever they got too close, and respected those boundaries. He lived in a space between frustration that the older man never made any advances, and giddy relief that he hadn't. But he knew he'd always felt a thrum of regret every time he walked down the aisle, and a little stab of irritation whenever Ducky started dating someone.
It had never stopped either of them, though; the pattern was familiar, after all this time.
--
He endured another bowl of soup and a cup of tea, then stubbornly refused to be fed any more. I'm sick, Jethro, he wanted to say. Stop feeding me like a racehorse.
Gibbs had followed him upstairs, leaned against the doorframe and watched him change into his pajamas, a haunted look of loss not leaving his eyes.
Ducky climbed into bed and pulled the blankets up over himself. Of all the times, Jethro, he felt like scolding. Of all the times to decide that you're in love with me, you would choose the one when I'm contagious and feverish and exhausted.
He pushed himself away from the door, and perched on the edge of the bed. "That little boat," he said with a grin. "The one we stole, and took across the English Channel? I can't remember if I was drunk or not when we left, but there must have been some beer or wine or something on board, because I sure as hell was drunk when we got there."
Ducky smiled. He remembered. Scotch, Jethro. You found a bottle of old Scotch and a stash of cigars.
"That was fun," Gibbs said. "Being a fugitive with you. It took, what, two days? Yeah, it must have been two days. Two days of me drinking, and you puking over the side. You weren't born for a life at sea, were you?"
He shook his head.
"You practically kissed the ground once we'd made the beach. Those two ladies who saw us arrive, started calling you Pope Donald the First and me Captain Jack - man, that was a long time ago."
Ducky yawned then, although he tried not to. He enjoyed listening to Gibbs dredge the pool of their collective memory. He'd always liked his voice, and he'd always treasured their madcap adventures together, and the lull of recitation was comforting in a way that a bowl of soup could never be.
He tried to hide his yawn, or disguise it as a stretch, but Gibbs saw it.
"I'm talking your ear off, aren't I?" he said with a wry smile. "Sorry. I should let you get some sleep."
Don't go. Stay a little longer, talk me to sleep.
Gibbs reached out to touch his face again, and hesitated. "You're contagious, aren't you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, his hand an inch or so from contact.
He smiled and shrugged, and leaned forward enough that Gibbs' hand touched his cheek. It was absurd how good a fit it was, cheekbone-to-palm, as though they had been measured for it.
Gibbs left his hand there for a few seconds, about a second longer than he probably should have, then he smiled awkwardly and let it fall to the bedspread. "So I guess I'll leave you to it, then," he said. "I'll make sure your mother's okay again before I go, and if you need anything-"
Ducky raised his hand, crooked a finger at him. Lean over here for a moment.
The slightly haunted look flashed across his eyes again, but he leaned forward again, slowly. "Seriously, Duck," he said quietly, "if I catch your bug from you..."
He reached out and smacked the back of his head, lightly, affectionately; and he ruffled his hair. I suppose that's as close to a kiss as we'll come, he thought ruefully. But in your own particular sign language, my dear, that's as clear a declaration of affection as anything.
Gibbs blinked at him, blushed, and stood up. "Get better," he said with a nervous smile that only made him blush harder. "And call me if you need anything."
Ducky gave him a thumbs up and a wink, and watched him retreat, half-shuffling, out into the hallway. He waited until he heard him on the stairs, and then the creak of Mother's door and a murmured conversation, and then the front door, and then the car leaving the driveway.
Only then did he close his eyes and drift, his fingers holding onto the memory of the grainy silk of hair.
-- end --