Fiction. Giving Up and Letting Go.
This was originally written for the "Giving Something Up" challenge at rare_pair
TITLE: Giving Up and Letting Go
AUTHOR: lonelywalker
PAIRING: Leroy Jethro Gibbs / Donald "Ducky" Mallard
GENRE: Slash
WARNINGS: None
SUMMARY: There is a difference.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em.
Giving Up and Letting Go
It was the first night on foreign soil when someone asked the question. We all already knew the answer, but the question itself was still difficult. If we were in a situation with men lost, and possibly dead, in the field, how much would we risk to get them back? How many lives would we put in jeopardy going after what might only be corpses? As much, and as many, as it takes, I said. I’m not sure I believed it myself.
I remember, vaguely, being a small boy hanging onto a rope for so long that I started to wonder if my fingers might break. I was too weak, too tired, to make any progress upwards, but below lay a greater hazard: One of the feared instructors from the private school I was supposed to be privileged to attend, screaming at me like a drill instructor. He asked me how I could ever expect to be a man if I gave up so easily.
In the end we only had to make the decision once, and it was no decision at all. We heard that there was a problem, that three of our best friends had been cut off, and we just left. It never takes any thought to go to help someone you know would do exactly the same thing if it were you who were out there, tired, afraid, and alone. It isn’t duty. It isn’t even anything I learned from being a marine. It’s something you learn by being human.
I never did make it to the top of that rope: not that day, and never on the many occasions that followed it. Even though I got taller and stronger, something always defeated me. At first the instructors berated me, tried to scare me into doing better. Giving up was for weaklings, for girls, for lesser beings who had no right even to exist. I knew all of that, and I understood it. However, I knew something they didn’t seem to comprehend: I hung onto that rope for far longer than any of the boys who actually climbed to the top, and there was a difference between giving up and letting go.
Maybe that’s why I could never really accept that they were gone. Even though I had the bodies, checked and verified by experts, some part of me still wanted to spring up, grab my gear, and head out into the line of fire. Even though I knew they were dead, I couldn’t accept that there still wasn’t some part of them out there, lost, alone, and afraid, needing to be rescued. Part of this feeling I pressed into action tracking down and punishing those responsible. Part of it has never gone. It’s the reason why I still find myself wandering the streets after dark. Like any marine, I can never leave anyone behind.
It was all futile, of course. My calling lay in books rather than physical endeavour, even though eventually the two would coincide. There was no point to the raw burns on my hands and the ache in my fingers. It would have been easier to give up. Perhaps I was just a foolishly stubborn boy with more pride than sense. When I think back to those days, I realise how little I have really changed. Even as a grown man, I have been hanging onto one thing for years. It does me no good, and it would be far easier to give him up. But that stubborn boy remains with me. Perhaps that’s why, as long as he can’t let go, I can’t give up on him.
TITLE: Giving Up and Letting Go
AUTHOR: lonelywalker
PAIRING: Leroy Jethro Gibbs / Donald "Ducky" Mallard
GENRE: Slash
WARNINGS: None
SUMMARY: There is a difference.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em.
Giving Up and Letting Go
It was the first night on foreign soil when someone asked the question. We all already knew the answer, but the question itself was still difficult. If we were in a situation with men lost, and possibly dead, in the field, how much would we risk to get them back? How many lives would we put in jeopardy going after what might only be corpses? As much, and as many, as it takes, I said. I’m not sure I believed it myself.
I remember, vaguely, being a small boy hanging onto a rope for so long that I started to wonder if my fingers might break. I was too weak, too tired, to make any progress upwards, but below lay a greater hazard: One of the feared instructors from the private school I was supposed to be privileged to attend, screaming at me like a drill instructor. He asked me how I could ever expect to be a man if I gave up so easily.
In the end we only had to make the decision once, and it was no decision at all. We heard that there was a problem, that three of our best friends had been cut off, and we just left. It never takes any thought to go to help someone you know would do exactly the same thing if it were you who were out there, tired, afraid, and alone. It isn’t duty. It isn’t even anything I learned from being a marine. It’s something you learn by being human.
I never did make it to the top of that rope: not that day, and never on the many occasions that followed it. Even though I got taller and stronger, something always defeated me. At first the instructors berated me, tried to scare me into doing better. Giving up was for weaklings, for girls, for lesser beings who had no right even to exist. I knew all of that, and I understood it. However, I knew something they didn’t seem to comprehend: I hung onto that rope for far longer than any of the boys who actually climbed to the top, and there was a difference between giving up and letting go.
Maybe that’s why I could never really accept that they were gone. Even though I had the bodies, checked and verified by experts, some part of me still wanted to spring up, grab my gear, and head out into the line of fire. Even though I knew they were dead, I couldn’t accept that there still wasn’t some part of them out there, lost, alone, and afraid, needing to be rescued. Part of this feeling I pressed into action tracking down and punishing those responsible. Part of it has never gone. It’s the reason why I still find myself wandering the streets after dark. Like any marine, I can never leave anyone behind.
It was all futile, of course. My calling lay in books rather than physical endeavour, even though eventually the two would coincide. There was no point to the raw burns on my hands and the ache in my fingers. It would have been easier to give up. Perhaps I was just a foolishly stubborn boy with more pride than sense. When I think back to those days, I realise how little I have really changed. Even as a grown man, I have been hanging onto one thing for years. It does me no good, and it would be far easier to give him up. But that stubborn boy remains with me. Perhaps that’s why, as long as he can’t let go, I can’t give up on him.