Is it Better to Have Loved and Lost?

[beth-green.livejournal.com]

Title: Is it Better to Have Loved and Lost?
Author: Beth Green
Written for: slash4femme
Archive: Sure, just let me know where
Pairings: Ducky/Gibbs; Tony & Ziva
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Characters and setting not mine, more’s the pity
Word Count: @9500
Summary: This story contains love and loss and humor and angst and a just a hint of slash and het. If you’re looking for a fluffy bunny Three Men and a Baby story, you might want to skip this one, because I’m not kidding about the angst.
Author's Notes: My story strayed from the original prompt, which you will find at the end of the story. I go where the muses lead.
****


Tony sat hunched over his desk, one elbow resting upon its surface so that his hand could support his weary head. It was early enough in the day that Tony did not have to worry about appearing alert in front of his colleagues; they were all still at home. The work space was quiet, in theory making it a suitable environment for thinking. If Tony had been able to keep his mind upon work, the silence would have been a good thing. Instead, the quiet atmosphere and subdued lighting aided and abetted his wandering thoughts. Despite numerous attempts at distraction, his thoughts kept circling back to the subject of women; or more precisely, one woman in particular: Jeanne.

Tony cursed his traitorous brain as it helpfully supplied a smiling, seductive image of his former lover at the mere thought of her name. He lowered his head to make it easier to pound his fisted hands against his skull. "No, no, no, NO! Bad brain!" The self-inflicted pain helped, and Jeanne's image faded back into the memory from which it had escaped. Tony leaned back with a tired sigh.

He decided that what he really needed was a good pep talk; at the moment, there was only one person around who could do the job. "Okay, Dinozzo, pull it together. Today is Monday. There's no reason why today should be any different than the previous 51 Mondays before it. So what if it's been exactly one year to the day since Jeanne found out what a rat bastard you really are?

"I'm a guy; guys don't put hearts and flowers around dates on a calendar to remember anniversaries. Guys are supposed to forget useless crap like the day when the best thing they ever had blew up in their face.”

While he was speaking, Tony’s hands moved without being consciously directed and began to pull at his hair. "Shit. This isn't helping."

In the normal course of his life, Tony did not choose to use up valuable brain storage space by memorizing relationship details like 'first date,' or 'first kiss.' He remembered the important things, like the last time he had sex. Everything else went under 'File and forget.'

Until this weekend, Tony had almost managed to convince himself that his time with Jeanne had been filed and forgotten. He now realized how useless his attempt at self-deception had been. The empty space in his bed, the sleepless nights, the dark circles under his eyes and the frown lines he could not erase illustrated the truth. One year ago today, Tony's cover had been blown. One year ago today, Jeanne discovered that Anthony DeNardo, the man she loved, did not exist. Tony's hands clenched tighter as the slow blink of his tired eyes allowed the image of Jeanne's stricken face to appear behind his closed eyelids.

Tony had no doubt that, if she were asked, Jeanne could name the exact day and hour that she discovered her lover was not, as he had claimed, a university film professor, but an NCIS agent assigned to collect evidence to convict her beloved father of gun smuggling. It was just Tony's luck, or lack thereof, that he could not forget this particular anniversary. He could name the exact day, hour, and minute that real life crashed into his game of 'Let's pretend.' Tony had played his undercover role too well. In acting and then living the part of lover, he came to believe that love would somehow allow a fantasy life together with Jeanne to become reality. Unfortunately, Tony was unable to direct this particular movie of his life. The director's cut dictated that this cinema verite could not have a happy ending.

Unable to sleep, Tony dragged himself into the NCIS office at o-dark-thirty, hoping his brain would quit replaying memories when confronted with cases in the here-and-now. Tony's mind denied him that particular distraction. The case files spread out on the troubled agent's desk were a silent illustration of the failed effort. Rather than risk missing something important because of his muddled thinking, Tony decided to seek refuge within mindless web surfing.

He couldn't surf his favorite porn sites on the NCIS computers. He silently amended that thought: not unless he could leave a false trail leading to McGee. Considering McGee's computer skills, the chances of that happening were pretty much nil. Tony eventually clicked on SPIKE.com. The Spike game arcade was as good a way as any to waste time.

Tony was in the middle of a game of 'Negotiator' when McGee arrived. He grunted something that may have been "Good morning" in response to McGee's "Morning, Tony," and proceeded to ignore his colleague. The game held much more appeal than anything McGee might say or do. Tony decided to make the game more interesting by changing his strategy. Rather than negotiating by selecting the expected answer, Tony began to use 'What would Gibbs' do as his guideline for response selection. His missions became shorter and shorter, each one ending in failure. After the third 'Mission Failure' in a row, Tony complained, "Ha! 'You're gonna pay for this' was SO the right answer!" He closed out the simplistic 'Negotiator' and clicked on the next arcade game.

He was watching blood spurt from an impaled cartoon figure in a game of 'Beat Me Up' when Ziva arrived.

She commented, "You are here early." Too tired to think of a reply, Tony silently continued his game. Something, perhaps Tony's 'Leave me alone' body language, caused her to lay off her usual teasing. McGee, too, refrained from questioning the senior agent's obvious non-work activity. Tony felt eyes upon him as he continued playing, using his repeated abuse of the cartoon character to distract himself from actual thinking. The resulting animated blood shower display was more laughable than gory. Between the distraction provided by the game and the presence of his friends, Tony felt his body relax for the first time in hours.

He tensed again when Gibbs entered the bullpen, but it was a good tension, the kind of automatic, 'No flight, we're gonna fight' muscular contractions that signaled his body's readiness for action. Gibbs’ was in what Tony privately referred to as ‘Action figure GI Joe’ mode.

His words confirmed what Tony already knew from observing the team leader’s body language: they had a new assignment. "Gear up, people. We've got a dead civilian and a midshipman accused of her murder."
*****
The crime scene location was a rundown hotel frequented by transients; the sort of place that charged by the hour, and not by the day. It was not the sort of place you'd expect to find a sailor on leave. The accused midshipman, wearing casual clothes, had been handcuffed and placed in the back of a squad car.

Tony's nose hairs curled at the odor of urine and unwashed bodies that greeted the team when they entered the hotel. The stairs creaked as they made their way up to the victim's second floor room. The deceased was as dirty and poorly maintained as the room she died in. She was lying supine in front of what looked to be a closet door.

Tony pulled out a large plastic bag and placed it on the litter-strewn floor, then placed his kit on the plastic while McGee glumly looked on. Tony took pity on his colleague. Pointing at the plastic bag, he stated, "There's room for one more." McGee gratefully set his kit down next to the senior field agent's.

Ziva opted to carry her bag rather than leave it unattended. She did not care to take the risk that any of the insects and vermin roaming the hotel might decide to relocate.

Tony, Ziva, and McGee efficiently set to work recording the details of the crime scene as they collected evidence. Gibbs nodded once, satisfied that his team required minimal instruction and limited supervision. Gibbs observed while Ducky and Palmer tended to the body. The room was small and cluttered with piles of trash scattered everywhere. The only clear space around the body was a two foot square area between the corpse and the closed door. Ducky stepped into the space and began to examine the body. "Time of death is very recent; at most, two hours ago. The bruising around the neck and petechial hemorrhaging suggest manual strangulation as the cause of death." Ducky shook his head at the track marks, both old and new, running along the thin arms of the deceased. "My dear, what have you done to yourself?"

Ducky paused to take a breath, then turned his head to the side, listening. The M.E. held his hand up in a request for silence. "Everyone, please be quiet for a moment." All activity ceased as the team waited. The silence in the room allowed all present to hear what Ducky, closest to the closet, had heard: a muffled sound, possibly a cough, which was apparently coming from behind the closed door.

Gibbs lunged and pulled Ducky away from the possible danger, in his haste nearly causing the medical examiner to trip over the body. The team leader pointed toward the open entry door, his sharp order of 'Out!' directed at both Ducky and Palmer.

McGee waited at the entryway, guarding the civilians, while Tony and Ziva took up position on either side of the door.

Gibbs stood nearby, weapon out and ready to assist if needed. Gibbs shouted loud enough to be heard by anyone hiding in the closet, “We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands where we can see them!” There was no response to his order.

Tony nodded at Ziva and gave a silent count of three before he reached out a hand and pulled the unlocked door open wide. When nothing and no one jumped out of the closet, Tony cautiously leaned in to examine the darkened, cluttered interior. Most of the available floor space was taken up by what appeared to be an old dresser drawer filled with assorted items of clothing. As Tony's eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw the bundle of clothes move. Expecting to find a rat, or maybe a cat or dog, he used the barrel of his gun to rearrange the clothing. He did not want to believe what he was seeing, but a choking cough with the addition of a cry steadily increasing in volume confirmed what he already knew. He quickly returned his gun to its holster and announced his discovery: "Clear! It's a baby!"
*****
Ducky hastily reentered the room, followed closely by Palmer. The sight and smell of the badly soiled baby caused the NCIS agents to hesitate. Ducky, used to far worse, did not hesitate to step in and slide the drawer out of the closet. He used his NCIS jacket to swaddle the small child and lifted the baby out of the filthy coffin-like container. Ducky began to assess the obviously unwell child. The skin was warm; too warm, and dry to the touch. “Och, it seems as if you’ve been neglected for a very long time.” His attention on the living, he could not forget the dead with the victim lying practically at his feet.

"Mr. Palmer, I need you to tend to the deceased." Ducky cradled the baby in his arms, wanting to offer comfort, but needing to assess the child's medical condition first. He could do both if he were able to bathe him (or her). He asked, "Would someone please find out if there is any room in this building that has clean running water?" The hotel's manager had been hovering outside of the room in the nearby hallway, and made his presence known when he offered the M.E. the use of a vacant room.

Ducky paused before leaving the crime scene. He did a quick visual scan of his colleagues, then tilted his head toward the senior field agent and stated, "Tony, I need your shirt."

Tony knew exactly why Ducky was asking. His nose wrinkled at the smell as Ducky approached with the unwashed child. Tony began to protest. "Why me? Why not--" He stopped mid-protest when he caught the stern look on Ducky's face. There were times when the M.E. was open to suggestion, and other times when the stubborn Scot would not be swayed. This was one of the latter occasions. Tony began to unbutton his shirt.

Tony removed his dress shirt but did not give it to Ducky. He did not intend to sacrifice a $100 Hugo Boss for diaper duty. Fortunately, he'd worn an undershirt today. The undershirt went to Ducky, while the dress shirt was replaced.

Ziva's "Thank god" did not go unnoticed.

Tony, her intended target, took the bait. "For what?"

Ziva resumed her examination of the crime scene as she replied, "For the rapid replacement of your shirt."

Gibbs spoke, cutting off any reply that Tony may have had. His voice was steel and ice and full of threat. "I'm going to have a chat with the local LEOs."

Between one blink and the next, Gibbs exited the room. Tony began to follow. "Oh, this is going to be good." The NCIS team leader was going to verbally flay the local law enforcement officers; the only question was how much verbal abuse he intended to deliver. Gibbs had a low anger threshold when it came to incompetence. The obviously incomplete crime scene search prior to the arrival of NCIS was a potentially fatal mistake that merited a thorough ass-chewing reprimand.

Ziva commented upon Tony’s eagerness to see Gibbs in action. "For once, it is not you who is going to get his ass kicked."

Tony actually agreed with that statement, so he let it pass and followed Gibbs out the door. Not only did he want to watch, but he wanted out of the stifling stench of the room.

Gibbs wasted no time in berating the officers on scene who had retreated outside of the filthy hotel as soon as NCIS had arrived. "What part of 'Clear the scene' do you not understand?”

The sergeant on scene spoke up defensively. “What is your problem?”

Gibbs waved a hand toward the man’s head in a slapping gesture. “My problem is neither you nor your men bothered to look in a goddamn closet. If you had, you’d have known that there was someone else in the room besides the vic!” The startled, guilty looks from the officers showed that they'd gotten the message: they'd screwed up, badly. Gibbs was not done pointing out their stupidity. He continued, "This time, it was a baby. What if, next time, it's an armed perp? My M.E. would have been right in the line of fire!"

The Sergeant offered what little excuse he could. "Do you have any idea how many junkie whores are killed every day? When we found your sailor standing over the body, it was obvious what had happened."

Gibbs did not let the man continue. "And how many times does a killer have an accomplice? Not to mention the fact that you seem to have forgotten the basic law that says a man is innocent until proven guilty." Gibbs paused, remembering that no one on his team had spoken with the suspect. Seeking further information, he asked, "Unless you've got a confession?"

The Sergeant's lack of response was enough. Gibbs stated, "I want to talk to him." He turned abruptly toward the squad car holding their suspect, almost running into Tony.

"Dinozzo!" The high volume made it clear that Gibbs was not done shouting. "What are you doing here?"

Tony straightened his spine, adopting a combat-ready soldier's pose as he replied, "Backing you up, Sir."

Gibbs opened his mouth, but closed it again with saying another word. Tony silently cheered that he'd read his boss right. Tony’s no-nonsense military response reminded Gibbs that he could always count on his well-trained team. Instead of yelling, Gibbs calmly replied, "Thanks. I got it covered. Help Ziva and McGee. The sooner we get out of here, the better."
*****

The discovery of the baby caused an immediate shift in Ducky's priorities from the dead to the living. The hotel's manager left Ducky alone in the vacant apartment as he tended to the child. McGee hovered in the background, standing guard against any possible untoward actions by the local transients, and ready to assist if needed.

The kitchen sink provided by the hotel was large enough that Ducky could use it as a bath for the badly soiled child. He clicked his tongue. "I am not surprised that you are running a fever. I suspect your mother may not have been the best of caregivers." The frequent, wet-sounding cough spoke of probable pneumonia. The child's diaper had needed changing long before now. "Poor thing, being covered head to toe in urine and diarrhea is certainly adding to your misery. While I cannot do anything about your health issues, I can and will remove the filth from your body."

"Timothy, there is a possibility that the child's clothing may be evidence. If you would kindly provide a bag for these . . ." Ducky indicated the child’s filthy clothing with the wave of a gloved hand.

McGee obtained the required item from his kit. He held the bag open, rolling the plastic over his gloved hands so that he could avoid contact with the soiled clothing. He sealed the bag, hoping that they would not need its contents as evidence.

After removing the child's badly soiled diaper, Ducky was able to see that he held a little girl. "Young lady, you are badly in need of a bath." Ducky tested the temperature of the water, deliberately keeping it below body temperature with the thought of cooling the overheated infant. The child's crying increased in volume when she was placed in the tepid water. The more Ducky examined the child, the more his anger grew. Albeit his experience with infants was limited, in his opinion this baby had a criminally neglected skin condition that had probably started as a simple case of diaper rash. Both buttocks and her entire perineum were raw and red. Over all, her skin was loose and dry, evidence of dehydration and starvation. The child continued to cough and cry. As she did so, a new and frightening symptom appeared: the child's skin became dusky, her lips slightly bluish.

Ducky called over his shoulder as he continued to work, "Timothy, I'm afraid this young lady needs more care than I can provide. If you would please call 911 and let them know the child is experiencing respiratory distress." With no soap available, Ducky used the hand sanitizer he carried to clean the filthy child, keeping it away from the raw, red areas to avoid causing any further pain to the distressed baby.

While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, Ducky bathed the child three times in all, finally satisfied that he had gotten her as clean as he could, given the limited time and resources available. He wrapped the baby in the soft cotton t-shirt Tony had provided, then simply held her and rocked in place, cooing nonsense syllables that seemed to calm the sick child. As she calmed, her breathing became less labored and the duskiness faded from her skin. When the medics arrived, a part of Ducky did not want to let the child go. The physician in him agreed to relinquish her for the duration of the ambulance ride, but he was not done administering medical care. He identified himself as a doctor, and supervised as the baby was started on oxygen. Her dehydration made establishing an IV a difficult task. The medic was more experienced in the area of venipuncture than the M.E., and Ducky gave way to his expertise to allow the child to receive fluids as soon as possible. Satisfied that everything necessary had been done at the scene, Ducky turned to McGee and stated, "Tell Gibbs that I'm going with her to the hospital. The poor child needs all of the help she can get."
*****
The suspect, Frank Manetti, refused to say anything at the scene. He was placed into NCIS custody and transported to the NCIS office for questioning. Gibbs left the suspect alone in the interrogation room for the first hour, silently observing the man through the one-way glass. He did not think it would be difficult to persuade the man to talk. After the filth and disorder at the crime scene, the sailor seemed to appreciate his new surroundings. Gibbs increased that appreciation when he ordered a soda and a sandwich for the midshipman.

Gibbs waited for the man to finish eating before he entered the room. His manner friendly and his voice sympathetic, the NCIS agent asked, "Why don't you tell me what happened?" It was more of a statement than a question.

Manetti's first few words were stumbling and hesitant, but once he'd begun to speak it seemed that he could not stop. "My brother, Danny . . . He's not like me. He needs a lot of help. I practically raised him after Dad took off, and Mom . . . Well, she couldn’t handle it. Drugs. Danny, too, sometimes. It's been hard for him, what with me being at sea. When I went away, he was clean. While I was gone, that bitch hooked her claws into him and would not let go. I tried writing, sending her money. She lied to me; she said she wouldn't see him any more. Then my brother got arrested for possession, and I found out it was because of her.

"I tried to talk to her, but she lied to my face, asked me for more money. She started laughing, saying that it's not her fault my brother would do anything for her, calling him a worthless junkie, and worse. I got so angry!"

Manetti leaned toward Gibbs as he spoke, his hands tightening into fists. He raised his cuffed hands and slammed them down on the table hard enough to shake it. "Bam! Next thing I knew, my hands were around her neck, squeezing, just trying to get her to shut the fuck up!" The man stared at his hands for a moment before looking up, impressing Gibbs with the sincerity of his words. "I may not have planned it, but I'm glad she's dead."

Gibbs did not doubt that Manetti meant every word he'd said.
*****

It did not take long for Tony, Ziva, and McGee to complete the casework once Gibbs had the confession. Even though it was not yet five o'clock, he told his team, "Go home."

McGee was packed and out the door within minutes, while Tony and Ziva lingered. Tony was in no hurry to return to his empty apartment. He knew Ziva was staring at him, and tried to wait her out. He should have known it would be impossible. He began to fidget in his chair, rearranging items, tapping his fingers to a silent drumbeat, thinking at Ziva, *'Go-go-go-go-go'.* His attempt at mental telepathy did not work.

Not only did she stay, but she showed every sign of beginning a conversation. "Tony -"

He stood and cut her off, picking up his discarded jacket. "Yeah, I know, time to go, and -" Tony was suddenly struck by an odd palsy that caused him to stop mid-sentence, throw his jacket across the room, and dance around while chanting an impressive string of curses. "God-DAMN! Son of a bitch, fuckfuckfuck, DAMN!"

Ziva stood up, alarmed, and hurried to aid her partner. As she got a good look at his problem, she stopped, frozen in place, and raised a hand to her mouth.

Tony completed his dance by finally catching up with the source of his problem: a large and very fast roach. He stomped his foot forcefully upon the insect, then stood for a moment before cautiously beginning to raise it. Tony had one hand poised by his shoulder holster, as if he were prepared to draw his weapon. He warned Ziva, "The little bastards are damn sneaky. Sometimes, when you think they're dead, they jump up and before you can mount a proper defense, they're off again." He slowly moved his foot. Only a small stain marred the floor. "Damn!" Tony vigorously shook his foot; when nothing fell off, he looked at the sole of his shoe, finding ground-in roach remains. "Damn it!"

He looked so sad that Ziva could not help herself. Despite the efforts of her muffling hand, peals of laughter escaped.

Not looking quite as serious, Tony sarcastically responded, "Thank you."

For some reason, Ziva found that comment hilarious. She doubled over with laughter for a long two minutes before she recovered enough to speak. "Oh my!" Ziva wiped away tears while Tony removed his shoe. "Thank you. That is the best laugh I have had all day."

Tony sat at his desk and pulled out two latex gloves. Safely covered, he grabbed a box of tissues and scrubbed at the sole of his shoe until he was sure he wouldn't be leaving bits of dead roach wherever he walked. He spoke while he worked. "If you had stuck your hand in the pocket of your jacket and been attacked by a roach, you wouldn't find this so funny."

Ziva scoffed. "Attacked? You were the only one doing the attacking. It was just a bug." Ziva raised her hands up to her head in pretend claws and began to make insect noises.

Tony found her difficult to ignore, and Ziva knew it. She spoke when he did not. "You should have seen the little dance you did. It was quite entertaining. Too bad Gibbs was not here to see it." Her eyes widened and she raised her index finger skyward in an ‘Ah-ha!’ gesture. "I know! The entire incident should have been recorded by the security cameras. I'm sure that Gibbs would love to have a copy!"

Tony hopped toward her as he replaced his now clean shoe. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait up there a minute, partner."

Ziva obediently waited, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Tony walked around until he stood between her and the path to the surveillance room. "What's it going to take for you to forget this minor misstep?"

Ziva tapped a finger against her cheek as she thought, then stated her terms. "Well, you can start with dinner."

Tony was relieved. She could have tried to drive a much harder bargain. He nodded his agreement. "Done."

Ziva let Tony know that she was not ready to forget as they walked out of the building. "You have been very brave today, taking on a vicious roach."

Tony accepted the teasing and admitted, "I can't help it. I hate roaches."

Ziva laughed. “I’m sure the feeling is mutual.” She was pleased at the way the day was ending. It had not had a promising beginning.

Ziva knew full well the significance of today’s date. She remembered that today was the anniversary of the day Tony had almost died. One year ago, Ziva had believed for long, soul-shattering hours that Tony had been killed when the NCIS team had seen Tony’s car destroyed in an explosion. The date was recorded permanently in Ziva’s memory. She had hoped that it was not so for Tony. Tony had not been injured physically, but his heart had been badly broken when Jeanne left. Ziva thought that Tony might be able to ignore this particular anniversary. Her partner was flirting with women again, and had been out with a few of them. However, when Ziva arrived at the office this morning her investigative skills provided more than enough evidence that Tony remembered the past all too well. Tony was silent and sad, and his face showed evidence of a long, sleepless night (for all the wrong reasons). Ziva did not want to think of her partner going home tonight to his empty apartment, and welcomed the opportunity to do something about it.

She continued to tease, "I knew you didn't like roaches, but I did not know that you were afraid of them. Now I know why you pointed your weapon at a baby; you thought it was a baby roach."

Tony defended himself as they headed out to dinner. "Hey, no one in that room knew there was a baby in that closet. I mean, really, who keeps a baby in a closet?"
*****

The work day was long over. The NCIS office was empty with the exception of one lone occupant: Gibbs. He had lingered in the vain hope that Ducky would return. Gibbs had tried calling the M.E., but his phone calls went straight to voicemail; Ducky was evidently still at the hospital. After another futile phone call, Gibbs called the hospital information desk. The receptionist asked for the name of the patient. Jethro paused, disturbed that he had not bothered to find out the name of the child. He started to explain, "There was a baby brought in earlier . . ." then stopped, when a thought occurred to him. "Could you page Dr. Donald Mallard?"

It was not long before the page was answered. "Dr. Mallard here."

Gibbs suddenly wished for a camera phone, so he could find out how bad things were before he had to ask. The fact that Ducky was still at the hospital did not bode well for the child. "How's the baby?"

"Jane is quite ill. Her numerous medical problems led to a probable diagnosis. A rapid HIV test confirmed that Jane is HIV positive. They believe that Jane is suffering from full blown AIDS."

Gibbs closed his eyes and bowed his head. He held the phone in his right hand, while he propped the elbow of his left arm upon the surface of his desk. He used his left hand to massage his forehead as he desperately tried to think of something to say.

Rather than dwell on the devastating news, Gibbs asked, "So, is Jane her real name?"

"No. For the time being, the hospital has her registered as 'Jane Doe.' Ducky's voice softened. "I'm afraid you saw her at her worst. Right now . . . she looks like an angel."

Gibbs couldn't keep himself detached from the situation, and he was miles away. He knew it was too late, but he tried to warn his friend against becoming too involved. "Ducky . . ."

The M.E. cut him off. "She needs me, Jethro. I have been with her through every test and procedure. When the staff could not get Jane to stop crying, all it took was the sound of my voice and the touch of my hand and she immediately settled."

There was no way in hell Gibbs was going to let Ducky go through this alone. "Where are you?"

"I'm speaking to you from the nurse's desk in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit."

"I'll meet you there." Jethro did not give Ducky the chance to object. He hung up the phone.
*****
The Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was set up in a U-shape, with the nurse's station at the center. A large room at the base of the U held four beds. There were two small private rooms set up at either end of the U. Although the walls of the rooms were transparent, privacy could easily be obtained with the simple pull of a curtain.

Gibbs checked in at the nurse's station and was directed to one of the private rooms. He found Ducky sitting in a rocking chair, holding a sleeping Jane. Gibbs hesitated at the door. In the dimmed fluorescent lighting of the room, the baby's skin was gray. With her eyes closed, Gibbs couldn't help but think that she looked like one of Ducky's morgue visitors.

Ducky beckoned him into the room with a nod of his head. "It's all right; she's exhausted, poor thing. You won't disturb her." He gazed lovingly down at the small blanket-covered bundle. Gibbs felt his heart ache at the sight. He had been there once, holding his daughter in his arms, rocking her. He remembered what it felt like. He remembered, too, the soul-crushing pain he felt with her loss. He could not, would not, ever make himself vulnerable to that kind of pain again; nor did he wish it upon anyone else. Looking at Ducky, he feared he was too late to prevent the latter.

Gibbs walked to Ducky's side, carefully avoiding all of the tubes and wires linking the baby to life-saving equipment. He wanted to say, "Put down the baby; say goodbye; leave, and don't look back;" but he didn't. He reached out a hand to Ducky's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Ducky placed his own hand over Gibbs,’ and the younger man began a slow, kneading massage of his friend’s tense shoulder. Gibbs leaned down so that he was nearly whispering in Ducky's ear: "She's asleep. You should be, too." When Ducky did not respond, indeed, did not even acknowledge that he'd heard, Gibbs hand stopped its soothing motion and changed to a tightening shoulder grip. "Time to go."

Ducky sighed and reached for the button that would summon the nurse. When the nurse arrived, she managed all of the lines and tubes while Ducky tucked the baby into her isolette. The baby began to cry when she was moved, but her crying stopped when Ducky reached out a hand and rubbed gentle fingers through her wispy brown hair. He whispered a quiet "Sh-h-hh," and the baby once again settled in to sleep. "Goodnight, Jane."

It sounded so much like "Goodbye" that Gibbs had to turn away. Gibbs heard Ducky sigh behind him, then felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you for the chauffeur service. It is very much appreciated."

Gibbs knew that Ducky was thanking him for much more. No further words needed to be said.
*****

Because Ducky was exhausted and Gibbs' house was closer to the hospital, the two men
spent the night at Gibbs' place.

The hospital called Ducky on his cell phone early the next morning. Gibbs read Ducky's body language and knew that the news was not good. "Yes. I understand. Thank you for calling me. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Ducky's hands twisted worriedly as he explained, "That was the hospital. Jane's condition has deteriorated. Her condition is now critical."

Gibbs' felt Ducky's pain trying to sneak past his emotional defenses. He didn't want it. He had enough pain of his own. More importantly, he didn't want it for Ducky. He said what he could: "I'm sorry." The words were true, but they were not enough. Gibbs ached for his friend. For himself, Gibbs did not want to think about returning to the ICU to watch the critically ill child fight what would no doubt be a losing battle. Even when not seen directly, the death of a child tore at a man’s soul. The death of Gibbs’ own daughter, in combination with the death of his wife, had nearly caused him to self-destruct. If there were any way Gibbs could spare his friend a tenth of what he himself had suffered, he had to try. "She's in good hands. You don't have to go."

Ducky conceded the point. "I don't have to," Gibbs depression lifted slightly before returning full force when Ducky continued, "I want to."

Gibbs' voice was not as calm as he would have liked when he tried to argue, "She's not your responsibility."

Ducky responded, "Jethro, I am all she has. While she may not be my responsibility, I willingly take on the job of guardian." He moved closer to Gibbs and invaded his personal space as he continued to explain, "Granted, that poor child should have had a guardian long before now. It is unforgivable that an innocent child was allowed to spend the first few sad, miserable months of her life in the care of her self-destructive mother, stuffed into a closet, and left alone to die."

Ducky's arms came up and around to grasp his friend's biceps. "If," Ducky emphasized his words by trying to shake a steadfast Gibbs before he continued, "And I say IF, she dies, I promise, she will not die alone." Ducky stood tall at that moment, ignoring the tears running freely down his face.

Gibbs could not have been prouder. Love and pride were the only emotions he allowed himself in that moment. He pulled Ducky in close for a hug, wishing that he could bodily force him to stay. Instead, he whispered, "Okay."
*****
Gibbs wanted no part of Ducky's hospital vigil, yet he accompanied his friend to the Pediatric Intensive Care unit. The pediatrician met them upon their arrival at the ICU. “Thank you for coming. I’m afraid the news isn’t good. The baby’s T4 count is dangerously low, which makes her vulnerable to a number of nasty opportunistic infections. We suspect that her respiratory infection is caused by pneumocystis carinii, and are treating her accordingly. In addition to antibiotic therapy, we’ve begun antiretroviral treatment, but the baby’s condition is critical. We’ve had to sedate her and intubate to mechanically assist her breathing. Unfortunately, respiratory failure causes a good 50% of all pediatric AIDS deaths.

“The tragedy in all of this is the fact that pediatric AIDS is for the most part a preventable disease. Fully 90% of the cases I see are due to maternal transmission, if not at birth, than later on, through breast milk. If antiretroviral therapy is started immediately, there is no reason for an HIV-positive child, or a child born to an HIV-positive mother to develop AIDS. I’m sorry.”

Ducky’s shoulders slumped. “I am, too.”

The doctor left to continue on his rounds as the hospital’s social worker joined Ducky and Gibbs.
The social worker looked between the two men and questioned, "Dr. Mallard?" Ducky raised his hand in identification.

The social worker held out her own hand in greeting and introduced herself. "My name is Betty Reeder. Thank you for being here. We took the baby's footprints when she was admitted yesterday, and we've been able to track down the records from her birth. Her name is Brittney Anderson, and she's eight months old. Her father is listed as 'Unknown.'

Gibbs waved a hand to indicate the file in the social worker’s hand. “Do you have any information as to why the hell a junkie was given custody of a baby?”

The social worker read from the file. “The mother was found to be drug-free at the time of the birth. She was referred to an outside social worker upon discharge, but was lost to follow-up after she moved without leaving a forwarding address.”

Betty looked up sympathetically. “I’m sorry. If it helps any, her mother, Melissa Anderson, was not listed as HIV positive at the time of the child's birth.” She hesitated before she continued, “We have no medical history on Melissa, and her reported HIV status could have been due to a false negative test result. Do you have any information on next of kin?"

Ducky shook his head. “No, we do not.”

Her pen poised above her clipboard, the social worker asked, “Dr. Mallard, do you wish to remain as Brittney’s emergency contact?”

Ducky nodded. “Yes, I do,” then added, “If it’s all the same to you, I shall continue to call her Jane."

“That’s quite all right.” The social worker looked on sadly, as aware of Ducky’s obvious distress as Gibbs was. No one could miss the shine of unshed tears behind the older man’s glasses. Betty handed out her business card. “Please don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything I can do, anything you need.”

Ducky thanked her politely, and pointed toward the baby’s room. “I’m going to visit with Jane now.”

Gibbs remained at the nurse’s station, watching as Ducky seemed to shrink in stature as he entered the baby’s room. Ducky had used his cell phone on the ride in to arrange for a substitute M.E. to handle Melissa Anderson’s autopsy, defeating Jetho’s argument that Ducky couldn’t stay at the hospital because he was needed elsewhere. Gibbs’ heart ached for his friend, but he was glad for the excuse his own work offered to protect himself and his already scarred heart from possible further injury.

He headed into work with Ducky and the baby never far from the forefront of his thoughts.
*****

McGee hurried into the office, fifteen minutes late. He slowed down when he realized that he was the only one present. He checked with security, worried that he might have missed something, but no one else from his team had checked in yet. He decided he would enjoy the peace and quiet for another fifteen minutes before making any further attempts to locate his absent team members.

Finally, five minutes short of McGee's self-imposed deadline, Tony strolled in, looking happy and relaxed, and singing what McGee vaguely recalled was a song from a Broadway musical. The junior agent was relieved that Tony wasn't singing loud enough to be annoying; McGee quickly amended that thought: Tony was no more annoying than usual.

Ziva arrived a minute later, offering a cheerful, "Good morning, Timothy," as McGee sat industriously sorting through data on his PC.

McGee stopped working when he realized that neither Tony nor Ziva had greeted each other. He looked up, worried that something might have happened to cause a silent war between the two; it wouldn't be the first time. Rather than the expected death glares, McGee was startled to realize that Tony was standing by Ziva's desk, thoughtfully dividing his breakfast between the two of them.

Tim frowned, looking at first Ziva, then Tony as the latter returned to his desk. He tried and failed to ignore the implications of the excessively friendly behavior.

Tony caught sight of McGee's stare as he settled in at his desk. "What's up, McGee? Did I forget to say 'Good morning?’ ”

Tim gave a half-nod, and explained, "You did, but that's not the point."

Tony sipped at his coffee before he responded, "What is the point, if it's not at the top of your geeky little head?"

McGee waved his hand, index finger pointing between Tony and Ziva. "Is there something going on here that I should know about?"

Tony leaned forward and slapped a hand on the top of his desk, satisfied at McGee's startled response to the sound. "The things that are going on that you don't know about are enough to fill two volumes of the encyclopedia Britannica. That being said, the answer . . ." Tony frowned. "I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Ziva decided to answer Tony's question before McGee could elaborate, getting straight to the point. "He wants to know if we slept together."

Tony wasn't sure who he was more surprised at; McGee, for trying to ask; or Ziva, for actually saying it. "Hey, I'm not the kind of guy who'll kiss and tell-"

McGee cut Tony off before he could finish; "Except for the fact that you are, and you do it all the time."

Ziva rescued Tony before he could embarrass himself. "The answer is 'No.'"

McGee smiled and sat back in his chair, his relief obvious. "Of course it is."

Tony did not appreciate McGee's response. "What do you mean, 'Of course it is?' I-"

This time, it was Ziva who cut Tony off, with the simple use of his name: "Tony."

McGee witnessed an entire silent conversation take place as he took note of Ziva's tone of voice and the looks she and Tony subsequently exchanged. McGee decided his best course of action was to pretend he hadn't seen anything. The more he considered the possibilities, the less he really wanted to know. McGee resumed work while Tony and Ziva finished their shared breakfast.
****

Another half hour passed before Gibbs finally made an appearance. Unlike his team, he looked exhausted. He headed straight for McGee's desk and started issuing orders. “McGee, I need you to follow up on the vic from yesterday. Her name is-“

Tony interrupted, “Melissa Anderson. We got it, Boss.”

Gibbs remained focused on McGee. “Any living relatives?”

McGee waited a beat to see if Tony would answer before he replied, “No next of kin.”

Gibbs had one more question. “Any information on the father of that baby?”

Although Tony enjoyed watching McGee sweat under Gibbs’ intense scrutiny, Tony had the file in front of him, and answered for his colleague. “Listed on the birth certificate as ‘Unknown.’”

Gibbs barked out a final order as he left the room: “Find him. And while you’re at it, see if you can find any family for that baby.”

McGee’s “But Boss . . .” went unheard.

Ziva asked, "Have you heard anything about how the baby is doing?"

Tony answered, “No,” then added, “But I can find out.” After a phone call to the hospital, he reported, “The baby’s in Intensive Care. Her condition is listed as critical. Ducky’s with her now.”

Gibbs left because he had nothing more to say. He’d ordered his team to find the only possible way to ease the heavy burden of care from Ducky’s bowed shoulders. Despite the high probability of failure, they owed it to Ducky to try. Ducky would not give up his vigil unless Gibbs could convince him to let someone else, like a family member, take his place.

Gibbs feared that Ducky was right when he’d said earlier, “I’m all she has.”
**

Gibbs cursed as a look at his watch confirmed the slow passing of the day. Fate being her usual bitchy self, on the day when Gibbs wanted, no, *needed* to be busy, not a single new case was referred to NCIS. It was not yet five o’clock, but he decided that there was no point in remaining at the office and continuing to do nothing.

He got up from his desk and announced, “Take advantage of my generosity and go home, people.” The members of his team demonstrated their ability to move quickly when motivated as they beat Gibbs to the elevator. He let his team go on ahead. He wanted to be alone, to compose himself before heading toward the hospital and Ducky and the small child dying for no damn good reason.

Gibbs used the time on the drive to the hospital to suppress any and all emotions. He thought that he was ready to face whatever Ducky might be dealing with, but he was wrong. Gibbs nearly turned around and walked out before Ducky knew that he was there. Gibbs could not be seen when he arrived because the transparent walls of the baby’s room were now covered with curtains; curtains that were normally pulled back to allow easier monitoring of the baby by the ICU staff. Gibbs could only think of one reason for the sudden need for privacy.

He stood at the nurse’s station, immobile. One part of his mind ordered him to get the hell out while he still could. That flight reaction warred with the need to let Ducky know that he didn’t have to face whatever was going on behind the curtains alone. The shrill whine of an alarm decided the issue. Jethro began to move toward the source of the sound: the baby’s room. The alarm was silenced as Gibbs entered the room. The hospital staff were in the process of removing the many tubes and wires that surrounded the baby, while Ducky stood, silently watching. He looked up at Jethro’s entrance and managed a small smile for his friend.

“Ah, Jethro!” Ducky walked away from the bed and raised his arms to embrace his friend. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t know anyone had called you.”

Jethro returned the embrace. “They didn’t.” Gibbs did not ask for any further information. He did not want to know more than he already did.

Ducky, talkative as ever, could not help but explain, “The doctors and I had a long discussion this afternoon regarding the futility of further treatment. In their expert opinion, there is no hope that Jane will recover. It is cruel to continue with her current treatment, which is only delaying death, not preventing it. They’re just about to remove the ventilator.”

The nurse called Ducky over to the bedside. “Dr. Mallard; it’s time.”

Ducky sat down in the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the baby’s bed: a large wooden rocking chair. Gibbs positioned himself so that he was at his friend’s side. The last IV line was removed from the baby, and she was placed in Ducky’s waiting arms.

The equipment was wheeled to a corner of the room. The lights were dimmed. The nurse call signal was placed within easy reach. The hospital staff left the room, one by one, until only the nurse was left. She looked at Ducky, unshed tears visible in her eyes. “Dr. Mallard, would you like me to stay?”

The blanket-wrapped baby was resting peacefully in Ducky’s arms. He looked up from his small burden and answered, “No, my dear, it’s quite all right.” He nodded toward the nearby call signal. “I’ll let you know when we need you again.”

The nurse nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

Ducky began to slowly rock, humming a soothing lullaby.

Gibbs stood by, a silent observer. If Ducky had touched his arm, he would have found muscles stiff and straining. It took everything Gibbs had to remain calm while he silently screamed, “No, no, NO! God, no! Don’t do this!”

Ducky sat and hummed for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes and still the child’s small, rapid breaths continued. Ducky grew tired of humming, and began to speak. “She looks as if she’s already sleeping with the angels.”

He continued, “’Sleeping with the angels’ was my mother’s euphemism for death. The first death I ever experienced personally occurred when I was all of five years old. My grandfather died, and my mother took me to see him at the funeral home. Rather than telling me straight out that he had died, she told me that he was sleeping with the angels. For the longest time afterward, I had nightmares about angels coming to take me away while I slept.”

Gibbs tuned out Ducky’s monologue before he finished the first sentence. He’d last seen the baby when her immobile body had been hooked up to all of the various ICU devices. Gibbs didn’t want to look at the bundle tenderly cradled by his friend, but he couldn’t help himself. In the dim light of the room, the baby looked incredibly peaceful. Without all of the life-supporting equipment attached, Gibbs could almost convince himself that she was merely sleeping; until Ducky spoke again. “Before they removed the ventilator, they gave Jane enough morphine that she will never again experience any pain.”

Immediately after Ducky’s comment, the baby’s heretofore regular breathing became erratic. She began to breathe more deeply, then shallowly, then deeper, in a repetitive cycle. Each time the cycle repeated, the breaths became weaker and more shallow until finally, the baby took one last breath and exhaled. After five minutes had passed and no further movement of the small chest occurred, Gibbs knew that she was dead.

Ducky sat another ten minutes holding the lifeless body before he lifted her tiny face to his own and kissed her forehead. He whispered, “Goodbye, my dear,” and stood up. He returned her to the bed she had previously occupied.

It was then that Gibbs collapsed. One minute, he was standing beside the rocking chair, holding on to the back for support. The next, he found himself on the floor, shaking, his breath coming in sobbing, shuddering gasps. With his eyes closed, images of his own wife and daughter mingled with those of the dead child’s. Gibbs couldn’t breathe through the pain, his world was gone and still the pain went on and on and on and he was alone, so alone . . .

Lost in memory and misery, Gibbs gradually became aware of arms surrounding him, holding him close, rocking him as knelt upon the cold floor. A voice, a familiar voice, kept repeating, “It’s all right, I’ve got you, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’ve got you, I’ve got you . . .”

He raised a shaky hand to wipe at his tear-stained face. He tilted his head to look up into concerned blue eyes in a face as tear-stained as his own. His voice weak and tentative, he asked, “Ducky?”

Ducky leaned forward and kissed Jethro’s forehead. “Yes, Ducky.”

Jethro blessed his friend’s understanding as no further words were exchanged. Ducky knew that Gibbs’ breakdown was due to much more than Jane’s death. Ducky also knew that Gibbs would not, could not, talk about it. He simply offered his friend a handkerchief, which Gibbs gladly used to clean himself up. Once he was as presentable as he was going to get, they summoned the hospital staff. The two men left the hospital staff to prepare the baby’s body for the morgue.

As they headed toward the parking lot, Gibbs spoke the first words he’d uttered since his breakdown: “Let’s go home.”

Ducky hesitated. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop by the morgue first.”

Gibbs knew that Ducky did not mean the hospital morgue where Jane’s body would remain until the funeral home the M.E. had contacted arrived to pick up her body. He meant the familiar surroundings of the NCIS morgue. He replied, “Sure.”
**
Ducky arrived at the NCIS morgue and removed his coat and hat, making himself comfortable. Gibbs followed behind, a silent observer. Ducky headed toward the drawer that held the body of Jane’s mother, and pulled it out so that her emaciated body was upon view. He gave a quick, sharp nod of his head and began to speak. “I wanted to take one last look at a truly heartless monster. That, my dear, is you. Because of your own selfishness, your inability to think of anyone other than yourself, you condemned an innocent child to an early death after making the few short months of her life here on Earth an exercise in misery.”

His voice rose in pitch and volume as he continued. “If there is a Hell, I’m certain that God has rewarded you with your rightful place there. Strangulation was a particularly fitting cause of death for you. I only regret that it was over all too quickly. You should have had to linger, as your daughter did, as your lungs quested for air that was denied you.

“May you rot in Hell!” With his final words, Ducky forcefully slammed shut the drawer containing the remains of the baby’s mother.

He stood with fists clenched, chest heaving, wanting to strike out a something, anything.

Gibbs’ calm voice helped Ducky to release some of his anger. “You done?”

Ducky nodded. “Yes, I believe I am.”

Gibbs continued, “Did it help?”

Ducky’s shoulders slumped as he released the tension from his body. “No.”

Gibbs gave a half-smile and replied, “Didn’t think so. We done here?”

Ducky ran a hand through his hair before he replied, “Yes, we are.”

Gibbs flung a supportive arm across Ducky’s shoulders and escorted his friend from the building. He knew that Ducky was not done grieving; not by a long shot. He also knew that he would be there for his friend, every step of the way. The tricky part was remembering that Ducky would be there for him, too. After today, Gibbs thought it might be just a little bit easier for him to remember.
**
~end
**
prompt:
Ducky has been HIV positive for years, he's learned to live with it in his day to day life. Now though Gibbs and him want to adopt an HIV positive baby. Ducky/Gibbs, realism regarding living as a HIV positive adult or child.

Author’s Note: I apologize to slash4femme that this story strayed so far from the original prompt. I originally planned to write Ducky as HIV positive, but after my muses decided that the baby was going to die, I couldn’t do that to the poor man.