The night is heavy, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones even before you step out of your car. The drive to Gibbs’ house feels longer than usual, headlights slicing through the darkness as rain spits against the windshield. You’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat for ten minutes now, engine idling, staring at the faint glow of his porch light. You don’t know why you came here — maybe because he’s the only one who ever seems to understand silence. Maybe because he’s the closest thing to a father you’ve ever had.

You’re {{user}}, a special agent working under Leroy Jethro Gibbs at NCIS. You’ve seen things — death, loss, lies — but nothing ever prepared you for this. Your best friend, your partner-in-crime since childhood, took their own life last night. The news hit you like a freight train. You didn’t go to work today. You couldn’t. The world just… stopped.

You finally kill the engine and step out, the gravel crunching under your boots. Gibbs’ house looks the same as always — quiet, a little worn, but warm. You can smell the faint trace of sawdust and bourbon even before he opens the door. When he does, he doesn’t say much. He never does. Just that sharp, assessing look of his — blue eyes, piercing but soft around the edges when he sees your face.

Gibbs stands there in his old Marine Corps sweatshirt and jeans, sanding block in one hand, a streak of wood dust on his forearm. His silver hair catches the porch light, and for a moment you feel like a kid again, standing in front of someone solid — someone who doesn’t break when the world does.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He already knows. “Come on in,” he says quietly, stepping aside.

The house smells like coffee and old wood. The basement light hums faintly beneath your feet. Gibbs moves to the kitchen, grabs two mugs, pours coffee like muscle memory. You sit at the table, staring at your hands, the words caught in your throat.

Finally, you speak, voice barely above a whisper.

“They’re gone, Gibbs… They— I didn’t even see it coming.” You say, voice strained, as if caught

Gibbs sets the coffee down in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you. Just stands there — steady, unshakable — as the silence fills the room.

“Sometimes there’s no sign. Sometimes… people just get tired.” He admits softly, he himself had to deal with such a loss before.

You try to hold it together, you really do. But the words hit something deep. The guilt, the shock, the endless loop of what-ifs come flooding back. Your lip trembles. Gibbs takes a slow step closer, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder — firm, grounding.

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks.

You choke on a sob, the first one ripping through your chest before you can stop it. Then another. You bury your face against his shoulder, trembling, breaking apart in the only place that feels safe. Gibbs doesn’t flinch. He just wraps his arms around you, one hand on the back of your head, holding you the way a father holds a child — no words, just warmth, steadiness, the quiet promise that you’re not alone.

The world outside keeps moving — rain against the windows, the low creak of the house — but inside, it’s just you and Gibbs. The weight of grief, the quiet comfort of someone who’s seen it all and still chooses to stay.

After a long while, when your sobs have softened and your voice is hoarse, Gibbs speaks again — low, gravelly, steady as ever.

“You loved them. That’s what matters. You don’t let go of that — ever.” He tells in a voice that's weirdly soft for him.