The Five Stages
Author: DemonQueen666
Rating: K+
Category: Angst, Post-Twilight
Spoilers: "Twilight"
Author's Note: So, this is an odd little ficlet I was inspired to write after watching the rerun of "Twilight", and immediately following that up with the House, MD season premiere, where they talked about the five stages of dying.
The five stages of dying is a concept used to refer to the five psychological phases it is believed that a patient goes through once they know that they're dying: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. The thing that hit me, however (and that was sort of brought up during the House episode), was that the five stages can sometimes just as easily be applied to the people affected by the dying, not just the patient themselves. It also occurred to me that the same could be said of people dealing with their emotions after someone has died.
So this is a sad, short little piece of angst about the aftermath directly following Kate's death. It goes through the five stages in order, showing how different characters are affected.
Obviously, NCIS and the characters are not mine, and I should probably say the same of House, MD just to be safe. All original concepts herein are mine, however. Please read, review, and hopefully enjoy (well, not really enjoy since it's angst, but...you know what I mean).
Dr. Donald Mallard pulls his car into the driveway, parks it, and locks it. Just as he does every day. Just like he always does as part of his routine.
Just like nothing has changed.
Shouldering his bag, he unlocks the door with a sharp turn of the key (with a little bit of a push because, like always, the door sticks a bit) and enters his house. He puts down his bag in his usual place. Hangs up his coat and hat in the usual place.
Maybe his face looks a little weary and haggard in the hallway mirror, but that's not so unusual either. His job can sometimes be a little bit difficult, leaving him tired and drained. So his expression doesn't seem out of place.
Like nothing is different at all.
He heads towards the living room, his foot hitting that one floorboard that always creaks. His mother is sitting on the couch, apparently in one of her more lucid moods. She looks up as he comes in.
"Hello, my boy," she smiles, petting one of her many corgis on the head. "How was your day? Did anything exciting or different happen?"
One of the dogs scurries over, and he lets it lick his knuckles absently. He thinks of the uproar at work, of the screaming and the crying and the rage. He thinks of the body waiting for him on the autopsy slab next morning.
"No, Mother," Ducky murmurs, letting out his breath in a tired sigh. "Nothing different at all."
****
Leroy Jethro Gibbs paces back and forth in front of his work area, again and again. At this rate, he's going to wear a hole in the carpet. He doesn't really care.
There are so many things he could do right now, so many things he wants to do. The energy is building up, and sometimes destruction is the only way to go. He could turn over his desk. Smash his computer. Tear up the papers scattered about. Throw his phone against the wall. Yank the electric cord right out of the wall. So many things he could do.
But he has to focus. He has to hang onto this, save this rage, this energy, this yearning for destruction. He has to keep it bottled inside, no matter how much he feels like he's about to explode. He has to keep it, choke it back, make sure it doesn't escape, no matter how much it builds. At least until he has somewhere good to put it. At least until he can focus it into something constructive.
At least until he sees Ari again. Because then he will most definitely have something to do with this rage.
He knows that the people upstairs are afraid of what he's going to do next. That they're afraid he's going to hunt down Ari and kill him. They have no idea.
He isn't just going to kill Ari. He's going to destroy him. Torture him. Make him suffer, make him scream. Wipe that psychotic little grin off of his face once and for all. Make him pay for what he did; make him feel something close to the pain he's brought upon them all.
"Make him pay," Gibbs mutters once under his breath. "Make him pay." All the while, he continues to pace.
****
Anthony DiNozzo circles the track once more, his breaths heavy and panting, the sound of his feet steadily pounding the asphalt as he jogs heavy in his ears. He's already run ten more laps than he usually does. But he's also done fifteen more push-ups than he usually does, and fifteen more sit-ups than he usually does. He can take a little more yet. He knows he can.
He could stand to be in a little better shape, he knows he could. So he's upping his workout. Thrown away all the junk in his fridge. Started eating more vegetables, less red meat.
That's not the only thing he's changing, either. There are a lot of things he could stand to change.
He's always had a bit of a reputation for being shallow. Party-hearty. Girl-crazy. Well, it's going to stop.
He doesn't flirt anymore, doesn't even talk to women any more than is absolutely necessary. He hasn't been out for a single night on the town. He's already removed all of his old frat buddies from his speed-dial. All of his booze went out in the trash with the soft drinks and the potato chips. His fancy clothes all went to Goodwill, and their replacements came from Wal-Mart. He let his maid go; he can pick up after his own damn self for a change.
It's high time he stopped messing around and grew up.
Maybe if he'd been stronger and faster, he could have saved Kate. Maybe if his brain hadn't been so full of dirty jokes and T&A, he would have been able to help her. Maybe. Just maybe.
He's never going to mess up again, never going to let anyone down again. He's going to be a better agent, a better man. He's going to be the best he can be.
And then he's going to be even better than that.
Tony sucks in a deep breath of air and picks up the pace. Five more laps. He can do five more laps for Kate.
****
Abigail Sciuto and Timothy McGee sit in chairs in the lab, waiting silently for test results to come back. Test results that they don't care about, that they probably don't even remember anymore what they're for. Who cares, anyway? It's all just more meaningless drivel, some other pointless factoid making up their long and empty lives.
The lab is deathly quiet, save for the humming of the refrigerator and the whir of the computer processing data. There is no music playing, hasn't been for quite some time now. Who can stand the sound of music anymore?
Abby is in the chair in front of her workstation, her arms folded on the desk, her head resting on top of her arms on one side. She looks asleep from behind, completely motionless, but her eyes are wide open. Staring. Questioning. Demanding answers she can never have.
Her clothes are black, as always, but much more somber, less spunk. No slogans on her t-shirt. No stripy socks or fishnet gloves. No jewelry. Her lipstick is there, but her eye make-up is not; she's stopped wearing it all together. You can only have it smear on you from crying so many times before you learn your lesson.
McGee sits a few feet back from her, slumping deeply in the chair. Like he just wants to slip down, burrow away, and disappear. Like he wants no part of the world anymore. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and he looks straight ahead. His eyes are hollow, empty beneath their deep bags and darkening rings. An unfocused, haunted gaze, like he sees nothing at all. Like nothing's really there.
They both look so sick, so tired. Pale and scraggly, on the verge of wasting away. They are the ghosts that haunt this lab, the ghosts that remain to go through the motions of their lives now that everything living and happy has gone away.
Nothing more than ghosts, standing sentinel for the dead.
****
Halfway around the world, a man sits at a table in an outdoor café. The sun shines on him from above, the birds singing cheerfully from the trees. The air is fresh, the morning bright. It is a beautiful day. A wonderful, promising day.
And Ari Haswari smiles to himself, raising his glass of wine slightly in toast before taking a deep sip, savoring the taste.
"To you, Caitlin. May you be at peace, wherever you may be."
