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navalcriminalimagines · 3 years

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Taken & Found - 1

Request 1: Hey there! I'd really like to see a comforting Gibbs after the reader was kidnapped?

Request 2: Could ya do something with the reader being kidnapped and tortured in captivity for a long time and after she was rescued and came back Gibbs tries to get her to talk about what happened to her so he can figure out how to help/comfort her?

Request 3: May I request something with Gibbs and scared reader? Maybe they’re like trapped somewhere or she’s going under for a surgery? You can decide reader’s fate!

This is a two-part fic. This part is basically full angst, focused on Gibbs and the comforting, healing focus on Reader will come in the second part. I wanted to separate both.

Pairing: Gibbs x Reader

TW: angst, kidnapping, mention of suicide, depression, slight alcoholism

Words count: 3k

Tags: @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @madamsnape921 @specialagentastra @ncisfan @zetasaturno99

She was supposed to be thirty-five years old today.

And it was one of those very rare days Gibbs didn’t want to get out of bed.

He spent the night working on his boat in the basement, thinking about what his life would be if anything had happened. But he would never know, would he? No matter how bad he wished Shannon and Kelly weren’t dead, how bad he wished you were here with him… all of this happened. And he found himself alone in his basement.

Well, not entirely alone. He had a bottle of bourbon to keep him company, and Fraser, an old black labrador. Your old black lab. Your furry baby, as you used to say.

You rescued it when it was just a puppy, a couple of years before you joined NCIS. So, Gibbs has always known you with this loving thing. At some point, you would even take him to the office and Fraser’s favorite spot was under Gibbs’s desk.

Gibbs never wanted to get attached to the dog. Fraser wasn’t his, it was yours and he respected that. But somehow, you both made your way to his heart.

But only Fraser was still here.

Taking a sip of bourbon directly out of the bottle, his eyes landed on your pet, curled up in the armchair Gibbs put here years ago after you made a remark. “You know, you should put something down here. An armchair or something for people who visit.” You said, while caressing the wood with your fingertips. God did he wish he was the boat at this very moment.

“People who visit never stick around.” He answered, sternly.

“I stick around,�� you grinned.

Indeed, you did stick around. A lot. Probably too much.

Would’ve saved him the heartbreak if you didn’t.

A week later, an armchair was down his basement.

With the bottle still in his hand, Gibbs sat next to Fraser and started to toy the blankie. Well, technically, it was not a blankie. It was a tee-shirt. One of yours. The one you left at his house, two years ago.

The top, representing one of your favorite bands, was destroyed now. Fraser chewed it, curled against it nonstop for two years, it was now just some cotton with dog’s hair on it. It didn’t have your smell anymore, it had Fraser’s, but Gibbs never had the strength to take it away from the dog to wash it.

He never had the strength to do much after you disappeared.

When it was clear to the team that you had been taken, kidnapped, abducted or whatever, Gibbs searched for you for weeks, probably mouths. He still does, to be honest, just not 24/7 anymore.

The first weeks, he asked - or actually, ordered - Abby to take care of Fraser. Gibbs was spending all of his time away, looking for you, he couldn’t take care of someone - well, a living thing. The lab tech happily obliged, but Fraser’s health quickly deteriorated. The dog wasn’t eating, or drinking. All he did was lay on the floor, waiting for his mum to come back.

“What, Abby? I don’t—“ not a welcoming way to answer the phone but she didn’t hold it against him.

“I know you’re busy, Gibbs, but I’m taking Fraser to the vet. He’s not okay at all.”

Abby heard her boss taking a deep breath. “Which vet? I’ll be here as soon as I can.”

The dog was clearly letting himself die. Without you, he didn’t see the point of living and Gibbs understood that. If he told anyone what he did after he got Fraser from the vet, they would think he was crazy. Maybe he was, but he didn’t care at this point. He didn’t care about anything, anymore.

Fraser was depressed and there was nothing the vet could do about it. So, they let Gibbs take him home.

And he took him home. His real home; your apartment. Fraser immediately lay on your bed and cried. “You’re reading my mind, Fra.” Gibbs muttered to himself, while preparing a bowl for the pet.

Gibbs had been in your room a few times, but he never paid attention to your stuff. All his attention was on you and your body when it happened. But as he was sitting on the floor, his back against your bed, he allowed himself to take a look around. It was very much you. Minimalist with your touch. He saw your guitar, your messy wardrobe, candles and some Polaroid pictures of people you love. Gibbs never paid attention to those pictures until this moment and one grabbed his attention.

A picture of him. You could see him from afar, aiming to throw a ball. He remembered that night but he never knew you took a picture.

Ziva had invited him to throw a few balls on a baseball field. It was a nice summer night and they had just saved many people from getting blown up. It was also the first night you kissed him. In his basement, you teased him like you always did and ended up with your lips on his. He wasn’t ready for it at that moment, and when he realised what had happened, you were already gone.

Gibbs held the picture in his hand and before sitting back exactly where he was, he went to the kitchen, grabbed what he had prepared and came back.

Fraser was still laying on your bed, his face on your pillow. Gibbs carried him in his arms, the labrador didn’t even fight back or anything. He put him in front of the bowl and Gibbs sat across. “You wanna die, Fra, huh?” The dog looked at him with horrifying sadness in his eyes. “You and me both, buddy. So let’s do this.”

Gibbs put the picture next to the bowl and grabbed his gun and the bottle of whiskey. “I know you know that salmon. Eat it, choke, and when you take your last breath, I’ll pull the trigger.” He said, pressing the gun against his temple.

Fraser is deadly allergic to salmon. When he was a few months old, you fed him some and the reaction was almost instantaneous. Luckily, you took him to the vet right on time for them to save him. “Salmon is banned from the house.” you said on the ride home.

The dog didn’t move one bit. With his face still resting on the floor, he kept looking at the man. Gibbs swore he saw tears in the damn dog’s eyes. “So? Whatcha waiting for? Eat it. It’s good salmon, trust me.” He said, drinking the brown liquor.

If Fraser could talk, he would’ve told him; ‘I may let myself die, but you’re damn crazy.’ Which would’ve been fair.

Gibbs was going crazy. It was the last straw. The last punch in the guts he could take. He had reached his limit.

He was finally letting himself love again and get loved in return. And someone took that away from him. All over again.

He got it, the universe hates him for some reasons. Why would he keep pushing it then?

Gibbs stayed up all night, drinking and waiting for Fraser to eat the fish and die. So he could pull the trigger and end this once and for all.

But Fra never did. Instead, around 5am, the dog went to grab something from the bathroom and put it on Gibbs’ lap. It was one of his hoodies. A hoodie you stole from him. Gibbs buried his nose in it and he could smell you. For the first time in many years, he let himself cry. He cried like a fucking baby, under the watch of your fucking dog.

At some point, he felt that Fraser was trying to nudge his nose in the hoodie too. “We’ll find her, Fra. We have to.”

If Gibbs had killed himself, along with Fraser, it would’ve meant you were gone forever. Because eventually, people would’ve stopped looking for you. They would’ve stopped thinking about you and just pretended you’re dead.

But Gibbs knew you weren’t dead. He knew it deep inside him. Because if you were dead, Fraser would’ve eaten the salmon and he would’ve pulled the trigger.

Laying in his bed, Gibbs turned on his side and found himself face to face with Fraser. The dog was sleeping and snoring. That’s what he does most of his time. Fra was still depressed, but he didn’t let himself die anymore. He eats and drinks the bare minimum. He doesn’t play anymore though. He used to be a happy, playful and loving dog. Now he’s just laying around, waiting for you to come back.

Just like Gibbs.

They both lost weight. Gibbs didn’t even bother to look at himself in the mirror anymore. He hadn’t been to the hairdresser in a while. His hair was longer than it has never been, and his beard was prominent now. You would probably freak out if you saw him like this. You would order him to shave and get his marine haircut back. You would feed him - and Fraser - until they are full. He just wished you were here.

He reached for Fraser’s head and pet him for a moment. “The boat is done and I can’t even offer it to her.” He sadly whispered. It’s been his plan a long time before you were gone. Building a boat after and for you. Now it was your thirty-fifth birthday, the boat was fucking done but he coudn’t teach you how to operate it like he promised.

For the next two weeks, Gibbs would stay in the basement, and stare at the finished product. There was nothing left to do on it, so he just sat behind the wheel, files on his lap and bourdon in one hand. His use of alcohol has never been higher than it is now. You’d scold him if you knew.

Maybe he’s self-destructing, hoping you’d show up and make everything right again. It was stupid, since you didn’t leave on your own. You were taken. Someone took you, and god knows what they were doing to you. This awoke a rage he never knew he had. He’d kill that - or those - person with his bare hands if he ever has a chance.

A month after your birthday, Gibbs was basically falling asleep in his boat, relatively drunk. Fraser was on his lap - he doesn’t realise he’s not a puppy anymore - when the dog shot his head up. “Easy, that’s just Fornell.” Gibbs mumbled, recognizing his friend’s footsteps.

“My two favorite depressed boys.” Tobias greeted them. He gently patted Fraser’s head and looked at his friend. “I need you to sober up, Gibbs. We need to talk about something important.”

“Just say whatever you have to say. I’m not that drunk.”

“Yeah, right.” Tobias grabbed the bottle from Gibbs’s hand and checked how empty it was. But Tobias knew only one thing would make him react, so he went straight to the point. “It’s about Y/N, Gibbs. Get your ass—“

Before the FBI agent could finish his sentence, Gibbs had practically thrown Fraser away. The poor dog looked at him with hurt in his eyes. It was only then that Gibbs saw the file his friend was holding against his chest. He didn’t think twice and tore it out of his grip. Tobias let him.

There wasn’t much in the file, just a picture.

A picture of you.

You looked different, thinner, your hair was shorter and in a completely different color. You looked like a homeless woman.

Gibbs’s jaw dropped. His head was spinning so fast, he needed to sit again. He touched the picture with his fingertips so softly, hoping it was like touching you. A lot of things were going through his mind at this moment, he actually drew a blank. “It was taken two days ago. In Wyoming.”

Gibbs didn’t need more.

Tobias had everything planned before he showed up at Gibbs’s place. One of the FBI private planes was waiting for them, in order to take them off to Wyoming. He had asked Emily if she could dogsit Fraser for a few days, and he even called Vance to let him know he was taking Gibbs with him.

In the plane, he told Gibbs how he came across this picture and all of the info he had, which wasn’t much to be honest. As far as they knew, you were in one city of Wyoming two days ago. Maybe you were gone by now.

But all Gibbs could focus on was that picture. He didn’t take his eyes off it since he opened the file. This was you. You were alive. Whatever happened, whatever the reasons you found yourself here, you were fucking alive.

Tobias looked at his friend. He’ll spend the rest of his life pretending he didn’t see the tear rolling down his cheek. “How you feeling?” He tentatively asked.

“I—I don’t know. It’s a lot.”

“She’s alive. We know it. We’ll find her.”

“I’ve always known she was alive.”

No doubt he did.

It was hard for Tobias to tame Gibbs after they landed. The agent was already barking orders at everybody and anybody, he was ready to organize a fucking manhunt to find you. But the first place they went was where the picture was taken. Gibbs spent hours in the area, while Tobias went to see the local cops. When he tried to check on Gibbs, the man never answered.

In the picture, you were looking at the surveillance camera. You knew you were being watched. You did it on purpose, Gibbs was sure of it. You must have left a clue somewhere around.

You looked scared, someone must have been following you. But he knew from what Tobias said; there wasn’t much more on the video. You were briefly seen and then disappeared, again. “Talk to me, Y/N.” Gibbs thought to himself while looking around.

It was only around noon that it hit him. He finally saw it.

Right there on the graffiti wall.

“Born to lose, live to win.”

Your handwriting. This sentence. Your tattoo.

You must have written this to let him know he should look at this wall. So he did. He studied those graffitis for a long moment, until he saw what he needed to see.

Numbers. GPS coordinates.

He called McGee, not paying attention to the missed calls he had. He gave him the coordinates and Tim gave him an address.

Was that it? The nightmare was finally over? He would go to this address, find you and take you home. Finally.

Fucking finally.

He felt dizzy while running to the address. It wasn’t that far away, and there was no way he’d wait for Fornell or a cab. So, he jogged to this fucking house. When he was standing in front of it, his heart was beating so fast, he thought it would stop.

But he couldn’t die now. He would die after he found you but not now.

He didn’t care about procedures or anything. He grabbed his gun, and let himself in the house by knocking out the door. A man was sitting there, on the couch.

The house was pure filth. The man seemed to be a bit younger than him, and he looked like a psychopath. Which he is, considering he took you.

The man was standing in his living room, his hands up as Gibbs pointed the gun at him. In a flash, Gibbs was standing right in front of the man, the gun pressed against his throat. The man looked scared, he didn’t even try to fight. “What the hell, man? Who are you? What do—“

“Shut your mouth. Where is she?” Gibbs asked, suppressing the urge to beat the man to death right now. That would come later. He needed to find you first.

“Who? There’s no—“

Gibbs’s knee hit him right in his crotch and that bastard fell on the floor. “You’re living the final hour of your life, you better tell me where the hell is Y/N, before I watch life leaving your fucking eyes.”

“I—I—“

Seeing his hesitation, Gibbs punched him. “Where?!” He yelled, but the man stayed silent. “Fine.”

Gibbs grabbed the guy by his collar to put him back up. He was physically impressive, but the adrenaline running through Gibbs’s veins gave him incredible strength. He threw him on the first chair he saw and immediately cuffed him to it. He punched him once more, harder this time.

His nose and lips were bloody, but of course it wasn’t enough. Gibbs fought a lot in his life. To defend himself or to arrest someone, but never, had he been filled with that much rage and anger. He didn’t think twice before his boot hit the man directly in his face, knocking him unconscious. He stared as the man fell on the floor along with the chair he was cuffed to.

He needed to find you. Right now.

No need to be a federal agent to know a psychopath would hold you captive somewhere private.

So he immediately looked for a basement, which he quickly found and he saw the door.

A reinforced door with quite a few locks. Keys. He needed keys that he found in the man’s pocket. Although he was still laying on the floor, fighting to regain consciousness, Gibbs kicked him again, in the stomach this time. He wasn’t holding back his strength one bit. He will kill him anyway.

As he was unlocking the door, his hands were shaking like they never did before. His heart was still pounding in his chest. He still felt dizzy.

He was sure his heart actually stopped when he spotted you on the one-person bed. You were holding your knees against your chest. It was dark, but it was you. You were there, a few feet in front of him. He didn’t even know what to do.

But you did.

When you realised who was standing in front of you, you weakly jumped off the bed and rushed into his arms.

The only thing that kept you alive all this time; knowing that he would find you.

You felt even smaller than you already were. With your arms wrapped around his waist, your face buried in his chest, Gibbs felt you crying.

He slowly wrapped his arms around you, afraid it wasn’t real. Afraid he may hurt you. Afraid you would disappear again. “You found me.” he heard you whispering.

That he did.

#jethro gibbs imagine #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #jethro gibbs x reader #agent gibbs #jethro gibbs #gibbs x reader #gibbs #ncis fiction #ncis fanfic #ncis fanfiction #ncis

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bigdlittleibignlittleozzo-moved · 3 years

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@sebastianshaw asked A, C, G, L, P , Q, S, T, W

A: Who are their exes? Do they still keep in touch?

It sounds funny to Tony, when he says he only has two exes and they’re both women. Well how can that be? He’s a gay man, and he’s never had sex with a woman, but both of his exes are women, and both of them (rightfully) pin the downfall of their relationship on him.

At least with Wendy, they ended somewhat amicably, even if he stood at the front of that church for two and a half hours, waiting for her, worried that something had happened to her. When her bridesmaid had shown up and told him that Wendy was calling the wedding off, it had been a relief. Tony hadn’t really wanted to be married anyhow. It was just what had been expected of him, and that was the wrong reason to get married, the wrong reason to trap someone with him, tie them down.

Jeanne... well, what could he say about the woman who had accused him of murdering her father, who had tried to get him locked in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed? He didn’t blame her at all. After everything he’d done to her, the lies that he had told her, he’d deserved to be treated the way he was, to be accused of murder, to be treated however she saw fit. Hell, if she’d wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t have blamed her. He was the reason her father was dead.

Not being in contact with either of them was what was best for them, and him. They deserved better and he- well all he wanted was peace. He didn’t want fighting, didn’t want to feel the need to justify his actions. He’d done what he’d done, and it was terrible. He knew that. He could never take that back. Best for all of them if they just moved on.

C: If they had to pick one sport to play/watch which would it be?

Getting into football had been an accident. He’d needed to pick a sport when he was at RIMA and he hated riflery with a passion. But he could throw a ball like no one’s business, so he’d joined the football team. When he’d discovered that he was actually good at it- well it had taken care of his bullying problem almost immediately. No one wanted to bully the star quarterback, even if he was only a freshman with ADHD and behavior problems.

Maybe that’s why he loved it so much. Football had been his sanctuary, the thing that had saved him from being harassed by the other kids. No one liked the rich kid, no matter that most of the other kids were also from well-off families. No one liked that he knew more about war than they did, despite not coming from a military family. No one liked that he was constantly making jokes, that he couldn’t hold still in class.

Oh, but they liked him on the field. When he threw that ball in a perfect spiral, everyone liked him then. That was when everyone cheered his name, wanted to be his friend. Football made him popular, in a way that he’d never thought he would be. It was amazing, how much people changed the second they discovered he was good at the sport. He just wanted to bask in it, in the praise that they heaped upon his head. It was such a nice change from the derision that was usually pointed at him, he didn’t think anyone would blame him.

G: What was their first job?

It was a busy Friday night. He was late to work because of the football game, the same football game that meant that they were busy. He skidded into the kitchen wearing his post-game sweatshirt and apologized in rapidfire Spanish, pulling off the sweatshirt and hanging it up, grabbing his apron instead. There was a sink full of dishes, but he was good with that. It wouldn’t take him long to wash them all up, get everything clean. He was good at that, at physical work like that. He’d had a lot of practice.

Tia Maria came and patted him on the shoulder, congratulated him on the big win, and Tony smiled at her, his entire face brightening. He loved this job, loved the family that he’d come to have here, the people he’d befriended. Between Maria and Pablo, the owners of the restaurant, he never went hungry. They were always sending him home with food, and Joaquin was always teaching him how to make new recipes when they had some downtime. There wouldn’t be any downtime tonight, but that was okay. He was ready to work. That’s what he was paid to do, after all.

L: How often do they post on their social media accounts?

Twitter was a new thing to him, but he liked it. He could follow all his favorite actors, comment on their movies. He’d once upset Mark Hamill by mentioning the Star Wars Holiday Special, something his Nonna had gifted him with when he was six.

He didn’t post often though. He couldn’t afford to. He was still an undercover agent, after all, and he couldn’t afford to blow his cover. Risking his job for the sake of posting a few selfies seemed dumb, childish and immature, and Tony wasn’t about to do that. It wasn’t safe, for the people that he protected when he went undercover. It was why he didn’t have a Facebook, or any other social media outlet. It wasn’t like he knew anybody he would want to keep in contact with using social media. The only frat brother he was still friends with was Steve, and they called each other on the phone, met for coffee. There wasn’t the need for social media.

Maybe he was just old. He didn’t see the point behind these websites he would never use, though. They weren’t for him.

P: What are their thoughts on going vegan? Could they do it?

He’d gone kosher after Ziva started working for NCIS. It was an easy change to make for him. The hardest thing to give up was shellfish, but he’d made the adjustment. It was just easier. They didn’t always label their lunches, had habits of grabbing whatever bag was in the fridge and just eating what was inside, no care for whose it was. Tony wasn’t about to make Ziva eat something that she couldn’t because he was too selfish to give up pork, too selfish to adjust his diet.

But vegan? He had no problem with vegetables. There were certain times of the year, centered around certain Jewish holidays, where Tony didn’t cook with meat at all. But that had everything to do with the fact that Ziva was always grateful when she grabbed his lunch and it was something she could eat, saving her the trouble of having to order out, hoping that the Jewish deli had someone who could get onto the Navy Yard. They both knew McGee wasn’t going to change the way he ate, so Ziva grabbing his lunch was out of the question.

Still, vegan... as much as he loved vegetables, Tony also loved meat, loved the taste of it, the way it added flavor to his food. He had no problem with other people going vegan, that was their choice. It wasn’t the healthiest dietary choice they could make, and that was coming from the athletic nutrition courses he’d taken when he was studying for his degree, but it wasn’t the worst either. It just- it wasn’t for him. He needed proteins from meat, needed the flavor too. He respected the choices others made for their own bodies but it wasn’t for him, that was for sure.

Q: Do they have a good luck charm they often have with them?

It was stupid. The thing had been given to him as a joke. Holding onto it was just silly. But there it sat, on the corner of his desk where everyone could see it, where it had sat for years, since his Captain in Baltimore had given it to him. He didn’t even like Mighty Mouse, had never seen the show. So why was it that the stapler meant so much to him? He couldn’t rightfully say. But the thought of getting rid of it-

He couldn’t do it. That stapler had been there through too many rough cases, too many cases that Tony shouldn’t have solved, by all accounts, but he still had. He’d used it on too many reports that he never should’ve been able to close. Maybe it was dumb, to consider a little blue and red piece of metal and plastic his good luck charm, but he did. Some cops had their St. Michael medallions, and he respected that, but he wasn’t Catholic, and he’d never really believed in the saints.

His stapler though. His stapler brought him luck. It brought him success. He loved his stapler. Even after it came out that the Captain was a dirty cop, Tony couldn’t get rid of his stapler. It had seen too much, had done too much for him. The stapler and he, they were a team. He wasn’t going to give up on it. It hadn’t given up on him.

S: How do they tell someone they’re sorry?

Rule 6 existed for a reason. Never say you’re sorry. So Tony had to find other ways to apologize when he screwed up, because he screwed up a lot. He couldn’t just not apologize and move on. Because while Gibbs may hate apologies, he also hated it when Tony ignored his mistakes, completely acted like everything was normal. It was a tricky game he was playing, a complicated dance, but he was figuring it out, slowly but surely.

He didn’t apologize anymore, not after the first half dozen times those words had passed his lips. No, now he owned up to his mistakes and sucked it up when the slap came to the back of his head, biting back the wince that was inevitable. Gibbs never pulled his punches with Tony the way he did with McGee and Ziva.

“Right boss. Won’t happen again, boss.” That’s what Gibbs wanted to hear, the only apology he would accept. It left a dirty taste in Tony’s mouth, but if that’s what Gibbs wanted, that’s what Tony would do. This wasn’t about Tony’s preferred method of apology, it was about what Gibbs wanted.

T: How quick are they to cry?

He didn’t cry after Kate died. He was emotionally drained, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t think that he could, too drained and angry at the world, at Ari, at Gibbs, at himself. He couldn’t cry. He could only think about revenge, about getting back at the bastard who had taken his partner away from him.

He did cry when Jeanne left him. He’d loved her, in his own way. Loved her as best as he could. But everything he’d ever told her had been a lie. Everything about himself, about their relationship, about all of it. It had all been a lie. How could he have loved her if he had lied to her constantly, if he hadn’t been honest with her? So why did losing her feel the way it did? He hadn’t ever slept with her but their relationship was something more, something emotional, something that he could just- it hurt to lose it. And he cried.

He wasn’t positive what he was crying for. Maybe it was the loss of Jeanne. Maybe it was the loss of himself. After all, he’d given up a lot of his own self respect and pride in order to go undercover the way he had. He’d sacrificed a lot of who he was in order to be who Jeanne knew. He didn’t even know who he was anymore, half the time. Maybe that was why he was crying. Maybe it was just the broken heart. He didn’t know anymore.

W: Would they be starstruck if they met a celebrity?

Growing up the way he did, he’d rubbed elbows with a lot of old money, people with names that would be recognized. He’d met a lot of people who others would consider famous, and it had been just another Tuesday for him. It wasn’t unusual for Senior to namedrop someone important, even today, wasn’t unusual for Tony himself to have connections that went beyond what a normal NCIS agent would have. He didn’t think anything of it.

He wasn’t the type to really care about somebody’s fame. Why would he, when he’d grown up around money? He’d gone to school with Frank Sinatra’s nephew, the closest he’d gotten to knowing the man himself, and he’d never once freaked out about it. The kid was a bully, and Tony hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, even if his uncle was one of the coolest singers he’d ever heard.

Maybe it was a rich kid thing, a money thing. Maybe it was a Tony thing. Fame and money just didn’t matter to him. Not really, not anymore. Maybe they never had.

#answered asks

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