Chapter Text
Gibbs POV
The engine gave one last dry cough as he cut it, headlights washing out and leaving the street to its moonlight hush. Gibbs sat for a moment in the dark cab of the truck, hands resting on the wheel, not moving. Thirty-two days gone. A month of dust, long drives, silent desert trails and longer silences between trust and betrayal. Half the op wouldn’t even make it into a report. Some things didn’t need paper.
He rubbed the side of his face, grit under his nails, sweat dried into his shirt collar. One more long breath. Then he opened the door and stepped down, boots hitting the pavement with that familiar weight.
A car caught his eye as he headed up the walk—a navy-blue convertible parked along the curb just past his house. Top up. Old fabric, stretched and worn but not shredded. Clean windows. Tires looked solid. It wasn’t anyone’s on his street that he remembered, but it wasn’t parked wrong, wasn’t blocking his driveway. He didn’t think twice about it after that.
The porch welcomed him with its usual groan. The front door stuck slightly, same as always. He didn’t even bother fishing out his key. Just turned the knob.
Unlocked.
Still.
He stepped inside, shoulder brushing the frame. The door clicked shut behind him, muffled and final. He stood in the dark for a beat. No alarms. No creaks overhead. Just the cool, quiet hum of home—old wood, old habits.
The go-bag dropped beside the bench by the door. He didn’t even glance at it.
His jacket hit the back of the couch next. Boots came off one at a time, tugged loose and nudged aside with the inside edge of his foot. Socks peeled off and tossed into the same corner, landing in a small pile like laundry already planned.
The rest followed—shirt, undershirt, belt. Pants.
He stripped down without ceremony, worn muscles moving on autopilot. Clothes hit the hardwood in a heap. He’d deal with them in the morning. Hell, if he was feeling generous, maybe even throw them in the wash instead of the basket.
Only his boxers stayed. Thin cotton. Worn soft with age.
The couch creaked under him as he sank into it, groaning faintly as his spine settled into the dip his body had carved over years. He reached under his shirt, still warm with sweat, and unhooked his sidearm—one last habit too deep to break.
Lifted the cushion beside him and slid the gun underneath, grip out, smooth and practiced.
Safe enough.
He let his head fall back, eyes closing before he was even still. The silence swallowed him whole. No lights. No TV. Just the faint tick of the kitchen clock and the scent of cedar and faint oil.
The stairwell behind him disappeared into shadow, just another piece of wood and dark and nothing.
He didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to.
Home was quiet. Home was still.
And Gibbs, for once, let himself sleep.