He'd left again.

He'd left without saying goodbye again.

He'd left without saying goodbye to her again.

She was angry and lost and hurt and still she couldn't bear to take his picture of the monitors.

The handful of candy wasn't helping her emotions; rather, it was making her hyper. Making her mind work overtime. Making her think about every moment they had ever spent together since the day that they'd met. Since the day he had accepted her for who she was.

She took a huge sip of her Caff-Pow! And then another. And then another. Followed by an additional handful of lollies. The colours stained her hand and her keyboard was sticky.

She stared at the pictures of Gibbs. He didn't look like that anymore.

He wasn't clean-shaven, neatly trimmed, dressed in a suit.

No, he was tanned, his beard was growing long and his hair was straggly.

He looked like he'd been having a mighty fine time without her.

There was one thing she clung to.

In her left hand though, because her right hand was constantly dipping into the glass for more lollies.

Her new fetish had become so regular that she'd even gone out and bought a glass jar to put her candy into.

But there in the palm of her clenched fist was the scrap of paper she'd written the number on.

The number for emergency's.

The number for Gibbs.

And although the gesture was huge seeing as she was the only one with a clue on how to contact him, she couldn't ring the number.

How could she define emergency?

Was crying herself to sleep an emergency?

Was staring at his picture all day while jamming sugar down her throat an emergency?

What about considering taking a plane to Mexico and walking every inch of the place until she found him?

What about lying on the bathroom floor staring at the ceiling and wishing she were dead because she didn't hear his voice every morning at work, because she spent her Friday night alone and because she longed for the feeling of his breath on her neck?

What was an emergency?

And when he was in her lab she didn't say a word to him. She almost felt guilty for not having rung him. For not having an emergency.

What would calling him have accomplished? What she really feared was that by calling him she would fall more in love with his voice, even his silence. And that when they hung up she would long for him more then she did now.

They say that time heals all wounds. But the pain of this wound seemed to get worse every day.

Every day that she did not call.

She hadn't even looked him in the eye when he was in her lab. She hadn't spoken to him or hugged him to welcome him.

Maybe he was right. Maybe this really wasn't his home. Maybe he didn't care about her.




And perhaps, she cared so much about him that it was almost easier to ignore him then to face the pain of losing him again.

At least that's what she thought. But it had been just as painful if nor more painful the second time. Because this time he could see how her pigtails were dull and droopy, how her skin wasn't as white, how her makeup wasn't as accurate, how her eyes were always red, how she'd lost her spark, how she wasn't so perky, how she wasn't bubbly, how she had no hoped. And he did nothing.

He did nothing.

He said nothing.

And then he left.

As though he didn't care, or shouldn't care.

She could speculate for hours on why he didn't do those things. And she would. Later.

But for now she focused on the screens. And on the lolly jar. And on the crumpled sodden paper in her left hand.

With the number

For emergencies.