A/N: Right, so this is probably the last chapter, for now anyways. I may just add little bits when I'm feeling up to it, or I have an extra moment that is not dominated by coursework. This is the little resolution that every story needs because it's Christmas and a happy ending is necessary. I'd like to say thank you to Meilea2010 for her review, it made me smile and feel a little more confident about this whole set-up. Anyways, I'll leave the chapter to you guys, so R&R, Rhea. =]

Disclaimer: The plot is mine: the characters aren't. The song Nightblindness is by David Gray and is from the album White Ladder.

3. Nightblindness

A million to one outsiders, Nightblindness, Can't see

When we're together I don't recognise anyone else. We're in our own little world and there's about six billion unknowns walking around on the planet, six billion other people that don't matter in the slightest, because I'm with Jethro. I can't hear them, can't see them: don't care. They're just…just numbers, not even numbers, barely thoughts, I don't realise we're living with all these other beings until we're apart and I have to see the world in sharp focus.

I have to see the world in sharp focus because if I don't someone might get hurt.

Your bright eyes are what, the time is: twenty five past eternity

I look into his bright blue eyes and loose myself. They're how I slip into that world, which is why when he sits next to on the park bench I don't look at him. I know that if and when I do I'll lose all control and I won't be able to deny him anything. I can feel the warmth of his body cutting through the cold night air, the smell of sawdust and old spice enveloping me.

I don't think he recognises the significance of this place. Or maybe he does and just doesn't want to think about it. It's where I was when I told Jeanne who I really was. That somehow seems so recent, but in fact it's an eternity ago. Years.

Here listening, to the sirens, coming closer, now further away

He just sits next to me, laid back against the cold metal. Silent. Maybe he's waiting for me to speak; maybe he's listening to the sirens screeching in the distance. Maybe he's wrapped up in the silence that's developed around us.

I don't know, but an interesting paradox has presented itself. I feel so close to him, I know he cares for me, he wouldn't have come if he didn't, but is it the same way I care for him? Does he love me like I do him?

Yet, I feel so far away from him too, as if the silence is a gap created by all the things that have never been said between us, a void that won't be filled unless we talk, a chasm that will just expand and expand until eventually we're driven apart completely.

It comes and goes. Closer then further away. Closer…

What we gonna do when the money runs out?

His voice croaks when he speaks, his throats dry, from anguish and stress. Not that anyone but those close to him could tell you that. It's subtle and barely noticeable to anyone unacquainted with the slight changes in the Gibbs demeanour.

"What are we gonna do Tony?"

I wish that there was something left to say

I don't know what to say. I don't know whether to respond, I don't know how to respond. I just don't know. There has to be something I can find to reply. Anything. A few solitary words so that his question doesn't hang heavy in the air anymore, like and weight pressing over us. I want to find something, but maybe there isn't something to find.

Where we going to find the eyes to see the bright of day?

I leave the question unanswered. It's just easier like that. If I can't find something useful, true or even nice to say, I'm not going to say anything at all. I want to see things from his side, that'd make things easier, but no matter how hard I try I can't be Leroy Jethro Gibbs. I can't get into that state of mind, it's impossible. I can't understand him. Maybe that's why we fight so much…

I'm sick of all the same old answers, lost chances, cold stones

Why do we argue about the same things? I've tried to ask this but I get the same answer every time. A shrug of the shoulders and the unsatisfactory words: "People argue." Same answer every single time.

Sometimes I've wondered: Did I miss out on something while I was fighting with Jethro? Something that could've been great? Something that I might not have to wrestle with to make it work. I forget he's by my side and wander, just for a moment about how many chances, opportunities I've lost because I've been trying to make things work with Jethro.

I've been fighting the storm that brews from his eyes. The storm that starts in his eyes, and spread throughout his whole body so you can tell, by his glare, his stance his folded arms and straight back that he's angry and there's going to be a rough few minutes a head. The storms can last for days, leaving me out in cold, isolated from the only thing that could give me warmth.

I feel like I'm under fire. Being attacked from all sides. With rocks and stones being thrown from every angle so I can't duck and dive away from them. I'm trapped waiting for them to hit me and bruise.

Propping mountains up, on matchsticks, dragging baskets, full of Bones

Maybe it's because we carry the whole weight of the world on our shoulders. Between us we carry the weight of every agent that we've ever lost.

We blame ourselves for Michelle Li because we both should have spotted it. I should have seen it after I came back. He should have seen that Langer was innocent.

He blames himself for Laura Macy. He didn't clean up his mess properly, he missed a trick. He broke Rule 45.

I blame myself for Jenny because I should have protected her. It was my job to make sure she made it back from Los Angeles alive and well. I didn't do my job.

We both carry the weight of Kate with us. There wasn't anything we could have done. We didn't know Ari was there. How could we? But we both feel that maybe if we'd acted differently, planned differently, Kate would still be here.

And honey please don't stop, your talking, 'cause there's a feeling, won't leave me alone,

I'm so wrapped up I don't hear him whisper something, it's so quiet it sounds like the wind catching in a tree, rustling the leaves, this way then that. And when he whispers it again I'm not sure if I've heard him properly.

The third time he speaks, I can't mistake it. For the first time he says, "I love you, Tony" A whisper in a dark park on a bench where my last relationship based on love ended. Maybe that's why he managed to say it: because he was afraid that we would end here too.

He moves to take my hand and when I don't flinch or move away he places his over mine and entwines our fingers, running his thumb over the back of my hand. He's never been this…tender with me before.

What we gonna do when the money runs out?

I don't know what to do. So I just sit there staring at our hands, knowing that he meant what he said. Knowing that whatever he's about to say he means that too.

"I do love you Tony, and don't ever think otherwise. I'm a bastard and I can't find the words to say what I want, mean or feel sometimes, but you need to know I love you."

I wish that there was something I could say

I don't reply. How am I supposed to reply to that? Me, the man who can barely speak coherently when he catches me teasing McGee or tormenting Ziva. I wasn't made to speak at times like this and certainly not to Jethro. Instead I just nod and stay staring at our hands.

How we going to find the eyes to see the bright of day?
He lets go and carefully places his fingers under my chin pushing up gently so I have to look at him.

"Tony," he whispers. He's close to me, our foreheads touching, his breath tickling me.

"Please tell me you know I love you. Tell me I haven't treated you so badly that you don't know that. I might not have the answers, I might not know what I want from you and I sure as hell might not always go into the danger zone with someone on my six. But I love you."

What we gonna do when the money runs out?

He does mean it. He does love me. I love him. I always have. Even if I didn't quite recognise it at first. Even if I didn't see what he was to me. I've seen it clearly for so long now, I know for certain I love him and somehow, those last words the short to the point declaration of Leroy Jethro Gibbs made me see he does love, because even if he doesn't know it, there lay the answers to the questions.

I wish that there was something left to say,

Our foreheads are still touching and I look up from the floor to meet his eyes. I want to smile but my mouth won't let me, but I think my eyes smile, because his smile back.

"I know Jethro. I know, I just wish you'd remember that I love you too. I wish you'd remember that every time you go in somewhere on your own I have to wait for you to come out, dead or alive. If you do die it's me that has to pick up the pieces."

How we going to find the eyes to see the bright of day?

I pause and breathe in the night air. It's seems clearer now, less heavy, the weight has been lifted.

"Even though rule number seven is "never take anything for granted" I'm going to take this. I've realised what you want from me: you want me to love you back." I whisper, hoping I haven't shot completely off target.

He smiles, leans in taking my face in his hands and kisses me.