Chapter Text
Somewhere close, his mobile phone beeped once again, signaling a low battery level, but Gibbs paid it no heed – just like he’d done for the previous hour.
He was lying on his couch, a beer sitting on the table to his left, long forgotten. His mind was miles away, lost in a maze of half-forgotten memories, confusing images and fuzzy recollections he couldn’t stop mulling over – trying to make sense of them, to put some order to the chaos.
Losing his memory had been quick and way too easy in a sense – an explosion, a hit to the head and years of his life had been lost in a matter of seconds – gone, just like that.
The reverse process, on the other end, was anything but.
He was getting his memory back, and this was undoubtedly something, but it was hard and slow as hell. It was anything but a linear process – flashes of pictures, random pieces of information, fragments of memories, sometimes casually sneaking up on him and other times ramming into his brain like a jackhammer. And then there were the dreams, and the nightmares, messing up his already fitful sleep, and every time he woke up drenched in cold sweat it was hard to tell what was true and what was just a figment of imagination.
The umpteenth beep from his phone made him growl in annoyance, but he felt compelled to capitulate.
He struggled to his feet, his muscles stiff from the hours of inactivity, and headed towards the goddamn phone. As he fumbled to plug the phone to the charger, something on the display caught his eye – the notification of a voicemail.
He frowned. He had in deed heard it ring sometimes during the night, but completely ignored it, caught as he had been in the throes of his anguish.
He glanced at the number – it was not familiar, but the area code immediately jumped to his eye. Washington.
The frown deepened. It wasn’t such a rare occurrence, obviously – most of his former acquaintances, colleagues, friends lived in the area and sometimes tried to reach out – but Gibbs had made it rather clear that he wanted to be left alone, and so phone calls had become less and less frequent.
His finger hovered over the keyboard – the temptation to leave it be and forget about the call for the time being undeniable – but then common sense and rationality won over.
It was, after all, well past midnight – both in Washington and in Mexico. If someone had called and taken the time to leave a voicemail, there must’ve been a good reason.
With an annoyed sigh, he hit play.
“G-gibbs –”
The word was spoken in a hesitant, weak tone, and Gibbs’ grip on the phone tightened of its own accord as he immediately, instinctively recognized the voice. DiNozzo.
“Gibbs, I think I – I screwed up.”