The fluorescent hum of the bullpen at Quantico often felt like the low thrum of a great beast, perpetually awake, perpetually watchful. But on this particular Tuesday evening, with Gibbs mysteriously absent – a Gibbs absence always a prelude to something, though no one ever knew quite what – the hum was punctuated by the low murmur of speculation, the clatter of keyboards, and the quiet rustle of betting slips.
The target of their collective intrigue was, naturally, Leroy Jethro Gibbs. For years, the team had developed a peculiar, often hilarious, side-hustle: the Gibbs Pool. It wasn't about solving a case; it was about predicting Gibbs’s unpredictable predictability. Would he suddenly decide to build a new boat in his basement despite the current one being unfinished? Would he take a spontaneous, unannounced fishing trip to the Alaskan wilderness? Would he finally acknowledge Ziva’s (or later, Bishop’s, or Torres’s) pop culture reference without a grunt? These were the grand questions that fueled the daily grind.
Today’s focus, whispered McGee, tapping nervously on his tablet, was "Gibbs's Next Grand Personal Gesture." Not a professional move, not a head-slap, but something fundamentally, gloriously, out-of-character for the stoic, taciturn leader.
“Alright,” Torres declared, leaning back, feet propped on his desk, “I’m putting fifty on him spontaneously adopting a stray cat. A fluffy one. He’ll call it ‘Bootsie’.” Laughter rippled through the bullpen. The idea of Gibbs and a fluffy cat was too absurd to contemplate.
Bishop, ever the analyst, chimed in, “Too obvious, Nick. My money’s on him finally taking a pottery class. He’ll say it’s for ‘hand-eye coordination’ but really, it’s a latent artistic expression.”
McGee adjusted his glasses. “You’re both wrong. Statistically, based on his current stress levels and patterns of avoidance behavior, I predict he’ll embark on an unannounced, solo road trip across the continental divide, just to ‘clear his head.’ He won’t tell anyone where he’s going until he sends a postcard from, like, a Wyoming diner.”
The arguments escalated, each team member constructing elaborate scenarios for Gibbs’s next peculiar turn. The whiteboard, usually reserved for case notes, was now a dizzying array of improbable prophecies and hastily scribbled dollar amounts. They loved Gibbs, admired him, but he was a closed book, and the betting pool was their peculiar, affectionate way of trying to read a single, tantalizing paragraph.
It was precisely then that the faint, rhythmic tap of a cane echoed down the hall. A hush fell over the bullpen, replaced by a collective sigh of relief. Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard, clad in his customary bow tie and tweed jacket, ambled into view, a steaming mug of tea in hand. His eyes, keen and bright behind his spectacles, took in the whiteboard, the betting slips, the conspiratorial grins on the faces of his young colleagues. A gentle, knowing smile played on his lips.
“Ah, gentlemen and lady,” Ducky began, his voice a warm, melodic balm to the charged atmosphere, “still attempting to decipher the labyrinthine mind of our dear Leroy, I see.” He walked over to the whiteboard, his gaze lingering on the various predictions. He chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a paved path.
“Pottery class, Miss Bishop? While admirable, I daresay Leroy’s artistic endeavors are confined to the precise angles of a well-planed plank of wood. A road trip, Timothy? Leroy prefers his wanderings to be internal, or at the very least, within the comforting confines of his trusty pick-up and the open road to his cabin.” He paused, his gaze drifting to Torres’s suggestion. “And a fluffy cat, Nicholas? While Leroy possesses a deep well of compassion, his affections tend towards the… more rugged companions.”
He turned, his eyes twinkling, and leaned on his cane. “You see, Leroy, for all his gruff exterior, is a creature of immense loyalty and, dare I say, a profound, if understated, need for quiet companionship. Not the chattering sort, mind you, but one that offers solace without demands, a steady presence amidst the chaos.”
Ducky’s gaze swept across their faces, holding each in turn. “His past, his very essence, is woven with threads of protection and a desire to mend what is broken. Remember his old dog, Major? A stray he found, injured and alone, on a stakeout in the rain. Leroy nursed him back to health, and that animal was his shadow for years.”
He continued, his voice softer, almost a whisper, “Leroy doesn’t seek out new experiences for the sake of novelty. He seeks out what needs him, what can offer that silent, steadfast presence he craves. It won’t be a hobby, nor a grand adventure of self-discovery, at least not in the conventional sense. It will be a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in his immediate surroundings, a balm to his soul.”
Ducky finally pointed his cane at the whiteboard, directly at Torres’s suggestion of a pet, but with a slight, crucial amendment. “It will not be a fluffy cat, Nicholas. Nor even a young, boisterous pup. It will be an older animal, perhaps a bit scruffy, certainly in need of a good home. One that will ask for nothing more than a quiet corner, a scratch behind the ears, and a steady hand. He will bring home a dog, a senior dog. One with perhaps a limp, or a missing ear, or a cloudy eye. And he will name it something stoic, yet understated, like… ‘Mate’.”
The team exchanged glances. It was so utterly Ducky. So utterly Gibbs. The arguments ceased. The bets looked suddenly foolish.
The next morning, the bullpen was a hive of quiet anticipation. Then, the elevator doors chimed, and out stepped Gibbs. He looked the same – stoic, worn jeans, faded flannel. But there was a subtle shift, a lightness in his step that hadn't been there yesterday. He walked past them, headed for his desk, and then, a faint whimpering sound came from behind him.
Following Gibbs into the bullpen, limping slightly, was a medium-sized, scruffy terrier mix. One ear stood up, the other drooped, and a milky film covered one of its eyes. It looked old, tired, but content. It settled under Gibbs’s desk with a contented sigh.
Gibbs turned, catching their stares. He just grunted, a sound that somehow conveyed both "don't ask" and "yes, I did."
Torres’s jaw dropped. Bishop’s eyes widened. McGee slowly took out his wallet, already reaching for the single dollar bill he owed Torres, because Ducky’s prediction had been too precise for any of them to have conceived of.
Ducky, who had just emerged from his lab, paused at the threshold of the bullpen. He looked at the dog, then at Gibbs, then at the stunned faces of the team. A serene, knowing smile spread across his face. He simply nodded, a silent victory. He didn't say "I told you so"; he didn't need to. The quiet wisdom of his observation had spoken volumes, perfectly illustrating the complex, unspoken language that bound them all, especially the inscrutable man at the head of the table. For Ducky, understanding Gibbs wasn't a gamble; it was simply a lifetime of observation, perfectly, beautifully, predicted.
