Returning (Chapter 4)
Title: Returning (Chapter 4)
Author: Purerose
Fandom: NCIS
Prompt: 003 Funeral
Character/Pairing: Kate/Gibbs
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1354
Summary: Things get angsty as Kate and Gibbs catch up.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: Characters aren't really mine, I'm just trying them on for size. This is set post-Twilight, AU and all that jazz.
[ Chapter 1] [ Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3]
The night seems never ending, convenient as you really want this moment to go on forever. Gibbs is so fascinated by his daughters that you don’t want to keep him from them any longer. Against your better judgement you decide not to try settling them to sleep and allow them an extended playtime in the living room. Rebel curls in a ball on the floor beside Gibbs. You know that he’s frustrated that the babies are getting more attention than him by the little ‘huff’ he makes as he lies down, but he’s soon fast asleep, occasionally making yipping noises as he chases imaginary cats.
Your daughters soon reveal themselves as polar opposites. Elizabeth is shy of this stranger, she clutches at your neck and snuffles, but Bridget loves her father. She doesn’t want you to pick her up or hold her, she wants Gibbs.
He watches her in awe. “How long has she been doing that?”
You turn and see her stacking building blocks, deep in concentration as she tries, and fails, to place the fourth securely atop the third. Ordinarily such a question would probably be met with nonchalance, she has been doing it for over a month now. But Gibbs doesn’t know. He’s never seen her before today, his daughters are amazing and he knows it.
When Elizabeth begins to fuss once again he holds her while you administer the next dose of Tylenol. Later she falls asleep in his arms having overcome her earlier shyness. Bridget sits between you, babbling away. Over and over again she points to Gibbs and says something which sounds alarmingly like ‘Larry’.
“Larry’s really the only guy she ever sees.” You explain to a confused Gibbs. “As far as she’s concerned, all men are ‘Larries’.”
When the girls have fallen asleep and have been returned to their cribs upstairs it is time to catch up. You are dying for information from back home but Gibbs is more concerned with learning about you. Whenever you ask a question about work or his life it is carefully deflected, you don’t care, it’s good just having him there with you.
You give him the obligatory tour of the house; Gibbs spends an age studying the photos on the walls; the girls as newborns, you with a pair of tiny bundles in your arms, a child in a car seat with dark hair, two little girls sitting in high chairs covered in something orange (‘puréed carrot’ you explain with a shrug).
He lingers for a long time at one pinned up in the kitchen, next to the shopping list on your corkboard; a snapshot taken at the work Christmas party the first year you were living here. In it you are about ready to pop, your belly large and round, hair long and loose, the light shines off the tiny beads on your cardigan. You were chatting to some friends when it was taken, laughing at a joke, your smile is wide and natural. One hand is raised to brush the hair back from your face, the other cups your abdomen. Gibbs studies the photo for several minutes, seemingly unaware that you are watching him before he snaps back to reality and you move back to the living room.
When you take a seat on the couch your heart jumps when he sits just a little closer than before.
Conversation picks up again. Gibbs scoots around the history of the photo he had studied in order to cover your new line of work - a job you acquired by accident at the local library. It is through talking to him that you realise how much time has changed you; things that never would have interested you two years ago are suddenly given top priority, whether Gibbs is truly interested in the link-up scheme you’ve organised between the library and the local elementary school you’re not sure, but he listens as though he is all the same.
The clock on the DVD player tells you that it’s late, very late, and the coffee is running low when Gibbs finally begins to talk about life back in Washington. Experience tells you that there’s something that he clearly doesn’t want to bring up, afterall, a lifetime ago it was your job to know when someone was being evasive. He talks about your replacement, a woman, you’re pleased to hear, who seems to be able to give Tony a run for his money. Then he falls silent. You ask about his boat. He speaks again for a little while, but seems to be coming dangerously close to whatever it is that he’s avoiding and falls silent once more.
At last you feel frustration bubbling inside you. You’re fed up of being in the dark, hidden. “Just tell me. Please.”
Despite your physical proximity, when he looks up at you you’re suddenly aware of the distance between you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, like he’s being torn in two and you know, within needing to hear him say it. You know that there’s a woman, back there in Washington, that some other woman has what you once had.
“You were dead.” He begins. “It took me so long to get over that. I couldn’t forget you, but I…” He trails off but you know what he means. “I’m sorry.”
You want to ask if he loves her but you’re scared of the answer and the other questions it might prompt; ‘do you love me?’ or ‘did you ever love me?’ fly around your mind. The possible answers to these questions scare you more than learning his feelings for another woman. Like Bridget’s building blocks everything seems to have collapsed.
His hand on yours makes you look up. Your cheeks are damp but you don’t care. “If I’d know… We’ve got the girls. We’re going to work something out” He says. You want to rage at him that it’s not enough, but that’s unfair, he cares about your children and you believe him when he says that you’ll work something out.
“Thank you.” You murmur, feeling more angry at yourself than at him, unsure of what else you should say in this situation, and wipe your cheeks on the back of you hand. He stretches out his arm and you curl into his side. If you close your eyes none of this has happened. It could be two years ago and everything in the world is fine.
For a long time you sit together, imagining the rest of the world away. You’re beginning to wonder if he’s still awake when a whispered voice answers your unspoken question. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” You’re not sure what he means, but you sense that there’s more coming. Shifting slightly you look up at him, willing him to continue. “Burying you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, this conversation has crossed the line into the totally bizarre. You say nothing, there’s a quiver in his voice that you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.
It’s so long until he speaks again that you don’t think he’s going to say any more. When he does it’s quiet and slow. “I was late.”
There is nothing you can say. Looking up at his face you see tears. He is crying for you, for losing you, for not doing more, for moving on with his life.
“I’m sorry.” He says. You could laugh at the absurdity of it, this man, Gibbs, apologising to you for being late to your fake funeral. But it wasn’t fake for them. For Gibbs, Tony, Abby, your friends, family. It was real. They buried you. And now they’ve moved on.
The thought paralyses you. Even if you go back, every you left behind has changed. Nothing can be the same again.
When you bury your face in his neck and whisper “I want to come home.” Gibbs holds you tight. You both know that you’re not just talking about returning to Washington. Home was two years ago. What’s left for you now is completely unknown.
And you’re scared.
Author: Purerose
Fandom: NCIS
Prompt: 003 Funeral
Character/Pairing: Kate/Gibbs
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1354
Summary: Things get angsty as Kate and Gibbs catch up.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: Characters aren't really mine, I'm just trying them on for size. This is set post-Twilight, AU and all that jazz.
[ Chapter 1] [ Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3]
The night seems never ending, convenient as you really want this moment to go on forever. Gibbs is so fascinated by his daughters that you don’t want to keep him from them any longer. Against your better judgement you decide not to try settling them to sleep and allow them an extended playtime in the living room. Rebel curls in a ball on the floor beside Gibbs. You know that he’s frustrated that the babies are getting more attention than him by the little ‘huff’ he makes as he lies down, but he’s soon fast asleep, occasionally making yipping noises as he chases imaginary cats.
Your daughters soon reveal themselves as polar opposites. Elizabeth is shy of this stranger, she clutches at your neck and snuffles, but Bridget loves her father. She doesn’t want you to pick her up or hold her, she wants Gibbs.
He watches her in awe. “How long has she been doing that?”
You turn and see her stacking building blocks, deep in concentration as she tries, and fails, to place the fourth securely atop the third. Ordinarily such a question would probably be met with nonchalance, she has been doing it for over a month now. But Gibbs doesn’t know. He’s never seen her before today, his daughters are amazing and he knows it.
When Elizabeth begins to fuss once again he holds her while you administer the next dose of Tylenol. Later she falls asleep in his arms having overcome her earlier shyness. Bridget sits between you, babbling away. Over and over again she points to Gibbs and says something which sounds alarmingly like ‘Larry’.
“Larry’s really the only guy she ever sees.” You explain to a confused Gibbs. “As far as she’s concerned, all men are ‘Larries’.”
When the girls have fallen asleep and have been returned to their cribs upstairs it is time to catch up. You are dying for information from back home but Gibbs is more concerned with learning about you. Whenever you ask a question about work or his life it is carefully deflected, you don’t care, it’s good just having him there with you.
You give him the obligatory tour of the house; Gibbs spends an age studying the photos on the walls; the girls as newborns, you with a pair of tiny bundles in your arms, a child in a car seat with dark hair, two little girls sitting in high chairs covered in something orange (‘puréed carrot’ you explain with a shrug).
He lingers for a long time at one pinned up in the kitchen, next to the shopping list on your corkboard; a snapshot taken at the work Christmas party the first year you were living here. In it you are about ready to pop, your belly large and round, hair long and loose, the light shines off the tiny beads on your cardigan. You were chatting to some friends when it was taken, laughing at a joke, your smile is wide and natural. One hand is raised to brush the hair back from your face, the other cups your abdomen. Gibbs studies the photo for several minutes, seemingly unaware that you are watching him before he snaps back to reality and you move back to the living room.
When you take a seat on the couch your heart jumps when he sits just a little closer than before.
Conversation picks up again. Gibbs scoots around the history of the photo he had studied in order to cover your new line of work - a job you acquired by accident at the local library. It is through talking to him that you realise how much time has changed you; things that never would have interested you two years ago are suddenly given top priority, whether Gibbs is truly interested in the link-up scheme you’ve organised between the library and the local elementary school you’re not sure, but he listens as though he is all the same.
The clock on the DVD player tells you that it’s late, very late, and the coffee is running low when Gibbs finally begins to talk about life back in Washington. Experience tells you that there’s something that he clearly doesn’t want to bring up, afterall, a lifetime ago it was your job to know when someone was being evasive. He talks about your replacement, a woman, you’re pleased to hear, who seems to be able to give Tony a run for his money. Then he falls silent. You ask about his boat. He speaks again for a little while, but seems to be coming dangerously close to whatever it is that he’s avoiding and falls silent once more.
At last you feel frustration bubbling inside you. You’re fed up of being in the dark, hidden. “Just tell me. Please.”
Despite your physical proximity, when he looks up at you you’re suddenly aware of the distance between you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, like he’s being torn in two and you know, within needing to hear him say it. You know that there’s a woman, back there in Washington, that some other woman has what you once had.
“You were dead.” He begins. “It took me so long to get over that. I couldn’t forget you, but I…” He trails off but you know what he means. “I’m sorry.”
You want to ask if he loves her but you’re scared of the answer and the other questions it might prompt; ‘do you love me?’ or ‘did you ever love me?’ fly around your mind. The possible answers to these questions scare you more than learning his feelings for another woman. Like Bridget’s building blocks everything seems to have collapsed.
His hand on yours makes you look up. Your cheeks are damp but you don’t care. “If I’d know… We’ve got the girls. We’re going to work something out” He says. You want to rage at him that it’s not enough, but that’s unfair, he cares about your children and you believe him when he says that you’ll work something out.
“Thank you.” You murmur, feeling more angry at yourself than at him, unsure of what else you should say in this situation, and wipe your cheeks on the back of you hand. He stretches out his arm and you curl into his side. If you close your eyes none of this has happened. It could be two years ago and everything in the world is fine.
For a long time you sit together, imagining the rest of the world away. You’re beginning to wonder if he’s still awake when a whispered voice answers your unspoken question. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” You’re not sure what he means, but you sense that there’s more coming. Shifting slightly you look up at him, willing him to continue. “Burying you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, this conversation has crossed the line into the totally bizarre. You say nothing, there’s a quiver in his voice that you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.
It’s so long until he speaks again that you don’t think he’s going to say any more. When he does it’s quiet and slow. “I was late.”
There is nothing you can say. Looking up at his face you see tears. He is crying for you, for losing you, for not doing more, for moving on with his life.
“I’m sorry.” He says. You could laugh at the absurdity of it, this man, Gibbs, apologising to you for being late to your fake funeral. But it wasn’t fake for them. For Gibbs, Tony, Abby, your friends, family. It was real. They buried you. And now they’ve moved on.
The thought paralyses you. Even if you go back, every you left behind has changed. Nothing can be the same again.
When you bury your face in his neck and whisper “I want to come home.” Gibbs holds you tight. You both know that you’re not just talking about returning to Washington. Home was two years ago. What’s left for you now is completely unknown.
And you’re scared.