Returning (Chapter 11)
Title: Returning (Chapter 11)
Author: Purerose
Fandom: NCIS
Prompt: 019 Lost
Character/Pairing: Kate/Gibbs
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1116
Summary: Gibbs is late home.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: Still don't own NCIS... maybe for Christmas... Also, thanks for all the comments, I really love coming on here first thing in the morning and seeing what you guys have said about each chapter. You're all too nice :D We're approaching the halfway mark now!
[ Chapter 1] [ Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3] [ Chapter 4] [ Chapter 5] [ Chapter 6] [ Chapter 7] [ Chapter 8] [ Chapter 9] [ Chapter 10]
You should have known it was all too good to last.
Gibbs returning from work late in the night isn’t unusual. Some nights you even keep the girls up a little later to let him say goodnight. Sometimes he phones. Sometimes he doesn’t. On those nights you remember what it’s like to be on a case, the thrill and trepidation of taking down the bad guys, helping the victims, solving the crime.
This night is different. You’ve had a bad day. From the moment you woke up you’ve felt headachy and sore, you suspect that you are coming down with a cold. The girls have been tetchy, they don’t appreciate being cooped up in the house all day, so by early evening when Bridget begins to yawn and Elizabeth plants her thumb firmly in her mouth you are glad to be able to put them to bed.
Rebel has always been able to tell when you’re feeling under the weather and today is no different. His usual method to make you feel better is to curl up beside you and breathe doggy breath into your face. While it does little to make you feel better, it does show that he cares. But today you feel irritable. You don’t want a great lump of a dog trying to curl up in your lap. He seems to have been under your feet all day, so when you almost fall over him the the hundredth time after putting the girls to bed you snap and tell him off.
Then you feel guilty. You head into the lounge and Rebel follows you, head and tail down, looking absolutely pitiful. You intend to sit and read but by the time you’ve sunk onto the couch your head is throbbing so badly that you can’t focus on the page. In the end you let the book drop to the floor, close your eyes and say nothing when a soft thump at the other end of the couch tells you that Rebel is on the furniture. You don’t have the energy to make him get down.
You aren’t awake, but you aren’t asleep either. The room gets darker and something begins to gnaw at your insides, it’s late and you’ve heard nothing from Gibbs yet. Just as your consciousness makes a bid to escape you completely Rebel nuzzles your hand with his cold, wet nose. It makes you jump and suddenly you’re wide awake. Your unexpected movement startles Rebel and he hops down from his place beside. He was leaning on your leg and without his warmth you feel cold. Once he’s sure that you aren’t going to tell him off again he fixes you with a hard stare, you haven’t fed him yet and his eyes tell you that he is deeply upset by your apparent display of neglect.
Getting to your feet you find that the headache has eased a little. Rebel does an excited little dance at the prospect of finally getting food. Taking two steps past him you notice the clock on the wall. It’s after eleven. Your mind does the time switch automatically: twenty-three hundred hours. You tell yourself that he’s often back well after this, although a little voice at the back of your head reminds you that he seems to leave work earlier these days. For a moment you consider the possibility of a mid-week stay at her house, but he usually phones beforehand if only to say goodnight to the girls.
As you spoon forkfulls of meaty chunks into Rebel’s bowl you try to push away the annoying feelings of anger and jealousy. You feel like a petulant school child, on the verge of temper trantrum because someone has something that you don’t. All the same, with a sinkling sensation in your stomach, you can’t help but wonder if something is wrong. An odd thought hits you as you place Rebel’s bowl on the floor; maybe this is what Gibbs means when he talks about his ‘gut’. You’ve been spending too much time around the man. The thought makes you smile.
Once Rebel is satisfied that you still love him you decide that you’re actually quite tired. Your headache has eased a little and you would like nothing more than to sink into your warm bed down the hall. But you’re curious about the case that is keeping Gibbs so late. Telling yourself that he’ll probably be back shortly you decide to take a shower, if only to relieve the dull ache above your left eye.
The shower is hot and the room soon fills with steam. You strip off and let all your clothes fall in a jumble on the floor, normally you would fold them, but not today. The warm water runs over your head, down your neck, back and legs. Despite the warmth little goose bumps spring up on your arms. You are beginning to suspect that you are coming down with a cold and that staying up so late has not been a good idea. Your eyelids feel heavy and you decide that you should probably turn in.
Wrapped in a towel, you look in on the girls. At one end of their shared crib Elizabeth is flat on her back, thumb in mouth. At the other end Bridget lies on her front, backside in the air, blanket kicked away. You can’t help but smile; your girls couldn’t be more different. Straightening the blanket over the fidgeter, you try to remember how Gibbs sleeps and find that you can’t, although you do know that his bed is always smartly made.
Your own bed, down the hall, is not made. That morning Rebel needed to go out, the babies were hungry, you broke a glass, it seemed like one disaster after another. Now you pull on some loose shorts and a baggy t-shirt and fall into bed, not even bothering to towel-dry your hair.
When you wake your automatic assumption is that one of the girls must be calling for you, a distant noise has woken you. It takes a moment but your brain tunes into the sound. In the living room a phone is ringing. The clock on your nightstand says ‘02:13’. Phone calls this early in the morning are never good news. The goose bumps on your arms spring up again and your heart starts to pound. You don’t even bother to turn on the lights and half-sprint into the lounge. Once there you grab for the phone, not even bothering to check the display and raise it to your ear.
Before you can even say “Hello?” Tony speaks. “Kate.” He says, an odd urgency in his voice. “It’s Gibbs.”
Author: Purerose
Fandom: NCIS
Prompt: 019 Lost
Character/Pairing: Kate/Gibbs
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1116
Summary: Gibbs is late home.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: Still don't own NCIS... maybe for Christmas... Also, thanks for all the comments, I really love coming on here first thing in the morning and seeing what you guys have said about each chapter. You're all too nice :D We're approaching the halfway mark now!
[ Chapter 1] [ Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3] [ Chapter 4] [ Chapter 5] [ Chapter 6] [ Chapter 7] [ Chapter 8] [ Chapter 9] [ Chapter 10]
You should have known it was all too good to last.
Gibbs returning from work late in the night isn’t unusual. Some nights you even keep the girls up a little later to let him say goodnight. Sometimes he phones. Sometimes he doesn’t. On those nights you remember what it’s like to be on a case, the thrill and trepidation of taking down the bad guys, helping the victims, solving the crime.
This night is different. You’ve had a bad day. From the moment you woke up you’ve felt headachy and sore, you suspect that you are coming down with a cold. The girls have been tetchy, they don’t appreciate being cooped up in the house all day, so by early evening when Bridget begins to yawn and Elizabeth plants her thumb firmly in her mouth you are glad to be able to put them to bed.
Rebel has always been able to tell when you’re feeling under the weather and today is no different. His usual method to make you feel better is to curl up beside you and breathe doggy breath into your face. While it does little to make you feel better, it does show that he cares. But today you feel irritable. You don’t want a great lump of a dog trying to curl up in your lap. He seems to have been under your feet all day, so when you almost fall over him the the hundredth time after putting the girls to bed you snap and tell him off.
Then you feel guilty. You head into the lounge and Rebel follows you, head and tail down, looking absolutely pitiful. You intend to sit and read but by the time you’ve sunk onto the couch your head is throbbing so badly that you can’t focus on the page. In the end you let the book drop to the floor, close your eyes and say nothing when a soft thump at the other end of the couch tells you that Rebel is on the furniture. You don’t have the energy to make him get down.
You aren’t awake, but you aren’t asleep either. The room gets darker and something begins to gnaw at your insides, it’s late and you’ve heard nothing from Gibbs yet. Just as your consciousness makes a bid to escape you completely Rebel nuzzles your hand with his cold, wet nose. It makes you jump and suddenly you’re wide awake. Your unexpected movement startles Rebel and he hops down from his place beside. He was leaning on your leg and without his warmth you feel cold. Once he’s sure that you aren’t going to tell him off again he fixes you with a hard stare, you haven’t fed him yet and his eyes tell you that he is deeply upset by your apparent display of neglect.
Getting to your feet you find that the headache has eased a little. Rebel does an excited little dance at the prospect of finally getting food. Taking two steps past him you notice the clock on the wall. It’s after eleven. Your mind does the time switch automatically: twenty-three hundred hours. You tell yourself that he’s often back well after this, although a little voice at the back of your head reminds you that he seems to leave work earlier these days. For a moment you consider the possibility of a mid-week stay at her house, but he usually phones beforehand if only to say goodnight to the girls.
As you spoon forkfulls of meaty chunks into Rebel’s bowl you try to push away the annoying feelings of anger and jealousy. You feel like a petulant school child, on the verge of temper trantrum because someone has something that you don’t. All the same, with a sinkling sensation in your stomach, you can’t help but wonder if something is wrong. An odd thought hits you as you place Rebel’s bowl on the floor; maybe this is what Gibbs means when he talks about his ‘gut’. You’ve been spending too much time around the man. The thought makes you smile.
Once Rebel is satisfied that you still love him you decide that you’re actually quite tired. Your headache has eased a little and you would like nothing more than to sink into your warm bed down the hall. But you’re curious about the case that is keeping Gibbs so late. Telling yourself that he’ll probably be back shortly you decide to take a shower, if only to relieve the dull ache above your left eye.
The shower is hot and the room soon fills with steam. You strip off and let all your clothes fall in a jumble on the floor, normally you would fold them, but not today. The warm water runs over your head, down your neck, back and legs. Despite the warmth little goose bumps spring up on your arms. You are beginning to suspect that you are coming down with a cold and that staying up so late has not been a good idea. Your eyelids feel heavy and you decide that you should probably turn in.
Wrapped in a towel, you look in on the girls. At one end of their shared crib Elizabeth is flat on her back, thumb in mouth. At the other end Bridget lies on her front, backside in the air, blanket kicked away. You can’t help but smile; your girls couldn’t be more different. Straightening the blanket over the fidgeter, you try to remember how Gibbs sleeps and find that you can’t, although you do know that his bed is always smartly made.
Your own bed, down the hall, is not made. That morning Rebel needed to go out, the babies were hungry, you broke a glass, it seemed like one disaster after another. Now you pull on some loose shorts and a baggy t-shirt and fall into bed, not even bothering to towel-dry your hair.
When you wake your automatic assumption is that one of the girls must be calling for you, a distant noise has woken you. It takes a moment but your brain tunes into the sound. In the living room a phone is ringing. The clock on your nightstand says ‘02:13’. Phone calls this early in the morning are never good news. The goose bumps on your arms spring up again and your heart starts to pound. You don’t even bother to turn on the lights and half-sprint into the lounge. Once there you grab for the phone, not even bothering to check the display and raise it to your ear.
Before you can even say “Hello?” Tony speaks. “Kate.” He says, an odd urgency in his voice. “It’s Gibbs.”