A/N: I just like writing about the wonderful 'ole Gibbs Family. I really do.
Let the record show that this is not our tragic final farewell. This right here, my dears, is '83ish, while our beautiful Mamma Gibbs a la primavera has been knocked up by her Marine counterpart, yet before the birth of Kelly. The first, of course, meaning Gibbs' first wedded wife, not the mother of his first child. Because that was a one and done kind of deal. The children not the wives. But I desist.
It is not "Oh, look, she died pregnant!" Nuh-uh. Our fetus is the deceased, Kelly Gibbs. None other.
I'm thinking about making this a two-shot, adding a Hello Kisses chapter or something like that.
Unfortunately, I don't own it. Not even a little bit.
Also, reviews are like Gibb slaps- they make the world go round!
/\
He can still feel it, see it, smell it. All of it. Weeks in combat, and he can still feel everything.
On the back of his neck, where he felt the pressure of Shannon winding the ball chain of his dog tags around her hand to pull him in for the thousandth goodbye kiss of the day.
The spot on his scalp, where she's licked the tips of her fingers and smoothed down a hair she thought was out of line.
The upward curve of her lips- the left more so than the right, per usual- when he recites his promise to return in one piece.
Under his coat, which she'd run her hands over a dozen times, insisting it was wrinkled and that he should have let her iron it the night before. He argued that he was going overseas- not to a dinner party.
The truck, waiting in the background, like the tragic end to a book you've already read.
Around his ankles, where the laces of his boots have been pulled tight, the knots perfect bows and knotted again so they didn't come undone. She must have tied them both ten times over until she got them just right. Meanwhile, he'd told her just as many times that he would tie his own boots.
The smell of the roses she's planted, lining the driveway. he talked her into white, not red. Red wouldn't have gone with the grey brick of the house. Plus, she's carried white roses at their wedding.
The pads of his thumbs, where he'd wiped tears from the corners of her eyes, begging her not to cry while blinking back a few stray tears himself. It doesn't work, though. She always cries. Not a lot; she doesn't make a big deal out of it. She never sobs loudly- except for the first time. But that's okay, because he cried the first time too. She doesn't even want to cry. She wants not to cry. But a couple tears always streak down her face despite herself.
Under his wedding ring, which she'd stolen from him the night before to scrub until it gleamed in pitch darkness. Even after it was spotless, she'd turned it over and over again in her hands until she could still see it when she closed her eyes.
The light tickle on his fingers and palms of her long hair when he took her petite, pretty little head in his calloused hands to offer her yet another kiss goodbye.
On the hem of his jacket, which she'd run through her fingers as he turned and walked away to open the door to the truck.
The lavender smell of her perfume, coming off in waves. When her clothes shifted or her hair rustled, he'd get a whiff.
The flat of his palm against the tiny bulge of her stomach when he retreated from the truck for just one more goodbye kiss. The baby got one too this time.
The metallic sound and scrape of the rearview mirror as he adjusted it to watch her all the way down the street. Her reflection, waving her arms in large, sweeping motions, another goodbye.
The wind on his forearm when he extends it out the window to catch the very last of the goodbye kisses this time around.
Or maybe those are just vivid memories- highlighted by the note he holds, a scrap of paper tucked away in his bag. He reads it in the early morning light- Keep safe, Jethro, I ain't raising this kid on my own. Love you, Shannon.