it goes like this. (ncis)
kate; fairytales; father
Let me tell you a story, honey
no copyright infringement intended.
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you can still come to me if you still need it
but not in confidence, and not in secret
catie curtis, ropeswings & avalanches
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Let me tell you a story, honey, it goes like this.
Daddy, I know this one.
No, no, you don't. You couldn't possibly, baby girl. Let me tell you what I heard. A story will stay with you, better than a picture; let me tell you, go on now girl, let me speak.
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Kate's father was a great believer in fairytales. Her brothers didn't have the patience to listen; her sister didn't have faith. But every Sunday after Church, her daddy would tell her a story, and she'd sit with him, encased in his lap, quiet and content to hear his voice, no matter that the words were backwards, or the tales a little twisted. Oh Daddy, that's not how it goes—
How do you know, how do you know?
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O Caitlin, o little one, my baby girl, my clear night sky. Let me tell you a story, let me tell you what I know. You can huff and puff, and huff and puff, but this redbrick stands tall. Let this be your fortress, let no things harm you here, o princess, o darlin'.
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She doesn't believe in fairytales, not anymore, not in the way that she used to. Her house is not a fortress but an apartment block that's kept to order, if only because she's rarely there. There are no fairies, just lights twinkling outside her window, the city blinking in the night. There are no dragons, no ogres; there are no princes. There are only people, real people, and real heroes. People she can believe in.
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Little Red Riding Hood's not so good, but the hunter, now there's someone new. No princes, no paupers, no fixers for you, just a man, flawed, but true.
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Sometimes when she looks at Gibbs she remembers her father; remembers rosary beads wrapped around his gentle hands, and that crease in his forehead from frowning so much, from laughing too loud. It was her father who taught her to draw. Kate was never too good at painting, but sketching she had a knack for, and her father, his hands covered in chalk or ink, would sit with her, hold her hand in his, and direct her across the page. Can't have the eyes too close together, he'd say, then you know he's up to no good.
Sometimes Gibbs catches her watching and he frowns. Mostly she looks away. Sometimes she laughs.
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Her father died on a cold Spring morning. That night, sleeping in her childhood bedroom, her sister's children curled up beside her, Kate dreamt of him, his laughing smile and his booming voice. At the service a week later, her vision distorted, and she saw faces and bodies as sketches in her hand.
When she returned to Washington, she sat down at her desk with a new sketch pad and her fathers art tools - some chalk, charcoal, oil sticks - and drew what she remembered. By morning, her father's face filled half the book, and her chest felt tight. She put the pad in the drawer, and didn't look at it again for years.
end.