Title: "A Bit Unwell"
Rating: FR7
Genre: Alternate Universe, family, friendship
Pairings: some Tabby, but only suggested
Summary: Gibbs is not feeling too well, but his three year-old son has a solution. Featuring teen!Abby and kid!Timmy.
Note: First in Gibblets 'Verse, preceding "Versus"! Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Anything publicly recognizable is not mine. The idea for kid!Tim is inspired by keydazy's "Attaboys" (recommended read, since it's so adorable! ).
Gibbs shut his eyes tighter as his head swam in pain. Every nerve throbbed. His eyes felt like they were burning. His palms automatically lifted up towards his orbs, covering them. They were cool, a bit soothing.
For a while, he sat still on the bed. Why, of all days, did he have to get sick now? He promised his family that they would go to Six Flags that weekend. He sniffled. If only these aches didn't persist from days ago, if only it started today, he would still have brought them to the amusement park.
But of course, that wasn't what happened.
After bouts of constant sneezing, the uneventful migraines, and that sniffle, his wife insisted that he stay at home. He would have argued, but he didn't want to get nagged at for disagreeing and then suffer the consequences of severe headache later on.
His daughter, the "almost seventeen, Dad" year-old Abby, was sympathetic and promised to help take care of him. His son, however, was a different story. He watched as the three year-old Timmy's lips protruded to the longest length possible when his mother told him the news. His heart ached as the child stood in front of his mother, his head bowed down, not saying a word, tears falling from his eyes.
"Timmy. Look at me," she said, gently lifting her son's chin up with her fingers. "Do you understand why we can't go this weekend? We have to stay home. Daddy's sick."
"Yes," came a whimper from the little boy. Then, he walked to his room. Within moments, they heard the boy's mournful voice as he weakly sang along with Spongebob Squarepants' theme song.
Gibbs chuckled, removing his hands away from his eyes. He knew that it shouldn't be funny, but he couldn't help it. Timothy was still too young to understand, and he knew that. After all, he have experienced it with Abby some years ago.
The slivers of light that glumly passed through the thin, sky-colored blinds only magnified his migraine when he slowly opened his eyes. It was dim outside, since it was raining, but the effect of its brightness nonetheless equaled a sunny day's.
With a grunt, he pushed down on the mattress then slid up to where he could lay. It made him wince a little as he felt the soft pillow hug his head. A sleep. That was what he needed. He had to be better soon, or else he wouldn't even have a chance to spend time with his family before his deployment.
He was softly floating upwards into a world of slumber, when a soft knock pried his eyes open.
"Dad? It's time for lunch. And, well, you need to take your medicine, too," Abby quietly called from behind the door.
Gibbs arose, careful not to move too sudden; it would just make his head spin again. "Come in, Abs," he replied, sitting up.
The gold doorknob turned, and soon Abby—bearing a tray that held a bowl of steaming chicken soup, a cup of lemon tea, and the box of cold medicine—came in. Behind her, grasping the hem of her black skirt tightly, was Timmy. He was clad in a white coat, on top of his Iron Man pajamas, with a multi-colored stethoscope around his neck.
And on the little boy's tow was the family's puppy, a German Shepherd Abby and Timmy named Jet.
"There you go," Abby grinned, placing the carrier down on the nightstand. She glanced at every thing on it, making sure they were the way she prepared it. "I think that's just about it. You have food and drink and medicine. You're good!"
Gibbs winced. "Abby. Indoor voices," he said, his head beating once again.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Abby bit her lip. She stepped back as her father began eating. Hesitating to ask something, she fiddled with the frill of her skirt. "Um, Dad? Remember when I told you about this guy that I liked? You know, that quarterback with the red jacket? Tony DiNozzo?"
"Yeah," Gibbs said. He continued to eat, but he listened intently.
"Well, it turns out that he likes me, too, and he asked if, um, you know. . . He asked if we can at least—and this is important—somehow. . ."
"Abby."
"Can I go on a date with him?" Abby blurted out, desperately seeking an approval from her father. "Please? He asked if we can go today, and I've done my homework and my chores. Please, Dad?"
"I thought you said he was a jerk made of hot air and ridiculous fantasies?" he raised his eyebrows.
"That was middle school, Dad!" Abby protested. "He's changed. He's nicer now."
"That's because he wants something from you."
"What's-ee want, Dadee?" Timmy asked Gibbs, his green orbs big and inquisitive.
Gibbs and Abby exchanged glances. "Whatever he wants, buddy, he's not going to get it," Gibbs replied.
"Dad, please. I'm begging you here," Abby whined. "Tony just wants to take me to that ice cream place—"
"I want ice cream," Timmy looked up at her. Jet the puppy gave an ecstatic bark in agreement.
"We're just going to watch a movie. We'll even be back before nine, and I'll tell him to come in so you can do your. . . father thing," Abby pleaded, ignoring her little brother's remark.
Gibbs surveyed the expression on Abby's face. He thought about it, but concluded that thinking was a bad idea; the pain inside his skull just increased. "Okay. Go. Be safe," he nodded briefly towards the door. "Before nine, okay?"
"Ooh, thanks, Dad!" Abby jumped, and then kissed Gibbs' forehead before gliding out of the door. "Get well!"
"Abby, wait."
"Yeah?"
"You remember when you had that career day at school a few years back and I went?"
"Yeah?"
"Was that Tony guy in your classroom that time?"
"I think so."
Gibbs smirked. "So he still remembers that I'm a sniper, right?"
Abby rolled her eyes, though grinning. "I won't scare him, Dad."
"Go on, Abigail," Gibbs admonished, dismissing his daughter.
They heard the doors of her room creak open, and then shut close. "Hello? Tony?" came her muffled voice not long after. "Yeah. We're on at six tonight."
Gibbs leaned back on the headboard, his pillows in between. He shook his head, stared momentarily at the opposite wall, and then remembered that his son was still standing inside the room with him, together with Jet.
"Hey, Timmy," Gibbs swiveled his head towards him, smiling at his son.
"I'm not Timmy, Dadee," the young boy responded, drawing near to Gibbs.
"Oh, yeah? Who are you?"
"I'ma doctor," he answered, beaming proudly. "I'ma Doctor Tim-my Gibbs."
A grin immediately spread across Gibbs' face. "Oh," he said, acting surprised. "I apologize Doctor Timothy Gibbs. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"
Timmy frowned. "What's-a horror, Dadee?" he asked.
"Honor, Timmy. Not horror," he chuckled.
The young child was silent for a while as he thought, but then soon gave up. "I'ma here for check up," he said. He stepped nearer to the bed, and then began to pull himself up to it.
"Whoa, buddy. No," Gibbs firmly said, the expression on his face grave. "You can't go near me. I'm sick."
"But Dadee. . ." Timmy whined.
"No, Timothy. I said no," Gibbs said.
"But I wanna help," he whined louder, imposing his point by bouncing up and down at the heels of his feet.
"Don't make me say it again, Timothy Gibbs."
The too-familiar pout formed on Timmy's mouth. His little arms crossed with his head bowed down. He was as indignant as any three year-old could get.
"I'ma sick, too," he muttered. "Tha's what momee said."
"You have a cold, too?"
"Yeah," he answered. "Momee said I c'n do check-up."
Gibbs glared at the three year-old, discerning his sincerity. "Timothy, you know I don't like liars."
"But I'ma not lying," Timmy responded, lifting his head up.
Gibbs sighed. His head was still hurting, and he doubted he could enforce any strong order to his son. However, it was still important that he didn't pass anything to the little boy. He would only cry and cry at nights, and it would make him feel worse and guilty. He already feels bad every time he had to leave for his duty, to whatever country he was going to be sent to, because of his children.
Abby would be quiet, but he knew that she cried. Timmy would create every excuse for him to stay. He would then throw a temper tantrum whenever he sees his father with his bags, walking out the door, and the latter would hear his heart-breaking wails from a block away as he drives to the camp.
Timmy stared at his Dad then, he sniffled. Gibbs knew that it wasn't faked.
"Okay," Gibbs said. "You can do your check-up."
Timmy grinned, and then scurried over to the bed. Gibbs helped him up before lying down. Timmy sat on the left side, giddy with excitement. He immediately took hold of the chest piece of his stethoscope, and then he laid it atop his father's rib cage. He had a pensive look on his face as he listened to a faint heartbeat. Jet the puppy sat wagging his tail at the foot of the bed, watching his master play the doctor.
"You've been watching your mother's hospital drama shows, haven't you?" Gibbs asked.
Timmy hushed him. "I'ma counting the lub-dub, Dadee," he said. Afterwards, he removed it.
"How'd I do? How many lub-dubs were there?"
"Three," Timmy answered, holding up four small fingers.
"Wow. So I'm basically dead, huh?" Gibbs commented. He watched as Timmy slid his right hand inside his small white coat's pocket. He drew out a yellow plastic thermometer. "And you're—"
Timmy cut short his father's thought as he placed the thermometer in his mouth. He took it out, and then knitted his eyebrows as he "read" it.
"What'd it say?"
"I don' know," Timmy replied. "But you have-a same temper'ture as Jet."
Gibbs almost gagged at the thought that the thermometer had previously been inside the puppy's mouth. The soup that he had eaten attempted to make its way back up, but he managed to hold it down. Next time, he noted, he would have to ask his son to clean his toys if he wanted his Dadee to play with him.
Timmy placed the thermometer and the stethoscope inside the coat. Then, he lied next to his father. He turned to his side, buried his face in Gibbs' chest, and hugged him.
Gibbs sensed a smile slowly stretching across his own face, and warmth covering his heart. "What's wrong, buddy?" he asked his son.
"Don' go anymore," Timmy replied. Gibbs could tell in his voice that he was sad. "Stay with us, Dadee."
The warmth inside his chest transformed into a caustic fire, eating everything in him including his soul. He had been taught how to respond to life-threatening situations, how to answer dire questions, and yet he couldn't come up with the right words to tell his son. He doubt that he'd ever be able to. Or, at least, not yet.
"I'll always be with you, buddy. Even if I'm not here, I'll be with you. Always," he assured Timmy, who held tight to him. Those words taste like bitter lies as they left his mouth, but that was the best he could do for the moment.
Gibbs thought that the little boy had gone to sleep, since he was silent and immobile. Then, softly, Timmy spoke again. "I love you, Dadee."
Gibbs nodded, and then held his son tight. "I love you, too, buddy," he said, then kissed his son.
He realized that his headache have diminished into nothing now. Still, exhaustion inhabited his body. It made him close his eyes, breathe gently, and fall asleep. Maybe one day he would be able to explain to Timmy why they couldn't always be together. He knew his son was smart and thoughtful, and hopefully he'll understand.
Right now, Gibbs thought that he would just savor that moment of feeling a bit better and being with his son.
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