Umm...so...yeah...this is going to be totally reposted as only a Jibbs series of one-shot-ish things; but all in chronological order. Eventually, we'll get to Paris, then on to Kill Ari Part One, then to Internal Affairs, Dog Tags, Judgement Day. Just based around the lies these two have told. My original idea was kind of a fail. So, anyway, here it is! I have no Beta, but please review! :)
I don't own NCIS.
Falling leaves cluster on the gray pavement like clouds in a blue sky, in a sort of twisted way. The smell of autumn and its musk had permeated her nostrils with every deep breath she took. Her lungs had burned with the exhilaration she felt, her small form being thrust into the air like it was.
With every swing she defied gravity, and the steady hand of her father guided her into independence. Back. Forth. He allowed her to do it by herself after a little while, green eyes soft and nostalgic.
It's her first memory. Clean and crisp like the air. As an adult, she clung to the resemblance of childhood. To the absolute of it.
The memory is bittersweet, because it's likely her only memory of that time of innocence in that sort of way. She was nine years old, then.
This is Jenny's only memory, before her mother died.
"Leroy, you have to stop bawling like a damn baby."
Harsh words rolled off a sharp tongue. The boy could smell the alcohol and aftershave that clung to his father, and his nose crinkled at it.
Firm hands gripped small shoulders; clenching, harming. The boy let out a wince.
He tried not to cry, he really did. Because, in his mind, men did not cry, and he certainly wanted to be a man. He knew it would please his father.
Today was the day he knew it mattered the most, because now his father would not be able to think straight. This day marked the death of his mother.
The eleven year old grounded his teeth, pained, and still tried so hard to stop the pathetic whimpering that threatened to escape him every time he faced the reality of his father's abusive actions and the emptiness of his mother's death. He tried to shut himself off, to not feel.
Because that's what men did.
Sometimes, though, you don't have control over your actions. There isn't always a choice. Sometimes, you just have face the reality.
The man's fingers began to make dark red markings on the pale skin, and carbon copy eyes look up into his own.
He knew his father blamed him, because he was the one who'd wanted to go to the park that night. He was the one who had watched sweet Marie be stabbed to death while he'd cowered behind a park bench. Like a little boy.
"I'm sorry," the eleven year old whispered, eyes on the hard frown upon his father's face.
The man shakes the boy hard, and it takes the boy a moment to be able to see straight. He's then dizzy, gasping for air, and terribly dizzy, but he didn't falter. Just waited for an answer.
"Never say you're sorry, Leroy Jethro. Ever. You hear me, dammit?"
A breath of rancid alcohol and hot air flows across his face. He gags, and then quivers.
"Yes, sir."
The man suddenly stepped back from his son, eyes distant, a strange expression on his face.
He took a swig of the beer on the bar stool to the right and let out a heavy sigh.
He slurred his words, now.
"You're mother deserved what she got. She was a bitch, who thought she could leave me here all alone in this world." The father scoffed, then threw the glass bottle harshly against the left wall, damaging the plaster. Shattering things.
"Clean this up," he muttered, walking from the room.
A young Leroy Jethro Gibbs said nothing as he stared at the broken glass littering the concrete floor. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he vaguely remembered thinking that his father was a crook and a liar and he never wanted to be like him again.