a/n: literally this occurred to me as i was falling asleep, and i'm so going to regret getting up to write it since i have to be at work in 7 hours.
~drabble on Gibbs' third marriage, from Stephanie's point of view. she's always seemed the more sensitive one, to me.
Moscow
Stephanie/Gibbs
"It's hard to live in Moscow. With anyone."
[Jenny Shepard; Ex-File]
She hated Russia.
It was cold; it was harsh. It was unforgiving; it was bitter. She was out of her element; she was unable to speak the language. She felt ostracized; she felt alone. Her husband was the sole person she knew in this massive ice land that had once been an iron-fisted world power, and her husband wasn't good at being a husband. She had married him too quickly, and he had been transferred to Moscow on the heels of their honeymoon, and she'd still been reeling from the romance and the gut-wrenching discovery of the tragedy in his past.
She stood in the bedroom of their cozy apartment—it was small, but she had decorated it well, and made it home; her only complaint was that it was never warm enough.
She stare at a solitary Russian nesting doll, an unsolicited gift he had placed on the bedside table early this morning, before he left for work. He must have seen her admiring them in the market—but this one wasn't one of those that she'd gazed upon time and time again; this one he'd carved himself.
She heard a crash in the kitchen and winced, her heart aching for him. The hand-carved, painted wooden doll was late—her birthday had been last week—and though she loved it, and she smiled through stinging eyes as she gingerly opened the nesting doll, and neatly lined up the ones inside, it was brutal that she received it today.
The only thing that had been warmer in Russia was him—and in the past week, right after he'd forgotten his living wife's birthday, his mood had deteriorated, and he'd been like he was the couple of weeks before they moved. She'd had a hunch, and she'd dug his late wife's torn and beaten military ID out of his wallet, where he kept it so desperately next to Kelly's—to find that Shannon's birthday was precisely a week after hers. And so when she found the nesting dolls on the bedside table, intended for her, on Shannon's birthday, she knew the other woman had reminded him he'd forgotten his living wife, and this was his attempt at an apology—and it hurt, because it had nothing to do with her.
She heard another crash, and she went into the kitchen, navigating the dark apartment on instinct. She saw him sitting on the floor, leaning against the dishwater—there was no basement here; he had no escape.
"Steph," he croaked, shifting as she approached. "Broken glass," he warned.
She was barefoot, and she turned on the hall light, eyeing the scene and stepping gracefully around the hazardous mess. She slid down next to him on the floor. She could smell the whiskey on him, an as her eyes adjusted to the fluorescents, she took in his disheveled appearance: his wrinkled shirt, five o'clock shadow, and the red rawness of his eyes—but his face was dry.
That was Gibbs; his face and eyes were always dry, but those eyes just got redder and redder, the irises bluer with pain.
She ran her hand over his arm, and took the bottle from him. She looked at it, took a deep breath, and took a sip herself. She nearly choked on the taste, but swallowed it down, pushed it away, and looked at him.
"You've been a better husband here," she said softly. "Where nothing reminds you of her."
His chest heaved. He laughed in a short, hollow, brutal way.
"Everything reminds me of her," he growled hoarsely.
His head fell back against the cabinets hard, and he closed his eyes, his jaw set.
She didn't think it had been like this with the other two wives. There was something about her, she sensed, that made him more prone to break down—or maybe he was just so tired of pretending he'd gotten through it, that it was all too much for him.
She licked her lips.
"I know, honey," she soothed softly.
She slipped her hand over his jaw, and then behind his head, tightening her fingers in his hair and gently pulling his head to her lap. He put his hand on her knee, and held so tightly she thought he'd break her. She stroked his silver hair, and tilted her head back, licking her lips, thinking about those beautiful Russian nesting dolls.
She'd have those, at least, when they got back to the States, and this marriage ended.
"Shannon," he mumbled against her legs.
She stroked his hair still.
She hated Russia.
It was so cold in Russia.
:(
-alexandra
story #181