Hello peeps, I haven't stopped writing Blurred Vision I was just really depressed by the lack of writings that were on this site about what I wanted to read. Well, I decided to right one for myself. Don't judge. BTW if you read my other story and this story I'm using two completely different writing styles. Which one do you like better? Anyway, review please? I already have most of the next part written so if you like this and want me to post just tell me. Okay, now onto the story.
Gibbs didn't know what to expect when his son came to live with him.
He knows that he has spent hours redecorating the guest room for what he thinks will be an acceptable room for a teenage boy.
He knows he finds himself worrying about the little things. What if he doesn't like the paint? What if the bed's not comfortable?
He knows that this feeling that's been sitting in the pit of his stomach ever since he got the call is anything but pleasant. He works with these people every day, the ones who grow up without a father. They do terrible things.
His son will not turn out like them. He won't.
Gibbs also knows that no matter how many times he tells himself that, he can't help but feel guilty.
This kid, his son, has been alive for 15 years and never knew he had a father. Better yet a decent father who actually cares about him and wants what's best for him. Gibbs knows that maybe the guilt is a little unreasonable too because he never knew he had a kid.
When his son arrives he doesn't even wait for the doorbell, Gibbs has been watching out the window for the past three hours. The smell of the roast turkey from the other room made his stomach grumble, but he wanted to share the dinner with Sam. It would be their first family dinner.
Gibbs would never say any of this out loud, of course. It makes him seem like a wimpy, chick-flick, type guy who does nothing but cry and eat. That's not who Gibbs is, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.
When Sam arrives, it's the exact opposite of what Gibbs thought it would be. This teenager with a baggy sweatshirt and jeans hanging just under his butt practically runs into the house and storms up the stairs. It's a little too late that he realizes the kid had muddy boots on. His white carpet did not appreciate it.
Gibbs guesses that this is his son.
Stepping out of his momentary shock, he bit his tongue to keep from yelling. If this Sam kid wants to give him the cold shoulder, than he shouldn't expect anything nice from Gibbs in return.
So that leaves Gibbs here, sitting at his kitchen counter wondering what to do with himself. To say the least this wasn't what he had expected. He was waiting for something to happen. It felt so weird to have another person somewhere in your house, and yet carry on like your still living alone. He hated it.
He was already having second thoughts, and Gibbs never second guesses himself. He thinks raising a kid really is easier said than done.
Gibbs is acutely aware that a stable environment is something completely new to this kid. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he was setting up booby traps in his room right now.
But, if there's one thing Gibbs knows about raising a kid, it's that they don't need pity. They need discipline, and rules, and boundaries. And love.
Once he got those things drilled into his son's brain than maybe he could work on fixing him.
Gibbs thinks that disciplining this kid was going to be easy, because he has no room in his heart to feel guilty. Gibbs convinces himself he has no heart at all.
He finds out later that not only does he have a heart, but he also has very prominent feelings. Feelings towards this boy who is currently thrashing around on his bed, arms and legs flailing wildly in the air. Sam's mumbling words, but their incoherent through the heavy breathing, and Gibbs can't really tell if his eyes are open or closed for the sheen of sweat and the darkness. He guesses closed.
Before he even register's what he's doing, Gibbs is grabbing a washcloth and running it under cold water. He strides toward the bed, a feeling in the pit of his stomach that is strangely familiar. Then he's laying the cold washcloth across his forehead and holding down Sam's arms and legs as best he could while still maintaining his composure. God, this kid is strong.
But Gibbs is stronger. He considers whispering soothing words to him, like he used to do with Kelly. But for some reason, he restrains himself. His heart wrenches as he starts to hear the actually words Sam is saying. Words like, 'stop' and 'dad' and 'it hurts'. He thinks that maybe he understands the kid a little bit more.
The next morning they both pretend like nothing happened. Well, really Gibbs pretends because Sam never awoke from his dream-state. To say their encounter's are awkward isn't even scraping the surface.
Not to mention the fact that Sam was awake before him. Gibbs is always awake at sunrise. He wonder's momentarily if it's a teenage thing, and then realizes how much he has to learn. What teenager wakes up early?
He throws on a t-shirt and some sweat pants and makes his way downstairs. A little bit curious, and a little bit suspicious at what the noise is. He makes his way to the kitchen first, thinking automatically with his stomach. But Sam isn't there. He keeps moving around, light on his toes out of habit, and locates the noises coming from the bathroom. He wonders if he should pretend like he doesn't hear anything, but decides against it. He knocks lightly on the door.
"Sam?" He questions quietly.
Now I'm changing to 1st person, Gibbs POV
All I hear in response is a loud clanking and then shuffling feet. I'm about to knock on the door again when it opens and Sam creeps out. He looks terrified for a moment, before regaining his composure and pretending to look me in the eye. He's staring at my eyebrow.
"Whatcha doing?" I implore, trying not to sound suspicious.
"Nothing." He answers quickly; harshly.
His hands are shaking, but he clasps them together behind his back. He's not fast enough, and I see blood.
"Do you want some breakfast?" I ask, trying to disguise my intuitive guess. I know I'm treading on thin glass now; one thing said and Sam would close himself off completely.
"No." He says. His voice is dull and plain, he's not even alive anymore. I can tell.
"You didn't eat dinner last night." I say
"Okay." He says.
I'm stopped short. Does that mean okay he wants breakfast? I hesitate a moment before going to grasp his shoulder.
It's in that moment that I wonder when I started to care for the kid.
He's flinching back before my fingers can even graze his shoulder. His eyes are flashing with horrible memories, almost glazed over. The intensity of his movement causes me little shock. I'm moving forward with the sole intention of helping him, comforting him.
The realization hits me when he scurries away that we're not there yet. He's not ready. I back of a say,
"Breakfast will be ready in 10 minutes." Then quickly I leave, turning on my heal.
I hear a relieved sigh, and now that for now I've done right by him, and myself. My thoughts at his first arrival have already begun to change. I don't even notice the fading boot prints. I notice the way he always has a barrier up between him and the rest of the world. I notice how he wants to be tough, he wants to be under control of something but that's not what he needs. I notice how he needs me, and he has needed me since the day he was born. I notice how without him even being aware he has already changed me, already made me a different person.
I swear to myself that from now on I'm going to be there for him, no matter what.
In 10 minutes I hear someone hesitantly walking behind me. The footfalls are as light as feathers, but my ears are on full force. I could probably hear the baby crying from three houses down if I concentrated enough. I turn around and he stop's moving completely, like a statue.
I'm not quite sure what to say to him, so I turn back around toward the stove.
The footsteps resume. I don't hear a chair scraping against the floor, but when I turn around he's sitting. Staring straight at me. He flinches away when I turn around, staring intently on the whole in his jeans. Mind you, the same exact jeans he was wearing when he got here, and the ones he probably wore to bed.
Making a mental note to myself to take him shopping, I scraped the eggs of the pan and divided them onto two plates. Already on the plates were potatoes and bacon.
"Alright!" I said, with false cheer "breakfast is served."
I set the plate down in front of him. I pretend to concentrate solely on chewing my food, but something in my head is telling me to watch Sam. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him pushing around the food on the plate.
"I didn't poison it." I say jokingly.
Although, it wasn't a joke. Not really. He knows that.
"Okay." He says.
I never thought one word could annoy me so much.
I pretend to go back to concentrating on my food. Out of the corner of my eye I see him taking a miniscule bite of his food. It's not much, but it's a step in the right direction.
I silently rejoice.
Maybe then he realizes how hungry he actually is. I can barely tell, but I see the difference in his eyes; the eagerness. His hand goes slowly forward to grab a slice of toast of his plate and he hurriedly brings it down into his lap. It's like he's afraid it will all disappear. I hear him breaking of bites.
Satisfied that he's atleast eating something, I got back to eating my own food.
It's almost a peaceful moment.