a/n:and back at it - with part 3/4 ! this part takes the title 'Jarhead' both from the Jake Gyllenhaal movie about a troubled Marine, and the fact that a slang word for Marine is ... Jarhead. Succinct. This part is distinctly not very Gilmore Girls inspired - but remember, we're starting back at 1987 (chapters one of this, and one of Shepard Girls, run concurrently) and then we're seeing what Gibbs has been up to through roughly the same years!
Camp Lejeune, North Carolina: 1987
Jenny Was a Friend of Mine
It was amazing how seemingly pointless conversation could have the ultimately important effect of taking his mind off of everything. Sitting next to a veritable stranger on a gloomy Greyhound bus, he didn't think about the daunting, empty future, or the ruins he'd found in Stillwater; he listened to Shannon Fielding talk about anything that popped into her mind – all the while knowing she was just doing it to try to keep him from losing his mind.
He listened to her talk lightly about how rich her parents were, and how they thought that made them better than everyone; how she loved dogs but she'd never had one, and she wanted one as soon as she had her own place – about why she'd transferred to Stillwater High, about how her parents hadn't wanted her to see The Breakfast Club because it was filthy but she saw it anyway, and she loved it. She loved her mother and her father, but she thought they were old fashioned and silly – they were horrified she was taking a year off to travel before college, but it was her money she'd saved, and she couldn't wait – she was going to send them a postcard from every place she went, and then pick a college in her favorite and stay there. She'd gotten into Dartmouth, but she didn't want to go there; she'd gotten into Wellesley, but she didn't want a degree in getting married.
He didn't know half of what she was talking about – he'd never heard of Wellesley, and the beauty of the whole thing was, he didn't have to ask; she was just chattering, exactly like she'd said she would. And he just had to sit there and let her words clog up his head until there was no room left for him to try to figure out Jen's actions, or to mentally reread the letter he'd memorized, or to wonder if Natalie was old enough to miss him and to know what had happened.
Despite being the father of a two-and-a-half year old, he didn't know anything about babies – he didn't know anything about anything at all, except maybe being a Marine, and that was all he had, now.
She touched his arm, and tugged slightly on the sleeve of his uniform.
"They're going to make us change buses," she said brightly. "You won't leave for Richmond for another hour – c'mon, you – we – need food."
He blinked at her, and she arched her brows.
"Mess, grub? How do I say it in Marine-speak?" she joked. She tugged on his hand again, standing up and beckoning. "Jethro," she coaxed.
He got up and followed her, maneuvering through the bus and stepping heavily out onto the pavement at the bus station – just near the outer boundaries of Washington, D.C. She stood for a moment, her nose scrunched up, and the wind whipping at her hair, as if she could smell sustenance on the air. She glanced around, and then pointed.
"This way."
"How do you know where you're going?" he asked gruffly, following her as she dodged through people – he made it easier for her; people stepped back and made room for a man in military uniform.
"I don't," she said simply. She laughed. "That doesn't matter. Would I really go off on a big travelling adventure if I planned where I was going?"
He didn't know how to answer, so he didn't say anything, and somehow, minutes later, after twisting and turning down some alleys, backtracking once, crossing a street, and turning left, she was pulling him into a hidden little diner under a bridge, and he had no idea how she'd stumbled across it.
"Perfect road trip dining location," she said primly.
"Think you watched too many movies about this stuff," he said dryly – a bell rang as they entered; he blinked at the booths and the chrome décor, and felt like he'd landed himself in the middle of a Happy Days episode.
"I am coming of age," Shannon told him matter-of-factly. "This kind of wildness is my right of passage."
Dryly, he thought it was a better kind of wildness than the kind he'd gotten into, but he didn't want to bring that up – already, in the brief silences, in the time she'd stopped talking to find this place, he'd started letting the stress and the worry and the uncertainty come creeping back in, and he was thinking about Jen again.
The redhead across from him slapped a sticky, laminated menu down in front of him.
"Pick your poison," she murmured, perusing hers quickly. Her eyes flashed over the choices; she shook her hair back over her shoulders, and he stiffly looked down, eyeing the pictures warily, unsure if he was even hungry – but he needed to eat; he didn't know what they'd ask of him when he got to Lejeune, and he needed to be ready.
"This is all breakfast," he grunted.
Shannon laughed. She looked up at him through her lashes.
"Turn the menu over," she suggested smugly.
He did, but he ended up turning back to breakfast. For some reason, he wasn't feeling greasy burgers or grilled ham and cheese…maybe because he'd missed breakfast this morning, and pancakes always sounded good.
A waitress came over – old, with grey hair, and a pink bow in it – and waited; Shannon ordered a milkshake and chili cheese fries, and Gibbs ordered pancakes. As he asked for syrup, the waitress started to turn, but Shannon caught her.
"Actually, he wants powdered sugar on the pancakes," she said. "And coffee, black coffee," she added. "Decaf."
The waitress glanced at Gibbs, rolled her eyes a little, and went off.
"Trust me," Shannon said, giving him a swift wink. "Powdered sugar is better. You need it. You'll thank me."
"Decaf?" he growled. "What's the damn point – "
"You're already going to have trouble sleeping," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders.
She leaned back neatly in her booth, her shoulders straight, still managing to look relaxed. She blinked at him a few times, and smiled.
"What's your assignment at Camp Lejeune?" she asked.
"Military Police," he answered. He made a face, and shrugged.
"Is that not what you wanted?" Shannon asked intently.
He shrugged again. He didn't think it mattered too much; it was a noble assignment – not the most highly desired, but not the bottom, no-good, last-chance Marine, either. He hesitated, and then frowned.
"Respectable," he said, his voice low. "But, 'M not an officer, and I'm young," he muttered.
Shannon nodded thoughtfully.
"So, you think they'll hate you for having authority, and not like you at all," she mused.
"Don't care if people like me," he said dully.
"You should," she remarked, tilting her head. She leaned forward. "You shouldn't care if people like your clothes, or your opinion on the Viet Nam war, but when you want people to like you, you generally tend to be a better person." She paused, and licked her lips. "But I guess you have to balance that with caring too much. You can't please everyone."
He looked at her a moment, considering it, and then his expression darkened.
"I spent three years doin' what I was supposed to, and bein' the better person, and makin' everyone fawn over me, and it didn't do a damn thing."
She leaned back, startled, about to respond, when the waitress brought their food, and she instead decided to stay silent, because she wasn't – she wasn't quite sure what he meant.
Gibbs, reached for the coffee immediately – decaf tasted the same as caffeinated, and she was probably right about sleep – but it tasted like ash, and he found he had trouble swallowing; he just wasn't hungry; he just didn't feel like eating or drinking or – or sitting here, or anything.
He had spent three years – since the day he found out Jenny was pregnant! – hauling ass, and standing tall, and holding his chin up even when whispers followed him, and doing everything he was supposed to, never sticking a toe out of line – even when he was exhausted and he just wanted to go fishing or read a comic book or work on his car; he did what he had to, and he made himself look upstanding and impeccable, because that made things easier on Jenny.
Jenny had always had it harder than him, but as long as he'd made sure everyone knew he adored her and Natalie – and that wasn't hard; it wasn't difficult to adore them – everyone softened on her, they decided if Gibbs would be so noble as to stand up and stick by her – as if he'd ever, in his right mind, do anything else –they should see the brighter side of it all, too.
It had been exhausting for him to do that, to be so good all the time, such an attentive father – to make sure he never made a mistake, or looked tired, or lazy, to make sure no one saw that scratch on the back of Natalie's knee that she got when he was fiddling with the engine of his Dodge Charger and he wasn't paying attention and she fell, trying to climb up to see him.
He spent so much time never stepping a toe over the line that it suddenly all felt like a fog now; he didn't know who he had been for all that time, before he joined the Marines, while he was just working and supporting Natalie and watching his mother die: after all, Natalie had lived with Jen; and he hadn't realized, maybe until now, that it had all been so much harder and more confusing than he'd thought.
He was nineteen years old. He was constantly terrified he'd hurt his daughter or do something wrong, but he never had the chance to embrace that aspect of new parenthood: he had to be a deadbeat dad, or a perfect one: teen parents were not afforded the same attitude towards mistakes as normal ones.
He stared at his coffee, picked at his food, and tried not to feel relieved, tried not to feel like the burden was gone – she may have taken Natalie and run across the country, but he still had a child, and he loved her; no matter how difficult it was, or what the dark voices in his head tried to persuade him of, he loved Natalie.
He ate a few bites in silence, trying out the powdered sugar.
"What do you think?" Shannon asked softly.
He looked at her, and smiled tiredly, nodding – it was good; she was right – and less messy than syrup. He tried a bit more, watching her eat, looking around at the place – he was trying not to think too much, but he couldn't help it –
He felt so out of place, so strange. He'd expected – to be making plans to bring Natalie and Jenny with him, to move them in to a new place at Lejeune and settle down and start moving forward, even if they'd started a little late. He was angry at her, he was fighting that guilty, haunting sense of being unshackled from responsibility – he missed them, he hated Jen, he wanted them back, he wanted to go to California, he wanted his mother. He didn't know how he could feel so many conflicting things at once.
He cleared his throat.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Shannon asked patiently.
He considered a piece of pancake, and shrugged.
"What the hell 'm I s'pose to do?" he asked aloud – maybe not even to her; maybe to no one in particular. "I don't know what the hell she was thinking."
Shannon bit the inside of her cheek, thinking about it critically.
He shook his head, his brow furrowing; he was suddenly acutely aware of how far away California was. He couldn't – even if she wanted him to do some grand romantic gesture, to run after her and show her how much she mattered to him – he wasn't going to desert the Corps; he wasn't going to be the man who dishonored the uniform to go chasing after a woman who hadn't even had the guts to say goodbye to his face.
But as sure as he was that he couldn't take off after Jenny, he wasn't so sure he could deal with the result – barely seeing Natalie, even never seeing Natalie; despite the fact that he felt like a pressure was lifted off of him, almost immediately he missed it, because even in Stillwater, when he'd felt overwhelmed or angry at the way things had turned out, he'd always been able to pick Natalie up and hug her or look into her eyes and know that it was all worth it.
If he couldn't see her – if he couldn't hug her, or hear her laugh – even hear the new words she would learn, how would he keep perspective, stay grounded, and make sure he had direction and a steady head?
For so long, Jenny and Natalie had defined him –
"What were you thinking of doing?" Shannon asked nicely.
He stared at her, uncomprehending.
"I," she began carefully. "I – don't know what her letter to you said, or what your…what you guys are like, as a couple, but I…I think you need to make a plan," she said gently, advising him.
His knuckles tensed; he jammed them into his jaw, holding his head up with his hand. He stared down at the food in front of him, picking at it; glaring at it, and then he shrugged, helpless, angry.
"Plan?" he repeated gruffly. "Meanin' what?"
"Well," she began cautiously, "maybe you should write down some key things to say, decide what you're going to – propose, like if you're going to ask her to come see you, or," she trailed off slightly, watching his eyes flash.
He ran his hand over his mouth, and over his eyes, and then he pushed his plate away violently and put his head down on the table. He covered the back of his neck with his hand, his fingers digging into the bare skin above his uniform collar. She swallowed hard, leaning forward and grasping his elbow gently.
"Jethro?" she asked.
He shook his head in response, stubborn and unwilling to face her. He felt like he couldn't lift his head, his jaw, his shoulders, everything hurt so much suddenly that he couldn't move, and he felt like he was going to start crying – he felt like he had, so overwhelmed with everything, at his mother's funeral, except there he'd had Natalie to hold on to.
Shannon bit her lip, frowning. She sidled quickly out of her booth and came around to his, sliding in next to him and moving closer. She pulled gently at his hand, squeezing his elbow comfortingly, bending closer to his ear.
"Jethro," she said again, trying to lift his head. He swatted her away angrily, and she frowned, helpless. She looked around, unsure what to do – despite the hours on the bus, the talking, sitting close to him, laughing – despite hearing all kinds of stories and rumors about him and her while she was in high school, she didn't know him at all.
"Is he alright, dearie?" The waitress had approached them, and she looked concerned – more concerned about their ability to pay, most likely, than Gibbs' well being.
Shannon nodded brightly, mustering some calm nonchalance.
"I need the check," she said, breezy but matter-of-fact.
"Split?"
"It's on me," she said hastily, waiving the waitress away.
She turned back to Gibbs, concerned, and tilted her head. He lifted his, rubbing his temple, barely registering that this girl had just decided to buy his food, and the man he'd been raised to be would never have let a girl do that. He rubbed his eyes, blinking hard, rapidly, and looked over at her.
"I miss my kid," he said hoarsely.
He said it as if he were amazed, as if he were confused; as if it were some wild confession. Her lips puckered in sympathy, and she ran her hand over his neck, nodding. He set his jaw, and bent his head, staring down at the table his arms rested on – God, he missed her; God, he was lost at the thought of not seeing her.
It wasn't just not seeing her – it was that he hadn't seen her, in months. And suddenly, that had just hit him so hard.
Shannon looked at him for a long time – she turned, she paid the waitress in cash before she could even set the check down, and then she turned back to him, her hand on his neck again. She studied him intently, and then she nodded to herself, as if making a decision. She touched his cheek gently, and then scooted back a little.
"I'm going to go with you to Camp Lejeune, okay?" she suggested – decided, more than suggested, really. "I bet there's someone in your unit who can get you a drink."
She said it dryly, and while he was still blinking, still processing, she was getting up, taking his bag, gesturing for him to come with her – come on, she beckoned, back to the bus; I'll talk to you some more. He rubbed his head again, and followed her – out into the deserted, dusty looking streets, catching up to her, grabbing his bag.
He shook his head.
"You can't," he said.
"Why can't I?" she demanded, bristling.
"You said you were gettin' off in D.C.," he remembered. "Startin' your – tour of all the state capitols with the capitol," he quoted – he'd been listening better than she thought.
"So?" she retorted. "I'll take you to Lejeune, and I'll start with Raleigh – and I'll visit Asheville, and then you'll get settled, and before I go off, I'll make sure I know your number, so I can check up on you – "
"You don't have to take me anywhere!" he snapped. "I been takin' care of myself, and my family – "
"But no one's been taking care of you!" she interrupted. "Even you haven't been taking care of you!"
She tucked her hair behind her ears, and put her hands on her hips; then she let them drop, folded her arms, grit her teeth, and seemed to struggle with herself.
"Look," she said, the word hard and decisive, "I didn't want to – say anything," she said. "It's none of my – you sat on that bus, and in that diner, and you're blaming yourself, and I can't say I know what was going on in – Jenny's mind but – it's not your fault," she said seriously.
"Somethin' made her run, Shannon!" Gibbs growled, his voice cracking. "If it wasn't me, what the hell was it? I was gonna marry her!" his volume went up, and then he reigned it back in, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "When she asked me not to join the Marines after high school, I stayed for her," he hissed. "I stayed."
Shannon stepped back from his anger, nodding, her blue eyes wide.
"I stayed because she asked me to – I gave her two years, and when I left – she didn't even give me half of one," he growled.
He dropped his bag on the ground and kicked it viciously.
"I didn't ask her to wait forever – I just had to finish training! She – goddamnit, even when she was pregnant it was her choice; I wasn't a part of it! She and her – father were going to decide - she went to the doctor, and when I took her her homework that day, I didn't even know if she'd had an abortion or not!"
He knew that Shannon didn't need to hear all this – and he'd never talked about it with anyone, how Jenny's father had taken her to a doctor in Scranton, and how Jenny had hinted that he might be seeing about getting her a trustworthy doctor – because her mother had said she'd pay for it, if that's what Jenny decided – and Gibbs had no say; just like he had no say in the custody agreement, just like from the day Natalie was born, his life was bound to Jenny's, bound to Natalie's, and even when it was hard he had never resented her, or punished her for it – because it had just happened, and they had to do what they had to.
"I thought I knew her," Gibbs insisted, his voice low and hoarse.
He turned away, rubbing his jaw, and then whirled back, fear flaring in his eyes.
"What the hell does she want from me?" he shouted. He flung his hand out. "I did what I was suppose to," he raged. "I wanted her!"
He was looking at her like he was waiting for the answer, and then he sat down on the curb next to his gear, kicking it again, and he cradled his face in his palms, his shoulders sagging. She stood for a moment, and then carefully sat down next to him, tentatively touching his shoulder, and then putting her arm around him lightly.
He slid his hands down, staring at them, and lifting his shoulders roughly.
"Figure I should just let her go," he said, coarse and nasty. "I'm off the hook," he added, with a mirthless smirk. "Any other guy'd be glad."
Shannon shook her head, licking her lips.
"I don't think you mean that," she guessed astutely. "Jethro," she began softly, tilting her head, "you don't have to owe her anything," she sighed, "but you're never off the hook with Natalie."
He didn't even nod; he knew that, and he didn't need to be told twice – and no matter how much he might feel a little relief, a little relaxing of the stress of constant fatherhood, no part of him wanted to forget about Natalie or neglect her; he couldn't imagine his life without her being a part of it – or having been a part of it; there was something, that maybe he was still too young to understand, about that little girl that made his world go 'round.
Shannon rubbed his shoulders, squeezing gently, sitting there with him, and sitting close to him.
He wondered why she cared, what she thought of him. He didn't know why he'd let her see him lose it, but he felt so – out of control, that maybe giving in to that before he got to the base and bottled it up was good; maybe this way, he was less likely to snap. He needed work; he needed something to channel all this into.
"You'll get to Lejeune, and you'll call her," Shannon said, gentle but firm.
He stared at his feet, shaking his head dejectedly. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to ask, what to demand, what to do – and even now, thinking about her for this split second, he felt a flash of hate that scared him; it made him miserable, to feel that way, to have such a negative emotion burn so uncontrollably, when Jenny was the girl he'd loved with all his high school heart.
"What if I don't?" he asked huskily.
He looked at Shannon, both defiant, and somehow uncertain.
What would happen, in the end, if he just gave her what she seemed to want, and made her regret it, made her come looking for him when Natalie started asking for her Daddy? If – if – Natalie ever asked for her Daddy.
Shannon parted her lips, her lashes fluttering for a moment, before she answered.
"Well," she said thoughtfully, trying very hard to figure out subjects older than her, and out of her realm of expertise. "I think if you did that, you might prove whatever fears she had…that pushed her to run away, or doubt you…correct," Shannon said quietly. "And I think, no matter what happens, that you'd want to reach out at least once…because then no one can ever say it was your fault; that you didn't try."
He narrowed his eyes, and looked away slowly – the heat blistered down on his neck, and he wondered how he'd ended up here, nineteen, sitting on a curb, traveling the east coast with a girl he barely knew, struggling to figure out where the military was going to take him, and why he'd been so blindsided, why he was losing when he really thought he was doing it all right.
"It's six or so more hours to Lejeune," Shannon said bravely. "You'll get settled in – you'll take it day by day, Jethro," she promised, earnest. "You'll figure it out." She paused, and smiled. "I can send you post cards," she said lightly, quietly. "I said I'd be your friend."
He finally looked back at her, his eyes dull; he was tired of fighting, tired of thinking – maybe he was ready to get back on that bus, and listen to her ramble, listen to her talk some more – maybe it would do him some good. He lifted his shoulders, studying her critically.
"Why're you doing this?" he asked tiredly, shaking his head.
She shrugged, and rubbed her knee, sighing a little.
"Maybe because I know my mother would be scandalized," she said, her cheeks flushing a little, "me, her little debutante, making friends with the disgraced boy."
Gibbs watched her warily. Shannon frowned to herself, and then looked at him, and smiled. She tucked her hair behind her ears.
"And I have this rule," she admitted.
"Rule?" he asked quietly, still feeling like it was exhausting just to speak.
She nodded.
"It's rule number – three, for my adventure," she said. She took a deep breath. "It's that I can't forget where I came from. I need something to anchor that part of who I am. And you – we're both from small town Pennsylvania. When you sat down at the bus stop, and you looked – like you needed something …" she trailed off, and then sighed. "I don't know. I think I also just always – admired you. You and her. But I always too scared to approach her, or play with Natalie, or tell her, so maybe if I had… "
Gibbs laughed – he surprised himself, but he laughed hoarsely.
"Jen leavin' Stillwater doesn't have a damn thing to do with you."
"I know," Shannon said carefully, looking at him with wise eyes. "But she didn't have any friends left. And that's hard on a girl."
Gibbs clenched his jaw, looked down. Shannon blinked in the sun, and squeezed him again.
"It didn't have anything to do with you either," she said confidently.
Gibbs turned to her. He wanted to ask how she knew that, but perhaps deep down he knew that Jenny was always going to do what Jenny wanted; Jenny had always refused to see that some things had to be sacrificed – Jenny had never quite accepted that Natalie had to change her life, utterly and completely, and that she had as much responsibility to Gibbs as she had to Natalie, because Gibbs had given so much to her.
He nodded, and shrugged, looking up at the sun, thinking about the long hours to come – about what would happen when he got to Camp Lejeune, about where things would go after that – and in the heat, on the curbside, despite what Shannon said, and despite what cold logic tried to tell him, he still felt guilty, he still felt angry, and he couldn't stop feeling the burn of the long, drawn out Dear John that had been waiting when he'd gone back to make good on his promises of getting them out, and she'd already given up on him.
When he got called into his supervisor's office, Gibbs felt a sense of doom hanging over his head – the good thing was, it instantly made him realize he didn't really want to get in trouble; he didn't want to jeopardize the only thing he had left – but the bad thing was, he was still such a new Marine, he might really have done himself in.
He had a half-cocked idea of why the commanding officer wanted to see him; it might be because of the bloodshot eyes, the barely controlled attitude – might be because of the wrinkled collars, or maybe someone actually had witnessed him get into that fight last night, and had just now squealed on him – regardless of what it was, military police were held to even higher standards than the average military Joe, and Gibbs was probably in for it.
He stood at attention, back straight, shoulders stiff, head held high, his eyes wide and attentive as the Master Sergeant prowled around the desk, eyeing him. He was quiet for a long time, and then he flicked his wrist up towards Gibbs' eye.
"Where'd you get that shiner, Marine?"
Gibbs stood for a moment – answering quickly was a must, but he wasn't about to throw himself under a bus by meekly admitting he'd been fighting; he'd rather say something that bordered on cheeky and have this guy get in his face and start screaming at him. The sergeant was a hard ass – Gibbs respected him, but man, he was a dick.
He went for smartass.
"Cut myself shaving, sir," he answered, loudly and firmly.
There was a split second where he thought the sergeant was going to kick him out of the Marine Corps with his own two feet, but instead, the man gave a bark of laughter – mind, it was mildly annoyed laughter – and shook his head. He took a seat heavily, and gave Gibbs a critical look.
"Well as long as you didn't get it from a Naval officer who caught you sneakin' out of his wife's bedroom I guess I don't give a damn, do I?" he asked rhetorically, pointing harshly at the chair opposite his desk. "Sit down, Corporal."
Gibbs sat down, his back still as straight as a board. He grit his teeth together hard; his head was killing him, and his vision was swimming. He needed a glass of water, bad – or a bloody Mary; something to ease whatever was still sloshing in his system.
The Sergeant looked directly at him, his expression cool.
"Have you been drinking, Marine?" he asked dangerously.
Gibbs didn't miss a beat.
"No, sir," he lied, careful not to take his bloodshot eyes off of his commanding officer – luckily, he had plenty of practice staring down people who thought he was worthless, spineless, or up to no good, and it was no problem; he just pretended the sergeant was his father.
He wasn't about to 'fess up when he was at least seventy percent sure he could pass a breathalyzer or a sobriety test right now – seventy percent. The other thirty percent was weakly blaming Shannon for telling him he should get a drink, and loudly trying to convince him that this was all Jenny's fault, anyway, so he wasn't responsible.
The sergeant didn't say anything; instead, he was opening a file.
"You came out of Parris Island and Geiger with top marks, top recommendations," he growled, in that typical way old Marines did – like success annoyed them, like they wanted to shame you for being damn good – it was all a facade; a way to force you to make them madder by being better.
Gibbs nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up a little, but the sergeant shot him down mere seconds later.
"Funny; I ain't seen shit about you since you got here that's so goddamn impressive," he barked, plastering the file down on the desk and shuffling through some papers. "I'm disappointed, Corporal," he snarled. "I had a note in here that said you wanted Sniper MOS one day; looks like we'll send you to get your ass whupped on the front lines instead, you keep this mediocre bullshit up."
Gibbs blinked, but said nothing – he couldn't say anything; his performance had been mediocre and half-assed; since Shannon had dropped him off and he'd decided he was going to try medicating himself, or apparently try getting himself kicked out so he could go storming after Jen without getting himself arrested in the process – except what he'd do when he got there, he didn't –
"You get that glazed, daisy-pickin' expression off your face, Jarhead, and look at me," ordered the sergeant.
Gibbs blinked again, paying closer attention.
The sergeant was holding up two pieces of paper – not, Gibbs noticed immediately, UCMJ violation papers, discharge orders, or letters of reprimand, but forms from his own personnel file. Before Gibbs could focus on them tightly and read them, the commanding officer slammed them down and leaned forward, tapping his fingers on them.
"Where're these dependents?" he demanded.
Gibbs stared at him blankly, taken aback. He wasn't sure what he was being asked, and then in half a second, he realized –
"Jennifer Gibbs, maiden name Shepard, nineteen," growled the sergeant. "Natalie Gibbs, two and a half," he listed. "I got these two, and I got you on a waiting list for base housing – you're in the barracks, right now?"
Gibbs stared at him stonily, and nodded once – all the new arrivals were in the barracks and temporary housing, though some were at hotels with their significant others, or in rented bed and breakfasts with their families. Gibbs hadn't had to worry about that, after all – one hassle down, he figured.
"I don't see a damn wedding ring, Marine."
Gibbs gave him a pointed look.
"That'd be because I'm not married," he said, "sir," he finished curtly.
The CO's eyes narrowed.
"You ought to know we don't put unmarried couples in housing," he said shortly. "You get on it, we'll bump you, 'cause of the kid, but until then, open housing is goin' to those who – "
"Don't need it," Gibbs said, with the most uncaring shrug he could muster. "Didn't work out."
His CO looked at him critically, and leaned forward.
"Looks like you jumped the gun then, doesn't it?" he asked coolly. "Listin' 'em as spouse and child before you get the documents."
Gibbs leaned forward.
"That is my kid," he said fiercely. "I just didn't marry her mother."
The Gunny considered him a moment, and then glanced back at these papers.
"I been puzzlin' over this," he admitted. "Master Sergeant thought you were falsifying documents – "
"She was supposed to be with me – "
"Don't interrupt me, Corporal, you'll get your turn," barked the Gunny. "I told 'im to let me have you for a day before he put you through to a disciplinary board for trying to scam housing – 'cause I take a look at this, and I see your check's being garnished, been that way since Parris Island – child support?"
Gibbs sat back stiffly.
"I said, she's my kid," he repeated, resisting the urge to shrug, and narrow his eyes – he kept him self in a respectful seat, at ease, his cover neatly on the side of the chair.
"This says part of your check is mailed directly to a Jasper Shepard."
Gibbs grit his teeth heavily.
"That's my – her – it's my kid's grandfather," he said, stumbling over his words – what the hell was he supposed to call Jenny now; how was he supposed to think about her, when he had to? Considering he spent most of his time doing anything not to think about Jenny, he hadn't really decided how he felt.
His commanding officer was staring at him, and Gibbs didn't know where this was going, or what it was about. Why the hell did it matter where his paycheck went?
"It's a hell of a lot of money for child support, Marine," the Gunny said dryly.
Gibbs gave him a neutral look.
"Court ordered?"
Gibbs gave a tiny, stiff shrug.
"Some of it," he admitted tensely.
Some of it was, yes – but a lot of it, he sent anyway, to make himself look better in his father's eyes, in Jasper's eyes, and to make sure maybe Jenny could get Natalie something fun, instead of necessities – Jenny always said her father gave the checks straight to her; he never opened them or looked at them, it had just all been set up when they were minors.
"You're over eighteen, boy," the sergeant said. "You can't have half your check beholden to your girlfriend's father," he warned. "You need to settle this differently – mail your own checks, but don't be lettin' the government bypass you on these things – you got joint custody of this kid?"
Gibbs shook his head.
"No," he grunted.
The Gunny arched his brows.
"She comin' up here with you any time soon?" he asked bluntly.
Gibbs leaned forward and rubbed his jaw, forgetting himself for a moment before straightening back up sharply, snapping back into a good posture, and shaking his head.
"Sir," he said, heavy and dull, "I don't know what the hell she's doin.' She's in California."
The Gunny grunted.
"California," he said. "Well. That ain't close," he said tightly – obviously.
Gibbs felt an irrational urge to sock him in the jaw, but he – smartly – refrained. His head gave some insistent throbs – he wanted to go back to his bunk and sleep for the next ten hours, until next shift; he wanted a gallon of water and no fluorescent lights.
"I got forms here for you to deal with this bank stuff," the Gunny said. "Re-orient it how you want to – don't protest, don't give me shit about it; none of my Marines report to their girlfriends' fathers – you take this up with your girl, and your girl only," he said matter-of-factly.
He seemed to hesitate, and in a split second, Gibbs understood that this guy had figured it out; this guy knew that between Geiger, and being assigned here, something had really thrown Gibbs off his game – and Gibbs realized he wasn't here to be booted or reprimanded; he was here to be cautiously warned, and he straightened again, wary.
"Look, kid," he said finally, his voice gruff, "if she don't want you, she don't get your money," he told him flatly.
He handed over the documents, and instructions for how to stop the allotment, and he leaned closer, his expression harsh.
"Next time I ask you if you been drinkin', you better give me a better poker face, or be sober," he threatened – he knew damn well the Marine sitting in front of him was, if not still a little under the influence, completely hung-over and only half-fit for respectable duty; he'd been watching him for days, and some snot-nosed wannabe officer in the barracks had reported on him – but unlucky for that little twit, the Gunny didn't like snitches.
Gibbs looked at the papers in his hands, and up at the sergeant.
"It's not her money," he said abruptly. "It's my daughter's money."
The Gunny gave a bark of sarcastic laughter.
"You can't trust a woman who runs off on you with your cash, Marine," he growled. "Girl like that – maybe she's seen that damn officer and a gentleman movie too many times, but I guarantee you ain't a dime of that goin' to her kid."
Gibbs bristled slightly; no matter what he thought of Jenny right now, he didn't believe that. He had to believe – he did believe – that she had done this because she genuinely thought she was doing what she needed to, and Jenny had never once spent money on herself before making sure Natalie had everything she needed to keep her happy, healthy, and secure.
The Gunny looked at him a moment, and then sighed harshly.
"You deserve a UCMJ violation," he said bluntly. "I don't know what she did to you, Corporal, but we don't let women ruin our lives – we sure as hell don't let faithless little broads destroy our careers," he told him firmly. "You start gettin' your ass up, getting' your bunk made without a wrinkle and your collar starched without a bend, and you show me the Marine they told me I had comin' out of Parris Island – because if there's one thing that won't get her back for you, son, it's gettin' yourself a dishonorable discharge from the Marine Corps and goin' after her when she already ditched you."
The words were cold, harsh – so much of it didn't even understand what had happened; Gibbs was suddenly impossibly torn between jumping to Jen's defense – and he knew that was an absurd way to feel, but he also knew what Jenny wasn't some empty-headed tramp who had run off for another man or something; she was a scared, anxious teenage girl who'd been berated and cooped up and whispered about for years – but at the same time, he did feel like he hated her, and he couldn't stop thinking about what his next move should be, and what he was going to do about Natalie – so he sat there, letting the Gunny's words slap him in the face, maybe trying to internalize them a little –
He was at least right with part of it: it wouldn't do him any good to get kicked out of the Corps. He'd be right back where he started – but he'd have that shame to carry with him, and with no other skills, and no college education – and no real idea if it was the Corps, or if it was something about him, that had chased Jen away – he had nothing else, and he needed these brothers, this uniform – this code.
"You're dismissed, Marine."
Gibbs stood; he saluted, and exited the room in perfect form, the things he'd been given folded and clutched in his hand, crinkling up.
It felt like it was burning a hole in his hand as he walked back to the barracks, his eyes straight ahead, hardly making eye contact with anyone, in case they wanted to stop and chat – not that he'd bothered to get friendly with anyone yet.
He'd needed this kick in the ass; he needed to be callously told to shape up – and not just by Shannon on the phone who, when he'd answered last week, clearly drunk, and hardly able to carry on a conversation, had shouted at him that she'd told him to get a drink, not a habit, and hung up.
He needed to call her, and apologize; but Shannon was on her adventure, Shannon was traveling – he never knew where she was – and she was just a distraction right now, anyway, a distraction from the actual redhead he needed to be calling, to talk to, to – figure this out –
He stopped outside of his barracks, the sun beating down on him, and looked down at the forms – at how much he was sending to Jenny's father, at his paycheck, at how to revise it, and he set his jaw, nodding curtly to himself – he needed to talk to her about this; he – they – needed to set this straight, because he needed to know what he was dealing with – what she wanted; what she had really done – and not in some long, drawn out, articulate letter; he wanted to hear her voice; he wanted to hear from her lips the truth of this betrayal.
He needed to call her. He shouldn't have waited so long – but more than anything, he realized, as he stood staring at the amount of money on the forms, and thinking about who it was for, he needed to call his daughter, because none of this was Natalie's fault – and her little voice would probably do wonders for him, anyway.
He meant it when he told his commanding officer he'd get it together – he'd quit drinking – and it wouldn't be hard to quit, it wasn't as if he was that far gone yet, that unable to control himself – but before he tossed all the whiskey and forced himself to wait until twenty-one like a good kid, he resolved himself to finishing the last bottle of good bourbon – that's what he'd decided his drink was – just to help him get through this phone call.
It was some hour when everyone was out, everyone was on liberty, and he was supposed to be, too – and maybe he should have gone with some guys, made some connections, blown off a little steam, but time was passing, and he knew he was slipping dangerously into territory that seemed like neglect of Natalie, of talking to her, and he didn't want to give Jen any ammunition against him, if it came to that.
So – he steeled himself, he locked himself in his bunk on base – his room mate was out on liberty with everyone else – and he sat with a black phone to his ear, making the call.
He'd been making the call for almost an hour – the answering machine picked up, but he didn't want to leave a message; it felt like a cop out, and he wasn't sure she'd have the nerve to call him back. He wanted to confront someone: he'd spent ages working up the courage to do it – and he wanted – he wanted to talk to his daughter.
He hung up, dialed again, rubbing his jaw heavily – he took a slow sip of bourbon; he didn't even wince, anymore, when he swallowed – and then, when the phone seemed about to ring off the hook again – it stopped.
Mayhem answered.
The ringing was gone, and he could hear a child – Natalie, he recognized, and reminded himself – Natalie, that's my child –
"Hello?"
"Mama, bee! Mama beeeee!"
First he heard a garbled greeting, and then Natalie screaming some more – crying; she was definitely crying. He furrowed his brow, his head throbbing – he was so caught off guard, so unprepared for this chaos – hell, he'd been expecting her mother to answer, so he – tried to buy himself some time:
"This Melanie Shepard?"
"Yes, this is Melanie Shepard's residence – this is her daughter," Jenny said politely, frazzled and annoyed at the same time. "Natalie Winter, QUIET!" she barked.
The silence that fell made Gibbs bristle; he hated when Jenny snapped at Natalie – he'd always hated it, but she always got so offended when he said something about it, because she got so mad at him for always being able to keep his cool –
"This is her daughter, Jenny," Jenny repeated.
Gibbs put his head in his hand, pressing his palm into his forehead. He wasn't prepared for this – he wasn't even half as prepared as he'd thought he was. Hearing her voice, just hearing her voice was awful; he felt angry, he felt confused, he felt relieved –
"Jethro?"
Her voice came softly, cautiously, and he pushed his hand through his cropped hair, matching her voice to her face – to how she'd looked the last time he saw her, waving goodbye at the Parris Island bus depot; if only he'd known then that she was thinking about this, thinking about running –
He straightened up a little, leaning back. He looked long and hard at the class of bourbon on his table, and he let her sit there, wondering what he was going to say. He swallowed hard, and spoke without thinking, unsure what would come out –
"I want to talk to Natalie first."
He hadn't exactly planned on saying it, but now that he had; he stood by it firmly. That's what he wanted, yes – he wanted what was important, his little girl; he wanted to hear that she was okay.
"Jethro," she began bravely, "I don't know if that's a good – "
The moment she started that, the moment she even dared deprive him, he snapped out of his uncertainty. He clinched his fist and leaned forward, pointing at nothing, gesturing even though she couldn't see him.
"Put her on, Jenny, or I will hang up, and I will call back until I get your mother and she puts Natalie on," he threatened tensely – it wasn't much of a threat, but he was willing to be a perpetually ringing phone would be irritating enough to get him his way, and he no matter what happened, he wouldn't threaten the mother of his child with anything more than petty anger.
He heard her pull the phone away; Natalie whimpered something, Jenny said something, and then before he could blink, there was a little voice on the phone.
"Da Da?" she piped up curiously. "Da Da? Where?" She squealed. "Bee sting!" she told him, her voice cracking unhappily.
He swallowed hard, a smile jumping to his lips in spite of everything.
"Don't let the bees get you down, Bug," he said bravely. "You're a Queen Bee, ruling them all – you hear me? Bees got nothin' on you."
Natalie giggled a little.
"You doin' okay, Natalie?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered sweetly, sounding carefree. She giggled. "Yes!" she shrieked.
He nodded his head. He didn't know what to say now, what to ask; she was so very little, and he didn't want to scare her, or say anything wrong, anything that might make her unhappy.
"Did Mama kiss that bee sting yet, Nat?" he asked soothingly.
"No," she drawled. There was a sudden shuffling noise, a small thump, and then Natalie gasped. "Da Da?" she asked – Gibbs figured she must have dropped the phone; she would be clumsy, after all; she wasn't even three yet. "Da Da, kiss bee stings," she said. "Where you are?"
His smile faded. He grunted.
"Caro – North Carolina, Natalie," he said hoarsely. "'M in – 'm with other Marines. On the east coast," he said – he knew it meant nothing to her.
"I see you?" she asked.
"Not today, Natalie," he said tightly. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes tightly. "Who's there with you, huh, Princess?" he forced out steadily.
Natalie, in the middle of babbling some nonsense, paused.
"Melly," she pronounced clearly. She trailed off, talking in babyish gibberish. "Mama, too. Teeeeeny bed," she trilled.
Gibbs took a deep breath.
"You like it there?" he asked huskily. "You okay? You scared?" he asked rapidly, trying to figure out if she sounded happy – at least she'd asked where he was, she'd asked to see him – that was good, that meant she knew who he was, still; he hadn't waited so long she'd forgotten – but she was so little, so, so little, what if –
"Pretty," Natalie sighed sweetly. "Sun. I like sun."
"Sun," Gibbs repeated, nodding to himself. "Seen the ocean?"
"Oshee!" she cried. "Birds – sands, wavies," she listed. "Da Da," she crooned, matter-of-factly. She giggled to herself, lowering her voice. "You see Oshee!" she said. "Come see sun!"
He clenched his teeth together so tightly he thought his jaw would crack, and he closed his eyes, reaching out to wrap his hand around the glass of whiskey, and squeeze until his knuckles were white. It took all of his self-control to keep his voice steady, but in that moment, he couldn't talk to her anymore – because he was weak, and hearing her voice was suddenly hurting more than it was helping.
"Can you let me talk to Mommy, Natalie?" he asked heavily.
Natalie made a small, gentle noise of consent.
"Mama," he heard her said. "Daddy," she mumbled.
"I love you, Natalie," he said quickly, still clenching his jaw – he hoped his voice didn't sound too scary, or too different. "You know that? I love you."
"See you," she said. "Love you."
She sounded like Tinkerbell; like something beyond his reach, that hadn't ever really been his.
"Jethro," came Jenny's voice, worried, distracted: "don't—don't hang up!" – and then the phone was put down for a moment – or moved, or held against a shoulder, or something.
He started to see spots, for squeezing his eyes so tightly shut, and in the moments that the phone changed hands, and he heard Jenny talking to her mother, and someone laughing with Natalie, he tried to compose himself, to be able to deal with Jen in however he needed to –
"Jethro?"
But truth be told, he didn't know what he was doing, and he didn't know what the hell she was going to come at him with, so he cleared his throat gruffly, trying to put up a steely front, and he went straight at her.
"How'd she get the bee sting?" he asked tensely – a painfully normal question; the same question any father might ask his child's mother, if she happened to waltz in from grocery shopping with a screaming toddler.
He heard Jenny breathing nervously.
"In the thrift store parking lot," she said in a small, careful voice. "It was after the – her hands were sticky, from a Popsicle. It was after the sugar."
He swallowed hard.
"She's not allergic to bees?" he asked.
She'd never been stung before, and she'd sounded pretty distraught – not one she'd heard his voice, but still, extremely upset – and he knew bee allergies could be really bad for little kids –
"No," Jenny answered kindly. "No, Jethro, she's okay."
She sounded too relaxed; too carefree. He immediately bristled – is that what she thought was okay in California, Natalie screaming the whole way home from the thrift store, while she lived it up?
"She didn't sound okay," he said curtly. "Sounded like it hurt."
Jenny paused.
"Is this what you want to talk about?" she asked sharply – she'd sensed his critical tone, and he was viciously glad he'd put her on the defensive.
"No," he answered, slightly triumphantly; he was happy he'd pissed her off, reminded her that she should be on the defensive – this was not a cute phone call, this was not the romantic call from the soldier father to his family waiting faithfully back home – this was her judgment day, and she knew it.
"It's been weeks, Jethro," she said. "What took you so long to call?"
He was so - genuinely stunned that she had the gall to question him that at least it ignited some indignant rage in him, and he wasn't so speechless and lost.
"Is that what you want to say to me, Jen?" he demanded icily.
She made a strangled little noise.
"If you're not going to say anything, I have to say something!" she burst out desperately. "You can't call to breathe at me in a rage – "
"I called to talk to my daughter," he interrupted dangerously.
"You could have done that a little sooner," she snapped.
He fell silent. He let that simmer for a moment, because she was right – he shouldn't have screwed around, he shouldn't have spent some time getting drunk, getting reprimanded, feeling sorry for himself; he should have called Natalie, because Natalie mattered. He could have hung up on Jen if he wasn't ready for her; but she was right about Natalie.
"Took me a minute," he confessed tightly.
"Took you a minute? To do what – do decide if she mattered – "
"Took me a minute to get it, Jen," he interrupted harshly, cutting off her self-righteous diatribe. "To really get that you ran out on me. That you took her, and ran."
He sensed her recoil from him; he knew her so well he could almost imagine what she'd look like when she heard him target her.
"Yes," she said, in a voice that tried to sound firm, but sounded weaker than anything he'd ever heard her say – even when she'd been scared, after just finding out she was pregnant, even when Natalie got an ear infection and she called him crying because she didn't know what to do.
He may have started this call with uncertainty, but her attitude so far – her words so far – just solidified his position as the party with all the rights to be angry, and all the rights to be mean.
"What the hell got into you, Jen?" he asked.
It demanded an answer, and he listened hard in the silence, trying to hear something between the lines before she said –
"Jethro, it's so complicated," in her brittle, anxious voice.
"Explain it," he ordered harshly.
"I, I, I," she stammered – and guiltily, he took pleasure in her distress. "I can't, Jethro!" she cried out softly, her voice cracking, mechanical through the earpiece of the phone, grated over miles and miles of phone lines. "You won't understand, you didn't understand, at the funeral, at boot camp graduation – "
"What didn't I understand?" he barked, inflamed, pissed off, desperate to get it. Hadn't he - ? "I was doin' what I could. I did what I was supposed to do. I couldn't do a damn thing to make you understand that it wasn't going to work exactly like you wanted it to – "
"I know it wasn't!" she interrupted – but he didn't think she did; despite her big talk, and her reconciliatory words, and her attempts to put on a face, he didn't think Jenny had ever gotten over how much Natalie had forced a huge change in everything they'd ever thought or planned, and she'd let that cloud her vision, and her ability to sacrifice her previous desires.
"That's the whole fucking point!" Jenny continued. "It just all fell apart. You know – you – Ann was holding it together, giving us this charming, bubble world, making it all seem safe and like we'd be okay and just – the whole support system fell apart, and you know as well as I do that it just wasn't working – "
His anger flaring hot again, he cut her off:
"You don't get to blame my mother for this bullshit, Jen," he snarled. "You think she would have been proud of you for taking Natalie away? For – running off like a coward? She would have – " He paused quickly, trying to think of something that would hurt Jen as badly as he felt right now, and he said – "She would have hated you for this."
It worked; Jenny gasped, her voice hoarse.
"Don't you dare put that on her," she snapped. "That's you talking, Jethro, that's you – and you can hate me, and I won't dispute your right to hate me, but Ann - -but – your mother, she understood me, Jethro, she loved me," Jenny cried, "and she never would have hated me. She wouldn't have liked this; I know that – but she understood me so much better than you think!"
"She never would have done this!" Gibbs shouted, slamming his fist down on the table for good measure – he didn't know why they were talking about Ann; he suddenly missed his mother more than anything, wanted to rage at the world for taking her away from him – as if Ann's death hadn't been devastating enough without Jenny using it as some excuse for her own insecurities and inability to make sacrifices.
"Ann was a saint!" Jenny was saying – finally, something Gibbs agreed with. "She was a saint, and I'm not that strong. I wasn't cut out for it! You used to – you used to rage at how your father made her wilt, crushed her spirit, ignored her fantasies, reduced her to a mother and a wife and now you're – you almost sound like him!" she accused.
He remembered, then, that she knew how to hurt him, too; she knew him well enough to push the right buttons, just like he knew exactly how to fight her – and he felt like they were having two and a half years worth of fights, because they had never been like a normal teenage, impassioned couple; they'd had to be united, had to be together against the world for Natalie and because of Natalie.
"I never tried to hold you back or pin you down," he barked, his voice getting harder, more aggressive. "I - I didn't leave you, Jenny, I didn't quit. I went to do what I had to do to find a way out for us – you think Ma would ever forgive you for taking my daughter away from me?"
"Stop bringing your mother into this; stop using her against me!" she burst out. "She's dead, Jethro, she's gone, you'll never know what she thinks about me – just speak for yourself, tell me you hate me, but stop, please stop," she was sobbing now, "you hit the right button, you got it, sharp and hard, like you always do; you always know what to hurt people with."
He leaned forward, clutching the phone, pressing it hard to his ear, gritting his teeth – hadn't he heard that before; hadn't his mother once told him that, when he said something cruel to his father in one of their fights – hadn't she told him he always knew right where the jugular was?
He listened to her crying – to her trying to compose herself, trying not to cry – and he felt so sick and so empty and so tired. He wished violently that they were having this fight in person, that somehow he'd caught her leaving and this was him convincing her to stay. He wished he wasn't alone; he wished he didn't understand how much she hated Stillwater, because he hated it too – and even though it had been exactly what was best, what he thought she agreed to, he had left her there, and he knew how it was ten times as miserable for her.
He swallowed hard, breathing out heavily.
"I don't hate you," he said slowly.
His brow furrowed; he almost confused himself. He felt something strong like hatred, but no, he didn't hate her; not now, not yet – he was in too much chaos, he still had too much going on – and in very guilty moments, he still felt the creeping sting of relief, the whisper of the devil on one shoulder that kept congratulating him for being off the hook, telling him he could be free of responsibility now, maybe just be the cool dad who showed up randomly, with presents.
He shoved the heel of his hand into one of his eyes until he saw spots, shaking his head.
"Why'd you do it, Jen?" he asked tiredly.
He didn't want to be the cool dad. He wanted his daughter; he wanted them – he always had; that was the point. He hadn't joined the Marines to get away from them. He – it was just – he knew Jenny resented it because his plans had always been the military, and he got to do it; her plans all went up in smoke, and lingered in maternal purgatory.
"Didn't your father give you my letter?" she asked in a small voice.
He fought down the urge to scream at her that she was a coward.
"I want to hear it from you," he said instead – diplomatic, he thought.
"What else can I say, Jethro?" she murmured weakly.
He gave a hollow shrug that she couldn't see – after all, nothing she said would make him feel better, unless it was that she was on a plane now, regretting her idiocy, coming to him for good.
"I couldn't get married," she whispered desperately. "I thought about it – and I felt like I was suffocating, choking, like it was a trap I just – I just wouldn't get out of. We're just … we're just too young, and the idea of – resenting you, or being miserable with you – it's such a repulsive idea to me, so contrary to the fantasies I had – the stupid, stupid fantasies," she gasped, "before Natalie."
He gripped his own shoulder, hunching himself forward.
"You just had to make room for Natalie," he said coldly – that's what he'd done; he'd adapted, adjusted, he'd stopped trying to make two completely unrelated paths fit together once an unexpected child had been added in.
"I did, Jethro, I did," she insisted – but he wasn't buying it; she'd always been trying to make it work exactly how it was supposed to before the baby. "I love that little girl more than anything in the world and you know it. I didn't leave her. I didn't abandon her for you to take; I didn't run off never to be burdened with motherhood again. But think…think…about how we would have struggled – "
"We always struggled, Jenny," Gibbs growled, rolling his eyes. "That's nothin' new – it's never been easy," he reminded her – he'd been there, every moment he could, struggling next to her in Small Town Hell. "But you didn't give it a chance, you just wrote me off, wrote the whole damn thing off," he accused. He paused, and swallowed tensely. "You're so sure you'd hate being married to me?"
She'd said so much in that goddamn letter – about how they didn't really know each other, about how they were so young and so naïve and their worlds were so unsettled – he thought he knew Jenny well, and on some level, he did understand her, and this, though it surprised him, fit in to the kind of girl she was, but he didn't truly empathize with her because for him, all that would be fine, as long as the figured it out together.
"I'd hate being alone! I'd hate doing nothing while you made your way – "
"The Marines aren't a cakewalk, Jen," he barked, "and you wouldn't have been alone, you'd be with me – "
"No," she snapped fiercely. "No – let me tell you," she began, going off: "you'd have been at work, all day, brutal training. The second you were done, you'd get deployed – no, Jethro," she snapped, before he could even break in, "you would. And traveling with you – then I'd have no support system, no friends, no family, no job, just the fear of losing you and the barely-there infantry pay you get – and if I'd stayed in Stillwater, I'd have gone mad. And then if you came back, if you didn't die out there, you'd be different, you'd be changed, just like my father was always different, after deployments, and we'd be too young to deal with it, we'd just be lost and confused, and we'd have Natalie and – it just would have combusted, Jethro. It wasn't going to work. I told you I couldn't stand in the way of you joining the military – you were meant for it – but you can't expect me to – to – "
Listening to all that, his heart fell; his stomach felt like heavy rock. Maybe she was right, but it didn't matter; he had stood by her –and he had expected, at least for a while, for her to try – who was she to condemn it all before they had even tried?
"Yes, I can, Jen," he said dully, contradicting her. Keeping his voice controlled, he felt dark; he wished he could see her face, stare into her green eyes. "It would have been halfway decent if you'd given me a chance."
He heard her sniffling quietly.
"You forgot to call, me, Jethro," she whimpered. "Those final weeks, I needed to hear your voice. I kept trying to resist this urge, I kept – I needed you. I just wanted to hear you tell me it would be okay. And you – you never called."
That - was hard for him to hear. She was right – he remembered he'd kept forgetting, kept getting caught up in the guys, or training, or liberty, or shooting the bull with Matteson, with escaping from the pressure of being a father at eighteen, and he'd – he'd kept forgetting to call her back. But if he'd thought, for one second, she was that desperate, that on edge – he supposed he owed her an apology, because a part of him would never forgive himself for enjoying the freedom being away and at boot camp ironically gave him.
"You were just gone, Jen," he said hoarsely, closing his eyes tightly. He tipped some whiskey into his mouth, swallowing hard, thinking of Stillwater, of looking for her in the dress shop. "You were just gone."
He hit his teeth against the glass, then put it down loudly, rubbing his jaw.
"That last letter you sent, with Natalie's drawings," he said huskily. "Was it from California?"
He remembered how it had gotten lost in the mail, been sent and re-sent, and he'd wondered about it then – why hadn't his gut alerted him?
"Yes," she confessed honestly.
He bit on his lip a long time.
"I didn't deserve this," he told her tiredly.
"It's not a punishment, Jethro. It's – this is very much not about you, or anything you did."
It felt like a punishment to him. It felt like – he had never been good with describing feelings, he just knew he felt bad – and drinking had helped that. It was a damn good thing he'd already resolved to never let his Marine career be jeopardized again, because the temptation to drown this pain was strong.
"It's all about you," he told her bitterly – vicious and accusatory, but quiet.
It satisfied him when she didn't defend herself. He hoped she was still crying – he'd always hated to see Jenny cry, but now, now he felt the vindictive desire to watch her cry.
"She asked for you," Jenny ventured.
Gibbs put his hand against his ribs, wincing. It was a very physical ache, a tightness in his chest.
"Don't," he lashed out. "Don't do that – why the hell would you do that to me?" he demanded – he thought of Natalie, and how she needed her bee stings kissed. He couldn't be there.
"I'm sorry. I want you to know – she didn't forget you."
He couldn't be there to kiss her bee stings, and she didn't know why – and what would Jenny say if she asked?
"She'll think I never gave a damn about her," he said dryly – the thought disheartened him, made him hollow; to think of Natalie growing up without him, without knowing how much he loved her in spite of everything, and in spite of how scared he'd been that he was going to be a father at seventeen, was to think he'd failed.
Jenny finally spoke again, moments later.
"Where are you?"
Gibbs let her sit and wait, considering telling her to fuck off. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want her to know – didn't want to give her a reason to be glad she'd gone to sunny, fabulous California.
"Lejeune," he said finally, grudgingly. "Military Police. North Carolina."
"How long are you at Lejeune?"
"Until they PCS me, Jen, who the hell knows," he snapped – what the hell do you care, Jen? He picked up his glass, knocked it against the bottle, and then set it back down, tired. "You think you'll have this figured out by then?" he questioned, a nasty edge to his voice.
It was half a mocking question, half a desperately serious one – she'd realize this was madness, right? She'd miss him. She'd miss their life together – she'd miss the chance for them to be all alone with Natalie, away from their fathers, away from prying Stillwater eyes.
"I don't understand you," she said – and he knew her well enough to know it was because she was dreading really answering him.
"You're going to get your head on straight, find what you need?" he asked, almost quoting her letter. "What am I doing here?" he asked.
That was his million-dollar question, after all – what the hell was his role; what was he supposed to do? She held all the power – custody, the freedom to go wherever she wanted – he couldn't do that, as a Marine; he couldn't do what she could.
"Are we done?" he asked.
Agonizing seconds later, she said:
"I don't think we're together anymore, Jethro – it's not your fault," she went into her circumlocutions almost immediately. "I don't blame you – I don't think less of you – I love you, Jethro, you didn't run me off; it's so very much not your fault – I know you did everything for me – "
"It's your fault," he agreed, interrupting, harshly lashing out. He felt cold. "You should have learned to make sacrifices."
"Why did I have to make the only sacrifices? You got the military," she whined. "You got what you wanted – "
"At the expense of missing her all the time," Gibbs growled. "Every damn day. Missing her. You. Wondering what she was doing – you couldn't stick by me for that?" he demanded. "You think it's going to be any better there?"
He tried to make her nervous, tried to disparage her, but he knew with dread that it would be better for her there – she'd always come back from California happier, especially after Natalie; she'd always been drawn away from him, when she was there.
She started talking again, going on and on, and he caught the last part, her reasoning –
"…and I would rather have the memories of Stillwater, the good ones, than let what we had become tarnished and – ruined."
He sat back heavily in his chair, the phone loosely at his ear. He stared at the whiskey.
"You ruined it, Jen," he said dully.
It was true, and his words were icy; she had done this. She had – left him nowhere to go, left him powerless – if he was a crueler man, more of a hound, he might try to take her down for it, but he wouldn't really do anything to hurt Natalie's mother, and he wouldn't – really – try to take Natalie away when he was still, most of the time, half-terrified of raising a child himself.
"What about her life?" he asked, thinking of his daughter. "Natalie?" He swallowed hard. "I get a say in that?" he asked, prodding for sore spots. "What if I sued for custody?"
He stood half a chance to get Jasper on his side.
"You wouldn't get it," Jenny raged. "Never. Your life belongs to the military. You let them own you. You – you're threatening to take her from me, Jethro?"
He stood up, though no one could see him – though he had no one to lunge at, and for a scary moment he was glad she wasn't sitting in front of him, because he shoved the table in front of him forward, knocking things asunder.
"You took her!" he shouted. "You took her, Jenny! You took her!"
Why did that not seem to work both ways?
"I'm her mother. Her mother!"
"Why does everyone think that's so much more important?" Gibbs seethed. "Isn't the whole point these days that both parents should do the work?"
No one could ever accuse him of not helping with Natalie, of not loving her, of not playing with her – he'd been involved, when he could, but he had to work – and it wasn't his fault Natalie had lived with Jenny and not him, it wasn't –
"I can't do this anymore, Jethro," she said in his ear, her voice weary, broken. "Get it out of your system. Give me the worst of it. I'm…I'm sorry."
He straightened up, and his arm hung limply at his side.
"Don't apologize to me," he barked. "It's a sign of weakness."
His hands shook slightly – ironically, because of how he was feeling now, he knew he'd never take any steps to take Natalie away from Jen permanently; regardless of what was going on, this wasn't his daughter's fault, and Natalie loved both of them – and maybe Gibbs was the better person, because he'd never want Jenny to feel like he did now over Natalie.
"You can call me if you have leave," Jenny said quietly, an earnest peace offering.
"You know how unlikely that is in the first few years, Jen – if I get it, I can't afford it," he said darkly – and with the shit he'd pulled at first, he was going to be on his commanding officer's blacklist for a hot minute.
She seemed to ignore him; she seemed hollow, resigned.
"Let me know when you want to see her. I won't prevent it."
He felt disbelief. He felt –
Blindsided.
He sat down, stumbling towards the chair, finding the edge. He swallowed.
"You gonna tell me where you live, Jen?" he asked. His eyes flashed. "Where I can send this child support?" he added sarcastically – this money he was being gutted for, that his supervisor wanted him to take care of.
"I don't want the money, Gibbs."
He felt angry at that, too – another way to make him feel like he was shirking his responsibility, like he was Scott free while she was the ever suffering martyr, making all these traumatic decisions –
"You can call her. You can talk to her anytime you want."
The thing was, somehow, all these things she said – about visiting, calling – they felt like threats; they didn't feel sincere, and he sat on the edge of this chair, alone in the barracks, truly uncertain of when he'd next see his daughter.
The thought paralyzed him – he thought of how much he'd missed her while at Basic, and while at Infantry school; of how he'd always gotten through the really nitty gritty nasty parts by knowing he'd be able to see her, and to see Jen, and to relax with them when it was all over – how it all meant something, for them.
Faced with the black hole of what was going to happen, and with Natalie's tiny voice and her laughter and her little whimpers over bee stings echoing in his ears, he couldn't bear to stay on the line one minute longer.
"You know how much that kills me?" he asked, hoping it cut her to the core. "Hearing her?"
He thought he heard her cry out, but he hung up, taking satisfaction in the hard, cold slam of the phone into the cradle.
He picked up his glass; instead of taking a drink, he violently threw it across the room, listening to the shatter, breathing in the smell of sticky, drying whiskey. He sat back in his chair, leaning against the wall, feeling like he was staring nothingness and darkness in the face, wondering how he should proceed now that the deed was done, the monumental phone call executed, the talk – fight, whatever it was – had.
It all felt very overwhelming; it all felt like too much.
He'd been through such a whirlwind of emotion through the past few months – in the past goddamn year, since losing his mother, enlisting, boot camp – the stress and worry of everything, the hope that had just been snatched away from him – what made him angriest was that a tiny flicker in the back of his mind understood Jenny, and he didn't want to understand her, but hadn't he told her point blank that the Marines was what he needed to be happy, and she needed to suck it up and stand by him?
Maybe they were both too young, too, selfish, too untested, too lost.
He turned and put his head down on the table, burying his face in his arms, grabbing the nape of his neck hard and pulling on his hair – he hoped his room mate didn't come back anytime soon; he hoped no one saw him like this – the last time he'd felt this bad, the last time his eyes had hurt so much he couldn't hold back, the last time he'd – cried – he'd been at his mother's funeral, and he'd curled up far away, alone with Natalie, hiding his face in her hair and finding solace in her, instead of in the crook of his own elbow on the unforgiving surface of unaccompanied base housing.
When he met her at one of the lively piers in Surf city – a resort island not far from Camp Lejeune – Shannon was wearing a loud yellow, barely-there string bikini, a tattered baseball cap, and an over-large gauzy summer sweater as a cover-up.
She laughed at him for showing up in clothes – not just clothes, but clothes that were too warm for the beach in the last days of summer; he wore jeans, a Marine Corps t-shirt, dark sunglasses, and a permanently unreadable, maybe sullen expression. She looked tan and happy; she dragged him down to the beach, where she had her towel and her book and a small umbrella, and she made him sit in the sun with her, showing him things from her bag.
"I got this snow globe in Atlanta, at the Coca-Cola headquarters," she said, shaking it fondly. "See? The Polar bears are so cute."
She set that aside, flipping deftly through post cards. "I haven't sent any of these yet – I keep moving too much; most of them are for my mom and dad – Charleston, Raleigh, Atlanta, Savannah, Richmond, D.C. – um, ooh, the West Virginia Charleston, Columbia – hey, but I got this for you," she handed one over, beaming.
He took it – he still hadn't said much; like the bus ride, he'd just been listening to her talk. The front of the card depicted an iconic shot from Iwo Jima, and the back just had a small smiley face and her signature on it.
"It's from D.C.," she explained. "It was at some souvenir shop near the Viet Nam memorial, and also," she pulled another thing out of her bag. "This."
This time, he took something heavier from her – it was a magnet, he realized, with the Marine Corps hymn on it – every word. He smiled a little, holding the two things in each hand.
"I know it's kind of stupid," Shannon said. "But I thought it might make you smile. Or you can send them to Natalie."
He still looked at the two items, thinking he wouldn't do that – it wouldn't feel right, sending Natalie something some other woman had gotten him. He didn't want to go there, not in a million years – and beside, despite the couple of months it had been since his last conversation – fight – with Jenny…he still didn't know where he was, how he was feeling, on any of that.
"It's not stupid," he said gruffly.
He looked up, furrowing his brow – she'd said something, but he'd spoken over her.
"What?" he asked, waiting for her to repeat herself.
"I said, have you sent her anything?" Shannon asked. She licked her lips. "Natalie. A care package, or – a post card?"
He looked away, shaking his head slowly.
"Nah," he said hoarsely.
He shrugged – it wasn't her birthday, yet, it wasn't Christmas. He didn't know what to send, or what to make of this, how to establish what he wanted.
"Have you – talked to her?" Shannon ventured.
Gibbs turned and looked at her intently, his jaw tight. She bit her lip, and pushed her hair over her shoulders, tipping her hat up a little.
"I – if I'm being too – nosy," she started.
He shrugged again, and shook his head again.
"I called," he said. "Back in July."
Shannon nodded.
"Hmm," she murmured. "After your drunken binging?" she asked sharply.
He dipped his head down, a muscle in his temple twitching. He looked up at the sun, squinting, and then moved his head a little vaguely – yes, at the end of that; yes, after he'd come too close to really screwing everything up. She didn't say anything else for a long time, and he was content with that – he wasn't sure he wanted to talk –
"So what happened?" Shannon asked bluntly.
He smirked tiredly; he should have known she'd ask eventually.
He sighed harshly and rubbed his jaw.
"We broke up," he said heavily.
To his surprise, Shannon snorted. When he gave her a look, she shrugged, and gave him a slightly patronizing one.
"Well what did you think happened?" she asked, as if it were obvious.
She lifted her hand to her lips and chewed on a fingernail carefully, looking down at her bare legs for a moment. She looked out over the ocean, then sat forward, and pulled her bag closer. She reached into it, then stopped, and looked at him.
"Did she ban you from seeing Natalie?" Shannon asked.
Gibbs shrugged.
"No," he said, an edge to his voice.
He started to go on, then stopped. He grit his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and looked over at his companion.
"No," he said again, wary, "but I don't trust what she said, either," he growled tiredly.
Jen had all the legal power.
"So," Shannon said softly, "have you been talking to Natalie?"
Gibbs nodded carefully, his jaw tight. His head felt heavy – he'd called ten days ago, to say hello; Natalie had talked to him as best as she could, distracted as two-year-olds were, and in the background, he'd heard Jenny's mother, and Jenny going on about something in a muffled voice.
It was hard to talk to Natalie. It always ended up making him feel worse – if he'd been okay, not thinking about it, not analyzing it, for a few days – talking to her brought it all back, every single emotion he was trying to deal with – or not deal with. He had to force himself to reach out – and it had to be him, because Jenny sure as hell wasn't initiating.
He felt like he was being tested, and he just couldn't pass; everything was rigged against him.
"It's hard," he said quietly, his voice tight. "Hearin' her voice."
Shannon nodded. She reached over, and rubbed his arm lightly, brushing sand off of him, and providing a light touch of comfort. She hesitated, and then leaned forward, tucking her hair back again.
"I have one more thing for you," she admitted.
He groaned quietly.
"Shannon, quit buyin' me stuff," he growled. It was all cheap tourist stuff, sure, but she didn't need to be – he still didn't understand her, sometimes, why she was checking up on him, being there for him – other than Jenny, he'd never had a friend like that.
"It's not for you, per se," she said primly. She firmly slapped a packet of stationery onto his knee – not frilly, not decorative, but very neat and professional looking – lined paper with bold, Army green lines, and a commanding U.S. eagle seal in the upper corner.
Gibbs looked at it skeptically.
"What the hell's that for?" he asked grudgingly.
"I had an idea," she said cautiously. "You should write to Natalie."
Gibbs looked down at the stationery, and he shook his head a little, giving her a look.
"She can't read – not really," he said, amending halfway through. She wasn't reading like Kindergarteners or like other kids, but Natalie was smarter than most; she definitely recognized words and knew the alphabet. "She's just two."
"But she won't be two forever," Shannon said earnestly. She pushed the packet at him more insistently. "You can say whatever you want. She sent things to you at boot camp," she reminded him.
Gibbs picked up the gift hesitantly, a skeptical look on his face. He grunted, shaking his head.
"You sayin' I should tell her my side or somethin'? Bad mouth her mother?" he asked, bristling a little. "Shannon – look, 'm not sure what Jen's going to tell her, or what she's going to hear, but I'm not gonna – I can't do that – kids aren't a part of parents' bullshit – "
"Believe me, I know," Shannon broke in. "Jethro," she sighed, gnashing her teeth thoughtfully. "I'm not telling you what to say. Or what you should say. I just think it might be cathartic to write to her," she said. "Just…send her letters."
Gibbs frowned, still wary. He wasn't sure – he wasn't good with words.
"What if Jen throws 'em away?"
Shannon considered him a moment.
"Do you think she would?" she asked intently – very seriously, her eyes probing. "Deep down, do you think she would?"
He thought about it, and finally shook his head slowly; no, he didn't think Jen would throw them away – but she sure as hell might read them first, and he was willing to bet if she thought anything was remotely unfair or contrary to what she wanted the narrative to be, then she'd start throwing them away.
He knew Jen better than anyone, and yet not half so well as he'd thought.
Or maybe she was right, and since becoming parents, and how much they'd each privately changed because of it, they didn't really know each other at all, post-Natalie.
"I don't like letters much," he said darkly, heavily – thinking of the one she'd left with his father, for him to read, and to hate.
Shannon flicked up her hat again. She licked her lips, and nodded.
"It's just a thought," she said softly. She was pensively quiet, and then she hugged herself slightly, and ran her hands over her legs. "Don't come close to letting this ruin your career, okay?" she advised.
He didn't need her to tell him that twice, but he was glad she said it anyway. She sighed, chewing on her lip.
"It's such a mess," she admitted. "I'm not gonna remark on Jenny, you know, I don't know her – like I said, I just always thought she was brave," she mused to herself. "I don't know what I think now."
Gibbs looked down at the things in his lap. He snorted quietly.
"She's too brave," he said, with a strange sense of fondness – only a girl with a lot of guts would have run off on her own with a child, with no real direction at all; and simultaneously, only a girl brave enough to be that independent would be chicken enough to face up to the people she hurt in the process.
Gibbs pushed his shoulders back, rubbing one of them – he was sweating in the head, but he didn't want to go back to base – he was relieved to have her for a distraction; weekends were the quietest with nothing to do, weekends were the worst.
"Why'd you come back by here?" he asked gruffly.
She smiled at him, and lifted her shoulders, carefree.
"I wanted a final weekend at the beach, before the next leg of my journey," she said. "I wanted to see with my own eyes that you got your sense back, and you weren't soaked in gin or rum or something."
"Bourbon," he told her seriously.
"Whatever," she retorted. She bit her lip and gave him a sharp look. "You're in a bad place," she said. "I said I'd be your friend. That means checking in."
He smiled a little – he was in a bad place. He didn't know how or when he'd get out if it, if he ever would - but he didn't feel bad today.
"Where to next?" he asked her.
"Well, Mount Rushmore," she said. "Then Chicago, then the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, then Nashville and Memphis, and then I've got some more planning to do."
"You only traveling the states?" he asked.
"I'm not very interested in Europe," she said blithely. "I want to know and see my country – but I'm going to go to Canada, and Mexico, before I pick a place for college."
He nodded slowly.
"Any ideas yet?"
"Oh, I loved Virginia," she sighed. "But…I don't know, maybe I'll go back to Pennsylvania," she said. She laughed, and leaned forward, hugging her knees. "Maybe I'll look up where you are, and see if you still need a friend."
He snorted. Who knows where that could be – he could be in some hellhole with a gun slung over his shoulder; he could be dead, he could be – doing God knows what, whatever the military ordered him to do.
"You know what you're gonna study?" he asked.
"Education," she said blithely. "I want to be a teacher."
He thought she'd probably be a good teacher. She had a knack for knowing when people needed help.
"You're going to get a sunburn, Gibbs," Shannon told him. "You should have worn a hat."
"How'd you know I'm not wearing sunscreen?"
"'Cause, in Stillwater, you always had that burned, dark look to you after working on Crenshaw's farm," she said, with a small laugh. "Like, you weren't quite burned, but your skin had given up in the sun."
He gave her a slightly amused look – why did she remember that; why had she been looking? He leaned back, making sure the things she'd given him stayed in his lap.
"I know it's not until Tuesday," she said wryly, "but I also came back because I didn't want you to spend your birthday alone." When she sensed his surprise, she went on to answer his unspoken question. "I checked your military ID on that long bus ride. So, happy twentieth," she said. "Early twentieth."
He smiled a little. He didn't much care for birthdays, or celebrations, but somehow, he liked that she'd thought about that. Birthdays were always days he took off work for, back in Stillwater – his, so his gift to himself was spending the day with Jen and Natalie – and then Jen's and Natalie's, so he could spend the day with them.
This time, he'd be working; this time, they'd be far away, maybe not even thinking of him. He knew, just instinctually, that for Natalie, he must be out of sight, and out of mind; he couldn't expect a two year old to be vibrantly aware of him, and he couldn't fault her for it, either.
He felt old, but impossibly young at the same time. The only stupid teenage thing he'd ever done was get a girl pregnant, and that was by no means the norm of stupid teenage things – not these days, not in Stillwater.
He wondered what his life would be right now if they'd never had Natalie – even before the baby, they'd talked about running away together when they graduated, but now he saw how strange those talks were – even then, he'd planned on the military, she'd planned on college – would he and Jen had even lasted through her final year, if they'd never had a baby?
He didn't know. He didn't want to speculate on that – but he did know, he did feel, that Natalie hadn't destroyed their relationship, Jen's choice had – and she had a responsibility to him, she should have done what she could to – try and make this work.
She should have tried first. She should have.
He could have been spending his weekends with her and Natalie, moving into their new place, maybe playing some games in a backyard – instead of spending his weekend trying not to get too down, or feeling relieved when a girl he barely knew said she was stopping by for a visit.
"What time do you have to be on duty tomorrow?" Shannon asked.
"Six a.m.," he answered gruffly. He glanced at his watch – he probably needed to head back sometime in the early evening, just so he wasn't out too late – he'd look more like a model Marine to his commanding officer.
The guy was, understandably, watching Gibbs like a hawk.
"You want to get dinner before you go?" Shannon asked. "I can go back to my bed and breakfast and change – nothing fancy, something you can wear a T-shirt for," she suggested.
He looked at her for a moment, his expression not quite readable, and she blushed, wrinkling her nose and rubbing it.
"I just mean – casually," she said, laughing. "Not – like, we'd each pay our own checks," she said, her cheeks reddening again. "Oh my God, Gibbs, stop looking at me like that – Jesus."
"Like what?" he asked, amused at her awkwardness – he'd never seen her be awkward before; someone who'd taken such control of him without hesitation didn't seem the type to get flustered.
"Like," she began, and then turned up her nose. "I can't explain it, you just have a look," she retorted vaguely. "It's like, you're not hiding anything, but you know everything – it's intimidating, yikes," she muttered, half to herself.
He grinned again, and even laughed a little.
"I could eat," he said, shrugging – he didn't mind hanging around, and he hadn't needed clarification; he knew she meant just a casual dinner – no girl in their right mind would ask him out right now, and he was – well, feelings like the ones he'd had for Jenny didn't just – evaporate, no matter how angry she made him.
Shannon sat forward, and she started to gather up her things.
"I think I want to find some fish and chips somewhere," she said lightly, tossing her towel over her shoulder – she handed him her book to hold while she hooked her flip flops onto her feet. He handed it back to her when she gestured, and she turned to him, hugging it to her chest. She looked at him for such a long time, he finally rolled his eyes a little.
"What?" he growled.
"I'm going to write to you, send you postcards," she said quietly. She hesitated. "Like…a pen pal. So you always have something…" she trailed off a little. "If you ever feel…really – bad," she said slowly. "Just – I'm trying to say, I'd be there, if you needed a person to – talk to. I just want you to tell me if you're – "
"What?" he asked again.
"Depressed, Jethro," she said finally, her voice dully.
He started to scoff, but he stopped; he gave her a wary look. She sighed, and pushed her hair behind her ears, adjusting her cap.
"The look on your face, lately, and at the bus stop – my Uncle used to get it, okay?" she explained. "It started to never go away. And then he killed himself. He had a pretty brutal time in Viet Nam…I used to write him letters. I used to make him smile. But he killed himself anyway."
She chewed on her lip lightly.
"I just didn't like the look on your face," she confessed. "It reminded me of him. And no one saw it."
Gibbs folded his arms protectively, and shrugged a little. He tilted his head.
"'M – that's not gonna happen," he said boldly.
"People always say that," she answered sharply. "I'm just…saying," she went on. "I think you spent a lot of time being other people's rock," she said, a little edgily. "Stillwater's so…small – I know about your mom, I know people backed off Jennifer Shepard because of you – and my parents think I'm really fragile, but I'm not. I can be a rock."
He looked at her a long time. He reached up and scratched the back of his head anxiously – maybe because he didn't like her sensing how bad he was, under the surface; maybe because he appreciated the reaching out – he didn't know about her, he didn't understand her.
He half-thought she had a crush on him, because he had a baby, like all those other teenage girls who foolishly thought a man with a baby was so sexy.
"Dinner," he said, brushing off her heartfelt statement.
She narrowed her eyes at him, then smiled, and nodded, turning, pointing, and leading the way to her bed and breakfast so she could change.
"Where do you want your first post card from?" she asked brightly.
He walked beside her, hands in his pockets, and smiled a little tiredly to himself – there she went off talking again, distracting him, and he lazily thought about how he wanted to answer – because he didn't want to admit his real answer, the first thing that had come to mind – that he wanted a post card from California, and it wanted it to say she regretted it, and it was all a huge mistake.
In an off-base studio apartment with the barest of furnishings – a single Marine didn't need much – Gibbs sat on the floor leaning against his couch, using a thick, beaten up copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice as a desk as he scratched out the finishing touches of Natalie's Christmas letter.
He didn't send her letters very often…but after a lot of thought, and too many painful, difficult phone conversations – painful because he missed her, difficult because she was two, she was easily distracted, and hard to engage with without being present – he had sent one along with her birthday gift in November, and he had decided to mail one with her Christmas present, too.
It was Christmas Eve, and he knew he was late on getting the package put together and sent – but he was going to express mail it, so it would get there ASAP – before New Year's. He'd been busy with things lately – performance reviews, hearings for some new recruits who needed some sense knocked into them –and putting his name in for a promotion.
Professionally, he was back on track; after such a rough start, he'd found if he channeled everything he couldn't control – everything he couldn't handle or figure out emotionally – into dedication to the Corps, he could impress his commanding officer and set himself on the right track –
The track to sniper school, he hoped; sniper school, if he played his cards right and got lucky in a few years – there was a Sniper Academy at Quantico, but he was quietly aiming to be sent to Pendleton, in California, because then he felt he could establish a – well, he'd be close to Natalie, and maybe – he had it in his head he could get things right, then; at least do his part, regardless of Jen.
He didn't like thinking about her – he'd only spoken to her once since July, every other time Melanie Shepard had answered – and when he had spoken to her, it had been to ask, seriously, how she felt about child support, and when she'd again told him she didn't want it, he'd told her to make arrangements with Jasper so the courts wouldn't come after him, and then he'd had to have a cool, uncomfortable conversation with the Chief about it.
The Chief had been less than happy about the decision, but Gibbs didn't give a damn; Jasper could take that up with his daughter. Gibbs had plans for that monthly allotment that he didn't have any intention of sharing with his could-have-been father-in-law.
Gibbs hesitated on the last line – he never knew what to say to Natalie; he didn't know if Jenny was reading them, or tossing them, and he didn't want to ask – and he knew Natalie herself couldn't read yet, so he didn't know what level to write at. They were usually very generic – but he always ended with telling her that he loved her, and including his current phone number – or at least, he planned to do that, when it started changing a lot with permanent changes of station, and deployments.
He wrote his name, drew an insect over the 'I' in her name, and then folded up the piece of paper and slid it into an envelope. He pulled the box of Christmas goodies towards him, and tucked the letter in between a thick Jungle-themed colouring book and a new copy of Goodnight, Moon.
He paused, looking at the contents – for her birthday, he'd sent her a Cabbage Patch Kid and his dog tags, which he hoped Jen took as a subtle message – Marines used dog tags to mark their territory; since Jen didn't want them, he made sure Natalie had them.
For Christmas, he'd decided to get her another Cabbage Patch doll – apparently they were collectibles – the colouring book, the children's book, a lot of bumble bee and butterfly stickers, some of those little plastic barrettes, and a thick new hair ribbon. He'd also included a Marine Corps t-shirt, a post card from Camp Lejeune and –
Well, he was considering putting in a picture of him – it was a spare he'd gotten, from when he'd had to apply for a passport in case the Marines deployed him suddenly. It was an oddly formal picture, but he didn't want her to forget what he looked like, and he doubted Jenny had pictures of him around.
He half-wanted to fly out there and take this stuff himself, make Jenny put her money where her mouth was and see if she was really going to let him see his daughter whenever he asked, as she said – but he hadn't been able to get leave, and a flight to California was – it was so expensive, he'd be recovering for two paychecks.
A little part of him was too wary, too scared, to go out there, anyway; his skin was hardening so much it was becoming a shell – he was afraid of what he'd face, and that might make him a coward or a bastard – he didn't know, but when it really started to nettle him, and he really started to feel bad, he always just resorted to blaming it on Jen.
He pulled the spare passport photo out of his pocket and looked at it, frowning thoughtfully. He looked so stern in it – military uniform, all but the hat, and cold blue eyes. He didn't look at himself often, but for a moment he remembered his eyes and Natalie's eyes were the same – and he relished that.
Indecisive, he set it aside, and thought maybe he'd add it later – or maybe he wouldn't. He'd rather Natalie didn't have a picture of him that looked so—stoic and posed. Maybe Jenny was keeping photos out.
He checked his watch, leaning back against his couch – that was all his apartment had, really; a couch, a bare-bones kitchen, two blankets, a pillow and handfuls of stuff he'd somehow accumulated…but it wasn't real apartment, with a human touch. He just slept on the couch; he didn't really miss a bed, and the couch felt more like the boot camp bunks he'd gotten so used to.
He stretched out to a small table beside the couch, and he grabbed the phone, pulling it towards him. He untangled the cord, and dialed a number he knew by heart – the post office would be closed tomorrow, and he'd take the package the next day, but he'd already decided to call tonight and on the actual holiday, just to make a point.
He'd waited until it was well after dinner in California, so no one would have an excuse not to answer the phone.
It rang a couple of times, and then, to his surprise – it wasn't Melanie who answered, and usually, it was. Gibbs had a sneaking suspicion that Jenny always made Melanie answer the phone, just in case it was him.
"Hello?" Jenny said quietly.
Gibbs blinked, taken aback. He cleared his throat gruffly.
"It's me," he said, his voice a little dull.
"Oh," she said softly. He heard some shuffling around, and the crinkling of paper. "Hi, Jethro," she said.
That surprised him, too, because usually just went to hand the phone straight to Natalie.
"Hi," he answered finally. The pleasantry felt so absurd and out of place that he grimaced; he felt like he'd given her some ground or something.
"Natalie," Jenny started cautiously, "is in bed."
He snorted.
"It's not even eight there, Jen," he said, an edge to his voice – if she was going to start not giving his child the phone –
"I know," she placated. "We went ice skating today. She fell asleep during The Year Without a Santa Claus," she explained.
He lowered the phone from his face for a moment and held it against his shoulder – he'd been waiting to call her all day. He took a deep breath, and put the phone back to his ear.
"Can you wake her up?" he asked.
"I am not waking her up."
"I won't talk to her long," he bargained. "She'll go right back – "
"It's a miracle she's asleep now, Jethro, do you know how hard it is to get a three-year-old to sleep on Christmas Eve?"
He shrugged to himself.
"No," he answered coldly. "How would I?"
She sighed.
"You can call her tomorrow," she suggested.
"I am callin' her tomorrow," he retorted seriously. "I want to talk to 'er, Jen, I waited to call 'cause you always ignore the phone during dinner, even when you know damn well –"
"That's absurd, Jethro, I don't ignore you on purpose – it's not like the phone tells you who's calling – "
"I called right before bedtime, I know when her bedtime is – "
"You know what, fine, I'll go wake her up – I'll go wake up a sleeping toddler so you can prove yourself to her – "
"Goddamnit, Jen, it's Christmas Eve, I just want to talk to my kid before I go to bed wonderin' why I'm puttin' her presents in a box instead of under her tree."
He waited for the heavy sigh that would come from her, and she didn't disappoint. She was quiet, and then he heard shuffling again – a door opening, a whispered word –
"I'm fine, Mom."
- and then soft murmurs.
"Who is it? Is it Santa?"
Gibbs held the phone closer to his ear, and he heard a groggy, thick little voice.
"Santa?"
He smiled to himself, biting the inside of his cheek a moment.
"Nah, no luck, Bug," he said gently. "It's Daddy."
She made a sleepy noise; it sounded like she was yawning.
"Oh, hi, Daddy," she said conversationally, her voice still sluggish. "I was sleeping," she informed him sweetly.
"I know; I'm sorry," he said seriously. "I couldn't go to sleep without talking to you," he confessed simply.
"Daddy need lullaby?" she asked considerately.
He smirked.
"You want to sing to me?"
"Yes," she yawned.
"What are you going to sing?" he asked.
"Hmm," she murmured into the phone, her voice faraway, but somehow close, at the same time. "Issy-bissy- spider," she suggested.
He nodded to himself, swallowing hard.
"I like that song," he told her.
She mumbled something incoherently, and he heard her take a deep breath.
"The – issy-bissy spyyyyder climbed – up, the water – pout," she began seriously, stumbling sleepily through the song as she recalled the words.
Gibbs swallowed hard, listening to her sing. He wished he could be sitting there next to her, reading her a book, or kissing her forehead before he left the room, tucking her in; but this was all he had, and this had to do—and now he felt bad; she sounded so sleepy, that a surge of guilt struck him for bullying Jenny into waking her up just so he could feel – less alone.
"Daddy?" she piped up.
"Hmm?" he asked.
"I forgot words," she confessed. "Daddy, Santa comes if I sleep," she told him.
"I know," he agreed. "Hey, I'm sending you some things, too," he told her. "They'll be a little late – I missed Santa, when he stopped by to pick them up," he said seriously. "I was workin'. But I'm gonna send 'em on my own. Got you some little treats."
She laughed – he imagined her wrinkling up her nose, furrowing her small brow.
"I didn't forget about you," he promised. "I won't. Ever."
"Thank you," she said sweetly. He heard her yawn again, and he felt like she was waking up more – that was probably a nightmare for Jenny, but he didn't particularly care. "Where are you?" she said suddenly.
"I'm," he began. "I'm still in North Carolina," he said hoarsely. "With the Marines. Semper Fi, remember?"
"Memmer Fi," she agreed childishly. "Daddy, I'm sleepy," she said.
"It's okay," he told her. "You can go back to sleep. You can put the phone right next to your ear until you're back asleep. Pretend I'm kissing you goodnight, like I used to, okay?" he suggested tensely.
He clenched his teeth – God, he missed her so much.
"Okay," she agreed. "Night-night, Da Da," she said.
"Night-night, Bug," he answered.
He heard her shuffle around, and then a small, sleepy whine –
"No – NO, Mommy, he stay 'til I go to sleep."
-and he smiled, imagining Jen standing there, her arms folded, doomed to waiting until Natalie was back breathing evenly to return to whatever she'd been doing.
Apparently, it didn't take long.
"She knocked right out again," Jenny said quietly, clearly sneaking out of the room. "Which means she'll be up at five a.m."
Gibbs looked down at his hands, not saying anything. He resented Jenny for not answering, for avoiding him like the plague, but he also hated talking to her; he always felt the unbearable urge to start yelling at her again, to start demanding she get her ass back to where she was supposed to be, but it was futile – and the thought of fighting her was exhausting, when he knew he'd lose.
Talking to her always made him feel…inadequate. She made him feel that way – he thought it was genuinely unintentional on her part, but she had to know, on some level, that taking Natalie away like this – choosing to live like this – had to have made him question every confidence he'd had in himself as a father and provider.
"Jethro?" she asked nervously, bothered by his silence. "I don't – I don't want to just hang up on you," she said warily. "Are you there?"
"I'm here," he answered heavily.
There was – so much he wanted to say, so much he could say – and maybe not all of it was bad, maybe because of the holiday, in particular, he really wanted to just plead with her, beg with her, make her commit to at least trying it – maybe if he forced her to envision a world where someone had taken Natalie from her, she'd understand.
But he couldn't find the words; he was too proud to find the words. He just closed his eyes and rubbed his head hard, trying to scrub out the dark feelings, and trying to pound out the aching and the emotions.
Tomorrow he'd get up and go to work and spend a week or maybe two forgetting all this, until it was time to work up the stoicism and the courage to call again, and talk to Natalie – it was such a vicious cycle, recovering from how hard it was to talk to her, spending several weeks in a bliss of work-induced exhaustion and detachment, and then talking to her and spending days trying to resist doing something ultimately self-destructive.
He took a deep, slow breath.
"Jethro, I want to – well," she broke off. She sighed. "Merry Christmas," she said feebly, though he did sense she meant it.
It just – for some reason, the sentiment just pissed him off; how could she dare wish him a happy holiday, when she had to know it was going to be anything but – how was he supposed to have a Merry Christmas, when he was taking a holiday shift no one else wanted because they all had families to be there for.
He clutched the phone tightly in his hand, hitting his teeth together hard—he just, in that moment, wanted to make her feel as bad as he did, because she made him feel weak, and he didn't like that; he'd always been the strong one, the one made of steel.
"Go to hell, Jen," he answered shortly.
The moment he hung up, he felt bad about it—somewhere, deep down on some hidden level, he acknowledge again and again that Jenny wasn't being malicious or spiteful, she wasn't reveling in his pain or misery, she had genuinely done what she thought she needed to – she was genuinely trying to save herself from despair, and while that was selfish in some respects, he also could be grudgingly aware of the fact that she'd never been a good mother if she was unhappy all the time – it was a miracle his own mother had been such a saint, what with how less than satisfied she was.
But Jenny and Ann weren't the same woman; they hadn't been raised the same kind of way – and there might be something to Jenny's claim that while Ann had been alive, she'd held them all together, but once she was gone – Jenny lost the one person who was driving her to be that kind of old-fashioned, mouth-shut, do-your-duty woman.
It was all so…confused; it was all such a mess.
Gibbs put the phone down heavily and shoved it away, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard his vision blackened. He wanted a drink, but he didn't have anything in the apartment – good; he was keeping it at arm's length, just in case. He thought – his commanding officer had made a comment last week about him going out and finding some uniform-chasing girl to get him over this 'flighty broad' as he called Jenny – but even when the thought, or the desire, flared, Gibbs hesitated; he refrained.
He'd only ever been with Jenny, and when you were with the same girl from fifteen to nineteen, the thought of seeking other women was terrifying – he didn't know what to do with them, how to be with them – everything about meeting Jenny, and knowing Jenny, and dating someone in Stillwater, even, was different.
He'd never thought of himself as a needy person, but then, now when he thought back on it, he'd always had Jenny – but he'd always thought she needed him, and perhaps in a roundabout way, he was needy in that way – he liked being there for someone, he liked being someone's rock, or someone's – something; he'd liked how his mother always needed him to cheer her up – he liked – Gibbs liked being useful.
He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, uncertain if he could sleep – he hadn't done anything all day, nothing to make him tired enough to shut off his brain – nothing that would chase away his mood or make him able to just – hit the hay, no screaming memories or ruminations.
With that dull realization thrumming in his mind, he reached for the phone again – and his fingers hesitated on the dial.
For a strange moment, he thought about calling his father.
But his brow darkened; that would only lead to more fighting – hell, he'd talked to his father once since he'd left Stillwater, and somehow Jackson had seemed to blame Gibbs for this – somehow, Jackson always made everything Gibbs fault.
His fingers stumbled hesitantly – he knew the number she'd given him last time, but he wasn't sure if she'd moved on since then, if she'd decided to do Christmas in New York City or if she had actually gone home to see her parents –
"Hello?"
His shoulders sagged, and he felt a small rush of relief – if nothing else, maybe she could talk about something innocuous and uninteresting to him, and that way he could focus on it without caring, and try to turn his brain off.
"Shannon," he greeted gruffly.
"Evenin', Jarhead," she answered smoothly. "Did you know if you knock a sailor's cover off, he has to kiss you? Because I got quite the surprise when I accidentally did so in the subway," she told him, right off the bat. "How are we tonight, Gibbs?" she asked.
Her voice was wry, intent – she knew it was a holiday; she knew, not because he'd told her, but because she'd sensed from how dull and heavy his voice was a few phone calls ago, how badly the holidays could affect him.
"Not good," he admitted gruffly.
He closed his eyes, and rubbed his temple hard again – it wasn't depression that affected him, not really – not like Shannon thought, not like she was afraid of. He knew – he'd been evaluated, at his superior's request, by a doctor – and they'd cleared him, said he didn't have the right symptoms – but despite the fact that he knew he could cope if he tried harder, and once he got better direction going – once he got into a harder MOS – this funk he was in felt pretty damn close, sometimes.
Shannon started to talk about something, true to her word, and he let his head fall back against the couch again, listening without really listening – this year was almost over; a week and this year would be over, and he could put it behind him – in September, his mother had been dead a year, and there was a time when he'd thought nothing would ever rival that pain, though his time in the Marines had helped him heal and recover, knowing he was leaving Stillwater with Jenny and Natalie soon – he thought if he could get through the end of this year, he could just start a new one – because if anything, the past six months had proved he didn't have a damn clue what was going to happen in his life, and nineteen eighty-eight had the potential to be – well, he didn't know what, but he could get his head on straight, and he could figure out what he was going to do.
"She said she loved me
but she had somewhere to go."
-The Killers; Jenny Was a Friend of Mine
-feedback appreciated ! :)
-alexandra
story #267
