a/n: a little something that came to me as i walked across campus. i really love the ending, but pardon me if it seems a little unclear.
He woke up disoriented sometimes.
If he had ever bothered to seek professional help, someone might have told him that the suspended moment of total confusion he occasionally experienced in the mornings, or when startled awake, was a natural remnant of the trauma and the loss he'd suffered.
These confused dawns were less frequent now—more often than not, he opened his eyes to the full, hollow knowledge that he had lost them years ago, and that was a fact of life he could never change—but sometimes, if he had been drinking—he woke up disoriented...
He'd wake—to find someone in bed with him, or the smell of coffee in the house—and he'd crash into the memory that it couldn't be Shannon, and he'd struggle violently to remember which one it was—he married so many women, involved himself with so many women, in the endless search for respite—that the disorientation made it difficult to remember—
-and he always preferred to risk calling her—whichever one it was—Shannon, rather than mix up the living names—and he knew, immediately, if he hadn't realized before he spoke, which woman it was based on her reaction to being called his first wife's name—
His first wife—she would shake him, and tell him he was half-asleep—you're dreaming (and he hated her for it, hated being reminded that Shannon would only ever be a dream)—
Diane, she used to leave—storm out, loudly or quietly, depending on how rough their marriage was at the moment—she never said anything, she'd just storm out, and slam doors, and confront him later—
Stephanie—she used to stroke his hair, coddle him, and that was infuriating, too, because he hated the pity, and he hated all of her emotional outpourings and the wildness with which she expressed her plethora of feelings—
...this morning it was lipstick stains on his pillow when he woke up, and his head was pounding, and he vaguely remembered some bitch of a case—and when he scratched his neck, there was lipstick smeared on his fingertips—and he experienced that disorientation, confused, unsure of who he was with for a split second—
-she tumbled back into bed, half-asleep herself.
"Shannon?" he mumbled gruffly, his face turned into the pillow, blinking at her hazily.
She turned onto her back comfortably, her hand falling against his chest softly.
"It's Jen," she murmured huskily.
Jenny—she was the one who always just…corrected him, and never said anything else—even before she knew the story.
He ran his hand over the lipstick stain and rolled closer to her, pressing his face into her collar. Her fingers laced into his hair automatically, and she breathed in heavily, sighing. He furrowed his brow, his head still pounding, and he tried to remember if they were in Paris, or if she was the Director—
-and in the back of his mind, he reminded himself with a heavy heart, that no matter which one it was, no matter how the she of the moment reacted to the vague, gruff—"Shannon?"—in the early moments of the morning—
-it was never what he so desperately wanted to her: she never said,
"Yes, Jethro?"
):
I'll just never stop being sad over Shannon/Gibbs.
-alexandra
story #165