Title: Milk and Cookies
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Gibbs' backstory.
Summary: He dreams of his family under the full moon.
Author's Note: I have no idea why this has come to me now. Be warned, this isn't exactly a happy fic! XD
"Kelly."
His daughter is wearing a white sundress with orange barrettes and sandals, summery despite the season. She looks up from her Strawberry Shortcake doll and smiles. "Hey, Daddy. Wanna join our picnic?"
A sense of peace falls over him as he sits opposite her on the blanket. The backyard is dark, but the moon overhead is full, casting a silvery glow that's just enough to see by. Settling her doll back into her lap, Kelly picks up her plastic teapot and pours a dark liquid into the jar in front of him, then carefully does the same to Shannon's favourite mug and her own pink beaker. He can't see what she's serving, but chocolate milk seems the most likely bet.
"Where's your mom?" he asks her, casting an uneasy look at the vacant spot where the mug rests.
Kelly shrugs. "She went to fetch groceries. She said we could start the picnic without her, though. Do you want a cookie?"
Gibbs takes the morsel she offers and bites into it, discovering that instead of sweet crumbs, his mouth is filled with burnt meat. Almost choking at the taste, he swallows it, picking up the drink Kelly has poured for him and attempting to wash away the taste.
A syrupy, metallic flavour spreads across his tongue and flows down his throat, and he gags as his mind places the flavour: blood, still warm, slightly clotted. The 'cookie' and 'milk' spew onto the grass as he vomits violently, gasping and spitting to try to nullify the taste. "Kel, what the-?"
A flickering glow catches his eye, and he looks up. His daughter is gone, leaving her doll aflame in the grass. Where Shannon's mug once sat is a picnic basket, and his nausea mingles with dread as his arm reaches out, independent of his wishes, to open it.
The wicker smoulders under his fingertips, and the smell of burning hair gusts past on the breeze. The basket lid falls to one side, and the moonlight intensifies to highlight the slack, dead features of his wife, her red locks tangled under his fingers, her eyes staring sightlessly out at him-
"Jethro!"
"Daddy!"
The helpless cries of his wife and daughter ringing in his ears, Gibbs startles into consciousness, his limbs twisted in the blankets. He fights free of the perceived restraints and rolls out of bed, lunging for the bathroom just in time to throw up the bourbon and potato chips that made up the evening's dinner. Once his stomach has rejected everything, his breathing and heart rate slowly begin to calm, and he splashes cool water on his face, trying to banish the residues of horror the dream has left him with.
The full moon shines through the bathroom window, and he turns his back on it, wearily heading downstairs into his basement. Sawdust and varnish will see him through the night.