a/n: "The only woman you ever loved was Shannon."
1982: One; Shannon
The day he married Shannon Fielding, the old cliché rang true: it was, and remained, the happiest day of his life.
It was a traditional affair with little pomp and circumstance; they were too freshly started in life to afford anything more than the simplest of three-tiered cakes and the most modest of perfectly arranged flowers—sunflowers and violets, because they were her favorites.
They had poured their meager savings into a place to live and a honeymoon and thus sacrificed any gaudiness in their ceremony. Her mother bought her dress and she wore it with grace, her hair down, curled, and clipped back from her face with a pearl-encrusted comb that had belonged to his grandmother.
She looked beautiful, he remembered.
He hadn't thought for a second the day was stressful or boring; he had looked forward to it eagerly. He had hung on her words as she said the vows, and gruffly stumbled through his, his eyes unwavering on hers the entire time he spoke. He was promising his life to her, the entirety of his being, and he didn't want that moment ruined by a blink.
His hand shook when he slipped the wedding band onto her finger and she laced her fingers into his, gripping tightly. There was no anxiety in her when she returned the favor, but she bit her lip and her cheeks flushed happily.
She tilted her head up and smiled, her tongue held lightly between her teeth in that way he loved so much, and still saw in his dreams.
He had thought, in the months leading up to it, that he would make a fool of himself at the church—he wasn't really cut out for formal functions or uptight engagements—but it was Shannon who messed it up, and did it so innocently, he wouldn't have wanted any other way.
She reached up to touch his neck, her fingers slipping into the collar of his military dress blues, and he held her wrists, listening to the priest cement their vows, and she tilted her head, pursing her lips. She turned to the Father; her brow furrowed, and didn't seem to notice he wasn't done.
"Can I kiss him now?" she asked.
Startled, the man's eyes widened at her, and Gibbs had laughed when he heard her mother give a scandalized gasp from the front row. But the priest smiled, and dipped his head in approval.
She smiled radiantly, and pulled his mouth down to hers, and when the minister announced them as Mr. and Mrs. Leroy Jethro Gibbs, the words rang in his ears forever, long after the taste of her kiss faded and the feel of her in bed next to him became harder and harder to recall.
It was the only memory he had of her that was untainted, and brought him peace when he thought of it.