Series: - No Series - #1
Chapters: 001 Word Count: 389
Character(s): Jethro Gibbs
Category(ies): Angst/Drama, Character Study, Episode Related
Pairing(s): - No Pairing -
Episode(s): 3-24 Hiatus (2)
Summary: There isn't enough to do.
Author Notes: Don't we all have to write season tags? Betaed by rebecca, as per usual.
hi·a·tus: A gap or interruption in space, time, or continuity; a break.
The breeze comes from the ocean this time of night. It's a sigh of cool relief over Gibbs' skin. The sand is still warm from the day's sun, and the contrast between the heat at his back and the air on his front makes him shiver.
There are no lights here. Franks doesn't run his generator much, and turns off everything around eight. It could be as late as nine--Gibbs has stopped wearing a watch. He wakes up at 0500 every morning, anyway. There's a slight glow on the horizon from the cantina, but it's not enough to erase the stars.
Not like in San Diego.
Gibbs squints his eyes to stop the welling. It was over fifteen years ago--no matter if he has large gaps in his memory, no matter if it feels like he just got out of the hospital the first time--fifteen years. He's moved on, in body if not entirely in spirit.
The tide is coming in, a final burst of sound, loud in the dark. Gibbs isn't used to this rhythm yet. He's been away too long, too used to late nights and early mornings and far too much caffeine. The rhythm of a city, of work--it has nothing to do with this, wind and sand and water, all sun-warmed.
There isn't enough to do. Gibbs is building a small cabin just down the beach from Franks, but neither of them is pushing it. They fish. They cook the fish. They drink beer and don't say anything.
Rosa comes by weekly, delivering mail, beer, coffee and cigarettes. Franks leers at her and she smiles at Gibbs. There's a promise in those eyes, but Gibbs doesn't rise to it, not even when Franks ribs him.
It's too soon.
Franks walks to the cantina, alone, sometimes. Gibbs doesn't. He doesn't want news. He doesn't want contact.
He can barely handle the fish and the beer.
So he either sits or lies on the sand, watching the waves or the stars, and listens for Franks' skittering steps on the pebbled path, a quiet curse, or the hiss of ash in a leftover puddle or tide pool.
And Gibbs doesn't think. He turns his will to not thinking, and he's mostly successful. He's got fifteen years to erase; it won't be easy.
Maybe he'll start building a boat.