Gibson sat in his office and watched the world go by, waiting for it to turn red at some moment that might be meaningful to him, but never was. It was all just colorless noise in a grey world. He was bored. And when he wasn’t bored, or when something had caught his eye, the words wouldn’t come, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He hadn’t been able to figure out how to write anything since before Pearl Harbor, before it ever began to become a war, because there was no one who really knew what he was doing except for his father, but he wasn’t going to tell him so much as the barest idea of how to get off this boat and get back home to DC, to his apartment where he felt safe, and even though he wasn’t supposed to say such things, he wondered if the man still thought about him every day. Every time Gibson thought of Mr. Kaplan, he thought of what would have happened if they could both have made it back home, but Mr. Kaplan had died a few weeks after Gibson went missing. He could
Gibson way under the trees beside his big office building at NCIS and staring off into space as he waited for the traffic lights to change. Gibbs never thought he could find such peace in the middle of a busy city but somehow here he is with an entire neighborhood of buildings that have been built to look like they are on some sort of island instead of being built right out of the ground and the surrounding forest. It's nice in a weird way though since it keeps him from thinking about the problems he has to face everyday. The lights turn green and he moves forward to go home where he can sleep through a long day but something stops him. He knows this stoplight isn't there on purpose; it's not designed to make sure you know how to get there if anything were wrong with the way you got there. It's just meant to show the correct direction so that if something goes horribly wrong, you'll know to get back out. Yet here he stands staring off into space while waiting to get to the crosswalk.
When Gibson sat down at the table next to his brother and sister, he was exhausted. The early autumnal chill of a late November morning had settled over them as they were waiting for him at their local cafe. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around them as though he expected to see someone else there. It was their fourth year in university, and it was already their fifth meeting with him in the last month. His sisters would get used to it eventually, but Gibson could tell this visit wouldn’t go smoothly for either of them. They hadn't heard from him since their last Christmas at home when their mother had called them in and said that their father wasn't doing well. That evening they'd stayed up with her until after midnight talking about what she wanted for Christmas - a new sofa or a new computer - and how things had been going at work, and then they fell asleep on their beds. And now, five weeks later, he still hadn't contacted any of them. They hadn't been abl
Gibson’s office place was looking like a mess when he stepped through the door at 5am. He had gotten a late start and hadn't yet cleaned up from his shift last night. It didn't look like he'd made much of a dent in the papers on his desk anyway. He glanced around at the half empty glass that had once contained Scotch, now sitting cold and empty, with a few stray droplets of amber liquid clinging to its rim. There were a few crumpled pieces of paper that he could see, but not what was underneath them. After tossing his coat into one of the two empty chairs next to his desk, he walked over to where it hung up to grab his keys before turning off his computer and heading for the front door again. His car was parked just outside in the street and he would have time for a quick shower before work started. He turned his key in the lock and opened the door. His phone buzzed as he crossed the threshold, startling him enough to stop dead in his tracks. Gibson pulled his phone out of his po
Gibson couldn’t connect the dots as the manager of his company stood in front of him, a man in his late twenties whose grey hair was streaked with silver and who wore a suit and a tie that were both too tight around his face to be comfortable. The fact he didn’t look at all familiar to Gibbs didn’t help matters, but he would have recognized the look on the man’s face if he had seen it before. Gibbs frowned at the young, attractive man in front of him and said “Mr… what did you say your name was again?” The man blinked at him owlishly before answering, “Dr. Ziva David, Mr. Gibbs. I am an assistant professor at the University of California here in Los Angeles. Your associate hired me to evaluate the health of your company and its employees for the foreseeable future.” He paused, as if waiting for some kind of reaction from his employer, before saying, “He informed me that you were also looking for someone to take care of your children. We are going to go over the procedures he prepare
“I’m not happy about all this,” Gibson said to his coworkers as they all sat together in the break room at work, drinking coffee and discussing the new project coming up that would take them off of lunch for the next week. “But it could be worse. I mean, you guys know me well enough to know that I don’t have a good attitude when I’ve been assigned to an especially stressful case, and we really do need this new client on our side right now.” He nodded to himself, looking more than a little pleased with himself. Gibson was a man of many talents. The way he thought through things was unmatched amongst their group of lawyers, and no one else had ever shown quite the ability to read people the way he did. That made him an ideal choice for the team of three lawyers tasked with finding out exactly what the hell happened at the bank, and if there were any witnesses who might be willing to testify against the alleged murderer, or at least give some indication of where they could be found. ‘We
Gibson’s mum was waiting for him at his doorstep as he returned from his work place. She didn’t look all that happy. “How many times have I told you to get a mobile phone before work? And how much are these hours you're going to make me pay for the phone when you go on your own again?” she scolded him. Her voice was stern and it sent chills up his spine. “You should be home by now, young man, not out playing with those boys again! They aren't going to do anything good if they don't have proper supervision!" she lectured. He felt guilty about ditching his friends earlier that day after school to come and fetch him, but they had insisted he had to help them study for a biology test coming up soon, and he couldn't back down. It would look bad on him to say no to them, considering what a great bunch of friends they were. So he'd said yes despite feeling like a hypocrite, thinking deep in his heart, "If I'm not there to protect them, then maybe it's time to step up." That's when he decide
As Gibson sat in his office, his thoughts returned to how he got into this position in the first place. It had started with a simple question, as most of his jobs did, “Do you have any books about a character named John Smith?” And as if that weren’t enough, a series of small encounters followed by one really long one and a very awkward one at the end led to him being offered a job here. He had turned it down, he wanted nothing to do with it. But now, sitting behind this desk, looking at the stacks of paper that covered his walls, he couldn’t turn it down again. He needed this gig. A chance to make some money. And who better to work for than his own favorite character. The storyteller John Smith who, according to all the papers, was fictional. He knew this, but still it didn't stop him from writing. He had already written the first draft and it had been rejected, so what else would he have left to write? He wasn’t allowed back at university yet, which is why he worked here instead o