Fic: A man walked into a bar (Pre-series)
TITLE: A Man walked into a Bar
AUTHOR: Chauncey10 aka MSCSIFANGSR
FANDOM/SHIP: NCIS/Gibbs/Abby
RATING: PG-13
A/N: This story was written for Jo/ driftingatdusk for the 2011 GAFicathon. She wanted 'Maybe AU pre-NCIS with Abby and Gibbs having a history or something with the prompt 'fairytales don't always have a happy ending, or do they?', a kiss (at least ;)) And wouldn't like: Character death, Gibbs/other, Abby/other. Hope this fulfills your requests...
DISCLAIMER: I started writing this story before the episode of that name and as you can tell, it bears no resemblance whatsoever to 8x14. I don't own NCIS nor do I own the songs quoted in this story. Cross-posted on FanFiction.
BETAS: csigeekfan and jellybeanchichi . Without their services this story would probably be unreadable.
August 1997, 14:27 CST, New Orleans, Louisiana
Jethro Gibbs ducked into the dark bar to avoid the abrupt and forceful downpour.
Only moments before, he had been strolling down Bourbon Street, checking out the sights and sounds while the hot afternoon sun beat down on his head. Then the rains came down and he was completely soaked to the bone in a matter of seconds. Late afternoon thunder storms were prevalent in the high humidity climate of south Louisiana.
“I get knocked down and I get up again,” blared from an unbalanced speaker somewhere overhead. The high volume of the music was much too loud for Jethro's tastes.
He quickly shook off the excess rain water from his clothing as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit bar. He sniffed the air of the room, expecting the usual smells associated with bars: stale beer and cigarette smoke and probably the strong scent of urine, but was surprised by the clean, almost floral odor.
Jethro scanned the room and found himself utterly alone. He stood and accessed his surroundings.
The place passed as 'quaint' by the day's standards. It was shabby chic with tables adorned with a variety of hodgepodge materials, the chairs at the tables matched the stools at the bar, the bar was long, clean and had two long brass hand and foot rails for support of highly inebriated customers. There was a small darkened stage with various disconnected speakers and microphones stands were scattered about the area. This was the only section the bar that appeared disorganized.
He thought the lyrics to the song weren't too bad as he listened to the beat and to the words:
He drinks a whiskey drink;
He drinks a vodka drink;
He drinks a lager drink;
He drinks a cider drink.
He sings the songs that remind him of the good times.
He sings the songs that remind him of the better times.
And he could definitely use a drink after questioning and arrest of a Marine who had gone absent without leave from Parris Island, South Carolina.
The young man's commanding officer had reported the recruit AWOL with various government issued weapons. Jethro had traced the Marine from Parris Island through Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi, finally to New Orleans, where the man had been taken into custody and arrested.
Upon questioning, the 18 year old had confessed to the charge of AWOL because he thought the rigors of Marine life were too much for him and he'd sold his training weapons to a man who turned out to be a weapons dealer out of Israel for close to a thousand dollars.
Jethro really hated when a supposedly simple assignment turned into an international disaster.
The weapons dealer had connections from Libya to Pakistan and was wanted by Interpol, Scotland Yard, and the CIA for questioning. The young man had given specific details about the whereabouts of the dealer and after dumping the information into Mike Frank's capable hands, Jethro really thought he deserved a drink after all his hard work.
“Hello?” He shouted over the din of noise from jukebox. No one responded. He scanned the room for signs of life. The front door had been unlocked; all the lights were on, even the 'Jax' beer and New Orleans Saints neon signs that decorated the walls around the room. The only light that wasn't on was the one over the pool table.
He shrugged off the slight feeling of unease that flitted through his body. He really wanted a shot of bourbon and if there was no bartender, then he'd have serve himself.
He stepped up onto the foot rail and leaned over the bar. As his hand claimed the fifth of Jim Beam, the room suddenly exploded into an eerie silence and a loud clicking sound that Jethro recognized as the cocking of a shotgun. Then he dropped the bottle, watching as it shattered against the concrete floor.
“Step away from the bar, Mister or I will shoot you where you stand,” insisted the commanding tone of a woman.
Jethro automatically lifted his hands into the air and sighed as he wistfully eyed the caramel colored bourbon pooling on the floor in the midst of the broken glass. He signed the phrase: “I come in peace and I didn't bring any artillery” with his fingers. He held his position with his hands up in the air, facing away from his captor. He could see the outline of a tall, slim female standing in the doorway of the women's restroom through the mirror behind the bar.
“How do I know you're not packing?” She asked suspiciously, with a slight grin. She'd understood the ASL gestures, but she wasn't sure she wanted to give away that secret just yet.
Just as suddenly as his earlier feeling of unease had alerted him to possible danger, another gut reaction told him that everything was okay and the tension in the air immediately evaporated.
Gibbs smiled, “You could always strip search me.”
Their eyes met in the mirror; a collision of blue and green.
“You owe me twenty bucks for that fifth you just broke.”
“Twenty bucks? Geez, you were the one who made me break it.”
“Technical details.” She lowered the shotgun and made her way to the man with slightly graying hair. He had a very nice butt, she thought to herself. “You can let your arms down, since you don't have any artillery.”
He turned toward her and smiled when he realized she had understood him. That was a plus in his eyes in a woman. He liked the simplicity of sign language and it had saved his life on several occasions. Jethro took in her appearance and it surprised him, not because of her tight short miniskirt or black six inch heels, or the jet black hair, but because she was so young.
She extended her hand to him, “Abby Sciuto. I'm the bartender here.”
He took her hand, turned her palm up and lifted it to his lips. With a tenderness he rarely felt even with his latest ex-wife, he kissed her palm and let his mouth linger there for several moments longer than was necessary.
Abby's heart stopped with his intimate gesture. The echos of the kiss reverberated through every nerve in her body. It was so sensual. For even though she was young in age, she appreciated the gesture and was almost embarrassed by the way her body was so effected by the gorgeous blue eyed man.
“Jethro Gibbs.”
“Jethro? Like Jethro Bodine of “Beverly Hillbillies' fame?” She challenged.
“Not quite, I don't eat like him,” Gibbs laughed.
“I hope you're smarter than him,” she arched her perfectly drawn eyebrows.
“I would hope so, too,” he smirked. “You can call me Gibbs.”
“Gibbs, it is.” She smiled, still reeling from the sensuality and intimacy of the kiss. She backed away from him as though he was a blazing fire.
She walked toward the jukebox and without her knowledge Gibbs was staring at her backside with a deep male appreciation. She bent down to plug the jukebox back in after she'd unplugged it when she wanted to get the attention what she thought was a thief. It lit up as she adjusted the volume to a lower setting. A soft ballad began playing.
Abby then made her way behind the bar as Gibbs took a seat on one of the barstools.
“What can I getcha?” Abby asked as she donned an apron as if nothing had happened between the two of them in the past few minutes. She gently stepped over the spilled bourbon, carefully avoiding the broken glass of the bottle.
“Bourbon, no ice.”
“Sorry, we're out of Jim Beam right now. Can I interest you in anything else?” She deadpanned.
“Bourbon, no ice.”
She quickly poured him a liberal double shot of Maker's Mark into an old fashioned glass. She watched as he downed it immediately then she poured him another upon his gesture.
Gibbs sat in silence as he slowly sipped the bourbon, almost as if he were savoring it.
Abby decided to clean up the mess of the shattered bottle. She made her way to the back room and then returned with a mop bucket with a wooden handled mop sticking out at an odd angle.
She managed cleaning the spill and glass without complaint and with an efficiency that would have made any drill sergeant green with envy. Except for the part about her pert little butt that wiggled just right underneath that impossibly short skirt.
Jethro had finished his second shot by the time she cleaned up the mess and returned the mop to its place in the back room.
“You want another?”
“Naw, But I'm enjoying the view.”
“Slow down there big boy. I'm 16. Jail bait and all that kinda stuff.”
“Whatcha doing working as a bartender if you're 16?” He eyed her incredulously.
“This is New Orleans, in case you didn't notice. Nobody cares. You're not from around here are you?”
“No, I'm here on a case,” he didn't elaborate anymore and the silence was comfortable as she worked straightening the bottles labels facing out that lined the mirrored backdrop. After several minutes, he continued, “I work for Naval Investigation Services.”
“Cool. So....okay, I guess I'll tell you the truth: my uncle owns this place and he went fishing up on the Pearl River with some of his buddies and since they're usually the only customers here, he thought it'd be safe if I ran the place while they were gone. He paid me a hundred bucks to do it and clean up around this pigsty.”
“You in high school?”
“No, I graduated early and I'm a junior at LSU. Fall classes start week after next. I'm majoring in anthropology and...”
“Impressive,” he cut her off.
“But you're not interested, are you?” She quirked her eyebrows at him.
“In that, not particularly.”
She smiled at him and it made his heart melt. Here he was a forty-something year old man, considering, honestly considering taking this child back to his hotel room and showing her exactly how interested he was in her. He decided the least he could do with be honest with her.
“I'll tell you what Miss Sciuto, if you were a few years older, then I'd be more than interested.”
“And if I were a few years older, Mr. Gibbs, then I'd probably be more than interested myself.” She smiled. “Sure you don't want another drink?”
“Nah, the years would probably melt away and make me do something I'd be sorry for later.”
Jethro stood, reached for his wallet and produced a hundred dollar bill. “For the broken bottle, the shots and the rest is your tip.”
She watched as he turned resolutely toward the door and she knew without a doubt she'd see him again.
“Gibbs?”
He looked over his shoulder, “Yeah?”
“I'll see you later.”
“Yeah, you will.”
The door clicked shut behind him and Abby knew this fairytale would come true someday.
THE END