A/N: This is a little something that struck me while I was slaving away at my waitressing job. It isn't AU, really, since we don't know anything canon about Jenny's past pre-NCIS.
It's sort of a way for Gibbs to reflect on Jenny in light of all the character development he's had since the earlier seasons. You all know 10 was monumental for him, what with helping Vance with Jackie's death, accepting that he chose his life, talking voluntarily about Shannon & Kelly, etc. So I am utilizing that sort of leap forward he made to give us a moment to see how he'd talk about Jen-now.
August; 2014
Navy Yard
The inane, bored banter of the team was slowly giving Gibbs a headache despite the three cups of coffee he'd guzzled this morning. They were knee-deep in an embezzlement investigation that reached to the top of the Pentagon, and sifting through tax document after tax document was turning out to be as futile as it was tedious.
He was going to start slappin' skulls just for the hell of it if they didn't turn up something soon.
DiNozzo groaned and leaned back in his desk, throwing his arms over his face. He sighed heavily, huffing in annoyance, and McGee chucked a rolled up piece of paper at him. Gibbs glanced up sharply, glaring over the rim of his glasses. His rolled his eyes when he saw Thompson sitting on McGee's desk, her long brown hair pulled flirtatiously over one shoulder.
"Thompson, go back to your corner," he growled menacingly.
She turned to look at him, her smile fading. She straightened her back uncertainly, standing abruptly, and then she paused, clearing her throat and sitting back down. Gibbs turned his head and there, standing just at the entrance of the bullpen, was a hesitant looking young woman.
He lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes uncertainly. His jaw tightened slightly but he said nothing; he just looked at her. She stepped forward, pegging him for the man in charge, and lifted her head bravely. Long, dark red hair fell down over her shoulders, pulled back from her face by a thick woven headband.
She cleared her throat softly.
"I'm looking for Jennifer Shepard," she began. She winced, and bit her lip. Her eyes were apologetic. "Or…well, I guess I'm looking for someone who knew her." Her voice went up at the end, questioning them.
The team around her all looked as if they'd seen a ghost, except perhaps Agent Thompson, who simply looked bewildered. She abandoned her lounging on McGee's desk and stood again as McGee's mouth opened in shock; she raised her eyebrows when DiNozzo bolted to his feet.
"Boss," Tony choked out.
Gibbs said nothing. He didn't need it pointed out to him that looking at this woman was like looking at a young Jenny; he remembered Jenny's late twenties all too well. He lifted his hand and crooked his finger, gesturing the young woman over. She looked relieved and, as she stopped in front of his desk, the resemblance was even more striking. She had the same maddeningly thick eyelashes and full, curved lower lip.
DiNozzo was still staring at the back of her head. Thompson muttered a low question to McGee.
"The director, before Vance," Gibbs heard McGee answer quietly.
The woman adjusted the bag on her shoulder and grasped the edges of her hair.
"You know she's dead?" Gibbs asked gruffly, studying her intently.
She nodded, her lips curving down sympathetically.
"It was six years ago," she said. "Right?"
Gibbs nodded. She bit her lip.
"I always though I had all the time in the world to find her," she said mildly. She shook her head, and lifted her shoulders. "She worked here the longest, from what I could find." She looked around, and tilted her head at DiNozzo. "Did any of you—know her?"
DiNozzo stared at her, and then he seemed to shake himself out of it. He nodded, but he pointed at Gibbs.
"He knew her best," he said frankly.
He didn't consider that Gibbs might not want that put out there; he just spoke. She turned back to Gibbs with wide, anxious eyes.
"I just want to talk to someone who maybe knew," she shifted her feet and took a deep breath. "I don't know. Her favorite colour."
Gibbs leaned back. He took his glasses off and just looked at this woman, trying to figure this whole thing out. She was too old to be—connected to him, or to Paris, in anyway, and Jenny had never mentioned—family, nieces, nephews—siblings.
"Who are you?" Gibbs asked bluntly.
Thompson slunk over to her desk, and Gibbs was aware of McGee and DiNozzo hanging onto every word of the conversation with curiosity and confusion.
"My name is Heather Montgomery," she answered. "She, um, Jennifer Shepard is—was—my biological mother."
DiNozzo whistled.
"Whoa," he muttered.
Gibbs leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his jaw roughly.
"How old are you?" he asked warily—even though she really was too old. Paris was only fourteen years ago; this woman was clearly past her high school years.
DiNozzo laughed at his question.
"Twenty-two," Heather replied quietly. "I graduated from Boston College in May," she added slowly. "She didn't raise me," she said, though that much was obvious. "She gave me up when I was a baby."
Gibbs nodded. He stood up and came around his desk.
"DiNozzo—" he started.
"In charge, got it, Boss," DiNozzo anticipated wisely. He gave Gibbs a chipper thumbs up and watched him lead the young woman out of the bullpen, hand lingering behind her shoulders. He wasn't touching her so much as silently guiding her towards the elevator.
Heather looked at him thoughtfully, chewing on her bottom lip. Her brows knit together.
"You," she started. "You wouldn't happen to be—Gibbs?"
At the elevator, his hand poised on the call button, Gibbs stopped, caught off guard. He stared at her for a moment, pressed the elevator button, and extended his hand.
"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," he introduced gruffly, inflamed suddenly with his own curiosity. Still, he didn't press her to tell him how she had guessed who he was. That was something he figured he'd come to find out.
She took his hand and shook it firmly, a smile lighting up her face.
She had a damn good handshake.
Heather ran her hand through her long hair as she stepped on the elevator and turned around. Gibbs noticed a sparkling engagement ring nestled on her finger. He leaned forward and pressed the button for the exit.
"I take it I look like her?" Heather asked with a wry smile. "Judging by the guys' reactions?"
Gibbs watched the elevator doors close and then looked at her intently. He smiled slightly.
"Nose is different," he remarked, but he nodded. "Yeah, you look like her." He turned his head away, careful of making her uncomfortable with his gaze. "Hair's longer than hers ever was," he noticed. "Least, when I knew 'er."
Heather touched her hair again; it must be a nervous habit. Jenny used to do it, too, but instead of clutching the ends around her fingers, she'd shove her palm through it and shake it down her back.
"Is mine the same colour?" she asked earnestly.
"Hers was lighter," Gibbs decided gruffly.
Heather nodded. She wrapped her arms around herself and fell comfortably silent, watching the numbers tick off as the elevator moved to the floor he'd selected. He allowed her to step off first, and then caught up with her and led her out the front to the courtyard. Military and federal personal milled around everywhere, and it was to the little coffee cart to the side of the 2012 bombing memorial he led her.
She saw that he was buying coffee, and put her hand almost nervously on his arm.
"Oh no, you don't have to—"
He cut her off with a friendly wave of the hand and ordered for them, pausing to check with her.
"You take sugar?"
"Um," she blushed a little. "Well, yes. And a little cream," she laughed as the barista gave her a nod. "You seem like the kind of man who thinks that's not real coffee," she ventured.
Gibbs smiled and shrugged.
"Jenny liked it sweetened," he told her, accepting the two Styrofoam cups and passing one over to Heather. He jerked his head towards a bench off by some trees. "C'mon," he told her.
"I hope I'm not inconveniencing you," she said as she followed him. "I'm not dragging you away from work?"
He shook his head, waving off her apology.
"Nah," he drawled. "My team's thankin' you for dragging me away," he quipped. "They can handle it."
He sat down, and she followed suit, perching tensely on the edge of the painted wooden bench. She held her coffee in her lap primly, her chipped red nail polish reflecting the sun. She smiled, and then reached up to touch her hair nervously.
"So," she began, and then laughed a little. "I never really though about what I would say if I found someone," she admitted, biting her lip.
Gibbs nodded. He leaned forward, running his thumb over the opening on his coffee lid. He took a long sip, and then tilted his head at her.
"What do you already know?" he asked.
"Well," Heather started, taking a deep breath. "I know she was twenty years old when she had me," she said firmly. "My parents—adoptive—told me that much. It was a closed adoption," she explained, "so that means she signed me over and I was barred from even trying to contact her until I turned eighteen. My mother and father didn't know anything about her, but they told me she cried when she gave me up and," Heather shrugged. "That's all I knew growing up, really. I think they told me she cried because they wanted me to know it wasn't easy for her."
Gibbs counted the years slowly. His brow furrowed.
"When were you born?" he asked her.
"March," Heather answered. "Nineteen-ninety-one."
Gibbs looked down at his lap. So Jenny—Jenny was giving up a child the very same year he had lost his. He shook his head slightly, grappling with all this information. She had never even hinted that there was something so difficult in her past. He almost—he wished she had. He wondered if it would have changed anything between them, to know that neither one of them would ever know their daughter.
Gibbs leaned back, resting his coffee cup on his knee. Heather sipped hers, wincing at the temperature, and he lifted his shoulders openly.
"How did you find out who she was?" he asked gruffly. "If it was closed."
"It works like—when I turned eighteen, I could contact the agency that handled my adoption, and they would contact her and see if she was interested in meeting me. I was…kind of scared of the answer I'd get, so I kept waiting, and when I finally did—last year—it took them a long time to find her. And all they had was the death announcement," Heather explained. She bit her lip, her face falling some. "Like I said, I thought I had all the time in the world," she swallowed hard. "But I suppose if she died six years ago…I never had a chance, anyway."
Gibbs took a slow drink of his coffee. The poor girl—he couldn't imagine going through the trouble to track down a family member, and finding out that person was no longer living. He didn't know how Jenny would have felt about Heather, but he knew that there—at the end—there were a lot of things Jenny was trying to change.
"The death announcement led you to NCIS," Gibbs guessed.
Heather nodded.
"Mmm-hmm, sort of," she said slowly. "My father—he works for the IRS," she bit her lip, flushing a little. "You're a federal agent, so maybe I shouldn't—well, he pulled some strings," she mumbled. "Once I had her name, he was able to tell me sort of where she'd lived and worked, after she had me. That's how I found out she went to Georgetown, and how I knew she was at NCIS for eleven years."
Gibbs smiled.
"I'm not gonna rat on you," he assured her, sipping his coffee again. "Why come lookin' for her now?" he asked bluntly.
"Originally?" Heather asked, arching her brows. "Well, I'm getting married, and my fiancé, he kind of put the bug in my ear. And I figured, I'm old enough now, I can handle it if she wanted nothing to do with me, so I started poking around. I sort of gave up after I found out she died, but then the agency called me a few weeks ago," Heather stopped. "They'd found some old document her father filed with them, the deed to a safe deposit box here in D.C. He wanted her notified about it when he died—and she, well, she still didn't access it until recently—the year she died, actually," Heather explained. "He had tied it in with my adoption in case she ever wanted to leave something for me while remaining anonymous. I guess she…ended up using it, at the last minute. Anyway, it was released to me upon her death, so I flew up here to check it out. I took all the stuff home and I couldn't really stop thinking about it. It wasn't enough, you know? So I came back, looking."
Gibbs accepted the explanation. He thought carefully for a moment.
"She was sick," he said gruffly. "That year, somethin' was wrong. She never told me what," he hesitated, "but I don't think she had much time left. Think it made her take a few leaps of faith."
"Oh," Heather said quietly, her lips puckering. She took a drink of coffee, licked her lips, and then pulled at a string on her dark jeans. Her brow furrowed a little. "Her death announcement—it says she died in a home fire?" she ventured.
Gibbs rubbed his jaw. He smiled tightly, a little uncomfortably.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Official report," he said dryly. He sat back and looked over, tapping his coffee's lid mechanically. "She was killed in a shootout," he said. "It was classified," he trailed off a moment, and lifted the coffee to his lips. "She died protectin' me."
Heather seemed speechless for a moment. She pushed her hair back and tugged at the string on her jeans again.
"I guess…she was kind of a badass then, huh?"
Gibbs managed a laugh. He nodded, agreeing with the statement. He wasn't sure he wanted to continue with this line of conversation right away, so he cleared his throat and changed the tune.
"What about your biological father?" he asked.
Heather gave him a small smile.
"You mean it isn't you?" she asked. He saw she was kidding from the glint in her eyes.
He gave her a look.
"You'd only be fourteen," he said dryly. He couldn't help but think wistfully, though—what if.
She grinned.
"I didn't think so," she said honestly. She shrugged. "There was no father listed on my birth certificate—not my original one. It was in the safe deposit box. There was a new one printed with my adoptive parents. The adoption agency found the form he signed that forfeited his parental rights and I went from there. He wasn't," Heather paused. She frowned tightly. "He wasn't very kind. He claimed he didn't remember a Jennifer Shepard but I could tell he was lying. I didn't waste his time. I got the impression he wasn't very good to her, anyway."
"Jenny," Gibbs supplied suddenly.
"P—pardon?"
"Everyone called her Jenny," he said. "She hated Jennifer."
Heather brightened.
"Those are the kinds of things I want to know," she said earnestly. "I—she wrote me this letter, you see," Heather set her coffee on the concrete at her feet and rummaged through her purse, showing him a creased piece of paper with elegant handwriting. "She left it in the deposit box. It tells me—why she picked the family she did, and why she couldn't keep me," Heather shrugged, "but it isn't about her. It's all about me, and how she wanted me to be happy. It has her signature but—it doesn't have her—her personality, does that make sense?"
Gibbs nodded. He understood. He pointed around his cup at the letter.
"She was good with words," he told Heather gruffly. "Good at writin' letters," he added dryly, thinking about the letter he had buried in the basement somewhere—same elegant writing, same worried creases in the folds.
Heather bit her lip. She smiled still.
"She said—she could give me life, but she couldn't give me a life," she recited softly. "It was really—beautiful." Heather pushed the letter into her purse and then squinted at him thoughtfully. "Do you know—what her favorite book was?"
Gibbs nodded.
"Wuthering Heights," he said, with a snort.
Heather laughed in disbelief.
"God, and I hate that novel," she sighed. "What about a movie, do you know what movies she liked?"
Gibbs thought about it, thinking about all she'd ever said, and all the films they'd ever watched together.
"Casablanca," he remembered slowly. "And some lawyer movie…A Few Good Men," he said, snapping.
"Classic," Heather said. "Classic and…Jack Nicholson," she mused. "I'm going to law school," she said suddenly. "I'm studying here, at George Washington. My fiancé and I are moving in a few weeks, after my wedding."
Gibbs listened to her talk. He watched the way her eyes flickered, thinking of how much she really did look like Jen—particularly when she was animated like this.
"Did you know her favorite colour?" Heather asked.
"Green."
"Flower?"
"Orchids."
Heather leaned back. She bit down on the lid of her coffee and smiled, squealing softly. She sat up again and then looked at him, her bright, green eyes searching his.
"Agent Gibbs," she began. "Um—"
"Jethro," he said, inclining his head.
"Okay," she breathed. "Can you just…tell me about her. You knew her…how long did you know her?"
"Eight, nine years."
"Just… tell me what comes to mind, when you think of Jenny Shepard?"
The question nearly floored him. He took a long drink of his coffee, swallowing the heat hard and thinking about things he always tried to keep in the back reaches of his mind. There was still an old ache of pain there when he thought of Jenny and how he'd lost her. It had been so long since he'd let himself think of Jen, and he'd never sat down and simply talked about her. It wasn't his style—but he figured, this was as good an opportunity as ever.
He began with a slow shrug.
"She was smart," he said. "Damn smart. She never backed down from a fight…never tired to start 'em, though, she liked talkin' it out," he began. He set his jaw, trying to put together what he could say to shed some light on this young woman's mother. He gripped his coffee more tightly. "She was never cruel. She was ambitious…funny as hell," he smirked suddenly, remembering a bar in Prague. "Loyal," he muttered. "Independent. Hated spiders. Couldn't cook, always wore damn high heels," Gibbs shook his head, and shrugged again. "Beautiful," he mumbled, almost to himself. "Hell of a woman, Heather."
Heather touched her hair again. She held onto it tightly.
"You—Jethro," she began softly, chewing her lip. "How did you know her? I mean what were you…to my—mother?"
"Ah," Gibbs breathed out gruffly. He grit his teeth. "Partner, co-worker. Friend," he tried to find the right word. "I trained her. Best young agent I ever worked with, even if she pissed me off every other minute," he growled.
Heather smiled a little—she knew he wasn't telling her the whole story.
"I'm twenty-two, Jethro," she prompted slowly. "I—I'm engaged, I don't need the abridged version."
He snorted. He thought about it for a long time—what was appropriate to say, what would Jen want him to say?
"We slept together," he admitted curtly.
"Just—casually?"
He was busted.
"Nah," he said hoarsely. "Nah—it was," he broke off. "Serious," he decided. He lifted his eyes to the sky. "Guess I would've married her," he grumbled, realizing then and there it was true.
"But you didn't?"
"Got a bad track record with weddings," he joked dryly. "She would've been the fourth—or fifth." He didn't explain his reasoning there, and Heather didn't ask.
"She—never told you about me?" Heather asked in a small voice. "She never mentioned she had to give up a baby?"
Gibbs grunted heavily.
"Don't take it hard," he warned. "Somethin' like that, it isn't somethin' Jen would have talked about. Maybe to me," he amended suddenly, "if I'd—" he stopped again. "Don't think it was easy for her," he muttered. "Don't take it personally; it isn't you," Gibbs said. "Didn't tell her about my kid, either."
Heather cocked her head.
"You have a kid?"
"Had," Gibbs corrected quietly. "Little girl. Died when she was eight."
Heather bit her lip, sucking in her breath.
"I—"
He waved his hand. Yes—he knew she was sorry. It still took a lot for him to mention Kelly, even after all these years and how far he had come. He took a drink of his coffee, praying for her silence for a moment. Heather seemed to sense he didn't want to talk for a few minutes, and she busied herself looking in her purse. She clutched something, and he looked over, his brow furrowing.
"Heather," he said gruffly.
She looked at him shyly.
"You knew who I was," he said simply.
"No," she said, chewing her lip. "Well, I knew—there was a Gibbs, in her life. I just…the way you looked when I said her name, I thought it was you."
He looked at her intently, and this time, he didn't have to question her. She parted her lips uncertainly.
"There was an envelope in the box. It just had 'Gibbs' written on it," Heather said softly. "I opened it—and it was just your name. Just Gibbs. There was a—a phone number," Heather stopped, and pulled a piece of paper out of her bag. "I brought it—something made me bring it. She wrote something else—"
Gibbs almost didn't take it. He thought he'd had his fill of Jenny Shepard's letters, but he also knew he couldn't really resist. Maybe this was something more substantial than just—Dear Jethro, and a blank piece of stationary.
He took it, and after a moment of staring at the fold, he opened it.
He was looking at his cell phone number, neatly given in Jenny's pretty, scrawling hand. Underneath it, in small, cursive lettering, she'd written:
He knew me better than I knew myself.
Gibbs leaned forward, reading the line over and over. He smiled.
"I thought you must have worked at NCIS, too," Heather ventured after a moment. "You know, since she was here longest. I guess…she thought I might want some closure. Or someone to go to if I ever desperately needed help."
Gibbs wondered if Jenny gotten the idea when Maddie Tyler had come looking for him the year she died.
The words meant more to him than he ever thought they would—it had always been more than just a fling in Paris. He should have never doubted that. He should have always given her more.
He handed the letter back to Heather.
Heather took it, her hand brushing his. She lowered her head and looked at him, eyes anxious.
"Can I ask you—" she stopped, and then rushed on: "Did you—love her?"
His head was aching suddenly; pounding. It was too difficult to explain how he felt about Jenny. He thought he had—but he'd convinced himself he loved many women after Shannon, and Jenny seemed to have seen right through everything he said in Paris. But he thought—he really had. The question she asked caused the usual turmoil, and then it was all clear.
He nodded curtly.
"Yeah," he said gruffly.
Heather leaned back, more comfortable, more relaxed. She took a deep breath. Gibbs shook his head.
"Never could tell her."
Heather pushed her purse off her lap.
"Maybe she knew."
Maybe. Gibbs wasn't sure. If he had told her—maybe she wouldn't have left. He took a sip of coffee, swirling the depleting liquid in his cup. Heather took a sip of her own coffee, and then she sat forward, looking at her watch. She bit her lip.
"I can't—I know I can't keep you all day," she said earnestly. "Do you have…was all of her stuff destroyed in the fire?"
Gibbs just gave Heather an apologetic wince. Heather frowned good-naturedly.
"I figured…do you have any pictures of her?" she tried. "Just—one good one. Not that official death announcement photo. One of her—happy, or something."
Gibbs rubbed his jaw. He nodded.
"Got a few," he said, wracking his brains to remember where they were. "I got—an old leather coat that belonged to her," he said slowly. "Gave it to her in Paris." He struggled with the words about to come out of his mouth. "It's yours, if you want it."
"No," Heather said, almost immediately. "No, I wanted to know about her," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't want to steal away—what she meant to you," she choked out, covering her mouth.
Gibbs bowed his head, smiling. He looked up, and squinted in the sun.
"I can give you Ducky's number," he said gruffly. "Dr. Mallard—he's retired; he's our medical examiner. He handled Jen, and whatever was makin' her sick. If you're worried it might be genetic."
Heather looked at him with red, wet eyes for a moment.
"No," she said again. "I don't want to know. She died…so young. But she wanted me to have a life, Jethro. And I don't think that meant living with an expiration date hanging over me, if I have one. So I'll just—live. Like she wanted me to."
Gibbs nodded, struck by the mature answer. Heather stood up, clutching her hair again. He stood with her, towering over her, marveling again at how she looked like Jenny.
"Is there anyone else—you can think of?"
He started to shake his head—but then he stopped.
"Noemi Cruz," he said seriously. "She worked for Jen—ah, damn near twenty years," he guessed.
"Do you know where I can find her?" Heather asked.
"I'll track her down for you," Gibbs promised gruffly.
Heather looked overjoyed.
"Thank you," she said emphatically. "Look, Agent Gibbs—Jethro," she paused. "I know I sort of walked in and…I must have—obviously dredged up all these memories for you, and I mean you cared about her and you miss her…but you knew her and I never did and just talking for, like, this half an hour…it means so much."
Gibbs watched her compose herself.
"I don't want to…harass you, or invade your life, but if you could get me that picture and…maybe meet me for a drink once in a while, after I move up here—I need some time to deal with this—I think…Jen might like that. I mean she…you obviously meant so much to her. Maybe she wanted this."
Heather looked anxious, and a little scared, and Gibbs studied her intently. This had come out of left field—finding out Jenny had given up a baby was daunting, and it made him think of her, and maybe some of the reluctance she had to ever talk about her past, in a different light. He wished he had known about Heather—and then, he wondered if Jenny had ever known what her baby's name had been.
Gibbs finished his coffee.
"There's more," he said gruffly. "About—Jen," he finished simply.
It was his way of telling Heather yes—and maybe it would do him good to talk about her like he'd never talked about Shannon or Kelly; maybe he needed to try grieving like this so he could sleep at night and rest easy during the day and just exist in peace.
Heather bit her lip, impeding a mile-wide smile.
"Oh!" she breathed. "Oh—that's," she sighed. "This means more than you can know," she admitted, stepping forward. She touched his arm hesitantly, and then she gave him a quick, sincere hug. "I'll call you up when I'm settled in," she promised, stepping back.
She slung her purse over her shoulder, and she stood before him, clutching her coffee cup and smiling at him. God, she looked like Jen—so much like Jen. He couldn't help but smile a little painfully thinking about it. There was something to it, maybe—him spending time with the daughter Jen never knew. It was like Jenny had known there was always a part of him that needed to feel like a father.
This girl wasn't his, but maybe—some girl like her could have been. If he had just done things right. If he had the perspective then that he had now, maybe things would have gone differently with Jenny. She would have talked instead of written, he would have followed her instead of turning his back—they could have had their own Heather, or at least—their own closure.
He leaned forward and pointed at Heather's purse.
"You ever need anything," he said. "You call that number."
She nodded.
"Thank you for…loving my mother," she said unexpectedly. "Something you did…some way you treated her, made her feel she could…sort of nudge me to find you. Thank you for making her feel like that—thank," Heather just paused. She let out a shaky laugh. "Thank you for the coffee," she decided.
There was so much he felt he couldn't say to Heather, things he didn't know about how Jenny had felt when she was going through this at the barely-grown age of twenty. He did feel, almost certainly, that he could tell her—
"Jen would be proud, Heather," he said gruffly. "She'd be damn proud."
"I believe you, Jethro," Heather said hoarsely. "I mean—she did tell me—you knew her better than she knew herself."
And Gibbs smirked, because he realized right then that the same was true of her—she had known him better than he had known himself, and she had left because she knew he had to find healing on his own, instead of using her.
And now she—she had given him Heather.
This gave me emotions more than any of the gut-wrenching angst I've ever written.
-Alexandra
story #146