What You Give

by coolbyrne

On a mission he never wanted to do, Gibbs gets the chance to do something he never did. Gibbs/Kate implied. Gibbs/Sloane potential. (All 3 chapters posted at once.)

1. Chapter 1

…..

A/N: Longer note at the end of the chapter, but a few short ones here. First, this is not my fandom at all (!), but I felt compelled to write this anyway. I haven't watched NCIS since Kate died, so apologies if some of my plot details aren't canon. Second, the song is "Joy to the World" by Three Dog Night, and lastly, the fox in Pripyat was inspired by this video: watch?v=NtssB03vawQ

…..

It's not what you got, it's what you give/

It ain't the life you choose, it's the life you live

"What You Give"- Tesla

…..

The music was almost loud enough to drown out the rotors, though neither seemed to bother the passenger, eyes shut, face passive. Despite the cacophony of man and machine, by all appearances, he was using the flight time to catch some shut-eye. Or at least faking it. The M40A1 was held loosely but steadfastly between his knees, his large hands holding it with a familiarity that every soldier would recognize. He wore the camo uniform with casual confidence, as if it was just another Sunday. Beer in the fridge. Football game on.

Of course, it wasn't. You don't fly 4800 miles from Washington to Kyiv via a military base in Baden-Württemberg to Pripyat in a declassified Navy helicopter to have a beer and watch a game, but he knew more than most the importance of not giving it more credence than needed. A simple mission, no different than armchair coaching the offense on a 3rd-and-14 in the redzone. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I'm trying to figure out what's older- this bird or our passenger."

The young man in the pilot's seat had been jawing all flight, rambling about anything from his son's first day at kindergarten to whatever show his wife was watching on Netflix. His co-pilot had been noncommittal the entire time, and Gibbs was fairly certain she only had her headset turned on for the take off. He wished he had thought of doing the same. It was clear the pilot was trying to engage Gibbs, even if he pretended to be talking to his partner. The barbed arrow about his age finally hit the mark.

Without opening his eyes, he volleyed back flatly, "I'm tryin' to figure out if you're old enough to listen to Three Dog Night."

"Hey! He does speak!" He slapped his co-pilot on the arm. "Shit! No wonder your code name is 'Salty Dog'."

"Just lucky, I guess."

Now that he found out what got Gibbs' talking, there was no stopping him. "Sorry I don't have any Buddy Holly, but vinyl doesn't play so well in the bird." The pilot grinned under his aviator visor. "And for the record, it was my old man's favourite song. I play it for luck."

A line formed between his brows. "Preston," he said, recalling the name stitched on the man's uniform. "Cal Preston your old man?"

"One and the same," he replied.

Colonel Cal Preston, 40-year military. Liver cancer. Dead at 58.

"He was a good man," Gibbs said, his voice soft with respect.

"That he was." The pilot touched a spot over his heart. "Oorah."

Gibbs nodded. "Oorah."

"Oorah."

When the echo came from the co-pilot, Gibbs smirked. "So she talks, too?"

"There are only so many words to go around," she said. "I find the Captain tends to use them all up before I have a chance."

It was the first genuine laugh Gibbs had had in ages. "Well played, Lieutenant Reid."

"Don't listen to Butter Bar over here. She talks plenty. She's just been stunned into silence, being in the presence of a Marine legend." He had enough comedic timing to give it the perfect pause. "And for once, I'm not talking about me."

Christ, here it comes, Gibbs thought to himself. His adherence to Marine protocol stopped his inclination to tell the captain to shut it. He closed his eyes and waited for it.

Unaware of Gibbs' internal thoughts, Preston continued on. "Know who still holds the stalking record at LeJeune?" he asked Reid.

Gibbs wondered how long they had flown together, because she clearly knew the pilot would answer the question whether or not she answered. The air of patience she exuded belied the newness of the gold bar on her arm and he appreciated the presence.

"Gunny here," Preston answered, jerking his thumb in Gibbs' direction. "Nine outta 10 on the UKD. 97% on the stalks, too, right?"

"Yep," he flatly replied. "70 on the sketching, though. Can't draw for shit." He remembered someone who could, and it was her image that made him open his eyes.

"You know why he didn't get 10 perfect stalks?" Again, Reid let him play out the conversation. "Walker stepped on him on the last one."

Reid turned her head towards Gibbs. Though he couldn't see her eyes behind the dark visor, the tilt of her chin asked the question. He rewarded her quiet nature with an answer.

"Made the first shot and contact with the walker. The OP flashed the cards like he's supposed to; I identified 'em. OP guided the walker to my position but couldn't pin it down. Walker tripped over me. OP called it and docked me the points." The downturn in her mouth told him all he needed to know about how she felt about the outcome. "Don't worry about it. It was 40 years ago."

Preston called back, "Is it true the last cards they showed you said 'F.U.'?"

Reid couldn't help but laugh, and she apologized for the reaction. "Sorry."

"Rule 6," he automatically said. Realizing she would have no idea what he was talking about, he shook his head. "Not important. Yeah, the OP had a sense of humour back in those days."

"Forty years," Preston repeated to his partner. "You weren't even a twinkle in your old man's eye then."

The teasing reminded him of someone else he used to know and he couldn't help but ask. "You're not Italian by any chance, are ya?"

"With a name like 'Preston'?"

Gibbs conceded the point with a shrug. "You just remind me of someone."

Preston grinned. "Two dashing, good looking men with charming personalities?"

"Surprised the world hasn't imploded from the awesomeness. Sir." Reid was careful to inject just enough respect into her words, though it fooled neither man. One found it funnier than the other.

"Alright, alright," Preston said, "let's run down the basics."

Gibbs knew it was only a formality - none of them would've gotten into the heli without knowing exactly what was at stake, down to the letter, but he appreciated the attention to detail.

"Drop off's just outside Kopachi. We'd get you closer, but-"

He shrugged and Gibbs understood. It'd be easy enough to drop him right in Pripyat, if they actually wanted to draw attention to his presence. Unfortunately, the covertness of the mission required something less obvious and his knees moaned at the thought of the two hour walk.

Oblivious to Gibbs' discomfort, Preston went on. "Intel says Pripyat is closed to tourists for one day on some bullshit excuse about new radiation findings, so you've got a lot of time to get there, but you shouldn't have too much time to wait. You got the trigger?"

Gibbs knew he wasn't talking about his gun. Tapping the breast pocket that contained the signal switch that would bring his ride back, he grunted in the affirmative.

"We'll be a 30 minute fly away. We can pick you up wherever we get your signal, because by that point, the bad guys will've scurried away. Hopefully."

"Hopefully," Gibbs repeated. There was a hesitation in the pilot that made him narrow his eyes. Briefly forgetting his rank, he returned to his NCIS persona with a gruff, "Spit it out."

The insubordination went unmarked. Instead, Preston shrugged. "Just feels, I dunno. Hinky. The Russians and the Turks, trading an American hostage for arms? There's something there that's not right."

"Probably the bit about the target bein' the American," Gibbs suggested, knowing both pilots would have been briefed on the full mission.

"Yeah, I guess so. When it's one of our own, doesn't sit right."

"Well, maybe it'll help knowing the Russians want him because he's a double agent." His tone was sharp and cutting.

"You've studied the target?"

Gibbs snorted. "I would hope so. He was best man at my fourth wedding."

"Shit," Preston whistled. "How many times have you been married, Gunny?"

"Three times too many, Captain."

"Shit," he said again, this time with a chuckle.

"Almost there, sir," Reid said.

A clearing appeared in the distance, just over the trees.

"So, you know it's pretty safe," Preston said, "but the cemetary's still gauging off the charts. And stay away from the Café."

"I don't plan on getting that close," Gibbs replied.

Preston gestured to Gibbs' rifle with his chin. "M40?" The nod made him laugh. "You are old school, aren't you? Navy's phasing those out with the Mark 13s. Adds almost 500 yards to your 8."

"A good shot can add 300 yards. Pretty sure I can work with 1100. Navy wants someone to do the job farther away, they can get the Canadians."

Reid pressed her lips together to suppress her amusement at his audacity. Preston scoffed.

"I still say they cheated."

"They're Canadian. They'd consider it impolite."

Reid's laugh escaped.

"We're here," Preston said. "Bring us down, Lieutenant."

Gibbs had his belt unclipped and his bag over his shoulder before the chopper had fully landed. He did one more inventory check, more out of habit than worry. Preston turned in his seat, hand extended. The concern from their previous conversation was still on his face.

"Be careful," was all he said. "Get in and out."

Gibbs returned the handshake and offered a small salute. "I plan on it." To Reid, he said, "Good talkin' to ya, LT."

She smiled at his dry humour and offered a salute of her own. "Gunnery Sergeant."

"That's a mouthful," Preston drawled. "Good luck, Gunny."

He only nodded, wanting to feel the ground under his feet and the mission started. He raised a hand when the heli started to rise, but didn't look back.

…..

He liked quiet. Spent a lot of time in his own head, whether in the field or in the office or in his basement. Kopachi welcomed his solitude with its own silence, as would the rest of his two hour walk through the near barren landscape. He knew some hearty farmers had stayed on after Chernobyl in '86, but he also knew they were going to be few and far between, and fewer still the closer he got to Pripyat. That was fine by him. The less chance of someone seeing him meant a greater chance of getting into the abandoned city without a problem.

Gravel crunched under his boots, the sediment being disturbed perhaps for the first time in 30 years. Pripyat got all the tourists; he wondered how many people ventured outside the zone. The grip on his gun was firm but relaxed, his blue eyes scanning leisurely but with intent. He stayed close to the natural blinds - the rocks, the trees, the elevations - and he kept his pace moderate. A movement caught his peripheral, and he immediately crouched.

"Shit," he whispered, not in apprehension but in realization.

A small fox tentatively poked its head from the brush, curiously looking at the new interloper.

"Keep goin'," Gibbs warned it.

The fox took the conversation as an invitation and stepped closer. Its nose raised, and its nostrils opened and closed, taking in Gibbs' scent. Finding some kind of safety in the smell, the fox darted towards him, then back again, turning to make sure Gibbs was watching.

"You are not playin' with me," he growled. "Go. Get outta here."

But the more Gibbs talked, the more the animal seemed to be interested. It wasn't deterred when Gibbs began stomping towards it; in fact, it took it as encouragement. Sighing, Gibbs crouched again, this time slinging his bag from his shoulder to the ground. He rummaged through the side pocket, then held up his find.

"If you get sick from this, don't come cryin' to me."

He closed his eyes and silently chastised himself for talking to an animal. Pulling away the packaging from the jerky, he tore off a piece and tossed it towards the fox who inched closer, sniffing the offering until suspicions were appeased. It chewed, swallowed, and looked up at Gibbs for more.

"No."

The word was barely out of his mouth when the fox's nose was right at his hand, finding the source of the meat.

"Hey!"

Startled by the tone, the fox jumped back and scurried up the path. At a safe distance, it turned and glanced back at Gibbs. He would have sworn the animal looked disappointed. Against his better judgment, he tore off another piece, but this time, put the rest back in his bag before holding out the meat as a peace offering. Unable to resist, the fox trotted up to Gibbs and delicately took the jerky out of his palm. It stayed long enough for Gibbs to touch its forehead with his fingertips, and he considered nature's ability to carry on. Brown eyes looked into his, then it was off again.

"You're welcome," he whispered, his voice laced with sarcasm.

…..

Though Intel speculation put the transfer somewhere around the Palace of Culture, Gibbs wasn't planning on getting that close, so rather than continue on into the city centre, he detoured in the direction of the Polissya hotel. By being Pripyat's tallest building, but also the farthest away from the centre, it served him with two purposes. He wasn't sure a heli could land on the roof, but a small rock outcrop 100 yards in the opposite direction would do if push came to shove. His first job was to clear the building. Despite the official tourist closure, it'd be dangerous to assume solo adventure seekers would follow suit. Ignoring the peeling paint and the smell, he cleared the floors one by one until he was on the roof. With a craftsman's eye, he determined it to be structurally sound, despite the holes that punched sunlight into the floor below him. Satisfied with his surroundings, he dropped down one floor and began setting up his position.

…..

Waiting was always the hardest part, both mentally and physically. Your brain was going a hundred miles an hour, anticipating the outcomes, playing and replaying them over and over, which only made your body tense up, the adrenaline teetering on its tipping point. Over the years, experience honed and curbed those impulses, but only replaced them with others. The alertness turned into a struggle with wandering, a near-boredom at being so aware of what not to do. The physical became a natural change with age, where older bones and muscles objected being in one position for any length of time longer than a football game. He could feel his hip bones protesting in concert with his pelvis, and he rolled up a blanket from his bag to relieve the pressure from the concrete underneath him. He had spread out a canvas drop cloth before setting up, but his body gladly reminded him he wasn't as young as he used to be.

Speakin' to the choir.

If there was one good thing about a take-out mission in an abandoned city ravaged by the effects of nuclear fallout, it was the absolute lack of light. Even the moon decided against showing itself, leaving Pripyat under a blanket of nothingness that Gibbs appreciated. No lights meant he'd see any if they appeared. He didn't figure anything would happen that night, but if it did, it wouldn't be able to come into the city undetected; he'd literally see it coming a mile away. Still, he remained alert as the night bled into the morning.

…..

He was always happy when missions were over, because they gave him a sense of completion, and permission to move on to the next. Now, over 25 years since his last unofficial mission, his happiness would stem from being able to get up and move.

"Not sure you've got the right guy for this," Gibbs said.

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

Gibbs looked at the Secretary of Defense with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, 'Really?'

Crawford waved away the silent question. "You know the target. You speak Russian. You've done this before." He ticked off the reasons like a shopping list.

"The target's gonna be shot, not interrogated. There's no one in Pripyat, Russian or otherwise. Last time I did this, I was 27 years younger."

His Director smirked. "You losing your touch, Special Agent Gibbs?"

"No." Gibbs shook his head. "But I'm not gettin' any younger."

"No," Crawford agreed. "But that's why this would be a great way to tie up a career."

Gibbs' narrowed his eyes at Crawford. "What?" He watched as the SoD and Director made eye contact. He hardened at being ambushed. "What?" he asked sharply.

Vance shrugged, a vain attempt to relieve the situation. "You're coming up on 65, Jethro. Figured you could go out with a bang before we talk about your retirement plans."

His eyebrows touched his hairline even as his voice dropped into his stomach. Sitting stock still in the oversize leather chair, he let his trigger finger silently tap the fabric while he mulled over the implication.

Crawford either didn't know or didn't care about the minefield he was walking on. "You could always finish that boat you've been working on."

"I've finished 4."

Vance stepped in quickly. "Listen. That's neither here nor there. Your government's asking you to do this. In fact, it's expecting you to do this. So let's talk about what happens next."

"Oo-rah," Gibbs bit out.

Preston hadn't been the only one to feel like the whole thing was 'hinky'. Gibbs had felt it from the start. The Turk angle was a red flag that wasn't spoken of in any of the classified information he was given, but he wasn't stupid. This wasn't going to be a simple shoot 'n' go.

As if any of them are.

…..

The heavy jacket pulled out of the bag at 2AM did little to ward off the chill, and dreams of a hot bath only seemed to magnify the cold until he sternly told his brain to man up. Morning fog rolled in over the desolate city and with it came the first action since he'd arrived. His scope counted 6 Russian military vehicles coming in from the north, and 3 KrAZ 260 cargo trucks entering the city from the east. For a moment, Gibbs wondered how far back the ownership of the 260s would have to be traced before they came right back to the men in the six vehicle progression. Such was the back and forth trade of weapons and war. He cleared his mind of the thought and brought it back to its singular focus. The target was in one of the 260s. Anything beyond that was mental noise. He cinched the gun stock tighter into his shoulder.

The two groups parked a short distance from each other, both parties wary and alert as they disembarked and met in the middle. It didn't surprise Gibbs that his target was nowhere to be seen; he knew there was an expected feeling-out period before anything was promised. He watched as it played out: though he couldn't hear the words, he could almost imagine the suspicion barely masked by the professional courtesy. Gestures were made towards the big Russian vehicles, and several of the men peeled away from the group to have a look. The tarp was pulled away and Gibbs pulled in a sharp breath.

Shit. There's the 'hinky'.

Instead of seeing Grails or Grouses or any number of other Russian SAMs expected in a hostage/weapons trade involving the Russians, Gibbs easily identified the weapons cache in the back of the truck.

FIM-92 Stingers.

American.

The feet on the ground didn't seem to care what nationality the weapons were, not that Gibbs had expected otherwise. Weapons were weapons, and if it would throw a political grenade into things if they were American, that was just gravy. Gibbs wondered how the CIA would respond, because there was no doubt they knew.

Damn Spooks.

His scope moved towards the Turkish contingency that hovered back with their vehicles. A signal was shared with a snap of fingers, and a man was yanked out of the cab. With a pillowcase over his head and his hands tied behind his back, the man stumbled from the push on his shoulder, but stayed on his feet.

He got 10 feet when his captor yelled out, "Stop!"

Satisfied with the obedience, the captor motioned to have the cover removed from the man's head. Gibbs squinted into the scope.

'Hey, Bob,' he whispered. His scope adjustments were quick and precise, his eyes never leaving his target. Gently stroking the trigger, he rested his cheek against the stock, allowing his eye to get accustomed to the new space between it and the scope. A small inhale, held.

He expected his target to drop. He even expected some gunfire amid the newfound confusion. What he didn't expect was the sound of a Bora being fired into the crowd before he had a chance to set any of those things into motion.

Turkish military sniper rifle, his mind helpfully supplied. Bolt action. 1200 yards.

The distance was overkill, or it was intended to make up for the shooter's lack of precision, because based on the sound, he was much closer than 1200 yards. Gibbs watched as the shots dropped the Russians, one by one. Those left scrambling were retaliating by shooting the Turks. Through the mayhem, he kept his eye on his target who was now being hustled towards one of the trucks. His Russian chaperone didn't make it that far, the sniper cutting him off with a fatal shot. A calming wave flooded through him, even as the chaos appeared to escalate. The truck's door blocked any good sights, but the moment it closed, Gibbs took the shot.

The sound announced his presence, and almost comically, those left alive stopped and pointed randomly in his direction and began shooting, despite the distance. The M40A1's bolt slid back and was returned to its position with ease, as it had a 100 times in the past. The wood was warm against his cheek and he welcomed the comfort. He hadn't thought he'd need more than the one bullet, but caution had put the full 5 rounds into the slide, and he used them all in the minute given in the confusion. It was all he needed to clear the stragglers left in the chaos. All except the sniper. Gibbs began to reload his gun when he felt the bullet hit his helmet.

Everything went white. And loud. Very loud. Blood pounding, heart pumping, adrenaline flooding his system. He blinked sharply and pushed the bolt into place. His mind fragmented clues together until he almost grinned.

The damn ferris wheel.

He had cleared the building but hadn't thought of clearing the city centre. The sniper had been there the entire time, perhaps days, perhaps minutes before Gibbs had arrived. He didn't bother to wipe away the blood he felt trickling in his eye; it wasn't his shooting eye. His scope swooped around the wheel in the amusement park, going to the buckets he would have chosen himself. Third one was the charm.

Had he found him on the second guess, he might have gotten his shot off before being spotted. Still, he'd take some measure of pride in knowing he got the shot off anyway.

Of course he'd been shot before. Stabbed. Choked. Beaten. Scars, both physical and mental to prove it. So the pain that was currently coursing through his body and brain wasn't entirely new. But it did feel different. He rolled onto his back and tried to breathe with lungs that protested the effort. The sun that came through the holes in the roof warmed his face and he closed his eyes. He frowned when a cloud blocked the light.

"Wish I'd had one of those," a voice said, tapping his helmet. "Then again, I would've looked pretty stupid standing on the roof with that on my head."

He willed his eyes open at the sound he would have recognized in a crowd. It wasn't a cloud blocking the sun, but a solid form standing over him.

"Kate?"

…..

Longer, Random Notes: I must have been going through some Sasha Alexander withdrawals, because this story came to me quicker than any other story I've written. I think I also wanted to write a character study on Gibbs; he's a year away from retirement, and I wonder what a man like him thinks of it. I also don't think we got a satisfactory Gibbs/Kate closure episode, at least not to my liking! I spot-watched what I thought would be important episodes after season 2, so I hope I did the characters some justice. 'Butter bar' is military slang for Second Lieutenant, due to the gold bar they wear above their insignia. I usually have music on for background noise, but this fic was a little different. As mentioned, "Joy to the World" by Three Dog Night is the main song, but the 'soundtrack' while I was writing included "Feelin' Alright" by Joe Cocker, "Conquistador" by Procol Harum, "5th Avenue Heartache" by The Wallflowers, and "In Violet Light" by The Tragically Hip. The title comes from Tesla's "What You Give". Do check out the Wikipedia page for the United States Marine Corps Scout Sniper (Phases of Training) for really interesting info on some of the stuff Preston and Gibbs discuss. Finally, my thanks to my own 'co-pilot' who, without knowing a single thing about the show, gladly beta'd it, thus making it infinitely better.