Well, this is a re-write of a story I wrote a few years ago. I know it's been forever since I've written on this site, but I started writing my own story and it's really taken off. Since I've hit a writer's block, I've decided to re-write this story. I really liked it and I had to delete it after my aunt read it…. Whoops.

DISCLAIMER! I do NOT own anything that you recognize from the show. I only own Kris and any other OCs I decide to use.

Warning: rated M for later chapters. I promise nothing more graphic than PG-13, but there will be nasty language in a couple chapters that imply some very demented things. Just thought I'd put that out there.

On to the story.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs. That was the name the social worker had given me after school today. My new shelter until… well, until he got tired of me and moved on. That's what had happened with the other 15 sets of people I had been assigned to. Some good, some bad. The bad ones had their "fill" of me and then threw me out. The good ones, on the other hand, eventually got tired of me…and then threw me out. Either way, I wasn't looking forward to moving into another house. I sighed. Two more years, I reminded myself. I looked at the address again just to make sure I was in the right place so I shut off my crappy car and got out. The social worker had told me it was a single guy, which sent shivers down my spine. Singles guys were always trouble, or at least in my case. I swallowed hard and got out of the car to walk up the concrete driveway.

The house was huge, which was weird if it was a single guy. There had to be something more to it, but I wasn't there to find answers. I just needed a legal place to stay until I was 18, hopefully. I was tired of being bounced around like something that was regifted again and again. At least two stories; I say at least, because I didn't know if there was a basement or not. White picket fence around a front yard and a pathway that led to the stairs. I climbed up the porch steps and knocked on the large door twice before backing up to wait for an answer. Silence was the only answer I got. I walked over to the edge of the porch and looked by the garage. The guy's truck was there so he had to be home unless he was out with friends. I walked back to the door and peered inside. A light was on in the kitchen. I pounded on the door and waited again. If this was the right house, then my social worker should have told the guy to be expecting me. After a minute of more silence, I turned to walk back down the steps to my car. "Must've heard her wrong 'cuz this is totally the wrong house." I was just about to get into my car when I heard the door open.

I turned around to see a middle aged man walking out the door. "Wait," he called as he descended the steps. "Wait." It was quieter that time as he jogged to meet me. His hair was almost all gray, but there were places where it was obvious that his hair had once been a very dark brown. It was cut rather oddly, but after taking in the rest of him, I guessed ex-Marine. Granted, I had some help; he was wearing a faded gray t-shirt with Marines written on it. He had piercing blue eyes that seemed to look deep into my soul; that was something I didn't want. Again, I was just there to live, not to make friends. Although, if I was lucky, he would be a decent guy.

The only really decent family I had was a Marine and his wife: Mike and Julie Whistler. I was totally happy living there and thought that maybe I had found my family. Unfortunately, I was bounced to the next family when Mike was deployed and Julie lost it. I could still remember their faces the instant I closed my eyes. Mike promised me that when he came back that he would adopt me, but that was almost ten years ago.

I looked over him again as I debated whether or not to introduce myself or let him. His hands looked dusty and sawdust rested on his shoulders like snow would during the winter.

"I didn't actually hear you knock, until later because… well, I was working on something." It didn't seem like he was going to open up easily either, which I was perfectly fine with. "Anyways, I'm Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs." He stuck out his hand for me to shake.

I shook it firmly. "Special Agent, huh? Renee didn't tell me that about you." I smirked. "I'm Kris Reagan."

"Pleasure." Then he took the time to look me over and I suddenly felt very self-conscious. I was probably not what a former Marine was expecting. My jet-black hair was cropped shoulder length and quite spiky. The bangs, lower layer of my hair were dyed bright red, along with a few red highlights, and in all honesty, it was what I loved most about my hair so I made it show. I had two rings in the cartilage of each ear and one in my nose. My lips were painted black and my eyes were ringed with heavy black eyeliner with a halo of maroon eyeshadow. I was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans, Converse, and my favorite navy blue The Misfits t-shirt with a black and white striped long sleeved shirt underneath. His dark grey eyebrows rose at the image.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I shrunk. For some reason I was becoming incredibly self-conscious of the look that had defined me. I bit my black lip as the awkward silence settled between us. I wasn't sure what to say, and it appeared that he didn't either. Finally, the silence became way too uncomfortable for me. "I guess you're taking care of me for a while," I offered, snapping the silence in two it seemed.

He placed his hands on his hips as he snapped out of the silence and nodded. "Yup," he agreed. Heading to my car, he called over his shoulder, "Lemme help you with your stuff."

I rolled my eyes as I pulled out my keys and headed to the trunk. Opening the trunk, I reached for my bag, but got my hand slapped away. My gaze snapped over to him.

"I got it," he replied shortly.

Rolling my eyes again, I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat and headed into his house. Hardwood floors spanned the entire floor from what I could currently see. It was a very large house, but the dust hanging in the air told me that there wasn't more than one person living here in a long time, if ever. In fact, the dust seemed so heavy that it made me cough at first. A wide staircase was laid right out in front of me, but to my left was what could be the living room. It was sparse to say the least: an olive plaid couch sat slightly askew to the windows leading to the street with a small wooden table in front of it with stacks of papers, a TV sat in the corner in front of an old bike that probably belonged to a woman though that didn't make sense, two lamps framed the wood fireplace stacked with books to match the overstuffed bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, and there was black and white picture hanging above the fireplace, but I couldn't tell what it was of. That was all I could see, but it was enough to tell me that there was no one else living here.

Unfortunately, the signs of obvious bachelorhood sent me reeling back in time to the worst experience ever in my foster care. His house had been like this: empty, except for books. The heavy feeling caused by the dust floating in the room, and whether it was there or not, I could almost smell the bourbon hanging on the air. Shutters slid down my spine, making my body frigid. The fear consumed my entire being. I couldn't that vulnerable again! I wouldn't be, I promised myself. I would kill myself rather than be curled up in a corner, shaking with fear. A dark, evil chuckle escaped my lips for a brief second as I realized that it honestly wouldn't be that hard to accomplish. I wore the long-sleeves for a reason: I was a self-mutilator. The sound of Gibbs dropping my bags on the hardwood floor brought me harshly back to reality. I turned around to help him with my stuff, but he was all ready heading up the stairs, heaving all of my duffel bags behind him.

"Nice car," he joked as he reached the halfway point on the stairs.

"Thanks," I scoffed. It had been a gift from my favorite foster parents on my sixteenth birthday. Since Mike, the father, had been in Iraq serving the country, Julie had spent just enough to get me a reliable car. It was a 1992 Toyota that had definitely seen better days, but it still got me from point A to point B. As with every car that has seen better days, there were a few personality flaws that came dragging along. Mine happened to be the fact that the trunk had to be slammed extra hard to actually close. "Couldn't get the trunk to close, huh?" I asked as I skipped up the stairs to him and grabbed a bag before he could protest.

Shaking his head, he agreed with me. "It took a little while before I realized you had to practically sit on the darn thing to get it to close."

I laughed. It was a real laugh, something that hadn't happened in a few years. We trudged up to the top and stared down the narrow hallway, only containing four doors. Two of the doors were parallel to each other on the closest end of the hallway, while the third sat ominously at the far end and the fourth was the right hand side somewhere in between. A question mark seemed to appear on my face as I looked over at him to get an idea of which direction I was headed.

He sighed. "The two closest are yours. The one on the left is the bedroom, and on the right is the bathroom. My room is the door at the end of the hall. The remaining door has towels and sheets in it, if you ever need an extra pair." He led me to my room despite having just told me, though he did let me open the heavy, cherry wood door.

The walls were plain white, which matched the rest of the house. A closet was on the far left with a small dresser resting against the perpendicular wall. The bed, which was currently just a mattress sitting in a cherry frame, sat against the wall to my right, pushed up against the far wall. None of this however was what caught my attention at first. No, what did was the window. On the far wall was a large window of some dimensions proportional to a 4"x6" card framed by walnut trim. The view was what really caught my attention. Looking out it was basically trees as far as the eye could see, but in the distance, I could make out the shape of the Washington Memorial and Capitol Building. With the curtains up, the sun poured into the room so that I didn't even have to touch the light switch. Leaning against the doorframe, I let the two bags I carried sink to the floor as I took in the beautiful view that was displayed before me.

He came up behind me and rested his fist on the doorframe above my fist. Even though it was a gentle gesture, I involuntarily flinched as I realized he was there. He looked down at me with a smile on his face. It was like he knew this would be the reaction, like he wanted this reaction. "I take it you like it."

"Like it?" I asked. "I love it." I could feel the smile plastered on my face. It surprised me to be honest, but alas, there it was. He seemed very pleased with himself as I answered. He dropped the bags on the floor and turned to head back down the stairs. I watched him with a raised eyebrow as he trotted back down the stairs.

"I'm gonna get dinner started," he answered.

My eyebrow stayed raised at that statement. He honestly didn't seem like the type of man to cook, but there was a lot I didn't know about him, I admitted. Still, my guess was take-out for dinner, which I didn't mind at all. I sighed, shook my head and started making the empty room mine. I started putting band shirts and other various t-shirts into a drawer, and my jeans went into another. My gothic "chain pants" of various designs went into another smaller drawer. The more dressy items of clothing that I owned got hung up in the closet. Next were the posters of movies, bands, and other random things that they made posters of. Of course, posters aren't small, so they quickly took up the wall space. It didn't bother me at all; it just made the room more me. I made my bed with my black skull and cross bones sheets and black and white comforter. From my backpack, I gently pulled out one single picture. It was a 5"x7" in a simple black frame, which was an addition by my last family. The picture had fold marks and was faded around the edges from being folded up in my wallet for so long. I clutched the picture in my hands before placing it on the dresser. It was the picture of the only foster family that I really considered my own. Mike and Julie Reagan were their names. Mike was in his Marines uniform and Julie was in her favorite sundress. I was in a sundress as well, but mind you, this was taken over five years ago, and I was a different person then. We were all in a park somewhere standing by a tree. The wind was gently blowing that day, and gently tousled both Julie's and my hair. They looked happy; I looked happy. I was happy then. Pulling my mind back to the present moment, I applied the finishing touch on my room by screwing in a black light in place of the regular bulb. I knew that the bluish tinge it gave off was more suited to my tastes than just any other light bulb. I plugged in my stereo and slapped the heavy case of CDs next to it. The room had transformed in half and hour into my room. I was proud because that was my new record for getting moved in. Shoving my duffel bags into the closet, I headed downstairs.

I entered the kitchen cautiously. He wasn't there. Of course not, so that pretty much confirmed that we were having take-out for dinner. I shook my head and began wandering around the house again. There wasn't much. It was just the bare necessities. I wanted to get a feel for the house since I seemed to be free to wander. I wondered about his personal life, if he had one, and began searching for pictures. The walls were bare and white, excepting the trimming of chestnut about halfway down the wall that made up for the walling. As I had previously noticed, there was a black and white picture above the fireplace, but I could tell that it had no connection to him. Down the hallway from the main door was a picture, but it was nothing personal. At the end of that hallway was his office, which consisted of a desk stacked with papers and bookshelves covering the walls. I knew from past experience that the foster parents' rooms and offices were off limits so I headed back to the living room and started looking through the books. It was a wide range: everything from novels, to political nonfiction, to sniper references and boats. I still didn't have a clear picture of the man I was living with.

Finding nothing, I headed back to the kitchen and sat on the barstool at the far end of the counter. I looked around the kitchen to find it as sparse as the rest of his house. To say the appliances were outdated was an understatement. I wouldn't be surprised if they had similar appliances in the early 70s, but I suppose if they still worked there was no point in staying current. The clock in between cupboards told me it was almost 6:30. I folded my arms and laid my head on them to wait for something interesting to happen. I didn't have to wait long thankfully because about a minute later there was loud cracking sound and then a cuss word that I could only assume came from Gibbs.

I got up and darted across the kitchen. The door at the end of the kitchen seemed to be about the only logical source of the sound. Reluctantly, I pulled open the door and headed out onto the landing of what appeared to be a creaky wooden stairway. What greeted my eyes, I would have never suspected from this man, but as I pieced it together, it did make sense. Sitting on top of the concrete floor, in the middle of the room, sat the skeleton of a boat. It wasn't even that. It was five boards; two end boards at approximately 60 degree angles, a board horizontally on top, and then the two curved boards to make the shape of the boat. One of those boards was broken near the top. Gibbs leaned against an end board with the hammer hanging loosely in his hand. He didn't seem mad, but the look in his blue eyes told me otherwise. My first instinct was run, but something kept me planted to handrail. "Is everything all right?" I heard myself ask.

"No," he sighed. "It'll be okay though. I've just been set back about two months."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he snapped. "Shows weakness."

I was confused, but I was beginning to accept the fact that confusion was just going to be part of living here. This man was full of surprises. I took in the basement/workshop. As I had previously noticed, the floor was simple concrete. In the back right hand corner a desk was set up that was covered in supplies for woodworking, I guessed. Red toolboxes lined the shelves underneath and other various items sat on the shelves above the desk. There was a dart board next to the desk on one side, while there were more shelves on the other side that contained various pieces of wood. On a rack above the wood was a rolled up tarp and a long length of rope. On the left hand wall, I could hear a TV reeling off the news headlines. My feet seemed to be glued to wood of the stairs.

"Come here," he commanded gently as he motioned for me to move towards him.

Slowly, my feet left the landing and the stairs creaked under my Converse. I was nervous to say the least. As I walked down, I noticed a bottle of bourbon sitting on the desk, and it immediately sent me into survival mode. I reached the concrete floor and sawdust puffed up around my feet in little clouds. Looking down, one corner of my mouth curved up in a smile. It really was such a childish thing to find amusing, but I did. It was almost like jumping in a puddle after the rain. Looking up, I saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Cautiously, I continued forward to him. He put up his hand for me to stop next to the board that was still intact. Turning around, he grabbed a piece of sandpaper before placing it in my hand. Standing behind me, he grabbed my hands gently in his calloused ones and extended them to meet the wood. Gently he moved it up the board along the grain. I let his hands do the guiding as I let the sensation of the wood under my hands take over. I felt the wood hum as the sandpaper rushed over it. I could feel the simple piece of wood turning into a masterpiece as the sandpaper smoothed out any imperfections. It was amazing, like the first time Mike took me fishing. It was peaceful and soothing. I turned around and saw him smiling at me.

"Feels amazing, doesn't it?"

All I could do was nod. The ability to speak seemed to have disappeared.

He returned the nod, as if he understood the speechlessness. "I've been working on her for a while." Seeing the question written on my face, he continued. "No power tools. Everything was done by hand."

I had to admit, I was impressed. This explained why it would take almost two months to fix the simple mistake. "Wow…"

He laughed, and then encouraged me to look around the workshop.

I took the opportunity and was intrigued by a small desk against the wall that held the TV. The desk looked old and was stacked with blueprints and tools. It seemed to call to me. I loved it. As I sat down in the chair tucked in underneath it, I noticed the careful craftsmanship in the careful design along the edging. I ran my hands over the wood and fell in love. I could easily spend hours down here doing things productive and unproductive. I could do homework down here and listen to the news, or I could write random things about anything and listen to him make his boat. I turned around to ask to find Gibbs leaning against the skeleton waiting for the question. Startled, all I could get out was "Ummm."

He raised his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest.

Making up for my weak start, I asked, "What do I call you? Leroy? Jethro? Leroy Jethro? Special Agent Gibbs? Dad? …Master?"

He cocked his head at the last suggestion. "Master?"

"Long story," I lied.

He shook his head and let it go. Apparently, he decided that it was too early to push that one, even if it went against his instincts. "Gibbs will do just fine."

I nodded. "Ok, so Gibbs, can I use this desk while I'm here?"

He looked longingly at it, and his eyes glazed over for a second as his mind spun back in time. He snapped back in a second, and the look on his face told me that he had made up his mind. "Sure, why not?" Despite him trying to hide it, I could still hear a tinge of sadness in voice. I didn't understand his attachment to the desk.

Before I could ask, the doorbell rang. Then it rang again, and again. After a minute, there was a pounding on the door. "That must be dinner," Gibbs suggested.

I moved to the stairs and took them two at a time. "Coming!" I dashed across the hardwood floor and pulled open the door to reveal a very impatient delivery boy holding a brown paper bag. I smiled awkwardly at him as I grabbed the bag from him and disappeared into the kitchen. I saw Gibbs come up from out of the basement with his wallet in hand. I set the bag on the table just outside of the living room and headed into the kitchen to grab plates, silverware and glasses. As I headed back to the table, I saw the delivery boy looking at me. I smiled.

"Who's that, Agent Gibbs?" he asked. "I thought you lived alone."

Gibbs moved to block the kid's view as he handed him the money. "Thanks," he said shortly and closed the door. Apparently he wasn't ready to tell people about me, especially the delivery boy. I could understand that. He seemed to be new at this, so I let it go. I pulled out the boxes from the sack and opened them. Inside, there were different varieties of Chinese food. I shrugged; it could have been worse. I opened one to find sweet and sour chicken. I inhaled the aroma and used my silverware to shovel it onto the plate.

Gibbs passed me and headed into the kitchen. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon out of a cabinet. I nearly dropped the box of chicken on the table. Fear formed a knot in my stomach that was so tight I couldn't untie it by my usual techniques of deep breathing. I clenched the box and finally controlled myself to the point where I could talk. "Could you maybe not drink bourbon tonight?"

He looked up at me with question in his eyes.

I shook my head. It was all I could do.

He tried to ask the question, but he nodded and placed the whiskey back in the cabinet. In place of the hard liquor he grabbed two juice boxes. He placed one in front of her and sat down across from her. He pulled the boxes of Chinese food across the table and shoveled it onto his plate.

I popped the straw into the juice box and took a sip before stuffing some food into my mouth. "Juice boxes, huh?" I asked, swallowing my food.

"They didn't tell me how old you would be!" he defended.

"I'm your first, aren't I?"

"What?"

I laughed. "You've never been a foster parent before, have you?"

He shook his head. "Nope, so you're gonna have to go easy on me," he joked. He shoveled a bite of his food into his mouth and looked up at me. With food still remaining in his mouth, he said, "Tell me about yourself, Kris."

I wasn't exactly sure where to begin or what to say anyways. I stuffed food into my mouth to buy myself some time before answering. "There isn't much else about me other than what's in the file," I lied. Pulling my hands under the table, I rubbed the cuts along my arm. I knew that it was a political answer that may have shown me to be a bit of a smart-aleck, but I couldn't answer honestly, not yet.

Silently, he stared me down with those blue eyes and his fork poised in mid-air. "I want to hear your version."

Sighing, I put the fork down and leaned over the table. "There really isn't that much to tell. I've been in 13 or 14 foster homes over the course of my life. I don't remember my parents, how they died, or if I ever had any to begin with. I'm 16 years old, and a junior in high school. It doesn't really matter which one, as long as I'm getting an education and I know where it is. I do best at math and history in school, but over the years, I've developed a passion for watching people and trying to figure them out. I don't have that many friends, but then again, I've been at the same school for a year. This will be my second." I took a breath and leaned back in my chair, crossing both my arms and legs. "Anything else?"

It was Gibbs' turn to lean over the table. "Yeah. One more thing. What are some of you experiences in foster homes?"

My breath hitched in my throat. I didn't want to tell him; though it was more selfish reasons than anything else. I didn't want to relive some of the things I've been through ever again. I couldn't. Yet as soon as I closed my eyes after he asked, I was curled up in the corner again. I couldn't admit that; not yet. Reopening my eyes, I saw his eyes staring into mine. I knew that I had to tell him. Otherwise, he would probably have been able to read my mind. "It's a wide spectrum," I replied with a tone of defeat. I didn't want to go into detail, so I didn't. "There were families that my life heaven, and others that made my life a living hell." This last part was said with a shudder. "That's all the detail you get for now." It was abrupt and rude, but I couldn't go into any other detail. My arms retreated to underneath the table again.

He nodded. "It must get hard at times."

I bit my black lip. I felt like I should tell him about Mike and Julie, but at the moment, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. All that was going through my mind were images of things I would have rather forgotten. I took a deep breath and swallowed. "Gibbs, can I ask you a question?"

"Ya just did," he pointed out as he cleaned his plate.

I smiled. "Ha ha, very funny," I retorted. I stuffed the last bite of Chinese food into my mouth and stood up. Grabbing both his plate and mine, I headed into the kitchen and placed them in the sink. "Never mind." I decided that my question could only be answered with time. Besides, anyone could talk their way into being liked. I started climbing the stairs. I didn't really have to go to bed yet seeing as it was only 8:00, but with nothing better to do, I thought that this would be a decent option.

Halfway up the stairs, Gibbs called to me. "There's a couple things I need to show you, just in case I'm not here when you get up tomorrow morning."

Rolling my eyes, I came back down the stairs to his side. "What?"

His jaw was clenched. I could see it. He jerked his head in the direction of the bookcase behind the TV. "See that box on the shelf?"

"Yeah," I replied.

He walked over to it and punched in a code and opened it. He pulled out his gun. I slowly walked back towards the stairs. "When I'm home," he explained, "I keep my gun in there. It's for emergencies, but if you ever need it, like if I'm in the basement, and you need it, the code is 2-5-8-0."

I nodded and watched as he put it back in.

He gestured that I follow him. He headed back down into the basement.

Cautiously, I followed him and by the time I got to the top of the stairs, he was all ready walking across the concrete floor to the desks piled up with everything imaginable. He reached inside one of the Mason jars along the wall, and he produced a key from it. Unlocking a few drawers underneath the desk, he opened them. Looking up, he noticed that I was sitting on the stairs. "Come on."

Reluctantly, I got up and trotted down the stairs to him. Looking in the drawers, I saw a sniper rifle, and yet another handgun. "These are only for emergencies. When I'm not here."

I nodded in understanding. Seeing his look of dismissal, I headed back up stairs and walked up the other flight of stairs to my room. Looking across the view of the nation's capitol, I lowered my curtain. I flipped on the black light, immersing my room in a bluish-purple light. I smiled, knowing that my room was officially mine now. Closing the door, I popped an Evanescence CD into the stereo and flopped onto the skull and cross-bones decorated bed. The music made the walls vibrate just a little bit. Rolling onto my stomach and slammed my fists into the pillow. I hated my life. Who I was, what I had missed, everything. For once, I wanted parents. I was so tired of being bounced from house to house. Reaching across to the bedside table, I pulled out a razor and pressed it to my skin. I couldn't do it. Those piercing blue eyes entered my thoughts, and wouldn't leave. How did this man that I hadn't even known a full day all ready seem to influence my decisions? As I rolled over, my eyes caught the picture of Mike, Julie and me. Maybe that was it: Gibbs reminded me of Mike. I wondered when I would see them again, or if I ever would. I doubted it. It had been almost 6 years, and the last I heard from them was when they gave me the car.

I heard footsteps outside my door, and saw the shadows of feet outside my door. I knew that it was Gibbs. I also knew that he probably was trying to figure me out, and he couldn't. I smirked. I was glad he couldn't, but then I realized that this could be my chance to tell someone about me and maybe I could find someone that really cared about me. Then my mind actually kicked in. He wanted the music turned down. I relented and turned it off. I shut off the light and went to sleep.

Okay, well that was fun. My lovelies, please review. You know just how much I love them. Now. I'm not really sure where to go from here because last time I wrote this, the end of this was the end of chapter 3. HMMM! Dilemma, dilemma. Give some suggestions, and maybe you'll get lucky. Tell me what you all think. Clicky that happy little button below. =)