He stops at the front door, and fishes out the key. The leaves outside his house are decaying as the rain falls from the sky. He turns the key in the door, and enters the house with a stack of mail under one arm. He heads to the kitchen, and flips on the light. He leaves the door unlocked as he searches the fridge for a viable option for dinner. After a nice sirloin, and a beer he heads to the couch to study a case file.
He temporarily falls asleep on the couch. He wakes up about an hour later. He sits up, and stretches. His glance falls on a wet leaf lying on his floor. He furrows his brow, certain that it was not present earlier. He reaches for his gun, as his gut sends off alarm bells telling him that he is not alone. He rises to his feet with his hand securely pressed against his gun. He looks in the kitchen, and finds it vacant. He heads toward the stairwell to the basement.
He moves slowly, and quietly as he descends the stairs. He reaches the bottom stair, and finds the basement to be dark. He listens carefully as he sets foot onto the surface of the basement floor. He hears someone breathing heavily, not stealthily. It is the sound of someone who is scared. He crosses the room, and flips on the light. As his eyes adjust he surveys the room. He sees a shadow underneath the staircase. He moves slowly, stopping halfway across the room.
"I don't know who is down here, but you need to come out. My name is Leroy Jethro Gibbs."
There is no movement. He slowly moves towards the staircase. He stops when he reaches the staircase. His breath hitches as he sees a small figure in the corner of the basement, underneath the steps. A pair of eyes stair up at him. After recent events his hand remains against his weapon.
"I don't want to hurt you," he shifts into a squatting position.
The person's face is nearly obscured under strands of oily, dark hair.
"Can you tell me your name?"
His response is a look of fear scrawled across her face.
"Are you hiding from someone?" He furrows his brow making a realization, "Do you speak English?"
"Yes," he elicits a barely audible whisper.
"Can you tell me your name?"
There is a subtle head shake.
"You look like you've been on the move for a while. I bet you're hungry. Can I make you something to eat?" He tries to gain trust.
"I need your help," she tells him, quietly.
"Okay," he nods, understandingly, "Why don't you come out of there? You can tell me what you need my help with, and I'll make you something to eat. Does that sound like a deal?"
She doesn't say a word. She stares at the metal object on his hip. He follows her ling of sight. He removes the gun, and separates it from the clip. He clears the chamber, and places it on the floor. He offers her his hand. She reluctantly comes out of her hiding place. He leads her out of the corner, and she rises to her feet. He studies her closely. She is wearing a black long sleeved t-shirt, with a black zippered jacket over it, a pair of worn jeans, and black steel toed boots. Her face, hair, and clothes are soiled. It is clear to him that she hasn't bathed in days. A pair of weary eyes stare up at him. She is thin, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Part of him expects her to turn and run. He racks his brain trying to figure out who she is, and why she is here for his help. She moves unexpectedly. Her arms are wrapped around him, and her head is pressed to his side before he can react. He hugs her back, uncertain what to say.
"Let's get you something to eat."
She doesn't protest. She follows him up the stairs. He finds some eggs, and bacon in the refrigerator. He quickly fries them up, and arranges them on a plate. He pours her a glass of orange juice, and takes a seat across the table from her. She inhales her food as if she hasn't eaten in days. When she is finished she sits in silence as she stares at him.
"I can make you more," he offers.
She shakes her head.
"Are you going to tell me why you're here?"
She breaks eye contact, and the silence envelopes him. He feels awkward, being the one making conversation. He pushes away from the table, and removes the dishes. He places the dishes in the sink. As he turns around he hears her speak, just above a whisper.
"Bailey."
He grins, "Nice to meet you, Bailey."
"I didn't know where else to go," she explains.
"Tell me, Bailey, how old are you?"
"Ten."