A/N: I decided to run a fine comb through this chapter, and here's the result. I don't know if I'll do the same to other chapters, but we'll see. As for the other story, From Panama with Love, I'll get around to it eventually.

With all that said, read and enjoy. Reviews, favorites, follows, and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS. Any resemblance to dialogue from other TV shows, movies, or elsewhere is purely coincidental.

Chapter One:
Forward to the Past
By GallaudetLurker

May 24, 2015
2:30 AM
Gibbs Residence
Alexandria, VA

He had never believed in second chances. Until now.

Special Agent-in-Charge Leroy Jethro Gibbs grunted as he sanded one of the ribs of the skeletal boat he would burn down once he was finished with it. His arms and shoulders were aching with the continual exertion, yet he continued on. The pain was a welcome distraction that kept him focused on the task at hand.

Pausing to blow the sawdust away, his arms crying out in relief, Gibbs frowned as he felt the rib's surface and resumed his work, welcoming the pain that radiated through his arms once again. Several long moments of torture continued before he paused to check the rib, and he nodded in satisfaction.

Placing the sander on his crafting table, Gibbs stretched, feeling the satisfying crack of bones in his back. He went over to a smaller table in the back of the dimly-lit basement and grabbed a dusty mug from a nearby shelf, filling it with Maker's Mark Kentucky bourbon. He downed it in one gulp, savoring the strong taste of the liquid that went down his throat.

Feeling the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach intensify, he refilled the mug and took a sip this time. Leaning against the table, he watched the unfinished boat, remembering the first time he had taken up woodworking. He'd begun it shortly after he married Shannon, building toys for his daughter Kelly on occasion, but it didn't become his daily habit until their deaths years later. His early attempts ended in piles of smashed woods before he picked up on it.

His thoughts turned to the events in the past four months. The brutal murder of his ex-wife Diane Sterling in January set off a chain-reaction of events that left his team reeling from Sergei Mishnev's onslaught. The sniper attack on Anthony "Tony" DiNozzo in his apartment that left him grievously wounded. Timothy "Tim" McGee gunned down by a redhead while on a date; he survived by the skin of his teeth. Abby Sciuto attacked by a knife-wielding assailant at her apartment. Eleanor "Ellie" Bishop targeted by a suicide-bomber. The detonation of Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard's beloved Morgan on his driveway. The kidnapping of his assistant, Jimmy Palmer, by a deranged criminal bent on draining his blood away. And not to mention, the raid on his house by Mishnev's mercenaries.

Exhaling through his nose, Gibbs drained his bourbon. For some reason, the basement seemed to be closing in on him, and he decided to get out of there. There was something he had to do, after all. Grabbing his overcoat, he left the basement for the kitchen, retrieving the bouquet of flowers from his near-empty fridge before leaving the house.

Rain pelted down on him as he put on his overcoat, and he allowed it to wash over him for a moment before heading to his battered, gray Ford truck. Seconds later, he was speeding down the darkened street in the general direction of the freeway. As he merged into the freeway, ignoring the rapid back-and-forth motion of the windshield wiper, he glanced at the bouquet.

Daisies and lilies, her favorites.

He felt his chest constrict and turned his attention to the highway. Changing lanes without signaling, cutting off the car there, he reached for the coffee – only to grab nothing but air. He cursed himself for forgetting the most important thing in his life, but then decided he'd live.

A heart-shaped face appeared in his mind, her hazel eyes peering out from under her wavy brown hair, a soft dimpled smile on her lips. His heart wrenched, and he felt sadness sweep over him. He missed her so damn much that it hurt, and wondered how he was able to go on like that for so long.

Today was the tenth anniversary of Kate's death.

It had been so long since he last saw her, heard her voice. Not a day passed that he didn't think about the brunette who had worked for him for nearly two years. Not a day passed that he didn't agonize over what he considered as the greatest failure in his life. Not a day passed that he didn't see her violently jerk, blood erupting from the back of her head as she collapsed to the ground.

He was driving to Norfolk to pay his respects, placing flowers on the site where she had been shot. This was a personal ritual that he had followed for years, and he'd be damned if he missed it. He'd once visited her grave, on the first anniversary of her death, and it proved too much for him. Norfolk was easier to bear, as strange as it sounded. He remembered looking at the adjacent warehouse building where his long-deceased nemesis had taken the fatal shot, wishing fervently that day that turned out differently.

Over the years, he had vivid, recurring nightmares of that fateful moment. He would be standing in front of Kate on the roof. Knowing what would happen to her, Gibbs would try to warn her of her impeding fate, only to have the bullet pass through her head right at that moment. He would try to gesture with his hands, only for the bullet to strike her down. He would try to push her down, out of Ari's sights, only for the bullet to splatter her brain across the floor. Whenever he and Kate were heading for Norfolk, he would try to turn the car around, only for the bullet to shatter the windshield and her head. Whenever they were at Headquarters, he would try to convince her to stay in the bullpen, only for the damn bullet to hit her head out of nowhere.

No matter what he said or did, Kate died by a sniper shot to the head every time. Every. Damn. Time. He usually jerked awake, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind whirring. It was the reason he had difficulty sleeping on the anniversary of her death.

He clenched his jaw when other memories popped in his mind. Her body lying on the rooftop, blood pooling around her head. Her body lying in a black body bag on a slab in Ducky's Autopsy room. Her body lying in a flag-covered casket, the Presidential Medal of Freedom around her neck, her rosary bands and cross held in her hands.

He felt a single, hot tear running down his face. This was the only day of the year that he ever allowed himself that moment of "weakness". He would never forgive himself for putting her in danger – the fact that her job was dangerous, be damned – especially when he should've known that the surrounding buildings served as excellent sniper nests for a certain Mossad double-agent. He never forgave himself for helping her to her feet, when he should've kept her down and out of immediate danger. Because of this, his life changed forever. Cursing loudly, he slammed his fist into the steering wheel, ignoring the loud horn. Why didn't he keep her down? She had been injured, for Pete's sake! He should've known better, called in a helicopter or something.

Taking several deep breaths, Gibbs slammed hard on his accelerator, changing lanes without regard to other drivers. Aggressively tailgating a van and causing it to swerve into the next lane did nothing to make him feel better. Only coffee, bourbon, and her alive and well could do that.

As the shadowy outline of Richmond loomed through the pouring rain – which certainly reflected his bleary mood – he briefly thought about making a detour to get a much-needed coffee, but shook it away. He'd go without coffee all day if it meant honoring his Kate and punishing himself for the disastrous lapse in judgment that so cost him dearly.

Richmond passed him by, and his thoughts turned to that time he had accidentally called Ziva 'Kate'. That was in October of '06, and he had a particularly shitty day. Her name simply slipped out, and he almost gave himself a good slap for that. He did it again, in December of '13, and actually slapped himself, much to the surprise and confusion of his agents. There were moments where he believed that his Katie was alive and kicking, only to look over at her desk and see the ex-Mossad officer (and now the former NSA analyst) and have reality kick the crap out of him.

He let out a sigh, feeling like he had aged a hundred years in a single night. The rain seemed to pour harder the closer he got to Norfolk, and it got so dark at times that he had difficulty seeing the road in front of him. It was nothing short of a miracle that the Ford didn't skid off the road, spin out of control, or hit anything or anyone in the way. Somehow, he managed to get through Newport and Hampton without leaving a wide swath of destruction in his wake.

Turning into the largely-abandoned warehouse district, Gibbs squinted at the massive dilapidated warehouse that dotted the vast compound. As his destination steadily loomed in the distance, Gibbs' stomach began coiling hard as anger and sadness roiled inside him. As he pulled the car to a hard stop outside the warehouse that served as Kate's tomb, Gibbs thought back to that day. On May 24th, 2005, he and his team – Kate, DiNozzo, and McGee – had arrived, fully armed and ready to take down Ari Haswari's terrorist group for once and for all.

As if watching a vintage movie recording, he saw himself take Kate's Remington shotgun and fire at a nearby street lamp, alerting the terrorists on the rooftop. One of them appeared, and was shot down, his body tumbling over the edge and hitting the floor with a sickening thud. He saw himself run down the short alleyway between the warehouse and the red-bricked one next to it, Kate following him. DiNozzo was climbing the fire escape to the rooftop.

If only he could call out to them and warn them of what was going to happen, particularly her.

Shaking his head, Gibbs grabbed the bouquet and stepped out of the car, immediately drenched by the rain. Ignoring the clothes sticking to his body, his hair matting to his forehead, and the droplets running down his face, Gibbs looked up at the rooftop, squinting his eyes. He then passed through the open barbed-wire gates to a nearby side entrance, his feet feeling like lead with every step.

Grabbing the knob, Gibbs was surprised to find it unlocked. He usually had to pick the locks in his previous visits. Feeling his Sig Sauer securely sheathed inside his belt holster under his overcoat, Gibbs pulled the door open and cautiously stepped inside.

He found himself in a dimly-lit, enclosed room with several thick columns. Passing through it, he reached a larger loading area. Metal shelves filled with cardboard boxes of varying sizes dotted the floor. He could see piles of wood packaging materials and red and gray barrels haphazardly scattered across the floor, along with a couple of large forklifts. It was just like he remembered it.

There was no stirring in his gut, so Gibbs took it as a cue that it was safe to proceed. He went deeper into the abandoned warehouse, his eyes adjusting to the lighting, heading in the general direction of the stairwell that led to the rooftop.

Suddenly, gunfire rang out.

His well-honed instincts kicking in, Gibbs dove into cover behind a nearby square column, his Sig instantly out. The rapid sounds of the bullets striking the column made his eardrums recoil. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Gibbs switched the safety off, and after checking to make sure his gun was loaded, he cautiously peered around the corner to get a bearing on his mysterious attackers–

Another hail of bullets shot out, and he instantly pulled his head back just in the nick of time as the bullets nicked the corner where his head had just been. Had he somehow stepped into an ambush? If so, how did he not see it? Who was targeting him at four in the morning? And more importantly, why didn't his gut alert him as it usually did in the past?

Tucking these questions away, Gibbs steeled himself and leant out of cover, rapidly firing in the direction of the assailants. Not knowing if he hit his targets, he scurried forward to a nearby state police and slid into cover once more. As he took several deep breaths, Gibbs was about to reload his Sig when he suddenly realized something.

He was completely dry.

That wasn't the shocking part, though. Instead of the overcoat, dress shirt, suit jacket, and jeans he'd been wearing, he was now dressed in a long-sleeved dress shirt, trousers, and a bulletproof vest under his NCIS jacket. McGee's voice was ringing in his ear through the earwig. The Sig Sauer P239 had somehow been replaced by the P228. The heavy pitter-patter on the roof had stopped. And the police car wasn't there before.

What the hell? Gibbs' mind reeled in shock, confusion, and disbelief.

As he tried to make sense of what was happening, another burst of gunfire rang out, and he instinctively inclined his head. This time, however, it sounded like it came from a shotgun, and it was closer, much closer, as if it came from right next to him.

His gut recoiled this time as he felt a presence next to him. His martial instincts reacting once again, he turned his head to the side, ready to raise his pistol and fire. His eyes widened, his mind exploded, his stomach dropped to the ground, and his heart stopped right there and then.

Crouching next to him, firing the Remington over the trunk of the police war, was Caitlin "Kate" Todd.