a/n: - so, as a refresher: in Shepard Girls, after 1987 {chapter one}, the story skips right to Natalie in Kindergarten, and a mention of Gibbs having seen Natalie once 'before then.' On a beach, when he was at Sniper school. This chapter begins with that scene, except here you see it, rather than just get a mention of it ! {see how the stories are weaving together!}


Camp Pendleton, California; Monterey, California; Stuttgart, Germany; Kuwait: 1989-1991

All the Pretty Faces


He sat on a bench, nervous. His foot dug tensely into the sand, and he felt silly for wearing military boots on the beach – but he didn't have long, and she said this was the best day for her work schedule. He couldn't shake how anxious he felt, and that made a dull anger simmer under his skin – no man should feel this uncertain about seeing his daughter.

He should be thrilled; he should feel lighthearted and relieved, but he just felt wary – he hadn't seen Natalie in – since – it was pushing the end of nineteen eighty-nine, so she'd been two and a half the last time he'd seen her; she was five, now – she was starting Kindergarten in September.

He was worried he wouldn't recognize her. Jenny's version of letting him be as involved as he wanted didn't seem to include sending pictures or giving her own updates.

He sat back, rubbing his jaw, and looking around. It was a ritual, had been for the past fifteen minutes – he was very early – he'd look around sharply, then look back down and spend a few minutes staring hard at his hands, wondering what he was going to say, or how this was going to go.

He'd brought a few things for her, a new hair bow, a new letter – sealed – and a new stuffed animal that was supposed to be in high demand come Christmas – he'd had the opportunity to get it early; thank God for the military. He only hoped it was something Natalie would be interested in.

He checked the bag next to him, making sure the gift was safe, and then he looked to his left and his right – and this time, he spotted them; Jenny had Natalie by the hand, and she looked like she'd already seen him, so he didn't need to wave her over – he stuck out like a sore thumb, in Marine fatigues, anyway.

He started to stand, but then he sat back down, thinking maybe he'd make Natalie less nervous – if she didn't recognize him – if he wasn't so big. He squeezed his hands together between his knees and then turned as they approached, Natalie kicking up sand as she hopped along next to Jenny, her small fingers entwined with her mother's.

Gibbs clenched his jaw, unsure what to say, his eyes on Natalie.

"Hi, Jethro," Jenny said cautiously, her voice guarded; Gibbs was still looking only at Natalie, though, and he saw Jenny loosen her grip and very gently shake Natalie loose a bit.

He got up and knelt down in the sand, eye-level with her. He put his hand out, and swallowed hard.

"Bug," he said, his voice quiet.

She stepped closer, and looked at his hand. She arched an eyebrow in a funny little way. She smiled fetchingly, and reached out and touched the tips of his fingers, holding onto them.

"Hi," she answered.

"Natalie," Jenny said. She folded her arms protectively across her own chest. "It's Daddy."

Natalie looked up at her and blinked thoughtful blue eyes.

"I know who it is, Mommy," she said solemnly. She looked back to Gibbs, and he reached forward with confidence, grabbing her gently and sweeping her up into a bear hug, turning his back to Jenny and wrapping his arms around her tightly.

He grinned, pressing his forehead into her shoulder. He leaned back, putting his hand on the back of her head and tilting her head back carefully.

"You know who it is, huh?" he asked, teasing her. He brushed his fingers against her ribs, and she giggled, grabbing his hand. She nodded primly. He hugged her again, taking a deep breath, and he pulled back and kissed her cheek paternally, just holding her there in his arms, staring at her. "You sure?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Daddy," she said smartly. She put her hands together. "Your voice…comes on the phone," she told him.

"Oh, you know my voice?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded, putting her hands under her chin cutely. She scrunched up her nose.

"Think I saw you more, when I was teeny," she told him.

He brushed her hair back – it was so long, and dark, a very shimmery auburn-brown, like his mother's – like his, and his mother's, more than like Jenny's sharp, vibrant red – he was glad Jenny hadn't cut it, she looked like a little fairy princess.

He nodded.

'Think you're right," he agreed, looking over her. "You're not teeny."

She held up her hand.

"I'm five," she told him conversationally. "I go to pre-school sometimes. I can read books," she added. "You sent me the moon book," she said. "I like the moon book."

"Goodnight, Moon?" He asked, mesmerized. He couldn't believe she was talking like this – this was so different, from the child he knew, the little toddler who was just barely stringing together sentences that made sense.

Natalie was nodding again.

"It got Mommy's coffee on it," she said. "But I still read it."

With that, Gibbs suddenly remembered Mommy – Jenny – was there, and he turned around, his hand pressed gently on Natalie's back, looking about. She was still standing, though she'd moved closer to the bench, and she had her fingers pressed warily to her lips – she looked uncertain, awkward; he swallowed hard, feeling like he should say something to her.

Then again, he also didn't feel particularly concerned about her feelings.

"She's good at talkin'," he said lamely.

Jenny smiled carefully. She nodded.

"She's very good," she agreed hoarsely. "She can say lots of big words, can't you, Bug?"

Natalie tugged on Gibbs' collar for his attention.

"Photosynthesis," she said promptly.

He smiled at her proudly.

"What's that mean?" he asked, with serious interest.

"Plant food," she said, somewhat rudimentary.

"Natalie," Jenny said, "what were you going to say to Daddy?"

"Oh," she said sweetly. She touched his nametag, picking at the Velcro with a curious expression.

"Don't mess with Daddy's uniform," Jenny ordered tensely.

Gibbs waved a hand at her sharply.

"She can do what she wants," he snapped, without thinking of how it would look or sound to Natalie. Jenny's eyes narrowed, but he ignored her. "What were you going to say to me?"

"I liked my birthday present," she said, looking at him shyly. "I played it all the time."

He'd sent her a small tape player and two tapes full of popular Disney music, and he had been so unsure it was the kind of thing she cared about. He was glad to hear that she liked it – Shannon had insisted she would – and he smiled at her, arching his brows.

"Would you like another present?" he asked conspiratorially.

Natalie gasped, and nodded. He sat down on the bench, holding her on his lap – she was bigger, and it was hard for him to adjust to; she was still light to him, and easy to carry, but he remembered her feeling more like a baby – this Natalie wasn't helpless, this was a kid, and he didn't know anything about her.

"Mommy," Natalie said, turning to her. "Daddy said he got me a thing."

"Did he?" Jenny asked, her voice strained. "Hmm, and it's not even Christmas," she said.

Natalie snickered.

"Maybe it's a Pilgrim present," she said, eyes sparkling. "Like Squanto gave the Pilgrims."

Jenny didn't say anything, and Gibbs sensed that she was displeased. He ignored it, and pulled out the bow, showing it to Natalie. She sighed happily and took it, running the silk through her fingers.

"You put it in, please," she said, turning. She climbed off of his lap and sat next to him, peeking in the bag.

Hesitantly, he took the ribbon, his face falling a little – he had never known how to do her hair; he was always working, and Jen or Ann had always done it. He swallowed, not wanting to disappoint Natalie – not now, when he felt like every move was so much more important than ever, because he wanted to seem perfect to her, in her memory.

Jenny wordlessly stepped around and gathered up some of Natalie's hair, standing perilously close to Gibbs as she gently kept from pulling or tangling and tied up half of the little girl's soft waves into the ribbon, neatly tying it off and stepping away.

Her hand brushed Gibbs' shoulder briefly, and to his surprise, he had to fight the urge to shake her off – she removed it too quickly for him to actually do it – and that caught him off guard, because he hadn't realized he still felt that hostile towards her.

Things had become much more – scarred, and – fixed – so to speak, when it came to his feelings about the situation; it was routine, and he might not like it, but he'd stopped having to force himself through every day just to make it to the next morning alive.

Natalie pulled out a letter, and gave it to Jenny.

"Box," she said.

Gibbs turned sharply.

"Box?" he asked.

Jenny, examining the sealed letter, looked at him carefully.

"I've been keeping them in a box for her," she said softly. "She couldn't read all the other ones." She tucked this one in her purse and smiled. "I don't read them," she added, as if she'd read his mind.

He shrugged.

"I was more worried about you throwin' 'em away," he said callously.

Her face fell.

"Jethro – " she started.

Natalie interrupted with a shriek of delight. She leapt off the bench, clutching something tightly, and then she thrust her arms out, showing the fluffy, formidable new toy to her mother.

"Mommy!" she squealed. "Mommy, LOOK!"

She pressed the appropriate button, and the fancy toy's lashes fluttered, and he said –

"Beary Smiles loves you!"

Natalie threw herself at Gibbs' knees.

"But Daddy – but they're all sold," she said, breathless. "Even on the dark Friday, Melly said no one can get one – "

Gibbs grinned, swinging her up into his lap again.

"I got one," he said smugly.

They had them at the exchanges on base – tons, set aside and reserved as a special treat for military children, to make their holidays easier – Gibbs had waited in line to get one, knowing he was going to see Natalie in person, and wanting it to be memorable – he couldn't wait to send it on Christmas.

"I love him," Natalie said. "Mommy, look," she said again. "Daddy got BEARY!"

"I see him, honey," Jenny said, she turned slightly, and gave Gibbs a look. "Why did you get her that?" she asked, under her breath.

Natalie slid of the bench, sitting Beary Smiles on it and touching her nose to his adorably.

"You can get married to my cabbage kid," she told it seriously.

Gibbs gave Jenny a tense look.

"Knew she'd like it – "

"It's not Christmas or her birthday – those things cost a fortune, you're spoiling her – "

"I don't give a damn how much it costs; I don't have anything else I'm spendin' money on," he said nastily, keeping his voice down.

Natalie looked at them. Jenny put her hand on her jaw.

"Nat, can you go play by the ocean for a minute?" she asked, tense.

Natalie took Beary with her, and Jenny looked pissed about that, too, but Natalie just held him tightly and looked around for – seashells, or something. Jenny turned to Gibbs, her face flushed.

"I couldn't have afforded that for her – I didn't even think I could get one, and you come along, and you're just the guy bringing her expensive gifts – "

"I'm her father, Jen, I'm not just the guy – what the hell do you expect me to do, I never see her, I can't afford to fly back and forth to see her, least I can do is – "

"It feels like you're trying to bribe her into liking you better, or, undermining me – "

"Bullshit, Jenny," he growled, cutting her off. His jaw tightened, and a muscle in his temple flinched. "You aren't gonna make me feel guilty about finally getting to see her," he barked.

Jenny pushed her hair back, closing her eyes heavily. They were red when she reopened them, and she took a deep breath.

"I just don't know how to handle this situation, Jethro, it's uncharted waters, and I'm afraid of her getting hurt – "

"Figure it out," he said coldly. "This is your problem."

He turned sharply, kicking up sand, and went to catch up to Natalie. She looked up at him, holding up some seaweed.

"I love this stuff," she said. "It makes Mommy scream.'

"Doesn't look so scary," Gibbs said gruffly, crouching down.

Natalie wiggled it, and put it on his shoulder. He grinned at her, unperturbed, and patted Beary on the head.

"He might stop talking if he gets wet," Gibbs warned. "You better let Mommy hold him."

"Are you leaving?" Natalie asked, worried.

"Not just yet," Gibbs promised.

He straightened, and watch Natalie run and give Beary Smiles to her mother to hold. Jenny sat down on the bench with the bear, looking faraway, nervous, and conflicted, and for a moment Gibbs wished he was anywhere but here – somehow, he knew everything would be worse when he got back to the Pendleton barracks tonight, just for having seen them in the flesh.

Natalie scampered back, and she pointed to the ocean.

"Are you afraid of crabs?" she asked.

"No, I'm not afraid," he promised.

She beamed, and splashed into the water.

"Ooh, there's teeny minnow fish – Daddy," she laughed, "look!"

He waded in next to her without a care for his socks, boots, or uniform pants, and he watched her point out the creatures, not even bothered when she splashed him or accidentally threw seaweed at him.

He picked her up at one point, and waded out further, dangling her feet over the crashing waves. She plastered herself to him.

"You're – oh no, big wave – no, Daddy, you got wet – I pulled your hair, I'm sorry, oh no – "

"It's okay," he soothed, laughing. He stumbled back – they'd both got drenched by that last wave – and tugged on his own short hair hard. "I'm tough, see, you can't hurt me."

She scrambled up towards his shoulders anyway, and kissed his hair apologetically. He gave her a hug, and let her slide down, standing near where the waves broke. She crouched down and picked up a small white crab, reaching up and putting it in his hand.

"It's a sand spider," she said. "Mommy calls it sand bug. Like me. Bug," she giggled, scrunching up her nose. "But really it is a crust-a-cean," she pronounced smartly.

Gibbs let the little thing crawl around in his hand, moving away from the water, and back onto the bank. He sat down, and let it crawl on his uniform. Natalie bent forward and watched; something clinked against his knee.

He looked down, and gently touched – his dog tags, dog tags he'd sent her two years ago. They had bite marks on them.

"Oh this is my necklace," Natalie said. "It has your name on it," she said it so matter-of-factly, and before Gibbs could answer, she turned. "Mommy," she said – and she didn't say it loudly, so Gibbs knew Jenny must have come up closer. "I put a sand spider on Daddy and he didn't scream and yell at me."

Jenny flushed, conflicted.

"I don't – yell at you, Natalie, I just – they scare me, but I'm not screaming at you," she explained, half-heartedly. "Natalie," she said, apologetic. "I have to go to work. Melly's waiting to take you to that roller blading place."

Natalie turned to Gibbs.

"Are you coming home with me?" she asked.

He swallowed hard, trying not to let her see his shoulders or his face fall.

"No, Bug," he said bravely. "I got to – I got to go do Marine things, got to work," he said. He flicked the dog tags gently. "Keepin' you and the world safe," he said, with a small wink.

Natalie turned to Jenny.

"When is he coming again?"

Jenny didn't say anything.

"I got a lot of hard training," Gibbs said. "But I'm gonna try to see you, Bug, I – "

"Natalie, there's something in my purse for Daddy – the green envelope, will you get it?" Jenny interrupted.

Natalie smiled, and went off, trudging towards the bench. Gibbs got off, brushing sand of, and Jenny stepped closer.

"Don't make her any promises," she warned.

Gibbs gave her a hard look.

"I want to see her when I can," he said aggressively. "Pendleton's only an hour away – and you said – "

"I know what I said; I never intended to keep her from you," she placated. She took a shaky breath. "This is – this is scary, I'm afraid she'll get confused, or she'll start – I don't know, it's already hard with phone calls, sometimes she forgets for a while, and then to her times she wants to know why you only call randomly – "

"Sounds like you're blamin' me for something, Jen," he said dangerously.

She pushed her hair back, her hands shaking.

"No, I just – you can see her, you can," she said – but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "If you could just – work out a schedule – "

"Custody?"

"No, Jethro," she hissed. "I mean so it's – stable, and we know where we are –

"It'd just be easier on you if I dropped off the face of the planet, wouldn't it, Jen?" he asked coldly. "Hell of a lot easier than staring me in the face and havin' to answer her questions – I can't give you a damn schedule," he said, "and you – goddamnit, you know that."

"Sniper school is demanding, but you could – determine weekends – "

"I got duty on weekends; school doesn't get me off the hook from bein' a Marine," he snapped.

Her eyes flicked over him, telling him she was fully aware of his Marine presence – it was certainly in her face, and commanding.

He stared this woman down – this girl who he'd been with for so long, who had once seemed to be his entire teenage world – and he felt a sinking feeling; he felt like she'd make excuses, he felt like she'd make this hard – he felt like she couldn't do this, and frankly, if every time he saw Natalie he had to see Jen, and he had to fight her, and he had to suffer the same sharp, debilitating emotions he'd felt when she first left – he didn't know if he could do it, either.

Ethereal, magical moments in the ocean aside, they still had problems – and a lot of them came from his military career, and the whole reason she'd run in the first place.

Natalie came up, leaning into Jenny.

"Are you mad at each other?" she asked.

"No," they both said heavily.

Jenny's voice cracked. He watched her take the envelope from Natalie, and hand it to him gingerly.

"It's photos," she said. "Birthdays, Halloween," she said. "I made sure you got the really good ones."

He held the envelope limply, feeling hollow. He just nodded curtly, swallowing hard – his brow furrowed; was this going to work? He'd transferred to Pendleton, to Sniper School – finally having achieved that, and even gotten his requested location – with all these high hopes – he'd somehow thought it would be easy to just – pick up, again, with him working, and then spending all his free time with Natalie.

But – that wasn't going to work, was it? He had a life, he had responsibilities, his life belonged to the Corps; and she had a life, too; Natalie had things, Jenny had work – this wasn't Stillwater, this wasn't high school, and they weren't two teenagers alone in the world against a town of conservative gossips and their parents.

They were coming to their own, in completely different ways.

"I really do have to go to work," Jenny said softly, her voice unsteady. She stroked Natalie's hair. "Jethro, I – we're doing – we're okay, out here, we're safe, and she's good so I just – no promises you can't keep," she warned, tired.

He swallowed, and he nodded – he wouldn't do that, and he understood her; he wanted his daughter to be happy, and unburdened by their conflict, and he wanted her to have a stable environment, but it was just – it was so monumentally unfair that Jenny's decision to leave him, to move away, was putting him in this position – would she dare act like this if they'd gotten married like they were supposed to, and he was deployed?

Would she call it unstable, and uncertain, then?

Jenny had crouched down, and said something gently to Natalie. Natalie nodded, brushing her off gently, and stepped forward. She hooked her little finger into a bracelet at Gibbs' wrist.

"What's this?" she asked.

It was a pink and red ribbon bracelet, braided – a trinket, something Shannon had learned to make; before she'd gone to college, she'd gone on a cruise to Jamaica with some friends, and made herself this; when he'd left for Pendleton, she'd given it to him for luck and – perhaps, to mark him, to make him feel less alone.

He put his hand over the bracelet – there was no way in hell he was bringing up Shannon Fielding, not around Jenny – he wasn't even sure if Jenny had known her.

"My friend made it," he grunted gently. "It's a good luck charm."

Natalie smiled, admiring it.

"It's pretty," she said.

Gibbs nodded, rubbing his wrist – Shannon was at the University of Virginia, now, studying elementary education; suddenly, and acutely, Jen standing there, reminding him of what they used to have, made him miss Shannon, wish she was here –

He wondered how Jen would feel about that, if he told her another woman was giving him tokens of affection, making him happy.

"Say goodbye, Natalie," Jenny coaxed.

Gibbs reached out his hands again, and again swept Natalie into his arms, turning and walking away some, ending the day like they'd begun it. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, meeting her eyes. He steeled himself for a moment, but he wanted to hear it from her –

"You happy, Natalie?" he asked. "Is Mommy taking good care of you?"

Natalie nodded earnestly. She smiled, for good measure.

"She's a good mommy," she assured him.

Gibbs smiled tiredly. He nodded.

"Yeah," he agreed, ruffling her hair affectionately. "She always was."

He took a deep breath and kissed her cheek, closing his eyes a moment.

"I love you, Natalie," he told her hoarsely. "You remember that." He squeezed his eyes tightly, and pushed her hair back. "I always think about you."

She nodded, putting her arms around his neck in a tight hug. He held her tightly, so tightly he had to remind himself not to hurt her. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, leaning back.

"You're a good girl," he said gruffly. He touched his nose to hers. "Love you," he said again.

She nodded.

"Love you, Daddy," she answered, kissing his nose. She grinned, and laughed, and he let her down, his arms as heavy as lead – he'd give anything to be taking her with him – and as he looked up, and watched her scampering towards her mother, he realized he wasn't sure if he felt the same about Jenny.

Most of the time these days he asked himself if he'd ever really known her; other times he just thought she'd hurt him so badly he couldn't feel the same way – he recognized the way she looked at him, though; other than a little more heartache, it was the same way his Jenny used to look at him in Stillwater.

That made him angry – how dare she; how dare she still look at him that way, when she'd taken everything from him – and he was angry that that look in her eye could somehow make him feel guilty for trying to – move on.

He rubbed his wrist, rubbed the pink bracelet, and he stood straight at ease, watching Jenny take Natalie's hand, gather their things, and head off – he watched, not taking his eyes off of them, waving when Natalie turned and gave a small one, his eyes on their retreat until he couldn't see them at all –

-and then he sat down in the sand again, his uniform wet and dusty, his hat cover perched a little unsteadily on his head.

He rubbed his jaw hard, breathing in the beachy air, and he watched the ocean lap at the hard sand, wondering what he was doing here – why he'd thought this was going to be such an easy fix.

He hated that it was like this; he hated that the was wary enough of it, and exhausted enough from the chaos of emotions trying to stay involved caused, that he was so tempted to just quit.


He was prepared for Scout Sniper training to hand his ass to him on a silver platter – he was ready for it, he wanted it, he was aching for the challenge and the sheer brutality of it, to have something to channel himself into – but when he graduated Pendleton's elite course with the highest number of theoretical kills, and felt like taking a break and patting himself on the back, he sure as hell wasn't prepared for the challenge of where they sent him next.

Weapons, physical exertion, strategy, tracking – all of those earthy, masculine, forceful disciplines were his element as both an individual and a Marine, but – language training? Weeks and weeks on end at the Presidio in Monterey in preparation for – what, talking the enemy to death?

The most absurd thought he had when he got the orders was – they should send Jen to do this.

And then, quickly after that, a conflicting sort of relief and dread over moving to Monterey, which was four or so hours away from where Jenny and Natalie were in Los Angeles – not that he'd seen them since the end of nineteen eighty-nine, anyway.

That – that wasn't something he could necessarily blame entire on Jenny, either, things had just – Sniper training was more indoctrinating and time consuming than he'd expected, and half the time he was in no state of mind to go play with a little girl – he was too jumpy, too focused on operations and mission security – fake mission security, for whatever game was running that day, but all the same.

He had tried once, and though he'd sensed her reluctance, Jenny had agreed – well, Melanie had agreed, since Jenny had been at work, but he'd had to back out at the last minute – which he supposed was for the best, because he was never sure if Melanie actually told Jenny that she'd told Gibbs he could come by and visit.

His pipe dreams of spending all free weekends and days off with Natalie had crumbled, due to lack of free time and his own – reluctance to fight with Jenny, to face off with her – he was afraid of Natalie getting upset over seeing them always fighting, he was afraid of making her confused, even if that was all Jenny's fault in the first place –

So he languished somewhere in vague parental purgatory, while the Marines plucked him from a stellar Scout Sniper school career and chucked him right into the middle of Arabic classes that were way above his head.

"Because," snapped a commanding officer, when he dared ask what the hell he was going to language training for, "You'll be in there with the Kuwaiti military."

Gibbs wasn't stupid enough to ask what that meant, but considering the news lately – it was hard to miss, the aggression in the gulf, and the increasingly threatening rhetoric of George H. W. Bush – Gibbs figured it meant the Marines were being prepped for support, if Iraq went any further than a perilously drawn line.

That always reminded him of Jenny yelling at him for not knowing, politically, where he might get killed, back when he was younger and he'd first joined the military.

He forgot, sometimes, that he was still young.

He was in the back of the classroom, his feet propped up, waiting for class to start, when another Marine with her cap under her arm came by and slammed her hand into his feet, knocking one off the table successfully.

"Hiya," she greeted, giving him a smug grin. "I heard a rumor you were around."

He dropped his feet to the floor and stood up.

"Matteson?" he asked, his eyes widening.

She grinned at him, her brows going up.

"In the flesh," she laughed. She stepped forward, and gave him a quick, one-armed hug – better not let anyone see them and think they were fraternizing.

He grinned and took a step back, tilting his head.

"You still here? Thought they'd have PCS'd you by now," he said gruffly – her assignment had been language training right after boot camp, he wondered why she was still here three years later.

"They did! I did my language training, deployed to Saudi Arabia, and got cycled back for more advanced training – that's how good I am, Gibbs," she said, preening smugly. "I'll be a translator, when they send us up to Kuwait."

"That a thing?" Gibbs asked.

"Oh, no one will say it is," Joan Matteson said blithely. "But if you think a Republican president isn't going to send us careening in there to protect our oil – I mean, Kuwaiti's human rights," she said, her eyes sparkling. She laughed, and sat down on the edge of his desk. "I've got a minute before I head to my class – one building over," she said.

Gibbs sat down, leaning forward on his knees.

"How ya been, Gibbs?" she asked.

He smiled at her, shrugged a little. He never really knew how to answer that question – he could say 'can't complain' because he wasn't really a whiner, so that was true, but he did have things to potentially bitch about – and he wasn't necessarily 'great,' but he supposed lately – aside from the flare ups of darkness – he was –

"Good," he said carefully. He rubbed his wrist. "'M good – coulda done without gettin' ordered up here," he groused. "Made it to Sniper school," he said.

"I heard, my Gunny was bragging about you – but I hear you're a slob at Arabic."

Gibbs shrugged, and smirked.

"Don't got to speak the language to make a good shot."

"Have you heard of a little thing called diplomacy, Gibbs?"

"Matteson, you joined the Corps, what the hell do you care about diplomacy?"

She snorted, and he rested his elbows on his knees – boy, he was glad to see her; a familiar face was always good, especially when it came to people you might end up fighting next to. She tucked some short hair behind her ears, and clasped her hands.

"So, what happened with you and that girl? How old is that Natalie now, what – like, uh, four?"

"Five," he said automatically. "She'll be six this November – startin' Kindergarten," he said – he knew all the facts, in an abstract way – he just didn't know them, her, personally.

"Mm-hmm," Matteson said critically. She nodded at his hands. "No ring."

Gibbs lifted his shoulders, and tried to look cool about it.

"You were right," he said grudgingly – hadn't Matteson been the one who warned him not to beat himself up if 'things like this' didn't work out?

She gave him a look.

"I didn't want to be," she informed him. "How long's it been?"

Gibbs snorted.

"Never got married," he confessed. "Three years."

He watched Matteson do the math, and she frowned a little, giving him a sympathetic little tilt of the head. She chewed her lip a moment, and then leaned forward.

"That's a long time," she said. Her eyes narrowed sharply as he rubbed his wrist again – the more frayed the red and pink braided bracelet got, the more it itched him – but still, he wouldn't take it off. "Your daughter make you that?"

Gibbs looked at it, running his fingers under it thoughtfully. He shook his head.

"Nah."

"Ah," Matteson said. She folded her arms. "So you got a new girl."

Gibbs looked up at her, and swore he saw a flash of disappointment – but just as quickly, it was gone, and she looked almost wry. She arched a brow at him.

"I'm just one of the guys, remember?" she goaded. "Spill the dirty details."

He shrugged, smirking a little, and shook his head, a tinge of colour hitting his cheeks – and she sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Who am I kidding? You were never like those other dicks, anyway," she said lightly.

Gibbs appreciated that. He leaned back, considering Matteson for a moment – Shannon had given him the bracelet, yes; Shannon was no longer just a friend he called, or a girl who sent whimsical post cards – Shannon had spent the summer before she started the University of Virginia, in nineteen eighty-nine, hanging around Lejeune in North Carolina, and when he'd helped her move into her one bedroom apartment just off campus, he'd stayed the night in an anything but platonic way.

It was – very slow, though, very cautious. He knew he felt something for Shannon, but he didn't want to confuse it with any residual feelings for Jen, and end up hurting a girl who'd only ever been a good friend to him.

"Is she a California girl?" Matteson asked.

Gibbs shook his head.

"Nah, college girl," he said.

Matteson whistled.

"Fancy, them ones," she drawled. "What's she studying – bet she's at Berkeley, or somethin', you seem to attract those sophisticated women like flies," she snorted."

"She wants to be a teacher," Gibb said. "She's – she's at University of Virginia," he corrected. "Met 'er – she's from home."

"I guess you can take the boy out of the boonies, but you can't take the boonies out of the boy," Matteson sighed dramatically. She wiggled her hand around. "This whole long-distance thing workin' for you, this time?" she prodded.

Gibbs thought about it a moment, and he actually smiled a little – he talked to Shannon all the time, he wasn't worried about her well-being, or jealous about what she might be doing, and he didn't think she felt that way about him.

He nodded a little – she was a very bright spot in his life, and he was starting – cautiously – to hope that maybe it could last, even though often it scared him, or made him feel like he had to choose between having her, or eschewing everything to try to do whatever he could to be right for Natalie.

Matteson rubbed her knee.

"Do you see your daughter?" she asked.

He gave her a sharp look, shook his head a little. Matteson bit her lip, and didn't ask anything else. She sat back, and then realized other service members were filing into the room, and she probably needed to beat it. She took her cap in one hand and slapped him in the shoulder with it wryly, giving him a sly look.

"Give me a shout if you need help on your Arabic, Gibbs," she mocked, narrowing her eyes primly.

"Call me if you need your diplomatic ass covered in Kuwait," he retorted coolly, swinging his feet back up on the desk.

She thumbed her nose at him and hopped out of the room, vacating space for a Petty Officer to take her empty seat, open a book, and start pre-studying for the upcoming class quiz – a quiz Gibbs was none too concerned about since, again, he felt his skills were better utilized not sitting in a damn school room all day.

He leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously, and looked out the window at the Presidio campus – tonight, he'd go back to his room, maybe sit down at some half-finished letters for Natalie, maybe beat himself up for twenty minutes before he got a call from Shannon – she always called on Thursdays, after her evening Chemistry class.

He had less to do in Monterey, and thus, more time to think – to think about how guilty he felt for not seeing Natalie again after that one day in November, how pathetic it was that he'd only called on Christmas and – Valentine's Day and – Easter – since – he was just so busy, then, and so blissfully relaxed, being too tired to think about them and the conflict of emotions they brought on –

-and here it all threatened to consume him again, and he badly wanted not only a distraction, but a true break from it all – Shannon had been that, during that unexpected summer fling at Lejeune, and the subtle promise it seemed to have – but now she was so far away, and she had a well-meaning way of quietly trying to nudge him to force Jenny's hand in the whole thing.

He just…couldn't bring himself to do it.

He had thought talking to her was hard, but seeing her was even harder, knowing he was never going to be all he'd planned to be in her life, not now, not in their situation – so he hid from it, sometimes; he blamed Jenny more than he should, because he knew deep down if he pushed with a true unrelenting stubbornness she would make good on her half-hearted words.

He was pretty sure he was going to specialized combat training after he finished his language course, and that was back to Pendleton, so he kept telling himself – he'd figure it out there – that's what he would do; he'd figure it out there.


His quarters at Camp Pendleton were a godforsaken mess – he was trying to get everything squared away and put in storage - Shannon said she'd take care of it if he just got it all sent to her, she'd make sure all of it was squared away.

He was on the phone with her now, trying to explain things.

"They changed my orders – "

"Okay, okay, I understand that," Shannon said calmly. "I can try to change my flight – "

"No, Shannon, it's not gonna work like that," he snapped. "I got to fly out tomorrow – I've got to be Stuttgart by tomorrow evening, and there we're doing expedited training exercises – they told me this morning – "

"Jethro, Jethro," she said, talking over him. "It's okay – can you – Jethro, it's not your fault, I'm not going to be mad at you," Shannon said, her voice heavy. She took a deep breath. "I know how quickly things can escalate. I know it's not your fault."

"You gonna be able to get a refund?" he asked.

She laughed huskily.

"You're about to deploy, and you're worried about my refund?"

"Plane tickets are expensive!"

"Well, maybe I can get them to transfer me to a flight to Germany, and I'll meet you there and say goodbye!"

It was wild suggestion, but it was just the type of thing Shannon would do – show up in Stuttgart, right as he was about to take a transport to Saudi Arabia, and flood into the tiny Kuwaiti principality in the name of truth, justice and – whatever America wanted this time.

They were supposed to spend Christmas together – Shannon was supposed to be flying out right after her last exam, but suddenly he'd been told he wasn't going to Germany in March, he was going now, immediately, because the President had authorized military action, and his unit was up – everything was about to be tested, his training, his language experience –

He sat down heavily on a crate, something he needed to have sent off to storage, and rubbed his head. He hadn't seen Shannon in so long – he'd been getting through the days, thinking about seeing her, and now – Christ, he didn't know if he'd ever see her again.

"Is there anything you need me to do for you – do I need to call Jackson?"

Gibbs didn't say anything. It hadn't even occurred to him to tell his father he was getting deployed – he shook his head, though Shannon couldn't see him; he figured his silence was enough.

He sighed, his shoulders aching. He looked to his left.

"Yeah, I – you got a pen?"

She scrambled around.

"I've got one," she said.

He sighed again, heavily.

"I need you – send a Christmas card to Natalie," he said grudgingly. "I…I missed her birthday, 'cause of combat – they threw us in a field for – well, you know," he muttered; he'd been radio silent with Shannon for four weeks, too. "This…package I sent her, it got lost in the mail, returned, so she needs a card, I can't get this to her before I leave."

Shannon was silent, waiting, and then he gave her the address – at least, he figured it was still the address – of Melanie Shepard's place. He looked down at the Christmas package that had been returned, shook his head, and held the phone closer.

"What do you want it to say?"

He closed his eyes tightly.

"Don't – worry about that," he muttered. "Just send somethin', her mother's already so high and mighty about establishing a stable pattern," he growled bitterly – that seemed to matter less and less, now that he was staring death in the face.

Shannon was quiet for a moment.

"You need to call them, Jethro," she said.

He grit his teeth hard – he knew she was going to say that, Shannon the Saint, always noble, always pushing him even when he was trying to avoid it. He shook his head, trying to resist – he just really didn't think he could have this conversation with them.

"I," Shannon started. She took a deep breath. "I – nothing better happen to you," she warned bravely, "but if I – if it was me, and I had a little girl with you, I'd need to know if something might happen, I'd need to be prepared – and she deserves that," Shannon said. "Even if you don't think she does, you need her to be able to talk to Natalie."

Gibbs just grit his teeth harder.

"I hate talkin' to her, Shannon," he said.

"I know you do," she said softly – they both knew he meant Jenny, not Natalie; talking to Natalie always soothed him, but made him sad in a hollow sort of way – he loved her, but sometimes that love felt so abstract now that he was scared of her, scared of how removed he'd let himself get from her life – and it was only getting worse.

He rubbed his jaw, the bracelet Shannon had made him sliding roughly against his cheek.

"She'd love it if I died over there," he said viciously. "I'd quit makin' her life hard – "

"Please don't talk like that, Jethro," Shannon said softly – somehow, she never had to raise her voice to talk over him, or to get his attention. "I can't speak for Jenny but…there are people in this world who would be devastated to lose you, and Natalie is one of them. Regardless of what Jenny says about you being confusing to her."

He swallowed hard, trying to let Shannon's words comfort him.

He held the phone close to his lips, his hand shaking.

"And you?" he asked hoarsely.

He heard her smile – he couldn't see it, no, but he could hear it, he knew what her quiet smiles sounded like.

"Is that your way of asking me to wait for you, Marine?" she asked coyly, her voice husky.

He closed his eyes tightly again, swallowing hard.

"I don't think I have anything else," he confessed, words raw and hard to get out.

He listened to the comforting things she said after that – and strangely, he thought of his mother, and how worried she'd be about him – and he tried not to think about the future, he tried not to think about the specter of war or the fear that came with it – perhaps because at the moment, the really scary thing was that it wasn't necessarily death that was intimidating him – it was coming back.


Two days – he had two days until the cool winter of Germany was gone, and the unforgiving sun of the Kuwaiti desert would be bearing down on his back as he sat perched in some nest, ready to pick off anyone who threatened his fellow Marines.

He was housed in barracks with men and women he knew intimately, people he'd trust with his life – Matteson was here, even, but she wasn't here as anything close to a diplomat – they were all about to face the reality of their enlistment, and despite how exquisitely trained he was, and how tough, and how strong, the Corps had made him, Gibbs still feared the voice on the end of the line when the ringing finally stopped.

The phone clicked, and someone answered – in Russian.

Gibbs didn't know if he was relieved or devastated – but he was confused. His brow furrowed – and he unlocked his jaw, clearing the thickness from his throat.

"Think I got the wrong number," he said gruffly.

"No! It's – it's me, Jethro, it's Jenny."

He swallowed, his shoulders sagging – he felt a rush of irritation at her, but he tried to quell it; she had no way of knowing how stressed he was, what a charged atmosphere they were in. He cleared his throat again, steadying his voice.

"You, ah, thinkin' about moving across the world, instead of just the country?" he probed sardonically.

"No. No I'm – it's just something I'm doing," she answered feebly, struggling for words. He tilted his head, annoyed to find himself mildly curious, and then he heard her mutter: "Speak of the devil."

"You talkin' to me, Jen?" he asked sharply.

He heard her swallow.

"It's just…the girls, they named a gecko after you. Gecko Jethro."

She sounded funny, distracted. He felt something hollow in his stomach – girls, plural? He wondered wildly if Jenny had – if she'd had another baby or something, with someone else – and then he was touched, that Natalie knew him enough to name a pet after him –

"Girls?" he asked, stressing the plural.

"Natalie has a friend over."

His stomach untightened a little. That – made more sense. After all of Jenny's uncertainty and her regrets and fears, if he'd come to find out she'd found someone else and had another baby with him, he'd have lost it – it would have been too much to bear.

"Why did they name it after me?" he asked – he was trying to stall, buy time; there was something so innocent and lovely about little things like this, so much better than what he'd actually called to talk about.

"They're little girls. They just…do things like that."

He grunted, annoyed – she could give him more, she could tell him what Natalie was imagining, what she was doing – but she didn't, she was Jenny; close to the vest, and overly protective – as if Natalie needed to be protected from him.

"Wouldn't know," he said, targeted.

"Did you call to take potshots at me?" she demanded, immediately provoked.

He backed off, too exhausted to rise to the fight.

"I mean to call on her birthday," he said after a moment. His voice was apologetic – he felt so bad, but he hadn't wanted to upset Jenny or things or – whatever – by calling two weeks after, and then things had really gotten hairy.

"She had a good one anyway," Jenny said forgivingly. "I took her roller blading."

"Tried to put somethin' in the mail for Christmas," he went on, ignoring her comment – he didn't like the way it sounded, like Natalie didn't give a damn if he cared about her or not. "It got sent back to me."

That was what was so damn annoying, it had got sent back again – this time because he'd screwed up the paperwork when trying to send her chocolates and stuff from Germany – he'd abandoned the other present to have Shannon send, in case he couldn't pull this off.

He'd called her and told her to go ahead and send it two days ago.

"You sent a card," Jenny was saying. "It wasn't your handwriting," she added, fishing. "Who sent the card?"

The question offended him; he felt like she was prying, and he bristled, gritting his teeth – he ignored that question, too.

"Look, I'll find a way to get the Christmas gift to her," he promised. "Got to – figure out the post system," he growled vaguely.

"Jethro, where are you?" she asked.

He covered his mouth tensely, nearing the point of the conversation he didn't want to have. When he didn't answer, she must have felt nervous –

"Are you still at Pendleton?" she guessed.

He took a deep breath.

"PCS'd to Monterey right after I qualified," he told her dully. "Language and intelligence training. Haven't gotten a break."

"What language?" she asked quickly, too interested for his taste – sure; now she'd express interest in his career, now that it might be interesting to her.

"Arabic," he said curtly.

He heard her catch her breath.

"And you're still at Monterey…?" she began.

"Germany," he cut her off harshly, knocking his teeth together. He swallowed hard. "Jen," he started, his next words coming out in a harsh rush: "I'm deploying to Kuwait."

It felt like hours, before she answered.

"Germany?" she asked, her voice high pitched – she sounded panicky, and scared and that – that actually made him feel better; it eased his apprehension and his stress a little to know that she still cared. "But why – well, they always deploy out of Germany—when did you go to Germany? Is that why you haven't called? Kuwait, Jethro –"

"It happened fast."

He cut her off again, before she dared get emotional. He bit his lip, and straightened up where he was seated, stretching his shoulders.

"I don't know how to tell Natalie," he confessed warily. "Thought you'd have a better idea of where to start – "

"You aren't telling Natalie a damn thing!"

He fell silent. It wasn't altogether unsurprising, but he was so quietly angry suddenly that he couldn't speak. He took a long time to get himself under control enough not to start swearing and shouting at her; he took a long time to remind himself he wasn't his own father.

"Why the hell not, Jenny?" he asked dangerously.

"Why do you think?" she hissed. "You can't just call up my daughter and tell her you're off to a warzone – she doesn't even know what deployment means –

"I want my daughter to know I'm thinkin' about her before I – "

"You can't do that, Jethro, you can't!" cried Jenny. "You're so – I'm sorry, I don't want to – I know this is harsh, but you're so abstract to her, you're so – out of sight, out of mind and I can't have to suddenly explain to her what deployment is, and the risks, and have her worry about something she can't comprehend – she can't even process feelings about you, really – "

"That isn't my fault," he snarled, goaded—he wasn't listening to her actual reasoning, because all he was hearing was that she wasn't going to let him talk to Natalie before – before – "You're the one whose made it impossible – "

"You were in California for a year – as far as I know – and you made no effort," she accused, "you barely even call – "

He felt his cheeks flush, at having that thrown at him - because she was right, he'd only been calling on holidays, and even less than that, since all this training had broken out – and he hadn't – he hadn't seen her – but –

"You made it clear you didn't want me confusing her and you damn well know it, Jenny!" he roared.

She was the one who had planted the seeds of doubt in his head, made him feel out of place, like he was doing more harm than good –

"Jethro. Jethro, I don't want to have this conversation with her. It would be different if we were together, if we were married - "

"You made damn sure that didn't happen, Jen," he broke in icily. "You don't think she should know?" He went from not having wanted to call them, to absolutely outraged that Jenny would think of keeping this from their daughter. "That's your problem – then it's your problem, too, when you've got to tell her I'm dead," he snapped viciously – a dreadful thought occurred to him: "Or would you keep that from 'er, too?"

"Gibbs," she gasped. "Don't – don't go into this thinking you won't come back," she pleaded. "My father always – he always said the most important thing was the drive to come back."

She threw him off, because of how hurt she sounded, how sincerely terrified she sounded, and in a strange twist of emotion, he suddenly missed her so badly it hurt – he missed how things used to be, and he started to wonder if the worst of all the pain was him still loving her even though all the anger, betrayal, and hurt – and love was hard enough when it was a good, strong love.

He swallowed hard, darkness creeping into his mind – he didn't know what he had with Shannon, he'd lost what he had with Jenny, he never saw his little girl – he grit his teeth.

"What do I have to come back to?" he asked hoarsely.

"You have a daughter!" Jenny snapped fiercely.

Unbidden, a dull smirk rose to his lips – so, he had to really admit that he didn't give a damn if he lived or died, and she finally decided to admit Natalie was his, and his right.

"You have a daughter, and you love her," she went on passionately. "And I don't want that little girl laying awake at night, scared and worried that you're gong to die, when she barely knows you. I know that's my fault. I know that. But she's not going to suffer for my mistakes. She cries for dead spiders, Jethro. She cries for dead spiders. I'm not going to put this burden on her. She's six."

It was quite the speech – and it humbled him; chastised him.

"If you ever tell me you have nothing to come back to again, I will find out where you are and I will make you remember. I don't give a damn if you hate me, Jethro. But your life is worth more than what I did to you. Your life means more to other people."

Strangely, it was almost the same thing Shannon had said – strangely, it was exactly what he needed to hear from Jenny; that she felt Natalie did need him, and she felt Natalie would suffer if he was gone.

He felt some relief, at that – he closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. He – he might even interpret that as Jenny leaving the door open, almost demanding he fight her harder – because really, when she accused him of dropping the ball – well, he had…he had, in some respects.

"I want to talk to her," he said heavily – that was why he'd really called; he just wanted to hear Natalie's voice.

"You won't tell her, Jethro," she said warily. "You – "

"Jesus Christ, Jen, let me talk to her!" he growled. He grit his teeth. "I want to hear her voice," he said honestly. "Jenny, I just want to hear her, before I go."

"Natalie Winter!" he heard her call immediately. "Natalie, there's a gecko on the phone for you!"

Gibbs chewed on the inside of his lip, listening to muffled voices, and the sounds of Jenny shifting. It wasn't long before he heard a quick, sharp little breath, and then –

"Hello, Daddy!"

Gibbs smiled to himself. He took a deep breath.

"Hey, Bug," he greeted gruffly. "What're you doin' namin' lizards after me?"

Natalie burst into giggles.

"Maybe he looks like you, are you green and slimy and slithery?" she teased smugly.

"'M not slimy and slithery, but I got a lot of green on," he said solemnly – though it was only half true; he had his desert uniform to take to Kuwait, not the more familiar green fatigues. "Did Mommy get you a pet gecko?"

"No, my friend Emma and I found him in the yard," Natalie said. "Emma is babysitting him so I can talk to you – Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year," she said sweetly. "I think I slept through you calling."

"I didn't call," Gibbs confessed. "I was – I was busy, Princess," he told her. "I'm – I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said genuinely. "I kissed your dog tags and said a prayer."

Gibbs smiled tightly to himself, bowing his head.

"I've, uh, I've got a big, scary job to do in the next few months, okay?" he told her. "It's gonna be real hard," he said vaguely. "I figured you could make it a little easier on me."

"How?" she asked eagerly. "I can chew on the dog tags more. Mommy hates it, but I keep 'em close," she bragged. "I can send you a present, maybe, if I know your address – "

"I don't need presents from you, honey," he interrupted gently. "I just want you to tell me you're really, really happy," he said. "Only if it's the truth."

She breathed out, relieved.

"I am happy, Daddy," she said brightly. "I like talking to you."

He smiled to himself.

"I love you, Nat," he told her, like he had at the beach – like he always did. "I think about you all the time."

She made a quiet noise.

"I know you love me," she said earnestly. "I love you – I'll stay very happy," she said. She giggled. "I'll draw you a picture of the gecko, I'll make Mommy send it."

Gibbs didn't tell her that Mommy had no idea how to reach him, and she never asked. He just smiled to himself again, gritting his teeth, thinking about how good it was to hear her voice, and how hard it was going to be to face Kuwait with so many doubts and regrets and – uncertainties, never knowing if he'd done enough, always thinking he hadn't been enough.

There was banging on his barrack door, and two Marines barged in, ready to drink to go out – the last call, before their lives changed forever – before they really were thrust into what they were trained for.

"Gibbs, get your ass up – "

"Is that your honey on the phone? Boy, tell her you got whiskey to drink – "

Gibbs flipped them the bird, glaring daggers, and pulled the phone closer.

"I'll talk to you sometime soon, okay, Natalie?" he asked hoarsely. His voice shook a little. He faltered on what to say, and then something unexpected came out: "Take care of your mom."

"Bye, Daddy," she said. "Bye – kiss, I love you."

He mouthed the words, and then hung the phone up, putting his wrist against his brow. He took a moment, and then looked at the guys, mustering all his composure.

"Give me a damn minute, Christ," he swore.

They laughed, and they were out – and he was picking up the phone again, aching to call Shannon, to hear her voice, to tell her he needed to hear her say she wanted to come home – she must have been in class, though, all the way in the U.S. – or asleep, more likely – because she didn't answer, and he hung up, dragging himself up to go participate in the first-combat revelries – at least thankful that if he didn't come back, his daughter's last words had been that she loved him.


War was simultaneously exactly what he'd expected it to be, and infinitely worse. The combat environment was brutal, chaotic, and complex; nothing like training, and yet he felt prepared to do his job – and he suddenly respected the hell out of the instructors who had slave-driven them in infantry school in boot camp, screaming their heads off and bullying the Marines, trying to get the point across.

This – Kuwait, Desert Storm – this got the point across.

There was no solitary, secluded nest for a Sniper; he was constantly changing position, finding the best vantage point to assist in protecting his unit, trying to watch his back while he watched their backs – both on the lookout for targets, and for covert Iraqi operatives targeting him – and no matter how offensive Matteson was always telling them it was, he couldn't tell the Kuwaitis from the Iraqis, the ally from the enemy.

His saving grace, he grudgingly had to admit, was his half-assed understanding of Arabic, because the phrase he knew by heart was – don't shoot; Kuwaiti!

They days went on, and the conflict only got more brutal – until he didn't know which way was up anymore, or when he'd last slept – really slept; every day just seemed to be more sand in his mouth, more sun in his eyes and burn on his neck, more death, more blood, more dread of what was to come.

There was always someone screaming in his ear; there was someone screaming in his ear –

Gibbs listened to part of his unit clearing a house, blocking out the battle around him – these enemy fighters were good, they were in their own terrain, they were better at this, despite American training, despite American weaponry and technology.

"Two Marines, entering room," he heard gruffly.

"Clear."

"Three Marines; corner – "

That was Matteson's voice.

"Sniper; report."

"Clear," Gibbs grunted quietly, his eye on his scope.

There was silence, except for the sound of exploration.

"Stop," shouted Matteson.

"Shit – "

"Sniper; SNAF – Sniper, support!"

Gibbs tore his eye from his scope, rolling – he couldn't see what they were seeing.

"Cameron," he barked radio. "Cameron – east sniper, report – "

"Cameron's dead, Gibbs – cover, cover, cover – "

Gibbs rolled again, shaking off the brush he'd been laying under. Moving as quickly as possible, he darted around the cliff he'd perched on, seeking a better vantage point for the house they were on – the sounds of gunshots, fighting, burst through his radio, and he wondered what they were facing down there – he scanned the ground beneath him and slid down into a niche of the cliff, throwing himself on the ground and desperately finding his scope again.

In a mere ten seconds, he found two targets; picked them off without thinking about it – watched them fall – fuzzily, he could see Marines scrambling, and he wiped sweat from his eyes.

"Report," he shouted.

"Gibbs," gasped Matteson, her voice scratchy. "We need ordnance disposal -

Gibbs relayed the message; he got a negative response.

"Negative, Matteson, negative; retreat – the order is retreat."

"Bartlett is down," she said, her message garbled. "Repeat, Marine down – "

He didn't quite catch the next thing, and he saw an Army corpsman, – heading down the mountain, and dropping down next to him. The guy grabbed him, pushing him down.

"That shack's about to get lit up by Iraqi bastards," he growled. "Turncoat – Kuwait – someone gave away our position – move, move –"

"I got Marines in there!" Gibbs bellowed.

"We all got the order to move, son – move – "

Gibbs shook him off – he knew what orders were, but if he knew Matteson, she wasn't going to leave an injured Marine – no Marine was going to leave a brother to die – and he sure as hell wasn't going to lay up on a cliff an watch them all go up in smoke.

He thought he might have busted the corpsman's nose with his rifle as he slung it over his shoulder, dropping down the mountain carelessly – and he paid for his carelessness; he landed heavy on his ankle, and heard a crack – when he got up to run, adrenaline was the only thing that kept him running – he tried to outrun the searing pain of the break – and he tried to outrun the sand suddenly exploding behind him, bullets at his heels.

At the door of the dwelling, he ran into one Marine, holding his chest.

"Ambush," he gasped. "Started – east sniper, Cameron," he panted. "Six guys – Matt—Matt—Matteson got three – "

"She said there's ordnance?"

"Yeah, it's strapped to a goddamn kid, that's why Bartlett took a hit, tryin' to help – she's tryin' to help – "

Gibbs looked into the treacherous house. He looked back to the Marine.

"You think you can get Bartlett to camp?"

The Marine hesitated, looked at his bleeding chest. He drew himself up, and nodded.

"I'll help you," Gibbs said, locking his rifle on his back. He pulled out his sidearm, holding it in front of him.

"Forget clearing the house," the Marine rasped, leading him.

They made their way into a dark room, where Bartlett was hunched against a wall, bleeding profusely from the stomach and thigh – and Matteson sat on a bed with a young girl, maybe six years old, who sat in the corner crying, something heavy strapped to her.

Matteson was speaking rapid Arabic; Gibbs could barely keep up.

"Calm down, sweetie, I'll get it off of you; we'll keep you safe – "

"Americans kill my family!" she screamed. She pointed at the bodies littering the room. "Americans kill!"

"Matteson," barked Gibbs. "Who knows when that thing's gonna blow – "

"I'm not going to run and let a little girl get blown to bits, Gibbs!"

He thrust his firearm at Bartlett, at the other injured Marine –

"We got our own to worry about," he barked harshly.

"She doesn't pay for her parents' sins! She's a baby! She's – fuck, Gibbs,' she's your kid's age!"

"Jesus Christ, who the fuck let women join the Marines?" griped the Marine with the shoulder wound.

Gibbs turned away sharply from Matteson, and pointed to Bartlett.

"Get him – drag him; radio for cover – there's a Kuwaiti sniper somewhere who can get you," he barked formidably.

He helped get Bartlett up, helping the other Marine as they started to shove and drag him out – and then he pushed them off, and went back to Matteson, his eyes moving quickly.

He got on the bed, hardly even thinking twice, and he reached out, grabbing the little girl. She began to scream, fighting him, thrashing around.

"No Americans! No, No, NO!"

He ignored her, thinking only that he had to get Matteson's ass out of here, he had to get them both out – and he had to at least try to get the explosive off this child –

Matteson grabbed his elbow and moved forward.

"Don't you carry a knife, Gibbs?" she bellowed. "Always carry a knife!"

She cut off the girl's shirt, brushing the device away – it let out a shrill wail, and Matteson shoved the child into Gibbs' arms.

"Fuck – run," she rasped.

Gibbs didn't need to be told twice. In a moment of chivalry, he grabbed Matteson by her collar, shoved the kid into her arms, and shoved them both in front of him, following them out of the dwelling at a run – he tried not to look at the dead Marines he passed on the way; they'd have to be dealt with later, they'd –

He felt sun hit him, hot, and he and Matteson nearly collided with the other two, still barely trying to get away.

"Down, down, down, cover your head!"

Gibbs pushed the two injured to the ground and thrust his arm out to cover his neck; his rifle banged against his skull as he hit the sandy ground, coughing and rolling away quickly as the blast rocked the world around them.

Stunned as he was, his ears ringing, it took him mere seconds to get up on his knees, take stock of the situation – the others were still low, stirring – the little Iraqi girl squirmed up from beneath Matteson, sobbing, and started to run.

"HEY!" Gibbs bellowed.

He tried to reach his radio, he tried to think of Arabic – he knew the Kuwait sniper would be on the lookout for a bomb rigged –

"Don't shoot!" he bellowed, in terrible Arabic. "Explosive neutralized, do not – "

He turned his head away as the bullet found the girl's head, thrusting her backward with deadly force, where she collided with Matteson, and Matteson tried to reach her.

Matteson let out an awful screech, turning away, and Gibbs wiped his face, filing it away for later – later, all these horrible things for later – he couldn't think about how Matteson was right, how that kid was probably Natalie's age –

"Matteson," he barked, "help us with Bartlett."

They got to Bartlett – he was still stirring, still bleeding like a stuck pig – but the other Marine was dead, shredded by shrapnel – Jesus, what the hell had been in that makeshift bomb?

Gibbs thrust Bartlett's arm over his shoulder.

"You're goin' home, Marine," he ordered aggressively.

"Matteson!" he shouted.

She pushed herself under Bartlett's arm, both of them keeping low; Gibbs heard her radioing their position, asking for cover, trying to detail casualties. Gibbs focused on getting them to the cliff, where he could find some of the corpsman, get some quick medical treatment while they waited for assistance –

He wasn't sure if he heard the blast first, or Matteson's blood-curdling scream – his vision lit up, and the next thing he knew, they were feet from where they'd been, and Bartlett was moaning – Matteson was shrieking – and they were further away from cover.

He crawled to her, trying to drag her up. She looked at him, covered in blood, coughing.

"Go, go," she rasped. He looked down, and looked away – she'd stepped on an IED; he was – he pulled her closer to his chest, trying to shield her, but there wasn't much to hold. "Cover Bartlett."

He put her arm around his shoulder –

"No, Gibbs!" she shouted, coughing up blood. "NO! Don't waste your time, I'm – it's no good – "

"Shut-up, Joan, no Matteson has ever died in a war," he growled huskily, remembering what she'd told him once.

"No male one," she joked feebly.

A volley of bullets erupted around them, and he slammed them both to the ground, waiting it out.

He heard Marines approaching, motor vehicles – help.

He got up, helped Matteson, her mangled leg, her bleeding abdomen, to Bartlett; he dragged Bartlett up –

"Come on, Marines," he bellowed, talking to himself.

"Shoulda left us, Gibbs," Bartlett rasped. "We're dead. You got to get home -

"We're all goin' home," he shouted over them.

He turned and stumbled, and the next thing he knew, he was being dragged up into the back of a truck – Army green, and beautiful to behold, and a corpsman was yanking Bartlett away, shouting – Gibbs collapsed, knelt next to Matteson.

"Can't believe you did that, Gunny," growled an Army sergeant. "That house was behind enemy lines, you're a sniper, you didn't have to risk – "

Gibbs ignored him.

"Joan," he said, his hands on Matteson's face. "Joan."

She was looking at him with scared, glassy eyes. She shook her head.

"I think my dad will be proud," she said, her voice cracking. She hunched up, gasping. "I didn't want to do this," she moaned. Her voice broke. "I wanted – I wanted – to guard – the embassies," she moaned.

"Get back, Gunny," someone was saying to him.

"This one's dead," someone else said, tapping Matteson's shoulder gently with his foot.

"Gunny, you got one hell of a bullet lodged in your hip," someone else said.

Gibbs felt like the world was fading.

He stared at Matteson; he held on to her shoulder – he watched the light leak from her eyes – he blinked hard, gasped – he saw Natalie standing where that little Iraqi girl had stood, he saw Jen, he saw Shannon – god, he wanted his mother, he missed his mother.

"Gunny," someone said, pulling him back. They were pushing him around, tearing off his clothing. "We're goin' back to base, Gunny, you're gonna be okay – "

The last thing he heard was the sharp, angry sound of bullets against the side of the convoy, and then the whole thing seemed to take flight in a burst of yellow light – and he was thrust into the air again, unsure if he'd ever come down, deaf to shouts and swearing, blind, his body aching, aching – until it slammed against the hot desert sand, and everything was black.


Gibbs woke up long before he opened his eyes.

It started with sounds. It progressed to fully formed sounds, then words. There was a lot of German, at first; things got clearer when he started to recognize English. He started to feel sore; then sharp pain, then agony - and then the pain persisted, though he adjusted; he moved his eyes, he could smell anesthetic, medicine, soap – but it was when he could smell faint vanilla and honey, and hear a soft whisper, feel a gently, but insistent touch against his fingers, that he decided – to open his eyes.

It was such a simple decision, and such an immensely difficult action – and the moment he did it, the world lit up in blasts of colour and deafening sound – hands grabbed him, things were ripped out of him –sparks of pain, rough dragging against his throat, and then he could taste water, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he could see.

White coats, determined faces, a flash of red, that scent of vanilla and honey – he recognized it, it was a woman's scent, wasn't it?

He felt the familiar touch in his hand again, grasping his fingers, squeezing hard.

When the flurry of motion and chaos of sound died down, someone was checking his eye movement, asking him to nod if he could, to speak if he could –

"Gunny, you're in a hospital. Gunny? Can you hear me?"

Gibbs blinked. He nodded.

The doctor grabbed his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

"You're okay, Gunny," he assured him, tucking a stethoscope around his neck.

Gibbs didn't feel okay. He blinked rapidly. A gust of pain slammed into his head like a sledgehammer, and he closed his eyes tightly, groaning softly.

"We'll get you some morphine, Gunny; we weaned you off of it, to see if the pain would pull you out," the doctor said gruffly. "Worked."

Despite the pain, Gibbs shook his head. He shook it again.

"No," he rasped. "She was talkin' to me," he corrected.

"I told you he could hear me."

Gibbs laid back, and opened his eyes, blinking – flash of red, scent of vanilla and honey, and the pain dulled; he swallowed, tightening his jaw. A name bubbled to his lips – no, but that was the wrong name –

"Shannon?" he asked.

She was there beside him, his hand clasped in hers, held against her gently fluttering heart. She nodded, tossing her hair back, saying something softly to the doctor.

"Take it easy with him, Miss Fielding," the doctor said warily – as if he was tired of her already.

Gibbs swallowed hard, tightening his fingers, squeezing back.

"Shannon," he said again.

She crept closer, and sat down next to him. She drew her legs up and curled close, bending down to touch her forehead to his, touching her nose to his, kissing his cheeks lightly.

"I told them you were in there," she whispered. "I saw your eyes moving. I hope – I hope the dreams weren't bad."

He turned his head away – he couldn't handle that. The dreams – not dreams; ghosts, nightmares – they were worse than bad. He remembered – bloody visions flashed before his eyes and he shook his head, wincing away from them.

He turned back to her. She touched his cheek.

He furrowed his brow. He felt so – muddled; he felt defeated.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Portsmouth Naval Trauma Center," Shannon answered softly. "They brought you here after Frankfurt cleared you for medical transport."

He looked at her helplessly, his brow furrowed.

"It's been three weeks," she said softly. "Nineteen days in Berlin – you really are okay; limbs in tact," she assured him carefully. She licked her lips. "Do you remember what happened?"

Visions again; white and black and burning all over. He closed his eyes, flinching – and he nodded; yes, he remembered, the girl, with the explosive – the sniper, dragging Bartlett and Matteson – Matteson – the IED that had catapulted the truck, and him, into the air –

"Joan," he said hoarsely, looking at Shannon.

She bit her lip, looking a little taken aback.

"Matteson," he said, trying to clear his throat.

Shannon shook her head very slowly. She ran her fingers over his wrist lightly, shaking her head again. She turned, and took something off the table at the bedside – a thick, official looking document.

"She didn't make it, Jethro," Shannon said quietly. "She – she was killed in action."

Gibbs swallowed, and closed his eyes – he had known that; he knew that now. He saw her face as she died; he remembered how scared she looked, how badly she didn't want to be there – how she'd tried so hard to save that kid.

"This – Bartlett, though? He lived. He said it was because you came for them, they were stranded," Shannon said softly. She showed him the letter tentatively. "They're – your – some Army medic told your commanding officer…they put you in for the Silver Star."

Gibbs lifted his arm feebly, and pushed the letter away, shaking his head. He didn't need that. He did his job – all he did was his job; never leave a Marine behind. Matteson deserved that award, or trying to save that kid – Matteson had died for her country, all he'd done was his job.

Shannon put the letter aside, and turned, curling closer to him. She reached out and placed her hand on his chest, silently feeling his heart beat. She stayed quiet, her careful eyes on him.

He took a few deep breaths – his chest felt heavy, everything was still hurting so much – and his head still felt muddled, and fuzzy; he couldn't remember much of what he needed to, he felt like.

He opened his eyes, and looked at Shannon.

"Where's – Natalie?" he asked.

Shannon smiled gently.

"She's in California, I assume," she told him.

"She's not – why's she not here with you?"

Shannon hesitated, tilting her head slightly. She reached up and touched his jaw, pulling on his skin a little, looking at him critically. She brushed her fingertips back towards his hair, and pulled back, searching his expression.

"Natalie isn't mine," she told him cautiously. He sensed she was suddenly afraid of him, and he squinted, studying her – suddenly he knew that, and he wasn't sure why he'd asked – he – yeah, he knew Natalie wasn't Shannon's daughter.

Shannon clicked her tongue.

"You might be a little fuzzy," she said calmly. "Natalie is Jenny's daughter. Jenny had her when you were sixteen."

Gibbs stared at her, nodding slowly – yes, he knew that, too; he was just having a difficult time understanding why – they weren't here, or why…he didn't understand what had – happened.

He looked at Shannon, and he knew she was important – he felt that, deeply, that she was important, and he could breathe a little easier knowing she was here – but he felt like there was some emotion missing, some weight gone – and he couldn't – fathom why he had ended up not living with his daughter.

He didn't think he was the kind of person to run off like that, and he knew he – he knew he loved Natalie.

"Is she okay?" he asked slowly.

Shannon nodded slowly.

"I think so. You said she was happy the last time you spoke to her. I sent on the package you sent me, of presents – before you left Germany," she told him. She paused. "And I did call your father, regardless of what you said, and he told me Natalie liked the chocolate."

Gibbs wasn't entirely sure he knew what she was talking about. He didn't remember telling her not to call his father, and he didn't remember sending Natalie any chocolates from Germany.

He grit his teeth, twisting his head a little, looking at Shannon without blinking.

He ran her fingers over his wrist again – somehow, he still had the bracelet she'd made him tied on him – through all that, fire, blood, and sacrifice, it had survived.

He couldn't fathom what he needed to ask about Natalie, so he asked about Shannon.

"How's school?"

"Good," she answered hoarsely. She smiled faintly. "I'm taking two summer classes. I might get to finish early," she said. Then, she bit her lip. "I don't know, maybe I'll drop them…spend the summer focused on you."

He shook his head as fiercely as possible.

"Don't do that, Shannon," he mumbled insistently. "S'just two classes. Think…think I'll be here," he said, wincing a little. He swallowed slowly. "'M I still – a Marine?" he asked warily.

She laughed, and then she nodded.

"You're going to make a full recovery," she said. "Your old drill sergeant is stationed at Norfolk – he's the one who brought the letter of recommendation, for the Star. He told me – to tell you – well, he took one look at you, and he said you'd be fine – 'tell that Marine to get his ass up; we got work to do.'"

Gibbs smirked a little, relaxing slightly – some injuries resulted in an honorable medical discharge, and if he'd been facing that – well, despite the pain, he loved his career with the Corps, and he didn't know what he'd do without it, especially if he'd been hurt in some irreparable way.

Shannon licked her lips.

"Jethro? When did you list me as next of kin?"

He gave her a somewhat sheepish look.

"Before I left," he grunted.

"I," she started. "I—I'm happy," she told him earnestly. "But I – I didn't know you…trusted me that much."

He shrugged, trying not to make too big a deal of it – just in case she thought it was too much, or too big of a step.

"How'd you know about that?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"Why do you think I'm here? I'm not family."

Gibbs squeezed her hand.

"Didn't want them to get Jackson," he said roughly. "Or – Jenny," he said slowly.

The named sounded more familiar now, but he still didn't quite remember what had happened. He clenched his jaw, looking at Shannon again, and she bent closer, pressing her lips lightly to his forehead, then his cheek.

"I was so scared," she confessed, her voice hitching. "I know we weren't very serious – before you left, not – we never talked about, commitment – "

"I wasn't seein' anyone else," he said quickly, firmly.

She shook her head.

"Me neither," she assured him softly. She bit her lip, pushing a hand gently through his hair, resting it on a bandage on the side of his skull.

"But we never said anything important," she murmured, pressing her lips to his temple again. Her lips felt smooth and gentle, against the rough burns that had taken his eyebrows to task. "I – I'm pretty sure I love you, Gibbs," she said huskily.

She looked at him shyly a moment, and laughed quietly.

"I'm not trying to overwhelm you," she soothed. "I'm not expecting you to say it back – I needed you to hear it," she murmured. She smoothed her fingers over his brow. "I promise – I only meant to be a friend, on that bus."

She did overwhelm him. He didn't think he could say anything. He lifted his arms and put them around her as best as he could, what with IVs and monitors attached to him, and he hugged her, burying his face in her shoulder, and breathing her in.

He was so glad she was here; he was so glad he'd woken up to a familiar face, on home soil – even if there was a lot of heavy sadness in his chest, and he felt like the road ahead was going to be daunting – emotionally and physically. He turned his head, pulled back, and kissed her full on the lips; to think, he'd once thought for a second he'd be okay with never coming back from that desert hell, when he had her to come back to – when he had people who loved him, and people he – he needed to do better for.

He pulled back, stroking her jaw lightly.

"Shannon," he said hoarsely, his eyes on hers intently. "Did I screw up?"

She pursed her lips, her eyes full of sympathy, slight confusion.

"Screw up what?" she asked. "You've never disappointed me," she assured him.

He shook his head slightly, her name forming on his lips.

"Natalie," he choked. "Did I screw up with Natalie? I can't, I can't," he faltered, taking a steadying breath. "I can't figure – what happened?"

There was a flutter of fear in his stomach, worry in his mind – he couldn't recall if he'd done something, and that's why he and Jenny had broken up, that's why she was gone and he didn't get to see his daughter – when he tried to reach for the memory, he hit a fuzzy, hard wall.

Shannon hesitated. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip thoughtfully.

"No," she said finally, truthfully. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were good to her – to them."

He just looked at her, waiting for more. She bore that look for a moment, and then she breathed out a little nervously, exasperated.

"I'm, I'm sorry, Jethro I don't – I don't know her side of the story, I don't really know what happened, or what – whatever goes on between you two, you only tell me what you can stand to talk about," she told him. She cut herself off, and took a deep breath. "I think…you're blocking this out," she asserted quietly. She stroked his hair again. "You have a lot to – deal with, right now," she whispered, "and I think – when this starts to come back to you, it's going to be harder – it was always hard, always kind of a mess," she confessed sympathetically. "It's not my place to fill in her blanks," she finished.

She felt that way, she did – Shannon had never known Jenny personally, and she didn't know how the woman thought or rationalized, and she refused to paint Gibbs a picture that might be incorrect, or biased by her own sympathy with his side of the events. She didn't want to involve herself in their disputes other than to support him and to be as much of a level-headed third party as she could, if he needed her – and right now, silently, privately, she thought it might be a blessing that he'd forgotten all that anger and depression and chaotic stress brought on by the constant push-and-pull and uncertainty with his ex-girlfriend, because after all he'd suffered in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, she wasn't sure if she could handle post-traumatic stress on top of personal nightmares and personal family trauma.

But if she had to, for him, she wouldn't give up – too many people had given up on Jethro – his father, Jenny – important people, important influences, in his life; and Shannon Fielding was not going to be someone who gave up.

She hoped her explanation was enough for him, at least right now – what he needed to focus on now was recovery, and what the Marines were going to do with him next.

Gibbs ran his hand through her hair a few times and then pulled her closer again, hugging her tightly. She rested her head lightly on his shoulder, sure the doctor would come back soon and kick her out so he could do – medical, necessary things, but she was content for the moment – and he wanted her there, close to him; she was nice to see, after everything he'd seen.

He tried not to think about the things that were fuzzy, the things he wasn't remembering, because he felt like he'd been suffering, felt like something had been making him miserable, torturing him, and that feeling was gone now – he knew it would come back, as he got better, as his head settled down, but for now he liked the peace – the strange peace that was, ironically, brought on by shrapnel to the knee, bullets to the shoulder, and a hell of a knock to the head.


"I don't feel like loving you no more."
The Killers; All the Pretty Faces


forgive me if the Kuwait scene seems totally unconvincing - that stuff isn't my strong point; r.i.p Matteson, but a death like that was much more meaningful than a said helicopter crash - and note, Gibbs had some memory problems, and he's got more than enough reason to struggle with some PTSD. now, if i remember correctly, next chapter takes up in 1993.

feedback is much appreciated !

-alexandra