Jarhead

by madame.alexandra

In this very au continuation, Jenny is the girl Gibbs meets in high school - his first love, until some unexpected teenage mistakes change their lives, and the paths they take, forever. Jibbs-oriented; Shannon friendly. 3rd part in a 4 part series. This part focuses on Gibbs and what he's up to, running concurrently with 'Shepard Girls.'

5. Under the Gun

a/n: well, here we are.

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Paris, France; Stillwater, Pennsylvania: 1997-1998

Under the Gun

---

Kelly Gibbs looked adorable in pigtails, there was no doubt about that. Even more adorable was the matter-of-fact way she ran ahead of her mother into her father's office at the embassy, crawled into his lap as he scooted his chair back, and pointed to one that was falling loose.

"Fix, please!" she requested.

"Hello to you, too," he returned gruffly.

"Bonjour," she sang, scrambling forward and kissing him on the cheek. She threw her arms around him and squeezed affectionately, turning and sitting in front of him, her legs dangling off his desk. She pointed to her hair again: "Fix!"

Gibbs grinned, and reached out, deftly untying the loose pigtail and combing it quickly with his fingers, careful not to pull. As he wrapped it back up and set it evenly, taking particular care to show her he was checking that they were even, Shannon leaned across the desk and kissed his cheek.

"Hi," she greeted warmly.

He smiled at her.

"How'd I get stuck with pigtail duty?" he asked.

"Mommy pulled it!" Kelly cried. "Ouch," she added.

Gibbs gave his wife a surprised look. She sat down on the corner of his desk gingerly, her cheeks flushing.

"I did," she admitted. "It's not what you think – Miss Kelly-Belle here thought she'd try running across the street to see some geese," she scolded gently. "The pigtail was closer than her hand – I was gentle, Kelly, you tell Daddy I was gentle."

Kelly nodded, hair swinging.

"No-run-'cross-street," she recited.

Gibbs nodded emphatically, and reached out to tickle her ribs. She squealed and hunched over, and he swept her off the desk into his lap, kissing the top of her head right between the pigtails.

"You be careful," he warned seriously. "Listen to Mommy, those streets are dangerous." He ruffled her hair, then made a show of very carefully straightening it again and leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on top of her head. "Thought you were meeting me at the restaurant," he said.

"Well," Shannon sighed, shifting. She crossed one leg, and shrugged a little. "Kelly was a little restless, and she wanted to see you, so I thought we'd walk over – and since she'd be in bed before we got home, I humored her." She smiled at the two-and-a-half-year-old and put a hand on her hip. "Leon's just going to take her home with him."

She and Gibbs had dinner plans – Valentine's Day plans, to be specific; he'd surprised her and told her gruffly this morning that he was taking her to dinner at the Eiffel Tower, trying not to make a big deal of it – he'd also planned on taking her to the special exhibit at the Louvre, but there'd been an incident at the Embassy and he'd had to postpone.

She told him he didn't have to give her a rain check, but he swore he would – so, their plans had been changed to just dinner. Jackie and Leon Vance were watching Kelly for the evening – last year, Gibbs and Shannon had watched Kayla for them on the holiday, and Leon was on call tonight, anyway, so it was best he was at home and available.

"You gonna be good for Leon, Dolphin?" Gibbs asked, tilting his head.

"Oui," Kelly answered primly. "Oncle Leooooo."

Gibbs gave her a mild glare.

Shannon laughed.

"Oh, Jethro, you know what that means – it's basically the same as English."

"But it has that stupid accent."

"That's not an accent. That is, in fact, the French language."

Gibbs rolled his eyes – coming up on three years in France, and he could still barely order dinner in the language. Meanwhile, his wife was half-fluent, his child was spending days at a French-speaking Montessori school, and even Leon was picking up the language easily.

"Kelly," he said seriously. "We're Americans."

She nodded, putting her thumb in her mouth.

"Américaine," she cooed. She giggled. Shannon cringed.

"Don't let her suck her thumb," she said.

Gibbs plucked the thumb from her mouth and dried it off on the edge of his uniform sleeve. He gave her a sorry-bout-it look and scrunched his nose.

"Mommy knows best," he advised.

"I'm going to start putting something icky on it when she sleeps," Shannon mused thoughtfully. "That's what my mother says people used to do—I never sucked my thumb, though, did - ?"

"Nope," Gibbs said, shaking his head before she could ask about Natalie. It was about the only time they talked about Natalie, these days – when she was asking questions, or comparing notes. The time was approaching when he'd have just as little experience as her; Kelly would be three in April, and Gibbs had stopped being involved when Natalie was about that age.

Kelly put her hands together and sighed. She tilted her head up.

"Papa," she squeaked, scrunching her nose. "Daddy. Bateau."

"Boat," he agreed. He gave her a look – he didn't really like being called Papa, but she did it sometimes, usually right when she was coming back from school. He thought it sounded snooty, which Shannon repeatedly reminded him was an absurd thing to think.

This time, though, she said nothing about his distaste, and even frowned a little. The irritating thing – well, not irritating per se, merely different – was that due to being inundated with two different languages, Kelly's speech development was slightly delayed, and though Shannon had originally thought it would be nice for her to be bilingual, she seemed to pick up more French than English for the moment, which bothered her mother more than she thought it should.

There was a knock on the door, and Leon Vance stepped in, arching a brow.

"I'm heading out," he said. "You ready for me to take the little one?" he asked.

Gibbs stood, after receiving a nod from Shannon. He patted some stray hairs down on Kelly's head, kissed her, and handed her to Shannon so Shannon could say goodbye as well.

"You be on your best behavior for Leon and Mrs. Jackie, okay?" Shannon advised. "You'll be asleep when Mommy and Daddy pick you up."

"Okie," Kelly said. She nodded, hair bouncing. "Salut."

"Bye-bye," Shannon said emphatically.

Vance grinned, and took her easily. He gave her a smile, and then turned back to Shannon and Gibbs.

"Don't worry about how late you are – I'll be up, and Jackie and Kayla both sleep like rocks," he said good-naturedly. "'M sure you'll wake her up taking her home, accidentally or not."

Shannon nodded – that was inevitable, but Kelly was good at going back to sleep. She folded her arms and gave her a small wave again – Kelly was also good with separation, which was a relief for Shannon – then again, they had trained her early. She'd begun Montessori school as early as Shannon was comfortable with, and she tended to trust anyone her parents trusted.

Vance didn't hang around and make a big deal about goodbyes, and Shannon turned, as Gibbs sat back down at his desk. He gestured at a comfortable chair in the room, checking his watch and then giving her an apologetic look.

"Got to finish this paperwork – mind hanging out?" he asked.

"No, I don't," she said simply – their reservations weren't for another hour or so, anyway. She strolled over to a filing cabinet where he had, held up by a magnet, a couple of pictures of Kelly. She paused, reaching out to touch the one single photo of Natalie as well, and then turned to him, leaning against it for a moment. "I actually had an ulterior motive in coming by," she confessed.

Gibbs looked up, leaning back a little. She bit the inside of her lip, and then came to sit down in the chair he'd gestured to, pursing her lips slightly.

"This about what I told you to think about?" he asked warily.

"Yes," she said, in a careful voice. "And I did – I know we can't stay in Paris longer than ninety-eight, though I'm glad you got the extra year."

Most postings for Marines were two years; if you were good, and desirable, you could extend to a third, and Gibbs had done that, just for stability's sake, and because they were happy here. Still, the time to bid for new postings always came up swiftly, and Gibbs had told Shannon, again, that she could pick. He always felt it was the least he could do, since his job was so – demanding, when it came to moving, hurrying up, waiting, and putting strain on dependents.

He considered her for a moment, and narrowed his eyes.

"You about to tell me you picked Vladivostok or somethin'?" he growled.

Shannon arched her brows, bemused.

"I thought you didn't care where we went," she retorted.

"I didn't think you'd pick Russia," he replied narrowly.

She shook her head, tilting it sideways fetchingly.

"I didn't," she soothed. She compressed her lips. "If anything, that Zhukov urchin has turned me off to that place completely, even St. Petersburg," she sighed. "No, ah, I just think you might be – surprised, by what I chose."

He leaned back, forgetting about his paperwork. That was – intriguing. Shannon wasn't a particularly unpredictable person – not anymore, at least, now that her adventure days were over; he couldn't imagine where she would choose that would take him off guard, unless she wanted him to go off to Baghdad or somewhere she couldn't accompany.

Abruptly, he was startlingly worried that might happen – a thousand horrible thoughts crashed through his mind; how Jenny had left him when Natalie was about Kelly's age, how it had been because she thought the marriage would never work with him gone all the time –

"Jethro, I don't know what you're thinking," Shannon said warily, "but calm down."

He must be looking as suspicious as he was feeling. He tried to school his features, and leaned forward.

"What's goin' on, Shannon?" he asked seriously. "What couldn't wait until dinner?"

"I didn't want to talk during dinner because I want dinner to be romantic and enjoyable," she said simply. "Not—business."

"This is business?"

"Marriage is business," she said, matter-of-fact.

He smiled at her slowly, and then gestured with his hand – go on. She took a deep breath, and her shoulders fell slightly. Her face was thoughtful as she mulled over her words, and then she pushed some of her hair behind her ears.

"Jethro…I want to go back to the States," she began, in a very neutral tone, with no anger, sadness, excitement – just a very simple, straightforward tone.

He felt his heart trip, maybe stop a moment; it was his worst nightmare – she wanted to leave, and he hadn't even seen it coming – and she'd take Kelly with her, just like Jenny had – but surely Shannon would let him see Kelly, let him –

"Jesus Christ, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, I'm not leaving you," Shannon said loudly, literally snapping him out of it with a loud crack of her thumb and index finger. Despite his understandable misunderstanding, she laughed at him, breaking the tension a little. She bit her lip, and corrected herself a little. "I don't hate living in Europe, but I don't love it as much as I thought – or as much as some people might," she said frankly – again, very passive, very neutral.

He swallowed, relaxing just slightly – he still felt tense; hearing that she wasn't perfectly, blissfully happy worried him, and upset him – he liked when Shannon was happy, and he wasn't sure if he should feel guilty. He stared at her a moment, thinking, and then he blinked, heavily.

"You…can," he started slowly. She wasn't required to accompany him, even to posts that allowed it – she just wouldn't receive the housing allowance and tax benefits if she chose to remain behind when she was allowed at post – but that didn't matter; they were paying the mortgage on the Alexandria house anyway, so there would be no real strain on finances. "You don't have to – " he started.

"No," she interrupted, correcting him firmly. "Anywhere I'm allowed to accompany you, I will. I'm going. I'd rather be with you than separated, but," she swallowed hard, and shrugged half-heartedly. "I miss home. And if you get a chance in the next PCS pool, I'd be…happy…if you could request a transfer back."

It wasn't that she missed home, the dream house in Alexandria, specifically – she hadn't really gotten the chance to make that home yet. But she missed her country, her culture – regardless of what snobs said, there was something distinct about American culture – and easier travel to see her parents. Of course, part of that was absence making her heart grow much, much fonder of her mother than it was when they were in close proximity, but she did still miss them.

Gibbs nodded, tapping a pen on his jaw tensely – he understood; even back when she'd been young, traveling around, she'd said she had little interest in leaving the states; she'd been focused on seeing all the American capitols. It had been – ironically, it had been Jenny who wanted to see the whole world.

He set his jaw, tilting his head.

"I can't put in for a transfer back stateside to cover an embassy," he said gruffly – which was obvious to Shannon; there were no American embassies to guard within their own borders. "Unless I put in a bid to be an instructor, at the school back at Quantico," he added, more to himself than to her.

"I wondered about that," she said. "I also…can you note that you'd like to be considered for a promotion, and a change of MOS?"

He thought about it, and nodded slowly.

"Yeah, but there's no guarantee they'd put me at Quantico," he muttered.

"That's okay, I – I'd love to live in the Alexandria house, but honestly just being back on American soil would be nice – you know, Kelly's just…oh, I don't know, Jethro, I sound so classless, I mean who doesn't want to live abroad – "

"Hell, Shannon, I haven't even learned the language!" he snorted, gesturing to himself – he understood what she meant exactly; they could call him uncouth all they wanted, it made him nervous sometimes that Kelly was picking up more of a foreign language than of her own.

He smirked slightly.

"Other option is, I put in for retirement," he said, a little uncertainly. Ninety-eight would be his re-contract year, as it were – but he couldn't imagine himself doing anything else.

Shannon looked startled.

"Leave the Marines?" she asked, aghast. "But – that's who you are."

He grinned at her a little – glad she felt the same. He shrugged, though.

"Can't do it forever – figured I'd at least do my twenty years, though, come out about two thousand – eight or somethin', Kelly'd be…"

"Fourteen," Shannon supplied, making a face.

He nodded. He shrugged again – it never occurred to him to have a plan after the Corps.

"But if you're serious about this, Shannon – "

"It's not an ultimatum," she said honestly. "Jethro, I – no, you should do your twenty years; you'd get your retirement, your benefits – you could even take some time off, before you found something else, later," she advised. "I just wanted to put the bug in your ear so we don't – I don't know, end up in fifteen years with a child – children – who speak other languages better than English and think America is a quaint vacation spot instead of home."

Gibbs nodded, and she went on.

"I thought if I told you that, you'd understand better my list of posts," she added. "I know you were expecting me to put Rome, and I did, but – it's third, on the list."

Gibbs arched his brows – he was surprised by that; Shannon loved Rome. She never felt like she had enough time to see it, the couple of times they'd made a trip.

"What's the list?"

"Canada, Mexico City, and Rome."

Gibbs nodded. His brow furrowed, so she explained:

"They border the U.S., so it's somewhat easier to travel – they're on the same continent," she explained. "Canada is English and French speaking, so that's even better."

He nodded, leaning forward and holding up his hand.

"You got to pick somethin' different from Mexico City," he said.

"It's accompanied – " she started.

"Yeah, but it's not safe," he said flatly. "Half the country's run by drug lords – Shannon, I'll do what I can to get us back to the U.S., but not by goin' to Mexico," he said bluntly. "Cartel there killed a Navy sailor last year – Vance helped on the international leg of the case."

Shannon nodded, clasping her hands. Gibbs rubbed his jaw.

"If I volunteer for a hardship post, Tripoli or Baghdad, I'd have more pull in getting a new MOS or Canada, maybe – "

Shannon shook her head.

"I can live with Europe a while longer if you don't throw yourself into crosshairs," she said sharply.

He considered her, thinking about it – his best chance was probably putting in for a promotion, doing another tour of duty, and asking to be assigned as an instructor at Quantico – best case scenario, that would work for all of them—he could probably ride that last posting out until retirement, and that would keep them stable in Virginia for a while.

He rubbed his face, and leaned forward, chewing his lip a moment.

"Here's what I'll do," he said gruffly. "I'll note that I want promotion consideration in my next review – I'll request consideration for MSG instructor, Quantico – but I got to tell you, Shannon, they're gonna push me to another embassy cycle first. Maybe two, unless I up my pull with a danger assignment."

Shannon nodded thoughtfully.

"Okay," she said slowly. "I'll keep Canada at the top of my list. I'll move Rome to second, and I'll…I'll think about something, instead of Mexico City. Australia or London, maybe – English, at least," she said – the thought of adjusting to another new language was exhausting. She nodded to herself again, and smiled, shoulders falling.

He looked at her uncertainly.

"Shannon, 'm – 'm sorry if you're – I'd have never switched my MOS from sniper if I knew – "

"Oh, please don't apologize, Jethro, I'm happy," she said softly. "I'm happy with you. For the hundredth time, I know what I sighed up for, and even when it's stressful or hard, it's what I chose." She leaned forward. "And don't think for a second I'd go back to the states without you – Kelly would never forgive me."

Gibbs grinned at her, grateful. He checked his watch, and looked dubiously at the incident report he was supposed to be covering – looked like it would have to wait until tomorrow morning; he needed to change out of his combat uniform and into something Eiffel Tower appropriate, which he had hanging up in the office.

"You ready to go? I'll change," he said, standing up.

She nodded, also standing.

"I'm going to drop by and say hello to the Chief of Mission – his wife had a baby, you know, I want to congratulate," she trailed off, and pushed the chair away, grabbing her purse. Something clicked, and Gibbs reached out, catching her hand.

"Earlier – you say children?" he asked, brow furrowed. "Our children thinking of the states as vacation?"

He looked at her intently, and she put her hand on his chest.

"I'm not pregnant," she said. "But I was thinking – we should talk about that, when we know where our orders are next – if we did anything now, I'd be having a baby around PCS time, but," she trailed off carefully. "Well, we should talk about it, if we want another," she finished softly, matter-of-factly.

He stepped closer to her, and bent to give her a quick kiss on the lips – he liked the idea, and he hoped she could tell that immediately; they hadn't particularly planned Kelly, though Shannon had always said she wanted kids, but he was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he was all for the idea, once she mentioned it.

Even if – well, for a split second he thought it pushed him that much further away from Natalie, but he pushed the thought away. He smiled at Shannon, and started to shoo her out.

"Is Anatoly still here?" Shannon asked mildly. "I had to make small talk with him coming in, his office was open – it always feels like he's being mechanically induced to be social in a textbook way – "

"Hey, yeah, what'd you mean earlier?" Gibbs asked, stopping again. "Urchin?"

Shannon sighed, standing at the door, her hand on the knob.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't like him. He's – he was okay at first, the stereotypical cold, stiff Russian, but he – he always seems off. Maybe it's that new girlfriend. I don't like Svetlana, Jethro – and she scares Kelly," Shannon said protectively – and Kelly wasn't shy of strangers, either.

This blonde woman, this Svetlana Anatoly had attached himself to, and brought around, she had a saccharine way of speaking that just seemed to terrify Kelly as much as Ursula in The Little Mermaid.

Gibbs nodded, his face unreadable. He'd suspected his wife was getting increasingly hostile towards Zhukov, but hearing it out loud made him wary. He himself didn't get warm fuzzies around the guy, and Vance hated him. However, since he'd been abruptly hired over two others last year, both Gibbs and Vance had been read into the fact that he was hired on order of the CIA, and they were to deal with it – and that was the end of that.

"I know it sounds silly," Shannon muttered.

"S'not silly," Gibbs said firmly. He wasn't blowing off her intuition, and he'd mention them once again to the liaison. "Trust your gut, Shannon," he said seriously.

She arched her brows.

"What does yours say about him?" she asked wryly.

Gibbs looked at her a moment, and then smirked.

"He's keepin' me from treatin' my wife to dinner," he griped lightly.

Shannon laughed, and left the office with a small wave, intending to wait for him outside the Chief's office while he got dressed and ready to head out. When the door shut behind her, Gibbs reached for the collar of his stiff uniform and started undoing it, a frown etched on his lips, and in the lines of his brow – the thing was, Shannon was right about the change in Zhukov's manner since he'd started up with Svetlana – and Gibbs wondered if the CIA had any qualms about that – after all, Zhukov may have defected, but his girlfriend still held her Russian citizenship, and the most effective tool of tradecraft was the honey trap.

---

Shannon gave an extremely limited celebration for Kelly's third birthday for two reasons: one, because it was a third birthday party, and she didn't believe in extravagance for small children, two because the parents of Kelly's little friends spoke mostly French, and she did not want to exhaust herself playing translator between them and Jethro all day.

She stipulated no gifts, and it was a small cookout in their modest backyard, at which the Vance family remained much longer than Kelly's little friends Luc, Adele, Cleménce, Amalia, and Louise. Gibbs was clearly more relaxed once the only other people in his space were the English-speaking Vances and their little daughter, Kayla.

Kayla and Kelly were currently aggravating the hell out of the dog, though as usual, Bugsy was calmly accepting of the whole thing – even of Kelly repeatedly readjusting where she clipped the pretty barrettes she was putting in her fur.

"Kelly," Shannon warned, "If you hurt Bugsy, she might snap at you. Be gentle."

They were always extremely diligent about warning Kelly that no matter how comfortable she was with Bugsy, and how much Bugsy loved her, Bugsy was still very much a dog, and if you provoked a dog, you couldn't really get mad at it for biting.

"Kayla, you remember that's not even your dog," Leon said, snorting a little.

Jackie rolled her eyes, sitting on the porch swing with Shannon, content for the evening.

"Anyway," Shannon said, in a low voice, returning to their conversation. "Neither of us is entirely sold on the idea, if that makes sense – or we're not entirely ready to go for it yet," she explained. "I might even like to wait as long as until Kelly starts Kindergarten."

"Well, at least then you'd have a six or so hour break where you only have one," Jackie said with a laugh. She arched her brow. "You've got it smart, waiting until you know where you'll be securely to decide – especially if your next move is mid ninety-eight – believe me," Jackie said pointedly.

Shannon started to nod, raising an eyebrow.

"And why should I believe you so willingly?" she asked intuitively.

Jackie beamed.

"I'm out of the worry zone, so," she began. Shannon clasped her hands with a small, clichéd squeal. Jackie laughed, putting her hand on her friend's knee. "I'm due in October," she confided.

"Sounds like someone told her secret," Leon said loudly, strolling a little closer with his beer in hand. He smiled at Shannon and Jackie. "That mean I'm good to go?"

Jackie nodded patiently.

"Ay, Gibbs," Leon called. He gestured at his wife. "'M gonna be a father again."

Gibbs congratulated him, smirking slightly.

"Men, they take such pride in it," Jackie said, rolling her eyes and extending her foot to kick Leon gently. "As if they wouldn't run from labor if they had to go through it."

"What the hell do you call breaking two of my fingers, if that's not goin' through it?" Leon griped.

Shannon gave him a look.

"Not even close," she said pointedly – having opted for no drugs during her own experience, she felt she had the most knowledge on just exactly how difficult it was.

"October, huh?" Gibbs asked. He winced.

"Yeah," Jackie sighed. "I may be taking Kayla and staying with my mother to look for a house, to avoid being here when it's born, or traveling, or – ugh."

Leon was being transferred back to a domestic NCIS office at the end of September; NCIS Los Angeles. Gibbs was going to miss working with him, and he was sure Shannon was going to miss having such a close female friend – though she got on well with the women she worked with, and with Luc and Adele's mother next door.

Still, Gibbs felt a little bad about it – Jackie was her American friend, her link to home, and knowing she missed home and was losing her closest connection to it – besides him – and someone who understood all the moving and whatnot – he felt for her.

Not that Shannon had uttered a dissatisfied word.

"Daddy," Kelly yelped. "Come play."

Gibbs looked at his half-drunk beer.

"Daddy," Kayla mimicked immediately. "Play!"

Leon and Gibbs shared a look, simultaneously decided to quickly finish the rest of the drinks – waste not, want not – and then headed over to appease their children.

"Kelly pinched me," Kayla said abruptly.

"Kayla pushed me," Kelly retorted.

"Liars," Leon retorted.

Jackie rolled her eyes, brow furrowing, and looked back at Shannon, amused.

"We never have decided if the girls love each other or hate each other," she snorted.

Shannon sighed, shaking her head – that was the eternal question, with Kelly and Kayla.

"So, you want a boy or a girl?"

"Of course I'm obligated to say I want a healthy child," Jackie said levelly, "but I like the idea of one of each – and besides, we have a boy's name ready. Jared, after Leon's father."

"Jared," Shannon repeated. "Nice and simple – well, I get it; I think I'd like a boy, if we had another. Jethro would probably definitely want a boy," she added, laughing lightly. "He's batting oh-for-two."

Jackie gave her a funny look.

"Are you hiding one?" she asked, amused.

"Oh – no, he's got a daughter from a previous relationship," Shannon said, lowering her voice. She looked concerned. "I swear I've mentioned that."

"Ahh, I knew that," Jackie said, smacking her forehead lightly. "Leon's mentioned it – the lab coat picture, in his office?"

"That's her," Shannon confirmed.

"God, how old is that girl? She looks old in the picture – Leon said she was born early," Jackie lowered her voice, too, glancing over Shannon's shoulder. "Does he mind if we talk about this?" she asked.

Shannon hesitated.

"You know, honestly, as long as we don't make him talk about it," she said frankly. "Natalie's – uh, she's at least twelve now. Her birthday's in November. I think she turns thirteen."

Jackie looked patiently at her friend. Shannon lifted her eyes.

"He was seventeen," she sighed, answering the question.

Jackie looked surprised.

"He doesn't really seem like the type," she remarked.

"What, the sexually active type?" Shannon snorted. "Honey, if you grew up in Stillwater, you'd understand; there's nothing else to do."

Jackie laughed quietly.

"No, I mean – the irresponsible type."

"Well, it could have happened to any of them," Shannon said neutrally. "It could have happened to me, I suppose, except I always said no – and I didn't meet Jethro first," she added thoughtfully. "I wonder about it, what would have happened if me and his ex had been swapped. I don't think I'd have left him. But I think my parents would have made me let them raise the baby. And his ex did it by herself, even in Stillwater."

Jackie gave a frank shudder.

"The worst thing is, it could have been me," she said dryly. "When I think about what a slut I was in high school – "

"Oh, Jackie, stop – "

"No, really," Jackie said, smirking a little. "I'd have had an abortion, though," she added, as a simple afterthought.

"Would you?" Shannon asked, unassuming.

"That young? Yeah. My Mama always told me 'Jackie, the world does not need another teen black statistic – you get your ass to school' – that kind of thing," Jackie recited. "Wouldn't you?"

"I don't think so," Shannon mused quietly. "But maybe I'm biased because I know how good of a father Jethro was, even when he was that young."

Jackie nodded, looking back over at the paternally attentive men.

"We got good ones," she said.

"Didn't we?" agreed Shannon smugly. "It breaks my heart, what Natalie's missing. Though I suppose her mother could have remarried."

Gibbs didn't seem to think that had happened, or would happen; Gibbs was still the one sending holiday cards now, and signing them, but he hadn't ever included a picture or Kelly's name or anything. While Shannon didn't think it was unfair for him to have married and moved on, she was offended on behalf of him at the idea of some other man raising Natalie, or being a father to her – because it wasn't Gibbs' fault that he wasn't around, and that was half the reason Shannon used to push for him to at least be a presence in some way, so Natalie could never assign her affections to someone else and start thinking bad of him.

"So he doesn't have any contact with her?" Jackie asked.

Shannon shook her head firmly.

"I washed my hands of it, a year or so ago," she confessed. "I wasn't willing to let it continue to be one of the only things that causes big fights for us."

Jackie looked past Shannon at Gibbs, her lips turning down.

"I feel for him," she murmured.

"You should," Shannon said quietly. "It kills him. He just doesn't let anyone know it kills him."

"Mommy, when do we get cake?"

Shannon turned around sharply at the sound - -because it was clearly one of the men – Leon, she discovered – imitating a small child's voice. She gave him a slightly amused look, and Jackie snorted.

"You don't need any cake, Leon, you got a physical qualification coming up!"

"That wasn't me; that was Kayla!"

"Kelly wants cake, too," Gibbs advised gruffly.

Shannon got up, sharing a look with Jackie – they hadn't done cake while the other kids were over and playing, because Shannon was uncomfortable offering sweets to other people's children, and she'd only made a small one, anyway, to keep from having leftovers haunt the house for days.

"Kayla, Kelly, let's go wash hands," Jackie called helpfully, holding out hers.

The girls came running, and Leon and Gibbs brushed themselves off, Gibbs giving Bugsy a sharp whistle as they came towards the house.

"Congratulations, Leon," Shannon said, extending the wishes again.

He smiled at her proudly.

"Appreciate it, Shannon," he said. "And I'm gonna be around more, for this one, I was on assignment with NCIS when Kayla was born," he said. "Lookin' forward to it – investigator positions in the states're much more family friendly."

"I hope we can keep in touch when you go back," Shannon said earnestly.

"Hell, Jackie'll make sure that happens," Leon said. He folded his arms, and jerked his head at Gibbs. "And you tell this one, when he's done with the jarhead look, I'll put in a word for 'im at NCIS," he growled. "We could use agents like him."

"There's an idea," Shannon said brightly. "We were talking about how we had no idea what he'd do if he wasn't a Marine – why not just join NCIS? It's like, civilian MPs – Jethro was an MP at Lejeune, when he first got in," she explained.

Vance turned a serious glare on Gibbs.

"I'm tellin' ya, man, we got a desk with your name on it," he provoked.

"Ah, what the hell does NCIS need with me?" Gibbs griped.

"Well, former military do about one of three things – private guns for hire, federal law enforcement, or can't readjust and end up screwed – now I'm bettin' you're like me, and you ain't got any respect for private guns – and I doubt you want your wife and baby livin' in a cardboard box with you, though I bet Shannon would get all your money – that leaves law enforcement, and I hate the FBI, and I got a bet with the DS Agent at post that you'll go NCIS – can't betray the Marines."

Shannon giggled, her eyes wide.

"Why, Leon, you've thought it through so much – it's like you're trying to steal my husband," she teased.

He shrugged, and gave her a gruff look.

"The man's got honor, Shannon," he said. "'Sides, NCIS is on this trend of hiring techie recent graduates, affirmative action women, and master's degrees – nothin' wrong with any of that," he said quickly, "but none of 'em have a lick of real world experience, and they can be a bitch to work with – be nice to have some more prior military around."

Vance clapped his hand on Gibbs' back, and Shannon nodded, arching her brows.

"Well, I think we're almost locked in to – which was it?" she asked.

"Ankara," Gibbs grunted.

"Ankara," Shannon said, a little exasperated, a little amused, "but I'll keep that idea in his head – NCIS headquarters is right near that house we have in Alexandria, anyway."

Things had gotten absurdly twisted – Gibbs was still under consideration for promotion and a change of MOS, and probably would be for a good while longer – his request to be an instructor at Quantico had been denied, but he'd been all but promised the post in the next round if he volunteered to go to Ankara, where apparently no one wanted to go. Shannon had agreed, so unless he suddenly received a change of MOS, they were going to be in Turkey from late ninety-eight until the millennium.

Shannon stepped back.

"I'm going to get the cake ready – Jethro, clean up those beer bottles?" she asked, though it was more of a polite order.

Gibbs turned to do that, giving a sudden sharp whistle when he realized Bugsy was licking one diligently.

"Dog's got good taste," Vance laughed, helping to pick up a little. "Atta girl."

Gibbs snorted, shaking his head, and ruffled Bugsy's ears – she had a pretty, sparkling green ribbon tied on her tail, glitter on her nose, and barrettes on her ears – such a tolerant dog. Gibbs made a mental note to get a picture of her and Kelly later.

"Man, I can't wait to get outta here," Vance muttered, throwing some of the trash away with Gibbs. "Intrigue, intelligence – I hate tradecraft, it just throws lives away," he growled. "Good ol' hang 'em high, cops and robbers cop work, gimme that."

"That what you're lookin' at, in L.A.?"

"Yeah," Vance sighed. "They got me in position as a second supervisory – workin' under a Don McClane, good man – I worked with one of his old probies for a bit, Whitney Sharpe. She's in recruitment, now – I keep yellin' your name at her," he joked.

"See the haircut, Vance?" Gibbs growled. "S'not goin' anywhere soon."

Vance shrugged good-naturedly. He glanced over his shoulder, and caught Gibbs' arm, lowering his voice.

"I asked around some more, tryin' to see if they're gonna read me or you in anymore on this CIA thing," he said in a low voice. "No dice – but when I brought it up, that liaison guy, the one pretendin' he does admin work? He got sour with me."

"Yeah, didn't like me stickin' my nose in, either," Gibbs said dryly. "Asked 'im if he considered whether Svetlana could be a honey trap," he snorted.

"Chernestkaya?" asked Vance. "I dunno what they're thinkin' about her, but they think they got it under control, and whatever this Op is, I don't think they do – but that's the damn CIA, always playing with fire – nah, not with fire, with goddamn nuclear bombs."

Gibbs shrugged warily, thinking of Shannon's suspicions, her dislike for Zhukov. He wasn't read in on what was going on, beyond he and Vance finally being told at least that Zhukov was a CIA plant, working in his capacity as an informant.

"I don't think that girl is involved," Vance said flatly. "She's pretty, she's young, she's a piece of home," he listed. "That's the part that's got me – what if this guy ain't a defector? What if he ain't on our side at all?"

Gibbs didn't say anything, brooding over it – he wasn't sure the CIA could be that blind, or if they were, they had to be close to rooting that out and nipping it in the bud – he disagreed with Vance, he did have a problem with the woman – young and pretty didn't mean shit, when the old U.S.S.R. and the KGB had been notorious for using women as tools of western destruction. The one thing he was sure of was that defectors didn't seem like the type that could be trusted – being a Marine, being a bona-fide pillar of everything that semper fidelis meant, Gibbs tended to think – once a turncoat, always a turncoat.

---

It was a frosty day in Paris, and the mucky smattering of snow wasn't pretty – after so many winters there, the sparkle of snow on the city of light was no longer magical; it was just dirty snow in a city. Gibbs was conducting a run-of-the-mill drill with his Marine detachment when the Paris Chief of Mission himself came jobbing into the drill area and interrupted. He waved his hands, wincing, and received a glare from Gibbs – but it wasn't too menacing of a glare, since technically this guy had a lot of rank and pull, and if he was interrupting, it could be a problem that required Marine attention.

"Take a break," Gibbs ordered at his men, turning to the diplomat. The state department agent who had been training with them stepped up as well, looking interested.

"Sorry to interrupt," the diplomat said warily. "Gibbs, the NCIS agents locked themselves in a room with your wife – now I don't know what's going on, but – "

"What?" Gibbs barked. That didn't sound like them at all – even if he didn't know these NCIS agents as well as he'd known Vance, he trusted them; they were good men. "What the hell are you talkin' about?" Gibbs snapped.

"Hey, whoa," the security agent stepped up, giving the diplomat an absurd look. "Locked themselves up with her - ?"

"Look, only reason I know is because I tried to use a conference room, and that administrative guy told me it was in use. I saw him open the door, and those guys were in there with her – slammed it in my face, and locked it," the diplomat growled, affronted. "I'm goin' to talk to the ambassador, but if it was my wife, I'd want to know."

Gibbs nodded, setting his jaw.

"Yeah, thanks, Greg," he said stiffly. He started past him roughly, the security agent on his heels.

"Administrative guy?" Agent Katsopolis sneered. "He means that CIA plant."

"The Chief doesn't know the CIA has a plant in the Embassy?"

"Eh, they know," Katsopolis said. "CIA just doesn't tell 'em who or where, usually. Hell, half the time they don't even tell us."

Gibbs didn't answer; he continued his march through the elegant maze of the embassy until he found the administrative wing, located the only conference room that was tucked away, and had a door shut, and marched straight over to violently shake the handle. Against his better judgment, he banged on the door with a flat open palm.

That did it; the door opened, and there stood a wary looking Kurt Mitchell, Vance's NCIS liaison replacement. Behind him, Gibbs spotted his boss, Agent McAlister, and at the table sat the nondescript human resources guy who was, in reality, nothing of the sort – and he'd didn't look nondescript now, he looked furious, and every bit a CIA agent.

"What in the hell are you doin', Mitchell?" growled Gibbs, pushing forward.

"Easy, Jethro," Mitchell said, holding up his hand. He pressed it to Gibbs' chest warningly. "I'm here for you guys, we're here for the Marines," he said firmly. "Your wife came to us – can't say we knew what we were stepping into."

Gibbs shoved past him, and he knew that Katsopolis entered as well, shooting a wary look around the room. The door slammed again, and Gibbs ignored the outraged look of the CIA guy. The CIA guy stood up, leaning forward, all business –

"Mr. Gibbs – " He started.

"Gunnery Sergeant," Gibbs barked at him coldly. "I'm in uniform, sir," he said, his tone derogative.

He turned his back on the guy, sitting on the table, and looking down at his wife – Shannon was sitting across from CIA guy, looking small, worried, and – he noticed immediately when she looked up – she was crying. Gibbs reached out to touch her cheek gently, brushing some lingering tears away. She wiped at her eyes and looked at him desperately, and he twisted, his eyes narrowing.

"Why is my wife crying?" he asked dangerously.

To his satisfaction, something about his tone and demeanor managed to quail the CIA guy a little bit – Joseph Galvin was the name they all knew him by, though it was common knowledge among those who knew he was CIA that it wasn't his actual name.

Galvin grit his teeth. Before he could say anything, Mitchell folded his arms.

"'Cause Galvin's been shouting at her," he revealed coolly.

"You ain't helpin' shit, Mitchell," McAlister growled tensely.

Mitchell shrugged.

"NCIS protects Marine and Navy service members and dependents," he said doggedly. "This guy is a threat."

"I'm not a fucking threat, I'm protecting an operation that's been in place for years!" barked Galvin.

"That's the problem with you – effin' – 'scuse me ma'am—Langley ninjas – "

"HEY," Gibbs shouted roughly. He held up his hands – and even in a room full of masculine bravado and people with authority, his order, spoken in uniform, carried a lot of weight. He swallowed hard. He nodded at Shannon. "What happened?" he asked her directly.

She took a deep breath, pressing her knees together and rubbing her elbows anxiously.

"I was coming to surprise you for lunch," she began in a shaky voice. "One of the security agents said you were drilling the Marines, so I went in the courtyard to – to wait," she explained. "I was over by the flower garden – I heard voices, Jethro," she said, as if she were trying to justify herself, "so I stepped through that brick archway, you know, near the back entrance to the Ambassador's quarters, and I almost ran smack into – Anatoly and Svetlana."

She paused, and swallowed, her eyes on his.

"I – well, I made small talk, I was being polite, but she acted extremely cold to me, and then I noticed, I," she paused, and lifted her eyes. "She had classified files in her bag, Jethro; I know the markings. Top Secret labels. He must have given them to her."

Gibbs nodded, listening. He didn't bother at looking at anyone else in the room – other than Katsopolis, they had all presumably heard the story.

"I pretended I hadn't noticed, and I left, and he – he followed me," she said, in a worried voice. "I didn't know what the hell to think, but I ignored him, and he – he turned off into the resource office, and I went straight to the NCIS liaison and reported the incident – and the next thing I know, he," she gestured to Galvin, "is throwing a fit, and dragging me in here – "

Gibbs turned sharply.

"She reported a security breach," he growled. "She did exactly what she's s'pose to," he said tersely. "You want to explain – "

"Zhukov was doing what he was instructed to do!" Galvin fired back.

"He was instructed to give classified information to a non-cleared individual?" Katsopolis asked, his eyes bulging. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Galvin – "

"You're damn right you don't!" seethed Galvin. He slammed his hand down. "Before I had gotten to 'em, you fucking Navy boys had put in a note to the ambassador, to the security office – what a fucking – "

"Jesus, Joe, cut out the language," barked Mitchell, bristling again. He thrust his hand out at Shannon. "You expect her to just know you've got some covert op going with the bastard? She's not even embassy personnel – and our predecessor told us that guy's bad news – "

"He isn't bad news, he's a vital operative – he wasn't giving her anything that he wasn't cleared to give – "

"You can't run a covert operation right under our nose and expect the average person to think its normal when a former Soviet tosses class information to his girlfriend!" McAlister said coldly.

Galvin turned, curled his hand into a fist, and pressed it hard against the wall. He turned back, biting his knuckles, and then leaned forward, hands braced on the table stiffly.

"She's not his girlfriend – she's KGB," he said in a low voice.

Shannon leaned forward.

"She's his girlfriend," she snapped.

"Look, lady – "

"Don't 'look, lady' me," Shannon snarled shakily. "She may be what you say, but she's also his girlfriend. If he was supposed to be faking it, like in some – some – Bond movie, it's not fake anymore – and if that's true, anyone who's seen a movie knows you're in trouble."

Gibbs didn't have to study Galvin for more than a minute to know that Shannon had obviously hit a very sore nerve; her intuitive statement silenced the CIA guy, and the NCIS agents shared a dubious glance with each other.

Katsopolis stepped forward.

"Listen, Galvin – you're sayin' Zhukov has been – what, some kind of double agent? Pretending he's a not a defector, letting this woman handle him, make her think he's on their side – "

"I'm not sayin' a damn thing," Galvin snapped. "This is proprietary – not a single one of you are cleared – "

"You better read us in," Gibbs interrupted icily.

McAlister stepped forward tensely, nodding curtly.

"We followed protocol exactly, we alerted the proper authorities – if she blew some kind of clandestine operation, if she outed him, she could be in danger – "

"I didn't blow anything," Shannon spoke up, her face blanching. "I tried to – I am protecting my country – " she protested, face flaming.

Gibbs rested his hand on her shoulder, nodding to her. Soothingly, he rubbed her collarbone lightly, and turned a menacing eye on the CIA guy again – he had rarely seen Shannon this upset, and she looked downright terrified of what was happening – he wondered what Galvin had said to her before he'd showed up; he wondered if she'd been threatened.

"Zhukov is not a threat to her," Galvin blustered. "Zhukov is ours – she just – ah," he broke off again, biting his knuckles. He held up his hand. "The Russians'll hear about this, and if he doesn't go to them for protection, they'll know he's a defector and they'll kill him – goddammit, we're losing a vital intelligence link, we'll have to neutralize – "

"What about his life?" Shannon asked, sitting forward in her seat. "If they kill him because – "

"Because you couldn't keep your mouth shut?" Galvin asked her angrily.

Shannon sat back, and Gibbs resisted the urge to throw himself across the table and throttle Galvin until he begged for mercy. Shannon bowed her head and covered it with one hand, hunching her shoulders. Gibbs crouched down next to her, resting his hand on her knee. The younger NCIS agent – the feisty one – stepped up behind Shannon's chair.

"You want to tell me how she was in the wrong for reporting a possible risk?" he demanded. "For all she knew, he was a traitor, and she saved the whole embassy from being betrayed!" he growled. "You CIA jockeys, it's all a game to you – you run ops like this and throw tantrums when they blow – you don't even have the right people read in – "

"Under no circumstance would we have read a civilian dependent in – "

"No, but if you'd read in the head Marine guard, or NCIS – hell, even State, then someone could have hinted at her that he was not a risk!" bellowed Mitchell. "I got two or three reports and complaints on Zhukov goin 'back to when that Vance guy was here before me –and you're runnin' around, ignorin' it – I bet you've lost a little of your control and you guys have been tryin' to clean it u – "

"You don't know what you're talkin' about – "

"Hey, hey, HEY," McAlister yelled. He had a hard look on his face, and he held up his hands. "Everybody cool it – Galvin, you ain't got a right to say a damn thing to Mrs. Gibbs; you run ops like this, you run the risk of this happenin' – Mrs. Gibbs," he said seriously, "You did the right thing. Don't listen to this prick."

Galvin fumed, his face paling, and Katsopolis stepped in.

"Joe," he growled. "You, me – we got to meet with the Ambassador about – this, whatever this is – you call your Director, you demand authority to read people in – emergency authority, for Gibbs here, too," he said.

"You're not in charge here, Katsopolis," Galvin blustered.

"If I got anything to say about it, you aren't in charge much longer," Katsopolis retorted coolly. "You bring in Zhukov, find him," he added.

Galvin folded his arms.

"I need an hour, at least," he snarled. "To talk to my director, to get my analysts to get a report together – and I've got to find out what Zhukov's hearing from the Soviets, or what the blonde thinks of it," he muttered, glaring daggers at them all – but more than anything, he looked like a wild animal backed into a corner, desperate, losing control – and Gibbs watched him critically, thinking there was more to this – he wasn't so sure Anatoly Zhukov was a double agent – at least not the kind the CIA thought he was.

"How sure are you that Zhukov's been working for you, and not them?" Gibbs asked sharply.

"He's ours," snapped Galvin. "We turned him – he's ours," he said, tongue-tied.

Katsopolis eyed the guy warily, and Mitchell snorted derisively.

"It'd be pretty embarrassing if he wasn't," McAlister said coldly. He shrugged. "Then I reckon you'd have to thank Mrs. Gibbs here for savin' your ass before real damage was done."

Galvin grit his teeth. He threw a nasty look at them all, and then straightened up, fixing his immaculate tie.

"Call an emergency briefing with the Ambassador," he said tensely. "I'll make the necessary inquiries."

He left without much more adieu, and after a moment, Katsopolis rubbed his mouth, gave Gibbs a quick nod, and went after them, leaving them both alone in the room with the two NCIS agents. Shannon uncovered her face, wiping at her cheeks, and looked around.

"I just thought I'd come for lunch," she burst out desperately – the whole thing was so absurd to her, and having no interest in or experience with the intelligence and security community, she wasn't exactly sure what she'd done or what she was being accused of. She looked at Gibbs. "Jethro, that man isn't what they think he is – I saw the look in his eyes when I walked into them – he's dangerous, and I always thought I just didn't like him but if he's a – if he's a spy – "

Gibbs nodded, and one of the NCIS agents patted her shoulder.

"It's okay, Mrs. Gibbs, we're gonna get to the bottom of this," Mitchell assured her confidently. "You were right comin' to us," he told her again.

She looked at them, her eyes wet.

"Thank you," she said emphatically. "Thank you for – sticking up for me."

"That's what we do, Ma'am," McAlister said gruffly. He cleared his throat. "We're law enforcement. Not Mission: Impossible wannabes."

Shannon smiled weakly, and Gibbs looked up at the two agents. He considered them for a moment, and the ncleared his throat gruffly.

"McAlister – you served?" he asked.

"U.S. Army, Viet Nam," McAlister answered.

Gibbs nodded.

"You mind goin' and drilling my Marines? Finish up?" he asked.

McAlister grinned smugly.

"Sure, I reckon' I can give 'em a real, Army, work out," he snorted, teasing good-naturedly.

Gibbs rolled his eyes, and after a moment, the two NCIS agents retreated, shutting the door, and leaving Gibbs and Shannon alone in the conference room. She sniffled softly, and wiped at her eyes again.

"How did you know I was in here?" she asked shakily.

"Seems Galvin got sharp with the Chief of mission. He recognized you. Came and got me," he said simply.

She wiped at her eyes again, looking at her hands.

"He made me feel so stupid," she said angrily, her voice small. "I hadn't even been talking to the agents for half an hour, and he barged in, yelling, swearing," she said. "I mean – do you know anything about this? What did I do?"

Gibbs stood up and sat on the table again, looking at her – he still wished he could go give Galvin a piece of his mind. Shannon was really shaken up, and he himself knew how much she disliked Zhukov anyway. He grit his teeth.

"I'm not – I don't know what they're up to, Shannon, but Agent Mitchell's right," he said tersely. "The CIA – they're lone wolves, it's all about the trade to them, the game, the hunt – it's arrogance, it's not for the good of anyone," he said sardonically.

"I don't want to believe that."

"Believe it," he said heavily. "Hell, look at – the Bay of Pigs, Iran Contra, the overthrow of other governments, bloodbaths," he said dully. "Bloodbaths, all of it. Mogadishu, bad intel, out of control, risky ops," he muttered.

He himself didn't know he'd hated black ops so much, until they harassed his wife, until he started to think about how potentially dangerous it all was – entrapment as one thing, some undercover cop tricks, but these identity games, these deep covers – they took it too far, until no one knew who they really were anymore.

He frowned.

"Look, Shannon," he started calmly. "It's probably – nothin' more than now they've got to put him in witness protection or somethin', instead of usin' him, and that costs 'em money – and they lose their connection to her intelligence, whatever Zhukov was gettin' from Svetlana." He shrugged haggardly. "Serves 'em right, playing games like that – worst case scenario, the Russians get 'im before they get him protected."

"Jethro," she said, swallowing hard, "I don't think Anatoly is working for us!" she insisted. "He kept saying Anatoly was supposed to be feeding those files – but there were discs, blueprints," she said, her voice rising edgily. "I don't think he actually defected – "

"What'd they say when you told them that?"

"I couldn't get a word in edgewise!" she exclaimed, worried. "He kept yelling, shooting me down, telling me to shut-up – "

"He told you to shut-up?" Gibbs growled.

"That's what you're worried about?"

"S'not the only thing, but I ain't happy about it!" he snapped – not merely unhappy, royally pissed off; some guy disrespecting his wife like that – oooh, if he could get his hands on the bastard, regardless of if they were technically on the same team.

He grit his teeth, and tried to make himself cool down. He folded his arms stiffly, a muscle in his jaw pulsing. He felt for her, being dragged into something clandestine like this – he didn't want to be involved in CIA games, either.

"I've been saying I don't like him, that he gives me the creeps," Shannon said. "They need to look into – into him, maybe he's giving information they don't think he is, maybe he's a threat – or maybe I'm wrong," she trailed off. Her lips trembled. "I just reported what I saw," she whiskered hoarsely.

Gibbs leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees.

"Shannon, in your gut, you think he's a traitor?" he asked.

She looked up at him.

"I don't know what to think about any of this," she confessed. She licked her lips. "But I think he's rotten. And I think she's worse."

Gibbs nodded, studying her intently – there was real worry in her face, real fear in her eyes. Galvin could get mad all he wanted –if Zhukov was truly on their side, and Shannon made it impossible for him to work, that was the CIA's fault for risking it; if he turned out to be a traitor, then she deserved all the damn praise for blowing the whistle inadvertently and putting a stop to serious security leaks.

Shannon turned her palms up, pleading.

"Do you believe me?" she asked.

He didn't hesitate.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, nodding,

She sighed in relief, her shoulders falling.

"What's going to happen?" she asked. "Are people going to die because of me?"

Schooling his features and shaking his head, he stood, leaning back against the table.

"No," he said gruffly. "No, Shannon – it'll get taken care of," he said darkly. "Stuff like this – they have their ways – best thing is, you probably won't have to deal with Zhukov anymore," he finished dryly.

He wished they'd never been told to hire him over the other two options; and once he was out, they'd have to go through the vetting process for a new foreign national investigator all over again, and he'd be damned if he let some scheming undercover CIA guy have an ounce of influence in the matter.

He looked at Shannon heavily, and tilted his head.

"Where's Kelly?" he asked.

"At the Chevaliers', next door," Shannon answered tiredly. "I was going to bring her, but she was having so much fun there," Shannon shivered, imagining if Kelly had been here for this; she doubted Galvin would have restrained himself for a child's sake. "I'm glad I didn't."

Gibbs nodded.

"I'm gonna take you home," he said gruffly.

"What about – "

"They'll understand," he said darkly. "I'll come back, sit in on this meeting with the Ambassador," he growled. "It'll be fine, Shannon," he said firmly. "Galvin overreacted. CIA's got – cleaners – they'll handle it. Whatever it is."

She nodded, and stood up, clutching her purse close to her chest. She pushed her hair back, and then stepped forward, putting one arm around him and pressing her face against his chest for a moment. She took a deep breath, relieved to have him there for a moment, and he returned the hug, running his hand over her spine. When she pulled away, he touched her jaw affectionately, leaning forward to give her a private, comforting kiss.

"Shannon, it's gonna be okay," he promised again, seriously. "We're not even gonna be in Paris much longer," he soothed.

She nodded, her lips parting.

"I never thought I'd say it," she whispered. "But Paris is getting stale."

They weren't scheduled to leave for Ankara until late spring, though, and it was only the beginning of February – and Gibbs knew from the look on her face that she just didn't feel very comforted by him, in the moment – then again, he could understanding; finding out you might have been living with wolves, when you thought they were sheep, was daunting, and Gibbs set his jaw and resolved to make sure he eased her discomfort while this blew over.

---

The problem was, it didn't blow over; it got murkier, and more complex, and more frustrating – until it culminated in the sudden death of Anatoly Zhukov – ricin poisoning, a distinctly Soviet method of murder – and yet –

"KGB justice my ass," Shannon railed, furiously folding clothing as she organized it into a suitcase. "You know- - you know the CIA had him killed – they finally realized – " she broke off, shaking her head. Her lip was bleeding; she'd been chewing on it so much since the body had been found that it was constantly sore and worried.

Gibbs, sorting through the file he'd been given by NCIS for the tenth time – plans, and contingency plans – narrowed his eyes, his brow dark; she was right, most likely; he, too, thought the CIA had given the order to execute Zhukov – it had become clear, recently, that Zhukov wasn't at all a defector with American sympathies – or, perhaps he had been, but the appearance of Svetlana Chernestkaya, had changed that.

"I know they think I'm crazy, Jethro, but there's no way the CIA would have been duped for this long unless one of their own is dirty," she hissed.

He pushed aside his files, nodding – unfortunately, Shannon's cool remarks about that lately had made everyone nervous, and it had a lot to do with their current situation – she didn't know it, but intelligence had proven Svetlana was no mere Soviet-sympathizing girlfriend; she was in fact Zhukov's handler – high up in the KGB, and connected to a vast ring of arms dealers – and not only was she nowhere to be found, she had reason to believe Shannon's involvement was why the CIA had executed Zhukov, and if Shannon kept insisting the the CIA had to have a mole, Svetlana ran the risk of losing her last wild card.

Gibbs, backed by NCIS, had raised hell worrying about his wife's safety, and NCIS, after discussions with the ambassador and the state agent, Katsopolis, had decided it was best to evacuate Shannon and Kelly back to the United States – on home turf, for home advantage.

The file Gibbs had with him was the protection plan, names of everyone involved – the agent that would be taking over once McAlister and Mitchell got them back to Washington, D.C. – Mike Franks, the lead; Dwayne Pride, the junior agent. Gibbs had spoken with both of them on the phone, and Shannon had as well.

"I don't want to go," Shannon said, trying to swallow the fear in her voice. "I don't want to leave you, Jethro, aren't you in danger, too? Why will I be safer in the U.S.?" she demanded.

This had been an ongoing argument for weeks, since the evacuation had been approved. Whether or not he could go was immaterial; he was beholden to the Marine Corps, his job was to help protect the personnel here, too – who, since security was extremely compromised at the moment – could be under threat. The Marines did not send their people away from danger, they threw them towards it fighting; they did not, however, allow dependents to remain in the line of fire.

"'M not happy you're goin' without me," he said tersely. "I want you here, I told 'em – I want you guys in my sights, but – ah, McAlister's right – if the CIA wants you here, that's bad news," he broke off – the goddamn CIA thought it would lure Svetlana out if Shannon stayed, and they could get her – neutralize the threat of Shannon being able to easily identify her – and NCIS said flatly that if the CIA was going to try to use a Marine's family as bait, he was going to make damn sure they were nowhere near the hook.

"She tries to get on a plane, Shannon, they'll book 'er," Gibbs said. "She's got no way of knowin' where you are in the U.S.; the only records she got here are for our stuff here, and in Germany."

Shannon threw things into her suitcase, and she rubbed her forehead, her shoulders falling.

"I know," she mumbled. She closed her eyes tightly, and bit the tip of her thumb. "This isn't what I meant – God, I swear, I must have – brought this on myself, saying I wanted to go back to the U.S. - I didn't mean like this," she said fervently. She looked up, lowering her thumb. "And without knowing when we can come back – I have to take Kelly with me, I'm sorry – "

"Stop apologizing for that," he said sharply. It was a no-brainer – of course Kelly would go with her mother; she was too little to be missing her, and she was too easy a target to be used against Gibbs if she stayed and got caught in the crossfires.

Gibbs got up and came around the bed, reaching out. He sat down next to the suitcase, and he reached for her elbows, clutching them firmly.

"None of this is your fault, Shannon," he said.

She pushed her palm against her chest hard, her cheeks paling.

"I can't shake the feeling that something awful is going to happen," she said hoarsely, her eyes reddening.

He rubbed her elbows a moment, and then pulled her closer gently, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. He ran his hand over her hair, pressing his lips soothingly to her throat, her jaw. She put her hands on his neck and held onto him, burying her head in his shoulder.

"I've been living with this horrible stress hanging over my head," she choked softly. "I want it to be over, I want her gone – why'd they have to kill him, Jethro? Why'd they have to make it personal?"

That was the gist of it, really – tradecraft was tradecraft, spies lived or died by the pistol or the blade – one day's loyalty was another day's treachery, and pieces in the game shifted lightning-quick – hard feelings were rare, personal vendettas usually left for world leaders and public figures – but Shannon had been right; Svetlana was always more to Anatoly than a handler, and he was more than just an operative to her – and the CIA neutralizing him and making no effort to hide why the operation was ended had put Shannon in danger.

It was something Gibbs was still struggling to come to terms with – the severe betrayal by an agency for his own fatherland; every time he saw Galvin in the halls, every time he had to meet with Galvin and Katsopolis, or Galvin and McAlister, he wanted to rip the bastard's head from his shoulders and serve it to Bugsy for breakfast – that man, the gall he had, to make Shannon's life hell – and when Shannon's life was hell, Gibbs' life was hell.

Gibbs stroked her jaw with his thumb, and she pulled back a little, licking her lips.

"Am I supposed to live the rest of my life in fear? What if they don't catch her?" she asked quietly.

"They will," he assured her. "Stuff's gettin' more high tech," he said, eager to assuage her worry. "NCIS, they got some programs – trackin' credit cards, computer mapping stuff," he trailed offs, shrugging a little. "S'all Greek to me. But they'll get 'er, Shannon."

She closed her eyes, gripping his shoulders for strength.

"Kelly doesn't understand why we have to leave," she said sadly. "Poor little thing, I never imagined how hard it would be to explain to her," she hiccupped.

"I'm gonna call you guys every day," Gibbs promised. "Every day," he emphasized.

"This is the only home she's ever known," Shannon said. "And she'll – that house in Alexandria is so big – "

"You'll start makin' it home," Gibbs interrupted firmly. He rubbed her jaw again, wishing he could do more to make her feel better – he felt uneasy about all of this; he wondered how much safer it really was for her to leave – but then, he trusted that it was safer, because he could trust NCIS; he couldn't trust the CIA, and the CIA was in charge here.

He wiped at her tears.

"Shannon," he said, a little pleading. "I hate it when you cry," he muttered.

That got a hoarse laugh out of her.

"I know," she said, reaching up and wiping at her eyes. She put her hands back on his shoulders. "I know," she added, swallowing, bucking herself up some. She took a deep breath. "What would the world be like if we weren't all so afraid of Communists?" she mused huskily. "And to think, the Wall fell years ago."

"Just a show, honey," he muttered astutely. "Political posturing."

She bit her lip, tearfully amused.

"Did you get a vocabulary calendar for Christmas?" she teased softly.

"Turns out I'm pretty smart," he bragged, pulling her closer by her chin for a kiss. She accepted the favor, and pressed herself close to him, arms tightly around his neck, roaming through his hair.

"Smart," she murmured, nodding. "Smart, handsome, everything," she swore. "I love you so much."

He grinned at her, his hand resting against her lower back.

"I love you, Shannon," he said easily.

She nodded, and touched her forehead to his for a moment.

"Well, as long as I know that," she told him bravely, scrunching her nose. "I can survive anything."

She stepped away, returning to packing – with less frenzy, more focus, and a steadier hand. He got up and went to meticulously review the files again – he wanted to memorize every part of the plans, down to dots on i's and crosses on t's. He was glad Kelly was too young for them to have to worry about school, because if she was in school, he'd sure as hell have an agent sitting in a desk next to her.

The bedroom door nosed open, and Bugsy came trotting in, wagging her tail. She hopped up on the bed next to Gibbs, sniffed at him, licked his face, and then crawled over to the suitcase. She sat down in it, let her tongue fall out, and panted happily.

Shannon let out a genuinely laugh.

"Bugsy," she cooed. "Darling, you're not going in the suitcase – I promise, the crate will be a little roomier than that."

She reached forward and kissed the dog affectionately, scratching her velvet ears and resting her cheek on the dog's head. She puckered her lips, and met Gibbs' eyes.

"You sure you can handle being without us and Bugsy?"

"I've lived without Bug before," he said stoically.

Shannon didn't miss his subconscious shortening of the dog's name, but she didn't remark on it. She wondered though, if he ever realized he did it, if he did it on purpose. Truth be told he was going to miss the dog, but Kelly had cried and cried and cried over leaving Bugsy and Daddy, so Gibbs had ordered NCIS to make arrangements for her beloved dog to go with her.

Shannon smirked and tried to coax the German shepherd out of the suitcase, eventually calling on Gibbs to command her away. Bugsy curled up near Gibbs and laid her head on Gibbs' knee, watching his mistress do the packing. Shannon packed haphazardly, without any real attention to detail – she'd organize herself when she and Kelly were secure.

"What's his name, the agent meeting us at Dulles?"

"Franks," Gibbs supplied. "He and Pride are going to escort you to the house, and there will be a constant watch. They're heads of security, but here it says, an Agent – Chris Pacci – is covering patrol detail and information."

"Did you ever get in touch with Leon?" Shannon asked.

"Yeah, he's Agent Afloat right now – on the U.S.S. Truman, in the Gulf," Gibbs answered. "Jackie wants you to call her, as soon as you can."

"I will," Shannon murmured. "I'll go visit her. I'll visit my parents, and your father, too – I'll feel like a sitting duck if I don't, surrounded by men with guns."

"Whatever you do, listen to the agents," Gibbs said warily. "Don't run off, don't – don't take any risks," he added dryly.

She glanced at him, smiled, and then paused, looking back at him. She put down what she was doing, slowly, and then it was her turn to walk around to him, to touch his thigh, catch his eyes – her lips pursed.

"You're scared," she said simply, her lips barely moving. "Jethro."

He took her hand as she reached out for him, and smoothed his fingers over her engagement ring, her wedding ring. He turned her wrist upwards, and kissed her pulse, saying nothing. He wasn't about to tell her anything that would make her worry, and that included that he didn't want her to go, that he was worried, that he was – scared.

He felt eerily like he had the day he'd stepped off the bus in Stillwater, when he was nineteen, and Jenny hadn't been at the bus stop waiting for him – a heavy, cold, hollow and dark feeling, in his stomach. He reached for her, pressing his lips to hers again.

"It's gonna be alright, Shannon," he told her gruffly.

"Oooh," she whispered, her eyes on his. "We're not getting any sleep tonight."

Their flight was right before noon the next day – she had to pack, she had to say goodbye to him properly—and she'd never calm down. She wondered if he felt –

"Uh, sorry to interrupt."

The vocal interruption came with a knock on the door, and Agent Mitchell was standing there, looking sheepish – and he was holding Kelly.

"Found this wanderin' around," he said.

Mitchell had been downstairs, keeping vigil; Kelly had probably ventured down thinking her parents were still up. With sleepy eyes and messy hair, she blinked at them, and then twisted in Mitchell's arms, and reached out.

"Bugsy left," she said forlornly.

Shannon hurried over.

"I'm sorry, Kurt – leave her here, she's okay," she said, flushing.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he said easily, smirking. "I got a four-year-old. Looks just like his Mama, and won't go to bed unless I say goodnight," he said proudly.

"Oh, what's your son's name?" Shannon asked warmly.

"Luis, Ma'am," Mitchell said.

Shannon kissed Kelly's cheek.

"I'm sorry we're keeping you from him," she murmured.

"S'alright, he and his mama are visiting New York, right now," Mitchell said. "Goodnight, now. See you tomorrow morning. Night, Miss Kelly."

Kelly gave him a little wave, and Shannon shut the Master bedroom door snugly, carrying Kelly over to the bed.

"You found us," she sang softly. "Poor Kelly-Belle, jealous of Bugsy," she teased.

Kelly crawled over Gibbs and snuggled into his lap, reaching out to pat the dog.

"Bugsy," she said contently. She puckered her lips sweetly. Gibbs combed the knots from her hair with his fingers.

"You ready to see America, Kelly?" he asked. "Mama's gonna take you to the zoo, and the Smithsonian with all the pretty dresses," he listed.

Kelly looked up at him. She reached for his face.

"No, thank you," she said sweetly. "No bye-bye, Daddy. No, you come," she requested.

He cupped her chin gently, and gave her a strong smile.

"Daddy has to work," he said seriously. He moved his face closer to hers. "You know I'd rather have tea parties with you," he confided quietly.

She giggled.

"Tea-with-sugar," she said.

"Hmm, black coffee," he disagreed.

She made a face, and giggled, and Shannon smiled at them. She stood a moment, and then climbed on the bed, easily adjusting Bugsy and situating herself next to Gibbs – she really wasn't going to be able to sleep; the packing could wait – this was her last night in Paris, her last night with Gibbs until the situation cleared up – what did it matter if she took the right pair of socks?

"You'll have to take care of Mommy," Gibbs said seriously, pretending it was a secret. "Keep her safe. Don't drive her crazy." He tickled Kelly's ribs. "You got that, Dolphin?"

Kelly squeaked, cutely imitating the animal she was nicknamed for. Gibbs squeaked back at conversationally, and Shannon covered her mouth, amused.

"I really should videotape this," she snorted. "When you retire from the Marines – ooh, or if you ever commission, I'll show it at the party – 'Gunnery Sergeant Speaks Dolphin,'" she teased.

Seriously, he glared at her, and squeaked pointedly.

"I think that was a four-letter-word," she said primly, bending over Kelly. "I'll take care of you, you take care of me," she sang. "But who's gonna take care of Daddy?"

Kelly twisted, and stood in his lap, clasping her arms around his neck.

"Me," she said fiercely, touching her nose cutely to his neck. "I watch you," she told him. "I protect you."

He grinned.

"You? You'll be in America."

Kelly put her hand on his heart insistently.

"Here," she told him, patting him promisingly. "I stay here, Mommy say."

Gibbs put his hand over hers, and held it there against his chest He nodded his head, his lips turning up contently.

"I'll keep you there," he promised. He pulled her close and kissed her forehead protectively. "'M gonna miss you and Mommy," he told her solemnly. "I got somethin' for you," he said.

"Present?" Kelly squealed.

Gibbs laughed quietly, and opened a drawer next to the bed. He pulled out his most current dog tags, and showed them to Kelly. He then placed them gingerly around her neck, and pressed them close to her heart. He didn't say anything, and Shannon reached out and rubbed his thigh, soothed by the silent gesture.

"Daddy," Kelly said, touching his cheek. "I sleep with you and Mommy," she said hopefully.

Gibbs turned, and shared look with Shannon – he was a little torn; on one hand, it would be his last night with his wife – physically – until he could get away to visit the States, or until the threat was gone; on the other, he'd miss his little girl just as much, and he had a hard time daring to say no when he was about to send her away.

Shannon smiled at him, pursing her lips. She gave him a knowing, wry look.

"She can stay," she said. She shifted, and moved closer, kissing his jaw. "When she falls asleep, we can use the shower," she whispered, smirking against his ear.

He turned and kissed her, slipping his arm around her.

"You can sleep with Mommy and Daddy," He told Kelly. He gave her a playfully stern look. "But no snoring, you hear me? Not cute, even when little dolphins do it."

Kelly giggled, and squeaked at him. He ruffled her hair, content when she snuggled up to him, and then reached out to play with Bugsy's ears. Gibbs ran his hand over Shannon's shoulder, with no intention of sleeping – he felt a sense of dread at letting them go; it didn't matter what options he'd been given, lately, he just felt it was all – wrong; off.

"Shannon," he said gruffly, turning his head to her brow. "You sure you don't want me to come to the airport?"

She shook her head, swallowing hard.

"Nah," she said thickly, trying to make her voice light. "Kelly would cry. We'll just – no, just go to work. It will draw less attention, anyway."

She thought it would be too hard to make Kelly watch him stand there was they walked away, and she was better with goodbyes that weren't in notoriously final places.

Shannon closed her eyes lightly, listening to Gibbs breathe – she felt resigned, resolved, and at ease, but she also felt panicked and chaotic – like everything was slipping through her fingers; she regretted ever wishing she was back stateside, she regretted ever saying a damn thing about Anatoly, patriotism be damned – and in all this confusion, and the small peace of her family, she wondered –

"Jethro?" she ventured.

"Hmm?" he grunted.

"Is this what it feels like - when you're about to deploy?"

He thought about it a moment, tried to put himself in her shoes – leaving, unsure of what was going to happen, facing something somewhat unfamiliar. He nodded, stroking her hair, kissing her temple lightly.

"Somethin' like it," he agreed.

Bugsy lifted her head and wagged her tail, giving Kelly a smart lick on the mouth, and when Kelly squealed, Gibbs smirked, and turned his head to admire Kelly – blue eyes, Shannon's nose, mussed up hair – and Shannon, too; they meant everything to him, everything he thought he'd never have after Jenny had taken Natalie.

Shannon flushed under his gaze, under his unspoken affection. She reached out to tickle Kelly's ribs lightly, somehow relieved – somehow, relieved that for a second, she could empathize with everything he must have felt before Kuwait, before Baghdad – she felt that would only make them stronger, when this was all over.

---

With the day dawned and goodbyes said, Gibbs had little to do at the embassy beyond waiting for the phone call that would confirm wheels were up and Shannon and Kelly were en route to Dulles International Airport. The thing was, his beeper went off earlier than he expected, causing him to assume only that something had been forgotten; had answered, and expected to hear Shannon, from the car phone.

It was unimaginably terrible that a simple sentence could change his life forever – and simple it had been, spoken in McAlister's gravelly, heavy voice.

"Gibbs. There's been an accident."

He had a brief – oh, the briefest – moment of panic before his crashed into Marine-mode, his muscles stiff, his face blank, everything about him – mission-oriented; ready for combat. He remembered asking which hospital.

He remembered McAlister saying there wouldn't be any hospitals needed.

He remembered hanging up the phone. He remembered giving command to Katsopolis with barely a word.

He did not remember the drive to the scene.

The scene on the Rue de Rome, he remembered for the rest of his life.

Sirens – that unbearable screeching of European sirens that always brought to mind the Gestapo in films about World War 2 – flashing lights, smoke, glass crunching under his feet – his car, parked sideways, abandoned, as close as he could get – all that, he remembered – the sights, sounds, smells – he remembered seeing, really seeing, he remembered loudly hearing it all, when McAlister jogged up to him and caught him.

"Gunny," he said, forcing Gibbs back, his hands on his shoulders.

McAlister smelled like gasoline, like smoke; he looked like hell. He pushed Gibbs back with more strength than it looked like he had.

"Gunny, stop – stop," he barked.

Gibbs stood stock-still, his eyes over the agent's shoulder, fixed on the mauled metal, the tangled and brutalized vehicles – he felt a choke in his throat, an awful shudder in his gut, in his hands, his chest. He grabbed McAlister.

"Are they okay?" he managed.

McAlister was standing there, doing nothing but holding him back; Gibbs realized he had blood on him – blood on his shirt, his trousers, in the five o'clock shadow lining his jaw – McAlister had been following, in an attempt to prevent Mitchell from being followed.

Gibbs started to push past McAlister.

McAlister grabbed him, grabbed his chin, and pushed him back.

"No," he said. "No," he ordered. "Gunny," he growled. "They're both dead, Gunny."

Gibbs tried to push past him again; this time McAlister was violent, and he threw Gibbs backwards sending him stumbling. Gibbs' teeth gritted in pain that was anything but physical, and he looked ready to swing, but McAlister advanced on him, shaking his head, a harsh warning in his dark eyes.

"You don't need to see it," he warned fiercely.

It was protective. His words were protective; his treatment was protective. Gibbs saw it for exactly what it was. He was saying there was gore, carnage; destruction; he was stretching out an arm to blind Gibbs from the grittier truth of the accident – no survivors; not one.

Gibbs spun away, his eyes bulging. He bent over, his head spinning – he felt the urge to vomit, but nothing would come up. He stood there, hands on his knees, mouth open, staring at the ground. He closed his eyes so tightly he saw spots, and when he opened them, McAlister was leaning over him, pushing him down to sit on the curb.

A medic walked past. Walked. He didn't run. He walked.

Gibbs watched him, silent. He started to stand, and McAlister pushed him down again, crouching. He shook his head.

"Don't put yourself through it," he said hoarsely. He shook his head again. "Gunny, there's nothin' you can do."

Gibbs grabbed his wrist.

"What happened?" he rasped. "What happened?"

It couldn't be – it couldn't be just an accident, that was too cruel – it had to be – "

"Suicide mission," McAlister grunted.

Gibbs looked up, blinking. It was cold, icy and wet. February. The end of February. He blinked, saw two medics pulling a body from the wreckage, from tangled metal; flash of blonde hair – flash of a red fur coat.

"Her," he croaked.

McAlister looked.

"She – barreled at us," he said, a very careful, clipped voice, wary of Gibbs. "Mitchell couldn't have seen it coming. She drove her motorcycle into the car," he explained.

Gibbs' eyes were on her body, being dragged, laid out – dead, cold; what kind of hatred, what kind of passion, must she have felt? He turned his head, hanging it down. He shook it.

"It killed her?" he asked.

He wanted to hear it, to make sure.

"Sv—Sv—her?" he stuttered.

McAlister hesitated.

"She survived the impact," he said finally.

Gibbs's face was sharp, he started forward, his hands flexing – as if around her neck. McAlister caught his hands gently, a brotherly look, a fierce look.

"She's dead anyway, Gibbs," he said firmly. "Took her out as she was crawling from the rubble. Double tap. Between the eyes."

Gibbs' mouth moved silently. He looked over at the body again, squinting, as if he'd be able to see the bullet holes from here. He looked at McAlister, almost uncomprehending, and then with blazing anger, rage – his hands itched, ached, throbbed for a weapon, angry he couldn't do it himself, angry he couldn't see her –

"You shoulda left her to me," he rasped harshly.

"That's not your job, Gunny," McAlister said.

"Your job was to keep them safe!" Gibbs roared, suddenly surprising himself with the unexpected volume.

How could she – how could she have survived impact if they – they couldn't be gone; McAlister had to be wrong – both of them? It wasn't – it wasn't possible; life didn't work like that – life couldn't possibly be that wretched, that revoltingly unfair –

Gibbs recoiled, hands over his face, pressing into his eyes – he wanted to be sick, but he couldn't; he wanted to scream until he was hoarse, but he was being watched, suffocated. He shook his head violently.

"I should've gone with 'em," he moaned. "I should've gone with 'em to the airport," he growled, berating himself.

He should have heeded his gut as they left; he never should have put their lives in anyone's hands but his own.

"Wouldn't have done any good, Gunny," McAlister said stubbornly. "Just would've been your life, too."

Gibbs looked at him, raw, stark grief on his face, his eyes wide, the lines on his forehead deep and strained – shock, pure shock, and confusion.

"What's my life now?" he asked.

His voice was hoarse, barely there, uncomprehending – that was it, though; if he'd gone with them, he'd be dead, too. None of this would matter. Nothing would matter. If he were there with them in that wreck, he'd be okay. He wouldn't feel like this. He would have to live with – to face the –

The Future. A future without them – years and years of black and dark emptiness, with no one by his side, without his little girl, without his wife, without the only two things in the world he would have gone to hell and back for.

There was a strangled noise, a loud bark, and Gibbs flinched away from the sound. He turned back, and it – he blinked, still shocked – Bugsy, limping away from a medic, Bugsy, limping painfully, whining piteously as she came towards Gibbs, her tail swinging. He lifted his head, and she came to collapse at his feet, panting, breathing, and laying her head in his lap.

She whined, a low, continuous keen, licking his hand. He rested it on her, his eyes fixed on her – the blood covering her snout, blood clinging to her tail, her fur, covering her stomach. He reached out to touch her – she let out a mighty yelp when he brushed her leg; broken, he guessed – but other than a cut on her snout, a gash on her flank, he found no reason for the blood on her stomach.

The medic who'd freed Bugsy from whatever was keeping her said something to McAlister – he folded his arms, and spoke in lilting, careful English.

"Chien," he said, and then swallowed. "Your dog," he said thickly. He seemed to struggle, and wiped his brow. "Your dog, he try to stop bleeding," he said heavily. "He—she—I do not see, what kind of dog," he explained. "It try to stop bleeding, of little girl. It stay with her. I not see thing like it – "

McAlister waved the man away tensely – Gibbs didn't need to hear it; McAlister had seen it. Bugsy, getting out from the wreck while McAlister approached, trying to bellow for an ambulance, for help; Bugsy recognizing that Shannon was a lost cause, dead on impact – clean, though, for Gibbs' sake; a head injury – Bugsy, finding Kelly, laying over her, licking at her wounds.

It had been remarkable; the animal tourniquet – the desperate attempt to save her friend - -but it wasn't something Gibbs needed to hear.

McAlister wondered if he'd reject the dog, hate it for surviving.

Gibbs didn't. He put his arm over the animal; he stroked her snout.

"Did you keep her safe, Bugsy?" he asked, almost as if McAlister wasn't there.

Staring at the dog, he felt a fierce rush of love for the animal – Bugsy had been through everything; somehow, Bugsy had come through this, and Bugsy had tried to pull the others through, too.

McAlister started to stand.

"I've got to take you back to the embassy, Gibbs," he said dully. "I got – I got to call Mitchell's wife, too, his kid. Mitchell's dead," McAlister said, almost to himself.

Mitchell was just a kid. It had all happened so fast – the whole car, dead at the scene before help had even arrived; McAlister had been helpless, there with Bugsy, both of them trying to do what they could for Kelly; but she hadn't been able to hang on.

Gibbs looked up at him, squinting.

"They're dead?" he asked, as if he didn't believe it. He shook his head. "McAlister…I saw 'em this morning. I saw 'em…" he trailed off.

He looked back over at the unbearable wreckage – Svetlana's body, irreverently laying out, slaughtered by her own desperation – the price of love when it entangled with dangerous games of espionage, and his family, his innocent wife, his three-year-old-child, paying the price for the sins of reckless men, their lives over because of pretty ideological arguments, iron curtains and blood red flags.

He didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it.

This was his family. His everything.

His hand tightened in Bugsy's fur, taking incredibly comfort in the dog – he seized on to the idea of Bugsy's loyalty, Bugsy's attempts to protect – he thought –if Bugsy was there, if Bugsy had been close – maybe Kelly hadn't been scared – oh, God, he thought – God, they must have been, so scared –

He stood up abruptly.

"I want to see 'em," he managed, hoarsely.

McAlister just stared at him.

"You don't, Gunny," he sad flatly. "Let 'em clean 'em up. Just – just bury 'em," he said, a little callous, a little harsh – but these men were both battle born and bred, they understood the world, and Gibbs wouldn't want to be handled with kid gloves.

He stepped forward.

"Do they look like themselves?" he asked aggressively. "Do they – c'mon, McAlister," he said, his voice cracking. "Will I recognize them?"

McAlister nodded.

"Yes," he said heavily.

"Then let me – "

McAlister shoved him back harshly.

"I'm warning you, Jethro," he said sharply. "No man needs to see his wife and daughter dead on the streets. No man – no one. You don't come back from that," he growled. "You listen to me, Gunny. You listen. You'll never unsee it."

Gibbs believed that. He did. He swallowed hard - -but something dark in him, something sinister, torturous – he needed to see, to make it real, to understand. He put his hands in his pockets, he bowed his head, and when he looked back up, McAlister sensed there was no keeping him back, no holding him. He lifted his palms, washing his hands of it – he had no experience with this; they were both soldiers, but McAlister had never experienced loss like this.

He didn't know what to do.

Gibbs moved past him – Bugsy limped at his heels, ever faithful, refusing to leave the man she recognized, the man who'd saved her when she was going to be sent away. He reached down, groping for Bugsy, his hand finding her fur, holding onto her. He was past Svetlana, past the mangled mass of motorcycle, when a medic stopped him.

He spoke in French.

Gibbs shook his head.

"English," he said hoarsely.

The man nodded, he swallowed.

"Ah, I ask – you are family?"

Gibbs nodded.

"My wife," he said. He tried to find a word. He couldn't. "My wife. My daughter. Fille." That word he knew. "Fille." He repeated. His lips turned up slightly. "Dauphine," he said.

The French man looked confused, and Gibbs expected him to. It was an inside joke. A joke that no one would ever know, ever understand. Gibbs nodded his head past the medic, and the man cleared his throat again. He shook his head.

"No life," he said.

It was so harsh, the way he said it, a clear struggle with the language, and Gibbs nodded, to show he understood.

"I want to see them," he said.

He tried; he tried his best:

"Je voudrais," he said, his voice gravelly. He felt uncomfortable. "Je voudrais…" he pointed to his eyes. "See."

"Ah."

The medic looked uncertain, but turned, and beckoned. Gibbs stepped on glass, pushed aside metal, suffocated on the smell of it all; Bugsy continued her soft whine, soft lament. The medic pointed – black sheets over bodies, three; Mitchell, Shannon, Kelly – the smallest was the worst; small, gut wrenching – so young.

The medic stopped, but Gibbs kept moving. He sat on the curb slowly, near them; he reached out; he pulled his hand back. He put his head in his hands – McAlister was right; he'd never unsee it – he'd never be able to go back, he'd never again have just their faces in his mind; if he looked now, he'd always see this – he'd always see blood, gore; he'd see them in death, and he didn't want to.

The black sheets over the bodies were enough; it was truth enough. He couldn't look.

Bugsy limped past him; she lay between them. She laid her head on the middle of a black sheet; she closed her eyes heavily, whining. Gibbs watched her – he'd never though an animal could feel pain like that, understand pain like that – but it seemed she did; she was the only one. She'd forever be the only one.

Gibbs sat there for a long time, until a hand touched his shoulder. There was a woman looking at him, her eyes unreadable.

"English?" she asked, in very clear English, though with a French accent.

Gibbs just nodded.

"We have to take them," she said quietly. She gestured. "The accident. We have to clean up."

Without saying anything else, she moved around him, and she crouched beside the bodies. Gibbs turned and saw her remove her jacket, saw her wrapping it, and then she turned. She crouched in front of him, and with surprising confidence, she placed the small bundle in his arms, resting her hand over it.

"You should not look," she said quietly, raising her eyes to his. "You hold. You say goodbye."

Gibbs said nothing. He looked down; he pulled his arms towards him, close. The weight in his warms felt familiar – comfortable, easy to hold; three-years-old – four, in two months, if – no, eternally three-years-old. He saw this wreckage and he knew – if Shannon hadn't made it, this tiny, fragile child in his arms had no chance.

He closed his eyes; he lifted her towards his face, forehead resting somewhere near her, where he knew her face would be under the cover and the coat, maybe peaceful, maybe something of nightmares; he didn't know, but holding her was good, memorizing that weight in his arms, wondering if he'd ever be able to accept that he'd never hold her again.

He turned his cheek, resting it against the bundle – he looked at Bugsy, whining, her poor leg probably aching her, bothering her – and he could find no comfort, no solace, nothing.

McAlister was there, suddenly; McAlister was taking Kelly, taking his arm, pulling him up.

"Come on, Gunny," he said heavily; exhausted. He deliberately didn't look at his partner, at Mitchell there, covered, next to Shannon. "Back to the Embassy. Let's go."

Gibbs stood still, among he wreckage. He stood still.

He lifted his head, finally, and he gave a soft, sharp whistle. Bugsy got up, limping, and she came to him, her ears low, and her tail low, and she pressed to his side. He put his hand on the dog, and he watched, expressionless, blank, as the medics did their jobs, carefully handling bodies, avoiding his gaze.

He opened his mouth.

"Both of them," he said, the words tumbling out. "Both of them…"

But even as he said it – he was struck with the paralyzing thought that if given the choice, he couldn't choose – he was – beyond devastated; he had surpassed any sort of emotion that he could define, or really feel, but if he'd lost only Kelly, and Shannon had to feel like this, he couldn't bear it – and if he'd lost only Shannon, and he had to be everything for Kelly, he couldn't imagine it – it wasn't that he wished fate had at least left him one; it was that he wished it was all or nothing.

Shannon and Kelly, alive; or him, dead.

He turned his back, his hand on Bugsy, following McAlister mechanically – out of the wreckage, past Svetlana's body, to the black, only slightly banged up car that McAlister had rammed to a stop when the accident occurred. He got the dog into the car, and he turned to McAlister.

"She needs a vet," he said hoarsely, heavily.

McAlister nodded, taking Gibbs' shoulder. Gibbs took no notice of the gesture; he wasn't sure he even felt it – for now, he had to feel nothing; it was only safe to feel nothing. If he continued to let himself feel what he'd been experiencing moments ago, he wouldn't survive.

Suddenly, loudly, her words from last night echoed in his hears –

'As long as I know that, I can survive anything.'

She'd said that, when he said he loved her. But he was starting to think – that his loving anything was bad for the soul.

---

It was an immeasurably cruel thing that they were laid to rest in Stillwater, but when the time came to bury them, he had nowhere else to go. Paris wasn't their home, the house in Alexandria had never been – would never become— the home they wanted it to be. Her parents were in Stillwater, her connections were there; and ultimately, it was Shannon's parents who made the arrangements.

It was agonizing, every second of it; agonizing.

He felt animosity from Shannon's mother, as if somehow, this was his fault – as if he'd done it on purpose, taken her daughter away, taken her granddaughter away, and had the nerve to let them die when she barely ever saw them. He got nothing from Shannon's father – an awkward hug, an unbearable silence; another man who had no idea what to say, what to do. The only thing they shared was the grief of losing a child, and when Mackenzie Fielding couldn't speak, Gibbs understood.

It was pain beyond anything he'd imagined he could ever feel.

Amidst the people who attended, the people he barely knew – Shannon's relatives, Stillwater ilk, wealthier, county folks – he felt so alone, with no one here he cared about, except the two coffins they were putting in the ground; with no one here to ease the burden – the only person who stood with him, sat with him, was his father – his father, with a woman on his arm; Jackson Gibbs and Deborah Henry.

Gibbs had hardly anything to do with the ceremony, with plans – it had all been Shannon's mother, insistent on a religious ceremony, on the minister, on choosing clothing for the girls – Gibbs stood vigil over them, blocking out the sounds of murmurs, whispers of condolence, hushed gossip, and in his hand he clutched the dog tags he'd given Kelly, and the wedding rings they'd taken off of Shannon.

He held them in his hand tightly, clinging to them – the dog tags hadn't protected Kelly; the rings hadn't kept Shannon with him forever, as promised.

He hated it. He hated that in the worst moments of his life, he had to come back here; he had to bury them here.

Here – where he'd seen Betsy Carmichael, all grown up, looking tired and abused as she dragged one of her children by his ear into a shop, shouting at him; where he saw that Maggie Hart had taken over the flower shop from her mother; Old Farmer Crenshaw had died, and his barn was falling apart, Melissa Fielding was still a bitch, and Deborah Henry still owned the dress shop – here, Stillwater; the only slight relief was that no one, not a single person, had dared ask him about Natalie.

These small town rubberneckers had enough sense not to plague him with that, though he was sure they were fascinated by this – the hometown legend, reappearing mysteriously to lay to rest a family they'd never heard of.

Gibbs in the middle of it, in a silent, sanitized bubble of his own making, just trying to get through – sleeping in his old bedroom, suffocating through every moment.

Joanne tried to coax him away, her arm on his, but stiffly, he shook her off; he would stay. He would stay until it was dark; he would stay as long as he could. She sighed, said something he didn't hear.

"You go on now, Joanne," Jackson Gibbs said.

"Jo," Mackenzie said gruffly. "Jo, leave 'im be."

Gibbs felt, rather than saw, them leave, and he put his hands in his pockets, still clutching the ring, the dog tags. He felt out of place in his suit; he should have worn his dress blues. Shannon would have liked that. Kelly – Kelly would have liked that.

He swallowed, his eyes on the graves – open, fresh, raw; he'd never get used to the size of that coffin – too little. The smallest he'd ever seen. It brought memories bubbling to his mind – Shannon, watching the film, My Girl – 'he told her that coffin was for short people, Jethro, how awful – he didn't want her to know children die – '

Gibbs hadn't wanted to know children could die, either. It didn't matter that he'd seen a child shot dead in Kuwait, it didn't matter that he knew these things happened – abstract or warrior-minded acceptance was nothing compared to the reality of it happening, before his eyes, of it being a true part of his own life.

Jackson Gibbs lingered, watching his son. Carefully, he drew up.

"Leroy," he began. "Leroy, Debbie's made – she's got lunch, for you."

Gibbs' eyes merely flickered from his father to the woman on his arm. He couldn't smile, so he hoped his face softened just a little. He bore no truly evil feelings towards Debbie, except that he remembered, all those years ago, she seemed to relish telling him Jenny was gone just a little too much.

He shook his head.

"Leroy, you can't go on not eatin', you can't just quit," Jackson started.

Debbie Henry, for once in her life, did not thrive on the drama.

"Hush," she said sharply. She gripped his arm. "You can eat it, then," she said curtly to Jackson, pulling on him.

Jackson looked stubborn, ready to confront Gibbs some more, but he eventually allowed himself to be pulled away, and it appeared he stopped, and began an argument with Deborah. Gibbs turned his back to him. He trudged around the open graves, and his hand fell to his side.

Gently, Bugsy licked his hand – Bugsy drew as much attention as Gibbs himself did; everyone seemed to wonder why this dog, this dog that had a curious limp, was never allowed out of Leroy's sight. Gibbs felt no need to tell them. Gibbs just wanted Bugsy there.

He walked around, his hand resting on the smooth, lacquered polish of the coffins; he silently tore flowers from the arrangements, threw them on top, rubbed their petals in his fingers until they disintegrated. At a respectful distance, undertakers waited to finish their job, and he realized abruptly that – much like he'd been unable to look at them, after the accident, and even after the proper cosmetics were addressed at the funeral home, he could not watch them be covered with dirt; he couldn't listen to the sound.

For the first time since Kuwait, he felt a sharp, youthful longing for his mother; she would know what to do – she would know what to say.

With no other recourse, to his mother is where he retreated – to her grave. It was flowerless; he doubted his father visited – but it was exactly where he remembered it, with the tree he'd retreated to with Natalie not far off.

He stood before it, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if Jasper Shepard was buried somewhere nearby.

Bugsy nudged his hand and whined, searching for affection. Gibbs stroked her snout comfortingly, glad she was there.

"Had to be you, Ma," he said finally, his voice gruff.

He'd always felt that way – why did it have to be her? Why were the only people, the few people, that mattered to him taken away? He'd built a life with Shannon, everything he'd wanted. It was – idyllic; it was perfect.

This didn't – this wasn't fair; this didn't make sense.

He'd always done – everything right, as best as he could. He looked at his mother's grave, his back to where they buried his wife and daughter, and he thought – I can't still be paying for a mistake I made in nineteen eighty-four. This couldn't be some sort of – divine retribution for deciding to let Jenny have Natalie, for giving up – and with that, with that he'd – he'd tried so hard –

"Leroy."

He didn't answer his father's gruff words; he hadn't heard him come up, and that angered him; his senses and instincts were off. At the sound, Bugsy wagged her tail, her tongue falling out lazily. She perked her ears up at Jackson as he approached.

"Hey there, girl," Jackson greeted, rubbing the dog's head. He was silent a moment, standing next to his son. "Leroy, you can't stay out here forever."

Gibbs said nothing.

"You got to let me know what I can do."

Gibbs lifted his shoulders, silent. If there was anything that could be done, he would have already done it. He would have stayed a sniper. He would have died somewhere, if it meant they would be safe; be alright.

"'M tryin' to be here for you, son," Jackson said, frustrated.

Gibbs finally turned to him, lifting his head coldly.

"By bringin' a date to their funeral?" he asked. Low, icy tones; animosity – he felt the same things he'd felt when his mother died, nothing but distaste for his father's presence; a need to escape.

Jackson cleared his throat.

"Debbie's a part of my life, Leroy," he said coolly. He paused. "The world didn't just stop, when you left."

Gibbs turned away. He hadn't expected it to. He just didn't think Debbie Henry had any place at the funeral. She'd made a few dresses for Shannon, a lifetime ago – that didn't mean a damn thing. She'd come to gawk. She'd come as a date.

He let Bugsy lick his hand comfortingly.

"I know how much they meant to you," Jackson said. He reached out, and rested hand on Gibbs' shoulder – and it was that touch that made him snap; made in unbearable.

He spun around on his heel, all but flinging his father's hand off of him.

"You don't have a damn clue," he lashed out hoarsely, "how much they mean to me."

He stood there, seething, his grief bubbling over, blue eyes steely and dark, looming over his father; for once he didn't feel chastised, he felt like the bigger man, and he relished it.

"They were always there for me. Shannon was always there for me. They were my future. They were all I had."

Bugsy pressed close to him, distressed, and he grit his teeth, almost baring them to keep back to cry of anguish that threatened to escape his throat. It took every muscle he had to resist collapsing, begging for them back on his knees.

"They aren't all you had," Jackson said, though he said it as warily as possible. He inclined his head. "You got another daughter out there, son."

Gibbs' eyes flashed, and he moved forward, menacing. His hands shot forward as if he'd grab Jackson, and then they fell back, and he lifted one, running it over his jaw so roughly he thought he'd tear off his own skin.

"You – you son of a bitch," he swore. "Don't – don't bring her up now. I don't want to hear about her. About them," he snarled.

His reluctance came not from a place of hatred, but from a place of deep hurt – adding on his issues with Natalie now, on top of this – it was going to break him, shatter him like glass. Didn't anyone understand that? Didn't anyone understand how cruel this was? He'd lost the life he planned with one daughter; he lost his other altogether.

He turned his back angrily, still rubbing his face.

"She came back, you know," Jackson said tiredly. "Jenny. For Jasper's funeral. She came back."

Gibbs blinked, and closed his eyes tightly. He shook his head – he had always wondered – but no; he didn't care. What did it matter, that Jenny had come back – what did that mean to him? It was irrelevant to his life now. It wasn't some divine sign that they'd both been back here only in darkness, only to bury people they loved. It was just a black coincidence; a sinister trick of fate.

"I told her about them, Shannon and Kelly. She was surprised," Jackson narrated. He sighed. "You don't have any contact at all, Leroy," he said sadly. "The look on Jenny's face – "

Gibbs turned to him again, approaching slowly. He stood before him, his face close, and his eyes narrow; unreadable.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked harshly.

"I thought at least, Shannon would have wanted Natalie to know she had a – "

"Sister?" hissed Gibbs. The word trembled on his lips. "She doesn't," he said coldly. He gestured behind him. "She's gone." He swallowed hard, imagining Jen gossiping, talking to his father, and anger flared hot. "What right did she have to know about my life?" he shouted, pointing to himself. "She didn't want me. They wanted me. They were my life. Mine," he bellowed. "I'll be damned if Jenny deserves even a piece of civility from me!"

Jackson stared back at him stubbornly.

"Natalie never did anything to you," he said curtly. "Don't you think, Leroy, if you reached out now, if you – it might help you – help you deal with this – "

"Help me forget?" he hissed violently, stepping forward so that Jackson stepped back. "You think for a second Natalie could make this go away, Natalie could take the place of K- of K – Kelly? I don't even know Natalie!"

The worst of it was – before all this, with Shannon; before this disaster had rained down, he'd taken more of a step than usual – last Christmas, without speaking to his wife about it, he'd put their phone number in Paris in the Christmas card he sent; he'd signed it – Daddy, Kelly, and Shannon – and he'd mailed it – without a word, because he'd rather her not know if nothing happened –

And nothing did; no response, no outreach – either Jenny had disallowed it, or Natalie wasn't interested, and bringing that to mind, remembering that, while he stood in the cemetery where they were taking away everything he had, he was enraged – he was lost, utterly lost.

"That's not what I mean," Jackson said heavily. "I know no one can replace Kelly. Or Shannon." He was quiet for a while. "I just don't want you to lose it, Leroy," he said, and he hoped his son understood that he was genuinely concerned – and he knew, inherently, that no matter what he said, Leroy's anger would be taken out on him. For now, he could handle that. "I'm not sayin' you have a replacement family out there. I'm sayin' you need to anchor yourself to something."

Gibbs just stared at him, uncomprehending –he didn't understand how magnificently unhelpful he was being – Natalie couldn't fix this; Natalie had nothing to do with this – and under no circumstances would he ever think of Natalie as some kind of crutch for his distress, some anti-depressant, some imitation. She was her own person.

She was his daughter, but she was long gone; she barely existed – she wasn't part of his world, and that was something he had come to terms with again and again – this loss was wholly new; this loss consumed him – Shannon and Kelly were all he could think about.

Jackson wasn't quite cowed, though. He reached into his pocket.

"She left this upstairs, when she was here," he said, taking Gibbs' hand and forcefully shoving whatever it was into his grasp. "She was snooping. Behind her mother's back." Jackson paused. "Look, Leroy…you're hurtin'. You're in a lot of pain. I reckon – I don't know if any man can come back from this. But if it helps, even a little, I want you to know that that child wants to know who you are, someday."

He cleared his throat, and he put another thing in Gibbs' hand.

"That's the last address I have for her. Phone number, too."

He took a deep breath, and bent to say a quick goodbye to Bugsy.

"You shouldn't go back," he said, putting in his final word. "It won't do you any good. You should – wash out."

Coldly, Gibbs turned to his father, radically, suddenly, and fiercely offended by the suggestion – leave the Marines? The Marines had been there when his mother died; the Marines had been all he had when Jenny left – the Marines were where he would flee now, for now.

Gibbs said nothing, and Jackson turned to go, trudging away – Gibbs didn't even watch him leave, didn't bother. He turned back to his mother's tombstone, and he looked at it for a long time, holding whatever his father had given him in his hand without looking.

The Marines were again, all he had. He would go back. He would serve; he would do his duty – but he didn't want to. The leave he'd taken – to fly home, to bury his girls – was painful; he hated all the empty hours to think; the thought of going back to that house he'd lived in with them, those streets he'd walked with them – the streets they died on – of working in that embassy, where the CIA had operated with such reckless abandon that at a laid back diplomatic post in the stable west, his family had been murdered – the thought of going back to that was damn near impossible.

For the moment; he had no choice. When autumn came, he could ask for retirement – but what would he do then?

NCIS, Leon Vance said, over his wife's crying as Gibbs' told them; NCIS, McAlister said, would have a place for him – NCIS, Kurt Mitchell's wife had said tearfully, while he sat next to McAlister and told her, and her son, that Kurt had died trying to save Shannon and Kelly.

Maybe it was time for something different. Maybe the Marines had chewed him up; maybe the Corps was spitting him out. He had turned to the Marines when his mother died, he had clung to the Marines when Jenny left him – but the Marines had taken him to Paris, the Marines had taken Joan Matteson's life – in the Marines, he'd always be that Gunny whose family had been killed in that tragic, tragic French affair.

He turned, and walked away; away from the grave to the tree he'd sat beneath years ago, the year his mother died; when he'd made himself small, and invisible, and he'd held Natalie as tightly as he could, as if she were the only thing that put any brightness into his life. There he sat now, alone; Bugsy sat next to him, looking at him with her soft, loyal brown eyes.

She gave a soft whine.

"A year, Bugsy," he said to the dog, a hoarse, difficult croak. "That's how much longer I had Kelly, than Natalie. A year."

Natalie had been two and a half when Jenny took her. Kelly had been three and a half. He didn't know why he was talking like Natalie was dead. Natalie was out there. Natalie was, presumably, okay.

He looked down at his hand, flattening it, looking at the things in his palm. The first was a folded, crumpled piece of paper; one look at it told him it was a contact address, a California one: San Diego. So, he had the wrong address all along – she didn't live with her mother anymore; maybe her mother didn't even live there anymore.

He could tell himself that maybe that's why his return to adding his phone number to his little cards had gone unnoticed, why no one had acted on it, but he didn't have the energy. He just stared – and then he looked at the other thing, the thing Natalie had left.

It was an old block of wood – small, a block that was either left over from a project, or even something she'd played with as a baby. He ran his hand over it, turned it over, and then he saw – her name written on it, in neat, creative script. She'd put a butterfly over the 'i' in her name – like he used to, when she was little; when she was still his, and not just Jenny's.

She'd written on it, not carved on it.

It just said – Natalie, 1996. The year Jasper Shepard had died.

Jenny hadn't just come back to Stillwater; she'd brought Natalie. He could only imagine the spectacle that must have caused. Ogling a grown-up lovechild bastard was no doubt ten times more satisfying for small town folk than rubbernecking a somber funeral.

It must have taken some kind of guts to bring Natalie back here.

And Natalie, had left this mark.

What was it – some kind of SOS, some belief that her errant father would see it, find it? Just the strange whim of a little girl who was – ten, eleven – almost twelve? Whatever nineteen ninety-six had been for her.

Gibbs ran his fingers over her name, and leaned back, pressing his head heavily into the tree. He wished he could sink into it, become nothing; evaporate. Of course he'd had to come back to Stillwater to bury them. Of course it had to be here. Everything else had died here, hadn't it?

He hated Jackson for putting these things in his hands – he hated Shannon's parents, for being from here, for wanting their daughter laid to rest here, for adding salt to his wounds – he hated the Corps, he hated the Russians, he hated – he felt so much hate, so much grief – so much guilt, and regret.

He couldn't think about Natalie; he couldn't think about Jen – they were pale shadows, intangible things that didn't exist to him: what was real right now was the loss of the family he'd held dear for the past few years; his Shannon, his Kelly – the fact that Natalie existed at all seemed surreal, unbelievable; in his worst nightmares, he'd never thought things could turn out like this, that he'd feel something worse than the agony he'd felt when Natalie faded from his life.

Anything was preferable to this.

He thought, quite simply, and with complete conviction, that he'd gladly have had Shannon leave him the same way Jenny had, and take Kelly with her, if it at least meant that somewhere, Kelly was alive and happy, and Shannon had a smile on her face. Anything, anything instead of this.

Bugsy laid at his side, and nudged his thigh with her nose, whining softly. He reached for her, rubbing her fur fiercely – he reached into his pocket, took out his dog tags – the ones he'd given to Kelly – and he placed them around the German shepherd's neck.

Wildly, he thought – maybe he'd write Natalie a letter.

Just as wildly, he thought – when he got back to Paris, he'd take his duty pistol, and swallow a bullet.

He flew back to Paris tomorrow evening; his bus to the Philadelphia airport left the depot at half past two in the afternoon. He'd have Bugsy with him, he'd have the clothes on his back – and again, he'd leave Stillwater behind, with his life in the earth – and this time, there'd be no smiling girl in a purple headband to talk him off a cliff, to promise to write him letters, to be a friend.

That girl, and everything she'd given him, was gone.

---

"And then he says to me:
kill me now, kill me now, kill me now, kill me now."
Under the Gun; The Killers

---

-and with this, we finish 'Jarhead'. This was really hard to write ... I had trouble with it. And I am sorry about it, really. It's the first time a story came to be conceived, and I wanted to change it halfway through. But if I'd changed it, it wouldn't have worked with everything I already planned. I hope no one is too happy about this, and I hope you're all interested still to see what happens. The next (final) part will pick up in 1999, our forever significant Jibbs year.

feedback appreciated (at least I let Bugsy live?)
-alexandra