Author's Note: This may be the most ridiculous story I've ever written, but here it is. I'm testing the waters stylistically. So, bear with me. I will, in all likelihood, be posting a second part, but my mind isn't totally made up yet. Let me know if you'd like to see this continue! Disclaimer: I do not own anything of NCIS.

Legacy

She has her mother's dark curly hair, her father's light eyes. Her mother's smooth, tanned skin, her father's tendency to flush in severe agitation. Her mother's dimples, her father's impossibly bright smile and perfect teeth. Her mother's quirk of the eyebrows, her father's twitch of the lips. Her mother's agility of mind, her father's agility of tongue. Her mother's sense of duty, her father's sense of right. Her mother's fiery independence, her father's fierce determination. Her mother's cutting wit, her father's sense of humor. Her mother's physical aggression, her father's secretive reluctance to inflict harm. Her mother's deadly calm, her father's quiet anger. Her mother's presence of mind, her father's head-long leaps. Her mother's instincts, her father's loyalty.

Her lilting laughter is entirely her own, as is her taste in food, music, clothing, her compassion and kindness, her innocence. Her eagerness to please, her desire to irritate. She's classy on Sunday, in her high heels and pearls. Nonchalant on Wednesday, sporting Nike Shox and an oversized agency t-shirt. That's who she is.

Though a quick mixture of odd parts, she's undeniably charming. That much is apparent before she can toddle around the apartment. By the time she's five, she can talk your ear off, and frequently does. By the time she's thirteen, she and her mother have gone head-to-head on almost every issue under the sun. When she's fifteen, she learns the importance of sincere apology. At sixteen, she learns the life-saving power of rule eighteen. She cites it timidly, and her parents exchange deadpan glances. She's still grounded for "borrowing" dad's car.

At eighteen, she's lost. Things at home have been stressful lately. What started as her parents' simple case became her own waking nightmare. She now has a permit to carry a concealed weapon. (Dad pulled some strings.) There are no less than two guns and one knife touching her body at all times. (Like mother, like daughter.) Unnecessary? Mostly. But she feels safe that way. And she prides herself on being able to draw almost as fast as her parents can.

She's torn between her love of law enforcement and her love of music. She's a talented musician. Her mezzo-soprano voice has attracted attention from places like Juilliard, as has her graceful handling of the ivories. She performs with poise beyond her years, and delights in the stage. But the pull of the agency…the adrenaline of a crime scene…the feel of the sweat around the Sig at the small of her back…It's all so hard to ignore. The opposing sides of her nature collide daily like the Sith and the Jedi. That's exactly what she heard dad say to mom last week, when they thought she was asleep in bed, instead of moonlighting a midnight shower.

She knows it's going to be a bad day before she even opens her eyes. It's February and it's cold. That alone is enough to irritate her immediately. Not to mention that her nose feels like it's a block of ice. She rolls sluggishly out of bed. Bare feet hit the cold wood floor, and she scowls. Of course. It's Monday.

School is excruciating. She arrives, tardily, to first hour and realizes that she's forgotten to do the take-home calculus test assigned last Friday. Friday! That's number one.

Today, she's a chronic clock-watcher. Until about four p.m., that is, when she's walking the three concrete miles home. Walking because she couldn't find her Metro pass; it's in the jeans she was wearing to go on a burger run with dad last night. She knows that she looked like a mighty idiot, standing at the turnstile, fumbling in her purse with a dozen impatient commuters behind her. Number two.

She avoids cracks, cats, and ladders as she ambles down familiar sidewalks. Because these things come in threes. She's just biding her time, waiting for the next blow.

She's much less than halfway home when a boxy van with flashing lights and blaring sirens screams past. She recognizes the four letters on the back just as quickly as she recognizes her own name. On a whim, she follows. If she's lucky, her parents are on the responding team. If she's really lucky, one of them will have a Metro pass to loan her. And if she's astronomically lucky, dad won't rib her for losing her own.

She knows she's nearing the crime scene when the sidewalk suddenly becomes blocked by a tell-tale throng of ghoulish onlookers. She pushes through, leaning against the yellow tape. She stands on her toes, craning her neck to see a familiar face. The van blocks all sight. She's about to move away, but suddenly, there's a voice at her ear and a hand on her elbow.

He whispers gently, You need to come with me. She doesn't have to look to recognize him. Guiding her under the yellow tape and around the back of the van is someone she's known since birth, a man who might as well be her grandfather. That's what she usually calls him. Grandpa Gibbs.

He retired from the agency ten years ago, leaving the team in her father's capable hands. So, he shouldn't be at an NCIS crime scene. But he is, which doesn't sit well.

She swallows around a lump of panic sticking in her throat. Three feet away is her "uncle" Tim McGee, who's crouching over two bodies on the pavement, one thrown protectively over the other. A man and a woman. McGee's hissing at Doctor Palmer to hurry up with the sheet so that they can cover T—

And he stops short, turning abruptly, his sixth sense kicking in too late. His face is drawn and sickly pale. He rises slowly.

She can't take her eyes from the murder victims, though she still can't see their faces. But she can see their clothes, a lock of dark hair, a white-gold wedding band glinting in the winter sun. And that's enough.

She doesn't have to ask. She already knows.

That night, she's standing outside of the forensics lab, twisting her hands in agony. She can hear two voices, distinctly familiar, from inside.

Abby chokes out, She hasn't taken it off since Somalia.

Then there's silence, filled by a shaky breath. She continues: I know it's breaking the rules, but I—I cleaned it. This necklace doesn't belong here, McGee.

To which he levelly replies, What necklace?

The young girl gathers her courage and steps inside timidly. She's blindsided by a crushing Abby-hug. A chain is fastened around her neck. Her mother's signature Star of David nestles in the hollow at the base of her throat. She looks up, smiling painfully through tears that begin to spill.

She's eighteen, irrevocably an adult, and an orphan. But she's not alone.