DISCLAIMER: I don't own NCIS. I do own Jennifer Gibbs.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: We know Gibbs has all those ex-wives, but what about any other baggage he might be carrying? The NCIS writers seem fairly intent about keeping his past elusive, so I thought I'd make up my own version.

RATED: G.

PROMISES MADE, DEBTS UNPAID

It was late. Gibbs always stayed at work late, but today was different. He'd done busy work just so he'd have something, anything, to do. He wanted to make sure that nobody talked to him. If they did, he might lose his temper. It wouldn't be any fault of theirs, just the emotions that this day always brought out in Gibbs.

There's no more work to do, some little voice in the back of Gibbs' mind told him. Go home. You have to face the music sometime.

Gibbs absently took his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it. Inside was a picture of a brunette teenage girl with piercing blue eyes and a big smile on her face. Jennifer, Gibbs thought. He was not typically given to being emotional, but he could feel his throat constricting. It had now been three years since he'd spoken to her. The pain of what he'd lost was always in the back of his mind, but it was worse on two days out of the year: Jennifer's birthday and Father's Day. Today was the latter.

Jennifer was Gibbs' daughter by Ex-Wife #2, Shirley. She bore no physical resemblance to him, except for the eyes and her hair color-it was light brown, as his had once been. Everything else was her mother's. That was by no means a bad thing; Shirley could have been Miss America. Jennifer's personality, on the other hand, had all come from Gibbs. That wasn't necessarily a good thing. The jaded agent had always feared that his daughter would grow up into an acerbic, thrice-divorced, all-work-no-play loner like her father. She certainly had the potential, and it wasn't right. She had so much to offer, even if she could be a real pain in the neck.

Usually, Gibbs had gotten along fine with his little girl. There was the occasional squabble, but it was always over with fairly quickly. They were both the Type-A personality: up front, in charge, and stubborn to the point of boneheadedness. When that happened, Shirley would leave the room. But the squabbles were nothing compared to the happy times, especially when Jennifer was little. Shirley had been mortified the day Gibbs had taught Jennifer how to shoot. The girl had been only seven years old at the time, but she was a good shot. "Don't tell your friends about this," Shirley had warned a giggling Jennifer. "They'll have us put away."

Woodworking had been a challenge. Gibbs had taught Jennifer how to use a sander and her arms had been sore for days. One day, she'd come home after visiting a friend and said, "Daddy, Sasha's daddy builds stuff too-but his tools plug into the wall!"

When he would leave for work early in the morning, Gibbs would always go into Jennifer's bedroom and kiss her. "I love you, sweetheart." She would open one eye, bring her right hand up in a salute, and say, "Semper Fi, Daddy!" It would drive Shirley nuts. "Other kids say, 'Bye, Dad, I love you', and ours says 'Semper Fi!'" She would complain.

The day Gibbs and Shirley had told their daughter they were getting divorced, Jennifer had cried and cried. She'd been eleven at the time. Gibbs had promised her he'd still see her every weekend, and it had started out that way. But he knew Jennifer could feel the tension between him and her mother. It started to wear on Jennifer, and she became sadder and sadder. It tore at Gibbs' heart to the point that he'd tried to make amends with Shirley, but she wouldn't have any of it. Gradually, work had begun to take over Gibbs' life and his visits with Jennifer went to every other weekend, then once a month, then only birthdays and holidays. After awhile, even birthdays and holidays had degenerated into just letters and birthday cards. He'd promised to visit Jennifer for her high school graduation, but he'd had an important assignment. He'd tried to apologize and it didn't work. He'd gotten an awful letter from her asking him what she'd done to make him push her away like he had. The last line was: "I hate you, Dad. There's no way I'll ever forgive you for what you've done to me." Thinking about it still made the usually stoic investigator want to cry.

Gibbs took the picture out of his wallet and fingered it gently. It was her senior picture, and that picture with the letter was the last he'd ever heard from his daughter. His every effort to contact her had been in vain. Shirley refused to tell him where Jennifer was, saying, "That girl never wants to see you again, Jethro. I won't let you cause her any more pain." He had no means of getting in touch with her outside of Shirley. He didn't know any of her friends, except for those she'd had prior to high school, and he had no clue how to contact them. By the time Jennifer turned sixteen, she and her father were nearly strangers.

Gibbs roughly swatted away a single tear that had escaped. He'd missed so much with Jennifer. What was she doing now? She should be a junior in college. What was her major? Had she even gone? Was her last name Gibbs anymore? Goodness gracious, was he a grandfather without even realizing it? So help me God, if anyone else walked her down that aisle…he stopped that thought. It was no use. He'd never know anyway.

Of all the relationships he'd thrown away because of his job-all his wives, his parents, his best friend from fifth grade, and God only knew who else-Jennifer was the one Gibbs regretted the most. If he could go back in time and fix one thing, he would take special care to be with Jennifer more. Oh, how he regretted choosing his work over her! He dropped his head into his hands, an overwhelming sensation of guilt crashing down on him. How is it possible to love someone so much and yet screw up the relationship so badly? He thought. If a promise made was a debt unpaid, he was in greater debt than he could ever hope to get out of.