Title: Red Menace

Author: MindyH

Rating: K, irresponsible use of alcohol.

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, ya-da, ya-da, ya-da…

Spoilers: Season three spoilers -- just basic stuff (but I don't like season three enough to actually know the episode names so….)

Summary: KIBBS. Jenny finds Gibbs in a bar, thinking about Kate.

Warning: Probably don't read this if you really like Jenny Shepard – 'cause )newsflash) I don't.

Gibbs pulls out the worn wallet that has been his most precious possession in recent months and just holds it between his hands. It, along with the flask from Shannon and Kelly, are his most personal and powerful touchstones.

It had taken a few months for him to wean himself of the habit of carrying the wallet with him everyday. But he did. Now he just looks at it on his bad days -- not that he allows himself many; he's weaned himself of those, too.

Today…today was a bad day. He doesn't know why, it just happened that way.

He didn't make it in to work. Tony and Ducky knew better than to call and ask where he was, how he was – they knew. He'd worked on his boat 'til he hurt; but this time, it couldn't help him. When he ran out of booze, he had to go outside to find more, tucking the wallet securely into his breast pocket as he left.

It was starting to snow and it would almost be beautiful if he cared about such things now, which he doesn't anymore. Sitting in a dark corner of his local drinking hole, he opens the keepsake carefully and takes a sip of his fifth drink of the night.

He has always been a hoarder. He didn't grow up with much money so treasures and toys were scarce. He didn't have any siblings either so sharing was not something that came naturally to him.

As a boy, he had a beat-up old tin box, the paint chipped and the sides dinted, in which he kept his small collection of baseball cards and toy cars and boats, as well as some other meaningful junk. He used to hide it under a loose plank of wood in his bedroom -- he was always suspicious, even back then.

When his mother died, he kept her hand cream, stashing it in the box with his other treasure so that whenever he missed her, he could pull it out and feel like he had something of her with him. To this day, he can't smell the scent of lavender without remembering her hand on his hot forehead as she patiently soothed his tears.

In the same way, he can't ever smell cinnamon now without being reminded of the muffins that Kate used to bring to work some mornings. Her memory is still so much with him that every glimpse of long, dark hair, every flash of distant laughter, every dream he can't recall, he is inexplicably reminded of her.

She looks so serious in her photo, and older than she ever appeared in reality. He wills the image to smile, to remind him of her humor and youth, but -- no matter how long and hard he stares at it -- the static photograph won't comply.

"You really shouldn't have that," says a careful voice from over his shoulder.

He closes the wallet slowly and shifts in his chair, but doesn't turn to greet or look at her.

"Technically," she explains, awkwardly, moving around the table to face him: "it's NCIS property." She stands expectantly, in her work suit and long jacket, by the chair opposite him, awaiting an invitation he has no intention of extending.

"Take it," he growls unfeelingly, throwing Kate's badge down on the tabletop. He stares past her, downing the last of his bourbon.

"This is new look for you, Jethro," she remarks a little sharply, sliding into the seat opposite him and unwrapping her grey scarf from around her neck: "I've never seen you pine before."

He scoffs sullenly into the distance as a sparkling white wine appears in front of his supervisor. He glances at the drink, then at her, then turns his gaze away again.

"I don't recall asking you to join me," he tells her darkly, deeply resenting her surprise intrusion on his much needed drinking time. He has no choice but to be polite and put up with her sly prying into his every move at work, but he is under no obligation to endure it on his own time.

"Jethro," she purrs, leaning across the table: "a woman could die waiting for an invitation from you."

He raises an eyebrow dimly at her unintentionally apt choice of words, considering where his mind has been today. He is reminded of the last words Kate ever said and grimaces internally. He's spent more than a few lonely hours wondering what the end of that sentence was going to be. He'd spent further still wishing the scene had played out in an entirely different way -- not ending in her sudden death.

"Besides," Jenny continues, seeming to guess where his thoughts have strayed to: "I don't recall receiving a call today to say you were taking time off."

"You hunt down every agent who goes AWOL from one day of work, Jen?" he questions belligerently, meeting her eyes directly.

He sees her bristle and triumphs mildly within. She hates being called Jen and he knows it.

When they'd first worked together, she had requested that he call her 'Shepard', extending to her the same professionalism that he did to his male agents who he always addressed by their last names. If he had to use her first name, she'd added imperiously, she preferred that he use it in full, not shorten it. Gibbs had simply smirked and ignored her, not interested in such politically correct niceties.

From then on, he had persistently called her Jen, out of spite. Much later, she'd informed him that his propensity to shorten the names of particularly the female agents in his command was a patent control mechanism, permanently defining them as what he wanted them to be, rather than who they actually were.

He'd rebutted that it was simply more expeditious. He didn't care what she thought, but he was interested when a different female agent in his command once told him that no one had ever thought to shorten her name to 'Kate' before.

As a child growing up, her siblings and friends liked to call her 'Linny'. But at the Secret Service and in college she had always been 'Caitlin' or at times, 'Todd'. He thought it was rather a serious name for her. Pretty, no doubt, but 'Caitlin' could never fit in with the boys club that pervaded agencies like the Service and NCIS. 'Kate' could; and wanted to. He remembers the curious little frown on her face the first time he'd called her that – he knows she'd liked the abbreviation.

"You weren't hard to find," Jenny smiles smugly, breaking his reverie.

"Whad you do?" he grunts, unimpressed: "Have them GPS my phone?"

"You forget," she replies, leveling him with a stare that doesn't move him in the least: "how well I know you."

"Try to," he mumbles into his glass, eyeing the wallet still sitting on the table between them.

As usual, Jenny either doesn't hear, doesn't understand or doesn't care what he means. In the ensuing silence, she slips out of her coat, glancing about at the dim bar, mostly inhabited by men. Her suit is powder blue and way too low-cut for his personal taste in women and directors. He scowls at the blatant display of cleavage and nods to Julia at the bar to bring him another drink. If his former partner is not going to take the hint, he's gonna need it.

Jenny settles in her seat, indifferent to his determined silence and the stares of the men around her. Her eyes settle on the black wallet sitting on the table where he threw it.

"You want to talk about it?" she asks carefully, her manicured nails curled deftly around the neck of the wine glass.

"Nope," he replies absolutely as his drink arrives in front of him.

Julia smiles at him, leans over to retrieve his empty glass and moves back to the bar, her brown hair in two loose plaits down the side of her face. Jenny reaches out and picks up the badge, carefully opening it and looking at his former protégés photograph. Gibbs' jaw tightens as he watches her, resisting the urge to snatch back what is his and hide it away for safekeeping.

"She was a good agent," she comments quietly, staring at the badge.

He nods vaguely -- he knows as Director, she would've read Kate's file but she never actually knew her, as an agent or anything else.

"She was very beautiful," she adds, lowering the badge and looking at him candidly.

He narrows his eyes and takes back the wallet, folding it and tucking it back inside his breast pocket lest she does confiscate it permanently. He doesn't dignify her nosy subtext with any reply. Anyone could see that Kate Todd was beautiful -- even him. It might have taken him awhile to really notice it but he was an observant man -- he couldn't help but pick up on that.

He takes a sip of his drink, glancing towards the bar where some fat guy is trying to chat up Julia. Behind that scene, two guys are about to start punching each other, near the men's room. He's got to stop coming here.

He hears Jenny take a breath and try a different tack.

"How's Ziva working out?" she asks lightly.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and grunts: "Fine."

He's not interested in her attempts to draw him out. She knows exactly how Ziva David is working out because she has her nose stuck in his teams business every chance that she gets. And, in any case, if he was inclined to be drawn out, this woman would be the last person to whom he would bare his soul.

They'd spent four months together in Paris as undercover partners staging elaborate sex scenes and blissful sightseeing tours for the benefit of the big-time thugs they knew were watching their every move.

Dianne, his wife at the time had cautioned him regarding Jenny before he went, but he'd told her he could handle the situation and his already notorious colleague. But he'd only realized just how completely the woman had played and betrayed him when he returned to the States and found that he no longer had either a job or a wife.

The only thing Jethro Gibbs trusted Jenny Shepard with was looking after her own interests above everything and everyone else.

"She did well on that last case," she persists, sipping delicately at her drink: "-- the Klein murder."

He nods curtly and states: "She did."

"I chose well, didn't I?" she points out, her smug smile barely restrained.

He looks at her with a furrowed brow, seeing the devious twinkle in her eye.

"I knew you'd like her," she explains, in response to his obvious bewilderment. "You do like her, don't you?" she asserts uncertainly, tipping her head at him.

"She'll make a good agent," he admits reservedly, glancing to one side: "one day."

Jenny rolls her eyes, her mouth turning up in that maddening smirk. He hates the way she looks at him like he's an insect under glass, squirming for her amusement. From a distance, he hears Julia laughing at something the fat man has said to her and he glances across to see a flash of smile and a wave of dark hair as she tosses one plait over her shoulder.

The woman opposite him notices his attention shift, turning and taking a look at the young barmaid. Turning back to him, she speaks more firmly, deliberately drawing his gaze back to herself.

"And she's fitting in well, I imagine?" she questions haughtily.

He looks at her with flashing eyes, planting his elbows on the table and leaning in, finally engaging in the conversation she seems determined to conduct despite his obvious reluctance.

"Ziva," he tells her firmly, addressing what he thinks she's trying to imply: "is not Kate."

Jenny is a little taken aback by his sudden intensity, but he gains no delight from throwing her off-balance, simply because he can achieve it so easily.

"No," she murmurs, dropping her gaze contritely: "of course not. But she does fill the void…." Her voice trails off for a moment then picks up momentum, continuing in that softly poisonous tone she always knew how to use to her advantage: "She's close enough that it makes you feel better, am I right?"

He narrows his eyes, leaning closer as he examines her features, with raw animosity. He hates the feeling of being manipulated by her, begrudges her power over and constant presence in his current reality.

But he can't truly say that what she's observed is untrue. Unfortunately for him, Jenny Shepard walked back into his life on the worst bad day of his sorry life. He knows that the sharp-eyed redhead would, without doubt, have noticed his obvious reaction to the young Mossadi agent when they were first introduced.

He'd just lost an agent, he'd just lost KATE -- and was desperately trying make sense of that inconceivable truth in his heart and mind, when suddenly she'd presented him with her spitting image. He nearly did a double take -- and for a split-second -- he saw Kate. For a heart-stopping instant, he would've sworn it was Kate Todd, alive as ever, standing before him strong and beautiful.

But then the petite, young brunette spoke and he noticed that the voice was different, then he noticed her eyes were slightly smaller, her hair more unruly, her chin a different shape.

But Jenny Shepard was right; there was enough about Ziva that was similar to the woman he'd lost, that something in him liked her almost instantly, trusted her against his better judgment.

He really hadn't thought his team would recover from their loss or ever be the same. He really didn't think anyone could fill Kate Todd's position. But when he walked into the bustling squad room now and saw three figures locked in a verbal jousting match, one of them a small brunette planted confidently between his two male agents and easily holding her own, the picture looked right to him.

He isn't stupid and he isn't delusional. Despite any resemblance, he knows that Ziva isn't Kate.

He knows that Kate was a wholesome American girl raised on Catholic principles and good values, and that Ziva was an Israeli pawn, raised to fight and spy. He knows that Ziva has dodged thousands of bullets meant for her in her short life and that Kate died because of one precise shot which no one saw coming. He knows that the woman who occupies the desk next to his now is Ziva David and that Kate Todd's body is resting in peace in a grave in a shady cemetery.

But, the more he knew Ziva, the more quietly pleased he was to see the likeness grow rather than fade. She had the same fire, a similar forthrightness, an equal cool under pressure and the same ability to stand up to her boss and make him look at himself. Neither of them were afraid to speak their mind or call him on his crap and both women had proven their mettle by saving his life at great risk to their own.

What happened to Kate Todd will never be right in his mind and he will never forget her or his debt to her spirit. But the presence of Ziva David, he must confess, does make them all feel better.

"Yeah," he murmurs distantly, his eyes focused on the tabletop as his head bobs repeatedly: "You're right."

"Like I said," Jenny answers lowly: "I know you. I know your type."

He looks up suddenly, almost having forgotten her presence. His head swirls slightly with the movement as his massive consumption of alcohol seems to begin to catch up with him.

"Do tell," he mumbles drolly, squinting at her through his bourbon and scotch haze.

He knows he isn't going to get out of this conversation without her telling him once again what she thinks of him – which is not much. It never was – he was always a low-life and letdown in her eyes. At least he's sufficiently anesthetized this time. He's feeling no pain.

Jenny looks upwards and begins to recite off-handedly: "Young enough to be impressed, feisty enough to stand up to you but inexperienced enough to still look up to you…"

He sits back in his chair and lets her talk -- she loves it so much after all. And, if he is patient and gives her enough rope, she will always, without fail, use it to hang herself with spectacular skill.

She leans in closer, folding her arms on the table and pouting as she talks. "She must be intelligent, brave and, if possible –a redhead…." she stalls for a second, glancing towards Julia, who is heading their way: "although that particular penchant seems to have changed," remarks Jenny slyly.

"Sorry to interrupt," says Julia quietly, planting another white wine in front of Jenny: "the two men at the bar wished to buy you a drink."

She turns and points and Gibbs sees that the pair who were close to knocking each other unconscious near the men's room before have now resolved their differences and are leering at his female colleague from the bar where they are huddled like two horny teenagers. He snorts somewhat amusedly – it's the first spark of humor he's felt all day. Jenny huffs irritated, and raises her glass disingenuously towards the pair who salute her back.

"They're not used to seeing your type in here, I guess," Julia offers with a shrug, garnering another snort from Gibbs as she turns and walks away.

He doesn't pretend not to look at her legs as she goes, thinking that it serves Jenny right to reduce people to types anyway. Maybe, the guys at the bar would like an introduction, he thinks; they don't look too bad. Maybe, they're just her type.

She takes a large sip of her wine, then another and resumes her narrative with a reflective but spiteful voice: "Of course, you loose all interest when they out-grow you." She tosses her head lightly and leans back in her chair, assessing him with an icy gaze: "Just like you did with me…" her eyes wander away from him, apathetically: "Just like you will with Ziva. Just like you would've with Kate Todd."

"You're wrong, Jen," he says, shaking his head faintly and leaning forward. He leans on the table and tells her lowly: "I lost interest in you when I found out how ruthless you could be."

He knew he should've recognized it sooner than he did. He was told too many times, by too many people. He ignored too many warning signs. He should've seen it in the way she moved, the menacing slit of her eyes and the downward turn of her frown. He should've noticed it in the way she operated. She was very accomplished at hiding it but he should've seen it anyway – she was ruthless and beyond repentance.

She meets his eyes again, her mouth quirking up nastily in one corner: "Hm. You think Ziva isn't capable of being ruthless?" she asks softly, picking up her wine and swirling it in her glass. "I suppose," she mutters scornfully, watching the liquid churn: "you think your Kate didn't have a ruthless bone in her body."

He taps his fingertips on the table, his brow crumpled and confused. He can't quite discuss Kate with such casualness, especially with this woman. His lost agent has adopted a hallowed status in his soul now, and he only mentions Caitlin Todd's name in the company of those who share his experience of her and his respect.

Even though it hurts, he takes out the memories every so often and reverently dusts them off. His remembrance of her is still strong and accurate, not contaminated in any way by her passing. He remembers her as she truly was – bad temper and all.

Regardless of that frequently hot temperament and sharp tongue, the Kate he knew was a woman of compassion and understanding, often pulling into focus for him the human side of the cases they worked. Despite her training, she struggled with the idea of hurting another human being, or taking another's life. It's something that he admired her for, having never himself had the strength to truly question that aspect of their profession.

The problem with Jenny was, and always had been, that she never understood the difference between strength and ruthlessness. Even in their world, a man or woman could be one without being both.

There had been absolutely nothing ruthless about Kate Todd – except perhaps the unwittingly effect she had on his heart in the two short years that he knew her.

"You know what I've noticed, Jethro?" Jenny asks coolly, once again retrieving his drifting attention from elsewhere and centering it on herself. "You haven't changed much in six years…" she admits, her voice smooth and controlled: "but I notice that – when it comes to women – you're a lot more careful."

She flicks her eyes up to meet his and get his reaction but he refuses to give her one. He's starting to weary of this conversation and her pushy little insights. He doesn't need her help to feel bad today.

"You used to be careless about women…" she shrugs, averting her eyes again: "Ruthless, even," she adds, using the word deliberately. She shakes her head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, curiously. "But not now," she murmurs softly: "Now, it's like they're suddenly more of a threat than before."

He chuffs ironically. It's probably the most interesting thing she's said all night – and the most accurate. But he doesn't want to hear where this new insight might lead her. He doesn't need Jenny Shepard to tell him that he harbored feelings for his dead young agent beyond the professional. He doesn't need one more reminder today of just how much he lost on the 24th of May.

He scoots back his chair, preparing to rise, with a biting remark on his tongue. But Jenny, apparently not finished, gets in before him.

"She the one that finally changed you, Jethro?" she asks, smooth and merciless. She points to his breast pocket and tilts her head to one side inquisitively: "Is Caitlin Todd the one who taught you how to say 'please' and 'sorry'? How to be more careful?"

Biting remarks forgotten, he gets to his feet, his gut trembling with anger and his mind about to explode. So, maybe she's right. Maybe, Kate Todd taught him more than he ever taught her. Maybe he misses her so much that it hurts to open his eyes in the morning. Maybe, some days, he simply does not want to be in a world where she no longer exists and he is to blame for it.

Maybe, he loved her, more than he even knew. But he doesn't need it shoved in his face in some sort of sick clash of wills.

"This conversation is over," he states tersely, looking down on her self-satisfied expression. He turns swiftly, nearly loosing his balance as the alcohol in his system screws with his senses, and runs right into Julia carrying a full tray of empty glasses.

"Sorry," he mumbles, swaying on his feet and watching the glasses topple on the tray.

"S'okay," she smiles, catching one before it falls.

"You okay?" he asks, shifting backwards and seeing two of her for a moment.

She nods and glances up at him, wiping a few stray trickles off her shirt: "Yep. No harm done."

"My fault…" he apologizes, touching her arm very briefly: "I should be more care--" he breaks off, hearing Jenny's muted laugh behind him.

The barmaid looks between them for a moment then gazes up at him with big, brown eyes, suggesting worriedly: "Want me to call you a cab?"

For some reason he can never figure out, she is always so nice to him. He shakes his head and tells her he will walk, forgetting about the snow outside. The little brunette disappears, leaving him rocking uncertainly on his feet for a minute.

"Tell me one thing, Jethro," murmurs Jenny, leaning forward and looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

He doesn't know why but he turns back to face the redhead still seated at his table. Perhaps he's a glutton for punishment.

"Did she know," she asks softly: "that you were in love with her?"

He stares at her for a moment, feeling like he might throw up. His head feels hot and his limbs feel weak. He has a sudden flash of Kate opening her eyes after throwing herself in front of a bullet with his name on it, on that rooftop where she died. He remembers the feeling of relief in his body that only lasted a second and the involuntary thought that he really should tell her how he felt about her.

He'd had no idea where the thought had come from and later, in the painful aftermath of her murder, he forgot he'd had it altogether. But it wasn't the first or only time he had looked at Kate Todd and desperately wanted to pour out his soul's deepest desire.

He runs a hand over his face, struggling to gather his erratic thoughts. Carefully, he takes a small step forward then another, utilizing all the strength and control he can muster in his inebriated state. Leaning down, he plants one hand on the arm of Jenny's chair and shoves his face right in hers.

"Jen?" he whispers deadly: "Go to hell."

He holds her stunned gaze for an instant before turning and heading for the door with heavy feet.

At the time she died, he suspects that Kate Todd did know that he cared for her. But what neither of them was aware of was just how much. That secret knowledge is something he has to live with now, for the rest of his lonely life.

He unconsciously feels for the worn wallet in his pocket as he pushes through the heavy wooden door, and steps out into the bleak mid-winter.