Gibbs entered the lab, clutching a Caf-Pow! in his hand. He saw Tim and Abby sitting next to each other, heads bent forward in concentration, in front of a computer. His ears informed him she wasn't blaring any of her music, which to him signified that there was a potential problem.

"Oh, hi, Gibbs," Abby said absently, acknowledging the senior agent's arrival. "Are they gone?"

"Who?" he asked, setting the large cup down on the lab bench.

"You know...Agent Cassidy's family,"Abby answered.

"Yeah, they've left. Tony took 'em to Paula's apartment. Why, did you want to see them?"

"Me? Oh, no...not really...I just -"

Tim sighed. "Abby," he started.

"Stop right there, McGee," Abby interrupted, shooting him a warning glance.

"I'm not gonna let you feel guilty about this, Abs," Tim said sternly. "It's not like you ignored something crucial. You did everything you could with the evidence you had and with the time you had."

"And it still wasn't enough," Abby said sullenly.

"And still not your fault," Tim shot back.

"Will one of you please explain what the hell it is you're arguing about?" Gibbs snapped, clearly out of patience.

"Abby didn't want to face Paula's family because she thinks she didn't do enough to stop Jamal Malik," Tim said, the cadence of his words making it clear he found the entire notion absurd. "So, she's been kinda hiding down here all afternoon...and made me keep her company."

"Last time I checked, you weren't even there when it happened, Abby," Gibbs said. "What makes you think you could in any way have prevented Jamal Malik from doing what he did on Friday?"

Abby pressed her lips together and refused to meet Gibbs' stare.

"I could've checked the fingerprint evidence from the laptop earlier," came her despondent answer. "I could've made a positive match telling us it was one of them earlier..."

"Yeah, and I could've accepted the Hotline duty last week. I also could've been standing closer to the hidden door when Malik showed up. You start picking apart everything, and questioning what you did and didn't do, you'll lose your effectiveness as a forensic specialist. You didn't detonate that bomb; Malik did. And Paula made the choice to jump. This one's not on you, Abs. It's on them. They are responsible for their own actions."

Tim put a reassuring hand on Abby's shoulder. "The Boss is right. Let it go, Abs," he said quietly.

Abby took a deep breath. She seemed at first to be stubbornly resisting their advice. She sat in silence with her eyes shut for several beats, and finally gave a decisive nod. She opened her eyes, grabbed the Caf-Pow! and was about to put the straw to her lips when Gibbs shot out a hand and stopped her.

"Tell me what you got on the explosion residue evidence first," he instructed.

"Oh, it's a complete match, Gibbs," Abby replied, displaying a complete shift back to her usual perky self. "There's no question that Jamal Malik totally assembled both bombs in his home."

"That's good work, Abs," Gibbs commented with an indulgent smile. "Drink up. You've earned it."

He left the lab to the sounds of her contented slurpings, satisfied they could close the book on this case.

***

Tony guided the car through the underground parking structure of Paula's apartment building to the Visitor's Parking area. He noted the building manager's red Ford Focus parked in the designated spot.

"Manager's here," he said to D.J. and Stevie. "Should be no trouble getting him to open up Paula's apartment."

"Yes, a Mr. Hatfield," D.J. said. "I called ahead from our hotel when we first arrived. He's expecting us."

The trio entered the lobby, and saw a lanky man wearing a beat-up Washington Redskins cap. He was having a conversation with a stout security guard that was seated behind his desk.

"Excuse me," Tony announced, "we're looking for the building manager."

"Oh, that's me! Hi, I'm Robert Hatfield; my friends call me 'Bob'," the lanky man said nervously as he turned his attention to them. "You, ah, you must be all Paula's family."

"They are," Tony said, pointing to his companions. "I worked with Paula."

"I'm D.J., Paula's mother, and this is my daughter, Stephanie," the Cassidy matriarch said, and shook Bob's proffered hand.

Bob then solemnly removed his Redskins ball cap and held it in front of his thin chest, revealing a balding head of wispy, graying hair. "May I just say, Mrs. Cassidy, how really sorry I am. I just about cried like a baby when I heard what happened."

His eyes were actually starting to tear up behind his thick frames as he spoke. "She was the perfect tenant. Never caused a lick of trouble. Never complained about anything; paid her rent on time...It's a terrible, terrible shame."

"Thank you, Bob. You're very kind to say that," D.J. said politely. "Paula spoke of you very kindly, too. She said you were very attentive to any problems in the building."

Bob gave a self-effacing 'aw shucks' look, and shuffled his feet. He sniffled a little and shoved his cap back on his head.

"Wait a minute...You're 'Bob'?" Tony asked, a small frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looked like he was trying to wrap his mind around some conundrum.

"Uh-huh," Bob replied, surprised at Tony's query.

"So that, uh, red Ford Focus parked there...it's yours?"

"Yep. Any particular reason why you wanna know?"

"Oh, no, no," Tony answered, slipping into a jovial tone, "nothing. Just curious."

So, this is the 'Bob' Paula was using to mess with me...that girl sure knew how to embellish. Very rich... private skybox seats for the Redskins... red Ferrari, yeah...right. Instead 'Bob' dresses like a slob, wears a tattered Redskins cap, and drives a red Ford Focus...

"Here, let me take you all up to her apartment. I've got some boxes ready, just in case you wanted to get some packing done right now," Bob said, leading them towards the elevator.

They rode up in silence with Bob sneaking furtive glances at them all the way up, causing Tony to feel irrationally uncomfortable. He was relieved when they reached Paula's floor. Bob whipped out the keys and opened the door, letting the women in first.

They were immediately hit by the scent of rotting banana as they entered the apartment. It was a cloying odor that permeated the entire room.

"Oh! Something sure stinks. Let me take care of that," Bob said in dismay, hurrying into the kitchen to locate the source of the offending smell. On the counter top in the kitchen, they saw a bowl of overripe bananas, skins brown and mottled. Bob, however, checked the garbage bin.

"Oh yeah, this is the one. I'll be back." He grabbed the bag from the bin and beat a hasty exit.

The unpleasant smell still lingered, and D.J. decided to throw open one of the sliding doors leading onto the balcony. A hint of fresh air spilled into the room. Stevie stood silently by her mother's side as they looked out on the view through the open doors.

"I always said I'd come out one day and visit her," Stevie finally said. "She told me she had the space to put me up if I wanted to spend a vacation here. I thought that maybe this Summer I would actually take her up on that offer. We discussed how many things we could do for free, like concerts at the National Gallery of Art, or the Smithsonian..."

"Stevie," D.J. said comfortingly, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

"Now we never will," Stevie said despairingly, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Oh, honey..." D.J. gathered her daughter into her arms as she started sobbing in earnest.

Tony looked away from them uncomfortably. He wanted to ignore the burning sensation in his own eyes and the weight he felt pressing on his chest. He felt totally inadequate to deal with the grief he saw spilling out before him, so he let his eyes roam.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when he had really wanted to see the inside of Paula's apartment. She'd seen his, but they hadn't lasted long enough for the much-desired invitation into hers. Soon after the completion of her GITMO assignment had come the deployments on the Kennedy, which Tony knew certainly hadn't done much to bolster their tenuous relationship.

Especially when you'd been pissed at Gibbs after the debacle of the exploding Commander Dornan, Tony thought ruefully. I just wish that pissed-off-ness hadn't extended to me, too...

The living room was tidy, and tastefully decorated. The furniture wasn't expensive, but looked comfortable. Rightfully so, Tony mused. An NCIS agent might get an assignment to go anywhere at any time. Why plunk down a load of cash on things if you weren't going to be around much to enjoy them, anyway? The irony of his words struck him, and he almost slapped himself for that callous thought.

Next to the oak entertainment center with television and combination VHS/DVD player, Tony looked over an assortment of movies and television series box sets. Stacked next to the DVDs was a rather eclectic music collection, including some Salsa recordings Tony decided must have been a remnant from her GITMO stint.

Bookshelves lined another one of the walls. They were filled with what Tony would describe as 'heavy' reading: Psychology texts and other official-looking tomes that Paula must have found handy during her post-graduate studies. He also spotted assorted novels easily recognizable by their best-seller list status, along with stacks of magazines and periodicals.

With a hint of amused interest, Tony spied a copy of 'Deep Six' on the coffee table. Tony sauntered over and picked up the novel, noting that it was bookmarked about three-quarters through.

She never finished it, he thought with a pang of sadness. He flipped to the front inside flap, and saw that Paula must have had Tim sign it at some point in time.

It read: "To Paula. Best wishes, Timothy McGee aka Thom E. Gemcity. P.S.: 'Special Agent Carla Presley' can be our little secret, okay?"

Hmm, Tony thought. He was going to have to corner the Probie and question him about that one...

Stevie's sniffles were dying down, and she excused herself in search of the bathroom.

The door to the apartment opened again, and in walked Bob Hatfield, sans offending garbage bag. He was instead lugging a stack of cardboard boxes that were ready to be assembled. "There," he said with a look of accomplishment, "that's better, huh? I'm so sorry I didn't think to check that trash before you all came up here. I feel so embarrassed."

"Because you didn't take out my daughter's smelly garbage?" D.J. said. "Don't be silly, Bob. I'm sure it's not in your job description."

"Oh, well, no..." Bob uttered, "but still...I should have realized that there would have been no one to, ah,...empty it...after what happened."

"It's okay, Bob," D.J. stressed. "I appreciate everything you've done for us. Thanks for the boxes."

"Where do you want to start?" Tony asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable at the notion he'd be helping Paula's family go through her personal belongings.

"I think it would be best for me and Stevie to tackle Paula's room and sort through clothes and such. See what we can donate to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. It's what she would have wanted. Um, why don't you and Bob start packing away the stuff here in the living room? Books, CDs, and so forth?"

"Sure," Tony said agreeably.

"Later I could use your strength to get the heavier pieces of furniture and electronics stacked somewhere, just to make the movers' job easier."

Both men set to work, and D.J. headed inside.

Tony and Bob had just finished piling all the books from one of the shelves when he heard D.J. call out to him.

"Agent DiNozzo! Could you come in here, please?"

Tony followed the sound of D.J.'s voice down a hall and into a room he assumed was Paula's. He saw Stevie standing somewhat dumbfounded at the head of the queen-sized bed that was partially stripped of its sheets. He followed her gaze to what he recognized as a Beretta PX4 Storm pistol.

"What should we do with it?" D.J. asked, stressing the 'it', as if they were dealing with a live, poisonous snake.

Tony walked up to the weapon and carefully handled it. He checked the magazine and saw it was fully loaded with the standard 17 rounds of 9mm ammo.

"I can't believe she slept with a loaded gun, right there under her pillow," Stevie said with a shudder. "I mean, I thought she was joking when she told me she did."

"It's not her service piece," Tony said, "she probably used it for the sake of protection. See if she kept a gun lock around here someplace."

D.J. started rooting around drawers, and managed to find a small, steel device with a built-in tumbler combination and key lock. "Is this what you're looking for?"

"Trigger lock," Tony said, taking it from her. "Yeah, thanks."

He put the lock in place, and saw the looks of relief on the faces of D.J. and Stevie.

"If you like, I can see that it's taken care of," Tony said. "Have it decommissioned, or something."

"Would you?" D.J. asked. "I'd really appreciate it."

Tony nodded his reply.

"Thank you," D.J. said gratefully.

"I don't understand it," Stevie spoke up.

"What don't you understand?" Tony questioned.

"I don't understand why Paula didn't just shoot the son of a bitch!" Stevie stamped her foot. "Why did she have to tackle him? She had a gun; why didn't she use it?"

"Because she couldn't have been sure he didn't have a 'dead man's switch'," Tony gently replied. "Paula did exactly what I'd have done, Stevie. Unfortunately, I was just too far away. That guy would have blown us all to kingdom come if we'd drawn our weapons on him. That's what he'd come to do; that's what he would have accomplished if Paula had tried to shoot him. Instead, she did the right thing; the heroic thing."

He saw the strain and anger start to slowly drain away from Stevie's face and, almost like a ripple, through her body as her shoulders dropped and her posture became more relaxed.

"I just miss her," Stevie said with a slight shake of her head.

"We all do," Tony said warmly. He turned to leave, Beretta safely locked and pointed downwards. He was almost out of the room when a random thought suddenly popped into his head. He tried to conceal his chuckle, but was unsuccessful when D.J. asked him what he found so amusing.

Tony looked down at the pistol and couldn't help but smile, in spite of himself. "I finally realize the meaning of the little rumor I once heard that Paula liked sleeping with Italians..."

***

Gibbs poured a liberal amount of bourbon into his mug. He took a sip and sat down, looking over his boat-in-progress.

Presently, there was the sound of footfalls on the staircase.

"I heard you had another close call, Gunny," came a familiar voice.

"Hey, Hol," Gibbs said, acknowledging Colonel Mann's arrival.

She sat down next to him on a sawhorse. After a few beats of silence, she said: "I know you don't talk about these things, Jethro, but I need to say that I am relieved beyond belief that you made it out of there alive on Friday."

Gibbs nodded. "Yup." He took another swig and kept his eyes on the boat.

"I also heard you lost another agent: Paula Cassidy...Did you know her well?"

"Not 'well', but yeah, I worked with her a few times in the past on some cases."

"They're calling her a hero all over the news," Hollis said.

"Well, she did save six lives at the expense of her own on Friday by tackling that damned terrorist," Gibbs said matter-of-factly, eyeing his companion. "Including mine and Agent DiNozzo's."

Hollis nodded. "Yes, I read that in the Post. It's all any of the newspapers and ZNN reporters seem to want to talk about at the moment. Jethro, this home-grown threat... should we be concerned about more suicide bombings in our own country?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Why don't you ask Homeland Security?"

"Don't get smart with me," Hollis replied, giving him a playful whack on his shoulder.

"As far as NCIS is concerned, Paula took out the last person responsible for the current bombings. It was her team that had been killed in the first bombing, a week ago Sunday."

"So, I don't have to be worried that some extremist group has marked NCIS Special Agents for death..." Hollis said, searching his face for some kind of reassurance.

He physically turned to look at her this time. Her face was lightly creased with lines of genuine worry.

"No, Hol..." his tone softened, "that threat is finished."

She nodded, satisfied by his words. "You know," she said, voice faltering slightly, "when I heard on Friday there'd been another bombing, and that an NCIS Special Agent that had been killed...for a moment, I was afraid..."

"Hey," Gibbs said, placing a thumb and forefinger under her chin.

"...And then when I heard it was a woman, and I knew it wasn't you...I was so thankful. God help me, I was glad it was a woman, because it meant you were alive and safe."

Gibbs nodded in understanding. He cupped the side of her face in his hand. "It's not my time. Not yet."

Hollis leaned in closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder as he embraced her. They remained silent for several minutes.

"What was she like?" Hollis asked, not moving from her position.

"Paula Cassidy?" Gibbs asked.

He felt Hollis nodding in reply.

"Determined to nail the bastards responsible for killing her men," he answered truthfully. "She wasn't somebody I would have wanted on my team, but-"

"Why not?" Hollis queried in surprise. "The woman saved your life, Jethro. If you ask me, that's exactly the kind of person I would have wanted on my team, watching my back..."

Gibbs sighed. She was striking at a personal prejudice he really didn't want to expose, but decided it didn't really matter now. "She would have been too much of a distraction for another agent of mine." His thoughts flew back to their first meeting at GITMO.

Kate couldn't understand why I had a problem with you, Paula...that two agents pursuing a relationship was a big mistake...that it would never work out...Maybe it's finally occurred to Tony. Maybe he understands now.

"A 'distraction'?" Hollis repeated.

"It's a long story," Gibbs said dismissively, thinking how every time Paula and Tony worked together, she always found some way to get under his skin...until this last time...

See, Tony? It wouldn't have worked out. Do you think you could have handled losing someone you loved like that? And you, Paula, you allowed yourself to be shaken too easily. You always held yourself responsible for things that were far beyond your control.

"Paula was a capable agent," Gibbs said tactfully, "obviously good enough to head her own team of agents. They don't just hand that sort of plumb assignment to anybody. She probably would have gone far in this agency."

"Just never with your team," Hollis said.

"You know the last words she ever said? 'I know I screwed up'," Gibbs recounted. "She was referring to a shootout that went sour earlier last week. Ended up we killed a suspect in the bombing case...She'd spooked the guy, but he would probably have rabbited anyway. What kind of last words are 'I know I screwed up'?"

"The kind that come from someone willing to see her faults and willing to admit it when she's made a mistake," Hollis answered his rhetorical question. "I know, it's close to violating your 'never apologize because it's a sign of weakness' rule. But some people live their lives by a different set of rules, Jethro."

Gibbs nodded as he considered her words, but silently added: And some people die by them, too.

***

One week later

Tony arrived at the hospital and headed to the bank of chairs in the waiting area. Jeanne's shift would be over soon, so he sat and idly pulled at the magazines on the low table in front of him. They were mostly Reader's Digests, old Good Housekeeping and some Sports Illustrated issues.

Too bad they wouldn't have the swimsuit issues, he thought with amusement. Not that he would have actually looked at them, he realized with a surprised start. Jeanne had changed that.

His breath caught in his throat when he uncovered a very recent TIME magazine. He could not tear his eyes away from the cover story headline and accompanying images. A candid black-and-white photo of a smiling Paula Cassidy dominated most of the front, along with smaller pictures of Richard Hall and James Nelson. With weary eyes unwilling to rehash the tragic events, he still couldn't avert his glance from the background image: a shot of the explosion that had killed Rick and Jim. Somewhere along the line he vaguely remembered that some tourist had actually been snapping off random pictures that Sunday morning, and had incredibly managed to capture the blast on film.

'Ultimate Sacrifice', the main headline went, 'Suicide bombings on U.S. soil claim the lives of three Federal Agents...and what's being done to make sure it never happens again.'

The upper banner of the issue announced several other related topics being discussed inside the magazine: 'The War on Terror: Are We Winning?' and one that caused Tony to raise his eyebrows: 'Naval Criminal Investigative Service: Little-known Federal Agency Grows Up Fast in Wake of Recent Attacks'.

The last headline made Tony wonder a little about irresponsible journalism, but in his heart he felt that it was an honest question that deserved to be asked. 'The Face of Islam in America: Are the Mullahs in Control?'

Tony figured he'd leave such debates to the experts. A close ally and friend was dead because Jamal Malik allowed an extreme system of belief to influence his actions. Tony was only thankful that someone like Abdul Wahid had survived. In spite of Malik's betrayal to the cause, Wahid was now more determined than ever to spread the word of peace through his chapter of the Muslim Coalition for Peace. He'd even spoken at the memorial service that had been held in honour of Paula, Rick, Jim and Yahzeed the previous Wednesday. Many in the vast crowds in attendance had been moved to tears by Wahid's powerful and heartfelt speech.

"Hey, Tony!"

Tony looked up and saw Jeanne smiling down at him. She was still wearing the pink scrubs she'd had on all day, and she looked weary after her shift. But she still looked beautiful to him. He returned her smile and self-consciously turned the TIME magazine up-side down on the table.

"Hi, Jeanne," he said, as he stood to greet her. He kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Mmm...That was nice. But I know you can do better," she whispered seductively.

"Of course," Tony matched her tone. "But my best isn't supposed to be displayed for public consumption."

Jeanne's eyes sparkled, and she bit back a giggle.

Tony brought his hands to her face. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

Jeanne sent her eyes furtively to look somewhere up at the ceiling, as if she were concentrating intently. "I think you told me at lunch today when you called, and this morning, when you called, and last night, when you called..."

"Oh," Tony said with a furrowed brow, pretending to be deep in thought. "Those times seem like ages ago to me."

Jeanne suppressed another giggle.

Tony looked at his watch. "It's just after midnight," he said. "I think you've waited long enough. Jeanne Benoit, I love you."

"I love you, too, Tony DiNardo," she said contentedly, leaning into him and encircling his waist with her arms.

Tony felt a twinge of discomfort at her use of his alias. Yes, he'd admitted he loved her, and it had satisfied her because it was the truth. But the nagging worry that it would all be ruined someday - that his cover would somehow be blown, or that the charade would all come crashing down like a house of cards - started to creep back into the corners of his consciousness. For the thousandth time, Tony cursed this blasted undercover mission, and cursed his powerlessness. He wasn't supposed to fall in love with her; he was only supposed to pretend.

As he stood holding Jeanne, he thought again about Paula's words. He'd just come from an informal gathering of agents paying tribute to Paula at some LEO hang-out he'd never before stepped foot in. He was struck by the memory of the tribute wall, full of pictures of those lost in the line of duty. Life really was too short, he thought. And he'd be damned if he was going to let some mission interfere with his happiness with the woman he loved.

***

There wasn't much of a crowd by the time Gibbs arrived. He scanned the dim interior of the bar for familiar faces. Tony, at least, had mentioned he'd be coming, but he didn't see the younger man there.

"Gibbs! You're late," a familiar voice rang out.

"Hey, Stan," Gibbs said, breaking into a smile. He shook Agent Burley's hand.

"You've sort of missed everyone," Stan said in mock reproach, as Gibbs asked for a bourbon at the bar.

"I got enough of the crowds with the memorial service last week."

Stan gave a sympathetic nod. "Yeah, I guess so." He motioned towards the tribute wall to their right, reserved for photographs of the honored dead among law enforcement officers. There was a newly-hung one of Paula.

"I used to meet up with her here, on occasion. I figure she deserves a place on that wall, and, well...since she no longer has a team to do this for her, I just felt it was the least I could do."

Gibbs' drink arrived, and Stan touched his nearly-empty beer mug to the bourbon glass. "To Paula," he said.

"To Paula," Gibbs repeated the toast, and took a long swallow. Stan drained the rest of his drink.

"You were there when it happened, right?" Stan asked.

"Yep," Gibbs responded.

"I'm just trying to understand it all," Stan murmured, shaking his head. "When we lose an agent like that, it just makes you sort of second-guess everything...makes you wonder 'could that have been me?' and 'would I have done the same thing?' It's very sobering..."

"We all know what can happen on any given day in this job, Stan. Those are the risks we take. Asking yourself what you would or wouldn't have done in the same situation won't change the fact that it happened, and that it wasn't you."

Stan nodded. "You're right...you're right." He expelled a breath. "I'm just really sorry that this time it had to be Paula."

"Paula knew the risks."

"Somehow, that doesn't really make it any easier for us to understand," Stan said somberly. He placed his empty mug on the counter. "It was good to see you again, 'Boss'; I gotta head out. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too, Stan," Gibbs said, clasping the other man's hand in a firm handshake.

He watched Stan leave, and then slowly made his way closer to the tribute wall. He fixed his eyes on the framed picture of Paula, neon lights reflecting off the surface of the glass. Gibbs recognized the image from her personnel file, the same one he'd seen when they were en route to Cuba in the Gulf Stream jet that Tony had been raving about.

With a heavy sigh, he thought about the day the previous week that he'd met D.J. Cassidy, and what she'd revealed about Paula's motivations for becoming an NCIS agent. A letter from Paula, neatly hand-written, had arrived that same day, its delivery delayed by the Easter holiday. It had been a small shock seeing it on his desk when he'd arrived that morning, bearing her name and return address. He hadn't opened it until tonight. Gibbs now pulled the folded letter from his jacket pocket and re-read the contents:

'I've never thanked you, Agent Gibbs, for inspiring my career choice. In spite of our differences, I'll never forget the role you've played. I don't know what the future will bring, but recent events have led me to take action. I truly believe life is too short not to tell people the things you ought to tell them while you still can.

'You see, if not for your dogged determination to apprehend Kyle Boone so many years ago, I honestly don't know what I'd be doing with my life today. Your success in that case prompted me to pursue my career with NCIS.

'The loss of my team notwithstanding, this is the only job I will ever want to do. I'll probably always be a screw-up in your eyes, but I have, and always will, love being in the service of the men and women of the United States Navy.

'Sincerely,

Special Agent Paula Cassidy'

Gibbs re-folded the letter. He was still unsure how he ought to react to this revelation. Hadn't known from even when D.J. had informed him that he'd been the inspiration behind Paula's career choice. He refused, however, to sink into the self-pitying position of thinking that if it weren't for him, Paula would somehow still be alive. If he could convince people like Tony, Abby, and Stan of personal culpability and personal choice, then he was going to accept his own advice on the matter.

He knew Jenny was probably flying back right now from California, returning from Paula's funeral in Simi Valley. Since they all couldn't attend, the agents that had wanted their own personal tribute had decided on this bar, at Agent Burley's suggestion.

Gibbs reached out and carefully lifted Paula's framed photo from the wall. He removed the cardboard backing and tucked the letter she'd sent him behind the picture. He replaced the backing, re-hung the frame, then took a step back to see if everything was level. Satisfied that it was, Gibbs took one last, long look at the picture.

"You weren't a screw-up, Paula," he said softly, then turned and left the bar.

END

A/N: My thanks to the lovely individuals who actually took the time to read through this. I hope you were entertained.