Disclaimer: None of the NCIS characters are mine; if you want one, go talk to Donald P. Bellisario. The song isn't mine either--it belongs to Don Williams.

Rating: K+ (I guess)

Summary: Gibbs is working on his boat in the basement when a song on the radio brings back memories of Kate.

Author's Note: In case you happen to be confused, Gibbs is having flashbacks to when he and Kate were together. Post-Twilight.

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It's dark in the basement, the air hot and heavy in the dog-days of August. The only light is from a bare bulb hanging in one corner over a battered desk. There's a shelf over the desk, covered with a scatter of hand tools and stray nails. On one end sits a half-empty bottle of bourbon. Beside it is a stained and ancient coffee mug.

The floor is covered with sawdust and wood shavings, their scent pungent in the thickness of the air. A wood plane lies half-forgotten amid the clutter, its edge worn down from long hours of use. The light from the bare bulb barely reaches the ribs of the boat that occupies the center of the room. In the shadows it looks like some long-dead prehistoric creature, vulnerable and helplessly exposed.

The door at the top of the steps opens and heavy footfalls sound on the worn boards. The man who comes down the stairs looks tired, drained, empty. Yet as he moves into the small circle of light cast by the single bulb, the glint in his eyes becomes glaringly apparent. The slump of his shoulders, the harsh furrow of his eyebrows, the hard line of his mouth, all mark a man who is moving by rote, too exhausted to do anything else. But his eyes—they are feverish, tortured, wild with a pain too deep to surface.

He moves slowly over to the shelf and the bottle of bourbon, pulls off the top and pours a slug into the dusty mug. Staring off into the darkness, he raises the cup to his lips and takes a long swallow, not even flinching at the swift burn of the liquor. Then he reaches behind him in an automatic gesture and switches on the little radio that sits on a corner of the desk, lets the music pour out into the stillness of the musty room.

He still remembers the first time he ever turned on a radio down here. She was with him in the basement, only a few days after they became lovers. He still couldn't believe that she was there, beside him, that she wanted to be with him. He couldn't believe the lightness in his chest, the idiotic smile that threatened to break through every time he saw her puttering around among his tools. He really couldn't yet believe the feeling that lurked at the edges of his consciousness, tantalizingly close and yet still so dim…something like—happiness.

She had taken a square of sandpaper and was rubbing it slowly over the edge of a rib, her movements lazy and relaxed. He just stood there for a moment, watching her work, enjoying the sight of her in old jeans and an even older T-shirt, her dark hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. She felt his gaze on her and turned her head, looking at him over the curve of her shoulder.

"What are you looking at, Gibbs?" she asked softly, teasingly. She still called him Gibbs most of the time—out of habit, he supposed. Only when she was very intense or very serious did she call him Jethro. He rather liked this particular little quirk, actually. On her lips, it just seemed natural.

He roused himself from his daydream and let his habitual smirk curve his lips slightly.

"What do you think I'm lookin' at?" he asked cockily, eyes twinkling at her in the dim light.

He caught the tail end of her smile before she turned around again, rubbing the sandpaper against the wood again as the rasp of friction filled the room. After a moment, she spoke again without looking at him.

"You need some music in here, Gibbs. This place is as quiet as the grave."

One eyebrow went up in a silent question.

"You want music in here?"

She turned around and planted her feet, the light of challenge in her eyes.

"It'll be good for you, Gibbs. Cheer you up a little, put a smile on your face. Music is supposed to raise endorphins, you know."

He gave her the look that he usually reserved for DiNozzo when he was doing something particularly stupid, and then one corner of his mouth started to quirk upwards involuntarily.

"I'm thinkin' that something else is raised around here, and it's not endorphins."

She shot him a glance through her lashes, a look at once suspicious and excited.

"Is that all you ever think about?" she asked primly, trying to hide the sudden glint in her eyes.

"Did I ever show you why the scent of sawdust is sexy?" he asked, grinning as he moved toward her, a lecherous gleam in his eyes as she backed away towards the boat.

"No…no, you didn't. And I…you didn't answer the question."

Her back hit the ribs of the boat as his arms caged her in, his head bent low over hers as he planted a string of soft kisses from the base of her neck to her jawline. She shivered as his lips traveled over her cheekbones, stopped briefly on her forehead, toyed teasingly with her ear. And then she turned her head and met him with a heady kiss of her own, their mouths melding together as the heat between them rose to the boiling point. Suddenly he broke free, looking down at her with inscrutable blue eyes.

"You still want an answer to that question?" he asked smugly. She looked up, eyes dark and dilated with desire, her lips still damp from his kiss.

"What question?" she murmured, and hooking a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him back to her eager mouth.

The next time she came down to his basement, there was a radio sitting in the middle of the boat's frame, the knob turned to her favorite station. And he thought the silence well worth breaking for the sake of that single delighted smile.