Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From the moment Gibbs entered the apartment's parking lot, he's been on high alert.

DiNozzo's car was in the the driveway as it should have been, but the driver's side door had been left partially open. Given Tony's love for the car, he might as well have left his hazard lights flashing.

Before he was even out of his seat, Gibbs had peeled open the velcro strap on his holster, and slid his gun out, holding it just out of sight as he climbed out of the truck. After quickly scanning the lot and checking the shadows beneath and behind his agent's car, he carefully edged toward the the vehicle, but stopped when he was close enough to see the steering wheel and driver's seat through the open window.

The sight of two rusty half-moon smears that might be palm prints wrapped around the leather steering wheel cover made his stomach feel as if he'd dropped sixty feet below sea level in the breadth of a second, without warning. More rust brown smears, decorating the driver's seat, painted a gruesome picture in Gibb's mind, and he had to close his eyes for a moment to deny the sudden light-headed feeling that swept over him.

Regaining his composure, Gibbs grabbed his cell, flipped it open, and hit the top button on his speed dial without thinking. He realized his error a moment later, when it went straight to DiNozzo's voice mail. His throat tightened sharply at DiNozzo's recorded message, and he slapped it closed with a pained exhalation.

Tony was the agent that he called to get the others in order... his second... and calling anyone else to do the job that felt wrong, almost as if it would jinx what little chance there was that Tony wasn't already injured, if not worse. In any event, he wasn't going to lie to himself that he'd wait for them to arrive before he secured the scene, so there really wasn't any point to call someone else before he did. Back up, if he needed it would most likely be too little, too late, and probably more than he deserved if his gut feeling was correct.

It was a weak, bullshit argument, but Gibbs slid his phone back into his pocket and reached in, using a pen, to pull the trunk's latch.

He paused, steeling himself, as he walked around the end of the car and slid the pen under the trunk lid. It took another two breaths before he was able to jerk the pen up, his eyes dropping closed briefly as he forced the trunk's lid open.

The absence of sound as the lid rose was almost ominous, and Gibbs had a heart flip of dread as he forced his eyes open, staring over the top of the trunk first, until he there was no choice but to look down... into the empty trunk.

Clenching his fist on the lid, Gibbs dropped his forehead against it briefly before gently closing it and turning toward the apartment.

Using the spare key, Tony had given him, Gibbs enters the apartments without buzzing, but not without noticing an unpleasant slickness on the door's handle. The hallways are thankfully empty as he climbs the stairs to Tony's floor then approached his door.

The silence was less welcome.

At that moment, he would have preferred the thuds of over-turned furniture, the shattering of broken lamps, even pained moans... anything other the peaceful, too-late sounding silence. Whatever had happened, it seemed, was finished.

Tony's doorknob had the same unpleasant slickness as the front door and turned immediately, sending another wave of near dizziness through Gibbs. Unlike himself, Tony never, knowingly, left his doors unlocked. The thought of him being too far gone to notice or care spawned another round of gruesome thoughts.

Dreading that he would find Tony just inside the door, beyond help, Gibbs pushed the door open slowly waiting for the slightest resistance, but it opened easily and beyond the door, Tony's foyer and living room looked almost normal... if you didn't count the trail left by thick drops of blood that led in the direction of Tony's bedroom.

It was less than three seconds work to verify that the foyer, living room, kitchenette, and bath were clear. Gibbs was at his open bedroom door, by the fifth, staring at an unmoving lump, wrapped in blood-stained sheets and blankets, and curled in on itself.

A quick glance between the mirrors on the closet, over the dresser and on the far wall, confirmed that the room was clear, and the sheets were pulled far enough up that he could see from where he stood that no one was hiding underneath the bed. Before he was aware of even thinking of moving, Gibbs was on the other side of the bed reaching for the edge of the outer blanket... then jerking his hand away as he felt it shiver in his grasp.

A lump that wasn't purely relief rose in his throat, feeling like it would choke him as he questioned, “Tony?”

“Bo-ss?” a familiar, rasping voice questioned back as the blanket fidgeted, and an edge seemed to try to flip weakly back before the limb beneath it dropped.

“Tony!” Gibbs barked, his heart pounding a rapid staccato in his chest. “Hold on! I'll get you out of there.”

Beneath the blankets, and the rasp, Tony's voice sounded thick and vague, with a tone almost like the thickness of sleep, but less focused and noticeably off off. “Boss?” He asked again.

Gibbs cursed as he pulled the sheets and blankets away – counting six on the floor before he revealed the top of Tony's head. In addition to other wounds, wrapped in so many blankets, Tony had probably been suffering from oxygen deprivation.

“Hold on. Tony, almost there.”

Three tightly wrapped blankets later, he pushed back a makeshift hood formed by a corner of the fitted sheet pulled down around Tony's face and stared half in relief, half in dismay.

Tony's hair was matted down against his forehead from sweat, and his face was strangely flushed for seeming almost bloodless. Cracked and swollen, blotchy with spots of blood, his lips looked almost parched. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, but didn't look as dilated as he thought they would if Tony had been drugged. There were pinched bruises on his chin and a smear of something oily yellow coating the skin just below his nostrils and at the edges of his mouth.

“Boss?” Tony asked blearily squinting at him.

“Yeah, Tony?”

“ What... cha doing here?” Tony asked again, seeming to forget that he'd had already been speaking to Gibbs for some minutes, “Thought weekend … off.”

The tone of genuine confusion in Tony's voice worried Gibbs with possibilities that on top of whatever other injuries his agent had suffered, there might be head injuries, severe blood loss, drugs, clots from being tied in stress positions too long.

“We did, Tony, but it's Monday; when you didn't come in and failed to answer any of our calls, I came to check on you. Damn good thing that I did, too.”

“Didn't hear a call. Should've. Probably should've. You wouldn't have come, 'nless I missed answerin'... but, thought we had the week'nd off.”

Gibbs knew too many causes for the sort of disorientation that he heard in Tony's voice, and the more he tried to push those thoughts away the more they came to the surface

“Don't think I can come into work, today.” His tone apologetic and somewhat sheepish, Tony didn't seem to realize how obvious that fact was.

“Ya think?” Gibbs couldn't help but smile, if somewhat sadly, at the apology.

“Yeah.” Tony confirmed, adding, “Not feeling so good.”

“I can see that.” Gibbs agreed, and stiffened when Tony flinched, clearly remembering the last time he'd said that particular phrase.

“Hey, didn't mean it that way, Tony. That's not how I meant it at all. I just let my nerves get away with me. You'd dropped off radar, and then we found out what that little shit was setting you up for, and when I walked up to the car... and your head was laying over like that... I was sure that he'd … well, you can guess what I'd thought, and to tell you the truth, I felt like ripping him to pieces, but then you lifted your head, and I realized that you'd made it... again... and shit, you get yourself in too many of these close scrapes, Tony... anyway, I still had that urge to rip something to pieces, but my preferred target had a bullet through his head, and I let my mouth run away with me. I regretted it as soon as it was out of my mouth. One of the reasons I don't say much, you know. If your mouth's shut, can't stick your foot in it.”

Gibbs waited -stiff and still - for Tony's response, but when Tony remained silent, he glanced back down and saw that his agent's eyes were unfocused and glassier, if that was possible.

Tony's hands were tightly clenching two fitted sheets around himself cocoon like.

“Let go of the sheets, Tony.” He ordered coaxingly, but Tony's eyes were barely focused on him, and Gibbs wasn't entirely certain that he understood what was being asked.

Pulling at them gently, he was startled when Tony's fingers grasped them tighter.

“It's okay. Everything will be okay. Just let go of the sheets.” Gibbs coaxed.

“Yes, Sir.” Tony agreed, uncharacteristically formal, but while his hands flexed spasmodically, it wasn't enough to actually release the sheets, if that had even been what he'd been attempting to do.

Starting with Tony's right hand, Gibbs closed his hand over Tony's, and jerked his gaze back up to study Tony's face as he felt the burn of a high fever beneath Tony's skin.

Moving very slowly and gently, he lifted one finger after another, dislodging each finger's grip on the blanket before he moved to the next.

Tony cocked his head, hissing slightly in pain as he did, but seemed to ignore it as his eyes focused in the general direction of Gibb's.

Tony rambled on in a repetitive stream of conscious spattered with more 'Sirs' and requests that seemed to mean something, but didn't make sense to Gibbs as he gently unwound the last to sheets from Tony's legs, careful not to jar his back where most of the blood stains seemed to have originated.

Although he didn't see how he could be more alarmed - when Tony was finally unwrapped and he stared down at his agent – Gibbs couldn't quite believe his eyes.

Instead of Tony's customary far-too-expensive if stylish business casual shirt and slacks, Tony looked as if Abby had picked out his clothing: a long-sleeved, tightly-fitted, mesh tunic over equally-tight leather pants that barely covered the tops of soft black moccasins.

Shocked back to his senses, Gibbs groped his pocket for his phone, flipping it open as he dragged it out.

He fingers grope out the number blindly, but he's dialed it so many times before in various stages from blind rage to blind drunk that his fingers know it by heart as much as his mind does.

Staring at DiNozzo as he spoke, Gibbs went with the sudden feeling deep in his gut, throwing out rapid -fire questions and orders in a quiet non-stop stream of words that gave Ducky no opportunity to get a word or question in edgewise that wasn't a direct response to one of his: “you still carrying you're emergency bag in your car? Good. Don't tell anyone that I've called you, or why, just get to Tony's apartment ASAP. Call me when you're near. I'll buzz you up.”

When Tony was clearly hurt and possibly needed a hospital, Gibbs wasn't certain why he felt he needed to keep whatever happened on low profile until Tony was more coherent, but he wasn't in the habit of ignoring his gut feelings - feelings that were screaming at him loudly and insistently.

Not certain what else was safe to do before Ducky arrived, Gibbs settled for grabbing a metal salad bowl from the kitchenette, filling it with ice water, and grabbing a handful of wash clothes from the linen closet he'd found while securing the scene.

Dipping one of the cloths into the bowl, he squeezed it out until it was comfortably damp and, after a slight hesitation, began to wipe Tony's face, starting with the yellow oil under Tony's nose that he somehow found more disturbing than even the blood. He was probably destroying evidence, but couldn't care less – at that moment. If Tony couldn't remember enough about his assailant for Gibbs to track the bastard down, he could have Abby try to pull it; but looking down at Tony's choice of dress again, Gibbs was almost certain that Tony would have a very good idea of who had hurt him and where to find the soon-to-be-seriously-hurting son-of-a-bitch.

Moaning softly, in reaction to the cold, Tony turned with a hiss of pain and pressed is face into the wash cloth, probably trying to find relief from the fever.

“Easy,” Gibbs coaxed, dipping and squeezing out another washcloth, one handed, and folding it into neat thirds with a few quick folds of his fingers.

“Here, this should help.” He offered, laying the chill cloth across Tony's flushed and heated forehead.

“Better?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tony repeated with that odd monotone formality as he relaxed back into the pillows with a sigh that broke off in a gasp.

“Hey Tony, stay with me. Ducky will be here, soon. Hear me? Ducky's on his way.”

“Yes, Sir.”

ブレンキン

“In here,” Gibbs bit out, trying to suppress the urge to bark at the man for not getting there sooner. Ducky, of course, had come as quickly as he'd been able, but all the same, it had been a difficult fifteen minutes waiting as Tony drifted in and out of lucidity, his fever entirely unaffected by the icy towels wrapped across his forehead, neck, and wrists.

“Anthony, My Dear Boy,” Ducky sighed sadly as he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Tony's wrist. “How much longer can this continue?”

“This?” Gibbs growled, “This … has happened before?”

“Now is not the time, Jethro.” Ducky snapped sharply. “Help me lift him and take him into the shower. We'll need to remove his shirt, it will be less painful if we rinse and debride the mesh as much as possible.”

Wrapping one hand around Tony's upper arm, Gibbs tested his grip to be certain that he wouldn't add to Tony's pain as he pulled the younger man up.

“Slowly, Jethro, slowly.” Ducky cautioned. “Let's get him to the shower.”

Working together, they supported Tony as he trudged into the bathroom. Neither resisting their efforts, nor assisting them, Tony seemed oblivious of their intention, only moving forward in response to their coaxing.

When they reached the room, Ducky pulled Tony's weight over, gesturing for Jethro to move ahead.

“He'll need your support, Jethro.”

Kicking his shoes off, Gibbs stripped to his undershirt and boxers, stepped into the shower, turned the water on, and reached out for Tony.

“Step up, My Boy.” Ducky coaxed gently. “And allow Jethro hold your weight, while I take off your slippers.”

“Yes, Sir.” Tony answered, complacently raising his arms to wrap them over Gibbs shoulder without question.

“Sir?” Gibbs mouthed at Ducky, trying to draw his attention to Tony's odd response, but dropped the question at Ducky's rather formidable glare.

“You need to turn him into the water Jethro, to loosen the dried blood enough that we may remove his shirt.”

Turning slowly, Gibbs coaxed the younger man to follow his lead, and stiffened when Tony whimpered and jerked when the water hit his back.

“There, there. My Boy. There, there.”

“It hhurttssss,” Tony whined pathetically.

“Yes, My Boy, I know, but needs must.”

Tony nodded into Gibbs shoulder, clenched his hands convulsively, and seemed to catch and hold his breath against the pain without further complaint. Despite his silence, Tony's pain was obvious in the way he clung to Gibbs shoulder, taking breaths in gasps and shudders.

“Ducky...” Gibbs protested, but trailed off when Ducky, surprisingly, joined them in the shower, barefoot and stripped to his own undershirt.

Ducky ran his hand gently over the back of Tony's head, coaxing gently, “such a very, very good boy.”

To Gibbs surprise, Tony stilled in his arms relaxing his clinging grip and slowing breaths, and it struck him suddenly that Ducky already knew what was going on. Gibbs wasn't certain what detail clenched the truth for him, but something had, and he was certain without question that whatever was going on, Ducky was not only aware of it, but it had dealt with it before. Perhaps even many times before as Ducky and Tony almost had an established … routine, if that was the right word for it.

“That's it. My Boy.” Ducky continued to murmur as he moved around to the other side slipping scissors under the edge of Tony's shirt and carefully cut the shirt away.

“Such a good boy...Such a good boy.” Ducky murmured over and over, seeming to avoid Gibbs gaze as he worked until the front of Tony's shirt dropped off his chest and slid down between them.

Finally lifting his gaze to meet Gibbs, Ducky held his gaze, pressing the scissors into Gibbs hand before lifting his free hand to gently stroke the back of Tony's head.

As Gibbs watched, the expression in Ducky's eyes became, at once, more harsh and more bleak, but they held his gaze unrelentingly as Ducky spoke in an demanding tone.

“My Boy, when I remove your shirt it is going to hurt, but you'll need to hold perfectly still, until I give you permission to move. Do you understand?”

Gibbs opened his mouth to argue that at the very least they needed to move Tony back to the bed, but Tony's weak agreement, “Yes, Sir. Hold perfectly still” temporarily forestalled him.

“Good boy.” Ducky patted the back of Tony's head gently, staring directly into Gibbs eyes as he continued... “Good boy. It's going to hurt, but you can take it, can't you?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tony answered softly, before Gibbs could question their bizarre dynamic.

Ducky finally turned his gaze to Tony's back, took both edges of the cloth between his fingers and began to pull them away from Tony's skin, revealing as he did, long deep scores cutting the length of Tony's back that had been hidden by the dried blood and material. True to his word, Tony sunk into Gibbs chest for support then held perfectly still and silent as Ducky painstakingly peeled the shirt out of each long groove and away from his skin until Ducky finally dropped the sodden mass to the shower floor, where the shower water drained off of it in blood-tinted streams.

Gibbs had expected Ducky to give him the okay to help Tony out of the shower, but instead, Ducky turned the water higher almost - to full blast- and lifted the shower head to direct its full force in the center of Tony's back.

“What the hell?” Gibbs barked, as Tony convulsed against him, fighting to stay still despite what must have been a tremendous amount of pain.

“We must get the weals cleaned, Jethro, even the smallest thread can cause additional infection if left in when I suture the deepest cuts.” Ducky wielded his explanation like an unexpected weapon, giving Gibbs no option but to comply...

And, he hated it.

ブレンキン

“Is NOW 'the time', Ducky?” Gibbs growled angrily as soon as they shut Tony's bedroom door behind them. “NOW, can I ask what the HELL is going on with my agent, how long you've known, and WHY in the Hell you haven't told me?”

“Jethro, sit! I will gladly answer your questions, but I find that I have had quite enough to deal with this afternoon without adding your customary surly chastisements.”

Too angry with the doctor, at the moment, to cooperate, Gibbs nevertheless recognized that he wouldn't get anything from Ducky if he continued arguing so grumbled, “Go on!” and paced around the room to blow off steam.

Ducky sighed with a 'put-upon' sigh that made Gibbs want to call him on it, but he stifled the urge, turning away from his friend and doing another circuit between Tony's couch and entertainment center.

While he waited for Ducky to gather his thoughts and follow through on his promise to explain, Gibbs began to study the room trying to gather is own intel on Tony's mindset and how his agent had seemingly gotten into the trouble that he clearly had.

Strangely, it was tidier and more sedate than he had expected from his agent.

Gibbs had been to Tony's apartment before, at least a couple of times, but it had always been with enough notice for Tony to straighten up before he had arrived. Now that he thought of it, Gibbs supposed that he had, at least subconsciously, been expecting that without the threat of his impending arrival, Tony kept house like any non-military thirty-year old bachelor kept house, in other words, just neat enough that it didn't turn off potential dates, but -by no means - military straight, or nearly so.

Despite his expectations, though, Tony's apartment was, or nearly so. Gibbs couldn't say for certain, but even his own apartment after he returned from Iraq probably hadn't been so orderly, but then Gibbs had still been mourning for his late wife and daughter, drinking more that his mentor – no light-weight, himself, to drinking – was strictly comfortable with, and slowly recovering from lingering injuries suffered shortly before his release. His customary discipline had slipped for several months, before he'd finally come back to himself.

Seeming to sense Gibb's attempt to mitigate his attitude, Ducky finally started off in a contemplative tone, as if he was just then piecing together the mystery of Tony's behavior for himself, though Gibbs was certain that was not the case.

“It might interest you to know, Jethro, that until you introduced me to Young Anthony, here, I had firmly believed that I had never met anyone as firmly driven as yourself.”

“Wait, just a second, are you trying to say that I drove Tony to this... whatever this is? This wasn't for a case, Du--”

“No, My Boy, quite the opposite. Were it not for you, I believe that Anthony would not be here, today.”

“So, What?!? Are you trying to say that this was a botched suicide attempt? Because that's BS,and you know it. I don't know what this is, but it's not that.”

“JETHRO, if you wish for an explanation, it might behoove you to be silent long enough to receive it. I doubt anyone who has met you would credit it if I told them how many times you've interrupted me in the past two minutes, and with entire sentences to boot.”

“Oh, they'd believe it.” Gibbs muttered uncharitably, knowing he'd feel guilty for it later, and resenting the Doctor just a little bit for that later guilt. It wasn't as if Ducky wasn't stalling AND withholding important information.

“First of all, I am doing no such thing.” Ducky retorted, reading his opinion from his resentful glare. “Second, while I can not speak directly to the specific cause of Young Anthony's suffering, I can speculate on the effects as they pertain to his motivation to … engage in certain activities that contain a component of... self-harm.”

“Then stop beating around the bush and do it.” Gibbs snapped.

Ducky managed a rather formidable glare of his own toward Gibbs, but Gibbs ignored it, gesturing with his fingers for Ducky to 'get on with it'.

After a harsh sigh, Ducky did continue, but not in the direction that Gibbs expected: “Jethro, have you never wondered how Anthony, who previously barely managed to stay at any of his prior assignments longer than eighteen months managed to gain the investigative and administrative experience required to integrate almost seamlessly into the NCIS without additional formal military training? I quite strongly remember your complaints about his predecessor's incompetence in filing reports properly continuing at least three months, and he was straight out of the academy... Where your complaints about Young Anthony ceased after the second week.”

“I don't know. He's a fast learner. I saw that right off. It was part of the reason I offered him the job.”

“Well yes, perhaps, but isn't there more to the matter than that?”

“I don't know what you're getting at. Tony's a good agent; has the potential to be one of the best. I know he acts up, but some of that's to keep others from paying attention to what he's really getting at on a case. It's been to our benefit more than once, or I wouldn't let him get away with it. Besides that he's smart, and he's one of the best undercover operatives we've had in at least five years.” Gibbs argued, crossing him arms across his chest defensively.

He really wasn't comfortable talking about his team like this, but didn't like the feeling that Ducky seemed implying that Tony wasn't as good an agent as he was.

“Yes, yes, of course. I, truly, was not slighting the young man, Jethro, merely hoping to point out something that I believe you have just pointed out to yourself. An interesting choice of words by the way: that Anthony 'acts up to keep others from paying attention to what he's really doing', perhaps that even applies to yourself? That his act has been so successful even you, yourself, may have missed what he was doing?”

Gibbs wanted to protest that Ducky was misreading the situation, but with Tony laying in the other room, his back newly sewn up from some sort of 'activity that contained a component of self-harm', it was impossible to deny that he had missed something - something critical.

“For instance, the file drawer, just on your left, by your calf... You mentioned that Anthony is a fast learner, which I don't doubt, nevertheless, even fast learners, such as Anthony require a text book, of sorts, if they wish to stay ahead of the curve. If you'll look in the drawer, you'll find Anthony's text book.”

It was an invasion of Tony's privacy, and Gibbs knew that even his discovery of Tony's injuries didn't quite give him the right to go poking around in Tony's private files, but despite himself and his misgivings, he pulled out the drawer, and started going through the files.

“These are... my case notes and incident reports all the way back to my first day at the agency.” Gibb glanced through them, feeling off-balance, exposed and more than a little confused.

As he thumbed through the files at the back of each one, he came to a detailed case analysis, in Tony's careful script, with annotations to any of the relevant rules that Gibbs had taught him over the years as well as cross-referenced notes to Tony's own performance on various cases. Tony didn't seem to cut himself any slack, either. As he got into the files at the back of the drawer, filed with Tony's own case notes, Gibbs was more than a little startled to see in-depth critical notes on even minor errors that Gibbs had felt, in some cases, were beyond Tony's control. Sure, he'd made it a rule not to assume anything, but even he recognized that it was impossible to anticipate every eventuality. Glancing at Tony's notes, it didn't appear that Tony had come to that realization yet, himself.

“I didn't ask for him to ...” Gibbs trailed off as Ducky raised a forestalling hand.

“Not explicitly, I am sure, but you have set high standards for him to live up to, My Boy, as high as the standards that you set for yourself, BUT,” Ducky sharpened his tone to override Gibbs, who had opened his mouth to protest, “But, in doing so, you have given Anthony something that he sorely needed: a sense of worth. He mentioned to me, once, that you were the first person who had ever expected anything good from him and never let up until you got it. You've given him a direction and purpose.”

“If that's true, then how did this happen? What's eating him, Ducky? Why didn't he come to me if he's having problems?”

“As to how this came about, Anthony has never shared the tale of how he became habituated to what I can only describe as base masochism, but from what has shared and from my own indirect confirmation, this has been going on for a very long time. He admits that he has engaged in this behavior even as far back as his college days; however, the very few hints that have slipped his guard suggest either a much earlier emergence or a disturbingly swift descent into high risk behavior. I believe the former is the more likely possibility given Anthony's reticence to discuss any aspect of his life before college.”

Replacing Tony's case files back into the drawer, precisely as they had been before he had removed them, Gibbs pulled out the desk chair, turned its back to face the doctor, and straddled it- crossing his arms over the back of the chair. Turning his gaze away from Ducky, he stared at the closed door to Tony's bedroom trying to reconstruct his mental image of Tony to include the possibility that his agent... his senior agent... his second in command routinely and secretively placed himself in situations where he had been injured severely enough that Tony had been compelled to call Ducky for assistance.

“As far as what's eating him,” Ducky continued, “As I said, I can't speak to the direct cause, and truthfully, I doubt that even Anthony recognizes what is truly at the root of his anguish; although, you must understand that his lack of understanding, in no way, makes it any less real, as you've seen. As for why Anthony did not come to you with his difficulties... Jethro, surely you must realize that as far as Tony is concerned, you are the only person who doesn't think he is 'a screw up', in one form or other. I believe that he would quite likely suffer almost any indignity to preserve your opinion of him.”

After Gibbs conceded to his point with a reluctant and rueful nod, Ducky maundered on for close to three hours without repetition or diverging into personal anecdotes. He laid out, for Jethro, in minute and specific detail what he knew, strongly suspected, and merely speculated on regarding Tony's various coping mechanisms, masochistic behaviors, and Tony's behaviors prior to and following what Tony apparently called 'discipline' sessions. By the time Ducky was interrupted by a phone call from Palmer, informing him that his mother had been attempting to contact him, Gibbs had a much clearer and more grim impression of his second, as well as a far more sobering estimation of his role in his agent's life.

“Thanks, Ducky.” He cut the doctor off, before Ducky could offer to stay with Tony. “You go on. I'll stay with him till morning, but stop by on your way in, if you could. I need to talk to the Director and make some arrangements.”

Ducky opened his mouth to protest, clearly feeling that he had to intervene on Tony's behalf, but Gibbs still irritated at Ducky for keeping Tony's issues a secret, frustrated with the situation, and more than a little exhausted by the day - to hear Ducky out, much less explain himself.

“It's my team, Ducky, and I'll handle it my way.” He growled, cutting his friend off before the doctor could utter a single syllable.

“Of course, Jethro, of course. Far be it for me to suggest that you rethink the wisdom of rashly-made decisions; however, it would be remiss of me if I failed to caution you to go gently with Young Anthony when he awakens. It is not uncommon for him to be particularly affected following one of these incidents, and it is not too fine a point to mention that your discovering his extra-curricular activities has been his second greatest fear, even greater than that of his own death.”

“Greater than...” Gibbs repeated softly, almost questioning what his agent's greatest fear was – if not his own death – but the significant stare Ducky was aiming at him told him more than he needed to know about the answer. “Fine,” He grunted. “I'll keep it in mind.”

“That's all I ask, Jethro.”

ブレンキン

Tony clarified Ducky's definition of 'particularly affected' four hours later, when he shuffled, barefoot, into the living room and leaned, clutching heavily at the door frame as he watched Jethro thumbing through a well worn copy of The Zen of Motorcycle Maintenance. Watching Tony, in his peripheral vision, Jethro continued thumbing through the book, waiting for Tony to make the first comment. Much to his surprise, though, Tony stayed silent, and after a moment, padded past him into the kitchenette.

Torn between ordering Tony back to bed, and seeing how Tony intended to deflect his attention, Gibbs waited silently as Tony puttered around the kitchenette, gathering a mug, a plate, a jar, and a package of something that rattled softly. After organizing them on a larger plate, Tony worked near silently, drawing Gibb's curious stare.

ブレンキン

TBC...

Chapter Text

Blinking uncomfortably and dragging his hand up to wipe the dry gritty feeling from his eyes, Tony winced at the familiar pain of stitches pulling and then winced a second time at the realization that Ducky was going to be disappointed in him – again.

Although, after their first -painfully long- talk, Ducky had never complained about Tony's rare calls, when a session went too far, and had thankfully, never felt the need to take the matter up with Gibbs, he had never hidden his disapproval of Tony's particular choice of stress relief. His disappointment was particularly difficult to bear when Tony chose his partner's badly and sessions went wrong, like the latest session had.

He couldn't understand how he had chosen so badly this time; normally, the instincts that had made him so effective as an undercover cop and agent let him weed out the crazies and wannabes, who always tended to go too far trying to prove something to themselves or others. This time, though, his instincts had failed him completely, only warning him that he'd misjudged his partner for the evening – after he was securely tied down and the man was pushing something cold and oily into his mouth and nostrils to gag him and block his breathing.

Thankfully, the substance had melted quickly. Caught between trying to catch his breath back and trying to control his breathing and cries of pain in response to the sharp painful scores inflicted by the metal-chained 'unicorn whip' that the jerk had pulled out of his back after securing Tony – Tony hadn't been in any shape to get his safe word out even if he had been able to remember the stupid literary reference that the man had insisted on for Tony's safe word. That should have told Tony from the beginning that the man was off-balance, and perhaps it had.

If he were being honest with himself, and Tony generally tried to be honest – with himself – at least, he couldn't deny the shiver of anxiety he'd felt looking into the man's eyes as they'd finished their drinks. He should have stopped it then and there, and the shiver had been enough to tell him, at the time, that he should, he'd ignored it- just like he'd ignored all of the signs that Jeffrey White had been throwing off that practically screamed at him that the convict had been less of an innocent than he'd seemed.

Maybe his instincts weren't worth a crap after all.

He'd let himself ignore every one of the signs Jeffrey had been throwing off, and had even let himself start to like the guy, and how messed up was that? He was a federal agent; White had been an escaped convict... a tool to lead him to the buyer of antiquities and, for that reason alone, he shouldn't have let himself empathize with the guy. He shouldn't have cared that Jeffrey's father... that White's father had been abusive or that White might have been a quiet and socially awkward kid, like Tony himself had been as a child, before an older student had helped him wise up. He shouldn't have tried to help Jef- -White at all. White hadn't been the child-like man that Tony had assumed him to be, naïve and needing someone to guide him; he had been a killer, and Tony... Tony would have been his next...

But he wasn't, and he couldn't think about that right now. Not right now. He'd done what he'd had to do, and it wasn't like White hadn't deserved it. Even if down in his gut, it still didn't feel like it could possibly be the same person he'd been with, Tony knew it was true. Jeffrey White had been a killer... a cold blooded killer, and Tony had been completely taken in.

And wasn't that what his screw-up this weekend had been all about anyway. His mind had been so messed up with thoughts of White, how badly his instincts had failed him, and how deeply he'd screwed up because he'd acted like a complete rookie and taken everything that White told him at face value, that when it came down to it, he hadn't trusted the shiver of anxiety or the rush of foreboding that had shot through him when, his partner for the evening, whose name had been patently false (come on, Dirk Goodwidth, really?) tied both hands loosely once, only to come back and tie them far tighter when Tony had dropped his guard, thinking that things weren't going to get that heavy if Dirk didn't even intend to undress him first. Then, when he'd struggled to get out before Dirk could finish tying him down, the first ties proved tight enough to keep him caught long enough for the second ties to be secure.

'Dirk' had been ready for the fuss he was going to put up, too, shoving the ball of whatever it was... grease, lard, or oil into his mouth. His mind shied away from the thought that it might just have been rancid oil, and how gross would that have been, probably scraped from some fast food joint's fry-daddy; it tasted odd enough and sort of smoky.

He'd been stupid enough to have his 'rendezvous' over the club, itself, not feeling comfortable enough with the man to take it to his place, and he never brought his session partners home. How stupid had that been; the place catered to people who got off on hurting others or being hurt, so no one probably even lifted an eyebrow when he'd been unable to swallow his screams as that freaking metal whip came down on his back again and again. Certainly, no one even spared him a second glance when he stumbled out of the back door, barely able to walk straight.

He should have fucking searched the bag before he ever let the bastard tie his hands. What in the hell had he been thinking?

Tony knew the answer to that, though; he hadn't been thinking, as Ducky would no doubt point out in several minutes. He'd been so messed up, torn between guilt, anger, embarrassment, and more than a little self-loathing that he'd known if he didn't get his head back on straight, he was just going end up screwing up at work and possibly even putting someone else in danger next time. One thing he knew about himself was that when he screwed up, he usually screwed up big time.

That meant going to a club and taking his licks, so he could just stop thinking about it until enough time passed that he could get some perspective on it, and figure out what had been going on in his mind. Even though Ducky disapproved of his method, the doctor had admitted that he understood why Tony needed this clear his mind sometimes: like a physical reboot.

Not that it looked like it had worked this time, but that was all down to Tony, too; if he hadn't picked Dirk, if he'd hooked up with someone else, someone without an agenda, who'd listened to what Tony wanted (the slow build up of pain that didn't go over the line, making Tony feel victimized himself, as Dirk definitely had) then Tony was sure he could have worked things out the way he needed to and enjoyed the feeling of atonement and forgiveness that aftercare usually made him feel. Instead, Dirk's promised treatment only made him feel like a test-crash dummy (turned blow-up doll, when the man decided to put down the whip and show him what other uses the grease could be put to). Dirk's aftercare had been non-existent, so Tony couldn't even delude himself into thinking that Dirk had just misjudged the level of how rough Tony had wanted to get.

No, Dirk had just slapped Tony's bared ass, told him he'd been fun, gathered up his things, and walked out, leaving Tony to struggle with the ties, until one of the club's bouncers came in to tell Tony that their time was up and they either had to pay for another hour or get out.

With the bouncer's help, Tony couldn't get out fast enough: Tony wanting to leave the scene of his latest screw up, and the bouncer wanting to get him the hell out of there before he decided to do something stupid like call the police and cause problems for the club. Tony had nothing of the sort on his mind – for a multitude of reasons – but the bouncer hadn't known it, so he couldn't really blame the man for giving him the bum's rush... even if, at the time, he'd been feeling an entirely different kind of vulnerability, hurting and just wanting someone to give him a hand, not forgiveness, just a hand until he felt steadier.

He'd been so out of it; Tony didn't even remember calling Ducky, but judging from the stitches still pulling at various painful angles along his spine, he must have, and Ducky was probably waiting for him right at that moment, to come down, tail between his legs, and apologize for letting things get out of hand – again- and calling him away from home on a weekend – again – and just being an overall general nuisance – again.

Deciding that he'd put off apologizing long enough, Tony tried to roll onto his back to sit up and realized at once - with a stab of agony so sharp as to take his breath away - that it had been a terrible idea, possibly the worst idea he'd ever had.

Rubbing away the moisture that had sprung to his eyes, Tony groaned softly, hoping Ducky didn't hear, and slowly began to push himself out of bed, thankful that he'd never given up the the habit of push ups in the morning, because without that extra bit of arm strength he would have probably ended up on the floor when the pain of shifting caused his knees to go weak. When he grabbed the bedside table to steady himself, his hand ran into a pill bottle and glass of water, nearly spilling them.

He had to blink his eyes a couple of times before he could read the bottle, but relaxed when he had. It was just antibiotics. Duck knew how much Tony hated pain medication because it made him loopy and totally defeated the point. (What use was going and taking a few licks to get your head on straight if a couple of little white pills could make you feel as good as new again?) Still, every move that pulled his back one way or other took his breath away, and he had to focus his entire concentration on just getting the pill bottle open and the pills into his mouth.

When he finally set the pill bottle down, followed by the water glass, and looked across the room to the door, Tony was almost tempted to admit defeat and call for Ducky's help – and a dose of whatever pain meds he might have on hand. It looked miles away, and one faltering half-step was enough to prove to himself that he wouldn't make it if he tried to walk across the room without something to hang on to.

Holding onto the bedside table, Tony followed it around as far as it would let him, then clung to the wall for several breaths before he moved on, shuffling slowly around the room towards the open door and stopping to take a breath every few feet. By the time he reached the far wall, he was light-headed, almost exhausted, so unsteady on his feet that his fingers were aching from just trying to cling to the wall to keep him upright, and more than halfway across the room from his bed.

Closing his eyes, because looking toward the light creeping around the door made him even dizzier, Tony took a deep breath, and started out again; it was either make it to the doorway where he could get Ducky's attention and help to get into a seat or just crumple where he was standing and wait for the next time Ducky decided to checking on him. While the latter was a tempting choice, he still had a little pride left and elected to make it to the door, which seemed like the slightly less pathetic option.

Leaning into the wall, he slowly made his way around the edge of the room until he finally stood, frozen in the doorway, clutching the door frame as he watched Gibbs thumbing through a well worn copy of The Zen of Motorcycle Maintenance. Watching Gibbs silently watching him out of the corner of his eye, pretending to thumb through the book although Tony was sure that he wasn't seeing a single word on any of the pages and clearly waiting for Tony to make the first comment – Tony felt the weight of Gibbs' non-stare as if it were a heavy hand curled across his mouth.

The utter mass of everything that he knew he needed to say and still couldn't say blocked his throat as surely as Dirk's disgusting gag, and after a moment, of desolate failure to say anything, feeling utterly exposed and laid bare by his boss's watchful silence, Tony gave himself over to routine and shuffled past him into the kitchenette. Whenever his sessions left serious enough marks that he knew he'd have to call Ducky in or risk discovery the following week at work, Tony had always finished the night off by making Ducky one of the teas he liked and serving some of the little English short bread cookies as both a thank you and an apology. It made him feel better to do it, and he was hoping, probably stupidly, that doing something similar for Gibbs would help now.

To Tony's surprise, Gibbs seemed content to wait silently as Tony puttered around the kitchenette. After turning the teapot on, he pulled down the instant Starbuck mixes that he'd bought just in case the boss ever came over to his apartment for more than a twenty-five-second-or-I'll-leave-you-to-walk pickup for work, and grabbed a mug and a plate from the cupboard. He didn't have any more of the shortbreads, but he didn't think that Gibbs would like them anyway, so he got down a package of some dark chocolate and almond cookies that he'd thought Gibbs might like when he first tried them and a small jar of almond butter as an accompaniment. The cookies were pretty dry, alone, even though they had a sharp rich flavor, but a little bit of almond butter, and they were just about perfect – with a cup of strong coffee.

After organizing them on a larger plate, Tony hesitated, feeling Gibb's curious stare on his back. The coffee mug rattled softly against the plate as he set it down, and he held onto the counter for several seconds trying to catch his breath until he felt like he could turn around.

Gibbs eyes were firmly fixed on the book when Tony did turn around, but he could still feel his boss's non-stare track every step back until Tony was standing beside him. The silence still as overpoweringly heavy as it had been moments before, Tony steeled himself, waiting for Gibbs to look up at him with a stare he wouldn't be able to meet, tear him a new one for doing something so stupid, or just tell him he was fired.

“That for me?” It wasn't the first thing or the worst thing that he'd expected to hear, but it was still more than he could answer with anything other than a slow lift of his chin as he held the plate out to his boss, feeling awkward, exposed, and over-whelmed.

Why couldn't it have been Ducky? Why did it have to be the absolute last person, the very, very, last person in the world that he'd ever wanted to find out?

Gibbs studied the hand holding the plate out to him, Tony's hand, which he'd only just noticed was beginning to tremble, and after a moment, took the plate, probably assuming correctly that Tony would drop it if he had to hold much longer.

“Sit.” Gibbs ordered, and Tony gratefully complied, glad to be sitting down before his legs went out from under him.

“Ducky left some pills, antibiotics, for you to take, on your bedside table. Did you take 'em?”

Tony managed a more creditable nod this time, one that looked like he'd actually understood the question, and felt a small spark of relief when Gibbs nodded and lifted the mug to his lips.

“Good.”

Tony wasn't certain whether he was referring to the coffee or the antibiotics, but couldn't bring himself to ask.

“Ducky said you won't take anything for the pain. That you don't like what they do to you. That true?”

Tony nodded his agreement, pretty sure that his boss already knew about his preference. It was hardly the first time Gibbs had seen him hurt.

Gibbs took another sip of coffee and picked up one of the cookies. He took a small bite and grimaced very slightly before looking back to the plate.

“What's this?” he asked gesturing back to the small pat of almond butter.

It was a simple direct question, with an easy answer; nevertheless, it still took more than a few moments for Tony to work up the nerve to break the oppressive silence enough to whisper the answer, but when he did, Gibbs nodded his approval, and the small knot of tension that had been blocking Tony's throat began to unwind.

“What's it for, dipping?”

“Yes,” Tony answered in a slightly louder almost murmur, knowing what Gibbs was doing, but relieved nevertheless. As if it was a reward for getting his answer,Gibbs dipped the cookie into almond butter, took a bite, then another swallow of coffee and smiled at the combination.

“They're good together.” Gibbs complimented, and Tony relaxed just a bit more as Gibbs finished the cookie and picked up the next.

“From the way you're sittin',” Gibbs began, casually, studying the cookie and ignoring the sudden tension that was stiffening Tony's posture.

“Looks to me, like you're in quite a bit of pain.”

It wasn't precisely a question, but Tony answered it anyway, knowing that Gibbs wouldn't believe otherwise, even if he tried to deflect him from the truth, “Yeah.”

“If I tell you to take the damn pain pills, you'll do it.”

It wasn't precisely a question, but Tony felt as if Gibbs was still looking at him for confirmation, so he nodded.

“Good, DiNozzo, that's good.” A little warmth had slipped into Gibbs tone, with that response; whether from approval or the coffee, Tony couldn't tell, but as Gibbs kept sipping at the coffee, he expected it was the latter.

They sat in almost comfortable silence for several minutes more, until Gibbs finished the coffee and cookies, and held up a hand when Tony sat forward to take the mug back, ordering, “No, stay there. I'll take care of it.”

ブレンキン

Without the tension of waiting for the interrogation to start, Tony slipped into a light-headed haze of pain and exhaustion, as Gibbs washed, dried, and put away the dishes.

Leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees when he couldn't sit up straight any longer, Tony tried to think his way through what he wanted to say to his boss, in hopes of keeping the older man from getting so freaked out by his admission that he fired Tony on the spot. Segue after segue sped through his thoughts, but nothing that seemed even remotely promising came to mind.

He was sooo fired this time. If it had been just he and Tony on the team, like it used to be, Gibbs might have taken a chance on him; but there's no way he would take the risk, when Tony's bad judgment could put McGee or Kate at risk, and Tony didn't blame him a bit. If it had been Tony's team, he probably wouldn't have let a screw up like him on the team in the first place, and he knew there was something wrong with that logic, but getting up and getting Gibbs his coffee had taken more out of him than he really wanted to admit, and he just plain didn't have the energy to think about it any further.

A soft tap on the back of his head drew Tony's head up off his arms. He hadn't even been aware of dropping it in the first place; he must have been more out of it than he'd realized.

Gibbs was crouched in front of him, sitting back on his heels, with a glass of water in one hand and two red tipped capsules cupped in his other palm – in silent command.

Tony closed his eyes, a blink of silent defeat, before reaching out to take the capsules. He hated what the pain pills did to him, how they made everything feel surreal and 'loopy', and even worse, how they loosened his tongue; but, he figured that his boss probably couldn't think any worse of him, and pissing the Gibbs off wasn't a good idea, if he wanted to preserve any hopes of getting a good recommendation for his next job. He was pretty sure that he hadn't blown things so badly that Gibbs wouldn't at least let him resign, but even with a good record at NCIS, he'd need Gibbs recommendation to outweigh his previous record of moves from department to department.

The first capsule went down a little rougher than he'd expected; he must have screamed more than he realized, and the thought made him more than a little queasy with the knowledge that Dirk the jerk had probably enjoyed every second of making him scream as hard as he had. His discomfort must have shown more than he realized; between the first pill and gratefully-taken gulp of water and the second, Tony felt a soft stroke of rough, calloused fingertips through his hair.

“Attaboy.” Gibbs murmured softly before taking the glass back and offering the second capsule. When he'd swallowed the second, Gibbs followed up with, “Good, DiNozzo, that's good.”

Tony managed a small wan smile as he gave the glass back and softly replied, “Thank you, Sir,” trying not to think too deeply about why he'd called Gibbs 'Sir' instead of 'Boss'.

Gibbs stroked the back of his head again, in silent response, before setting the glass on the coffee table with a soft clink.

Even with his head back down on his arms, Tony could feel Gibbs stare on him. He still wasn't ready to attempt to explain, though, and kept his head down, hoping Gibbs wouldn't push, but knowing that the likelihood of that was decreasing with every second that passed. Gibbs wasn't the type to let something lie, and even if he had been, in ordinary circumstances, Tony was certain that Gibbs responsibilities as the MCRT team leader would overrule any leeway that Gibbs might have wanted to show him.

Seeming to sense the trend of his thoughts, Gibbs tapped the back of his head with a bit more pressure than before, and ordered, “heads up, DiNozzo. I want to see your eyes.”

Of course, he would, Tony thought wryly, but lifted his head until their gazes met. Tony had watched Gibbs perform enough interrogations to know that his boss rarely let suspects get away with avoiding his gaze.

Instead of beginning to question him, as Tony expected, however, Gibbs rested his fingertips on Tony's forehead to gently press Tony's left eyebrow up with his thumb, lifting his eyelid, then repeating with the right.

“Your pupils don't look to glassy or blown.” Gibbs announced authoritatively before explaining, when Tony stared questioningly, “Meds haven't hit you too hard yet. Think you can walk?”

'Yes, Sir.” Tony offered, hardly believing that Gibbs was going to let it ride. In fact, he couldn't believe it, as much as he'd wanted to, and the question was out of his mouth before he could think about it.

“Don't we have to talk?” It was the least charged way he could ask what he wanted to ask, but Tony still winced afterward and dropped his gaze, hardly able to bear the thought of the disgust and disappointment that he expected to see in Gibbs eyes.

“Tomorrow.” Gibbs tone was firm and final, and normally would have been enough to put Tony off from asking further questions, but whether the pain meds had already started to kick in, or whether the thought of waiting for the ax to fall was beyond his ability to cope (Tony hoped it was the former) = he had to say something... he had to know.

“But... tormorrow...”

“Don't push, DiNozzo. Ducky's coming buy tomorrow. He'll stay with you while I go in and make some … arrangements. Then, when I come back, we'll talk.”

“Oh,” Tony answered, wincing at the resignation and self-pity he heard in his tone. He didn't need to ask what Gibbs meant by 'arrangements'. It had been what he'd been expecting after all. It was almost a miracle that he'd lasted as long as he had at the Naval Yard.

Gibbs sigh was heavily laden with exasperation as he grabbed Tony by the forearms and pulled him up to his feet.

“Come on, DiNozzo. Just let me get you back to your bed before the pain meds put you on your ass.”

“Okay.” Tony agreed, following Gibbs almost mechanically until they had moved back around the couch and were passing the desk, where he paused pulling himself gently out of Gibbs' grip on his biceps.

“Just a minute, Boss.” Tony asked almost plaintively, when Gibbs started to grab his arms again. “Please. Just give me a minute, please.”

“DiNozzo.” Gibbs growled.

“I promise,” Tony insisted, “it'll just take a second.”

To prove his point, Tony pulled open lifted the center panel on the desk to reveal an inset drawer with several small divisions where he stored his keepsakes, important documents, and a pre-addressed envelope with Gibbs' name on it. Pulling out the letter inside, he grabbed a pen from the drawer, signed and dated the letter, and slipped it back into the envelope before handing it to Gibbs, whose eyebrow was arched with what appeared to be equal parts irritation and curiosity.

“It's... it should make your arrangements... easier tomorrow.” Tony explained in a small, subdued voice.

“DiNozzo...”

“Please, Boss. Let me resign, at least. Even if you don't feel you can give me a good recommendation, please just let me resign. I've had a pretty good close rate, here, and it might be enough to help them overlook my record of hopping from place to place. If it looks like I've washed out here, too, though, there's no chance I'll ever make it to detective again. I'd have a better chance getting job busing tables than anything over a beat cop, and I'm just not cut out for that. Too nosy. I know I've screwed up, but it's never affected the team. I swear. I've never... I mean... I...” Tony trailed off realizing that he'd been rambling under the influence of the pain pills, and after a second finished off with a final soft plea, “Please, Boss.”

“Don't be an idiot.” Gibbs muttered, grabbing Tony's shoulders and dragging him around until he was facing his bedroom again.

Tony's shoulders slumped in defeat, but he nodded his acceptance as he returned to the earlier form of address: “Yes, Sir”, assuming that he'd been asking too much of the man he'd probably always think of as his boss; regardless of reality, especially when the man had already given him a job in the wake of the Baltimore fiasco.

“DiNozzo, just...” Gibbs growled softly then sighed, “Just come on, let me get you back to your bed; We'll talk tomorrow.”

Tony nodded, silently giving in, and let himself be half-pulled, half-lead back to his bed, and guided back down on his stomach.

“You can reach the water if you need?” Gibbs questioned.

Tony nodded, offering a quiet “Yes, Sir,” when Gibbs arched an eyebrow.

Gibbs sighed an exasperated, almost explosive sigh, but followed up quietly, noticing Tony's wince in response. “Just rest, DiNozzo. Just get some rest,” and tapped Tony, lightly, on the back of the head.

Gibbs retreated to the doorway and stood waiting, so expectantly, in the doorway, that Tony almost felt like he should ask whether the man thought he was a 'clapper' or something ... that could just shut off on command, but the pain pills and the exhausting walk had taken enough of a toll on him that sleep robbed him of the energy to even do that.

The pills always made everything seem oddly surreal, so it easily could have been his imagination that let the brush of a pillow edge feel like fingertips pushing his hair back away from his face. Gibbs had been over by the door, after all, and it had to have been just his imagination that the creak of his bedroom door sounded just a little bit like another half-whispered 'attaboy'. The boss wouldn't have given him ... wouldn't have said that, for something as simple and stupid as falling asleep.

It had to be his imagination, even if it felt, just a little bit, like forgiveness.

Chapter Text

Closing the door behind him, Gibbs leaned back against the frame, staring down at the envelope that Tony had given him.

He knew what it was, of course. That had quickly become obvious, but the fact that Tony had it ready in the first place was... disturbing. He thought back over the previous weeks, trying to remember any signs that Tony had been unhappy with the job, or the team, or even with himself, personally, but couldn't pick out a single instance that stood out. His habits and behavior, in Gibbs opinion, hadn't changed drastically since his first day on the job.

Of course, Tony's methods had changed and improved, over time, making him one of the most effective agents that Gibbs had worked with, but his basic nature, his essential presence, had not changed as far as Gibbs could tell. Just how much had he missed?

What had happened that prompted Tony to even consider resigning, much less write his resignation?

Finally, deciding that the only answers he was likely to get, in the immediate future, given DiNozzo's earlier inability to even broach the topic of his injuries, would most likely come from the letter in his hand, Gibbs slipped it out of the envelope and slowly unfolded it.

ブレンキン

Senior Agent In Charge Jethro Leroy Gibbs

Naval Criminal Investigative Services: Major Case Response Team

Washington Navy Yard, Ward 6

Washington DC, 20001-20098

Re: Resignation of Anthony Michael DiNozzo

Boss:

If you're reading this letter one of two things has happened: either I've seriously screwed up, which has been known to happen on the not very rare occasion and there's not another alternative, or I've done something stupid like try to catch a bullet between my teeth, diffuse a bomb with my hands tied behind my back, skydive without a parachute, or something equally stupid, and you're left to clear up my effects. Hopefully, if it's the former, it was in at least performed in the line of duty and caused no irreparable injury to any other member of the team or innocent bystander. If it did, please consider this a blanket permission to kick my ass on the way out of the building.

In either eventuality, the first thing I have to say is I'm sorry. The second: I am/was/always will be deeply grateful and deeply honored that you gave me the opportunity to join your team.

You know that I've worked a couple of different places (bet you raised an eyebrow at that understatement), but until I worked for you, I never had a boss that I could 'really and truly' respect, admire, look up to, and all of that gushy stuff that guys aren't supposed to share. You really are the tops in the agency and would have definitely given Magnum a run for his money, if, you know, he'd been a real person.

With that said, if this is a resignation letter: I, Anthony Michael DiNozzo, do hereby tender this letter of resignation, with deepest regrets for whatever error in judgment, form, or conduct I may have made. It has been my honor and privilege to be a member of the Naval Criminal Investigative Services and the Major Case Response Team specifically, and I accept the full consequences and liability of my actions.

If it isn't, legal has my last will and testament, anything not specifically mentioned in that can be tossed, donated, or burned- your choice.

Signing off,

Anthony Michael DiNozzo,

Formerly Very Special Senior Field Agent

Naval Criminal Investigative Services: Major Case Response Team

ブレンキン

Snorting softly as he reached the bottom of the resignation letter, Gibbs folded it up shaking his head. Unless he was reading it wrong, Tony hadn't written it as a response to a growing dissatisfaction with the job or to a particular event, but as a form letter response to a likely possibility; and while there was definitely something wrong with Tony's assumption that it was likely to happen, it felt a lot more workable than having to deal with the desire to give up and go elsewhere.

Tony's clear certainty that Gibbs was going to fire him was something else they'd have to overcome, but Gibbs knew that words alone wouldn't be enough to allay Tony's apprehension when the younger man was so readily prepared to believe it, even after working with him for several years. Ducky wasn't any better, though, and he'd known Gibbs a lot longer than Tony had, so he couldn't really blame Tony for not knowing what to expect. Gibbs understood what Ducky had been trying to get across about Tony's fear of his finding out, but it still stung that they both had seemed ready to believe the worst of him.

Running his hand down from his forehead to his chin, Gibbs sighed harshly, and tapped the envelope against his thigh.

Damn it! He hated waiting.

He already knew what he wanted to do, what Tony needed him to do, and damn it, having to wait until morning and deal with it - when the office scuttlebutt could pick something before the team managed their reactions was the kind of mistake he didn't want to make...

And he wasn't going to!

Walking far enough from the door that Tony wouldn't be able to hear him if they didn't tick him off too much, Gibbs pulled out his phone and started dialing numbers.

“Ducky, can you still get back here? Yes, I mean 'right now'. No, nothing, nothing else, at least, has happened. Can you do it, or not? Then get over here.”

...

“Director, where are you? Yes, I know what time it is. Where are you? Would I be calling if it weren't? Where can I meet you, then? Forty-Five minutes. Yes, there's a reason that I don't want to handle this at the office. No, I'm not going to tell you over the phone. No, I haven't done anything illegal. No, I'm not planning to, and before you ask, no, no one on my team, either. Tom, just be at the damn diner in forty-five.”

...

“McGee, does it sound like I care that I woke you up? Then assume I don't. Round up Abby and Kate. Get them down to the 'mezzo-cuban' diner on the corner of Pemberton and Russel in an hour. No, I'm not going to tell you why. Just do it.”

...

Gibbs was ready for Ducky when he walked through the door, cutting the doctor's argument off before the man could get a single syllable out.

“You should know before you hear it from the director, but I'm going to lie about what happened this weekend.”

He held up a hand when it looked like Ducky was going to try to interrupt. “Yes, Morrow needs to be told. I'm not an idiot, Ducky, and I may not have a medical degree, but I've seen enough injuries to know that Tony's not going to be able to come back to work for weeks, maybe longer. You just can't write him off as having the flu."

"Perhaps, but..."

"I saw enough of his back to know several of those are going to scar, pretty badly too. Without a documented explanation for them before our next yearly's, you can guarantee there will be someone digging into his personal life, and it won't be someone who cares about what happens to him. How did you intend to handle that?”

“Well, my boy, I... I hadn't, to be perfectly honest. Your statement about 'making arrangements' sent my thoughts in quite another direction.”

“Yeah, I got that, but if you're worried how I'd react, I guarantee it's nothing to how Morrow would react, or worse, the SecNav. It's going to end up in Tony's records one way or other, I'm just trying to do some damage control before it happens.”

“I do understand, Jethro, but is that truly what's best for Tony, to lie about the situation? Perhaps this is the opportunity to finally get him the help he needs?”

“You tell me, Ducky. Why haven't you tried before now?”

“It is a rather delicate subject, My Boy, and again, truth be told, I was not entirely certain of the ramifications that it could have on Tony's position on the team.”

“Yes, you were, Duck. Don't kid yourself. You know exactly what the outcome will be if anyone finds out that Tony's been going out and letting people get off on hurting him."

Gibbs waited for the doctor to deny it, but when Ducky remained silent, continued: "NCIS may be a federal agency, but we're still under the SecNav, and while Tom is probably too straight laced to understand what Tony needs, I can tell you from personal experience the SecNav is too ruthless to care. He'd get rid of Tony at the first sign exploitable weakness, or worse play on it to get something he wants from Tony, then throw him away. I'm not going to let that happen.”

“Just what are you going to tell Director Morrow,” Ducky finally asked with an ironic tone of resignation in his voice.

“That Tony was attacked, assaulted, and isn't willing to investigate.” Gibbs answered bluntly, waiting for Ducky to argue the facts. They both knew enough about how the agency handled the rare instances when agents were sexually assaulted, to know that an investigation wouldn't be forced and that the agency's first instincts and unspoken protocol, archaic or not, were still to keep the matter under wraps.

"Given your description of the Secretary of the Navy only minutes ago, Jethro, are you certain that is the wisest approach? Would it not still suggest an exploitable weakness?"

"Not if it's in his records, and it would be, indirectly, but without the assignment of blame or instability. It's hard to exploit something that was reported immediately, especially when it's the bosses that want it hushed up."... and that was the best Gibbs believed they could hope for – that and getting Tony turned around before it happened again. "Anyway, it's harder to exploit something that didn't happen in the..." 

Gibbs trailed off when Ducky winced at his words and looked away guiltily.

“What?!? You said...”

“Yes, I know exactly what I related to you; however, I was overly concerned with the direction of your reaction to discuss the full details.”

“And. Just. What. Are. The. Full. Details?!?” Gibbs bit out, his anger at his friend resurging.

"Jethro, please try to calm yourself."

"I'll calm down when you stop holding back. What details are you talking about?"

“Well, you may have noticed that in addition to the striation marks on Tony's wrists and ankles, several significant contusions..."

“I wasn't asleep when you were sewing him up, Ducky.

”I do realize that Jethro, however, I did make a point of attempting to of trying to distract you from the fact that there was obviously significant bruising on his hips and inner thighs … there was also evidence of repeated, incautious penetration. Also, as I said, I did not relay the full details of Tony's past behavior. For example, even when Tony has been treated to a very near level of violence, in the past, there have never been signs that he struggled to get away from the treatment. His wrists, particularly, were quite seriously abraded, in a manner that is not consistent with past injuries nor with his desire to be 'disciplined'... ”

“Between the bruises... the 'repeated'... and what you think he's done in the past, you think that means he was ... was... abused? What if you're wrong, Duck?” Gibbs forced the question out in a growl, bile already rising in his throat.

Taking his glasses off as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the lenses, Ducky shook his head slowly. "I'm not. I must admit that asked Tony, once, about the possibility that this behavior is a sexual fixation, but Tony explained that it isn't. For Tony, the rituals are entirely about discipline, atonement, and forgiveness; he elects not to be with individuals who expect a sexual response believing, quite rightly I expect, that 'it muddies the waters'. But even if he had changed his standard operating procedure, the bruises he carries strongly suggest that he was not cooperating with his abuser. ” Ducky finished as he put his glasses back on and pushed them up the bridge of his nose.

“So he was...” Gibbs left the sentence unfinished as he rushed from the room, as quietly as he could through Tony's bedroom, and into the bathroom.

When he'd finished and splashed water in his mouth and on his face until his eyes and throat no longer burned, Gibbs finally glanced up into the mirror.

“Damn it, Ducky, you should have told me.”

“Why, Jethro? The same circumstances still apply. Tony, despite the result, still put himself in this position. For the same reason, as before, an investigation would still be inadvisable. What has changed?”

“God, I may have 2 b's for a reason, but I'm not the only bastard.” Gibbs cursed, stalking past, Ducky without further comment.

Gibbs knew Ducky knew what was different, and he knew that Ducky knew what he wanted to do about it.

When he'd first realized that Tony had been letting people hurt him, he'd been angry, furious, really, but he had understood – in his own way.

It wasn't really all that different, as far as he could see from all of the drunken bar fights he'd gotten into after Shannon and Kelly had been taken from him. If anything, Tony's discipline sessions probably took a higher ground than Gibb's drunken brawls, at least on the consideration that no one else was hurt by them; no one else woke up with a broken nose, black eye, or split lip just because they happened to be in the same bar that Gibbs had chosen to get pissed in.

This was a different matter, though. Someone. Some fucking bastard had hurt one of his people, had hurt Tony, and he couldn't do anything about it without possibly hurting Tony worse.

“Damn it!” Gibbs shouted, slamming his fist into the wall as he reached the apartment's entry door.

“Young Man!” an elderly woman, who was leaning heavily on her cane, just down the hall, chastised him.

“Sorry, Ma'am. Found out a friend's been hurt. Not handling it well.”

“Yes, Well.” She sniffed disdainfully, “I am sorry to hear that, but it still does not excuse causing property damage nor your use of crude language.”

“No, Ma'am.” He agreed ruefully, running a hand through his hair and ducking his head. “I'll speak with the apartment manager about paying for the damage.”

“See that you do.” She retorted, waiting for him to leave before she stepped back through her door and shut it behind her.

ブレンキン

“Director Morrow,” Gibbs acknowledged his superior as he joined the irritated, still disheveled man at the diner's counter.

“I hope you have an excellent reason for disrupting my evening Agent Gibbs.”

“One of my team was attacked.” Gibbs growled, not in the mood to make nice, feeling Morrow shouldn't have even felt the question worth asking.

“And you wanted to meet here because?” Morrow responded impatiently.

“One of my team was attacked … and assaulted.” The bile rose in his throat again as Gibbs responded.

“I see.” Morrow responded more quietly and turned to study Gibb's expression. “Is Agent Todd receiving medical treatment?”

“It wasn't Todd.” Gibbs corrected.

“Miss Scuito has close ties with your team, but I hadn't realized...”

“No, not Abby.”

“My apologies, Gibbs, I realized, of course, but Agent Todd and Miss Scuito seemed the more likely targets. Is Agent McGee ...”

“Wrong again.” Gibbs snapped not able to find any humor in Director's wrong assumption.

“DiNozzo?”

Gibbs jerked his chin down in a hard nod.

“Outside of yourself, he is the last… With his background... how?”

“It happened Friday night, Tony probably had a couple of drinks under his belt. Anyway, the bastard got the drop on him from behind, beat the hell out of him and turned his back into mince meat, tied him up, and... … … Ducky says he found evidence of … repeated...” Gibbs couldn't finish the description, but didn't need to.

Morrow held his hand up, ordering, “Enough, I get the picture. You said that DiNozzo 'probably had' several drinks. Why aren't you certain? Where is he now? You said he's been seen by Dr. Mallard? I would have assumed that he had gone to the hospital, but...”

“No, he wasn't talking. I called Ducky in. Gave me his resignation when I pushed the issue.”

“I see...” Morrow answered, his expression neutral as he lifted his coffee and stared down into it.

“All things considered,” he continued after a moment, reaching out, presumably for the resignation, “It's probably for the...”

“Don't!” Gibbs snapped out sharply. “Don't even think about saying 'it's for the best', as if he were some kind of numbskull who'd quit before getting killed on the job. If you want to know why the MRCT has had the best clear rate in the agency for the past five years, DiNozzo's the reason.”

“I'm sure that's not true, Agent Gibbs. In any event, if Agent DiNozzo chose to tender his resignation, the least we can do is respect his wishes.”

“No. Tom. The. Least. The. Very. Fucking. Least. We. Can. Do. IS. Give. Him. Time! Time to get his head on straight. To get over what happened as much as he can before making a decision like this.”

“Gibbs, you walking on thin ice.” Morrow cautioned, his face becoming pale and taut with anger.

“If he'd been hurt in any other Fucking way, you wouldn't even consider taking his resignation, but...”

“One more word, Gibbs, and you can be cooling your heels at home for a month while you think about just how much your position on the MRCT truly means to you.”

“Fine by me, Tom, cause I've got six more words for you: “You take his resignation, you take mine.”

Morrows turned stared at Gibbs, in disbelief, before regaining his composure and commenting, dryly. "That was seven words."

Gibbs stared at him, bluntly, unamused.

After a moment, Morrow continued, his tone slightly skeptical as he asked, "Are you really willing to throw away your entire career on this?”

“Try me.”

Morrow shook his head quietly before turning his emptied coffee onto a napkin and pushing it back toward the waiter.

“Very well, Gibbs. Consider yourself on a month's suspension, without pay.”

“And DiNozzo?”

“I can't accept his resignation until I actually receive it, but if he does give it to me, Gibbs, you'd best have yours' prepared. I will accept it.”

“Until then?”

“HR has pestered me frequently enough, about the two of you, for me to know that you've both built up significant leave time. If he just happens to take a month's personal leave, while you're on suspension, I don't see that there's much I can say about that.”

Gibbs' answer was a grim smile, a half suppressed sigh, and a slow nod. “Good night, Director.”

“Goodnight Gibbs... Oh, and Gibbs,”

“Yeah?”

"Pick your battles carefully; it would be a shame to for the NCIS to lose an agent with a long record of distinguished service, but as much as we would like to believe the world around us has changed, it will be some time before that change reaches the top tiers. Unlike yourself, I am not quite ready to throw my career away."

ブレンキン

TBC....

Chapter Text

“No, Abby,” Timothy McGee, offered calmly, despite having lost count of the number of times he had repeatedly told her that he didn't know why the boss had demanded the out of office meeting.

“Are you really, really, sure you don't know? He didn't give you any clues?” Abby persisted leaning into his shoulder.

“Abby, enough. Tim's said he doesn't!” Kate growled from the back seat, pushing her purse into the window again, a makeshift pillow.

“But, he has to have said something.”

“No, Abby,” Tim replied as patiently as he could, wondering if Abby's incessant questioning stemmed from Gibbs enigmatic request or if she was picking up 'vibes' from him.

He wasn't lying... precisely. Gibbs hadn't said anything, but Gibbs hardly ever said anything, often waiting for his team to come to the same conclusions he had- unless withholding the information would create additional risk.

Whether or not it was a teaching technique or simply a means to keep them on their toes, Tim truly didn't know, but whether it was intended to teach or not, Tim had learned to keep his eyes and ears open, to extrapolate sometimes seemingly unrelated information, and to try to anticipate twists and turns before they came up.

He still wasn't as good at it as Tony, but he was definitely getting better, and more often than not could at the very least get a good start on looking for what information was relevant before either Tony or their boss ordered it.

As a result, although he didn't have anything but circumstantial evidence for it, Tim was convinced that Tony was in trouble. Still the clues leading to his certainty seemed as solid a trail of breadcrumbs, and he knew he could have easily mistaken or misread a clue, but he was confident that he hadn't. Just not confident enough to share his suspicion with the others.

Tony's recent reticence to banter could mean a lot of things.

It wasn't the first time that Tony hadn't shown up for work on a Monday, when they'd been off rotation, but it was the first time that Tim could remember him not calling in.

Gibbs had sent them home early, but had only seemed peeved that Tony hadn't shown.

He might have already called Tony, about the meeting, or had him running an errand on the way to the meeting, so wanted Tim to round the others up.

For any single one of his misgivings, Tim could find three or for explanations... except for the fact that he was having misgivings in the first place, and that they were all directed at Tony, and had been for over a week.

After Tony's last undercover op, when he had come back to the office alive, well, and significantly less damaged than he usually came away from near brushes, Tim had assumed that everything would go back to normal, but it hadn't. Instead, Tony hadn't seemed to bounce back with his usually annoying seemingly immature vibrancy.

“Tim, we're here.” Kate announced, tapping his ear to get his attention, gesturing out the passenger door at Abby, who had hopped out of the car almost as soon as the engine stopped.

Tim winced. He'd known that. Of course, he'd known that, but he had let himself go on autopilot as he'd tried to work through his concerns.

“You. Do. Know. Something!” Kate accused.

“No...”

“You do. I can tell.”

“No, I don't know...”

“But, you suspect...”

“That the longer you sit here debating what I know, the longer you put off actually put off finding out.” Tim deflected.

“You do!” Kate answered stubbornly, even as she pushed the rear passenger side door open, and finished in an ominous tone, “We'll talk about this later.”

Before Kate could reach Gibbs, though, their boss was walking back to Tim's lexis with Abby tucked tightly under his arm.

“Back in the car, Todd, front seat,” Gibbs ordered tersely, and Tim's anxiety rose a couple of notches higher as he saw that Gibbs was alone and clearly not planning on waiting for Tony.

Without saying another word, Gibbs pushed Abby into the backseat where Kate had been and walked around to the drivers side, but instead of ordering Tim out as he'd expected, Gibbs slid in beside Abby and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Tim glanced at Kate and knew that she was coming to the same conclusions he had: this was about Tony, and it was bad.

“Remember the bridge we were called to your fifth time out?” Gibbs demanded quietly.

Tim nodded and started the engine, realizing that there would be nothing more until they arrived.

The entire drive passed in silence, until they pulled to a stop under the cover of the Roddy Road Bridge.

“Should we get out, Boss?” Tim finally questioned when several minutes had passed in silence.

“No, I don't think the cloak and dagger's necessary, but when I called the director...” Gibbs paused and shook his head, “... could be wrong, but I'm not taking chances.”

Tim nodded, waiting for Gibbs to begin, but after several seconds passed, with nothing to break the increasing tension, he prompted again, “Boss, is this about Tony?”

Gibb's head snapped up, and – for an instant - his glare was almost frightening, but after a breath that Tim could hardly get out, he nodded.

“Yeah, it's about DiNozzo. I shoulda' realized it'd be obvious.”

It wasn't quite an apology, but Tim would gladly take a rueful acknowledgment over Gibbs frightening laser like glare - without having to think twice.

“What did Tony do now? It had to be a pretty brainless stunt if you were forced to call Director Morrow over it.”

“Tell me, Agent Todd?” Gibb's voice was nothing less than a bark, a rottweiler-like, I'm-not-kidding- push-me-and-lose-a-limb bark, “Do you consider being attacked from behind, beaten til your back is shredded, and then assaulted – a brainless stunt? If so, you're probably in the wrong business.”

Gibbs anger, stripping away his previous reticence to speak, drove the news home like a tomahawk ground to air missile - to the gut.

Kate was blinking her eyes in shock as she stammered, “assaulted? Not – you don't – can't mean... he wasn't... He wasn't...”

“I believe the word you're looking for is raped, and from what he found when he was patching Tony up, Ducky says he was.” Gibbs answered, still clearly angered by her previous comment.

“Nooo,” Abby cried, throwing herself away from Gibbs arms as if she could reject what he was saying by rejecting his comforting hold. “Noooo.”

“Abby...” Gibbs began but was cut off when she threw herself back in his arms, clinging to him for comfort as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Is he alright...” Tim asked, cursing himself and going quiet as he realized how idiotic his question was. Of course, Tony wasn't alright. How could he possibly be 'alright'? How could this have happened to Tony? How could it happen, again?

“What?!?” Gibb's voice cut through Tim's thoughts like a machete, and when Tim looked up to meet his eyes, the older man's gaze was just as sharp.

“What?”

“What. Did. You. Just. Say?” Gibbs bit each word. Locking his gaze with Tim's and refusing to release it.

“What?...I...” Suddenly Tim realized that he'd been voicing his thoughts about Tony, the same way he sometimes voiced his character's dialogue when he wrote... completely without thought or awareness that he was doing so.

“God. Oh God, Tony. I'm sorry!” Tim apologized in a heartfelt breath to his friend and teammate who wasn't even there to forgive him for an unforgivable lapse.

“McGee.”

“Tim?!?” Abby and Kate questioned, Abby's voice a quiet plea that he hadn't meant what he said, and Kate's a mixture of anger and surprise.

“Look, I found something out, but accidentally... Tony doesn't know that I know, and I – I don't...” Tim stammered to a halt, having no idea how to explain that he didn't want to betray a confidence Tony hadn't willingly shared, in the first place.

“McGee, I need to know that I'm dealing with,” Gibbs ordered in a quietly coaxing tone, his logic so firmly and irredeemably reasonable that Tim almost hated him for it.

“He doesn't know I know.” Tim protested softly, not wanting to betray Tony any more than he already had, no matter how reasonable the request. Of course, Gibbs would need to know, and Tony... there was no way Tony would tell him.

“Timmy, can't you see that Gibbs only wants to help him.” Abby insisted, when Gibbs waved a hand to silence her.

“McGee, it's not like I can forget what you said, and I need the details. Wanna know what to look out for.”

“I don't know any details,” Tim denied softly, “Only that it happened. When we were investigating the trident killer and went to the alternative bar to interview...uh... friends... of the petty officer, one of the women, the dj, got pretty upset, and Tony sent me to the bartender to get her a bottle of water. I was quicker than he'd thought I'd be, I guess, because I got back in time to overhear him explain about a business card for a therapist who worked with assault survivors. I don't know she saw in his expression, but after he explained, she asked if it had happened to him. He nodded, said “a vice case went bad” but didn't give any details, and she didn't ask. I could tell they didn't realize I was behind them, and I knew that he hadn't wanted me to hear, so I backed out, waited a few seconds, and came back in.”

“I get it.” Gibbs answered, wiping a hand down from the top of his forehead, stopping to pinch the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh.

“Okay, listen up. The reason I called Director Morrow is that this needed to be reported, but we're not going to investigate.”

“WHAT?!?” Tim asked in shock, only dimly hearing Kate and Abby parroting his response.

Gibbs frustrated order to listen barely cut through their protests, but given a second to think about it, Tim quickly realized why.

“Tony's afraid of how everyone will react, isn't he?” Tim asked quietly, feeling a surge of guilt at the thought that Tony probably thought that they would look down on him for it, but he knew it wasn't just him that Tony would be worried about. They worked in the heart of the Naval Yard, surrounded by military, hardly the most sympathetic audience toward any hint of diminished masculinity.

“Yeah, McGee. Does he have a reason to be?” Gibbs challenged sharply, but Tim felt it was a bit halfhearted, compared to his normal inquisitions.

“Not from us,” Tim retorted, after a quick glance at Abby and Kate, who nodded their agreement, “but back at headquarters and around the Yard, maybe... no... probably, but still, he ...”

“He'd rather give me this than risk it.” Gibbs interrupted, pulling an envelope out of his pocket. Tim didn't need to ask what it was, neither it seemed, did Kate or Abby, but Gibbs still sent it around – to make sure the message sunk in. If they pushed an investigation, they'd lose Tony.

“That's not fair!” Abby protested, sniffling. “If we can't investigate, how can I...”

Gibbs wrapped his arm around her pulling her into a tight hug that cut off her words. “I'll talk to him, but … there's something else: Tony's taking a month's leave to recover... and I... I mouthed off to the Director, tonight. Earned a month's suspension, too.”

“So, you'll be there to take care of him,” Abby squealed. “ That's great, he'll get better twice as quick with you watching out for him. Just tell him that we want to see him as quick as you'll let us. Okay, and that he has to be alright. You tell him that and he'll do it. He'd do anything if you say it. Tell him he has to get better quick. And that... ” Abby carried on with a stream of conscious list of orders that were almost dizzying to listen to, her voice in the narrow confines of Tim's car almost as jarring to Tim as the realization that the two primary team leads were going to be out of commission for a month, and possibly longer.

“Where does that leave us?” Kate finally interrupted again, to ask, still somewhat chastened by her earlier error.

“It leaves you working cold cases. Tim, you too, but first priority, I want you and Abby to find out everything you can about the vice case. Be careful, erase your tracks, and don't mention it to anyone, without my permission.”

“Not even the Director?” Kate questioned, and Gibb's furious growl, “Especially. Not. The. Director.” startled them with its animosity.

Anyone who'd watched Gibbs and Morrow together would have thought that they got along, but Gibbs thunderous expression left little doubt in Tim's mind that it was no longer the case, and he could see only one reason for it, give the circumstances and Gibb's quick angry challenges to both his and Kate's remarks: Morrow had said or done something to make Gibbs believe the director's didn't have Tony's best interests at heart.

“Got it, Boss.” Tim agreed, noticing the determined menace in Abby's eyes as she agreed. Tony might not want them to investigate his current 'case', but Tim had no doubt if Abby discovered who was responsible for his earlier assault, the man would be made to suffer as would anyone who got in her way, including the Director.

Chapter Text

Sighing as he slammed the driver's side door, Gibbs grabbed two overnight bags from the bed of his truck and walked quickly up the to the apartment's entryway door, where a young, stocky man, apparently the manager was studying the wall beside the door frame with a frown. The elderly woman Gibbs met earlier must have called the manager, he decided, grumbling under his breath.

He didn't need to deal with this right now, but it was probably better to get it over with.

The manager held the door open for him as he approached, pasting a patently false smile over his previously irritated expression.

“Good morning, are you looking to rent?” The manager offered before Gibbs could explain.

“No, have a place, but I did need to speak to you, about the wall, and something else.”

“Oh, are you the one who did this? I should have realized that her description might be a bit slanted?”

“What?” Gibbs questioned, already lost in the conversation and far from happy about it.

“Oh, it's just that Miss Kate described you as a 'young ruffian', and we have a small handful college students renting, so I thought it was one of them.”

“Well... it wasn't.” Gibbs answered, momentarily caught off guard.

“How much will cover it?” He asked, wincing as he looked back at the dent, he hadn't remembered leaving. His fist hadn't broken through the whiteboard, but it had left a decent depression and a noticeable crack in the plaster.

“Some spackle, a repaint, and an hour of my time. Fifty dollars should make us straight.” The manager answered with a suppressed smile that would have told Gibbs he was being hustled, if he didn't already know that he could have fixed it himself with supplies he already had on hand, at his house, for under ten, including time spent.

Huffing an irritable sigh, Gibbs pulled out his billfold and dug out three twenties. It was more than asked for, and more than what it should have cost, but if he could buy a little good will at the same time, he wasn't going to quibble.

“Listen, there's something else.”

“Yes,” The manager ran a quick glance over his duffel bags, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he asked, “How long are you planning to stay and with whom?”

“Just a couple of nights, with Anthony DiNozzo, until he's able to be moved, but then I want to take him back to my place, so I can keep an eye on him. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. What kind of payment will it take to hold his apartment until he can get back here and pay in full.”

“What do you mean, until he can be moved?” The manager was studying him with an earnestly concerned expression, “What happened to Tony?”

Aww Damn! Gibbs cursed himself silently. He had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, about Tony , the vice case he'd never known about, Ducky's silence, Tony's behavior that he'd never even guessed at, Morrow, what it would take to turn Tony around, and a dozen other thoughts, that he'd let his mouth run more than usual.

“Tony was attacked and roughed up pretty badly.” Gibbs answered trying to keep it simple as possible.

“Shit. That's awful. Tell him not to worry about holding the place. The crowd around here would have my hide if I kicked him out, and to tell the truth, I remembered what it was like before he moved in, and it wouldn't be worth double the rent he pays to go back to the way it was then.”

“Just what does that mean?” Gibbs asked glancing around the apartments. From what he'd seen and known about the area, he was certain that it wasn't a high violence area, and couldn't imagine Tony choosing to rent there if it had been.

“This used to be mostly retirement housing – the over seventies crowd – and the residential tenants were always complaining about one thing or another, petty squabbles, who parked in who's spot, etc., but especially about security.” The manager explained, “When Tony applied for an apartment, I almost turned him down until he said he was a Federal Officer, and I thought it would be like killing two birds with one stone to have a law enforcement officer living on the premises. Turns out it was like killing eighty birds with one stone. He wasn't even here a week before he had half the tenants on cell-phones in their own version of a neighborhood watch, calling each other directly if they had a problem instead of harping to me. Then came Social Sundays and the neighbor check. He suggested we let a few college kids rent, too, at a decreased rate if they would agree to help with shopping and take shifts driving the tenants who can't drive to appointments. It's worked out great, so far, and made my job a breeze.”

Gibbs listened in surprise; he wouldn't have ever imagined that Tony had invested that much time in his eldery neighbors, given the little free time they had outside work, and Tony's overactive social life.

Shaking his head in bemusement, Gibbs held his hand out a little further, offering the sixty that the manager had yet to take, but the manager waved his hand away.

“Don't worry about it; if you're taking care of Tony, it's already being paid for. Just tell him that we hope he's back on his feet soon.”

“Tony? Are you a friend of Tony's?” A strident voice, interrupted, startling them both into spinning to face the same elderly woman who had chastised Gibbs earlier that evening. Her hands were firmly perched on her hips and she was glaring at him suspiciously, as studied him up and down.

“Miss Kate, I was just speaking to Mr... uh.”

“Gibbs.”

“Mr. Gibbs about the wall, and it's all taken care of, don't you worry.”

“That's irrelevant, now, isn't it. Mr. Gibbs, I believe I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Gibbs replied, a spark of amusement kindling at her forceful manner. She reminded him somewhat of his grandmother on his mother's side, and it was a fond association. “I am Tony's boss.”

“Not precisely what I asked.” She retorted skeptically.

“Yes, Ma'am. I am his friend, as well.”

“Is he the one you were out of sorts over, this morning?” She asked, bluntly.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“You have a cell phone, don't you? All of Tony's friends would have a cell phone. He'd make sure of it if you didn't. Let me see it.”

“Yesss,” Gibbs answered vaguely, feeling a little like the tables were being turned on him, and he was being interrogated for a change.

“Why do you need to see it?” He asked, a little startled that he had pulled it out of its case without thinking.

“To put my number on it, of course. Why do you think I wanted it?” She answered taking it out of his hand with a wink. Much to his surprise, she quickly worked her way and added herself as a contact, before she handed it back, ordering, “Now you call me if Tony needs anything. You understand? You call.”

“Yes. Ma'am, I understand, but if you'll excuse me, I have to go.” Gibbs nodded to the manager, picked his bags up again, and turned toward Tony's apartment, only to find her matching him step for step, her cane nearly stabbing his foot in her hurry to keep pace.

“I'm sorry, Ma'am, as I said. I need to go.”

“I heard you. You're going to Tony's apartment, aren't you?” She asked favoring him with an expression that said she was neither impressed with him nor willing to suffer foolish questions.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Well, get to it. I'm coming with you, of course. Everyone's going to want to know that Tony's alright and in good hands. If I come and take a look at him, now, it will save you having to deal with a visit from every busybody in the building.” Her argument left little room for … argument, and Gibbs was pretty sure she knew it.

“Ma'am, I already have Tony's doctor watching over him, and … well, to be honest, no offense, but even if his doctor wasn't with him, I'm not sure it would be a good idea for you to … see. I mean...”

“Young man, I was a field nurse during the Korean War, if Tony was left with his arms and legs intact and his organs inside his body, than he's a damn sight better off than some of the young men I was unlucky enough to see. I'm not going to faint at the sight of some bruises and broken bones.”

Gibbs pinched the bridge of his nose, again, shaking his head as he wondered how he was letting her talk him into visiting Tony. He knew that Tony probably wasn't ready to see anyone outside himself and Ducky, and in all honesty, probably wasn't truly ready to see him, but here he was considering letting … well he didn't quite know how to describe her other than persistent and imperious... letting her visit Tony, on the sole basis of avoiding potentially dozens of visits later in the day.

Before he had come to a decision, they had reached Tony's door, and she was rapping on it with her cane.

“Jethro, why didn't you...” Ducky asked then trailed off as the woman pushed him out of her way, moving into the room and heading straight toward the couch, where Tony standing stiffly, his eyes wide with alarm. He was shirtless as he had been when Gibbs left, but about three shades paler.

“Well?” She began after studying him for a second, “Turn around and let me see.”

“Miss Kate, I – I have some visitors right now, can I call you...” Tony seemed to have found his voice since Gibbs left but it still sounded tense and fragile.

“Tony, would you rather visits from Emmaline, Brisco, Corgy, Sheila, and everyone else who takes it into their mind to check on you for themselves?” She interrupted not giving an inch despite a softening in her tone. “Now turn around.”

Tony stared at her for several seconds, expressions of foreboding, resignation, and embarrassment warring for control of his face as he chewed his lip. Resignation finally won out, and Tony hesitantly turned exposing his mangled back to her.

Thankfully, the woman's background as a nurse did her credit, and she examined his back with almost clinical interest before crossing the distance between them and curling her hand around an untouched area on his bicep to turn him around.

Tony's eyes were on the floor when he was facing her again, but she lifted his chin, chastising, “None of that, now. I've seen plenty of men dressed in far less than you, and in worse shape. Your doctor did a nice job on the stitches, and with a jar full of Corgy's antiseptic cream, I doubt there will be any scarring at all. You saw how well it worked on Ellory's scars after his bypass surgery, and they were a damn sight deeper than yours. Now, on to the important thing. We have to find those busy bodies something to do, so do you think your friends would like Margie's sweet corn casserole more, or Emmaline's sweet potato bake? Never mind, they can try both. I doubt you'll feel like cooking for a few days, so I'll put the rest to it, and that should keep them out of your hair for a few days; I should think.”

As she spoke, Tony's tense expression faded to fondness, and he finally met her eyes with a soft almost real smile, as he commented, “You're a wonder.”

“No, Tony, I'm a nag, but I'm smart enough to know when it's needed. Now am I going to have to tell you to get back to bed and let your friends take care of untill you're feeling better?”

“No, Ma'am.” Tony answered ruefully, still smiling when she leaned in on her cane to reach up and kiss him on the forehead.

“Good boy. Now, I'm going to ask you're Mr. Gibbs to walk me back to my rooms, and you're going to let your doctor help you back to bed.”

When Tony smile broadened with a forced shade of mischief, as he commented, “Oooh Miss Kate, you have a good eye there. He's a great catch. Single, with a good job, and you should see him at the gym.”... Gibbs felt a twinge in his chest loosen a just bit. It wasn't quite up to Tony's usual standard, but the attempt at humor was a relief to see.

“Oh, you. How many times do I have to tell you that I'm waiting for you to out grow you're wild and carefree ways?” She teased back, turning to Gibbs. “Mr. Gibbs, if you would be so kind?”

Gibbs nodded, grateful for the effect she'd had on Tony. “Of course. Ducky you've always said you're smart enough to follow a nurse's orders. Tony get some rest, I'll be right back.”

When the door closed behind them, however, the older woman's gentle smile turned into a hard thin line.

“Mr. Gibbs, when you find the ruffian who did that to Tony, you make certain that he has two fine black-eyes to match his black heart.”

It was an order, and he didn't doubt that she meant it and more.

“I'll do that.” Gibbs answered with a dryly, “May I ask who to say it came from?”

“Katherine P. McGillicutty, with two t's, and a steel-tipped cane.” Ms. McGillicutty answered with a thin-lipped smirk.

“I won't forget,” Gibbs promised, beginning to wonder what Tony had done to win the woman's staunch support.

“See that you don't. Now, you get back to Tony, I have house matters to see to if you don't want to open the door in an hour to a hall long line of visitors.”

“Ma'am, I didn't think to say anything before, but you and Mr... Well, the Manager are the only one's who know that Tony's been injured.”

“That's more than enough. That man is the worst gossip in three states; anyway, Tony would have been expected to show up for the morning park-walk, and when neighbors don't show when they're expected, we don't just sit and wait idly for their names to appear in the obit columns. Someone would have checked on him. This just gives me a chance to put the old hens to work before their instinct kicks in. Now, go on, shoo. Off with you...Let me get to work.” She paused to dig into the broad purse hanging from a hook on her cane and held his eyes as she finished, “But you get to work, too, and you find that man, you hear me?”

“Yes, Ma'am. Loud and clear.” Gibbs answered, but she was already turning away and speaking rapidly into the cell-phone to someone she'd dialed while staring at him.

“I know, Margie, I know, yes, it's earlier than usual, but the park-walk's being canceled, today. Tony's under the weather. No, you don't need to do that. He has friends over to care of him. I know something you can … exactly. You remember his favorites, oh yes, and that sweet corn casserole you do. He just loved it at Christmas. That'll bring a smile to his face, for sure.” Ms. McGillicutty suggested in a no-nonsense tone, as she swept away leaving a slightly astonished Gibbs in her wake.

Chapter Text

NCIS Director, Thomas Morrow waited patiently for the maitre de to escort him to the locked conference room he had abruptly departed from earlier that evening to meet with Agent Gibbs. The maitre de, who was, in actuality, a permanently stationed CIA operative had acknowledged his presence with a nod, but was waiting for clearance from the inner office to take him back.

The inter-agency defense task force was not particularly controversial, in and of itself, but the cases they dealt with were a different matter all together. The task force was generally only convened on the detection of threats and infiltrations that impacted the primary seven departments and agencies that oversaw the nation's foreign and domestic security: FBI, CIA, DEA, NCIS, Homeland Security, Secret Service, and the Pentagon. The matters they were more commonly convened to address were indications of multiple terrorist threats to key agency locations or the rarer indications of multi-agency infiltrations. The task force had even dealt with a coordinated campaign of cross-agency, covert, assassinations that had taken out seventeen high-clearance operatives before they had stopped it.

To date though, they had never dealt with a case like the one before them.

The maitre de finally approached and gestured toward the back of the restaurant. As he passed, he heard the man murmur, “Tomorrow's on his way.”

The conference room door slid open before he reached it and quickly closed behind him.

“Well, Tom?” DEA Director Adam Crenshaw asked peevishly, “If you're done running to your team leader's beck and call, can we call the meeting back to order?”

“You can include NCIS in the victims list, Robert,” Morrow commented ignoring Crenshaw completely. He and Crenshaw held very different views on the expendibility of agents under their command, and had clashed more than a dozen times during their previous investigation.

“Did he survive?” Robert Durrance, the FBI's interim director asked, concern clear in his voice.

“Yes, but he's refusing to investigate, and according to his team lead, threatened to resign if pushed on the matter.”

“Let him, and then threaten him with aiding and abetting for not identifying...” Crenshaw snapped.

“There's no indication that he even saw who assaulted him,” Morrow rejoined wishing he had ordered a whiskey on the way in. “My agent was apparently celebrating, off-duty, when the suspect got the drop on him and attacked him from behind.”

“That makes twenty-eight agents assaulted, twenty-two dead, and not one of the six who survived are willing to cooperate with the investigation. Whoever is doing this is well trained and knows how to pick his victims: police, federal agents, military, all relatively young, mid to late thirties, clean records, all in middle to high level positions for their ages, employed in fields traditionally strong resistance to same gender fraternization. No common connections other than that, that we've identified. Random pick up and dump locations, random timing. No seasonal, transportation routes, or other discernible patterns.”

“Are we sure that this isn't another Mossad operation?”

“No, but it could just as easily be the ISI, or FSB. Hell, at this point, we couldn't prove it isn't a COBRA operation.” Durrance groused.

“Well, maybe it's time to start looking at what we don't know.” Cameron Mitchum, the CIA deputy director tasked to the meeting suggested.

“What a brilliant suggestion!” Crenshaw enthused sarcastically, shooting the deputy director a glare that she easily ignored.

“I realize that your standard operating procedure is usually to start by building on the connections that are there, but CIA protocol is often somewhat different. More often than not, we start off with gaps in information and have to figure out what intelligence is missing and how to get before we even look at the goal.” She explained.

“That's not any different than what we do!” Crenshaw retorted defensively, but Morrow held up his hand, suggesting, “Hear her out, Adam.”

“Thanks,” Mitchum acknowledged before turning back to the clear screen.

Across the top of the screen, she drew column markers for four columns on the right of the screen and labeled them, “Skills”, “Techniques”, “Resources”, “Conditions”, leaving a broad unlabeled column on the left.

“Okay, instead of trying to figure out how to get unwilling witnesses to give us identifying information that they may not have; I think there is a lot of information that he's already giving us about himself … and no,” she cut Crenshaw off before he could voice a frequently-made complaint, “I am not referring to a psychological profile. I'm suggesting that we look at the victims in a different way – not as targets but obstacles.”

“Well, they're certainly proving to be.” Crenshaw sniped.

Mitchum was getting practiced in ignoring the annoying DEA, Morrow decided as he watched her turn back to the screen and fill the broad column on the left with a generic description of their victims, “POLICE/MILITARY/FEDERAL:” from the inside edge of the screen. Curious to see where she was going with her suggestion – Morrow; Durrance; Pinkerton-Royce, the Secret Service Liason; the Homeland Security undersecretary, whose name Morrow seemed unable to memorize no matter how many times he tried, all moved forward to study the screen while Crenshaw remained stubbornly seated.

Indented just below her generic description, Mitchum started a list, dropping a line after each item: “Combat Trained”, “Armed”, “Field Experience”, “Situational Awareness”, “Operative Fitness”, and “Security Restrictions” then turned to face them.

“It's feasible that out of our 28 known victims, a small handful may have been lax in one of these areas or another, but not the majority. This suggests that our killer has had to develop skills, techniques, and resources or create conditions that offset our victim's skills in these areas. If we take a closer look at those approaches, it may narrow the field of possible suspects enough to give us a lead through traditional investigation venues.”

“Hmmph,” Crenshaw grumbled, standing to join them, and continued “Well, since no else can come up with a reasonable approach,” with only a brief pause and significant glance at Durrance, whose profiler had come up with little more than a boilerplate psychological profile before being dismissed, “We can play your little board game until a real lead develops.”

Beside Morrow, Undersecretary Roberts... no... Roberson snorted softly, but quickly schooled his expression by the time that Crenshaw turned his way.

“Care to start Robby.” Crenshaw ordered condescendingly, grabbing one of the wipe off markers from the small tool tray attached to the screen, and shoving it toward the undersecretary.

“Actually, I believe it's still Deputy Director's Mitchum's turn, Director Crenshaw.” Roberson deflected handing the marker to Mitchum.

“She's married, Roberson.” Crenshaw retorted.

“He's never needed reminding of that fact, Adam.” Mitchum interrupted in a tight retort, “unlike yourself. Now, I believe you just agreed to join this discussion, so if we start with the basic presumption that there is only one assailant... to minimize our victims' advantage in combat training, the suspect could be skilled in hand to hand combat.”

As she spoke, in the first column under skills, she wrote “hand to hand”, leaving room for additional notes.

“ Okay, what techniques ..” she began, cutting off quickly as Roberson and Morrow spoke at once.

“Fast strike.” “Ambush.”

Durrance joined in, suggesting “Threatening an alternate target.”

Moving swiftly through each category, Mitchum recorded their responses, jotting down her own without comment - until they'd filled the screen.

She finally stepped back, staring at the chart with a grim expression.

They stepped back, joining her silently as they read over the chart and digested it's implications.

Durrance finally spoke up, “Well, it looks like we can rule out COBRA, after all.”

“And the ISI, FSB, Hamas, IRA, KGB, Mujahiden...” Crenshaw grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“As well as the FBI, Secret Service, and NCIS,” Morrow added, not quite saying what they all seemed to recognize.

“Homeland Security, too.” Roberson added, “Our agents whereabouts are too regularly monitored for the freedom of movement this suggests.”

“Leaving the CIA and DEA Deepcover Agents. If our conjecture's right.” Morrow commented uncomfortably, before glancing to Crenshaw for his response.

“It is. Damn it. This bastard's one of ours.”

ブレンキン

Chapter Text

Tony's surprised to find a parking space directly in front of the bar and double checks the neon 'OPEN' sign in the window to be sure it's open because the street is almost completely empty except for a charcoal toned hearse two spots away. He'd never noticed that the neon sign read “WE'RE WAITING” instead of the traditional “open”.

Glancing into the tinted driver's side window, he ran his fingertips through his hair to straighten his curls and gave his cheeks a pinch for luck before walking toward the door.

He paused at the door to watch the bar's name “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” cross the door in a slow scroll of carved letters and briefly wondered how the owner managed it and why on earth he would have named the bar after a shipwreck no one survived.

The bar was surprisingly full despite the empty street and parking lot, and glancing around, Tony was strongly reminded of the Mos Eisley cantina, but shrugged the feeling off, chose a table near a shadowy corner, and settled in to wait. On more occasions than not, finding someone with the right dynamic, not looking for a quick leg over, who understood his need for absolution took the entire night, if he was even successful, but the need was strong enough that he was prepared to fend off as many propositions and wait as many fruitless hours as it took.

Almost as if his decision had summoned the first suitor, two hands came to rest in the center of the table as the torso of a slightly pudgy man leaned in toward him. Glancing up, Tony gasped as his heart froze mid-beat.

“Mind if join you?” Jeffrey White asked, with a lopsided smile. He was wearing a baseball cap, with the brim pulled low on his forehead to hide the bullet hole, but from where Tony was sitting he could see it clearly.

“I'll take that as a yes.” White smiled, shrugging, “After all, if you don't say no, it's the same as saying yes, isn't it? Drink up.”

Tony glanced down to find a beer bottle, already opened, in his hand, and though he normally didn't drink out of bottles he hadn't opened for himself, he didn't think he could face Je – White without it. It tasted bitter and smoky as it went down, and his mouth didn't feel any less dry for it, so he set it aside.

“Soooo, what do you think?” White asked him, turning his face left then right, proudly. “Notice anything different?”

“Other than the bullet hole?” The words tumbled out from Tony's lips unbidden, and he winced at how brittle he sounded.

“Funny. No... not the bullet hole... and before you ask, not the back of my head, either. Well?”

Tony shook his head slowly, hoping Jeffrey wouldn't turn his head again. Tony was sure to vomit if he did.

“The glasses.” White prompted.

“What glasses?” Tony asked, struggling to pull himself together.

“Exactly.” White bounced in his seat, “I took your advice and got contacts. I think they'll make all the difference, don't you?”

“Uh... yeah, sure. Sure they will.” Tony tried to sound convincing as he glanced around the room, hoping to catch someone's eyes and draw them in. Anything to end the conversation.

“Look Jeff, I'm here to meet someone.” He finally choked out when no one seemed interested in intervening.

“Oh, I know that. He sent me down to get you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he's waiting for you upstairs. Oh, by the way, you don't have to worry about how much you drink tonight,” White commented pointing to the beer that barely he'd barely sipped from, “later, if you want, I can give you a ride home, my car's outside.”

“The hearse?”

“Yeah, classy don't you think? Almost looks like a limo, and there's more than enough room in back to... you know.”

Tony choked out a startled laugh and grabbed for the beer again. It tasted like crap, but God he needed it. It was almost two minutes before he could speak again.

“Not sure dates might agree.”

“I'm hanging around with a different crowd, now.” Jeffrey explained, then grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the booth, dragging him towards the stairway before looking down at their hands. “Hmmm. Kind of reminds you of old times doesn't it?”

He laughed and pulled Tony, stumbling, up the stairs and into a room that gave Tony the creeps at first sight.

It was almost completely empty, except for a grimy, blood-stained Saint Andrew's cross.

“Well?!?” White asked him expectantly. “Get undressed, he'll be here any minute.”

“Who?”

“Dirk! Of course! We've already talked, and he knows what you need, but you've got to 'Assume. The. Position.' first.” White ordered in a teasing tone. “Come on, I'll help.”

From the bar below, familiar strains of a Gordon Lightfoot song he only half remembered, carried up the stairs to his room, causing a shiver to run down his spine as he listened:

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound

and a wave broke over the railing.

Tony's head feels sluggish and wrong, but as he stares at the cross, pieces start to fall into place. It's what he went to the bar for after all. Maybe it was only right that White picked the person who delivered his punishment.

The thought made a strange kind of sense that he knew really didn't make sense, but there was nothing else to replace it, and the room was already spinning around him as he undressed.

And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too

'twas the witch of November come stealin'.

Cold hands clasped his wrists, pushing them against the upraised bars...

Does any one know where the love of God goes

when the waves turn the minutes to hours?

“Stay”, the order almost seemed to vibrate in his skull as the hands pressed both wrists to the bars.

They might have split up or they might have capsized;

they may have broke deep and took water.

His wrists and ankles were tied almost before he realized it both and someone was pressing behind him up.

The music fell away as he found his voice, “Jeff... uh, sorry man, but I...”

“Wrong.” A harsh rasping voice answered, his breathing thick and almost mechanical.

“Who...”

“You know who I am, Tony. We've been here before.”

“Sorry, I don't usually kiss and tell, with guys, at least, but I generally remember everyone I'm with.” The feeling of haziness was leaving him as he pulled none to subtly at the ties on his wrist, but the other man didn't seem to care.

“Surely, you remember your master?” The tone sounded deceptively calm, but the words set Tony's nerves on edge.

"When I left you I was but the learner. Now I am the master.” Tony quipped, trying to mimic Darth Vader's ominous tones.

"Today will be a day long remembered,” the voice replied doing a far better impersonation. “You won't forget me, again. Tony, I'll make sure of it.”

As he opened his mouth to comment, a gloved came around the edge of his face and forced something into his mouth then more up into his nostrils, and he struggled to breath, rolling his face back and forth trying to escape the hand that grabbed his shoulder and started to shake him.

“Come on. Come on, Tony.” The voice behind him has changed in tone, seeming less ominous, but Tony gasped helplessly for air and couldn't answer.

“Wake up.” The voice ordered.

“Now!” Another order pulled his mind together, and Tony was awake in a second, blinking his eyes as he pulled his blanket covered fist away from his mouth.

“It's just a nightmare, Tony.” Gibbs voice assured him, and Tony wants to break, wants to tell Gibbs that it was a nightmare, but that it wasn't, but that it had been, and he can't say anything as he stares into his boss's worried gaze.

Then everything hit him at once, and he had to throw himself out of bed and stagger into the bathroom because, seriously, if he didn't he was going to lose it, and while he couldn't remember what he'd last eaten, he was certain Gibbs didn't want it spilled over his shoes.

He barely made it and shoved his face almost into the bowl, not caring what he looked like as the first heave siezed him. He lost count of how many times it took to completely empty his stomach and leave him panting from through dry heaves before Gibbs pulled him gently around to rest against his shoulder.

“Easy, easy now.” Gibbs coaxed brushing Tony's hair back from his face. “There can't much left to come up.”

Nodding against his shoulder, Tony took a deep breath then tried to sit back on his heels, but Gibbs stopped him wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, saying, “Not such a good idea, right now. You hit that back of yours, and it might be enough to start another bout.”

Wrapping his arms across his still convulsing stomach, Tony groaned softly becoming increasingly aware of the jolts and shocks of pain that accompany every panted breath. His curled posture only pulled more on his stitches and scabs, and his eyes were becoming watery from the pain, but he tried to force it down enough that Gibbs might get up and leave him to take care of himself.

“Not gonna happen.” Gibbs answers his unspoken thought, probably reading his intention from his body language or expression, Tony decided.

“Your expression,” Gibbs answered for him, with a slight smirk. “I've seen you turn that look on a dozen nurses, but I'm not your nurse, and that look doesn't work on bosses.”

“Not my boss. Not anymore.” Tony whined and turned to violently retch into the toilet as the magnitude of his screw up struck home.

He wretched and heaved until he was shaking when Gibbs pulled him away from the toilet again.

“You're wrong.”

“No, screwed up.” Tony mutters between gasps.“Screwed up, big time.'

“Threw it all away.”

“Threw it all away.” The words were ragged and painful as they forced themselves out, feeling as if they had claws sunk into the flesh of his throat as they were dragged forward, ripping and shredding the tissue in their wake until he could barely whisper.

“The job. The team. You.”

“Threw it away.”

'Sorry. God. So sorry.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

“Such a fuc-” a firm rap on this back of his head broke Tony's litany, and he apologized again, hoping Gibbs would be able to tell he was back in control of himself.

“You listening?” Gibbs demanded softly, and Tony could feel Gibbs' fingertips raised behind his head in gentle threat.

“Yea-h.” Tony choked slightly on the word, feeling as if his throat had given out.

“Shhh. Just nod or shake your head when I ask a question; otherwise, just listen. Got me?”

Tony started to answer, but a very light tap silenced him, and he nodded slowly.

“Good. Listen up, I want you to get this loud and clear. If you don't remember any of the other rules that I've taught you, I want you to remember this one. First and foremost, Don't waste good! I live by it. That's why I offered you a place on the team, why I've spent my time training you, and why I didn't turn in your resignation. You are a good agent and a good man, and I don't intend to let you or anyone else throw that away. You understand me?”

Tony gaped at Gibbs, trying to make sense of his words. He couldn't have heard right. He shook his head. It didn't make sense.

Gibbs couldn't have meant what he'd just said. It didn't make sense.

Gibbs didn't suffer fools and screw ups. He wouldn't risk the rest of his team like that.

He'd screwed up, and Gibbs had caught him out.

A fingertip pressed his chin up stopping it.

“Okay, I get it. You don't understand, but what don't you understand?” Gibbs eyes looked weary and anxious like he was on the fourth or fifth night of a difficult case, without a lead.

“Screwed up. Bad judgment, bad instincts, can't trust 'em.” Tony tried to be succinct as possible. Every word was loaded with pain from more than just his throat.

“Tony... jeez, Tony. Nothing I say right now is gonna get through, is it? Okay, I get it... You need some time and perspective. Okay. We'll work on it. Just listen carefully to what I'm saying, okay?”

Tony nodded weakly against Gibbs shoulder. He couldn't stop listening now even if he had wanted to.

“At this moment, and until I say otherwise, you are still a member – in good standing- of the MCRT, and before you ask, I don't plan on saying otherwise.”

“But... you said... arrangements?” Tony croaked, still not completely understanding.

“Yes, I spoke with the Director and made arrangements for the both of us to take a month's leave, while you heal up.”

“The team?” he questioned, uncertainly, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Can wait for us.” Gibbs answered, sounding unshakably certain, and Tony had to pull back to see Gibbs eyes and know for sure, before he could believe it.

Gibbs palm held firm and supportive on the back of his neck as Tony leaned away.

Gibbs eyes were steady and certain, patient and clearly willing to let Tony read everything he could read from them: exasperation, concern, determination, faith, and caring.

It was the last two that broke Tony, completely.

Swallowing sobs as he dropped forward into Gibb's kneeling lap, Tony clung to Gibbs knees trying not to shake apart from the force of his chaotic emotions.

Tony spent the rest of the day in bed, fading in and out of a restless doze. Waking, each time, to find Gibbs sitting in the chair he'd relocated from Tony's living room. When his restless sleep edged into the beginnings of nightmares, he'd wake to Gibbs shaking his shoulder and offering another cup or glass of water or soup or tea. He took the prescription pain pills and sedatives whenever Gibbs ordered and made an attempt to eat when Gibbs pushed a cup mug of soup and a plate of toast plate of toast in front of him around noon. He only managed about half of each before he started to stir the mug listlessly, not meeting Gibbs eyes when he took the hint and pulled the tray away. As ridiculous as it seemed, he felt like he was disappointing Gibbs by not eating, but his boss only ruffled his hair lightly and said they'd try again later.

It was almost as good as an attaboy, and when Gibbs finally told him to go back to sleep, that evening, Tony did so – feeling lighter and more secure that evening than he had even when Gibbs had assured him that his place on the team was still intact and that Gibbs had no intention of changing his mind.

Chapter Text

For the most part, Tony was silent but complacent to Gibbs requests: swallowing the pain killers, antibiotics, and sedatives Ducky had ordered without complaint. He made a half-hearted attempt to eat that Gibbs let continue until he noticed a slightly nauseated expression cross Tony's face. Whenever Tony's nerves let him doze, Gibbs watched his face until he saw Tony's expression begin to contort with anxiety, then woke him.

All told, he doubted that Tony had slept more than twenty minutes at any stretch, and not more than three hours through the day.

It wasn't long before Gibbs decided he had to do something to turn matters around: no way Tony would be able to recover if he couldn't eat or rest, and as long as Tony's emotions were in an uproar, he wouldn't be able to eat. It was a trait of Tony's that Gibbs had recognized years before, but more often than not it had corrected itself before it seemed to affect Tony's health or performance. This time, he wasn't so sure it could.

Sleep was another matter, as Tony sometimes – on drawn out or emotionally-charged cases – seemed to resort to sleep as a means of self defense – tuning the others out when they were harping uselessly. With Tony's recent traumas robbing him of that haven, Gibbs doubted that there was much he could do on that front outside of staying alert and easing Tony awake before his nightmares took hold.

In between Tony's slow descents into far-too-brief naps, Gibbs began his own set of case notes, taking apart what he new about Tony or thought he had known about Tony – as if he were working a missing person's case. Despite knowing Tony for years, the profile felt like a patchwork puzzle until a call from McGee filled in unexpected gaps.

Fitting the newly uncovered information into the missing person's profile, Gibbs worked the profile from every angle he could think of - to project the possible motives and driving influences that he believed would affect Tony's behavior.

The biggest threat, as Gibbs saw it, was Tony's sense of guilt and it's accompanying drive for punishment. For all Gibbs knew, Tony's refusal to eat when he was stressed could have as easily been a form of self-punishment, and while he didn't like to think about it, Tony managed to get himself hurt at a pretty astonishing rate; more than any other agent that Gibbs was aware of, including himself.

The question that plagued Gibbs for most of the night before and throughout the day was how to work within Tony's frame of reference to assuage the emotions plaguing him, until Gibbs could re-frame those references.

A call to Ducky proved useless, as he should have realized it would; if Ducky had ever decided on a strategy that he felt might be useful, Gibbs had no doubt he would have employed it, himself. He'd almost considered calling Abby; next to himself, Abby was probably the only other person he'd known who managed to see through the smokescreen of Tony's 'Frat Boy' behavior. That thought died on the vine, with the certainty that Abby, herself, was reeling from the discovery of what had happened to Tony.

No. This time, he was going to have to work to find the answer, or so he had believed... until he noticed the effect that a small almost meaningless gesture on his part had on Tony.

Up until the point that he had run his fingertips through Tony's pillow-flattened hair to straighten it, Gibbs had -for the most part- overlooked Tony's customary responsiveness to small taps, pats, and gestures. Counterbalanced against the severity of Tony's injuries, perhaps it was only natural that his responses to such small acts went unnoticed, but that small act, or rather Tony's response to the gesture – relaxing from an expression of rueful misery into almost sheepishness over his inability to eat – brought Tony's sensitivity to into stark highlight.

The small touch of Tony's hair had seemed to effectively silence whatever qualms Tony had been dwelling on, just as the tap to the back of Tony's head had earlier silenced his misguided self-recriminations, but it couldn't be that simple, could it? He had always viewed Tony's reactions to his headslaps as their inside joke that he had only begun to share with the new team members once it was apparent that they were integrating well. He couldn't help but wonder how long it might it have meant something more, for Tony, and he'd never realized it?

Staring down into the palms of his hand after Tony had drifted back off to sleep, his posture and expression more relaxed than earlier, Gibbs felt a confident smile grow as a surprisingly simple plan came to mind. It was just a hunch and would need to be tested in the morning, but if it worked – he was certain how to move forward from then on.

ブレンキン

“Up.” Gibbs ordered, as soon as Tony's eyes stopped their startled blinking.

The younger man seemed surprised to have even slept at all, much less slept enough to be woken up.

“It's five thirty, and breakfast is on the table.”

“Ughhhh.” Tony groaned and yawned simultaneously, “Not hungry.”

While Gibbs was relieved to hear the slight whine, staying up to wake Tony before he could slip into nightmares, had done little to improve his mood, and the hours since his plan had first come to mind had only given him additional time for doubts to creep in.

“Weren't asked.” He answered, catching the tops of Tony's shoulders and helping him to sit up. “Get up, eat, then shower.”

“Later,” Tony whined softly, only to comment, “okay, got it. NOW,” when Gibbs made a noticeable move to raise his hand behind Tony's skull.

Leaning into his hands, Tony let Gibbs pull him onto his feet without further resistance, and walked with him, leaning slightly when he tired, but for the most part moving steadily – under his own power.

He stopped abruptly, though, as they passed his desk, and seeming to notice the file drawer cracked open. Gibbs could see him double and triple thinking whether he should ask, before apparently deciding that -given everything that had happened – he really didn't have a right to challenge Gibbs on invading his privacy. They'd have to work on that later, but first things first...

“Tony,” Gibbs walked around the edge of the sofa and sat down, deciding it was as good a place as any. “Come here. There are some things we need to get settled first.”

Tony nodded with a resigned expression as he followed Gibbs; though, Gibbs noticed that he shot a quick regretful glance at the dining table. Gibbs doubted that he was truly hungry, but would have gladly eaten to avoid the conversation.

“Sit and listen.” He ordered when Tony hesitated beside the couch.

“Don't do this often, and don't intend to, but I figure there's a couple of things we need to re-hash, and can't do that without me explaining myself. First off, you said you'd screwed up, and I have to agree with you.” Gibbs laid out firmly, not trying to soften his words even when Tony winced.

“But, your screw up, isn't the one you think it is. I don't fault you for trying to get your head on straight, not even for getting yourself beat up to do it. Been there myself, bit drunker, though, and with less control than it seems you've used. At least, I'm halfway sure you've probably never left someone moaning on the floor with a broken wrist, after a bar fight.”

Tony's wide-eyed, disbelieving expression almost worked a chuckle from Gibbs, but he stifled it quickly.

Tony for his part, shook his head slowly, answering, though it was clear Gibbs already knew the answer to it.

“That's what I thought. I'm not even going to fault you for not calling Ducky to get you patched up. Though that was pretty big screw up, too.”

“I don't...” Tony began as he stared at Gibbs, confusion clear in his eyes.

“I'm doing the talking, here,” Gibbs cut him off, firmly. “Doesn't happen often, but when it does, you're to listen. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tony answered quickly.

“Good. You said you're judgment and instincts are 'off' right now, so I'm not going to hold it against you for not figuring it out, this time. This time, I'll tell you, but I'm going to start expecting you to figure it out or ask me – if you can't – and if you don't come to me when you should, well, you're not going to like what I do about it.”

“But...” Tony broke off as Gibbs fingertips tapped the back of his head.

“Less mouth, more ears.” Gibbs chastised, before deciding that he'd built up Tony's anticipation for the answer enough that Tony was less likely to have a response ready.

“Your mistake was that you didn't come to me.”

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Gibbs cut him off. “We've worked together a handful of years, now, and I can't remember you making any complaints about the way I work, or the way I've worked you... Not even when I've called you to the gym to explain yourself. What makes you think that I couldn't handle whatever crap you had to get off your back?”

“I... It..” Tony groped for an answer for several seconds before, “It wasn't about... It didn't have to do with... It wasn't supposed to effect work.”

“Wrong on all counts!” Gibbs retorted, “You can't tell me this wasn't about a mistake you think you made at work. If this, wasn't about White, you tell me what it was about?!?”

Gibbs challenge drew only silence, as he knew it would.

“That makes it my domain. Even if it wasn't, when you let it effect work, that makes it mine.”

“It wouldn't have!” Tony answered, a little desperately.

“Bullshit. When it has you doubting your judgment? Bullshit. When you're missing work? When you're breaking my rules? When you've got Ducky covering for you? Bull – Fucking- shit! It's affecting your work and that makes it my job to deal with.”

Tony actually flinched at Gibbs' comments before seeming to shrink in on himself, but after a moment, he sat up straighter, not meeting his eyes, but not quite hiding from his gaze as he asked, “So... should I expect to see you in the gym, first day back?”

“Nope. You let a smack on the wrist wait a month after the mistake, all it is – is a smack on the wrist. Doesn't teach anything.”

Tony actually froze in place, barely breathing, much less moving to protest as he stared at Gibbs with dread.

“Don't know if I'm up for much of a smack down, right now, Boss.”

“It'd be overkill, anyways.” Gibbs answered with an intentionally smug expression, “Still, a smack on the back of your head, clearly wasn't enough or we wouldn't even be talking about it, so let's split the difference.”

Gibbs pulled a sofa pillow from the corner, and laid it across his lap before curling his fingers in a 'come'ere' gesture.

“Boss?” Tony questioned with a shocked half-laugh, “You can't be serious!”

“Try me. If this doesn't make an impression, well, we'll work our way up to the gym. Don't forget. I do have a convenient wood shed and enough spare ash to manage a reasonable paddle. It doesn't take too much skill with leather to fashion a decent tawse, either, but let's start here.”

“You...You are...You're serious.” Tony stammered staring at the pillow across Gibbs lap.

Gibbs just stared at him for several seconds letting Tony's obvious discomfort work to his advantage; that Tony hadn't immediately told him to go to hell or tried to joke his way out of Gibbs suggestion provided the best clue for Gibbs that Tony was actually considering the offer.

After several seconds passed in silence, Gibbs beckoned 'come'ere' again, and Tony rose unsteadily and shuffled over. He hesitated at Gibbs side, for a moment, until Gibbs pressed, “Well?”

“I – I don't know... know how to...” Tony trailed off, gesturing to the pillow trying to explain himself.

“Probably be easier to get in position if you get down on your knees first.” Gibbs suggested, softly, not wanting to spook Tony when his almost hair-brained idea actually seemed to be working.

Slowly, Tony lowered himself to his knees, and glanced at Gibbs with a clear, if silent, request for permission to move forward. Feeling that Tony needed more than just a nod of agreement, Gibbs wrapped a hand around the back of Tony's neck and pulled him gently forward until he was laying on his stomach across Gibbs' lap.

“How many?” Tony finally thought to ask.

“How many times did you do this, or something like this, since you joined NCIS?”

Tony seemed to pause to think, but Gibbs could tell from his sudden stiffness that he already knew exactly how many times it had happened, but was afraid to admit it.

“DiNozzo,” he growled in warning.

“Seventeen.” Tony blurted out, and Gibbs sighed, raising his hand.

Chapter Text

“Seventeen.” Tony grimaced as the nervous lie slipped out. Seventeen sounded believable and far better than the twenty-nine times that he'd actually sought out punishment for one screw up or another.

He heard Gibbs sigh, and it was his only warning before a sharp shock off impact shook him, half a second before the pain actually registered. Before he could actually catch his breath to cry out in reaction, Gibb's hand came down four more times.

“Try again.”

Gasping for breath, Tony stayed as still as possible, clinging to Gibbs legs for support as he tried to calm himself... as he tried not to panic.

He should have realized, from having been in the ring with Gibbs, that it would hurt a lot more than he'd expected it to; not as sharp as a whip or as subtly-shocking as a cat, but hard, fast, and strong... and the thought of admitting how many times he'd actually been punished seemed immediately scarier than it had a moment before.

“Tony -” Gibbs' voice even sounded scarier.

“I - “ Tony stalled in a trembling voice, afraid to lie to Gibbs, or more to the point, afraid to be caught in a lie but equally afraid of being spanked twenty-nine times.

“Do you want me to start guessing?” Gibbs asked, and for some reason, it sounded like an offer, as much as Gibbs offering him another glass of water had the night before. He felt childish and cowardly as he answered with a nod and winced expectantly when Gibbs sighed again, but when Gibbbs' raised hand came down again, it was in a soft stroke at across the back of his head.

“Okay, over twenty-five?”

A quick nod of agreement brought Gibbs hand back up to the top of his hair.

“Over thirty?”

“No!” Tony was quick to deny.

“Okay, then we'll stop at twenty-five.” Gibbs commented, and Tony wanted to thank him for not pressing further, well aware that for all intents and purposes, twenty-nine times was not significantly different than thirty.

“Ready?” Gibbs questioned, gently, and while Tony really wasn't ready that he was, he nodded anyway.

Another hard smack came down, just an inch away from where the earlier five swats had struck.

“Try again.”

“N-not really... b-ut...” But... if he waited until he was ready, he wasn't sure he'd be ready. Somehow, even though a spanking was less brutal than the treatment he'd had at many punishment sessions, from Gibbs it seemed worse, which didn't make sense. A spanking … a simple spanking shouldn't be worse than being whipped. Maybe … it had to be because he was too tired. Or still weak from what Dirk the jerk did to his back.

“But...” Gibbs prompted.

“I want to try.” Tony found himself whispering, the words pouring out unexpectedly.

He hadn't thought about it, not even up until that point, but he knew it was true. He felt … like … almost like he owed Gibbs a shot at trying to fix him, and almost like he believed that if anyone had a chance a it, Gibbs did.

Gibbs had offered him a job when he was sure no one else would have.

Gibbs had put a concerted effort into training him, and Tony wasn't so dense to think he wasn't a better agent because of it.

Gibbs had offered him shot after shot, even making arrangements to keep him on after his latest screw up. If Gibbs didn't know how to handl--

The rest of Tony's thoughts were banished by the first punishing strike of twenty-five.

Each hit rocked him forward against Gibbs legs, knocking his breath out of him. The pain was delayed from each impact but continued to build until, by the tenth, he was no longer able to feel a brief respite after each strike.

He wasn't certain when his eyes began to cloud and water, probably around the thirteenth. Or when he began to gasp words that came directly from his subconscious and tumbled from his lips without conscious thought or notice... or even when the strikes finally stopped; although, he was certain it must have been at the twenty-fifth.

“Shhh... It's over. It's over, Tony. We're done. We're done, now.” Gibbs words slowly filtered through the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. “It's over. It's done. You made a mistake, and you've paid for it. It's enough; we can start with a clean slate. It's okay. It's okay.”

Tony felt light headed and dizzy as Gibbs finally helped him sit up, turning him when he winced until he was practically straddling Gibbs knees, leaning with his head resting on Gibbs' shoulder.

“Easy, just take it easy. Settle down. That's it, just breath....” Gibbs words echoed softly in Tony's ears... a surreal ocean like murmur rising and falling in his ear a counterpoint to his erratic breathing.

Tony clung to Gibbs's shoulders panting softly, descending into the familiar feeling of recovering from a hard fast sprint, the kind his old coach used to order for mouthing off or slacking off – muscles aching, breath erratic, heart pounding, riding a wave of adrenaline, and strangely giddy...

As if he'd had too little oxygen or too much wine.

He didn't have any reason to be. He knew that; even feeling hazy, high, and strung-out, he knew that.

He should have felt humiliated, caught in a lie, and put over his boss's knee.

He should have been worried about how Gibbs could ever look at him the same again. How could Gibbs possibly still respect him, when Tony had been ass up over his lap, sniffling like a baby?

He should have felt worried about what it was going to take to make it right between them, when Gibbs seemed to pity him so much that he'd cracked his iron man of the mountain act and was actually murmuring “shushes” and “attaboys” and “easy, easy” at Tony as if he was afraid Tony would break.

But, he couldn't manage to feel any of those anxieties because while Gibbs could lie to suspects - and probably to his team- and get away with it, he didn't lie as a practice, and he didn't promise that things were good if they weren't... and Gibbs was saying it was over: that Tony had paid for his screw ups and wouldn't lose his job over it, wouldn't lose his place on the team, and that meant that he hadn't lost Gibbs respect because no way would Gibbs have kept him on, otherwise.

Giving in to his strange elation, Tony chuckled softly into the soft curve between Gibbs' shoulder and throat, and felt more than saw Gibbs pull back to study him.

“How you doin'?” Gibbs asked gently, surprising Tony with the warmth and concern of his tone.

“Good, I'm good.” Tony had to catch his breath to say it, but by the time he did, Tony realized that it was the truth.

“Been telling you that," Gibbs pointed out in a gruff but amused tone.

“I know.” Tony agreed, and he did. Gibbs had been telling him that his last day in Baltimore; he wasn't certain he believed it, but coming from Gibbs, it was as close to acceptance and forgiveness as Tony had ever gotten, and frankly, he didn't know how to handle it.

Did you say thank you to someone who'd just put you over his knees and spanked you?

Chapter Text

Gibbs had no idea what to say when Tony murmured, “Thank you,” so very, very softly that Gibbs wasn't even certain that he'd been meant to hear it.

“You're welcome,” he supposed was the customary response so he answered Tony back just as quietly and felt Tony's posture loosen just the slightest bit more.

When Tony's breathing had slowed to a natural rate, Gibbs dropped the hand that he'd been using to sooth Tony down to Tony's shoulder and squeezed lightly, as he ordered, “Time to eat.”

Tony stood easily, he was glad to see, and moved with only the slightest unsteadiness that was as likely caused by the fact that he hadn't really eaten a good solid meal in at least four, possibly five days as from the spanking; nevertheless, Gibbs kept a firm grip on his shoulder, to steady him just in case and only released it when Tony was seated at the table – shifting slightly, but that was only to be expected.

“Not much for cookin,” he explained as he noticed Tony eyeing the casserole dish with curiosity.

He couldn't remember, or more to the point, chose not to remember which ex-wife had taught him how to make the breakfast casserole, but it was likely the only good thing he had taken from the marriage.

“But I can make this ahead of time, slice it into a couple of weeks worth, freeze 'em and reheat it when I feel like.”

Tony's expression was more than a little amused, despite also being tinted with an embarrassed flush.

“I have better things to do than stand around cookin', Tony.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” Tony agreed quickly, holding up his hands as if in surrender and laughing when Gibbs planted a small plate with a serving of casserole on it – on the palm of the nearest hand. “Thanks.”

“Reminds me,” Gibbs commented as he cut a slice of the bacon, egg, and cheese casserole for himself, and turned to rest his hip on the counter as he ate.

“Hey!” Tony remarked with surprise, “This is good, I mean seriously good.”

Gibbs lifted his fork in Tony's direction, like a salute, before he took the bite, swallowed it, and continued, “your apartment manager had a lot of good things to say about you. Seems to think that you walk on water with the older residents, and they'd have his hide if he didn't hold your apartment.”

“What?!? Why would that have even come up?” Tony fairly cried out in shock. “I thought you were the one who found me, not him. God... if he decides that...”

“Tony.” Gibbs cut him off sharply, hoping to head off what appeared to be a panic attack. “I just asked if he needed a deposit to hold it because I'm planning to take you to back to my place for the rest of the month, once you're up and around enough that you can take a move.”

“Oh...” Tony had a deer-in-the-headlights look as he answered. “I … I hadn't thought of that. Uhhh. Thanks, Boss, I - I really appreciate the offer, but...”

“Wasn't an offer.” Gibbs cut him off keeping his tone firm and implacable. He'd seen Tony recovering from injuries frequently enough to know that Tony was a reluctant patient, at best, and a terror to nurses when he was really in top form.

“It's just that...”

“Nope. You're coming to my place.” Gibbs intoned, firmly, trying to convince Tony he really didn't have a say in the matter.

“But, Boss...” Tony persisted; although, his tone was more hesitant.

“I've said all I'm going to on it, Tony.”

“Okay, Boss,” Tony answered, his voice subdued. While he didn't say anything else to protest Gibbs' decision, or even change his expression, Gibbs quickly noticed that Tony's earlier enthusiasm for eating had cooled and that while Tony was not quite playing with his food it was close enough that Gibbs could have called him on it – if he'd thought it would help matters.

“Okay...” Gibbs sighed, deciding to take a different approach, “What's going on? Why don't you want to come over so I can keep an eye on you till you're on your feet?”

“It's not that.” Tony answered hurriedly, as if he was afraid that he'd offended Gibbs. “I want to... I mean … I don't have a problem with going to your place. It's … it's just that I can't right now.”

“And just why's that?” Gibbs pressed wondering if he had used to much force earlier. He hadn't thought so -earlier- but couldn't remember a time when Tony hadn't seemed glad to come over if invited.

“Uh...I know this may sound like an excuse, but it's really not.” Tony began earnestly and studied Gibbs expression warily until Gibbs rolled his fingers in a 'get on with it' signal. “Okay, well, its just that some of the old – older residents here have this park-walk that they like to do in the morning, and I go with them, just in case.”

“Hmmm.” Well, it fit with what both the manager and Ms. McGillicutty said, so Gibbs didn't doubt it was the truth; though, he easily understood why Tony would doubt he'd believe it; even a week earlier, he wouldn't have believed it, and top of it, he wasn't entirely certain whether it was the whole truth or not.

“Okay, easy enough to solve. We find a stand in until you're able to do the walk, then we come over in the mornings. Not like we're gonna be late for work.”

In any event, he was pretty sure that keeping Tony cooped up all day would drive them both stir crazy before the week was out, much less the month, and he didn't want to resort to spanking Tony for the wrong reasons.

“Really? You wouldn't mind?” Tony asked in a shocked tone.

“Nope. Think I even know the stand in.”

“What who?”

“The neighborhood, it's safe enough?” Gibbs questioned first, wanting to confirm his suspicions before making the suggestion. Tony nodded eagerly before assuring him that it was more a matter of slips and broken hips that kept him going out with his neighbors, than any really threat of mugging or other abuse.

“Then I've just the person. Might actually do her a bit of good to meet your Ms. McGillicutty and her steel-tipped cane.”

“Who's that?” Tony asked, curiously, his eyes seeming to shine with just a little bit of mischief at the thought that Gibbs wanted to sic Ms. McGillicutty on anyone.”

“Todd.” Gibbs growled, still irritated at her quick misjudgment and condemnation of Tony. “She's in serious need of an attitude adjustment.”

“Damn,” Tony whistled softly, before asking the question Gibbs had only just realized that he'd opened himself up for: “what did she do?”

...

...

...

Trying to decide just what he should say, Gibbs realized that he had stalled too long when Tony asked again, more quietly, “Boss? Did she... is this... something about me?”

Damn! Gibbs cursed silently, but he could see Tony's calculating gaze starting to put things together in one of those often annoying and equally amazing leaps of intuition that Gibbs had come to trust, but never quite understood.

“She did. … She said something you didn't like... but... you've been with me the past couple of days, and you don't stay mad this long. Sure you can hold a grudge, but anger... you don't … so that means it was just within the last... few... da… it had to have been when you made your arrangements, so that means...” Tony seemed to pale as he came to his conclusions, and Gibbs was immediately glad that Tony was still seated because he was almost certain Tony's legs would have gone out from under him, otherwise.

“It means...” Tony stared him, and Gibbs couldn't remember Tony's gaze seeming so horrified, terrified, and betrayed, while still pleading, all in the same second.

“Yo-u … Y-ou t-old... Y-ou t-old th-em.” Tony stammered, starting to visibly shake.

Knowing it was too late to deflect Tony, and unwilling to lie to him, Gibbs admitted, “They know.”

“Why?!?” Tony shocked Gibbs with a heartbroken wail as he launched himself from the chair and stumbled into Gibbs, grabbing Gibb's shoulders tightly.

“Why?!?” Tony cried out, shaking Gibbs not strongly enough to really shake him, but frantic in his attempt. “Why did you … Why did you tell them? Why did you let me think it would be okay? Why did you let me believe that I could stay on the team? You said it was over. Why would you say that? You said it was enough. You said it was over. Why?!?”

“Tony!” Gibbs tried to interrupt Tony, but the younger man kept shaking him and asking him the same questions over and over with only small variations:

Why had done it?

Why had he told them?

Why had he let Tony hope?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why had he said it was over?

That he could stay on the team?

Why had Tony [“I”] been stupid enough to think that he [“I”] hadn't ruined everything again?

Why had Tony [“I”] been stupid enough to hope?

Why?

Why had … The litany continued, recycling over and over, becoming harsher toward Tony with each repetition, and Gibbs was shocked speechless for several seconds as he stared down at the top of Tony's bent head. Somehow, although he had guessed at Tony's propensity to be harder on himself than he'd ever realized; even after seeing Tony's hypercritical notes on his own self-perceived failures, Gibbs hadn't realized the depths of Tony's self-doubt until he heard Tony turn his justified anger, at Gibbs breech of privacy, back on himself, as if it were an emotional whip, but cutting as deeply and as surely as any blow the bastard had struck.

“Tony. Tony.... Slow down. Just listen. Tony. Stop.”

“Tony, stop for a minute. ”

“Tony, Listen to me. Just listen.”

“Tony, Stop!”

Tony seemed almost unaware of Gibbs words, and almost beyond reach – wrapped up and oblivious to everything but his own fears. Deciding that he wouldn't be able to get Tony's attention until he'd redirected Tony's outburst, Gibbs grabbed Tony's wrists and pulled them loose with the smallest amount of force necessary.

Tony stumbled back in surprise, and without his grip on Gibbs's shirt to hold him up, sank almost immediately to the ground. If Gibbs hadn't been holding Tony's wrists, he was pretty sure Tony would have just dropped.

Keeping hold of Tony's wrists, when it looked like Tony was half-tempted to roll up into a ball, covering his head or face with his hands, Gibbs asked quietly, “You listening?”

Tony didn't look up though.

“Asked you a question, Tony.” Gibbs pressed, and winced when he felt a small warm splash strike the top of his hand and roll down his knuckles.

Tony remained silent. Not petulantly silent, though, if anything, the feeling that Gibbs read from Tony in small gestures and tiny shifts, was resignation and despondency.

“Are. You. Listening? Tony, I expect an answer.”

Gibbs shook Tony's wrists lightly, and finally Tony nodded.

“Yeah, I told 'em, and not because they had any right to know, without you choosing, either. I shoulda told ya, but... I didn't know how you'd take it, but same time, I still stand behind it. It's the right thing to do.”

Tony shook his head weakly, denying Gibbs claim, but Gibbs continued. “You know as well as I do that this kind of thing gets out. The minute I told Morrow, I knew it'd get out. That's why I did it.”

“Don't understand.” Tony answered shakely.

“This way, they have a month to shake off the shock. To come to terms with it... and you don't have to deal with their reactions in the mean time. By the time we're back on the job, they'll have had what: probably five or six cases come up? In addition to the cold cases I've set them on? And plenty of stuff to think about in the mean time. They'll have time to get their heads on straight and be ready to work with, without out making things tougher on ya.”

“No.” Tony denied, “I know why you did, but.... You don't understand. They're not going to 'shake off the shock' the way you think. That's not what happens. Some of them might try to put on a sympathetic face, but there's not anyone... not even you... who's going to look at me the same, again. It just doesn't happen that way, and even if it did, I can't go back to the team now.”

“What the hell?” Gibbs protested, his anger at his own mistake overriding his judgment and his mouth, “Why the hell not? You too proud to work the job with your team knowing you been hurt?”

“God, no,” Tony laughed in broken tone, “I'm pretty sure I don't have much pride left to begin with, but I'm not going to risk anyone on the team getting hurt because of me.”

“That doesn't make sense.” Gibbs answered, although from what Tim had managed to dig up, it was beginning to.

“Trust me,” Tony sighed slumping a little more, “You'll be amazed how slow back up can arrive when it's called for a scene I'm on.”

Deciding it was better to get everything else out at once, Gibbs answered firmly, “That kind of shit's not going to happen. This isn't Peoria. Any dispatcher who's slow to call … any agent slow to show... and any one who puts a member of my team in danger is going to answer to me... and not just in the gym. Any of you get hurt, they'll find out what it's like to be on the other end of my scope, and I guarantee they don't want to find out how long my sights are if you're hurt.”

When Gibbs finished his … well his rant... he was more than a little startled to find Tony simply staring at him, not any less pale than he'd been a moment before, but seeming at least slightly more settled.

They stayed like that for several minutes (Gibbs crouching in front of Tony, still gripping Tony's wrist in a firm unwavering hold, as if he could transfer his own conviction that Tony would be protected just by the virtue of the strength of his grip, and Tony staring back at Gibbs with a gaze that was fluctuating between reacting to what he'd heard, calculating what the possible outcomes might be, and trying to figure out what was going on behind Gibbs gaze) until finally, Tony broke the moment with a shuddering sigh.

“Can I go back to bed, now?” He plead after a moment, and though it wasn't what Gibbs had planned for the day, he honestly didn't believe that Tony was up for anything else.

“Sure, lemme help you up.”

Chapter Text

Kate slapped her cell phone shut and glared at it several seconds before turning her glare on Tim. He could feel it when she did, but tried not to acknowledge the sensation of her gaze burning at his back.

“What are you working on?” she snapped.

“The cold cases the boss put us on, of course.” Tim answered calmly, almost biting his lip in irritation at her tone.

“What, so he didn't give you anything else to do?” She accused, but Tim wasn't going to say anything more about it than he already had, no matter how much she continued pushing.

He had come to terms with his guilt over his original slip about the time he'd really hit paydirt on the records that he'd turned up on the first attack on Tony.

After placing a few bots that would continue to search our additional information related to Tony's attacker and a few more on specific...' targets of interest' from Tony's previous departments, covering his tracks, and erasing his search traces from both his home and work computers, Tim had hand written a summary in as much detail as he could then printed and deleted all of his records with a specialty macros that he regularly ran so that the erase cycle wouldn't seem out of the ordinary if anyone from IT ran an activity sweep.

“Nope.” Tim answered smoothly, having learned from Tony that an attempt to deflect more often than not pointed to a lie than a simple lie in itself. The Boss had ordered him and Abby to do a discrete investigation into the vice case and they had and had turned over their findings the next morning. That much, at least, Kate knew; what she wasn't aware of was that neither he nor Abby had stopped there. After turning over their reports to Gibbs, he and Abby had gone out to lunch while the boss held Kate back with a special request.

Over lunch, without Kate's oppressive derision to interfere, comparing notes on the information they had uncovered looking into Tony's time in Peoria and the feeling they both had that there was more going on than there had initially seemed, they had quickly identified more than a few inconsistencies between the Peoria IA reports, the departmental 'shrink's reports, and the captain's defense of the men who had clearly harassed Tony after the 'incident', taking out their own failure in the field on the very victim they'd let down. Deciding to pursue the investigation on their own, without the boss's knowledge or approval in hopes of protecting Gibbs, if their actions came to light, Abby and he had used the lunch to plan out their investigation, as well as a number of 'afterwork' meetings, in the guise of resuming their earlier interesting, but definitely failed, attempts at romance.

As a result, he could honestly say that Gibbs hadn't tasked him with anything else to support Tony.

As far as Gibbs, Kate, or anyone else at NCIS knew, Abby and he had simply started dating again, and this time, judging by their satisfied smiles when they returned to work the mornings after - everyone probably thought that they were closer, and they probably were: closer to identifying the bastard who'd hurt Tony before, closer to figuring out who was behind the cover up that kept twelve bigoted and abusive police officers in their jobs, and closer to figuring out why the hell Tony had let them off the hook, without a fight. The information they'd gathered, so far, was enough to put at least three of the twelve in jail, but they wouldn't be satisfied until they them all... and not just on principle.

Somewhere along the line, sickened and disgusted by the harassment, abuse, and torment that their friend and teammate had been subjected to by the people he should have been able to trust with the seeming approval of his then-superior, Abby and Tim had developed a desire for revenge that only seemed to be fed with each new detail they found.

ブレンキン

Abby was fond of reminding everyone that she was able to kill someone without leaving forensic evidence, but she was quickly learning that Tim was capable of causing someone true devastation and and suffering with a 32 line macros- tracelessly inserted into national databases, with the skill of a surgeon, the stealth of a super-ninja, and the cunning of an ancient djinn.

It was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen him do, until she traipsed into the bullpen to meet him for lunch and watched him deflect Kate as smoothly as if he'd been the Bossman, himself.

Although she was well aware that it wasn't fair of her, Abby had been nursing a grudge against Kate ever since the night that Gibbs had told them about Tony. Kate's bad attitude and snarky demands that Tim fess up had been bad enough, but her comment about Tony was way out of line. To make things worse, the next morning, she was still grousing about Tim knowingly keeping what had happened to Tony a secret. Why she couldn't understand that it wasn't Tim's right to tell any of them anything that Tony hadn't himself shared, Abby couldn't believe.

Some things were just plain private, and while Abby would have hoped that Tony would have one day trusted her enough to tell her, she understood how he might never have, and really that was okay with her. Some hurts were just too deep to share, and man that had to be one of the top of the list.

“Hey, the boss has you doing something special?” Abby asked innocently, as if she'd forgotten Kate's mumbled grousing from the numerous times that Kate had complained about being asked to “babysit” Tony's neighbors on their morning walks, not realizing how selfish and conceited she sounded.

“NOT anymore! Thank god!” Kate muttered crossing herself over her chest. “He just let me off the hook for it, and about time, too. If that harpie had stabbed my foot with her damn cane, one more time, I swear...”

Kate must have realize that she was sounding vindictive because she quickly cut her rant off at the sight of their expressions before continuing in a more normal (and forced) tone, “Anyway, Gibbs needs to see how snowed Tony has those people. He's been running some kind of game on them for months, based on the way they talk, and he's almost got them convinced that he's the second coming. I don't know what he thinks he's going to get out of it. I mean none of them are rich, but I bet he's trying to work his way into their wills.”

Tim's timing was perfect, catching Abby's arm as her hand slipped toward her pocket; otherwise, Kate might have had an unfortunate coffee accident that would keep her in the bathroom for hours before the eyedrops worked out of her system. She'd warned him of the possibility earlier that week, and Timmy had promised to take care of it if Kate went to far. Tim's knowing look, as he hot-keyed a macros that flashed on the screen and blinked back out, promised that they would have a very interesting dinner that evening after he explained his retribution.

“Well good for you,” Abby answered back cheerfully, enjoying the other woman's mystification as she asked, “Ready to go, Timmy?”

“What you're leaving already?” Kate protested, glancing up at the clock. It was 4:45, close enough to five that she really didn't have room to complain, when they weren't even on call anyway.

“Yep, I've finished all of my reports and turned them in, sent updates and inquiries on the cases I drew today, and fifteen minutes just isn't enough time to get started on one more cold case before the evenings up. Have a good night.”

Abby practically beamed at Kate's answering scowl, but Tim slipped his arm through hers, and that was enough to keep her quiet at least as far as the elevator.

Once the doors closed behind her, Abby couldn't wait. “Tell me, Tell me, Tell me!” She demanded.

“Nothing much,” he answered, but his smile was too broad for that to be true.

“Timmmmmmm,” she protested.

“Well, nothing very much anyway. You know how the Director's told us to send progress reports to Cynthia while Gibbs and Tony are out, just so no one could complain that we were just cooling our heels.”

“Yeahhhh?”

“And Cynthia's been out since Tuesday for her sister's wedding? And won't be back until Monday?”

“Sooooooooo” So far it sounded boring, but Tim's smile promised otherwise.

“Well, you know how much of a stickler for timeliness, proofread reports, and professional grammar Cynthia is?”

Abby grimaced at that, Cynthia had come down on her case more than once for not having her reports in on time, not seeming to care that evidence tests didn't always resolve themselves by the end of business day and that the time it would have taken her to fill out the delayed report notifications would have cut into the time she needed to actually finish the tests.

“And...”

“Well, let's just say my 'bot' may have decided to selectively remove all of the reports that Kate's sent Cynthia for the entire week and erased any traces that she'd sent them.”

“Ohhh,” Abby giggled, “That's almost a cardinal Cyn!”

“Abby!” he laughed, chastising her for the bad pun... but continued after a moment, “It won't help matters for her either, that she'll probably just send a second copy.”

“You did more?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, Timmy, you've got to tell me! Pleassssse!”

“Well, okay, but just because you've asked nicely.” Tim grinned, and pulled her close, whispering in her ear, “My little bot might just have had a friend sleeping on Kate's computer that replaced commonly misspelled words with their phonemes in all of her finished documents as soon as they're encrypted to send... so the number two will read too, whole will read hole, that sort of thing. Plus, I've randomized it so that each send will show the changes on different pages and different spots.”

“Oh. My. God. You are EVIL, perfectly, gorgeously evil. That will drive Cyn crazy. She'll have to come down a second time, and she HATES being made to come down a second time. The first time it happens, she'll flip her wig, and every time she reads another one …Kate's in sooooo much trouble... Oh My God, I love you.” Abby pulled Tim into a passionate hug that turned into a bit more than that kiss.

It might just have been Abby's imagination, but Tim's kissing might have improved. He was blushing when the security guard cleared his throat, but knowing what amazing secrets Tim hid beneath the surface, only made it the gesture cuter.

ブレンキン

Gibbs was normally a light sleeper, a trait that had been both a blessing and a curse during the previous two weeks when he'd been frequently required to wake quickly from a mostly sound sleep and ease Tony back into the closest semblance of a restful sleep that he could manage. Most of the time, it worked, but it definitely took a toll on Gibbs and was outright brutal on Tony.

The previous night had been one of the worst so far, with Tony's nightmares ranging from Kate, Abby, Tim, and other agents replacing the officers who'd harassed him in the first time around to his nightmares reliving the actual event – not that Tony would admit to any of it, but his cries before he woke had left little doubt in Gibbs mind as to the content of the younger agent's dreams. Gibbs had no idea what he was going to do to curtail the dreams, but had put the question aside to catch up on some much needed rest while Ducky watched over Tony- under the guise of a check up.

Gibbs sleeping tendencies didn't matter a whit, though, when Ducky's sudden startled cry and a crash woke him from his sleep. Someone might as well have just tried to kick down his door for the implied violence, and it jerked Gibbs out of his sleep to high alert.

Cursing to himself as he realized that his gun was locked away in his safe, Gibbs slid out of the bed into a low crouch, and pushed the door open far enough to verify the hall was clear. The room below was clear and empty, and sounds seemed to be coming from the guestroom, so he quickly slid along the hall with his back pressed flat to the wall. As he neared the door, the sound's clarified into voices: Ducky's coaxing voice to be precise answered by inarticulate gasps and panicked protests from Tony.

“Anthony calm down... take it easy. I am quite alright. I'm sorry; I did not mean to startle you...” From what Gibbs could see as he turned the corner, Ducky's words seemed to be having little effect on Tony, who was standing several feet away from where the doctor had been apparently knocked off his feet.

Tony was standing tense and pale, looking almost ready to run, confused and though lucid- still seemed lost. When Gibbs stepped into the room, Tony backed away until his back bumped into the bedpost and he literally yipped in surprise before turning and darting into the bathroom where they heard him drop to his knees with another bout of all too frequent nausea.

“What the hell happened, Ducky?” Gibbs demanded, fighting the urge to run to Tony's side until he had a better idea of the situation.

“To be honest, Jethro, I'm not certain, but I would hazard a guess that the intrusive nature of the physical exam disturbed him, as we had – of course- expected it would, but despite this, Anthony bore up under this unpleasant experience with amazing stoicism, until after we had finished. His breathing and heart rate were higher than normal throughout, but other than a slight concern that he might hyperventilate, I felt he endured the examination quite well. It was only when I patted his hip and told him that we were finished that he reacted … badly.”

“Okay, so ya think that you may have hit a trigger?”

“Yes, most likely; however, his clear lack of restful sleep and ...”

“I'm working on it, Ducky.”

“Jethro, please do not take offense, when I say this, but while you are certainly well-intentioned, you are not a prof...”

“Do you really think he's going to go to a shrink?”

“Yes, yes I do... if you encourage him, Jethro, he would...”

“No, Ducky, he would go to the appointments, yeah, but open up? Not happening.”

“Jethro, if you...”

“No. He'll do what I say, you're right. No arguin' that, but I can't tell him who to trust, and if he hasn't come to you or me with this – he won't pour out his problems for a stranger.”

“He needs help, Jethro,” Ducky insisted.

“He's getting it, but it will have to be up to him to decide whether he wants to see a shrink or not.”

“And you won't discourage it?”

“If I think he's going just to please me; I will. It'd be a waste of money, time, and make him less willing to come to us when he needs it. If he wants to do it for himself, I'll drive him to the damn appointments myself.”

“Very well, very well, I can tell there's nothing more I can say.”

Ignoring the implied chastisement, Jethro asked, “hows he healing up?”

Sighing, Ducky shook his head, seemingly at Gibb's obstinacy, but acknowledged, “As well as can be expected. His weight is several shades off from where I would like it to be, but otherwise...while it is difficult to be certain from a digital examination only, there were no detectable perforations and no lingering signs of infection or other indications of prolonged damage, internally at least; though you must realize there will be significant scarring... however, I believe that there will be only minimal scarring on his back. The strikes on his shoulders, upper arms and upper thighs as the first contact points for many of the strikes were, sadly deeper, and less likely to heal without some rigidity. He is very lucky to have escaped more serious effects, and the antiseptic-anti-inflamatory cream that his neighbors have given him has worked veritable miracles; however, the physical scars are not truly where I believe that our greatest concerns should lie...”

“Duck, thought we agreed there's nothing more to say...”

“My Boy,” the doctor protested with growing exasperation, but Gibbs ignored it, in favor of listening to Tony's almost-quiet heaves.

“The longer you keep me here, Duck, the more of his lunch he's pouring down the toilet.” Gibbs interrupted, already walking away. “Take a walk, will ya? Maybe down to the park on Fourth, long enough for Tony to catch his breath?”

Ducky sighed but nodded and quietly withdrew.

ブレンキン

Dropping the toilet seat's lid, Tony wearily used it for leverage to push himself, unsteadily, to his feet, breathing slowly as he tried to calm his still clenching stomach muscles. With a stifled groan, he turned and let himself drop, sitting on the seat holding his head up with his hands as he tried to slow his gasping breath. His face was covered in a thick layer of sweat that felt slick and clammy against his forearm as he let his arms fall, crossing them before he collapsed forward – too tired to hold his head up.

He heard the doorknob turn slowly and the soft scrape of the door as it was pulled open, but couldn't force himself to lift his head.

The faucet turned on briefly, from the sound of it, he thought that Gibbs was splashing some water around the sink to clean it, apparently not realizing that he would have never considered throwing up in the sink, even if he was half leaned over it, and it probably did look from the way he was sitting that he had, then rinsed the sink. He wanted to reassure Gibbs that he hadn't, but while his stamina was slowly and shakily returning – his nerve had left the building... taking along with it his voice and maybe half his braincells because he truly couldn't even think of what to say. There had to be thousands of things he could say... that he needed to say, but not one came to mind.

Thankfully, Gibbs – always the silent type – seemed to understand and rested a hand briefly on Tony's shoulder giving him some relief from the oppressive anxiety that had hung over him from the moment he heard the door shift open. After a moment, cool, wet fingers slid down the side of his forehead and pressed his face up. Still not saying anything, Gibbs cupped the fingers of his free hand in the spray of the water faucet, then lifted them and slowly carefully bathed Tony's face, washing away the sweat and cooling his exertion-heated skin. Although there was no logical reason for it, as Gibbs bathed his face and neck, Tony felt the tension in his fists loosening, his tight chest easing, and his voice -if not his nerve- slowly returning.

“Is Ducky okay?” He finally asked, wincing as he realized how stupid the question was; if Ducky hadn't been alright, Gibbs wouldn't be bothering with him, but still...

“Is he okay?” he pressed when Gibbs remained quiet, the man's fingers slowing but not stopping in their task.

“I didn't mean to... I swear.” Tony offered, pleading for forgiveness, when he knew that it wasn't deserved. He'd struck Ducky, and hard enough to knock the older man off his feet. Even if Ducky hadn't been old enough to be close to retirement, he could have gotten pretty badly hurt if he'd hit something on his way down, and Gibbs didn't forgive anyone who hurt one of his. That much, Tony was convinced of.

“Here.” Gibbs ordered, cupping his palm in the water and letting it fill with enough water that Tony thought he knew what Gibbs wanted him to do when he lifted it to Tony's lips. Still he couldn't help but stare at the cupped hand in surprise, until Gibbs explained, somewhat gruffly, “Don't have any cups handy. Rinse your mouth and spit it out.”

Tony complied, suspecting that Gibbs wasn't answering his question because he was trying to let his temper cool, and a mad Gibbs was definitely not someone he wanted to face. When he had drunk from Gibbs cupped hand, rinsed his mouth, and spit it out, Gibbs did it again three more times apparently wanting to be certain that Tony did a thorough job.

“Just drink this one. No spitting.” Gibbs ordered, filling his cupped hand four or five more times until Tony hesitated, having drunk enough to sooth his throat.

“Better?” Gibbs questioned, bluntly.

“Yes, Sir.” Tony replied, honestly, and a bit sheepishly; he was feeling a little bit less shaky and a lot less sweaty than he had been a few moments earlier.

“Good. Come on.” Gibbs ordered before turning and leaving the bathroom – and leaving Tony with no confusion about what was going to follow. If he was lucky, Gibbs would only kick his sorry ass out of his house and off his team, without letting the rest of the team, hell the rest of the office, know what Tony had done. If he did that, Tony's life wouldn't be worth the proverbial plugged nickle... not that he really thought Gibbs would, at least not normally. Normally Gibbs just wiped the floor with someone who messed with one of his, but Gibbs hadn't been acting normally the past few weeks, and Tony was pretty sure it had been out of pity for him, but pity could only last so long, and Tony had really screwed up this time.

“Well?” Gibbs questioned suddenly, drawing Tony from his anxious thoughts. Tony finally looked up, trying to figure out what Gibbs had been asking and froze in his tracks.

Gibbs was sitting on the guest bed, that had been Tony's for a little over a week and a half, with a pillow over laid over his knees, and an expression that told Tony clearly where he was expected to settle.

Gibbs was going to spank him – again... and Tony really, really, really didn't know how to feel about that. It had been two weeks since the last time Gibbs had spanked him, and during that time, Tony had tried not to think too hard about why it had worked as well as it had – why that one spanking had set him more at peace than any of the harshest sessions had in probably years.

“Come on.” Gibbs ordered abruptly, and despite Tony's surprise at Gibbs' choice of punishments, he reminded himself that a mad Gibbs was one to be obeyed.

Silently, he complied, walking forward, and laying across Gibbs' lap.

“Twenty, because you let someone get hurt.” Gibbs explained perfunctorily even as he hand dropped on the first strike, reminding Tony again, just how strong and ruthless his woodworking,retired-marine boss really was. Again, each hit rocked him forward against Gibbs legs. Knocking his breath out of him, from the first. Like last time, the pain felt like it was briefly (very briefly) delayed from each impact, even as it continued to build. By the tenth, his backside was positively burning, and the pain lingered from each strike, offering no respite from one to the next.

This time, though, he knew exactly when his eyes began to cloud with tears. When his guilt and anxiety began to pour out of him in gasped apologies for hurting Ducky and for disappointing Gibbs. This time he heard his pleas for their forgiveness start well before the tenth strike, but more importantly, he heard Gibbs reassurances even as he continued to the twentieth strike: “It'll be okay, Tony. You made a mistake, you're paying for it, and this wipes the slate. Understand? This wipes the slate. Your forgiven. There now, it's over. It's over, Tony. We're done. We're done, now.”

The blood was pounding in his ears, but Gibbs words carried through as clearly as if he'd used a bullhorn. “That's it. That's it. Easy now. It's okay. You're forgiven.”

Gibbs continued his mantra, rubbing a slow hand across Tony's back to sooth him even as his relieved sobs slowed to gasps and shuddering breaths. This time Tony knew what to expect when Gibbs eased him up until he was leaning heavily against Gibbs knees, and he cooperated when Gibbs pulled his shoulder, turning him until he was straddling his bosses knees again. Feeling light headed and dizzy , Tony gratefully followed the hand that curled around the back of his neck pulling his head down to rest on Gibbs shoulder, and nodded when Gibbs coaxed, “Easy, just take it easy. Settle down. That's it, just breath....” unknowingly repeating the same words he had said last time.

Gibbs breath carried softly across Tony's ear... cooling and warm like the surreal ocean you could hear from a sea shell... like murmur rising and falling in his ear a counterpoint to his erratic breathing.

“Attaboy.” Gibbs murmured, not realizing how precious that phrase was becoming to Tony. “Just breath. Ducky's out for a walk, so we have time for you to catch your breath. Just breath. There we are. That's good. That's it.”

This time,Tony clung to Gibbs's shoulders, just listening to his assurances – a cleansing benediction that he could feel slowly easing the guilt out of his heart for hurting Ducky and replacing it with the almost certainty that it was okay and he would be forgiven.

When one of Gibbs hands slowly lifted and his fingers began to card slowly through Tony's hair, the giddiness that he'd felt last time didn't return, instead he felt as if something were shifting inside him... almost settling, making it easier to breath long, deep breaths and rest more of his weight behind his forehead and the hands on Gibbs shoulder, closing his eyes without his conscious thought, and before he knew it he felt himself slipping gently into sleep.

ブレンキン

Ducky closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he stopped in the doorway to Jethro's guest bedroom, frozen in his tracks by the sight of young Anthony, clinging to Jethro in his sleep, completely unaware and apparently uncaring of the impropriety of their position. Jethro, himself, did not seem to grasp how dangerous the path they tread was, stubbornly refusing to see that Anthony received the help that he needed.

The young man was already dangerously dependent on Jethro, Donald had not been exaggerating in the slightest when he had warned Jethro that Anthony would probably not be alive today, were it not for Jethro's high expectations and acceptance. Sadly, Jethro did not seem to realize how much power that it gave him over Young Anthony, especially now. Power and responsibility that he feared Jethro did not even recognize the depths of. Aside from his refusal to press Anthony to seek counseling, Donald was also terribly upset with his old friend for revealing such a personal trauma to the whole of the team, without Anthony's approval. He understood Jethro's stated reasons for doing so, at least marginally, but felt that his friend had acted quite injudiciously, on the whole, and worried for Anthony, if Jethro continued to behave so incautiously.

Seeming to become aware of his gaze, Jethro held up a hand to silence him before he even spoke, and gently roused Anthony to move him into the bed and cover him carefully, pausing to running his fingertips throughout the young man's hair until Anthony settled back into sleep.

“Come on, Ducky,” Jethro ordered quietly, “Let's talk in the kitchen.”

Donald nodded, following his friend and colleague, trying to determine the best way he could phrase his concerns to make Jethro actually listen. Finally, he decided only bluntness would suffice.

“Jethro, while I am certain that you believe you are doing what is right for our lad, you are being exceedingly cruel!”

Jethro froze with his back to Donald and lifted his hand to cover his face, groaning quietly, “Why couldn't you just take a walk, like I asked?”

Not entirely certain what his friend was referring to, Donald stayed quiet, waiting for Jethro to continue, certain in the knowledge that Jethro knew he could wait him out.

“Damn it, Duck! I know what it looks like, but you're wrong. I spanked Tony because … it's what he needs. I know it doesn't make sense, and probably looks like I'm just adding to the abuse that he's already had, but … Damn it. I swear I'm not hitting him any harder than I would if we were sparring in the ring, and only when I think he's going to let his … his... I don't know... guilt complex eat away at him....I can't explain why it works but...”

Sometime during his rant, Jethro spun around to face Donald, and it was obvious that he was utterly and startlingly sincere, and moreover, he had thought the situation through and had come to conclusions that Donald couldn't have hoped he could come to on his own.

For his own part, Donald had been certain that Jethro was completely unaware of Anthony's dynamic, which truthfully the doctor wasn't even certain that Anthony was fully aware of. In fact, he quite suspected that Anthony was moderately oblivious to his own nature, seeming to have only explored the lifestyle as a form of penance. Even if Jethro had understood, though, Donald had not expected him to be willing to take on the role that Anthony needed from him.

Apparently, he had been wrong on both counts.

“But I can,” Donald offered gently, suppressing a quiet chuckle when Jethro's head snapped up swiftly enough to have risked wrenching his neck muscles severely.

“What?!?” Jethro demanded with a glare that deepened as the seconds passed, until he finally accused, “Damn it, Ducky, when are you going to stop holding out on me?”

“Jethro, even though are caring for our young man, he does still have the right to privacy... especially from mere speculation and raw theories. I have not even spoken of my thoughts to him, out of concern that he was not prepared to face them. Nor am I so certain that he is even ready to do so now. Really my friend, you must learn that you are not entitled to others' secrets when they are not the subjects of an investigation. Now, as I am sure that Anthony's sleeping habits are not what they once were, perhaps it would behoove us to get to dispense with unnecessary acrimony and ...”

“Got it, Duck, I'm shutting up, now.” Jethro interrupted him, bluntly ordering, “Now talk.”

Although Ducky was tempted to continue his lecture, simply to 'press his friend's buttons' in retribution for Jethro's earlier intemperate comments, he chose to simply nod and gesture toward the nearby seat.

"Well, my boy, you have certainly seen enough of the world to at least recognize the existance of various... alternative lifestyles, but it is quite a different matter to recognize the significant dynamics of a specific lifestyle. To that end, before I delve into the meat of my explanation, Jethro - tell me - what do you know of people who manifest as submissives?"

Chapter Text

Albrecht Young watched the NCIS Director, Morrow, with amusement, as the man tried to control his temper while he futilely attempted to mediate, once again, between the DEA and CIA directors who had fallen into frequent squabbling almost immediately after the misguided declaration, barely cooperating with with the inter-agency defense task force despite consensus decision to provide open access to their agency's critical operation records.

It really was too delicious watching them blindly turn on each other, unknowingly goaded into their ongoing arguments, never realizing that their suspect was privy to every little squabble and tift as he manipulated them ever further away from the truth.

Oh, occasionally, he'd throw out a little tidbit of the truth, but as their youngest member, he let their own presumptions blind them to reality, veiling every hint in barely likely scenarios that they only gave a modicum of consideration – and then only due to his membership in their ranks – before discrediting his scenario and the sometimes-barely-hidden truth, with it.

All the while, he reveled in his role as tolerated underling, mostly sidelined and ignored as they squabbled, contentedly going over file after file of his sessions, remembering every detail renewed by his study. He had never before had this level of access to the coroners' and trauma unit reports after his sessions, and the ability to read every detail down to the precise millimeter depths of the wounds he had inflicted was … tantalizing... no almost arousing. If it weren't for the years of self-discipline he had imposed on himself, Albrecht had no doubt that he would have succumbed to the ever-present urge to test another candidate.

He doubted that the taskforce would be able to discern a single trace of his actions if he had given in to those urges, but he had not gotten to where he was by being so trivially incautious. He would soon indulge in another session – if only to reinforce their belief of a rudimentary schedule that they had begun to develop, foolishly relying on him to read off the dates of the assaults, without ever double checking the files that had been relegated to him to sort through as the elder members of the taskforce engaged in the “higher-order-thinking” as Crenshaw had referred to it before snidely almost-ordering him to sit back and learn something.

Albrecht had taken the idiot to heart, though, and had quickly learned the DEA director's weaknesses and 'sore points', as well as how to trigger them as desired, usually with a brief comment murmured just as they were leaving that the director obviously stewed over throughout the night – based on his reaction the following mornings.

The previous evening's comment had been a simple mention that he was still waiting for the CIA director's active staff files, which had been delivered that morning as expected – given the time needed to redact sensitive information from their files, but Crenshaw rarely took such details into consideration and had been only to ready to verbally attack the CIA director, accusing him of intentionally stalling their search through his Department's records, in order to hid his own indiscretion.

“that file?” A hand quickly slipped into his view, tapping the folder Albrecht had been studying, with some disappointment for the lack of detail – drawing his attention back to the present.

“I'm sorry, what?” Albrecht asked with surprised curiosity, having apparently missed both her approach and her comment.

“I asked if something bothered you about that file? You've gone back to it several times.”

“No, nothing specific,” He lied hurriedly, cursing himself as he thought about the file in his hand, “Just a feeling.”

He'd been trying to space out his return to that particular file as much as possible but the CIA deputy director had been more observant that he'd realized.

Trying to casually dismiss her attention, he pushed the file folder to the side, commenting, “I'll bring it up if I can pin down the feeling.”

Her expression wasn't convinced, but thankfully Crenshaw chose that moment to interrupt with a welcome if slightly insulting, “In the mean time, let's just stick to theories that we can find evidence for, why don't we?”

Albrecht slipped on his best resigned expression and quickly dropped a few other files into place on top of DiNozzo's file.

Over-ruled, Mitchum turned back to her director and the plaguing DEA director, picking up their conversation, again, “Okay, we've ruled it down somewhat, 13 possible CIA deep-cover agents, and 27 deep-cover DEA agents, who may sufficient gaps in verified third-party location references to have committed the murders and assaults, and another seven who were verified but within traveling distances of the attacks. “

“Fat lot of good that does us, when it's clear your department's holding out on us. Have you already ID'd our man, but decided he's to valuable to give up?” Crenshaw sneered, glaring at the other director, but Mitchum interrupted before her superior could, “Releasing our records, has only been delayed, Director, because our agency has a higher percentage of operations that affect national security issues. We're lucky the suspect's not from Homeland security, we'd need a writ of congress to get their records released – even with their full cooperation.”

Albrecht snorted at her response, but quickly smoothed his expression, explaining,” Even then, you'd have been more likely to get pages so heavily redacted that you'd be lucky to see the whites between the lines.”

“And that's with your full cooperation?” Crenshaw groused, bitterly.

“Oh, absolutely,” Albrecht agreed, and it was true, if they had started looking in his direction, Albrecht had already decided to turn over every single sheet of every report that the agency's operatives had filed from every single security- check on facilities at every major sporting event in the last six years, to every photocopied receipt submitted for reimbursment throughout the entire history of the agency – and all so heavily redacted that it would take decades months to log in the paperwork, longer to sort through it, and years write up the request for non-redacted copies of the potentially useful materials, which Albrecht had planned to spatter through, just enough to keep them on the paperwork hunt, but never enough to let them actually get anywhere.

Seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts, Mitchum frowned at him thoughtfully before her expression cleared and she shook her head visibly pushing the thought to the background, as she continued: “I think that it's come to the point that we recognize that we have to bring in our emergency response, elite response, and major case response teams in on this.” Before the others immediate denials could sink in, she continued, “Excluding the DEA and CIA teams, of course, look, even if we had only five or six agents from both agencies, looking into their whereabouts over the past five years, could have possibly taken months, but 40... and as Adam has already point out, not all of our records have fully cleared, yet; so there may be more. Investigating the whereabouts and activities of 40 deep-cover agents skilled in camouflaging their true activities – without destroying the covers, lives, and possibly ongoing operations of the 39+ remaining agents? We can't do that alone, and their covers are too delicate for us to rely on recuiting agents too new to the agencies to be suspect. No, it's our only option.”

As the others debated her, admittedly maginally sound plan, Albrecht threw in a monkey wrench, and waited to see how they would take it: “Director Morrow, didn't you say the victim from your department was on your major case response team?”

“Yes, Roberson, he is, but he's taken a month's medical leave, and his team leader was already on a month's suspension – leaving only two probationary officers.”

Pinkerton-Royce interrupted this time: “I wouldn't call Agent Todd a probationary officer. Director's,” she had four years of distinguished service in before...”

“Distinguished service with the Secret Service, or no, in terms of experience with NCIS investigations, Todd is entirely a probationary agent.” Morrow commented wearing a frustrated expression.

“Kick him off the team then, if he won't cooperate with the investigation” Crenshaw answered with a maliciously smug smile – seeming to enjoy Morrow's.

The more Albrecht thought about it, the more the thought of Tony working the case, searching for him in return for the years that Albrecht had spent trying to find someone who measured up to the young Vice cop that he'd claimed Peoria – more than six years previous - the more fitting it seemed, and the more likely he'd have the opportunity to run into his favorite sub, again.

Tapping his fingertips on DiNozzo's file, Albrecht offered in his best voice of hesitation, “I'm sure that Agent DiNozzo will be willing to cooperate – once he realizes how much is at stake. After all, he wouldn't have made it onto your response team if he wasn't a dedicated officer, would he?”

Both Morrow and Mitchum were staring at him with little frowns, but neither could argue his point, and Albrecht reveled in that knowledge.

Chapter Text

“Up and At Em!” Gibbs ordered, patting the ball of Tony's foot lightly, and smiling softly when Tony blearily blinked his eyes.

The previous night had been one of Tony's better nights, with the younger man sleeping the full night through, largely undisturbed by nightmares, although Gibbs had still felt the need to check on Tony nearly every hour, and had as a result gotten almost no sleep himself.

Tony climbed out of his bed, still half-asleep, but having grown accustomed to rising at Gibbs first call, and getting ready for the day.

Gibbs was almost certain that Tony didn't even realize that he'd stayed in the room to monitor his progress - waiting for the inevitable moment that Tony woke up enough to realize exactly what he was preparing for: his first day back at NCIS, with – at the very least- his entire team, and very likely a number of others, aware of the assault.

As calm and collected as Tony had tried to portray himself the night before, Gibbs wasn't fooled and knew the 'freak out' was due to arrive very shortly, so wasn't surprised in the slightest when he heard the running sink cut out, barely halfway through Tony's ritual of brushing his teeth (three times with different toothpastes to insure fresh breath, shining teeth, and some other some other trait that slipped Gibbs memory)… and the clatter of the toilet lid hitting the tank at the same time as a sharp thud announced Tony's knees hitting the floor.

Tony hadn't eaten very much the night before, despite Gibbs gentle pressure to... so it hadn't taken Tony very long to empty out his stomach and begin dry heaving even as Gibbs collected the water cup that he'd brought into the room for just this event. By the time Gibbs reached Tony, the younger man was hunched over his knees, resting his head on his forearms, covered in a clammy layer of sweat, and shaking lightly.

Pulling out the vanity drawer that he'd since had the chance to stock with a couple of sets of one of the nicer brands wash clothes he could find at the nearby department store, Gibbs dampened the soft terry cloth and slipped his free hand under Tony's chin and gently lifted it, almost immediately suppressing a smile as he noticed the soft flush that warmed his pallid skin.

He'd noticed, recently, that while Tony was more readily accepting his care and instructions, the younger man seemed to be having increasing difficulty hiding his emotions from Gibbs and regaining his composure when they were together... as if opening one aspect of himself to Gibbs undermined his ability to close himself off in other ways. A side effect of which, though, was that outside of his gently pointed teasing with Ms. McGillicutty, Gibbs hadn't seen a glimpse of his Tony's fraternity boy manner throughout the entire month.

 Although he'd be hard pressed to honestly claim that missed the younger man's often immature behavior, especially compared to Tony’s recent reserve and almost-comfortable silence, at the same time, he couldn't say he was entirely certain that the change was a good one.

Lightly stroking Tony's clammy forehead and cheeks, with the cool cloth, Gibbs ignored the fact that Tony still wasn't quite meeting his eyes. He was almost certain that they had started to get a handle on Tony’s deeply ingrained guilt-complex and shaky self-esteem. Tony, clearly, still wasn’t there yet, but during their dinner conversation the previous evening, he’d sheepishly admitted that the spankings had had their desired effect, even better, or so Tony claimed, than many of his earlier far-harsher sessions.

He’d been less agreeable, earlier in the day, when Gibbs had pulled out the personal case file he’d written on the Jeffery White investigation and made him go over it correcting many of the harshest self-criticisms he’d written with Gibb’s more gentle and objective – but honest – critiques, based on what they’d known about White at the time. Tony had even argued over several points, but eventually, Gibbs had worn him down with question after question demonstrating that his possible alternatives were no more valid than his chosen actions based on what he’d known at the time, and when Gibbs finally offered him a punishment to wipe the slates, if he could come up with a legitimate error – based on his knowledge at the time... Tony finally admitted that he couldn’t come up with anything.

All too familiar with the way guilt could eat away from the inside out, Gibbs knew it wouldn’t be that easily overcome, of course, but felt at least the seeds had been planted for Tony to come to terms with what had happened… during the investigation.

They hadn’t discussed the rape, in so many terms; although, there had been a brief uncomfortable acknowledgement that Gibbs knew of the earlier occurrence in Peoria as well as the harassment that followed it, and after more questioning on Tony’s part – Gibbs assurance that 1) neither event changed Gibbs opinion of him as an investigator or a man, 2) Gibbs would personally ensure that the harassment did not happen, again, 3) Tony was not allowed to withhold even a single instance of harassment- even from his own team- slide or withhold it from Gibbs (if not for himself, then to prevent anyone else from having to deal with it in the future), and 4) if Tony did try to gloss over or cover up harassment – he’d receive 25 licks – the number that was becoming their standard for Tony allowing anyone – including himself to be hurt, which had been another startling revelation to Tony- when Gibbs explained that both spankings had been due to Tony allowing himself to be hurt – requiring Ducky – to Tony’s dumbstruck surprise - to apologize for pressing on with the clearly traumatizing examination even though the Dr. had recognized signs that Tony was in distress.

A soft shudder immediately drew Gibbs from his thoughts, and much to his relief, he saw that, while he’d been lost in thought, at least his hand had stayed on task, having gently wiped away the sheen of sweat covering his face and moved on to rest the damp cloth against the back of Tony’s neck, between light strokes across his shoulders.

“Better?” Gibbs asked when Tony stayed silent.

“Yeah,” Tony agreed softly – unconvincing as another shudder ran through Tony’s shoulders and was transmitted through the cloth that had come back to rest on his neck. Tony knew not to lie to him, and despite the shuddering, Tony did look better, so Gibbs elected not to push.

“Kay then.” He answered, keeping the cool cloth in place on the back of Tony’s neck as he turned and worked the faucet one handed to fill the cup, before offering it to Tony.

“Rinse.”

“Good,” he murmured as Tony complied several times, before Gibbs filled the glass again and ordered, “Drink.”

Over the remaining weeks of their time off, following his talk with Ducky, as he subtly as he could Gibbs had begun testing small attempts to exert the control that Ducky seemed to think Tony was searching for.

The attempts had been intermittent and tentative at first: suggestions instead of orders - “eat”, “take a break”, “why not read something instead of watching TV (reruns - were still reruns, even if they called them a marathon).

Gibbs had gone into it knowing that Tony would concede on to most of what he asked, without complaint, so it wasn’t really a surprise when Tony took all of the suggestions – even down to turning the tv off. What was a surprise, though, was the way that Tony became increasingly relaxed and reserved, while at the same time more open about how he was feeling, answering any of the questions Gibbs asked of him with very little hesitation or reticence.

Seeing that, earlier in the week, Gibbs had decided that the experiment had been at least a marginal success and moved on to firmer and firmer suggestions, and finally orders: "Wake up", EAT!", "change into your work jeans", "You're helping me on the boat, today" ... and Tony hardly seemed to note the change, or if he did, had no qualms with Gibbs taking more control... as evidenced by his ready cooperation, improved sleeping habits, increase to an almost-healthy weight, and lessening nightmares.

How long it would last, or how much further he’d need take it. Gibbs wasn’t certain, but as far as he was concerned, he was in it for the long haul as long as Tony needed and wanted. From everything that he, Tim, Abby, and Ducky had been able to figure out, Tony had been forced to deal with some pretty serious crap entirely on his own, for entirely too long, especially if Ducky’s suspicions were correct about when Tony’s coping mechanisms developed. As far as Gibbs was concerned, that was going to stop: Tony was part of a team, his team, to be more specific, and he didn’t abandon his people.

When Tony had finished drinking his second glass, Gibbs caught his hands to pull him up, prompting, “Up you go. Get your shower, put on whichever of those “power suits” you wear when you‘re called to court, then come down for breakfast. I’ll make it light, but I’ll want the plate cleaned, you got me?”

“Got it.” Tony agreed softly, letting Gibbs pull him to his feet.

He still sounded and looked more than a little pale and shaky, but there was nothing for it. Their month was up. If Tony wanted back on the job, delaying his return to work would only raise flags for the agency’s shrink to dwell on, and despite Tony’s claim that he knew what to say to the shrink to get himself cleared for duty, Gibbs wasn’t entirely certain that clearance was as guaranteed as Tony might like to think, especially in light of Tony’s reaction to the thought of going back to work.

When Tony was standing evenly, appearing stable on his feet, Gibbs gave him a nod, and turned toward the bathroom door.

“Uhhh…Boss?” Tony’s hesitant tone stopped him at the doorway.

“Yeah , Tony?”

“I know that you’re going to … that you’ll have a lot to do, today, but… if you don’t…. I mean could you…”

“Just ask, Tony,” Gibbs ordered calmly, Tony’s uncertainty telling communicating how important the request would be.

“Could you… when you can, could you …. Stick close?”

“Hadn’t planned anything else, Tony. In fact, you’d better get used to seeing me riding your six for a good while. Here for the duration.”

ブレンキン

Tony flushed at the assurance and ducked his head to hide it.

“Thanks.” He murmured quickly not looking up until Gibbs had left the room.

It was probably just his anxiety about returning to work that had his nerves so fluttery, but Gibb’s assurances had left almost a quiet buzz of … well he didn’t know how to describe it. It was almost like white noise for his nerves. Everything he’d been worrying about, thinking about going back to work, just couldn’t seem to stand up to Gibb’s comment that he’d be “riding your six”.

He wasn’t exactly optimistic about going back; Tony was too smart for that, and had been through it all before, but with Gibbs on his six… well, Gibbs could be scary when he set his mind to it, and if he said that he wasn’t going to let something happen, only an idiot would cross him, because it would almost take an act of congress to get around him, and that might not even work.

Slipping out of his sleeping shorts, Tony folded them neatly, and laid them on the counter, then stepped into the shower, letting his worries about the day run down the drain with the water.

ブレンキン

Pulling the casserole dish out of the oven, Gibbs set it on the sideboard to cool before going to answer the door.

“Hi, Boss,” Tim greeted him as Abby nearly tackled him with a hug that would have cracked ribs if she’d been a man.

“McGee, didn’t expect to see you for another couple of hours, yet.” Gibbs responded with an intentionally pointed tone, designed to make them recognize they were treading on thin ice.

“I know, Boss, but Abby and I thought that it might make the morning easier for Tony if he didn’t have to deal with everyone all at once, and if he could go in knowing that we’re in his corner.” Surprisingly, Tim’s tone was a far cry from his usual anxious responses, and Gibbs couldn’t fault his sentiment or his confidence, as long as they were both on the up and up.

“So you’re in his corner?”

“How could you even ask us that?” Abby cried from somewhere around his eighth or tenth rib, only squeezing him harder, despite her affronted feelings.

“Wasn’t asking you, Abby, but this goes for you, too. Don’t know if he’s ready to be surprised with you all, but if you’re here to show him you’ve got his back, not just make a show of it in front of me, then I’ll let you stay. Make it rougher on him though, and you’ll find your rear meeting the pavement so damn fast you’ll think you were tied to a scud.”

He could feel Abby tensing to protest, but before she could get a word out, Tim beat her to it.

“We understand, Boss, and the last thing that we want to do is make it worse for him.”

“Come on in then,” Gibbs responded, proud of them, and noticing for the first time that there was a missing party.

“Todd decide not to come?” Gibbs questioned and frowned when he heard an angry snort from his side.

“Actually, Boss, we didn’t ask her to come with us. That’s another reason we decided to stop by, to give you a heads up on who… might be trouble.”

“Todd’s going to be trouble?” Gibbs growled irritably. He hadn’t been happy with Todd’s smart-aleck comment about Tony when he’d gotten the team together to explain the issue.

“I don’t know why, but she…”

“She’s a b—“

“Abby…” Tim cut her off, pulling her back and handing her the Three Corners Bakery carton that Gibbs hadn’t noticed until then, “Why don’t you head into the kitchen and set breakfast up, while I catch Gibbs up to speed.”

“Timmmmmy!” She protested.

“Abby.” Tim responded firmly, appearing as if he was about to say more when Gibbs cut him off.

“Abby, go!” Gibbs ordered studying McGee. He’d no idea what had happened in the month to make such a strong change in McGee’s attitude and manner, but with what little he’d seen, he already approved.

Pouting, Abby hugged him one more overly tight hug, before flouncing off toward the kitchen.

“So, get me up to speed, and make it quick. I don’t know how much longer Tony will take to get ready.” Gibbs ordered.

“Todd, Holcomb, Riverez, Gaspin, Corbey, and Stoddard are probably the most likely to make some sort of offensive comment. Trent might do more, but not anything dangerous, I don’t think. More likely, he’ll try to vandalize Tony’s locker, desk, or something, but that’s probably about it. The only one that I’m worried about going further than that is Benchley: I might be reading him wrong, but I think there’s some real malice going on behind his comments.”

“And those are the only ones?”

“I don’t know. There might be others, but those are the ones that we’ve both checked out and agree on.”

“Okay, that’s good work. Any idea what’s up with Todd?”

“No, at first, I thought it was one of those women and gender issues when she was making comments like it was wrong for Tony to sham being raped when he’d probably gone on a three day bender and couldn’t remember who he’d gone to bed with. Then I thought it might be a Catholic thing, when she made a couple of comments along the line that he’d probably just been trying to cover up his shame at being caught with another man. Then she was harping about him playing the older people at his apartments to try to get into their wills, just because they seem to like him. So, I don’t really know what her problem is, but she’s definitely got one.”

“Okay, Thank you. I’ll deal with her, why don’t you go on in the kitchen. I want to run up and give Tony the heads up that you’re here.”

“No need, Boss.” Tony’s thin, strained voice carried down the stairs to them. “Hi Probie, long time no see.”

“Hi Tony.” McGee’s voice and expression were soft and nonthreatening when he glanced up at Tony, which was the only reason that he even considered it when McGee continued, without looking at him, “Boss, could Tony and I have a few moments?”

“Tony?” Gibbs asked, turning his gaze up to study the agent who stood at the top of the stairs studying McGee on his own.

“I’m okay," Tony answered in an almost convincing tone.  “I’m okay.” Tony answered in an almost convincing tone. When Gibbs was slow to move on his answer, Tony promised, “Really, I’ll be okay. Right, Probie?”

“Yeah, Boss, he’ll be okay. Not sure how I’ll come out of it, but he’ll be okay.”

“If you’re going for re-assuring, you’re about 6o degrees off.”

ブレンキン

Gibbs left them though, with a warning glance to Tony that communicated loud and clear, ‘you need help you call’, and Tony couldn’t help but grin and nod.

Gibb’s answered him with an almost smile that Tony read as a soft ‘attaboy’, and Tony relaxed in response, looking down at McGee with amusement.

Just a few minutes earlier, Tim had seemed so composed dealing with their boss, more than he ever really had, but now he was self-consciously shifting his weight back and forth, shuffling the tip of his shoes like a kid who was hiding baseball bat behind is leg while facing an angry neighbor with a broken window and his baseball in hand.

“So Probie Wan, you have something to say?”

“Yeah, … uh… yeah, I do. I … look could you come down here for a few seconds… I want to try to say something, and it’s hard enough to say just between the two of us. I’d rather not shout it for everyone to hear, okay?”

“Do or do not; there is no try.” Tony mimicked in his best yoda voice, came down the stairs, and moved around to the couch to sit, but Tim stopped him before he could decide whether to recline into it, good fella style, drop into it like the cable guy, or hop into it and sit on his heels BBC Sherlock style.

“You might want to stay standing up, Tony. It’ll be easier to slug me that way.”

“What? Why do you think I’d want to slug you?” Tony asked with startled alarm, the question seeming so far out of the blue that he couldn’t even think about what it might mean.

“What did you do?!?” he demanded. Not liking how his voice cracked, or that he heard Gibbs chair scrape the floor again as if being pushed away from the table.

“Still fine,”  he called, before turning back to Tim, with a tight whisper, “What did you do?”

“I’m sorry, Tony, I really am. It was a complete accident. I wouldn’t have ever told anyone without your permission. It just slipped out when Gibbs told us about… what happened.”

“What just slipped out?” Tony pressed suspiciously.

“Peoria. I’m the one who told Gibbs about what happened in Peoria. I saw you give that waitress the card for your ... therapist back when we were investigating the serial ..Any way, I was never going to say anything. I swear. Not ever. I didn’t mean to; I swear I didn’t. It just slipped out. I was pretty much in shock hearing … about this time, and  I just babbled that I couldn’t believe that it had happened again… anyway Gibbs heard it, and … “

“Went all scary-intense Gibbsian-glare set to full power, on you?” Tony guessed, and relaxed when Tim chuckled weakly.

“Yeah, exactly.”

“And that’s it, that’s all you came to confess? No hubris, sloth, gluttony, lust, or coveting to add to the list?” Tony teased lightly.

“No, nothing else.”  Tim admitted still more than a little shame-faced.

“Okay, then. Apology absolutely not accepted.” Tony answered firmly, and felt a quick surge of guilt when Tim’s shoulder’s drooped.

“Okay…” Tim agreed softly, “I understand,” and turned to leave, only pausing once to say, “Could you give Abby a ride into work? I’m pretty sure she’ll want to ride with you, and hasn’t even been able to give you a hug, yet.” … Then he turned his back and slumped toward the door.

“Wait.” Tony cried out, catching Tim’s  arm before he reached the door. “You don’t understand, ... and neither did I, I wouldn’t have told Gibbs if I’d had any other option, but he needed to hear it – and I needed him to hear it. It’s helped a lot. .. maybe even most of all…. Having him know about it and what happened back then... it... It’s made things a lot better for me, okay? So that's why I'm saying you’re not forgiven: you didn’t do anything wrong that needs forgiving. Got that, there’s nothing to forgive?”

Tim stared back at him dumbfounded, and Tony laughed, wondering if that amused warmth… if that wasn’t the way that Gibbs had felt trying to get it through his own thick skull that he hadn’t done anything wrong in the Jeff White case. He was still having a hard time believing it, but still - despite how guilty he felt about it - hadn’t thought of any angle of reproach that he could justify to himself much less to Gibbs.

“You’re sure?” Tim asked uncertainly.

“Absolutely, well, almost absolutely, just sort of on one condition.”  Tony offered, trying to seem thoughtful.

“On what condition? I’ll probably do it, but just want to know what it is first?” Tim almost agreed.

“You go through the kitchen door first? I’m almost a hundred percent sure that Abby’s going to tackle the first person who comes through, and I’m not sure that I’m up to being her tackling dummy just yet.”

“Deal!” Tim gasped on a surprised laugh before moving a few steps ahead of him toward the kitchen.

Chapter Text

Tim, Abby, Tony and Gibbs had barely stepped off the elevator, laughing at Tony's obvious, but understood. attempts to joke around and act as if nothing had happened between his last day in the office and his return. The immediate attention of everyone in the bull pin had been expected as had the mixture of curious, sympathetic, ambivalent and openly disgusted expressions, but despite what Tim and Abby had mentioned at breakfast, about Kate's recent attitude, neither they nor Gibbs had expected her to be the first to start taking potshots at Tony.

ブレンキン

Kate was biting the inside of her lip when the elevator doors slid open, and Tim, Abby, and Gibbs walked out speaking and laughing – far too comfortably- with a fourth passenger that Kate was not at all happy to see.

As far as Kate was concerned, DiNozzo could have stayed out a lot longer... say a year... a decade... or forever.

In her opinion, DiNozzo should have been too ashamed to even return to work, after trying to pass off an indiscretion he'd gotten caught for as an actual crime.

Worse yet, DiNozzo seemed to have pulled the wool over Abby and Tim's eyes, and she didn't know what to think about Gibbs. Not only had he been out for the entire month, too, but their senior was a consummate investigator, and it was entirely possible that Gibbs might be giving DiNozzo just enough rope to hang himself with.

She couldn't be absolutely sure, but she had seen him do it before, with DiNozzo, walking up silently on the other agent just as he was hitting the worst of his comments, goof offs, or ludicrous imitations. Just in time to shut the agent up with a well-placed smack on the head.

Having the chance to be the senior team member in Gibbs and DiNozzo's absence had been enlightening, even if they hadn't been able to work any fresh cases, which didn't make sense at all, because she knew that Gibbs and DiNozzo had worked on their own before she came on the team, but suspected that Cynthia's ranting about her reports had undermined Kate's chances of being able to take Tim out on a fresh case.

Still, despite that, DiNozzo's absence had enabled both she and Tim to go through a good number of cases and develop some solid leads without having to deal with the man's juvenile pranks and distractions, and she was looking forward to turning her reports over to Gibbs, certain that he would see how much more smoothly their efforts had gone without the so-called senior agent's interference.

Glancing around the bull pin, she was pleased to see that she wasn't the only person unhappy about Tony's return. Her gaze fell on Gibb's quickly-masked expression of irritation as Tony cracked another untoward joke at Tim's expense, and emboldened by his clear displeasure, she greeted DiNozzo, “Surprise, surprise, the prodigal whore returns.”

Outside of a few appreciative titters, silence descended over the bull pin- no doubt the other agents waiting to hear DiNozzo defend himself. Abby and Tim had frozen in their tracks, and even Gibbs seemed startled by her blunt greeting, though neither he nor the others made any protest to her comment. Perhaps DiNozzo hadn't fooled them as much as she'd first thought. Tony, for his part, though, didn't seem surprised at all; more resigned if anything.

“Didn't know you missed me, Kate.” He answered, halfheartedly, not meeting her or anyone else's eyes.

Fueled by the continued silence and his guilty manner, she continued, “Trust me, DiNozzo, I didn't. Gibbs said you were taking recovery time, but I was half-convinced you'd come to your senses, realize that we'd all know what had really happened, and start looking a job somewhere know one knows you? That's been your pattern, hasn't it?”

“Trust me, Kate, I'd thought about it.” Tony answered, softly, but seeming to acknowledgment the veracity of her comments.

“What happened, couldn't you –“ Kate's words were cut off by the slamming of Gibbs desk drawer and a biting demand, “Todd, my office, Now!”

Gibb's stance was rigid with unexpected fury, causing Kate to rethink her responses as she realized that if he had been leaving DiNozzo enough rope to hang himself, she had completely bungled that... even if she had gotten a tacit admission from DiNozzo... but when had Gibbs ever been satisfied with a tacit admission? From her experience, Gibbs was never satisfied with anything less than a blunt, outright, and unimpeachable, and the anger in his voice when he reiterated, “I said 'Now!', Todd,” spoke eloquently of the wrath she was about to face for forgetting that fact.

“It will have to wait, Agent Gibbs.” Director Morrow announced from the railing, overlooking the bullpen with a grave expression. “Agent Renthrow, Agent Cochrane, your teams will be sharing MCRT duties for the foreseeable future. Agent Balboa, Agent Gibbs – MTAC, bring your teams. Ms. Scuito, Dr. Mallard is already waiting in the MTAC. Please join him. Agent DiNozzo, My office please.”

Gibbs was, already halfway up the stairway, a furious expression on his face, and protest clearly on his lips when the director met his gaze with an expression that confirmed it had been an order not a request, even before the Director could say it. From the staunch expression, Kate was certain that even if Tony had somehow managed to convince Gibbs otherwise, the Director was not fooled, and DiNozzo was out... until the Director paused studying Gibbs face, before he seemed to come to a conclusion, commenting, “We will be joining you, before the debriefing begins.”

Gibbs paused to in his advanced to study Director Morrow's expression, time enough for DiNozzo to reach his side and comment to softly for Kate or anyone else to hear. She couldn't even guess what had been said, but after a moment, Gibbs nodded sharply (and clearly unhappily), but turned left to the MTAC instead of right – to the Director's office.

Tim and Abby followed his lead, but not before sending a glare Kate's way. While Abby's reaction wasn't unexpected, the immature goth scientist always seeming tot have a soft-spot for DiNozzo's equally immature behavior, Kate was startled by the harsh expression on Supervisory Agent Balboa and his SFA Dietrich when they pushed past her to climb the steps. Agent Kitridge, who'd been hitting on her just the week before, brushed past awkwardly, not bothering to meet her gaze. His partner Gomez was more direct in his response, causing Kate to wince, as he muttered “Bruja!” under his breath and pushed by her, not taking care to watch whether he missed her toes as he passed. Whatever the new case was, it appeared that it was largely composed of DiNozzo's fan club.

Deciding to maintain an air of professionalism, despite their clear display of favoritism for the class clown, Kate climbed the stairs slowly, certain that she couldn't be accused of being late if they would be waiting for the Director to start.

ブレンキン

Gibbs, although none to happy with Todd's comments, himself, was finding it difficult to suppress Abby's rapid stream of signed threats, and was glad when Tim stepped up to the plate, signing for her to 'calm down and let Gibbs deal with Todd'. While he and Abby had always seemed the most prolific users of sign language on NCIS staff, there was no guarantee that they were the only ones who could read her signing as Tim had so aptly proven, and though he doubted anyone would count her emotional outburst against her – he had learned years earlier that small unconsidered actions and gestures had a way of coming back to bite you when your back was turned.

Worrying about what the Director had been saying to Tony had, at the time, was been more than enough to keep him from being able to focus fully on taming Abby's baser instincts, which at the moment seemed to be focusing on exacting revenge for Todd's cruel comments to Tony. Not that Abby's attitude was unexpected; the overly-emotive goth had a protective streak that rivaled his own, especially for those few whom had accepted and protected her in turn. It was Todd's attitude that had been more than a shock, despite Tim and Abby's earlierwarning.

He had anticipated the possibility of her giving Tony the cold shoulder or even having lost faith in his ability to defend himself and his team mates in a hand to hand confrontation (as blind and baseless as the attitude might have been), but the blatant public ridicule and cruel baiting hadn't even been on the radar. Their team had worked more than a handful of cases involving sexual assault against victims of both genders, and Gibbs hadn't remembered ever seeing a sign of anything less than professionalism from Todd toward the victims, so even with Tim and Abby's warnings, he had been prepared to keep her on the team – believing that he could keep her in-line with a few sharp words and a private conference or two.

The venom in her earlier tone and comments had put paid to that thought, though, demonstrating an outright malice that Gibbs was beginning to suspect had been at least partially hidden beneath what he had once believed to be a good-natured rivalry. Gibbs had overlooked the dynamic between Agent Todd and Tony, though sometimes tiring – thinking that it kept the team mates on their toes and never too comfortable in their positions. It was dis-heartening to realize how mistaken he had been to allowing it to continue... perhaps in even bringing her the team... as Gibbs now had to wonder whether Tony might have more inclined to come with him with his problems if the younger agent had been certain of his position.

After their late night meeting, when he'd informed the director of Tony's condition, he couldn't be entirely certain that the man wouldn't accept -if not encourage- Tony's resignation; however, the director's suggestion that Tony would be joining them shortly suggested otherwise. Regardless of the outcome, though, he had a decision to make: an unpalatable one, but one that was as easily and decisively made as his initial decisions to bring each of his agents onto the team had been.

Glancing around the room to find Todd, he wasn't entirely surprised to see that that her attitude seemed to be an isolated opinion, at least among the two teams being called to the MTAC. Although officially Gibbs partner and an MRCT member, Tony had spent significant time collaborating with Balboa's team, unofficially loaned to them whenever Gibbs was on medical leave, taking more holiday shifts than his due so that Dietrich could spend the holidays with his wife and family, not to mention Tony's unmentioned acts of charity that Gibbs usually only learned of whenever Tony was hurt in the hospital and his most recent beneficiaries would stop in with cards and stories.

It was how he had learn of Tony had driven Gomez's mother back and forth between the hospital and the church everyday, when her son was in critical care after a shooting, so she could have the comfort of lighting shrine candles and praying... and how he'd heard that that Tony had stayed the entire night with Balboa's son and daughter-in-law, keeping them entertained and distracted while they waited to hear of the other team leader's fate when he was inexplicably out of contact during an undercover mission. Even Ducky had let slip that Tony had cooked for he and his mother an entire week, when the medical examiner had come down with the flu.

Between the frequent contact and Tony's quiet generosities, Balboa's team and several members of others teams had a closer than obvious association with Tony. As a result, by the time Todd had reached the MTAC, all of the seats around the table, including the one directly to Gibbs right, usually reserved for his sfa, had been taken, and Kate was left to sit in a folding chair at the far end of the table with Kitridge, Palmer, and one of the forensic techs that he never remembered the name of... and more than one set of eyes were trained on the door waiting for Tony's arrival.

For that matter, more than one conversation trailed off when Tony followed the director into the MTAC, pale and shaken, appearing to Gibbs as if he was barely on his feet. Gibbs wasn't the only one to stand either, moving toward him, despite the director's foreboding expression. Before Tony pressed the thumb of his right hand into his left palm and dropped the index finger straight forward, signing 'later', quickly followed by the signs for hear and see as he stepped around the director's shoulder and moved toward the seat beside Gibbs that had suddenly opened for Tony. It was a rudimentary attempt for someone who wasn't as familiar with sign as he and Abby were, but the message was clear enough.

As soon as Tony had settled by Gibbs, the director began “Most of you should be aware that last month, Agent DiNozzo was drugged, attacked, and assaulted...”

If it hadn't been for Tony's hand grabbing Gibbs shoulder, before he could rise, Gibbs would have been out of the chair, in the director's face, and ready to drag him back to the man's office to 'discuss' the director's blatant disregard for Tony's privacy and position. As it was, though, Tony's grip held Gibbs in place long enough for the director's next words to sink in: “Which, I regret to inform you, makes Agent DiNozzo the twenty-eighth federal agent, police, or military officer assaulted over a six year period, and only the sixth victim to have survived."

A joint task force has narrowed the possible suspect list to 47 CIA/DEA deep-cover agents; however, this is largely speculation based on the tactics and skills required to deal with highly trained and in numerous cases, combat tested targets, all relatively young, mid to late thirties, clean records, all in middle to high level positions for their ages. No other common connections have been identified.”

The room fell under smothering silence as every agent and technician tried to reconcile the director's information.

Chapter Text

"I'll get on dinner," Tony murmured in a deadened voice as he shuffled almost lifelessly toward the kitchen, and Gibbs was hard-pressed not to order Tony to just go to bed

He was utterly torn between wanting to take care of Tony, letting him recover from the absolutely horrific day, and his certainty that Tony needed to be doing something to keep his mind off of what had been waiting for them when he and his tight-knit team had made their way to NCIS headquarters.

The stark contrast between Tony's upbeat, tentatively hopeful mood after their impromptu team breakfast and his current near-catatonic manner was almost heartbreaking.

When Gibbs thought about the reason it had changed, he felt like cursing, drowning his anger in a bottle, and only when his murderous mood was sufficiently blunted to let him think straight - leaving Tony in Ducky's care to hunt down the bastard who'd hurt Tony and so many others, the bastards in Peoria who'd failed to back Tony when he'd needed them and later turned on him for the very event they'd allowed to happen, and after that, to go and knock a good dose of common sense into the handful of NCIS agents who'd proven, throughout the day, that they barely deserved the badges they wore.

If they were lucky the first two hunts would be long and time-consuming: the well of anger Gibbs building in his gut felt miles deep, and Tony had been hurt enough for ten lifetimes. Gibbs was going to put and end to it...

Slipping his cellphone out of its case, he opened the lid quietly and searched his memory for the damn text function that Tony had finally convinced him (and taught him how) to use two weeks earlier.

He still preferred the military hand signals, for silent communication on site, but couldn't argue Tony's point that even on site, line-of-sight communication was not always ideal. His fingers, more accustomed to wood-working, fighting, and holding weapons, seemed resistant to the minute accuracy required to type his message. It took almost all of his determination (simply to not throw the damned thing across the room) to finish the message, but after several minutes passed, he had finished, and looked away from the screen to realize that Tony was hovering just a few feet away... apparently waiting out his task.

Tony shrunk under his sudden attention and started to turn away, but Gibbs stopped him in his tracks with a softly spoken order, “Come 'ere, Tony.”

The younger agent stopped, mid-step, and paused uncertainly. His reticence was eloquent to Gibbs, who over the previous month had been carefully revising and refining his profile of Tony. He suspected that he already knew, from the younger man's skittish behavior, what Tony seemed too anxious but was hoping that the month of being together 24/7 had helped to build Tony's trust.

Eventually, Tony shuffled toward him, stopping just about a foot from his knee. As he looked up to study DiNozzo's uncomfortable stance and posture, as well as the gaze locked somewhere to the left of his foot, Gibbs felt his phone vibrate twice alerting him of responses to is previous messages. Ignoring the messages, for his silent subordinate, Gibbs asked quietly, “Need somethin, Tony?”

Tony nodded, his head dropping with a silent, jerky bobble, even as his eyes appeared to well with misery.

“Somethin you're thinking I'm not going to like?”

Tony lifted his shoulders in a weary, hopeless, shrug, but he had finally seemed to work up the strength to voice his thoughts, even if it was in a soft, choked stammer.

“I – I'm … the w-way I'm fee-ling... it's like... the same … the s-same w-way … I... when I... when I n-eed … to … to … God, it's no use. I said I'd give you a chance... that I'd bring my crap to you.” Venting his anger at himself, in a tone thick with self-loathing, he broke off, and his hands came up to rub his face before sliding back to alternately card and pull at his hair in vexation. His eyes shut in an expression of rueful shame, Tony didn't see Gibbs approach and jumped when Gibbs closed a hand over each of Tony's shoulders. Gibbs wasn't surprised when Tony couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes, but it was a minor matter compared to the emotions he was now certain that Tony had been trying to express.

Remembering how difficult it had been for Tony to acknowledge how many times he had let others hurt him, Gibbs offered, “Would you like me to take a guess, 'n you can tell me right or wrong?”

Tony gave another jerky bobble of his chin that Gibbs took to be agreement.

“Okay then, I'm thinking that you're tying yourself up in knots right now, with guilt, cause that bastard who attacked you in Peoria, right under the noses of the idiots who were supposed to be your back up, went on to hurt others” Tony's posture stiffened at Gibbs words, his shoulder muscles becoming rigid under Gibbs gentle grip, but Gibbs continued as if he hadn't noticed. “... and that you're feeling ashamed because you didn't report it – formally – as you think you should have, even knowing that the bastards who should have had your six were being fucking hypocrites and taking their own failure out on you … knowing that making a formal report would have only made things worse for you and that if there had been a hope in hell of those fucking incompetents actually catching the bastard, he wouldn't have had a chance to get to you in the first place. How am I doing so far?”

Tony's shoulders barely lifted under Gibbs hands, in a noncommittal shrug, but Gibbs took it for the acknowledgement that it was and nodded his acceptance, before continuing.

“How about this, then? Despite knowing all that, you're still plagued by guilt because, underneath all of the antics you like to put up as a disguise, you are a man with about the highest standards and integrity that I've ever met, not to mention a strong sense of justice – for yourself and others. It's what makes you a great agent, that desire to see the guilty punished, but at the same time, when you feel it's you who've done something wrong – it's yourself you want to see punished. To make your penance and clean the slate.”

Tony finally met his eyes with a misery-filled gaze, red-rimmed and welling with tears, and whispered in a watery tone, “Yes, Sir.”

“Thought so, and I can help you deal with that, but I want to make something a couple of things clear before I do. First, from the moment that bastard laid his hands on you, it was no longer your responsibility to take him down. There is a reason agents don't get to work cases their involved in, and it's to protect the agents just as much as the perps. Second, you may not have given a formal report, but they had the damn recordings from the wire you were wearing when it happened. Third, they should have fucking told you that your contact had been one of the possible suspects. Fourth, regardless of what they damn corrupt IA officers said, your team were the ones who screwed up, not you. Insufficient attention to your environment, my ass! You shoulda been told the bastard was suspected of using rohypnol on his targets...”

“I – I get it, Boss.” Tony interrupted, then trailed off, “B – but, it ...”

“It doesn't change how your feelin' or what you need to get your head straight. I know, but there's just one more thing I have to make sure you understand here, and that's Double jeopardy: one act, one punishment, and then it's done; you don't take on the burden for that bastard. He's the one who hurt those twenty-six men not you. You're not the one who let the bastard go; those bastards in Peoria, they're responsible for that. Only thing I can see you have the right to take responsibility for is not making the report formal despite that 'thin-blue-line' crap; those bastards need to face a little justice of their own, but that's it.”

Gibbs waited for Tony's reaction and could see that the younger man was finding his comments difficult to take, wanting to take on more guilt than his share – a feeling that Gibbs was all too familiar with from his own past. He knew he might have said too much; DiNozzo had frequently joked that Gibbs was a functional mute, and there was more than a shade of truth in the claim, but it wasn't by incapacity, as much as by choice.

Even as a child, Gibbs had been stubborn and proud despite the fact that or more to the point, even after a childhood stunt that had temporarily cost him his hearing - causing him difficulty in interpreting what his parents and teachers were saying sometimes - had resulted in him being laughed at for his misunderstandings.

He'd learned, then, that keeping your mouth shut both kept you from sticking your foot in it and gave others the opportunity to fill in the gaps with information they might not have otherwise. It had worked well for him over the years since, but right at that moment, giving Tony the room to fill in the blanks when he didn't seem to have the needed objectivity to recognize the compassion he so well-deserved... well... it was worth breaking his chosen M.O. to make certain that Tony got the message loud and clear.

When Tony still hadn't responded after several seconds passed, Gibbs pressed, “You think I'm wrong, you tell me so; otherwise, we're agreed.”

“N – o, no... you're... it doesn't feel right, but I can't... can't say you're wrong.” Tony agreed, reluctantly.

“Okay then, as long as we understand each other. Come on.” Letting go of one shoulder, Gibbs used the grip on his other shoulder to steer Tony back to his guest room and over to his spare bed.

As he sat down on the bed, Gibbs asked, “So you'll go with my judgment on this?”

While he waited for Tony's response, his grip on Tony's arm kept Tony from moving forward until he had a confirmation.

“Yeah, yeah, Boss, I will.” The change in Tony's voice as he answered was noticeable.

“Kay then, come on.”

Taking Tony's hand, Gibbs pulled him gently over until Tony's legs bumped against Gibb's knees and Tony folded over his lap.

“Twenty-five.” Gibbs commented softly, then explained: “by not reporting those bastards in Peoria, you gave them the chance to hurt you.”

“Okay.” Tony agreed, his tone becoming less shaky by the second.

“Are you ready?” Gibbs questioned, before raising his hand.

“Yes, Sir.”

This time, his tone was firm and steady,

Dropping his hand in fast, even-paced slaps, Gibbs didn't spare Tony his strength, just as he wouldn't have in the ring, knowing that the younger man wouldn't thank him if did; though, he was careful not to concentrate the strikes in any single area, nor to strike with enough force to bruise or injure. As with the earlier times, by the tenth stroke, Tony was crying out apologies, filled with angst and self-loathing. Not very far into it, Tony's apologies begin to draw out other hidden wounds, pouring out his grief at their betrayal of his trust, the loneliness and distrust he'd carried with him to Philly and later to Baltimore – where his former partner betrayed his trust again. By the time Gibbs had reached the twentieth stroke, Tony's apologies had faded off beneath a slew of heartbroken sobs.

Gibbs pulled Tony, limp and gasping as his sobs slowed, up – turning him until the younger man was sitting in a now familiar position, astride Gibbs knees with his head pressed into Gibb's shoulder. When the Tony's sobs had faded enough that Gibbs felt Tony would be able to hear him, Gibbs wrapped his palm around the back of Tony's neck, hoping to ground Tony in the present as he spoke.

“It's done, Tony. Slate's clean.”

Something loosened, in Gibbs own chest, as he listened to Tony's breathing steady out, and he began to squeeze and work the muscles at the back of his partner's neck, gentling Tony when he started to stir and coaxing him down toward the bed.

Chapter Text

Closing the door softly behind himself, after handing off the box of discs to Gibbs, Tim quietly asked, “Where would you like me to set it up?”

He didn't need to ask how Tony was, it was written all over their boss's closed off expression and the fact that Gibbs had actually gone to the effort of texting him to stop by, pick up Tony's keys, and retrieve Tony's flat-screen tv, DVD player, and a “careful” selection of DVDs from his team mate's apartment.

Gibbs hadn't needed to define careful either: film noir, thrillers, detective mysteries, anything with the hero beaten within an inch of his life, anything that might remind Tony of the military men who'd been injured and killed, anything with serial killers, police dramas, and similar themes... all of it was out. Tim had added a few other filters on his own that he didn't think Gibbs would have specified, but he suspected Tony would have had a difficulty coping with: Disney Movies (and who would have really thought that Tony would have those in his collection?), where half the time the main character's mother, father, or both died; movies with the protagonist ending up abandoned on a desert isle, in the desert, or something similar, which surprisingly there seemed to be a number of because Tony had half a shelf separated out into the theme; and medical mysteries, somehow he didn't think that Tony really wanted to be reminded of bodies being mutilated, in anyway.

What was left was a cluster of classic scifi that Tim felt were probably safe enough because, if anything, sci-fi from the 70's was almost as mild as you could get outside of sitcoms, and somehow Tim suspected that Gibb's tolerance for sitcoms was very, very low. Aside from that Tony hadn't seemed to collect too many of them either, which was a bit of a surprise to Tim. He'd almost brought Tony's Magnum collection, too, but thought that the series, despite being Tony's favorite would probably hit on too many of the no-go topics to include.

“Over there,” Gibbs pointed to the couch that had been turned around 180 degrees since their visit that morning, and was now facing a blank space in the wall where a bookshelf had previously stood. A few feet away, a gathering house side board waited to be pulled into place.

“Didn't know if you'd need to get behind it.” Gibbs explained.

“Thank you,” Tim responded, not about to minimize Gibbs' consideration. It wasn't often that their boss thought about their convenience, and to be appreciated whenever it occurred.

Gibbs nodded and took a seat gesturing for Tim to get on with it. Setting Tony's tv, mini-satelite dish, and dvd player should have taken less than ten to fifteen minutes, max, but Tim let it drag out, taking time to observe their boss as surreptitiously as he could while he worked.

“Have somethin' to say- say it.”

Sighing, Tim nodded, he should have known Gibbs would notice.

“This ...” he paused gesturing to the sideboard, “seems a little like a longer term thing; I would have thought Tony would go back to his apartment, once he was well enough to come back to work.”

From Gibbs' expression, their boss had expected the veiled question. The grim line of his lips, though, suggested that Tim wasn't going to like the answer.

“Want to keep an eye on 'em, till we find the bastard.”

But, that could take years. The suspect had already escaped detection for close to six years... six years...

Tim's head shot up as the realization struck.

“You don't think?”

Gibbs nodded.

“While you and Tony were going through photos of possible suspects, played a hunch and looked through the vics' files. First reported vic's a vice cop – Peoria.”

“Tony?!? But then why wasn't the connection made when his name came into it again?”

“Not Tony, one of his team, six months after he'd moved on. Tony didn't report it...”

“Oh, right,” Tim agreed, remembering something that he shouldn't have forgotten: Tony had left Peoria rather than make more waves after his team failed him – taking a unearned stain on his record and leaving before it became the threatened demotion.

Still... Tim was certain that he'd seen a file on Tony that didn't look like a file Ducky would have put together.

Gibbs seemed to follow his thought though and shrugged, suggesting: “Someone musta' connected the dot's and pulled the IA's info after finding out about the other one. There were enough differences – what with the case he was working on and Tony not giving a full report – that someone could have thought it might or might not have been connected. Don't think that Morrow exactly advertised who this last attack was on, either.”

“It could be a coincidence though," Tim suggested, "from the list of locations, the suspect's worked the eastern seaboard primarily, and those are pretty populate areas.”

“Don't believe in coincidence,” Gibbs denied, then continued, “Especially not when it includes another vic in Philly, 18 months after Tony was there, 'n Baltimore two months after he joined up here.”

Tim sat back on the heels, the last co-axle cable in hand, as he digested the horrific implications.

“You think he's … what … tracking Tony? Targeting people he's worked with? But why? And, if he is after Tony - he's had two shots at him, why not just...”

“Dunno, but somethin' struck me about the six survivors... the ones the bastard let live...There were a couple of differences but all of 'em looked like they could have been Tony's brothers.”

The thought took the wind from Tim as he considered it. He had assumed that the survivors had been mostly by chance, not intention. Because of the diversity of looks and backgrounds of the twenty-two other victims, it had been assumed that the killer didn't have a type. Apparently, he did; but what did it mean?

Gibbs stared toward the guest room door for few breaths before turning back to Tim; his expression growing more stonily grim as the seconds passed.

“Somethin' else, with the six... he's got rougher each time, 'n I'm thinkin' he's been practicin' on the others then discardin' them until he's satisfied that he's got control of it then going after another of Tony's type. He's working up to somethin'.”

Gibbs words were bitten out with a particularly cold tone that Tim was almost certain that he'd never heard from the team lead. It didn't take much of a leap of intuition for Tim to infer that whatever Gibbs suspected their killer was up to – Gibbs was certain that it involved Tony... and that he was going to stop it from happening.

Between the Gibbs's tone of voice, his suddenly rigid posture, and the alien glint of cold-cutting rage in his gaze, Tim suddenly suspected that he wasn't speaking to the Supervisory Agent anymore, but instead to Gunnery Sergeant Scout Sniper J. Gibbs... One of the few of a select group of Marine marksmen, who not only qualified for and survived the 70% attrition rate of the Scout Sniper Basic Course, but graduated into the advanced course with a UKD/Stalking score of 90% on ten stalks, seven out of the ten scoring 100s and nothing below 80's.

When Tim had looked up Gibbs scores on the advanced course, the files were triple sealed with the type of encryption protocols that screamed 'black ops' (if you knew what to look for), and Tim had been smart enough to 'back out' of the files very quickly and cover his tracks.

It was all he needed to know to realize that if Gibbs had his way - the killer wouldn't get within 1200 yards of Tony.

Now it was just up to Tim and the rest of the team to make sure that Gibbs got his way.

Chapter Text

By the time Tony woke and stumbled out of the 'guest' bedroom, that Gibbs was beginning to think of as Tony's, at least for the foreseeable future, the pizza had been delivered; a couple of bottles of beer and large bowl of popcorn seasoned with butter, salt, and parmesan cheese (the package's suggestion -not his own- but since it was going with pizza, he'd given it a shot.); and a small spread of nuts, pretzels, chips, and the restaurant's “Famous” dip topped off the coffee table he'd moved around between the relocated couch and sideboard.

Tony couldn't have looked more astonished when he finished blearily rubbing his eyes, and Gibbs was finding it difficult not to laugh.

“Come here,” he ordered, patting the couch cushion beside him with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

Tony glanced between Gibbs hand and his eyes again, seeming confused, but came over to the couch.

“Boss, uh, what's this about?” Tony's eyes widened, comically, as he finally made the connection between the change in the couch's direction and the change of furniture on the wall.

“I don't just discipline you, Tony. When you do something right, it seems to me that an 'attaboy's in order, too. An the bigger the thing you do is, the bigger the 'attaboy' should be.”

“But... I – what did I?” Gibbs smiled softly at Tony's befuddled expression. He had half-suspected that Tony wouldn't see what he'd done or recognize how 'big' of a thing it was.

“You keeping your promise and bringing your troubles to me – as hard as it was for you to do – and trusting me to deal with them... is a pretty big thing. Bigger than just a pat on the head.”

“But I like it when...” Tony protested, flushing slightly when he realized what he was saying.

“Come here,” Gibbs ordered again, softening his smile at the admission, and patting the couch again.

When Tony sat beside him on the couch, Gibbs slowly reached up, telegraphing his move and watching Tony's almost pensive expression as he seemed to fight with himself not to lean into Gibbs' hand before it reached the back of his head.

“I said it's worth more than a pat, not that you wouldn't get that, too.”

Gibbs honestly hadn't thought about it, but given how tactile Tony was, he should have known that he'd need to remember to include some physical contact in Tony's rewards as much as in his punishments.

Even as he thought it, the consideration struck him as being … how had Tim described it... 'longer termed' than he'd expected, but he pushed the thought away as he watched Tony relax into his stroking hand and begin to smile.

When he finally pulled his hand away, Tony leaned slightly back as if trying to follow it, but quickly sat up with a sheepish smile.

“Thanks. That was...” Tony didn't seem to know how to finish it, so Gibbs rescued him before he started to stammer, which he'd recently begun to do when he found himself at a loss for words with Gibbs.

As far as Gibbs had noticed, it was only when Tony was alone with him, and he suspected it was something that would fade as Tony found his equilibrium again.

“Just the beginning. Here, sit back, relax.” He handed Tony a beer and triggered the remote that Tim had shown– okay very patiently - and repeatedly– shown him how to use … half a dozen times until he got it right.

Gibbs sat back satisfied, though, as the theme music began to play and he heard Lorne Greene's voice pick up the show's prologue.

“Oh wow...” Tony breathed out, in a tone of disbelief, “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Wow!”

“Tony...”

“Shutting up and watching, Boss.” Tony happily agreed to Gibbs' unspoken order, settling back into the seat cushion behind him.

It was close to an hour before Tony had relaxed enough to start rambling on about the 'epic' copyright battle between Fox and Universal, followed by a critique of the tropes and cliches dating back to some 1930s series. The popcorn bowl had been emptied and refilled and the beers replaced before he'd relaxed enough that the rambling fell away to idle comments, and Gibbs felt the younger man's weight begin to settle against his shoulder.

So despite himself, Gibbs couldn't help but regret it when he felt himself tensing -as he watched the lead pilot's young wife fall in an enemy ambush, and almost simultaneously Tony's relaxed posture immediately evaporated. Gibbs could almost feel his gaze dart past him to the digital display on the DVD player, just before he felt Tony shift in his seat to jump up.

“God, Sorry. I didn't realize it was that late.” Tony blurted out, reaching for the remote.

The timing was lousy, but not because of 'what time' it was; instead it was because Tony had finally been relaxing when that scene would have to come up for Gibbs to react to. Setting aside his discomfort, Gibbs caught Tony's hand before it touched the remote, softly ordering, “no.”

Tony's hand stilled in his grip, and Tony glanced at him with a startled, affected gaze.

“Morrow gave us the day.”

“But...”

Gibbs pressed a finger to Tony's lips, not wanting to send a mixed message by giving him a tap to the back of his head.

“Just consider it another attaboy, Tony. What you did earlier tonight, coming to me was hard; we both know it, but how you handled yourself today was just as hard, and Morrow knows it, too. So, sit back and enjoy.”

He waited for Tony to nod before releasing his grip and letting Tony lean back to where he'd been sitting.

“You're sure?”

He really shouldn't have been surprised that Tony questioned it, but raised a questioning eyebrow when it was clear that the question hadn't been rhetorical and Tony was waiting for his answer.

“It's just... y- you seemed... uncomfortable with …” Tony trailed off into with a uncertain shrug, gesturing toward the tv.

As uncomfortable as it was to admit, Gibbs wasn't ready to backtrack on the efforts he'd made to get Tony to trust his instincts by undermining Tony's trust in his own observations and denying what the younger agent had picked up from his reaction.

“Not the show as a whole,” Gibbs hedged, “just that scene.”

When Tony continued to stare, Gibbs filled in, with as little more detail as he thought he could answer, without stirring up more questions:

“Not all of my wives divorced me, Tony,” he commented with a gesture back to the screen, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the young pilot sat vigil beside his dying wife.

Tony's eyes deepened with understanding as he stared back into Gibbs' eyes, and murmured a whisper-soft acknowledgement, “I – I'm sorry.”

After Gibbs nodded, Tony leaned back into the cushions and stared down at his hands that he'd dropped to his lap, half-folded, with a morose regretful expression.

“Hey,” Gibbs coaxed, lifting his beer as he asked, “Would you like another?”

“Can I?”

“Wouldn't have asked otherwise.” Gibbs agreed, getting up from the couch and heading toward the kitchen.

It wasn't the first time that Tony had asked him for permission for something since Gibbs had started giving him orders, but it was the first time that Tony had asked him over something so small... something he would have normally had no need to ask about, and Gibbs wasn't certain how he felt about that.

As soon as his boss left the room, Tony reached up and swiftly slapped himself in the back of the head, wincing as the smack exacerbated the day's headache that hadn't completely faded.

Here Gibbs was really going all out to do something nice for Tony, and from Gibbs, who couldn't seem to stand tv and 'modern' diversions, it was spectacularly nice just for that fact... and what does Tony do, but dredge up a really bad and really, really painful memory in return.

The pain in Gibbs' eyes when he glanced away from the screen had taken Tony's breath away.

But instead of putting the movies to an end, Gibbs had shrugged off the pain, admitted to being a widower, and offered to get Tony a drink... probably to get away from the admission, Tony thought.

Gibbs certainly wasn't one to talk about his past problems, not even when he was in the center of them. Tony had come to that realization only couple of years after he'd only discovered that Gibbs had just been divorced, when one of the HR reps had finally come up to the bullpen to continue hounding Gibbs for his replacement beneficiary after he'd filed the paperwork to take his newly-ex-wife off his next of kin and beneficiary forms.

After favoring the woman from HR with a pretty potent death-glare that she visibly twitched under but didn't back away from, at least not more than a couple of steps, Gibbs had growled, “Just put DiNozzo on there. He's stuck it out longer than Diane did, anyhow.”

And that was it, the entire and only comment he'd made about his latest marriage and divorce.

By comparison, this latest revelation was so much more telling and more humbling.

The evidence had always been there, he supposed, but just like a sneeze being symptomatic of anything from getting sun in you eyes or a sleeping disorder to allergies, colds, flus or even heroin withdrawal, Gibbs' protective streak toward women and children and tolerance for the sometimes rash and stupid reactions of sailors whose families had been affected could have had many triggers.

Something in that thought caught him, and Tony turned it over and over in his thoughts adding bits and pieces of other little details he'd noticed over the years, until it suddenly came into focus...

He could be wrong, he thought, as he peeled at the condensation loosened label worrying it up from the bottle, and it would be a hell of a thing to be wrong about... and worse to be right about, but it fit.

He could see that, in retrospect, and was pretty certain that Gibbs would have realized, before saying anything, that Tony knew him well enough to pick up on the one hint and extrapolate from there, and that was what was so humbling. Gibbs knew and had shared the info anyways, even knowing that Tony wasn't the type of person who could let a thought or secret lie untouched...

“Have something to ask me, Tony?” Gibbs prompted, once again nearly proving Abby's claim that Gibbs had some sort of precog abilities.

Tony had to look up when Gibbs snorted, shaking his head, as he commented, “Don't need 'em. What neither of you seem to get is how easy you are to read. Ask your question, Tony. Knew it was comin'.”

“Y- you … there was...” Damn it! Tony cursed his increasingly frequent inability to speak. Why was it always happening when he wanted to say something to Gibbs?

It didn't even happen with Ducky, and if there was anyone that talking to should be awkward with, it should be Ducky, who had seen Tony about at his worst, and literally inside and out. But with Ducky and McGee and Abby and heck with all of Balboa's team – people whom he'd never wanted to know what had happened to him but did, people that he'd never wanted to see beneath his playboy – party guy cover – with them, he'd still been able to be his smooth-tongued self, accepting their quiet sympathies and deflecting the awkward tension with a few discreet and well timed jokes.

But with Gibbs, someone he'd been a partner with for years, who always seemed to 'get' Tony, and seemed to always know what Tony was trying to say – sometimes by what he wasn't saying- With Gibbs – he'd suddenly become a stammering-stumble-tongue worse than he'd ever seen from McGee.

“Tony... really, just go ahead and ask. If I don't want to answer, I won't. Like I said, I knew you'd have questions.”

“I'm sorry … for being nosy... I mean. I know it's not something you want to talk about.” Tony offered uncomfortably, trying to squash down his 'nosy' instincts.

“Do I ever say anything I don't mean?”

“No, Boss.” Tony answered quickly.

"Then ask your damn question."

Deciding that if he put it off much longer, he'd really be getting on Gibbs nerves, Tony blurted out, “Okay, was there a child, too? I mean it wasn't just you're wife, but a... your child too, a daughter?”

“ Well, I didn't. See. THAT One comin'! ... but yeah,” Gibbs answered with a gust of a breath, as if Tony had punched him in the stomach with the question, “Yeah, I did lose my little girl, too. What made you think so?”

“The way you are with some of the kids we've come across on cases and the way you are with Abby, and just a thought that maybe since there's been three others – wives that is - and some time in between each that maybe Abby could be about what your daughter's age could have been. Not that I think that you're trying to replace her or anything like that, but just that maybe she's the right age to maybe remind you and ...” Tony cut himself off abruptly when Gibbs' eyebrow started to arch. “Sorry, shutting up now.”

“Tony, it's fine. I still would have been fond and proud of Abby as an agent, but you might be right: I probably do treat her like I would have treated Kelly as an adult. She's not a replacement for Kelly, though, and I don't see her that way. Wouldn't be fair to either of them.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Tony commented with relief; he'd been certain that he was about to get his head bitten off.

“Okay, then, next question?” Gibbs offered his tone not quite resigned, but enough so that Tony didn't want to press his luck, so shook his head.

He couldn't have talked about the bad points in his own life, like that, if he'd been asked to and couldn't imagine that Gibbs would want to either.

“Really,” Gibbs' head was cocked slightly to the side and his eyes were curious, and maybe a bit wary at the same time as he offered, “No other questions: when, how, why...”

“No.” Tony replied, repeating his head shake, “I'm sort of guessing that it was probably when you were in Iraq, or maybe Panama, and maybe I'm wrong, I just can't see it happening with you here. How... probably a car accident? Maybe one where the car rolled over? There's this way you stand sometimes when we go to scenes where a car's been flipped, like you're looking at it, but maybe seeing something else, something intense, but your heads sort of canted to like you're not sure that its what you're seeing, almost as if... maybe you were wondering if it would have looked like that.... and there's never a good answer to why... It doesn't stop anyone from asking, but there's just nev– ”

Tony trailed off at Gibbs' odd expression, dropping his eyes as he realized he'd been rambling – again – and worse rambling about something that had to be one of the most painful events of his boss's life.

“Sorry.”

“No, Tony, you're right, again. For a couple of minutes, I think I'd forgotten that you really have a knack for observing small details and drawing the right conclusions from them. “

Tony felt himself flush at the compliment and murmured a soft, “Thank you” only to jerk in surprise when a buzzer rang out from the tv.

Glancing back at the tv, Tony thankfully pointed to the triad game that was about to start, glad for the distraction.

“Hey Boss, you might like this. It's sort of a take off of a basketball game.”

Seeming to agree, Gibbs settled back into the couch and returned to drinking his beer.

Chapter Text

“Give me that cup of yours, Mr. Gibbs.” Ms. McGillicutty ordered pushing her steel-tipped cane at him as she took the cup of coffee Tony had just delivered out of his hand.

Without a glimmer of shame, she popped the lid off the cup and took a decent swallow before snapping it back down and pushing it back in his hand as she took her cane back with a mischevious smile.

“My doctor despite having a good head on his shoulders and good intentions, hasn't yet come to the realization that when you reach a certain age, living your life becomes a sight more important than prolonging it.”

“Why not just have Tony get you a coffee, in that case?” Gibbs suggested with a smirk as he snapped the 'sipping lid' up on his coffee, glanced at her, and took a drink.

“Haven't been kissing anyone, too unsavory of late,” she assured him with a rye, thin-lipped smile, before answering his question, “a year and a half back, after my husband passed, had my lawyer filed a power of attorney naming Tony as the person who could make my medical and financial decisions on my behalf. Since then, he's been keeping up with my doctor's appointments when he can, and it worries him if I'm not following orders. That boy has enough on his mind without worrying about this old carcass.”

Shaking his head in surprise at the older woman's words, and commented, “That's a lot of trust to put in someone who's not a relative.”

“So's putting a gun in his hand and asking him to watch your back; you ever regret it?”She challenged. The sharp glimmer of humor and certainty in her eye – despite the cataracts – told Gibbs she already knew the answer.

“Not for a second.”

“Neither have I.” She confirmed before noticeably shutting up and turning to greet Tony as he returned with a cup of Earl Grey in one hand and his own cup in the other.

“I think we're ready to go.” Tony practically chirped, reminding Gibbs of slightly hyperactive child as he bounced on his heels.

It was funny: when they were at home, Tony - despite his hyperactive jock behavior at work- always seemed able to relax and let go of his almost compulsive tendency toward frenetic behavior, but during their daily park-walks with the Tony's elderly neighborhood, Tony displayed an entirely different level of excitement, not frenetic but more exuberant and excited – reminding Gibbs of a child at a family gathering running between favorite aunts and uncles.

“Be a dear, Tony, and make sure that Ellory hasn't forgotten his heel pads again. I'm not of a mind to listen to him whining even before we've reached the benches.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Tony agreed with a grin, handing off her tea and heading toward an older man standing further down the sidewalk. Gibbs watched as he bent over slightly so that the man of a much shorter stature, shoulders bent from arthritis, was able to look him directly in the eye without difficulty. A quick question and a rueful answer later, and Tony was running back by them and up the stairs with a smile.

As soon as the door closed behind his back, Gibbs felt Ms. McGillicutty clasp his arm with a grip that demanded his attention.

“Mr. Gibbs, have you found the ruffian who hurt our Tony?” she demanded.

“No, Ma'am.” He answered, glancing back up the stairs with the realization that she'd apparently manufactured a reason to send Tony away before starting their conversation.

“We have a few moments,” She commented, seeming to guess the direction of his thoughts. “Ellory's apartment is on the third floor, and the elevator's conveniently out again.”

Gibbs snorted at the imperious woman's manipulations before continuing, “No, we haven't, but we are investigating it. In fact, we have an entire team on it.”

“You think he's still in danger; don't you?” Ms. McGillicuty questioned.

That caught Gibbs attention, and he spun his gaze back to her, his expression silently questioning.

“He's gone back to work, but hasn't been moved back here; you've come with him every morning on our little walks; and I've seen enough soldiers in action to recognize when they're scanning the area for threats, even when they're subtle about it. Does he know?”

“Not yet. We're not certain of anything, yet, but yesterday was a hard day for him, and he needed a day to relax before we get into the ugly part of it.” Gibbs answered even as he wondered why he was. This woman was nothing like Abby, but there was still something about her that demanded the truth from him, just like Abby, even when he wouldn't have otherwise shared it.

“Didn't think so. He wouldn't have come out with us, today, if he'd thought so... But don't hand me that load of mularkey. He's told me about your gut. You might not have the proof to back it up yet, but you're certain of it, and from what he's told me, you're more than likely right.”

“Probably.” Gibbs admitted.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” She demanded with a glance toward the stairs, clearly suspecting that her time to speak privately with him was clearly running out.

“Keep him with me, make certain we find the man, and take care of him.” Gibbs offered quickly, seeing Tony coming, through the apartment's windowed door. Glancing at her to be certain that she understood the meaning of his last, slightly ambiguous comment, Gibbs handed her his coffee when she nodded grimly and bent to retie a shoe-lace. Just as Tony came through the door, he stood back up and took the drink from her other hand, holding out his arm for her grip as Tony passed.

It took barely a minute for Tony to insert the older man's heel inserts before he stood up and called, “Is everyone ready?”

The olderfolks made a surprising amount of noise in response, but it came at the right time to cover Ms. McGillicutty's last comment to him (“I'll have the old busybodies keep an eye out on his place and let you know if we see anyone lurking around.”), before she ordered, “Let's get this line moving then before our meds run out.”

On her orders, lead by Tony, who regularly walked back and forth through the bunch, encouraging the slower walkers and occasionally freeing a caught walker or can from gaps in the cobblestone walk, the entourage, followed by Gibbs with Ms. McGillicutty on his arm started out on their morning constitutional... unaware that they had attracted more than a passing notice from the driver, who slowed to let them cross when they reached the road.

He had begun to believe that the NCIS team might have relocated Anthony to a safe house for the duration of the investigation, but had come out earlier than normal on a hunch, remembering how his boy had mentioned that he loved to run in the early mornings. If they hadn't ensconced him away yet, there had been a slight chance that he could catch a glimpse of Anthony running.

Apparently, his boy had grown up some over the years, and now spent his mornings working the elderly... probably as a means to offset his rent, Albrecht had decided when he saw Anthony taking off the crippled old man's shoes to put something down in their heels. Although he was pleased to see Anthony's submissive nature asserting itself, he resented the fact that it was not in his service and planned to have a talk with Anthony on their next meeting about the penalties for straying.

Chapter Text

“Director Morrow, Tim said you were looking for me.”

“Agent Todd, yes. Come in and sit down.”

When she was seated, the director favored her with a severe expression that had Kate sitting on the edge of her seat even before he began speaking.

“Agent Todd, I find I am in a quandry regarding what to do with you.”

“What to do with me, Sir? I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“Put bluntly, Agent Todd. Supervisory Agent Gibbs wants you off his team.”

“What?!?”

She'd realized that Gibbs had been ticked at her over her ill-advised comments to Tony earlier the day before, but even in light of the later revelations proving that Tony's assault had been one in a string of assaults and murders, she hadn't thought that he was that angry. After all, she and Tony sniped at each other all the time, and he'd never taken sides before.

“Tell me, Agent Todd, did you truly think that Agent Gibbs would have appreciated the nature of comments that you made if they had been made with regard to any of the other men assaulted by our suspect?”

“No, Sir.” Kate agreed with a wince.

As much as she still believed that Tony had probably done something to draw himself to the killer's attention, the shock of yesterday's revelations had made her see how tasteless her earlier comments had been. She'd bought both men coffees in apology when she came in that morning, only to be told that they'd taken a personal day.

“Then, why, may I ask, did you think it would be appreciated if you made the same comments toward an agent, whom Gibbs has risked both his life and career to protect, more than once.”

“Sir...I...” Kate paused, trying to think of what to say, but he cut her off before she could continue.

“Were you aware, Agent Todd, that after DiNozzo recently tendered his resignation over this matter, that Agent Gibbs threatened me with his own resignation if I accepted DiNozzo's?”

“He did? Why would he...” Kate sat back in the chair stunned.

It really didn't make sense to her. DiNozzo might have been a good cop, but as far as Kate was concerned, the man wasn't ready to be a Federal Agent, at any level or agency. Sure, he occasionally had insights that lead to closing a case or two, but the man seriously needed to grow up and start taking the job seriously... as something other than a tool to impress a string of superficial blondes. If anything, maybe this … incident would be the catalyst for him to do so.

“I believe one of Gibb's early rules is 'not to waste good', and regardless of your opinion of Agent DiNozzo's personal life, I imagine you can at least recognize that Agent DiNozzo is a good agent.”

When Kate didn't immediately respond, the director raised an eyebrow, asking, “you disagree?”

“Tony may have been a good detective, Sir, but in my opinion, I do not feel that he is ready to work at the Federal level. I mean he does have the general skills, but he needs to … mature more and get a better understanding of the nature of the job. Maybe if his degree wasn't in Physical Ed. …, but I'm not certain, even then, he's still bragging about SAT scores, as if they still mattered- and his scores weren't even that good. Anyway, we've seen enough, just since I've been on the job that he should have a better idea of what the job is about.”

“I see. Tell me, Agent Todd, before you applied for this position, did you do any research on the minimum requirements for an NCIS agent?”

“Yes, Sir. If I remember correctly, a combined score of at least 250 on the ASVAB, in the 78th percentile, alternately, 80th percentile on the CJBAT, an accredited bachelor's degree, no set work experience.”

“Yes, did you happen to, similarly, look into the requirements for the Senior Field Agent?”

Kate hadn't, yet, although she'd planned to, but thought that Gibbs would think she was too presumptuous, applying to the position so early after he'd brought her on. Still, if Tony could do the job, she was certain that she could.

“I see not. In addition to the requirements that you've just mentioned, Senior Field Agents are required to have a graduate degree or higher in a related field, shooting range scores in the 90th percentile or better, and at least four years combined law enforcement/NCIS experience, with at least two years NCIS field experience and two involvements in undercover operations”

Considering him curiously, Kate tried to see where his comments were leading, but didn't see how they applied. Was he considering her for a SFA position? According to his list, she was just short of the field experience requirements, lacked the undercover experience, and well... her scores on the gun-range were improving, but she was still in the 84th percentile for the Agency as a whole, not that that was bad, but not quite high enough to break the thining barriers between the 85th and the 90th percentile. Ironically, when it got that high the differences were between 15 and 20 shots in the specified groupings. A five shot difference.

Seeming to recognize her confusion, Director Morrow prompted, “Does it seem to you that a PE degree is a closely related field, Agent Todd?”

Cocking her head to the side, Kate felt her eyes squint as she considered his comment. Of course a PE degree wouldn't be a related field, but then how? She didn't think that the educational requirements were one of the areas you could get waivers for.

“They're not.” Director Morrow agreed, smiling at her flustered blush. “During Agent DiNozzo's first two years with the NCIS, in addition to field work, DiNozzo also worked toward a Masters in Criminology with a focus in Forensics, and interned during his off duty hours, under Ms. Scuito. Which I believe he has chosen to continue, given that he has applied for the job-skills incentive toward the Doctoral program he's currently working toward at George Washington University in Cyber Forensics.”

Tony hadn't said anything, and for several seconds, Kate was certain that there had to have been some mistake. How could he have completed a degree on the schedule they'd been going at? Kate rarely found the time to even sit down and write her sister a letter, much less study or work on a thesis. And on top of that Tony always maintained that he was living the life of a frat boy. It just didn't fit. Especially not the incentive program. She had looked into that and had been disheartened at the incentive program's requirements of maintaining at least a 3.75 overall GPA, and completion within two years, knowing that their schedule would make that nearly impossible.

"As of the last HR credentials report I've received," Morrow commented mildly, "Agent DiNozzo's on track to be approved for the incentive."

It didn't fit, but she knew Director Morrow wouldn't have mentioned it if it hadn't been confirmed.

“Honestly, Sir. I don't see how that's possible. With the schedule we work, and Tony's social life...”

“Ah, yes, back to Agent DiNozzo's social life. Agent Todd, before saying anything else, I would like to reiterate that your comments would have been inappropriate if made to any of the other victims of this criminal or any similar criminal; however, they are especially grevious directed at your team mate, as it demonstrates that there is an fundamental issue of distrust and disrespect underlying your relationship with Agent DiNozzo, and by extension with Agent Gibbs, who not only recruited Agent DiNozzo and recommended Agent DiNozzo for the Senior Field Agent Position, but who also – as noted – was willing to resign if DiNozzo's resignation was accepted.”

When she remained silent, at least passively acknowledging his criticism, though it stung, Morrow continued, “Additionally, however, it also demonstrates a flaw in your own situational awareness, a serious one, given that your background is includes credentials in profiling. While it is understandable that the main focus of your specialty would be focused on suspects, that was not the only area that you should have applied these skills. As with any National Service Agency, or any Law Enforcement Agency, there is always the possibility that someone you work with on a regular basis, or even someone on your team can be influenced, coerced, or even blackmailed into activities counter to the agency's goals.”

“I'm aware of that,” Kate answered, almost snapping at the criticism.

Director Morrow only nodded, even as he suggested, “In the event that happens, often our greatest weakness, as agents, is that what the individuals we work with know about us can be turned back on us.”

He paused, waiting for her to acknowledge the point with a reluctant nod before he continued, “With that thought in mind, consider for a moment, what skills or personal information did you have … before my earlier comments... that you could have turned back on Agent DiNozzo.”

The question caught Kate almost completely off guard, but as she considered the question, she suddenly realized that she knew almost nothing about her partner. Even after working with him for close to eighteen months, she didn't know of any one special to him; he didn't talk of family to speak of, outside of random mentions of his mother that half the time she was sure couldn't be true; his bragging about a wild party life couldn't be true, if he really had spent his time working on graduate degrees; and as far as she knew – or had known up until a few moments earlier – if she had been trying to get something over on the agency, she wouldn't have even considered him a threat. Not really.

Not like Gibbs, who was so closed off that everyone knew that they really didn't know anything about him, other than he was as tough as nails and didn't suffer fools lightly, which never made sense in his tolerance of DiNozzo.

Apparently, DiNozzo was the other side of the mirror, so blatant that everyone thought they knew him, when the reverse was true. Despite herself, Kate glowered angrily as she realized that she'd been essentially kept out of the loop again, not realizing that the director was still watching her closely.

“And we're back to our quandary, again.” He sighed. “I had hoped that you would give me some indicator that it would be worth attempting to convince Agent Gibbs to keep you on his team – at least on a probationary status, but your reactions have convinced me that would be a foolhardy course, especially given the sensitive nature of the MRCT's current case.”

“I don't see why that's so much of a quandary,” Kate retorted, still stung at Gibbs' implied rejection, “If Gibbs doesn't want me on his team, just move me to another team.”

When he stared at her, staying pensively silent, Kate felt a pit of dread opening in her stomach.

Finally, when his silent appraisal felt too ominous, Kate spat out, “What? Just say it!”

“Very well, Agent Todd. After speaking with the Supervisory Agents for the other teams that I would have considered shifting you to, I am left in a quandry because – frankly – they did not want you on their teams either, leaving me with the very limited choices of relocating you to another branch or sending you back to FLETC for retraining to let things cool down.”

“They didn't want...” Kate found it a bit difficult to breath as she considered that thought. She had been certain up until that moment that most of the other team leads would have jumped to get her on their team.

“Yes, I am afraid that by making your comments so publicly and so vocally, in the center of the 'bull pen', you ensured that your reputation with the other leads would precede you; however, not in as favorable of a manner as you might have imagined. Yet another example of a failure to consider the situation around you.”

Kate fell back into the chair completely deflating as her anger turned to frustration and depression.

“However, perhaps that does answer my question for me, given that this your failure in situational awareness is a problem that would likely follow you to any posting, perhaps it will be better to order you back to FLETC for additional courses in interrogation analysis, infiltration techniques and infiltration defense, and evidenciary analysis. Let's give it six months, perhaps by then, tempers will have cooled and Gibbs, Balboa, or Corman will consider bringing you back onto one of the teams here. If not, we can look into a relocation, then. “

“Yes, Sir.” Kate answered resignation thick in her voice. There really was nothing left to say.

“Very well, then. Go clean out your desk. Effective immediately, you are being reassigned to FLETC for retraining. Oh, and Agent Todd...”

"Sir?"

“Do try to learn something from this. Up until this past month, both Gibbs' and DiNozzo's reports on your performance have been stellar.”

Ignoring the little knife twist of guilt at his comments, Kate straightened trying to compose herself, and thanked him, then escaped the office, trying to ignore the glaring Cynthia as she passed.

Chapter Text

Cynthia paused at the entry door to the MTAC, smiling in greeting when several of the agents in the room turned to glance at her, before she addressed the agent she'd been sent to retrieve.

“Special Agent DiNozzo,” she said, softly, interrupting the quiet conversation between Agent DiNozzo and Agent McGee, “the Director would like to see you in his office please.”

She had to hide her smile when Agent DiNozzo shot a concerned glance over to Supervisory Agent Gibbs, who until that moment had been involved in what had seemed to be an intense conversation with Supervisory Agent Balboa. DiNozzo's glance might as well have been a physical touch drawing Gibbs away from his conversation with Balboa, despite the fact that the senior agent hadn't seemed to be actively watching his subordinates, for as soon as the younger agent's gaze landed on him, Gibbs signaled with an abrupt hand gesture to Balboa that their conversation was finished for the moment.

It often amused Cynthia that so many of the well-trained and normally perceptive agents, working in their department, so readily believed that it was DiNozzo, who jumped to the snap of Agent Gibb's whip, when Cynthia had quickly come to realize that it was more often than not the reverse. Oh, certainly, Gibbs snapped and growled and barked and ordered... and all too quickly delivered punitive smacks to the back of DiNozzo's head, when the younger agent was slow to respond, but -in Cynthia opinion - that was mostly for show.

There were other times she'd seen Gibbs… just as frequently if not more so... jump in response to a silent, quicksilver glance from DiNozzo in Gibbs direction, which seemed to trigger an irresistible urge in Gibbs to respond.

Whether the response came in the form of Gibbs jumping to his agent's defense, delivering the silently requested head smack, when she suspected that DiNozzo was growing uncomfortable with the direction of the team's almost constant game of one-upsmanship, or simply responding with the rare chuckle and seemingly hard-won and rare smile from the usually gruff man, who was not prone to express amusement over anything.

Whatever the form of response DiNozzo seemed to expect in response to his silent requests, Gibbs never failed to respond, and never seemed to fail in making the response that DiNozzo was hoping for- given the way the younger agent always seemed to relax after Gibbs complied.

Too, there was also the fact that Agent Gibbs backed down when called to task by DiNozzo.

She had seen the the Director attempt any number of times to reign Gibbs in when the man was running reckless and roughshod agency protocols, interdepartmental relations, and teammates expectations... using punitive write ups, suspensions, unpleasant assignments, chewing the agent out, even once having the senior agent escorted off a scene when Morrow wasn't certain of his agent's temper...all attempts – for the most part – unsuccessful, to date.

With DiNozzo, however, though the younger agent often seemed equally reckless, at least with respect to putting himself in danger... With DiNozzo, when Gibbs pushed the younger man too far, all that DiNozzo had to do was get in the older man's face, tell his superior that he was out of line ... that he needed to tone it down, and Gibbs would back down, not easily, of course, growling, sulking, and barking as he went, but complying for all that

It was quite clear, in Cynthia's mind, who held the control of the relationship, not that she ever expected that DiNozzo would - ever - intentionally exert that control, but that did not mean he possessed it any the less.

“I'm coming too,“ Gibbs grunted, ever his irascible self, and Cynthia flashed him a bright smile, agreeing with an easy, “of course, the Director's expecting you.” It was fun to catch him off guard and watch the gruff man trying to deflect her good-natured teasing.

Before DiNozzo had joined the NCIS, it was a side of Gibbs that others rarely saw.

All in all, the supervisory agent, although one of the most successful investigators on staff, had rarely relaxed or accepted teasing in any manner much less been an easy coworker to get along with. As a result, Director Morrow had been thoroughly, and regretfully, ready to initiate HR proceedings that would – if Gibbs didn't bend – have ultimately ended the man's career. In fact, after Burly left, both she and Director Morrow had been certain that agent wouldn't last out the month.

That was until one afternoon, even as Morrow was fielding complaints from the Baltimore Chief of Police, Gibbs barged in to the Director's office, slapped the former police officer's file on the director's desk and practically ordered, “We're hiring him.”

As frustrated as Director Morrow had been with Gibbs, at the time, Cynthia had been almost amazed that Director Morrow hadn't ordered her to fill out the requisite HR paperwork as soon as the agent left his office. Given time to consider the situation, however, she later came to realize what the Director had recognized in that moment: the fact that Gibbs, the lone wolf of the department, who had literally been forced to take on his most recent partners, in order to maintain field eligibility, after one too many trips to the hospital due to injuries that could have been avoided if the man had gone to the incident with back up... the man who preferred … almost demanded to work alone... was asking, in his own way, to work with someone.

Regardless of how disreputable the former officer's evaluations painted DiNozzo to be, Cynthia knew that the Director had not even thought twice about the decision to sign-off on the application. Like the director, Cynthia had, years earlier, learned how to read between the lines of evaluations and recommendations, and had quickly recognized that the reports had been written by senior officers, often blatantly revealing their own weaknesses as managers, who had no clue how manage an underling with DiNozzo's headstrong personality, intelligence, and willingness to risk, without a second's thought, his career and life in pursuit of justice. Despite what their flawed reports indicated, by virtue of the fact that Gibbs was even making the thinly-veiled request, Cynthia had sensed that DiNozzo would be as special, as he proved to be.

While Gibbs had, to that point, always maintained a fairly respectable solve rate, once the two were settled as partners, their joint solve rate shot up to the highest in the department. >

Subsequently, Gibbs rate of injury also radically dropped, although initially, that was only a moderate consolation. While Agent Gibb's trips to the hospital had decreased – in the first weeks and months of their partnership, it was at the cost of DiNozzo's own life threatening injuries and trips to the hospital.

Gibbs quite unexpectedly found himself in the unenviable – but well deserved – position of facing the fact that if he continued to act as he had previously, as though he was working alone (even when he'd had a partner) and put himself, often needlessly, in danger, DiNozzo would– without hesitation- jump into the line of fire and take the bullet, knife, or beating in his place. This object lesson was, at first, disregarded by Gibbs, who seemed to expect DiNozzo to reach some arbitrary limit, blow up at him, and quit. It took a couple of repetitions to sink in, for Gibbs, that DiNozzo had intended to continue in as he'd begun, regardless of the personal cost to himself and without holding the mistakes that resulted in his injury against Gibbs, or throwing Gibbs' own increasing guilt back at him... and Gibbs had finally, for the first time since Agent Franks left, reigned himself in - at last, recognizing and acting as if he had a partner.

Cynthia's musings were temporarily set aside as she reached the door to the director's office, and she gestured them in with a smile.

She almost wished that she could sit in on the meeting, but Director Morrow had never been the time of administrator, who wanted a secretary sitting in on meetings and taking dictation; instead, the director much preferred to take his own in-depth notes, highlighting specific nuances and personal notes that he wanted to keep but trusting her discretion in parsing them to into the formal minutes that would be filed and distributed to others and and the personal notes that would go into each man's file in the Director's desk.

Tom was waiting with amusement as Agent DiNozzo, and Agent Gibbs – as expected – entered the office, their defensiveness expressed in posture and manner, though thankfully not vocally.

For someone whom DiNozzo humorously, but mostly accurately, described as a functional mute, when it came to jumping to DiNozzo's defense, as he had when Tom had been considering accepting DiNozzo's resignation, Gibbs could get quite abrasively vocal.

Given the senior agent's likely response to the request he was about to make, Tom was glad for the opportunity to immediately take the lead in the conversation, intending to undermine any arguments they might offer, by disproving their likely impressions of what the meeting was to focus on.

Directing them into chairs with an encouraging smile, Tom began, “Agent DiNozzo, before I get to the request that I intend to make, I would like you to understand that – while I am not in the habit of explaining my decisions or orders to the agents under my command, in this one instance, I am willing to … clarify the scope and nature of my request to avoid misconceptions and unnecessary unpleasantness. First and foremost, I want you to understand why you have and will continue to be allowed to continue to work on the joint task force, despite your assault, as it has been deemed expedient that when the MCRT identifies your assailant that he be brought to justice in a manner that will eschew him ever seeing the inside of a courtroom.”

DiNozzo's eyes flashed wide with surprised understanding, but from the lack of change in Gibb's expression, Tom assumed that the senior agent had already reached the same decision, and suspected that the conclusion of the case would have been the same whether it had been within the scope of their orders or not.

“I understand, Sir.” DiNozzo answered, after swallowing with noticeable anxiety.

“I hope so; however, while this decision has been fully sanctioned, if this matter were ever to come under scrutiny, at any point, it would be to our advantage if it did not appear that we allowed a potentially biased witness to unduly influence the investigation. To that end...”

Tom trailed off when Gibbs grimaced, possibly anticipating a request that DiNozzo withdraw from the case or accept a transfer. Well, it wasn't for him to convince his agent that he was more perceptive than the man recognized.Either time would take care of that on its own or it wouldn't occur.

“DiNozzo stays on my team.” Gibbs growled, confirming Tom's suspicion.

“Yes,” Tom agreed, “As I've already said.”

Gibbs sat back, seeming startled as he clearly took a second to review Tom's earlier words and nodded ruefully when he realized that Tom actually had made statements to that effect.

“Agent Gibbs, I would appreciate it if you would give me the opportunity to fill in the details of my request before protesting on general principles.”

“Yes... Sir.” Gibbs acknowledgement was slow and pained, but Tom waved his acceptance of the acknowledgement before turning back to DiNozzo.

“As it so happens, another potential problem for one of your team members as a result of her involvement in this case provides a convenient opportunity to enhance the perception of your distance from the investigation while enabling your teammate to preserve a valued opportunity.”

“How?!?” DiNozzo questioned with growing interest.

“Given the mass of evidence that has been and will be delivered to Ms. Scuito for re-analysis given the linkages that were discovered after the other cases were investigated, it is unlikely that she will be afforded sufficient time to continue instructing the cyber-forensics courses at Cheltenham. Further, as we can not be certain of how long it will take to bring the case before us to closure, it is unrealistic to hold the FLETC position open indefinitely; however, if we can find a temporary replacement with sufficient credentials and experiences, say perhaps someone who completed the internship for his Masters with the instructor, herself, so would be very familiar with the much-lauded methods and practices of the instructor, then it would not seem unreasonable to hold the position for Ms. Scuito, especially when the length of time that her replacement would be available would coincide exactly with the period of time that Ms. Scuito will be occupied with this operation.”

Tom was pleased to see, from DiNozzo's expression, that the younger agent was already considering it, but decided that offering a little more incentive would not hurt his case: “To that end, I believe that it would be an equitable solution for you to share some of Ms. Scuito's teaching responsibilities, and as one of the courses she instructs is a cyber-forensics course, I believe that you should be able to use the paid time toward the internship hours required by your doctorate. The courses would require only two hours from both of you in Cheltenham, so if you find it necessary for to spend the remainder of your time, preparing lesson plans and lectures, between the MTAC and Ms. Scuito's lab – where you will have the benefit of Ms. Scuito input, there would be sufficient reason to maintain your daily attendance. After all, this would be your first teaching position and for a Highly Reputed Federal Training Program.”

The solution clearly appealed to DiNozzo, who had no doubt come to his office anticipating being asked to remove himself from the case and perhaps; from his expression, DiNozzo was clearly considering the proposition, and so was Gibbs, despite his increasing glower.

Still, DiNozzo didn't jump on the offer immediately, but instead paused to ask a question, “This would only be for two hours a day, and just for the time it takes to finish the case.”

“Yes, exactly, as I said, I am not reassigning you away from the MCRT, nor even from this case; however, I do, also, recognize that working on this task force will undoubtedly take a heavy toll, and that having the opportunity to redirect your attention to other matters, when needed, will be beneficial as well.”

“There is that,” DiNozzo agreed solemnly, before he continuing... “okay, uh.. yeah, I … okay, to help Abby, I'd be happy to.”

And, Tom didn't have any doubt that that was the biggest draw in it for DiNozzo: the knowledge that he was helping his friend, which was the primary reason that he was phrasing it in that manner. DiNozzo would not have hesitated before turning down the position simply for graduate credit, Tom was certain, but not at the cost of sacrificing the assistance to (or place on) his team... and to some extent, Tom believed, the atonement that DiNozzo seemed be seeking for either falling prey to the attack or alternately surviving the attack where others hadn't.

Gibbs wasn't quite as accepting, though, Tom could see, and was still visibly hashing the but it was DiNozzo who asked the question that he'd been expecting from Gibbs: “did I mishear that this would affect the Boss's schedule too, though? Can I ask how?”

“Yes, of course, after due consideration of the potential ramifications of the case, and having spoken with Agent Balboa, whom I imagine would soon be speaking to Agent Gibbs on this matter, if he has not done so already..." Tom paused at Gibbs brief negative headshake, before continuing, "Given that our primary suspects are believed to be federal agents and deep cover operatives with high level clearance, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that your assailant may get wind of the investigation and seek to eliminate any surviving witnesses. To that end, I am assigning a protection detail to each of the six remaining survivors as soon as a sufficient number of agents have been cleared for the detail. Your detail will be primarily composed from your team members on the joint task force, and as you are temporarily in residence with Gibbs during your recovery, I see it as a matter of convenience to pre-empt your decision to move back in to your apartment, which would be far more complicated to secure, and take advantage of your close proximity; to wit, it seems the most efficient use of your times for Agent Gibbs to accompany you to Cheltenham, before returning to the office. It additionally reinforces the appearance of the propriety of having you on site, as it will be where the majority of your protection detail will be located. Do not misunderstand me, Gentlemen, this is not a request." "While I have full confidence in your ability to defend yourself under normal circumstances; in the current circumstances, however, where the suspect, as you well know, has demonstrated the facility to overpower, assault, and murder trained and experienced operatives. I am not willing to ignore any potential risk to the lives of agents or witnesses if it is within my power to prevent it. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”

Gibbs glower almost immediately cleared, and he nodded his agreement as DiNozzo, appearing stunned, if relieved, agreed quietly, “Yes, Sir.”

Although Gibbs didn't acknowledge the fact as he left behind DiNozzo, hurrying to follow DiNozzo, Tom was certain that – for the first time, in a very long time – he was certain that he could expect to have Agent Gibbs complete cooperation.

A single soft rap on the door told Tom that Cynthia was waiting to come in. From her expression, Tom could tell that she had correctly read his agent's agreement to his suggestion. It was a shame really, he thought, that NCIS administrative assistants were not generally in a career path that would give them the opportunity of applying for a Director's position. Out of any of the staff and agents that he could think of, Cynthia probably had the best gauge on the inner-workings of the Department, and the best bead on it's agents.

In fact, the recommendation to offer DiNozzo, Ms. Scuito's class, had come from Cynthia and Tom, recognizing the worth of the suggestion, had been only too happy to apply it.

As expected, she had anticipated the outcome and had the orders ready in advance for him to sign.

“Well?” he prompted, knowing she would not need him to spell out the question.

“They didn't comment, in earshot, of course, but they both seemed satisfied with the offer.” Cynthia agreed.

“Very well,” he took the forms from her and signed them with a flourish, handed the files back to her with a smile, and commented, “I wish I could sign off on a raise for you, as easily.”

Cynthia retorted with a mischievous smile, “Oh, but Director, you already have.”

Tom grinned at her and shooed her out with a gesture.

It wasn't true, of course, but even if it had been, he wouldn't have begrudged her. In his opinion, Cynthia almost literally kept the place running smoothly and for the most part, under budget, due – he suspected – to her discretionary rejection of reports and proposals with seemingly excessive expense requests, and her smooth co-opting of the task of making travel and room reservations from Senior Field Agents, who had a tendency to book unnecessary comforts in the name of keeping in their team lead's good graces. By contrast, Cynthia had quickly compiled a reference list of the least expensive lodging suitable to the preferences of each lead agent, minimizing expenses while keeping the Senior Field Agents happy to let her do the job, and informing them that if they would like to offer their team leads further extravagances – it could come out of their own pockets. Not surprisingly, DiNozzo had been the only agent to take her suggestion to heart, and even then only a handful of times, switching their lodgings closer to local coffee shops, until Cynthia included that criteria into her references.

As the door closed behind her, Tom pulled a small chain over his head, with a key hanging hanging from it like a pendant on a necklace, and reached under his desk bypassing the first, visible lock, to the second, inset in the underside of his desktop at an angle that let it go unnoticed to all but the most familiar fingers.

A small twist of the key dropped the inner panel of the left file drawer against his knee, and Tom pulled out the file he had been reading before ordering Cynthia to collect his agents. The file was closed to seven inches thick, and one of three files that contained documents, reports, and case notes, from the past twenty two years of Director Adam Crenshaw's career with the DEA.

It was an unpleasant task, but one he had long recognized as necessary.

It had not escaped his notice that none among the other directors had suggested, nor even seemed to consider the anyone from their own rank as potential suspects, in narrowing down the list of suspects, despite the fact that they not only possessed the same training, skills, and experience as the forty some suspected deep-cover agents agents, but also the freedom of unreported movement that few of that number even possessed.

As his old training partner had told him, when he been right of FLETC, “Gotta always watch the watchers, boy. Get the dirt on them, and hold back some of it for when you really need it.”

Looking back, Tom easily understood, now, Frank's bark of laughter, when he'd asked, “What if there's no dirt?”

“There'll always be dirt, probie, and you watch your back around the ones you can't find dirt on; cause it just means that they're either better at hidin' it than you are or didn't leave anyone breathing who knew of it.”

Chapter Text

"Okay, folks, get seated quickly, and let's get down to the nitty gritty, as quick as we can." Tony ordered the incoming class, and drew a light round of laughter from the first agents seated as he hopped backward onto the top of his desk and quickly pulled his legs up indian-style, to announce, "I'm ready... so let's get started. Who can tell me what the goal of this course is?"

Sitting in the back of the room, Gibbs shook his head with a smirk as he watched the FLETC 'trainees' hurrying into their seats as they started to talk under their breaths about the odd behavior of their instructor. He couldn't help but wonder what they would have thought if it had been Abby giving the lecture as normal, instead of Tony.

A few of the more 'diligent student' types already had their hands up, but as usual, Tony ignored them looking for one of them to get the idea of actually speaking up. It was a little depressing that in the three months that Tony had been running the course for Abby, while she worked the serial case, that none of the potential agents had caught on and answered before Tony pointed it out.

"What, no one's come up with a theory, yet?" Tony prompted, causing a few of the more eager handraisers to start waiving at him.

"The restroom's down the hall guys." Tony answered, seeming to dismiss them that quickly, and sending Gibbs a knowing grin at their slightly dumbfounded expressions as he knew what Gibbs thought about the predictable officiousness of new FLETC candidates, who were still so new to their training and hyped about becoming Feds, and seeming like the perfect candidates for their fantasy 'missions' that they'd forgotten that- regardless of where they were in their previous careers- they were essentially starting at the bottom again and no matter how well they performed as FLETC students, they would be a probie once out in the field.

"No Sir, I have an answer, Sir." One of the trainees reported.

"Spit it out, then, and by the way, Marine... Don't call me Sir."

The trainee nodded with a bit of a wry smile, probably at Tony's recognition of his background despite the fact that he was dressed in the same mandatory black business suite and tie as the other trainees, and answered, "Digital forensics is the scientific examination and analysis of data held on, or retrieved from, computer storage media in such a way that the information can be used as evidence in a court of law."

"Excellent answer, wrong, but concise and detailed." Tony complimented the trainee then nodded to the next trainee who still hadn't dropped his hand. "I take it you're not headed to the john either."

"No…uh… professor. … I… The goal of this course is to learn the protocols for evaluating digital data in terms of its value in the support of other investigationary methods."

"Nope. Interesting answer, Detective, but wrong. Anyone else want to give it a shot?"

"To… maximize the effective use of digital research and implement effective data analysis strategies using…"

"EnnHHH." Tony interrupted with a 'buzzer' imitation, before continuing."Three strikes."

Hopping off his perch, Tony walked around it to the black board behind him and began writing as he spoke: "The goal of this course is to show you how to not screw up an investigation involving digital evidence."

Turning back around to them, Tony smiled and started in on his speil: "This course isn't going to turn you into digital baggie bunnies. If you don't already have a degree from someplace like MIT or Stanford in cyber security and forensics, this course isn't going to teach you enough to even use the mouse to do anything more than display the screen on a suspect's computer so you can take a photo of it with your phone and send it to the real baggie bunnies. And if you do have degrees in those, you need to talk to one of your advisors about your training schedule because this course is probably going to be a waste of your time."

Getting into the feel of his topic, Tony came back around and hopped back up on the table. With a nod to the first trainee, he began "Our Marine's right though, digital forensics looks at digital evidence in any form of data that is stored or transmitted using a computer – regardless of whether it supports or refutes a theory of how an offense occurred. Even when it presents critical elements of the mechanics of a case demonstrating how offense occurred with information regarding intent, activities, or alibies, because this evidence frequently changes, and can be very time sensitive you have to be especially careful in how you document much less rely on digital evidence to build your case. "

"A couple of things to know about digital evidence is that it’s extremely fragile worse than a fingerprint, and speaking of "latent” there's nothing more latent - meaning it can’t been seen in its natural state - then digital evidence, and just like fingerprints, if you do anything that can possibly alter, damage, taint or destroy digital evidence, you’ve probably just thrown the entire case out the window regardless of how guilty the perp is for all scrutiny it will get from the courts, and ironically, the more your judge knows about how computers work, the less likely you are to win the case if you’ve screwed with or screwed up the evidence.

As Tony continued on in this vein, Gibbs sat back and watched his agent, noticing how much of Tony's enthusiasm was faked to cover for the effects of his flagging energy and diminished health. Despite the fact that, superficially, Tony seemed to be recovering from the assault and revelations that his attacker had been a serial rapist and killer responsible for the deaths of more than twenty other servicemen and law enforcement officers, Gibbs knew that appearances were deceiving.

Tony's sleeping patterns - despite a brief stabilization while Tony was out for a month on 'recovery' - were getting rocky again keeping the younger agent almost constantly sleep deprived; his appetite had waned to the point that Gibbs and Abby were silently coordinating their meal breaks whenever Tony seemed too distracted to notice them signing because a glance from Gibbs would get Tony eating without complaint while Abby's attempts to coax him into eating would leave Tony defensive and sullen - not refusing to eat outright - but eating so little that the upset caused by the effort hardly seemed worth it, especially when he would be hypersensitive for days afterward to any sign of displeasure from Gibbs, sometimes almost frantically trying to correct small fumbles or mistakes.

Equally as frustrating, to both himself, and Tony, Gibbs knew was the fact that Tony, himself, didn't seem to know what was wrong, as he had tried to explain more than once when Gibbs questioned him about it. Initially, he'd thought that Tony was suffering lingering guilt and self-recrimination in light of the constant frustrations they were facing with 'sailor stalker', (as they'd named him, within the task force, for convenience and to limit the potential media circus that could be caused if the phrase was ever picked up in conversation by anyone inclined to leak the nature of the case before they came to the decision to petition the public), but Tony had said that it wasn't the case... and given Tony's recent inability to maintain his self-protective masks around Gibbs... Gibbs believed him.

That didn't mean that Tony wasn't frustrated with the case, and upset that three months into the case, they had only cleared nine of the forty plus deep cover CIA and DEA agents identified… and those only minimally by verifying instances when there locations were verifyed elsewhere at the same time as a known victim assault or dissappearance. Just that he wasn't taking the blame on himself any longer and - for the most part- would readily acknowledge that even if he had formally reported the assault to the department who already knew about the events of the blown undercover op - there was slim to no chance at all that it would have been pursued - especially in light of what the department had done to try to cover up for the bastards who had compounded the problem by taking their own failure, inadequacies, and prejudices out on Tony after the assault.

Gibbs, himself, was ready to bite nails, but going through so many years and files worth of evidence looking for a possible slip up in the actions of trained and field tested undercover agents, whose lives depended on being certain that none of their actions ever betrayed their associations, and even when they were found the slip ups might or might not have anything to do with the Sailor stalker and had to be verified without potentially jeopardising the undercover agent and contacts....was a slow going and stressful task in and of itself, and had taken its toll on all of the members of the task force.

From the glances they often cast in Tony's direction when they thought Tony wasn't aware of them looking, Gibbs knew it wasn't a task made any lighter for knowing that not only had one of their own been hurt by the bastard, but it had been someone who had gone out of his own way more than once to support them and their families without request or thought of inconvenience or recompense. Every day that passed without a lead, Gibbs noticed their gazes deepening with a sense of failure made all the more poignant by the fact that Tony was there working beside them - often using his own undercover experience to suss out when a seeming anomoly was justified in the specific instance and more often than not helping to point out the evidence that cleared that particular agent - at least in that instance.

Glancing up to double-check that Tony was doing well, Gibbs wasn't too surprised to find Tony watching him, even as he was giving the trainees instructions for the first of three break-out activities he had planned for today's lecture. Holding up the phone, Gibbs waited for Tony's nod of acknowledgement, before he mouthed "Stay Here", and gestured that he was going to step out for a few minutes to make the call. Tony, of course, didn't like the instruction - chafing as he had so often lately at the limitations of being under the constant watch of a protection detail, even if his teammates were the primary agents in the detail, accompanied by whatever alternate Balboa had assigned for the day. This morning, Kitridge was sitting in the first row, avidly following Tony's lecture... to the point that, if Tony hadn't been surrounded by somewhat trained former law enforcement officers, Gibbs wouldn't have even considered leaving Tony to Kitridge's watch, as he planned to tell Balboa once they got back to the office.

Tony nodded his reluctant agreement, though - not that he had any choice in the matter when he was actually teaching the class, and Gibbs moved into the hall outside.

ブレンキン

"Jethro, My Boy, I expected your call last night." Donald Mallard chastised lightly. Although he knew that Jethro was attempting to do his best for Tony, his friend clearly had not found his way, yet and would need more guidance - if he would take it.

"I know, Duck." Jethro's sighed tone already indicated that the younger man knew he was going to be taken to task for allowing Tony's health to deginerate.

"Do you Jethro? Then why might I ask, has Tony lost another five pounds? Additionally, his blood tests show increased levels of Norepinephrine, which raises and invidual's baseline level of fear even in resting conditions, increases heart rate and blood pressure, and, in general, simulates fight or flight urges. There are lasting negative effects that having increased amounts of this hormone in his system will cause, including hypertension, diabetes, stress disorders and quite a number of illnesses. Really Jethro, this trend can not continue."

"That's why I'm calling you, Duck. I need your advice. Tony claims he doesn't know what's going on, and I believe him."

"No, I wouldn't think he would, Jethro. As I said before, I truly doubt he understands his nature; however, Jethro, you did indicate both to him and to myself that you would take responsibility for addressing these difficulties. I had hoped to see that you were serious."

"You're saying this is because of that" Jethro sounded slightly shocked, causing Donald to shake his head with exasperation.

"Yes, Jethro, I do believe so. If for no other reason than - whether he is aware of it or not - his drive to be disciplined was inherently connected to his ability to offset the effects of his self-recriminations and low self-esteem. Without the constancy of working under your direct supervision as he would have under normal circumstances, he has also been denied your approbation and the structure imposed by the requirements of his position as your Senior Field Agent. In short, without those tasks and that interaction, he has no direct way of winning your approval."

"This wasn't a problem when we were at home during his recovery."

"Exactly, Jethro, consider why that may be. Currently, you can not change his in-field assignment, but what has changed since returning to work? How were you giving him the positive reinforcement he needed without relying on his job tasks?"

"Just chores around the house to keep him busy…" sounding incredulous, Jethro broke off and Donald almost felt as if he could hear the wheels grinding in this thoughts, until with a stunned sounding, chuff of amusement, he continued, "You've got to be kidding me. This could have been fixed with some chores around the house?"

If only it were that easy, Donald wanted to sigh, but knew that Jethro would have to be coaxed along the path that he and Tony were heading until the role felt natural for him.

"Well that, and the occaisional judicious spanking." Donald mildly.

"What? But he …"

"Jethro," Donald interrupted before the younger man could build up a head of steam, "Without judiciously incorporating discipline, you run the risk of Tony losing faith in you approval as coddling or pandering him, or worse believing himself pitied, and then we will truly have a problem. As you, yourself have noted, he has responded well in the past to the range of physical disciplines that you have given him, be it a slap on the head, on the rear, or on the mat. It seems foolhardy to deprive him of that reassurance in him now."

"Reassurance? A spanking seems a funny way to reassure him, Duck."

"Perhaps, but consider the message it communicates from his perspective: he knows you're not a bully and wouldn't physically strike someone not capable of taking the strike: he knows you do not trifle with fools: and you do not bother to correct someone not worth your time. Ironically, by spanking him, you are demonstrating that you have faith in his soundness, ability, and judgment, and that he is worth your time... and Jethro, do it today. If Tony loses anymore weight or his blood pressure rises any further, I will be forced to put him on medical leave. I will inform Agent Balboa that the two of you are taking a personal day to deal with matters. "

"Understood, Duck, and … thanks."

"Anytime, my boy. Anytime."

ブレンキン

Mulling over Ducky's words, Gibbs paused to call Balboa. Ducky said he'd do it, but Jethro didn't like leaving it to other people to pass his messages along, and briefly explained that he was taking a personal day to enforce Ducky's requirement that Tony take a personal day. It gave him time to think in any event about what they would be doing for the afternoon, and how he could work in either the headslap... or spanking in a way that wouldn't give away the reason that he was really doing it.

When he returned to the classroom, the answer was ready and waiting for him. Glancing around the room, Jethro could see that they had moved to the second exercise where the trainees had been broken into focus groups and were brainstorming lists of available digital evidence that can be drawn into a case. Normally, Tony preferred to walk around between the tables and facilitate the discussions, but on occasion he did stop and sit with groups if they were having trouble coming up with ideas, so Gibbs wasn't initially troubled when he didn't see Tony standing up between the groups.

That changed less than a second later when he realized that, although Kitridge was at one of the tables, talking animatedly to the others at the table, Tony wasn't… at any of them.

"Kitridge! Where is Tony, and why aren't you on his six?"

Kitridge looked up, shocked, and his quick glance around the room was enough to tell Gibbs that the agent didn't know.

Tony. Was. Gone.

Chapter Text

Gesturing for his driver to pull out, Albrecht gently pressed the power button to end the phone call and opened his folio, while surreptitiously watching the training center's doors as he passed. It was a long shot that his boy would even come out; after all, Tony was supposed to be in the midst of teaching the forensics course, but it was too great of a temptation being so close and not taking the chance to see him.

Albrecht had been so very circumspect, during the past months, only occasionally driving by his apartment to watch his boy usher his neighbors on their morning walks, and never going into the joint taskforce's operation room, even though he had thought up over twenty legitimate reasons to do so. Tony's presence there, actually working on the case - on his case - searching for him as diligently as he had looked for his boy - was tantalizing, too tantalizing to be ignored, but Albrecht was not nearly finished with his opus, yet, and wanted to set the proper stage for Tony's next performance.

Disappointingly, as the car drove past the double doors, Tony did not come out as he had hoped, perhaps not recognizing the brief audio that Albrecht had sent him as the summons it was. He wasn't fully trained after all, but that would come in time.

In time... feeling Albrecht's gaze on him, Tony will have learned to give himself up to Albrecht, completely - everything he had and everything he was, and then the arias that Albrecht would draw from him would be transcendent. The artist within Tony responding to Albrecht's slightest gesture as eagerly as he had to Albrecht's whip. It would take time to get him there, time and diligence on Albrecht's part, stripping away Tony's faults and frailties like a jeweler cutting a stone until the faultless gem beneath could shine through, but having found the gemstone that exists beneath, Albrecht had dedicated himself to the task of revealing it.

It was only as he glanced into the rear view mirror, taking one last look at the doors before truly turning his attention to the report, that Albrecht was rewarded with the sight of his boy emerging through the doors - his half stumbled rush decrying his eagerness for Albrecht's attentions, despite the apparent stage-fright that overtook his boy barely a moment later, doubling him over as lurched for the ornamental bush to the left of the steps. It was a show of poor form, of course, for a performer of his caliber not to conceal his nervousness, but that too, could be addressed in time. The important thing was that Tony was no longer trying to escape his destiny, moving from location to location, department to department, and was actually learning to respond to Albrecht's cues. Perhaps a reward of some sort was in order.

ブレンキン

The sound of retching, just outside the entry doors, cemented Corporal Gordon Curtice's decision for him, and he went with his instinct, following their instructor out the door. Despite the fact that it probably wasn't his business to follow up on the man's odd reaction to the phone call he'd received just after setting their class to work on the group exercise, there had been something in the way their instructor had frozen at the classroom door as he put the phone to his ear, that put Gordon's nerves on edge. He could be wrong, but he was pretty sure that he'd seen that kind of frozen stance before... when one of his platoon came unexpectedly on someone with a weapon.

The change in the man's breathing had been telling and familiar as well, a rapid increase, not quite to panting but just short of panic. After the helio crash, he'd had a number of bouts, like that himself, and knew that the man's reaction wasn't likely to end there, so - after glancing around to see that no one else seemed to be following the man to assist- Gordon had told his group he'd be back in a minute, grabbed his pack, and slipped from his seat.

As he'd expected from the sound of retching, their instructor was crouching beside a shrub, one arm wrapped around his stomach, the other clinging to the stonework banister to hold himself upright. A quick glance at the base of the bush showed that the man hadn't brought up much, so he suspected that the bout would probably end pretty soon. Unzipping his pack as he went to his knees beside the other man, Gordon tucked his shoulder underneath the other man's and wrapped his arm around the man's back to lessen the unnecessary jerking when his instructor retched, while he dug out a bottle of water with his free hand and dug back in for the small case with his travel tooth brush and mouthwash. As much as the mouthwash was probably going to be appreciated, it was the wipettes that he was really looking for.

Tearing the packet open with his teeth, Gordon shook the fiber cloth out of the wrapper and flipped the cloth open half way letting it lay out into his palm as he raised it to cup the other man’s forehead.

Between spasms, his instructor gasped out a shaky, "Boss?" cluing Gordon in to the identity of the other man who'd stepped out of the room a little bit before the instructor had.

"Nope, the marine, remember, but I can get him for you once you're squared away."

It took another minute or two for a break in the wracking coughs that followed for the man to reply, "Figures, must be a marine thing."

Before Gordon could ask what had to be a marine thing, a voice broke in over their shoulders: "I'm beginning to think it's going to take a platoon to keep an eye on you, DiNozzo. What happened here?"

Even as he turned to explain because the other man clearly couldn't, the question seemed to cause a resurrgence of the man's nausea and he threw himself forward almost pulling Gordon off his feet, pulling a curse from both Gordon and the new arrival, DiNozzo's boss, as they moved forward to help him.

ブレンキン

Turning his eyes back to the report in front of him as the second man came out of the door to and started to help his boy, Albrecht slipped a cd from the sleeve in his folio and handed it forward to the driver.

"Put this in, please."

As the music began, Albrecht smiled as the driver sat upright and took notice, staring for a moment at the cd player before remembering that his eyes should be on the road. It was a mistake easily forgiven, Albrecht could hardly deny that even if immature, it was a haunting melody: though, a work of improvisation from the beginning and one he would have discarded if he had not had the incredible luck of coming upon its star soloist in the bar he'd been selecting his choir from. Even then, Tony had stood from the rest, despite his little deceit, pretending to be an artless svengali trading on his many charms. It was easily a role he was meant to play, though, so Albrecht had happily disregarded the minor deceit and kept the tracks he'd recorded from Tony's performance.

"Director Roberson?"

Albrecht eyed the man with irritation, unhappy to be drawn away from his appreciation of the melody.

"Yes?"

"What is that?" The driver shuddered noticeably as he listened.

"It's entitled Siren's Sonata. It's an improvisational work by an emerging Digital Composer Albrecht Young, using recorded human voices from volunteer artists across various social stratas. In the Siren's Sonata , his artists were unusually talented street walkers. He's produced two others: The Nightengale's Nocturne; and A Painter's Pastoral engaging talented nurses and painters for his artists, but I prefer the Sonata. It has a haunting quality."

"It's eerie: I'll give you that. Can't say that it's my thing though. I like opera and all that well enough, but this sounds different somehow, like they're not really singing a much as moaning and screaming. It reminds me of the kind of sound tracks you'd hear at a haunted house."

The driver trailed off, apparently feeling Albrecht's eyes on the back of his neck, and glanced briefly into the rearview mirror then away, with a pained, half-sheepish expression.

"I'll just use my earphones, then, if you don't mind." He offered inanely, holding up a small, visibly cheap grade of MP3 player, and Albrecht impatiently waved his permission at the man. Sadly, being an ignorant, tasteless philistine seems to be a god given right, and there's little at this late date that Albrecht can do to change the agent's aesthetic taste.

"By all means, music is best reserved for those who appreciate it." He answered to forestall the man from commenting further. Tony's solo was coming up, and he did not want to miss it for meaningless conversation.

Chapter Text

"Tony," John Balboa offered, his voice just above a murmur as he saved their interview and shutdown his tablet.

Pushing it to the side, Balboa paused before looking up, catching and holding Tony's gaze, as he continued in the same soft tone, "Look, I don't know what it's going to take to catch this slime, but we're going to do it. I promise you that. He's not going to get away with what he's done to you... and the others. We want to get justice for all of the others, of course, but especially for you. You make it personal to us, and we're not going to let this drop. Okay? We're going to get him!"

The vehemence of Balboa's words and intensity of his voice and expression -despite their soft tone- caught Tony off guard, and for a moment, he found it difficult to keep his composure enough to respond.

Balboa seemed to understand, though, and nodded an acknowledgement of what Tony couldn't seem to say before he stood and rested his hand on Tony's shoulder, looking behind Tony, to Gibbs, who'd been standing just out of the video's range, silent support that neither Tony nor Balboa questioned.

"Take him home, yeah?" Balboa half-suggested/half-ordered, still obviously not fully comfortable with having been assigned the lead of the task-force over Gibbs.

"Soon as Ducky checks him over," Gibbs agreed trying to ignore the younger senior agent's discomfort.

Given his own track record, Gibbs thought the younger man should get used to it; having long ago realized -without regret- that he wasn't even on the slow track to Director. It wasn't something he thought he would ever regret; he wasn't made for playing politics, much less being forced to leave the field. Of any of the agents he'd worked with so far, next to Tony, Balboa was one of the most likely to make the cut: and given Tony's recently revealed background... And (mostly secret) needs, Gibbs was pretty certain that even if he were offered the opportunity, Tony would refuse.

"Okay, then." Balboa shifted his attention back to Tony, with an encouraging smile. "Take it easy, okay?"

Tony nodded almost seeming embarrassed at being sent home, but rose and held out his hand, agreeing and commenting, "The B-- I mean Gibbs will make sure of it, but anyway, thanks for taking it easy on me."

"I... I didn't think I was," Balboa answered, tipping his head slightly with an expression of light confusion, "if I missed something, let me know, but really I'm surprised you're able to give us this much, remembering a music clip that you heard more than six years back while you'd been drugged and assaulted... and just from a sixteen second sound byte - to me, that's pretty impressive."

"I just meant... Thanks for not busting my chops about letting this guy get the better of me again," Tony explained shifting his gaze away from Balboa.

"Tony!" Balboa snapped sharply, "I know Gibbs has probably already said this, and if he can't get this through to you, I don't know if anything I say will, but this creep isn't your average sicko -and Not. That. I. Would. Have. Thought. Worse. Of. You. If. He. Had. Been." Balboa almost barked enunciating every word in a terse note that Tony couldn't imagine disputing before he continued, "but this guy is a special kind of jack off- he's been trained to know how we think, how we fight, how we defend ourselves, and that gives him an edge that any of us would have a hard time dealing with - even knowing what to expect and you had no way of knowing that or even that he'd know where you were to come after you again, six years later. So, I don't know why you're expecting me to bust your chops, but give me, and yourself a little credit, okay?"

The blatent smile of approval that Gibbs shot him completely distracted Balboa for a moment; he'd rarely seen that much approbation from Gibbs, even when he'd briefly been partnered with the man, before being promoted to take over Vance's team when the man made Associate Director.

When Balboa's attention came back to Tony, though, he was relieved to see that the other agent was looking somewhat steadier than he had been looking throughout the interview.

"Yeah, he's said it, but it's good to kno... To hear... Anyway, thank you." Tony answered solemnly before abruptly leaving the interview room, unsurprisingly retreating when he seemed to feel off balance. It was something the joint task-force members had grown used to.

More surprisingly, instead of following immediately behind Tony, as had become his recent hàbit, Gibbs lingered for a moment, studying Balboa for several seconds. When he finally spoke, Gibb's voice was unusually soft "You're a good agent, a good lead, and a good friend, John, and I know you're doing your job and doing it well because it's what's right... But you ever need anything... Well... just know - you've got a marker with me you can call on anytime."

He dropped his hand on Balboa's shoulder, with two firm bumps that ended in a quick friendly grip and shake, then slipped out of the interview room behind Tony, leaving a stunned team leader in their wake.

ブレンキン

Tony was standing a few feet from the stairwell by the time Gibbs reached him, having eschewed the elevator for reasons that Gibbs didn't need to speculate on when he saw Tony's posture rigid with tension.

A quick glance immediately identified the reason, Jack Benchley, (as well as the reason that Gibbs wasn't going to let Benchley deter him from going directly to Tony): Namely Tim, who true to his word given months ago, had been staunch support for Tony, not only running interference for Tony on the rare occasion that Gibbs and Tony were apart for one reason or other and some narrow-minded ass would decide it was the perfect time to take potshots at Tony... but also, on most of those occasions, doling out his own brand of justice for those slights that -while they lacked the rough physical justice that Gibbs would have preferred- were nearly untraceable, carefully designed to not interfere with open investigations, easily overlooked by the unexpectedly willing Director, yet blatant enough that most of the office had quickly cottoned on to the idea that messing with Tony was the quickest way to invite misery.

Benchley seemed to be the only one too dense to to get the message, even after Benchley's bank card was repeatedly refused at the two closest NCIS 'watering holes' thanks to a randomizing password that only locked Benchley out after hours, even after his name came up on every supposedly randomized mandatory department screening from drug tests, psych evals, lie detector tests and financial reviews to insurance required blood tests and physicals. Judging by Benchley's glare and Tim's almost aggressive stance, Benchley seemed intent on inviting impending doom, which Gibbs didn't know the details of, but suspected that it was going to be bad based on Abby's comment, over their weekend breakfast meet, that she could almost pity Benchley if he even glanced in Tony's direction again, especially considering her tendency towards viciousness in defense of Tony.

"Jack say something?" Gibbs asked Tony, just to be sure that whatever wrath Tim intended to inflict was going to be enough.

"No," Tony answered in a soft whisper, "McMenace was up in his face before he had the chance."

"Good." Gibbs answered with a smile as he moved behind Tony so that he could urge Tony down the stairway without anyone the wiser.

They were more than half way down the stairwell before Tony asked in a wondering tone, "When did Tim turn Cullen on us, and how did I not notice?"

"Translation, Tony?"

"The vampire movie we watched a couple of weeks ago. Pale complexions, dark turtlenecks, mild manners until they get pissed, and then the fangs come out?"

"I remember them playing baseball, in a thunder storm to hide the crack of their bats," Gibbs snorted softly, remembering Tony's dumbstruck expression when he'd pointed out that a hit loud enough to be mistaken for thunder would have broken wooden bats while metal bats would have had more of a metallic ring.

"It's called willing suspension of disbelief, Boss, " Tony laughed. Before he'd started the movie he had expected Gibbs to have problems with the movie... like vampires going to high school, living in a Leave-it-to-Beaver family, and sparkling for Spielberg's sake... Not whether a baseball bat would break at a certain force, why creatures with night vision would need to light their house at night, and why a supposed family set to act like a protection and extraction detail would leave their home ground where they had the advantage and take someone they were trying to protect in unfamiliar territory, and split up when the numbers definitely worked to their advantage.

For his part Gibbs kept silent on that point, pleased that he'd distracted Tony enough that the other man could laugh.

"Anyway, I just have to wonder when his fangs came in." Tony continued musing on the recent changes in their teammate.

"The teeth have always been there; I saw the potential in him or wouldn't have brought him on the team, the rest is down to you and Abby. Your pranks and challenges made him build the confidence to use them, and Abby..."

"Sharpened them?" Tony offered lightly.

"Sounds about right," Gibbs agreed, letting his smile rise a little more noticeably for Tony while the were in the relative privacy.

"You've done good job with him, Tony; he's turning into a fine agent. You keep working with him, and he might turn into a pretty decent director, given time."

A pleased flush had risen on the back of Tony's neck, and he glanced away quickly, clearly uncomfortable with the praise - reminding Gibbs of Ducky's earlier caution that Tony needed reminders of his approval that wouldn't be misconstrued as coddling.

"Th-tha-nks," Tony stammered sincerely.

Despite himself, Gibbs gave into a quickly-hidden smile, letting Tony see his acknowledgement of Tony's stammerred thanks, but not his amusement at Tony's increasing shyness.

Truth be told, Gibbs had started to find it endearing.

After years of dealing with the overconfident persona that Tony had used to deflect everyone's attention, the honest uncertainty and bashful but genuine appreciation of any kindness or approval that Gibbs showed him... Well it was disarming, and so unlike the image presented that Tony preferred to project that Gibbs had no doubt but that it was sincere.

As they passed through the entry into the hallway leading to the labs and morgue, Gibbs let his 'professional' mask fall back in place.

"Just stating facts." Gibbs answered dryly, hiding hiding his smile as Tony's flush slightly deepened. He let it drop after that, not wanting his compliments to be viewed by Tony as the 'coddling' that Ducky had warned of, and shifted his thoughts to how he might follow up on Ducky's additional suggestions. Given the day Tony'd had, while Gibbs did have a justification for applying some light discipline, he was finding it difficult to justify - to himself- delivering any sort of punishment to Tony when he'd already been so badly rattled by their perp.

ブレンキン

"John, I've found something." McGee commented as soon as Agent Balboa returned to MTAC conference room that the NCIS task force members had been allocated.

Before the team lead, could demand a report, Tim had the audio clip that had been sent to Tony's cell playing in the background as he opened a web browser to what appeared to be a band-site with stylized black, crimson, and smoke album covers.

"I ran the clip through an Multimodal Adaptive Recognition System, or MARS search engine that examines audio samples for pitch, tempo, pauses, and melodic contour. It turned up a single source...The Siren's Sonata by digital composer, Albrecht Young." McGee's clipped tone as he named the title caught Balboa's attention immediately.

"Siren's Sonata?" Balboa questioned, not liking the possibility that came to mind as he considered the title, "The first time Tony was attacked, wasn't he undercover as..."

"A pro... Yes, I had that same thought, and it was published three weeks after the Tony's first attack.... There's more."

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

McGee didn't answer his question directly, but his expression was all the confirmation that John needed as McGee explained.

"He has two other 'albums': A Painter's Pastoral and The Nightengale's Nocturne. Like the Sonata, the others are both mixes of voice recordings as I'd mentioned earlier.. The publication date of the first 'album' falls a month after the last known murder of eight artists across the Southeast from Georgia to Arizona, the second corresponds with the deaths of twelve student nurses in and around the Los Angeles area."

"So you think, the voices are from his victims?"

"The timeline's right for it."

"Have you told Gibbs?"

"No, he was headed downstairs with Tony, and Benchley was being an ass, again."

"Do I need to tell Hobbson that Benchley's going to be out of operation for a while?"

The question was only half in jest, but the cold calculated menace in McGee's gaze was somewhat frightening as he agreed, "You may want to suggest that he borrow a rookie to fill in for...an indefinite period."

"Will do. In the meantime, get me what you can on this Young. A digital composer doesn't exactly strike me as the background we're expecting from this bastard. Check if he has any employees with the right kind of training or military experience? See if you can pin down his whereabouts and whether he gets these voice recordings himself or pays someone. Dr. Mallard said he was going to put Tony on temporary medical leave, and as Gibbs will be with him, I don't think that it will do either of them any good to hear about this until we have something firm.

ブレンキン

"Jethro, Anthony, while it is always a pleasure to see you," Ducky greeted them as they entered, "I do wish it were under better circumstances. If you will..." Ducky prompted, giving Gibbs a glance that veritably ordered him to 'take charge' of Tony.

"You know the drill, Tony." Gibbs ordered, suppressing the sigh at Ducky's maneuvering. "Sleeves up, mouth open, objections stowed."

Whether Tony noticed or not, he couldn't tell, but whether or not he did, Tony complied without question, scooting up on the exam table with a slight shift of his hips as he rolled up his right sleeve, and presented his open mouth for Ducky's waiting thermometer. Ducky clucked through the cursory exam, chastising Tony for his lack of sleep and weight loss even as he claimed it was completely understandable and shot Gibbs almost accusing looks that Tony seemed not to notice until after they were released with the injunction that Tony was to take the next three days off to recoop.

Tony's lack of objection to the downtime, if any thing, seemed a testament to how badly shaken Tony was until the doors had closed behind them, and he blurted out, "He can't be blaming you for me losing weight and not getting enough sleep. That's just crazy. It's not like you're keeping me up."

If Gibbs hadn't known better, he would have thought that Tony sounded a little wistful, but shrugged it off, commenting, "guess Ducky knows that if I tell you to sleep, you're gonna sleep. Same for eating."
Tony's expression briefly went queasy, before he started to object, "Boss, I really don't think I can..."

"We'll see DiNozzo, we'll see."

ブレンキン

As Gibbs drove of the NCIS parking garage, passing a tow truck that was feeding a "repo" tow lift between the front wheels of Benchley's Audi, he nudged Tony' elbow with his and nodded in the tow truck's direction, suppressing a soft chuckle. If anyone was more of a car 'snob' than Tony, it was Benchley who put as much as Tony spent on his expensive suits into accessories and electronics for his car, only to trade them out the following year for the next year's leased vehicle.

Tony's eyes went comically wide as they passed, and he continued to stare back into the garage until they turned, before he finally flopped back around into the seat with a gusty, "Wow, Probie doesn't take prisoners."

"Actually," Gibbs grinned, proud of the absent younger agent, "I suspect he just did."

Chapter Text

A warm hand, checking his forehead before dropping lightly to his shoulder, woke Tony.

"Come on, Tony; let's get you inside." Gibbs' voice was patient, despite the hand lightly shaking Tony's shoulder.

Following Gibbs inside, still in a bit of a haze from the much needed but too brief nap, Tony barely noticed where he'd been led until Gibbs pulled him to a stop by the sofa, then sat down and pulled a pillow into his lap.

"Boss?"

Gibbs was going to spank him – again...

It wasn't entirely unexpected, but months had passed since the last time Gibbs had spanked him.

“I told you to stay put, Tony.” Gibbs explained, confirming the reason Tony briefly suspected, while still on his knees retching, that he might be in trouble with Gibbs, but Gibbs had just taken him back to the office; then there had been the interview with Balboa, their discussion in the stairwell, Ducky's exam, and the ride over without anything being said about it- so Tony had assumed Gibbs had intended to let it slide.

That his assumption was a mistake stood out pretty clear as Gibbs gestured over his lap and continued, "I get that it was a gut reaction to a bad experience, but you were told to stay put, and didn't. On top of that, you didn't take Kitridge with you when you left."

And really, Tony should have known better; Gibbs had promised to deal with Tony's issues, and given the lengths that Gibbs had already gone to to help him, what right did Tony have to balk if Gibbs wanted to include punishments for things that happened at work, especially related to this case?

When he was apparently too slow to follow Gibbs' gesture, the other man's hand closed gently around Tony's wrist, and he was pulled over until his legs bumped against Gibbs' knees.

Taking a deep breath, Tony nodded and folded himself over Gibbs' lap.

“Fifteen.”

“Okay.” Tony agreed, remembering that the usual number of spanks he'd received, twenty-five, was reserved for incidents where he or someone else (though it hadn't yet occurred) was injured.

“Are you ready?” Gibbs questioned. A shift by his hip told Tony that Gibbs had raised his hand.

“Yes, Sir.” Tony answered, falling without thought into the customary formality that, in his mind, accompanied being disciplined, even though he knew that Gibbs didn't particularly like to be called 'Sir'.

Like all of the previous times, the pain didn't hit immediately with the strike that caused it, but instead felt like it was on a time delay as if demanding that Tory come to terms with the fact that he'd actually been hit before the delayed pain would sink in - cleaning the slate strike by strike of his spoken and unspoken transgressions as the pain built-up steadily. By the tenth, his backside felt as if it was positively burning, and his endurance of the pain felt like atonement. Pain lingered from each of the fast, even-paced strikes that rocked Tony, stealing his breath. With each strike it became increasingly obvious that Gibbs hadn't spared or intended to spare him an ounce of his strength - though it was obvious to Tony from the even placement that Gibbs was being careful not to concentrate the strikes in any single area, nor to strike with enough force to bruise or injure.

As with the earlier times, by the tenth stroke, Tony was crying out apologies. By the time Gibbs had reached the fifteenth stroke, Tony's gasped apologies had broken to breathless sobbing.

Limp and gasping as his sobs slowed, Tony tried to catch his breath as he felt himself being turned the now familiar position, astride Gibbs knees with his head pressed into Gibb's shoulder and Gibbs palm wrapped around the back of his neck, as the man murmured almost into his ear: “It's done, Tony. Slate's clean.”

Tony's pulse was pounding in his ears, but Gibbs' quiet words cut through the sound of his ragged breathing and the rush of his blood pressure pounding in his ears, soothing an aching uncertain that he was only just then aware of even as Gibbs hand slowly gliding down his back became a focal point for Tony to match his still ragged breathing against...

When Tony finally managed to slow his breathing to a natural rate, Gibbs squeezed his shoulder lightly, ordering, “Time to eat.”

Tony stood easily and let Gibbs guide him to the the kitchen. Although Tony didn't feel even the slightest unsteady, as he rose, he suspected - from Gibbs' firm grip on his shoulder - that his boss wasn't convinced...

If anything, Gibbs seemed to be moving more carefully than he had following Tony's previous spankings - standing a little further away that he had previously, probably so that it wouldn't seem like he was looming, and guiding Tony into the chair with hands on both of his arms in case Tony was unsteadier than he thought he seemed. When Tony was finally settled into the chair, Gibbs quickly turned away and opened the fridge door and stood there for a couple of breaths, probably trying to decide on what type of meal Tony could stomach.

"I can take pretty much anything, Boss." Tony assured him.

Losing his lunch had been more of a knee-jerk reaction, and he was feeling pretty settled now.

ブレンーキンー

"What?" Gibbs froze in place, fighting the urge to turn around and confirm whether Tony was once again proving himself more observant than usually expected... More observant than convenient, especially now when Gibbs was trying to ply all of his skills as a trained operative to suppress the jag he'd suddenly found himself prey to; Gibbs didn't need this right now, and more to the point, Tony REALLY didn't need this now.

"Just saying that it doesn't have to be anything fancy or delicate; I'm easy here."

At that, Gibbs turned and quickly scanned Tony's face to see if Tony was saying what he thought Tony was saying.

"My stomach was settled even before we got back to the office, so any kind of sandwich or whatever you'd like would be fine."

"That's good to know," Gibbs answered with relief as he turned back to the refrigerator and dug out the sandwich makings he'd had on hand, hoping there had been nothing in his expression to clue Tony into the fact that he'd completely misconstrued Tony's answer into a completely different subject.

Damn it. He needed to get his head on straight, especially with the bastard flaunting that he was still out there and still after Tony, as he and McGee had suspected, but it was damn hard to do when he couldn't figure out what had just happened back on the couch... and couldn't stop thinking about it.

There had been a moment, well, longer than a moment, several beats longer than what Gibbs would normally call a moment, near the end of the spanking where he strongly wanted to add more swats, and there was no reason for it.

Tony had messed up, but it was a natural reaction, and anyway Tony was their protectee this time around. Rule one of any protection detail - protectees don't always act in their own best interests. Kitridge should have followed Tony out and stayed on his six. So it wasn't Tony he was mad at, and shouldn't be Tony that he took any residual anger out on.

That was part of it too, though, it didn't feel like he was letting go of or losing control of his anger, and he knew that feeling well enough to to recognize it instantly.

It wasn't that.

The urge to keep going hadn't been an attempt to undermine any lingering and misplaced guilt that Tony might have before it festered and became an issue either. He hadn't even thought about the possibility, and thinking about his behavior in retrospect was almost certain that it hadn't applied. Tony might not be sleeping well, but Gibbs had learned to recognize when Tony was acting under the influence of guilt and when he was just reacting out of stress. Lately, he'd been certain that it had only been stress bothering Tony, but with so many possible sources, he hadn't been sure how to put it to rest. Still, that hadn't been what had been pushing him to extend Tony's punishment; the thought hadn't even crossed his mind.

He needed to make sense of the urge, though, especially if Ducky was right. From the change in Tony's manner and posture, it was pretty clear to Gibbs that Ducky had been right. Tony needed the structure, discipline, and order that Gibbs had offered... had practically sworn to give him. That's what should have been uppermost in his mind as he was spanking Tony, instead, ...

Well, in truth, Gibbs didn't know or understand what had been going on with him as he'd spanked Tony, other than the demanding urge to continue it, to keep Tony there, laid out over the pillow, taking his discipline without question or complaint, sobbing - perhaps- but secure...

"Boss???" Tony's soft concerned question cut across his internal debate, bringing Gibbs back to the present only to realize that he'd been practically running on automatic: the sandwiches had been made and apparently consumed - given the two empty crumb-filled plates he was was holding over the sink.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah. Just thinkin'."

"I could see that." Tony agreed softly, "Want me to do that?"

"Hunh?"

"The dishes and stuff. I can clean it up, if there's something that you need to talk to John about." Tony offered, apparently misreading his distraction as something to do with the case.

Gibbs first instinct was to say no; it was more important to get his rest, but Ducky's earlier comments stopped him. If Tony benefited from having chores to do, Gibbs didn't have a problem with letting Tony 'make himself useful' as long as he didn't start thinking that it was mandatory for him to stay there.

"Yeah, that would be a help." Gibbs agreed, trying to phrase it as neutrally as possible, before he continued, "Since Ducky's taken you off the roster for a couple of days, you should probably call Kitridge and make certain he picked up the stuff from today's lessons, and then Abby to make arrangements for the class to be covered while you're out."

While Tony's quick smile and equally quick agreement, "On it Boss," didn't entirely help to ease Gibb's apprehension, it was enough to convince him that the younger man could be left to his own devices without concern... at least long enough for him to make a call of his own.

Taking his call out to the front porch, Gibbs waited impatiently as the morgue's phone rang several times before he hung up and dialed the doctor's personal cell and hung up when it also rang without being answered. He was on the fourth digit of Palmer's cell number when the phone vibrated in his hand.

"Jethro, Dear Boy, if you truly wish someone to pick up the phone, it would behoove...."

"Duck, I've got a problem."

"Is Tony..."

"No, I said I'm having a problem. I need to talk to you."

"Is it a medical issue or emergency?"

Damn it.

"No," Gibbs tried to suppress the growl, but his attempt wasn't completely successful.

"Then I'm afraid, My Dear Boy, that it will have to wait until I can get away this evening. Timothy has asked for my assistance in reviewing a series of possibly related cases in Los Angeles."

"Fine." Gibbs snapped, hanging up without asking.

If it was a lead, John or Tim would tell him, if not, he already had enough on his mind to figure out.

Chapter Text

Abby jumped as fingers with callused fingertips wrapped around her cheeks. Reflexively closing her eyes, Abby stilled and waited to see what mood Tim was in.

Jimmy had already visited with the news that Benchley's fancy car had been towed, not knowing that the car had been the very small tip of a very large iceberg.

"It's done." Tim murmured softly, his breath warming her ear.

"His accounts and everything?" Abby questioned, awe and excitement in her voice as she felt his lips close over her ear lobe.

"Mmhmm. I informed the bank that a hacker has been using his account to test their security, but might have neglected to mention that I was the hacker and had corporate's permission. His account's going to be locked down for the duration of my investigation."

"So he can't get the money to pay off his note on the car?"

"Or his apartment," Tim agreed. "It's a shame that Cynthia decided to have the spare safe houses fumigated early this year. He won't be able to stay (or store his belongings) in any of them until they're cleared."

"Ooh, he's gonna be..."

The pop of Tim's "yep" told her that Tim was stepping back as he continued, "In fact, it occurred to me that you might like a front row seat for the reveal. Have anything I can help you with: shouldn't be long till the show starts."

"Err, ... " glancing around the lab for a task that Tim could pick up and do midstream then drop as soon as he needed to leave, Abby started to bounce on her toes with excitement. Not quite dancing, because really Tim wasn't quite done with Benchley yet, but he would be soon... and she was going to get to see it first hand... And then Benchley would start being nicer to Tony, if only to keep off Tim's radar and Tony would start to feel more comfortable hanging around and chatting, maybe even enough to visit when Gibbs couldn't come down, or better yet, maybe things would go so well that he could feel comfortable coming down without needing Gibbs to come down. That would be great.

As much as she loved having her silver-fox come to visit, Abby missed her Tony-time. Lately, whenever they came down to visit, with Gibbs, Tony always focused on business. She understood why: between all of the "Sailor-stalker" evidence sitting around her lab and Gibbs dislike for small talk, her lab was hardly a "chat-friendly" environment for her friend.

"If there's not, that's okay," Tim commented, pulling her attention back to him.

"No, not really. I mean there's still a lot of cataloging to do, but there's not anything that I would have asked for your help with, not really." Abby answered, mourning the truth even as she said it.

She would have liked to watch Tim's showdown with Benchley, but not enough to keep him away from whatever lead he was following on Tony's "Sailor-stalker".

"That's okay, just thought I'd offer a hands while I'm here. This work station free?"

It wasn't really, but she nodded to keep him there, shifting uncomfortably as his gaze slid from her face to her hands, which she had incidentally shifted behind her back so he wouldn't notice her crossed fingers, and back to her face.

"Abby!"

He didn't say anything else, as he paused to save as in each of the open programs before he logged out then signed back in to the task force's network account.

The tone of his voice was enough, though, to tell Abby that she'd be in trouble for the lie the next time they went out - even if it was the kind of lie that Gibbs probably wouldn't have called her on... not that she would have ever tried it on Gibbs, but still...

Since Gibbs had been taking care of Tony, Tim had unofficially taken on Tony's role of team care-taker: running interference for Tony and Gibbs, keeping her with a running supply of Cafpow and Graham crackers, visiting Ducky regularly for tea and a tale, and taking Jimmy out every couple weeks to blow off steam and check the inner office gossip, with a side order of occasionally pulling Abby back on track (especially when she was edging toward boredom or the urge to put her scientific knowledge to nefarious purposes was getting out of control).

While it hadn't gotten out of control, yet, with Benchley, it was definitely edging in that direction, and if Tim hadn't elected to act on this last insult from Benchley... well there were some acetone mixes that would have created some very interesting effects in his precious car's paint job.

"Getting back to work now," Abby answered, in a sheepish squeak, trying to ignore Tim's chuckle a she did.

"Good idea."

Abby couldn't help but think he'd sounded more than a little Gibbs'ish-in-silver-fox-mode, and it worked for her; it really, really worked for her.

"Abby..."

"On it, Tim," she didn't say boss, but it has been close, and his smirk said he knew it.

ブレンーキンー

Staring at his monitor, Albrecht sighed pulling out the blue-note ear bud. His composition was so close...so close to being complete.

The crescendo leading into DiNozzo's aria lacked the fullness needed to support the decrescendo and dramatic silence introducing the richness of Tony's performance.

He had tried every spare audio clip he had collected, but being of the same voices already being used, the clips only made the individual artists louder, instead of filling in the tonal gaps the way another... new... artist's voice would.

Auditioning a new artist would be logistically complicated, though.

Necessary, if he wished to finish the composition in time to spend his pending vacation with his star performer, but complicated none the less. In retrospect though, Albrecht's planted timeline would at least have the task force's attention directed elsewhere. If he were to be careful in the disposition of the artists' body...

'Yes,' he decided after some thought, 'if managed carefully, there would be little risk in the endeavor.'

Sliding the Slaughter- Viliji bracelet off his wrist, Abrecht opened the decorative flat silver disk covering embedded usb drive, extracted the drive, plugged it into the wireless remote for his personal tablet, and opened the gallery to view the array of potential artists. Out of thirty-two files, it didn't take him very long to narrow his selection down to three potential artists, who had the depth of background to understand their roles.

The first, barely out of his twenties, evinced all of the traits that Albrecht searched for from artists performing tragic pieces, and had the virtue of being local and easily accessible as well as -recently- having run into some trouble dealing with the outcome of a bureau case gone bad. Enough so that his disappearance might not be initially even linked to the so called 'sailor-stalker'.

Despite himself, Albrecht sneered at the name. It was ridiculous - given how few sailors had actually performed for him, but who was he to lead the task force back to his own trail when they went astray.

Still the other two performers had their own appeal as well.

The second, slightly older by almost eight years similarly came from a troubled back ground with the early loss of his father and a brief decline into juvenile crime before being rehabilitated toward a life of service. While a sad truth, his most talented artists had each emerged from dysfunctional backgrounds with the loss or abandonment of one or both parents, a history of alienation, and high intelligence that lead them to service oriented careers.

The third possible performer, Albrecht had watched for several years tracking the agent's move from in Seattle bureau office to Washington, and before finding Tony again, Albrecht had briefly considered him as a possible alternative to his young protege but discarded the consideration due to the man's outside commitments to a wife and child. While the agent's folder showed a recent divorce reducing those commitments, it also told of an injury to his inner ear, which could potentially affect his performance.

Considering the two, Albrecht returned to his first choice. While more diminutive than his alternates, the young man reminded him somewhat of Tony's coloring and had reportedly experienced some of the same background issues that had lead to the development of Tony's soulful voice.

Decision made, Albrecht closed the other files on the tablet and began to peruse Dr. Reid's personnel file.

Chapter Text

Balancing an arm full of books to one side as dug into his pocket for his bus pass, Spencer jumped slightly as the passenger in line behind him reached out and took the stack off his hands, explaining, "Just till you get your pass or money out."

"Eh... Okay, thanks." Spencer answered with a flush and dug his card out as quickly as he could, flashed it at the driver, and returned it to his wallet.

The man only grunted in response and pushed his books back into his hands with enough force that it felt like he got a bit of a paper cut as the stack slid across his hand. Dropping quickly into the second seat, to get out of the other passenger's way, Spencer opened the top book in the stack and immediately started reading.

The BAU's latest case had been a long rather grueling case for the whole team, but Spencer was somehow surprised by how quickly he fell into a sleepy daze. Before he knew it, the driver Maddie, who'd been driving his route for close to twenty-seven months, had gotten out of her seat and shaken him awake, with a warning, "Isn't this your stop, Doc?"

He looked around blearily before answering with a mumbled "Thank you", and fought to stand, his weariness and the stack of books making it a little harder than expected. Another rider, trying to get past him to get off huffed impatiently before pushing in beside him and the driver to take his books with a grumbled, "Look, if I carry the books, can you walk?"

"I can get..."

"Here," The man interrupted impatiently, pushing the books on the driver, then grabbed both of Spencer's arms to pull him up and turn him toward the door.

"Sorry to be impatient, but I really don't have a lot of time, especially if I'm making a detour." Taking the books back with a nod to the driver, he continued, "So, if you could hurry it up, I'd appreciate it."

"Do you know the Doc?" Maddie questioned, seeming to have some misgivings.

"I have a place in the same building." The other man answered which immediately struck Spencer as wrong. He knew all of the people in his building, and the man didn't look familiar at all. He could have moved in while Spencer was away on this latest case, but he couldn't remember any mention of any one moving.

It was difficult enough to concentrate on shuffling forward without tripping, though, so he decided he'd wait to ask until he'd made it down the short steps.

"Take it easy, Doc." Maddie wished him, as the got off, and pulled the handle to close the bus doors behind them, before starting the engine again.

Pausing to catch the bus stop bench for support, Spencer waved to her as she pulled away, and swayed uneasily as he dropped his hand.

"You're looking unsteadier every step. Here." The man leaned over Spencer to drop his stack of library books on the bus stop bench and grabbed Spencer's closer arm, without Spencer's permission and pulled it over his shoulder, throwing Spencer off balance and making him stumble as the man pulled him away from the bench.

"No. I don't..."

"Don't worry about the books, I'm just going to get you over there," he was interrupted again as the man pointed to a nearby car, "then come back and get your books. You clearly can't walk on your own, and the books will just weigh us down if I try to drag both them and you."

"I can," Spencer tried to protest, not only bothered by the fact that the man was dragging him along without asking, much less leaving the books for anyone to pick up, but also for the fact that the man was touching him in the first place. Being touched even incidentally (a brush of shoulders, straightening his tie, flicking a bit of lint) was uncomfortable for Spencer, even coming from friends.

His attempt to pull away only caused him to hit the car harder as the man pushed him against the car and stepped back. Before he could catch his breath enough to speak, the door scraped his hip as it was pulled open, and a sharp prick and slide of a needle into the side of his neck forced him to freeze so that he wouldn't cause himself injury before what felt to be a needle was pulled away.

"You don-," his protest fell away as enough of the injection entered his system to neutralize his muscle control.

Despite his inability to speak or move, Spencer was still conscious of the arms that caught him as his legs and balance failed him and he teetered back into the man's waiting embrace. As such, it was only marginally comforting when the man seemed to take some care in turning him to push him into the car seat and covered the back of Spencer's head with a careful hand to keep Spencer's skull from hitting the door frame as he was let loose to fall into the seat.

Spencer's consciousness stayed with him for the entire drive, which he silently memorized right up until the point when the car pulled into a covered drive way and down into an underground parking area that looked to have once been a cellar. Unable to will his muscles to move even the slightest measure, Spencer could only catch his breath in fear as he felt the needle break skin again, just below where his carotid artery divided off to the jawline. Within moments, his attempts to keep his eyes open to memorize his location fell by the wayside as he was overcome by a dreamlike lethargy and his eyes slid shut.

Chapter Text

Spencer's slow return to consciousness shattered as a semi-conscious roll of his head was translated into a stretched pull from something that felt like it might be woven into his hair and pulling against something cold and metal ... inside ... inside ... him. There was something cold ... and metal ... and thick... inside him... twisting ... inside him whenever he shifted.

Trying to hold himself completely still as he fought waves of rising panic, Spencer realized that he was naked, barely held up on his feet by what felt like a scratchy, rope-harness that wrapped around his chest - seeming to catch the majority of his weight - before criss-crossing back and forth cinching his arms tightly together behind him. It was impossible to keep perfectly still as even a slight shift of weight from foot to foot echoed through the rough fiber pricking and scratching his skin forcing him to shift even more.

Over-sensitivity to touch was an Asperger trait that Spencer probably never hated more than he did at that moment. Even the smallest prickle of rough clothing normally had him shifting in his the chair the majority of the day. It was why he preferred plainer but sturdy oxfords and corduroys that could be washed enough times to make them comfortable while staying thick enough to provide him a buffer between the accidental bumps, rubs, and touches that normally occurred during the day. The absence of that buffer alone had Spencer close to hyperventilating. There was no good reason for him to be naked. More worrying still - Spencer couldn't remember how he had gotten into this state.

With a few rare exceptions; usually accompanied by concussions, major injury, or surgery; Spencer's memory had been almost consistently perfect, which left one other conclusion - particularly given his current ...

'Shhh' a whisper hushed Spencer's yelp when fingertips trailed from the top of his head down the back of his hair to what ever cord was connecting his hair to the invasive metal and plucked at the cord like testing a violin string.

"You're posture is commendably straight. I think we can go right into breathing exercises." An unfamiliar voice instructed.

Jerking from the touch, Spencer tried to protest only to realize that he had been too distracted with the tie at his back and his overall nakedness to notice that his own panting hadn't been the only thing keeping his mouth open. There seemed to be a soft lined ring curling around the inside of his lips somehow secured to a harness which wrapped from the front of his forehead to the back of his head where the focus of the pull to the cord between his head and the metal piece invading him laid, then down his cheeks, almost loosely under his chin and then back to the back of his head, with a soft strip running forward to the the ring between his teeth.

Seeming to ignore his undoubtedly obvious distress, the voice's owner continued without evidences of interest in the fact that Spencer had slipped from nearly hyperventilating into strangling on the breaths that wouldn't come: "The technique is simple, but can be effective. Close your eyes and follow the path of my hands on your body. When I raise my hands, exhale as deeply as you can; when I lower them, inhale as deeply as you can, but don't press out with your stomach, instead focus on expanding your diaphragm. Whenever I stall or hold my hands in a single location, hold your breath if you were inhaling or hold off from taking your breath if you were exhaling."

Torn between frantically trying to breath and wanting to but unable to tell the other that he didn't want to be touched, Spencer panicked for a moment and shook his head in protest, then broke of choking in whimpers as the metal pulled deeper inside him and hit a nerve sensitive nerve bundle.

"There is no need to be anxious about your technique," the voice answered as a hand wrapped around his forehead and pulled it back against a thankfully cloth covered shoulder, "I have guided numerous arts through complicated performances and have countless methods for drawing their best voice out. Even though you are an inexperience performer, I am confident that we will find the method that works best for you. Now..."

As the stranger spoke, his free hand came around the other side of Spencer's face giving Spencer only a flashing glimpse of a crudely-shaped, yellow ball of congealed fat or oil before it was pushed through the ring, momentarily choking him before it began to melt and he had no choice but to swallow it if he wished to breath.

There was little enough time to do that, even, before Spencer felt the man's hands cup low on his thighs and slowly drag them upwards as he ordered, "Ex--hale."

Chapter Text

Albrecht circled his young artist, several times, studying the limp form as he tried to revise his plans to include keeping the earnest young man - instead of his original plans for Dr. Reid.

The young man's first breathing and vocalization exercises had demonstrated what a pure talent the young artist was... as much of a treasure as Tony had proven, and Albrecht very much wished to collect the young mas. By the time the Dr.'s breathing exercises were through, Albrecht had decided to turn on the microphone and record his vocalization exercises. The decision had been incredibly fortuitous, as during that one exercise alone, Albrecht had drawn the full range of clipped and sustained notes needed to round out the crescendo softening into the decrescendo and Tony's ... solo.

Running a soft experimental touch down the exhausted artist's side, Albrecht smiled as the soft cry confirmed a budding idea: instead of a solo... a duet pairing Tony's pure baritone with the doctor's near castrato, contralto. Closing his eyes, he could easily imagine a transcendent blend of their voices that would take his composition to the next level.

Each of his previous pieces had closed with a signature solo, but a duet... complimenting not only the contrast of their voices but their near classic profiles as well with Tony's ripening masculinity and the doctor's boyish vulnerability... THAT held the promise of a masterpiece.

There would be more risk as keeping the doctor until he could collect Tony and take his vacation would mean that there would inevitably be times he would be forced to leave the doctor to his own devices while he went to work- giving the brilliant man uncounted opportunities to question Albrecht's mastery and decide to abandon his talents before the could be truly developed... unless Albrecht moved up his schedule and took Tony earlier than planned.

It was possible: nearly everything was in place; the doctor's disappearance, when it would be discovered the next week could provide an opportunity to distract the task force from watching over Tony, in their search for the doctor; and Albrecht had nudged the leadership of the task force far enough off track that he was certain to have sufficient time to bring Tony back to their new home. All that remained to do, outside of picking Tony up, was a shopping trip to pick up groceries and supplies for their new ingenue.

For Tony, whose nature favored strong percussion strikes similar bold bass drums, Albrecht had purchased a variety whips, crops, canes, tipped floggers, heavy paddles, straps, tawse, and slappers. For Reid, who responded like a Stradivarius, pure and earnest to even the slightest touch, Albrecht anticipated a more delicate approach - with clamps, pinwheels, sounds, ticklers, needles and other sensation teasers would draw the truest notes.

The mere thought of the sounds he could draw from the young performer, simply with a pair of nitrile gloves, lubricant, and hours of working Reid open until he could slip his hand fully into the doctor and stroke him from the inside out ... had Albrecht closing his eyes and fighting his elation to control his own breathing; he couldn't allow himself to seem too eager or his boys would believe they could manipulate him with their charms.

Still, he had three days to condition his ingenue and orient him to what would be expected of him before he would need to make a final decision. Scanning the walls of his performance room, to select the mildest of items he had bought for use with Tony, Albrecht finally settled on the loops of white polycord he had intended to use for Tony's wrist and ankle ties in place of the harsher ties that had abraded Tony's beautiful wrists the last time they were together.

Returning to the small refrigerator, Albrect studied the various jars of shea butter, coconut oil,and ghee deciding on the mixture for the doctor's next lozenge. The ghee, he ruled out immediately as there was a chance he might use it for lubrication and to block the scent receptors as well. His previous lozenge had been higher in the sedative-infused shea butter, but this time, Albrecht thought a slightly dose of coconut and ketamine would be advantageous this time, without the sedative infused shea as he wanted the doctor conscious and aware for his conditioning to take greater effect.

Scooping the chill coconut out into a ball, Albrecht pressed it into a tight ball, which he rolled in his hands to warm slightly liquefy the outer layer of oil so that it would slide through the ring gag. When it was the size he wanted, Albrecht collected the unrolled polycord and returned to his new artist.

Dr. Reid, Spencer... No, Albrecht was definitely going to need to decide on a new name for his new boy... barely fought as Albrecht pushed the second lozenge in, stroking the boy's haunches comfortingly as he waited for the young man to still. When the doctor finally complied, Albrecht folded the polycord in half and slipped the loop it created behind the doctor's ballsack before using a series of macrame chain ties to tightly encase the boy's flaccid cock from it's base to it's tip, then knotted the cord across the boy's slit and secured it with another chain not so that the previous knot was pressed tightly into the slit and the cord pulled down pinching the head into swollen looking halves. Once he was satisfied with knots, Albrecht took the hanging ends of the cord and fed them back through the ends of the loop that had been slipped behind his boy's sack, pulling the boy's still limp organ so that it was folded almost in half. Smiling as a pull tightening the fold drew a soft groan from the doctor, Albrecht crisscrossed the two ends of rope cinching the cock in place and tightening the loop around his sack, before tying another knot in the center between the two that could alternately tease the skin between the base of his cock, rub against the boy's head, and rub at the soft gap of skin at the top of his sack.

Rolling the soft wedge flesh in his hands, Albrecht was pleased to find that it was mostly empty and would provide ample space for him to add the ties he wanted.

Separating the loose ties, Albrecht slid one down and between the two testicles before sliding it back through the loop at the base of the sack then flipped to cord back up and tucked it against the elbow halter until he was ready for it again. Returning to the other end of the cord, he started with a munter knot to leave a small convenient loop for the other end of cord to run through, then ran a tight chain of half-hitch knots ties laid precisely side by side, without a hint of flesh showing from the base of the boy's sack until the loose flesh ran out and the boys testicles were pinched down in to two walnut sized pockets. Securing the half-hitch chain with a stopper knot, Albrecht retrieved the other end of the cord and ran it through the munter loop at the top of the chain then dropped it again.

Kneeling, Albrecht lifted the foot he'd noticed the boy balancing his weight on most frequently, and ran a comforting hand down the inside of his boy's thigh when he moaned weakly and tried to pull his foot away and take the weight off the hook shifting inside him. Firmly holding the foot several centimeters off the ground, Albrecht looped the cord dangling from the stopper knot beneath the heal and around the arch of the foot, before knotting it across the top of the foot just above the highest point of point of the arch - leaving an attractive fan of polycord loops in the knot and letting the short remaining piece dangling to the tops of the boy's toes. Releasing the foot, Albrecht smiled indulgently when the young man immediately tried to get his foot back under him and discovered that when the leg extended fully it pulled the polycord and stretched the already distended sack - yelping as he arched his back reflectively and ground the plug inside him against his over-sensitized prostate in his attempt to regain his balance.

"Settle." Albrecht ordered softly .

Taking the loose cord separating the bound balls, Albrecht tugged lightly on the cord testing its pull against the munter loop and teasingly curled his palm around his boy's left ankle - smirking when his boy whined under his breath but noticeably tried to stand as still as possible.

"Don't worry, pet, that's not where this one will be tied. It would make your choices too ... balanced. Without dissonances, balance becomes tediously expectable."

Instead of tying it the free ankle, Albrecht took the loose cord and threaded it through a steel hitching ring embedded in the floor before returning to other slightly elevated foot, and threaded it through the fanned loops, pulling it ever so slowly letting the rope's pinching pressure build until it worked a whimper from his pet, then loosened it barely a hairs breadth and tied it off.

With the final bit of cord, he pulled the free ankle just a bit closer and tied an almost meaningless slip knot around the ankle tucking and draping loose loops of cord at odd intervals to brush and tickle the foot whenever the boy moved.

Standing back to admire his work, Albrecht studied his young ingenue almost regretting the boy's innocence. Picking Tony up earlier than planned might be necessary for more than one reason if he wished to preserve the young artist's artlessness long enough to give him thorough training in his gifts.

"For such an inexperienced performer," Albrecht complimented, "you have utterly inspired me - on the strength of your vocal exercises alone - and I must admit that find myself woefully under prepared to continue your vocal training at your unexpected level of talent... so I must beg your pardon while I step out to retrieve instruments that will more equitable to your skills. In the mean time, I hope I have provide you sufficient divertissements to keep you occupied until I return."

His boy's response was a bit difficult to understand, but Albrecht was certain that, in time, he and his boys would understand each other flawlessly.

Chapter Text

"Thank you, John." Director Morrow acknowledged and dismissed the task force's lead agent, taking the file from him as he pondered Balboa's report.

They finally had a solid, if grim, lead thanks to Agent McGee's ingenuous approach to the audio file that DiNozzo had received... and a name: Albrecht Young.

A name that had distracted Tom from almost half of Balboa's report, he realized as he read back over Balboa's summary, because it was somehow familiar. Even though he couldn't immediately place it, he was certain that he had come across it somewhat recently - though not, as Balboa had confirmed, in the somewhat narrowed list of their current suspects.

After tracing back through his most recent postings and trips to see if he could recall meeting or discussing any one of that name, he leaned forward and pressed the button for the intercom.

"Yes, Director?"

"Cynthia, does the name Albrecht Young mean anything to you?"

"No Sir, not off the top of my head, but I can review your meeting notes and case summaries for the name if you would like me to."

"Please do, Thank you." He answered, sighing.

It was too much to hope for, he supposed, that it would be that easy.

"Certainly, Sir. I'll start immediately."

"Mornin' Tony." Gibbs commented from the couch, interrupting Tony's lethargic march to the kitchen.

Tony's slurred response might have been a greeting but sounded as much like the sound he might have made from a hangover, if he had actually drunk anything the night before. Gibbs knew he hadn't and that the half-groaned sound was the result of Tony not getting to sleep before three thirty the night beforre.

"Let's try that again." Gibbs ordered with some humor in his tone, to soften it.

"Good Mrning, Bosss." Tony grumbled, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Doesn't sound like you believe it what you're sayin." Gibbs retorted, gesturing for Tony to come around to the same side of the couch with two flicks of his fingers in a 'com'ere gesture.

Tony shrugged his shoulders when he was sure he was in Gibbs peripheral but, clearly, didn't want to admit that he'd gone against both Ducky's earlier orders to recoup on his sleep and Gibbs mild order to sleep given just before he went up to bed.

When he was in full view of Gibbs, or rather Gibbs' lap, he stumbled to a stop with a confused "Boss?"

"Come 'Ere." Gibbs flicked his fingers again, patting the pillow to confirm Tony's obvious suspicion.

"Did I do something wrong, Boss?" Tony questioned but still came forward and placed himself over Gibbs' lap as expected, drawing an unseen, but fond, smile from Gibbs as he did.

"You tell me, Tony. Why do you think I might be doing this?" Gibbs challenged, despite the slight inner wince he barely suppressed when the same urge he'd felt the last time he'd spanked Tony rose to the surface as if answering the question for him.

He let Tony stew on the thought for several seconds, trying to ignore - for his own part - the way having Tony laying across his lap was making him feel less frustrated, more grounded, and just a little more 'right' than he'd felt when he'd woken after only an hour and a half of sleep - having stayed up until he was certain Tony had finally drifted off.

"Uhmm, I - I can't think of anything that I've done since yesterday, and I'm pretty sure you would have mentioned it if I had."

Tony's confused uncertainty oddly made the Gibbs' feeling of being grounded only sink in deeper, and Gibbs paused to think that over before shaking his head to dismiss an odd idea that came to him. He didn't think it could be right, but he'd have to reconsider it later.

"If it isn't something you did, what does that leave?" Gibbs questioned, dropping his hand to the middle of Tony's back and rubbing in a slow circle as he went with a sudden need to show Tony some encouragement.

The younger man shifted on his lap slightly, and Gibbs almost lifted his hand, until he realized that the shift had been Tony's attempt to lift himself into his hand and follow the gesture and continued stroking, waiting patiently for Tony to work through the question. After several seconds, he felt Tony go still with the realization.

"Mhm-hmm." he agreed when Tony glanced at him sheepishly and asked, "I didn't get enough sleep?"

"How many... swats?" Tony questioned in a soft murmur.

"How many hours did you ignore that I told you to go to bed?" Gibbs answered his question with one of his own and smirked softly at the soft blush that crossed Tony's cheeks as he apparently realized that Gibbs knew exactly when he'd gone to sleep.

"Five." The answer came as a sheepish whisper.

"Five it is." Gibbs agreed, lifting his hand to drop the first blow as he said it.

He didn't spare any strength as he did, knowing from Ducky's warnings that Tony would probably misread it, but paused between each swat, letting Tony have the time to notice that he hadn't lifted his hand from the younger man's back and was still rubbing gentle circles between the middle of his shoulder blades down to his lower back. It wasn't coddling, he told himself, if he still gave the full force spanking he had before. The logic might not be entirely sound, but he chose not to consider it too deeply.

His body's reaction to Tony jolting across his lap then righting himself- with each swat- was a different matter entirely, and by the third swat, Gibbs was thankful for the pillow across his lap, so much so that after landing the fifth swat, he hesitated before pulling Tony up to straddle his lap as had become their custom. If Tony noticed and got the wrong idea... Gibbs didn't know how he'd react but was certain that Tony's trust in him - at least as far as providing the discipline Tony clearly needed - would be wrecked.

"Bosss?" Tony's breathy question more than caught Gibbs' attention, and he had to work just that much harder to suppress his reaction as he pulled Tony up and let the younger man straddle his lap.

Thankfully, the pillow stayed in place, and Tony didn't seem to notice any difference in his reaction, settling into place against his shoulder as was becoming part of their ritual.

"It's..." Gibbs paused clearing the roughness from his throat before he continued, "It's done. When you've caught your breath, we're gonna go in and I'll teach ya how to make that breakfast casserole. Then I wanna try something different with you today, an see if we can't tire you out so you don't have a choice about sleepin' in tonight."

"Okay, Boss, sounds good." Tony sighed in response shifting a little closer as Gibbs hand settled on his neck and began to massage.

Resting his forehead against Gibbs' shoulder, Tony tried to control his breathing as he settled against his boss's chest.

He couldn't believe it, couldn't let himself believe it, but he was almost certain that he'd seen what he thought he'd seen.

Gibbs' eyes had looked their normal steely-blue before he'd started. By the time he'd finished, though, when he'd sat up, Gibbs' eyes looked almost stormy, just a shade off of dilated, and almost what - in any other circumstance - Tony would call blown, but that couldn't be right, could it?

Staying as still as possible he focused his attention completely on the man under him, Tony tried to discern any other trace that would prove him right, but nothing stood out. The solid, steady stroke of Gibbs hand down his back hadn't slowed from beginning to end. Gibbs sounded slightly breathy, but Tony had been too distracted during his previous spankings to notice his boss's breathing. Maybe he always sounded like that.

Without any other sign to rely on, though, Tony quickly wrote the impression off to wishful thinking - especially when he finally sat up and noticed that Gibb's gaze was it's normal steely-blue. It must have been just a trick of the light or maybe the blood rushing to his head when he'd been laid over Gibbs' lap. He had to be imagining it, didn't he?

'Wasn't enough that Gibbs was already doing so much for him?' Tony silently chastised himself for wanting more... his thoughts cut off mid-stream as a light tap on the back of his head brought him back to awareness, followed by Gibbs' soft question, "Ya with me, Tony?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. That's good." Tony could have purred when Gibbs fingers pushed through his hair and pulled lightly at the roots for a second then scruffed his fingers across the top of Tony's head, before continuing, "Let's get to making that casserole."

Kathryn tapped her cane impatiently against the meeting table. Most of the time, she could manage to keep a civil tongue in her head when some of busy bodies started nattering, but Jethro's call the night before had her troubled, and - in light of it- she really wasn't in the mood to put up with meaningless gabble.

"Quiet down, you lot. I didn't get you all down here just to have a hen's party. This is about Tony!"

Growling at what should have shut them up, but instead spawned a flurry of questions, Kathryn slammed her cane down with a metal clang blanketed the room in shocked silence.

Finally having their attention, she started of with the most important detail first: "You need to know this or I wouldn't be wasting my breath telling you, but if you don't button up right this minute, I will walk out of here and not answer my phone for any of you busy bodies."

Satisfied, after a scanning the room with an warning glare, that her neighbors were going to let her say her piece, Kathryn explained: "Jethro called last night to let me know that Tony's fine, but the man who'd roughed him up isn't done yet and sent him a threatening message. Jethro was worried that the might come here and try to find Tony, so he asked that none of us tell anyone who comes asking about him anything we know or think we know. As far as we're concerned, Tony's moved out, address unknown."

"But he's not moving out right?" The building manager demanded with sudden concern.

"No, Course not. Jethro just wanted to call and let us know so we didn't speak out of turn. But as far as I'm concerned, Tony's done so much of us, we can do more for him than just keep our mouths shut. I want to turn our neighborhood watch into a first alert service for Tony, so that if anyone comes snooping around here, we take down what the person looks like, what kind of car he drives, and whatever other information we can and give the information to Jethro so they have a better chance of catching the ruffian before he gets anywhere near Tony again. Are there any objections?"

After letting them chatter for several minutes in a farce of a debate, Kathryn stood up again, her voice cutting across the room far easier than before as she demanded, "Okay, let's put it up for a vote, then get down to business planning how we're going to do it."

Chapter Text

When Abby, John Balboa, and an unfamiliar young black man that carried himself with the bearing of a swat or combat trained federal agent entered quietly through the back of the lecture hall, Gibbs immediately went on high alert and signed 'keep going' to Tony, who's eyes had immediately flashed to him at the change. From the break in Tony's voice and his tense posture when he continued his lecture, Gibbs knew they were both thinking along the same lines: another victim of the sailor-stalker had been found, but Gibbs wanted confirmation before he pulled Tony out of the class.

Gibbs reached the three before they made it to the head of the aisle from the front of the class to the back, and demanded softly, "SS?" as he had taken to calling the killer so that it would be more difficult for outside listeners to identify the comments about the case.

"Yeah, this is SSA Derek Morgan, from the FBI. He wants to talk to Tony..." before John could finish, Gibbs stopped him - raising his hand in a forestalling gesture as he asked the agent, "Has Fornell read you in on this? It may be a joint task force, but NCIS has the lead and any questions for Agent DiNozzo goes through me first."

"Your unsub took my partner, so you can just drop the bureaucratic bullshit; I don't care who takes the lead on this or who gets the credit. My only concern is getting my partner back, and to do that, I need to ask your agent some questions."

"Sorry," John commented, "I was just about to get to that. Director Morrow released Abby so she could cover the remainder of Tony's classes today, and for however long he needs to be at headquarters, and has asked that the two of you return. I don't know if he's been read in, but when he asked to ride along, I ... well, I thought about how you'd be if Tony were..."

Balboa trailed off, clearly knowing that his comment was hitting to close to a sensitive point for Gibbs, but Gibbs didn't fault him for his logic, nor Agent Morgan's insistence on riding along. He would have done the same.

Keeping that in mind, Gibbs tried to suppress sudden desire to stand between Tony and Agent Morgan. It wasn't the easiest task to accomplish, but after a brief hesitation, he was able to ask - without sounding as aggressive, or at least somewhat less aggressive, "What do you need to ask him?"

Agent Morgan, for his part, seemed to recognize Gibbs protective instinct, and (if Gibbs was reading the man's gaze right) Morgan seemed to approve. The tone of his voice, when he answered, though not particularly friendlier was at least less tense than it had been a moment before.

"I'm afraid it's going to be a lot. I need to get a complete history of your partner and as much as he can tell me about the night the assault happened. We need to understand why this unsub targeted your partner not just once but twice for a violent crime."

Agent Morgan seemed - unlike so many others- easily able to read Gibbs intent - despite Gibbs' stern mask - and in this case, his apparently obvious his unwillingness. After a moment of reading Gibb's expression, Morgan's jaw stiffened, and he ground out, "Look, I was told that DiNozzo is cooperating with the investigation and would talk with me."

As much as Gibbs understood Agent Morgan's motives, he didn't want to put Tony through having not only the details they'd left out of Tony's report dragged out into the open, but also the personal history that Tony had effectively kept under wraps through skilled misdirection (always keeping his colleagues entertained or offended by tall tales of recent conquests instead of giving them details about a childhood that Gibbs suspected was far darker than anyone -including himself- probably realized).

Before Gibbs could answer for his SFA, Tony's voice cracking and thick with discomfort as he answered, carried over his shoulder, "I am, and I will."

"Tony..." Gibbs turned to him wanting to tell him to think through his decision and consider the consequences, but one look at Tony's eyes, and Gibbs knew the warning would be useless.

"Okay, but I'm going with you. John, stay here with Abby. I'll clear it with Tom."

"Already cleared it." John answered with a grin, before unwinding Abby's arms from around Tony and giving her a light nudge toward the front of the room.

"Hey Abby," Tony asked sounding slightly amused, if somewhat fragile-ly so, "Could you meet with 'the marine', first row, third seat to the left, after class and explain why he was scored higher on two questions than his lab partner, who actually gave the correct answer when he didn't. If you need to, it's okay to tell him that only did so because she misapplied the analysis and only came to the correct answer by misinterpreting the principle she had applied, but I'd rather he work through the analysis himself and tell you why hers fell through."

They shared an eye roll that Gibbs somehow suspected was a silent reference to something they attributed to him from the fond nano-second long smirk that Abby directed his way.

Gibbs answered her smirk with a grim smile, and gestured to the two men beside him, ordering, "Let's go."

"Good Lord, Man." Kathryn chastised the building manager, only marginally suppressing her desire to spear the man in the toe with her cane for his idiocy. "Why are you only telling me this now?"

"Well, it wasn't a stranger, who was asking about Tony; it was one of the people he works with."

Kathryn truly did want to beat the dense man about the head and shoulder for his idiocy; she truly did, but she had missed taking her heart and vertigo prescriptions that morning and was feeling more than a little unsteady on her feet as a result.

"Has it occurred to you that - IF- the man you spoke to worked with Tony, he -WOULD KNOW- that Tony is staying with Jethro for extra security?" She demanded, backing him up a step as he read her angry expression, "Did you even ask to see his badge or did you just take his word for it?"

The manager's sheepish expression was enough of an answer for Kathryn, who in her pique, momentarily gave in to her irritation with the man and jammed her cane on the outside of his boot.

Unlike the stuck-up harridan (who had taken Tony's place several times on their morning walks when he was too injured to join them but treated them all as if she were above walking with them, only to turn around and bad- mouth Tony who had always seemed to take genuine pleasure in joining them and being as helpful as he could), the manager was smart enough to jump out of the cane's way and take it as a warning.

"I'd better get back to work," he commented lamely, and hurried away, ignoring her snort.

Pulling out her cellphone, Kathryn flipped open the lid, punched the speed dial button she had assigned to Jethro's number, and frowned when Tony's friend didn't answer. She tried Tony's next with the same result, then Abby's (also the same), before she realized that Tony would probably be at down at that law enforcement academy teaching that course of his and Abby's and probably had his phone off. Where he was, Jethro probably was, and most likely had his phone off for the same reason.

But Abby... she was going to have to talk to that girl; as dear as that girl was, the way she listened to music - till it drowned out everything else ... well, she wasn't a teenager any more and worked for a government agency to boot. She couldn't go on thinking it was okay to not be able to hear her phone for the music - much less to have it so loud that the few times Kathryn had been on the phone with the girl, she'd had to order Abby to turn down the music so she could hear what the girl said.

Snapping the phone shut with a curse that made the manager blush, Kathryn stood tapping her cane against the tile as she considered the options, and finally came to a decision.

"Tony helped you put those cameras in, didn't he?"

"Yes, Ma'am;" the manager agreed from where he was sanding out a water stain from the reception desk.

"But do you keep them running?"

He flinched at her question, telling Kathryn that as she'd expected the man probably didn't run the camera system nearly as much as Tony recommended, but despite the flinch, he offered, "they were running today."

"Good, go get the cd for me."

"What?"

"I said, go get the cd. I want to take it to where Tony works. If the fellow you spoke to does work there, it shouldn't be any skin off their noses, but if he doesn't - don't you think they should know?"

"Well, I guess... but... I mean."

"You do have the disc don't you?"

"Yeah. but..."

"But what?" Kathryn demanded, losing her patience. "Don't tell me you have pornography recorded on it."

"No.. not porn." the manager answered, blushing.

"But you have something on it?"

"Soap Operas," he finally admitted, shuffling his feet.

"Give me strength," Kathryn prayed pointing her cane to his office in silent command.

As he scuttled away, she began to walk down the hall to the college students' rooms to see if one of them could give her a ride to Tony's workplace of if she'd need to call a taxicab.

Agent Gibbs, Agent DiNozzo, and Derek were halfway to the Naval Yard, turning on to Upper Marlboro when DiNozzo finally broke the almost oppressive silence that had settled over them.

"I ... I know this is... unusual, and I'll understand if you say no, Agent Morgan, but do we have to talk at the Naval yard? Could we... Boss, would you mind?" The man trailed off, his voice seeming to lose strength and certainty with the request.

"You'd feel more comfortable there?" the older NCIS agent asked in a surprisingly milder tone than Derek had expected.

DiNozzo nodded, his gaze returning to somewhere between his feet (where they'd been for most of the trip), while Agent Gibbs eyed Derek in the rear view mirror.

"You got a problem with doing your interview at my place?"

No, Derek didn't have a problem with it, and he shook his head to say so. His team had interviewed families and victims in their homes, and in most cases - when the crime hadn't occurred in the home- the familiar surroundings did far more to keep the interviewees calm and focused than a squad room or conference room. That DiNozzo preferred his boss's home to his own was interesting, but Agent Balboa had mentioned that DiNozzo was staying there instead of a safe house, so maybe it shouldn't be that much of a surprise.

"Ho-llllllllllllly...Sh----" Derek cried out abruptly as Agent Gibbs swept across three lanes of traffic and took a sharp left hand turn onto the 495 highway. "Man, where did you learn to drive, Mogadishu?"

Derek had glanced up expecting to see the man smirking at him in the rear view mirror, but instead of looking at him, Gibbs was watching DiNozzo's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

"Christ! Does he always drive like this?" Derek asked, with a sham of outrage, to test a theory, and saw a little more animation in DiNozzo's eyes when he looked back over the seat back to answer, "Yep, FLETC gives its future agents a defensive driver course, but that's just part A- Gibbs gives part B - the defensive passenger course - it weeds out the ones who shouldn't have made it through part A."

There was a little bite, behind the attempt at humor, but Derek didn't mind. If the tables were turned and someone was asking him about Carl Buford and his life before that, Derek wouldn't have been comfortable with it either. It didn't hurt either that DiNozzo's reaction and the subsequent softening of the lines around Agent Gibbs eyes gave him a much better picture of how to deal with the infamously difficult NCIS agent.

"Okay, then, how do you know if you've passed or failed?"

"Well, you're still in the car, you haven't lost your lunch, and you're not praying to any deities (at least not that I can hear), so that's at least a C+."

"Huh, give him a B, Tony." Gibbs cut in, "he didn't actually curse either... or for that matter ask how NCIS affords my vehicle insurance." The man offered, his gaze in the rear view mirror knowing and appreciative of Derek's willingness to try to help put DiNozzo at ease, at least temporarily. He knew they both realized that ease wouldn't last very long.

"Hey, it was just a question!" DiNozzo protested, telling Derek that he'd probably been the one to ask it.

That comment started off another string of banter between DiNozzo and Gibbs, with a few asides from Derek, that had DiNozzo relaxing marginally and regaining some of the color in his complexion that had been pale since he'd heard what Derek was going to ask him about.

Unbeknownst to the three men, as Gibbs was turning on from Marlboro onto 495, roughly ten miles ahead, Albrecht Young was turning off the 295 onto the 495 - also headed to Alexandria - having already been to the Naval Yard (after speaking to Tony's apartment manager) where he convinced one of the task-force members to give him Senior Agent Gibbs residential address presumably so that he could include that in the list of locations to be monitored by the CCTV system.

Unbeknownst to the Young, at that moment, disc in hand, Kathryn P. McGillicutty was being escorted to the MTAC by the guard she had stridently convinced to take her to the 'highest ranked-person available who might be interested in someone impersonating a Federal officer to get information about an agent who was currently under a protection order."

Chapter Text

"Want me to give you some privacy?" Gibbs asked Tony in a sotto voce tone that barely carried to Tony, much less Agent Morgan, who was slowly walking around the room scanning the room's decor with a noticeably calculating eye.

Tony was torn: there was so much he had never wanted Gibbs to know about him, so many stupid decisions, weak moments, and outright failures... but then again, he would have never told Gibbs about Peoria, and that had turned out to be the wrong decision too. But Gibbs learning that had turned into some sort of catalyst.

Gibbs had forced him to face up to what happened in Peoria and put it into perspective, to recognize the very small part of it that was down to his responsibility.

"Tony?" Gibbs' concerned question brought his eyes back to his boss and then beyond them to where Agent Morgan was studying a picture frame on the far wall with seeming interest that Tony was almost certain was really an attempt to give them the privacy to talk.

"Tony, it's okay, if you need me here, I'll stay, but if you have even a second's doubt on whether you're ready to tell me about it, I can move into the kitchen or down to the basement. Anything you want or need to tell me, you can tell me in your own time. What do you need?"

Appreciating that Gibbs was, once again trying to make sure Tony felt supported and as comfortable as possible, Tony murmured a soft thank you before asking, "Actually, would you mind if we used the basement? It seems to be where I make most of my confessions."

"Course not," Gibbs answered with an expression that Tony was beginning to recognize as somber fondness. "You need me there?"

Tony thought about it for a minute then nodded, "Yeah, I think I can tell you easier than I can tell him."

"Okay then, Agent Morgan, let's move this downstairs."

Morgan didn't seem to have any objection, thankfully, and was already headed downstairs.

Derek - despite the urgent need to get DiNozzo talking- couldn't help but whistle at the array of tools hanging around Gibbs' basement. It wasn't a basement really, it was a workshop, and the man clearly had an eye for quality tools and workmanship as well as a collection of carpentry tools it must have taken decades to collect.

When he turned to face DiNozzo, he thought he saw just a bit of amusement in Gibbs' expression but ignored it getting down to business.

"I know this might not be easy, and I apologize in advance for any discomfort it may cause, but something you tell us may be the key to catching this bastard - hopefully in time to get Reid back alive."

"I understand," DiNozzo answered with a calm, determined expression, "What do you want to know first?"

"First, tell me in as much detail as you can about your life from childhood to adulthood. My teammates are going over the backgrounds of the unsub's other targets, but so far there are no connections they can find between any of you as adults other than a similarity of careers for each series of murders and that may be all there is, but with so many victims for each series who were spread out across fairly great distances, we believe he has some method of selecting targets that we haven't identified yet."

It was a lot to ask, Derek knew, but so far - despite the number and similar careers shared by this set of victims - and the connection that Agent McGee had discovered about three previous series of serial killings, the signatures were distinct enough from each other that the unsub's profile was almost self-contradictory and, from the BAU's perspective, useless.

"Okay, just stop me if there's anything you need more details about, but I'll tell you as much as I can." DiNozzo answered softly from his seat on the stair.

Not waiting for Derek to agree, DiNozzo began, "I guess that the first thing to say about me is that before I was born, neither my mother or father really wanted to be tied to each other, and especially not by a baby. My dad had been dating my mom for the sole purpose of pushing his way into her family's social circle, which he managed after a fashion- but as the barely tolerated in-law forced to marry the favorite daughter after leading her astray and putting her in a delicate way. After I was born, I think my mom eventually cared about me to some extent. She'd been shunned by most of her former socialite friends after dad's other girlfriend took the news of her pregnancy and their impending marriage badly and was only too happy to feed the gossip mill. So for a handful of years until someone else's scandal caught their attention, a string of Colombian, Nicaraguan, and Chilean au pairs and I were just about her only companions.

By the time I could talk, she had recovered her social position enough to be an occasional guest at the ladies luncheons, and my first words were in Spanish. Dad pretty much resented us for the whole situation despite the fact that it gave him access to the country club set that he'd wanted to run with and let make the kind of deals and money he'd aspired to and spent as much time as he could get away with on business trips. Mom was only too happy to spend his profits on designer clothes, random interior design fads, and of course, her bar tab at the country club. All and all, it wasn't the worst situation; mom and dad cared enough about their reputations to be a bit selective in who they hired to take care of me, and I was a quieter child than most people would probably think and tried to be as little trouble as possible. The only reason we went through as many au pairs as we did was dad's libido and tendency to make promises when drinking he couldn't or didn't care to keep when sober. As far as I know, that covers my first seven years."

Derek wasn't certain what troubled him more - despite his years of experience as an officer before becoming an agent- well acquainted with the reality of two parents being so self-absorbed that their son seemed to think nothing of growing up as little more than a bystander in his parents affairs, instead of the central focus that every child should expect to be... Or the utter lack of derision in DiNozzo's voice and manner, as if he didn't recognize that he should have expected anything else.

"And the eighth?" Derek prompted when DiNozzo seemed to stall out slightly.

"My mom's drinking habits eventually landed her in the hospital with sclerosis of the liver and alcohol poisoning a little before my eighth birthday. Instead of coming home and going into the fashionable alcohol rehab clinic that Dad had arranged for her, though, she had an accident with her meds. Things changed pretty quickly and drastically after that. My grandmother, grandfather, and uncles blamed my dad for her death and shut him out pretty completely - even refusing to do business with anyone who associated with him. Dad, not having anyone else to blame, blamed me, and did his best to make sure I knew it. In short order, fired the expensive au pairs and tutors that mom had hired for me, sold her house, down to the furniture from my bedroom and let me sleep on the couch in the office of the apartment he'd been keeping - for business purposes he'd said before mom died, but I don't think I'd even been fooled by it and after her death he didn't care about who I saw coming and going."

Derek had to suppress a wince at the picture DiNozzo painted of his childhood. No matter how bad things had gotten for Derek as a child, at least he had always been certain of his family's love for him. DiNozzo, it seemed hadn't had anyone in his corner, who hadn't been paid to be there, and no one it seemed who stayed after the pay stopped. The tone of DiNozzo's voice as he spoke told Derek that the change had been one to complete isolation.

When I was twelve, Dad paid a military school to take me full year round, and bragged that it was actually a deal compared to what mom would have spent on her shopping sprees and he didn't know why he didn't think of it earlier...." DiNozzo started, only to be cut off as both Derek and Agent Gibbs each raised a hand to stop his story. Gibbs was first to ask the question they both had been thinking:

"You said he made sure you knew he blamed you...did he hit you?"

DiNozzo froze in response, staring at Gibbs almost blankly as if he thought he had managed to slip the implication by both of them, buried under the rest of the story. Finally, after a minute seemed to pass, he shuddered and lifted his left wrist to unbutton the cuff and pull it down several inches, just below a pale scar that ran across the underside of his forearm just above the elbow - clearly - by location- a defensive wound.

"I'm sorry," DiNozzo's attention was completely on Gibbs as he spoke, "I didn't get it out camping. I'd never been camping before going to Rhode Island Academy. It was a month or two after he moved me into his office. I'd been thirsty in the middle of the night and gotten a glass of water, but I wasn't careful where I set it down when I went back to the couch and must have set it on top of a file. Dad said the water ring ruined the contract."

"Is that from a belt?" Gibbs choked out, and Derek couldn't blame him. The thought of a child being hit, beaten, or whipped so severely it left a scar still visible in adulthood - for the sole failing of mislaying a cup of water when he clearly hadn't been given a space of his own, much less a place in the office to set the cup, much less an adult up during the night focused on taking care of him.

DiNozzo nodded silently, and rolled his sleeve back up before buttoning it with slow careful movements, before he tried to continue, "Anyway when I was twelve, Dad finally said he was washing his hands of me and disowned me."

"I am sorry, Agent DiNozzo, I appreciate you are trying to give me as much information as possible as quickly as possible, but this is one of the details that could very well have an impact on the direction of our investigation, so I do need to ask: "Was this an isolated incident?"

DiNozzo shook his head, visibly reluctant to admit what had occurred.

"Okay, Can I ask, how frequently would you estimate it occurred: daily, weekly, monthly, once or twice a year?"

"The first, or second I think, it's hard to put things in a clear timeline from more than twenty years ago, so it could have been less, anyway it was ... He was under a lot of stress all of a sudden." DiNozzo argued - weakly trying to deflect the blame from his father. "Mom had just died, so had a number of important deals he'd had on the table; he was drinking because of losing mom; mom had been drinking because of me; he wasn't getting the business deals he'd been expecting to because of the family blaming him for something that wasn't his fault; and I was ... just there all the time; I was a nuisance. It was bound to take a toll on him."

Well-versed in the psychology of how DiNozzo would have come up with those justifications, whether or not he believed them himself, Derek was nevertheless more than surprised at the dichotomy of DiNozzo accepting what his father seemingly without condemnation- yet turning out to be the exact opposite: from what they had been able to retrieve of his record, DiNozzo was one of the men who grew up defend others from life's abusers, catch them, and put them away. From the intense look that Senior Agent Gibbs was giving DiNozzo, though, Derek decided not to belabor the question - suspecting that the dichotomy would be discussed quite in depth with the man, so started to move to his next question when they heard a knock echoing from upstairs.

"I'll get it." Gibbs waved for them to continue as he moved to pass DiNozzo on the stairs.

"You okay with continuing?" Derek double-checked, but DiNozzo's quick uncertain nod was hardly convincing. If it weren't for the pressure to find Spencer, Derek would have waited until the murmur of conversation they could hear from upstairs had finished.

"Okay, just two more questions before we move forward: How long did it continue? And... "

The next question never came as a solid reverberating thump propelled both men toward the stairs, Tony taking the familiar stairs two at a time and ten steps closer at the start than Derek.

"Boss!'

All thoughts of clearing the room properly evaporated when Tony spotted the pieces of a broken syringe glinted wetly few feet away to the side - looking as if Gibbs had thrown them there.

Tony's cursory glance over the room as one of Gibbs' arms crumpled under him missed the figure standing on the other side of the stairway door who slammed it closed behind him when he rushed toward Gibbs and then threw the bar locking Agent Morgan in the cellar.

Gibbs tried to mouth something at Tony, but whatever words he was attempting to communicate failed to form on oil-coated slackening lips; Gibbs eyes though - glaring at him for his recklessness - spoke volumes, and Tony was well aware that if he somehow managed to extricate himself from whatever was going to happen, he very likely wouldn't be able to sit for weeks.

"Tony." The figure ordered as it stepped out of the shadows from the hall, and Tony's breath caught in his chest as the man he'd been told to address as Dirk stepped out of his nightmares.

“Surely, you remember your master?” The tone sounded deceptively calm, but the question jangled Tony's nerves like lightning. Throwing him momentarily back to the dimly lit, waterside bar, the grimy, bloodstained St. Andrew's cross, and Dirk...

No..

No...

No....

Cringing at the sound of thunder pounding in the man's background, he shook his head, denying the man's presence. This was wrong. He had to be sleeping. Dirk only ever came to him in his nightmares.

Despite his seeming inability to speak, Gibbs grunted loudly breaking the sickening hold the first sight of his attacker had over him.

"Boss?!? He blurted out the question needing both the reference and the reassurance of Gibbs presence as he turned and demanded angrily "What are you doing here? What did you give him? "

"Your tone leaves quite a bit to be desired, Tony, but I am certain we can tame that tongue of yours. We've done so before. Now, as to what your friend has imbibed, well that is nothing more than the coconut ketamine lozenge that you benefited from our last meeting. As to what he was injected with, well that is a different matter. If you cooperate and do exactly as you're told, I will allow you to call your Dr. Mallard and let him know the exact chemical and dosage used - before your 'boss's' respiratory system fails."

"If you refuse, well, I'll go back alone and try to resign myself with only keeping Dr. Reid as my companion, but you and your 'boss' well pay the penalty for my disappointment. After all, I feel that I have been waiting years for another of your performances. What will it be, Tony, cooperation or punishment?"

Tony was so very, very readable, and so very loyal...

"Very well, come with me," he ordered, backing into the garage his eyes firmly fixed on Tony.

The Senior Agent grunted - very reminiscent of a pig- but Tony showed more decorum the second time and ignored the man reaching for him even as he stepped away to follow Albrecht. They would still, both, be punished, but only the Senior Agent's punishment would be permanent. Tony would learn where his attentions and affections belonged and with Felice (the former Dr. Spencer) at their side would be appropriately obedient for the younger man's sake.

Once they were in the garage, Albrecht smirked into Agent Gibbs still glaring eyes, and gestured the door closed - feel a surge of triumphant satisfaction as Tony complied. If Albrecht had known that there could be so much satisfaction in taking a pet from another man, he would have been more selective in his targets. Tony had been the catalyst for so many, many lessons.

"Disrobe. The only attire you need is waiting for you in the passenger seat."

The conflicting desires to go back and check on the senior agent in contradiction with Albrecht's commands virtually vibrated Tony's exquisite frame as he hurriedly pulled off his attire, baring himself completely, for the first time under his own power, but he was no less exquisite for it. Tony was quickly stripped and staring into the seat at the leather ring gag, leather chastity cage, and attached stainless steel plug.

"I wouldn't dally, Tony, Vecuronium bromide can have some rather nasty side effects if left too long without intubation, and that was only one of the ingredients in the cocktail he got."

Tony's horrified recognition of the drug frequently used to paralyze and stop the breathing of death row inmates was just a small bit of the penance that Albrecht wanted to see from him, but it would have to wait. Already, he could hear Agent Morgan trying to kick the solid stairwell door inward, no doubt struggling on the steep and narrow stairs to get the leverage he needed to break the door, but there was no telling how long that would last.

"Get in, Tony. You can dress on the way." Albrecht ordered and Tony started to freeze, perhaps suspecting how close Morgan, Albrecht's almost performer, was to freeing himself.

A significant gesture with the phone that he had retrieved from Tony's dropped clothes reminded his once again pet of the promise he'd yet to fulfill, and Tony was sitting meekly in the passenger seat. How delightful it would have been to take them both, but Albrecht was under no illusion that he could have securely managed the trio, at least not as securely as a duet.

After pushing the button to open the garage door, Albrecht climbed in beside Tony, laid a possessive hand on his thigh, and squeezed it firmly, before backing the SUV out.

Chapter Text

"The bastard," Jack Benchley growled as he lost his patience waiting for the elevator and turned on his heel pushing between Kitridge and Makenzie, who were already crowding too close, then stormed across the bullpen to the stairwell.

"If he thinks he can..." Jack growled as he jerked the door open, and ground to a halt.

"Jack, where have you been?" The smug friggin bastard, McGee asked, "I was expecting to see you hours ago."

"You son of a..." Jack started to curse as he pulled his elbow back to land a right to the nerd's jaw.

"Not very smart or professional, taking a swing in a room full of witnesses." The slimy little turd had the nerve to comment, but the interruption was enough for Jack to reign in his temper and think twice about knocking his block off in full view of everyone.

"Let me lay this out for you, just so we don't waste our time and get on each other's nerves longer than necessary." the turd continued, "There's not anything you can say to change my mind about your current financial situation. You've had a handful of chances to remove your head from your lower extremities and rethink your position, but despite the many warnings I've given you, you persist in being a bigoted dick... So I'm really not interested in anything you have to say. Before you say anything, by the way, I think you should know, I can do quite a bit worse, and intend to if you don't get over yourself and find a way to talk Tony into interceding on your behalf because he's the only one I'm going to listen to on this."

"You fucking little shit; you're a cocksucker too, aren't you? That's why you've..." Jack had to fight to keep from hitting the fag even knowing how many of his coworkers were probably eavesdropping.

"Is there a problem, Gentlemen?" The director's familiar voice startled Jack who hadn't heard him come up. McGee, the crud, must have seen the director, though, and had been baiting him.

Damn it. As much as he wanted to see McGee taken down a couple of pegs, or even better see the bastard fired, Jack would lose any respect his coworkers had for him if they thought he was running to the Director for protection.

"Nothin that can't be handled off hours." He grumbled.

"No, Sir, is there something I can do?" answered McGee, showing what a complete brown-noser he really was.

"Actually, I would like to speak with you about the new lead you've developed. Excellent work by the way." The director commented. It must have sickened him to say it, but Jack thought the director did a great job of hiding his revulsion from the creep.

"Thank you, Sir." McGee lapped up the seeming praise, simpering.

"Jack." The director barely nodded toward him in dismissal as McGee brushed by him without bothering to step around the way he should have.

"Director, what c...." Tim began only to be immediately interrupted by an unexpected, but familiar voice echoing off the elevator.

"Timothy McGee, will you please tell this ... young man" Tim suspected she wanted to say something entirely different than 'young man' but put that thought aside with a smirk, "that I'm not daft. Someone came asking about Tony, claiming to be from NCIS, but you and I both know that he wasn't or that it wasn't his business, to be asking, or he would have known where Tony's been staying. I brought the camera footage..." She ordered, waving a CD vehemently.

"Let her through," Director Morrow ordered even as Tim was moving forward to reassure the guard.

"Ms. McGillicutty, I believe?" Director Morrow held out his hand and looked hard-pressed to hide his amusement when Ms. McGillicutty slapped the CD in his hand.

"Niceties for later, young man. Where's your boss, Timothy? Be a good lad and go get him. Someone needs to get to the bottom of this." Mrs. McGillicutty ordered, firmly, before turning back to the director, and demanding, "Well, you do know how to use one of those don't you, boy? Put it into one of those computers while Timothy goes and gets your boss. Timothy, what are you waiting for?"

Feeling a flush rise on his cheeks, Tim reached out to take the CD from the director, and slightly stammered when he answered, "Here, I'll take that Sir." before explaining, "Mrs. McGillicuty, this is Director Morrow; he's my... er... my boss's boss."

"Is he now?" Mrs. McGillicutty looked the director up and down, not appearing particularly impressed.

Thankfully, Director Morrow seemed more amused than anything else, and gestured toward Tim's computer with a look that almost said, "You heard the lady."

Following his unspoken order, Tim sat down at his station, inserted the CD, and opened the file folder where the video file was supposed to be in and was surprised to find a copied video file labeled 'TonysVisitor12pmto1205pm'. Opening the file in the media player, Tim was surprised to see a clear surveillance 'quality' image of Director Roberson walking through the doors of Tony's apartment complex. As Mrs. McGillicutty had described, the Homeland Security Director introduced himself as an NCIS Agent and began to question the Super.

"That's not one of yours, is it?" Mrs. McGillicutty demanded, studying their confused expressions.

"No, Ma'am." Tim agreed, "but..."

'Why," he wondered, "is the director of homeland security - an agency that had the ability to override and take over NCIS and FBI investigations alike in the name of National Security- posing as an NCIS agent?"

"McGee! Run a search for any properties that either Roberson or Albrecht Young may hold in the local area. After you have that setup, I want you to run another search cross-referencing Director Roberson's postings and the itineraries Homeland Security submitted for him with the other series of murders you discovered." Director Morrow ordered.

"Kitridge, Get Balboa on the phone. Mackenzie, get up to MTAC, I want a conference with Fornell, Hotchner, Beecham, and Blunt NOW!"

As everyone rushed to follow orders, Mrs. McGillicutty found her way - unknowingly - to Gibbs' seat and sat to watch them all with a critical eye - spearing anyone who even slowed as they passed with a fierce grimace that immediately sent them on their way.

At that moment, roughly twenty-five miles away, Director Robert Roberson was slipping the plastic safety cap off the syringe and tucking it into his pocket before he raised his hand and knocked on the door.

Unsurprisingly, Gibbs was slow to answer, but Roberson having 'relieved' and sent the agent who'd been dozing in the SUV parked nearby away, had watched them come in from the guard's position across the street and knew that both Tony, Agent Gibbs, and Agent Morgan were still in the home. Neither agent had seemed to give a second thought to Tony's security, though, and went inside without stopping to confirm whether the SUV held Roberson or the guard who'd been assigned when they left in the morning. It was very sloppy work, but their lack of care for Tony would soon be a moot point.

When Gibbs finally answered, Roberson gave the man a moment to scan over him with dull blue eyes, before he gestured the agent back inside.

"Agent Gibbs, if I may have a moment of your time?"

When Gibbs nodded and turned to walk inside in front of him, Albrecht pulled the syringe out of his pocket and stabbed it into the side of the agent's neck - missing the ideal spot as Gibbs pulled away. The element of surprise was only moderately successful, but Albrecht was able to hold Gibbs in place long enough to force a lozenge in his mouth to prevent the man from alerting the others, even as Gibbs fought to pull the syringe out of his neck. Thankfully the injection and lozenge were both fast acting and Albrecht was stepping over Agent Gibbs' body to slip behind the cellar door as it flung open.

When Tony rushed into the room, Albrecht - hearing footsteps pounding up behind his boy - slammed the door shut and slid the latch into place.

Chapter Text

Stiffening as the interior garage door creaked and protested as the cables running along each side fought against the thick, sound-proofing insulation to drag the door up , Spencer stared with increasing dread at the scene being presented at an agonizingly slow pace:

Grey diffused sunlight pouring beneath the inner door, muted by the barrier of the outer door

The bottom edge of two front wheels and a slightly blurry image of bare flesh that resolved in the next moment bare toes hanging at an odd angle to the wheels

A metal frame resembling a wheelchair and a second pair of wheels further back, with a glimpse of the tips of seemingly expensive loafers between them

Ankles bound like Spencer’s own to lengths of metal pipe that had been strapped up the slowly revealed legs

Black straps tightly binding the naked shin, calf, and knees to the pipes

Similar flat metal bars jutting forward from the frame’s seat, mirroring the punched bars that had been secured from Spencer’s knees to inner and outer thighs with cords stretching between the holes of each bar at irregular intervals

A visibly unclothed groin - noticeably framing a male-chastity device

A waist-chain matching the thick links wrapped around Spencer’s waist - similarly connected by slightly thinner chains that ran to the nearest holes punched in the flat metal bars

A fairly muscled abdomen that almost shook with the force of panicked breaths

The ‘arms’ of the makeshift wheelchair and the figure’s shaking hands, secured in fingerless, palmless, chainmail gloves secured to the flat bars encasing his forearms and upper arms.

(Unlike Spencer, however, the figure’s fingers were not folded inward and secured in place by virtue of a eight inch piercing-needle run through one side of the chainmail border at the outside of each palm, through the flesh over Spencer’s knuckles, and then through the chainmail at the opposite side of each palm with enough left on each side that it would have taken Spencer quite a bit of self-torture to push the needle back through either direction to free his fingers if his hands had actually been secured close enough to any surface that he could have used for leverage instead of in a wide ‘v’ over his head.

It was a very, very effective punishment for Spencer’s attempt pick the lock of his cuffs using one of the acupuncture needles he’d managed to steal from the unsub during a previous torture session.)

The figure’s chest and neck strained with the man’s attempt to breath- despite the man’s mouth being forced open by an ring-shaped mouth guard - the sight of it giving a visual reference for the hated device that Spencer had worn since waking up in this inflicted hell.

Tormented hazel eyes that filled with horror as they took in Spencer’s form, suspended in the center of the unsub’s makeshift torture chamber - secured in place like a fossilized specimen in jurassic exhibit

The uneven cant of his fellow captive’s head telling Spencer that the other man had likely been dosed with one of their captor’s disgusting paralytic-laced ‘lozenges’

And rising up behind the new captive’s slumped head and shoulders, the business-attired upper body of the unsub, whom Spencer had rather quickly (once the first doses had worn off) decided was an impostor, somehow posing as the Homeland Security’s AD

The triumphant smile on the unsub’s face as his eyes scanned Spencers - lingering at random to savor the depredations he’d forced on Spencer - fed the churning acidic dread in his stomach.

”My Pet,” The unsub addressed Spencer directly, invoking a shudder the unwanted nickname, “it is my sincere pleasure to introduce you to your partner in the grand duet: the spinto baritone to your castrato contralto. For the moment he is called Tony, but I have decided that he too shall require a better suited stage-name. As I anticipate the potential of drawing many evocative and emotive duets from your partnership, I am thinking that your names should be coupled - a classic pairing, perhaps something operatic... ”

Spencer gave a choked repine as the unsub’s description of him as a ‘castrato contralto’ confirmed the suspicion he’d had since realizing that despite the variety of ways he had been bound numerous times to fit the unsub’s various torture scenarios, the unsub had never untied the polycord that he had wrapped around Spencer’s scrotum during the first torture session.

Instead the man had taken the remaining cord - after seeming to tire of using it to tie Spencer’s penis into various painful configurations - and used it to tie increasingly tighter knots around the highest point of Spencer’s sack pulling the loop of each successive slipknot with as much force as he seemed able to manage before adding the next loop and using the compression of the previous knot to tighten the next loop even further. By the fifth of the twelve slipknots that the unsub tied, Spencer had already been certain that the blood flow to his scrotum had been cut off and that the loss could do irreparable damage to both his testicles and the flesh of his scrotum itself - in as little as an hour.

That realization had occurred roughly seventy-two hours earlier, and Spencer hadn’t needed the throbbing pain much less the constant ache in the pit of his stomach that began to grow as the to tell him that the constant denial of circulation to the area had caused significant injury much less the lack of messages from the previously -always over-sensitive nerve clusters in the area that increasingly failed to report brushes and touches he had seen but not felt make contact and, worse, the numb absence of the autonomic response he should have felt earlier when the unsub had spent an extended amount of time internally stimulating his prostate.

Compartmentalizing his emotions to deal with current circumstances was a skill that Spencer had long ago mastered, but the prospect of a such a personal and currently inescapable physical mutilation had Spencer’s mind shying away from what this act said about his captor’s motivations and intentions.

Misinterpreting Spencer’s pained croak as a denial, the unsub smiled a disturbingly encouraging smile, as he walked around them pulling various galvanized cables strung from a hole-punched panel embedded in the ceiling and connecting them through the holes in the the bars on the new captive’s arms and legs while he continued....

“Don’t fret, now, I am quite confident that you are capable of such performances; haven’t I already proven my ability to draw these from you, as untrained as you are? Trust in my experience, trust in your partner’s. His performances have been truly memorable - easily outshining any of the other performers I have cast, before you. Together, the two of you will make a truly iconic couple….”

Pulling away from the man, as much as his bindings allowed, Spencer tried not to anticipate the position the unsub intended to put them in even though the fact that the unsub was pulling cables from beside and behind Spencer and attaching them to the other man’s barred legs was more than telling.

When he finally had the connections placed as he liked, the man retrieved the remote from the counter he’d laid it on before leaving earlier - silently taunting Spencer with both it’s nearness and the impossibility of reaching it - and triggered whatever pulleys and mechanisms he’d installed over the plate to retract the each of the cables to the lengths their captor desired - positioning the other man (as Spencer had suspected he would be) intimately close in front of and below Spencer’s own position… centered suggestively between Spencer’s spread legs.

”Speaking of coupling... “ the unsub began - a disturbed smile blooming - as he moved before Spencer could anticipate the action and jerked out the uncomfortably-large, vibrating plug he’d placed hours earlier - without any evidence of concern that the plug’s rapid removal would feel like it was pulling Spencer’s guts with it

Before Spencer's sore and distended anus could adjust to the plug’s absence, the unsub was already pushing the head of the other captive’s now freed penis through Spencer’s entrance and holding it in place with a loose grip as he raised the remote into Spencer’s line of vision and waited the hundredth of a second that it took for Reid’s recognition of what would happen next. Pusheing the buttons that controlled cables attached to Spencer's arms, shoulders, and waist - the unsub suddenly released their tension dropping Spencer on to the man beneath him - ripping a wail from him as his own weight pinned him, fully-seated on the other man's penis wit no leverage from still raised legs or arms to let him shift or adjust as the man jerked in response.

”You see?” The unsub prompted with sparkling eyes that ran over Spencer’s taught and trembling frame. “Did you hear yourself? That was magnificent. Just magnificent, and with barely a week’s training. Just think of the notes you will be capable of with deeper training. Now, one more small detail and I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

Trying to catch his breath, regain his composure despite the physical and emotional pain of the physical invasion, and force his mind to compartmentalize yet one more degradation at the man’s hands before it shattered from it, Spencer let the words flow past him - meaningless. It had been a struggle -almost since waking in this hell - not to let his mind turn inward to escape everything that he had been only able to overcome by focusing on the certainty that he would never escape if he did. That certainty was no less true now than it had been at any previous moment of his captivity but the lure of ‘not being here’ had exponentially increased in the last minute and a half.

He wasn’t completely oblivious to his surroundings, though, especially as the waist and legs beneath him stiffened at something their captor was saying - the pain caused by the movement waking Spencer from his momentary daze and turning his attention back outward. As he noticed the unsub wiping the plug he’d removed from Spencer only moments earlier with one of the cloth handkerchiefs that he always seemed to keep handy, Spencer suddenly understood the reason for the other man's tension.

When he seemed satisfied with it's polish, the unsub spoke to the other captive in a slightly teasing tone, “Now, Tony, don’t forget to show our lovely little ingenue your appreciation. He’s kept this warm for you all day..”

Contrary to the prolonged process that the unsub had used to force the broad three inch by five inch plug into Spencer hat morning, coating it with one of his oil mixes and working it in and out inch by inch until it went in completely - this time, the unsub began to push the ‘wiped dry’, un-lubricated plug into the other man, slowly, but without slowing, stopping, or the back and forth, turn and twist stretching movements that the unsub had seemed to delight using on Spencer that morning.

Despite the other man's stiffening and noticeable attempts to stay still, he began to writhe as his body protested the plug invasion, moaning painfully as he moved beneath Spencer and broadcasting the pain in and through Spencer with his movements. Even when the man’s penis happened to brush Spencer’s long-overstimulated prostate, it only deepened the constant ache as his nerves tried to send commands for the proper autonomic responses to testicles that seemed no longer capable of receiving or replying to those commands.

Only when the plug was forced fully into the other man, did the unsub finally pause for a moment t- his fingers rubbing across both Reid's ad the new captive's thigh as he pet them and traced his fingers over the cap of the plug. Only for a moment though then begin to pull it out, but instead of the stretching moves that he had neglected earlier, the unsub pulled the plug out completely. Not for long though, pulling with it a cry from the man who bucked beneath Spencer when the unsub immediately pushed the plug back in with the force of a punch and not stopping until it was fully seated again. The unsub repeated the moves again and again and again and again until Spencer wasn’t certain that either he or the other man would be breathing between their pained cries If it weren’t for the mouth-guards the unsub had forced them to wear.

Despite the delight and compliments he gave their pained cries, the unsub claimed that still wasn’t satisfied with their ‘coupling’ and that ‘Tony’ was holding back and doing his new partner a disservice in doing so. He watched them with a hungry gaze before announcing a different approach was needed.

After another few thrust and pulls of the plug, the unsub moved completely behind Spencer, and although Spencer couldn’t see it, having had first hand experience of the man doing it,-from the change in the other man's movements and the suddenly guttural groans - he suspected that the unsub had pushed several of his fingers deep into the other man's anus and was stimulating his prostate directly. The other man’s bucking attempts to escape the intolerable touching and Spencer’s responding whines came with an almost desperate violence, but the unsub neither cared nor stopped until the man beneath Spencer keened, arching his back against the pull of his bindings into a ridged bow, his expression an grimace of unwanted forced-pleasure as he filled Spencer’s channel with his release.

”There we are.”, The unsub complimented, as he pushed the plug back into the man. “That’s a better start. I would never have pegged you as the shy one Tony, and there was no need to be at all. Didn’t he do a wonderful job of matching you note for note. Matching your crescendo, but not overshadowing it with his own? I knew he would be perfect for you. So much better than the other partner; that man couldn’t even manage one cracked note, but that’s all taken care of isn’t it? Which reminds me, I do have other things to be getting on with - making plans for a vacation-get-away, and I’d like to be able to leave your personal time to yourselves, but given how reticent you were to come with me, and how shy you’ve proven, Tony, I think that I need to give your meet-cute a little helping hand”

After leaving their sides for several moments, when the unsub returned he carried one of the lard-yellow lozenges for each of them and pushed it through the mouth guards to melt over their tongues. Although the taste confirmed it for him, Spencer had known from his comment that the lozenges would be the ones laced with erectile dysfunction medications and additional 'penile enhancement ' supplemental that had added additional torment to the first eight hours of his captivity. After checking their mouths to be certain they had swallowed, their captor patted each of their cheeks, not even frowning when they tried to pull away, and left them.

Despite his past training and the knowledge that he needed to watch for every detail of their location and the unsub’s methods to have a hope of escaping, at that moment, Spencer couldn’t. He just couldn’t - unable to look away from the eyes that stared back at his with equal horror, shame, and dread - for the first time since waking in the makeshift dungeon, Spencer gave into despair- sobbing in soft gasps that wouldn’t even form the true sound of a sob as the mouth guards kept his lips from closing around the agonized huffs fleeing his lungs to finish the sounds.

Chapter Text

Shouting with triumph as the door in front of him finally gave way, Derek ran to Gibbs side, flipped the man over and checked the older man’s pulse.

It was there. Ragged and uneven, but there. The man’s eyes were open but glazing, his breathing a lot more shallow than could possibly be good, and his skin and lips were greying. Not blue yet, but definitely getting there. Not getting enough oxygen.

Running his fingers over the older man’s neck to make certain there wasn’t evidence of swelling or rupture from a physical attack blocking Gibbs airway, Derek quickly ruled out strangulation and moved on to the next emergency treatment protocols. His suspicion that the cause might be chemical was confirmed less than a minute later when he narrowly missed stepping on a thrown and broken syringe on his way to the kitchen in search of anything he could use to secure Gibbs’ airway. Other than a very sharp knife, the kitchen offered nothing to keep the other agent’s airway open.

”Damn it, Man! Even Reid has a couple of straws and ball-point pens.” Derek complained, tossing for carpenter’s pencils aside as he rifled through the desk. Just as he was about to leave the desk to check the bathrooms for a first aid kit, his eye caught a receipt only a couple of days old, which sent him running out to the garage. Thankfully, it took less than fifteen seconds to find the still sealed package of engine tubing waiting to be added to a half-constructed boat’s engine hanging off to the side.

Rushing back to the older man’s side, Derek dropped to his knees, tilted Gibbs’ head back to extend his throat, and tore the bag open with his teeth. Muttering, “Stay with me, Gibbs.” Derek ordered as he carefully guided the tubing through Gibbs’ esophagus into his trachea and cut the extraneous length off. Taking the second to grab his phone and hit speed dial, and set the phone down to check Gibbs’ pulse and begin chest compressions.

”Please tell me you’ve found…” Penelope Garcia demanded - pleading hopefully before he could say anything.

“No time to talk, Baby Girl. Ping my phone and get a bus here, asap. The unsub's drugged DiNozzo’s boss and grabbed DiNozzo.”

”Noooo.” Garcia cried, her tone grief stricken and panicked, even as she swore the ambulance and team were on their way.

Alternating his focus between keeping Gibbs’ lungs pumping air and his heart beating, Derek rattled off what DiNozzo had told them about his parents and childhood, and what he’d seen of DiNozzo’s personality, pausing intermittently to check the man’s pulse until it stuttered under his fingertips.

”Oh no you don’t,” Derek protested,“No. You. Don’t. You are not leaving me to tell DiNozzo you didn’t pull through.”

"Sir, I’ve found three properties that Director Roberson might using.” Tim announced to Director Morrow, though his voice carried to the rest of the bullpen, which had become a beehive of activity since an FBI Analyst called to alert them of Roberson’s assault on Gibbs and kidnap of Tony.

Balboa’s team was busy searching cctv footage from the neighborhoods surrounding Arlington to find the direction that Roberson had taken on leaving the boss’s house. Carmichael had taken over comparing Director Roberson’s postings with the serial murders that Tim had tied to Albrecht Young. Ducky was on the phone with one of the EMT’s relating the drugs that he and Abby had discovered in the autopsy records of Young’s numerous victims and the resultant drug interactions they needed to worry about while trying to keep the Boss stable. Even Ms. McGillicutty was busy - having somehow commandeered a handful of payroll staff who were acting under her orders, sometimes after quick nods of approval from Director Morrow, as runners, gophers, and supply staff (setting up a conference room for the BAU agents who were on their way), making sure their coffees were refilled, and phone messages taken after verifying that the calls didn’t relate to their hunt for the Homeland Director, Tony, or the other BAU agent.

“Do what you can to narrow them down!” Director Morrow ordered as he leaned over Carmichael and cursed in a suppressed whisper before ordering Carmichael to get legal down, and moved back over to Tim. Checking the map Tim had opened on his second monitor while Tim ran through various search with little to show for it. There wasn’t much to differentiate the properties, but it didn't keep the Director from dropping a hand to briefly grip Tim's shoulder as he commented, "Good Work."

They both knew that there was no guarantee that Tony and the BAU were at any of the three properties, but it was more than they had a few minutes earlier.

“All three have utilities active, usage rates about the same, so he’s probably using timers. No record of mail holds or police checks for abandoned property, no parking tickets. … “ Tim reported trying to figure out what to look at next.

Ms. McGillicutty, who was - despite her cane - spryly approaching them from the presumably ready conference room, stopped in the middle of the walk just beside the Boss’s desk, clearly caught in thought.

Even though Tim had moderately gotten to know her from alternating visits to the older woman between Kate and Abby’s visits, he really hadn’t expected the elderly woman to be capable of the unexpected authority and pragmatism he’d seen from her as she … well… took advantage of the emergency as it had presented itself to step in and step up as an un-recruited civilian volunteer, just skirting the edges of organizational policies and probably legality too (considering that she was hearing things she definitely shouldn’t be hearing as she walked through the bullpen keeping her payroll minions on task), and Tim was certain that Director Morrow would have put an immediate stop to it if Ms. McGillicutty hadn’t been carefully orchestrating the mundane details that needed to be done that Director Morrow hadn’t wanted to spare active agents to do or the time and distraction of calling in maintenance, supply staff, and other respective agents to take care of the jobs that she was supervising - her staunch, grandmotherly, iron-fisted manner seeing them finished more quickly than usual. Still, Tim wasn’t surprised when she threw out a relatively good suggestion just a moment later.

“What about those drugs he’s been using?" She commented, "You won’t find those at a pharmacy. Wouldn’t he have to have them shipped in?”

“She’s right!” Tim agreed looking at the Director grimly; though, not contradicting her suggestion. He didn’t have any better ideas at the moment, but that type of search was a lot more complicated than she could realize. From the Director’s equally grim nod, Tim suspected that he understood, at least marginally, the complexity of the task she'd suggested.

“Do it!”

“Sir, I’ll need Abby up here. She’ll know how to narrow down the drugs and run the searches.”

“Okay, get her up here!” Director Morrow ordered. It went without saying that until the evidence from Gibbs house arrived, there was little fresh information that Abby could probably provide and time was of the essence.

“She’s on the way.” Ms. McGillicutty commented as she pushed her cellphone back into her cardigan pocket, probably seriously skirting the edge of what even Director Morrow could let her get away with. Whether the Director was going to call her on it or not, Tim couldn’t tell; before the Director could comment, the elevator opened and revealing a grim-faced, if eclectic, group of agents, who could only be the BAU team. Sighing before he pushed himself away from Tim’s desk, Director Morrow paused briefly to adopt a slightly more composed expression before going over to greet them.

“Agents, we have a conference room ready for you, this way, and I’ll be happy to bring you up to date as you get set up, but before you do, I believe you mentioned you would be bringing your technical analyst?”

“Yes, we did. Our analyst, Penelope Garcia,” the stone-faced, (clearly) senior supervisory agent agreed, nodding by way of introduction, in the direction of a slightly plump blonde woman who was carrying two laptops, and what looked to be a surprisingly floral printed tech with slide pockets for dongles, cords, and drives.

“Agent McGee found three possible properties, and he and our forensic analyst, Abby Scuito, are going to try to narrow down the location where he might be holding our agents by looking searching shipping records from the pharmaceutical companies that might have shipped the drugs he’s been using to subdue victims. Unless you need her assistance in getting set up, I would appreciate Ms. Garcia assisting them with the search.”

“Certainly, Garcia…”

“Yes, Sir. Where should I… Oh, I see.” She cut herself off noticing Tim as he stood and waved her over just as Abby reached his desk.

“Thank you, Ms. Garcia. Agents, this way please.” Director Morrow stepped back letting them exit the lift.

After hurrying to clear space on Kate’s desk the BAU analyst’s laptops, Tim hurried to explain what the search and was relieved by how readily Agent Garcia’s approach and suggestions worked with his and Abby’s own as they got to work - giving him a burst of confidence that they might just stand a chance of finding Tony and the missing BAU agent before it was too late.