Storytime with Rachel F Hundred

Bethesda, 2007

“I’m admitting you, Buckeye.”

Tony was miserable enough not to argue with Brad’s blunt statement.  He shivered and found himself wrapped into a blanket, the knitted hole-y scratchy kind that every hospital seemed to favour.  The matronly nurse smiled at him sympathetically as she tucked it around him.

“Lieutenant Alcock, until I can get him moved, I’d like another run of bloods and thirty minute obs, and start him on IV antibiotics.”

“Yes, Doctor Pitt,” Alcock nodded. 

Tony coughed into his tissue and sniffled.  “I’m supposed to be at work.”  He’d asked Brad for an early appointment just to check out his cough as a precaution; they’d both learned to be cautious with his scarred lungs following Tony’s brush with the bubonic plague.

“I’ll call your boss,” Brad promised.  He gestured to the nurse and she left the room. 

“That isn’t ominous,” Tony commented dryly.

Brad perched on a nearby stool and considered Tony with a sombre expression.  “You have fluid on your lungs, a cough, cold and fever.  I’m pretty certain the cultures are going to tell me its bacterial pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia doesn’t sound good,” Tony acknowledged.

“No,” Brad held his gaze.  “For anyone with healthy lungs pneumonia it is a challenge.  For you, with your lungs?  It’s going to be a fight.  Both now and after we eliminate the infection.”

Tony just felt supremely tired at that proclamation.  “All good deeds, right?”

Brad pressed his lips together.  “You did the only thing you could do, Buckeye, and frankly, you’re a hero.  But, yeah, jumping into that water to save Gibbs and the girl, the stress of CPR…it wasn’t the best choice for your lungs in the long term.”

Tony nodded and started to cough again.  He held a hand to his chest which already felt tight and wheezy.

Brad frowned.  “Rest, Buckeye, I’ll get the Lieutenant to come with your antibiotics.  Hey, if we beat the plague, we can beat this.”  He headed out before Tony could reply.

Tony admired his optimism.  He tugged the blanket tighter around him and sighed.  He wouldn’t have chosen differently if he’d known the outcome, saving Gibbs and Maddie Tyler was worth it, but getting sick sucked.  And worse, even if he survived pneumonia, Tony feared what came after; the fight to get fit enough for field work.  There was no point borrowing trouble, Tony mused.  He’d beaten the odds once before, maybe he’d beat them again.

o-O-o

NCIS, 2009

Tim sighed into the dark of the bullpen. 

It was dark outside, late.

Someone had deemed it late enough that the floor lights were off.  The only spots of light in the bullpen were at the individual desks; the glow of monitors and the warm amber of lamp-bulbs.

It should have felt cosy, but Tim shivered.  He couldn’t shake the sense that something lurked in the dark.

Stupid, Tim chided himself mentally.  He wasn’t a child to be scared of monsters hiding under the bed.  He was a NCIS Special Agent on the Major Case Response Team.  He carried a badge and a gun.

A sharp bang of a drawer on the other side of the bullpen had him jumping and Tim swore under his breath.

Ziva shot him a raised eyebrow, but then went back to whatever she was doing on her computer.

He cast a glance at the empty desk beside him on his left.  Tony would have teased him and called him McScaredyCat or something similar, and frustrated Tim into feeling something other than scared.

But Tony wasn’t at his desk. 

It wasn’t even Tony’s desk anymore.  It was stripped clean and bare.  Empty.

Someone cleared their throat in front of him and he snapped his head back to find their Senior Field Agent, Cassie Yates, standing there.  There was a darkly sympathetic look in her dark eyes. 

“Have you finished your report, Tim?”

Tim nodded.  “I sent it to you and Gibbs an hour ago.”

“Then why are you still here?” asked Cassie pointedly.

“Um, well,” Tim tried hard not to blush. 

Cassie started to smile.  “Oh.  You’re waiting on Agent Foster-Yates.”

“Yes,” Tim said.

Ziva gave a chuckle.  “Really, McGee?  You’re waiting on her?”

“We get along great,” Tim said defensively, “and it’s only an invite to drinks not a marriage proposal.”

Ziva shrugged in the European fashion she’d never discarded.  It had only seemingly gotten stronger after her brief banishment back to Israel the year before after Director Shepard’s death.  Since Agent Burley had been quietly let go in the aftermath of the Director’s death when she’d eschewed her protection detail and ended up dead, Tim figured she was lucky to have made it back to the team.  Owen Granger had exacting standards.

Indeed, it was Granger’s exacting standards which had found Tim not promoted to Senior Field Agent.  Apparently Granger hadn’t been impressed with Tim’s performance when Gibbs had been in Mexico and Tony had led the team.  Cassie had been brought in, but she was training Tim to take over from her once a team lead role opened up for her.  Tim was determined he would be ready.

“I think it’s sweet,” Cassie said, heading back to her own desk, next to Gibbs. 

Sweet.

Fantastic.

Just what he wanted to hear.

Cassie began to pack up her desk, setting the oversized handbag on it, signalling she was ready to leave.  “Has anyone seen Damon?”

As if naming him had conjured him up, former Corporal Damon Werth appeared from the direction of the backstairs with a glowering look on his face.

Tim tried to stop his lips from pouting at the mention of the team’s Probie.  Not that anyone called Werth that.  Tim had tried it once and Werth had laughed at him.

Tony would have called Werth Probie.

But then maybe Werth wouldn’t have ended up on the team if Tony hadn’t been…if Gibbs hadn’t been so eager to prove he could save someone.

“Hey,” Cassie said, approaching Werth as though she was approaching a feral cat.  “What’s up?”

“This case,” Werth said.  “It’s a pile of bullshit.  A terrorist like Tabal just kills himself?  Is anyone really believing that?”

Tim frowned.  Werth had a point.  “You have a point,” he said out loud.

“Ducky has ruled the death is a suicide and Acting Director Vance signed off on it,” Cassie said mildly.

“Like assassins don’t know how to make a death look that way to an M.E.,” Werth slumped into his chair and glowered at his computer monitor.  “You think Granger would sign off on it if he was here?”

Granger was in London meeting with MI6 and Vance was ostensibly in charge.

“Well, he’s not, and sometimes you have to let it go,” Cassie advised.  She hefted her bag onto her shoulder.  “Go home, people.”

“’Night, Cass,” Werth replied absently.

Tim gathered his own things together.  He couldn’t believe Julie would take very much longer.

“Heard from your boyfriend?”

Werth’s question dropped like a bomb in the dark of the bullpen.

Tim looked up to find Werth had moved silently without Tim noticing – Tim hated when he did that.  Werth was perched on Tony’s…on the spare desk.  He looked tense, arms crossed, legs crossed at the ankle.  The glower was back on his face.

Ziva glowered back at him.  “Michael is none of your business.”  She angrily shut down her monitor without powering down her computer, snatched up her coat and stormed away.

Werth sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over his face.

Tim paused in fastening up his backpack.  He and Werth were team-mates.  Sure, Gibbs had taken Werth under his wing when he’d finished FLETC, and Tim had been mostly partnered with Burley, and since her arrival, Cassie.  But they did trust each other to watch each other’s backs in the field, even if they weren’t close.  Not in the way Tim had been with Kate and Tony, the way he’d been with Ziva before her return to Israel…

Werth was the Probie though, even if he didn’t answer to it.

Tony wouldn’t have left Werth hanging.  For all his faults, Tony had always been there for Tim.

Tim took a breath.  “You OK, Werth?”

Werth’s hand dropped abruptly as he focused sharply in on Tim.  He looked about to dismiss Tim’s question, but then he hesitated.  He pressed his lips together.  “You and Ziva are friends, right?”

“Yes,” Tim replied. 

He was certain Ziva liked Werth better than him though for all they’d known each other longer.  Ziva and Werth had connected when the team had first met Werth, when he’d been a drugged Marine trying to be a super-soldier.  For a while Tim had worried that they both liked liked each other – which was so middle school he was annoyed at himself for even thinking it. 

“Did she tell you about Rivkin?” Werth asked.

Tim shook his head.  “I kind of worked out she was seeing someone when she came back from Israel, and she kind of confirmed it when I teased her about it.  I didn’t know it was Rivkin until that whole thing in LA last week.”

“Gibbs told him to leave town, but he’s here,” Werth said.  “Ziva met with him earlier today.”

Tim frowned.  “Really?”

“And now we have a dead terrorist,” Werth said.

Tim’s brow pinched together as he put together what Werth already had.  “You think Rivkin took out Tabal.”

“Don’t you?” asked Werth.

Tim remembered all too well Rivkin’s killing spree (and OK, maybe spree was too exaggerated a description) in LA.  “All the evidence pointed to suicide.”

“I’m sure Rivkin knows how to stage a suicide,” Werth retorted.

Tim couldn’t argue with that.  His eyes widened.  “You know there is a single piece of evidence still being examined.”

Werth’s eyebrows went up.  “Yeah?”    

“Yeah, Abby’s examining Tabal’s computer.”  He took a couple of steps towards the elevator and turned back to Werth.  “Are you coming?”

Werth seemed surprised at the invitation but he fell into step beside Tim easily enough.   Tim felt Werth’s gaze on him as they took the elevator.

Tim glanced over at him.  “What?”

“Just…” Werth shrugged.  “You’re helping me.”

“We’re a team, Werth,” Tim said.  “I know we’re not close, but you’re team; we help each other.”

Werth’s expression melted from wary assessment into something that looked a lot like hope.  “Thanks.”

Tim shrugged away the gratitude as the elevator opened at Abby’s lab.  He led the way into her domain. 

Abby was in motion as she examined the outside of the laptop under bright lights.  Her black hair was pulled up into a ponytail and under her white coat she wore her usual Goth outfit of black jeans and band t-shirt with a graphic design.  Her make-up was immaculate despite the late hour.

He watched her for a few moments, his heart aching a little as it always did at the sight of her.  Letting Abby go once he’d been offered his position on the MCRT, (and again when it became obvious that she didn’t feel the same), had been the most difficult thing he’d done in his life to date.  He’d always have a wistful ‘what if’ lurking in his heart about her, even if he knew deep down that they didn’t really work as a romantic couple.

He cleared his throat.  

Abby looked up and registered their presence.  “Hey.”

Her voice was filled with a wary caution that made Tim wince. 

They’d argued in the wake of what had happened with Tony.  For all Abby loved Gibbs, she had been furious with how Gibbs had reacted about Tony.  Tim had made the mistake of defending Gibbs at Tony’s expense and their friendship had never been the same since.  He also knew that she had a frosty relationship with Werth; she’d never quite forgiven the former Marine for beating the team up when they’d arrested him during the whole super-soldier thing.     

“We’re questioning whether the ruling on Tabal’s death was right,” Tim confided straight away as he walked up to the lab table, Werth right beside him.  “Have you found anything on the laptop?”

Abby scanned them and hummed.  “Nothing yet, but I just got started.”  She waved a hand at the forensic equipment on her lab table.  “No fingerprints.  Nothing on the outside and nothing inside on the keys.”

“Not even Tabal’s?” questioned Werth, eyebrows raised.

“Not even Tabal’s,” Abby confirmed.  “Which you know is weird because if he was intending to kill himself and leave the laptop in his room, why go to the effort of wiping it down?”

She shifted to the table behind her, snapping in cables to hook the laptop up to the monitors. 

Tim moved to stand just behind her as did Werth.  She cast them an amused look, but she didn’t say anything as she competently got through the boot-up and into the computer’s logs.

“They’re all wiped,” Werth said as they skipped through empty log after empty log.

“Not all of them,” Abby murmured as she landed on another and it opened up with its data still intact. 

Werth shot Tim a questioning look. 

“It’s the network location memory log,” Tim said, already scanning the data unspooling. “It records all the networks used so you can easily access them again.  It should tell us where Tabal has been using the internet.”  He spotted something and froze.  “Abby, bring that up.”

Abby hit a button and the information expanded.  The list of addresses was clear as day, one highlighted.

“I recognise that address,” Werth said tersely.

“It’s Ziva’s,” Abby said, alarmed.

Werth whirled and headed for the door.  Tim moved, shifting to put himself between Werth and the door, hands raised in a placating manner.

“Werth, hold up!”

“You know what that means, McGee!” Werth snapped.

“I know,” Tim said firmly, holding Werth’s wild gaze with his own, “which means I know we can’t run off half-cocked if we want to protect Ziva and make sure Rivkin is taken down.”

Werth shuffled, his impatience and the want to act vibrating through his body in a physical way.  But he settled, simmering down as he registered Tim’s own determination to bring in Rivkin.

“So, what do we do?” asked Werth. 

Tim cleared his throat and looked back over to Abby who was staring at them with concern.  “Call Gibbs, tell him what we found and that Werth and I are on our way to Ziva’s to ask her about it off the record.  We may need him as back-up if Rivkin’s still there.”

Abby nodded sharply, not arguing with him for once.

Tim gave her a nod of acknowledgement in response.  “Come on, Werth.  Let’s grab our things from upstairs and head out.”

They took the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator.

Tim hurried across to their desks and almost stumbled seeing the beautiful ICE agent waiting by his desk.

“Ah, there you are,” Julia Foster-Yates said with a warm smile.  “I just wanted to stop by and thank you for all your help.”

Tim sidled around her to pick up his bag, nerves shooting through him.  “You’re welcome.”

He’d intended a casual offer to walk her out and…

“Maybe I could buy you a drink just to make it official?” Julia invited him with a shy look that belied her professional role.

“Oh, uh…”

Julia straightened at his stuttering, her expression smoothing away the friendliness.  “Oh, I read this wrong and…”

“No!” Tim blurted out.  “No, you didn’t read it wrong, and I would love to have drinks with you, except…”

And how did he explain what they needed to do without getting an FBI involved with the whole mess?  Because he knew if he did get her involved, Gibbs would kill him.

“We already had something planned,” Werth chimed in.  He smiled, his pleading puppy eyes looking beseechingly at Julia.

“Oh,” Julia relaxed visibly.  She turned to Tim.  “Maybe another time then, Tim?”

“Yes, definitely!” Tim agreed with probably more enthusiasm than he should. “I’ll call you.” 

Julia offered him another shy but warm smile and departed.

Tim watched her go. 

Werth’s pat on his shoulder had him jerking back into awareness of what they were doing. 

Tim fought the blush that heated his cheeks.  “Sorry.  Let’s go.”  He hurried over to the elevator and pushed the button.  “And uh, thanks for the save back there.”

“No problem,” Werth offered him a grin as they stepped into the elevator.  “You make a cute couple.”

Tim shot him a look as the doors closed.   

The drive to Ziva’s was tense.  They’d worked out a strategy for if Ziva was there, if she wasn’t there.  If Rivkin was there…

Tim parked his car and scanned the street.  He couldn’t see Ziva’s Mini but that didn’t mean anything.  The parking was terrible and it was likely she’d had to park a couple of streets away.  She complained about that enough for Tim to know it was a typical situation.

They crossed the street and headed into the apartment building.

Tim rapped on the door, Werth just behind him.

Rivkin opened it, one hand holding a glass of whiskey.  His gaze brushed over them as though he was nothing more than idly curious.  “Agent McGee and Agent Werth,” his eyes lingered a little longer on Werth obviously clocking him as the threat.  “What can I do for Ziva’s teammates this evening?  She isn’t here, but you are welcome to come in and wait.”

He turned and walked away from the door, back into the living area.

Tim exchanged a brief look with Werth and followed.  Werth quietly pushed the door closed behind them.

“You seem surprised to see me here,” Rivkin turned to Werth and pointed at him with his glass.  “Yet you followed Ziva to our coffee date today.”

“I had hoped you left,” Werth said bitingly.

“So, you came to what?  Comfort Ziva?”  Rivkin chuckled darkly.

“Actually we came by to ask why her address appeared as one of the locations of network use on a terrorist’s laptop,” Tim said dryly, his hand hovering over his holstered gun.  His heart pounded uneasily in his chest.  Rivkin had stood down in LA.  He wouldn’t risk a fight, would he?

“Perhaps you’d like to come with us, Officer Rivkin, and answer the question?” Werth asked sharply.

Rivkin smiled and…

He threw his drink at Tim.

Tim ducked automatically and missed Rivkin kicking the gun out of Werth’s hand.  The two warriors tackled each other hand to hand and…

Tim drew his weapon.  He aimed at Rivkin and…

Rivkin threw Werth at him and they went down hard, the gun flying from Tim’s hand to scuttle across the hardwood floor…

Werth’s head cracked hard on the corner of a side table, and he slumped into a worrying stillness, partially on Tim.

Tim pushed him away and…

Rivkin was picking up Werth’s weapon. 

Memories of hand-to-hand practice with Gibbs, with Kate, with Ziva and with Tony…

“If all else fails, I’ve found a good old-fashioned football tackle is something they don’t usually expect, McScrappy.”

Tony’s voice was clear in his head and Tim moved.

His momentum was enough to bring Rivkin and him down hard on the glass coffee table in the centre of the room, the gun firing.  Something snapped in Tim’s arm as he landed.

Rivkin was injured, blood seeping from under his body, but he was moving, groaning…

Tim ignored his own pains to half-crawl, half-stumble to his gun and…

Rivkin rose up like some movie villain, Werth’s gun still in his hand.  His eyes were wild, blood darkened his right side…

He was on Tim like a fox on a rabbit before Tim could grab his own weapon. 

Rivkin grinned, hovering over Tim, the gun aimed at his head…

The door banged open.

“NCIS!” Gibbs’ voice sounded out commandingly.  “Don’t do it, Rivkin!”

Rivkin snarled and…

Tim’s heart stuttered in fear…

The gunshot was loud.

Rivkin fell back, away from Tim. 

It was Rivkin who was shot.

Rivkin.

Tim shuffled back further from the downed man, breathing heavily.  His vision was already dimming.

“McGee!” Gibbs was there, a hand on his cheek.

“Boss,” Tim said.  “Werth…check on Werth…”

“Fornell’s got him,” Gibbs said.

Tim wondered why Fornell was there, but he couldn’t make his thoughts line up, pain radiating through every part of him.  Darkness hovered at the edges of his vision.

There was a sound by the door, a cry that sounded like Ziva and… 

“Sorry, Boss,” Tim muttered…and he was out.

o-O-o

“Well, this is a mess,” Fornell handed Gibbs a paper-cup filled with something that smelled coffee-like but tasted of dishwater.

Gibbs drank it down anyway.  He tossed the cup in the trash of the hospital waiting room.  “Macy warned Rivkin he was going to create an international incident.  He should have listened to her.”

“Somehow I don’t think your boss is going to see it that way,” Fornell said dryly, jerking his head in the direction of the reception on the other side of the glass wall where a furious-looking Leon Vance was at the desk talking with the nurse. 

“My boss will see it that way,” Gibbs said evenly.  He didn’t really care what Vance thought; he wasn’t Granger.

Vance’s head turned towards them and Gibbs nodded an acknowledgement at the Deputy Director.  Vance moved to briefly say something to the nurse before striding over, his camel overcoat billowing around him dramatically.  His protection detail were a few steps behind him, unobtrusive but there.

“What the hell, Gibbs?!” Vance bit out once he was inside, his detail guarding the door.  He stabbed a gloved finger in Gibbs’ direction.

Gibbs looked pointedly to the outside reception area where Joe Public was staring in interest at the confrontation going down in the less than private waiting room.

Vance took a deep breath and settled back.  “Can you explain to me why I had to hear from State that two of your agents are in the hospital and we have a dead Mossad officer?”

“I’ve been a little busy, Leon,” Gibbs said calmly.  He raised his hand and motioned at the stain of blood on his shirt.  McGee’s blood.

Vance grimaced.  He brushed a finger over his moustache.  “How is McGee?” 

Gibbs tilted his head.  “Waiting to hear.”

Vance looked over at Fornell. 

Fornell sighed and provided the detail Vance was after.  “Broken arm, deep cut to the abdomen from broken glass, bruised as hell.” He winced.  “He lost a lot of blood.”

“And Werth?”  Vance asked as though only just remembering about him.

“Head injury,” Gibbs stated succinctly.  “He was still unconscious when he was brought in.”

“What happened, Gibbs?” asked Vance bluntly.

Gibbs pressed his lips together.  He didn’t like Vance, but the man was nominally in charge until Granger hit Stateside and he did owe him a report.  “Ziva’s address was found on Tabal’s laptop network log.  McGee and Werth went to ask Ziva about it and told Abby to inform me.  She did.”

“I was with him when he got the call,” Fornell said helpfully.

“When we got there, Rivkin was going to shoot McGee so I shot him,” Gibbs stated calmly.

Vance huffed.  “You shot a Mossad officer!”

“Who was about to shoot an American agent,” Fornell commented forcefully.  “Which begs the question; if it was easy for him to shoot one of our agents, how easy would it be for him to kill another?”

Vance reared back.  “You think Rivkin had something to do with Agent Sherman’s death?”

“I think that Rivkin never stopped tracking down the terrorist cell he was after,” Fornell said. 

“Even if he didn’t have anything to do with Sherman’s death, he definitely had something to do with Tabal’s,” Gibbs pointed out.

Vance rocked back on his heels, stroked his moustache again. “State said the President gave Homeland jurisdiction?”

Fornell nodded.  “They took over the scene from Metro.”

“Metro?”

“Neighbours called the cops,” Gibbs said.

Vance sighed.  “I’ll try to get it reassigned back to us.  I’ll need your gun for the investigation.”

Gibbs stared at him.  “Homeland took it.”

“You handed it over?”

“He did,” Tom Morrow’s voice had them all looking towards the apparently open door.

Gibbs wondered how he’d missed the other Director approaching.

“Director Morrow,” Fornell said respectfully dipping his head.

“Agent Fornell,” Tom greeted him warmly.  “Good to see you again.”  His gaze turned colder as he shifted to Vance.  “Leon.”

“Director,” Vance straightened his posture automatically.  “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“You may not think that in a moment, Leon,” Tom said brusquely.  “Director David informed me you’d already spoken with him?”

Vance had the sense to look sheepish rather than defensive.  “I believed my friendship with Eli could help us mitigate the incident politically.”

Tom’s expression didn’t soften.  “You had no authority to make the promises you did to him, Leon, especially since you’ve failed to grasp that Israel and Mossad have to answer for Rivkin’s actions in this matter.”

Vance’s lips thinned to almost nothing with each word of criticism.        

“Well, it’s no matter,” Tom said suddenly.  “Owen and I will clear up this mess.”

“Told you they’d think it was a mess,” Fornell said in a side-whisper.

Gibbs almost snorted.

“My agents will escort you back to NCIS, Leon,” Tom advised.  “Your involvement with this is at an end.”

Vance looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded at the clear dismissal.  He glanced over at Gibbs.  “You’ll let me know about McGee and Werth?”

Gibbs nodded in return, letting Vance have a moment of control.

They all waited until they’d seen Vance actually leave the building before they resumed talking.

“What’s going on, Tom?” asked Gibbs bluntly.

Tom sat down on the arm of one of the chairs; his back was to the mirrored walls and no-one could see his lips.  “I can’t say much here, but we’ve been tracking a case of international espionage since Jennifer Shepard’s death.”

And clearly Vance was a suspect.

“Owen’s in his office,” Tom continued.  “He’s going to deal with Vance.”

Gibbs swallowed at the realisation his Director had been in on whatever game Homeland had been playing.  He wondered if Granger had even gone to London.

“Was Sherman’s death part of the plan?” asked Fornell caustically.

“No,” Tom said with a heavy sigh, “it was most certainly not.”

“Sherman disregarded his planned position,” Gibbs acknowledged.  “He created the blind-spot.”

“He didn’t deserve to die for it,” Tom said, “but, yes.”

“Vance drove by the poker game,” Gibbs said softly.  “He said it was usual for deputies to be invited in the absence of a Director and he was only establishing it was still going ahead.”

“We know,” Tom acknowledged, “and he would have been right if it was a normal game.”

But it wasn’t because they’d been trying to catch a spy.

A Mossad spy.

Rivkin.

Tom sighed.  “Your boys getting hurt wasn’t supposed to be part of it either, Gibbs.  My A.D. on the case recommended we take over when Sherman died, but I made the call to keep everything in play.  In hindsight, he was right.”

“And Ziva?” Gibbs shot back.  “Was her getting hurt planned?”

Tom held Gibbs’ gaze. “She’s Mossad.”

“She’s loyal to me, Tom,” Gibbs argued.

“Is she?” Tom stood up.  “I hope so, Gibbs.”  He motioned at him.  “My agents are going to take your statements on the events of tonight and maintain a protective detail until we can get this fully resolved with Eli David when he arrives in a couple of days.”

“Wonderful,” Fornell drawled.

The sound of voices by the door alerted them to activity and they turned to find a doctor trying to enter.

Tom waved them through and the harried woman shot him a grateful smile. 

“Agent Gibbs?”

“That’s me,” Gibbs said.

The doctor glanced at Tom and Fornell. 

Fornell coughed.  “I’ll give you some privacy.”

Tom nodded and followed Fornell out.  Gibbs watched as they huddled by the reception desk.

The doctor pushed her hands deep in her pockets.  She was a tiny reddish brunette with a mound of hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of her head.  Her bright brown eyes were sombre.  Her tag revealed her name as Doctor Hayden.

“I’m admitting both agents overnight for observation,” Hayden said crisply.  “Agent McGee will need minor surgery tomorrow morning on his arm.  He recovered consciousness on his arrival here.  He’s had fluids. We stitched his wound and started him on broad spectrum antibiotics.”

Gibbs nodded.  “And Agent Werth?”

“He also regained consciousness,” Hayden confirmed.  “He has a concussion, but his CT was clear.”

Gibbs breathed a sigh of relief. 

“They’re being moved into a private room,” Hayden said, “I’ll send a nurse so you can visit with them briefly once they’re settled.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Gibbs said automatically.

Hayden nodded and left.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. 

Gibbs snapped it open and pressed it against his ear.  “Gibbs.”

“It’s me, Jethro,” Ducky’s English accent drifted comfortingly from the speakers.  “Unfortunately, it’s bad news.  Officer Rivkin has passed away.  The Homeland agents have allowed Cassie to take Ziva to her place since Ziva’s home is, well…a crime scene.”

Gibbs sighed and gave into the urge to rub a hand over his face. 

“And what of young Timothy and Damon?  Have you had news, Jethro?”

“They’re banged up but OK,” Gibbs replied.

There was a short beat of silence.

“What the hell is going on, Jethro?!” Ducky asked plaintively.

“Spy games,” Gibbs replied.

“Ah,” Ducky said miserably.  “That, unfortunately, explains much.”

There was another beat of silence between them.

“Their M.E. has acquiesced to my observing the autopsy as a professional courtesy,” Ducky continued. 

Gibbs’ eyebrows shot up briefly before he wrangled them back.  Sometimes Ducky’s ability to charm his way through things surprised him. 

“I must go,” Ducky admitted, “but how are you, Jethro?”

How was he? 

Gibbs wasn’t conflicted about shooting Rivkin.  He’d been a threat to McGee, to Damon.  And to Ziva, even if Ziva herself didn’t want to admit it.  But Gibbs knew she was hurting because he’d taken out Rivkin and that made his own heart ache a little. 

He wasn’t conflicted about Vance either.  He and Leon had never been close.  If Vance was a spy for a foreign government, even an ally, he was good as gone and good riddance.

But Ziva…

He was certain Ziva was loyal to him.  She’d shot her brother to save Gibbs.  She’d advocated to come back to the States when Granger had sent her away.  She had told him where to find Rivkin in LA.

Yet.

His gut was churning.

And it had been churning since she’d come back to the team with her eyes brimming of more secrets than just a boyfriend.

God.

He missed Tony and his leaps of logic, his ability to lay out the pieces and see the connections, to investigate.  And babble about it out loud happily so Gibbs could make his own connections, draw his own conclusions.

Grief and guilt at losing that easy camaraderie filled him again and he pushed it away before it could steal his breath and his thoughts.  He had to stay focused.    

“Confused, Duck,” Gibbs said finally, realising Ducky was still waiting on the other end of the phone.  “Go watch the autopsy.”

He clicked the phone off without waiting for a goodbye and strode out of the door towards Tom and Fornell.

“I have to take my leave,” Tom said.  “I’ll catch up with you when Eli arrives.”  He shook hands with Gibbs.  “Take of your boys, Gibbs.”

Boys.

That subtle leaving out of Ziva again.

Tom walked off.

“I’m going too unless you want me to stay,” Fornell motioned at the door where an agent hovered clearly waiting.

“Go,” Gibbs said.  “Thanks for the back-up today.”

“Any time,” Fornell said.  He looked down the corridor which caused Gibbs to turn to see what he was seeing and relaxed when it was nothing more than a nurse was hurrying towards them.  “See you soon, Gibbs.”

Gibbs kept his attention on the nurse; a mature woman in pink medic scrubs who looked entirely unimpressed with him and the situation.  She led him through the hospital to McGee and Werth.  Gibbs was momentarily disconcerted by the presence of two Homeland agents at the door, but he hid it under his usual bravado and followed her into the room.

“Fifteen minutes,” she said brusquely and left.

Gibbs went to Damon first.  He resisted the urge to brush a hand through Damon’s hair, too aware of the vivid bruise and cut on the corner of his right forehead.  “You OK there, Marine?”

“I let McGee down,” Damon grumbled. 

“No, you didn’t.”

The sleepy retort came from the bed on the other side of the room.

“Rivkin was well trained,” Gibbs countered.

Damon shot a look towards the door.  “Homeland?”

“Yeah,” Gibbs said. “They’ve taken point.”

Damon sighed.  “We gave a statement.”

“Good,” Gibbs said.  “Rest.  I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

Damon acknowledged the order by relaxing back into his pillows and closing his eyes.

Gibbs moved to McGee’s bed.  The older agent was in worse shape.  McGee had a heavy bandage around his left arm and it was raised up in a sling.  His chest was covered in bruises and another heavy bandage peeked out of the covers from where he had been cut.  His eyes were glassy with the pain medication he’d been given.

Gibbs didn’t resist.  He placed a hand on McGee’s head and ensured their gazes held.  “You did good, McGee.”

“I didn’t do anything but survive,” McGee slurred bitterly.

“Sometimes that’s all you can do,” Gibbs said.

“Abby?” asked McGee.

“Working,” Gibbs said.  He owed her and Cassie calls; he’d promised to let them know when he knew McGee and Werth were OK.  “She’ll be by in the morning.”

“I thought Tony was here before,” McGee murmured.

It was like taking a knife to his heart.

Gibbs drew a sharp breath in. 

“He would have protected Damon better,” McGee said out loud, “he would have known something was going on with Ziva and poked at her until she told him just to get rid of him.  He would have…he would have been Tony.”

Gibbs smoothed his hand through McGee’s hair offering the scant comfort.  Hadn’t he just been thinking the same thing?  And Gibbs knew McGee didn’t meant to hurt him with his words.  The younger agent had followed his lead when Tony had fallen sick even though it was Tony who’d deserved McGee’s loyalty and his compassion. 

“I miss him,” McGee slurred.

He was falling asleep, Gibbs realised. 

“Yeah, me too, McGee,” Gibbs said softly.

McGee’s breathing was already sliding to the deep rhythm of rest.  Gibbs straightened.  He shook himself and walked out.

A third Homeland agent waited outside the door.  He was older than the others, likely a Supervisory Agent in his own right; brunette hair going grey, assessing blue eyes – all set in a craggy worn face.

“You’re my escort?” Gibbs checked.

“That’s me; I’m Special Agent Baranski.  Boss said you’d likely prefer your debrief in the basement with your boat,” the agent replied.

Tom wasn’t wrong, Gibbs thought wearily.  Probably the bourbon would have to wait until he’d given his statement.

“Let’s go,” Gibbs said.  He was ready for the godforsaken night to just be done.

o-O-o

Tim dumped his backpack on the ground by his desk and sat gingerly in his chair.  He ached all over despite the dose of painkillers he’d taken before he’d left his apartment.

Across the aisle Cassie shot him a concerned look.  “You sure you should be here?  You just got discharged from the hospital last night.”

“I’m fine,” Tim said. 

“For desk duty only, Timothy,” Ducky dropped a file on Gibbs’ desk.  His gaze scanned over Tim with professional intent.  “You are looking a little peaky.”

“The anaesthetic upset my stomach,” Tim admitted.  “They gave me something.”

“Good,” Ducky said.  “Come down if it still troubles you later.”  He shifted to do the same visual examination of Werth.

“That’s healing very nicely, Damon,” Ducky remarked.  “Do you still have a headache today?” 

Werth shrugged.   “It’s mostly gone.”

Ducky hummed.  “Try to limit the computer work today.”

Werth’s eyes brightened.  “If that’s your order, Duckman.”

Ducky snorted in amusement.  He finally shifted to look at Cassie.  “And how are you, dear Cassie?”

“Frustrated at living with two Homeland agents parked on my couch, but I’m OK,” Cassie smiled.

“And Ziva?” asked Ducky tentatively.

Tim was aware that both he and Werth were eager to know the answer.

“She’s frustrated, angry, grieving,” Cassie said simply.  “Her father ordered her to comply with Homeland so she hasn’t tried to escape, but she’s not happy that she’s essentially under house arrest.”

Tim exchanged a quick glance with Werth.  Their shared sense of responsibility, of guilt for how Ziva was hurting was apparent on both of their faces.

“Are they still not allowing any visitors?” asked Ducky.

“Nope,” Cassie sighed.  “Honestly, given she’s considered a material witness to espionage, I’m just grateful they’re showing her enough compassion to let her stay at mine instead of some impersonal safehouse or hotel.”

“Yes,” Ducky said.  “Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from…”

“Duck,” Gibbs rounded the corner at a pace, “did you…”

“Copy of the autopsy report on your desk, Jethro,” Ducky pointed at the file.

Gibbs put his large go-cup of coffee down and picked up the file, flipping through it.  “Rivkin was hammered?”

“Twice over the legal limit,” Ducky confirmed.

“He didn’t hit like he was drunk,” Werth complained, shifting to settle more comfortably in his chair.

Tim hummed his agreement.  But he did remember the drink Rivkin had carried when they entered.  Maybe he and Werth had been incredibly lucky that Rivkin was drunk.  If he’d been sober and they’d confronted him…

“McGee,” Gibbs’ sharp tone had Tim’s head snapping up.

“Boss?”

Gibbs jabbed his thumb in the direction of the elevator.  “Abby’s helping Homeland with the evidence.  Go help her.”

Tim wondered at why Homeland was trusting Abby to assist, but he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to find out more about what was happening.  He went to move normally, to slide out of his chair and to get to his feet.  A sharp pain arrowed through his arm followed by an achiness in the rest of his body.  He slowed, huffing in pain.

Gibbs frowned.  “You OK, McGee?”

“I’m fine, Boss,” McGee promised.

Gibbs nodded but he watched carefully as McGee got up and walked across the bullpen to the elevator.

Werth fell into step with him half-way there and McGee’s quick glance back at Gibbs when McGee entered the elevator confirmed his suspicion that Werth had been given McGee-sitting duties.

Tim sighed as Werth reached to push the elevator button for Abby’s floor.  “I really am fine.” 

“And I don’t have a headache,” Werth retorted easily.

Tim conceded the argument with a huff.

Abby’s lab looked eerily similar to the scene they’d walked in on two nights before.  She wore her hair in braids, her band t-shirt had been swapped out for a science pun one, but other than that…

She was stooped over the main lab table examining a laptop.

“Hey, Scuito,” Werth said briskly.

Abby looked up at them and her eyebrows rose.  “You’re back!”  She placed the laptop back on the table and skipped around to hug first Werth and then McGee.

Tim sighed into the gentle embrace.  “Hey, Abs.”

“Hey, you,” Abby drew back and looked him over.  “I’m glad you’re OK.”

Tim swallowed around the lump in his throat as she moved back to the laptop.  “How come you’re helping Homeland?”

Abby just smiled at them enigmatically before she suddenly frowned.  “I’m not sure you guys can be in here.”

“They’re fine, Abs.”

Tim whirled around to find Stan Burley in the doorway of the lab.  He was closing his phone and holding a Caf-Pow he handed off to Abby.

“Agent Burley?!” Tim spluttered.

“Hey, Burley,” Werth greeted him with a warm handshake.  “Good to see you, man.”

“Good to see you too, Damon,” Burley nodded at Tim.  “Tim.”  His hands went to his hips, drawing Tim’s attention to the badge clipped to Burley’s belt.

“You’re Homeland now?” asked Tim, his brow creasing.

“I was transferred there after the Director’s death,” Burley said. 

Tim was confused.  He hated feeling confused.  “I thought…” his voice trailed away abruptly as he realised just how naïve he was going to sound.

Abby took pity on him.  “The rumour about Stan being let go was a cover.”

Tim exchanged another quick look with Damon.  “This has been going on for that long?”

“In January 2008, Homeland set up a new Think Tank, staffed it with the best of the best in intelligence,” Burley informed him briskly.  “Within weeks of being constituted, they’d found a worrying trend of certain foreign allies treating the US like it was their own backyard.”

“Mossad,” Tim said.

“One of the biggest culprits,” Burley agreed.  “When Shepard died, the opportunity opened up for me to go undercover at State.  I was essentially dangled like bait in front of foreign entities to see if they’d bite at the prospect of approaching a former NCIS agent who’d left under a cloud as a spy.”

“And did they?” asked Werth bluntly.

Burley grinned tightly. “We had more than a few nibbles.”  He tilted his head.  “Mossad was one.”

“Not Ziva,” Werth denied that possibility immediately.

“Ziva, no,” Burley said.  “Rivkin, yes.”

“Damn it,” Tim muttered.

“Disinformation,” Werth said.  “You kept him in play for disinformation.”

“Yes,” Burley said, “and because we could use him to pinpoint our own leaks elsewhere in the network.  It was obvious I wasn’t the only one Rivkin had as an informant.”

“Ziva?” asked Werth tersely.

“Her computer and email are under review at Homeland,” Burley stated.  “But I hope not.”

Tim breathed out in a rush, processing that Ziva might have betrayed them. 

“Whose computer is this?” asked Werth.

Abby smiled at him.  “This belongs to Abin Tabal.”

Tim frowned.  “But…”

“Rivkin swapped the laptops,” Abby informed him brightly.  “Ingenious really.  If he hadn’t made the mistake with the network log in his own laptop and implicated Ziva, he might have gotten away with it.”

Tim rubbed his head, feeling overwhelmingly tired.  “So, what happened exactly?  I’m confused.”

Abby gave him a sympathetic look and motioned at Burley with her Caf-Pow. “You explain it, Stan.”

Burley leaned against the evidence table.  “We let news of the poker game slip to Leon Vance via Director Hutchins a week ago, along with the idea that the topic would be the infiltration of an agency by a foreign power.”

“Vance was a spy?” Tim tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“Vance was compromised early in his career by Eli David,” Burley said.  “That came out with Shepard’s death.  The Think Tank began watching him then and we’ve gathered enough evidence to convict him.  Vance has already admitted that he shared classified information to David on more than one occasion without authorisation.  Mostly, the information sharing was to mutual benefit or to enable the Israelis to act when the US could not.  On the face of it, Vance’s interactions with David support his position that he acted with the best interests of the US in mind.”

“Except for the fact that, you know, he was acting completely illegally,” Abby chipped in.

“He did refuse to share information where it would potentially compromise US operations,” Burley continued.  “It’s a defence that might help him gain a shorter sentence.”

“Wow,” Tim shook his head.  “So, the poker game was a set-up to trap Vance once and for all?”

“Not exactly,” Burley said.  “We wanted proof that Eli David was ordering his operatives to spy on the US government and her agencies.  We just gave them a potential topic we knew would catch his attention.”

“You dangled the prospect of Vance being discovered as David’s patsy,” Werth realised out loud.

“Yes,” Burley said.  “What we didn’t expect was for Sherman to ignore his orders and run into Rivkin.  To be fair to Rivkin, given Ducky’s autopsy, it was likely he didn’t mean to kill Sherman, just to incapacitate him.”

“Rivkin killed him?  Not Tabal?” asked Tim. 

“Tabal was a red herring thrown out to get us off the scent,” Werth’s disgust coated every word.

“To be fair OSP did get the name from the terrorist they secured and interrogated,” Burley said, “but Tabal’s presence in Washington aside, he didn’t have the skills for what went down at the poker game.”

“When Rivkin realised we were hunting Tabal, he likely jumped on the idea of framing Tabal for it,” Abby said, hooking the computer up to her monitor.  “He found Tabal before we did, killed him and substituted his own laptop for Tabal’s.  That way we were left with a literal dead end, and he had access to all the information Tabal had so he could continue hunting down the terrorists.”

“It was a win-win for Mossad,” Burley suddenly grinned, “and they would have gotten away it too if it wasn’t for you pesky kids.”  He gestured at the three of them.

“Why didn’t you guys bring Rivkin in after Sherman?” Werth asked suddenly.  “You had to have had surveillance on him.”

“Our Assistant Director recommended we did, but the Director wanted to keep Rivkin in play,” Burley shrugged.  “With the way it went down, I think he regrets it, especially that you guys were hurt.”

Werth sighed heavily.  “I guess he didn’t count on us confronting Rivkin.”

Burley nodded.  “Honestly, I’m surprised Rivkin messed up with the network log.”

“He was trashed apparently,” Tim said.

“That would explain it,” Burley said.

Abby pressed a button and the screen filled with files.  “Woah.  Looks like we have the motherlode.”

“Did Rivkin access his email on this?” asked Burley coming to stand behind her.

Tim moved to stand next to her as she navigated to the email software. 

“Nothing,” Abby said.

“Try the internet browser,” Tim suggested.

Five steps back in the history was enough to get them to a login for a remote access. 

Tim looked back at Werth.  “This could take some time.”

“I’ll head back upstairs,” Werth agreed.

Tim turned back to the task.

Hours later, with a nap on Abby’s futon included, Burley, Tim and Abby looked horrified at the monitor. 

“This is so not good,” Tim said.

Burley turned away and marched out, his phone already to his ear.  “Hey, Boss…”

His voice faded as he got out of earshot and jolted Tim back to the awful realisation that if Burley was talking to his boss, someone was going to have to tell Gibbs.

“Dibs not it!” Abby declared beside him. 

Tim glared at her.  “You can’t do that!”

“I think you’ll find I just did!” Abby pointed out with a smirk.

“Abby, I am begging you!” Tim said.  “I’m already injured.  I don’t want to get more injured!”

“Why would you get more injured?”

Tim flinched at the sound of Gibbs right behind them.  He swore at the jolt of pain cascaded through him and clutched at his arm.

“Easy, McGee,” Gibbs said, handing off a Caf-Pow to Abby.  He looked at her pointedly.  “You have something to tell me, Abs?”

Abby set the Caf-Pow down.  “We cracked Rivkin’s email account which was hard because you know Hebrew is hard.”

Gibbs kept his gaze on Abby’s.

“He received emails from a highly encrypted account,” Tim jumped in.  “We traced it back to NCIS, Boss.”

Gibbs’ expression didn’t alter, but Tim could see him bracing himself.

“It’s Ziva’s email,” Abby said softly.

Gibbs’ jaw clenched.  “You’re sure?”

Abby nodded.  “We triple-checked.”

“The emails to Rivkin only started on her return to Washington, Boss,” Tim stated gently as though that fact could lessen the pain.

Abby bit her lip.  “You know what this means, Gibbs.”

“I know,” Gibbs said.

Burley walked back into the lab and nodded at Gibbs.  “They tell you?”

Gibbs nodded.

“We’re expected at Homeland, Gibbs,” Burley said.  “Director David has arrived and Director Morrow wants you and your team there.”

His body ached and Tim wished he could refuse to go, but he also knew he had to go.  He was pleased when Gibbs loaded the MCRT into one SUV.  Abby and Ducky followed in his car just behind them.  Burley led the way.  For once, Gibbs seemed to take care with his driving.

Tim let himself be ushered with the rest of the team through security by Burley, into an elevator and through a bewildering maze of corridors into a secure room which reminded him of MTAC.

Director Morrow was waiting for them, stood in the centre of the room.  Fornell lounged in one of the padded chairs in the observation area at the back of the room.  There were a number of Homeland agents stationed around the edges of the room.  A wall of desks on the right had a single technician.

Tim swallowed hard at the sight of his teammate stood to one side.  She looked deadly in the tight black jeans and black top which signalled her mourning.  “Ziva.”

Ziva sent him a terse nod, her attention on their boss.  “Gibbs.”

“Ziva,” Gibbs responded evenly.

Morrow cleared his throat loudly.  “If you could all take a seat.”

Gibbs sat in the chair next to Fornell.  Tim followed Abby and Burley into the next row.  Werth sat beside him looking a touch lost.  Ducky and Cassie sat with Ziva.

Morrow faced them, his back to a blank monitor.  “You’re here to observe a meeting between Director David and the Head of Homeland’s Think Tank.”

“I do not understand…” Ziva said.

Morrow shot her a look.  “You should watch and listen, Officer David.  It should clear up a few things.”  He turned and motioned at the technician who pressed a button, the monitor flickering into life.  Morrow sat down next to Gibbs.

Tim wet his lips and stared at the monitor. 

Ziva’s father sat waiting at one end of a conference table.  His fingers tapped impatiently.  He was an imposing man; large-framed with a head of white wavy hair and dark brooding eyes.

Tim had his issues with his own father but he wondered how it was to grow up with a parent who was the Director of Mossad.

On the monitor, a door behind the Director opened up and someone entered…

Tim gasped out loud at the sight of him.

It was Tony.

o-O-o

Gibbs drank in the sight of Tony DiNozzo like a man in a desert drank water, with greed and desperation.

He had no right to care that Tony looked well, healthy in a way that he hadn’t when Gibbs had walked away from him, Gibbs reminded himself.  He had walked away from him.

Tony had been so ill.

Because of him.

Because of Gibbs.

He’d made a piss-poor decision trying to protect Maddie Tyler, had almost got the two of them killed, and Tony had had to throw himself into dirty water to rescue them.  Tony should never have attempted the rescue with his scarred lungs, but he had and he had gotten sick.

Gibbs had seen Tony once again fighting for breath after breath, fighting for his life and barely aware of his surroundings and he had walked away because he couldn’t bear the guilt.  Gibbs had told him he was off the team.  His thinking had been wrong-headed, justifying that it was better for Tony to be safe, for him to focus on his health and life without baggage like Gibbs holding him down; better a clean break…rule eleven; when the job is done walk way.

He’d broken his rules ten times over.  He’d screwed over his partner, hadn’t worked as a team.  Ziva had followed him and so had McGee in shutting down any attempt Tony made to make contact when he’d beaten the odds again and lived.

Jen had stepped in and said she’d handle things and he’d never asked what had happened, had shoved that instinct deep down inside it and ignored it.  He’d assumed Tony had taken a medical retirement because he suddenly wasn’t employed by NCIS at all.

Abby had stopped talking to Gibbs after Tony had left except in respect to the work, completely professional with him with no hint that they were anything to each other than distant colleagues.  Then one day he’d walked into her lab and she’d hugged him.

“He told me I can’t be mad at you for just being you,” she’d whispered in his ear and…he’d been grateful for the hug and the resumption of Abby’s easy affection.

He’d tried to reach out to Tony in the wake of that only to find Tony had moved, his cell phone number discontinued and there was no trace of him. 

He should have asked Abby but he hadn’t wanted to admit how very wrong he’d been.

Then Jen had died and…he’d had other things to think about than an agent he’d cut loose, even if that agent was Tony.

“You were the one who hired DiNozzo?” asked Fornell loudly in the shocked silence of the room.

“He accepted my offer.”

Tom sounded smug.

Gibbs shot Fornell a look, half a question, half a demand.

“What?” Fornell said.  “Did you honestly think the rest of us were going to ignore the opportunity to grab an agent of his calibre once word got out you let him go?”

“He was sick,” Gibbs said tersely.  They should have left Tony alone…

“He got better,” Tom interrupted him sharply.  He gestured at the monitor.  “Watch.”

“As I said, Director Morrow sends his apologies, but he has been unavoidably delayed,” Tony limped over to a chair a few places down from David but in shot of the camera.  “He’s sent me along to keep you company while we wait since I worked with your daughter at NCIS.”

He was using a cane. 

Gibbs frowned.

Tony set the cane against the chair beside him, unbuttoned his navy suit jacket and sat down.

“I do not wish to take up your time, Agent DiNozzo,” David said politely, the hint of irritation at DiNozzo being there and not Morrow evident in his tone nevertheless.

“It’s no bother,” Tony smiled, charming and beguiling.

David snorted a huff but subsided back into his own chair.  His gaze was assessing.  “I did not realise my daughter stayed in touch with you once you left NCIS.”

Tony shook his head.  “Oh, she didn’t.  She’s always loyally followed Gibbs.”

David’s face flickered with a quick ripple of annoyance.

Gibbs saw Ziva flinch out of the corner of his eye.

“Director Morrow’s aware that Gibbs froze me out, but he’s sentimental enough to believe my team-mates are still in contact.  I haven’t had the heart to disillusion him yet.”

Behind him, Gibbs heard Tim swallow hard against the words.

Tom looked so supremely unconcerned that Gibbs figured he knew perfectly well the state of Tony’s relationships with the team.

Tony’s fondness for Tom shone through even as he baited a hook with his air of confiding in David.

David hummed.  “You left NCIS due to a serious illness, no?”

Tony shrugged.  “I was recovering when Gibbs determined my time on his team was up.”

Hearing the stark truth of what he’d done was like a stab to his heart, Gibbs mused, resisting the urge to rub at his chest.

“I transferred to Homeland once I was declared medically fit to work,” Tony continued, fidgeting with a cufflink.  “Jenny made it happen.”

“You are considered fit even though you are still injured?” David gestured to the cane.

“Ah,” Tony’s face filled with a good-humoured chagrin, “that’s a new injury from me being a klutz trying to impress a beautiful woman.  You know how it is.”

Gibbs was impressed with Tony’s performance. 

He was playing into David’s assumed knowledge of him from Ziva; playing into the role as a sub-par agent whose career was saved only by the intervention of a Director who had helped Ziva gain her place at NCIS – who had helped Mossad find a place within NCIS, realised Gibbs with real chagrin of his own.  

Tony was also playing into his role of a charming idiot who had expensive tastes and an eye for the ladies.  Someone who lacked smarts, who wasn’t a threat.  Someone Eli David could play.

Tony had always been a good interrogator, but he’d always been best undercover.

David smiled.  “I do indeed.”  He leaned back in his chair and reached for his cup.  “I admit from the stories my daughter would tell me when you first met, I often wondered if you and she…”

“Rule twelve,” Tony recited with a grin. “She’s a beautiful woman, exactly my type, but Gibbs has a rule: never date a co-worker.” 

David sipped his coffee and set it down again.  “She wondered if you were gay when you did not respond to her overtures.” 

Tony laughed, carefree and easy.  “Really?  There were overtures?”  His head cocked to one side, his eyes wide with seemingly nothing more than curiosity.  “I was surprised to hear she’d gotten involved with someone working for Mossad.  She was very loyal to Gibbs’ rules when I worked with her.”    

Ziva flinched again.

And that was masterful, Gibbs thought with more than a hint of pride.  He’d placed the rule-following squarely on Ziva, giving David the impression that Tony had been tempted to break them; hinted that Ziva hadn’t told David the whole truth about her time with the team. 

“You did not realise her interest in movies was just to get closer to you?” asked David sharply.

Tony shrugged.  “Well, yes, but that happened when Gibbs took his extended vacation to Mexico.  I was pretty run-off my feet back then between juggling the job and an undercover thing.”

“Ah, yes, your relationship with Benoit’s daughter,” David smiled.  “Ziva told me you actually fell in love with her.”

“Yes,” Tony looked flustered for the first time since he’d sat down. “What can I say?  Jeanne is a beautiful woman.”  He reached for the water jug on the table and poured himself a glass.  His hand was visibly trembling.

Gibbs wondered how much of Tony’s reaction was a pretence.  Tony had only just been coming to terms with the thing with Benoit when he’d fallen sick.

“You got personally involved,” David slid in another verbal knife scenting the blood in the water.

“Don’t we all?” Tony murmured, his eyes shining with regret.  “I heard the news about Officer Rivkin.  It sounds like it got personal for them too.”

Oh.

And that was very clever.

Gibbs glanced at Ziva who had gone still as a statue.

“You think their relationship was a pretence?” asked David, coating his words with an abundance of humour. 

Tony shrugged, playing with his cufflink again.  “Well, I just assumed…I mean, she really did follow Gibbs’ rules so…”

“So, as she did not break the rules for you, she must have had a reason other than personal interest to get involved with a co-worker?” David completed dryly.

“It was a thought,” Tony sipped his water, a faint air of embarrassment in the tilt of his head.

David leaned forward as though confiding in Tony.  “You are right.  I asked Ziva to handle Rivkin.”  He waited a beat.  “I also asked Rivkin to handle Ziva.” He smiled.  “Of course there was an official purpose to both requests, but I was also, how do you say, match-making?  I want grand-children before I get too old, hmmm?”

“I do not have to listen to this! I will not listen to this!” Ziva stood up in a sudden burst of movement.

The agents at the edges had their hands on their weapons…

“Sit down.”

Tom’s stern tone and cold glare had Ziva subsiding in a vibrating heap into her seat.

Gibbs felt a rush of pity for her.  He had no doubt that even if Rivkin had been her mark, Ziva had genuine feelings for Rivkin.  To hear her whole relationship had been a set-up by her father?  That had to hurt.  With Rivkin dead, she had no way to know if he had genuinely returned her feelings or if she’d been nothing but a mark to him.

He tuned back into Tony’s discussion with David. 

The Mossad Director was chuckling at something Tony had said during Ziva’s outburst.

“DiNozzo commented that nobody would think the Director of Mossad was such a yenta,” Fornell murmured.

“I must confess I got the idea after Ziva complained that your inability to remain detached in the Benoit case was the reason you were able to fool her,” David sighed.  “My strategy appeared to be working until this unfortunate incident.”

Anyone else might have missed the brief look of satisfaction that flashed through Tony’s eyes, but Gibbs had worked with him for too long not to notice it.  He deserved to feel satisfied, Gibbs thought.  Tony had managed to get David to confess one manipulation.

On the monitor, Tony’s expression had melted into sympathy.  “Allow me to convey my condolences at the loss of your Officer.”

“Thank you,” David sipped his coffee.  “I was fond of Michael and saddened to hear we had lost such a good man.”  His gaze sharpened on Tony.  “Do you know anything of events?”

“Director Morrow will cover everything when he arrives,” Tony demurred. 

“Please, Agent DiNozzo,” David leaned forward again, his eyes dark with intent and a fake pleading.  “I have heard nothing since I spoke with Director Vance on the night of the incident.”

Tony shifted position in his chair, a grimace crossing his face.  “I really shouldn’t, I mean, Vance ended up on the naughty step after talking with you, Director.”

“I thought that might be the case when he did not return my calls,” David noted, genuine regret in his voice.  “We have been friends for a long time.  Leon meant no harm in giving me answers.”

Tony dipped his head in acknowledgement.  “Perhaps, but he acted above his authority and my Director didn’t like him making promises we couldn’t keep or,” he looked at David pointedly, “giving you information which he hadn’t authorised.”

“I promise not to tell if you don’t, Agent DiNozzo,” David wheedled, charm thickening his accent.

Tony stayed silent, but he clearly looked like he wanted to speak.

“Please, I only wish to know what happened with my agent,” David pleaded.

Tony winced.  He sighed and drank some water.  “You did not hear this from me.”

David quickly nodded in agreement.

Tony sipped his water and set it aside.  “Rivkin came to Washington after LA.  Some of my colleagues believe he went rogue, but I don’t believe you would have allowed any rogue agents to run around.”

“Indeed not,” David agreed.  “My people follow my orders.  Michael was in Washington on my order.”

Tony nodded.  “Searching for the terrorist handler?”

“Exactly,” David said, “we had heard a rumour that the handler operated from here from sources in Africa.”

“Well, the current theory is that Rivkin discovered that the four intelligence agencies were due to play poker…”

David pasted a fake look of surprise on his face.  “I was unaware of this.”

“Vance didn’t mention it?” checked Tony casually.

“Vance has already confessed that he informed David of the game and the location,” Tom murmured beside him.

“Not to me,” David lied.

Tony moved on.  “Anyway, Rivkin found out and found a hole in the security.” The grimace Tony offered was very real.  “Agent Sherman disobeyed his orders and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He and Rivkin came across each other and…” he gestured at his neck.  “According to Ducky, Rivkin attempted to disable Sherman but unfortunately Sherman had an underlying medical condition and he died.”

“That is most unfortunate,” David said slowly.

“He already knew,” Gibbs said quietly, not wanting his words to reach Ziva.

Fornell snorted.

“It’s a shame Rivkin didn’t simply turn himself in to Ziva,” Tony rambled on, swirling the water in his glass.  “I mean, sure, he would have had to leave in disgrace, but Sherman’s death was accidental.”

“He still had a mission to complete,” David noted.

“Yes, Tabal,” Tony said.  “That death…not so accidental?”

“His orders were to eliminate the cell and retrieve the intelligence required to hunt down the training camp,” David confirmed.

“Really his plan was ingenious,” Tony said, holding David’s gaze. “He faked Tabal’s suicide and replaced Tabal’s laptop with his own.  He believed he’d cleaned it.”

David frowned.  “He did not?”

“He left a network log,” Tony confirmed briskly.  “It clearly showed Ziva’s address, and well, when her team-mates discovered that they went to find out why.” He tapped the table.  “They went with the motive to protect her.  Unfortunately, Ziva wasn’t there, Rivkin was and he was very drunk.  No doubt that compromised his thinking.  He fought them and when Gibbs arrived he was pointing a weapon at Agent McGee.”

“And Gibbs shot him,” David concluded.  

Tony nodded.

“Gibbs did not like Michael,” David noted, hints of anger shining through his voice.

Gibbs grimaced.

“Your Officer interfered in our operations in LA for all you might have considered the mission necessary,” Tony said.  “Ziva’s probably told you that Gibbs is a touch territorial.” 

“She has mentioned it,” David sighed heavily.  He shot Tony a look.  “You believe Gibbs acted in good faith even after his behaviour with you?”

Tony looked away and back again almost shyly.  “Gibbs cares too much about Ziva to have shot Rivkin in malice.”

Ziva darted a look at him and Gibbs avoided her gaze.

“Perhaps he cares too much for her,” David said tersely.  “She is my daughter.”

Tony’s eyes widened a touch, his fingers went to fidget with his tie.  “Oh, I thought…well, no…I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

David shot him an annoyed look.  “Speak your mind, Agent DiNozzo.”

Tony still hesitated, scanning over David as though looking for assurance which he received in the form of a nod.

“Well, I rather assumed you wanted Gibbs to care too much about Ziva?  Isn’t that why you had her shoot Ari?”

Gibbs drew in a sharp breath.  His gaze went to Ziva and it was her turn to studiously avoid looking at him.

David was visibly startled but Tony simply looked back at him with guileless earnestness.  “My daughter did not lie when she spoke of your out of the hat thinking.  You believe she shot Ari?”

“I know she shot Ari.  I was curious.  I looked up the investigation notes and saw the angles, knew there had to be someone else there, looked at the height differential,” Tony shrugged.  “When Gibbs let Ziva on the team…he’s not a man to give his trust easily.  I put it together.” He shifted position as though easing his bad leg.  “It must have been difficult ordering your daughter to shoot your son.”

Gibbs held his breath.  No…that wasn’t what had happened…

“Ari had become a threat to Mossad,” David said stiffly. 

Gibbs closed his eyes briefly.

“He wasn’t following your orders anymore,” Tony said softly, his attention on his leg.

“He followed orders, but he was enamoured with your Agent Todd,” David said dismissively, turning to drink his coffee.  “I originally meant for him to be placed as the liaison, but he showed poor judgement.”

“When he refused to kill her?” asked Tony.  He suddenly cocked his head.  “No, when things went wrong in killing me.” 

David huffed and drank down the rest of his coffee.

“Killing Kate was his punishment then?  Your test of his loyalty?”

Gibbs stared at the monitor in shock.

David slowly lowered his coffee cup and looked at Tony as though finally recognising him for the threat he was.  “You believe I would order the death of a US agent.”

“You said there were no rogue agents so Ari wasn’t rogue, Ziva wasn’t rogue, Rivkin wasn’t rogue,” Tony listed them off on his fingers, gesturing at David.  “You said your people follow your orders.  Rivkin followed your orders.  Ziva followed your orders.  Ari followed your orders. You said…”

“I know what I said!” David snapped.  “Bah!  It does not matter what you believe, you have no proof!”

“Except Jennifer Shepard’s confession of her conspiracy with you,” Tony countered harshly. 

What?!

Fornell’s mouth fell open in shock. 

Gibbs shifted, restless.   

Tony was looking at David, all of his masks down.  He looked every inch the competent law enforcement agent Gibbs had been proud to work with. 

“Jenny was dying,” Tony said.  “She wanted forgiveness, redemption.  She left me all the evidence I need to put you away.”  He tilted his head.  “All I needed was you in the US.”

David stood up.  He loomed over Tony.  “You forget that I have diplomatic immunity.  Your proof is useless and this conversation is your word against mine – the word of a known failure against me!” He stabbed a thumb at his own chest.  “I am Mossad!”

“Then tell me why?” asked Tony brusquely. “Why did you order Kate to be killed?”

David shrugged.  “It was not personal.  It was a test of loyalty for Ari, and you were right, we needed the opening in Gibbs’ team for Ziva.  Ziva believed Gibbs would trust her more if she helped him avenge the death of a woman he cared for, just as he once avenged the death of his wife and child.”

Gibbs could not look at Ziva; could not bear the burn of shame of how he’d been played.

Tony cocked his head at the camera.  “Did you get that, Director?”

David startled, casting a hard look in the direction of the camera.

The technician pressed a button and they were suddenly in full video conference with the room and…two more; one with the Secretary of State and the Navy looking grave, and another room in Israel with the Prime Minister front and centre.

Tom cast David a disgusted look and turned his attention to the other room.  “Prime Minister.”

The Israeli Prime Minister looked furious.  “I will convey my apologies directly to the President, Director.”  He glared presumably at his image of David.  “Eli David is hereby removed as Director of Mossad immediately and I approve the withdrawal of his diplomatic immunity.  He is handed over to you to face trial for his crimes against American citizens.  Do what you wish with his daughter. Israel disavows them both.”

The room went dark and disappeared.

“Good work, Director, Assistant Director,” the Secretary of State smiled sharply.  “We’ll debrief tomorrow as scheduled.”

Their box disappeared, leaving only the original conference room.

On the monitor, Homeland agents were entering the conference room to take Eli David into custody.

“You!” David whirled around angrily to face Tony before he collected himself, wrestling his anger under control, reluctant admiration taking its place. “My daughter badly underestimated you, I see.” 

“She’s not the first,” Tony smiled at him grimly. 

Gibbs stood up, needing to leave, needing to escape. 

Tony’s voice sounded through the speakers.  “Eli David, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit the murder of NCIS Special Agent Caitlin Todd…”

The technician cut the feed.

“Gibbs!” Ziva was on her feet.  “Gibbs, please!”

Gibbs ignored her.  He gave Tom a sharp nod and strode out.

o-O-o

Tim followed the rest of his team into the Director’s office, trepidation tripping through his veins. 

The past week didn’t seem real and he was reeling. 

His mind dwelled on Ziva’s stubbornness as she was taken into custody for her part in Kate’s death.

For. Her. Part. In. Kate’s. Death.

He remembered to breathe as his mind stuttered over the thought.

Ziva had played a part in Kate’s death.

She’d defended her brother’s innocence and so Tim had thought she didn’t know, but she had.

And Tony had known.

Tim felt the growl of jealousy in his gut at the thought that Tony had put it together when Tim had missed it.  It was the kind of – what had David called it the day before – out of the hat thinking that Tony excelled in and which Tim did not.

Abby cast a concerned look in his direction as they filed in and stood in front of Owen Granger’s desk.  She signed to him asking him where Gibbs was but Tim shook his head.  He hadn’t seen Gibbs since he’d walked out on Ziva’s attempt to talk with him in the secure room at Homeland.  Burley had ended up driving the team back to the Yard.

The Director of NCIS was standing behind it, scribbling into a folder.  He looked up and straightened at the sight of them. 

“Thank you all for coming,” Granger said gruffly.  “Effective immediately, Agent Gibbs is on a personal sabbatical leave.  He says you’ll do fine stepping up in his absence, Supervisory Special Agent Yates.”  He tossed her a wallet on his desk and Tim realised it was Cassie’s updated ID.

Cassie smiled.  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

“I know you won’t,” Granger said.  His gaze shifted to Tim.

Tim resisted the urge to lift his chin, to stand straighter like he’d had to in his father’s study.  “Sir.”

“You’re appointed to the role of interim Senior Field Agent,” Granger stated briskly.  “Do a good job and we’ll see about making the position a permanent one.”

Tim swallowed hard and nodded.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Agent Werth, any issues with reporting under Yates and McGee?”

Werth had settled into parade rest.  He shook his head.  “No, sir.”

“Agent Yates, there’s a stack of files awaiting your perusal for the selection of a fourth,” Granger said.  “I expect to have a name by the end of the week.  Until then, you and your team are on cold cases.”

“Yes, sir,” Cassie acknowledged.

Granger nodded.  “I also wanted to give you all a heads up that Agent Burley will also be returning to NCIS.  He’s assuming former Assistant Director Vance’s position on the West coast.” 

Tim figured that meant Vance was fired.  Probably arrested and fired.

Granger sighed, his gaze travelling around them.  “The final reason why I asked you all here relates to Agent Gibbs.”

“Is he OK?” blurted out Abby.  “Which, of course he’s not!  But I just meant…”

“We know, Abigail,” Ducky cut in.  “We’re all concerned over Jethro’s state of mind after the revelations of yesterday.”

“He has some truths he needs to work through,” Granger said diplomatically.  “Yesterday, you heard David allude to the fact that Gibbs killed the drug dealer who killed his first wife and child.”

Tim frowned.  He’d almost forgotten about that.  It had been buried under the more personal hurt he’d felt about Ziva’s betrayal.

“Gibbs did shoot Pedro Hernandez,” Granger said bluntly.

Tim heard someone else take a sharp intake of breath and was glad it wasn’t just him.

“Mike Franks set him after Hernandez because there was an ongoing discussion with DEA and State over whether to declare a hit on him given the evidence that he was responsible for the deaths of Shannon and Kelly Gibbs,” Granger continued.  “Franks didn’t trust the politics of it to land on taking Hernandez out.”

“Franks jumped the gun,” Ducky murmured.

“Literally,” Granger agreed.  “The President has agreed to retrospectively sanction the hit.  Gibbs will have a reprimand added to his Marine record; Franks loses his pension.”

“Jethro won’t face any other consequences?” checked Ducky.

Tim appreciated him asking the question.       

Granger shook his head.  “He was a grieving man.  JAG ruled that even though he acted without a legal order that he has a good case for diminished responsibility, Hernandez deserved to be shot, and given Gibbs’ otherwise spotless record for service as a Marine…”

“This Franks took advantage of him,” Werth said tersely.  

Granger nodded, his hang-dog face looking even sadder than normal.  “That’s the size of it.”  He gestured.  “But it’s done, and with the hit sanctioned, it can’t be used against him.”

Anymore.

That was the word that was missing, Tim mused.

“Agent Yates, Werth, if I could have the room,” Granger stated brusquely.

Cassie and Werth exchanged a lightning-fast glance as they took in that they were dismissed.  Werth twitched as though he was struggling with the urge to come to attention, but he wrestled it under control and left with Cassie.

The door closed softly behind them.

“AD DiNozzo called me this morning,” Granger said, “Ziva David has asked to speak to all of you.”

Abby bristled with indignation.  She folded her arms over her graphic t-shirt.  “There is no way I am speaking to that bitch.”

“Abigail!” Ducky admonished her.

“She killed Kate, betrayed Gibbs, betrayed us!” Abby said fiercely.  “I don’t want to see her ever again.”  She looked at the Director.  “I don’t have to, right?”

“You’re under no obligation to do so,” Granger confirmed.

Abby nodded sharply.  “I’d like to go back to my lab now.”

Granger nodded and Abby strode out.

The door banged close behind her.

Ducky sighed heavily.  “I may not agree with the words she used, but I cannot argue that Abigail has a valid point.  What does Anthony think Miss David is trying to accomplish with this request?”

“She needs allies,” Granger said succinctly.  “Tony thinks she’ll try to get you to argue for better treatment on her behalf.”

Ducky grimaced.  “She cannot be that deluded, surely?”

“She’s confident in her ability to appeal to your compassion, Ducky,” Granger said gently, “and in her ability to manipulate you, Agent McGee.”

Tim flushed red.  He set his chin at a stubborn angle.  “Maybe in the past, but not now.” He glanced over at Ducky.  “I’m going to see her.  I need to ask her a few questions of my own.”

Ducky nodded.  “Then I will accompany you, my dear boy.”

They made their way out of the Yard.  Ducky insisted on driving given Tim’s injury and Tim couldn’t bring himself to argue.  His mind was churning with the confrontation to come.

Burley greeted them at the door and ushered them through security and towards a set of interrogation rooms.

Ziva waited for them, handcuffed to a table.  She rose at the sight of them but subsided when the agent stood in the corner of the room moved subtly.

Ducky took the seat nearest the wall and Tim slid into the remaining chair.

Ziva looked tired and pale.  Her face was clean of make-up and there were dark smudges under her eyes, lines around her mouth.  But her clothes – a simple black jeans and green top – were clean and tidy.  Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail.

“You asked to see us?”

Tim was glad when Ducky took the lead. 

Ziva tried a smile, failed and nodded with a sigh.  “I wished to explain, to…to set the tape straight.”

“Record,” Tim corrected her automatically.  “It’s set the record straight and I think that happened yesterday.”

“I did not kill Agent Todd!” Ziva denied passionately.

“But you did take part in the conspiracy to kill her with your father and brother,” Ducky stated sternly.  “Jethro once told me you compiled the brief on his team; that you were the one had, albeit unwittingly as far as he knew at the time, given Ari the idea to take out the women in his life.  He believed your protection of him in shooting your brother and your desire to be part of the team was to make amends.  I think he rather had that belief shattered to smithereens yesterday.”

“I compiled the brief, yes,” Ziva said, “but I did not recommend that he kill her!  My father lied!”

“But you knew Gibbs’ weak point and told them,” Tim said, the pieces falling into place for him.  “You knew what was intended and you did nothing to stop it.”

Ziva’s dark gaze darted to him.  “I was under orders!”

Ducky tutted.  “I would rather expect someone of your heritage to eschew such a defence, Officer David.  Orders do not mean you lose your own morality nor ethics.  You could have chosen differently and achieved your aim to infiltrate NCIS.  After all, you cannot believe that if you had told Gibbs the threat your brother posed to Agent Todd that he would trust you less than if you shot your own brother.”

“My father would not listen,” Ziva insisted.

Ducky sighed.  “What is it you wish from us, Officer David?”

Ziva’s eyes flickered between them before sliding to the mirror behind them.  “I wish for you to speak with Tony.  He will listen to you.”

Tim’s eyes widened.  “What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”  He raised his good hand.  “I haven’t spoken to Tony since we visited him in the hospital just after he got sick.”  He leaned forward, glaring at her.  “I listened to you saying we needed to give him a clean slate and time to get over not being an agent anymore.  I was an idiot and lost a good friend because I allowed myself to be swayed by your poison and my fear of Gibbs.” 

“Tim, please,” Ziva said softly, her eyes filling with tears.

He wasn’t falling for it anymore.

He shook his head.  “That’s all you’ve done since you joined the team – drip poison; manipulate.  Even if you didn’t pull the trigger or actually tell your father and Ari to make Kate the target, you knew.  You’re an accomplice to her murder and I will never help you.”  He stood up.  “I’m done.”

He marched out, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Tim tried to take a breath and found he was already hyperventilating.  He staggered back to lean on the wall, closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing, tried to…

“Here,” Tony’s voice was suddenly in his ear.  He felt the other man take his free hand and place it on a steady heartbeat, a steady fall and rise of someone breathing normally. 

Tim matched Tony’s breathing carefully until he was certain his own was back under his control.  He opened his eyes and gave a sharp nod as he dropped his hand away from Tony.

“Come on,” Tony led him down the corridor to an empty breakroom.  He ushered Tim into a chair and went to get him some juice.

Tim sipped the sweetened apples tentatively.  “Thank you.”

“You need some painkillers?” asked Tony.

Tim shook his head.  “My next dose is in another hour.”  He set the glass down and looked over at the older agent. 

Tony was dressed casually for the office; jeans, a white button-down and his shoulder holster.  It spoke of his comfort in his work.  Tim had long since figured out that a secure and happy Tony wore jeans and a shirt; Tony wore suits when he needed to play into the stereotype of a Fed or when he was unhappy and needed armour.

“You look good,” Tim said.  And Tony did.  He looked fit and healthy – nothing like the pale, thin shadow he’d seen in a hospital bed.  There was also no cane, Tim noted.

Tony simply smiled and gestured at him with the bottle of water he’d gotten for himself.  “You’ve lost some weight.”

“Werth is a Marine,” Tim muttered, embarrassed to admit his jealousy over Werth when he’d had the same jealousy with Tony who’d always been more athletic than him.

“I dropped twenty pounds in my first year with Gibbs,” Tony admitted with a laugh.

Tim attempted a smile before he sighed.  “I’m sorry, Tony.”

“For what, Agent McGee?” asked Tony.

“Being an idiot,” Tim said baldly.  “I should have had your back instead of following Gibbs and Ziva.”

Tony regarded him intently.  “You had Werth’s back, Probie.”

Probie.  Something relaxed in Tim at the familiar nickname.

Tim snorted.  “I should have waited for back-up.”

“That too,” Tony said, “but Werth was never going to wait and you knew that.”

Tim motioned at him.  “What’s going to happen to Ziva?”

“Politics,” Tony said tersely.

Tim’s brow lowered in confusion.

“David promised his cooperation if Ziva was returned to Israel,” Tony said.  “The Secretary of State is inclined to accept that deal if we ban Ziva from entering the US because of the espionage charges and Israel agree to that condition.”

Tim blew out a breath.  “She doesn’t know.”

“No,” Tony said, “and she won’t until the deal’s fully worked out.”  He sighed and gestured with the bottle.  “As much as I’d prefer her to serve jail time for what happened with Kate, Ziva’s relationship with David is toxic enough that a good lawyer could claim she was in fear of life if she didn’t obey his commands.”

“Sucks,” Tim said.

“It does,” Tony agreed.

A sound by the doorway had them both turning to see Ducky striding in, followed by Burley.

“Ah, there you both are,” Ducky said.

“All done, Ducky?” asked Tony gently.

“I fear so,” Ducky said sadly.  “Officer David has made her bed and no matter how uncomfortable she is finding it now, I will not be the person to assist her.”

Burley cleared his throat.  “She didn’t tell Ducky anything we didn’t already know.  She’s focused on saving her own skin.”

“I’m shocked,” Tony drawled.

Ducky adjusted his glasses and peered at Tony.  “And how are you, Anthony?  May I congratulate you on a wonderful performance yesterday?”

“Thank you, Ducky,” Tony said with a grin.

“Did Director Shepard really send you evidence against Director David?” asked Tim, curiosity urging him into asking.

Tony nodded.  “She said she wanted to make amends.”

“A not unusual state of being when one is terminally ill,” Ducky sighed.  He looked over at Tony speculatively.  “Has Jethro contacted you?”

Tony’s eyebrows rose.  “I’m pretty sure Hell would freeze before he’d contact me, Ducky.”

Ducky chuckled.  “I think you’d be surprised.”  He nudged his glasses up his nose.  “Director Granger informed us that Jethro has taken a personal sabbatical.”

Tony grimaced.  “And you’re telling me because…”

“Because you wouldn’t let the man drown then, and I doubt you’re going to let him drown now,” Ducky said.

Tony pointed his water bottle at Ducky.  “I’m not promising anything, Ducky.”

Ducky hummed but gave a small smug smile.  “Come along, Timothy.  We should be getting back to the Yard.”

Tim grimaced but stood up.  He turned back to Tony, nerves curdling his belly a touch as he took a breath of courage.  “Can I call you?”

“Any time, Probie,” Tony said.

Tim felt the tension rush out of him like water out of a dam.  He nodded quickly and followed Ducky out as Burley escorted them back out of the building.

Tim paused with his hand on the car door as he glanced back at the building.  He felt a pang of remorse at how he had treated Tony in the past; at how he’d let Ziva lead him about where Tony was concerned.  It was in the past, Tim promised himself.  He had apologised and Tony had accepted.  He wasn’t certain he’d be so gracious in Tony’s shoes, but he was glad Tony had forgiven him.

And he was glad he’d stood his ground with Ziva.  Too little, too late, but he hadn’t folded just because she’d asked him to help her.  Maybe she wouldn’t pay for what she’d done to Kate, but she wouldn’t benefit from it any longer either and that had to mean something.    

“Are you ready to head back, Timothy?” asked Ducky pointedly, breaking into Tim’s thoughts and dragging him back to the present.

Tim took a deep breath.  “I’m ready, Ducky.”

o-O-o

The house really hadn’t changed.

Same tidy if straggly front lawn; same tired front porch; same open door.

Tony made his way down to the basement, unsurprised when Gibbs didn’t look up. 

His old mentor sat on a stool staring into the corner where Ari had died.  He looked awful.  Pale with flushed cheeks; bags under his icy blue eyes that seemed dull in the dim lighting.  The jeans and Marine hoodie were standard off-duty wear for Gibbs, but Tony figured he’d been wearing them a whole day and then some.

Tony set the bourbon down on the worktable.  He tossed nails from jars and blew out the dust before pouring them both a measure.  He handed Gibbs his and Gibbs took it with a grunt. 

Tony raised his own jar.  “To Kate.”

Gibbs raised his drink.  “To Kate.”

The liquor went down in a burn that made Tony grimace.  He poured them a second round and sat on the stairs.

“You did good,” Gibbs murmured, staring into the depths of the jar.    

Tony hummed.  “Jenny gave us a running start with the evidence she handed over.”

Gibbs sighed heavily and shook his head.  “She was part of it?”

“Yes and no,” Tony held up his glass in a silent request for patience when Gibbs’ gaze snapped to him.  “Jenny made a deal with David that she’d find a place for his liaison when she took the helm in exchange for information on Benoit,” he said.  “She claimed that she didn’t know that David had conspired to kill Kate until after the fact, but she recorded their conversation when she confronted him on it after Ari was killed.  David confirmed in that call that he’d ordered Ziva to kill Ari to gain your trust and to make it easier for him to place her on the team.  Jenny claimed she had no reason to believe Ziva was part of Kate’s death or she wouldn’t have upheld the agreement to take her on as a liaison.”

“I was an idiot,” Gibbs said, chagrin written all over his face and in the slump of his shoulders.

“You were fixated on your white whale,” Tony said evenly.  “You missed the sharks.”

Gibbs huffed.  His eyes narrowed on Tony.  “You always suspected Ziva, didn’t you?”

Tony shrugged.  “I knew she’d killed Ari, figured she’d done it to gain your trust.  That was suspicious.” He gestured with the jar.  “More suspicious that there was a convenient spot for her opened up with Kate’s death.”  He sighed.  “But I dropped it eventually.  She wasn’t spying back then, passing information.  She seemed to really be trying to change her life.  I thought she deserved a chance.”  His lips twisted.  “She’s not the only one with Daddy issues.”  He shrugged the thought of Senior away.  “Then you went on your Mexican retreat and I had no time to second guess Ziva.”

Gibbs grimaced at that and tossed his drink back.  He poured himself a third jar.  “Jenny screwed you over.”

“She made up for it transferring me to Tom,” Tony said easily.

Gibbs nodded.  He picked up a piece of paper from the bench and tossed it at Tony.

Tony caught it and opened it up.  “Rule fifty-one,” he read aloud, “sometimes I’m wrong.”

Gibbs drank back his third jar and set in on the bench beside him.  “I screwed up and you paid the price for it when you got sick.”

Tony lifted an eyebrow as he pointedly raised the slip of paper again. 

“And then I screwed up more cutting you loose from the team instead of helping you,” Gibbs conceded. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought.  That you’d be safer if you weren’t on the team anymore?”  He shook his head.

Tony sighed and drank his jar.  “I never regretted saving you and Maddie, Gibbs.  If it had been the end of my career or even my life, I would have accepted that knowing I went out on a good note.” 

“It was my fault,” Gibbs said tightly.

“If you’re expecting me to argue, you’ll be waiting a while,” Tony said mildly.  He was pleased when Gibbs looked disconcerted.  “You were an idiot, Gibbs.  Your decisions and actions almost led to the death of a young woman.  They caused me to throw myself into dirty water and almost die from the infection I caught.  You were an idiot.” 

Gibbs looked away, ashamed.

Tony continued.  “But you were an idiot acting like a father with a daughter, not like Special Agent Gibbs with a potential victim.  And I think some of your idiocy with me was about guilt.”  He waited a beat. “I forgive you.”

Gibbs closed his eyes briefly.  He gave a nod.  He looked over at Tony.  “What now?”

“Ziva’s being deported to Israel with a ban on her returning to the US,” Tony said, deliberately misinterpreting Gibbs’ question.  “Daddy David is already stashed somewhere safe where he’ll divulge his secrets in a deal that has nothing to do with justice for Kate.”

“Politics,” Gibbs bit out with disgust.  He caught Tony’s gaze.  “But that wasn’t what I meant and you know that.”

Tony stood up.  “You’re the one who walked away, Gibbs.  Ball’s in your court.”

Gibbs got to his feet and walked over to him.  For a second Tony thought he was going to be the recipient of a head-slap but instead Gibbs cupped the back of his head and pulled him in close.  He slowly raised his hands and returned the hug. 

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Gibbs murmured.

Tony squeezed him lightly and stepped away.  “You still do steak on the fire?”

“Yeah,” Gibbs agreed.

“Tomorrow, twenty-hundred hours,” Tony said, starting up the steps, “I’ll bring the beer.”

Gibbs nodded.  “I’ll be here.”

Tony gave him a sketchy salute and bounded up the rest of the stairs.  He closed the front door behind him and breathed in.  The air was cold and sharp, filling his scarred lungs with an ache.  His phone rang.

“DiNozzo,” he answered, heading for his car.  A murder at the White House?  “I’ll meet you there, Director.”

fin.