Oooh, fancy new site set up! Plus a complaint that my password is too easy. I suppose after posting here for, what, nearly a decade? I should probably change it. Ha! Anyway, anyway....onto the new.

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE TONY
By TIPPER

Status: Complete in 8 Chapters (I'll post late each day, as I revise each chapter)

Genre/Rating: T (for language and violence); action/adventure and au…of sorts.

Characters: Everyone, though it's from Tony's POV.

A/N: I dreamt this one night, around the same time that I started rereading stories in my old fandom a few months back. I'm sure it's been done before, many times (I admit, I haven't read a lot of NCIS fanfiction), but I enjoyed writing it anyway. And thanks to NT for betaing, even if she doesn't really watch the show. She's a good soul.

Description: When Tony wakes up somewhere he couldn't possibly be, he finds himself both lost and, curiously, home.

"Don't die, I'll get you water. Stay there. Don't move, I'll get you water. Don't die until later." -- The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, 1966.

CHAPTER ONE: SO NOT WASHINGTON, D.C.

Tony sat up quickly, wincing at the headache pounding in his skull. Groaning, he grabbed his head in his hands, willing the tilting room to stop swaying and for his body to stop shivering.

After a moment, he drew his hands away, blinking with puzzlement at the red and pink patchwork quilt covering his bed.

It took him a little while, but he finally realized why it seemed odd: he had never seen it before.

What the hell…? He looked around, and his eyes widened. By the time he finished staring blankly at his surroundings, the headache was all but gone. So was the wound on his forehead, where he could have sworn he'd been shot. But the skin was unbroken under his fingers—not even a scar.

Pulling his hand away, he stared at his fingers for a long moment, noting the thick calluses on the palms and on the fingers. These weren't his hands. Tossing back the quilt, he frowned at the clearly homespun cotton pajama bottoms he was wearing, and finally to his bare feet, which were slightly bruised and, from the looks of it…leather stained.

His fingers curled closed, his gaze once more lifting to study the strange room.

It was all wood, both walls and floor, covered in bright, colorful rugs like you might see in a shop selling Navajo goods. Even part of the ceiling had rugs covering it, as if for insulation. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished. There was a rocking chair next to a gabled window, a couple of books resting on the seat. There was also a small dark wooden dresser with a mirror, comb and…a gun-belt. With a really old looking gun. Okay. Closer to him was a bedside table with a pocket-watch on top of it – a nice one – and a half-filled glass of water. There was also another book. He picked it up and read the binding: Shakespeare's Midsummer's Night Dream.

Great. Someone had to be having a joke on him. He was going to kill McGee.

The sickening scent of blood suddenly assaulted his nostrils, powerful and overwhelming, bile already rising in his throat. He bent forward, hands over his mouth, gritting his eyes shut against the images flashing through his mind. A warehouse, cement flooring, black and blue walls, light, windows....McGee on the ground next to him, bleeding…bleeding to death. Someone was laughing. No. No!

"No!" he screamed, grabbing at the quilt.

And, just as suddenly, the images, sound and the smell were gone.

He breathed heavily, still gripping the quilt, his fingers aching a little with how tightly he was holding it. Slowly, he let go, feeling the blood returning to his white knuckled fingers, a feathery tingle. He stared at his hands again, at the realness of them, of the coarseness of the quilt, and shook his head.

What the hell was going on?

Rolling off the metal bed, frowning a little at the worn creak of metal springs under the lumpy mattress, Tony placed his bare feet on braided rug and stood. He wobbled a little, disorientation washing over him. Sitting down again, he pressed the base of his palm to his forehead and willed the returning beat of the headache to recede again.

A small mirror sat atop the dresser, and he snatched it, staring at the person in the reflection. It was his face sure enough, except…except with leathery brown skin, hair bleached blond by the sun and…was that a broken nose?

This had better be a dream. However real it felt, no way was he accepting a broken nose.

He touched it, grimacing a little. Then again, it did give him a sort of rugged qual….

A soft knock at the door to the small room had him looking up. He frowned, uncertain about what to say.

"Um…."

"Tony?"

He instantly straightened, relief flooding through him. "McGee?" Oh thank God! In seconds, he was at the door, pulling it open, grinning, waiting to hear the joke. "McGee, you scared the crap…." He stopped, too surprised to continue.

McGee stood on the other side of the door, his lips pressed together in that pouty way of his, dressed like something out of an old western. He wore long, faded brown trousers, stained with dust, a cream button up shirt under a dark green vest, and a clearly patched dun-brown corduroy jacket on top.

Tony's jaw dropped. "McGee?" He blinked, taking in the fact that McGee looked perfectly healthy (and not dying on the floor of a warehouse), but also like he'd been shopping in the basement of a Goodwill. Ignoring the second for a moment, he reached out to touch the other man's not-bloody chest briefly, wonderingly. "You okay?"

McGee jerked away at the touch with a frown, his expression clearly baffled (and a little creeped-out). "I'm fine. I wasn't the one laid up and sick for two weeks with fever." He tilted his head. "You okay? You look better."

"Uh…" Tony shook his head, wincing a little as the headache returned in full force, and lifted his hand to his head again. He blinked anew at McGee's clothes. "What are you wearing?" he asked, smiling a little to hide the pain. "Did you lose a bet?"

McGee's eyes narrowed. "No. My clothes are perfectly fine, thank you very much. Just because I don't spend every dime I earn on fancy duds like you doesn't mean I look bad." He drew himself up, his hands tugging at the lapels of the ugly jacket. "I'll have you know I got a compliment on this jacket just today from Abby. She said I looked dapper."

Tony's right eye twitched. "Dapper?"

"Yes."

"You're kidding."

McGee frowned. "No. Why would I kid?" He shrugged. "Besides, we have to work today and these are comfortable."

"Work?"

"Well," his lips screwed up slightly, almost childishly, "only if you're feeling up to it. That's part of the reason I'm here." His eyebrows lifted. "Are you feeling up to it?"

"Um…I don't…." Actually, he felt like hell, dizzy now as well as the headache, and he was very, very confused. He didn't want to work feeling like this. "I don't know," he finished. "I'm…I'm sort of confused, McGee."

"Do you have to call me that?" McGee sighed, his tone long-suffering. "At some point, Tony, using that name is going to get old, you know that, right?"

Tony blinked, his confusion growing even more. What? What the hell did that mean?

"What?" he repeated out loud.

"I'm going to forgive you, since you've been sick, but you know how I feel about it, no matter what Dad says. So, quit it, okay?"

Tony blinked again, but before he could say anything about the bomb in that last sentence (Dad?), McGee's eyebrows lifted high on his head and he tried to look past Tony into the room. A half second later, he turned a quizzical gaze to Tony. Or perhaps, more accurately, a suspicious gaze.

"Okay, what gives?" McGee asked. "You haven't let me in. Some reason why?" His brow furrowed. "You don't have a girl in there, do you?"

Tony almost choked on the hysterical laughter bubbling inside of him. "What? I don't even…." He stopped, putting a hand to his head again.

McGee tilted his head slightly, like a curious dog. Then he backed up some more, almost to the opposite side of the hallway.

"Tell you what," Tim began, his voice softening, as if speaking to someone holding a loaded gun, "why don't I just go fetch Ducky." He started backing away down the dark, wood-slatted hall, towards a set of stairs at the end. "He's just downstairs, having breakfast. I'm sure he won't mind coming up to say hello." He flashed a worried smile, and then disappeared down the stairs.

Tony slumped slightly as McGee disappeared, leaning against the doorframe.

"What the hell is going on?" he whispered, staring at the brightly colored braided rugs lining the hallway floor. "I feel like I'm trapped in an LL Bean catalogue." Running a shaking hand through his hair, he turned and glanced again at the room he'd woken up in. There was a button-down shirt thrown over one of the bedposts of the headboard, and a pair of trousers with suspenders. Grabbing both, he dressed quickly and headed out of the room.

He was at the top of the stairs when he stopped again, staring in wonder out the small window.

So not Washington, DC. Not even east coast.

Instead, he was looking out at a barren landscape, mostly green and brown in hue. Short grass, some trees, and a whole lot of flat.

He was in the west somewhere.

"Oh crap."

"Tony?"

The quiet call startled him, even though the kind voice underlying it was more than familiar. Tony's gaze slid sideways, coming to a stop on his old friend standing at the base of the stairs. Ducky's eyebrows lifted behind thin-rimmed glasses, before the doctor's expression slipped into a smile.

"Hello, Tony," he began, his head tilting like McGee's had. "Tim says you might still be feeling a little off. I was just coming up to check on you."

Like McGee, Ducky was dressed like something out of "Unforgiven." Dark corduroy pants, a pale blue oxford shirt, a dark brown jacket, and, honest to God, a blue bandana around his neck. A bandana. Never in a million years would he have pictured Ducky wearing a bandana.

As he took this all in, Ducky climbed the rest of the stairs until he was standing just in front of Tony, who was still on the landing. The doctor's eyes had narrowed slightly, scrutinizing. A dry, soft hand reached to touch his face, and Tony backed away.

"I'm not sick," he insisted. Ducky just smiled again.

"Let me be the judge of that, young man."

Tony swallowed, but stood still then, letting Ducky press thumbs into his jugular, touch his forehead, and then grabbed his ears. He grimaced slightly—what the hell was up with the ears?

"Open your mouth, would you?"

Tony dutifully opened his mouth, and, just because he expected it to be the next order, he said "ah."

Ducky arched an eyebrow at him, but returned his attention to whatever was happening inside Tony's mouth.

Finally, the doctor backed away, lowering his arms and still arching his eyebrow as he studied the taller man.

"Well," he began, resting hands on his hips, "other than a rather bad case of halitosis, you appear to be fairly well. How do you feel? Tim said something about you being somewhat discombobulated?"

Discombobulated. Hell, yes, did he feel discombobulated. If, by discombobulated, Ducky meant, freaking the hell out because he had no idea what the hell was going on.

"I'm okay," he said instead.

Ducky watched him a moment, as if waiting for more. Finally, he sighed.

"Fine. I'm sure Jethro will soon determine whether that's true or not."

Tony's eyebrows shot up. Gibbs? Where was he in this nightmare world?

Ducky turned to head back down the stairs. "If you're feeling ill still," he called over his shoulder, "just let me know. I plan to be in town all day today, so can swing by the office whenever you want to."

Tony swallowed, watching the doctor stop at the bottom, glance up at him once more, frown slightly, and then move on.

Tony was almost afraid to follow him.

He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his brow. This wasn't real. Whatever, wherever, hell, whenever this was, he wasn't really here. He was in a hospital somewhere, of that he was sure. He and McGee. Because McGee had been shot covering him.

Shot. In the chest. Bleeding. So much blood. Oh God.

He barely registered the footsteps running up the steps, or the sudden grip on his arms, pulling his hand away from his face.

He opened his eyes, and found Tim staring at him, face bright with concern.

"I'm going to tell Dad you're not well," the younger man said. "You can lie to Ducky, but you can't lie to me. I know you too well."

"Tim…."

"Nope, not gonna buy it. You just rest easy here at Abby's until the coach comes, then you can come meet our cousin. But you're not working. Dad'll just have to deal."

Most of that made sense, except…."Cousin?"

Tim smiled softly. "Yeah. How time flies, eh? Remember when Dad first told us about her?" He grinned, musing. "Stephanie's brother-in-law's brother's…adopted daughter. Is that right? I still think it's nuts, especially since Dad divorced Stephanie years ago. Well, her coach arrives today. Gonna be weird. I'm still not sure what to expect." He kept an arm on Tony's as he started down the stairs, taking Tony with him. "I mean," Tim's voice softened to a whisper, "she's a Jew."

Jew? Hang on…. "You mean, Ziva? She's coming here?"

"Today. See what you miss all laid up and sick? She telegraphed Dad last week, said she'd be on today's stage. I mean, I know Dad invited her and everything, but I never actually thought she'd come." They hit the bottom landing, and Tony barely had time to register what was clearly the ground floor of a pretty impressive looking old west saloon when Tim started shoving him towards a table in the corner where Ducky sat with a hilariously garbed Jimmy Palmer. Jimmy looked like an undertaker in that black suit, and there was, honest to God, a black top hat on the table. He almost laughed, except that he was afraid it'd come out more hysterical than genuine. Jimmy grinned up at him, giving him a gap-toothed smile, and dug back into the hash browns and beans he was eating.

Ducky watched him with a smile as well, pushing the chair out as Tim practically pushed Tony down into it. The older man then arched an eyebrow at Tim.

"He needs a jacket. It's too cold for him to just be wearing a shirt."

Tim nodded and, without another word, bounded away, headed back to the stairs. Tony watched him leave, feeling oddly bereft without his bro…without McGee.

"Hey, handsome," Abby's sweet voice purred from behind him. Tony twisted, and couldn't hide the smile that lit his lips upon seeing his favorite forensic…bartender? His eyebrows lifted, and Abby smirked in return, standing hip-shot with a tray of food and drinks balanced on one hand. More hash browns, beans and, quite distinctly, pan-fried ham. Next to it, a pot of coffee, three mugs, and a silver flask. Smoothly, she had the plate in front of Ducky, the coffees arranged in front of all three of them, and placed the flask in front of Tony.

"A little concoction of my own making," she informed, patting Tony on the shoulder. "That should clear the rest of that cold out of your head." She bent over, kissing the top of his head, and Tony had to look away from the low cut top she wore. Good lord, Abby in something low cut? And a long skirt—not being able to see her fantastic legs was almost as strange as not seeing her in a lab coat. He obviously blushed, because Ducky was chuckling even as Abby ruffled Tony's hair and sashayed (yes, sashayed) away.

"Better not let Tim see you looking at her that way," Jimmy noted, mouth full of beans. Tony grimaced.

"Better not let me see the inside of your full mouth again, Jimmy, or I might show you what I had for dinner last night."

Ducky chuckled again, carving into the ham.

"Though it's not like Tim'll ever make a move again anyway," Jimmy added, as if Tony hadn't spoken, shoveling more food in his mouth. "What's it been, three, four years?"

"Four," Ducky replied. He eyed Tony over his coffee as Tony screwed the cap off the flask and took a sniff…

"Yagh!" He held it far away from him, screwing the cap back on. It smelled like death!

"Better drink it, Tony," advised the good doctor. "Abby won't be put off, and you know it."

"I'm concerned I may not have a throat left if I do," he answered, taking a dram of coffee to try to kill the smell that was still in his nostrils.

"My guess is," Ducky said, picking up the flask and sloshing it around, "raw egg, Tabasco, tomato juice, pepper and a healthy dose of Red-Eye."

"Red-Eye?" Tony choked. "I've been sick, and you recommend that I drink whiskey?"

Ducky gave him an odd look. "Of course I do, young man. One of the best ways to get the blood flowing. In fact, I just read that most interesting article in the latest Boston Medical and Surgical Journal on the medicinal effects of alcohol for treating cholera. It appears there are still some arguments over whether one should, as they say, feed a fever or keep it down, but did you know that, at least among typhoid cases, it has been determined that—?"

"Uh, Doc?"

Ducky frowned a little at being interrupted. "Yes, Tony?"

"Can we not talk about sicknesses right now?"

The doctor's expression softened, and he suddenly smiled. "Of course. My apologies. Ah, here comes Tim and…ah." He leaned back, eyes taking on that analytic look Tony knew so well.

Tony turned as Tim stopped at the bottom of the stairs, holding a jacket, vest and gunbelt in both hands, stock-still as Leroy Jethro Gibbs pushed through the saloon doors and surveyed the room.

Tony had never really imagined Gibbs in the old west, but, damned if it didn't fit him perfectly. The same granite features, the same hawk-like eyes, the same simmering anger just below the surface…all of it was very present in the simply dressed man that now studied the saloon as if he owned it. And when those blue eyes landed on Tony, he knew this man also believed he owned him too.

Gibbs strode forward, a long, dark brown duster lifting in his wake, revealing loose brown trousers and a gray shirt. There was a silver star on the man's chest, and, hell, if it didn't suit him to a tee.

He stopped at the table, staring down at Tony just as he'd done before a hundred times in the Yard, just waiting. But, for once, Tony really had no idea what was expected of him.

"Um," Tony offered, clearing his throat. "Hi?"

Gibbs arched an eyebrow. "Tony."

"Boss."

Both eyebrows arched at that. "Boss?"

"I mean, um…" Tony glanced nervously at Tim, who still seemed rooted to the spot at the bottom of the stairs. No help there. He looked again at Gibbs, and because, well, who else could Tim have meant? "Dad?"

The tiniest hint of a smile on the pale lips, and Gibbs gave a nod. "I take it by the first title you just gave me, that you're ready to get back to work today?"

Tony blinked. "Um…" But before he could finish, several things happened at once. Tim was suddenly at his back, muscling him to his feet so he could put the vest and jacket on and stating definitively that Tony wasn't ready to work. Abby was pressing a coffee into Gibbs hand (and, shoot, if there wasn't a distinct smell of Irish mixed in with the brew), while somehow also shoving the flask back into Tony's hands. Ducky was saying something about after affects of a bad sickness on the mind (did he just say, "fever-induced brain damage?"), while Jimmy tried to ungracefully to exit, talking something about cleaning up the buggy (buggy? Really?). Gibbs just continued to watch Tony throughout it all, that tiny smile on his face that was neither amusement nor agreement nor, really, anything.

It was too much. Tony closed his eyes and felt himself start to fall forward, only to feel the strong hold of Tim's hands on his arms, stopping him from crashing against the table.

"Sit," Tim ordered. So he did, and Tim dropped the gunbelt in his lap. Tony just stared at the worn leather handle of the revolver.

"See?" Tim asked then, clearly not at Tony.

Tony looked up at something clattered on the table in front of him. It was a silver star similar to Gibbs, but with a circle around it and the word "Deputy" clearly stamped on the metal. "Calm down, Tim. No ranch work," Gibbs narrowed his eyes at Tim as if chastising him for something, "but he…you," Gibbs was looking at Tony again, "could work the jail. I need to do some work on the ranch, and Tim's supposed to be finishing that….What was it again?"

"Dissertation, Dad."

"Dissertation thing of his. He's way behind because he's been covering you at both the jail and at the ranch. So, you take the jail for the day."

Tim gripped his shoulder. "I don't think he—" He stopped in the face of Gibbs' stare, eyes lowering briefly before lifting again. "What about Ziva? She's supposed to be on the noon stage."

"We'll all be there." Gibbs' expression tightened. "Girl needs our help. We're going to give it to her, whether she wants it or not." Tony instantly perked up. Ziva was in trouble?

"You really think she needs our help?" Tim asked, his tone skeptical. "From the way you spoke of her, she didn't seem like someone who needed anyone's help."

"Everyone needs help sometime. She's coming here for a reason. I aim to know why, and make sure she's safe while she deals with it. And so will you and your brother."

Ziva was in trouble. Tony's body almost hummed with concern. Not that it wasn't a new feeling—for some reason, Ziva always seemed to be in trouble lately. Whether from family, her boyfriend, her past….woman was a walking magnet for scumbags, it seemed.

He was on his feet without remembering standing up, grabbing the deputy star. "We'll keep her safe," he said, holding the metal tight between his fingers.

"I know," Gibbs said. He reached across the table then, resting a cool, rough hand on the side of Tony's face, and then slapped his cheek lightly. "Because you're good boys."

"Comes from having a good role model," Ducky noted casually, still drinking his coffee in his seat. "Albeit, one who is more stubborn than a mule stuck in a mudpatch on a rainy day."

Gibbs just smiled and, with a sweep of his coat, sat down. Abby materialized from somewhere, putting a plate of the same food in front of him as she had for Ducky. She glanced up at Tony, her brow furrowed slightly in concern.

"What about you? Feel up to eating something other than broth?"

Tony frowned, glancing at the food, and shook his head. He still felt too out of sorts. Right now, all he really wanted was to get away and to get some fresh air.

"Can you send something along to the jail in a bit?" Tim asked. "I think he needs some fresh air, walk around." Damn, his brother was a mind reader. "Come on," Tim said, plucking at his jacket sleeve, "I'll walk you over there."

Tony gave him a grateful smile, and turned to leave.

"Unh uh," Abby tsked, sliding the silver flask in his breast pocket. "Not without this. I promise you," she smiled slyly, "it'll save your life." She patted the pocket. "Trust me."

He couldn't resist smiling. "Always, Abby," he promised. "Always."

TBC…

Yes. I stuck them in the old west. What's that they always say? Write what you know? It's like a sickness with me! But, of course, you do all know it's not what it seems....