So... this one is written for Mark Harmon's 65th birthday. Unfortunately, it is late because... Well, I didn't get it out in time.

But I really hope it's worth it.

Based on Swan Song, Season 8; Episode 23.

A dark storm is coming.

Tony hated him. Hated. He was a dirty cop in every sense of the word. CIA Agent Kort was absolutely... Tony hated him.

Trent Thomas Kort was always right. He was always meddling. He was uncooperative. He kept people from doing their jobs. He didn't care about anyone else except himself.

Bend-sinister, 1st class. That was Agent Kort.

Tony growled at the mere thought of him.

Kort was a traitorous, malicious back-stabber.

Tony had almost been fooled after Trent had told him that he was a CIA operative- a handler for La Grenouille. But then the lines blurred. The lines all seemed to blur together for Trent Kort. Hero. Villain. Demon... Worse demon.

He was almost like a hybrid of Gibbs and Tony, if you thought about it more closely. Gibbs's Distance and Ruthlessness combined with Tony's self-admitted Obnoxiousness and Arrogance. Except Kort lacked any form of standards whatsoever.

That's why Tony found it incredibly gratifying to throw Kort against the wall and yell into his face. To threaten the Agent of Death.

And maybe it wasn't the right thing to do- it essence it was a reminder of how truly close they were. Adamant and Dauntless... The Anti-Heroes. The morally grey. Those willing to do whatever to whomever to get what they needed.

But... wasn't Kort a villain? A bad guy? Tony always tried to justify himself... Maybe Tony was doing the right thing. Or not. But he could have been a flash of grey light in an opaque void.

Perhaps the flash of lightning in a dark storm.

The Desert Heat to scorch away your soul

Ziva David knew death. She had known death since she was only a child.

It wasn't supposed to faze her. She couldn't allow it to control her. Control her actions... her decisions... because lives hung in the balance.

She was one the daughter of Eli David, and of Mossad's best. Which in turn meant that she was supposed to be coarse and callous... Unreachable. Invincible.

Still... she wasn't like that. She wasn't invincible. Of course she wasn't invincible. None of them were.

Everyone knew that. At least, they were supposed to. And if anyone forgot, reality would come with a bomb and remind you. In the most painful way possible.

She knew pain and loss and death and fear... but it was good to stand in its wake, was it not? To prove that she could rise above it? To prove courage? Honor? Worth?

It always seemed as though everyone misunderstood. They always thought of her as unfeeling. Immune to the pain of loss, unfazed by the sight of death's touch.

She wasn't. She was... almost sure of it. Or maybe she was calloused. Not immune, but resistant. Not unbreakable, but unwilling to yield.

Perhaps it was simply the heat of the desert that burned her so long... that perhaps she simply forgot or ignored the pain. She learned to live with it, and live beyond it.

Of course, she preferred to be hot- burning, even- than be cold. She preferred the hurt... the scorching, painful heat upon her soul than the abysmal coldness of family... of betrayal... of death.

So Pray for the Rain

Gibbs always retreated to his woodshop to think. Whenever he needed time away to himself, he would go back to his basement. Whether it be a boat... toys for children... or a coffin... he would always find a way back to his woodshop. Always. It was his anchor. His anchor to himself.

Of course, in the insanity that came with the job description, he needed that escape. He needed that time to himself. Time to think, time to relax, time to regroup thoughts, and avoid blowing up on DiNozzo or McGee. Not that he still didn't blow up occasionally, but he was almost sure he would have been in an asylum already if not for his woodshop.

That wasn't the only reason Gibbs liked his woodshop, though. He also went there for the memories.

The memories were so deeply layered around his wood shop, it felt like all of his ghosts- all of his demons resided there. Everything that haunted him stayed there, where he could reach them, and they could reach him. Still, he liked it that way. He liked his woodshop haunted.

Haunted by his memories... Consecrated by spilt blood... An archive of memories indomitable by time, or even by his death. Anyone who had ever truly known him or respected him understood- they understood the gravity of his woodshop. They respected the woodshop itself, because they understood the memories that resided there. They understood the Unspoken Law that no blood, innocent, or otherwise should ever again be spilt in the woodshop. They understood that you sanded with the grain, not against.

Yet, in afterthought, Gibbs didn't realize on that cold, rainy evening that another ghost would be joining the ranks of those already there. A death that did not trespass the Unspoken Law, yet... a death notwithstanding. A consecrating death, but one birthed in darkness, as the first was.

So when he knelt over the lifeless form of his mentor, he... well... he prayed for the rain to continue its downpour. To cleanse the newly consecrated ground...

That it would wash away the Evil.

So, I am interested to see what you all think of this one. Especially that nasty little Guest who told me to never write again.

Ergo, Please review.

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