Authors Note--This is rated M for references to rape and violence. Don't like don't read. Not to mention it's slash.
Review please.
"Men, we must celebrate our good fortune." A man said jovially holding a champagne glass between his forefinger, middle finger and thumb, tipping it towards the other men sat around the circular table he continued, "I haven't had such a pleasant night in my forty years."
The men cheered, as they tipped their own glasses to the overly plump man. Smirks and twinkles in their own soulless eyes, their movements languid with exhaustion. Boasting of their triumph they called across the table boisterously reliving the night's excitement while others rapidly whispered plans for the next nights' excursions.
"They won't be sending no spooks to us anymore." One man bragged loudly.
"Not after that."
"It's a pity we had to let him go, he was so pretty. And tight." Another man said, smiling.
"And he was a quiet one too. We usually get beggars."
The men laughed, their sick depravity growing, no one noticed the huddled and shaking form escaping.
THREE HOURS LATER IN D.C.
He let the three hour drive calm him, driving always had no matter what was going on; he just needed time to not think, to clear his mind of all thoughts and feelings. He was an undercover operative, he constantly had to play roles, pushing himself to the back of his mind and only letting out whom he had to play. He could make a persona just with the way he stood, with the look in his eyes and how he spoke. It was a gift, as well as a curse--there was only so much pretending one could do before reality and pretend blurred and you no longer knew who you were. He had never had that problem, mainly because he knew how to departmentalize his mind; others cracked under the pressure or went rogue, he had seen first hand what happened to agents that went down that road. He wouldn't let that happen to him.
He shut down his feelings completely, or tried too; yet something just kept bubbling up from deep inside where he had shoved all the pain. He knew he should feel traumatized, violated, angry, helpless, vulnerable, all of the above; but he felt nothing, except a tense knot of relief unwinding in his chest and a nausea that made his stomach churn. He had waited years for something like this to happen, ever since he joined the agency they had been warning him that he may get captured and tortured, that the worst things imaginable could and probably would be done to him. Yet he had somehow escaped such things for years, he had watched his fellow agents come back with scars and war stories; with missing limbs and mental illnesses. He had somehow lucked out of the pain. Until tonight that is, he knew it would catch up to him eventually, he was even preparing himself for it, but nothing could have prepared him for what had happened only five hours before. He could still feel them inside him, fidgeting he cringed instantly remembering it hurt him to move the bottom half of his body.
Something was bothering him; something deep inside, something he had pushed down for ages and couldn't recall--something he didn't want to remember. He just kept driving, driving until he could remember nothing, driving until he had trouble recalling his own name. He didn't want to delve into the feeling that was nagging him, he wanted to do what he did best--ignore it until it went away and everything was normal again. That he could do, with ease. He found himself outside his apartment complex, before he remembered he couldn't stay there; they had somehow found out about him and had tracked him down in his own home, it was there he had been captured, in his own living room. He prided himself on being careful, aware and safe. And yet these people he had only met a week before already knew who he was and where he lived. Either he was getting sloppy or the criminals were getting smarter--which wasn't likely.
He found himself driving again, he wasn't sure where he was going but his feet and hands seemed to know perfectly well so he let them have control as he tried to stay out of the depths of his mind. He floated just beyond the surface, his eyes semi-glazed over; he didn't notice the police cruiser behind him until they had turned their sirens on. He looked down realizing he was speeding, he eased off the pedal and pulled to the side of the road, pulling out his gun he quickly placed the silencer on it and held it to the window along with his badge, just in case they were actual policemen and not the bad guys dressed to fool him. He felt more than heard the officer tapping on his window with his flashlight; he lazily hit the button to roll it down. Upon seeing the weapon, the officer recoiled and went for his own but he lifted his own and shook his head.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He drawled. "Show me your I.D."
The officer stood there confused, normally he'd give the poor sap a chance to compose himself but he was on edge tonight and didn't want the men who had him before to catch up to him. "Now. I won't ask again. Officer." The man in the uniform withdrew his badge and handed it over, not taking his eyes off the man to his left, he scrutinized the chiseled metal, smooth underneath his rough fingers. He nodded his head before lowering his weapon and handing the officer back his ID, however he did not put the gun away, instead he placed it across his lap and held up his own I.D. that read C.I.A. He nearly rolled his eyes as the officer looked disbelievingly at the I.D.
"Yes we do exist. Now are you going to give me my ticket or are you going to hold me up here until the bad guys come 'round to abduct me again?" He said annoyed. The officer began nervously, but quickly writing out a ticket while he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and continuously checked the road, both behind him, in front of him and on both sides of him. He leered at the man before him, not even in his late twenties, and if his shaking was anything to go by, scared out of his mind. He nearly sent up a prayer for the boy to toughen up, if a CIA Agent scared the kid this easily he'd never make it in any form of law enforcement. He watched as the kid uncertainly tore of the ticket then breathed in quickly.
"You…know..I could probably just let you off with a warning. No ticket necessary?" The officer nearly stuttered, anxiety clear in his voice. He growled.
"You kept me waiting here for ten minutes watching you scribble nonsense on a piece of paper just to tell me you were letting me off with a warning?!" He growled angrily. He knew he was letting his feelings get the best of him but he didn't care. At the moment, he just needed to put distance between him and his attackers.
"Well…um…" The boy offered.
"I have half a mind to put a bullet through that thick skull of yours." With that, he floored it making it out of the town in record time. His mind still hadn't caught up with his body in terms of where the heck he was going, all he knew was that he was heading in the opposite direction of the people that would come after him once they noticed he was gone. He wasn't one to run, but he also wasn't a martyr or a fool. He knew when he had to get out for the greater good, instead of being some tough guy that thinks he can do it all. He felt a thread of shame weave its way into his heart but he instantly dismissed it, shoved it in with the rest of his feelings.
Minutes later, he surprised himself by hitting the brakes, nearly flying out the window shield he sat back, still staring straight ahead at the road. His breathing was ragged and harsh even to his own ears, he gasped as he leaned over the steering wheel unable to get air into his lungs he opened his car door and slipped out. His legs shook, slamming the car door he leaned against it, trying to regain his breath, a new panic settling in his chest. He looked at the house in front of him and let out a humorless laugh, suddenly wheezing. He was at Gibbs' house, he really wasn't that surprised that his body immediately thought that this would be the best place to take refuge. They both had helped each other out in the past, they even parted on somewhat good terms, better then most his play dates--they usually ended up dead. He knew when Gibbs had said they were even that he was no longer needed or wanted around, that it was the end of their temporary friendship. Gibbs didn't like him, of that he was sure, the man had said so himself. That being said; Gibbs was the closest thing he had to a friend. If anyone could help him, or would help him, Gibbs would be the person to go to. He pushed himself off his car, wincing at the pain it caused to arch in his bottom.
Every step he took a sharp pain tore through him, causing him to grit his teeth and wobble, memories washed over him the pain a reminder of what they had done to him. He steeled himself against the emotions that were trying to escape the box he put them in and continued his painful journey to the door. He knew it was unlocked, it was a well-known fact that Gibbs always kept his house unlocked but he just couldn't muster the strength to go any further, he leaned against the house, breathing deeply as he knocked on the door. He waited a few more minutes before knocking again, this time he heard someone cursing and coming up a flight of stairs, he smirked as he heard the footsteps coming to the door. Seconds later it swung open to reveal a clearly agitated Gibbs, he just stared at him, his mouth slightly open trying to breathe, sweat dripping off of him as he used the house for support. He could only imagine what he looked like. They had done a pretty good number on his face with their feet and hands, but he had pushed the physical pain down with the emotional, unable to contain the pain in his bottom he cringed as he stepped forward. He placed a hand on the doorframe and shut his eyes, trying to breathe the pain away. He opened them to find Gibbs studying him with his penetrating blue eyes.
"Are you going to let me in Gibbs?" He asked tiredly, finally letting some of his exhaustion show.
"Depends on why you're here Kort." Gibbs said smoothly. Sharp as always, even at two in the morning.
"I came to drink all your coffee and destroy your boat as you sleep." He snapped, before remembering who he was talking to. He tried to lift his arm but a white-hot pain erupted in his ribs, causing him to nearly double over, his eyes narrowing as the knives that were stabbing his lungs calmed themselves. Every ache in his body was currently making itself known, the prospect of a warm bed, shower and ice making him come alive again.
"Well I'm already one-up on you there. Boats been demolished." Gibbs said shrugging.
"And I wasn't invited? I'm offended." He sighed. His breath caught in a haze of pain, shutting his eyes he put his head against the doorframe and tried to reposition himself. He definitely had a broken rib, as he blinked his eyes open again, everything seemed so foggy in his mind. He shook his head and steadied himself.
"What do you want Kort?" Gibbs said suddenly.
"Help." He said lowly.
"Help? What the CIA doesn't have their agent's six?" Gibbs stated flatly.
For the first time in a long time, he felt the truth tumbling from his lips. It felt awkward, dirty and somehow wrong "I was captured tonight, Gibbs. Tortured. I'd rather not be asked questions about what happened. I don't think I can answer just yet." .
"Sounds like a personal problem to me." The silver-haired man said.
"They're coming for me. They know where I live Gibbs." He said.
"How is this my problem?" Gibbs asked eyebrow raised. He felt something twisting in him, vulnerability creeping up on him, he spun around as he felt cold, ghost fingers trailing up and down his spine. He swallowed turning back to Gibbs who now looked suspicious.
"Please." He said then, needing to get out of the open. Gibbs must have felt it too because in the next moment he was standing cautiously in the middle of Gibbs' living room, looking around he studied the room, suddenly a hand grabbed him from behind. He yanked his arm away, and spun around, shouting "No!" He aimed his gun at Gibbs' head, his heart raced as the feeling of the tightening hand on his elbow vanished, as did the feeling of the other hands roaming his body. Breathing in harshly, he lowered his gun putting it on the coffee table between them. They locked eyes for a minute before Gibbs swept in to the kitchen. He didn't follow, there was no need to, either Gibbs would come back or he wouldn't. He could care less, he was in that was all that mattered. Only a few minutes later the kitchen door swung open and Gibbs was handing him a cup of coffee and sitting in front of him.
"What happened?" Gibbs asked.
"Sure you want to know?" He asked giving a little smirk.
"No. But since I let you in, I'd like to know what I got myself into. So I can be prepared for my door to be kicked down by an angry Arms' dealer or terrorist." Gibbs said shrugging.
"Neither actually. I'm on to more….mundane and depraved things." He answered sighing.
"Such as?" Gibbs asked.
"The French Mafia." He said.
"That what happen to your face?" Gibbs inquired.
"Yeah, got in a fight with some steel-toed boots and fists. Broke some ribs, my nose, and injured other areas." He answered, hoping Gibbs would have some painkillers. He looked up to see Gibbs smirking even though he knew Gibbs didn't know what happened it still sent a thrill of dread down his spine.
"Don't." He said suddenly, his eyes lighting up with an emotion he had let no one see in a long time--fear. Raising the glass cup to his lips he blew over it, biting down on the cup he glanced at Gibbs who was watching him stony-faced.
"I have Doctor Mallard on Speed Dial." Gibbs offered breaking the uncomfortable silence. He was starting to feel out of control, he was letting his barriers slip, he knew if they slipped too much that he would slip back into the past. He needed more time to collect himself. He couldn't let Gibbs see how torn up he was, how much pain he was in be it physical or emotional. He also knew, however, that he needed his broken bones, at the least, tended to. He nodded his permission.
"I know you have something stronger than coffee Gibbs." He said snidely.
"Not until Ducky checks you out." Gibbs said, while putting the bottles of bourbon on the table.
"Are you concerned about me Gibbs?" He said raising an eyebrow of his own.
"Nah, just don't want you sticking around any longer than needed." Gibbs said.
"I am not one to take advantage of another's hospitality." He answered smoothly.
"Would you know? I doubt anyone has been hospitable to you in your whole life time." Gibbs said as he drank his own glass of bourbon.
"Well I'll always have La Grenouille and his fine taste in Cognac." He answered, he nearly smirked in triumph as he saw Gibbs' lips twitch. "He did want me to give Doctor Mallard the bottle they shared."
"You never gave it." Gibbs stated.
"No. It seemed unnecessarily cruel. I should have sent it to Director Shepard." He said watching his companion's face, nothing changed except the downward slant of his lips. "DiNozzo screwed the pooch."
"He was following orders. What boggles my mind, to this day, is that after twelve years of peace and quiet Svetlana finally tracked us down. Out of the blue." Gibbs said his eyes sharp and haunted.
"Timing is everything." He echoed once again. He paused for a minute before going on, "Shepard screwed the pooch in Paris. Anybody else in your Agency screw-up that I should know about?"
"We all have our secrets Kort." Gibbs stated darkly.
"Some darker than others." He said in a mock-cheerful tone. He sighed inaudibly, glad for the distraction Gibbs gave him. Suddenly he looked up and locked eyes with Gibbs it was then he read the truth in the mans' eyes. He was doing this on purpose. Doing this for him. He nearly laughed.
"Like yours, Trent?" Gibbs asked quietly.
"Some." He answered bowing his head.
"Like tonight." Gibbs stated flatly.
"Well, they're going to have to be taken down the old fashion way that's for sure." He agreed.
"Good old detective work?" Gibbs said.
"CIA old fashion--assassination." He said, Gibbs smiled at that and nodded.
"What and let them get away with busting you up like that? Too easy." Gibbs said as he flipped his phone open and began speaking to his old friend, it took another five minutes to get Ducky off the phone before he finally was able to turn back to Kort. "So what's it gonna be? Mine or yours?"
"I'm staying here if we do yours." He said in a quiet voice, he shifted slightly uncomfortable at this painfully vulnerable admission.
"Scared Trent?" Gibbs asked smirking. He just shrugged not answering.
"I'm just here to protect you." He answered trying to veer the conversation away from any sort of emotion, Gibbs laughed out loud at that.
"Do you want me to lock my doors?" Gibbs asked mockingly.
"If you don't I will." He said seriously. Gibbs got up and silently began locking all the windows in the house, he watched him in his usual cocky manner. It was minutes later, when Gibbs was upstairs, that the doorknob twisted, he wrenched forward and grabbed his gun off the table and pointed it at the shadow in the doorway. It stepped closer, closing the door Doctor Mallard stood waiting for him to drop his weapon.
He lowered his weapon and bowed his head. "Trent Kort. I've heard much about you."
"DiNozzo I expect." He drawled casually.
"He isn't too fond of you I'm afraid." Ducky said apologetically throwing his coat on the armchair.
"I am not fond of him either." He said curtly. Ducky chuckled as he pulled out a stethoscope and bandages, along with peroxide and water and a few rags.
"I haven't had to clean up after someone in a long time. The last time I did it was Marcin Jerek's mess." Ducky said sadly.
"This isn't his mess. He'd be dead if it was." He answered coldly.
"Not a fan I see." Ducky said understandingly.
"He was my least favorite professor." He shrugged, wincing as he did so.
"Well lets have a look see." Ducky said as he went off on one of his long-winded stories about the time Director Shepard, Jethro and him stole a boat from France and sailed back to America.
WITH GIBBS.
He stood by the kitchen door listening, he had left Trent for privacy, the man obviously did not want to speak in front of him and he was fine with that. Kort was not his friend, but that did not mean he wanted him dead. Someone had done a number on him, and he was going to bring them down; it was, after all, his job. He stood next to the door listening to Kort's story.
"…..I was suppose to make the inner ring, but something went wrong, something tipped them off. They somehow knew that I was CIA. It wasn't me and they aren't the brightest, even for Mafia. I think I have a traitor on my hands. I was taken by surprise at my home, they bound me and gagged me, not before I killed three of them though. I woke up a couple hours later, I was still bound when they each took their turn beating the crap out of me with their fists and feet." Kort said detached.
He hesitated looking at Ducky.
"Go on Mr. Kort. I can't tell anyone the findings, not even Gibbs. Your secret is safe with me." Ducky said comfortingly.
"They knocked me out. I woke tied to a bed. Three….three of them…had their way with me." Kort said looking away.
"They raped you?" Ducky said, controlling his disgust.
"Yes." Kort said emotionlessly
Gibbs turned away, his hand covering his face, he sighed and took another silent swig of his bourbon. When he had opened up the door to a swaying, limping, unsteady, bleeding Kort he had had no idea the man had just been raped. He seemed out of it for sure, still did, but he wasn't distraught. Though being CIA he probably wouldn't be. He could hear Ducky talking to Kort about a rape kit. His gut twisted in anger. Kort may not be on his favorites list but he was still someone Gibbs knew, someone whose path he ran across often, someone he worked with a few times. He didn't have a difficult time pinpointing the emotion he felt swirl up in him, it was for certain righteous anger and a fierce protectiveness, what he didn't know was why. Kort had never been a friend, he didn't like him. At least that's what he always told himself, at first it had been true, but some where's along the line he felt himself relax around Kort and that's when he started reminding himself that Kort was the enemy.
However, the thought of someone violating Kort in that way, made him sick, made him feel violated, and pissed. Tomorrow was not going to be a good day for the mafia. That was for sure. He may just go with the CIA old fashion way of dealing with threats that didn't want to deal with them. Re-checking the locked windows he sunk into the kitchen chair as he gulped down more bourbon, his gun in front of him; Kort would not be the only one standing guard tonight.