Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the typos.

Warnings : Rated T for language.

Author's Note : Wow, I'm beyond humbled by the response. Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, followed, and followed.

This came sooner than I thought. There'll be some explanation about the world in the next chapter. I hope to have it up soon, but I'm posting this as I go. So it'll be here when it's here. Please enjoy what I have today.

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4:41pm – Still Unknown Place –

Holding his gaze with a surprising intensity, the little girl sneaks closer. Her tiny brow is scrunched in thought like a pint-sized Nancy Drew ready to spew her big reveal. Tony shrinks back against the couch, swings his feet to the ground, as she claims the spot next to him.

She gives him one long, inquisitive stare.

His heart kicks up into his throat, twisting and trembling. She knows that he isn't meant to be here. Somehow, she just knows. Maybe she really can stare into his soul with those teeny, tiny eyes. That little twist to the corner of her mouth, her itty-bitty crossed hands speaks volumes.

Then she flumps back against the couch to zone out at the television. He almost has the chance to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Mommy! Daddy's being weird!" the little girl yells.

Daddy.

The word pinballs around his brain, crushing the every last bit of sanity and common sense in its path. His heart pounds harder than it ever has before, faster than that moment Gibbs got shot, more intensely than the split-second where he didn't know whether his boss lived or died.

He jumps to his feet, ready to bolt, get the hell out of the Twilight Zone. But movement on the opposite side of the room stops him. Just at the entrance to the kitchen stands a familiar figure. His breath vanishes, but he can't catch it again. His lungs don't work anymore.

Zoe.

She's heavier now, but in all the right places. Her more generous breasts and ass only intensify that zaftig figure he constantly craves. Now, that's a place he'd like to conquer.

Instantly feeling guilty, he drops his gaze to the little girl on the couch.

If she already read his soul, she could very well be a mind-reader too. He'll definitely end up in hell for what's racing through his head. He takes a step away, considers whether he'll have a chance to get with Zoe later. You know, after he figures out what the fuck is going on.

"Oh, Tony, not this again," Zoe says, sounding like she's tired of it all.

Pressing his lips together, he glances to her face. She would be insanely attractive right now if it weren't for the anger twisting her features, the annoyance blazing in her eyes, that scowl on her lips.

That's the moment he notices the baby clutched to Zoe's side. Wearing a pink onesie and a bonnet, she looks identical to Zoe and equally miserable. Who knew those scowls could be genetic?

His breath hitches, his pulse kicks up. He has two little girls, and one very, very pissed woman on his hands. His eyes dart to a wedding picture on the wall and from here, it looks like the subjects might be better versions of him and Zoe. He even looks a bit like James Bond in his tux and she, a perfect replica of a Bond girl in a wedding dress. His right hand finds his left ring finger, searching for – and finding – a plain gold band.

I have a wife.

The realization feels like getting hit with a fucking car all over again.

Adrenaline courses through his veins. Every single muscle in his body clenches in preparation of fight or flight. His unsteady eyes rake across the room at the girls and Zoe.

I have two kids.

Nausea graces the back of his throat.

I have a wife and two kids…

Flight wins.

He bolts through the room, past the toys and the television with that damned cartooned flying mouse. Something tries to imbed itself into his foot, tries to become a part of him.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters.

"Tony," Zoe snaps, "not in front of the girls."

The thought only makes him sicker as he yanks the object out of his foot. He impaled himself on a hot-pink, Barbie stiletto. But removing it only makes the sole of his foot throb with its own heartbeat. It's a lot like getting stabbed except the freaking thing doesn't hurt until you pull out the knife.

"Son of a…" he consider his audience "…pushpin. Mother fudgescile."

Cursing with real words under his breath, he limps his way through the girl-child minefield for the front door. He grabs a pair of sneakers off the floor and yanks them on. Then, he snatches a set of keys and wallet from the bowl on the credenza by the door. Without looking back, he sprints onto the porch.

It's hotter than hell outside. The sun gleams off the pavement with those hazy wave lines that make everything look like a mirage. And the sight in the driveway just has to be one. A behemoth, black mini-van tries its best to hide behind a little, red sports car.

He presses the button on the car remote and of course, the van beeps.

Panic and confusion washes over him anew as he glances over his shoulder. Zoe haunts the window by the front door, her face still wrinkled with anger. When the baby comes into view with an identical expression, it sends a shiver down his spine. Zoe and mini-Zoe are just waiting for the chance to kick his ass.

I'll take my chances with the van.

After leaping inside, he fires up the car and guns the engine. When he throws the car in reverse, he slams down on the gas. Tires squeal out of the driveway. Then he puts the car in gear and peals down the block. The mid-century ranchers and older Craftsman homes blend together outside the car in an infinite loop.

Tony blows through a stop sign and almost takes out a dark-haired woman in a wheelchair in the crosswalk. She tries to wave him down, but he doesn't stop.

"Sorry," he murmurs to her bewildered reflection in the rear view. "I'm sorry."

Several blocks later, he slams on the brakes and throws his car in park. It's the first time he notices the Frank Sinatra wafting from the stereo. He shuts it off, takes a moment take in his surroundings. Two car seats in the back, more dolls – and freaking Barbie shoes and plastic dinosaurs and stuffed animals – everywhere, DVDs piled up on the floor of the passenger side, grey suit jacket on the seat….Aviator sunglasses in the cup holder. Hell, he didn't even have to adjust the seat.

I think this might be my car.

Who the hell drives a mini-van anyway? Oh yeah, people with kids.

"What the hell is going on?" he yells. "Where the fuck am I? Why the hell are there kids?"

He rests his head against the steering wheel, struggles to imagine a scenario that involves a world where a single man wakes up with an instant family. He hasn't even seen a film like this before. And without an ending, he has no clue how to escape this crazy place.

Suddenly, a car horn blasts.

Lifting his head, Tony glances at the huge truck in the rearview. He waves sheepishly as he puts the car in drive. At that moment, he recognizes the neighborhood.

Kingman Park.

He hangs a left, takes a few turns on auto-pilot. Seconds later, he berths the van – which is like parking a freaking boat – at the curb and climbs out. At least, the mid-century Craftsman with the canary yellow muscle car out front is a familiar place.

Gibbs will know what the hell is going on.

He approaches the house through the overgrown yard. The wet grass laps at his ankles, leaves water stains on his jeans and his sneakers.

He frowns.

If he learned one thing from his father, it was that DiNozzos don't wear jeans or sneakers. They prefer Armani, Zegna, and Ferregamo. Expensive taste makes him look important, like he knows what the hell is going on, like he is in control. None of which he feels now.

He climbs up the steps, listening to each one protest his weight. He slides around the rusted out porch furniture, careful to avoid the edge of the chair where he ripped his new suit last weekend. If Tony is correct, Wednesday afternoon means Gibbs should be half-way through a fifth of bourbon, two Vicodin down, and sanding away on his boat. Just like any other day of the week.

When he tries the front door, he's surprised to find it locked. Sure, Gibbs got strange after he took that bullet, looked into ADT and new locks, but Tony thought his boss had gotten over the sudden paranoia.

Sighing, Tony heads back down the steps to the overgrown garden. Buried in the carcasses of plants baked to death by the summer sun, he picks up a fist-sized rock. It's lighter than he expected with a fake panel in the bottom. When he finds a house key inside, he decides unlocking the door is probably better than smashing a window. It might even save him a head slap, but what he wouldn't give for one of those again. Anything for a sliver of normalcy.

He pockets the rock, slips the key in the lock, and heads inside.

The air hangs heavy with the stench of must, old books, stale coffee, and sweat. It still feels like a tomb, begging for a life-giving breath of fresh summer air…and a couple of throw pillows. Dust dances in the daylight sweeping through the picture windows like an uncleanly snowstorm.

Tony takes a calming breath, lets himself relax.

Maybe he'll just hide in Gibbs' basement, drown his troubles in a jar of alcohol, and help with that boat. As he heads into the kitchen, Tony tries to ignore the single dirty plate on the counter and the coffee maker with black sludge baked onto the bottom.

"Hey boss," he calls. "I'm here for…"

How is he supposed to finish that? That he's here for a visit, a house call, to make sure Gibbs hasn't pickled himself in Bourbon yet?

He licks his lips, starts over. "Hey boss, I'm here."

Not much better, but it's something.

Making a face, Tony heads down the stairs. Maybe Gibbs is sleeping it off under the hull again, planer in one hand and whiskey bottle in the other.

But when he gets to the bottom, there isn't a boat anywhere to be found, just a pile of untouched lumber in the middle of the floor. All of Gibbs' tools hang neatly on the wall organizer, jars of screws and nails stand at attention on the workbench. Tony's brow furrows as he checks his boss' liquor cabinet, the wall behind the work bench. Just yesterday, there were rows and rows of half-drank bottles of bourbon. Now, there are two bottles of scotch blanketed in layers of dust.

Tony bites his lower lips, checks every nook and cranny in the basement. He comes up empty.

"Boss? Are you here?" he calls.

The house is silent.

He checks the upstairs anyway. It's just as depressing as the rest of the house and even more empty.

Tony ends up in Gibbs' living room with his hands on his hips, silently surveying the space. How everything can look the same but be so different, eludes him. He flicks his tongue against his cheek, glances towards the sofa. The regular sheets and bedclothes are missing. Gibbs' bed is gone, making it just a dilapidated and broken couch.

Tony's stomach somersaults and he backs towards the front door, unable to tear his eyes off the couch. He is a stranger in the place that's become his second home over the years.

I just don't understand what's going on…

Tendrils of fear trace their way down his spine as he steps onto the porch. He locks the door with trembling fingers.

He leaves the key under the mat and keeps the rock.