A/N: Wow – thank you all so much for your many favorites and follows, and for those who took the time to shoot me a note via review. It is wonderful to receive so much of a response for this little story. Much love to you all!

Chapter Two

"Sometimes there is no next time, no time-outs, and no second chances. Sometimes it's now or never." Alan Bennett

Gibbs glared. White paper, barely as thick as a dime, with some neat black lettering. It should take more than that to distract a disciplined Marine, shouldn't it? But the thing sat there on his kitchen table, stark against the worn wood, like a damned time bomb tick-tick-ticking away. He raised the coffee cup to his lips, never taking his eyes off the envelope over the rim of the cup. One word on the front mocked him. Churned up a storm of anger and guilt in his gut. One word written in the private-school educated hand of a boarding school brat, not the hurried chicken-scratch of federal agent.

"Boss."

All curlicues and flourishes. Just like DiNozzo.

His mug banged down on the counter a little too hard, Tony's parting words to him re-echoing in his mind, just as they'd done for the past 36 hours. "Hope you get everything you wish for."

On the drive up to Stillwater. In the sometimes awkward silences that still fell between him and his father. During a long walk when childhood memories chased him like ghosts. There, in the back of his mind, were those bitter words, and, if he let himself remember, the gleam of hurt and betrayal behind green eyes.

He shook his head. He blamed it on this time of year. Everything rode too close to the surface during Christmas – things successfully buried for eleven and a half months of the year waited just beneath the ice, barely out of sight. The good memories - the gleaming warmth of his daughter's smile, the smell of Shannon's hair, the few Christmases they'd spent together, surrounded by twinkling lights and carols and brightly wrapped presents - they always dragged along the others, the ones about death and emptiness, loss and pain and self-hate. Insistent, nagging, the memories slapped at him as he went about his day, dousing him with ice, rousing emotions that he thought he'd mastered years ago.

"… everything you wish for…"

Not an hour before his unexpected confrontation with DiNozzo he'd spoken that wish out loud. Admitted it, accepted the pain along with the joy at the memory of Kelly's love. Sitting in that cold car with Quinn, two lonely men sat watching his family through the window. Alive. Warm. Smiling and laughing. All Gibbs had were his memories. Quinn could have the reality. Here. Now. So, there in the car, behind a screen of falling snow, removed from light, from warmth and wholeness, he'd told Quinn what he wished for. What he always wished for. Every single day. The chance to hug his daughter one more time.

He'd wanted to slam his fist into Tony's face when he'd had the nerve to spit the same words at him in the bullpen.

Hadn't DiNozzo got what he wanted? Didn't he always? Gibbs had kept his desk empty, put off Vance's nagging, had dragged him off that carrier and back to DC. Patted his team back into place after the torrential shit-storm of the past year. A storm that DiNozzo had had a pretty big hand in creating.

Jenny's damn frog hunt. DiNozzo's lies. They'd all come back to haunt them. Destroyed trust. Demolished authority. She'd been wrong for the job of director from the first step she took, from the first words out of her mouth in MTAC, from the first flirty gleam in her eye. But she sure knew how to push buttons, how to take advantage of her openings – with the pinheads on the Hill as well as within his team. She'd always been good at that. Prod for the soft spots. The weaknesses. Go in for the kill. He shook his head angrily. Or, more likely, get someone else to do it for her.

A few months alone with his team, with DiNozzo drowning as team lead as Gibbs recovered in Mexico, was all she'd needed. She'd gotten what she wanted – Benoit dead. But it had cost her her life and Gibbs his team.

He turned his back on the accusing white paper, busying his hands with rinsing out his cup and setting up the coffee maker for another pot. He'd done it. With no help from Vance or SecNav or anyone else. He'd dragged McGee out of the basement. Gathered Ziva back from Mossad. And sneaked DiNozzo back with his collar. The team was working. Sniping. Teasing. Putting in the long hours and the weekends and putting the scumbags in the ground. Or behind bars. Abby's "family," and Ducky's "A-team." The fit might be awkward, the jokes more biting, and the one-upmanship game more cutthroat, but there were here. All of them. Even DiNozzo.

Maybe it had been a mistake. Gibbs rubbed his hands over his face, calluses burning against his skin. Another mistake. Trying to restore the past. Like the car his father had kept for him. It looked right on the outside, but, when you opened the hood you could see that some things had changed, that here and there a piece stood out, too shiny, too new, to fit in with the rest. An icy hand clenched around his heart. Like trying to recreate the best marriage on Earth by standing up with three other women. No matter how hard you try, it's never the same. Going back – doing it right – making all the right decisions this time, taking the precautions, eliminating the variables that turned it all to dust – it was like the universe wouldn't allow it.

He'd chosen different types of women. Women without Shannon's moral code, her inner strength. Women who would have thought about their own safety first, not about doing the right thing and putting a murdering drug dealer behind bars. He dug his thumbs into his eyes, snorting out a laugh. No wonder the marriages hadn't worked.

Was that what he was trying to do with his team? To go back and do it right? Not to the beginning – a single bullet hole, blood spreading under dark hair spread out in a fan around Kate's surprised face made sure that wasn't possible. But Gibbs had set all of his pieces back on the board in their familiar places. Cop. Assassin. Geek. And this time, he wouldn't let McGee's timidity, Ziva's impulses, or DiNozzo's damned jokester frat-boy childishness screw it all up.

Already, McGee was different. Stood taller. Looked you in the eye. And he was as quick to smack down DiNozzo's usual brand of teasing and bravado as Gibbs. He'd come into his own down in the basement and was not about to let anyone forget it.

Ziva was calmer. Her rough edges smoother. Her visit to her homeland had opened her up – to a relationship with a fellow Israeli agent, as well as to some of the fun she'd never allowed herself to enjoy here. Gibbs had no idea how to encourage that – hell, if it wasn't bourbon, a boat, and a basement, he was out of ideas for what constituted "fun." But giving her every opportunity to visit home, to see her boyfriend, couldn't hurt.

DiNozzo was another story. He grinned. He joked. He played games on his computer and turned the bullpen into his own personal stage. One minute he'd been reaming Gibbs out for not trusting him, and the next he'd been almost giddy in Stillwater. Gibbs straightened his arms, hands against the countertop, head hanging down. If he was going to put things to rights, to protect himself, protect his team, he couldn't let DiNozzo fall back into his old ways. He had to change. And Gibbs was going to see that he did.

Because when he looked over at DiNozzo's desk, all he could see was Langer's dead eyes staring up from a blood-soaked floor.

He'd never seen Lee coming. Never thought a young woman – a lawyer - could play him, could lead her desperate double life right under his nose. And Langer. Another mistake. Another deadly mistake. A good man had lost his life because Gibbs was too slow, too confused, and too stupid to see the truth. Looks, bearing, smarm – he'd been a flat paper copy of DiNozzo himself. The suits, the smile, the determined laid back attitude. All he'd lacked was –

The sharp smell of ozone and the ticking of hot glass swept Gibbs from his thoughts. Water. He hadn't put any water in the coffeemaker's reservoir. He reached to yank out the plug but it was too late. The glass coffeepot burst, spewing thin shards in every direction. Gibbs brushed them from his coat, out of his hair, touching his thumb to his cheek and raising his eyebrows at the tiny drop of blood he found there.

One second of doubt – of distraction – always ended up with blood. Gibbs stared at the chaos of glass and coffee grounds. Not this time. He turned his back on the kitchen – on the sticky mess and the pristine white envelope – and headed out.

Tony straightened his tie, smoothing down the lapels of his best Dolce suit and making sure his coat was folded perfectly over one arm. Making a great first impression with Leon Vance might not be possible – not without a time machine and a way to slip some valium into the man's coffee - but every little bit helped. He was early for their appointment. Dressed impeccably. He'd even run his paperwork through the nitpicky eyes of his most bureaucratic pal. Paper-pusher extraordinaire. The agency's version of a political fixer – and God knew NCIS needed one.

He smiled. Who would have guessed that Tony DiNozzo and Stan Burley would have ever become friends?

Stan had dodged the bullets of the NCIS hierarchy changes like a ninja. He'd managed his promotions and postings, exiting Gibbs' team before the agency became a real power-broker on the Hill (Morrow), keeping far from DC when the power structures were unstable (Jenny), and yet remaining close enough to the top of every flow chart that, when the new, unallied players (Vance) were looking for which end of the string to pull, they came up with Burley every time. If anyone truly understood the agency's red tape and could wind it into the prettiest bow it was Stan.

Yesterday had been quiet. Quiet enough for Tony to do some thinking, some soul searching. To make the proverbial lists of pros and cons, what might be and what was only wishful thinking. Tim, ever the peacemaker, had emailed. Abby had called, anxious for her black-sheep brother and her hard-headed father to do the manly hug thing and make up. Tony hadn't expected to hear from Gibbs and he wasn't disappointed. As a good sheepdog, Tony was expected to shake off the man's short temper and arbitrary disapproval and come back to work with a wagging tail to drop his ball at the master's feet. Roll over. Play dead.

Burley hadn't been surprised by Tony's visit. Even on the day after Christmas, with his twin boys chasing each other around the guy's Falls Church McMansion, Stan had the phone to one ear and his laptop open on the kitchen island. His wife had ushered Tony in with a hug, a cup of coffee, and a plate of homemade cookies while still in her fuzzy, Black Knight pajamas, her blond hair twisted up in a ponytail. No make-up, no fuss, no apologies. Burley was a lucky guy.

And Stan the man had taken one look at Tony, ended his call, and narrowed his eyes.

"Huh. Took you long enough."

If anyone knew the ulcer-causing, headache-inducing thrill ride of working with Gibbs, it was Stan.

Tony had shaken his head, laying his leather gloves carefully on the counter. "I'm not after a transfer, Stan, no matter where you think I could land somewhere up the ladder."

Stan had rolled his eyes. He'd been urging Tony away from Team Gibbs for months, forwarding him tantalizing emails about posts in exotic locations, featuring warm climates and higher pay. "What, then?" he'd demanded. "Because I don't think you'd come here on the day after Christmas to discuss next year's fantasy baseball or Ohio State's chances in the Fiesta Bowl against Texas."

Tony had spun the laptop and opened a new browser, pulling up a link to the NCIS secure site. With a few keystrokes he'd opened a half-dozen emails and Stan was reading over his shoulder.

"Okay," Burley had acknowledged – grudgingly – eyebrows crawling up towards his hairline, "that could work."

After a few hours of talk, video-conferencing, beer gradually replacing the coffee, take-out Chinese, and the partial building of the Lego Death Star with four-year-old Paul and Peter, Tony had left feeling hopeful enough for a good night's sleep.

And now, this morning, he was as prepared as he'd ever be.

The elevator stopped on G, one level up from Abby's lab and down from the bullpen, and Tony stiffened, his expression carefully blank. Not that Gibbs ever used the NCIS main entrance. Or that Tony was hiding. Exactly. He managed a quick smile for Emily Sherman and Eileen Fortuna, NCIS' "double E" of Environmental Engineering, and stepped back, relieved.

"Good morning, Tony."

"Morning, ladies. Did Santa bring you everything on your Christmas list this year?" He ignored the sharp reminder of his own words two days before. Small talk. Flirting. He could do this in his sleep.

"Well, nobody released a toxic substance into the ventilation system, so I suppose I can't complain," Emily chuckled.

"Oh, that one always slays me, Doctor Sherman. Almost literally," Tony added with a smile. "Open one envelope …" he sighed.

"Gives a new meaning to 'white Christmas,'" Eileen elbowed her colleague playfully. "How about you, Tony?"

"Oh, I think Tony's been on the naughty list since he reached puberty," Emily laughed, tugging off her stocking cap and fluffing up her short brown curls.

Tony threw his head back in mock laughter. "Oh ha-ha. Got me there, Em. Nothing but coal for little Tony."

"Aw," Eileen pouted dramatically. She held up a colorful tin she'd had tucked up in one arm. "Come by later and I'll be happy to share some of my homemade fudge. After all, anyone who works with Agent Gibbs deserves many blessings."

The doors opened on the bullpen level and the women stepped out with waves and grins.

Tony dropped his forced camaraderie and peered into his reflection once again. "From your mouth to Vance's ear," he murmured as the elevator began its journey up one more floor.