..."Yeah," he looked around like he was blind, eyed the empty chair once more. "I think so."...

Chapter Three

Tony stared at the selection of toilet paper located in aisle nine of North Chicago's Jewel-Osco. His hand twitched as he considered his options. Single-ply. Double-ply. Store brand. National brand. 60% more sheets per roll. He grabbed a nine-roll package, ignoring the price, and tossed it into his cart. It would mingle well with the loaf of white bread, cold cuts, and mayonnaise. Soup cans. Goldfish crackers. A six pack of beer.

Every time he bought toilet paper, he thought about calling or texting or emailing. Hell, he'd write a damn letter if he thought it would make a difference. Toilet paper may have been an odd reminder, but it was what it was. And it was only one reminder of many. Mocking him.

The first week of April had brought winter's last gasp to the city. A stiff sub-arctic wind blew off of the lake and the clouds came in thick and leaden, bringing with them wet snow. But Chicago had been hardened already by months of miserable weather. Its daily pulse remained unthreatened.

Tony's car was encrusted with road salt. He juggled the bags in his hands as attempted to unlock the trunk. The keys fell into the black snow muck that covered the parking lot. He swore loudly and leaned down to pick them up.


"So I guess this is it," Tim spoke. He was quietly surveying the boxed-up apartment from where he sat cross-legged against the wall. He took a slow drink from the warming bottle of beer he kept beside him. It left a ring of condensation on the hardwood.

"This is what?" Tony muttered as he turned his head. He also sat against the wall, next to Tim. He let his legs spread out in front of him. He kept his own bottle of beer between his thighs. His fingers picked at the label.

Tim shrugged, "Where our story ends, I guess."

"We have a story?" Tony let himself smile, weak and tired as it was.

"There was something. Maybe." Tim shrugged again and took another drink. "I don't know. Maybe I wanted to make too much of it."

Tony reached out a bare foot and pushed a nearby cardboard box further away, just because he could. It was heavy and sloppily labeled: "DVDs." Abby had left a half hour ago, taking her skull and crossbones strapping tape along with her. She had been remarkably good at this whole packing thing, marching around in her calf-high boots and organizing Tony's things as if they were her own. Tony was almost embarrassed by the amount of junk he had managed to accumulate over the past few years. He even found a couple things he thought he'd lost.

But now, with the bulk of the work done and the dust settling and Abby gone, Tim stuck around without an invitation. He kept saying that he should go, but he didn't. Tony wasn't going to argue. The last thing he wanted to do was sit here with a bunch of cardboard boxes as his only company. Alone with his decision. The sudden doubt was enough to choke a man.

"You're the writer," Tony said. "Is this how it ought to end?"

Tim shook his head. "This isn't a very good ending," he admitted.

"I agree," Tony finished off his beer and set it down with a thunk. "It's not." He looked sideways at Tim yet again, watching as Tim gnawed anxiously at his own bottom lip.

"I would have written it differently," Tim started to say. "Better. But you being you-"

Tony interrupted, "You could still come with me. That would be an ending."

Tim heaved a sigh and shook his head, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "No, Tony."

"Okay. Here goes."

Tim looked over, curious.

"Agent Tommy goes to the airport." Tony was suddenly on his knees, shifting stiffly until he was practically kneeling in Tim's lap. "He's about to go through the security checkpoint. Takes off his shoes and his belt and all that. Makes sure he doesn't have any liquids in his bag. Removes his laptop. Etcetera, etcetera."

Tim watched, quietly. He looked down at his lap as Tony's fingers began to loosen the excess leather of his belt. He had to remember to breathe.

"He's sad," Tony continued before pausing in thought. "I know you'd come up with a better word. Gloomy, maybe. Distressed. He's gloomy and distressed - no, depressed - because he's leaving a very special person behind. That okay?"

"Sure," Tim agreed amicably.

"And maybe Agent Tommy doesn't know exactly who this person is to him. They're both confused by what they feel, and a little bit afraid." Tony paused again. "Befuddled? Perplexed?"

"Too much, DiNozzo," Tim whispered. His breath smelled like beer, and he was suddenly self-conscious about that. But he knew Tony's wasn't much better; he was speaking practically right into his ear. But at this point, no one cared enough to stop for a mint.

Tony leaned forward even more. "But Tommy just knows this person is special because he's gentle and smart and knows how to keep him in line." Tony smiled and pulled at the belt. The buckle released, allowing him to remove it completely.

Tim then felt hands against his skin. Rough, familiar fingers trailed up and then down his sides. The button on his jeans was undone. Tim licked his suddenly parched lips and studied Tony's face, attempted to note every pore, wrinkle, and stray hair forgotten by the razor. "Tony," he warned without much conviction.

Tony only shook his head. "Then, lo and behold- Can I use that?"

Tim didn't answer; he closed his eyes and made a strange "ung" sound in his throat.

"Lo and behold," Tony went on, a hand traveling from Tim's belly button downwards. "McGregor shows up, and he says-"

"Fuck," Tim sputtered softly. "Really?" He felt a hand gripping him now. He dragged in a few breaths. "Tony." Tim didn't really care about the rest of Tony's story about Agents Tommy and McGregor anymore. Screw them. He kept his eyes shut.

"This is a good ending," Tim admitted in a whisper. "This is a very good ending."


Tony struggled back into awareness. White curtains materialized from black unconsciousness. He blinked to clear his vision and licked dry lips. Confused, he looked around. A hand went automatically to his side, feeling blindly for his gun.

It wasn't there.

He then fingered an IV buried in his arm. He felt too weak to move, too weak to think, too weak to even form an intelligible question. Dull hazel eyes searched the immediate area. Dreary curtains, aging tile floor. There was only one chair in this tiny curtained cube, and it was empty. Nausea roiled in his belly. He shut his eyes tightly and fought for the memories that would lead him to this moment.

Tony felt like he'd waited for hours until a head poked through the curtain. "Hey there," the nurse greeted easily. "Glad to see you're finally with us."

"Wha'-" Tony croaked before gagging. He swallowed convulsively, but he was clearly losing the battle. The nurse quickly nestled a basin next to Tony's head as he heaved, producing nothing but a thin, foul tasting liquid. He moaned before heaving again with a painful horking sound. He blinked in embarrassment as he felt the sudden and intense urge to urinate. "I go' pee," he rasped nonsensically. He licked at his lips wanting to get the acrid taste of the vomit out of his mouth.

The nurse frowned at her patient's continued distress. "You're in the emergency room. Don't touch the catheter," she informed him as she filled a cup of water. "Rinse your mouth first."

Tony grasped the cup carefully in both hands. He was shaking and could barely hold it steady as he wrenched his body into an acceptable position for drinking. He still spilled all over himself. Spitting out a mouthful into the basin, he gulped the rest down.

"You may be seeing that again soon, hun," the nurse commented with a small smile, pulling the basin and the cup away. "And maybe a straw will work better next time."

But Tony could find no humor in this moment. "What happn'd?" he managed to ask, his voice nothing but guttural grunts.

"People found you passed out by your car at the Jewel-Osco."

Tony blinked. Vaguely, he remembered contemplating toilet paper. He struggled to make his speech clearer. "What happened to me?"

"Well, we don't know yet, hun. But the doctor has an idea."

"Can I leave?"

The nurse eyeballed him. "D'you feel like you can get up and walk?"

Tony frowned, but he answered honestly. "No."

"That's settled," she moved to leave, but then paused. "You got somebody you can call?"

He was still confused, beating back the nausea. "Yeah," he looked around like he was blind, eyed the empty chair once more. "I think so."