A/N: Sorry this one took so long, and that it's shorter than the others. I'm not too happy/proud of this one. It was harder to write than the first two chapters, plus we had EOCs this week, and it didn't come out anywhere near how I wanted it to. Hopefully I'll have another chapter or two up soon. Anyways, enjoy, and tell me what you think! (:


"Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Cheque'd like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a notebook, learn'd, and conn'd be rote."
- Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare


Everybody Lies, Chapter 3.

The cold air hits you as soon as you step outside. With your head down, you quickly walk towards the sidewalk, leaving the NCIS building behind you. You hurried out here as fast as you could after that awkward and revealing encounter in the stairwell. It's not a memory you really want to keep reliving, but you can't seem to get it off your mind. Every thought you use to get away from that topic somehow seems to lead right back to it. You hate that, but from the looks of it, it's not something you are going to have much luck controlling. You've spent so much time thinking lately that it's going to be hard to break the habit.

You soon find yourself caught up in the bustle of people out on lunch break. Nobody except a guy you nearly ran into has given you so much as a second glance and you find that you like that feeling. There isn't a single person around you that knows who you are or what you've done and quite frankly, none of them really care if you're dead or alive. You could end up dying tomorrow and nobody walking past you right now would recognize you, not even that man who spent a good two seconds giving you a death glare. Nobody on this sidewalk would say more than "That's so sad" about the situation, and that would only be if it was shocking or brutal enough to make it onto the news.

You like the anonymity. You like the distance. You like being around people who don't care at all versus the people who used to care and the people who only care to see you lying in front of them without a pulse. Neither of those options appeal to you anymore. These people around you now - the ones who don't care, never will, and never have - make you feel so much more comfortable and at ease.

Some foolish part of you thought this would all be easy. Something in you kept saying everybody would be okay with it, that they would quickly let you back into their fulfilling lives and fragile hearts. You kept telling yourself that you would be able to forget and they would be able to forget and everybody could be happy.

Now you aren't sure if that part of you was being optimistic or just plain stupid. If it was optimism, you wish they had managed to beat that out of you. It's nothing but false hope, and you know that now. If it was stupidity, well, that wouldn't surprise you at all. You've been feeling like the world's biggest dumbass lately.

As a breeze starts, you thank your lucky stars that you decided to grab your coat on the way out. It is a lot colder here than you remember it being and you aren't sure if you like it or not. It's a nice change from the stifling heat you have gotten used to, but at the same time the small gusts of wind and the frigid air have you nearly shaking. You hope that it won't take a long time to get used to this weather, because like it or not, you know you have to stay here for a while. You can't just walk away.

You want to, though. You want to pack your things and just get the hell out. You could get somebody in the government to give you a new identity and just leave. You could forget your past and focus on your future. A nice, clean start is all you need. A second try at life.

No, third.

This, right here, these moments you're living - this is your second try. Your second chance. And hardly anybody ever gives second chances anymore - who am I to expect a third?

You stop walking and lean against the wall of some old brick building. Four years ago, it wasn't "some old brick building." You probably knew what store it is, but now, you can't remember. Four years ago you knew the name of the street in front of you. You knew where all the good restaurants were and how to get to them. You knew what stores had the cheapest prices and the best stuff. And you knew which coffee shop had the best lattes, and you knew the name of the kid behind the counter and all of her problems because you went there everyday before work and sometimes even during, if you had time and really needed a pick-me-up.

You've spent four years trying your best to protect, to help, and to save. Four fucking years and now you feel like you can't remember a damn thing that you used to.

You don't even know who it was you were trying to protect. You can't think of a single person you helped and it sure as hell doesn't feel like you saved anybody.

Your fist connects with the bricks before you've even realized that you swung. You curse under your breath as it starts to sting, barely noticing the people who have stopped their busy lives for the few moments it takes to stare at you. Blood is slowly starting to leave from the cuts in your knuckles and it's all you can look at.

A hand comes to rest on your shoulder and your eyes slowly close. Your muscles tense as you ready yourself to turn around; your hands have already curled back into fists.

"Kate." Tony's voice floats into your ears and, forcing a smile onto your face, you turn around. "What the hell are you doing?" he asks harshly. The words have barely left his mouth before he's grabbing your bleeding hand and holding it up so he can look at it.

You pull your hand away and shove it into your pocket. "It's fine," you mutter.

"Don't be like that," he says, and this time he almost sounds desperate. Like he's begging you. "I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need help," you reply. I don't want to be weak.

You turn to walk away but he grabs your arm and spins you back around to face him. His eyes now have a glint of anger in them and you wonder what exactly it was that you said to hit a nerve.

"This is hard on us, too, okay?" Anger is just as present in his voice as it is in his eyes. His hand doesn't leave your arm; his grip instead tightens, and you hold back a wince at the pain. "You aren't the only one who's hurting here. We've been through shit, too. You can't just waltz back in and expect everything to be the same as it used to be! But you just want everybody to know what you've been through, don't you? You just have to tell everybody about your assignment and Ari and being a captive."

No. You didn't want anybody to know.

And you can't trust anybody.

And nobody seems to care.

"But what about everyone else? Have you even asked about them? About me? About what we've been through? Or do you even care? Don't you think we've been through our own shit? Stuff you've never had to deal with?"

"I--"

"Do you know what it's like to lose somebody you love, Kate? I do! I've had to deal with it three fucking times!"

I've lost more than you realize, Tony.

"Do you know what it's like to be tortured? Ziva and McGee do!"

No, Tony, they liked to give me hugs and lollipops.

"Do you know what it's like to be stalked? Well, you can ask Abby!"

I don't have to.

"Tony--" you try again, but he still won't let you finish.

"No, Kate," he continues, his voice rising. "We all thought you were dead! You've been through your hell and we've been through ours. And I'm happy with Ziva, okay? She makes me happy!"

"I told you I was happy for you."

"No, you aren't. Believe it or not, I'm not stupid! I can tell when you're lying. I'm happy, so just - just fuck off, okay, Kate?" His eyes are pleading with you to just listen to him, to just do as he says and leave him alone. He takes a step backwards, shaking his head at you, before turning around and walking off.

You try to reach out for him but he has already disappeared into the multitudes of people. Oh, well. You don't blame him. You should have known. Yyou can't cross bridges that you've burned. And you were stupid to think that you could.

You strike out against the wall one more time.

----

It's nearly half an hour after you lunch break was supposed to end when you finally walk back into the NCIS building. Does it even matter, though? You aren't really sure if you work for NCIS anymore - well, you know that you do, you just aren't sure where or what you do now.

You step off the elevator as some young agent you've never seen before steps on. So much has changed here. That thought has gone through your mind more times than you could count in the past few hours, but you can't help it. You don't feel like a part of this world anymore. You don't miss being overseas, not exactly, but you do miss that sense of purpose and reason you had while you were over there. You felt like there was a meaning to your life, like you had a reason to be alive. Like you were actually doing something. You don't have that feeling here.

Ducky looks up as you step into the autopsy room. "Ah, Caitlin! How nice of you to join us," he says with a smile, walking up to you. Jimmy looks up at the sound of your name, and though he's not as pale as earlier, he still doesn't look like he's really gotten a grasp on the situation yet. You feel bad for him.

You give Ducky a small smile. "Couldn't stay away," you try to joke, but the words feel fake and forced as they leave your mouth. You look down for a moment as silence covers the room, then hold up your hand up to eye level. "Can you look at this for me, Ducky?" you ask. After the words are out of your mouth, you find yourself wondering if it's okay to call him Ducky, or should you have stuck with Dr. Mallard?

He nods, so you figure it was okay to call him Ducky. That's his name, after all, isn't it? Sort of. You sigh at your own thoughts as he leads you over to a table. He pats on it, signaling for you to sit, and you do. He grabs your hand gently, looking over it.

"Mr. Palmer," he says, without looking away from your hand, "could you get me a wet washcloth, please?" A few seconds pass, and then Jimmy is handing Ducky exactly what he asked for. Ducky uses it to wash away the blood that has dried on your skin, and you wince at the few times he has to apply pressure. "What did you do?" His words come out as more of a whisper, and you think that maybe he's just talking to himself, so you don't say anything. He wraps your cuts in gauze, then gently presses against your wrist. You can't help but hiss in pain. He does it a few more times, trying to feel the position of your bones. Then, finally, he says, "I think you may have broken your wrist."

"Really?"

Ducky nods. "You'll have to go to a different doctor for a cast, and I suggest you do that soon. I had a cousin who broke his wrist once, and he didn't go to the doctor for quite a few days, even though he knew something was wrong. When he did finally go--"

You've missed his stories. You never noticed, but in this moment, you know that you did. You can't remember much of any other story he's told, and you wish that you could. You make a mental note to pay more attention when he starts rambling. Even as you do this, you find yourself interrupting.

"Hey, Ducky?" you ask tentatively.

"Yes, Caitlin?"

"Did you know that I was.. that I wasn't dead? You had to know, right?"

His expression changes to one of pity. His eyes shine with guilt and sadness. His lips are turned up slightly, but it's not a happy smile. It's sad, sympathetic.

"I didn't know." His hand rests on your knee and he looks into your eyes. "I didn't know," he repeats, and you feel tears spring into your eyes.

Because you do know.

Everybody lies.

It's just easier to deal with when you can't tell.