Rayne

One of the agents walked me down to interrogation, and then left. Then I sat there. And sat there. And sat there. It felt like I'd been in there for an hour, refusing to do anything but sit up straight and look directly ahead (I knew they could see me) before Gibbs himself walked in, making me instantly stiffen in dislike. He placed two files on the table between us before sitting down, looking at me the whole time. Once seated, he just stared at me. I knew this game well. My father used to play it with me all the time. As soon as he saw a weakness, he beat the shit out of me because of it. Even though I hated Gibbs, and the very idea of being in a small room with a marine scared me, I looked right back into his eyes, forcing down emotion until I was the selfless robot I usually was. Finally, Gibbs looked down, opening the first file and flipping over the first photograph. It wasn't at all what I expected. It was a picture of someone's palm, and I suddenly realized that it was my father's. His palm had one angry red line down it from where he'd been beating on my thigh with a belt two days ago. "Do you know how your father sustained this injury?" Gibbs asked quietly, eyes on my face.

"Probably in the shop, sir," I said dispassionately, and Gibbs pushed the picture towards me, raising his voice.

"We have the surveillance tapes from your father's store. He hasn't worked for the past two months, nor has he been in there at any other time but to go to his office. You're lying." He'd caught me already. Crap.

"Then he must have cut himself out in the junkyard. I don't know." I thought up another lie quickly; I'd gotten good at it after all these years. Gibbs fixed me with an eagle eye stare before flipping over the next photo on the stack. It was a picture of my father's head from the brows up. There was one perfect hole in the middle of his forehead from a gunshot.

"Only a skilled marksman could have made this shot. The recoil on a gun is hard to control." Gibbs said clearly, pushing this photo towards me too. I didn't know what he was hoping to accomplish—guilt, maybe? Well, he wasn't going to get it. I was glad he was dead. I said nothing, only looked back up at him, face expressionless. We had another mini stare down before he opened the second file, running a finger down the first page as if checking a list. "According to your medical records, you've broken your clavicle three times, your nose four times; you've broken five ribs, broken seven fingers as well as your radius. You've dislocated your shoulder ten times, thrown out your knee, and broken your jaw." Gibbs read off, voice getting harder by the second, and I felt myself freeze, remembering each broken bone, each bruise, each time I'd cleaned up blood.

"I play a dangerous sport, Agent Gibbs. As you've already seen, it's not uncommon to get hurt." I forced myself to say, hoping that he'd just let it go. Unfortunately, my comment only seemed to make him angry.

"What I saw today was an old injury reopening. You've only been playing hockey for four years. These injuries go back ten years, even longer than that. You're lying again." He snarled.

"I don't understand how this pertains to your investigation." I said through gritted teeth, considering asking for an attorney. I could protect myself, but it would ease some of the tension if someone else was here. Gibbs leaned even closer, looking as if he was restraining himself, which made me even more afraid.

"Your father has been beating you since you were six years old. According to your local shooting range, you are a skilled marksman. You had the motive and means to kill your father." He said, and I couldn't help myself, I laughed bitterly, shoving the photos back at him.

"If I was that brave, I'd have done it years ago. I didn't kill my father." I said coolly, knowing that he had nothing on me.

"Was it self defense, Rayne? Was he beating you to a point where you had to strike back?" Gibbs asked, and for some reason, I was suddenly filling with anger, working hard to hold it back, my façade starting to slip. This was none of his business; he was just as cocky and messed up as all the other marines. He didn't care and he never would.

"Show me the forensic evidence. Show me the gun I used to kill him, and my fingerprints on it. Show me the blood splatter you found on my clothes. Prove it." I said harshly, and Gibbs stood up, putting me on edge, especially when he leaned closer than ever before, making my insides explode in fear.

"Why do you protect your father, Rayne? What else has he done to you that would make you cover for him?" He asked very quietly. His closeness made me totally lose it.

"Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, my father was a drunk. He was a loser; he did nothing with his life. The only reason our shop is still open is because of my mother's life insurance policy. I'm glad the bastard is dead, but I didn't kill him!" I yelled, standing up so fast my chair fell back with a bang.

"Sit down," Gibbs said quietly, not at all fazed, as far as I could tell.

"No. Either charge me with something or let me go. You have no proof that I did this." I snarled, trying very hard not to storm out of here.

"Sit. Down." Gibbs ordered, rising up to his full height. As he did so, he shoved the table towards me, hitting my thigh. Before I could stop it, a gasp of pain escaped, and I grabbed my thigh reflexively, eyes squeezing shut as my nerves stung and burned, even though the pain was nowhere near as bad as when my father had actually been beating me. He'd had his fist in my hair, keeping me still as he brought down his belt over and over again. "Come. Our doctor will give you the stitches you need, then you can leave." Gibbs voice was surprisingly composed when he spoke again, and I straightened, trying to maintain some dignity. He walked to the door and pulled it open for me, waiting. After a second, I limped carefully out, trying to keep my face from twisting. I could feel my thigh starting to bleed again, and soon it'd streak down my leg and everyone would see it—I was still wearing my lightweights that went under all my hockey pads. Once in the hall, I saw another door at the end open, and all of Gibbs' agents came out, making me mad again. Of course they'd all watch. "DiNozzo—take Ms. Grean to autopsy." Gibbs ordered, and one of the guys came forward, the other agents walking by, gawking like idiots. Gibbs turned away and the others followed him until it was just 'DiNozzo' and I in the hallway.

"Elevator's this way," he said, starting off down the hall. I limped after him, trying to mask the fact that I was breathing in pants; my thigh really hurt. One awkward elevator ride later, we emerged in a very industrial looking area. From the left, I heard loud techno music. To the right, it was silent. DiNozzo turned right, and walked through a pair of automatic doors. "Hey, Duck," he greeted someone as I limped through the doors, trying as hard as I could not to show weakness.

"Hello, Anthony," a calm, British voice responded. As I walked further into the cold autopsy room, I saw two new people. I immediately identified the British man as the shorter portly one, who even had on a bowtie. The other looked like his little flunky, sitting at a computer a few feet away, watching the whole exchange through round glasses. "This must be Madam Rayne," The British guy said calmly, coming over and shaking my hand as if we were discussing business. "I am Doctor Mallard, but please, call me Ducky. This is Mr. Palmer, my assistant. I see you have a hurt leg." His friendliness shocked me; I thought all of Gibbs' staff were as, well, mean as him. He certainly wasn't what I was expecting. "Right this way, let's take a look." He escorted me over to, regrettably, one of the autopsy tables. With a wince, I sat on it, then gritted my teeth as I swung my legs over. "Oh, dear," the Doctor said, looking down. I'd started bleeding again, and I'd left a few drops on the floor. "No matter, let's take a look see," He continued, and I rolled back my shorts, then the under-armor beneath it. Without the pressure of the tight material, red began to blossom over the white bandage. "Gauze, Mr. Palmer." The Doctor said, completely at ease.

"Here, Doctor. Oh my," the assistant said in surprise as he came over, getting a look at my leg as Doctor Mallard pulled away the bandage. Under the bright autopsy lights, my thigh looked hideously ugly. My tan skin was marred by criss-crossing lashes, all of them slowly becoming obscure as they bled.

"How did you sustain this injury?" The Doctor asked curiously, peering through his glasses as he started to clean the wound, ignoring my winces.

"I cut it in the shop." I said, continuing the lie, then winced again as he applied slight pressure.

"Interesting. The wound isn't completely clean." He said, turning over the gauze he'd been using. Among the blood were little brown specks, and I felt myself pale as I realized what they were. It was little pieces of leather from my dad's belt. "You know, I have a Morgan 4/4 which I restored myself." He said, and even though I knew that he was just doing this to start conversation so he could report back to Gibbs, I was intrigued.

"Series one or two?" I asked, not looking at 'Ducky's' face.

"Why, one, of course." He said. "I'll be stitching up your leg shortly, and I'll need to numb the area now." He added, looking at his assistant. 'Mr. Palmer' started, then quickly turned and left to get the supplies the Doctor needed.

"What year?" I asked, finally daring to look at him.

"1936." He replied, taking the supplies from his assistant and starting to measure out a tiny syringe full of numbing solution. To my surprise, he seemed totally comfortable. Usually, people who were snooping for information had this tenseness to them that always would give them away.

"How did you find a Coventry Climax engine that old?" I asked as he started to poke among the largest lashes, ignoring the feeling of my skin tingling and then numbing. It was a relief not to feel the lashes anyway.

"Lots of hunting, I'll tell you that." He chuckled, apparently satisfied that my thigh was numb. He turned to the pile of supplies and selected his needle and thread. "Where did you learn to work on cars like you do?" He asked as he started to stitch up the heaviest lash first, his assistant hovering behind him.

"My dad." I said, my voice hard. He was starting his prying. "And before you can ask, I don't thank him for it. I'm studying law, not automobile repair."

"I see," he said slowly, not at all fazed, watching his stitch work intently. "Where will you be studying law then, Ms. Rayne?" He asked.

"I haven't decided yet. It depends on how many scholarship forms I can afford to fill out first." I said, and he chuckled softly.

"I remember a time in my life where I had so much debt from student loans that I had to lifeguard on the side. I'm sure Mr. Palmer still has lots of debt to pay, don't you?" He asked his assistant, who nodded vigorously. I almost cracked a smile. Almost. "Well, I'm sure you have good enough grades to get some grant money awarded to you. And I believe I am…done." He carefully cut his thread, admiring his handiwork. In my opinion, my thigh looked like Frankenstein, but it wasn't bleeding and it didn't hurt, so I wasn't about to complain, especially because he'd done it for free. "Now, no strenuous activity. You should really be on crutches." He ordered as I carefully swung my legs off the table and slowly put weight on my bad leg, rolling down my under-armor and then shorts over the bandages.

"Thank you, Doctor." I said, and he waved a hand dismissively at me.

"It's Ducky, Ms. Rayne, Ducky. And you are certainly welcome. I still advise you to take these crutches." He said, gesturing to some that had magically appeared by the assistants' computer.

"No thank you." I said, giving him a quick smile. Even if he'd gone prying into my life, he was a really friendly and nice person.

"Then I will escort you back upstairs. How will you be getting home?" He asked, gently leading me towards the doors. I balked for just a second at his touch on my skin where I wasn't numbed before moving forward away from it. I didn't like people touching me.

"Bus, I suppose. Unless Agent Gibbs takes me back or tries to question me again." I said, my voice getting hard once more. The Doctor made conversation about his Morgan, walking at a slower pace to keep up with me as we made our way back upstairs.

"All stitched up and ready to leave," He announced our arrival into a rectangular area marked by four desks and a large TV screen. Sitting at the desks were the agents I'd come to dislike. One of the men was typing away furiously at his computer, the other on the phone. The woman was sifting through my mother's old address book, making my breath hitch for a second. I hadn't even seen the thing in years, my father had stashed it somewhere where he wouldn't have to be reminded of her. Gibbs himself was sitting at his desk, eyes sweeping over his agents. He stood as the Doctor walked and I limped into their territory.

"I thought you were giving her crutches." He said, watching me come to a careful stop. My spine instantly tightened as he looked me over and I looked past all of them, out the large windows that showed the world outside.

"Ms. Rayne insists that she will be fine without them." He said for me, shooting me a sidelong glance. The agents stopped working at their desks and looked up to watch us.

"I'm fine," I said, voice tight, as Gibbs looked to me for conformation.

"Then Ziva will take you home." He said, gesturing to the woman, who automatically stood up, coming over.

"At your entrance," she said, and I blinked, confused.

"She means leave," DiNozzo said, hanging up his phone.

"At your leave," she corrected herself, shooting him and irritated look. Resisting the urge to glare at Gibbs one last time, I limped away, the woman easily keeping pace beside me. The ride home was silent. All I did was thank her for taking me home before gladly hiding back among the towering stacks of cars, glad to be free of NCIS.