AN: What a wonderful device the flashback is… when your story suddenly does a complete swerve, and you get anxious about credibility, and contrivance…

The first is vital, and the second something I try desperately to avoid. But upon my own head be it, I'm the one who let the tale take over. See what you think.

TC, I've used your phrases, they were so worth purloining!

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 7

Ben Warner drove back to George Washington University feeling alternately pleased and furious. When he'd said he was returning to DC well before the beginning of the new term, his father had accepted happily his explanation that he wanted to get plenty of practice on the ice, ready for the new hockey league season. His father had been proud that he'd shown such commitment. Poor old Dad, so easy to hoodwink…The fed hadn't been so easy to manipulate.

Damn John for leaving that message on his cell phone! When the agent investigating the case had begun to question him, there'd been a distinct hint of suspicion… did they think he'd stolen the boots? To pay for drugs, maybe? So near, and yet so far. He let out a sharp bark of derisive laughter as he parked his car. He was pretty sure that volunteering to go to NCSI or whatever they were to give a statement had stopped them from looking any harder at him, and he was quite certain that Special Agent McGraw, or whoever he was, had believed him in the end, but it had been impossible to get any information out of him, and he'd hoped to learn at least something useful.

Acting as the distraught friend, it was easy to elicit sympathy from the agent, who didn't seem that much older than he was, but earnestly asking "Have you any idea who did this?" didn't get an answer to go with the condolences. "I've no idea where he got the drugs from, have you?" got exactly the same reply.

'We're still making enquiries,' he parroted viciously as he made his way up the stairs to his campus apartment, happy as always that the son of a Senator didn't have to make do with one room like the oi-polloi.

Damn John. Why'd he kept his freaking boots? He didn't even know you could look at a phone and see the messages it had sent. If he'd given them back instead of making a silly joke, John wouldn't have left that message, or come to his apartment unannounced. And he wouldn't have ended up having to kill his friend.

"What's got into you? You've been antsy ever since you arrived. I've given you your boots back, and I've said I'm sorry…"

"It's none of my business…"

"What isn't?"

John sighed. "That guy who was here… I was outside your door with my hand raised to knock… and I heard what he said."

"Hey, man, I was only buying a bit of coke…"

"No, Ben, you weren't. You're supplying pushers. That makes you a dealer. That's why you've come back to DC early. I heard."

"Man…"

"Hey, I'm not going to rat on you… I use occasionally…I mean, I got two pals going off to Eye-raq tomorrow… I was going to go after some speedball for a farewell party… But it's dangerous, Ben. You'll get in with some really dodgy people… look, I don't want to know who, or what – but promise me you'll think about getting out."

Had he really got off that easily? He'd lain awake all night thinking about it, and by morning he'd known he couldn't take the chance. His passionately anti-drugs father mustn't find out, and he certainly didn't want the man who was his guide on his way to wealth and power such as Pa couldn't imagine, to know he'd been careless. His mentor acted like a kindly old uncle, and Ben went along with that, but the truth was that deep inside he was terrified of him.

Everyone had heard about the dodgy speedballs… people were buying them from that idiot Manders, and recutting them to a safe level, two for the price of one; the only one who didn't know that was Manders. Ben Warner went to find him…

"Hey, Johnny, when did you say you're meeting your pals?"

John closed his locker and picked up his bag. "This afternoon, why?"

Ben glanced round. "Here… out of my private supply. To say thanks for not ratting me out."

"Aw, thanks, Ben! But you know I wouldn't do that… you're my friend…"

Ben winked. "Enjoy…" he said, and watched his friend leave the locker room. Sad… but now all he had to do was listen for the news.

The plan had worked, and he refused to feel guilty about it. If people were fool enough to take drugs, that was up to them. He never did. So, that had been one danger averted, but now, he had to concentrate on the other. Chaz Tressel was a far greater liability.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

There was nothing they could do now until they talked to Director Shepard, and they were all dropping on their feet. They sent Kent home to his family and sleep; they planned to sleep themselves at their desks, as best they could until the Director arrived at 7am.

"Give your eyes a rest, McGee…" It had come out with the Boss's usual bark, but the concern had been genuine. At half past five Gibbs, the chronic insomniac got up from behind his desk, and peered over the top of Tim's, to see the young agent, organised as he'd have expected, lying on his roll-out mat, his jacket folded neatly for a pillow. He was spark out, at least looking as if he were getting some benefit from the rest, although the bruising round his eyes reminded the senior agent, if he was ever likely to forget, just what the young man had been through.

Ziva seemed to sleep the same way she did everything else, seriously and with intent. Even her deep breathing seemed purposeful. It was necessary that her body rested, but it was also necessary to be ready for any eventuality, so she lay in the recovery position, one knee bent, ready to spring up, with her Sig, in its holster, on the floor near her hand.

DiNozzo hadn't opted for the floor; he sat in his chair with his head on his left arm, crooked on his desk. His right arm was hugged protectively into his midriff, his long legs stuck out at awkward angles, and his whole body moved restlessly from time to time. The few occasions that Gibbs had seen his SFA sleeping, it had always been this way. Cops never slept easy, and Gibbs gut tightened involuntarily in sympathy. He didn't venture to imagine DiNozzo's dreams; he had a whole library of his own to entertain him.

He went for a shower, a shave and a change of clothes, then headed out for coffee. Starbucks closed late and opened early; the manager held the view that the Navy Yard was entirely staffed by insomniacs, and catering to them made very good sense. The grumpy silver haired regular approaching now almost single handedly kept him in business. He set up the usual order.

Returning with a tray of five cups, one each for his agents and two for him, he saw that DiNozzo was missing. He put the cups down on the desks, and waited a few minutes; the smell of coffee and his movements around the bullpen being sufficient to begin rousing Tim and Ziva, but not enough to bring Tony back. Gibbs didn't know whether he ought to be anxious or not, he was well aware that he had a mother hen trait in his nature, but he went off in search anyway.

DiNozzo wasn't in the shower, where he'd rather expected to find him; or in the locker room, but when he walked into the mens' room, he was brought up short by the sight of a stark naked butt as Tony stepped awkwardly into a clean pair of boxers. Gibbs didn't waste time looking at the ass, he was looking at the black bruising on the back of his SFA's muscular shoulders, and checking on the dressing. It was dry, and clean enough, although a bit old and tired looking. And of course it explained why the fastidious Italian hadn't been in the shower.

Tony was sleepy but unruffled, as he hitched his pants up and turned round. "Hi, Boss," he said with a bleary smile. "Ducky brought me a clean shirt to leave hospital in, but some blood ran down my back into the waistband of my trousers, and my pants – and I didn't realise. Had to put them back on," his nose wrinkled; "and spend all day with dried blood on me. I kept on smelling it." He picked up the bloodstained boxers and dropped them in the trash can, then inspected his suit.

"This'll have to go to Abby before it goes to the dry cleaner," he sighed. "And I couldn't even take a shower." He moved to pick up his clean jeans and the soft hoodie he'd found to go with them, but Gibbs had seen how stiffly he'd bent to retrieve the ruined pants, and moved first.

"Wait," he said quietly, and something in his tone made the SFA comply without question. Poppa Gibbs. He would never admit it, but there where times when his soul ached for this sort of kindness, however roughly given. He didn't know why the Boss would care about his welfare, but the fact was he did, and for someone who'd fended for himself all his life, that was… well, that was just huge.

Gibbs picked up the clean garments, and Tony's shoes, and put them on the vanity shelf. He turned his agent gently round by his upper arms, and winced as he looked at the bruising close up. Tony felt the dressing being peeled back carefully, and then off altogether.

"It's dry enough," Gibbs reassured him. "Turn round again." He lifted the much smaller dressing from high on DiNozzo's chest, where the surgeon had gone in to remove the bullet from the front. It was a small wound, with only three stitches. "That's neat," he said in some surprise.

"A woman's touch, Boss," Tony said with a small smile. "Dr. Brand, remember?" Gibbs did remember; somewhere it had registered with him that the trauma surgeon was a redhead… He tugged the dressing all the way off, and it joined the other one and the discarded pants in the trash.

"Er, Boss…"

Gibbs picked up Tony's clean clothes and handed them to him. "Go take that shower. I'll take your suit to Abby. I'll pick up some dressings from Autopsy."

"You keeping an eye on the Probie too, Boss? ...Course you are."

"Get gone, DiNozzo."

"Thank you, nurse," Tony said, recalling Tim's words from the previous day, and turned to leave, waiting for the headslap. It was very light. If any early bird saw Special Agent DiNozzo clad in nothing but his shorts, carrying his clothes and wandering down the corridor to the showers, nobody actually remarked on it.

Gibbs arrived back at the bull-pen to find McGee on the phone. He waited impatiently until the young agent had finished, and said, "Don't you want to take a break? Grab a change of clothes?"

Tim just smiled. "First things first, Boss. I just ordered breakfast."

"Hah. Nice work, McGee."

Ziva reappeared in fresh clothes, smelling of vanilla, and five minutes later Tony arrived, dressed except for the hoodie, which was draped round his shoulders, and carrying breakfast. "Don't know why Adie called me," he said cheerfully. Everyone else knew; the guard at the entrance knew DiNozzo was the one to grumble the most vociferously if he wasn't fed.

As they ate, Gibbs renewed the dressings on Tony's shoulder. Gibbs was aware that Ziva was covertly giving Tony's muscles the once-over. Tim knew it too; the only one who didn't notice, oddly enough, was Tony. Fresh, fed and watered, they were ready for another day; or days, as the SFA said airily. Gibbs sighed to himself. He could only suspect why it was that his Senior Agent could come out of exhausted, nightmare infested sleep, back to cheery goofiness just because of one very small act of kindness. And he still thought that Gibbs couldn't see it…

Jenny Shepard arrived, forewarned, as Tim was pulling up as much information as he could on the Warner family; Kent arrived shortly afterwards, with Blossom. By now nobody even wondered if there was a no dogs rule. She was part of the team. They all trooped up to the Director's office.

"So," Shepard said thoughtfully. "The story so far… every time we think we're done with this, something else crops up… and this time there's Oscar Sablea and a well respected Senator."

"It's because of both of those factors that we don't want Warner to get any inkling that we're interested in him," Gibbs said. "We have the guy who actually killed the three victims, but we're quite sure he's not the whole picture, and we've not even interviewed him yet!"

"This time we want to cut the head off, not the tentacles;" Fuller agreed. "We also have to try to find Tressel before Sablea does…"

"And his nine kilos of pure cocaine," Jenny pointed out. "I understand what you're saying; the fact that he's a petty dirtbag doesn't mean we can stand by and let him be killed since we know he's a target… but I have to say, if it's a choice between finding him and alerting the bad guys that we know something, and leaving him in the wind… he's on his own."

"It shouldn't come to that," Tony said. "Sablea knows we're after the guy, and Agent Fuller and I both told him we weren't going to back off." He glanced over at Kent, who winced.

"Hairy moment," he said with feeling. "Didn't think he was going to kill us… wasn't certain though. But I am pretty sure he'd like us dead now, just for answering him back."

"What's he like?" Tim asked curiously.

"Benevolently malevolent," Tony told him. "Don't think my hackles have ever risen quite so much." He paused, and huffed. "I would seriously like to take him down," he said without humour. "The world's a more dangerous place with him loose in it."

Tim looked at him thoughtfully, remembering their night at the hands of Dale Nickless, and thinking that this man was a hundred times worse. "I've already started hunting," he said calmly. "And I won't get caught. If there's a way to link the Starling Stash to Sablea and the Senator, I'll find it."

Tony threw the younger man a delighted grin, mouthing the phrase back to him, his mood lifted. "Well," Tim said matter-of-factly, "Nobody can live at that level without leaving some sort of trail, no matter how they bury it."

"I've brought over everything we've got on the heroin that Stork used to make his speedballs," Kent said. "We reckon we already know who Manders got it from, although we need to confirm that. I'd like to sit in on the interrogation, Gibbs –"

"How about you do it?"

As the two senior agents discussed tactics, Tony murmured, "Link the Starling Stash to Sablea and the Senator… I like it, McAlliterator… you should be a writer!"

He was unprepared for the fleeting look of… what? Panic? Guilt? Nah… he was imagining it. "Writer? Me? You think so?" The Probie laughed and shrugged it off. "It was just a phrase, Tony."

"Well… it was impressive," the SFA said, and let the matter go.

Damn… fine for now, Tim thought. But there's no way that DiNozzo won't remember that some time. Must be more careful in future…

Gibbs' phone buzzed. Abby. She hadn't been there when he'd dropped off DiNozzo's suit; but she'd probably been up all night somewhere anyway. Her excited voice could be heard by everyone, although they couldn't make out her words.

"Do we need to come down, Abs?"

"No… but you need to know this…"

Gibbs listened, said "Nice work, Abs," and hung up. "Abby found a couple of hairs on Tressel's bedding," he told them. "She left some tests running overnight – the hairs are from two different people, both male. She recovered DNA, from the hairs, and from semen from the same two individuals. One's Tressel, the hair sample says he's been using Heroin and coke during the past month. Starling vintage present. The other's a non-user, DNA not on record."

Ziva frowned. "That is surely unusual. Was Tressel trying unsuccessfully to hook someone else? Or was he being manipulated through the use of his drug of choice?"

"I'll go back to his place with a warrant, Boss," Tony said.

"Don't go alone, DiNozzo. Take Ziva."

"On it, Boss."

"Fuller and I'll go and talk to Stork," Gibbs said, and didn't wait for a reply before striding from the room with Kent.

"Stay with McGee, girl." Blossom trotted obligingly back to Tim.

"I'll go back and see what else I can find about Senator Warner."

"What have you found so far, Agent McGee?"

"Nothing but good, Director. He's a gentleman of the old school, honest, respected, very well liked. Admired for his stand against bribery in politics, lends his name, finances and personal help to charities fighting against drug abuse. Has one married daughter and dotes on his two grandchildren. Two sons, one an environmental scientist, the other at GWU. Nobody has a bad word to say about him, the press love him. He even plays Santa at childrens' charity parties. So far, he's blameless, virtuous, and even noble."

Jenny nodded thoughtfully. "So, that leaves me to decide what I'm going to tell SecNav about why we're investigating a saint."

Tim looked her straight in the eye. "Ma'am," he said bravely, "He's not going to know he's being investigated. Easiest thing to tell the Secretary is… nothing."

The Probie and the Director shared a wicked smile.

AN: You know how I worry about my brain… I've been writing 'Vance' all through this chapter, and only just realised, Season 3….. oh, dear me.

Di, hope you liked your treat.