Chapter Nine: You Gave Me The Reason Why

When I thought that I fought this war alone
You were there by my side on the frontline
When I thought that I fought without a cause
You gave me a reason to try

The concussive force of the fireballed explosion sent Peter and Howie to their knees, arms covering their heads from the shooting debris. Raising an arm, Peter's head shot around, his dark eyes staring across the short distance of forest towards the burning building. A huge gaping hole in the roof was bellowing flames to the sky, black smoke billowing like a mocking cloak. The heat was already wavering across the distance, heat waves masking the imagine in front of him.

"Peter! Dalrym come in!" A voice was shouting in his ear, snapping him back to attention.

"We're here, instruction?"

"Go in, round the back, that whole things gone up, get in there quick!" The voice cut out and with the recklessness which Peter had seen Roy rarely partake in, the temporary team leader dodged out from behind the car door, streaking across the forested floor towards the house, Hipkirk only inches behind, covering him.

"C'mon." Peter hissed, breaking his own cover to speed round the back, holding up an arm against the blaze. Howie hesitated for a moment, the flames dancing in his terrified eyes. First year out of FLETC and burning hunting cabins?

He didn't have long to be terrified though, as Peter had taken a leaf from Roy's book and, with his jacket over his head – providing about as much protection as a water gun against a forest fire – he ploughed into back door, his shoulder making quick work of the flimsy, weakened-by-age door.

"Gibbs?" His voice yelled above the crackling of the persistent flames, licking at the doors, the smoke blurring his vision. "Gibbs!" He tried again, feeling Howie's presence behind him. He jerked an arm to his right, sending the newbie agent stumbling in that general direction.

Roy was having slightly more luck. He'd dragged the tall Agent Hipkirk with him to the cabin's front entrance, not bothering to give a formal entrance, not bothering to wait the ten seconds before kicking in the door. No, there was no need for that. Hipkirk plunged the door open, his gun aiming for whatever they could find. A shotgun was raised in the young agent's direction, but three rounds from Roy's SIG and Johnny collapsed backwards with a resounding thump, taking the coffee table with him. Ewan was the last to go down, the insane grin plastered across his face as he brought the pistol forwards.

Eight bullets in his torso. Aorta, left lung, heart, right lung, rib, rib, lung, throat. A merciful death compared to what would've been in store for him had he lived.

A crackling in Roy's ear came into focus, the adrenaline wearing off slowly.

"Peter, three downs, got Gibbs? Peter…Peter!" The door beyond crunched with an ominous creak, the darker wood above cracking under the strain of failing foundations.

"Gibbs!" Peter yelled, this time in vague relief as his bleary, smoke-filled eyes, caught on the figure, pushing itself up from the wreckage.

"Boss." Peter knelt down beside his wounded superior, grabbing his arm, his mind not really working on injury control but 'get out of burning cabin- control.

"Grisham, get over here!" His voice was a screech above the same screech of abused and burning timber. Howie appeared in a second, coughing slightly as the thick smoke swirled and cascaded around him.

"Tony." Gibbs voice was quiet, hoarse. "Where's Tony?" Peter hauled the agent upwards, letting Howie drape an arm around him, trying to drag him to the exit. The agent's mind was awash with muddled images. Time and space not correlating in a linear fashion. Which way was up? Where was Tony? Why was he moving whilst his feet where hardly moving.

"Grisham, get him outta here, I'll find Tony!" Peter's voice was quickly turning hoarse as well, the smoke forcing its way down his throat. Howie glanced back, about to argue, but Peter gave him a violent shove towards the ruined door, brooking no argument. Howie dragged on, coughing severely, Gibbs doing the same as they stumbled out into the winter mist.

Howie's knees gave way just in time for Hipkirk to catch Gibbs enough to keep the senior agent upright. But, that didn't stop his memory returning, the images flashing.

The smell of gasoline, that was what it was, all he could smell, invading his mind. No, cruelty to a next level, impossible. Why?

The ropes fraying against his wrists loosened, they were no match for a desperate marine. No match for a desperate father. The rope had frayed and snapped just wet ground, the gasoline, had snuck under the door, seeping through the cracks in the cold flooring. With reluctance, so much reluctance, Gibbs pulled the limp and unresponsive figure of his son out of the protective curl. Pain he didn't want to imagine, there was only so much the consciousness could endure.

The flames erupted, small and low at first, just a crackling under the door. With a kick, Gibbs brought the filthy bed up on its side, a protective force against the gasoline fuelled flame. But, it did nothing for the explosion. The single flame became a fireball, ripping through the room and the ceiling, smoke waterfalling down on them, all directions blocked. The force ripped his son from his arms, piled the bed against the wall and left nothing – not even pain – to the imagination.

"Tony!" It was a primal yell of fear as Gibbs wrenched against the arms around him.

"Boss. No!" A voice was shouting from far away, arms wrapped around his chest, yanking him away from the building. Blind fighting, it was all Gibbs could think of. Blind fighting to get back into that house, get back into that building and free his son, to get him help.

"Tony! Tony!"

"Hipkirk, hold him, call 911!" Was that Roy's voice? No, couldn't be.

"Tony!"

"Howie, Howie, breath kid, that's right. Now, grab his arm, he's gunna do himself some damage. Gibbs! Stop. Fighting. Us! Peter's got him, Dalrym's got him!" I bloody hope he's got him, Roy's thoughts were very nearly broadcast aloud. But, even the words didn't still the struggling agent, pulling against the three restraining agents, crying the name as his voice progressively failed, blue eyes streaked with pain, fear, loss.

Peter. The wind whipped up the smoke into a cloud above the house, revealing the doorway into the burning chasm. Peter was there. A dark silhouette against the fire, oddly shaped, but distinctive. An agent carrying a boy. Gibbs sagged with relief, but only for a moment, he was still pulling weakly against Hipkirk and Grisham as Roy sprinted forward to aid.

Peter's face was streaked with dirt, but that wasn't the worrying thing. The fire belched a solid flame through the tattered roof, sparks dancing up in an eerie shower…as the roof fell in.

"Peter!" Roy's voice was a terrified scream as the cabin sagged, the foundations crumbling. Peter's dark eyes spun around, his mind acting quickly. With a humongous effort, the agent hefted the limp body and threw the figure in front of him just as the entire cabin collapsed onto the forest floor, the smoke engulfing both agent and teenager in a glistening cloud of danger.

"PETER!"

"TONY!"

When I thought that I fought this war alone,
You were there by my side on the frontline,
And we fought to believe the impossible

When I thought that I fought this war alone
We were one with our destinies entwined
When I thought that I fought without a cause
You gave me the reason why

-Poets of the Fall

What happened? What happened after, what happened in there, who knows, whoever does? We'll all see. Short one this time, just a filler effect I suppose I'd call it. Now, I have lost and rewritten this chapter three times in the past week, which is frustrating I can tell you, so forgive me since I may have to change this as it annoys me. But, still, the story's the same the writing may just be a hell of a lot better. Thanks for the patience, it means a lot.

Eryn [Soul Music]