Earlier
Tony awoke slowly from his drug-induced sleep and looked at the clock. 7:42 a.m.
That's the most sleep I've gotten since I landed on this damned floating hell. I should get the crap kicked out of me more often.
He started to get up and gasped at the sharp pain that shot through his ribs.
Or not.
He gingerly hauled himself upright, sitting on the side of the cot until the dizziness cleared from his head. He took that time to inspect his damaged right hand, wincing as he tried to straighten his fingers and found he couldn't. The skin over his knuckles was badly swollen and multicolored with ugly bruising, a lump the size of a ping-pong ball stretching the skin near the joint at the base of his little finger. He'd broken that bone before—a boxer's fracture, it was called—and he was glad it was just bruised this time. It still hurt like hell, though.
He tried moving it again and felt cold nausea roil through his stomach at the pain the tiny movement produced. Should have let them splint it yesterday, he thought, knowing there was no way in hell he'd go crawling back there today and ask for one.
He forced himself to his feet and gathered his things to go take a shower, the thought of steaming hot water blocking out the pain of his stiff movements. He decided to skip his ritual of walking the ship once he realized the simple act of getting cleaned up and dressed had thoroughly tired him out.
It was too bad really, because he liked making his presence known on the ship, letting the sailors know that he was watching and could pop up at any time. The incidences of stakes card games had lowered greatly once those aboard figured out about his random roaming. He made it a point to make rounds once a day, not counting the nights he went strolling because he couldn't sleep.
He knew some of the crew had taken to calling him "Agent DiRacula" because of his nocturnal wanderings. Abby would be so proud.
Tony decided that laying low would be a good plan for the day as he returned to his office. He caught up on some paperwork—slow going because of his hand—before finally giving in to the pain and popping another Vicodin. Not wanting to accidently write up Captain Cookie Monster for violating the (chocolate-chip) substance abuse policy, he decided to leave the paperwork alone and let the painkillers do their loopiness-inducing job. He put the files aside and went to lie down, intending to simply rest his eyes for a moment.
Oops.
He was alone. So very alone that he wanted to die. Or scream or cry or break something.
Anything to get the man in the room with him to pay attention, to acknowledge his grief—or at the very least, his existence.
He still wore his black suit from the funeral, but the huge house had emptied of mourners hours ago. His father had thrown a fit over a slightly overdone entrée and thrown the entire staff out of the house. They were the only ones there.
The only ones breathing, anyway.
Tony saw the ghost of his beautiful mother standing forlornly in the corner of his father's elegantly decorated study. Blood still dripped from the deep wounds in her wrists—just as it had when he'd found her days earlier—and had begun to pool bright red on the light carpet. The pools turned to rivers and young Tony pulled his feet up into the big overstuffed chair that had swallowed him whole the second his father pushed him there with a barked order to "Sit and shut up."
Tony watched the red rivers flow under the chair and he turned slightly to see if they had made their meandering way out the door yet.
"I thought I said sit," his father said, his lips twisted into a cruel sneer. "Sit still or I'll make you still."
Tony snapped back around and folded his hands in his lap, fighting the urge to fidget. One of his aunts had sneaked him some cookies earlier and his small body, unaccustomed to sweet treats, still was riding a massive sugar high. He tempered his voice so he wouldn't shout. "Yes, father."
He was shaking with the effort it took to sit still, to not sob his little heart out and ask the questions he knew would not be appreciated. He looked over to his mother's ghost and saw her slowly shaking her head, silently telling him to be quiet. His eyes dropped to the floor and he noticed the blood river had returned, coiling tightly around his chair and flowing toward his father's huge cherry wood desk. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood of his own as he fought not to warn his father about the encroaching river.
Father would not appreciate his nice shoes getting ruined.
"Father, watch out!" he cried, unable to take it anymore.
His father looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes burning with rage not meant for this world. Tony's eyes slid to his spectral mother and back again, and he wondered if his father, too, had died that day.
"Stop with your silly games, boy. It's high time you grow up."
"But the rivers, your shoes…" he sputtered, his panic growing by the minute, tightening his chest like an asthmatic.
"What in God's name are you talking about, boy?" his father roared, rising from behind the desk, his large frame shrinking the massive piece of furniture to nothingness. Tony saw his ghost mother move across the room as if floating on the red rivers born of her own veins. She stopped between her child and her rapidly advancing, enraged husband.
His father moved through her as if she were simple fog. It was fitting, he thought wildly, she had never been able to stop him in life, so why should it be any different now that she was dead?
She disappeared in his wake and he felt her departure like a physical blow. He cried out in pain even before his father's closed fist hit his face. The blows rained down on his little body, but the only pain he felt was the aching lodged deep in his chest at the loss of his mother.
He heard piano music over his father's grunts and his own soft sobbing. The music swelled until it was deafening. It overtook his senses one by one until he could no longer taste the blood in his mouth, or see, or smell his father's expensive cologne.
All he could feel was her music.
Tony shot straight out of bed like he'd been shocked. He stood in the middle of his office, looking around wildly, trying to pull himself out of the terrifying dream/past and into the present where he was safe—at least relatively. His injuries from the fight made themselves known all at once, screaming their pained protests at his jerky movements and heaving breaths.
He pulled open his bottom drawer with shaking hands and drank deeply of the alcohol, not caring one bit about the implications of diving headlong into the bottle to quell his terror. The taste of the expensive liquor instantly called up the remembered smell of his father's drink from his dream and he shoved the bottle back into the drawer, gagging and clamping a hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up.
"Dammit, Tony! Open up!"
Tony blinked at the sudden voice, only to realize someone had been pounding on his door since he'd come awake minutes before. In fact, the pounding was what had pulled him up from the depths of his hellish nightmare.
Benny. Shit.
"Coming," Tony called, looking down to make sure he had clothes on and then almost laughing at the ridiculousness of that. He'd stopped sleeping naked his first night on the ship.
He opened the door and saw Benny flinch at his appearance. That can't be good.
"Where's the fire?" Tony asked, giving Benny his best fake smile. For once he was glad he wasn't home and he hadn't known Benny as long as he'd known his team. It was so much easier to fake it with people who didn't know him well.
Benny didn't return the smile, and his eyes were deep wells of concern. Tony swallowed hard, realizing his throat was sore. He put two and two together and almost threw up.
Shit. Oh shit.
Benny put a hand on Tony's trembling arm, his dark skin a startling contrast against Tony's pallor. "I heard you screaming halfway down the hall," he said softly, his eyes still holding that god-awful concern. "Are you all right?"
Tony poked his head out the door and glanced both ways down the hall, wondering what time it was.
"It's almost 2100," Benny said, as if in answer to Tony's thoughts. "Everyone on this corridor is gone for the night."
The cook's eyes widened a tiny bit as he finished taking in Tony's disheveled appearance. "Which is why you sleep here," he said softly, brushing past a motionless Tony and into the office. He settled his large frame into a chair. "You wanna talk about it?"
Tony struggled to find his voice, wondering if Benny had smelled the alcohol on him and if he would even say anything if he had. "I … uh, no, not really."
Benny watched him silently long enough to make him squirm. He finished shutting the door and settled with a grimace of pain into his chair, noticing for the first time that Benny held a small container in his big hands.
"You didn't stop by to see me at dinner," Benny said, holding out the container. "So I brought you some soup."
Tony took the man's kindness like a kick to the gut. He wordlessly took the container, his foggy brain fighting the effects of the Vicodin and alcohol.
Benny sensed his discomfort and said cheerily, "It's a new recipe I'm trying out, and I figured who better to test it on than a captive audience?"
Tony tried to smile. It wasn't quite working so he took the spoon off the lid and opened the container. He watched Benny watch him try it. It wasn't the first new recipe Benny had tried out him, but it was the best by far. Benny grinned at the happy face Tony made.
"This is amazing," Tony said between spoonfuls. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the heavenly soup touched his tongue.
Benny cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. "I thought about adding some chili powder to give it some kick, but then I remembered the stitches in your mouth and figured you could do without it burning like hell."
"I think it's perfect just the way it is."
Benny studied the photo of the team on Tony's desk while his friend finished the soup. Tony set aside the container with a smile and a sincere, "Thanks, Benny. You're the best."
"I'm glad you liked it. I'll be sure to put it on the menu at my restaurant some day," Benny said with a grin. The smile faded as he took in Tony's pale face. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," he answered automatically.
Benny sighed. "And here I thought we were friends."
Tony blinked at that. "Of course we are, Benny. Why would you say that?"
"Because where I come from, friends don't lie to each other," he said, the edge in his voice reminding Tony of just how big and tough the young cook looked. His tone softened though, and he said, "You got the shit beat out of you yesterday, Tony. By a guy my size. I doubt you're 'fine.' "
Tony sighed, then winced at the pain in his ribs. Benny raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm just sore. I'll be perfectly fine in a couple days."
Benny regarded him with a mixture of concern and exasperation. He held out his hand for the container and Tony passed it back to him, yelping in surprise when Benny's big hand closed around his right wrist. The cook appraised the grotesquely swollen knuckles with what Tony knew to be an eye trained on the mean streets of New Orleans.
Or Nawlins, as Benny would say, his soft drawl coloring his every word. He and Tony often made fun of each other and sometimes Tony would pull out his harsh Long Island accent just to mess with him.
Benny let out a frustrated sigh, muttered something that might have been "damn cops" and stood. "I'll be right back," he said, leaving without another word.
Tony's thoughts returned to his playful banter with Benny on the subject of accents.
"Hell, Tony, it's not just different accents," Benny had said once during one of their late-night kitchen raids, "sometimes I think we speak different languages."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tony said, clipping his words crisply and accentuating the 'g' in 'talking.'
"And I have no idea what you're sayin' sometimes," Benny drawled in return, allowing his smooth voice to smother the words and leaving the 'g' completely off 'saying.'
"It's called a 'g' there, Benny," Tony said, laughing. "You need not fear them."
Benny threw a carrot at Tony's head. "Maybe I should just start talkin' street, yo. What you be thinkin' 'bout that, homes?"
Tony laughed and returned fire with the closest foodstuff at hand, which happened to be a handful of bouillon cubes. "Well shit, B-Money, I was a beat cop in Philly for a year. I bet I can do it better than you."
Benny easily ducked the chicken-flavored missiles with a laugh. "Prove it, T-Dawg."
The door opened again, breaking Tony from his reverie. Benny held out a bag of ice and Tony rested it on his injured hand with a grimace. "Thanks."
"Anytime," Benny said, his expression conflicted as he obviously debated something in his head.
"You gonna spit it out or just stare at me all night?" Tony asked with a wry smile.
The corner of Benny's mouth quirked up and he decided to go for broke. "Tell me about the nightmare, Tony. You were screaming like the hounds of hell were after you. I'm worried."
Tony looked down at his hands, then back up again once he realized seeing the swollen mess made it throb harder. "Before I came here, I worked with a team in DC," Tony began, amazed at how much it still hurt to use the past tense in reference to his team—his family. "My partner got shot right in front of me."
Tony knew he was lying, in a way, but Benny hadn't asked specifically about tonight's nightmare. He would never share the horrific details of his childhood with anyone, had never shared it—not even with Gibbs, not even at his drunkest. Except that wasn't true. Abby knew everything—and had known since one particularly drunken evening he barely remembered. But it didn't count if he didn't remember, right?
"That must have been awful, man," Benny said sympathetically. "I can't even begin to imagine going through that."
"Yeah, well, don't spend too much time trying," Tony said, realizing that the price of his subtle subterfuge would probably be dreams haunted by Kate. "Tasting your friend's blood is something that sticks with you."
Shit, Tony thought, watching Benny's eyes go wide and remembering how young he was. Why the hell did I say that?
"I'm sorry, Benny," Tony said quickly. "A bit of an overshare, right?"
Benny shook his head slowly, regarding Tony as if with new, sharper vision. "It's okay. I asked." He paused, then plowed ahead. "Listen, Tony, I'm here if you want to talk about it, about anything, really. I saw some shit growing up in Nawlins. I can handle whatever you need to get out."
Tony gave him a genuine smile and then yawned. "Thanks, Benny. You're a good guy."
Benny stood, picking up the container and heading for the door. He stopped there and turned. "I'll let you get some sleep. Let me know if you need anything."
"Thanks, man."
"And keep that ice on your hand. That is one grotesque freakin' injury, my friend. Remind me never to piss you off... 'cause you must have one hell of a right hook."