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Chapter 10: Bastard, Part 1

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Gibbs heard his door close upstairs and figured it was Abby or Ziva. Maybe even Ducky. But the sounds weren't quite right. Not McGee—way too allergic to sawdust. No way it was Palmer; he didn't have the nerve yet.

Gibbs waited to see who would come down the stairs never but never broke rhythm on the complex-grained piece of wood he was sanding. The slow and methodical act of perfecting its surface calmed him from the outside in and complemented the bourbon, which worked from the inside out. He didn't recognize the gait: Too heavy for Ziva. Too slow for Abby—and no jingles.

Finally, a whiff of men's cologne gave away the identity: Anthony DiNozzo Sr. The one person Gibbs had not been expecting. He had seen him two hours earlier, charming a nurse into letting him enter Tony's room past visiting hours. He was charming, like Tony, but unlike his son, the elder DiNozzo seldom lived up to expectations.

Dammit.

And now he was invading the quiet sanctity of Gibbs' basement.

"Junior wasn't kidding. You really do leave your door unlocked all the time," he said smoothly.

"He tell you that tonight?" Gibbs asked, making no attempt to hide his irritation.

"Uh, no," Senior admitted, hesitating on the final step before fully entering Gibbs' domain. "No, he was having kind of rough time . . . ."

Gibbs paused and looked up at his intruder. "Ya think?"

For a moment the older man straightened up and squared his jaw, readying himself to snap back with glib comeback. But then his shoulders sagged and he looked down. He noticed the small cracks in the concrete floor of Gibbs' fortress. DiNozzo looked up to see lines of worry in the hardened agent's face and dark circles under his eyes as he resumed his sanding. Cracks in a different fortress. His gaze drifted to the half-empty bottle of bourbon on Gibbs' workbench. DiNozzo lowered his foot the final step to the hard cold surface of the floor, feeling his age despite the designer suit and Italian shoes.

Gibbs took a swig from his coffee mug; however, the room smelled of many things—none of them coffee. It smelled of sawdust and bourbon, sweat and memories.

DiNozzo picked up a scrap of wood from the bench. "Nice. Is this ash?"

"Olive," Gibbs answered succinctly.

"Ah. Is that a CD rack you're making?"

"DVD. Listen, DiNozzo," Gibbs began, tossing the sander onto the workbench, "is there a reason you came here tonight instead of staying with your son, who is having a pretty damn crappy week? Because you've just about run out of chances in my book."

"Listen . . . I . . . ," Senior stammered uncharacteristically.

"Because if you're not up to being there for him, I can call any of half a dozen people who are, who always have been, and always will be."

Tony's father looked deflated. "It felt so strange, Gibbs, seeing him there like that. It didn't seem real. You know Tony. He's always so damn full of life, so full of . . . ."

His mouth groped for the right words. "That . . . to see him there, helpless, all the tubes and bandages . . . . I . . . I think I felt actual physical pain! Thought I was having a heart attack. Guess I wasn't. Pretty obvious I wasn't now, looking back. I panicked. I ran outside and caught a cab. Ended up here."

"Aw, hell," Gibbs muttered. He hated sensitive crap. He unscrewed a jar of nails from the beam overhead and emptied the contents onto the back workbench. He blew the biggest pieces of bugs and grit out of the jar and then poured a generous portion of amber liquid into the makeshift glass. He handed it to his uninvited guest.

DiNozzo Sr. took a long pull of bourbon from the jar and let out a heavy sigh. "Gibbs, I haven't felt like that—this—since, well, since his mother died. He's so pale and he has the oxygen mask on. The nurse at the counter told me to wait outside his room because a wound specialist was changing the dressings on his leg. But he started coughing, then making these kind of choking, gagging noises, so I opened the door. I mean, I'm not heartless! The nurse moved to help him sit up, and she did something with his air mask. But I saw his leg, Gibbs . . . God, his leg. What that must have felt like—still feel like? I feel a punch to the chest when I think about it. And in my own defense, I came here rather than going a lot of other places that crossed my mind."

Gibbs swallowed the last of his bourbon and stared in the bottom of the chipped mug for answers. Finding none, he poured more for each of them, not trusting his voice. He felt the same ache. The familiar ache. "It's called fear," he said simply, grappling with his own concerns for his senior field agent. "Be glad you didn't see it before they fixed it."

"He's a grown man, but all I could see was a broken little boy. My boy. Is that what it's like, Gibbs?"

Gibbs tipped his head and smiled at the irony: he, Jethro Gibbs, was counseling someone on emotions. "Yeah, that's what it's like."

"I . . . I really don't deserve him, you know, not now. Not for a long time."

Gibbs ran his hand along the piece of wood he had been sanding, feeling for the slightest roughness. Satisfied, he turned it over. "No, you don't."

The older DiNozzo flinched as if physically struck, then he saw the ice blue eyes boring into his.

"But he deserves to have you there for him," Gibbs finished.

"So, why didn't you ever have kids? You, uh, you seem to be a bit more of a natural at it than I am."

Gibbs avoided eye contact. "I did. A daughter." He resumed his sanding without looking up.

"Passed away?" Senior asked quietly, studying the enigmatic man for clues.

"Murdered. A long time ago, along with my wife." He took another deep drink. "I wasn't there for them. I was overseas, fighting a different war. It's still no excuse. But there's no 'do-overs.' I live with my choices." He looked up at the older man again. "And you live with yours."

Senior nodded slowly. "I've been so foolish for so long. I guess some things are finally starting to make sense to me. I've been such a damn idiot!"

"Yes, you have," Gibbs agreed. "Idiot . . . selfish . . . bastard . . . ."

"I shouldn't have left him. It's as simple as that. If he wakes up and I'm not there—again—"

"Self-absorbed . . . egocentric . . . dumb-ass . . . ."

"God, I don't want to lose him."

Gibbs slammed his empty glass down on the bench. "Then go tell him, God dammit!"

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Chapter 10: Bastard, Part 2

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"We meet again, Dr. Kate's Sister," Tony said with only half of the normal dazzle in his smile. "We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk."

"Good morning. I heard you were out of commission again," she said with that soft, smooth psychiatrist voice.

"I come here for the red Jell-O," he said as he jabbed the Jell-O cup on his tray with his spoon. "Now, Bethesda, they specialize in green Jell-O and the best darn gritty instant potatoes in the whole greater D.C. area."

She shook her head and laughed lightly. "There you go with the humor again, Tony. Maybe you need to stop having these close brushes with death. Do you ever think about that?"

Tony stared at the Jell-O. "A lot, actually."

"How so?" she asked.

He pretended to look shocked. "What, no foreplay?"

She gave him what he could only refer to as the "Kate look."

"Oh, come on," he whined. "Play fair."

"Listen, Tony, I really didn't come by as a 'shrink.' I came by as a friend." She pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. "This time is different, isn't it?" It was more a statement than a question.

Tony pushed the tray away and focused on the thin hospital blanket's loose weave. "Yeah. I had some time to think about being dead. Dying. Dying in front of McGee, Gibbs, Ziva. I didn't know what it was like to be on the other end, you know, back when I had the plague. But now I know what it's like, you know, to see a friend die . . . up close and very personal. " He flashed back to Kate's death for a moment.

Dr. Cranston remained silent, sensing his thoughts. She set her own pang of grief to the side. She was here for Tony.

"I mean, the thought of dying definitely crossed my mind in Somalia; you probably read about that little side trip, but it felt noble, somehow. I was doing it for someone I lov—" he stopped himself and rephrased quickly, "for someone I cared a lot about."

"Ziva," she confirmed.

"Ziva," he whispered, his gaze remaining downcast.

"Even after the way she had treated you."

Tony's head shot up and his eyes flashed dangerously for a moment. "She was not thinking straight. She was, or at least she thought she might have been, in love with that creep."

"And love complicates everything, doesn't it?" Again with the smooth voice.

"Look, I shot and killed her boyfriend . . . right in her apartment."

"After he broke your arm and came at you with a dagger, as I recall reading in your file."

"A piece of glass, and he was drunk," Tony corrected, a little too hastily. She raised one eyebrow and he started to back pedal. "Okay, maybe he was planning to use it like a dagger . . . ."

"Well, I don't think he meant you any good. He was a trained Mossad assassin and he had already broken your arm," she emphasized, "and you warned him."

Realization washed over Tony's face. She was defending him. Him. Tony DiNozzo Jr.

He studied her face for sincerity. "Wow. You really are here as a friend, Rachel."

She laughed again. "So, you do know my name. And, yes, I really am here as a friend. But I'm still a shrink. I can't seem to help myself."

"You must have annoyed the hell out of Kate sometimes."

"We were close, but, yes, I could get under her skin like nobody else. Well," she caught Tony's eye contact, "like almost nobody else could."

Tony stared up at the ceiling tiles, remembering his former partner. "Kate was great. Not a huge movie buff, but she was still great. I miss her. And she looked hot in a wet t-shirt, too. "

Rachel rolled her eyes. "You are incorrigible!"

Tony raised his hands as far as the IV tubing would allow and smiled. "That is what I am! Finally, a woman who understands me!"

"May I make an observation?" she asked gently.

Tony rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Oh boy, here it comes . . . . About how I fall for women I can't have? Or is it the whole women and guns things again? Women that I'm not supposed to have? I know, I know, believe me, I know."

"I've noticed that a lot of people care about you very deeply, yet you keep up your barrier of humor."

"We've been down this road before, Doc. What can I say? I'm a funny guy."

"So, it's back to Doctor now, is it? When you are in pain and the humor is gone, you feel your great capacity to love, and maybe it scares you."

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Tony snorted.

"Neither can you, Tony. Neither can you. We're both true to our nature."

Tony sighed heavily and pushed himself up a little higher in the bed. He moved his stiff shoulders and cursed under his breath as many muscles protested.

"So, how are you doing?" she asked. "Physically."

Tony laughed and winced. "Breathing easier; got to lose the mask, at least some of the time." He gestured to the tube supplying oxygen through his nose. "But maybe hurting just a little right now," he admitted, fatigue showing in his eyes, "in too many places to count. Maybe more than a little."

Dr. Cranston snatched up the call button and depressed it before Tony could object.

"I think maybe someone ran one of Abby's voodoo dolls of me in a blender."

"Abby has voodoo dolls of you?"

"It's a New Orleans thing. You know it pretty much just means 'spirits,' right? Abby uses them 'For positive and healing purposes only.' She would never hurt me, Doc. Not a single drop of dark magic in that girl. Although, I do think she might have poked McGee's with a pin when she found out he ate her cupcake . . . . "

A nurse responded to the call button and after a brief word with Dr. Cranston and a look at Tony's elevated vitals, she injected pain medication into his port.

"Hey, don't I have a say?" Tony demanded.

"We've been over this, Mr. DiNozzo. Doctor's orders," the nurse countered.

"She's not my doctor," he countered, gesturing toward his visitor with his head. "She's a friend, right, Rachel?" he pressed.

"Dr. Mallard's orders," the nurse corrected. "He's listed as your general physician. A little odd, given his normal 'patients,' but it's your call."

"Tyrants, all of you," Tony muttered.

"You'll feel better soon, whether you want to or not. It will speed your recovery." She smiled as she wrote in Tony's chart and then left the room.

"And how are you doing emotionally?" Rachel continued.

"Hey," Tony complained. "You did that on purpose. I get stupid on that stuff."

She smiled knowingly. "Then I suggest you talk fast and get this over with."

"Some friend you are."

"Seriously, Tony, how are you doing with this latest brush with death? You were hurt pretty badly."

Tony thought a moment, putting humor aside. "I think I'm feeling partly lucky, partly really pissed. Pissed that that murdering bastard did this to me to cover his own ass. Grateful McGee was there, thankful he wasn't hurt. Glad I'm not dead, thanks to McGee. Thanks to a few people, really. I think I'm doing okay. I don't feel PTSD-ish, if that's even a word. Kind of wish my dad would call, but that's pretty normal too."

She nodded in understanding. "Your father's not much of a family man, is he?" Another statement.

"Nope, but then again, neither am I, I guess. Just wish it was different sometimes."

Rachel Cranston stood up and placed her hands flat on the side of Tony's bed. "I think you're doing okay, Tony. And I think everything that's been damaged will heal in time."

Tony gave her a sidelong glance, his chin raised in defiance. "Is that your 'friend' opinion or your 'shrink' opinion?"

She patted his hand gently. "Both. Now, you get some rest."

"Yeah, go—quick! Before these meds kick in."

Tony lay in his bed, alone with his thoughts. Now that nobody was around to witness the show, he was looking forward to the relief the drugs would soon bring. He had thirty seconds of peace, then the unimaginable happened.

His father walked in.

"Heya, Junior."

Tony blinked in surprise, then looked past his father to the door. "No way. Did she put you up to this?"

DiNozzo Sr. directed his gaze back out the door. "Who? The babe that just left here? A little old for your tastes, but not for mine. Get her number?"

"No, but I think she's got yours. What's going on, Dad? She didn't call you and lay on a guilt trip?"

"Junior, I'm hurt," the older man began, and he felt the return of his old habits. The old games.

No more.

"No, Junior, I'm not hurt. You're hurt. You're hurt, and you're sick, and I want to be here for you. Finally. It took your boss calling me out. Called me a bastard."

Tony felt his cheeks redden. "Wow, Dad, I . . . I don't know what to say." Tony suddenly felt very awkward. Young. Exposed. Ready for those meds to kick in.

"Don't worry, Junior. He told me he was a bastard, too."