A/N: Warnings – descriptions of assault

XII

"Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; / Exploring hands encounter no defence; / His vanity requires no response, / and makes a welcome of indifference." ~T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

"The double-talk, the vague areas of my report - it's not like I thought they'd get by you. Not really." Tony stood at the window, staring out into the darkest part of the night. Clouds had rippled across the bright stars as he and Gibbs made their way back to his apartment, the moon ducking behind them. The universe seemed to have drawn a soft cloak across the heavens, muffling the intensity of the night and the sounds of a busy city. Everything was closer, warmer, as if Tony, at the center looking out, was wrapped up in cotton wool, allowed to whisper his secrets into the darkness where no one else could hear.

Behind him, Gibbs sat, quiet and still, the smell of dark roast a familiar reminder of the man's presence. Just out of sight. Solid and strong. Watching Tony's six. Bracketed by Gibbs behind and the cosmos before him, how could Tony feel anything but safe?

"It wasn't until I met Danielson at the cabin, when I saw White and him together, that I really knew that our intel was wrong. I had that feeling earlier, you know the one, the crawling skin on the back of your neck, that little voice in your head that's trying to get your attention. White was too textbook, too perfectly that geeky little patsy we thought he was." Tony's breath clouded the window in small, hazy circles. Shoulder leaning against the wall, he set his left hand against the glass, the cold a welcome contrast. "For a while, I chalked it up to the hurried op, figured it was my own gut rebelling against the lack of prep, throwing up 'I told you so's' and 'this was a mistakes' just because I knew better. And I did. And so did you."

Tony didn't wait for a response. That's not what this was about. There'd be all kinds of time later for that discussion. He swallowed the arguments, the resentment. Fought back the questions, the demands to know why this time, this particular time, Gibbs had taken Tony up on one of his ridiculous suggestions. He was afraid he knew the answer to that one, anyway.

"But there was something behind White's eyes. His 'poor little me' eyes. Now and then I'd catch him watching me. Staring. Intense. Heated. I had no idea what it was about, I just knew I didn't like it. It meant trouble for me. Me, Tony DiNozzo, federal agent, but also my undercover persona." He sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know, something about him was telling me that whoever found himself tethered to Jeffrey White was in for a scary ride."

"When we got to the cabin, when Danielson opened the door and White slid in beside him -" Tony closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. White had latched onto Danielson's side, his attitude shifting back and forth between simpering and seductive. The darkness inside the small man that Tony had only had a glimpse of became an almost visible aura around him, sucking Danielson inside. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, when Danielson, grudging, angry, and suspicious, was finally going to let Tony in, White had turned and Tony had almost taken an instinctive step backwards as the force of the man's persona had reached out for him, a victorious smile playing over White's lips. "I saw it then, behind those wide eyes. I knew I was going to die."

The silence behind him grew edges, as if something was poised on its brink, ready to spring out into the light.

"Danielson didn't trust me; that much was clear. What was even clearer was that White had a hold on the man, reins, bridle, and a bit in his teeth. White was calling the shots without seeming to say anything and Danielson was going wherever he wanted. He put up a fight about bringing me in, but it didn't sound anything like a difference between partners-in-crime, or an argument among thieves. Honestly, it sounded like Danielson was jealous. Like it was a lovers' quarrel. But, at that point, my character was already developed - man of the world type with few morals and fewer regrets, whose quick thinking and charm got him what he needed. I couldn't change it. Not without putting the whole operation at risk."

Eyes still closed, the cabin came to life around him, and - this time - Tony let it. White's innocent smirk. Danielson's scowl. They'd shown Tony to the small bedroom and disappeared into the other one, door half-open, their voices tangling, arguing, but only long enough for a desperate Tony to find the windows painted shut and his access to the only outside door right beside the other bedroom. Shoes discarded by the bed, Tony had moved as close as he dared and listened while his gaze roamed the cabin searching for something - anything - a weapon, a phone, a freaking clue.

"You think you're gonna replace me with that pretty boy? Think you're gonna be happy with him? That he's going to be your pet, doing what you want?" The laughter had been cruel, cynical, cutting. "Hope he's not too traditional. Or the squeamish type."

"Now, Lane, you know he couldn't replace you."

"I'd kill him first."

"He's been really useful. And nice. He likes me."

"Bastard. Maybe I'll cut him up a little, make him ugly. Scarred. You'd drop him if he wasn't so pretty."

"That's not what this is about, Lane." White's voice had been cajoling, teasing, but Tony remembered the undercurrent of steel. "We can use him."

"Use him up, more like," Danielson had growled. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Don't be hasty, Lane. He's a pilot. And he's smart. Flexible."

One of them had moved, the old wooden floorboards squeaking and Tony had ducked back into his bedroom, cursing silently. He had to get them to talk about the antiquities. About their plan to get them out of the country. He couldn't do that while the two of them were locked away discussing how and when to kill him. When neither of them followed him, he'd squared his shoulders and did what he had to do.

Dropping one of his shoes to bang against the wooden floor, he headed back into the main room and flopped down onto the stained couch. "Hey, guys. You got anything to eat around here?" he'd shouted.

The bedroom door was yanked open, White dodging around Danielson's arm to hurry out first. "I'm hungry, too, Lane."

"There's chili. A couple of cans of stew. Crackers." Danielson had crossed his arms in the doorway, eyes narrowed at Tony's relaxed pose. "Sorry we don't do gourmet around here."

"Sounds good," Tony had shrugged, frowning at Danielson's weird comment. Did his greasy hair and scruffy, filthy face scream gourmet to this guy? He'd twisted his head to shoot a smile towards White. "A can opener and a spoon is all I need. I'm so hungry I could even eat my grandmother's dry as dust pot roast."

White had been digging around in the one cabinet that still had a door. "Sounds terrible. But I'd eat anything hot right now." He'd backed out of the cabinet with two cans, peeled back the thin metal tops and set the cans on the battered black wood stove, the only source of heat in the cabin. "Shouldn't take long, Tony." White's eyes had glittered at him before they slid back to Danielson. "Gonna need more wood for the stove, Lane. Might be cold tonight."

"Yeah, there's some logs outside. I'll get 'em later."

Tony had tried not to let his relief show. It was an opportunity he couldn't let get away from him. "I can get some." He slapped his hands on his knees, ready to push to his feet. "Might as well get it while it's still light out."

Danielson had grunted. "Good. Make yourself useful."

"That's not fair, Lane. Tony and I are exhausted. Can't you get the wood later?" Wheedling. Pouting. Demanding. Insisting.

The two had gone back and forth, sniping and nagging at each other like a stereotypical married couple while Tony fell apart without a word. Without a sound. Without a single fear showing on his face or in his body language. After the soup, after White sat with him on the couch - too close, always too close - wedging him into the corner where he could hardly breathe, then - then -

Tony leaned back from the window, just far enough to ease the aching in his neck, his shoulders. The fog from his breath shrank down to palm-sized, to a quarter, a dime, and then gone. He was left facing his skewed reflection, patches of shadow like lichen eating away at his skin, visual proof of the darkness threatening to fill his soul.

"He wasn't going to let me go outside. Wasn't going to let me out of his sight. White made that clear." Tony's throat felt raw, as if he'd been shouting, screaming. "I tried to get them talking about the goods, about their plan, about anything, but Danielson just stood there grunting monosyllables while White twisted the words around and around until they were meaningless. I was tired. Spent. And the feeling was too familiar."

Weeks undercover in Philadelphia had soaked exhaustion into Tony's bones. He'd managed on little sleep, cup after cup of coffee, and lots of adrenaline. Until one night - until he'd pulled one all-nighter too many trying to make himself indispensable to the Macalusos. Until he'd crashed for nine hours and woke up to Carmine and his brother knocking on his door with wide smiles and the offer of 'something he was not going to believe' down at the warehouse. Yeah, that had turned out to be fists and knives and metal shackles that left deep grooves in Tony's wrists and ankles and backup that never came.

"Danielson followed me into the bedroom after a few minutes. Brought a bottle of whiskey. Peace offering, he claimed." Tony swallowed, his voice raw and raspy. "I couldn't say no. What guy who'd been stuck in prison would turn down a free drink - or a dozen? But I saw it in his eyes, I saw the hate, the triumph when I took the bottle. He watched me the whole time, never blinking. Yeah, he knew that I knew it wasn't just whiskey. But I didn't have any choice and so I swallowed down a few mouthfuls. Swallowed it down."

Tony rubbed his hand across his mouth, tasting the bitterness, the acid. His hand was shaking. His skin cold. Behind him, Gibbs shifted, the leather couch groaning. Tony didn't turn around. He couldn't - couldn't do this if he was looking at the man. If he could see the pity or disgust in his eyes.

"After that - after that I don't remember. I think I laid down on the bed. Figured I'd wait until they were asleep and then see what happened." He closed his eyes and then opened them, stumbling forward at the reeling images, his hand on the window steadying him. Dark clouds. Harsh laughter. Bits and pieces of conversations. Hands. Rough hands pulling at his clothes.

The darkness whispered. It smelled of booze. Sweat. Cigarettes.

"Just help me, Lane. He could be wired." Tugging at his buttons. His fly. Danielson' dark chucking. "Just lie back, boy. We'll see how much you like him now."

What was real? What was a nightmare? Did he really want to know?

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

"In the morning, when White leaned over me to wake me up -" Tony sucked in a breath and tightened his lips, his jaw working, teeth grinding over the words. "Something happened after I passed out. My clothes were - my shirt was on the bedpost - don't remember doing that. My belt was too loose, briefs twisted. I think -" He grimaced, muttering curses. "I don't know what the hell happened, Gibbs. I don't know if anything happened. But it feels - it felt -" Damn it.

The window was wet under his hand. Condensation. Sweat. The cold had seeped into his skin, up his arm, and twisted inside his chest, an icy hand around his heart. "I wasn't hurt. No blood. No - no pain." No rips. No tears. "There - there was a smell, though. And - my skin was - felt -" Tony's control ground to a halt. Danielson was gone, throat cut, buried beneath fallen leaves by the wood pile. "Abby told me Danielson was killed sometime during the night. I guess after - after whatever they did. I guess they had a fight. Over me." He laughed. It was hot and vile and tasted like vomit. "Thought I'd want people fighting over me. Turns out," he swallowed, "turns out, not as much fun as you'd think."

The cocoon of warmth, of dim light and silence rippled. Movement behind him. For the first time since, since that night, it didn't make Tony run, or fight, raise his fists or fling himself against the wall to face it. This time he knew it was Gibbs. His boss. His friend. Still facing the window, Tony thought back to the prison bus, to the scared, shaking, delicate form of Jeffrey White. To the fall down the hill. The truck. The motorcycle.

"I screwed up. Underestimated the little jerk. Oh, he had me fooled, had me feeling sorry for him, wondering how someone like him could get mixed up with a stone cold killer like Danielson." He could hear his voice getting louder, felt his hands shaking as anger - full blown rage - tore through him, eating up the fear and hurt. "He - the bastard drugged me. Touched me. Fucking assaulted me, Gibbs. But I was a good little agent. I let him - let him get close. The next day, I still had to do my fucking job so I let him put his hand on me. Look at me. The guy couldn't quite hide how pleased with himself he was. How much he felt like he owned me. But, hey, Tony DiNozzo never quit on an assignment, even when he'd been worked over by the best in the business."

He ignored the wetness on his cheeks, the way his voice quivered, catching and breaking, hurrying on to cover his pain. His shame. His shabby attempt to explain - to get past it - to purge himself from the fear and horror. Gibbs stood right behind him, silver hair reflected in the window, but he didn't touch, didn't lay a hand on Tony's shoulder, curl it around his neck. It wouldn't take much to break him now. To open the floodgates. To leave him a crumpled mess.

"So I palmed the cell phone. Stuffed it in my pocket. Got in the car. I managed to dial your number, once. Let it ring. Hang up. I knew I only had to hit redial to connect again. Figured - figured you were looking for me. Waiting for my call. That you'd grab onto the lifeline and haul me back in. But - that didn't happen. No cavalry coming over the hill. No sound of helicopters in the distance. And, honestly, Gibbs, I didn't know what that meant. If you had stopped looking. If you had better things to do. If Ari had popped up on your radar and you'd forgotten all about me. Or if you were smiling and shaking your head and figuring I could handle one simple little geek like White and what was the rush." His gut churned like it had that day. All day. Biting back bile. Wanting to run. To slam the car into a tree. To reach for the gun White had stuffed in the bag. To end it - just end it. "But I did my job. I did my job." Tony always did his job. Just like in Philly.

He let the pain pour out. "After hours of nothing, no contact, I felt like I was back in that basement in Philadelphia. I remembered trying to keep up the act, to hold onto my scumbag persona while they were beating me. Burning me. Touching me. Breaking me. I got through it. I survived. Even though my backup never came, I survived. And, God damn it, I'd survive Jeffrey Fucking White." Tony spun, head high, his weight balanced, even. "I survived, Gibbs. I found the antiquities. I did my damned job. And I shot Jeffrey White in the head just before he slit my throat. I did my job." The whispered words were bullets aimed straight and true for Gibbs' heart. "I saved myself, just like in Philly."

But what had he saved? What was left? Tony DiNozzo, federal agent was gone. Broken. They could find him in pieces strewn between all over the back roads of the Virginia countryside. Whether Cranston could put him together again, clean the blood off of the pieces and shove them back together with spackle and spit, well, that remained to be seen. And nobody was taking any bets.

"I don't know how long I sat there in that car with the smell of blood and death and the taste of whiskey and betrayal before you decided to show up. Before you opened the door and cracked a joke." Tony's grin felt like a knife across his face. "Breezed in and took over, clean and well fed and over-caffeinated, just another day for the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Expected me to smile. I'm not," Tony snarled. "I'm not smiling, Gibbs."

Strong hands reached out before Tony could topple. Led him to the couch. Put a lukewarm bottle of water in his hand. Tony leaned over, head in his hands. Trembling. Anger and bitterness turned to grief, to sorrow, as tears burned down his cheeks. Darkness folded around him, left him drifting, torn from every lifeline, all of his ties to the world around him, to his very self, gone, cut loose.

All but one.

Gibbs pressed close, one hand on the back of Tony's neck, holding him hard against his chest. Holding on. "I've got you. I've got you."