A/N: Time to revisit the content warnings for this story. Please be advised that several scenes might contain possible triggers for some people. Proceed with caution.

Tony shut the door to the den and leaned his head against it for a few seconds before shoving off and moving quickly out of the house. He knew Landry would obey his order to stay in the den until he was gone—because he had threatened to shoot the man if he didn't. Landry didn't know DiNozzo wasn't armed. But it didn't matter.

Tony had always been a hell of a liar.

He forced his thoughts away from the confrontation—and firmly checked his emotions to some dark corner of his mind for later appraisal—as he retraced his movements back to the club. Because there was still work to do tonight, none of it pleasant. And he really hated lying to Abby.

"Toooonnnnyyyyyy!"

The subject of his thoughts launched herself at him as he made his way toward her after slipping in through the camera-less back of the club. Tony braced himself for the collision, seeing from the slightly glazed eyes that Abby hadn't exactly gone easy on the Red Bull and vodkas that he knew were her drink of choice.

But he didn't mind—even as her body crashed into him, jarring the damaged rib—because he knew it would be infinitely easier to lie to her knowing she probably wouldn't even remember the conversation.

His soft grunt of pain did not go unnoticed, however, and Abby drew back suddenly, guilty green eyes studying Tony's face. He held his breath, wondering if he had overestimated her intoxication—or underestimated her perception. He mostly just wanted to go somewhere dark and quiet to hide, to process the thoughts raging in his head and making his stomach twist sickly.

But Abby just frowned and put a gentle hand on his arm through the sling, carefully avoiding his shoulder. "You are one tough cookie, DiNozzo," she said, her words slightly slurred. There was sadness in her eyes. "You know that?"

Tony grinned despite being uncomfortable with the concern glowing in that cool green gaze. "And you are one pretty lady, pretty lady," he returned, looping his good arm around the scientist and leading her to the door. "Come on. I'll take you home."

The concern was suddenly gone, and Tony found Abby looking at him in a way she rarely did—except when she was rip-roaring drunk. "I wanna stay with you," she said, her smoky voice almost a whisper.

Tony ignored his body's response to her sultry words, and he looked down at her as they walked toward the car. "Okay," he said, shaking his head when her mouth curved upward in a devious little smile. "But only because my bathroom's closer to my bed than yours is to your coffin."

The pout was not unexpected, but her words were. "Come on, Tony," she said, sliding into the car and smoothing her short skirt over pale thighs. "You've never slept with a friend before?"

"Abby," he said, shutting the door and moving around the car. Once settled behind the wheel, he continued, "I've slept with you before."

The Goth rolled her eyes, and then put a hand on the door handle as if it had made her dizzy. "We've slept together, Tony," she said, "but we didn't actually—"

"I know," Tony said softly, pulling the car into the light late-night traffic. "Because you said you didn't want to ruin what we have. And I agreed."

He cast a look at his passenger and saw the resigned disappointment in her eyes. Still, he said, "I still do."

They were silent for a few moments, but then Abby was Abby again, bouncing and twisting in her seat, her green eyes sparkling with happiness. "Did you hear when Scotty put my name in the lyrics of 'Dead Dolls in Bathroom Stalls'?" she asked, barely waiting for Tony's nod. "I mean, he knows it's my absolute favorite song in the whole world. I even like it better than anything on the new Plastic Death album, and there is some really good stuff on there. Especially—oh, hey, whatever happened with you and blondie?"

Tony blinked, surprised his highly intoxicated friend had remembered. And then he felt guilty by how relieved it made him feel.

"Come on, Tony," Abby said. "You're not shy. And neither is she, apparently. I saw her follow you into the men's room, which is kind of odd—and not to mention kind of skanky. What gives, DiNozzo? Despite all your talk, I know you don't often go for the straight-up slutty types."

Tony was less worried about Abby's views on his taste in women than what she might have seen later. Had she seen Julia leaving the restroom? Had she seen him leaving?

He realized that Abby, even in her drunken haze, was still waiting for an answer.

"The uh, slutty types, tend to know what they're doing," he said, not feeling entirely awkward considering they often had rather explicit conversations, talked about things that would make McGee's cheeks flame bright red—and send Kate running for the confessional. "I needed a good, long distraction, and she gave me one."

"Oh," was all Abby said.

Tony cast a sidelong glance at her, expecting more than that one word. He found her biting her lip and looking at him with worry in her eyes.

He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Don't worry, Abbs. I was totally safe about—"

"DiNozzo."

She spoke his name as sharply as Gibbs at his angriest.

Tony bit back a sigh as he pulled into the parking garage. He turned off the car and turned to stare at Abby's scrunched up face. "Usually Gibbs starts yelling after he says my name like that."

"This isn't funny, DiNozzo," Abby said, hauling herself out of the car and stumbling on her platform boots. She eyed the amused glint in Tony's eyes and wagged a finger at him. "Don't you dare laugh. This is serious."

"Seriously funny," Tony returned, looping his good arm around her and feeling her go as stiff as the drinks she'd had that night. "Okay, I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth but then clamped it shut, leaning heavily against Tony's side. He tightened his grip on her, and she said, "I need to puke."

Tony breathed a silent sigh of relief—even though his right side was on fire and he thought puking sounded just dandy, too. He was hoping he could let her throw up, put her to bed and then get on with the last unpleasant detail of his busy night.

But then Abby continued.

"And then we need to talk, mister."

About ten minutes later, Tony sat on the edge of his bathtub, holding Abby's raven hair back as she sat on her heels on the cold tile floor and threw up.

" 'M sorry," she mumbled, picking her head up and squinting—and making Tony wonder how many of him she was seeing. "You know I don't usually…"

She trailed off, spitting into the bowl one last time before reaching up to flush the toilet.

"I know," Tony said, rubbing his left hand down her back as she crawled toward him and rested her head against his thigh. "It's been, what? Over a year since you were last in here, spouting like a geyser?"

He felt her smile against his leg so he reached down and put a hand under her arm, hauling her gently to her feet. She swayed and then collapsed against his chest, her arms snaking around him as she fought to keep her balance.

Tony couldn't help the sharp hiss of pain as her arm brushed the broken rib.

Abby pulled back, her bloodshot eyes wide as she stared up at the grimace on his face. She ran her hand down his arm, still protected by the sling, and he was glad she didn't seem to realize that she hadn't even touched his shoulder.

"So sorry, Tony," she whispered, resting against him again, much more gently this time. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay, Abby," Tony said, his lips against her hair. "Hmmm?" he asked when she mumbled something into his chest that he couldn't quite make out.

"He didn't mean to hurt you, either," she said again, pulling back and looking up into his eyes. "Gibbs would never hurt you on purpose."

Inside, Tony was cursing the woman's perception—because he was still feeling raw and on edge from his confrontation with Landry and the last thing he wanted was to have a long, deep conversation with Abby about his shitty childhood, of which she already knew most of the gory details. But on the outside, Tony just smiled softly. "Ah. I see why you tied one on tonight. Gathering liquid courage, Abbs?"

A blush crept along her paler-than-usual cheeks, but her eyes were serious. "I'm worried about you. I know you see Gibbs as some strange sort of a substitute father figure, Tony. And after the Landry case—I saw the photos you took, the photos of Brian's bruised body. I know what you've told me about your own father hurting you… So I know how these kinds of things upset you—and that's without Gibbs hurting you. Gibbs, who's like a father—"

"Abby," Tony cut into her drunken ramble. His tone was a bit sharper than he had intended, thanks to the thoughts running through his head. Yeah, he is like my father sometimes. Like when he smacks me, threatens to break my fingers, or refuses to say a simple "good job" when it's due, when he knows it's what I really want to hear from him. But then he felt guilty—both for the look in Abby's eyes and for his thoughts, because he knew that Gibbs was a lot of things, but he wasn't intentionally cruel. Tony knew Gibbs had never and would never hurt him just for the sheer enjoyment of it.

Tony shook off the thoughts and stopped Abby halfway down the hall by putting a hand on her shoulder. He barely stopped himself from lifting his right hand, sling and all, to touch her face. "I know Gibbs didn't mean to do it," he said, holding her eyes until she nodded. He allowed a small smile. "How did you know he did it?"

She smiled back, but it was sadly. "When I got here earlier, he had the oh-so-rare guilty-Gibbs look all over his face. I've only seen it a couple of times, but I can always recognize it. I asked him about it and he said he felt bad for hurting you."

Tony nodded, unsure what to say to that. But then Abby broke into a wide yawn, and he took her arm again. "Come on. Let's find you something to sleep in." He grinned. "Something without spikes and chains."

Later, Tony stood watching Abby sleep. He knew that under the thick comforter on his bed, the Goth was wearing only panties and one of his Ohio State t-shirts, and he almost wished he had taken her up on her offer. It would have eased the tense knot in his chest, given him a temporary reprieve from the sick feeling in his stomach. But he also knew he would hate himself more in the morning if he had.

Besides, there was more than one way to get rid of the tightness, the slimy sickness, the raging buzzing in his head.

It had always worked for him as a child. Even as a young child, Tony knew that a quick punch to the wall would bring instant relief to the mental churning. He knew that no matter how he hurt himself, even if it was just poking at the bruises inflicted by his father's hands, it would always ease the tearing in his tattered soul. He also knew it wasn't exactly healthy, but it didn't really matter.

You do what you have to do to survive.

And fortunately—or unfortunately, a shrink would probably say—you get better at it. Tony the child had learned to find the studs in the walls before punching, both because holes in the walls were hard to explain and because it simply hurt more when his small fist collided with solid wood instead of weak drywall. He had learned to punch with his left hand, because it was easier to hide the damage to his non-dominant hand—or to use both hands for daily tasks so no one would question his switching back and forth if he happened to forget.

He also learned not to expect sympathy should someone happen to notice. Tony had learned that the hard way, several weeks after his mother's death, when the cast came off his broken arm. All the staff who had helped him, even the teacher who had been so kind, seemed to forget about Tony once he no longer needed help with things that required two hands. And the grieving little boy, who had not gotten one drop of sympathy from his father, over the arm or his mother's tragic death, knew he wanted that feeling back, needed to know someone cared that he was still alive. That while his mother might have died, broken and bleeding in that horrible mess of a car, Tony had survived.

Even if there were days he wasn't entirely sure he had.

So little Tony, at the end of his forgotten ninth birthday, had walked out to his father's large garage and stared at the shiny, expensive cars. He had walked around them, ignoring his reflection so he wouldn't have to acknowledge the tears on his cheeks, and he picked the fastest-looking one, a red one way in the back, and opened the door.

And then he placed his hand inside and slammed it shut.

Tony flexed that hand, his left, as he remembered collapsing onto the spotless garage floor and wailing in perfect agony. He wasn't sure how long he lay there shrieking, crying and screaming, holding the broken little limb to his chest and praying someone would come find him, come scoop him up and make the pain go away.

No one did.

Finally, after successfully getting to his feet without throwing up, little Tony had staggered his way back into the house, only to find it empty.

Almost.

"I sent the staff home before one of them could hear your little stunt."

Tony turned, still clutching his badly broken hand against his body, and stared up at his father. "Help me," he whispered, tears sticking in his eyelashes before spilling down his cheeks.

The boy closed his eyes and waited for the blow as his father drew back a hand.

It never came.

Tony opened tear-swollen eyes to find his father looking at his bloody hand with disgust. He just wanted the man to pick him up, kiss away his tears and hold him until the pain went away.

"I'll take to you to the hospital," his father said, his eyes narrowing on his son's red face. "This time. You do this shit again and you'll just have to suffer. You hear me?"

Tony couldn't believe his ears. But he also wasn't stupid. "Yes, sir."

The big man turned and walked away, leaving Tony to hurry after him, whimpering as the movement sent burning pain racing like wildfire along his arm. "Daddy—"

"Go to bed," the man snapped. "I'll take you in the morning. Tonight, you learn a very important lesson, Anthony."

"But Daddy," Tony cried, his control slipping briefly. "It hurts, Daddy."

His father turned back, his calculating eyes taking in none of his son's suffering. "Then I guess it'll be an easy lesson to learn, won't it?"

As it turns out, Tony learned two important lessons that pain-filled night. The first was how little his father cared about him and the second was that if you were going to break a hand, damaging the non-dominant one was the better choice. It had also cemented his intense dislike of hospitals because that trip had been his most painful, by far. And it was not because of his hand. His father had barely touched him, forcing his son to sit in a hard plastic chair while other children were cradled close to their parents. And when Tony had thrown up during the x-rays, his father's mock comforting hand on the back of his neck had been more like a vice. Colorful casting tape was dismissed as childish in favor of plain white and an order to keep it clean—or else.

There had been no stop on the way home for ice cream or pizza. The bottle of pain pills had gone straight into the trash and no one tucked the boy in that night. He was too little to know to prop up the injured arm on a pillow and so had lain curled in bed, the cast clutched to his chest as he cried hard enough choke himself before finally falling into an exhausted sleep.

Tony watched Abby sleep now, here in the present, and he knew from her deep, even breathing that he could probably set about his little task without waking her. He moved silently through his apartment, quickly averting his eyes from his mother's photo on the bookshelf in the living room.

"Sorry, Mom," he whispered, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for this time.

Tony walked into the kitchen, the farthest he could get from where Abby lay sleeping in his bed, and he put his hand on the doorframe, giving an experimental little shove and finding it sturdy under his grasp. He had already thought about all the angles and mechanics of this, knowing he needed to force the shoulder out through the back of the joint to mimic the sudden stop when Gibbs had grabbed his arm in the ring. He knew that motion would be indistinguishable from the sudden stop of his hand coming in contact with the doorframe. It was all made easier by the fact that he had dislocated the shoulder in similar fashion on the football field with a stiff arm gone wrong.

So Tony simply held his breath, straightened his arm stiffly, reared back as far as possible and slammed his outstretched hand into the doorframe.

The joint slid out with the ease of one stretched by recurrent dislocations.

"Thanks, Dad," Tony breathed, leaning back against the wall and clutching the shoulder while trying to calm himself. Not only was the pain searing and intense, but the shoulder also had that sickening feel of instability, like a loose tooth still too painful to be pulled, and Tony closed his eyes against the all-too-familiar sensations. He knew the joint hadn't reset itself back into its proper position so he reached up and fixed that little problem with no more than a sharp intake of breath.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, eyes tightly closed as he breathed through the pain.

And when he opened them to find Abby staring at him with wide eyes, he couldn't help wondering just how long she had been standing there, too.