Tim stared at the bowl of holy water, no longer attempting to conceal his horror. The flames his blood produced were beginning to fizzle away, and even after they had died, McGee did not move.

He was so filled with emotion that he wanted to scream, or throw something, or…anything to release the feelings building in his chest. He did consider dumping the water out onto the floor, but knew that someone would have to clean it up later. So he left the basin there, hoping it wouldn't burn any human that might touch it.

With that he fled through the side door, using his strength to make a running leap over the wall of the garden and into the alley. In the coolness of the shadows, he let the breeze blow through his wings and took a few minutes to slow his heart rate. When the pounding in his ears had abated, he was left with a nauseous feeling in his stomach. Silently he scaled the wall of the Clark mansion and snuck in through his open bedroom window. Another shower was in order- to wash off the salty air of the city, and to wash out the feelings of dread that had taken hold.

Even after his shower, McGee sat on his bed, head in his hands. The nausea was now gone, replaced by dull hunger, but the anxiety was still there; as heavy and as scalding as a ball of tar. Everything he'd ever known about himself was suddenly called into question- wasn't everyone inherently good? He wasn't so sure anymore. Not if his own blood burned in holy water. Not if his own instinct was to kill any human in sight.

Reason fought against insanity, however. He'd never murdered anyone before, and if it really was instinct, then Apollo and Victoria wouldn't have been able to reject it for so long anyway…right? There wouldn't be a detox hospital in Kenya for flightlings who have gone astray. Hunters would have completely wiped the creatures from the face of the earth. All of these facts began to ease Tim's anxious mind- until he looked at his hand, at the already vanishing scar, and panic struck once more.

Even if he'd done good things before, was this an indication that he was built to do wrong? That he was capable- no, destined- for evil? Was it like a disease, was it like a mental illness that developed over time, unknown, until it eventually caught up with him? One day he might wake up and feel the overwhelming desire to kill someone, to join the D'Amico's, to slaughter anyone who got in his way?

He flashed back to that night that he'd encountered Tony in the church. There was an anger, a darkness he'd felt for the first time as he looked down on his old friend from the rafters. Was that just bitterness at Tony's accusations of evil? Or was it something more-

"McGee?" a knock came to the door.

"Come in," he choked out, attempting to put his emotions in check for whoever was behind the door.

It was Ziva. "Tony says that dinner is ready…" she quickly observed her friend's pained expression. "What's wrong, McGee?"

"Nothing," he said, standing and crossing to where she stood. "Did Tony cook by himself?"

Ziva, though she knew he was lying, decided to respect his privacy and instead smiled. "I think he only helped Victoria, so we are safe." The name of his sister came out of her mouth awkwardly, almost making McGee smile. Ziva and his surrogate sister were so different in personality that there was bound to be some initial uneasiness between them. But they were the two most lethal and most complicated women he knew- they'd be allies soon enough, he was sure.

Despite their enormous dining room, Tim, Victoria, and Apollo often ended up eating in the kitchen or in front of the TV in the living room. And even though it was clear that Apollo was a man of refined tastes and sophisticated living, he hated pretension and saw no need to eat in the dining room when the living room was far more comfortable. So that's where the six ended up. Scattered amongst the chairs and barstools, everyone talked amongst themselves, mostly about what had happened with in the library with Apollo's old enemy. Everyone could tell that there was something very wrong with Tim, given his sickly pallor and near-silence throughout the meal. McGee tried to involve himself, but couldn't really bring himself to pay attention what with the thoughts running through his mind. Of course, no one mentioned it, not until after he'd finished eating and excused himself.

"He didn't sleep at all," Victoria said as she, Tony and Ziva sat in the kitchen. Gibbs and Apollo had each gone back to bed in an attempt to get their sleeping patterns normal again. Ziva had insisted on doing the dishes, since Tony and Victoria had cooked. Victoria was perched on the counter while Tony leant up against the fridge, all three avoiding eye contact as they discussed the person they had most in common.

"Something happened after he went to bed," Tony agreed.

"Someone should go talk to him," Ziva said, not looking up from the dishes in the sink.

"I will," Victoria said. "It might be about the D'Amicos. But I get the feeling you two should talk to him after me."

With that, she hopped off the counter and headed out the door.

After a beat of silence, Ziva turned to see Tony staring at the space Victoria left.

"Can you believe that a couple weeks ago we showed up here to kill these people?"

...

Tim wasn't in his room, so Victoria sought out his second most sacred thinking place; the roof. Their little plant- filled launching pad was a perfect place to get one's thoughts in order. Between the view of the city and the quiet calm that settled over everything, it was easy to lose track of time up there.

McGee was standing on the edge of the roof, deep in thought. Victoria was sure he heard her arrival, but he gave no indication of it, so she was careful not to startle him, lest he fall off the ledge. Without turning, he spoke.

"Hey, Victoria."

He was glad she was the one to come find him. He needed a flightling's opinion, and Apollo was in no state to hear about what Thaddeus had said to Tim.

"Hey yourself. Everyone was worried about you at dinner. What happened after you went to your room? Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, I went out and flew around for a while. Then I landed in the church courtyard."

This wasn't in and of itself cause for alarm. They all went out when they needed some time to think.

"And…?" Victoria prompted, sensing that whatever he had to say wasn't going to be pleasant at all.

"And he was there."

She knew who "he" was, and chills ran up and down her neck. "Why didn't you say anything? Did he hurt you?"

"No, not really," Tim said, finally turning to her as she went to him to inspect for injuries. "He didn't touch me. He just wanted to talk."

"To talk?" she repeated, her brow furrowing. "What about?"

"He wanted to recruit…us," he said. Then, with a deep breath, McGee launched into the details of their conversation. He mentioned how Thaddeus was interested in their heritages, and he described the older man's philosophy; his feelings on instinct, birthright, about what flightlings could and should be.

He ended with the flaming blood incident, though he left out the part about trying it for himself. Nevertheless, he could see the shock and fear in Victoria's eyes, and knew that she was already wondering if her blood would do the same thing, if D'Amico was right, if she was going to eventually become a murderer. Tim felt a little guilty, knowing there was nothing Victoria feared more than herself, but he knew she would prefer to hear the truth of what had happened.

She was silent for a time, then, with closed eyes and a sigh, she sat on the ledge of the roof. McGee followed suit.

"I think…." she began but trailed off. With another breath she tried again. "I think that, in this case, we're kind of like pit bulls. Or other dogs bred to fight. A few centuries ago there was probably no more instinct to kill than any other person on earth. But after generations of murdering, of stealing souls, it starts to sink in, to become a part of your genes. That's why the original D'Amico family must have been so terrible; they were bred to murder. But you and I haven't been, that's why we don't compulsively need to. I mean, neither of us knew we were flightlings until we'd changed. If we had come from long lines of vicious murderers, we probably would have been raised to act like it."

"Why do you think that souls make us…them…more powerful, then? Thaddeus said he could bend steel. I don't think he's got a reason to lie about that."

"Well maybe its like steroids. Yes, they make you more powerful, but are they really natural? Don't they wreak havoc on your body?"

Tim liked this reasoning far more than his own. It made more sense and it meant that he wasn't just an unactivated psychopathic killer. Still, he couldn't miss the fear in Victoria's eyes. He put his arm around her shoulder.

"I think we'll be alright," he said, and she nodded. "But you know we're never gonna be able to live in peace if the D'Amicos are unleashed on Venice."

She nodded again. "I agree, but there's no way we'll be able to do a thing if you're dead on your feet. You need sleep."

"I'll go to bed in a minute," he promised, and with a squeeze of his arm, Victoria stood.

"Wait, Victoria, we can't tell Apollo about this. It won't do any good. He's got enough to worry about."

Her grim expression told him that she'd been thinking the same thing.

"I won't say anything if you won't," she vowed before leaving him alone.

However, it wasn't long until Tony and Ziva were there on either side of him, listening to the same story that Victoria had. Once again he left out the part about his own blood bursting into flames. Nevertheless, they were worried for him.

"You think that you will become like the people who tried to kill us?" Ziva asked, partially to confirm Tim's thought process, but mostly because she could hardly fathom such a thought.

McGee nodded. Tony and Ziva shared a look.

"McGee," Ziva began, "You are not…you will never be, evil."

"It all sounds stupid when you say it like that," Tim said with a small grin. But it was clear that the message hadn't gotten through, so she tried again.

"Do you think I'm evil?" she asked.

"What?" she'd gotten his attention this time. His startled expression told her that much. "Of course not, Z. You're a good person."

"But I've killed people," she reminded him.

"I know, so have I-"

"No, McGee, you've done your job as an agent. I've killed. And even I do not think I'm a lost cause. You are the least evil person in this house."

Tony agreed wholeheartedly. "You've had a dozen chances to kill me in the past week alone. Not to mention the past ten years. If you were ever gonna murder anyone, you would have done it by now."

Tim snickered in spite of himself.

"It is a choice, McGee. I don't know if we're really born good or bad, but we choose to be either one every day."

They sat and talked for well over an hour, and Tim truly did feel better afterwards.

Unbeknownst to them, their voices had drifted down through the quiet, and could be heard from Gibbs' open window. He'd intended to have a talk with his youngest about whatever was bothering him- he still intended to. But with a genuine smile of pride in his agents, Gibbs drifted off, knowing that it wasn't totally necessary tonight.

...

After a while, Ziva excused herself and left Tony and McGee alone. She cautiously made her way downstairs and into the library, where Victoria had scaled a bookshelf for one of the older tomes. With her strength she had no problem supporting herself, treating the massive shelves as a rock wall. Victoria was just reaching for a book when the ex-Mossad agent spoke, effectively surprising the usually-keen flightling. The small shock caused her to lose her footing, and she fell with a small cry, falling several feet. She hit the ground with a loud thud and a groan.

"I'm sorry!" Ziva said as she hurried over, unsure of what to do. How did flightling first aid work? She didn't have any idea.

"No, it's alright," Victoria coughed, the wind knocked out of her. "Nothing broken. Just give me a minute."

As she recovered Ziva sat watching her, feeling guilty. Victoria distracted her by asking, still on her back, "Did you talk to Tim?"

"Yes. He seems to be feeling better. Did he tell you what had happened?"

"Yeah." The young woman pulled herself up into a sitting position, rolling the muscles in her back. "I'm glad he could tell you guys. He needs someone to trust."

"He's lucky to have someone like you, who knows what he's going through," the NCIS agent said. Victoria gave a small smile and stood.

After a pause, Ziva spoke. "Tony told me that they never would have been able to rescue us without your help. So…thank you."

"Don't mention it. Tim told me you were part of Mossad."

"Yes. I used to be."

From there, they launched into a long conversation about all the places they'd traveled to, the languages they could speak, and what Ziva did at NCIS. It turned out they had more in common than either of them had thought. Eventually they discussed fighting experience; Victoria was interested in Ziva's tactical prowess in hand-to-hand combat. While the younger woman was far more soft-spoken, she did have some practical knowledge in self defense given her experience with hunters, there were lots of gaps in her abilities. This topic gave way to the discussion of the night that Team Gibbs showed up ready to kill the Clarks. Ziva noticed Victoria's ears tinge red when she described fighting with Tony- how she'd dislocated his shoulder, how he'd stabbed right through her wing. Surprisingly, the flightling wasn't the least bit angry about what had happened.

"You thought we'd kidnapped and killed Tim," she shrugged. "If I'd thought you'd killed him, I would have done the same."

…..

The instant the rooftop door had closed behind Ziva, Tim's face clouded with doubt again.

"What's wrong, McGee?" DiNozzo asked, realizing that there was still more weight on his friend's shoulders.

Hesitantly, the younger man revealed the part of his story that he'd previously omitted: that his blood burned exactly as Thaddeus' blood had. Tony was quick to refute the idea that Tim was evil just because of this, that perhaps it was a chemical reaction from something in flightling genetic code.

"You said his blood was black. Is yours?"

"No."

"See? I think that's the biggest sign you've got, McGee. Your blood is the same as everyone else's. It's his that's different."

Tim nodded but it was clear he had more to say.

"I'm not…sure that it means anything. But I'm not sure that it doesn't mean anything either. And if…if I'm right, if I do turn into something or someone else-"

"Don't say it, McGee," Tony cut him off, angry to hear his friend talk this way.

"Look, I'm not saying that I will. If Apollo and Victoria could go this long in peace then I'm sure I can too. But…if I can't…I want you to kill me, okay?"

"Tim…"

"I'm serious. I wouldn't be 'me' anymore, I'd be a monster. And I can't take the thought of some monster using my hands and my powers to kill innocent people."

Tony said nothing, knowing that whatever pain it caused him to hear this, it caused McGee even more to feel it.

"Please, Tony, just promise me."

The agent sighed, realizing that if he didn't give his word, Tim would just seek out Ziva or Gibbs. But…Could he really kill his best friend? Even if it was his last request? DiNozzo didn't want to deal with the responsibility, even though he knew that there was not a chance in hell of Tim becoming whatever it was he feared. His friend was too strong for that. But McGee wouldn't accept any of these thoughts as an answer, so Tony snapped a simple, "Fine," knowing that if the time actually came, he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing.

…

The next day, Apollo called Simon and explained the situation with D'Amico. Simon was appalled to hear that the man was still alive, and that he'd tried to kill multiple humans.

"It might be a good idea to go to Kenya for a little while," his booming voice suggested over the phone. "They don't know who I am, but I get the sense that no one will be safe. You should come with me. All of you, even your human friends."

"Perhaps we will, but not yet. I just wanted to call and warn you. And to ask a favor…"

Simon agreed to retrieve Team Gibbs' belongings and to check out of their hotel in Venice for them. It was easy for him to go without risk, as he hadn't moved to Valero Notte until after the first fall of the D'Amico family. Because of this, he was unknown to them and could come and go from Venice as he pleased. For the time being, anyway. As he dropped off the three suitcases, he urged the occupants of the Clark house to come with him. Again, they turned him down.

With the retrieval of their belongings, the agents could use their phones and computers. They had over a dozen messages and missed calls from Ducky and Vance, and they wasted no time in calling MTAC. When the director's face appeared on the screen, he had everyone else leave the secure room.

"Gibbs, where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "Just because I gave you three a vacation doesn't mean you can go off the grid."

"Didn't intend to, Leon," Gibbs drawled, annoyed at the accusing tone his boss used. Ziva and Tony stuck their faces in front of the camera as the three took turns describing their last few days. Eventually, Tim came into view, his emerald eyes amplified by the huge MTAC screen.

"Hello, Director."

Even though Gibbs had informed him weeks ago that Tim was alive, Vance was still shocked to see his former employee.

"Agent McG….McGee."

"Leon," Gibbs said, snapping everyone back to the issue at hand. "Venice?"

Vance, after hearing about the most infamous flightling of all time, frowned. It was technically out of his jurisdiction as a US government official, and out of his reach as a retired hunter. But the agents' expressions told the director that they all felt the same way he did; something had to be done.

"I'd call the Venetian government myself," he said. "But something tells me that D'Amico owns the whole damn thing."

After a pause, he conceded. "I'll give you one more week of leave to figure out a plan. Call me when you do, and we'll go from there. But do not engage. Do not go anywhere near the city limits, you got that?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said in his usual way.

"You hear me Gibbs? That's an order, do not pick a fight with D'Amico."

Jethro was slightly angered at the implication that he'd risk his agents' lives for some personal vendetta.

"Oh, and I think you'd better call Doctor Mallard," Vance advised. "He's even more concerned than anyone."

As they hung up, Vance rubbed his temples. He was getting too old for this.