Tony was about to collapse by the time they reached his apartment—and Gibbs obviously knew it, judging by the arm across his agent's back and the hand under his elbow as he steered him to the couch.

Tony dropped immediately, wincing at the pain and muttering a groggy, " 'M sorry, Gibbs."

"Been a hell of a long day, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "Don't worry about it."

"Gonna be a longer one tomorrow," Tony said, his eyes popping open as he realized the thought had found its way out of his mouth. He found Gibbs watching him with an expression he couldn't quite place.

"Guess that answers that question," Gibbs said, his even tone not providing any clues to an increasingly sleepy, spacey Tony.

"What question?" he asked, too exhausted for guessing and feeling unnervingly stripped of his usual masks. He suddenly wondered if he would ever be able to lie to Gibbs again—and realized he never wanted to.

"Whether you fake the reactions to the painkillers," Gibbs answered softly.

And Tony suddenly understood the look. He decided to cut himself some slack, not only because he was tired and in pain but also because he had never seen Gibbs look guilty before. "An apology, Boss?" He raised an eyebrow. "I figured it would be me begging your forgiveness tonight."

Gibbs was already shaking his head. "I know why you did what you did."

"And you're okay with it?" Tony asked, forcing himself to sit up. He propped his elbow on bent knees. "I attacked a suspect in an active investigation. I used half the team to do—to cover it up. I used you, Gibbs. I lied to you—"

"Enough, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, his tone hard but his eyes soft. "It's late. Go get some sleep."

But Tony wasn't done. "I used Abby. I risked her—"

"Did you take her with you?

Tony glared.

"Did you ask her to wipe that ring for you?"

"Of course not," Tony said, stung that Gibbs could even think he would have.

And Gibbs saw it. "I know," he said. "And I know about your little blonde friend. You'd never ask Abby to lie for you."

Tony blinked, hugging his injured arm to his chest and looking up at Gibbs in confusion. "You're really not pissed at me?" he asked, disbelieving.

Gibbs stared back steadily. "I'm so mad I can't think straight, DiNozzo," he said, his low volume belying that strong emotion. "But you're exhausted and hurting enough. Go to bed. We'll talk tomorrow."

Tony didn't move. "So you understand it, but you're still mad?" he said, as if seeking clarification.

Gibbs' small store of patience ran dry and his eyes were blazing as he tried not to yell. "Hell no, I don't understand it." He took a calming breath that did little to calm him. "How could you do that?"

"I…" he started, curling tighter into himself. "You're gonna have to be more specific, Boss. How could I go there? Beat him up? Lie to you?"

Gibbs' gaze was steady again—but tinged with some pain Tony didn't understand.

Until he spoke.

"You really think that's why I'm pissed?" Gibbs asked softly. And then he smiled sadly and shook his head. "Of course you do."

"Gibbs…?"

Gibbs took a breath and forced himself not to shout. "You dislocated your own shoulder, Tony," he said, the words slightly strained. When he didn't get a response, he looked around and said, "Right here in this apartment, right? On Saturday night."

"Boss," Tony said, wincing. "I'm sorry I let you think you caused the damage. I know you felt bad, and—"

"Tony," Gibbs said, stepping closer. "You still don't get it, do you? I did feel guilty for hurting you—and I did hurt you, at Landry's. I'm sorry for that."

He ignored his agent's shock at the rare apology and moved even closer, sitting on the arm of the couch and putting a firm hand on Tony's good shoulder. "And I'm sorry for everything that was done to you to make you look so damned confused right now." He lowered his hand and let Tony scoot sideways, safely out of his reach. "I'm upset because you hurt yourself—and that you don't see anything wrong with that. That you think causing yourself that much pain is no big deal. That's why I'm pissed, Tony."

"Oh," Tony said after a moment, unsure what to do with the raw concern in his boss's eyes. He noticed that Gibbs looked uncomfortable, too, and Tony waited for the rest.

Finally, Gibbs looked him in the eyes and said, "It's not okay, Tony. And I don't ever want you to hurt yourself like that again."

Tony winced at the sadness in the blue eyes watching him. He nodded, a hand moving to his suddenly queasy belly. "I don't feel so great," he said, making no move to get up even though he felt like he was going to puke. It didn't matter: It was his floor, after all.

Gibbs frowned at him. "Probably because coffee and painkillers make a lousy dinner. Stay here," he ordered, getting up and heading into the kitchen.

Tony obeyed—mostly because he figured he'd fall over if he tried to get up. He heard Gibbs rummaging and he let his mind wander. And then he stopped short, realizing he had almost forgotten about the evidence that would no doubt surface in the morning. His nausea returned in triplicate and he tried desperately to think of anything else.

Gibbs set a plate of reheated stew in front of him, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

"Eat slow," he said, balancing his own plate on his knee as he sat beside Tony. "It's not as good the second time around. Trust me."

Tony gave him a feeble smile, deciding not to question Gibbs' kindness—or spill his own guilty guts. It had been a while—a long while, if he was honest with himself—since someone had taken care of him, and while it might not be smart, Tony decided to try to just go with it.

While it lasted.

"Thanks, Boss," he said between forkfuls. "Did I tell you this is really good?"

"Only about twenty times," Gibbs said, a ghost of a smile on his face. He found DiNozzo studying him after a moment and said, "Surprised you don't have questions for me."

It took Tony a moment to realize what he was talking about, and when he did, he just shook his head slowly. "What you lost, Gibbs… I would have lost my mind."

"Think I did for a while," Gibbs said quietly. "But I'd still do what I did if I had the choice." He got up. "You want a beer?"

He turned back to the silence and studied Tony's pale face. "Right," he said. "Bad idea."

Gibbs returned with a beer and a glass of water, which Tony took with a grateful half-smile.

"You can stop looking at me like that," Tony said after a moment. "I'm not gonna call the cops and rat you out, Gibbs. I meant it when I said I understood what you did." He was quiet a moment, sinking back into the couch cushions and closing his eyes. "At least what you did made sense."

Tony didn't need to see Gibbs' face or hear the actual question.

"I should have gone to New York and put a bullet in my father's head for what he did to me," Tony said softly. His eyes blinked open and he glanced at Gibbs' impassive face. "I won't. I'm not even sure I'd want to. But when I was standing there on Friday, looking down at Brian's face—the only evidence of the violence that was his life that hole in his head… I wondered why he took his shirt off. Why commit that pointless little act of defiance?"

Gibbs didn't have an answer for him.

Tony bit his lip, then said, "I was mad at him. Sure, I was pissed that everyone around him either ignored or completely missed what was probably staring them in the face the whole time. But I was also mad at him. Because he couldn't just hang on a little bit longer and see that there's life after all that pain—away from his father."

"Not much point in being pissed at a dead kid," Gibbs observed, showing his understanding without having to say it outright.

"Nope," Tony said softly, shaking his head. "And when Landry walked into that room—so calm I thought Ducky had gotten a new assistant—I just kept wondering if he really understood why Brian did it. And I knew he didn't. But I did. Hell, I'd thought about it myself plenty of times. But I knew Landry had no idea. Because he didn't know what it feels like to be hurt by the people who are supposed to love and protect you. To tiptoe around hoping no one will notice you even though it's been so long since someone touched you or talked to you that you begin to wonder if you're still even alive. To be terrified of being in your own home, a place where most people go to feel safe. I doubt that poor kid ever even knew what being safe felt like—at least when my father left for weeks at a time, I could sleep at night."

Gibbs listened even though he wanted to run for the door—or grab Tony by the shoulders and shake some emotion into his blank, heartbreaking words.

"I was at this summer camp once, right after my mother died," Tony continued, unaware of Gibbs' tension. "And there was this kid who cried every night that he wanted to go home. I didn't get it. But everyone was picking on him so I took him out for a walk in the woods and asked him why he wanted to go home so bad. He looked at me like I was crazy and told about how he missed his family. I should have thanked that kid. I think that was the first time I realized there was something wrong with me."

"Hey," Gibbs barked, unable to take it anymore. "There is nothing wrong with you, Tony. What he did to you was not your fault."

Gibbs wasn't sure what he was expecting—but it wasn't for Tony to laugh.

Amused green eyes turned to him. "How very 'Good Will Hunting' of you, Boss," he said with a tired grin. "Now you're supposed to make a joke about me grabbing your ass."

Gibbs just raised an eyebrow, finally getting one of Tony's movie references—and wishing he hadn't. He found himself wishing Tony would break down and cry, because the thought of his senior field agent sobbing in his arms was still less frightening than this man who could laugh and joke about the horror that had passed for his childhood. Gibbs, needing to think about something else—anything else, ran back through Tony's words, calm and detached as his case reports.

"You've done it before," Gibbs said, sitting up straighter and frowning at his agent.

That seemed to snap Tony out of whatever drugged, pained, sleepiness-induced fog he had been floating in. "Beaten a child abuser and then had said child abuser kill himself in an attempt to frame me for his death? Uh, no. This is brand-new territory for me, Gibbs." He smiled again, the expression unnerving. "I think I'd be handling it better if I had some experience to draw on."

"Not what I meant," Gibbs said, his eyes on the sling on Tony's injured arm.

The shutters came crashing down, and Tony sat up straight. "I'm tired, Boss," he said, the words clipped in a way Gibbs hadn't heard in a long while. "I'm going—"

"To run away?"

Tony paused, then nodded once. "Yep."

Gibbs knew he should probably just let it go. But then he thought of all the times people in Brian's life had just let it go. He knew Tony was no longer a kid trapped in a house with his abusive father, but judging by the shadows lurking in those tired green eyes, Gibbs wondered if he had really completely made it out—if anyone in that situation ever could.

"Tell me about it," he said, expecting an explosion.

But all Tony did was sigh and ask, "Why?"

Gibbs didn't answer directly because he wasn't exactly sure of the reasons himself. "Have you ever told anyone about it? About any of it?"

"Is this where you tell me getting it out is the first step in healing?" Tony asked, his tone sarcastic but not antagonistic. He mostly just sounded exhausted, but he leveled a steady glare at his boss. "You think I'm broken, Gibbs?"

Gibbs didn't even blink. "I think you've been hurt badly enough—and often enough—that you should be." He shook his head. "Or a lot of people would be. If you'd ever let yourself face it instead of hiding it away and ignoring it."

Gibbs wondered how Tony could glare so fiercely when it looked like he'd fall over if he tried to stand up.

"I've told Abby some things," Tony said defensively.

And Gibbs thought again about backing off. But he didn't. Because he was Gibbs, after all.

"Yeah," he said, not really agreeing. "And I bet your version would make 'Black Hawk Down' look like 'Stripes'."

"Nice reference," Tony said, smiling faintly and settling back into the soft cushions. "You know the documentary about making 'Black Hawk Down' on the DVD is actually longer than the movie? It's only a few minutes, but—"

Gibbs just gave him a look.

Tony sighed again. "She didn't need to hear the details, Boss. There was no way I was going to put all that shit in her head. She can handle the most gruesome crime scenes without blinking, but I doubt she would have slept for a week if I told her even half of what he did to me."

"I can handle it," Gibbs said simply.

When Tony didn't speak—out of shock or fear or exhaustion—Gibbs continued, "You don't want to put it in her head so why keep it locked up in yours?"

Tony didn't answer, his eyes still closed, his breathing so slow and even that Gibbs wondered if he had fallen asleep—or passed out.

"You can't tell me it doesn't feel better getting it out."

And that brought Tony bolt upright, the hand over his broken rib his only sign that anything was bothering him, physically or emotionally. He stared at Gibbs. "Why do you want to hear that shit anyway? What is this? Payback for using all this crap to distract you all weekend? You want me to tell you more so you can judge whether I was lying?"

Tony felt like his head was about to explode. But Gibbs just waited patiently while he calmed down. Finally, after a wait long enough to rival Gibbs' record in interrogation, he spoke.

"I don't really care why you told me what you did," Gibbs said, the kind, concerned expression obliterating all thoughts of the interrogation room, "long as you got it out."

They were quiet for a long moment, Tony feeling as raw and exposed as he had all weekend.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked softly.

"No," came the immediate reply. His stomach twisting guiltily for a multitude of reasons, Tony continued. "Even if you believe me, even if you understand why I went there," he said, silently noting the difference between understanding and offering forgiveness, "I still don't understand why you don't hate me."

Gibbs blinked at the strong word, the phrasing. "What could I possibly hate you for?" he asked, suddenly wanting to find Tony's father and hurt him—make him suffer as much as the young man sitting beside him had, still was.

"Gibbs, I called you a murderer," he said, his eyes tormented.

"You were right," Gibbs said, cracking a smile. "Just off by a decade or so."

And suddenly, Gibbs' rare levity—and probably the painkillers and exhaustion—made Tony smile back.

He shook his head. "This isn't really funny."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "You mean me thinking you were a killer and you thinking I was?"

Tony's smile got wider. "Well, when you put it that way…" The smile faded. "I am sorry, Boss. I never should have lied to you."

"Nope," Gibbs agreed simply.

Tony looked up from the floor. "And I'll take whatever disciplinary—"

"Shut up, DiNozzo," Gibbs said mildly. "No punishment I could come up with would even compare to what you've already put yourself through. Just don't do it again."

"I won't," Tony said sincerely. I might never have the chance, he thought, pushing away thoughts of that photograph. He turned. "And Boss?"

"Yeah, Tony?"

"Not tonight, okay?" he said, frowning and looking seriously uncomfortable. "Maybe I can tell you about … it … some other time. But just not tonight?"

Gibbs stood and held out a hand. "Only thing you need to do tonight is sleep."

Tony took the offered help and stood shakily, a hint of red on his cheeks as Gibbs waited patiently while he steadied himself—and more than a hint when Gibbs put his arm around him and matched his slow, weaving gait.

"It's okay," Gibbs said, sensing an apology. "I'm sure you'll feel a lot better in the morning."

Tony's smile was reflexive—the curling of an armadillo sensing danger.

I bet you'd be pissed, Boss, if you had any idea just how wrong you are.