oOoOoOo

Portsmith Medical Center
Room 312

Morning arrived and departed with the afternoon as a salty breeze from the coast fluttered the flags outside the windows. Ziva, who spent the night sitting in her chair placed strategically between the two beds, stretched the knots from her neck and rubbed her weary eyes throughout the day. She was joined by Abby early in the morning. The two women spoke few words. The patients in the room, both still and oblivious, slumbered on in medically induced stupors.

While Ziva thought it a blessing that neither man was awake to experience any obvious pain or agony, Abby was not so assured. Tony, she could understand. He was doped to the gills on host of heavy meds to deal with the possibilities of infection and to kill the pain of his multiple fractures and emergency surgery. McGee, however, should have been awake she contended. Not accepting the nurse's assessment that his incoherence was abnormal for the type of medication he was being given, the forensic scientist started digging. That resulted in making calls of her own to McGee's normal doctor and, eventually, Dr. Westlake. At the end of that arduous day-long task, McGee was still down for the count. No doubt his body needed the rest to recover from his injuries, but her purposeful deep dive on his medical records revealed a concern noted by the staff at Johns Hopkins the previous year. The high octane pain management of opioids was a bad idea for the fair-skinned patient. As the dinner hour rolled around and he remained all but comatose, his IV was pulled so the drugs could wear off. She went to the hotel (under protest) after Gibbs called and issued his order.

Ziva remained.

She could not recall such a long and motionless day in her life. Even when she was held captive in Somalia, they at least dragged her from her cell and beat her every few hours. Given the fear and despair in her heart as she watched Tony lay motionless in his bed, she would have chosen to go back to her prison. Feeling physical pain was always easier for her.

A call from Gibbs as the sun began to dive for the horizon sent Abby grudgingly back to her hotel for one more night. Both women had wondered where Ducky was throughout the day and only learned from that call that he had boarded a plane with Gibbs early that morning for points unspecified. The women exchanged a glance as Abby departed. Each had the same question in their eyes: If Ducky was traveling with Gibbs, who had died?

Without that answer or any hint whether they would ever find out, the dark hours returned to find Ziva along again in a chair placed between the beds of her two former teammates. She sat vigil there with her painful and penetrating thoughts. She did not fear being alone normally, but be left with only those little voices in her head was a form of torture she did not feel ready to endure. When the staff entered the room again as dawn faded into morning, a nurse noticed blood seeping through the bandages at Tony's shoulder at a level that was not normal. A brief consult with the doctor resulted in him being brought down for an additional x-ray to make sure the plate had not becoming somehow dislodged or was not placing undue strain on his stitches.

While the nurse explained to Ziva it was nothing of concern, the CIA operative insisted on tagging along. Her long and worrisome night had left her with many muddled feelings, but one thing remained unchanged: a long as Tony was not able to watch out for himself, she would do so. He was stirring slightly as they prepared to take him away.

"You're going for a little ride right now, Mr. DiNozzo," the orderly said. "Just lay back, relax, and float along with that nice fresh IV we just gave you."

"I'm an agent afloat again?" he mumbled as his eyes rolled in confusion. "Captain, I should probably tell you: This is the worst cruise I've ever been on."

His gaze was glazed unfocused. His expression was a cross between pained and dopey. His words were thick and slightly slurred from the medications, but it was evidence his mind was ready to begin revving for the day.

"Tony, you are not on a cruise," Ziva assured him. "You are in the hospital. You were hurt. You require an x-ray."

"A ray gun would be cool," he mused as he squinted at her. "Hey, nurse. Anyone ever told that you look like a hot ninja?"

"Tony, I am not a nurse," Ziva offered and blushed slightly as the orderlies helping him onto the gurney chuckled. "I am Ziva."

"Ziva, warrior princess," he grinned and grabbed her hand in a clumsy fashion. "They should make a movie about you."

"I would prefer they do not," she shook her head as she lightly clasped his hand. "Do you understand what I said? You are going for an x-ray. You had surgery on your shoulder. The doctor needs to look at it."

"Know what I need to look at?" he asked in reply. "Area 51."

Ziva blinked as they prepared to wheel him from the room. She looked over her shoulder to see McGee slumbering peacefully oblivious to the discussion. She envied him his tranquility.

"What is Area 51?" she asked, feeling certain she would regret playing along with his inebriated mind.

"It might be where the aliens are," Tony assured her. "Mars needs women, you know."

"Of course," she sighed.

In the hallway, she met Abby fast approaching. Dark circles resided under her eyes and her face was drawn into a worried knot still. She quickened her step as she saw Tony departing. Ziva was able to allay her fears. Tony's persistent chatter about aliens and mothers, suggesting that perhaps Carol McGee was an alien and wondering if they could clone her so Tony wouldn't have to share her cookies with McGee. Hearing that prompted a relieved smile on Abby's face.

As the x-ray bound posse, trekked down the hall, Abby entered the room with the one solitary patient. Per her discussion with the doctor that morning, they intended to release him that day. He would be in pain, but there was no reason he needed around the clock medical attention.

Abby approached the bed and found he was still sleeping. The bruises, cuts, and burns looked worse but her forensics background had expected that. The lack of an IV and the missing oxygen tube were good signs. He just needed to fully wake up and get a once-over by the doctor. Until that happened, she intended to wait by his bedside.

For McGee, waking was a strange situation. He knew instantly something was amiss. First off, he sensed that the room was too bright. His bedroom was normally dark in the early morning hours. Next, he was partially sitting up. His bed did not have the ability to do that. Then there was the ache that squeezed every muscle in his body. With great effort, he unglued his eyelids and looked around the room.

Initially, he saw pale blue walls and a large curtain hanging in the middle of the room. He turned his head slowly to find a pair of innocent yet exotic green eyes stared back at him.

"Hospital," he said in a breathy way.

"Yes, you're in the hospital," Abby said swiftly moving closer and gently clasping his hand. "Do you know why?"

"There was a bomb, but I don't remember it going off," McGee said recalling the frantic moments with Tony in the warehouse. "Did I screw up?"

"No," she assured him. "Gibbs said you and Tony did the right thing."

"Gibbs wasn't there," McGee insisted. "It was me and Tony. Alone."

"I know," she said in a comforting tone as his eyes grew sharper with full consciousness and (evidently) pangs of pain. "There were two devices. One was hidden. You couldn't have known."

"Where's Tony?" he asked as he tried to sit up further then seethed in pain before dropping back to a reclining position. "Tony was with me. He was right behind me. He said…"

"Okay, careful," Abby soothed. "Take it easy. You've got some broken ribs and a lot of bruises. Tony's okay. They just took him for an x-ray a little while ago. He has a few broken bones, but he'll heal. You were both very lucky."

"Doesn't feel lucky," he sighed, fishing around until he found the controller to raise the bed more.

As it moved to a more upright position, McGee closed his eyes to stop the swimming sensation in his head as well as try to remember the second device in the warehouse. He could find no memory of it. His last recollection was of disengaging a pressure plate at Tony's feet. They had squabbled a bit about the best way to do that. Eventually, Tony's low-tech suggestion of simply pushing the firing pin out of the linkage using the plastic of a ballpoint pen won out. McGee had been considering disentangling all the wires, but Tony's successful solution was more to the point and much easier. McGee would have felt badly about missing something so simple, but he had taken care of the timer on the device that was the first problem so he figured they were even in earning their pay that day.

It had nearly be a terrible day, he thought solemnly. They had been so relieved when Tony was able to move without fear of triggering a deadly explosion. How they ended up triggering another, much less surviving it, was something he did not understand.

His brain wanted and needed those answers, but he found what he wanted more was just to stare at Abby gazing back at him with her full attention. He could have done without seeing the worry in her eyes, but the fact that she was there at all was enough for now.

"I had a terrible dream," he said as he fixed his eyes on her again. "I thought the whole last year never happened."

"That was the drugs," she said confidently. "You can't handle the good stuff. No one here would listen to me so I managed to sick Dr. Westlake on them. The high-test stuff is out of your system now. How much pain are you in?"

Each inhale hurt slightly less than the first one, but every movement felt like broken glass was pressing into his sides. Still, in comparison to having his chest cut open and wired back together, a couple broken ribs was nothing.

"I've hurt worse," he said, hoping it sounded more honest than falsely roguish.

In truth, he felt worse when thinking his life with Abby had never happened. It was a different kind of pain—one that cut deeper than any physical ache. Despite his attempt to dispel any worries she had, he saw concern etched deeply in her face as a frown tugged on the corners of her mouth accentuating the dark smudges under her eyes and the weary expression on her face.

"I'm sorry about this," he said, the twinges and aches he felt fading and being replaced by concern for her.

"You don't need to be sorry," Abby said. "I understand what can happen when you go out each day. I don't like it, but I understand."

Her head was already 10 steps ahead for getting him home. She fully expected him to insist she not carter to him or play nurse to him. He had done so when he returned from Dallas the previous year despite needing assistance. He had balked at her help when it became apparent that he was ailing emotionally as well. Given his resistance lately to even letter her walk to the mailbox, letting her take care of him was going to be a struggle.

McGee could saw the firm look in her eyes and misread it. His mind harkened back to their terse words the night Carter Scott was taken into custody.

"I know we need to talk," he said although it came out in such a hesitant and fearful way that it sounded more like a question.

"Not here," she shook her head. "Right now, you need to eat that gruel-like substance they brought you for breakfast. Then I'll help you get dressed, and we'll hopefully be on our way back home."

He considered resisting on both accounts (the breakfast command most of all—gruel was a fair description of the chunky wallpaper paste they were calling oatmeal on his tray); however, the fatigue he saw in Abby's eyes prompted him to capitulate in order to save her the stress and bother of fighting back. As they were in a hospital surrounded by doctors, he was inclined to suggest she check in with one—just as a precaution—but he knew that was likely overboard on his part. He was the one laying a bed bruised, scabbed and broken.

Rather than make things more difficult, he swallowed a few mouthfuls of the slop they called food. Then he allowed her to assist him getting dressed. She had, thoughtfully, brought clothing with her from their house (a suggestion made by Ducky mostly to reassure her there was reason for hope). Like when he was recovering from the shooting the previous year, there was something a bit demoralizing about needing someone to help put on his clothing; although, he found he minded it much less when it was Abby than he did when it was his mother.

"You sure you're okay?" Abby asked noting his pronounced quiet.

He would have shrugged but even the thought of doing so hurt. Instead, he nodded listlessly. Home was where he wanted to be as soon as he saw for himself that Tony was okay.

Not that being home didn't present its own problems. After all, the last time he was there, Abby had been packing her bags.

oOoOoOo

Hospital Hallway

With the x-rays complete and the medical team satisfied the plate bracing Tony's fracture was holding, he was returned to his room. Ziva kept pace with the gurney as Tony serenaded those who they passed with his version of a Bob Dylan song he began spontaneously signing as they wheeled him out of the radiology suite.

"Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door," Tony crooned out of tune.

Eventually, chuckles interrupted the lyrics as the chorus drew to an end. At that moment, a profound expression washed over his face.

"That's weird," Tony observed. "Actually knocking on heaven's door? You'd think God would have a doorbell or a security guard at the gate so you didn't have to knock."

"Yes, Tony," Ziva replied, placating him as there seemed to be no way to derail his nonsensical discussions.

He had talked about socks and why they were funny (flat but round at the same time); about the sky (blue but not always the same so which blue is really sky blue); and about tofu (it's playdough only it tastes worse and is probably where they grow fake flowers). Ziva's patience was worn thin by her exhaustion and the absurd nature of the observations. She was willing to admit she would rather hear about his thoughts on a film that had a hospital, an x-ray, or even a character named Ray. Anything.

"I'm not wearing pants you know," Tony announced to an elderly woman waiting in her doorway as the orderlies paused to avoid a traffic jam of wheelchairs in the hallway. "Boss won't like that when I go to work."

"You are not going to work," Ziva told him for the fifth time. "You are going back to your room where you will rest for the day. Tomorrow, you will be discharged. You will be on medical leave while you heal. You will have plenty of time off to think about aliens, tofu, and socks."

"If I don't go to work, what am I supposed to do?" he asked with a groggy expression. "I can't do nothing. I've seen like every movie ever made… twice. I'll get bored. It'll be like being home sick from school. Are you going to come play with me?"

She blinked and scrunched her brow at the question. She let it slide rather than pursue it further.

"While you are healing, you could learn a new skill," she suggested. "You are always having McGee do your computer work. Perhaps now you can learn to do what he does so well."

"He does Abby," Tony guffawed in a giddy fashion. "She's pregnant with his McMuffins. How am I supposed to do that? First of all, my last name starts with a D."

"I meant you could improve your computer skills," Ziva said firmly while keeping the smirk off her face.

"Do you think he used a computer to do it?" Tony scrunched his brow. "I actually find that more believable than thinking it did it the hands on way. Well, not hands, but you know."

"Yes, Tony, I know," she groaned. "Obviously, you are on the mend since you have sex on the brain again."

"Sex on a train?" he repeated. "I've never had sex on a… Wait, does a rollercoaster car count? That's kind of train like. Only it wasn't moving. It was at this old derelict amusement park on Long Island."

"Shut up, Tony," she said.

They rounded the corner and approached his room once again as Tony began humming in an off-key and loopy way yet again. Ziva walked beside them sporting a suffering expression that stated she was feeling the urge to hurt someone. As they entered the room, Tony's head lolled to the side. Hhe spotted his partner and Abby.

"McGee," Ziva nodded to him. "It is good to see you awake and standing."

"Know what else is good?" Tony offered. "Donuts."

McGee nodded, recalling how Tony behaved on painkillers. When his nose was broken by former Corporal Damen Worth and he was given meds, he spent the entire afternoon answering questions using his Jack Nicholson impersonation.

"Good to see you, Tony," McGee said, opting to ignore the stream of consciousness comment from his partner. "You feeling okay?"

Tony grinned in a drugged but happy way.

"Hey, Probie," he smiled as the orderlies gently moved him into his bed again, making sure to keep his shoulder immobile. "Ziva asked me if… something about… computer and a rollercoaster having sex. I say the answer is tofu. Am I right?"

Abby sat beside McGee on the bed anxiously waiting for the doctor to return with his discharge papers. When she departed with McGee, Ziva would, presumably, stay behind to assist Tony until he was released.

"Aw, they gave you the good stuff, huh?" Abby remarked sympathetically. "You're not in any pain right now, are you?"

"They wanted to take my picture—these nurses can't get enough of me," Tony said proudly then his eyes sharpened as he looked hard at his partner. "Bad guys tried to blow us up, but it didn't work. It's probably because I'm like Ironman."

"Just without being insanely smart or rich," McGee offered.

The commented seemed to earn him a narrowed eyed stare. McGee was ready to apologize for his insensitivity when the real reason behind Tony's scrutiny made itself known.

"Why are you wearing clothes, McTimmy?" he demanded.

"Wow," Abby grinned. "I thought I was the only one who wanted Tim to walk around naked. Do I need to worry about this bromance you two have? If you're going to make a move on my man, Tony, you should know that I don't fight fair."

McGee groaned as his face, still red from the first degree burns he sustained, blushed a deeper shade. He would have grumbled more, but he found Abby's frisky banter slightly reassuring if completely embarrassing.

"You're moving?" Tony asked in confusion, oblivious to the essence of what she said. "You guys haven't even been in that house for year. Why are you leaving now? You can't have people puppies there?"

Ziva choked on her scoff and raised her hand as if to slap him in a scolding but stopped herself. Instead, she raked her fingers through her messy locks.

"People puppies?" she shook her head. "They are called babies, Tony. Infants. Children. There are many words for them. You do not need to refer to them as puppies."

"Ziva, you need to save Abby," Tony continued oblivious to his scolding. "I think she's allergic to McGee. She married him and had a bad reaction—look, she got all puffy. It'll be okay, Abby. If they give me some good pills, I'll share."

Abby thanked him without taking offense while Ziva palmed her face in embarrassment for Tony's delirious remarks. She explained that he was given an additional muscle relaxant during the x-rays to lessen the additional muscle tension from the swelling around his newly repaired collarbone. Over all, she reported, the doctor was pleased with the way the injury was healing. It was hoped Tony would be released the following day. Tony, however, did not seem to care. He was more interested in his earlier inquiry.

"Why is McGee wearing clothes when I'm not?" he asked then looked desperately at Abby. "I'm not wearing pants. I don't even know where they are."

"You are not naked," Ziva reminded him.

"Oh, I could be," Tony insisted with a satisfied nod.

McGee grinned and tried not to chuckle. The pain of broken ribs was agonizing any time he took a deep, sudden or shuddering breath. Laughing of any kind was off his to do list for the foreseeable future. However, accomplishing that would also entail being out of touch with Tony while he was on painkillers.

"I'm being discharged, Tony," McGee explained. "I get to go home, but you have to stay another day."

"Yeah, but you're moving so you're not really going home, are you?" Tony scoffed. "Hey guys, you can stay at my place. I don't know about puppies, but I have some fish. You can visit them. It'll be fun. I'm gonna be home sick from school for a while so you guys can come over and play. I think Ziva's babysitting me—she's probably not too nice, either. Just call my dad and ask if he'll pick up to come see me. I've got an amazing movie collection. They're like… films about… people and stuff. Big. Where are we going again?"

oOoOoOo

NA Mayport, FL

NCIS Field Office

Ducky sat in the small, dank, dark room opposite an equally humid and horribly smelling interrogation room. Fornell sat beside him, munching quietly on a bag of peanuts with his feet propped up on a chair as though watching a sporting event. In the room beyond the two-way mirror, Gibbs sat opposite a stone-faced officer with a rigid posture and a look of contempt unrivaled in Ducky's decades of observation.

"I was optimistic when we first got here, but I don't think Jethro's going to break this one with just an icy stare or a slight of hand with the evidence," Fornell surmised.

"Agreed," Ducky replied. "Many arrogant men met their doom opposite his stern visage. This man, however, is another creature altogether. He is demonstrating traits of both Narcissistic Personality Disorder with his unmitigated arrogance and what we know of his sensation-seeking or impulsivity. He also displays the charm and manipulative skill of those with psychopathy. He lacks a conscience and empathy for others—he demonstrated that when Gibbs brought up the murder of Mr. Renner and Miss Reeves."

Fornell nodded as he snorted.

"He's sure we don't have enough on him," he said. "And he's right."

"Ah, but he does not know what we know about him," Ducky noted.

"What we know, we can't prove in court," Fornell said. "He's not going to confess to anything. I've seen guys like this before, Doctor. He's going to wait us out and walk, and he knows it."

"He may well believe that, Agent Fornell," Ducky said sagely. "However, belief and fact are not equal in some instances. Your pessimism is no doubt well-founded in your own vast experience, but you are forgetting one thing our suspect has not calculated into over-reaching confidence and assuredness. He is not dealing with just any agent."

Fornell nodded but kept his expression skeptical.

"I've worked with him for years and I don't underestimate him," Fornell said. "But I also know he doesn't' have a letter and a cape on under that shirt and jacket."

"I have learned, in my experience, that superheroes come in many guises," Ducky offered.

On the other side of the glass, Gibbs listened to the plausible explanation of why Rear Admiral Paul Porter had received three calls from Pamela Reeves—the only calls she made upon arriving in the DC area in the days before her murder. He cited a mutual acquaintance from years earlier being the subject of the calls. She was trying to reach the man and wondered if Porter knew how. He even offered a name and said he did not make any effort to locate the man as he recalled the untidy way Reeves departed the Navy.

"You do like things neat, don't you?" Gibbs remarked. "You leave a hell of a mess when you try to clean up though. First Reeves. Then Renner—we know you didn't actually kill him, but you're the reason he died. Did you know he confessed to Agent Bishop here about your cover up from Alameda? I mean the one that happened on the ship with Joaquin Guzman—not the thing about the boys."

There was no flinch, no tell, nothing to show that Porter had reacted outwardly to Gibbs' questioning taunt. Of course, that Ducky knew, was a tell in itself. An innocent man would have asked for clarification or begun demanding more information to plead his blamelessness. However, as discussed with the psychological autopsy specialist before entering the room, Gibbs was merely pushing the right buttons at the right time to get the man primed for the real questions.

Porter sat at an angle to the table. His arms were folded and a bored expression filled his face. It was a round face with reddish cheeks. He had a widow's peak on his forehead as his dark hair was free—probably chemically so—of any hint of gray. His hands were perfectly manicured, and his white uniform was pristine. His eyes were sharp and his posture perfect.

"Rifat Abadi, age seven," Gibbs said sliding a picture across the table from the file at his fingertips. "Kid had something of a hard life. His mother, Rasha, was a student who left Syria at age 15 to visit her aunt in Sweden. The aunt kept her there hoping to give Rasha a better life in her adopted country. She finished school and started college. She married a Swedish national named Sven. He was killed in a car accident just after their second anniversary, about a month before their son Rifat was born. Rasha's aunt was in the car with him. With no family left, she went home to her mother in Syria."

"That's a sad story," Porter said without sounding like it was at all. "Am I accused of driving the car that killed Sven?"

Gibbs chuckled humorlessly.

"No, you had other lives you were running back in 2009," he offered.

"Rifat had it rough," Bishop said, pulling Porter's attention to her. "Being a fair-skinned child with light eyes in Syria kind of made him stand out. His mother's marriage wasn't recognized and he was considered… Well, let's just say he didn't have a lot of friends. When the civil war resulted in droves of Syrians fleeing for their lives, Rifat and his mother were among them. You might recall him from this summer—your ship took him and a few survivors out of the water after the boat they were using capsized. Rasha drown."

Porter gave her a blank gaze, as expected. The photo in front of him was of a child with dark hair sun-bleached to a light cinnamon shade, light eyes as deep and hollow as dry well, and pale skin that only emphasized the deadness of his stare into the camera.

"We saved quite a few people during the exodus last summer," Porter said. "I personally received a commendation from the U.N. thanking me for our efforts and my leadership during that crisis."

"Rifat isn't what you'd call thankful," Bishop replied. "That's a traumatized little boy who had a terrible story to tell about an officer taking him onboard his ship—your ship—and molesting him."

Porter snorted and rolled his eyes.

"That is a small child who lived through massive bombings so horrific his mother put him in a doomed boat thinking they could brave the deadly seas," Porter countered. "His mother drown in front of him. I do not doubt he is traumatized. I think we just have a different understanding of his reasons."

Bishop looked to Gibbs who had pulled out more photos. Rifat, in truth, was not speaking yet and had not identified the man who molested him beyond pointing to a US Navy insignia for a two-star admiral. While that was Porter's rank, it was hardly enough for an identification.

His arms remained folded and he looked on the verge of yawning.

"Agent Gibbs, we've been at this for two hours," Porter said. "I indulged you as a courtesy to NCIS in an effort to serve as a role model for my men to cooperate with professionalism. If you insist on wasting my time any longer, I suggest you present me with a reason to remain sitting here."

Gibbs smirked. This was the point Ducky told him to wait for—the moment when the man signaled he was done listening. It was not going to be a heated or intense request to end the interview, the medical examiner said. It would be a chiding, dismissing way. Once that point was reached, he would actually be vulnerable, just not to an aggressive attack of harsh and loud accusations. As Ducky diagnosed, this was required a slightly different touch.

"My time?" Gibbs repeated and appeared to take a steadying breath as he scrubbed his hand across his face as though trying to steady his nerves. "Time's pretty much all I've got now that my team… My team…"

He appeared to choke on the last word. It was so believable that Bishop even turned suddenly to look at him and looked sincerely concerned. Gibbs held up his hand to hold her off.

"You'll have to excuse Agent Bishop," Gibbs said tightly. "It's been a couple rough days. She's had to assume more responsibility than her years would dictate was wise."

"Youth is a gift but it can be a detriment," Porter replied sounding professorial as he offered Gibbs a calculated look. "You have other agents on your team who surely can assist her and mentor her."

"Had," Gibbs said quietly. "Agent Bishop, will do fine in her unanticipated promotion to senior field agent. It's my experience that tragedy is cruel but effective teacher."

Bishop bit her lip as she looked down at the floor, not sure she could offer the expression needed to sell the moment Gibbs was teeing up. She found averting her eyes best as she folded her arms and slouched back against the wall as she felt a heavy and questioning stare from Porter.

"What tragedy?" he asked.

"My team," Gibbs said then shook his head as if determined to go on. "I won't keep you much longer, Admiral. Just a few more questions. First, how would you describe your relationship with John McGee?"

For the first time, Porter jolted. It was an odd jump in his seat and a startled look on his face. Gibbs slid a picture of the man, the one used on his obituary, toward Porter.

"He was a good friend," Porter said.

"He was a mentor of sorts for you despite being in the same age," Gibbs offered. "I can see why. John had everything you ever wanted. Promoted below the zone multiple times. Tough, smart, demanding, commanding, and respected, too. From the very start, good old John was a man going places, and you followed."

Porter put his eyes on his dead friend and tilted his head slightly. Gibbs then pulled out another photo, one Bishop had (under protest) copied from one of McGee's Facebook albums. It was the picture of a young naval officer and his family: John McGee standing behind his wife, who sat in a chair holding their infant daughter, while their son stood beside his mother with his father's hand strategically on his shoulder. Porter brushed his fingers over the glossy reprint as his expression softened.

"You can pay the man the respect he is due and refer to him properly as Admiral McGee," Porter said sourly.

"Respect?" Gibbs laughed. "He's dead so I can pretty much call him whatever I like, especially seeing how I thought the guy was a blowhard and four-star sonofabitch—and that was before I met him. Afterward, I realized he was just a fool. I mean, look at that family. He threw that away. Just chucked it all to get a few commissions. I just don't get that. Do you? How cold hearted does a guy have to leave that behind just to ride around on a boat?"

Porter's eyes betrayed him. They lingered for a moment too long on the picture. His fingers rested so close to the image of the little boy, yet not touching him despite an apparent desire to do so. Bishop had objected to using McGee's family photo in this way, knowing it would need to be disclosed in the reports afterward and thus drag her partner into this mess (the lifelong twisted crush this man had on him which McGee was luckily oblivious to so far). However, Ducky assured her that if what they knew and believed about Porter was true that the photo was necessary. He also offered her the small consolation that even presence of John McGee in the photo would at least stop Porter from grazing his fingers across the image of her fellow agent and leave him still untouched by the man.

"John was a spectacular officer," Porter said, but his voice was softer despite his adamancy. "However, that came with a price. He was not a stellar family man."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Gibbs scoffed. "I've had to spend a decade fixing the damage he did to one of his kids, and now… Well, that was all for nothing."

"You meant Timothy," Porter shook his head. "Like John, you are a fool, Agent Gibbs. He is perfect as he is, as he always has been. From the first moment I met the family, I could see Timothy was special."

"Yes," Gibbs said solemnly as he swallowed thickly. "Yes, he was. I think we all forgot that for a while. Then last year happened."

He placed more photos on the table. They were screen captures from a cameras that recorded an open heart procedure. They were bloody affairs showing doctors in red-spattered gowns elbow deep in a chest with ribs cut in two. The insides showed more than the patient's outside, which was good as the photos were from a medical school's training materials rather than any procedure done on McGee. Porter shuddered at the sight, his red cheeks growing brighter as the slightest hint sweat appeared on his upper lip. His breathing changed as he winced at what he saw.

Next Gibbs placed a spent round on the table. He looked at it while shaking his head.

"That right there," he said. "That should have done him in a year ago in May. It took doctors 19 hours—five on your ship and another 14 in Germany to pull that out and repair all the damage it did. They cut him in half; they held his heart in their hands, literally. All that from this little thing. A bullet fired by a guy whose name we never learned for reasons that were never Tim's fault. I sat by his bed and watched while he struggled and suffered through all of that—and everything that came after. He didn't do anything to earn that."

Porter shook his head and swallowed agitatedly. He tugged slightly on his collar as the redness in his face grew.

"No, he didn't," Porter said quietly. "Your job is to punish whoever did that to him."

"Well, someone did," Gibbs noted. "Both shooters died on site. Tim lived. You made that possible. In a way, you saved him."

Porter nodded and sniffed. He took a shaky breath.

"I did everything I could," he said quickly. "I… I was appalled at what they had done. There was no reason for… That is, he posed no threat to anyone. He deserved to live."

"It meant a lot to you that you could save him," Gibbs encouraged. "You did more than most people would ever think of doing. You cared for him—more than his own father did."

Porter stared at the photo of the family again with a distant gaze.

"John never loved him enough," Porter shook his head. "He could never see how lucky he was to have such a precocious child. Timothy was bright but also sweet, a caring child so different from the cold and tactless ways of his father. I always tried to make John see how precious Timothy was, but all he saw was how different the boy was from what John wanted. I knew that those differences were what made him beautiful."

In the corner, Bishop swallowed dryly as a sour taste filled her mouth. Both Tony and McGee warned her long before she went to the Academy that nothing would tax her resolve or make her more revolted than hearing a pedophile talk about his desires. The man had not yet said anything with much detail and already she wanted to lose her lunch. She wondered if that was in part due to her friendship with the object of the man's fantasies, but realized it was not—not entirely. The dream that ensorcelled this man was not McGee at all. It was the story, the fictions and illusions, he thought of as McGee which his sick mind created to satisfy his evil and felonious urges.

"And then someone did this to him," Gibbs said, noting the tremors in Porter's hands. "Who was it?"

Porter shook his head. He closed his eyes and looked away from the photos.

"You don't care?" Gibbs challenged. "Is that it? All this talk about understanding him better than his father, caring for him… loving him, that's all a lie isn't it?"

Porter shook his head more. His lips were pressed tightly together as sweat began to trickle off his brow as his breathing became harder.

"It must be a lie because if you loved him, really and truly loved him, you would want justice for what they did to him," Gibbs said lowering his voice. "They left him with scars, terrible, deep scars on his skin and in his mind. They hurt him, and you let them do it. In fact, they did it just to hurt you. You're the reason this happened to him."

"No," Porter said with clenched teeth. "I never wanted him to get hurt. Ever. By anyone. Not John. Not… anyone."

"Sure you did," Gibbs said, tapping the pictures. "You didn't care enough to stop it. You helped him after it was done, but that was just guilt."

Porter seethed.

"You don't understand," he said. "The world is a dangerous place. I can't…. They… I never wanted them to…"

"What?" Gibbs barked. "You never wanted them to hurt him? Who are they? You know who they are. You're the one who set him up! You knew what they were going to do to him—that's why you hauled your perverted, desk-riding ass out of the Indian Ocean. Did you want to watch it happen?"

"No," he gasped.

"So that dinner on the boat the night before was your personal goodbye?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Porter insisted. "I wanted him to stay. I told him he should. He wouldn't listen. He never listened to me."

Gibbs scoffed and shook his head.

"You're a Rear Admiral in the US Navy," he charged. "You could have ordered him to stay on the ship—you were the ranking officer aboard. Instead, you let him go. You probably watched him with a pair of binoculars from the bridge get on that chopper. You let him walk right into that trap. That's not love. I don't know what it is, but it sure as hell isn't love."

Porter shoved the photos back at Gibbs as he turned to glare at him.

"What would you know about love, Agent Gibbs," he said. "I've heard plenty about you. Mr. Tough Love, who smacks his agents in the head to get their attention. You treat them like little toy soldiers. You wind them up and send them to their slaughter. How many have you buried? At least, I saved Timothy!"

Gibbs scoffed then shook his head.

"Saved?" he repeated as he spoke in a quiet voice. "You delayed the inevitable. You're protecting the men who did this. That's why I know you never loved him. If you love someone, you protect them. You don't send them to the slaughter—you certainly don't do it twice. I guess that's the one good thing to come of all this. He never has to know that you're the one who betrayed him."

Gibbs nodded to Bishop. She pulled out her phone and played an audio file. It was the last few seconds of the recording from McGee's and Tony's transmission while diffusing the bomb—edited a bit for effect, leaving in the fear in their voices and Tony's plea for McGee to depart followed by his refusal to do so. Many other bits of the conversation were removed but the deafening explosion that ended the recording was amplified.

"What was that?" Porter asked in a choking voice.

"That's the last 30 seconds of Special Agent Timothy McGee's life," Gibbs said sorrowfully. "You asked how many of my agents I've buried. The answer is too many, and now I've got two more. He and his partner died on Monday afternoon in the explosion at Norfolk."

Porter gasped. He began to tremble as he shook his head in disbelief. His coloring grew darker and sicklier. The beads of sweat on his face swelled as his eyes shifted wildly. He looked from Gibbs to Bishop for some sign he heard wrong.

"No," he said. "This isn't true. He didn't…. He couldn't have. I would have heard."

"For reasons of national security at the order of the Secretary of the Navy, the names and numbers of casualties have not been released," Bishop said on cue. "You had an entire year to come clean and tell us what really happened in Afghanistan and why, Admiral. You had a whole year to help track down the men behind the first attempt on Tim's life. Only you didn't. You kept quiet, and now he's gone."

Gibbs nodded gathering up the photos but leaving the family picture on the top. He then drew out a piece of paper and placed it beside the photo. Porter's eyes grew as wide as saucers as he read the death certificate of Timothy Farragut McGee. The trembling admiral gasped then appeared to gag.

"This is what your silence did," Gibbs said tapping McGee's name on the document. "This is your fault. I lost half of my team two days ago. They were first shredded by shrapnel and next burned by the fireball. Tim's body is so badly damaged my medical examiner forbid his family from seeing him, but I got him to make an exception for you."

He then pulled out the photo of the burned body they once thought was Tony when a rogue CIA operative rigged his car to explode. The blackened corpse was charred and unrecognizable. Porter quaked as he continued to shake his head insistently while muttering the word no over and over again under his breath.

"Yes!" Gibbs shouted slamming his hand onto the table before picking up the family photo and the burn victim and holding them up to Porter's eyes. "Tell me who did this! I want to know who ordered this! You give me a name! I need to find this man. You tell me who it is. You owe that to your beloved Timothy!"

Tears began streaming down Porter's face as his breathing grew rapid and irregular. He tried to pull his eyes away as he yanked on the top button of his uniform when he began gasping. He muttered a three names that Gibbs leaned over the table to hear just as there was pounding on the mirror behind them. Presently, the door to the interrogation room flew open and Ducky stepped in with an order for Gibbs to step back.

"I think he's having a heart attack," Ducky said as he looked to Fornell. "Get their medical team here. Now."

Gibbs stepped back, watching as Bishop helped Ducky lower the man to the floor and begin loosening his buttons while making his medical assessment. As he felt for a pulse and checked his watch, Ducky chanced a look at Gibbs. He looked directly at the flailing and failing admiral with a gaze that lacked all pity and sympathy.

"Mark, Pete, and Paolo," Gibbs repeated the names Porter had uttered. "That'll do for now."

oOoOoOo

Abby and McGee's House

The ride from Norfolk was quiet. McGee would have offered to drive, but Abby's stern glare when before he fully got the sentence out silenced him. Once in the car, he realized how foolish it was to even entertain uttering the offer. Just getting out of the wheelchair that took him to the front door and climbing into the front seat left him with a jaw clenched in pain and his vision going double for a few minutes.

As for the rest of the ride, he felt wretched—and only partly because of his injuries.

He had begun to imagine what it was like for her receiving the information about the incident in Norfolk. She worried about agents all the time—too much, he previously would have argued, but now he would sound like an idiot to say so. In the short span of year, he had nearly died twice. Tony had joked about their lives looking like TV season finale cliffhangers. At the time, it seemed funny. Now, it just seemed sadly true.

He knew he dosed part of the way, only coming to as they reached I-395 outside Alexandria. He watched the hot summer haze roil off the pavement as the air conditioner droned on ineffectively. The sun beat down on the community area of the Capital as they eventually neared the quiet street in Arlington. Getting out of the car was a lesson in pain, but he clenched his jaw to hold back a yelp to keep from worrying her more.

McGee could see the drain of the previous few days on her drawn and haggard face. Between the heat, the travel, and the worry, his concern for her was rising. He feared any sign he displayed of discomfort would simply increase the burden on her. As if on cue (and without being asked), she ushered him into the house and directed him toward the stairs.

"I can make it up stairs on my own," he said lightly. "You can spend the rest of the afternoon doing… whatever it is you need or want to do."

"Well, I need to take care of you so let's go," she gestured.

"You don't," he shook his head. "I'll be fine. Honest."

She acted as if she did not hear and led him to their room. The air was stuffy so she set about opening the window and turning on a fan. She pulled open the curtains to let the air flow more freely as McGee settled himself on their bed and tried hard not to look at the bag still sitting on the dresser.

"You're still way too quiet," she observed. "What's wrong?"

The urge to say nothing was strong, but he figured he had been less than truthful with her enough for the year with the mess involving his friend Carter. He owed her the honesty even if her answers pained him.

"I saw your bag the other day," he admitted, jerking his chin toward it. "I know you're mad at me, but I didn't think you were that mad. If you can't be around me, I'll be the one who goes. You don't need to leave the house."

She blinked and looked at him with an exceptionally lost expression. She followed his gesture then fixed him with an odd look that he did not understand. Her mouth was turned down in a disappointed frown but her eyes crinkled the way they did when she was on the verge of laughing. She walked across the room and retrieved the satchel then set it on the bed near his feet.

"This bag?" she repeated as she fought to keep a chuckle out of her voice.

McGee nodded. He wasn't sure how she could find this funny. Being mad at him was one thing. Leaving, even if she only planned to be gone a day or two, was a lot more serious than exchanging grumpy, emotional words with each other.

"Uh, yeah, I am packing," Abby informed him as she continued to smile. "Did you look in it?"

"No," he shook his head. "I just saw it and…"

"And assumed, naturally because you worry too much, that it meant I was leaving you," she said as she rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Let me ask you something: Are you sure you're not leaving me first?"

McGee blinked and shook his head shocked at the question.

"What?" he gaped. "No. Abby, I would never. Why would you…?"

Before he could finish the question, she reached into the collar of her shirt and fished out a long black cord that hung there like a necklace. On the end of it, dangled his wedding ring along with hers and her engagement ring.

"You left your wedding ring on the dresser," she said swinging it to and fro slightly. "Now, if I was a professional worrywart, rather than a scientist, I might have jumped to the hasty conclusion that leaving it behind meant you were leaving me behind; however, I paid attention to evidence. Do you know what the evidence told me?"

McGee held up his bruised hand, the one he hurt several days earlier decking a good friend.

"That I broke my finger and needed to take it off so the doctor didn't need to cut it off?" he suggested.

Abby nodded then tucked the pendulum into her shirt again. She fixed him with her hypnotic gaze, the one that usually made his knees a bit like jelly.

"Precisely," she said confidently. "By the way, I took mine off for the same reason—just a different cause for the swelling. Let me know when your hand is better so I can give yours back. Now, as for my bag, I'm not the special agent in the room. I'm also not the best-selling author of a detective novel. However, if I was either of those things, I might have looked for another explanation regarding this suspect bag. You missed a very big clue, McGee."

McGee quirked up his eyebrow, a gesture that hurt a bit due to the swelling and bruising around that eye. Without thinking, he shrugged his ignorance, seething at the sharp stab of pain long his ribcage. Abby offered him a pitying look as she stepped closer with the bag.

"I'll let this slide since you have a concussion—even though you should have figured it out long before that happened," she said in a conspiratorial tone as she patted her bulging middle. "The big clue is the one that keeps getting bigger. So, let's look at what's inside the bag."

As she spoke, she dumped out the contents onto the bed and identified them.

"We have your long sleeve FLETC T-shirt that I wear to bed in cold weather," Abby said. "Also a pair of forgiving and comfy yoga pants—a gift to me from your sister recently. And oh look, a cute little set of pink PJs and a matching set of blue ones. This is not me preparing to disappear into the night. This is me packing a bag because in a few months, I'll be having my own grab your gear moment. It's my hospital bag, Tim. As I think of things I need to bring with me, I'm tossing them into my bag so I don't forget anything."

McGee sighed with relief, feeling exceptionally happy and immensely thick. For someone who searched peoples' homes and possessions as part of his job, it hadn't occurred to him to rifle through his wife's bag, and he said as much.

"That is because you are a gentleman," she said as she threw the items back into the satchel then sat on the edge of the bed beside him. "A slightly neurotic and mildly insecure gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless. What actually concerns me is that you may also be going a bit blind, McGee. That bag has been sitting either on the dresser or on the floor for like a month already. Sunday was really the first time you noticed it?"

He hung his head in mild shame then kissed her forehead.

"I'm an idiot," he admitted sheepishly as he sighed with immeasurable relief. "I'd hug you right now, but I'm not dumb enough to cause myself that much pain."

Abby sighed and gripping his unbroken hand tightly. She looked deeply into his eyes and sighed contentedly.

"Let's get one thing straight," she said. "Even when I'm angry with you and want to be away from you, I'm never going to leave you. I said I do to our vows when I married you. Not I have or I might. I said I do, present tense, as in always the same no matter the hour, no matter the day, and not going to change—ever. I get that whatever has been going for you at work has you on edge, and that whatever it is that you're not telling me is all that on your mind lately, but here is what I know in my soul and what I hope you know in your heart. I might have taken my time learning what you meant to me, but once I know something, I don't forget it. Once I love something, I never let it go. You're mine, Timothy McGee—forever. I'm going to stick with you like… octyl cyanoacrylate."

She punctuated the assertion with a definite nod. Painful though it was to move most of his facial muscles to any large degree, a smile blossomed over his face as he translated her claim.

"Medical superglue," he nodded approvingly. "Gotcha."

"Now," she insisted crawling over his legs to take a seat beside him on the bed. "Start talking, Mister."

"Abby," he sighed. "I know I said I'd tell you everything, but I don't know how much Gibbs is…"

"No," she cut him off. "I mean, yes, I want to know that, but that's not what I'm talking about right now. I just need you to talk about… anything."

McGee looked at her oddly. As concussions go, his was relatively mild—particularly in comparison to Tony's. However, he was having a hard time figuring out what she wanted.

"You've sort of been gone for a week and a half," she reminded him. "You were in Puerto Rico for a week, got home late, and we haven't seen each other all that much since then. Our children have ears now. Granted, what they hear is muffled and filtered through amniotic fluid, but that doesn't mean they can't hear. They're used to hearing your voice every day, and suddenly you were gone. You need to let them know that you're back."

He smirked feeling too tired to hold a conversation of any merit. He tipped his head back to rest on the headboard as he gingerly draped his arm around her while pleaded his mind was too blank to pick a subject for discussion.

"Sarah told me you can recite 'Fox In Socks' in its entirety," Abby offered. "She claimed that you read it to her ten thousand times when she was little."

"Twelve thousand," McGee yawned as he smiled at the memory. "She wouldn't go to sleep without hearing it at least once. Once when we moved when she was around six, she lost her book. I didn't need it by then to know all the words so I started just reciting it to her from memory."

"I've known you for more than a dozen years, been married to you for nearly nine months, and only last week I found out from your sister that you are a master pillow fort architect and you can recite Dr. Seuss from memory," Abby noted.

"And?" McGee wondered, feeling she was building up to something.

"And, it tells me two very important things," then kissed him lightly on the cheek. "One, I absolutely found my soulmate, and two, you've been holding out on me. Once your ribs are healed, you owe me a fort. For now, recite for our children the part about the Tweedle Beetle Battle. That was always my favorite part."

McGee smiled thinking it was his, too.

oOoOoOo

Vance's Office

With half of his major case response team on the disabled list for the foreseeable future, he was left with few options. The preliminary reports on the explosion in Norfolk were on his desk, and there was disturbing news out of Florida. The only thing that seemed to be going well was Gibbs's suggestion on smoking out the mole at NCIS.

With the help of one of Abby's lab techs in writing a program that would siphon off every email sent within the NCIS network mentioning the explosion in Norfolk or looking for details, Vance now had his leak. That it was so close to the investigation was both disheartening and, in the end, predictable. The most successful traitors were always the ones you never expected. Unlike when Agent Lee first came onto Vance's radar, this one was never under suspicion.

Until now.

But that was a matter for when Gibbs returned. He would be short-handed for a while with his team down to half-strength for the foreseeable future. However, Vance now had round the clock eyes and ears on his internal target and he felt certain no more harm would be done, which was good because they were nearly out of cards to play.

His explanation of that to the special counsel did not take it well. In fact, Vance was wondering if he would need to summon someone to treat Parson's for hyperventilation if his breathing grew any more labored and his face got any redder with his anger.

"You've lost your two witness to the cold case out of San Francisco and now the leading Navy suspect in my drug ring investigation is on life support?" Parsons seethed. "I learned there was value in Gibbs' over the top approach at times, but I'm back to questioning his abilities."

"According to his treating physician, Admiral Porter was a walking time bomb with clogged arteries and a 3-pack per day smoking habit," Vance stated. "The man dragged a cardiologist around with him wherever he went. He was expecting this to happen someday. Unfortunately, someday ended up being today."

"They're not overly hopeful for his recovery?" Parson wondered.

"No," Vance replied. "His heart is failing and he isn't a good candidate for a transplant, even if one was available. I don't know if he'll regain consciousness, but I don't see him giving us much more we can use. I know it's no consolation for all the people he's harmed, but there may be some merit in not bringing his deeds to light. It saves his victims from having to come forward publically."

Parsons sighed and shook his head.

"So after everything that's happened, you've got nothing," he snarled.

"We've got the three names Porter spoke," Vance insisted. "Mark, Pete, and Paolo. That's not nothing."

Parsons scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Two apostles and someone who sounds like an Italian playboy," he grumbled. "That's not enough for an indictment. It's not enough to keep the investigation open."

"We're banking that Peter is Mr. Colson," Vance said. "The resources of your office should be able to track him down. We've got some interest in why a gun we believe he stole from his stepfather put a couple bullets into one of my agents, but since we got the actual shooter we can leave you to deal with Mr. Colson's other activities. As for Mark and Paolo, we have a line on them."

Parsons shook his head at the tenuous web that Vance seemed to feel was strong enough to net and snare one of the largest and longest running drug rings in US history.

"Mark Johnson, the former Congressman and DEA agent who worked in California during the 1980s?" Parsons guessed. "Yeah, I'm certain he's dirty. I can prove it—or I will be able to soon, but he's just the traffic cop for once the drugs get into the country. I want the head of the pyramid, Director. Do you think your team can avoid blundering into my investigation any further and stop getting my suspects and witnesses killed?"

Vance took the shot but did not defend against it. He stood by his team and their results.

"I don't know, Counselor," he said facetiously. "That's a tall order. I'd hate to make you promises we can't keep."

"If I Colson, then we can get Johnson, his uncle," Parsons nodded. "We can roll up the family business, but I want the international connection—the supplier. You mentioned one name I do not know so I'm wondering how he fits in. Who is Paolo?"

"I'll get back to you on that one," Vance said plainly.

oOoOoOo

A/N: Just a little bit more to come.