The apartment Gibbs waved him into was utilitarian and sparse. Sort of what he'd expected Gibbs' house to be like, except the house had turned out to be warm and masculine: full of wood floors and heavy, dark, plump-cushioned furniture; walls filled with built-in bookshelves and a pair of king-sized waterbeds, the master with a mirrored canopy that had given him ... pause.

Here, light spilled in from tall windows, defeating the struggles of the air conditioning unit, washing out the flat beige paint. The furniture was rental stuff – cheap and likewise monotonously colored. A computer sat on a desk against one drab wall. An entertainment center took up most of one of the others. The tables were all spotlessly bare.

Tony watched Gibbs stand the cane against the tiny corner made where the doorframe met the wall. Then he pulled his cell phone off his belt and flipped it open, thumbing the OK button under the screen.

Gibbs grimaced a little as the tinny speech mode twanged the battery level and signal strength before moving on to report he'd missed one call – undoubtedly Ducky's – while he was out running DiNozzo out of the street. He'd felt the insistent vibration but navigating was too complex a task at the moment to allow him to stop and take a phone call. As the none-too-good approximation of a female voice recited the well-known number, he was already holding down the "1" key.

"I found him," he reported at Ducky's slightly accented greeting. "You can call off the APB."

Tony struggled to listen but, instinctively, as if he knew he was eavesdropping, Gibbs buried the phone tighter against his ear, his own voice softening. "Yeah. I will. Yeah. I know. You'll have him back tomorrow, Duck. Yeah. You, too."

Tony fidgeted while Gibbs replaced the cell on his belt.

"Now that we've determined you are here." Gibbs positioned himself an arm's length away from the edge of the counter and paced off the five steps to the back of the couch. "I admit I'm at a loss as to 'why'."

"Wanted to see you, b-- ... Gibbs. You kind of kicked me out of the hospital and then you up and disappeared."

"You looking for closure?" Gibbs trailed the back of his hand around the back and arm to sink down into the corner of the sofa.

"No," said Tony, settling on the opposite end of the cushions. "Had closure – admittedly it was a kind of forced closure, but closure we've had."

"Did that make any sense, DiNozzo?" frowned Gibbs.

Tony put it plainly. "You left."

"I can't see, Tony, they weren't going to let me stay."

"No, not the job." The sofa rocked beneath him as Tony abruptly abandoned his seat. "You left ... us."

"You're part of the job," reasoned Gibbs.

"That's really all we were to you?"

Gibbs tried to follow the pacing footsteps. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"I want you to come home."

Gibbs rubbed a hand over his jaw. "I don't have a 'home', DiNozzo."

"Of course you do. You have me, and Ducky, and Kate, and Abby. Hell, even McGee misses you. Kate just can't make him jump out of his skin the way you could."

"You seem to have forgotten something," replied Gibbs wearily.

Tony brushed his legs as he moved past him, but there was no dip to show he'd settled on the couch.

"What?"

Gibbs tried to place where DiNozzo was, putting out a hand that connected solidly with Tony's knee.

"I'm sitting on the table. And what ... what have I forgotten?" the tenor voice reiterated.

"For starters," Gibbs reached up and pulled off the dark glasses, "... this."

"I know you're blind, boss," said Tony gently.

"Not just 'blind'," reminded Gibbs unnecessarily.

"Okay, not just blind."

The latticework of scars crisscrossed Gibbs' half-closed eyelids, a few fainter lines dotting his cheeks and chin and disappearing down his neck. Tony rubbed the ridges on the backs of his own hands self-consciously. The cloudiness of the cataracts was gone, but the blue of Gibbs' eyes, what he could see of it under drooping lids, still seemed paler than he'd remembered.

"Something you'd want to see every day, DiNozzo?"

Tony tried to lighten the mood. "You think we loved you for your looks?"

"Not your job to love me at all," observed Gibbs, finding his left hand, though weak, nearly threatened to snap the thin plastic of the glasses' frame.

"Well, you may have kept things on a strictly don't-take-home basis, but I don't think the rest of us have that military organization thing going. You, uh, hurt them, shutting them out like that."

"Really? I hurt them, or is that an 'I hurt you,' DiNozzo?"

Gibbs didn't have to see to know the younger man had flinched, the involuntary movement reported by the soft sigh of cloth brushing cloth. "I know what I did, Gibbs. I know I ... ran and that you didn't let me explain—"

"Nothing to explain. Your supervisor is not your personnel burden to be borne. Or theirs."

"You pushed me down, didn't you?"

The question was almost too soft for Gibbs to make out. "What?"

"When the bomb went off. I don't remember it, never have really. But I dream about it, and in the dream you push me down."

Gibbs shook his head. "I ... I don't know. I just remember seeing the boy on the skateboard and knowing it was too late."

Tony's knees knocked against Gibbs' as he shifted uncomfortably. "You push me down and, when the glass breaks over us, I cover my head."

"I told you, Tony. I don't remember. But if you're thinking—"

"Thinking something like, maybe if I'd helped you ... he wouldn't be dead?"

"He was dead the minute he crossed in front of us. Neither of us could have gotten to him quickly enough."

"I still should have ... God," Tony's roughened voice trailed off.

Abandoning the glasses on the cushion, Gibbs reached out until his hand met the body rocking back and forth in front of him.

"I, uh," Tony released a shuddering breath, "regained consciousness before the paramedics got there, and all I could see was Ducky bending over you, trying to keep you from bleeding out. He'd put his jacket over the boy but the blood..." Tony swallowed convulsively, "I thought you were dead, Gibbs. The way Ducky looked ..."

"Come here." Wrapping his hand around Tony's bicep, Gibbs pulled the agitated body toward him, urging Tony to sit beside him on the couch. "It's okay, Tony. You did everything right. That just doesn't necessarily stop things from going to hell in a hand basket."

"I just wanted—"

Gibbs jerked backwards when the tips of Tony's fingers unexpectedly brushed along his cheekbone and he turned his head, closing his pale eyes. His hand fumbled along the cushions until his fingers locked on the dark glasses, which he clumsily replaced.

"You wanted what, DiNozzo? To do your good deed for the day? To come here and cheer up the maimed?"

Gibbs face was flushed, he could feel the embarrassing heat of it, and he lashed out, his left hand striking Tony hard enough to produce a gasp. DiNozzo rose and stepped away, and the realization he wasn't worthy to fight, the insult of the action, loosened the hold Gibbs had managed to keep on his anger. He followed the retreat unerringly, his curled fist performing an inelegant series of jabs to set up his left hook. Tony fell back with a muffled grunt that Gibbs honed in on with equal precision. He launched himself against the younger man, his body blows going unblocked, and they both crashed to a tangle in the floor. He could feel Tony trying to forestall the punches, the open palms trying to push him back, but he was past placation, past caring that the awkward pounding wasn't being returned.

He landed a clumsy uppercut as they wrestled on their knees and Tony sagged against him momentarily, his breaths sounding raspy. Only then did Gibbs realize the younger man was mumbling, softly, under the wet respirations. "Stop. Please, stop."

Gibbs immediately released the hold he had on now-bruised ribs and Tony fell backwards onto his ass, curling into himself. But the pleas continued.

Stop. Please, stop.

Gibbs crab-walked backwards on his elbows, the skin of his knuckles sore, his curled fingers aching. His shoulder hit the table Tony had so recently been sitting on, jarring him and adding another dull pain.

Stop. Please stop.

From somewhere in the darkness in front of him, Tony coughed. Gibbs could hear him get his legs under him, could hear the rustle of cloth and the rough intake of air.

A little shaken, Tony put a hand to a particularly sore rib and managed to roll up to his knees. Gibbs looked ... terrible. Shocked and bone white where he lay half-sprawled against the coffee table's sharp corner, his right hand bruised and bloodied from being used as a blunt object. Tony tried to bring air in through a nose he suspected was broken. A pretty effective blunt object, if he were honest.

"Boss, let me help you."

It came out a little ... breathless, but not bad considering. Tony managed to get a few inches closer before Gibbs scrambled clumsily, his left hand flailing for purchase on the sofa cushions. He brought the nearest one down between them, an inadequate barrier that Tony easily swept aside.

"Hey," this tone was higher and softer, pitched to be soothing, though the still-raspy quality ruined the effect. "Let me see your hand."

Gibbs drew the curled fist closer against him as Tony reached for it and the balance Tony had been maintaining suddenly failed as the blows caught up with him. He had enough presence of mind to land against the cushioned edge of the sofa, laying there while things grayed in and out.

He tried not to jerk when a hand landed – softly this time – on his head, fingers tentatively exploring his rapidly swelling cheekbone and nose, recoiling from the wetness of his split lip.

"God, DiNozzo ..."

Tony pushed himself back up, the room finally coming back into clear focus. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry." The apology became a litany as Gibbs' touch ghosted over arms and ribs. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm just a little bent."

Tentatively Tony drew Gibbs into his arms, letting the older man rest his forehead against his shoulder ... if he would.

But Gibbs pulled away, refusing to be placated, instead still desperately trying to find out what damage had been done. Then it dawned, suddenly, that the pleas for him to stop probably had more to do with Tony's desire not to hurt him than with any physical harm he'd inflicted. He stumbled backwards in a half-crouch, his back finally impacting with what could only be the desk chair.

Tony felt ... bereft, the ghost of the sensation of holding Gibbs still tantalizing the bare skin of his arms. How long he'd wanted to hold the older man... but not here, not under this cloud of hurt.

"Hey, whoa," Tony winced as Gibbs backed heavily into the wooden chair.

Holding on to the slatted back, Gibbs struggled to his feet. "Get out of here, DiNozzo."

Tony wiped away the blood that threatened to drip from his chin. "Not without cleaning us up first." He held his blood-smeared hand away from his clothes as if to show Gibbs the evidence of the battering. "I'm bleeding." Tony pressed his tongue against aching teeth. "Got a couple of loose teeth, too. So, I'm thinking you need to let me see your hands."

Self-consciously, Gibbs stretched his left fingers painfully, then gingerly examined the damage to the digits he couldn't uncurl. His knuckles proved swollen and sticky – though whether it was with his blood, or Tony's, he didn't know.

"Let me see," pleaded Tony softly, coming hesitantly closer. He sniffed loudly, trying to breathe through his rapidly swelling nose.

"Your nose broken?" Gibbs found himself fruitlessly trying to focus on the darker shadow in the pink-gray dusk of his unrestored vision.

"Think so," admitted Tony with a half-hearted smile that Gibbs could hear in the lightened tenor.

Gibbs nodded, lowering his head when Tony drew nearer, suddenly aware he'd lost the dark sunglasses in the shuffle. Fingers tentatively touched his left wrist, a gentle warmth that coaxed him to palm his hand to Tony's.

The soft touch ebbed and flowed, disappearing as the pads of Tony's fingers swept over the patches of numbness left where glass had bisected nerve. His ring finger and pinkie shuddered convulsively as the touch stimulated still healing pathways whose full reconnection, according to Ducky, could take years. If it came at all. In truth, had the damage to his right hand not be so extensive, he'd have been bitching about the fucking uselessness of his left. Although from the still congested sound of Tony's breathing, they both still had their uses.

"Don't think you broke anything on that one." Tony released the hand gently, and Gibbs curled his fingers inward at the loss of the warmth. "Now let me see the other one."

Licking dry lips, Gibbs moved his right hand away from the protective closeness of his body. He couldn't really feel anything, just a kind of deep, dull ache that didn't let up. This time Tony's fingers didn't much penetrate the numbness, but he could hear Tony's deeply drawn breath.

"No wonder my teeth are loose." Tony mused, cupping the twisted hand in his, frowning down at the split knuckles. He pressed against the swollen skin, trying to feel any definite give, unsure how much of the damage to the heavily scarred hand was new. "You got a first-aid kit?"

"Think there's one in the bathroom, Jeff said ..." to tell the truth, Gibbs really hadn't been listening to the OT about that time, "...something about one."

The light from the bath snapped on with a click and he could hear Tony's groan as he looked at himself in the mirror. Gibbs knew there was one, had nearly put his fist through its solid smoothness in a fit of frustration the first day he'd been alone. An indulgence he should have allowed himself, rather than letting it build until it was Tony who bore the brunt of his anger.

"Stay there a minute," advised Tony, sweeping back past him to replace the cushions on the couch.

"Not going anywhere," muttered Gibbs.

"Jeff?" Tony inquired, once he'd latched onto Gibbs' arm and was urging him up toward the sofa.

"Occupational therapist."

"Ah," replied Tony. "Couch is right beside you."

Gibbs drew a deep breath as he sat down. Wasn't this where they'd started, hadn't he been the one comforting the younger man when Tony had ... fuck... just touched him and all hell had broken loose?

Reminded again of the missing glasses, Gibbs tucked his chin to his chest.

"Don't," breathed Tony softly.

"Don't what?"

"Hide." Tony shifted, his hand moving to curve around Gibbs' wrist where the touch could be felt. "I'm going to touch you, okay? So don't punch me."

A fingertip lightly brushed the base of Gibbs' jaw, a gentle entreaty for him to face the younger man.

"You let anyone touch you since the accident?"

"Wasn't an accident," corrected Gibbs softly. "Bombs aren't accidents."

"Okay," agreed Tony, equally quietly, "but you didn't answer my question."

"When you're ..." Gibbs hesitated, finding it unusually hard to get the innocuous five-letter word out of his mouth. "When you're blind, everybody touches you."

"Not what I meant," pointed out Tony, leaving the "and you know it" to pass silently between them.

The warmth still caressing his jaw moved slightly upward as Tony brushed a fingertip along a fading scar. Gibbs blinked slowly, but he held the impulse to pull back in check, clinging somehow to the small certainty that Tony faced similar scars everyday. He could feel their hated presence on the backs of Tony's hands.

The touch moved to the soft skin beneath his right eye, the sensation traveling along what he knew was a jagged line of scar tissue. He struggled to keep the unusually heavy eyelid from closing, fighting the urge to hide the useless eye that he knew no longer even moved.

Gibbs frowned at the sense of pressure that he knew was Tony leaning closer, then the corner of the scarred and sagging lid was brushed by a feather-light warmth. This was followed by the briefest of kisses to the hollow of his temple.

"What are you doing?" It should have come out like a command, but instead the question was a near breathless squeak.

"Touching you," said Tony simply, trying to smooth away the lines etching Gibbs' forehead with a similar caress.

Though he hated the stereotyped notion of it, Gibbs raised his left hand, ignoring the aches of the battered flesh. He found Tony's arm, followed it up until he could palm the strong shoulder and trace his way to the neck and jaw. His index finger crossed a too familiar rise that revealed healed tissue and he dutifully examined the length of the slashing curve running along the beard-roughened cheek.

"Abby says it makes me look rakish," put in Tony, his smile rippling the muscles beneath Gibbs' touch.

"You seen a plastics guy?"

The shake of Tony's head separated him momentarily from Gibbs' reach and he was glad when the warmth settled back under his fingertips. It was difficult to equate what he'd once seen with what he now took in with his damaged touch, but Tony seemed ... thinner, and the lines furrowing his forehead now seemed permanent fixtures. He wondered – oddly – if gray had begun to dot the younger man's brown hair; he'd been about Tony's age when silver first threaded his own.

He returned gingerly to the scarred cheek. Tony had known what his looks did to other people. Had used them when needed. To be visibly scarred must be ... Gibbs closed his hand into a fist.

"Any more?" asked Gibbs, finding his voice damningly shaky.

Suddenly cold fingers closed around his own.

"Not as obvious." Gibbs found his fingers directed upward to a wound so near Tony's eye that he winced. "Here." Tony's eyelashes fluttered against his finger. "And here." The last scar disappeared into the soft sweep of Tony's hair.

Gibbs raised his head. "People do a double-take?"

"Sometimes," admitted Tony.

"I'm sorry."

"Ssh," Tony squeezed the hand still in his. "Considering the alternative, I'm thinking alive and a little nicked up is pretty good."

"A little nicked up?" Gibbs' laugh had an edge to it that Tony didn't like.

"Yeah. I figure that's all it is. A few scuffs on the finish. All the good stuff about a person is still in here." Tony pressed his palm to Gibbs' chest, feeling the resounding beat of his heart.