Author's Note: Sorry this one went up way later than usual. I had a doctor's appointment and spent the day out of the house.

Well, here it is folks. The end of the line, the final chapter. I'd like to say thanks for the praise this story's gotten in the form of 28 reviews, as of posting this chapter. I'd also encourage anyone who hasn't reviewed to please do so. It's nice to see people saying they like my work, but I really wanna see people saying why they like my work, what it reminds them of, how it could improve, etc.

But whether you review or not, thanks for taking the time to read this at all. Over 1,300 hits, second-highest of all my fics, and all over the course of twelve, thirteen days.

Thanks for the support guys. See ya around next time.

Disclaimer: See chapter 1 for disclaimer.

National Naval Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland/October 3, 2010, 1421 Romeo

It'd been twenty-four days since Agents Gibbs, McGee, and David were rushed and admitted to the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Gibbs had been lucky that the two .45 caliber rounds didn't penetrate his vest. As it was, he had a few broken ribs, severe bruising of his chest, and a cracked hip from the bookcase.

Ziva needed three stitches and a cast and sling for her arm. The worst problem was the concussion she had, which they kept her overnight for. Once she was cleared, she was released.

McGee had had the worst condition, though. His knee had to be treated for muscle damage from the dislocation and spontaneous reduction, and then limping around on it as much as he did to get from the car wreck to Hanson's home. His broken ribs needed to be taped, after x-rays ensured they'd caused no internal damage. He had a concussion of his own, needed proper stitches to replace the butterfly sutures (after the wounds had been thoroughly cleaned with antiseptic), and all in all just needed to be cleaned up.

The worst damage, though, had been to his eye. He'd actually needed two surgeries: one from a plastic surgeon to fix his broken orbital bone, as well as any eye muscles trapped or interfered with by the misshapen status of the socket, and one from an ophthalmologist to correct the damage to the eye itself. After a couple days in the hospital, he'd spent his recovery at home, generally sitting on his ass all day and avoiding reading and using the computer. Suffice to say, it was a miracle he didn't simply throw himself out of the window out of sheer boredom.

It was now the day when McGee would get the final verdict on the status of his eye. It didn't take a world-class investigator to see he was worried about it. He needed support for this moment, and so Director Leon Vance had decided to take the time out of his not-so-busy day (after he'd cancelled a few meetings) to make sure he was there to remind McGee that, no matter the state of his eye, he always had a place at NCIS.

After digging and finding the identity of McGee's doctor, he made his way through the halls of Bethesda Naval and turned the corner to find the waiting area to said doctor. Sitting there was Special Agent Gibbs, a pair of crutches beside him and a clearly uncomfortable (perhaps even pained) expression on his face.

"Hip fracture's a bitch, huh?" Vance asked as he took a seat beside his MCRT Leader.

"Yeah, Leon," Gibbs replied, his voice carrying an undertone of barely restrained temper. "Yeah, it is."

"How long's he been in there?"

"Just went in…doc looked pretty grim."

"You thinkin' bad news?"

Gibbs nodded regretfully. "He says he still can't see anything in it but a milky fuzz and faint shadows and outlines. Can't even discern faces with it, just a vague shape of the head."

Vance sighed. "It'd be a damn shame for him to lose his field agent status."

"Ya think?" Gibbs asked with a glare. Vance only returned a level look before they both returned to looking forward.

"He talk about his therapy sessions any?" Vance asked. McGee's experience had almost been the definition of traumatic, and to add onto it was the feelings of guilt and impotence.

"Not really," Gibbs replied. "He had me help with some exercise he was assigned, but that's all he's involved me in.

"What was the exercise?"

"We had a…long and in-depth discussion about how valuable and useful he was to the team and the agency as a whole."

"What'd you tell him?"

Gibbs's only reply was a glare. Vance shrugged, and then they went back to waiting.

"He do that exercise with anyone else?" Vance asked.

"Tony and Ziva."

"Where is DiNozzo, anyway?"

"ICU. Seein' if Hauser's kicked the bucket since we got here."

Vance nodded. "Man gets shot with three .40 Smith & Wesson hollow-points to the chest at seventeen feet, and none of 'em hit his heart or lungs. Must be the luckiest son of a bitch alive."

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "Lucky."

The image came to his mind of the man, his skin as white as paper and his hair as black as space, lying unconscious on a table naked with so many wires and tubes going in and coming out of him it was a miracle they had anywhere to insert the IVs. They'd been told he wouldn't survive the day when he was brought in around 1:32 AM on September 16, but he'd lasted two weeks and three days so far, always expected to keel at any minute. It seemed Vince Hauser was nothing if not tenacious.

"Look, Gibbs," Vance said, bringing his mind back to the present. "I've been hoping for the best for McGee, I really have…but we need to be prepared for the scenario that McGee can no longer meet the sight requirements for a field agent."

"You already got the personnel files on my desk, Leon?" Gibbs asked, his voice not without a little bit of accusation.

"No…no, filling out your team can wait. I'm talking about McGee's position within the agency."

Gibbs looked at Vance before returning his gaze forward. "You got something in mind?"

"Matter'a fact, I do. I've been talkin' to SECNAV lately, about the needs of the agency. He gave me the green light on my proposition, and so I pushed the paperwork through. We now have a new position in the agency: Adjutant to the Director."

"What's it entail?"

"He'd be a middle-man of sorts, keeping the director of the agency in direct awareness of the needs and operations of his agents. If some agents working a case need something, he'd be able to get it for them or, if unable to, he'd go to the director, explain why it was needed and why it should be granted from both the agents' prospective and the director's, and assists agents as they need it. He'd also be the third man on the totem pole."

"So if something happened to both you and the deputy director, McGee would be in charge of the whole agency?"

"If he accepted the offer for the position, yeah," Vance replied. "That'd also make him your superior."

Gibbs just shrugged. "He's done it before, once," he said.

"Means he'd be perfect."

"Why such a high spot and so much responsibility?" Gibbs asked.

Vance smiled. "Honestly, Jethro, I think Agent McGee has the potential to run this whole damn agency someday. Figured I'd start him early, let him gain experience in director-style work, before hopefully having him take the big chair someday."

Gibbs nodded. "He'd be a damn good director."

Beside them, the door opened and McGee stepped out. His face was frozen in a defeated expression, and both men knew they needed to make sure they didn't lose him.

Federal Medical Center, Lexington, Lexington, Kentucky/January 15, 2011, 1547 Romeo

The young man who purposefully strode through the halls of FMC, Lexington seemed almost a different man from who he was just three months earlier. The therapy and the support of his team really helped, and McGee's nightmares were now far fewer than multiple occasions a night. He still had more than his share, though, but he was learning to deal with it.

The biggest surprise for him, however, was how quickly he got over the way some people stared at his left eye. It was a tad off-center, and the iris and pupil seemed permanently glazed, but he'd adjusted to it faster than anything else. He was thankful, at least, that it wasn't his right eye. Since he was cross-eye-dominant, it meant that he could still blow off some steam on the range when some agents were just a bit too uncooperative. They seemed to think that, since they had a former agent taking and trying to sell their requests to the director personally, they were entitled to always getting them approved.

McGee listened to the rules of visitation as he handed over his firearm, ammo, and all personal belongings on him, confirmed that he understood and would fully abide by them, and followed the armed guard through the gate after it was buzzed open. He followed the guard through several halls until he was brought to a door. The guard opened it, and McGee entered before he was shut in.

Sitting there before him in a hospital bed, a gown covering the layers of gauze and tape on his chest, and handcuffed to said bed, was Vince Hauser. The SEAL, who was awaiting trial for four counts of first degree murder, eight counts second degree murder, five counts home invasion, four counts assault and battery (three against federal officers), one count kidnapping, and one count carjacking, was watching the door, obviously expecting a visitor. The way he raised his eyebrows showed he wasn't expecting this.

"Well well well, Agent McGee. Long time no see," he said with a friendly grin. "You look better."

"I'm told you do too," McGee replied from where he stood at the wall beside the door.

"How's the eye?"

McGee didn't answer immediately. Eventually though, stepped forward until he was halfway between the bed and the wall. "Busted," he finally said. "I can barely see out of it, and I lost my field agent status because of it."

"Mm," Hauser grunted. "Sorry to hear that."

McGee only looked at him for a moment. "But you're not sorry you did it. Not even a bit."

"Nope," Hauser said without hesitation. "Not in the least."

McGee's brow furrowed. "You know about Hanson, right? How he was the one who tried to help you and your team?"

"Yeah, and?"

"How does it make you feel? Knowing you almost killed a man in cold blood when your little 'mission' was already over?"

Hauser shrugged. "Doesn't make me feel anything."

McGee's brow furrowed even further, now giving him the appearance of a man trying to solve a very complex puzzle. The grimace on his face was one of utter incomprehension. "But why? How? How can you know you almost killed a man for no reason, killed seven others for no reason, beat me into losing my job and ruining the best part of my life, and not feel a thing about any of it?"

"Well first," Hauser started. "The key word in your first point is 'almost.' Obviously that means he's not dead, so there's no point worrying about it. Everything else was just necessary actions."

"Necessary for what? Getting justice for your team? That wasn't justice, that was cold-blooded revenge!"

"Never said it wasn't," Hauser replied calmly. "It was simple payback. As old a byproduct of humankind as family."

McGee shook his head as he paced about, well out of reach of the foot of Hauser's bed. He finally stopped and looked back to Hauser.

"I just don't get it!" he said. "You did all those horrible things…don't show any remorse about it…but you show you know about right and wrong! You left me at the crash site when Tony and those other guys showed up. Your lawyer says you're pleading guilty to every charge filed against you. You know the difference between right and wrong. And…and you just don't care." McGee shook his head. "I don't get it."

Hauser raised an eyebrow. "So…what? You're here to try and figure it out?" he asked incredulously.

McGee nodded. "You're not some crazed killer robot. You're a person. A…A f-fucked up person like the rest of us!" It was obvious McGee never used that word, and Hauser almost laughed at how clearly it showed. "There's gotta be a reason."

Hauser shrugged again. "Nothin' to get, Agent McGee. Like you said, I just don't care. Yeah, I left you, 'cause like I said: I like you, and all you can do is testify against me. And again, you don't need to testify, 'cause I'm pleadin' guilty. I'm pleadin' guilty 'cause I did everything they say I did. You should know, you were there for most of it."

The look on McGee's face showed he wasn't satisfied, and he began pacing again. He stopped and reverted his attention back to Hauser when he started talking.

"Look, Agent McGee; stop worrying about it, it doesn't matter jack shit. Right, wrong, why, why not, none of it changes anything. I'm still in here, you're still out there, the people who're six feet under are still six feet under, and life goes on. Just deal with it and keep movin'."

McGee stared at him for a moment and shook his head. "That's not good enough. There's a reason. There always is."

Hauser looked at him for a moment and shook his head with a sigh…and a smile. "Aw hell, maybe there is. Anyone can find it, it's probably you. Might just be determined enough. Hell, look what you did to me." His pointed to each bullet wound with his left hand, the index finger and thumb forming the pantomime of a gun. "And I really didn't think you had a chance in hell…I was wrong before."

McGee looked at him for another moment before he finally spoke.

"Yeah. Yeah, you were."

McGee turned, walked to the door and knocked. It opened and allowed him to leave, before the door shut again, locking the monster who was really just a fucked up man away for good.

Written by

Sergeant Conley