AN: In case anyone actually wants to hear the song, I've (somewhat clumsily I'm afraid,) inserted clues into the story. I put the note values in American not British terminology, since that's what Tim would use.

Drake's Drum

Chapter 2

The ride to the airport had been more or less silent; Gibbs had simply climbed up into the cab of the flatbed, without asking Ziva if she minded giving up her place. He'd handed her the keys to the agency sedan, said "Follow us and keep your eyes peeled," and walked off towards the truck.

Ziva looked uncertainly at Tony, expecting him to dive into the driver's seat and then demand the keys. He just smiled ruefully at her and shrugged. She found herself putting the keys in his hand. "You drive please, Tony; my eyes are rather tired."

He understood the gesture for what it was; keep yourself occupied and you'll have no time to brood; and accepted them. She was sometimes totally oblivious to how people did feel, only knowing how they ought to feel, so he was touched by the gesture. He managed to up the smile. "OK, Zi… thanks." They headed out after the truck, on the alert, only speaking to mention possible hazards, and the journey was without incident.

Ziva's gesture almost backfired on her at the airport; as Gibbs observed who was driving. "Ziva – I gave you the keys! Did you let DiNozzo take them?"

Tony was there to defend her in a furious instant, and who knew where the glaring confrontation would have led if she hadn't answered quickly. She kept her voice level, and without either accusation or confrontation; it seemed there was a fire somewhere, and she wasn't going to fan it.

"No, Gibbs, he did not. I did not wish to drive, since my eyes are aching, and I asked him to. I did not realise that I was being ordered to do it myself."

The Boss realised there wasn't anything he could say without sounding rather petty; he shrugged and went back to the unloading of the truck. The driver was lifting their baggage from the back of the cab; they went to reclaim it, (Tony stunned Tim by shooing him off, injured arm and all, and taking his bag for him,) and twenty minutes later they were airborne.

The Baby Herc's official designation was C27J Spartan; the seating was just that, but it was a step up from the webbing slings they'd had to use for long flights in the past. It was too noisy for conversation; this particular aircraft had never been rigged for hospital use and had no soundproofing. Their container sat with other cargo, they sat with it looming over them, and tried to sleep. Gibbs, as usual, had no problem; after a while Ziva, who wasn't exaggerating about her sore eyes, having spent large parts of her four days bent over piles of data, rested them, and in the end succumbed.

Tim sat watching Tony through half closed eyes. The SFA was trying to give the impression of being relaxed; but every so often, his hands would begin a rhythmic pattern on his knees, over and over. 1-2-3-4-a, three quarter notes, a dotted eighth and a sixteenth. (The first four notes of Darth Vader's theme, McGee thought surreally, aargh, that's Tony's thing, not mine.) Sometimes it would be followed by what looked like a drum-roll with his finger tips. It would stop for a while, while Tony dozed, and then begin again. Tim sat and worried, and only let himself fall asleep when he was sure Tony had done so.

There was no let-up, of course; they all knew the routine. Everything needed to be written up before they could go home, unpack, and go into whatever routine they each preferred for relaxing. Night was beginning to fall, and taking into account the time zone difference, the refuelling stop and inadequate sleep as human freight, it was small wonder they were all dead on their feet by the time reports were handed in. Gibbs had finished and waved Ziva and Tim off. They were packing up, and both looked across at Tony, who was still typing. Gibbs stopped alongside his desk and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Writing a letter of thanks for her co-operation to Senora Dragon, Boss. Whoever's sent to Rota this time'll still have to deal with her, no point in making their job more difficult." Something flashed across Gibbs' face and his scowl deepened, but he didn't speak. "And Major Bentley needs paperwork to cover for, and thanks for lending us his Spartan. I'll leave when I'm done."

Gibbs grunted and went on his way; Tony lowered his eyes to his screen again, not wishing to see the expressions of his team mates, whatever they were. Tim's voice addressed the top of his head.

"Tony…" He gave in and looked up. "I could have done the letter to the Major and signed it with your name. Still can if you like."

"I know, McLiterate… I might have asked but – no, never mind. I'll be done in a minute. Get gone, both of you, it's been a long four days."

"Are you sure –"

"Yes. Go. Sleep."

NCISNCISNCIS

Sleep… Tim hardly caught a wink. The 'no, never mind' jangled in his head; he knew very well that Tony had been going to say 'Gibbs would have told me to do it myself'. He still wouldn't say a word against the Boss, Tim mused, and found a strange little warm realisation in the restless, chilly night – no matter how the SFA might tease and prank inside the team, and he was actually missing that just lately, he knew that he, and Ziva, could count on the same loyalty from Tony. Still, something was very wrong, wrong enough to have the integrity of the team balanced on a knife edge, and he couldn't see any reason why it had got to this stage. His wounded arm throbbed; he swung out of bed, made a mug of coffee, sat down in his writing chair and went into McGregor mode.

Possibilities:-

One: Tony knew how he'd upset Gibbs and wasn't telling.

Two: Tony had upset Gibbs but hadn't a clue how.

Three: Something else had upset Gibbs and Tony was the punchbag. Tony knew what that was but still wasn't telling.

Four: Something else had upset Gibbs and Tony didn't know what it was.

It had begun before the grey trip to Rota, he thought he had an idea of when; but it had got so much worse during the last four days, and McGregor couldn't think of any reason why that should be – they hadn't known they were going to Rota until half an hour before they left. That didn't mean much – McGregor didn't have enough information to be certain there was no link – he'd have to get some.

Back to the possibilities; he reckoned he could scratch the first one. If Tony knew how he'd upset Gibbs, he might not tell anyone, but he'd do something about it. And if the breach really were unbridgeable, he'd transfer, or Gibbs would transfer him. It hadn't happened, and it surely would have by now, although the young agent's stomach lurched at the thought that it still could.

Option three didn't seem likely either; for the same sort of reason. Tony would have done something before now, and what was more, unless the truth was so awful that he couldn't share it, which Tim, as well as McGregor, couldn't believe, he'd have mobilised the rest of the team to help the Boss.

Option two or option four… if there was an option five he had no idea what it could be, so he struck it off his mental list. Deal with it when you get to it, McGee… it was all down to this horrible not knowing. Why wouldn't Gibbs tell? Had Tony asked? Tim kicked McGregor into touch, and took his mug back to his bedroom. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, and sighed. This was about him, not his alter-ego, and the team he loved. Yes, that's right, McGee, loved. All of them.

His mug empty, he lay back on his bed with a weary huff, and thought that if Tony would do something about a bad situation, then so should he, before Tony could do the wrong thing, like quitting. What? Not a clue. But he'd start with what he knew best. Computers. He dozed for a while longer, and at half past five he got showered, fed and dressed, and headed for the Navy Yard.

As he came up in the elevator, he thought he could hear music. Not Abby's sort, reverberating up the shaft in the morning stillness, although he wouldn't have put it past her to be in her lab at this hour. Classical? Operatic? Coming from his floor? He stiffened as the door hissed open; the voice had stopped but the orchestra went on, and it was that rhythm; dum – dum – dum – dah-da – the one Tony's hands had been playing incessantly on the flight. The SFA was at his desk, hand propped on his chin, idly watching his computer screen.

He was aware at once of Tim's presence, and reached for his mouse to stop the music, but the younger agent shook his head. "No, don't. It's good, whatever it is."

Tony shrugged, but not unkindly, and turned his screen so that Tim could see. It was youtube, and the picture on the screen was of two men in plain Tudor clothes, sitting at a table in… well, their attitude said tavern, as did the leather drinking bottles on the table. Tony let the rousing song play out to its end, and only then left the site. He half expected a comment on his taste in music, but McGee surprised him.

"That's the tune that was going through your head on the plane. And the drumroll – you were playing Drake's Drum."

"How did – oh, I guess you weren't asleep when I thought you were, McSmarty. I… I kept trying to stop, you know how it is when something gets on your brain." He laughed, a slight, brittle, embarrassed sound. "You know the story? My mother told it me when I was a kid. I used to play pirates and pretend I was Drake. Childhood hero. Promised myself I'd go to Cadiz one day. Never did. And there we were, just seven miles away. Sort of took me back, you know?"

"But you still never got there."

Tony looked at his hands, palms up on his desk. The tone of Tim's comment said far more than the words. I know there's more going on than that, Tony, and I'm here. Come on.

He said, obliquely, "You knew there was something up, and you came in early. To do something? To talk to Abby? Me, if you suspected I didn't go home last night?"

"Which you didn't." Tim sniffed. "You've showered, and shaved, and changed your clothes, but apart from that I'd say you haven't moved from that desk all night. I wasn't expecting to find you here, but I'm not surprised." He paused, and decided that a little more honesty might make Tony open up – if it didn't do the opposite.

"I came in to poke around in our last few cases; maybe talk to Abby… "

"Poke around? What for?"

"I don't know, you tell me," he said earnestly. "What's wrong, Tony? What's going on? And don't even think about putting me off, dammit, I don't get up at half past five for just anybody!" Tony blinked at him, and there was the ghost of a smile for a moment. "If it were me going through this, whatever this is, you'd be down here doing something – just give me a clue what!"

The senior agent rubbed his hands over his face, and a tired, grateful smile emerged. He didn't know whether or not to be surprised that McGee realised that, given the way he teased, but he thought of how the younger man stood up to him these days, and how he'd stood up to Gibbs yesterday. "OK…" he said slowly, some of the tension leaving him, as he gave in and accepted the help. "I think you just gave yourself one. Why did you say 'our last few cases'?"

Tim frowned, and went for honesty again – he did it every time; couldn't lie to save his life. Maybe to save a team member… but not now. "It's been going on for a while. The Rota trip only made it worse. I wondered if the answer was in a case somewhere." He thought a flicker of alarm crossed Tony's face, but he wasn't sure, and it disappeared instantly, so he went on. "Tony, I know you haze, I've not forgotten Claire – although I did get you back for that – and I'm sick of the sight of superglue, even though it helped me to grow a backbone –"

"Nah… it didn't." It was Tim's turn to blink, then… "You always had one. You just needed to find out you could use it."

"Oh…" There was no answer to that, but in that moment, Tim thought he cared more for his dreadful 'big brother' than he'd ever done before. He had to do something. "Look, in all the time I've known you you've never done anything to bring me down, or shame me, or diminish me, either in my own eyes or anyone else's. I can't believe what Gibbs is doing to you just now."

Tony sat still, and didn't interrupt.

"He's been different… ever since the Reynosa business. Abby went to Mexico, and things were seriously weird when she came back. All those long, pregnant looks exchanged with Gibbs, and the rest of us left on the outside. Gibbs was more distant with the rest of us after his father was threatened; and you did a lot of that deflecting thing you do because he was moodier. I put it down to his worrying about Jackson. I never really understood why Paloma went after him in the first place."

"I… he's never said anything," Tony said quietly, and as he looked at his knees the younger agent knew there was more to it than that.

"But you have your suspicions."

"If Gibbs has something on his mind, and chooses not to tell us, how can I speculate, McGee? It's not my secret!"

"OK… but you reckon there is a secret. And you suspect that you know what it is."

"Yeah," the senior agent agreed heavily. "And I don't see why he keeps it from us. Abby knows. Vance knows. Why not us?"

"Mmm… Maybe he doesn't trust us… but you're the only one he's taking it out on. Why? And why did going to Rota make it worse?"

"I don't know –" Tony broke off, and a look that could only be described as panic crossed his face. He put his elbow on his desk, and leaned his forehead into his hand.

"Tony, what?"

"I can't tell you, McGee."

"You've remembered something. Why won't you tell me?"

"Not won't, Tim, can't."

He should have seen this coming. Secrets… he should have anticipated… but he hadn't thought about it for years. He saw himself leaning over Tim's desk and asking him, in a challenging tone that was just begging a smart answer, if he thought he didn't rate his own team… and the younger man's devastating answer. 'Wouldn't be here now if you did, would you DiNozzo'… It hadn't mattered for a long time, for a lot of reasons; and if there was one thing he didn't want to bring up while Tim was here, at six-thirty am, trying to help, it was that whole wretched time. It was over. He was over it.

McGee sat himself down on the edge of Tony's desk, folded his arms and shook his head. "Oh, no, you don't. This is the guy who came to Somalia with you, remember? You can't possibly complain about Gibbs keeping secrets from you, and go right on and keep them from me."

"OK, if I admit you're right on that… What if you don't like the truth when you hear it?"

"I need to hear it before I can answer that. How bad can it be? And if you want another cliché, I'm a big boy… I can take it."

Tony pushed his chair back a bit, and swung to face his friend, who looked at the pain on his face and was opening his mouth again to say 'Look, forget it', when the SFA spoke first. "You're getting too damn good at this. OK. Somehow, Gibbs has found out that I turned down a promotion, and never told him."

Tim was too smart to say 'What promotion' – he was silent for no more than a second before he said "Rota." He paused. "You were offered it before Moreton, and said no. Moreton came and made a pig's ear of it." He frowned. "Tony? What –"

"It wasn't then," Tony said very quietly. "Look, he found out – can't we leave it at that?"

Tim was definitely too smart; he may not have been the best on the team at connecting random dots, but he could follow a trail like a bloodhound. So if not then, it had to be before… when was most likely? Oh.

"It was when you'd been team leader, then. When Gibbs came back." He went white, and wished, for all his bravado, that he'd never started this. He'd wanted to help, and instead he'd opened some very old wounds. "Oh God… I told you that you weren't good enough for your own team… Tony… you – you didn't turn it down because of what I said, did you? Because –"

"Hey! No, I didn't. It's all a long time ago, and I'd forgotten about how it was when Gibbs came back –"

"Forgotten?"

"All right, put it behind me. It wasn't the best of times for me… no, for all of us… the Paulson case… The Boss marched back in, made fun of how I was handling things, took over what had been my team… Don't look like that, Tim, you asked. I got over it; it's what I do."

"But Tony, I said –"

"You were lashing out, because I kept calling you Probie. I asked for it, right? I was so wrapped up in my own misery at being swept aside by a boss who didn't really remember me –" his face twisted at the memory – "That bloody hurt, I'll tell you… There was so much going on - I didn't spend too much time thinking that you'd been demoted too. I wasn't the only one unceremoniously bumped."

"But I didn't mind! I wasn't really ready then to be a Senior Field Agent… and anyway, I was just so damn glad to have Gibbs back –" He stopped, aghast at how firmly he'd just shoved his foot into his mouth. "Oh, no… oh hell, Tony, that's not what I meant… I'm sorry… I didn't mean that you weren't… that you were…"

Tony stood up with a soft, unhappy sigh , and put one reassuring hand up to squeeze the younger man's shoulder.

"Y'see now, Tim, exactly why I didn't want us to have this conversation?"

AN: I hope that's a good place to leave it; more of Gibbs next time. One curious thing; I had an absolutely amazing 77 story alerts on the last chapter; they kept pouring in. Thank you very much… Not that I'm begging or anything, but I would love to hear from some of you!