Disclaimer: I don't own CBS, NCIS, Mossad, U2, Coldplay, or continental breakfasts.

All righty, so it's been a long time. But I got this inspiration thing again. Course, I didn't think I was gonna make this more than a oneshot, but I got an idea. Short chapters, but otherwise it's just full of filler and rubbish :D There's gonna be more chapters after this.

"It's past visiting time."

Gibbs faces off the bleary-eyed receptionist, and after well-delivered evils she resigns herself to steely eyes.

"Well, all right. But we can't be held legally responsible for anything that happens to you while you're here."

"Thank you," he growls, turning to walk up the stairs towards Dunham's room. The heat of the African hospital doesn't seem to succumb to night, and he wipes sweat from his brow as he carefully edges into the dimly lit room where the battered and bruised agent waits for what Gibbs hopes is going to be a short discussion. Coldplay booms out of the iPod deck, threatening to interrupt their conversation, and so Dunham reaches out and picks up the remote with a tired groan.

"Sorry," he croaks, "having to concentrate on lyrics makes the heat a bit more bearable."

He turns it down as Gibbs sits down in a leather chair that has seen better days.

"Agent Dunham–"

"Chad. This ain't Director Vance's office, Jethro." Gibbs smirks. "Not that I'd like it to be. Bad Karma around that guy."

"You think so?" Sometimes it's refreshing to know that he's not the only agent with reservations about their boss.

"I dunno." He shifts slightly in the bed and rubs his scarred chin in a gesture that could only be described as affectionate. "I'll cut to the chase, Gibbs. I don't know what Vance's motives were, but last I heard Mossad was investigating a terrorist cell based in Somalia. Transporting weapons to Al-Qaeda and all that. They had a couple agents working the case, I was based on my own in a small apartment in Mogadishu, and–"

He is silenced abruptly as a tall, black-skinned nurse budges open the door. He wears the smiley expression of knowing he's intruding, so he quickly places a tray of continental-everything on Dunham's lap and asks trademark questions about temperatures and pains. He slinks quietly out of the door before turning and giving a small nod of apology to Gibbs.

"Anyway," he mumbles as he bites into jam and roll, "we had too much information coming in, so I had to get one of the Mossad officers to help me. We sat there every day going through names and dates and meeting points, sending it all off to Mossad after we were finished. Luck was the officer I was working with had first hand experience of all of this – she'd been on some ship in the gulf." He swallows and takes a swig of dubious-looking water, a pained expression on his face. "Security wasn't great, and Mossad became more interested in what we were doing. My officer friend got orders to go out and deliver things, make deals, and I went with her. July time, it must've been. One went bogus."

Pieces form in Gibbs' mind, and as he runs through Dunham's speech they start to fit together. "They took you onto their ship."

"Yeah." He rubs the scars on the side of his face, like he needs to confirm that it all really happened. "They tortured us. They wanted information. I don't think I got it as bad as my Mossad buddy."

The senior field agent's eyes widen and he leans forward slightly.

"What information did they want?"

Dunham swallows, and Gibbs detects a hint of shame in his voice. "They wanted to know about NCIS. About what we'd been doing in accordance with Mossad."

"Did you give it to them?" Harsh reality time, he decides.

"I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, Gibbs. The Somalis aren't known for mercy."

There's a long pause as blue eyes demand answers.

"I told them what we'd been doing. I told them my friend was Mossad, and I told them what she'd told me."

Gibbs looks at him. "Well, Chad, perhaps that's why she got it worse than you." Chad's a nice guy, decent, brave. But now Gibbs can't help looking at him and seeing the guy that is part of the reason that there's someone in a coma next door. The iPod has switched to U2, and Gibbs watches Dunham mouthing the words as he mulls over what the past 2 months have entailed.

"I know this makes me an ass, Gibbs."

"Depends who you're talking to."

"It makes me an ass, Gibbs," he repeats, running a hand through his hair and looking out the window at the sunset-lit city. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Fire away."

"Do you trust Mossad?"

Oh, he's been asking himself that question ever since May. No, ever since July 2008. He thought he did. Revelations proved him wrong, and he left what little trust he had in Mossad on an airstrip in Israel.

Somehow, though, deep down, he knows he still trusts her.

"No."

Dunham snorts. "Right. Me neither. So you wanna ask me anything else? I've been awake and carted around for 27 hours, I could do with a good night's sleep."

"Yeah, there is one thing."

"What?"

"It's about the Mossad officer who helped you."

"Yeah, what?"

"What was her name?"

888

He stands just inside the door, gazing intently at a barely recognisable scarred face. She can't hear him, but that doesn't matter.

"You could have called."

So....