Item #10: Tell Dad it's okay.

A/N: I am sorry that it took me a while to update, I had final exams.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

An emaciated, sorry, and pitiful shell is all that is left of his father. In the months it has been since Junior last saw Senior, the elder man has become frail, sickened, and withered away. He looks nothing like the jolly rotund man Tony can most recently recall.

The doctors told him that Senior had starting drinking even more, and eating less. The man had gone into a state of depression, but cleverly hidden the mental state with a relentless pursuit of various business deals. Last night, he had finally called Tony and tried to explain, but collapsed before he could say more than "Junior?" Tony had McGee trace the call, and broken speed limits to get to his father, while Ziva called an ambulance. After putting him on life support, the doctors and Emergency Room staff had worked for three hours to keep Senior alive and find out what exactly had happened, for Senior was not merely the victim of a simple drunken faint. Now, Tony's surrogate family waited outside the room. His aunts were still somewhere in the airspace.

"Junior?" There came a rasp from the form in the bed sheets.

"Right here, Dad," he replied from just inside the doorway.

"I got wasted, didn't I?"

"Very."

"Did I have a young lady with me?"

"No."

Senior fell silent, pondering something with sunken eyes closed and spindly hands gripping the top blanket with what little strength they could.

"Tony," Ziva said, sticking her head into the room. Tony looked at her and read her blank facial expression and all-telling eyes. Without a word, he followed her out of the room to where a doctor and the rest of the team were waiting for him.

He walked with deliberate steps to the man in white holding a clipboard. As he did, he felt the team form a semicircle around him, providing him with the support and comfort that all present knew he would need, regardless of whether he wanted it or not. Finally, he stopped two steps away from what was probably disastrous news, and his already hard expression became like stone. He did raise his eyebrows slightly in question, a slight ember of hope burning in his gaze.

The man shook his head with eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, obviously having given such an answer more times than anyone could be expected to bear; it was an unfortunate side effect of working in the trauma wing.

It took a second, but then the implication of the response registered in his brain and the world zoomed out of focus; all that he could do was freeze in time and watch a broken record of the man shaking his head over and over. His own heart may have stopped and he would not know.

Few words made it into his consciousness. He heard 'liver' and 'excess' and 'alcohol', along with the last phrase 'There is nothing we can do'. Then the man walked off, and everyone turned to look at Tony. He was dimly aware of a tight hug from a black-haired woman in a lab coat, a few pats on the shoulder by two old men and two younger ones, and then small hands guiding him towards a white two-seater couch. There were voices jumbling about around his ears, and they may have been in Swahili for all he heard.

The person with small hands sat softly next to him, and the inexpensive undersized couch caused the two to be less than an inch from each other. The smell of the person's shampoo wafted through his nasal passages, telling the most alert part of his brain who it was that rested beside him.

Her voice pierced the haze fogging his mind, whispering his name. He reacted slowly, and she placed one hand on the side of his face with a feather light touch, encouraging him to look at her.

"Look at me, Tony." He looked deep into her dark eyes, yet not noticing some of the emotions so blatantly there; he saw sorrow, sympathy, and grief, for the dying man had been naught but kind to her.

She must have noticed the absence in his gaze, for she moved one finger to gently stroke the sensitive spot behind his ear. He jumped, and the fog cleared. She gave a small grin that faded quickly as she advised him to go talk a last time with his father. He had no will to resist, but when he stood up he grasped the hand that had been on his face, displaying a need for support that he would not often acknowledge. After entering the room and closing the door, though, she let her hand fall from his grasp.

He approached his father.

The poor man had his eyes closed, but wearily opened them as his son began to speak.

"Why couldn't you just use your judgment? Why couldn't you just have gotten help?"

"I was a fool."

"You couldn't ever stop, could you? You couldn't possibly think that there might have been someone who cared whether or not you were-" he was not able to bring himself to say that word.

"I came to realize there was nothing to do to fix my past mistakes."

"Mistakes can be forgiven! If you had just called, or e-mailed, or visited for Pete's sake…you should not have done this."

"Would you have forgiven my mistakes in your childhood?" This threw him for a loop. He had come into the room expecting for the old man to hide behind a joke or anger.

"…Yes, especially if it meant that we wouldn't come to this!" He gestured at the machines situated like bodyguards around the bed.

The elder's eyes closed again, and the one standing felt his heart began to race in his chest.

"I would have liked some grandchildren." Predictably, the subject was changed, more delicate topics swept under the rug.

He had no reply for the unexpected comment.

"I could have tried again, giving them the…love I never gave you."

Still, he gave no response, instead staring at one of the machines' monitors.

"The two of you," with eyes yet shut, a hand twitched toward the general area between the healthy pair in the room. "Could make beautiful children. Just damn the rules already, Junior."

Finally, he had prepared a reply, only to be interrupted by a loud wheeze and corresponding beep from a machine. Medical staff rushed into the room as bile began to spill on the crisp sheets. Space decreased as his companions hastened to see what the commotion was all about. He yelled something over the din that was silent in his ears, something that the recipient might never hear. Her arm wrapped around his waist, and she turned his body to face away from the wall of white coats around the bed. With her free hand she pushed his head downward onto hers.

More machine-made sounds broke the constant hurried commentary of the attempted life-savers, and he cringed at each one. He heard her whispering to him, soothing him, acting as his defibrillator.

All went silent when even after many electric shocks the awful machine showed a flat line. He heard a sniffling sound from his left, presumably where his favorite forensic scientist was held in the probie's arms.

He pulled himself away from her, pushing his way through the people who had failed to save his father's life. It was not that he was mad at any of them; no, he was made at his father for bringing this upon himself, and at himself for not checking up on Senior.

He placed a hand on a lifeless shoulder and whispered so quietly and hoarsely he could barely hear himself, "I forgive you, Dad."

A/N: I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I know the description says 'Humor' but this came into my head and I thought it really fit for this situation.

Anyway, I am thinking that #12 (Experience a Wonder of the World [besides Gibbs]) will come next. I can think of something funny for that, but not for #11, watching all the Hitchcock films and stopping only for bathroom breaks. So if no one objects…

Review, please, as always!