Tony wandered through the immense house, first through the entire ground floor, then up the stairs, and to the first bedroom on the right. The master bedroom, where his father had an immense four-poster bed, and other, assorted carved wood pieces of furniture.
Tony walked to the closet, and opened the door.
He turned on the light inside, and smiled a little at the fact that Senior was even more of a clotheshorse than he. It was a large walk-in, with a valet and chair.
There were two walls lined with suits.
He ran his hands over the sleeves of several of them, remembering the first time Senior showed him how to tie his necktie. He must have been five or so.
All the shoes and belts sat, waiting, as if he were coming back.
Tony sighed.
He went to turn off the light, but something caught his eye.
On one of the upper shelves, was a photo album, the edges yellowed and worn.
He carefully took it down, and then switched off the light, closing the door behind him as he went and sat on Senior's bed with it.
He opened it, and was very surprised to see old pictures of his mother.
After her death, Senior took down every picture and got rid of her every stitch of clothing. Tony hadn't understood it at the time, but he knew now it was because he couldn't bear to look at her image, or be reminded of the loss.
As he flipped a page, he saw images of the two of them, happy, smiling. In love.
He wondered how Senior had been before him. He didn't look drunk in the pictures. He turned a few more pages, seeing the two in different places, laughing, joyful.
"So why the hell did you do it?" Tony said to himself.
He knew it was mostly Senior's negligence that left him prey to a violent pedophile. Flashes of fingers on his skin, and the sound of metal chains echoing in his mind almost made him fell instantly sick. He had to push the memories, both old and new, back down again.
But weren't they both responsible for what happened to him? She had been as ignorant as Senior about Anselmo, though the abuse was mild when she was alive. It was after she was gone, that the insanity seemed to overwhelm him…but would she ever have left him alone for days on end with the man?
He liked to think that at least she, not being drunk all the time like Senior, might have noticed…something.
He wished it had all been different.
"If wishes were horses…" he murmured, remembering his mother used to say it often when he wanted something he couldn't have.
He let his fingers play on one of the close-ups, tracing the curve of her face. He remembered her, the warmth and comfort of her embrace. The way her eyes lit up when he played the piano for her.
The pain blossomed again in his chest, like a knife, stabbing and twisting.
He shivered, and shut the album. He could look at more of it later.
Holding it under one arm, he took one more look at the room, and shut off the light.
He made his way past five guest rooms, all decorated simply with antiques, to the sixth.
His room. But looking in, any trace of Tony's childhood was long gone.
That room, of course, had been turned into a guest bedroom the moment he was sent off to the Academy.
His eyes welled up again, with tears, but more because of the rage, than sorrow.
His mouth worked into a grimace, as he turned around and walked back to the stairs.
At the top, he found he couldn't see very well, crying, and sat angrily at the top.
He remembered sitting in the same exact spot, overhearing Senior talking to Anselmo after Tony quit playing.
(Flashback)
"I dunno' why," Senior growled, "he's not playing anymore, so, I'm sorry Bobby, that's it."
"But…"Anselmo was struggling, "I…we've invested so much time into him…molding him and grooming him to be the best…"
"You think I don't know that? You know how much I've paid you over the years? And this is no reflection on you, Bobby. This is Anthony, being the selfish brat that he is."
From the top of the stairs, Tony clenched his hands in fury. Tears streamed down his face, as he listened to them talk about him. He knew Senior didn't believe him about Bobby, but he still felt betrayed, and completely alone.
"Maybe…I should talk to him…"Anselmo said, seeming to be so helpful.
Tony's stomach clenched.
He couldn't face Anselmo now, after he told his father he quit. He was afraid the man would somehow talk him out of it, or threaten him to submit…
"No," Senior said disgustedly, "he's off to Military School in the morning. It's over. I know my son, Bobby, and he's not going to play anymore. At least not now. Let's see how six months of discipline does for him. And then we'll talk."
He was shaking. "You don't know…you don't know anything," his whispered through gritted teeth.
Anselmo was quiet, seeming to think.
But Senior was stubborn, and drunk. And once he made up his mind about something, there was no changing it.
Senior seemed to take the silence as opportunity to end the discussion.
"Thank you for everything Bobby, and I'm sorry about this. I know you were just trying to make something better out of him, give him the opportunity to really be somebody."
"He is somebody already," Anselmo said softly, "even without the music, Tony, your son is very special."
(End Flashback)
A violent shudder ran through him, as he choked again, gasping.
The damned pedophile had defended his worth to Senior.
He suddenly let out a laugh. By rights, he should be in an institution, because, how screwed up was that?
Bobby called him special…
More than a few times, when he had him in the hotel rooms, using him to live out every sick fantasy...
"Goddamn you," he hissed through the tears. "I hope you're both in Hell."
The fury was overtaking him.
Parents were supposed to love you. Protect you. Make you feel safe.
Home was supposed to feel safe.
But this place…was a Pandora's Box.
Every memory was laced with the lie. The lie everyone else bought into, that Tony was privileged and had it all, and was an ungrateful brat.
But the truth, was a bottomless pit of hurt and shame, and abandonment.
He was starting to see…from the very beginning, he was really nothing. Just a tool, for everyone else's needs…
"Fuckyou," he groaned, furiously wiping his face off and pulling himself up.
"I'm gonna' make you nothing now too," he whispered, walking down the stairs, to the foyer, where he placed the old album in his bag.
He turned and went to the study, ignoring the floor lamp, and the burl in the floor. He picked up a decanter from the bar cart, and opened it. He gulped down several swallows of it, recognizing the taste of bourbon.
He lowered it for a moment, thinking of Gibbs…
Maybe…he should call Gibbs…
But now? How could he stand Gibbs looking at him…knowing the truth…
Suddenly, he threw the decanter against the floor, watching it shatter into pieces with the rest of the liquid shooting out onto the wood.
Senior had ruined everything. Ruined his life. But maybe it hadn't been worth a damn to begin with.
He stared out into the night, through the window of the study. He thought he could wait a little while…but it seemed stupid to hold back, when he knew what had to happen.
He picked up another decanter, one third full, and pulled it open, drinking down several gulps of burning liquid. Vodka.
He stopped to take a breath, feeling the waves of heat scorching his belly.
He smiled, and drank the rest down, throwing it after and shattering it next to the first one.
"Time for the gloves…" he was already starting to slur,"…to come on. Or is it off?"
He wore the crime scene gloves and a disposable cover-all to douse the entire exterior of the house with gasoline.
He was very careful…and thorough.
When he was done, he removed the gloves and coverall, quickly putting them in a plastic bag, and the empty cans in the trunk, with the rest of the refuse.
He carefully got his bag out of the house, and shut all the lights off, locking the front door behind him.
Stumbling a little in his drunken state, he got into his car.
"Gibbsss'd kill me," he chuckled to himself darkly.
He moved the car slowly, and carefully, out of the driveway, and down the street, under the shadow of trees, and parked it.
Walking a bit off-kilter, he hopped over a low part of the fence, catching his tee shirt and hearing it rip on the iron.
"Oh," he said, stopping momentarily to feel the hole in it. "Ilikeddisone…shit." And then laughed.
He walked over the grass and through the trees, in the dark.
As he came up to the quiet house, he gave it one more look.
He pulled out the matchbook, and lit one, his eyes wandering up to the chimneys that were black against the moonlight.
He wanted to say something…it seemed fitting to say something important…but what?
It should never have been like this.
It was all pain.
Why couldn't he have just had a normal life with parents that loved him, taught him to feel like somebody…
"If wishes were horses…" he uttered sadly, for the second time that night.
He threw the match in the wake of the gasoline and it lit in a vibrating whoosh sound as he backed away. The heat was immediate and intense, as some of the bushes started to crackle.
He saw, with satisfaction, that the whole perimeter was alight within fifteen seconds. The light of the growing inferno danced on his skin and clothes.
Calmly, he turned and staggered away.
He made his way through the trees, back to his car.
He pulled out a bottle of bourbon he had brought with him, and hopped up on the hood, lying on it, upper body back against the windshield.
He'd picked a great spot to watch it burn down. Hopefully, to the damned ground. He had one arm lazily bent behind his head, as if he were lounging on a beach chair.
He raised the bottle toward the burning estate, in salute, and took another drink.
Gibbs was on edge as he drove down Dunemere towards Senior's house.
His mind had been on what he was going to say to Tony, when he showed up at the door.
He knew Tony might be angry, but he hoped the younger man would be relieved at his presence.
"And if you're not, well, too bad," Gibbs mumbled to himself.
As he got nearer to the house, he saw the blaze, "What the Hell?"
He was about to panic, but then out of the corner of his eye, he passed the red mustang, and someone…lying on top of it?
"Ah, jeezus," he growled, knowing what had happened.
He pulled up in front of the car, and parked.
He could hear sirens in the distance…but from the looks of it, the place was a giant inferno.
He got out of the car, and slammed the door angrily.
Walking over to the car in the shadows, he saw the younger man was clutching a bottle to his chest.
"DiNozzo!" he grunted, wanting to strangle him for being so wreckless, and at the same time, frightened to death of what Tony had done.
"Heyyyyboss…" he was slurring, and Gibbs could smell the alcohol as he got near.
Gibbs sighed, "What the HELL did you do?"
Tony shrugged, looking at Gibbs with bloodshot eyes.
"Taking carobuisnuss, Boss." Tony then sat up, bringing his legs lazily over the side of the hood. "Wanna drink?" he offered the bottle of scotch to Gibbs.
Gibbs took it, and threw it into the bushes.
"Heyyyy," Tony said. "S'not …veryyy…nice of you Boss." Tony scowled at him.
"Tony," Gibbs breathed. "That was your property now, you just burned down."
"Sssooo?" Tony said, a little angrily. "Whaddyou care? S'not like I giveashit about ins…insurance…onnit."
Gibbs realized talking to him in this state was purposeless.
"Keys," Gibbs said, holding his hand out.
Tony snorted in disgust, and then reached a fumbling hand into his own pocket.
He handed them to Gibbs.
"I hope to God you didn't make this easy to trace to you."
"Ofcourse…they're gonna…trace t'mee. But…not nuf to hhave…real proof…"
Gibbs let out a shaky breath.
"Boss…" Tony said softly.
He was starting to sway a bit, and Gibbs put a hand on his shoulder.
"Yeah," he replied, seeing Tony's eyes turn glittery with tears.
"M'sorry…"
"DiNozzo-"
"Hadt'a…I …it hadt'a…happen…had to make it right…"
"What, Tony," he asked gently. "What had to happen?"
"Hadt'a…eraseit…"
Gibbs nodded, understanding a little.
"Boss…I…don'feelsogood…" he said, pitching forward, into his friend.
Gibbs caught him, with a grunt, "Tony?" He wrapped one arm around his shoulders and tapped the younger man's cheek, only getting a soft whimper in response.
"Great," Gibbs said, knowing he needed to get Tony to a hotel to sleep it off. "You and I are gonna' have a talk tomorrow," he said.
Looking at the pale face with worry, he was grateful at least Tony hadn't killed himself accidentally setting the house ablaze.
He quickly leaned down, and got Tony over one shoulder, into a fireman's carry.
Ironic, since he finally heard the sound of firetrucks nearing the house. Thankfully, they were coming from the other end of Dunemere. He knew that it was too late- the house was done for, and they wouldn't send anyone in. They would just try to put the fire out before it spread to the trees.
He opened the door of his car and threw Tony down into the passenger side, buckling him in and hearing a small moan.
The drinking…was extreme, but he could see it…
But this behavior… arson? This wasn't Tony at all. And it scared him.
Something had driven him to this.
"Just what the Hell is it?" Gibbs murmured, staring at his unconscious friend before starting the ignition..