A/N: A rather dark chappie, for the most part, and a brief return to the case for those of you who aren't so fond of the mushy stuff. Please note: opinions expressed by the characters about the IDF attack on the Flotilla are just that - the characters' opinions. This fic is not a political soapbox, and I am not taking sides.

Warnings/Spoilers: All seasons, up to & including Season 8 premiere, "The Spider and the Fly"

Disclaimer: All Canon characters belong to CBS, DPB, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010 3:52 p.m.

Louisa got to drive Tony's Mustang. Any other day this would have been an experience full of fun and anticipation, but today it just made her sad. Pulling onto the grounds of Glenwood Cemetery, Tony noted that the rest of the Gibbs and Granich teams were already accounted for, along with about 50 other NCIS personnel, not only from HQ, but also the Norfolk, Central and Washington field offices. Everyone was milling around outside the chapel, chatting and exchanging stories about their fallen comrade. Devon Stewart's experience had been impressive and varied, and he was well-respected among his colleagues. He would be sorely missed.

Cars were parked, one behind the other, extending quite a distance down the winding drive that led up to the chapel. As Louisa parked the Mustang at the back of the line, Tony caught sight of Stewart's partner, who was very obviously struggling to hold it together. Michael Clintock was a curator at the Smithsonian Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden in Washington, an expert in post-modern American sculpture. He and Devon had been together since 2002. Although Stewart had never made a show of his sexual orientation, he'd never tried to hide it either; it was just a part of who he was. DiNozzo wasn't especially comfortable with the concept of two men sharing a life together, but he had the good sense to put those feelings aside. He guided Louisa around the curved drive leading up to the chapel, and greeted Michael with words of condolence, introducing his girlfriend to the grieving man.

Gibbs and Granich were standing around near the entrance with four other men whom Tony did not recognize. As the hearse pulled up, he realized why – they were the pallbearers. He ushered Louisa inside quickly, and catching sight of Admiral Penachetti, they joined him in a middle pew. There was no sign of Pete; they had expected him to be there, and Tony wondered what could have come up to delay him.

It was not a religious service – when Stewart had come out, both his father and his church had rejected his lifestyle, and that had been the end of any relationship he might have had with either. Louisa had never attended a secular funeral before, and Tony noted her discomfort. She couldn't help letting her eyes drift over periodically to the other side of the chapel, where Devon's parents sat stoically (and as far away from Michael as they possibly could, she noted sadly).

Various Navy and NCIS personnel, including Director Vance, took turns recounting their perceptions of the fallen agent. They spoke of his dedication to duty, his selflessness, his sense of humour, the pride with which he carried out his responsibilities. Devon Stewart had loved his country, had loved his family (despite their rejection of him), had loved his partner, and had loved life. If there was any comfort to be had, it was in the fact that he'd lived that life to the fullest, always seizing the moment and never taking it for granted. As Stewart was eulogized, Michael wept silently, and a woman sitting next to him put her hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

Louisa's thoughts drifted back to the wee hours of that Tuesday morning, just over a week ago, when the agent had been tasked with escorting her down to the lock-up. She'd only spent a matter of 15 minutes or so with the man, and yet he'd made an impression on her. He was compassionate, sympathetic, and cheerful. Her heart had been a little less heavy when he'd left her, behind bars and alone. Why is it always the good that die young? she wondered sadly.

She sniffled; Tony squeezed her hand. She glanced up at him, sitting staunchly beside her, his jaw firmly set, no doubt to help him keep his own composure, she surmised. He didn't dare look at her, or he'd lose it, and that would just be unseemly, especially in front of all his colleagues. She turned back to face the front, so as not to add to his discomfort, and squeezed his hand in return.

Nearly everyone stayed for the committal. This was the part Tony always found the hardest.

One of the childhood memories that haunted him the most was watching his mother's coffin descend into the ground, and looking up at his father's grief-stricken face. Those eyes had bored right into Tony's soul, making him wish he could just shrivel up and die. Senior had been drinking in the limo from the moment they'd left the house (and had probably started much earlier in the day than that). He'd needed the alcohol just to function normally, and by the time they'd reached the cemetery he'd consumed the better part of a bottle of scotch. The little boy wanted to scream at his mother, 'Don't leave me here alone with him!' His fear had been real…palpable. Because, even at the tender age of eight, he knew she wasn't coming back. Ever.

Louisa could tell by the far-away look in Tony's eyes that he wasn't really paying attention to the words being spoken at the graveside. Gradually a look of recognition came across his features, and she followed his gaze, to spy her brother trudging down the hill from the parking lot. Pete circled around the gathering quietly, sidling up next to Tony and Louisa just as the final words were being spoken and the procession past the grave began. Some of the mourners dropped flowers into the coffin; others simply nodded grimly as they passed by.

"What happened to you?" Tony quizzed Pete as they made their way back to their cars.

"Sorry about that. Got held up in a briefing with SECNAV. The Pentagon's all agitated over this demand by Turkey for an international inquiry into the IDF attack on the Flotilla. They wanted a legal opinion on Israel's interpretation of the Rules of Engagement. The Security Council is waiting for Obama's 'official' response – he's been hedging for days, and we can't stall anymore."

"What a mess. Does anyone else know about the encrypted transmission?"

"No, and SECNAV is determined to keep it that way. I don't know why they even bothered consulting me – it's a foregone conclusion that they'll support Israel's position and shoot down Turkey's resolution for an independent inquiry. They'll want to keep this one in-house."

"For what it's worth, what is your legal opinion?"

Pete shook his head dejectedly. "No question – international law allows the boarding of a ship, if there's an imminent threat. No such threat existed here. Israel did nothing to verify the accuracy of that message. They took it at face value and acted on it, and it appears to have been totally false. There's no evidence that any of those protesters were armed. What's more, several of those who were killed were shot multiple times. It was overkill… but of course, none of that is going to come out in the 'official' inquiry."

"It's sure to raise a few eyebrows, if we just keep on blindly supporting Israel's position like that…" Louisa remarked.

Pete gave her a knowing glance. "You're not kidding. Considering how 'frosty' things have been between Netanyahu and Obama, it's gonna look downright weird. I wouldn't be at all surprised to see people questioning if something else is going on behind the scenes."

"You think they'll be able to keep it under wraps?" Tony wondered.

Pete chuckled. "Area 51… The Kennedy Assassination… 9/11… need I say more? There'll always be people who question things, but over time they'll end up in the minority, labelled as kooks, and the truth will get buried."

"Never figured you for a conspiracy theorist, Pete."

"I'm not. But I am a lawyer, and I know how easy it can be to distort the facts…" Pete responded cryptically, raising his eyebrows at his pal.

"…because that's what lawyers are trained to do," Tony finished for him.

"Yup. And they've got some damn fine lawyers at the Pentagon."

5:07 p.m.

Gibbs stood stoically at the graveside, pondering the loss of yet another colleague – a damned fine agent, and a friend. By now, most of the mourners had either returned to their vehicles and were on their way to the reception, or were wandering the cemetery grounds, visiting the graves of other loved ones.

"Jethro – a word?"

Gibbs turned at the sound of Director Vance's voice. "Leon?"

"I thought you'd want to know… the investigation into Noreen Jessop is officially deep-sixed. Mossad vehemently denies any involvement in either Jacob Halpern's murder or the attack on Agent David. I spoke with Jessop's family this morning. They're towing the line, they claim she's been dead for three years, and that it's a case of mistaken identity. Someone got to them, Jethro. We're not going to get anywhere with this."

Gibbs pursed his lips. "Why am I not surprised? So these men died for nothing, according to Eli."

Vance nodded ruefully. "I'm just as unhappy about it as you are. But there's a larger picture I have to consider."

Their eyes met, and Gibbs sent Vance a message via those steel blue-gray orbs, so pointed and sure that the words behind them did not need to be spoken. What you're really saying is that our people are expendable.

5:26 p.m.

Ziva had parked her Mini directly in front of Gibbs' Dodge Charger. She was among the last to leave, since she'd been chatting with a friend from Balboa's team. Finding Gibbs' vehicle still there, unoccupied, she turned back to the cemetery grounds, and eventually caught sight of him, some distance from where the committal had taken place. She walked up behind him slowly, not wishing to interrupt or startle him. As she approached, she realized why he had chosen to visit this particular spot.

Jenny Sheppard.

"It's been two years, Zivers." He hadn't turned around. How did he know someone was there? How did he know it was her? How does he do that?

"Yes."

"All we seem to do is bury our friends."

"And our enemies." He turned to face her, but did not respond. "There is another significance to the date, is there not?"

The corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly. She'd done her homework. "Yup. A week ago Tuesday would've been my anniversary with Shannon... today's the day she died."

Ziva extended her hand, and Gibbs took it, but stood his ground. He continued. "This thing with Paloma Reynosa… it's got me thinking. I've got a security detail at my house right now, watching my Dad. Who's to say what happened to Stewart and Travis won't happen to them? How safe is he, really?" Was it a rhetorical question?

"Reynosa is no Mossad agent, Gibbs."

"Yeah, but she's not alone. The damage to my Dad's store... she's got a posse with her."

"Who was it that said, 'The only thing we need to fear, is fear itself'?"

Gibbs smiled. "FDR. First inaugural address. 'For the trust reposed in me I will return the courage and the devotion that befit the time. I can do no less.'"

"We can do no less," Ziva nodded, and left him to his musings.

10:02 p.m.

The tension was palpable in Penachetti the Younger's basement. Scott Hartnell had just scored for the Flyers, tying Game 6 of the Stanley Cup playoffs at 3-3. Regulation time was almost over, and it looked like they were headed into overtime.

After the gut-wrenching afternoon they'd spent, it was a relief to finally let loose and revel in what was proving to be an incredibly exciting game.

Tony was struggling with an unopened Bud Light, trying to manipulate the bottle opener with his left hand.

"This is ridiculous. Lou, open this for me, would ya?"

She looked at him askance, took the bottle from him and deftly smacked the neck against the side table, popping off the cap and sending it flying across the room.

"Here you go." She handed it back to him.

Tony's jaw dropped. "Where the hell d'you learn to do that?"

"I'm in the Navy, remember?" she responded, as if that was all the explanation needed.

"I love you."

"I know," she responded, doing her best Han Solo imitation. They both burst out laughing.

Julia had gotten fed up with all the hockey mayhem, and had gone out with some friends for the evening, leaving her husband in charge of the roost. The horn sounded - end of regulation time. "I'm gonna go check on the kids. Anyone need anything?" Pete inquired, trying to ignore the incessant flirting. Tony and Louisa shook their heads no, and he shrugged, padding up the stairs in search of a fresh bag of Doritos.

Once he was out of sight, they began to cuddle. Louisa was much more relaxed now, Tony noted, and he was pleased that she seemed to feel safe and comfortable in his arms. They smooched for a good few minutes, until out of the corner of his eye, Tony noticed Pete on the staircase, watching in dumbfounded fascination as his sister sucked face with his best friend. Keeping his forehead pressed against Louisa's, Tony muttered, "We can see you, Pete. You do realize that, don't you?"

Pete turned a shade of crimson that Tony had never seen before, and sputtered as he descended to the basement, protesting his innocence. "I was watching the TV," he argued.

"Sure. Fine. Whatever."

Patrick Kane flipped the puck into the Flyers' net at 4:06 in OT. Louisa jumped off the couch and let out a 'whoop' in triumphant jubilation – the Hawks had taken the Cup, for the first time since 1961.