Had Tony been awake, he probably would have recognized the sandy stretch of pristine white beach from the time-share infomercial he'd stalled at earlier in the evening.
But he wasn't awake. Not really, anyway.
He lay in that strange hotel room, floating in some sort of quasi-dream-memory.
He'd be lucky if he didn't drown in the remembered water.
Young Tony walked along the beach, watching the sun setting over the ocean and marveling at the colors and the beauty of it. He suddenly thought of his mother, trying to remember her face as it had been before the cancer chased away her ethereal beauty.
"Mom," he whispered to no one, realizing it had been well over a year since he had spoken that word out loud.
He closed his eyes against the stinging of tears and dropped onto the smooth, soft sand, his arms crossed over skinny knees as he curled into a sitting ball. He opened his eyes and saw the sun slip below the horizon, and it made him think about his mother's pretty eyes—the one part of her untouched by the wasting disease—closing for the last time in that horrible hospital room.
A chill ran through his body and he closed his eyes again, trying to pull up a different memory. The loss of warmth made him think of a winter scene a few months before his mom's devastating diagnosis. He smiled softly, remembering her lying next to him in a field of white near their New York home.
He lay back on the still-warm sand and turned his head to the side, imagining her as she had been that day, all rosy-cheeked and green eyes sparkling as they made snow angels together, the flakes falling softly on them both and sticking to their eyelashes.
He began moving slowly, his arms and legs pushing away the snow-white sand, and he imagined her beside him—here on this beach in this moment. His little-boy mind created a whole conversation with her, and he happily told her about his last day of the school year. They had had a field day, and Tony told his memory-mother about how he'd been the fastest boy in his class. He told her about the ribbon he'd won and how his teacher had hugged him at the finish line and told him what a good job he had done.
He decided not to tell her about how his father had dropped the ribbon into the garbage and told him he needed to concentrate more on his studies and less on silly races that didn't matter.
"Do you think he's dead?"
"Nah, he's crying."
Tony's eyes flew open and he found himself staring up at two boys, both bigger and older than him—well, he figured they were bigger, but it could have been that he was still flat on his back and they were standing near his head, towering over him.
But they were definitely older.
"Hey, cry-baby."
"Whatcha doin' out here?"
He shivered where he lay, but not from the chill.
Well, maybe from the iciness in their words, their eyes.
He realized it was almost dark, and he wondered how long he had been lying happily in the pseudo-snow with his memory-mom. The bigger of the two put his bare foot on Tony's outstretched arm, his heel digging into the sensitive flesh at his inner elbow, and Tony started to shake.
He suddenly wanted his father, if only because he was bigger than these bigger-than-him boys.
"What's the matter, cry-baby? Cat got your tongue?"
"Maybe he is dead."
He stared up at them, unblinking, feeling the tears he hadn't realized he had been crying still coursing down his temples to disappear into his dark hair. He wished he could disappear, too. One boy moved to his left, and another bare foot planted on his free arm, still outstretched in the broken wing of his half-finished angel. His eyes started flicking back and forth between his tormentors until he felt dizzy. His heart was racing just like that day on the track at school.
"Well if he's dead…"
"Maybe we should toss his body into the ocean. Feed the fishes."
The boys reached down at the same time, each grabbing Tony roughly by an arm. He cried out in panic and started fighting them, wondering why it had taken him so long to think of running. He writhed in their strong grip, twisting and pulling and yanking even though he felt their skinny fingers digging into his wrist and elbow with bruising force.
He was no match for the two of them, though, and they dragged him down the beach toward the water, their playful laughs and faked fun keeping the scattered beachgoers from looking harder at the three boys' rough-housing.
He felt the sand change beneath feet barely touching the ground, and the second he felt warm water on his toes, he fought his panic and let his body go limp, catching the boys by surprise. He slipped free from their cruel, pinching grasp and took off down the beach, his heart hammering as his breath sawed in and out of fear-constricted lungs.
He heard them chasing him, but they soon gave up, calling friendly-sounding taunts after him.
"Hey, that was fun!"
"We'll do it again!"
"See you tomorrow!"
He didn't care, though, he thought as he ran swiftly through the darkness.
He was the fastest boy in his class.
He was still breathing hard when he reached the relative safety of the hotel lobby, and he didn't even notice the strange looks the concierge gave him as he made his sandy-sweaty way to the elevator. The shaking that had subsided upon entering the building returned as the car took him higher and higher to the top of the hotel.
His father was going to be mad.
Not only was it late and dark and he had no idea how long he had been gone, but he cringed as he realized he had left his sandals lying on the beach next to his sand-angel. He thought about telling his father about the boys, but he discarded the thought immediately.
He didn't want to get yelled at for allowing himself to be bullied. He was a DiNozzo. And DiNozzos didn't get pushed around.
His fingers ghosted over his cheekbone, where his father had hit him that day after the scene by the hospital fountain, but he shook his head, clearing away the memory. His father had just been upset because his wife was dying. And Tony should have kept his mouth shut—kids didn't get to make important decisions like where someone got to die.
He slipped into the huge suite and made a beeline for his room, not wanting his father to see the red marks on his wrist and arm or his bare feet. He got cleaned up quickly, wondering if his father had eaten dinner without him as his stomach grumbled loudly. He dressed in a long-sleeved shirt despite the heat, thinking he could claim to be cold in the air-conditioned room—because he was cold, and he suddenly realized he was sunburned because he'd forgotten to take sunscreen with him upon leaving that morning.
He made his way out into the sitting area of the suite and looked around, wondering where his father was. He climbed up onto one of the big, comfy couches and curled up, feeling suddenly exhausted from his day in the sun. He willed himself to stay awake, pulling up his sleeve to poke at his sore wrist. The redness had turned to purplish bruising and he winced—not from the pain but from the realization that his father would see it when they went to the beach together the next day as he'd promised.
Not wanting to fall asleep and miss saying goodnight to his father, he got up and wandered around the rooms, knowing instinctively before he'd checked them all that the man wasn't there—but still he made the rounds, hoping. He stopped in front of the large bank of windows that looked out over the ocean, catching sight of his burned face in the reflective glass. He turned away, biting his lip and searching again for a note that he knew he wouldn't find.
He stood in the middle of the empty suite and stared at the floor for a long time before going to curl up on the couch again to wait. He's probably still at his business meeting, he thought, letting his eyes close—just for a minute.
He fell asleep to the rumbling of his stomach.
The boy came awake early the next morning, shaking violently from a combination of sunburn, too-cold air conditioning and no blanket. He groaned softly and stumbled off to bed, barely glancing at his father's closed bedroom door. He burrowed under the thick blankets, his shaking slowly fading as he drifted off to sleep again.
He awoke later from dreams of his mother rubbing soothing lotion on skin burned by a Cape Cod summer sun, and he rubbed his eyes groggily, trying to remember where he was. He climbed out of the big bed and was surprised to find the sitting area empty again. He had expected his father to be there with coffee and the morning paper—and maybe room-service breakfast, he thought, his stomach growling more insistently.
He went and knocked on the bedroom door, calling out a tentative "Sir?" and feeling dismayed at the lack of a response. He pushed open the door and found the room empty, the bed neatly made. He shivered again at that curious fact and felt something twist in his gut as he went back out to search for a note. Finding none, he gathered his courage and went back into his father's room, stopping in front of the closed closet doors. Fear clenched fists around his heart as he stared at the doors, suddenly reminded of the night he had snuck into the housekeeper's room and hid while she watched a movie about zombies.
He stared at the door as if expecting the flesh-eating monsters to come staggering out at any moment to feast on his brain. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and found the closet empty, confirming his fears that had nothing to do with the movie.
His father was gone.
Tony sat on the couch and stared at the black screen of the television. He had no idea what to do. He thought about calling his house in New York, but he didn't want the staff to tell his father that he'd bothered them unnecessarily. He thought about calling the front desk to see if his father had left a message for him, but he didn't want to let them know he was here alone if he hadn't.
So he just sat there, wondering and listening to his stomach rumbling.
He finally shrugged, picked up the phone and called room service. He picked up the remote and ordered a movie, shrugging again. He realized it would be no different from the times he was left alone at home while his father went away on business. He was used to being alone. And this time, he wouldn't even have to tiptoe around the staff.
He went out onto the balcony while he waited and he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows as he stood in the warm summer sun. His eyes caught his bruised wrist, and he smiled and shrugged again. At least if he stayed in the room, he'd be safe from those boys and their cruel taunts. His gaze drifted downward and he saw a couple with two children making a giant castle in the sand. His smile slipped as pain ripped through him at the sight, but he forced it back onto his face and blinked away the tears that welled as he realized he wouldn't be spending the day on the beach with his father.
He shrugged again. He would spend the night ordering whatever he wanted and watching as many movies as he could fit into the hours. He didn't mind being alone.
And it wasn't like his father was gone forever.