CHAPTER 9

Tony was adamant: it was important that he showed his face to the world, however bruised that face may be. He needed to assure everyone he was recovering from his ordeal, and was able to perform his Congressional duties. "I've had plenty of rest," he'd told Eric, when his Chief of Staff had phoned to make sure Tony had arrived home and had everything he needed. "I'm fine, just trying to get back to normal," he'd assured Eric, and everyone who had asked how he was doing.

The brief sleep he'd had earlier had been disturbed by a dream in which he had been running for his life. Apart from that, he couldn't quite remember what it had been about. At one point, Jethro Gibbs had been present, wearing a tool belt laden with hammers and saws and assorted hand tools – that much he remembered. They'd talked about something…paint colors, maybe. Tony had chosen a deep blue, and Jethro had smiled at him, his teeth gleaming in the late afternoon light. It all seemed so surreal.

Whatever had happened in the dream had faded, but now, sitting in the back seat of the FBI agents' car, being driven to the TV studio, Tony had a clear memory of Jethro smiling at him.

Agent Jerome Brown, along with a young red-haired agent who introduced himself as Agent Calloway, delivered Tony to the studio half an hour before he was due to go on. As they walked through the lobby, several people greeted Tony, with a respectful, "Congressman," and "Good to see you back," although they stared at the bruises appearing above his collar and the black eye that was impossible to hide. Tony nodded and smiled, but didn't stop to reply.

The FBI agents hustled him into the elevator and Agent Brown smoothly prevented anyone from getting in with them. As the doors slid closed, Tony questioned, "You don't think that two bodyguards is overkill? I mean, you guys can drop me off and go for coffee or something."

Agent Brown smiled politely. "Thank you, sir, but Agent Fornell said he'd have our balls if any harm comes to you."

Calloway added, "And we believe him, which is why we appreciate your full cooperation, Congressman."

Tony raised his hands in surrender. He didn't believe he was in any danger, but he didn't feel settled, either. "Okay, have it your way." The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor, and Tony, flanked by the FBI agents, stepped out into the studio lobby. They were greeted by one of The People's Word producers, who ushered Tony to the dressing room while giving him a rundown of what to expect. Tony was greeted warmly by the host, and handed off to an assistant, who made sure that he was well supplied with hot tea and lemon lozenges. The agents, he saw, stayed close, hovering in the hallway.

Tony had taken all his meds, prior to leaving home, but he was so drained, all he wanted to do was to crawl into bed. He sighed and shook it off, telling himself, "DiNozzo, stop being such a wuss. A cough and some neck pain shouldn't hold you back. Get the hell out there and perform!"

He refused more than a cursory application of make-up, having decided that he was going to be truthful about his experience. "Might as well show them the real me," Tony told the make-up lady, winking at her with his good eye. The host and other guests were genuinely sympathetic, and once the show got going, Tony managed to keep up with the fast-paced discussion about alternate ways to deal with, among other things, crime and domestic terrorism in America.

Although Dr. Pitt had given him a strong cough suppressant that came in a spray, and Tony used it liberally during every commercial break, by the end of the hour he was starting to hack and had trouble speaking. Before they signed off, each guest had a moment to say something. Tony used his fifteen seconds to thank everyone who had been kind enough to send him good wishes and prayers. "As my son pointed out to me last night, 'Don't be afraid of moving on to something new.'…that's according to the Power Rangers," Tony added after a slight pause. It got some laughs, and once the cameras were off them, the other guests made a point of wishing him a speedy recovery, and seemed sincerely concerned.

While being driven home by his FBI watchdogs, Tony received several phone calls of support. After taking three of those calls, he put the ringer on mute, too tired and numb to deal with anyone else. When the phone vibrated in his pocket, Tony pulled it out to look at the caller ID. It was his father; he let it go to voice mail. The message DiNozzo Sr. left was in line with the other messages of support, well wishes, and congratulations on his appearance on the show, but Senior finished up his message by saying, "We need to talk about your future, Junior. Soon."

Tony barely refrained from tossing the cell phone out the car window.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Tony awoke with a start, sitting up in bed, breathing hard. He was drenched in sweat and had a feeling that something bad was about to happen. It was two in the morning, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep. Instead, he wandered around the loft, feeling alone and out of place. Memories of the kidnapping came out of nowhere and wouldn't leave him alone: Beals beating him until he puked all over the floor of the mobile home in which he'd been held prisoner; being blindfolded and gagged while chained to a disgusting smelling bed; his captor screaming and banging his head on the kitchen table until he saw stars.

Shaking, Tony wrapped himself in a blanket, and made himself small at one end of the couch. He stared out at the harbor lights for a while, and watched a patrol boat make its way slowly through the inky waters, leaving behind a frothy wake. He wondered what it would be like, sinking into that cold, black river, letting the strong current take him away. No more memories, nothing to worry about, no cares or concerns ever again.

Tony pushed the dark thoughts aside by thinking about his son, and how fast he was growing, how soon he wouldn't be a little boy any more, and how they were going to have to keep a close eye on him once he became a teen. Zach was pretty good at school, and had varied interests, though at the moment he was sports-driven and his grades were a little lower than Wendy liked. But Zack was a good boy, and had proven he was kind and thoughtful as well as precocious. Tony couldn't help a rueful shake of the head at the image of Zack as a teenager, because if the boy got into half the trouble he had gotten into at that age…well, he was going to be a handful.

And then Tony's thoughts turned to his friendship with Jethro, and the way he had stayed at his bedside when he'd felt so crappy and in need of a friend. Jethro taken his hand and told him that his door was always open, and he'd offered him a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Unsure of what it all meant, and where it would go, if it went anywhere, Tony sighed. What with everything that was going on in his life, wrapping up his term in Congress, dealing with his father, and his pending divorce from Wendy, taking the time to get to really know Jethro Gibbs was going to be near impossible. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

After a while, Tony made himself get up; he really needed to get some food in his stomach before he took his next dose of pills. Cereal was easiest, corn flakes, but Tony only managed to eat half a bowl. Around three a.m., he fell asleep in the middle of a Magnum episode, and awoke only when Agent Calloway came in to check on him when doing his rounds first thing in the morning. After a much-needed shower and a dose of cough medicine, Tony dressed in sweats and a comfortable pullover. With a large cup of coffee at hand, he opened his laptop to deal with a mountain of emails.

Over the next couple of days, Tony worked from home, keeping in touch with his office. He made inroads on writing his business plan, in preparation for when he returned to the private sector. His cough was annoying but slowly got better, and although the uneasy feeling he'd had since he'd escaped from his kidnapper persisted, nothing bad happened – unless you counted lack of sleep and a non-existent appetite.

The FBI agents were still on guard, taking shifts, though they remained out of sight much of the time. Fornell called at least twice a day with updates, but so far there had been little progress in determining whether or not Beals had worked with an accomplice. Tony could tell that Fornell was frustrated, but he trusted that the man would get to the bottom of it – hopefully sooner rather than later – and Tony could get back to his life.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Late at night, when he was alone, Tony would think of Jethro. He would remember his kindness, the way he'd steadied him at the hospital with a warm, sure hand on his shoulder, comforting him during his worst moments. Sometimes his mind would wander and he would think about Jethro in a more intimate way, too, wondering if his silver hair was crisp or soft to the touch. He couldn't get the picture of Jethro's clear blue eyes out of his mind, or the compassionate expression he'd seen in them. He thought about Jethro's home, the farm where he'd taken refuge, and he wondered if he'd be strong enough to return to the place where Frank Beals had almost killed him. Jethro had made him an open-ended offer to come and visit, but Tony wasn't sure he could face seeing, in broad daylight, the big hole in the front porch where Beals had met his death.

Tony wondered how Jethro felt about having been put in a position where he was forced to kill a man. Sure, he'd been protecting Tony, but he'd just met him. Jethro had stood up and defended him, a stranger, without any compunction, as far as Tony could tell. Even though Jethro had had a long career in the Marines and then NCIS, and had surely killed men in the line of duty, Tony instinctively knew that Jethro would never take any death lightly.

Those thoughts led Tony to puzzle over how a man who had been such a driving force in NCIS had been able to change his way of life so drastically, going from chasing dangerous criminals to settling on a rural horse farm. But most of all, Tony wondered if there was any possibility that he could, somehow, fit into Jethro's life.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Recuperating was not fun. In fact, it was boring as hell, especially as Tony couldn't talk more than a few softly spoken words, for fear of starting off another coughing fit. His neck muscles ached, but Lydia had been a lifesaver. When she'd come over with papers to for him to sign, she had brought a Bed Buddy neck wrap that could be heated in the microwave. The first time Tony used it, the moist heat felt so good it sent him to right to sleep.

Tony did what he could to prevent going completely stir-crazy. He kept up with the news, in newspapers, web and TV. He watched briefings and Washington Journal on C-SPAN, emailed people, and did what business he could from home. Lydia came by for a couple of hours each day to act as his liaison between the Baltimore and Washington offices.

It wasn't easy keeping talking to a minimum, but Tony did his best. He took his prescriptions as ordered, and drank so much tea and water he spent half his day in the bathroom. One good thing was that all that liquid he was drinking was helping his bruised kidneys and he wasn't pissing blood any more.

As a member of the Subcommittee on Health, Tony was scheduled to talk on the impact of current laws on the LGBT community at a Congressional task force meeting that Friday. He was determined to regain the full strength of his voice by then. He had been working on drafting the Stop Harming Our Kids resolution, with Rob Tozier's assistance, for the past year. With Rob's help, Tony had garnered a great deal of support to create a federal law that would prevent health care providers from coercing minors to undergo conversion therapy.

He'd seen how messed up Rob had been after his mother had forced him to go through so-called therapy in order to turn him from gay to straight. What they'd done to Rob had amounted to torture, both mental and physical, and although Rob rarely talked about it, he had been scarred for life. That went a good way towards being the reason Tony was so passionate about getting conversion therapy outlawed on a federal level.

Even if Tony was unable to speak in public at present, he kept up with his research and reports for another committee he was assigned to, the Subcommittee on Anti-Terrorism. There were also plenty of ongoing issues to deal with that directly impacted his district; crime rates, housing, unemployment and garbage strikes were always on the agenda.

On Monday, Tony used Skype to join his 3rd District staff at their regular Monday morning meeting. Tony, liberally dosed with cough suppressant, sat in his living room, while everyone else gathered in the Baltimore office. His team in Baltimore had assured him that they could keep the office running smoothly until his medical leave was over, and he returned on Wednesday. Now all Tony had to do was get clearance from Dr. Pitt.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Tony's health issues had improved enough so that by Tuesday afternoon he felt ready to face Dr. Pitt in his DC office. Tony was still under the watchful eye of the FBI, and the job of driving him into DC went to one Agent Braunmeir. Braunmeir was a burly man of about fifty, who reminded Tony of the irascible Perry White in Superman. Although the agency car was generally clean inside, there were several empty coffee cups stacked in the cup holder at the agent's elbow. To break the ice, Tony asked, "Starbucks or DuPont Coffee Shop – who has the best dark roast? What d'you think?"

They spent the rest of the ride with Braunmeir and Tony discussing where to get the best coffee in DC. Braunmeir said, "If you can handle coffee that isn't fancy, Chinatown Coffee is good."

"Is that the place with the absinthe bar?" asked Tony.

"Yeah, and there's also East Side Diner. They only serve plain dark roast. Great sandwiches." It was obvious that Braunmeir took his coffee seriously.

"Maybe we can head over there after I'm done?" Tony suggested.

"We gotta eat," Braunmeir agreed.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Dr. Pitt was pleased with Tony's progress, but cautioned him, "You may speak at a normal level, but I don't want you to strain your voice. I'm sending you to ENT specialist, a friend of mine. He agreed to look at you today."

Tony pulled a face. "C'mon, Doc, you said I was better."

"This is very important, Tony. You don't want to have permanent damage to your throat. You sound pretty rough," Brad said.

"I guess it's sort of scratchy," Tony admitted.

Dr. Pitt gently examined Tony's bruised neck. "Are you coughing frequently?"

"Not as much as before."

"Neck hurt? Muscle spasms?"

"Not as much."

Pitt seemed pleased with the condition of Tony's wrists. "Keep the bandages on for now, though, and replace them if they get wet. As far as your neck goes, continue with the hot packs as needed. Use up the prescriptions I gave you. Other than that…Let me see if we can get those sutures out of your shoulder."

"I still look like a punching bag," Tony moaned, catching a glimpse of his face in the examination room mirror. His eye was rimmed with purple and green discoloration, and his neck still bore signs of where he'd been choked. At least the eye itself hadn't been damaged.

"You're very lucky, you know," Pitt said sympathetically.

Tony shrugged, embarrassed.

Pitt wasn't going to let it go. "It'll take time to get past this, Tony. Remember I'm available 24 hours a day, if you have any medical issues…or just want to talk."

Smiling even though he didn't feel like it, Tony nodded. "Sure, Doc."

Pitt was studying his face. "You should consider talk to Gibbs. Don't forget he's gone through some of the same experiences as you. He might seem like a stoic kind of man, but he may very well want someone to talk to, too."

"Okay. I'll…I'll think about it." Tony nodded again, even though he was pretty sure that Jethro was the kind of man who would tell him to get over it before heading out to feed the horses.

"Good. You're not alone, Tony," Dr. Pitt said, and turned away to assemble the items he'd need to remove the sutures from Tony's shoulder.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Frank Beals punched Tony in the face when Tony wouldn't shut up about the way messed-up psycho-killers always had three names. "John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald… So what's your name? No? Not gonna tell me? I'll just call you Artie, after Arthur Gary Bishop, who assaulted and murdered five little boys out of Utah in the '80s. He got the needle, was executed for kidnapping and murder. They say he was shaking so hard his eyes were popping out of his sockets. It took twenty minutes for him to finally die 'cause they got the dose wrong, and the scene was so bad that even the warden puked. You're just like him, aren't you, Artie? Can't get it up unless your victim is tied and helpless, can you? You like little–"

A fist slamming into your face, especially when you're naked, and with your hands tied behind your back, is no picnic. Whatever he'd been drugged with, it didn't put a dent in the pain, just made it feel like his skin was peeling off. Tony dropped hard on his knees, spitting blood, blinded by the head-splitting pain. It took him a couple of minutes to recover, but once he did, he laughed at his abductor. There was a raw kind of pleasure in being able to make the guy lose control. Of course it was like poking an anthill: there were consequences. The guy hit him again. That time Tony saw stars. He went down and stayed down. He spent the night tied up on the filthy floor, shivering and dreaming of revenge.

The next day his captor removed his mask for the first time, and Tony squinted up at him with his one good eye. That's when it hit him – he was never going to see his family again. Swallowing his fear, Tony said, with a bitter laugh forced through swollen, cracked lips. "So, Artie, I'll just bet when you were a kid, you drowned kittens and pulled the wings off flies. Am I right, or am I right?"

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Tony's normal sense of self-preservation had been anesthetized by the cocktail of sedatives, anti-psychotics and whatever other pharmaceuticals that he had put in his food. He had had no trouble baiting the guy, making fun of him to his face, taking pleasure in jabbing at him every chance he got. Stupid? Well, yeah, but Tony couldn't help himself.

Afterwards, when Beals was dead and he was safe, Tony had found himself stuttering and stumbling if anyone so much as mentioned him. Him…Frank Beals. The boogeyman, the one with the power, who held all the cards, the psycho nut job who had no boundaries. Even in death he was still present, making Tony relive those days he'd spent in captivity.

"Tony. Tony?"

Tony blinked a few times, and he realized that he was in Dr. Pitt's exam room. The doc was standing in front of him, looking at him with concern. "What?"

"You okay? You were absent there for a few seconds." Pitt pulled out a small penlight and checked Tony's eyes. Apparently he didn't see anything to alarm him, because he took a step back.

Tony recovered enough to smile. "My wife has been known to complain I glaze over, especially when the in-laws come to dinner." Pitt let it slide and didn't question him any further, but he scribbled some notes on paperwork in Tony's folder.

Dr. Pitt pulled on gloves and started to remove the stitches from Tony's shoulder. "Did you know that you can buy punching bags with anyone's likeness on them?" he asked casually.

Tony looked over his shoulder, meeting the doctor's eyes. "Get a workout by punching yourself? Doesn't that come a bit too close to self-harm? Or would it be sadomasochism? I'm not into pain; I like pleasure with my pleasure." Although, Tony hadn't had any sexual pleasure with anyone for months, not since he'd found out that Wendy had been cheating on him – again.

"I didn't mean for you to have your own face on the bag, Tony," said Pitt. "You get your worst enemy's face printed on it. There, you're done. I don't think there'll be too much of a scar."

Tony shrugged. Another scar to add to his collection didn't bother him. "Who was it in Fight Club that said they didn't want to 'die without any scars'?"

Pitt faced Tony. "It was Tyler Durden who said that. And no, the concept behind Fight Club doesn't apply to you. You're not some guy with a meaningless job who needs to feel the pack of a punch to feel alive, are you?"

"No, no I'm not." Tony shook his head and smiled, even if it hurt him to do so.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Finally, Wednesday came around, and Tony went to work for the first time since the kidnapping. With Agent Brown driving an FBI vehicle with tinted windows, Tony arrived at the Baltimore office early, where his staff greeted him warmly. People came by to offer support and friendship, even some of Tony's political rivals. The office personnel brought out cake, and Tony gave a speech using rudimentary sign language. Eric had provided an attractive female ASL translator to assist him, partially as a joke, but having the woman verbalize for him saved Tony's voice from undue strain.

FBI Agent Jerome Brown didn't let Tony out of his sight, even posting himself outside the men's room when Tony was using it. Tony felt better knowing the man was there, watching his six. He was well aware that hyper-vigilance and the desire to remain safe in your own home were common symptoms among victims of kidnapping and other violent crimes.

Tony's people practically babied him, and his personal assistant, Scott Mooney, a twenty-something with blond spiky hair and a slight Texas accent, brought him snacks and hot tea throughout the day. By three o'clock his voice had become hoarse, but thankfully he wasn't coughing much. It looked as though by the time Friday morning came around, he'd be in shape to make his presentation to the Subcommittee on Health. Tomorrow he'd have to take it easy, or else he'd be mute when he finally stood in front of the committee members.

Tony considered obtaining the service file of former NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs in the hopes of learning more about the man. Or maybe he could pull some strings and get hold of more personal information on the man. But even as his curiosity was sparked, Tony thought better of it. Finding out about Jethro Gibbs on a one-on-one basis would be a lot more interesting than reading between the lines of a bureaucratic work history. Besides, he had a strong feeling that Jethro would somehow know that Tony had been snooping around, and he would not be happy about it.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

On Friday, Scott Mooney briefed Tony on his schedule for the following week. Apart from dealing with tons of correspondence, and attending meetings with aides and constituents, Congressman DiNozzo was scheduled to make various appearances, including talking to a group of students at Baltimore City College. Also, on the agenda was a meeting with the operations officers of the Port of Baltimore to discuss efforts in boosting anti-terrorism security, prior to a report to Congress. Although his staff had taken on extra work while Tony had been 'unavailable,' there was a backlog of work to do. He felt tired just thinking about it.

Scott said, "Monday starts out with breakfast meeting with the aides, then you meet with a group of students at City College at 10 AM, so I moved up the staff meeting to noon. Conference at 2, and you need to be present to vote on the weapons bill at 4. Here are the details. Tuesday, there's a city council meeting with the Council on Aging. I was asked to let you know that the folks from the Downtown Senior Center are attending, specifically because they want to be there to thank you for getting them the… Blue Betsy?" Scott looked quizzically at his boss.

Tony laughed. "The center hasn't had a bus since their last one broke down and died. I made some calls, and found the funds, that's all. And yes, it's blue and they named it Betsy, after the center's founder."

Scott seemed pleased. "That's nice of you, Congressman. All righty, Wednesday you're doing C-SPAN's Washington Journal. At 8:30 AM, I'm afraid, but they're arranging a live video feed from here, so you don't have to go to DC. Lunch is at the Navy Reserve Center with…" He glanced up. "Do you want me to read all the details or should I just leave the schedule?"

"Leave it, thanks, Scott. Keep me updated of any changes."

"One more thing then. You wanted me to keep late Friday open? The Subcommittee on Emerging Threats and Capabilities is meeting at 1 PM. Details are on the schedule."

"Great. That means I can get out early enough to watch my son's basketball game," said Tony.

Scott was about to leave when he turned back and said in a low, emotional voice, "I'd just like to say, sir, that I am very, very glad you're back, and safe, and that you…well, I hope you feel better, and if you want me to lighten your schedule…"

Tony thanked the young man and shooed him out of his office before any tears were shed. He was grateful and humbled by the good wishes of so many people, but he would be so glad when some big news story popped up and people would stop looking at his bruised face and neck, while speculating about what he'd been through.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

The severity and frequency of Tony's coughs diminished more every day, although first thing in the morning, you'd have thought he was dying, from all the hacking that went on. Tony had learned that if he controlled his breathing, and spoke in slow, even tones, he could manage quite well. The swelling around his eye had gone down, the purple had changed to a sickly green and yellow, and it appeared to be healing at a normal rate. Some of the bruises on his body had almost dissipated; others still looked bad, but Tony no longer felt like he'd been run over by a bus. He did have spasms in his neck muscles now and then, but the heat wrap and ibuprofen usually took care of it; he had stronger meds if the pain became too much.

Fornell and his people had almost wrapped up their investigation, and were, more than ever, leaning towards the conclusion that Beals had been working alone. To Tony that meant it would be safe for his family to return home at the end of the week.

"We'll talk on Friday," promised Fornell.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Tony found himself thinking about Jethro a lot – an awful lot. Especially at night, when he couldn't sleep. He went over their brief time together, replaying every scene like it was a movie; he even pictured it in black and white, as well as in glorious Technicolor. He saw Jethro opening his door to him, talking to him by the fireside, and rescuing him from Beals. He could smell the wood smoke from the fire in the hearth, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and for some reason, sawdust, as if from woodworking. Hay and horses, too, and the scent of the rain. Gunpowder and blood, those were less than pleasant smells that invaded his memories, and Tony tried to obliterate them from his mind. He didn't have much luck.

Tony tried not to think about Beals, but it was hard not to, so every time his mind went back to his time in captivity, that terrible, disturbing time, he told himself to picture Jethro instead: Jethro's blue eyes, the way his mouth turned up a little at the corner when he was trying not to smile, his attentiveness when he'd helped Tony in the shower after bringing him in from the rainstorm, the way Jethro had listened to him, had asked him questions like he really cared to hear the answers, and the way he'd looked at Tony. He'd looked at him like…Tony didn't quite know what the emotion behind those eyes had been, not for sure, but he imagined it was a compassionate look, a truthful look. It was as though Jethro had really seen him, had known him.

Tony huffed a small laugh. He was deluding himself, seeing things that weren't there – connections, a possible future. They didn't really exist. The man had simply been sorry for him, had felt somewhat responsible for him, too. Jethro was a good man, but their brief encounter was just that, brief.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Gibbs picked up his cell phone…and put it back down on the kitchen table…for the tenth time in as many minutes. "Damn it!" He grabbed the cell and dialed Tony's number, determined to see this through, but just as it started to ring, he noticed a car coming down the drive. It was Moira, come to help groom the horses. Reluctantly, Gibbs pressed 'cancel' and went out to meet her.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

Tony sat at his desk in the Baltimore office, thinking about spending time in Washington next week, and not looking forward to it. When he had a quiet moment, Tony picked up his cell and called Jethro. He dialed the house phone at the farm, doing it quickly before he could chicken out. It rang and rang, and after ten rings, Tony realized that either Jethro didn't have an answering machine, or it wasn't hooked up. He reluctantly hung up and tried again, using Jethro's cell number. It went directly to voice mail, and an automated voice informed him that the mailbox was full. "Damn it!" Tony slammed his hand on his desk in frustration, and was about to place a call to Agent Fornell, when his assistant beeped him to let him know that he had to leave for DC in five minutes.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~