He awoke slowly, murkily, painfully. Tendrils of blackness stretched out to pull him back down, to wrap him in tarry quiet. But there was something falling against his chest in an irregular patter.

It was irritating.

"Gibbs."

Another thump, this time against his side.

"Gibbs!"

Eyes not yet open, he finally got his mouth working and snarled, "What?"

"Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty."

This verbal aggravation and another light impact to his torso encouraged Gibbs to try to sit up. The pain in his head negated the attempt, and he collapsed back, focusing on opening his eyes instead.

He frowned as he finally cracked them open. The couch he found himself on was blurry and unfamiliar. He reached down to his side to pull one of the offending missiles closer to his face.

Toilet paper?

Grunting as he forced his eyes all the way open, he examined his find again. Definitely a new roll of toilet paper.

He was surrounded by it. Rolls were scattered on his stomach, along the side of the couch, and down by his feet.

What the hell?

"You awake?"

"Maybe." He looked over at the voice. His vision was still blurry and a little jerky; everything was surrounded by a halo of light, though the overhead light was blissfully off, and the main illumination came from around the drawn curtains, from the television screen, and from a source behind him.

Turning around to look didn't seem like such a good idea right now.

"Do you know where you are?"

He didn't, but that did not seem like a good thing to admit. This was no office, no hospital, no hotel. The couch was too comfortable for a hotel.

He forced his mind to focus. The voice was…the voice was DiNozzo.

He guessed, "Your place?"

"I'd believe you more if you removed the question mark from the end of that sentence."

Tony was sitting on a second couch, perpendicular to the one Gibbs currently occupied. His legs stretched across the length of the cushions, one knee bound with multiple ice packs and resting on a stack of pillows and sweatshirts.

Reaching down to the floor, he grabbed another roll of toilet paper out of the monster pack resting there and lobbed it at Gibbs' thigh. "What's your full name?"

"Concussion check?"

"Yep."

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

Tony smiled widely. "Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

Gibbs threw a roll of toilet paper back at the detective's head.

Laughing, Tony swatted it away. "There's coffee in the thermos. Just reach your hand down to the floor."

Letting his left hand fall and searching without looking – turning his head made it swim – he was relieved to find a container within reach. He pulled it up and propped his head a bit higher against the side of the couch, taking a shallow sip.

It was still hot.

"Figured you might finally wake up and stay up for a few minutes soon." Tony took a swig of something that rested on the coffee table nearest to him.

No coasters, so probably no woman lived here.

"Do you remember how you got here?"

"I remember the pileup."

DiNozzo's face smoothed out a bit, as though he did not want to remember too many specifics himself on that front. "And then?"

"Hospital."

"Details?"

Frustrated, Gibbs tried to pull his thoughts into line. They weren't listening to his commands, and kept sweeping away when he tried to pin them down. "No."

"That's okay. It might come back as your head starts to feel better."

"Bad concussion?"

"I think you started it in the initial crash, then you banged your head against the concrete pretty hard later when…" Tony trailed off.

"They didn't make me stay?"

"Said they could release you if someone was around to check on you."

"So you brought me home?"

"Your phone got smashed up in the accident. I'm not sure who I would've called anyway, but it seemed like a bad idea to call NCIS HQ in the middle of the night to find someone to babysit you. No big deal."

"Who made the coffee?"

"I did. Why, is it bad?"

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo. It's weaker than water. But I meant why the hell are you moving around making coffee when you're supposed to keep that still?" Gibbs waved at the detective's knee, encompassing the nearby crutches with his gesture.

"No big deal," Tony repeated, "It'll be fine in a day or so once the swelling goes down. Hey, you want a pizza?"

"For breakfast?"

"It's one thirty in the afternoon."

Shit. "Shit! The boys must've gotten that warrant by now. I need to get over to that clinic."

"They may have, but there's not much point in going over there now; I already called and they're closed."

"Why they hell are they closed at one thirty?"

"It's Sunday, Gibbs. I don't think they'd have been open anyway on a Sunday. But as it stands, nothing's open right now." Grabbing a crutch and contorting his torso towards one of the covered windows, he used the long tool to bring a cord from the blinds to his hand, then raised them.

Swearing at the increased light, it took Gibbs a moment to realize that the white he was seeing was not a side effect of the concussion.

The sky was gray-white, everything below it was covered in white, and purer white fluffy flakes drifted down in fat blobs.

"We've gotten eleven inches so far with a couple more to go, or so says the weatherman. Nothing's open."

They both watched the snow fall for a minute. It was entrancing, soothing. And yet infuriating. How could they advance the investigation if everything was closed?

He suddenly remembered their conversation at the restaurant, and where they were headed before the accident happened. "I'll go to the station, get your files. We can look through those."

"You will do no such thing. You're not going anywhere today."

Gibbs prepared to get nasty.

"Besides, I had Leo bring me the files and some groceries before it got this bad outside. He doesn't live far from here."

Leo… "Whitford?"

"Yep. So, you want a pizza? Just a frozen one, I'll pop it in the oven."

DiNozzo slowly moved his right leg down to the floor with both hands supporting his thigh, then swung the left down next to it.

"You stay put, I can do it." Gibbs struggled to sit upright, finally succeeding in the attempt, though he had to close his eyes as the world swirled around for a moment.

"And have a guest prepare the meal? Never!" Tony rose, full of fake offense. For a split second he eyed the crutches, as if he'd prefer not to use them and just hobble about. But in the end he did grab them and swing his way into the kitchen, located behind the couch Gibbs was planted on.

Just how bad did the kid's knee have to be for him to think that using crutches would look better than trying to walk on it?

"You want a pain pill? They sent you home with a half bottle."

Grudgingly, the agent allowed, "One."

"They're on the table beside you; careful, cap's loose already."

Gibbs turned carefully and snatched the bottle off of the table, uneasy at the convenience. Either DiNozzo'd had someone take care of him after a similar situation and put this much thought into it, or he'd dealt with it enough alone to know exactly what would make the painful and disorienting massive headache as tolerable as possible.

Loudly humming some tune Gibbs did not recognize, Tony easily navigated the small kitchen as flipped the oven on, pulled a pizza box out of the freezer and opened it up, placing the pie on a cookie sheet already set on the counter.

He grabbed a bag of shredded cheese out of the fridge and added a considerable extra helping on top of the frozen stuff.

Tony used the end of one crutch to catch the edge of the oven door and pull it down, then he slid the pan in and slammed the door shut. Using the other crutch as a pivot on the floor, he swung himself around, threw the remaining bagged cheese back into the refrigerator and butt-bumped the door closed.

He was way too practiced at using those crutches.

Pissy, Gibbs demanded, "Where are those files?"

"All in good time."

"Now."

Eyebrow raised, Tony loftily proclaimed, "Eat first. If you don't puke, you can work."

Gibbs wanted to smack him, but he wasn't sure who would win at the moment. He deflected. "Where's the head?"

DiNozzo pointed with the end of a crutch. "Just down there, first door on the left. If you want to shower, there's clean towels on the rack. Just…be careful, okay?"

At the last admonishment, Tony ducked his head and looked away, puttering around the kitchen. "I don't want to drag your concussed ass out of the shower if you fall asleep in there." He resumed his song, this time including loud words instead of just humming.

Levering himself to his feet, Gibbs stood with both hands on the arm of the couch before he moved further, taking stock.

In general he didn't feel any worse than he had yesterday morning except for his head. He was achy all over, especially his shoulders, and his hands were bandaged.

Suddenly he remembered: A little blonde girl, almost going over the side of an abyss. He tossed her back, going over in her place. But there was a rope, and he tangled in it, dangling. He slipped, but suddenly two arms appeared from nowhere and a voice berated him to move faster, pull harder. He did. Something grabbed onto his wrist and yanked upwards.

He looked back at his hands. Definite rope burn.

"Why was the girl on the hood of that car?"

DiNozzo paused what he was doing and looked over. "Teddy bear. Still in the backseat."

Unsettled in thought but sturdier than expected on his feet, Gibbs made his way down to the bathroom, pulling the door shut firmly behind him, but not locking it.

Glancing in the mirror was a mistake; his face was a mixture of day old cuts and bruises and fresh ones. A huge bump protruded from the right side of his head, swollen and scraped badly enough that some of his hair had been ripped out.

He looked like Frankenstein's monster. Couldn't go anywhere near Abby looking like this. Maybe it was a good thing his phone got trashed before Tony could think to call either her or the meddling doctor.

He definitely needed to clean off. Maybe that would even help improve the monster mask.

A knock sounded at the door, startling him. Tony called out, "You still decent?"

Rolling his eyes, Gibbs went to open the door. "What is this, a sorority house?"

Eyes gone merrily wistful, DiNozzo plopped his hand, crutch and all, over his heart. "Ahh, those were the days. Sorority raids…good memories." With a cheeky grin, he handed over Gibbs' bag of clothing that he had replenished at the house yesterday. "Here, almost forgot."

Accepting the bag and closing the door again, Gibbs realized he didn't know what he was wearing at the moment. Looking at himself in the mirror again (tilting his head downwards still made him want to vomit), he found he was wearing his own sweats that had been in the bag.

He sure didn't remember putting them on. Some things were best left unremembered.

Undressing, he found that his right side was one massive scrape – he must've slammed up against the side of the overpass. He was lucky neither of his shoulders has popped out of joint from abruptly catching himself on the rope.

His memory flashed again: Bright lights in the hospital irritated his already uncontrollable headache. He thought his head would explode finally, then maybe there would be some peace. It didn't burst, and no relief came. Something touched his head – it felt like a mace. Striking out reflexively, his fist met flesh and a feminine shout of pain followed. He stilled himself, shapes around were blurry and he wasn't sure who he'd hit. Someone yelled out "Security!" but another voice was quick to follow, "He's okay, you just startled him. Gibbs. Gibbs, it's DiNozzo, you need to be still for the mean lady doctor. Or she's going to tie you up and shoot you. Just be still." DiNozzo's hand rested lightly on Gibbs' left bicep and he continued talking, narrating what the doctor was doing.

Turning the shower on scalding, Gibbs stepped inside and momentarily abandoned trying to corral his thoughts into a single file line as the water washed away some of the pain and aches, and some of the fuzziness in his head. Since the shampoo was in a caddy hung over the shower nozzle and the soap was down on a dish below that he'd have to bend over to get, he kept his head level and used the minty shampoo on his hair and his body. It stung.

When the water finally started to cool minutes later, he reluctantly turned the water off and stepped out, eschewing the now soiled sweats he had been wearing for a second pair he'd thankfully stashed in the bag yesterday. He greedily pulled on thick, warm socks. It wasn't cold in here, especially after the steaming shower, but the image of all that snow outside echoed in his visual memory and made him want to bundle up.

Gibbs frowned. He wasn't firing on all cylinders yet. His behavior was off – when was the last time he put so much thought into socks?

It made him nervous to be off his game and playing houseguest to a detective he wasn't yet sure of.

Actually, it would probably make him nervous to be around anyone right now.

Shaking off what could easily have turned in to a power brooding session, he gathered his things and proceeded back towards the small kitchen. Dropping his bag by the couch, he looked around at his surroundings, paying more attention to the details this time around.

The apartment was neither tiny nor large, the furnishings neither old and ratty nor new and shiny. The living room area was taken up by the two full-sized plush gray couches in their L shape with a glass coffee table in between and two small, mismatched wooden end tables. The entertainment center against the far wall held a large TV and was flanked by two tall bookshelves full of DVDs. Much of the remaining wall space was taken up by windows on two sides – apparently Tony had a corner unit – and the third wall held three framed movie posters. "The Thin Man," "Lethal Weapon," and "The Defiant Ones." Interesting combo.

Turning around put him face to face with Tony, who was watching Gibbs examine his place through the empty space above the bar that looked into the tiny, neat kitchen. DiNozzo gestured back towards the bathroom, "Go on, explore. You'll be more comfortable. Pizza will be done in five."

Gibbs shrugged and turned back around, going past the bathroom and ducking his head into the first open door on the right. It was probably billed as a second bedroom, but was currently set up with a treadmill, rowing machine, and heavy bag suspended from a beam in the ceiling. There was no decoration, no TV, not even a radio in sight, but the equipment looked used, and there was no dust on anything.

Backing out, he padded down the short hall to the final door, also opened, that led to the larger bedroom.

A king-sized bed took up much of the room, a thick down comforter pulled back in disarray. No one had ever taught this kid to make his bed in the mornings. The headboard had been made into a bookshelf, and two more flanked the bed, mostly filled. The ones to either side held modern spines, paperbacks jumbled with hardcovers, but the shelves over the bed looked like they held antique volumes.

A few articles of clothing were scattered about, but in general this room was also neat and uncluttered. Woven baskets filled a cubby shelving unit against another wall, interposed with a few framed photos. All were landscapes or city shots, places DiNozzo had presumably been, except for one picture of a younger, college-aged Tony surrounded by a group of happy guys sitting on the steps of a brick building marked with Greek letters. Frat house.

Gibbs refrained from pulling open drawers or poking into to the standing wardrobe. He did open the remaining door in the bedroom, expecting another bathroom, and was surprised to find a tiny office crammed in what was supposed to be a walk-in closet. A small desk sat at the end with a computer and lamp. Two file cabinets flanked the closet entrance, making it a narrow squeeze to enter. They were locked.

The desk wasn't pushed flush to the far wall; instead, the four or five feet between the desk and wall held stacks of empty boxes.

Having spent most of his life around military personnel, Gibbs recognized the signs of a man who expected to be posted somewhere long enough to unpack, but not long enough to get rid of the boxes. The neat, uncluttered nature of the place backed that up. He hadn't been around long enough to acquire a bunch of useless stuff sitting around.

"Pizza, pizza!" Tony called from the kitchen.

Gibbs backed out of the office and closed the door, heading back towards the smell of food. He was hungry, but also nauseous. Always an annoying combination.

DiNozzo was now armed with a pizza cutter, and wielded it with expertise. "Soda, milk or water?"

Gibbs stared at him.

"No beer for you, not with the painkillers." Tony grinned cheekily. "Don't want you getting all loopy on me."

Gibbs continued the stare.

Tony slipped pieces of pizza onto two paper plates and pointed behind him. "I made you another pot of coffee. Addict."

Grabbing both the plates of food from Tony's hands before he had to watch how the detective had planned to move those around with crutches, Gibbs deposited them on the coffee table, rescued his thermos of now cool coffee, and went to refill. Tony looped the handle of a quart of milk around his thumb and swung back to the couch he had previously occupied.

Grabbing the remote, DiNozzo questioned, "Sports? TV? Movie? News?" He seemed a little uncomfortable now, like he wasn't sure what to do with his now-conscious guest.

Not that Gibbs was one to talk in that particular arena. He shrugged, indicating his apathy, and eyed the pizza on his plate. Good idea or bad idea? Always so hard to tell after a concussion…

Tony flipped through channels and landed on a repeat of some college bowl football game. They watched in companionable silence as they munched on their food. Neither of them were the type to knife and fork a pizza.

Gibbs stuck to a relatively safe three pieces, and after assuring the younger man that he was done, watched Tony make his way through the rest without problem. When he had finished, and the relatively small mess from their meal was cleaned up, DiNozzo swung over to the apartment's entrance and bent over to pick up a good-sized box. As it seemed heavy and the kid was obviously having some difficulties navigating back to the seating area with both crutches and container, Gibbs yanked the box away from the younger man, carrying it to the coffee table.

Inside, he found a large stack of promised case files.

Leaning back on his sofa as Tony reseated himself and restlessly surfed through channels, Gibbs began to read. After just a few minutes, Tony gave up, turned the television off, and started rereading case files, careful to keep out of Gibbs' way.

Over two hours later, Gibbs mused aloud, "There is a kind of pattern. A progression."

Tony jerked around to look at him. "He's getting more sure of himself. Looking for harder game."

Gibbs agreed. "Moving from frailer to progressively healthier and well-built targets.

"Until he got to a Midshipman. Young, strong, trained to fight."

"No signs of a fight on the body, though, so this whacko's still afraid of a head-on confrontation."

"He has to be in decent shape, I figure on the taller end, twenties to fifties."

"Sneaks up on his prey like a coward from behind. Or lures them in somehow."

Their musings were interrupted by a loud and angry pounding upon the apartment door.

"You expecting anyone?" Gibbs asked.

"Nope." Tony levered up off of the couch and swung over to peer through the peephole. "Huh." Gibbs moved up behind him as he unlocked and opened it.

There stood Ducky, angry as Gibbs had ever seen him, face nearly purple.

"Hey, Duck."

"That's really the most appropriate thing you can think to say right now, Jethro? 'Hey?'" Ducky stepped forward, and Tony quickly closed the door and hopped back, eyes darting quickly between the two men.

"There a problem?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

Ignoring the dripping sarcasm, Gibbs opted for keeping dumb until the doctor got all the mad out. "Look a little red in the face."

"Yes, well, worrying for the past ten hours or so does tend to alter one's complexion. The lovely drive here through the aftereffects of a raging blizzard certainly helped. And the elevator is, of course, out of order, so you'll forgive an old man if he's a bit flushed after not sleeping and then climbing up two flights of stairs!"

Gibbs opened his mouth to reply, but was hit with another memory: Stumbling out of a taxi, he wasn't sure where he was supposed to be going until the voice he'd been growing accustomed to for the past few hours called for him to follow. He forced his eyes open and found Tony, on crutches – when had that happened? – and followed him inside a building, out of the snow that was falling from eerily lit skies. What time was it? Tony started a slow progression up a flight of stairs that looked endless to Gibbs' tired eyes. "Elevator?" he asked, hoping. Tony looked down at him, apology in his eyes. "It's broken. Let's just go slow, we'll make it." Gibbs started up, but soon found his dizziness was playing tricks; he was having problems judging the depth of each step. He lurched over to the left banister, nearly falling backwards, and held on, eyes closed, feeling like a moron who had climbed up a tree and was unable to get back down. Except worse, since this was just a normal set of stairs. He started climbing, pulling along the banister, eyes still closed. How could anybody feel this dizzy with closed eyes? Suddenly there was a hand clamped on to a hunk of his shirt, pushing gently at his back but also providing an anchor if he started falling backwards. He wanted to slap the hand away, but he'd done so several times tonight, and it kept coming back. He wanted to scream, but there was no point, so he didn't. Together they struggled up the stairs with three legs and no balance, both of them falling against the other or the wall, eliciting pained grunts, but no stoppages. Tony kept them both moving upwards, never quite falling. He was panting harder than Gibbs, but never stopped, and never unclamped his hand from Gibbs' shirt until the ground leveled out miles later.

Gibbs stumbled back a step, his vision suddenly blurry again, his head echoing the ache of that moment fiercely. The shame of causing pain to an already injured teammate rang fresh in his mind. How could he not be able to climb steps?

Hand at his temple, Gibbs' arm swept behind him as he searched for the wall to prop himself against while the wave of pain passed. Ducky, face yet unchanged, issued a stern sounding, "Jethro!" and stepped forward.

Thankfully, Gibbs found the wall. If he had not, he may have ended up sliding into an ungraceful seat on his ass. Ducky never would've caught him in time.

Tony now blocked his path, having stepped between the doctor and Gibbs, crutches falling onto the kitchen floor. The clatter they made as they hit the linoleum was the only sound in the apartment.