Two and a half hours later, and Tony's mood was fast approaching the Gibbs benchmark for gathering menace. It seemed fitting - 'ill-tempered' was more of a career requirement for their team than investigative skills these days. Stood to reason he'd be knocking on the door of turning pro.

Especially with this kind of motivation.

He was cold, he was wet, he was muddy, and he was on a wild goose chase.

What Gibbs had neglected to mention – one of the many things – was that the body in question had been found in the water. Which meant 'looking over the location' actually meant walking the perimeter of the lake, searching for any evidence that might give them a heads up as to where the dumper had been. Because of course PD hadn't found it before they handed the case over. That would qualify as catching a break, and they couldn't be having that, could they?

And really, chasing wild geese would be a breeze compared to this. Needle in a haystack was a better description.

No. It wasn't. That was looking for the dump site in regular conditions. Not in what had been drizzle when they arrived, and had spent the intervening period getting steadily heavier. Not when it had poured with rain last night, and the night before, and on and off for several days before that. Not when it was muddy underfoot, and the wind kept flinging grit in his eyes, and really, James Bond never had this trouble.

Then again, the James Bond was Sean Connery, and Sean Connery was from Scotland, and if Ducky could be believed, this was probably standard operating procedure for the weather there. He was very glad he wasn't Scottish. Where would be the fun in living somewhere where all the girls were neck to toe in heavy duty clothing all year round? Crime against mankind, that was.

He pushed aside yet another damp branch, muttering darkly to himself when the one behind it hit him in the face just to make a point. He daren't look at the bottom of his suit. He could smell some of that mud. He had no interest in inviting depression by looking at what it could do to quality work wear.

It wasn't like he wanted to cut corners. He knew this task was unavoidable. Even if the PD had already found what they were looking for, they would have gone over every inch of it again. There was no substitute for thorough, not for any of them. Gibbs' rules on the matter were unnecessary. He would never trust a case to evidence he hadn't checked for himself to the best of his ability.

Himself, or someone he trusted.

And there, in a nutshell, was the problem. Aside from the wet and the cold and the muddy, at any rate. Too much time to think. He'd not managed to shake off his introspective mood of earlier, and trudging around this perimeter gave him the perfect opportunity for brooding.

Trust. A fundamental of any form of teamwork. Cooperation. Division of labour. All participants reading from the same script. Different actors in the same film.

Trouble was, this film was more Police Academy 5 than The Maltese Falcon.

They were supposed to work together, to complement each other, to produce a coherent finished picture where you couldn't see the joins.

Unfortunately, at the moment they were all joins and no ensemble. Gibbs was doing Clint Eastwood in a Western, Ziva was the femme fatale in a Noir, McGee was the straight laced by the book superior in a thousand buddy cop movies – and as for himself, he seemed to be settling for the fall guy in a particularly unfunny comedy.

All in all, it was hardly a surprise that the resulting movie was an incoherent mess of clashing styles.

He had no idea where it had all gone wrong. Somewhere along the line they'd slid onto different pages, and now…

…and now instead of trust, there was doubt. Instead of confidence, there was unease.

It was painfully obvious to Tony that the other two doubted his ability to contribute anything useful to an investigation. They went around him when he wasn't looking and belittled him when he was. All the minutiae of a case was no more than a string of would be insults to pelt him with.

It probably didn't help that he was so quick to get on the defensive and fight back that the whole thing descended into a playground farce in short order. He'd taken to playing down to the stereotype, figuring if he didn't show them anything else it wouldn't hurt when they couldn't see there was more to him than that.

The only time it was different was when it came to getting down and dirty and doing. Then they both deferred to his lead. If we were talking guns and infiltration and fieldwork, apparently then he was worth the time.

He had a really unpleasant suspicion that that might just be so that he was the first one in the firing line – whether the shot belonged to Gibbs, Vance or the bad guy of the moment – if it all went to hell.

And there was the flip side. He trusted them with the casework, but when it came to having his back… He knew they wouldn't do anything to compromise him. They were all too professional for that. But he was a little more unsettled when he was out in the field now. A little more nervous.

It wasn't the danger. The physical threat. That was everyday stuff.

No, the truth was, it could be difficult to come back from working undercover. Just look at the mess with Jeanne for proof of that. It was very easy for the lines to blur and the personalities to cross.

He'd seen good men lost to undercover ops, eventually turning into the people they were trying to take down. He didn't want that.

He was afraid of that.

With Jeanne… he still couldn't work out what had been real and what hadn't, and it scared him more than anything else.

His team was his anchor to prevent him losing himself completely, and honestly – if they didn't know who he was, how could they help him find himself again?

And what if they preferred who he became? What if they didn't want him back? What then?

Just thinking it had him grinding his teeth, an ice cold finger that had nothing at all to do with the weather running up his spine. He hadn't dared pay too much attention to these thoughts, for fear that he wouldn't be able to stop. That he might make a decision he didn't want to make, because he couldn't face the alternatives.

Past time to move away from that topic.

The fact was they had one seriously fucked up set of working relationships, even before you factored Gibbs in. Gibbs, who used to be the single most consistent thing on the planet, and now was habitually wrong-footing the lot of them.

He used to do that to make them learn. Now it just seemed like he did it – because he could. Because it was expected. Because it was a habit. The man was distant, and demanding, and constantly in a state of low grade irritation at best. And Tony drew the worst of it. He had always done, right from when there was only him. By the time there was more than that, he'd learnt how to handle it, and he kept on doing so.

And now they were all big enough to take a share, but still it came his way. Because it always had done. Because it was the way things were.

Yet another habit, and one by one they were grinding Tony down.

Somewhere along the line the people he worked with had forgotten that he was a person, not a caricature. They – and he was pretty certain he wasn't exempt from this, either - were all too wrapped up in their own needs to consider anybody else.

A soggier than usual squelch drew his attention downwards, and his brain noted 'Ooh, muddy puddle', just as his foot shouted 'Aargh! Cold and wet, you moron!'.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Well, at least nobody had seen him. With a bit of luck, McGee would have fallen on his ass in it. Probie had form for that.

With a lot of luck, Ziva would have fallen in full stop, and would be wearing nothing but a towel, but he was astute enough to know that he wasn't that fortunate. And even if he was, she'd wade back in rather than let him get a glimpse of towel.

Of course, Gibbs was The Boss. Which meant he was nowhere near the water, and no doubt enjoying every second of the fact. In a straight faced, prowling lion kind of way.

Part of him was glad. Gibbs and water had form too, and that wasn't an experience he wanted to relive in a hurry.

He'd gotten so far off his point, he couldn't remember what it was any more. Oh yeah. The futility of looking for the dump site, the pain and misery that was…

Oh. Hello…

He crouched down, and looked closer. Then he flicked on the radio.

"Boss?"

"DiNozzo."

"Think I got something. Third of the way down on the east side. Partial footprint and some cloth. Piece of a sheet, possibly."

"Dump site?"

"Could be. Need to look further in, but I don't want to lose the print."

There was no response other than a click. Rude, unmanageable, contrary…

Ah ah, Tony. That way lies pain. Shutteth up, and await thy boss. And do so without the mental curses, or the next thing you know, he's put you on the spot and you've spit out the first thing that comes into your head. And a conversation that goes:

"What have we got?"

"An irascible mentor with authority issues, a lousy temper and a predilection for torturing his subordinates."

is one that could never end well.

***

Ten increasingly soggy minutes later he heard a bellow from away to his left.

"DiNozzo!"

He was grateful. It gave him the opportunity to let off some of his frustration and annoyance in the return bellow.

"Here!"

A couple of minutes later, Gibbs emerged from the greenery, careful not to disturb anything that might be carrying evidence. Tony looked, hard, and couldn't see a speck of mud anywhere. Typical.

He came straight over, leaving the case he was carrying out of the way before getting a closer look at the area Tony pointed out to him, sheltered by the density of the bush.

"You photograph them?"

No, I thought this camera was just for show and cleavage shots. "Yes, Boss". He very carefully didn't roll his eyes, which was just as well, as Gibbs shot him a sharp look, very similar to the one he'd just given the evidence.

After a few seconds where they both looked at each other, Gibbs' eyebrows rose.

"I'll get on with bagging and tagging."

"No. Look further in. McGee's on his way across. He'll sort the evidence."

Little Lord Fauntleroy wasn't going to like that. So Tony, how much do we care to bet that you get to break that news?

"PD missed this."

There was that appraising stare again. He had no idea what Gibbs wanted to hear. Then again, he never seemed to these days.

"Not all that surprising if they were sticking to the shoreline. Depends how thorough they were."

"You found it."

Well that could be taken more ways than one. "The tree line's a bit further from the water here. And there's an old fridge and half a table in the water. If people use it as a local tip, stands to reason there's a way in nearby."

"Means that print could be anybody's."

"True. But it's close enough to the piece of sheet to be linked. No sign of them wrapping the fridge in a sheet."

A tilt of the head acknowledged.

"Boss?"

McGee slid carefully into the small clearing. His hair was plastered to his head – the drizzle of when they arrived having long since upgraded to proper rain – and there was a permanent rivulet of water running down his nose and dripping off the end.

Tony noted with satisfaction that he had mud halfway up his calves. It made him feel a lot better about the cold trickle of water down the back of his neck.

"Been paddling, Probie?" Tony grinned at him, getting a sour look in return. Before he could respond though, Gibbs had pointed out the print, and McGee was scurrying to the case.

"Body. Evidence. Dump site. Any of this ringing any bells, DiNozzo?"

Oh, come on. Did nobody round here have a sense of humor any more? Had Gibbs instituted a new rule while he was still at sea – never smile, joke, or otherwise show any sign that you're capable of enjoying anything?

Not that it mattered. He could take a hint, when he was hit in the face with one.

He moved towards the back of the clearing, where there was a narrow gap in the trees, and squatted down to take a look, Gibbs leaning over him.

"Could be drag marks, could just be interestingly patterned mud." He photographed it all regardless, before standing up and carrying on.

"Here." He followed the older man across and took a couple more photographs, this time of black paint on a tree. Then he stepped back and took another look, sizing the space up as Gibbs watched him.

"SUV maybe? This widens, so… our guy's driving in, wants to get as close as he can to the shore because the body's heavy, let alone the extra weights to take it down. Keeps coming until he clips the tree. Looking at the gap, if that's from the mirror, it puts the vehicle at about SUV size."

Gibbs looked at the gap, and nodded. "Let's see if there are any tracks."