If the fight in the ceremony room were a rushed run-on sentence, then the trip back to Valero Notte was a lengthy paragraph; an entire chapter that took too damn long to finish.
Perhaps it was the silence that fell amongst the group, or maybe it was their worry-fueled impatience to get somewhere safe that gave the journey its prolonged feel. On a normal night of flying, it would take them less than half an hour to get from Venice to Valero Notte. But that was quite impossible, given the fact that the three flightlings had maybe one uninjured wing between them…one single wing. Not a pair. And considering it belonged to Apollo, whose side had yet to stop bleeding, this lone wing wasn't much good.
Their options were limited. They couldn't fly, and they couldn't hail a cab looking the way they did…not that they had any money to pay for one anyway. So, they stole a small speedboat. McGee didn't even notice that they'd done it until they were halfway there. In fact, he hadn't really registered that they were on a boat at all up to this point. His usual seasickness aside, the ride would have been so pleasant under different circumstances. The cool breeze brushed at his face, and it too might have felt lovely if every minute motion of the boat didn't jostle his entire body at once. But even this escaped his notice half the time. McGee's attention was nowhere. He was awake but not aware…barely conscious. The fact that he'd stepped off of a dock and onto a strange watercraft without registering it made that much clear. From the moment they'd left the mansion, Tim's sole function had been to follow Gibbs wherever he went. He trusted his boss to get them home.
In another split second of in-and-out clarity, he flexed his hand (or tried to) and realized that yes, his fingers were most definitely broken. In this moment, McGee was basically living proof that the bed-of-nails theory was correct; everything hurt so much that he was no longer aware of any one particular affliction.
Jethro, for the record, was not happy to steal the boat, but he didn't have any other options. No driving, no flying, and time was running out. DiNozzo looked to be one gust of wind from falling over, and Ziva appeared no better. It was the exhaustion, he thought, more than anything else. You can't keep a person locked in a cage for more than a day, give them only a single water bottle and then send them into a horrifying fight without expecting some complications. And their flightling counterparts were in even worse shape. He'd been worried when they left the palace, but now, only a few minutes later, and everyone was somehow looking more pale and weak than before. McGee was his greatest concern at the moment, and if he had his way, Jethro would have made a beeline straight for the nearest hospital in Venice instead of going to Valero Notte first. However, he respected Apollo too much to override the man's pain-addled request. Besides, it was a reasonable entreaty. They couldn't see a doctor, so they were going to have to perform first aid on themselves and on each other. Why wouldn't they want to do so in the safety of their own home?
When they finally pulled up to a dock in the harbor, everyone awoke as if from a dream, though none of them had been sleeping. Tim looked at the beautiful little city before him. It was so late, and no one was around, but enough lights poured from windows and street lamps to assure him that life still existed, that the real world was not comprised entirely of pain and darkness and fear. He'd hadn't lived there a full year, and yet he felt like he was coming home. And really, he was. The memories of his old life did come back to him of course, but never had he been more at home than here in this charming little city. The feeling was amplified tonight, given everything they endured.
When all six pairs of feet met solid ground, things went back to dangerous for a bit. All those months that Tim spent learning Valero Notte by heart were paid off in those silent, tension-filled minutes. Because the three flightlings knew the back alleys so intimately, they were able to get from the dock to the Clark house as fast as possible, especially considering the long list of afflictions they carried between the six of them. This was important, not only because time was of the essence, but because they would face all kind of inconveniences were they to run into some unsuspecting pedestrian. The average citizen one might meet on the street doesn't handle the shock of six people covered to various degrees in blood and gore, even if the encounter does happen late at night, in the darkest of back alleys. To make matters worse, three of those persons currently found themselves unable to fold away their wings.
No matter. The destination was reached without incident, though the lack of a house key threw a momentary wrench in the works. This problem was solved, however, thanks to the disconcerting fact that the large window to the library was smashed in several places, so that Ziva had no trouble getting in and opening the door for everyone.
The sight that met their eyes when they entered made everyone stop, and Tim's breath hitched. A lump formed in Victoria's throat.
The house, the beautiful Clark mansion…was in shambles.
The actual structure of the house remained intact, sure. But when the agents and flightlings made their mad dash to get out of Valero Notte, they'd left the place unguarded, and the followers of D'Amico's who were ordered to find them wasted no time in tearing it apart. Windows were broken in almost every room, including the skylights in the ballroom, where debris now scattered around the floor. The huge mirrors that adorned the ballroom walls were shattered. Some pieces of furniture were broken, and in the library, dozens of books were torn apart; pages and pages from treasured volumes now lay about, like feathers from a torn-open pillow. Anything that had been easily breakable was now broken. The destruction was heartbreaking, though it could have been far worse, which even Apollo acknowledged between his labored breaths.
"Don't worry…our lives are far more important…we're just lucky that they didn't cause any more damage than this."
"Let's just hope they left our bedrooms alone," McGee put in, helping Gibbs and Ziva bring the older man to his bed. His prayers were answered, as Apollo's room was untouched. In fact, all of the smaller rooms were without damage. Thank god, because they all needed sleep.
But first, they needed a doctor.
They laid Apollo down and he immediately closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off. Everyone else went back to the library.
"You should go to the hospital," McGee began.
"What about you?" Ziva asked, noticing that his choice of pronouns excluded himself.
There was a pause, as he considered the proper way to phrase his thoughts.
"We'll make it 'till you get back," Tim promised, though the weariness in his voice suggested otherwise.
"We're not leaving you, McGee," Tony said, but Victoria entered and shook her head.
"You all need medical attention."
"So do you."
Tim sighed. "You know we can't go to a hospital. I can't fold away my wings…I think they're broken in some places again. I can't really even move them," he admitted, and it was clear that his pain was not only physical when it came to these particular injuries. The long appendages were drooped over the floor, dragging behind him when he walked. Victoria's were in a similar state, though she said nothing on the matter.
Gibbs looked between the four younger adults with a rare show of hesitation. Tony and Ziva, though they tried to play it off, were severely hurt and needed a hospital. He wouldn't be satisfied until they were taken care off. At the same time, there was nothing on earth that could possess him to leave Tim alone. Even if it were just Victoria, he would hesitate to go. They looked as bad as they had when he'd seen them in the dungeons; all of their injuries were reopened during the fighting and the blood was drying and once again matting their hair and clothes.
"Apollo managed to fold away his wings," Victoria informed them. "He could go with them."
McGee perked up at the news. "Boss, you wouldn't mind…?" he trailed off when Jethro gave him a disbelieving look. Of course Gibbs would take Apollo to the hospital. It wasn't a favor to Tim, it was the right thing to do, especially considering the fact that Apollo was by now a comrade in arms- a friend. Not an enemy or even an unwilling ally. "Thanks, Boss."
With a final look of vacillation, the agents relented. If they only way help Tim was by getting Apollo to a doctor, then that's what they'd do.
"I'll call for a cab or something," Victoria said as she headed for the kitchen phone, wishing her cellphone hadn't been lost when they were attacked at Simon's house.
"I told Apollo he should've gotten a car," McGee said without a hint of bitterness.
Victoria gave a tired, wry smile. "So did I. But 'no, Victoria, everyone walks everywhere. Why do we need a car when we can fly?'"
She looked at the number for a cab company, which was written on a scrap of paper and held on the fridge with a magnet. Tim went to Apollo's room, where the older man lay on his bed, asleep.
"Apollo," McGee shook him as carefully as possible, meaning to rouse him without causing further harm. "Wake up, you're going to the hospital."
His eyes opened and immediately the older man began to protest.
"No. You're not just going to sit here until you die from blood loss," Tim cut him off. His tone was unusually harsh, but McGee was just too tired to put up with this defeatism. He didn't know why he felt this way. Their war was over…he should be rejoicing. So why was he feeling so tense? Tim wrote it off as the lack of sleep and the lengthy amount of offenses his body had suffered over the past few days. Still, it came forth as annoyance, and, sensing this exasperation, Apollo nodded, allowing the younger man to help him up and into the library to wait for the taxi to arrive.
Gibbs joined them with a first aid kit that was packed in with all of the team's hunting supplies. Luckily, in choosing not to investigate the bedrooms, the flightlings who wrecked the mansion left behind several modified hunting weapons. In their mad dash to leave the last time, the agents only took as many guns as they could carry, which meant some had to be left behind.
A warm washcloth was put in his hand (by whom, he couldn't say), which McGee took and used to clean his face. At least the angry redness that heralded infection hadn't yet reached the cuts on his head, though this was not much consolation when Tim reached down and, wincing the entire time, peeled away the now-soiled gauze wrapped around his arms.
The criss-cross patterns that were lacerated into his skin were still there, though now the whole area was swollen to a frightening degree. The whole arm- and all of Tim, really- looked as if he were radiating heat. In some places, it was starting to ooze.
Jethro and DiNozzo both shot up from their chairs, ignoring how much discomfort the action caused them, and went to McGee. Even though all reason argued against it, both of the senior agents were now determined to get him to a medical professional.
"That's it, you're coming with us," Tony said. Tim looked up in surprise.
"What?"
"You heard, McGee," Gibbs admonished. "You're gonna lose that arm if you don't."
"You haven't even removed the bandages from your chest or your stomach, McGee," Ziva put in. "Those injuries are much more serious, and if this is what your arm looks like-"
"My wings, Ziva. I can't put them away."
She looked at him for a moment, then went up to Victoria. The younger woman's eyebrows raised in suspicion as Ziva approached, and then she cried out when the agent started to unravel the wrappings on her arms as well. But when the blood and dirt-covered bandages fell away, Tim looked on in revulsion at the sight.
"If she does not see a doctor, she will die. What would you do? Because you're arm looks the same, McGee."
"If not worse," Victoria added, though she wasn't entirely pleased at being used as a negotiating tool.
"They're right, son," Apollo said, not looking up from his position on the couch: head back, eyes closed. He was now a sickly gray color, which didn't help Tim's stress go away any faster.
"I'm going to see if the cab's here," he said, getting up and trying to play down the fact that it took a full minute to steady himself once upright. Before he could turn towards the door, a breeze blew through the broken library windows and rustled his wings. Tim hissed.
"McGee…"
He ignored them and left the library. It wasn't that he did want to go to a hospital, because god, did he ever. But the damage wrought on his wings was messing with his mind. Yes, it was a considerable dose of exhaustion and pain adding to this irritability, but it was also the emotional wreckage of what had been done to him. He was scared, and yet he had no idea why he should be.
After sticking his head out the door and finding that the cab hadn't arrived yet, Tim, not wanting to go back inside, stood on the stoop for a moment, trying to remember what deep breathing was. He didn't even care that his wings were still out; nobody was around to notice. It was more disconcerting to him that each breath seemed ineffective, as if he weren't taking in enough oxygen. And he just wanted to sleep. McGee could feel his body's gradual meltdown; he knew that if he didn't do something soon, he would just collapse- for good, this time. But after what Thaddeus did to him…he couldn't imagine allowing anyone, even the people he loved and trusted the most, to manually fold his broken wings close enough to his back so that he could do the rest himself. The very thought stirred up memories of the agony he experienced when his wing dislocated from his back…and every other damn thing he'd been through.
A thump sounded in the night. For a human it would have been faint, but even to Tim's muddled senses it was loud and clear. He looked up and to his left for the source of the noise, which seemed to come from the second-story ledge on the church next door. Was it just him, or did one of those gargoyles move-
No.
It was impossible. He'd killed the man. Put his hand clear through his breast plate, felt the hot, toxic blood run over his fingers. He was dead...and yet there he was, Thaddeus D'Amico, looking alive as he ever had.
The man in question leaned up against one of the gargoyles, and stared down at McGee. All of his charm was gone, replaced by one raised, expectant eyebrow. It was a challenge.
Tony's voice startled Tim, but didn't really break his reverie. "Look, McGee, we just- what's wrong?"
The younger man didn't answer, but DiNozzo was worried to see the way his wings were up and stretched out, despite the pain it must have caused him. Each feather seemed to stand on end. Tony followed his friend's line of sight, and he too froze when he saw the source of McGee's concern.
Thaddeus just smirked at the two of them, then turned and entered the church. They could tell what he was saying- either they go to him, or he would come to them. And while it was a power play on the ancient man's part, getting them to go to him, it was probably for the best if they confronted him somewhere other than the Clark mansion, which was filled with antiques that could be utilized against them.
It was surreal, the way the two men calmly turned around and strolled back into the library. Everyone looked up at them, noticed their expressions, and seemed to know what had happened before they said it. Actually, Tim didn't say a word, so far away was his mind. Tony was the one to explain what they'd seen. No questions were asked, no laments to their situation were uttered. Everyone just got up and went to their rooms to prepare for the man waiting for them next door.
They all grabbed their guns, moving at a seemingly calm pace, though really they were trying not to lose it. Ziva picked up her signature hunting device- a long-range rifle that had been tinkered with until it could accommodate the bullets she'd designed, made to explode on impact. Tony's handgun used bullets that were somewhat barbed- they were meant to penetrate the toughest of skin and cause as much damage on their path through the body. Tim took one of these as well. Gibbs' grabbed the same gun he'd used for every hunt for his entire career, trusting it to see him through…but for good measure, he put a knife at his belt in case he ran out of ammunition. Victoria didn't have a gun to use, but she did have a blade of her own. Each member of this odd little group paused before returning to the library. They all knew this might very well be the last battle they ever fight, and it took a moment to come to peace with this before they squared their shoulders and regrouped.
Apollo watched them in silence, but once Tim turned to him, he held out an arm.
"Help me up, please."
"No, stay here," Tim ordered. "You'll just get yourself killed."
He left the room before an argument could break out. If it was better to seek forgiveness than ask permission, then he would have to seek forgiveness later for leaving Apollo there on the couch to wait for their return.
"He's right," Victoria said, kissing her adoptive father's temple. "Wait here until we get back. It'll be alright."
She left the room last, closing the library door behind her and ignoring Apollo's protests. They all trudged out the front door of the house, ready as they could be, for one more fight.
...
McGee's biggest fear was that they would be ambushed as soon as they walked through the door, which is why he insisted on going first.
The church had never looked so harrowing to McGee. Every instinct urged him to leave, that this was a dangerous place, but he ignored the flight or fight response, electing to keep his cool and look around. The stained glass windows seemed to glow from the little moonlight that reached them. The pews were completely empty, but in the cool, open air, Tim couldn't help but feel like he was on display. An angel statue sat in a transept to his left. It wasn't very comforting.
There was no ambush waiting for them, just the one man who stood at the end of the aisle, waiting for their approach. He watched them as they came near, daring them to start off this match.
"Where's Apollo? Couldn't bear to watch his family get killed again?"
No one answered his question, but Tim said, "I thought we killed you."
"Who knows. You may have. But not enough for it to take, it seems. Perhaps you just knocked me out…Are you sure you don't want to rethink the whole 'realizing your potential'? Because this could be you, someday."
They stood around him in a semi-circle, each of the agents (and McGee) with a different gun made for hunting, and Victoria with the knife tight in her grip, ready to fight.
"That's not very fair," Thaddeus said, nodding to the weapons. "I'm going to have to level the playing field." With that, he unfolded his wings, the very sight of which struck fear into Tim's heart. So much effort went into fighting the most powerful flightling of all time, and only now was he seeing the proof of this power.
Actually, of the three other flightlings present, Victoria had the largest wings in proportion to her stature. They were as long as Apollo's, though thinner and more delicate, as the elder man had several decades on her in which he'd built up strength and muscle. Still they were a good foot and a half shorter than McGee's; though Tim's wing span made sense given his height. But Thaddeus' wings, stretched out to their full length, were easily twice the size of Tim's wings and double the width of Victoria's. They were enormous, a deadly combination of good genes and a hellish lifestyle. Sure they looked brittle like any other flightling-gone-bad, but they were assuredly strong and sharp. He did not have the barbs that those two young men had, as Tim recalled; such quills seemed more industrial and probably an evolutionary quirk of flightlings originating from a harsher or more dangerous environment than Venice. D'Amico's wings were the appendages of nobility- more attractive, something from an artwork, a sculpture of hematite stone- each feather looked as sharp as a blade. If Death had wings, they were on loan to Thaddeus.
In their proportionately short lives, everyone present had seen their share of interesting and beautiful wings, but they couldn't quell the panic they felt at the mere sight of these monstrous weapon-like appendages. The argument about whether or not flightling genetics came with their own set of instincts could be ended right then and there: McGee could feel his own wings bristling into a defensive position despite the pain it caused him. It was involuntary- he perceived a threat, and his wings reacted. There was no purer form of predatory instinct. And because of this, he growled a loud, threatening sound that sent chills down the spines of everyone in the room- besides the one person it was meant for. But this wasn't a sign that Tim was unafraid of the danger that stood before him. In fact, the sight of the wings made him feel like a child about to be swallowed by a tidal wave; the shadow they cast over his face would have been enough to sway the most accomplished hunter, Gibbs included.
"That's better," Thaddeus said, rolling his shoulders. Looking around him at the five, he raised his hands, inviting them to attack. "Who's first?"
Evidently, Ziva was first, because she fired at his head. The bullet missed by mere inches as he ducked out of the way.
Without further ado, the assault began. Gibbs, Tony, Ziva and McGee all open fire, but if any of the various forms of projectiles struck their target, he wasn't phased. The scary part was that he had plenty of room to move, and despite the massive size (and weight) of his wings, D'Amico could dart from shadow to shadow in utter silence.
At one point, they lost sight of him. The three members of their party who were experienced with hunting knew that if you ever lose sight of the flightling you're tracking, the smartest thing to do is get to a wall and press yourself against it, so that nobody can sneak up from behind. DiNozzo was very particular about this rule, given the last time he ignored it, Victoria dislocated his shoulder.
This tactic was not unfamiliar to McGee, who'd learned it when training at FLETC. But when Thaddeus disappeared from their view and the agents all ran for cover, Tim froze, tilting his head so that he might be able to hear where in the church he was. However, sounds echoed off of every surface, which made it difficult to pinpoint exactly where he was at any given time. The hairs on Tim's neck stood up. The lights went out with a snap.
"Dammit, he must have ripped apart the fuse box or something," Tony muttered. All the electric lights were now out, and not a single candle was lit. The moonlight did send some beams into the church, illuminating the stained glass, but not nearly enough to allow Ziva, Tony, or Gibbs keep fighting. In this darkness, they were sitting ducks.
It was silent. Where was D'Amico? And where was McGee? Gibbs hadn't heard either one speak in a while. In fact, the rustling of wings had ceased as well. God knew where Victoria or Tim were, but Jethro could tell that Thad was somewhere, watching, waiting for them to come close enough for him to reach out and snap their necks.
Something grabbed his shoulder and the team leader spun, ready to pull the trigger on his gun.
"I'd prefer if you didn't kill me just yet," Apollo requested.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Tell me you wouldn't do the same in my place, Gibbs."
He couldn't. So the silver haired man went back to scanning the very little he could see of the terrain.
"He's not near us."
"You see Tony or Ziva?"
"Agent DiNozzo is directly across from us in the shadows," came the near-silent reply. "I don't see Agent David."
Ziva was farther down the way, closer to the doors. The darkness was very heavy here, as there were no windows nearby. At least the ex-Mossad agent's senses were sharp enough to notice the moment someone entered her vicinity. She couldn't see, but her gut told her it wasn't a friend, and in a flash she turned and fired. The masculine grunt of pain followed by the swish of feathers confirmed that she'd made the right choice. However, the figure reached out and grabbed her (further confirming that it was Thaddeus) but someone ripped her out of his hands. It didn't feel good, but Ziva was in no position to complain about her savior's methods.
"You ok?" the person asked. Definitely Victoria.
"Yes, thank you."
Without prompting, the younger woman threw Ziva a couple feet up into the air. Another pair of arms caught her and set her down on the clerestory ledge. The moonlight was able to reach this far, and she looked up at McGee.
"You'll be safer here," he said. "If he tries to come at you, you'll see him."
Since he couldn't fly, Tim climbed back down the column that he used to get up to the clerestory in the first place. He saw that Apollo had Gibbs covered, and even though he was dismayed to see the older man in the church, his help was welcome. So now the only person left to retrieve was Tony. Ziva was his sniper, and between Gibbs' skills with a gun and Apollo's advanced senses, they made a lethal ground force. Without prompting, Victoria had begun to run interference on Thaddeus. Every time he appeared out of thin air to try and launch an attack, she was there to pull them to safety or to distract him. She was doing a great job considering she couldn't fly.
McGee paused when he reached the floor, listening and looking out for either his best friend or worst enemy.
The latter was behind him in a second, before Tim could hear his approach. There was that speed he'd boasted about, but at the moment, this wasn't McGee's greatest concern, as his entire body was lit up with white hot pain that started in his arm and shot up and down every extremity. He'd been tazed before, in his human days, but that was like a hand buzzer compared to this. It caused him to scream, but even after the source of the electricity let him go his body continued to convulse.
The shock quite literally knocked him backwards, and his head collided with the marble floor with a crack. As if he needed another injury, as if his head weren't already hazy and disoriented. He looked up to see D'Amico smiling down at him.
"Tell me, did you think I was lying about the electricity conduction?"
McGee couldn't answer, too occupied with the coppery taste in his mouth.
Thaddeus' shoulder exploded and a hiss of true pain escaped him. From behind, DiNozzo fired a second time, hitting the man in the leg. Thaddeus took off into the darkness again, where another shot by Ziva narrowly missed him. Victoria was there, and she grabbed his injured shoulder and squeezed, causing Thad to gasp. He threw her off and she chased him as fast as she could up to the choir balcony- he flew, she climbed. Tim could hear the organ ring in protest as the two continuously bumped into it while squaring off. But he couldn't focus too much on the sound because his body was just finished twitching.
"Hunting guns make this easier," Tony said, kneeling down to asses Tim for more damage. "For crying out loud, Probie, if you want attention so badly just ask for it. You don't need to keep beating yourself up," he quipped in a feeble attempt to mask how worried he was.
The gust of air that left McGee's lungs was meant to be a laugh, but it didn't quite sound like one. In fact, it was closer to a sob.
Apollo and Gibbs were there in an instant, both kneeling by him. Apollo's wound was no longer bleeding, but his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, but that didn't stop him from feeling the protective rage that coursed through his veins. Without asking, he took the long serrated knife from Jethro's belt and straightened up, looking into the darkness.
"All that talk and you're still playing games?" he called. "It looks like one near-brush with death tonight wasn't enough to end your cowardice."
It was silent for a minute, then the single word echoed through the building.
"Fine. If that's how you want it to be."
In a moment, the lights went back up. Everyone blinked, agitated, but then they were frozen at the sight before them. Thaddeus and Apollo, only a yard's space between them. One's hands curled up in primal anger, and one gripping the blade with everything he had left.
They regarded each other, their wings stained with their own (and each other's) blood, which slicked up the polished floor. McGee watched them in fascination, their gaze unbreakable though they remained frozen.
"You're shaking, old friend," Thad mocked. "From fear or lack of strength? Or is it both."
"Well, it's not the first. I'm not going to live in fear anymore. Not of you, not of anything else," Apollo snarled.
"Odd. That's the same thing I told myself the last time my clan was destroyed. And look at where we are now."
The shorter man stepped forward, swinging his arm as if to stab his enemy, but D'Amico snarled and tore at his chest. Properly distracted, he didn't notice that Apollo's first move was a fake-out. This time, while they were chest to chest, he was able to stab the knife down to its hilt into his back, in the space between his wings. Thaddeus was silent, but the veins in his forehead and neck were so prominent it looked as though they might burst. He shoved Apollo backwards in disgust, but he wobbled. Finally, he was truly weakened. A well-placed shot from Ziva hit his forearm and he pulled it to himself with a hiss. The ex-Mossad agent deftly climbed her way back down to the floor, knowing they were near the end.
Apollo staggered a few feet and fell, but Tim didn't see this because he was too busy running at Thad, who grabbed his wing and, with just a flick of his wrist, snapped another bone. McGee fell to his knees with a cry but his self-preservation kept him moving, and he was back on his feet.
He had no guns, no knives, and here he was, on the steps of the altar about to be killed. In a rush of adrenaline, McGee did the first thing that popped into his mind, picking up the nearby font full of holy water and throwing it at Thaddeus.
For the first time ever, they all heard D'Amico scream. He cried out as the water made contact with his skin, falling to his knees. It wasn't as though the water scalded him the way it was supposed to burn a demon, but the man was by now covered in his own blood… Which burned a vibrant flame upon contact with holy water, and which, ironically, he'd been so smug to demonstrate to McGee the first time they spoke. He'd used it as a method of psychological warfare, and now it was being turned against him. That's not to say, however, that the fact their blood burned didn't frighten Tim. In fact, he was careful to step out of the way once the water began running over the floor. A drop of his blood ran off of his wing and collided with the pool, and a small spark shot up before fizzling out. For just a moment, he watched the water and couldn't help but feel disappointment settle into his stomach. He knew it was a long shot, but he'd hoped that maybe since he chose to deny the darker side of himself, that the very nature of his genes would not have such a reaction anymore.
But Tony's words from that night they discussed this phenomenon came back to him. Maybe this was just a chemical reaction between of the oil in the water and some special element of his genetic code.
Whatever it was, it worked on D'Amico, who was just starting to catch his breath when Gibbs came up behind him, racking his gun and preparing to shoot. For some reason, McGee knew even before his boss pulled the trigger that this time, with the modifications made to the firearm and the deterioration of Thaddeus' strength, it was going to work.
The struggling flightling looked up at Tim, chest still heaving.
Maybe seeing him so weak and hurt did the trick, or perhaps it was the fact that Thaddeus was no longer putting on airs, but whatever it was, McGee now saw right through his enemy.
There he was, exposed to the world. It was as though he'd been rubbed raw until the truest version of himself was revealed. Much like an open wound, it stung when hit with the cold night air.
Humans may seem banal and shallow in nature, but the passage of history has proven that as a species, mankind is capable of great philosophy- of the deepest thought, of the most profound idea. But as everyone knows, such deep thought is painful. Alongside beauty, it uncovers doubt and creates the deepest fear. Maybe, then, it's a good thing that humans only live for a few decades- if allowed such a short time to ponder and live, a person can only create so much pain for themselves through the torture method of philosophy. If there was ever evidence of this, it could be found in Thaddeus D'Amico.
He had the body of a nobleman, of a predator. Of an inhuman, perhaps angelic yet totally demonic warrior. But, at one time, he'd had the heart and mind of a man: an intelligent, thoughtful man. He'd been a playful, reckless boy gifted with the financial, social, and physical means to do the impossible, but deep down he'd been just as keen on contemplating the mysteries of the universe as any great thinker in history. However, where his intellectual peers had only a short time to challenge and question, he'd had centuries.
Centuries of heartbreak. Centuries of war and of blood and of murder- he'd lost his family, (his real family), then rebuilt it and watched as it was destroyed again…and now this third attempt at a clan of his own lay at his feet. He'd had centuries' worth of time to sit and question everything he'd ever learned, everything he'd ever been told. Too much time thinking had eroded even his greatest convictions until he had none left. Thad was left with nothing but doubt that aged his mind even while his body remained perfectly intact.
And piece by piece, his humanity left him. He was responsible for this, of course- all those years of killing, sometimes only for sport, and eventually he was nothing but a predator…a tactician, a battle weapon who sought nothing but the realizations of his goals. It was amazing he was still capable of some human interaction- though it did make Tim wonder, just how much of this man was still human? He was still capable of forming relationships, as made clear by his very genuine friendship with Apollo only a few decades before. He was still capable of recognizing beauty- for as creepy as it was, his interest in Victoria was not mere lust but genuine desire; his interest in Tim was more than an appreciation for his potential, but a recognition of what he himself once was.
Here was an ancient man who somehow seemed just as old as he was youthful and as dangerous as he was vulnerable: this man wasn't even trying to cling to the last shreds of humanity he'd once had. Even that carefree facade he'd worn was only an attempt to act as charming and blithe as he'd been in the earliest years of his extended adulthood. It was no longer charisma but a painful mask. Thaddeus had traded his humanity for ungodly amounts of power and eternal life- whether it was worth it seemed to be a matter of opinion.
And the stark contrast between the two men was ever more obvious now, in the shadows of the church. Tim stood proud and, while not confident of his instincts or powers, certainly more confident in his own goodness and humanity. He was insanely younger, smaller, and more naive, but McGee possessed the moral high ground.
Because of said moral high ground, he saw something in Thaddeus' face that almost garnered the bastard a twinge of pity. Almost. But all he saw was the shell of a man, a costume for an animal to wear. This was what he'd been so afraid of becoming. This is the reason that he asked DiNozzo to kill him should he ever turn into a monster. The most obvious and always-present giveaway of a flightling was the fascinating color of their eyes. But this thing in front of him had no color. Nothing rested behind his eyes. He was as Apollo had said: more void than man.
And that's why McGee almost felt sorry for him. Because it was easy for their kind to become that way. He'd felt it back in the midst of that ceremony. It would have been so physically gratifying to kill that woman, to feel the strength course through his veins, to bend steel and one day maybe even conduct electricity. But, like he said: it was a choice. Thad was at fault because he chose wrong.
Jethro looked over the man on the ground, up at McGee, and the younger man could see the question in his eyes. Did he take the shot? Or did Tim want to finish him off?
But Thaddeus made the decision for them by using his last breath to launch himself at McGee. Gibbs fired, and this time, the hole in D'Amico's chest was right where he heart was supposed to be, though it was clear that whatever rested behind his ribcage hadn't worked in a long while. This time, Thaddeus did fall with a bit more fanfare and drama. No he didn't make a sound, didn't do one final despicable act before he hit the ground, but he never broke eye contact with Tim, who could see the last moments of his life flicker away. He could see the man's confusion. His greatest fear had come true; he didn't live forever. Death finally came to him. Or at least, Death was ushered to him by one Leroy Jethro Gibbs. However, like every other mistake in his life, that final moment was a product of his choice.
Tim looked down into the now-prone body, at those enormous black wings, and marveled at the product of that "potential" he'd heard so much about. It was staggering, that was for sure. And yet he knew he made the right choice; because of that, he could feel the weight lifting off his shoulders.
Unfortunately, this weight was slammed right back down when he turned to see that Apollo hadn't gotten back up from where he fell. Victoria was on her knees at his side, holding his hand, her voice calm but still begging him to stay awake.
Tim was at his other side in an instant, and he realized with a fresh wave of horror that Apollo's chest now looked similar to his side.
"You shouldn't have-" he started frantically, but the older man shushed him.
"Yes, I should have. I'm not sorry for it."
"Stay with us," Victoria murmured. "We need you here."
The three agents gathered around behind McGee and Victoria, where they were a respectful distance from the three, but still in Apollo's line of sight. His breathing was becoming more and more shallow, each inhale a rattle
"Gibbs," he said. "You've done…a hell of a job…with your team. Take care of them for me. All of them."
Jethro gave him a nod, and in it he conveyed his most solemn promise to watch over Tim (of course) but also Victoria. Apollo gave small smiles to Tony and Ziva, thanking each of them for what they'd done. Neither had the chance to thank him in return, because his attention was already back to his foster family.
"You can't just give up," Victoria said, her voice breaking before she could finish. She tried to keep calm, but the tears were flowing freely down her cheeks.
"I'm not giving up," he whispered. "I did…exactly…what I set out to do here. Victoria," he said her name to make sure she hung on every word. "Don't be…afraid of yourself…you…are capable…of much more…than that."
"Tim…" he continued, turning his head just so. "You were right…it's a choice…it's always a choice…I'm proud of you for making the right one."
He coughed, and a few drops of blood escaped his lips, though Victoria caught them with a gentle brush of her thumb.
"I love you both so much," Apollo whispered. They whispered back their love, and with a final shaky breath, it was over.
Then, and only then, did their sobs begin. Ziva looked on, her eyes red with unshed tears, and Tony had to turn away before he lost control of his own.
A person's life can be determined by how they spent their final moments, and although Thaddeus insisted they were the same, never were the differences between Apollo and himself more obvious. They both lay on the cold tiled floor, but only one's blood ran red. Only one of them was surrounded by his loved ones. This was the more powerful man, whose life was far more impactful than the other..and it wasn't the man who could bend steel.