Chapter Nine

What We've Got Here is Failure to Communicate

Well, it's hard to change the way you lose
If you think you've never won

All We Are, Matt Nathanson, s5e2 Family

By the time Gibbs finally arrived at Bethesda Naval Hospital, he felt every bit his age and in desperate need of some shut-eye. Checking on DiNozzo had to come before sleep, however. He'd been held up at the Marriott Marquis for ages as the various agencies quibbled over jurisdiction. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't a question that it should belong to NCIS, but the FBI won that particular battle. They always ran point on hostage situations despite his objections. Unfortunately, Director Shepherd hadn't agreed with him or taken his side against Special Agent DuBois.

"I've promised the FBI our full cooperation, and you will stay out of their way as they run their investigation."

Like hell he would. There was no way he was going to stay out of it after his entire team had been put at risk, one of them had even taken a bullet in the line. This investigation belonged to him.

Of the four terrorists, three were dead, including the one DiNozzo had taken out at the beginning of the siege. The surviving terrorist, Mustafa Yldimn, was being treated here at Bethesda for a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Two FBI agents were standing guard outside his room. Unfortunately, there had also been civilian injuries – two gunshot wounds and a variety of minor injuries. That didn't even take into account DiNozzo's wounds.

Gibbs was still steaming about it, but Jenny had been less than pleased with the lack of communication during the siege. In fact, she was outright furious, and he suspected that was the real reason she hadn't gone to bat for him in the territory war. As if he could've done anything about her accidental omission from the chain of intel. He was pissed at all three of his subordinates, and he was itching to release some of his fury on the nearest available target.

McGee should've kept the Director informed; Ziva should've followed orders; and Tony should've ducked instead of putting himself at risk for his ex-girlfriend. Gibbs hated when personal issues messed with a case. Somewhere deep beneath his fury, he knew that last one was a stretch – they were Federal agents charged with protection of the civilian population from all enemies foreign and domestic – but the fact it was Jeanne Benoit only complicated everything.

She'd already done such a job on DiNozzo's head – Gibbs wasn't sure that she wasn't a bigger threat than the bullet lodged in his chest. Still, despite the fact he'd told DiNozzo to stay out of the fray, his tackle would've been enough of a stall tactic. If Ziva had followed orders, they could've come through it without any civilian casualties.

Of course, that didn't count the added injury DiNozzo had done himself by refusing to stay still. While Gibbs had to stay at the hotel until the investigation was complete, and the FBI was satisfied with his answers, he did manage to call Ducky to have him meet the medics at the hospital. He trusted Ducky to ensure DiNozzo was getting the best of care in his absence.

He'd conveniently neglected to inform the Director of Jeanne Benoit's presence in the standoff; a fact he was sure she'd be livid about once she knew – served her right for benching him.

As he reached the surgical waiting area, he saw Ducky sitting in a corner chair, his head tilted back against the wall. The elder doctor had removed his glasses, and held them limply in his hand, a small bit of drool on his chin. It was well past an hour anyone should still be awake.

"Duck," Gibbs said softly, easing his weary body into the cheap faux-leather chair next to the sleeping medical examiner. His knee throbbed mercilessly.

Ducky startled slightly, sitting up and glancing around the room. His furrowed brow relaxed as memory returned, remarkably quickly for a man his age. He replaced his glasses upon his nose and took a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket, dabbing at his mouth.

"Ah, Jethro. You made it," he said unnecessarily.

"Yeah. FBI has all the intel and is working the case. How's Tony?" he asked the question that had been plaguing him all evening, unable to conceal the worry bleeding through his words – not that he ever had much success hiding it from Ducky.

"Still in surgery. I realize you're listed as his next of kin and medical proxy, but his situation was critical, so they brought him in," Ducky said.

Gibbs waved away the concern. He would've signed off on the surgery if that's what Tony needed, anyway. "What's the prognosis?"

Ducky sighed. "The bullet entered slightly below his clavicle, just missing the protection of his Kevlar vest. I can't understand the angle of the bullet, however. The gun had to have been pointed downward. Was Tony on his knees when he was shot?"

"No. He dove to push Jeanne Benoit out of the way," Gibbs said, envisioning the scene in his mind. He'd been too far away to do anything to prevent it.

"Jeanne Benoit?" Ducky asked, nonplussed. "She was at the conference?"

"Yeah. You haven't seen her? She rode in the helicopter over here with him, despite my objections. The medics felt having a doctor present if the bullet moved was necessary," Gibbs said.

He was still pissed about it, but Tony's deteriorating condition hadn't left room for an argument.

"I suppose that was wise, but I haven't seen her. When I arrived, I was told the bullet fractured his clavicle upon impact, travelled through the muscle and was lodged just above his heart. If it had taken much longer to get him here, it wouldn't have mattered. He nearly bled out. They're trying to repair the damage as we speak. If he survives the surgery, he's going to be laid up for quite some time, Jethro," Ducky said.

"Not if, when, Duck," Gibbs said firmly, his gut clenching. "Never count DiNozzo out."

"I'm not counting him out. That boy has more lives than a cat, but he's not invincible. His injuries are significant, not to mention how painful a broken collar bone is whilst it's healing. The muscle and tissue damage caused by the bullet will also need time to mend. We both know that Anthony doesn't do well with forced inactivity," Ducky said, wincing.

"Honestly, I'm more worried about the effect Jeanne Benoit will have on him if she sticks around," Gibbs said, pressing his lips together. He remembered all too well how broken Tony seemed after she'd accused him of murder. Gibbs had never seen him like that, and he didn't want to see it repeated. He'd be far better off if Benoit just disappeared once again – for good this time.

"She was understandably upset with him after his duplicity was revealed, so… was her concern for his well-being strictly in a professional sense… or do you think there are still residual feelings there?" Ducky asked delicately.

"Hell if I know. She accused him of murder," Gibbs said.

"Yes, and he wasn't the man she thought he was. Still… a hostage situation and a shooting could make anyone re-examine life altering events. I don't believe either of them has been able to get past all that happened. I know Anthony hasn't, no matter how much he tries to pretend that he's unaffected. He tends to repress emotional trauma rather than confronting it," Ducky said.

"Ya think?" Gibbs asked, shaking his head. He and DiNozzo both were experts at repression. They'd been doing it for so long it had become second nature. DiNozzo actually pulled it off far better than Gibbs had ever been able. While Gibbs found his release in anger, Tony leaned toward self-flagellation.

Gibbs' mind flashed back to the day they'd first learned about DiNozzo's clandestine undercover work in explosive technicolor. Tony had been attacked by a drug dealer, his beloved car was blown sky high, and he'd lost the love of his life – all in the course of a day. Yet, he'd never lashed out at anyone. He'd repressed all his emotions in typical fashion and returned to work with one of his fake smiles plastered painfully across his face.

Gibbs would've shot someone long before things had gone that far.

He knew DiNozzo had issues with betrayal. He'd seen it firsthand when they'd met back in Baltimore. His partner had been dirty. He'd been taking payoffs to look the other way right under DiNozzo's nose. Gibbs suspected it was only one event in a long series of betrayals in his young agent's life, each one cutting just a little bit deeper than the last.

After the Benoit operation, Tony had struggled with the idea that he'd been the one doing the betraying. He'd always had such a black and white, idealistic image of right and wrong. Unlike Gibbs, Tony struggled with the grey areas. Gibbs watched him tie himself into knots once he'd discovered the entire operation had been unsanctioned. Nothing more than Jenny's personal vendetta, and Jeanne had been the innocent victim used by everyone involved.

As far as Gibbs was concerned, she'd stopped being a victim once she falsely accused Tony of murder. Regardless of her emotional state, she knew on some level that she hadn't been present when her father was killed, and she certainly hadn't seen Tony commit the act. She was a woman scorned and out for revenge. He had enough ex-wives to recognize the bitterness for what it was. Ducky would say he was jaded.

He suspected Tony might see it as what he deserved. He'd always had a massive guilt complex that probably dated back to his sketchy upbringing. Gibbs had promised to have DiNozzo's six, and he had no intention of letting this woman get too close again. He'd never had a problem playing the role of bad guy, some would even say he was made for it. He intended to live up to his second B before allowing her to do any more damage. If his subconscious twinged at all, he placated it with the fact that it wouldn't do her any good to linger, either not if she wanted to get over the duplicity and move on with her life.

"What about Ziva and Timothy? Are they all right? Where are they?" Ducky asked, drawing Gibbs' attention back to the present.

"They're fine. McGee wasn't even in the ballroom at the time of the attack. I sent them both home to get some sleep," he said. He'd needed to check on DiNozzo first – and deal with his other wayward agents later. They'd both known he was disappointed in them, and they'd jumped at the opportunity to get away from his wrath.

"Why don't you go home, as well, Jethro. You must be exhausted. It'll be hours yet before we're allowed to see Anthony. He'll be in post-op once the surgery is finished, and then they'll most likely move him to surgical ICU. I'll call you when you're able to see him. You won't do anyone any good running on fumes. You've had a long day, too," Ducky said, patting him on the back.

"There you are, Gibbs," Tobias Fornell said, entering the surgical waiting area and looking relieved. He was dressed in a dark suit, and despite the hour, appeared more rested than either Gibbs or Ducky.

"Where the hell have you been?" Gibbs asked, firing up again.

Fornell stopped, raising his eyebrows. "Nice to see you, too," he said. "You do realize I'm not the FBI's only senior agent every time there's a situation in DC, right?"

"What do you know about Zachary DuBois?" Gibbs asked, with even less patience for pleasantries than usual.

"He's a good man, and a highly intelligent agent. He's no nonsense, however. No patience for cowboys. I can see how you two would clash," Fornell said.

"I was one of the hostages in that room, Tobias. I have every right to know the details of the investigation. I have an agent in critical condition and that trumps inter-agency pissing matches," Gibbs snarled.

"I heard. Who was it?" Fornell asked.

"DiNozzo."

Fornell's eyes widened. "He going to be all right?"

"He better be. What else do you know?"

"I know one of the hostages who was shot had to have his leg amputated. The tourniquet tied at the scene saved his life, but it was on too long to save his leg," Fornell said.

"What about the other one? There were two hostages injured in addition to the two fatalities," Gibbs said, anger licking at his insides once again. He'd told Ziva to take out Mustafa Yldimn. If she'd listened perhaps, it could've saved another hostage being wounded.

Fornell nodded. "Yeah, also took one to the abdomen. He's out of surgery and should make a full recovery. I heard it was down to you that all the women were released earlier in the siege. That was good work," he said.

"Good work?" Gibbs asked incredulously. "Good work is when none of the hostages or my people get hurt. This was a clusterfu–"

"Yes, we get the picture," Ducky interrupted. "Still, other than the terrorists, there were no fatalities during the final siege. We must take comfort in small favors."

"I want to interrogate the surviving terrorist," Gibbs said.

Fornell shook his head. "That's not going to happen. DuBois will never allow it."

"Allow it? I don't intend to give him a choice," Gibbs said, snarling.

Fornell rested his hand on Gibbs' shoulder, sighing. "Jethro, you're going to have to face some facts. You are a victim in this, whether you like it or not. If we're going to throw the book at this guy, you have to let the FBI do its job. You concentrate on DiNozzo, and let DuBois handle the paperwork," he said.

"He's right. You know Anthony is going to need you most of all. He won't listen to anyone else," Ducky said.

Gibbs clenched his lips together, fuming. There was nothing he hated more than not being the one in control.

/* /* /* /*

Tony's return to awareness was slow and disjointed. He was so tired and everything ached as if he'd been hit by a truck, but he had no idea why or even where he was. Strange sounds, smells, a flickering of light above his closed eyelids, and something cold blowing near his nose all clamored for his attention. His foggy brain had difficulty putting the pieces together.

Gradually, he could distinguish the steady beep of various monitors and felt something squeezing his arm tightly – too tightly. His muddled brain flashed back to stepmother number one, and the way she dragged him around by his upper arm when he'd done something unforgivably childish – like talking over her at one of her boring social gatherings. No fingernails digging sharply into his tender flesh, though – just the pressure in intervals and that infernal beeping.

Hospital.

His mind made the connection at last, and he groaned inwardly. What had he done to end up here this time? His eyes fluttered open blearily, and he could dimly make out the shadow of a figure sitting stoically next to his bed.

"Boss?" he whispered, having difficulty forming the word. His throat felt parched, and his lips were chapped and swollen.

His chest hurt like a son of a bitch and felt as if a heavy pressure were weighing him down, holding him in place and making it difficult to breathe.

What the hell?

The figure beside his bed stirred and stood up, leaning over his prone form. Concerned brown eyes rather than icy blue met his own. It wasn't Gibbs, but Brad Pitt's anxious face staring down at him. He registered this at the same time he realized the cool breeze came from an oxygen cannula inserted in his nose.

Holy Shit! I've got plague again?

Panicky, he tried to reach for his chest, but the movement caused a sharp pain to radiate along his left side like liquid fire. For some reason, his arm was immobilized, and he couldn't make it work. He couldn't quite stop the cry of pain that crossed his lips as he lay there, panting helplessly.

"Easy, Buckeye. Just relax, you're all right," Brad said, using his best, soothing doctor's tone. "Just take a few deep breaths."

Tony did as he was told, fighting his rising hysteria. "How'd I get the plague again?" he asked helplessly.

Brad actually chuckled, making Tony feel both better and stupid simultaneously. "You don't have the plague again. Once in a lifetime is more than enough for anyone, but I can understand why it might feel that way. You were shot, Tony. Do you remember?"

Tony's thoughts tumbled over each other in rapid succession, confusing him. Vague, distorted images blurred together under a shimmering haze before solidifying in his mind, the tense drama crystallizing in vivid color. He could remember how it had all started, but the end was a complete blank.

"My team?" he asked desperately.

"All fine. Gibbs was barking orders when I left the hotel last night. They're probably all sleeping and will be here when visiting hours begin. I saw Dr. Mallard asleep in the waiting area when I arrived, but I sent him home," Brad said, his hand resting on Tony's injured shoulder reassuringly.

Tony relaxed, wincing slightly at the light pressure. Brad pressed the button on Tony's personal control analgesia to give him more pain medication. He firmly placed the remote into Tony's good hand. "I'm sure you know how to use this. Keeping yourself miserable certainly won't allow you to heal any quicker, so don't be stubborn about it."

"I'm not stubborn," Tony said, already feeling the blessed relief flooding his veins. Unfortunately, he knew that his traitorous body never reacted the way it was supposed to when he took pain medication.

Another face suddenly filled his subconscious. A beautiful face with startling clear, cyan blue eyes that plainly showed a succession of hurt, passion, warmth, and betrayal.

"Jeanne," he whispered.

Brad squinted, studying Tony carefully. "I haven't seen her, but she probably had to have her own wound tended. She rode here in the helicopter with you. You still owe me a story about how you know her, my friend. I have to admit, the curiosity is killing me."

Tony frowned, trying to piece together his jumbled memories. "She was hurt?" he asked, uncertain.

What a stupid question. Of course, she was hurt. He was the one who'd done the hurting, but a hospital visit couldn't heal a broken heart. He should know. What wound was Brad talking about then?

"Knife wound to her upper arm. Don't worry about being unable to remember. That's just a symptom of hypovolemic shock and blood loss. They had to give you a transfusion to replenish your supply. They're still working on it through your IV, along with fluids and antibiotics, so you're going to be sleeping a lot while your body recovers. The bullet did some damage, but you're going to be okay," Brad said.

"Knife?" Tony asked, still focused on Jeanne's injury. He had no memory of who stabbed her.

Brad shook his head, resigned. "It wasn't serious, but she probably needed some stitches. It was a hell of a night. I've certainly never been to a medical conference like it, but I hope I can still count it toward my professional development hours," Brad said, attempting to offer some levity.

Tony didn't like the transparent concern he could read in Brad's eyes. He hated feeling weak, but he couldn't deny that's exactly how he felt.

And he hated it.

His eyes were growing really heavy, and he knew he was going to lose the battle to stay awake thanks to the pain medication Brad had administered, but he needed more answers.

"You okay?" he asked, although Brad looked fine to him. Of course, he was feeling so discombobulated that he wasn't sure if Brad was visiting or sharing a hospital room with him.

"I'm fine. I went home to reassure Molly that I was all right. I'm off today since I was supposed to be at the conference. I wanted to check on you before I get to spend the unexpected day off with my lovely fiancé instead," Brad said, his voice fading in and out.

"You pro-psed?" Tony slurred. He'd met Molly when she'd picked Brad up from his shifts while Tony was recovering from the plague. At least he thought he'd met her. His brain really wasn't cooperating.

"And she said yes, if you can believe that," Brad said, grinning. "Go to sleep, Tony. I'll come back again to check on you."

"Kay," Tony mumbled before surrendering himself to the blessed darkness and pain-free slumber.

/* /* /* /*

The next time Tony awoke, his room was still dim, but he felt certain a lot of time had passed. The heavy weight was still on his chest, but now a burning sensation that seemed to stretch all the way down to his bones had joined it. He was an athlete. He knew how to overcome pain – one simply had to will one's body to ignore it. Mind over matter. At least, that's what his old basketball coach had always told him.

Right then, he'd like to see the old blowhard think his way past the agony hammering a chisel into his bones. He lay perfectly still, clenching his eyes shut and breathing through it, trying to master himself. He actually considered administering more pain meds, but he'd somehow lost the remote to his PCA while he slept.

"Tony."

The whisper was soft yet so achingly familiar. Something about the way she pronounced the 'T' in his name, both soft and brittle conjured sweet memories that he desperately wanted to cling onto as if to a lifeline. It was medicine far greater than the tube in his arm could ever hope to achieve.

"Tony," she repeated, and this time, he opened his eyes, realizing it wasn't just a memory or a dream. She was here – with him in this sterile hospital room, staring down at him with wounded, guarded eyes.

He hated that he'd been the one to put that expression there.

"You're here," he said stupidly, unable to come up with anything more eloquent. His mind wasn't prepared to cope with this. He wished both that she'd leave but also never go, and he couldn't decide which feeling was stronger.

"I couldn't stay away," she said, a twitch in her left cheek marring her solemn expression.

He suspected she wished that she could. He ached to just let go and surrender to the feelings flooding his mind. It would be so easy to just pretend that things had never gone so wrong, to just soak in the comfort of her presence, but that wouldn't do either of them any good in the end.

"I looked at your chart," she said, lowering her eyes apologetically.

He stared at her blankly for a moment, his sluggish mind taking a moment to catch back up to the present. Seriously? Was she embarrassed about looking into his personal business after everything he'd done to her? That was so colossally unjust. He didn't think anything could've possibly made him feel worse, but he'd been wrong. Again. It seemed he could never get anything right where she was concerned.

"Am I going to die?" he asked, humor always coming to his defense when he felt emotionally overwhelmed.

The corner of Jeanne's mouth twitched upward slightly. "No. Although it probably feels like it."

Tony couldn't deny that, but he wasn't going to admit it. He still couldn't work out why she was there. He also couldn't help but notice that she'd changed her clothes since that fateful dinner. She wore a simple, ivory sweater with long sleeves and a high collar. Protective clothing. He hated that she felt the need to protect herself from him, but he couldn't deny that she was right in doing so. Something kept nagging in the back of his mind, but the thought skittered away every time he got close.

"Why, Tony?" she asked, fixing those impossibly penetrating eyes onto his own, and he was incapable of looking away.

He sighed, refusing to allow his eyes to close. He shouldn't be allowed to hide from this. "It was my job, but I never meant to hurt you," he said, realizing how inadequate the words were.

How could she not be hurt? How was it supposed to end? There could be no happy endings. Fornell had said that when he was interrogating him. But at the time, he'd convinced himself that he could somehow make it right if he could just explain it all to her. How could he have been so naïve? He'd had to grow up when he was eight years old. He should know by now without a shadow of a doubt that what Fornell said was true – but as Ziva had also said, although she'd later denied it – the heart wants what it wants.

"I'm not talking about… about before. I meant at the hotel. When the gunman fired that shot. You pushed me out of the way," she said. "Why?"

Tony's mind was so muddled and confused; he was having trouble following the conversation. He wasn't even entirely sure that it wasn't a hallucination. He opened his mouth several times, trying to formulate an answer that just wouldn't come. Of course he'd pushed her out of the way. He owed her. But he also couldn't let her know how much he cared. He had to let her go, to set her free. He ruined things. It was his standard M.O. – and he didn't think he could stand putting an ounce more pain into her eyes.

"Don't tell me it was just your job because there were two other Federal agents in that room, and neither one of them attempted to jump in front of me to take a bullet," she said bluntly.

Tony shut his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her when he broke her heart again. Why were all the many disguises that he usually slipped on like a well-worn glove evading him now? Ironic that she was the one he was having such a hard time deceiving.

"I never meant to hurt you, but it seems it's all I do. I had to stop it if I could. I couldn't let him wound you, too. I owed you that."

She sniffled, and he opened his eyes to see hers were glistening. His throat ached so painfully that his vision blurred.

"So, it was just guilt motivating you? I'm not sure I believe that. The last time I saw you, after I'd accused you of murder, you said none of it was real. Once I was back in my hotel, I kept remembering after it all first happened, after your car blew up. You asked me to tell you that I loved you. Why would you do that? You seemed desperate, and I can't make the two statements fit. I can't get it all out of my head," she said as one lone tear trickled down her cheek.

"If I could go back and find a way to do things differently, I would. But I can't. I'm so sorry, Jeanne," he whispered brokenly.

She nodded, her eyes filling as she turned away.

Tony's hand convulsively searched along his side, finding what he was seeking tangled in the sheets. He pressed the button on his PCA, needing a release, needing to be somewhere else, needing to be someone else, needing something… anything… to make the world go away

Author's Note

Melinda's NCIS Rule Number One: Always leave a comment – it keeps the author motivated. I appreciate all those who take the time to review – it really does keep me wanting to write more.