A/N: No, you're not hallucinating. This is a brand-new NCIS fic from me in the year 2024. I've been writing a lot of NCIS fic (mostly whumpy episode fix-its but some original stories too) since the Ducky tribute episode prompted me to do a rewatch. All new fics are posted on my ao3 since I like their tagging and linking system better, but I did want to post one back here for old times' sake. Anyone still with me from *checks user profile* eight to ten years ago?

A/N 2: The title comes from the wonderful SIX soundtrack. I'm not a big song-to-character gal, but it is definitely Tony's anthem.

Warning: This fic is a take on what might have happened had the writers not retconned Tony's abusive childhood once they cast Robert Wagner as Senior. It's nothing graphic, only mentioned in passing, and nothing sexual, but please do be careful if this is triggering for you.

And finally, Disclaimer (which I haven't had to write in eight to ten years): I own nothing but seasons 1-8 on DVD. Please don't sue.


"I got this one, boss," Tony said, rising from his desk and holding out his hand to the kid.

McGee just about dropped the Nutter Butter that was halfway to his mouth. Tony usually avoided kids at all cost; teens like Josh Cooper, he was better with, but kids? Tony looked as uncomfortable around them as they did him. Which made no sense really, because when nothing was on the line, he acted their age more often than not.

Now that McGee was thinking about it though, Tony had been acting strangely since they'd been called out to a scene of a domestic dispute and found a bruised kid hiding in the bathroom, blood spattered over the main room, his parents missing. There had been a distinct lack of movie references and smart quips, just a lot of "Yes, boss"es, and "on it, boss"es as they'd worked the scene… and since then, actually…

McGee squinted over at Tony, seeing for the first time, his rumpled suit. Had Tony even gone home last night? That thought was followed quickly by another: what was it about this case that had Tony acting… so, un-Tony?

Not rising from his desk, Gibbs stared at Tony for a long moment then nodded his head.

"Gibbs. This is Tony. And a child," Ziva said as Tony led the boy out of the bullpen.

Gibbs looked up from his monitor, eyebrow quirked. "What do you think he's going to do, Ziva? Maim 'im?"

"No, but…" Ziva hesitated, clearly struggling how to phrase what she wanted to say. "He is not the greatest with children. I am not sure his usual efforts are going to be appreciated."

Gibbs made a noncommittal sound under his breath. Then he stood up abruptly and headed toward the elevator. "Going for coffee. Need a lead by the time I'm back."

"The way he gets coffee, that's like five minutes," McGee grumbled before turning back to his keyboard.

He heard the slight shift of a chair seconds before Ziva appeared in front of his desk. "Something is… off, yes?

"Other than the bruised kid and his missing parents?"

Ziva scowled but there was no heat in her expression. "With Tony, McGee. He has not been himself all week."

"No, he hasn't."

He kept adjusting the parameters of his latest search until Ziva gently rapped the side of his monitor. "That does not worry you?"

It did. More than McGee cared to admit. Unfortunately, the way Tony was acting, it wasn't going to be worth trying to talk to him about whatever was bothering him until Jimmy Hansen's parents were found.

He let his hands fall from the keyboard and looked up from his monitor, meeting Ziva's concerned stare. "Ziva…"

She held up her hand, cutting him off. "No need, McGee. I see it in your eyes," was all she said before heading back to her desk and resuming her work.


The break room wasn't the most private of places to talk, but Tony wasn't taking Jimmy to Interrogation or Abby's lab. The conference room was booked and the bullpen was out of the question. The bathroom would be just weird. So the break room it was.

He did, however, lock the door surreptitiously so they would have some privacy.

"You want a drink?" he asked, gesturing toward the closest table.

Jimmy shook his head before sitting obediently, hands in his lap, and staring intently at the formica table top.

"Huh. Well, I haven't seen you drink anything all day and if you don't start soon, our Medical Examiner, Ducky, is going to have a fit."

Tony glanced over his shoulder, seeing Jimmy mouth the word "Ducky" on repeat.

"He's a good guy, that Ducky," Tony continued, whacking the vending machine to produce an orange soda. He slid it across the table to Jimmy then walked to the other side of the room and pulled an ice pack—one he'd stored there years ago after the umpteenth sprained ankle/strained muscle/bruised face—from the freezer. Pushing that across the table too, Tony sat down on the opposite side, spinning the chair so he could rest his forearms on its back. "Heart of a lion, mothering instincts of a bear. He's in his seventies, easy, but I would not want to meet him in a dark alley."

Jimmy finally lifted his gaze to stare at the soda and the ice pack. Mostly the soda.

"It's yours, kid. If you want it."

Tony reached over and pulled the tab, sending a waft of the artificially orange flavor through the room. The kid looked up at the can again, this time with more interest, which was just as quickly tempered. Undeterred, Tony flicked his fingers, scooting the can closer to Jimmy.

"You don't have to tell me anything, but you do have to drink something. I'll get you water if you want but I wasn't lying about Ducky being very overprotective, especially around kids."

Jimmy considered this for a moment then reached out and took a small sip of the soda.

"Good job," Tony praised then watched as the kid blinked, like he wasn't used to hearing those words. He probably wasn't, judging by the large bruise blooming around his eye; it was too distinct to be anything but an adult fist, despite the kid not yet answering the question of how he'd acquired it.

"Wanna put some ice on your face too? It'll keep the swelling down."

Jimmy shrugged.

"Hey," Tony said softly. "I kinda have a lot of experience in that area. Your face will feel a lot better if you can keep the swelling out of your eye."

The kid didn't respond. In fact, he didn't even really acknowledge that Tony had spoken.

"Hey, Jimmy? I know I don't know you very well and you're sitting there thinking, why would I do anything for some weird guy I just met, but I really want you to put that ice on your eye, okay?"

"Why?" The kid's voice was soft, breaking slightly with disuse. He'd barely said twenty words since they'd picked him up this morning, all of which had been coaxed out of him by Gibbs with great effort.

"Because I know it hurts and the ice will…" not feel better, not hurt less... "Help," Tony finally decided. "And I want to help you. I really do."

"Why?"

"Well one, because it's my job. But two, because I want to find your mom."

The kid shifted in his seat, but then after a long moment, reached for the ice pack, resting it gingerly under his left eye.

"Thank you." Tony didn't bother asking if Jimmy felt better. With his mom missing and his suspected-abusive dad the biggest suspect, his aching face was probably the least of his concerns.

There was a beat of silence, broken by the air conditioner kicking on, which startled Jimmy.

"You play sports, Jimbo?" Tony asked, taking advantage of the disruption.

The kid looked up sharply at the nickname, the guarded and suspicious expression disappearing from his face for a second. He grinned slightly then immediately bit down on the corner of his lip to conceal it. Just as quickly, he returned to staring at the table with rapt fascination.

But Tony had gotten it: a chink in the armor. His way in.

"You like that, huh?" It wasn't really a question. Even Gibbs without his glasses could have clocked the change in the kid's posture.

Jimmy shrugged—not totally unexpected if he had the background Tony was suspecting. There wasn't anything definitive, but mom and son had an assortment of "random" and "inexplicable" ER visits across ten ERs, seven years and four states. It didn't take a trained investigator to figure out what was happening behind closed doors.

"Okay then, Jimbo," Tony paused for dramatic emphasis, "what sports do you play?"

"Not allowed."

Suddenly, Jimmy's hand flicked out to grab the soda can and he guzzled at it like he was worried Tony was going to take it away from him.

Tony swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising in the back of his throat. "Don't make yourself sick, Jimbo," he said, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice. "It's not going anywhere."

Jimmy frowned slightly but when Tony continued to keep his hands interlaced on the table, did slow down. Slightly.

"Well?" Tony asked once the soda can was back on the table and Jimmy had wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Surely you've seen or heard of some sports, Jimbo. Which one do you think would be the most fun?"

The kid's reply was almost instant. "Volleyball."

Tony tilted his head in approval. "Volleyball, huh?" He leaned forward slightly, shifting his weight onto his elbows. "So what is it about volleyball? The hot babes? The, uh, well…" Lots of Top Gun references were floating through his head, but Tony bit them back, knowing they wouldn't be welcome here.

"Beach."

"Ah, the beach. The blue skies, wind in your hair, sand in your toes, and pretty much everywhere else." Tony sat back in his chair then casually asked, "You ever been?"

Jimmy shook his head.

"Well, you should go one day. Play some volleyball, swim in the waves." He refrained from a Jaws reference for the same reason as before. Contrary to his team's belief, he did know when to reign in his references.

Jimmy nodded but his heart clearly wasn't in it. One hand played with the lingering condensation on the soda can while the other held the ice pack to his face. All the while, the kid continued to stare at the tabletop like it was the glow in the briefcase from Pulp Fiction.

After a beat of silence, Tony reached out and tapped the space Jimmy was staring at.

"Hey, bud? I know you're scared for your mom and are probably working on the world's largest case of homesickness, but we think you can help us figure out where she is. Do you think you do that? For your mom?"

Jimmy didn't respond but his fingers stopping moving on the can.

Tony tapped the table again but Jimmy still didn't speak, didn't move, didn't so much as shift.

After another long silence but before he could change his mind, Tony shifted so his other hand, left, with the pinky finger that didn't quite straighten was in Jimmy's line of sight.

"My dad did that when I was eight. After my mom…" Tony cleared his throat to dislodge the sudden lump that had formed. "After my mom died. I don't remember what I did. All I remember is how it felt after." Tony bent and straightened his other fingers a few times, phantom pain running along the bones that had never quite healed right. "It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wasn't the last. I liked sports anyway, but I took them way more seriously after… it was easier to explain a lot of things. I think you understand that."

Jimmy nodded halfheartedly, then flinched, a mask dropping back down like he was horrified he'd responded at all.

"I can help you, Jimmy. But you have to be honest with me." Tony lifted his fingers from the table and without getting closer, pointed at Jimmy's cheek. "He did that to you, didn't he?"

He saw Jimmy swallow hard, watched his hands fall into his lap. He waited patiently until the boy, finally, hesitantly, nodded once so quickly Tony would have missed it had he not been staring straight at him.

"And he was hurting your mom too?"

Jimmy nodded again, just as quick. Then, for the first time since they had entered the break room, he made full eye contact with Tony. "You can find her, right?" he asked softly. "You won't let him hurt her anymore?"

Tony didn't even have to think about his answer: "I promise you, kid, no one is going to hurt you like that again."

"You can't make that promise," Jimmy said, a deep frown marring his bruised face.

Tony chuckled, garnering himself a confused look from the kid. "You see this?" Tony asked, sliding his badge across the table. "This means I can make that promise. And I will. I'll also tell you what tens of people have told me since then: that it wasn't your fault, that you didn't deserve it. I know you won't believe it for a long time, but I hope you do one day. Until then, you deserve to hear it from as many different people as possible, me included."

The wary and conflicted expression returned to Jimmy's face and he narrowed his eyes slightly at Tony. "He knows people, my dad."

"You met my boss, right? Gibbs?" He waited for Jimmy to nod before continuing, "Well, remember when I said Ducky has a soft spot for kids? Gibbs does too. Huge fuzzy-socks soft spot, miles wide. When you tell him what you told me, I guarantee you he'll take care of it."

Jimmy was quiet for a long minute, his gaze settling back on the table but without the pointed intensity of before. "Is he going to hurt him?" he then asked, stiffening in the chair.

Based on the bruising on the kid's face, the old marks on his x-rays, and now with Jimmy admitting it vocally, Tony couldn't promise anything. Gibbs had always had more of a vigilante-style of justice and right now, it was one Tony didn't totally disagree with.

"Gibbs will make sure you never get hurt like that again," he said after a minute.

"But I have to tell him."

"Eventually. For now, it's enough that you told it to me."

Jimmy was quiet for another long moment. "I don't know if I can," he said, going back to dragging his finger through the sweat on the soda can. "He doesn't understand… not like you."

Gibbs certainly didn't understand—that was clear on his face on any child-related case they worked. And that was a good thing. Gibbs didn't realize how lucky he had it, despite how turbulent his relationship with Jackson was.

"I'll go with you if you want," Tony promised. "Or we can have him come here. Whatever is the easiest for you."

Almost instantly, Jimmy shook his head. "Not now."

"Okay." Tony sat back up and pushed the soda closer to Jimmy again. "You drink that. I'll go check in with Gibbs, okay?"

Jimmy nodded.

Tony tapped the table again then lifted his two fingers slightly, stopping far enough away from Jimmy's chin that the intended gesture wouldn't be triggering, and left the break room.

He only made it about one step into the hallway before he realized someone had been standing by the door. Prepared to read Ziva or McGee the riot act, it took him a long second to recognize Abby. Abby whose eyes were welling. Abby who was staring at him with that expression, the one he'd come to hate early on in life.

"Tony…" She reached out but he danced out of her grip.

"Going for coffee," he stammered, almost tripping over his feet as he did so. Panic was welling in him, his brain screaming she knows, she knows, she KNOWS on repeat. "He needs an escort. You, McGee, Ziva." He paused his escape long enough to force out, "Don't tell Gibbs."

"Tony," Abby repeated, this time apologetic, but Tony had already booked it to the emergency stairs and out of the building.


It was cold on the roof. Windy. Tony had known that but he hadn't had the option of stopping back by his desk to grab his jacket, not with Abby hot on his heels. He'd taken a circumventive path through NCIS: down stairs, through corridors, up elevators, until he was sure he wasn't followed. He'd dumped his phone behind a planter on the second floor, in a secure area, just in case she went that route. He knew he didn't have long; she'd definitely already called Gibbs. Probably crying. Because of him.

The wind was blowing his hair in his eyes, reminding him just how long it'd been since he'd had it cut—not that he'd had much time of late. With Balboa on paternity leave and Malone's team down two to a joint investigation, the MCRT had been pulling double-and-triple duty.

Tony stood by the edge of the building for another moment, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, before seeking out his favorite corner, tucked back between HVAC unit and a ventilation shaft, and pulling his knees into his chest. He'd discovered this spot during Gibbs' hiatus, when the squad room became too small, the demands too heavy. It was the one spot he was able to grab a moment's peace, to gather his thoughts, or to just… not think for as long as possible.

He'd been so careful, trying to keep anyone from thinking he was damaged goods or unable to do his job to the fullest extent. He preferred to not talk about his past at all and was therefore horrified by the tidbits that had slipped out over the years. In true Tony-fashion, he'd throw out an overdone laugh as if it were nothing more than a huge fucking joke and moved on as quickly as possible. And it had worked... at least, he thought it had.

He would be surprised if Gibbs didn't know, especially with all the time they'd spent as a two-man team. But he'd never explicitly asked and Tony had never volunteered the information. McGee, as bright as he was, had come from a loving, if slightly unconventional white-picket family, and wasn't jaded enough to see past Tony's offhand comments. And Ziva... well, Tony suspected she could but couldn't figure out why she'd want to.

The wind whipped harder around him, reminding him he couldn't stay up here forever. Eventually, he had to go back down and face the proverbial music.

Maybe he could wait long enough for Abby to go home, he though wryly, before remembering she spent even less time away from the office than he did.

He was just pulling in a breath, gathering enough strength to push himself up, when he heard the door to the roof open.

He thought it was no big deal, probably a fellow employee on a smoke break, until he recognized the very familiar footsteps getting closer and closer, eventually stopping right in front of him.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said casually, as if they were down in the squad room, not hiding on the roof.

"He admitted it," Tony said, no longer going to stand. "Jimmy. His dad's the one. I'm sure you can get it off the break room cameras for the case file."

"Abby said."

Tony didn't want to, but he forced himself to look up. That's when he saw it briefly in Gibbs' usually expressionless face. It was there for him. A crack in the mask. Something Gibbs wouldn't do for just anyone.

It warmed and panicked him at the same time.

"Can we just pretend you didn't hear whatever else she said?"

"If you want to." Gibbs lowered himself next to Tony, the small space never feeling as warm as it did just then. "Do you want to?"

"It was a long time ago." Tony scrubbed his dress shoe through the detritus on the roof. He knew Gibbs could sit there in silence for hours—had seen it in many an investigation—but it was so awkward here, on the roof, between the two of them; at least on his part. Besides, a question was burning within him, and since the seal had already been broken, he dared to ask, "You knew, didn't you?"

"I suspected."

"What gave it away?"

"How you act on cases like this." Gibbs was quiet for a second before he added, "Never just a case to you. Always something more."

Funny, that was how Tony felt about Gibbs in almost all cases involving wives and children.

"Well, it was a long time ago."

"Doesn't make it right."

It was almost exactly what he'd told Jimmy, just in fewer words.

The wind picked up, and even protected as he was, Tony pulled his arms in tighter to ward off the chill. "Can we not go there, boss? I'm really not in the mood and we haven't gotten any closer on finding Jimmy's mom."

"Actually, we have."

Tony looked over at Gibbs in surprise.

"Whatever you said to Jimmy, he sat down with Abby and told her all about the places they used to stay when his dad was in a good mood."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Tony went to stand, only stopped by Gibbs' hand, gently, loosely, wrapping around his wrist.

"Tony," was all he said.

Tony smiled wanly, reading all the unsaid things in that word alone. "I know, boss."

Gibbs' hand shifted then, more into Tony's palm, locking around his thumb to pull Tony effortlessly to his feet. They stood there for a beat, one of Gibbs' hands still wrapped around his, the other heading up to rest on Tony's shoulder, squeezing once. From this distance, Tony could see the fury blazing behind Gibbs' eyes, the tight clench of his jaw, the vein throbbing on his forehead: none of it directed at him, all on his behalf.

"Thanks, boss," Tony said, smiling wanly, before pulling in a deep breath and leading the way back toward the squad room.


Thanks for reading! Reviews are the totally unrealistic hacking script to my McGee and the Mighty Mouse Stapler to my Tony!

Up next: we solve the case, Tony and Jimmy spend some more time together, and Tony does damage control with Abby and Ziva (mostly Abby).