"There is shadow under this red rock / (Come in under the shadow of this red rock) / And I will show you something different from either / Your shadow at morning striding behind you / Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you / I will show you fear in a handful of dust." ~T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

"Take a seat, Agent DiNozzo."

Tony shot the cuffs of his bright white Dolce shirt until they peeked out the perfect quarter inch from his charcoal grey sleeve. He unbuttoned his jacket, slid into a conference room chair, and brushed one hand through his hair. His gaze flicked from place to place, counting shadows, identifying points of entry. Cataloguing dangers. The sky outside the conference room window was gray-shot, clouds showing their dark underbellies, threatening. The atmosphere had seeped inside, shadows curdling in corners, roiling at the edge of his vision.

He shifted his chair away from the table - back and to the left - camouflaging the move by pretending to stretch out his legs. Good. Now, if he glanced to the right, he could see the edge of the door frame and the hinges – just enough to know if someone opened the door.

There was a term for this. Tony had been an investigator for over a decade by now and was not as dumb as people liked to believe. Hyper-vigilance. "The condition of maintaining an abnormal awareness of environmental stimuli." Text-book. His mind filled in the rest of the facts even as he smiled across the table at Special Investigator Marcus Lemuel. "A person suffering from PTSD may have hypervigilance, heightened startle responses and flashbacks…"

Which was ridiculous because he didn't have PTSD. A couple of days undercover wasn't going to give a trained investigator PTSD – that was a condition for the men and women Tony had sworn to protect, the ones in real harm's way out there, facing terrorists and hostiles, IEDs, enemy ambushes, torture, and death. Not a few romps through the countryside chained to a dweeb like Jeffrey White.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

Cigarettes and whiskey.

Cold steel against his neck.

Blood exploding against the windshield.

"Just relax, Agent. You know this is routine."

The conference room sprung to life all around him, its familiar lines and curves shooting him away from the memories and back to now. Marcus Lemuel, NCIS Special Investigations, stood opposite him. Tall, and thin, Marcus' neatly trimmed beard showed gleams of gray. He'd walked into the conference room with a slight limp. Manmade 'leather' shoes were too tight – no give in those. Left-handed. Weapon secured to his left hip made his jacket pull awkwardly. Off the rack. No back-up gun. Eyesight going the way of his hairline judging by his back and forth with the file in front of him.

Of course Tony had checked him out. This morning, once he got the email about his interview. His lips twisted up to one side – he was glad he'd worn the suit. Took those extra showers. Came in early – still dark out early – but sleep wasn't an option. His stomach clenched, reminding him that food hadn't been one, either. He wasn't going to risk tossing his cookies in front of SI. Marcus Lemuel had been SI for four years after fifteen years as a field agent. Took the promotion after his first child made it into Thomas Jefferson, one of the premiere science and tech charter schools in the area. Pricey. Tony touched his Ferragamo tie then slowly lowered his hand, careful not to fidget. At least Marcus wasn't one of those bureaucratic drones that had red tape for blood and thought dotting I's and crossing T's was more important than doing his duty. Or that it was his duty.

Tony had been here before. Every time he fired his weapon. Every time a death or injury came from his gun. Or knife. Or fists. Deposition. First step in the process. The SRB would look everything over and call him back if they had any other questions. Which they wouldn't – couldn't – not if he had anything to say about it. He very carefully nodded and set his hands on his knees under the table where no cameras or eyes could see them shake.

Time for the show.

The other agent touched the controls of the recorder he'd placed on the table between them, taking Tony's nod for readiness.

"NCIS SI Agent Marcus Lemuel interviewing Special Agent Anthony D. DiNozzo concerning agent involved shooting taking place on December 16, 2004, Norfolk, Virginia."

December 16? Was that right? Tony glanced down to his watch. Today was the 18th. Seven days to Christmas. His brows flicked down and up. Didn't seem right. He didn't remember seeing any decorations. Hearing any tinny Christmas carols playing on an endless loop. Had Abby been dressed in tinsel and garland this morning? Had he seen her? He couldn't remember. He shivered. No wonder that creek had been so cold.

"Agent DiNozzo, please confirm for the record that you are taking part in this interview of your own free will as per Special Investigations directive 869 dash 14G, "Suspect Death With Special Circumstances."

He didn't wince. "Special Agent Anthony D. DiNozzo. I am giving testimony freely and truthfully." He smoothed back his hair again. He'd washed it four times last night, two this morning followed by a deep conditioning. Too long. He needed gel to tame it, to keep it out of his face, but he couldn't bear to use the stuff. Even clean-shaven instead of inmate-scruffy, dressed in his best suit instead of cast-offs from the NCIS costume department, the face in the mirror this morning had looked too much like a criminal. Drug smuggler. Murderer. Jeffrey White's accomplice.

Victim.

"… I really liked you, Tony."

"Take me through this assignment, Agent DiNozzo."

Background. Okay. That was easy. Before the shadows. Before the doubt. All he had to do was talk. Tony let the words flow. Iraqi antiquities. Warehouse theft. Jeffrey's arrest. Pressure from on-high – way the hell up the chain of command – while Morrow was in Europe. Pesky Secretary. The "Plan." The prison break. Tony Curtis. Sidney Poitier. The Defiant Ones. Tony's idea. A riveting plot, a stunning leading man – it seemed simple.

"And how was it determined that you would be the agent to go undercover. To try to get the antiquities' location from Jeffrey White?"

His rhythm stalled by the agent's interruption, Tony closed his mouth, the back of his neck hot. He let one side of his mouth quirk up. "If you ask Agent Todd I'm sure the answer would be that I most resemble a scumbag."

"Agent DiNozzo."

"Yeah, sorry." He kneaded the back of his neck, trying to do something about the stiffness there, the unrelenting thought that someone was watching, someone's eyes were there, staring. The thin white bandage Ducky had tucked over the cut, the itchy, annoying line White's knife had drawn across his skin caught against his fingernail. "Senior Special Agent Gibbs determined I was the best candidate. You'll have to ask him about his motivations – uh, reasoning." That hadn't sounded angry, had it? "I was perfectly fine with it. I have a lot of experience on undercover assignments," he hurried to add. Not Gibbs' fault Tony had screwed it up.

"All right. Your actions have been noted up until you and the suspect, White, tumbled down the hill and into the creek when the tracker embedded in your right shoe stopped transmitting."

White had done it on purpose. Even then, Tony had suspected it. Even thinking White was the submissive in the relationship – the puppy, the skinny geek Lane Danielson had dragged along in his criminal wake. Something in Tony's gut had squirmed, unconvinced by White's act. His cowardly patter.

He should have known. Should have figured it out. Should have –

"Can you tell me what happened next?"

Tony brushed his hair back from his face. "I managed to herd White in the direction of the trailer the team had set up for us to 'find.' After searching it for some tool to cut off the cuffs – which I knew we wouldn't find so that White wouldn't have a choice but to drag me along with him – we changed clothes and took the truck."

"Which, your report notes, White purposely crashed leaving Agents Todd and Gibbs to try to puzzle out your subsequent movements."

Nice. Tony admired Marcus' wording. Like he could have stopped White from jerking the wheel. Or maybe he could have. Should have seen it coming. Maybe Tony had been too entrenched in the role he'd assumed, in the scenario they'd worked out. Smart guy leading helpless geek around by the nose, gaining White's confidence with a few lines about Tony Curtis and some back-slapping. Too sure it was Tony who was in control.

White's eyes were cold. Dead. A shark, not a squirrel. Not the frightened mask he slipped on at a moment's notice. His smile finished the story his eyes began – sharp, dangerous. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

He cleared his throat. "Once we had stolen the bike – motorcycle – I headed towards a side road I'd remembered as having a gas station and very little traffic."

"'You remembered.'" Marcus looked up from his notes. "From what?"

Tony frowned. "From the map. The map we'd used to plan the op – operation." Did Marcus think he was a complete idiot?

The other agent nodded, sliding the map from the file and unfolding it on the table between them. "Can you point out the location for me?"

Breath caught up in his chest, Tony flicked his eyes once towards the edge of the door off to his right and then stood to lean over the offered map. Exposed. His back burned, anticipating the blow. The knife. The bullet. The shadows beneath the window darkened, the sky outside mirroring his unease. "There." One finger followed the road from the trailer where he'd picked up the truck, to the accident site, to the lonely gas station.

"Huh." Marcus made a face. "Good catch." He looked up at Tony. "And you knew that Agent Gibbs would look there?"

Tony sat back in the chair, pushing it out a couple more inches to increase his range of vision. "Well, I knew he was going to need gas at some point. And White was still acting skittish, so I didn't want to risk going to a more crowded place on the highway." He shrugged. "The pay phone was actually a bonus. I finally talked White into contacting his partner to get me in on the deal. He wouldn't let me know what number he was calling or where his partner was hiding out, but I managed to leave the keys to the truck in the coin return slot when we were maneuvering out of there."

Marcus paged through a file to his right. "Yes. Agent Gibbs' report notes that he found them there."

Too little, too late. Tony should have left a better clue, a 'trail of bread crumbs,' Kate had called it. But White was cagey, smart, too smart to be the innocent geek he'd been playing. Tony's gut had churned every time he looked at the guy's wide, frightened eyes. Arranging another stop, another accident or coincidence wasn't going to work any better than the tracker or the truck. He'd hoped the luds on the pay phone would give Gibbs the hide-out's location. Hoped. All he really knew was that he was on his own.

"Yeah, sorry." Tony frowned down at his hands, tapping against his knees, twisting in the fabric. He kept losing track, kept finding himself back there on a tiny motorcycle with a serial killer draped around him like a wet cloak. He brushed his hair back and raised bright eyes to the other agent.

"We got to the cabin pretty late. Lane Danielson, White's partner, wasn't too pleased with my presence. Even less so by White's insistence on my inclusion in their plans to leave the country." Tony swallowed, his throat dry. The standard water pitcher and glasses sat to one side of the table, but he wouldn't reach for them. Too much of a tell. Tony's eyes narrowed. And who knew who had touched the stuff.

Danielson raised the bottle, staring Tony down. He'd had to drink. Had to. No fugitive, no one who'd been in prison for months would turn down a free drink. The liquor burned, seared a path down his throat. Tasted wrong. Like citrus. Sharp as knives.

"And the cabin, where was it located?"

The other agent was still standing, bent over the map. Tony's mouth twisted in a grimace. Damn it. "This is all in my report," he managed through clenched teeth.

Marcus blinked at him, eyebrows rising. "It helps me put everything together to see it on the map. Please."

Tony rose again, knowing he was getting this wrong. This should be easy. Routine. His attitude should be boredom, not barely concealed irritation. Lemuel was almost apologetic. Friendly. Kind. What the hell was up with that?

He felt the unguarded door behind him like a black maw waiting to either swallow him or spew out dangers he wouldn't be quick enough to fight. Pins and needles against his skin. Pins and needles. Just like in the cabin. Prickly then warm then numb. Cold reflections glinting at the edge of his vision. He wanted to jerk away – to clear the room, gun in hand, just as he was taught.

No. Wrong. That was wrong.

Tony made his movements slow and deliberate, straightening to his full height instead of crouching, curling in on himself. He smiled. "Trailer." He pointed. "Gas station." He let his finger drift along the switch-back trails White had led him along. "Cabin." While he was there, he showed Lemuel the route they'd taken the next day to the highway. "Then down to Norfolk."

"I see. Thanks." Marcus returned to his chair and gestured Tony to his. "But there was no mention of the antiquities or their location when you got to Danielson?"

Tony settled on the edge of his chair this time, half-turned towards the exit. He needed to end this. To get past this next part as quickly as possible and get out of there. "No. Danielson didn't trust me. He had a lot of questions, a lot of suspicion." White had scurried out from behind Tony, almost simpering before Danielson' obvious anger. The vibe had been weird – the tension between the two, the unspoken questions and answers that flew silently between them had raised every red flag and waved them frantically in Tony's mind's eye. "But, eventually, White got him to let me inside, to get the cuffs off." He absent-mindedly curled his left hand around his right wrist, feeling the heaviness of the manacle that wasn't there.

"Danielson eventually came around?" Marcus dropped the question into Tony's gaping silence, the words echoing, bouncing from the plain, flat surfaces of the conference room. Clean. Familiar. Nothing like a rundown cabin in the midst of silent trees, the flat smell of mold, the taste of dirt and lies. Ripples in the air from that one question – one simple question - opened out, spreading.

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. Danielson. White. Danielson let him in – or White demanded it. Assumptions about those two, their roles, and who was leading who – who called the shots and took the chances – had spun NCIS' theories on their axis. But it was too late for Tony to adjust his persona. Too late to pretend uncertainty when his character was all about being sure. Acting. Taking chances. He was locked into "smart, confident, impulsive criminal," a guy who made things happen. A protector. A rival for Danielson's role in this dynamic. Someone for little Jeffrey White to trust.

What he hadn't guessed, hadn't been able to figure out, was that, instead, it was White calling all the shots. Danielson, jealous and insecure, needed White, not vice versa. Danielson was afraid that this new strong, confident guy would steal White away from him. And the man didn't even know it. Dark, cruel eyes had focused on Tony and warned him off, saying, of all things, that White was 'easily manipulated,' while White stood in the shadows and smiled, Tony and Danielson both dancing on his strings. He remembered White hanging over Danielson's shoulders – just like he had Tony's on the motorcycle – and whispering in his ear.

For a second – one flickering moment in time – catching White's eye over Danielson's shoulder - Tony knew he was going to die.

And then the scared little dweeb was back, assuring his partner that Tony was a good guy. Someone they needed. And the shadows pulled back to hide against the walls.

"You remained in the cabin overnight. With the two criminals."

"Yes." Tony bit off the word, slammed back the lid on the memories. The whispers at the edge of the blackness that had crept back after drinking Danielson' liquor.

"All night."

"Yes. All night." Tony combed his fingers through his hair. It was irritating, falling into his face all the time. Stupid. Should have cut it this morning. He'd had the scissors in his hand, watched himself in the mirror blinking water out of his eyes as the gleaming blades came closer. Light shivered along the long, sharp surfaces, glinting, bright enough to sear his eyes. The light was too bright, the table cold steel beneath his fingers. Then he realized his hands were shaking, the light from the bathroom fixture reflecting, jerking around the room like a crazy lightning bug. The scissors had made a heavy clank against the porcelain when he dropped them.

"You think you're gonna replace me, pretty boy? Think you're gonna be happy with him? Doing what he wants you to do?" The laughter was cruel, cynical, cutting. "Hope you're not too traditional. Or the squeamish type."

"Now, Lane, you know he couldn't replace you."

"I'd kill him first."

"He's been really useful. And nice. He likes me."

"Bastard. Maybe I'll cut him up a little, make him ugly. Scarred. You'd drop him if he wasn't so pretty."

Just a dream. A nightmare. It wasn't surprising that Tony had nightmares – not when he was trapped in a cabin, alone, with a serial killer and his partner. The shiver of light along a blade – warm breath against his neck – calluses against his skin –

Lemuel cleared his throat and Tony put his shoulders back, chin high, staring at the other agent across the table. Daring him to say something. He'd learned how to glare from the best – from Gibbs – surely he could get the SI agent to stick to the facts, to move this along. "Shouldn't we be focusing on the shooting? On White's death?"

"We'll get there, Agent DiNozzo. Just a few more questions." Lemuel folded his hands on the table. "During that night at the cabin, you couldn't find a way to get out? To take a phone from one of them? To contact your team?"

"No," Tony growled. "If I had a chance to do either of those things, you would have known it because I would have done it." He leaned forward, laying one arm on the table, finger pointing at the other man's chest. "Have you ever had to step into a situation like that? To let yourself-" Tony took a deep breath, "- undercover, out of touch with your team? It's not like the movies, Marcus," he sneered. "You do what you have to do."

Leave it. Move along. Tony made a sweeping gesture before hiding his hand under the table again, urging the other agent away from that night. Before Danielson came in to his room with his damned bottle. The two had argued, low and menacing, leaving Tony alone to search for anything – anything – he could use as a weapon and coming up empty. Trying the tiny window and finding it had been painted shut – layers and layers of different colors sealing the warped wood into a solid mass. Trapped. No way out.

"What did you 'have to do,' Tony?" Marcus asked, his voice steady, cajoling. Coaxing.

Tony turned his head away, looking towards the door. Anxious for a glimpse of bright orange walls, for Kate's sharp elbows, for a smack on the back of the head. For normalcy. He tried to stare through the barriers, to breach the thick walls of the conference room to find Gibbs. Kate. Abby. He imagined Gibbs looking up from his desk, his stare compelling. Cold. Impatient to get this done and get his agent back to work. Just like in Norfolk. Abrupt. He could almost hear his voice. 'Get the hell over it, DiNozzo. You're supposed to be a professional. Suck it up.'

Kate – Kate would be frowning, as always. Assessing. Compassionate, though. Abby, too. In her own way. Down in autopsy, Ducky bent over a dead body. White's body. Murmuring about gunshot wounds and the human body. Would he cut open White's brain? Point out the damage – the dead, black areas that had made him a killer? Bile burned a track up Tony's throat.

Ducky, watching him from a safe distance. The skinny kid – Palmer – crawling backwards on the tiled floor.

He swallowed. Took a deep breath. Get through. Get past. Get over it. "There was one door in and out," he tried, flashing a smile that cut and bled. "And since they hadn't given up the location of the goods yet, I had to play nice."

"In your briefing, before you went undercover, your team had determined that Lane Danielson was the more dangerous of the two. And that this pair had killed before." Lemuel's voice was controlled, even. Not the typical judgmental IA drone. Nothing about this interview was typical. "What happened, Tony?"

Nothing. Nothing happened. He tried to say it. To laugh. To chatter on about 'being flexible' and 'staying in character.' Meaningless terms. The lump in Tony's throat threatened the neat piles the SI had made on the table. "Was I 'concerned' for my 'well-being?'" he shot back at the other man. "Yes. But only as far as Tony the fugitive would have been concerned. He didn't know these guys were killers. He thought little Jeffrey had been roped into this robbery by big bad Danielson and might be open to a new partner. And might need some protection." Bass-ackwards intel as usual. Danielson had been a fool. An idiot. A cold, dead idiot.

The nightmare whispered. It smelled of booze. Sweat. Cigarettes.

"Just help me, Lane. He could be wired." Tugging at his buttons. His fly. Danielson' dark chucking. "Just lie back, boy. We'll see how much you like him now."

He shook his head. Just a nightmare. He hadn't been hurt. Hadn't been – nothing had happened. None of the promised scars or anything else was visible on his skin in the morning. Danielson had disappeared and taken his threats with him. But, now, beneath Tony's silk shorts, his designer suit, his skin crawled, fighting to get away, to slough off his body and back to the shower.

"Anyway," Tony continued as if that empty pause hadn't happened, "I had a job to do and it wasn't finished."

Lemuel watched him for a moment. A minute. Maybe more. Tony didn't fidget; he offered a bland, unconcerned face with a small smattering of impatience around the edges. But his left hand clenched against his thigh, knuckles whitening.

"Your report notes that, sometime during the night, Lane Danielson left the cabin and did not return."

His left knee bounced up and down. "Yes."

"What time during the night did he leave?"

Tony looked up from his lap into Lemuel's eyes. "What?"

One finger tapped the papers in front of him. "What time?"

"Well, I wasn't wearing a watch," Tony sneered.

The SI wasn't fazed. "Approximately, then. At approximately what time did Lane Danielson leave?"

"I don't know."

"Soon after you arrived? An hour? Two? Or closer to morning?"

Tony smoothed his hair back, leaning back in the chair, gathering his usual air of ease and effortlessness around him. It took a lot more work than it usually did. The blackness, the dead emptiness of that night stole it. Stole his calm. His masks. His confidence. He didn't know. The shadows had held him senseless all night long. But he couldn't say that. Couldn't tell. "I'd estimate between two and five AM."

Lemuel went back to the papers, paging through Tony's report slowly until he found the passage he was looking for. Tony glanced at the door and then back. Almost done. Almost through.

"You note that you and Jeffrey White left the cabin at approximately seven in the morning."

"That's what White said." He remembered the skinny guy pulling back the sleeve of his shirt - too big, the shirt was too big, the sleeve so long it flopped over his hand, unbuttoned – to look at his watch. Big, black sports watch. Tony frowned. Danielson's watch.

"So, Danielson had gone long before that. How did Jeffrey White explain his departure?"

His mind skittered back to the memory. The lack of memory. The feeling of falling. Of paralysis. It hadn't taken long. One swig from Danielson' bottle. Just one. And then the morning. White sitting beside him on the bed, one hand on Tony's chest.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

He had not fallen asleep. He would not fall asleep undercover. Gibbs would kill him. Even though he'd been exhausted, adrenaline alone would have kept him awake through the night. Adrenaline and suspicion. He might have dozed, half-awake, listening for every sound, every movement from the room next door. He might not be Gibbs with his super-powers, super-hearing, super-sniper skills, but he had been undercover before. Sleep was not an option. Not when you're surrounded by enemies, 'bad people with naughty thoughts' as Jeffrey had said. People who would slit your throat without any provocation. Tony couldn't help tracing the edge of the bandage on his neck. Close. So close.

It's what they all expected to hear. Gibbs. Morrow. Lemuel. How Tony had listened for clues, heard arguments, doors opening and closing. How he'd committed it all to memory, sorted out the facts, and used it to choose his own words and actions to get White to play ball. He couldn't tell them, couldn't admit what really happened. He wouldn't. Wouldn't think about it. Tony closed his eyes, teeth clenched, muscles rigid. No. It didn't happen. Nothing. Happened.

"As I noted in my report, White and I discussed the fact that Danielson might be on his way to the stash, looking to cut us out of the deal. I was in a hurry to get out of there, to get to the antiquities." To end this. End it – escape – get away. Away from the touching. Hands on Tony's back, his arm. The wide-open eyes turned up at him, that trace of a smirk beneath White's facade of helplessness. White was in no hurry. Had wanted to linger. Tony couldn't – he had to move. "I managed to drop the phone and gun in the duffel when he turned away for a moment."

Even then, White had been playing him. Tony saw the scene on repeat, had gone over it second by second during the sleepless nights since, laying on his bed in the dark. Whispers. Sounds. How his body felt, thick and clumsy, in the morning. His clothes, not quite sitting right on his frame. The flannel shirt hanging neatly on one bed pole where he didn't remember tossing it.

White stood too close. Sat too close in the car. Tony's lips tightened against his clenched teeth.

"Agent DiNozzo? Tony?"

He couldn't stop thinking about it. About the blackness. The empty night. The whispers. That morning he'd blamed Danielson, remembered it was his hand that held the bottle, his voice that murmured threats. White had gotten rid of him – somehow – and a little part of Tony had felt grateful. Protective.

It wasn't until later, washing and scrubbing in the shower, facing himself in the misted mirror over the sink, remembering Abby's evidence of what White had done. Danielson's slit throat. Remembering White's touch on his shoulder, his breath on the back of his neck from the backseat.

Tony raised half-closed eyes to the SI agent. Behind Marcus' silhouette, backlit by the sky, fat wet flakes peppered the window. Stuck and melted and ran down the glass. Like tears. Rain. Blood on a windshield. He was done. Tired. Out of time, out of words, out of excuses. "White drove. When he got tired I drove and he got into the backseat. I called Gibbs time after time on that cell phone. Dialed and hung up. Driving one handed towards I didn't know what."

"Tony. Stop."

God, why wouldn't they leave him alone? He let his chin fall towards his chest, his fingers plucking at the perfect seam of his trousers. "I didn't know if Gibbs got the message. Didn't know if they were following me. If they were even looking for me." On his own. At the end of his rope. His gut knew he was out of time. Out of options. The borrowed clothes were too loose, too tight. Or maybe it was his skin.

"Agent DiNozzo." A woman's voice came from behind him. Beside the door. It sounded like Kate but not Kate. Weird.

"When we got to the container, Danielson wasn't there." Both hands in his too long hair, Tony grabbed tight. Squeezed. He couldn't think, couldn't stop. Focus, he demanded, focus, you idiot. What kind of agent can't give a simple statement? Gibbs is going to kill you. White's voice in his memory wasn't frightened any more. Just certain. Sure. He'd been suspicious the entire time. "White tried to slit my throat. I shot him."

"Hey, DiNozzo."

He blinked, rubbing at his eyes. When had Gibbs arrived? "Are we done? Do you need something else?" Tony's arms and legs were heavy. Numb. He couldn't move. Couldn't stand. The adrenaline that had fueled him for so long – since the op had first started, since he'd shuffled to that prison bus with Jeffrey White. Since Gibbs had sent him off with a clip on the back of the head and a warning. Since Abby had hugged him, asking one more time if she could put the tracking device under his skin. Since a pale, frightened McGee had rushed in to wield the tech and handle the Undersecretary.

"Yeah, Tony. We're good."

Marcus came around the table, handing off his file to the woman who stepped from the shadows. Tony frowned. The door beside him was open, Gibbs crouching by his side, one hand on Tony's shoulder to keep him seated. "Boss? What's going on?"

Familiar blue eyes weren't cold or distant, now. The perpetual frown was still angry, still the mark of Gibbs' second B, but different. Less impatient, more vengeful. "What happened yesterday, Tony?"

"Yesterday?" It was Tony's turn to frown. Report writing. He'd been late because … the hot water in his apartment had run out. Scissors gleamed from the bright white of the sink. "Just a regular day, Boss. Why? What happened?"

Gibbs looked over Tony's head towards the woman and then back to him. "I had Ducky take a look at you. Remember?"

The itch beneath Tony's skin was getting worse. He rubbed at his arm, pressing hard, getting his nails up under his sleeve until Gibbs' hand stopped him. "Um. Yeah. I went to see Ducky." The morgue was cold – always a little bit creepy. Ducky had been ready for him, a tray full of instruments and empty vials. Gerald's replacement puttering around behind him. Tony had hopped up on the table, unbuttoned his shirt, and then … then …

A whisper of sound behind him. The glitter of light on a cold steel blade. "Just lie still…"

Sound. Shouts. Flesh hitting flesh. Trays and instruments splayed out on the floor. Ducky –

Tony grabbed Gibbs' jacket. "Is Ducky okay? I didn't hurt him, did I? Boss?"

"Hey – DiNozzo, stop. Ducky is fine. You hear me?" Solid. Honest. No-nonsense.

Tony could breathe again. "Good. Good. I'm gonna run down there and apologize. Poor guy. Must have thought I was going nuts." His smile felt off. Strained. Gibbs must be mad. Furious. Ducky was one of his oldest friends. "I'd never hurt Ducky, you know that, Gibbs."

"I know. He knows, too. But I think you freaked Palmer out more than a little bit."

Palmer. That was the skinny guy's name. Crawling like a crab on his back on the floor. Metal gleaming from his right hand. A thermometer. Not a knife.

Tony looked back at the window. Lightning flashed in the distance. 'Thunder-snow,' they called it here. Gibbs' hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him attached to the here and now. Somehow – of course – his boss knew that and tightened his grip.

Maybe it was contagious. Rubbed off on him from Jeffrey White. From the blood that had splashed against his face. Tony let his hands fall into his lap and closed his eyes.

"I think I'm going crazy, Boss."