Anthony Dinozzo, Sr. rarely appeared in bars, a strong believer that a man of his stature should not be seen in such places.

But on a January night not long after divorce not-quite-a-double-digit-number-but-quickly-getting-there, he found a hole in the wall dingy one to sneak into for a scotch. The kind of bar that played the kind of jazz his late wife loved. The kind that had cigar smoke hanging in the air and lonely men hanging onto the photographs in their wallets long after the smiles looking up at them had left.

He sat at the bar and tapped his fingers to the missing drum beats in the song playing, ordered his scotch, and fully expected to be left alone as was in the nature of these kind of bars and their inhabitants. These quiet bars.

But two bar stools over, a man with ambulance eyes sat down, a tin box clutched in his hands. Senior heard him order a beer and watched as this man turned to face him.

"You got kids?" he asked, his eyes bright with hope and regret.

When Senior did not respond, the man continued, a voice of shock and sadness, "Someone mailed this box to me today." Senior glanced at the object in the man's hand. Rust and red paint.

The man continued, "I buried it in my backyard when I was eight. When you're eight, you think it's so cool and there's no way you'll forget. But I did, of course. Crazy, huh? Someone found my buried treasure and now it's like childhood was yesterday." His voice hitched. Senior glanced at the bartender, a dry, unamused expression on his face asking the bartender to help him ditch this rambling man.

The bartender only shrugged in response, and the man started to speak again, "Got me thinkin' about my boy. When he was young he loved stuff like this. The whole digging up the past thing at least. Always said he wanted to be an archaeologist and find a whole city in the dirt like Pompeii." The man let out a scoff of laughter. "Smart kid, huh? What eight year old knows about stuff like Pompeii?" The man clutched his drink, fixing his gaze intently on the amber liquid inside. Senior suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"But I haven't talked to my kid in ten years. He has his own kid now, or so I hear." The man looked at Senior again, his eyes like a hand in the dark searching for a light switch.

He didn't find the light switch. Senior just stared, narrowed his eyes, and wondered why this man thought he'd care about his life story at all. But the persistent man continued despite this, something inside of him needing to get these words out before the pit in his stomach choked his resolve.

"Makes me think I should maybe talk to him, before it's too late. Before I'm buried in my own box." The man finished with his gaze on the box and a crack in his voice. He looked back at his drink, done with the mute man he'd been trying to engage.

Anthony Dinozzo Senior returned his gaze to his own scotch and took a sip like the man next to him hadn't just bared his soul. Senior didn't have a pit in his stomach or a desire to erase lost chances.

Anthony Dinozzo, Sr. never took the universe's hint. The hand in the man's eyes had reached too far. Because the next day, the silver-haired man sitting with a bourbon in the corner booth - the man staring at the photograph of a little girl and a smiling redhead who had their own boxes now - this man, met Anthony Dinozzo, Jr.