AN: This began as a story that I wrote as a present for Diana Teo. A story in which Tony had conversations with Dolphins. Di very kindly said I could rejig her gift for the site, but we thought maybe it would be sensible to leave the dolphins out.

The Irish Harp

by scousemuz1k

Tony grinned to himself. He should be thinking about turning round and heading back; Gibbs and the others would be arriving soon.

"Hey, Tony... wait up!"

"Jim... slow down. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing... well, Breena's been baking. Thought you might like to take these with you."

Tony looked down at the plastic container as it was pushed into his hands.

"Hey... Breena's cookies. Can't be bad... thanks, Jimmy. I'll call her and say thanks myself."

"You're... er... heading off now?"

Tony's broad grin didn't really reach his eyes; it certainly didn't fool Jimmy. "Off rotation for the weekend... a whole two days of peace and quiet. Yeah, I'm heading off."

"Alone, then? Zoe didn't change her mind?"

The grin struggled heroically, then fizzled and died. "I've not heard from her. I guess that means no. She... said she needed space... I guess that meant not answering my texts. She certainly doesn't answer her phone." He went on brightly, "Shame... it's a pretty place, overlooking the sea... she'd have liked it... I'm not going to waste it." He was silent for a minute, then said, tentatively, "Hey... Don't suppose you and your girls'd like to come? I mean... the cottage sleeps four... warm, comfy, baby safe, Victoria would love it!"

Jimmy almost said no automatically, not wanting to be pushy, and saw that Tony was waiting to be told exactly that. His heart went out to his friend.

"Are you sure? Let me call Bree – I know she loved the look of the place, I showed her last night on the net. Are you really sure?" The squeal that came from Jimmy's phone when he asked wasn't Victoria. It was settled.

When they'd arrived last night, and found the barbecue pit, it was Jimmy who'd carefully suggested they invited everyone down for the next evening. Tony had smiled wryly – reminding himself that being here was as much escape as he needed, and if he didn't want friends around he shouldn't have invited them.

"What, including Gibbs? You think he wants to be anywhere near me?"

"Tony..." Breena heard the tone in both their voices, and took nearly walking, nearly one year old Victoria out to look at the flowers in the back yard.

"Look... send a blanket invitation. Or just ask Abby to invite everyone. If Gibbs doesn't turn up, more fool him. I was just thinking that maybe he'd be a little more relaxed... a bit more his old self. Is that a terrible idea?"

"No, course not." Inside he was far less sure, but he appreciated Jimmy's efforts far too much to say so.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Well, here he was, alone to think (although he'd been avoiding that,) for a while out here on the water...the small dinghy that had also come with the hire of the cottage (Delphine – he liked the name – ) was good for one man operation. Jimmy had looked keen at first, then decided that since he'd suggested the barbecue, he'd better go shopping with Breena instead. "But you go and try it out," he said cheerfully. "I'll come with you tomorrow if Breena will let me!" Tony smiled to himself again. OK, he'd turn the little boat for home... but... he'd just sail a little closer to that very dainty craft he could see about a nautical mile away; because anyone can dream.

He didn't plan to sail too close; the elegant, classy sloop was minding its own business, and people often took to the sea to get away from it all – wasn't he doing just that? But then, being Tony DiNozzo, and the most observant person Gibbs had ever met, (Abby had told him that Gibbs had told her, and he knew the Boss kept him around for something…) alarm bells started to ring. The sloop was drifting; she was rigged for sailing, and the wind tried helpfully to do something useful for her, but no-one was tending the sails.

He could see, as he got a little closer, the stern of some sort of motor craft that was mostly masked, on the other side of the yacht. He frowned. If it were a deliberate rendezvous, someone should have reefed the sails… he felt uneasy; this just wasn't right. He wouldn't have called himself a particularly good sailor, but he knew enough to know that you didn't buy a gorgeous boat like that if you hadn't a freaking clue. So... the people who owned the boat wouldn't have left the sails to flap; but the ones in the motor boat might not have given them the chance to do anything else. The feeling of unease increased, and he almost reached for the binoculars in the bottom of the boat, until he became aware now of one figure, on the deck, watching him. He was pretty certain, with his good long sight, that the character had a rifle on a strap over his shoulder.

Tony thought fast; he turned his little craft onto a course that would pass across the stern of the bigger one at a distance of maybe a hundred and fifty yards, shortened the sail, and tied it down. Ducking down, he took his T-shirt off, and hung it over the boom on the far side of the sail, hoping that from a distance it would look like someone sitting in the boat. He took his phone out, and stayed behind the flapping t-shirt. At first Jimmy didn't pick up. Maybe Victoria was having a nap, and he and Breena – "Jimmy! Listen… white hulled sloop, drifting, can't make out name, begins with I maybe... one mile out from Tecumseh Point. Going to investigate. Let the team, coastguard know. Hopefully they're already on their way. Maybe G ibbs...Something's up –"

"What? Tony? Is something wrong? Shall I - "

"Just tell them, OK? It might not be anything. Leaving my cell in Delphine so we can relocate her." He cut the call but left the phone switched on, and slipped over the stern as unobtrusively as possible.

As the dinghy moved away from him, he could see that the watcher on the deck was following its progress, and not watching him. "Good," he muttered, swimming steadily towards the sloop. The guy with the gun was moving slowly up and down the deck; yep, definitely a watcher.

As soon as he saw the sentry's head begin to turn his way again, he slipped smoothly below the surface, and headed towards the bows, hoping that all the man's attention would be focussed on the dinghy's progress away from the stern. There wasn't much time; he had to deal with the man in case the dinghy got close enough for him to observe that there was no-one in it; and he had to try to find out whether he was sticking his nose into something perfectly legitimate and none of his damn business.

But he trusted his gut, and someone was in danger…

As he surfaced in the shadow of the bows, ('Irish Harp', he read. Another beautiful name,) he found himself below an open port. He pressed up against the curve of the hull, and listened. A child was crying; a man's voice was raised in protest. "Stop it! You have the wrong people! We don't know what you're talking about. We don't know anything about any ar - !" A slap, a scream. It was enough for Tony. He moved silently round to the motor launch, and used the cover of that to see if there was anyone else on deck. No. Good – and the guy was still looking out over the stern. Tony shucked off his deck-shoes, which were full of water and likely to squeak, climbed into the motor launch, and from there to the sloop.

The slap of the untended sails masked any sound he might have made, but in any case the big man knew how to be quiet when he needed to. Now… Gibbs might have chopped the side of the guy's neck, but he'd never taught Tony how to do that, so he settled for what he knew. He tapped the guy on the shoulder, and brought him down with an absolute haymaker to the corner of the jaw as he turned, catching him by the rifle strap before he hit the deck.

He rubbed his knuckles and winced, but he knew from experience that that was the best place to hit a guy to do him the most and you the least damage. He pulled the guy's eyelid up, it snapped down again. Good. This one would be out for hours. Still, he tied the guy's hands to a chain-plate by his own bootlaces to be on the safe side. He hefted the Winchester with grim pleasure, (the sound of a child crying was enough to make him want to damage someone,) confiscated the guy's Browning, and tiptoed silently off to investigate further.

Standing by the companionway which was the only way into the living quarters of the sloop unless he wanted to pass the windows and risk being seen, wringing wet and wearing nothing but a pair of scruffy jeans and a couple of guns, Tony took stock. If he knew his boats, there would be one other small door to the for'ard storage, and a hatch from there out onto the foredeck, so he'd have to watch his back, as if he missed a bad guy there was a circuitous route for someone to come at him from behind.

Tony listened hard.

"….searched the hold, there's nothing there, Boss."

"Then get in the damn bilges," another voice snapped.

"Been in there, Boss," a third voice panted.

"Oh," the first voice said, "I wondered why you stank."

"Yer… well there's nothing there. Boss, if I were hiding paintings worth shit knows how much, I wouldn't store them where they could be damaged. Maybe this is the wrong boat."

"Like I asked you, Bowen?" The voice that had been addressed as Boss surged with fury. "Where are they?"

Another man's voice said, in angry fear, "He's right, dammit! We haven't got them, whatever they are. You've trashed our boat and found nothing. There's nothing here. You've got the wrong boat. And the wrong people."

Clearly, it fell on deaf ears.

"Either you've got some purpose built hiding place," the boss voice said, "Or you've passed them on already. Either way, you're going to tell me. I'm going to count to ten and then start shooting. Your wife first, then the kids. One…"

"You bastard!" This was the scared, angry voice again, and there came the sound of a struggle. It was time to move. Tony stuck the pistol in the front of his belt, saying a quick prayer that any kindly deity who might be listening would keep his nads safe, lifted the rifle and swung down into the well. The Browning was a very small gun, he reassured himself; he could only shoot a very small hole in his friends. He ran swiftly through the galley, (wrecked,) and navigation hut (likewise) into the living quarters (trashed). A pretty woman in her late thirties, wide eyed and terrified, had her arms round a boy and girl who were in the same condition, whilst two men fought and two more looked on boredly.

"Federal agent! Freeze!" The effect was all he could have asked for. Everybody... froze.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Language," Tony said reprovingly. "There are young people present. And a lady. Put your guns on the floor. Very slowly. You, sir…" he addressed the man who'd been fighting and hadn't sworn. "Pick the guns up carefully, and drop them out of the port." He was prepared to be wrong on his guess as to which man was the husband, but really it wasn't a difficult choice. The one whose face was bruised, wasn't wearing riggers, at whom the rest of the family were looking anxiously… The man very willingly dropped several thousand dollars worth of firepower out of the window, and everyone heard the splash as they hit the water below.

"Ma'am, kids… go find me some rope please."

The three trooped out without a word, mesmerised.

"You lot, sit. Is this all of them? Apart from the sentry?"

"Yes…" the husband said. "Who are you?"

Oh, how tempted he was to say "Bond… James Bond…"

"Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Naval Criminal Investigative Service, enjoying my afternoon off," he said matter-of-factly, letting his little bubble drift away… "And you are?"

"Ryan O'Hare. Weekend sailor. Minding my own business with my family. How did you know…" Not taking his eyes off the other men, Tony explained about the loose sails. "Just hope my dinghy isn't half way to Florida by now…"

He paused. "So this art…"

Ryan O'Hare sighed and looked at the wreckage around him. "Special Agent DiNozzo, you could take my boat apart… if they hadn't already… when we get back to harbour I'll be quite happy for anyone to search it until they're blue…I don't know who they think we are, or what they think we've got."

Tony shook his head, he already believed the guy. No-one took their family along on smuggling deals. The said family returned, children appearing first, with a spool of lightweight, tough nylon cord from their spares. Their mother carried a folding, no-nonsense knife. "Patrick and Sorcha," Ryan told him. "And my wife, Grainne." He pronounced it Graunya, although he spoke with a New England accent himself.

"Thank you," she said softly, and as far as Tony could tell, her light, pretty brogue was southern Irish. The real deal.

He smiled at her reassuringly. "Give your husband the rope, Mrs. O'Hare. That's good. Now, Mr. O'Hare, tie their hands, in front for now, until we get them up on deck."

He didn't want to remain down here with everyone in close proximity, there were too many opportunities for things to go pear- shaped, so as soon as the men were tied he hefted the gun again. "Children, you go first, and stay well clear." The children went quickly. "Now, you three lovelies, and don't try anything."

He was pretty certain the two henchmen wouldn't; experience had taught him that the hired help wasn't in the habit of getting shot up for no good reason, so he was watching the leader. And that was his mistake…

"Never assume, DiNozzo!" He heard Gibbs' usual (at least at the moment, at least when aimed at him,) irritated, derisive tones in his head as...

The man who'd accused his cohort of smelling had warrants out in two states for murder during the course of armed robbery, and one of those states still had the death penalty. As the boss and the smelly henchman sat down on the deck, he affected to stumble, snatched the Browning from Tony's waistband and fired at close range.

It would have been natural for the family, having been rescued once, to think of their own survival first, but they moved into action quickly. Not only did they have no intention of being taken captive again by these thugs, but of course, as young Patrick said afterwards, they wanted to help Special Agent Tony. But by the time Mrs. O'Hare had brained the man from behind with a winding handle she'd picked up as soon as they came on deck, and her husband had snatched up the fallen gun, the only trace of the federal agent was a smear of blood on the gunwale, where he'd gone over the side.

There wasn't much room between the yacht and the motor boat, and if the Federal Agent had been luckier, he'd have landed in the launch, but the frantic family could see by another blood smear that he'd gone through the gap. The O'Hares, of course, had no idea about that particular fed, or even the Agency he worked for, and certainly not about his kind of luck.

The two youngsters were excellent swimmers, and while their parents were making sure that the four prisoners really were secure, dropping anchor and reefing in the sails, Patrick and Sorcha went over the side. They searched long and hard, diving as deep as their lungs would allow, and covering the widest area they could, but the man who had appeared out of the blue to save them, was gone.

Sorcha was crying, from exhaustion and distress by the time her mother insisted she come back on board. "The current's really strong, Dad…it could have carried him anywhere."

"It's quite buoyant, though," her brother tried to comfort her. "If he's – conscious - " he'd nearly said alive, and it wouldn't have helped his sis to remind her of the alternative – "he might be able to keep afloat for a long time … until he hit land, maybe…"

Their father came to a decision. "Sor… get some dry clothes, and for your brother. Paddy, how's the fuel in that thing… can you see a gauge?"

"Half a tank. Keys are still here too. No radio... or GPS beacon."

"Damn... OK," his dad said urgently. "We're doing no good out here, the current's probably carried him somewhere the locals will know about. He could be alive, treading water and going with the flow." He glared at the four men tied to pieces of deck equipment. "We leave this lot tied up for the police, and we head back to Tecumseh, fast. Get a search party."

"Leave them with our boat?" his wife couldn't help asking sadly, although she hadn't forgotten the need for haste.

Ryan sighed, and squeezed her shoulders. "Acushla, they've trashed her already. Including the radio, or we could call for help. She'll need a major refit before we can sail her again… We're wasting time. Into the launch, come…" His wife nodded guiltily. A few moments later, with the power of twin Mercurys behind them, they roared away from their beloved Irish Harp.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Ryan had been right about the current; by the time Tony had managed to fight his way to the surface, with only one good arm and one good leg, he'd been carried too far away for the O'Hares to spot him against the sun-flecked water. OK... he knew that in the end someone would come for him, although he didn't know how far away they were, or how they'd ever find him, or how long his strength would last. Why was he giggling?

He was still bleeding, he knew… there wasn't much chance of it stopping while he was in the water; he wondered about the one arm and one leg. He knew about the shoulder muscle, and idly felt around. Yes... there was the bullet, close to the surface, gone in at a shallow angle. He'd been hit like that once before when he was a young cop, they wouldn't let him dig it out himself...

What was he thinking about? Oh, yes… now he recalled…the razor sharp pain as the propeller of the speedboat sliced up his thigh and over his hip bone as he fell past it. Anyone else would have fallen away from the boat. DiNozzo's usual effing luck... He began to giggle again, even more helplessly, as his thoughts swung back to the upside again… what would have happened if the propeller had been turning? He felt down carefully; he thought he was probably cut right down to the bone over his hip… but not so deep on his leg, and the cut sloped down his thigh away from the family jewels… phew, that unknown, kindly deity had looked after him… and the sharpness of the blade had been frustrated by the thick denim waistband of his jeans, otherwise he'd probably be naked by now…

He tried to look down at his shoulder area, and was aware of lazy swirls of something darker in the green water… sharks are good at sensing blood… I hope there aren't any sharks in Chesapeake Bay…His chin hit the surface again, and he gasped, spluttered and fought back yet again; but he didn't know how long he could keep it up.

Long enough for us to find ya, DiNozzo!

I gotcha, Boss... can you please stop barking...

The Harbour Master at Tecumseh was incensed. Jimmy had explained to him that he thought Tony might have a problem, although he hadn't gone into detail, simply saying it was work related, and that they were waiting for their Boss to arrive. Why he was so sure that Gibbs would come with the team, heaven only knew. He hesitated as they stood outside the harbour office, wondering what he'd done to offend him, when the older man shook his head and spoke angrily.

"That lot again." He pointed to a motor launch that was coming in far too fast. "They flouted the speed limit when they left here, now they're doing it again." He frowned. "No… that's not right… that's the O'Hares… they own the Irish Harp… beautiful sloop that berths here. They're not the people who went out in that boat… and they know not to break the speed limit… something's wrong."

A few minutes later, the family had gasped out their story, and then they were horrified to find that their rescuer – their probably drowned rescuer, was the friend of the worried young couple with the sleepy baby.

"I'm so sorry," Grainne O'Hare kept saying. "He saved us… and risked his life…"

"If you knew him…" Jimmy said quietly, "It's what he does. And he's alive. You can be sure of that." He was, although he couldn't tell how he knew. He just did. Or just hoped... like he hoped that Gibbs was with the team. Tony had made a big thing of being fine if he didn't, but that was Tony.

Ryan sighed. "My Dad came here from Ireland with nothing but ideas… he worked up a nice little business, supplying Irish things to ex-pats here, or people with Irish ancestry who wanted a bit of their history. He ran it responsibly… looked after his workers… never cheated anyone… I took over, tried to live by his standards. Smuggling? No way. Put my family at risk… never. I don't even know who they were!"

"We've never lived a luxurious lifestyle," his wife said sadly, "But that boat's our one thing. Our pride and joy – it's posher than our house… by the time your friend rescued us they'd trashed it… we couldn't even radio for help… People like them… and then people like him…" She trailed off, not able to express what she was trying to say. Breena squeezed her arm and nodded understandingly.

Then Jimmy astonished her, but didn't, if you see what I mean, she tried to explain later, by getting very businesslike. "Mr. Shackleton, I don't know who this boat belongs to, but I'm taking it."

The Harbour Master nodded. "I'll send the coastguard out for the bad guys, and retrieve the Irish Harp, and see if they can spot Delphine as well. What shall I tell your friends?"

"That I'm too afraid to wait any longer… I need to do something –" The snarl of Gibbs' Yellow Peril cut him off, as it growled to a halt and disgorged the rest of the team.

Decisions were made quickly – Abby, travelling more sedately with Ducky, would be asked to trace Delphine as soon as she arrived, Tim and Ellie would look after the O'Hares, and deal with the crims when they were brought in. They looked pretty mutinous about it, but Gibbs only wanted to take one person. If it couldn't be Ducky, and heaven knew he wouldn't particularly have wanted to show his anxieties even to him, it'd have to be his assistant. If he showed worry in front of Palmer, the autopsy gremlin would think it was just his usual second B.

Sam Shackleton fetched blankets, and Sorcha said there was a very good first aid kit on board the launch; Breena said she'd go back to the cottage and wait for anyone to call her if they thought of anything else.

Jimmy jumped down into the boat, with Gibbs moving more slowly behind him. The Marine was just about to simply shoulder the younger man out of the way, when Jimmy fixed him with a glare, and gunned both engines so hard Gibbs almost fell over. The motor launch roared out of the harbour, and the Harbour Master tried not to mind that nobody cared about his speed limit.

Gibbs' voice was insistent, and Tony tried hard to respond. Stop shouting... where's Jim... he doesn't shout...

"DiNozzo, if you don't want to end up somewhere off the Florida Keys, wake up, dammit!"

"'Kay... " He grinned. "Florida'd be good, Boss..." There was some reason why Gibbs wanted him to be awake... what... Bump. Float. Bump. Scrape... Sand. Rocky sand. The muscles in his back strained as he tried to push himself up to look round, with only the use of his left arm; the weight that went onto his legs was too much, now the water wasn't holding him up any more. It hurt his gashed thigh and he slumped down again. Well, OK, half out of the water was better than nothing. Not great, though. He lay on his uninjured side, and squirmed his way up the beach until his leg screamed at him and he couldn't do it anymore, then rolled onto his back.

There was nothing he could do about the throbbing pain in his leg, hip and shoulder. He was aware of the gritty feel of sand sticking to the blood on his shoulder… and the light of the bright sky was too strong… it hurt his eyes and he rolled back onto his stomach. No... no good; the blood leaked out faster if he did that. He had a nasty, revolting vision of tiny, scurrying sea and sand creatures all gathering to feed… he shook himself, and decided the bright sky was better. Sand on his front... sand on his back... he must look like a piece of chicken rolled in breadcrumbs, ready for the barby. Well, the sun was hot enough to bake him – half an hour ago seemed to recall he'd been wondering about hypothermia. Well, it might have been half an hour, he'd no idea really.

He flung his arm across his eyes and just endured. Somebody would come. Gibbs would come. Just because they weren't seeing eye to eye just lately didn't mean he wouldn't come... sense of duty and all that stuff. Why am I still wishing it was because he cares? What happened... Then he smiled as he drifted gratefully away. Hey, I know Black Lung 'll come.

Jimmy throttled the twin engines back as they came level with the Irish Harp, and let the launch drift for a while, to see where the prevailing current was. Gibbs stood up and shaded his eyes with his hand, peering towards the coast, about a mile distant.

"D'ya have to try and knock me on my can, Palmer?" There was no heat in Gibbs' voice, but some curiosity.

"I know how to pilot one of these things, and he's my friend. I'd already decided to take the boat when you arrived." Jimmy's voice was level, and without confrontation, but Gibbs felt the thermal currents swirling away under the surface. "Anyhow, your sniper's long sight has to be better than mine with my glasses. I drive, you look out."

Gibbs cast around for something to say. Why was he doing that, dammit? "So... you and Breena came down with DiNozzo for the weekend?"

"He said he needed to be by himself. Then he kind of admitted he needed company. We're the right sort for him right now. We don't push our expectations onto him. We care about him."

"Gibbs didn't want to comment on that, so he asked, "I thought Zoe was going with him?"

Jimmy shrugged. "So did he, when he booked the place. Everyone seems to be dumping on Tony right now. He knows we won't." He fell silent.

Thinking back over that short, terse conversation, Gibbs decided he had no answer; not one he could or would give to Palmer, anyway. It was clear that the timid, mousey autopsy gremlin had metamorphosed into something with teeth, and the Marine was at least glad that he'd appointed himself DiNozzo's champion. He didn't know when that had happened; but how much notice had he ever taken?

He shook himself back to the present as he felt the revving of the engines under his feet. Palmer had figured which way the tide was running, and pointed the motor boat's nose in that direction, building up to a flat-out speed towards the coastline. It was less than five minutes later that Gibbs said, "There."

The launch had hydraulic jacks to lift the engines clear of grounding, so they drifted the boat into the cove that Gibbs had pointed out, and beached the bow end in the shallows, jumped out and ran. As they reached the prone figure, Tony's head rolled slowly towards them, and he smiled vaguely. "Jim..." His voice was weak, but warm. "Buddy... knew you'd come..." When he spoke again, it was the tone, not the words, that jolted the Marine harder than anything since that kid's bullet, a lifetime ago.

"Oh... Gibbs." Surprise. No boss, or you always have my six, or knew you'd find me. "You came."

"Sure, DiNozzo. Of course I did." Before Gibbs could say, or even think anything else, Jimmy said urgently, "Back to the boat. Going to have to wash all this sand off you with sea-water, Tony. Sorry."

"Mmm – it stung at first, but it doesn't any more... you do what you have to, Doctor Palmer." The tone said, hey, I trust you. Gibbs winced. All he'd got was surprise, and that shouldn't have surprised him.

Back in the boat, as they laid Tony on a dry blanket, Gibbs said, "You tend him, I'll drive."

There was the ghost of a smile as Jimmy said, "I was going to say that."

Gibbs kept his eyes on Irish Harp, by now underway with a coastguard crew and escort, and then on the harbour they were all bound for. Much closer to land, he could see a small dinghy being towed in by another coastguard vessel. Everything sewn up, neat and tidy.

He had certain aims of his own, that he wanted dealt with, just as neatly; he wasn't sharing what they were with anyone, but he had his ways of achieving them. And for the first time, he really took stock of what that was doing to his relationship with Tony. He glanced over his shoulder, but his SFA was grinning as he listened to what Palmer was telling him as he went about tending his injuries. Again, for the first time, he was aware of the size of the gulf between himself and the man who'd had his six for fifteen years, and he felt... hubris giving him a colossal kick in the pants. What to do? Probably too late to do anything. He had his aims...

When he'd finished dressing the wounds, Jimmy folded the blanket around Tony, wriggled behind him, made himself into a human pillow, and left him to rest. It was comfortable, and comforting, and Tony would have drifted happily, but for the fact that he had a clear view of Gibbs' back as he drove.

Ramrod straight, as usual. Unbending...

What next? Where to from here? By the time he was back on his feet again he was pretty certain the team would be functioning quite tidily without him... he sighed, and Jimmy peered at him anxiously. "S'OK, Black Lung..."

It was. Well, it wasn't, but it would be. Nothing stayed the same for ever... it was, he supposed, just a matter of finding the right change... so he was relieved. Resolved. That made him feel happy... so why did he feel so damn' sad?

THE END

AN: I'm sorry to be so woolly with both Gibbs' and Tony's thoughts at the end. But since none of us know what's going to happen, and I've no great hope that Gibbs is going to treat Tony any better, that's all, folks!