Gibbs arrived at the scene at 0300.

Which was about two hours after Tony.

Gibbs cursed the accident on the Wilson bridge that had stalled him as he made his way through the house, ignoring the framed photographic evidence of the happy family who lived in this suburban little slice of Americana.

Because it was false evidence. A false positive, really.

Gibbs stopped in the large kitchen, full of granite and stainless steel and potential for homecooked meals to be shared on the big round dining table in the adjoining room.

But Gibbs didn't care about any of that. His eyes went straight to the French doors off the kitchen, leading to a patio designed for happy family barbeques with the neighbors.

Gibbs was glad the neighbors had stayed home this time.

It was early Monday morning, but the police officers in the kitchen looked wide awake.

"Status," Gibbs barked, biting down on a demand for a SitRep because these were Metro cops. He flipped out his ID when all he got were raised eyebrows at his sharp, commanding tone and civilian clothes.

"Father went apeshit," said the nearest cop, a small, bald man with a neat mustache. "Wife cheated on him while he was overseas. Turns out the littlest of the little ones isn't his."

Another cop, slightly older, slightly more hair, gave his cohort a glare. But Gibbs didn't see it. His eyes were focused on the scene outside the glass.

The older officer said, "Capt. Jonathan Harris served three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He's highly decorated. He cut his last tour short to come home to care for his youngest son, Kevin, who was diagnosed with leukemia. But when the Captain was tested to see if he was a match to donate marrow, he found out that Kevin isn't his son." The cop glanced at the doors, covering a slight wince at the people on the patio. "His wife told him the boy was conceived right before he left for his first tour. Turns out it was more during that tour, but it must have been close enough so as not to draw suspicion."

"Your boy out there?" the smaller man said, glancing toward the doors. "He's a fuckin' rock, man. Got all of that out of the dad while this loco bastard keeps swinging the gun back and forth between him and the kid's head."

Gibbs continued staring out of the glass doors, his eyes still on Tony, as they had been since he first walked into the kitchen and saw the two men outside, face to face with the little boy in Harris' arms between them. He could barely see Harris, who was to the left of the glass, but he could see his agent. Tony's hands were up, steady even in the chill of the middle of this bitterly cold night, and he spoke while looking down the barrel of the gun pointed at his face.

Gibbs turned to the smaller cop. "Then why the hell hasn't 'my boy' taken a shot yet?" But it was perfunctory. He knew the answer.

The man blinked in shock at the tone, his hand coming up to stroke the mustache in a reflexive gesture of self-comfort.

His comrade answered for him. "Captain Harris' stipulation, sir. He only let your agent out there if he agreed to go unarmed."

Gibbs turned furious eyes on the gray-haired cop. "And you let him walk into that situation without a weapon?"

The officer held up his hands, his eyes apologetic. "Wasn't really any stopping him, Agent Gibbs." He offered a small smile. "He really is doing a hell of a job out there, sir. When Harris locked himself out there and demanded to speak with NCIS, I honestly almost didn't call. I thought one of our negotiators would be better suited to handle this. But your guy, Agent DiNozzo, is it?" the man asked, using the Italian pronunciation.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs corrected, using his agent's preferred inflection and realizing Tony hadn't bothered to identify himself with anything other than a flip of his badge, just as Gibbs had done minutes earlier.

The older cop nodded. "He barely said two words to us," he said. "Just asked who was in charge, slapped his gun on the counter here and walked right out there, hands up. Just like they are now. He's barely moved in two hours."

Gibbs finally saw Tony's SIG on the counter, peeking out from behind the big cop. "You in charge?" he asked, knowing that answer, too. But still he asked, knowing DiNozzo had enough problems without him starting a pissing match in here.

A nod. "I'm Sgt. Teddy Haywood. I say I'm in charge," he said, glancing back at the windows and nodding at the distraught father, "but it's more like he is right now."

Gibbs nodded back, and the two veterans shared a look. They didn't know each other. But they both knew.

"Turn it on," Gibbs said to the smaller man, whose hand went immediately for his mustache as confusion filled his dark eyes. "You heard them talking. I don't hear them now. Turn. It. On."

Mustache nodded quickly and moved to a console, flipping switches until the muffled voices became clear as day—clear as the morning that either would or would not dawn for the three people on the patio.

"My son is not my son!" Harris roared. "How many fucking times do I have to say that before you get it?"

Tony's voice came next, slow and calm in a way that Gibbs hadn't heard it in a long time. "That's biology, Captain." He shrugged. "That boy in your arms right now? That eight-year-old little boy who plays catch with you and calls you Daddy? He doesn't care about that. He just wants to be with you."

Gibbs watched as DiNozzo took his eyes off the gun and looked down at the little boy, trembling in the sub-freezing night air, and Gibbs knew how hard it was for his agent to ignore the weapon pointed at his face.

But Tony didn't blink.

"He's scared, Captain Harris," Tony said, crouching so slowly Gibbs could almost feel the sympathetic burning in his quads, the creaking in his knees. DiNozzo started moving his left hand, as if to reach out to the boy.

"Move that hand another inch and I'll put a hole in it," Harris said, his voice deadly calm.

Tony froze. "I'm gonna stand up now, Captain," DiNozzo said. "I've got this bad knee from college football and since it's colder than those Ohio winters out here, it's about as stiff as a board. That okay? If I stand up?"

Mustache snorted beside Gibbs, and the agent almost shot him even before he spoke. "That's a damn fool thing to say. What if this guy's from Michigan?"

"Can it," Haywood said, sounding almost as annoyed as Gibbs felt. "Harris said he played ball in school, too. Agent DiNozzo is trying to build rapport with him."

The officers fell silent as Tony continued doing just that, but Gibbs was looking around, getting a feel for the layout of the place. "Why aren't there sharpshooters out there? Why not just put a bullet in this guy's head and end it?" he asked, not particularly wanting that outcome—but knowing it was better than Harris killing the kid. Or Tony.

"He's smart," Haywood said. "Standing in a storage closet so he's covered on three sides. Can't shoot through this wall because we don't know exactly where he is and can't risk hitting the boy. Only way to get him would be the house behind your agent, but the angles from the windows are all wrong and there's no elevated deck like this one."

"But DiNozzo might not know that," Gibbs said, glancing at the dark night sky. "He crouched to give you a shot."

Haywood nodded. "Second time he's done it. Used the exact same phrasing as the first time: 'He's scared, Captain Harris.' Guess he was just giving us another chance in case we weren't in position the first time."

"Or confirming what he already knows," Gibbs said softly, his eyes on his agent's as he wondered if Tony knew he was there. It was hard to tell given the angles, the lighting and accounting for glare.

"Which is?" Mustache asked, reminding Gibbs of his presence.

"That he's on his own out there."

Mustache nodded, but Gibbs found Haywood watching him intently. Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"You think he might be thinking of doing something not-so-smart?" the big cop asked, following Gibbs' eyes to DiNozzo's face.

"I think he's thinking of doing something downright stupid," Gibbs said, glancing at his watch. "They've been out there for two hours now?"

Haywood turned a massive wrist and checked a cheap gold watch. "Little bit over, now," he said. He eyed Gibbs. "How stupid?"

Gibbs held in a sigh, thinking about all he knew about Tony: his past, his personality, his pain, his flaws, his will, his weaknesses and his strengths. He pried his gaze away from his agent to meet Haywood's eyes. "He'd take a bullet if he thought he could save the kid."

Haywood winced. "Ah, another one, you mean," he said quietly.

Gibbs' eyes snapped back to Tony, roaming his agent's body searching for signs of an injury. And that's when he saw the hole in DiNozzo's black NCIS jacket, dead-center over his heart.

"Thank God he thought to put a vest on this morning, right?" Haywood said, sounding a bit wary.

And Gibbs knew it was because he looked furious. He was about to start demanding answers when the officer spoke again.

"Harris freaked when we slapped the microphone on the door," Haywood explained. "Pulled the trigger the second it hit the glass. DiNozzo staggered back against that bench, but I could see he was still breathing and there was no blood. I ordered our guys to stand down because I figured one move and Harris'd put one in his head."

Gibbs nodded, figuring he was right, but still he glared at the cop. "Why the hell risk the microphone? DiNozzo's the only one who needs to hear this guy."

Haywood gave a faint smile but it disappeared at Gibbs' glowering. "Agent DiNozzo told us to. Said the only way to keep his boss from charging out there was if he could hear what was going on." Haywood paused. "I'm guessing he meant you."

"I'm gonna put a bullet in him myself when this is over," Gibbs growled, seeing the pain in Tony's eyes now that he knew to look for it.

"Waste of a hell of an agent," Haywood said. "First thing he did when he opened his eyes after taking that round was tell the kid everything was okay." The officer smiled again. "Asked him what his favorite pizza was and told him they could get one for breakfast. Guy's tough as nails, he is. I could hear the pain in his voice for a sentence or two, but by the time he and Kevin found out both their favorite toppings were red peppers, it was like nothing had happened. Except for that hole in his jacket."

Gibbs nodded, his thoughts far away.

"And what's probably a monster bruise underneath," Haywood added, trying to fill the tense silence. "Getting shot at that range's like gettin' kicked by a mule."

"Wait," Gibbs said, the chatter catching up with him. "What did you say?"

"About the mule?" Haywood asked, looking perplexed.

"About the pizza," Gibbs said. "What topping was their favorite?"

"Red peppers," Haywood said.

Gibbs swore softly. "Tony hates red peppers," he said, shaking his head.

"Code," the big cop said, nodding. "He mentioned the boy's red scarf, too. And wanting some red wine to ward off the chill. Myself, I just thought I'd rather have whiskey, but… Damn. I missed it. What's he trying to tell us?"

"My guess is he's red-lighting the sharpshooters," Gibbs said after a moment. "He doesn't think Harris will kill the boy and wants more time to talk him down."

Haywood frowned, his grizzled gray chin showing deep lines. "But he crouched out of the line of fire—twice." He paused, considering all the angles. "Or like you said, confirming we didn't have a shot. Or maybe he heard something that changed his mind. I have to admit, I'm only half-listening since all they're talking about is football. I'm a baseball man, myself."

Gibbs nodded, knowing he was doing the same—but for a different reason. It made him ache to stand there and listen to Tony telling such genuine lies about how his father came to all his games. Gibbs knew it was much more likely that Tony had sent tickets to his every game, only to walk off the field disappointed every time, win or lose.

"Don't you want to see Kevin play ball someday? Maybe as a Buckeye? That bright red uniform nothing but a blur as he streaks down the field?" Tony was saying, and Gibbs could hear the exhaustion creeping into his voice, here at nearly 0400. It made Gibbs wonder where Tony had been when he got the call. Judging by the jeans and running shoes he wore under his NCIS jacket, Gibbs figured probably home, maybe even in bed.

And now he was standing out in the freezing cold on a stranger's back porch, trying to clean up those strangers' shattered lives while staring down the barrel of a gun.

Gibbs wasn't sure he'd ever been more proud.

Or worried.

This had gone on too long, with everyone involved so tense someone was bound to break. A thought hit Gibbs so suddenly it made him realize how tense he was, too, knowing Tony was completely vulnerable to this man as he stood out there, injured and unarmed.

"Where's the mother?" Gibbs snapped, irritated with himself and barking a mental order to get it together.

Haywood gave him a look. "No one told you?" He hurried on at Gibbs' glare. "Found her dead in an upstairs bedroom when we got here. Neighbor called in the shots fired, and we didn't even know what we were walking into when we got here."

"And Tony knew?" Gibbs asked, wincing and cursing his own tiredness. "Agent DiNozzo knew?"

Haywood nodded, realizing from Gibbs' wince that DiNozzo was not just this man's agent, but also his friend. "He walked in as they were taking the body out. He knew."

Gibbs shook his head, hard, as if to shake off the fog of sleeplessness. "He wouldn't red-light the snipers, then. Not knowing Harris killed her. She was his wife. This kid means nothing to him."

"So what was DiNozzo trying to tell us?" Haywood asked. "What's red?"

"Blood," Mustache said, apparently overcoming his fear of his superiors.

And about stopping Gibbs' heart.

"But he looks fine," Mustache continued, shrugging.

Haywood saw the look on Gibbs' face and offered, "He'd have bled out by now if the vest didn't catch that bullet. Considering where it hit him."

Gibbs held up a hand, both appreciating the man's kindness and not needing to hear about Tony getting shot or bleeding out.

Not when both were still such viable outcomes of this disaster.

"What if you had adopted him?" Tony said, and Gibbs picked up on the slight hoarseness in his voice. He didn't blame him: DiNozzo had been talking for almost three hours straight and that would put a strain on anyone, even Tony, who chattered through most of the days.

Gibbs decided that as long as Tony made it through this, he would never tell him to shut up again.

But he couldn't promise anything on the headslaps.

"Would it matter that he's not your blood? Even if you had raised him his entire life? Held him as a baby, let him grip your finger with tiny pink hands? Taught him to ride the shiny red bike you got him for Christmas? Read to him at night? Because you did that with Kevin. That's what makes him your son, Captain. Not some test done in a lab," Tony said, his voice cracking with overuse on the last word.

"Aw, you running out of steam on me, Tony?" Harris said from the shadows. "Adrenaline from that round to the chest running out? I can fix that, you know."

Haywood and Gibbs exchanged a glance, and something started nagging at the back of Gibbs' mind. His gut told him something was about to happen, but all he could do was listen.

"We're all tired," Tony said, letting the evidence show in his voice. "Kevin's about to fall asleep in your arms. Let him go inside and warm up, huh? I'll stay out here and we can figure it out. He's a very sick little boy, Captain, and it's freezing out here. Please? Can't you feel him shaking? Please? Just let him go?"

Everyone in the kitchen waited, not a single soul breathing while the Captain debated.

"Come on," Haywood whispered.

And Gibbs added his own silent plea.

Suddenly there was movement in the shadows, and Kevin emerged, pale and shaking and obviously terrified out of his mind. As soon as Harris released him, the boy surged into DiNozzo's arms, eliciting a grunt of pain from the agent as Kevin crashed into his bruised chest and buried his face in Tony's neck. Tony stayed crouched in front of the bench, fighting to keep from putting his arms around the boy and never letting go.

"Go in the house, Kevin," Tony ordered firmly but softly once he had caught his breath. He gently picked limbs from his but found the boy attached like a chilled little leech. "Please go in the house, Kevin. It's too cold out here for you."

"Noooo," the boy moaned, shifting to get a better grip on Tony's vest and making the agent gasp in pain. "Wanna stay with you."

In the cozy kitchen, Gibbs winced along with Tony but breathed a half-sigh of relief. Maybe this could end peacefully—or at least as peacefully as his agent getting shot in the chest and a man traumatizing a little boy could be. Gibbs cursed the job, and the knowledge that even happy endings weren't always so happy.

Beside him, Mustache slumped against the counter and grinned. "Thank god," he said, patting Gibbs on the shoulder, his relief making him completely miss the glare he got in return. "Told you your boy was damned good."

"I'll say," Haywood agreed, smiling broadly.

Outside, Tony knew he couldn't pry the boy off without hurting him so he went still and tried to think. He looked up to see Harris studying him intently.

"My boy," Harris said, cocking his head to the side, "in the arms of another man. Just like my wife when she conceived the little shit. How fitting."

Harris fired and the boy's head exploded in a burst of blood and bone. Tony barely registered that he was holding a corpse that used to be a shivering little boy when Harris put the gun to his own head.

"Sorry I ruined your night, pal."