This story has been sitting on my hard drive for *months*. Apparently, I outlined it while working on MPK and was going to publish it for my one year FFN "anniversary" (wow, has it really been that long?) Clearly, that didn't happen. The thanks are still relevant though: I have met some amazing people throughout the last year whether through reading, reviewing or beta-ing. I wanted to take a second to thank you all for your time and support! In the words of great Dean Winchester, "You're awesome!" :)

Without further ado, I offer you this one-shot that follows the ending of "Defiance". If NCIS were mine, this is how the episode would have ended.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The elevator dinged open and Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo cautiously poked his head out of the metal doors. He looked left and right before dashing across the open asphalt and shielding himself behind a row of parked cars.

He lowered himself into a half-crouch to avoid being seen and crept towards his green '69 Mustang which he had purchased a few years back as a replacement for the one Trent Kort had torched. Every so often, he peeked over the nearest hood to ensure he wasn't being followed.

He breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw his car less than ten feet away. He had made it without being spotted—he was home free.

He had the key in the lock and was just starting to turn it when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and heard a soft voice say his name.

He spun around, his hand automatically going for his waist holster. He bit back the string of curses when his hand contacted the empty air, realizing a moment too late his gun was in his desk drawer. Weaponless, he raised his fists and completed the turn.

"Dammit Abby," Tony gasped, releasing his fists and letting his hands fall to his sides, "don't do that."

"Sorry," the scientist replied, contrite, "I thought you were going to the blood drive."

"I was," Tony snapped, regretting it immediately afterwards as Abby's face fell. "I mean, I am. I…I left my wallet in the car," he lied smoothly, turning the key in the lock and propping open the door. He bent down and began searching for his wallet (which was safely nestled in his back pocket) between the seats, in the console and under the seat, continuing to monologue to Abby in hopes she would get bored and leave. "They need it for identification, something about not wanting me to wake up in a bathtub in a hotel room with my kidney missing or something, I'm not really sure."

He heard another car door open and lifted his head in surprise, almost slamming it against the top of the car. Within inches of his face was Abby, leaning precariously into the car, searching the passenger's side for his wallet as well.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Helping you," she returned, sliding her hand under the seat.

"It's not over there," he offered, not wanting to inconvenience the woman.

"I know," she said, waggling a dark leather wallet between two fingers, her face the epitome of innocence.

Tony patted his back pocket, frowning as the familiar bulge could no longer be felt. "You stole my wallet."

"I wasn't kidding when I said people called me Five-Finger Scuito," she said, chucking the wallet back at him.

Tony riffled through the soft-leather to ensure nothing was missing. "Actually," he corrected upon finding his credit cards, cash and driver's license still present, "you said no one calls you that."

Abby sprang out of the car and rested her chin on her fists which were piled one on top of the other on the car frame. "Which is technically true. It was more like my handle…like with a ham radio?" she clarified, seeing Tony's confused face.

Tony followed her lead, stacking his fists as she did and met her gaze. He shook his head slowly side-to-side indicating he had no idea to what she was referring.

"Nobody actually calls me that to my face." She paused, deep in thought. "They mostly just called me Abby."

Tony resisted the urge to roll his eyes. On the worst of days, Abby could compete against Ducky for Motor Mouth of the Year Award. Normally he didn't mind listening to her speak about everything and nothing at the same time, but today he was in a hurry.

"You know what Abby, I really don't have the time for this…" he trailed off, looking pointedly at his watch.

Abby furrowed her finely arched eyebrows. "You were going to leave without donating."

"Was not," Tony returned her inquisitive stare fighting to keep the guilt out of his face.

"Was too."

"Was not!"

Abby crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her lower lip slightly. "Yes you were Anthony DiNozzo so don't even think you can lie to me about it."

Tony exhaled loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to give Samantha—the young nurse with the absolutely gorgeous figure—the slip, sneak out to his car and be gone before Abby knew differently. But somehow she knew and she had followed him out here to ensure he wouldn't leave before donating his pint.

"Fine, Abby," he conceded, "I was going to leave without donating."

"It's just a pint, Tony," Abby said, gently closing the door and coming around to his side of the car. "It's not like they're going to bleed you dry."

"Well, yeah," Tony scoffed with bravado that he didn't quite feel.

"Is your trypanophobia really that bad?" she asked softly.

"My try-an-o," Tony paused and began again. "My tripton…My," he nodded to Abby.

"Trypanophobia," she offered helpfully.

"Yeah, that, is under control."

"Then what's the problem?"

Well at this point, he might as well just tell her. If he continued to lie, he would not be walking out of here without giving. Hopefully the cliché idiom about the truth setting you free actually applied.

"The nightmares," he said tiredly, squinting his eyes closed at the memory of the blue room, the choking breaths, the multiple IVs, feeds and piccs stuck into every spare inch of skin flooding him with medicines that were meant to heal. Even now, though less frequent than before, these dreams haunted him, leaving him gasping for breath and sweating bullets even in the comfort of his own bed. "They never went away."

There was a sharp inhale from Abby and Tony felt her wrap her arms gently around him. "I'm so sorry, Tony. I never knew."

She stepped back and punched him in the shoulder. "Why didn't you say something? I have a great friend who deals in managing nightmares. She's great person and I'm certain you'd really like her. Everyone who visits her comes away with a new outlook on life. This one time, she even—no, that's not important now," she paused to refocus. "You shouldn't have had to go through that alone after all these years."

Tony just shrugged. What was he going to do? Announce to the world he had problems dealing with an event that was five years prior? Yeah, he'd worked too hard, and far too long, on his eternal frat boy image to shatter it with a real-world revelation like that.

"I shouldn't have pushed you," she began, rubbing her fingers together and wrapping her arms around herself in a pity-hug and generally looking like she might cry for practically forcing her friend to do something that genuinely frightened him. "Should never have told you to deal with it, should have never left all those reminders or came by to talk you into going. I should have given you your space."

It was Tony's turn to enclose Abby in a very tight, very meaningful hug. "I knew you meant well."

Tear-rimmed eyes looked back up at him. "Really?"

"Really."

Silence spread throughout the parking lot.

"You know, this was the first year I made it all the way down to the room before turning back," Tony offered after a moment. "Usually I don't make it into the door."

Abby stepped back and laid her hands on Tony's shoulders. "When you're ready, whenever that may be, I will be there for you Anthony DiNozzo—you will notdo this alone anymore. You and I will march through that door, shoulders held high and face your fear. Now whether that's this week or in ten years, the offer still stands."

Tony was genuinely touched by her offer. "Thank you Abby. I tried today, but I just can't. Maybe in eight weeks."

"Well whenever you're ready, just gimme a call. I'll be there for you," Abby promised with a gentle peck on Tony's cheek. "Now, you want me to grab your gear for you so you don't have to go back into the squad room?"

"Nah," Tony shrugged casually. "I have my wallet—at least, I did a minute ago—" he paused and felt his back pocket for the bulge, "and nothing in that backpack won't keep until Monday. I tell you what: I rented the Scream trilogy from NetFilms. We can ridicule Courtney Cox's everchanging, always horrible haircuts, watch Neve Campbell kick some serious ass, and…"

"Ooh, ooh!" Abby jumped up and down excitedly. "Let's not forget discussing whether or not a body can actually rise after being shot at close range twice."

"You know, Abby," Tony slipped into the driver's seat and started the car. Abby eagerly dove in beside him. "There's this old story that circulates in BPD about this one body…" he began as he pulled out of NCIS headquarters.

One A.M. found Tony tossing and turning in his sleep, sweat pouring from every pore and his sheets tangled around his person. He was wide awake, staring at the ceiling, begging sleep to claim him. Their impromptu movie celebration had ended hours ago, since Abby needed to be awake early the following morning, for one of her many volunteering ventures, with a promise to see the fourth movie once it opened in theaters.

What was wrong with him? He faced life or death situations every day, giving a pint of blood should not be a big deal. Every year he had sat outside the blood bank, trying to gather the strength to overcome his fear of needles and every year, he had driven away without donating, having been haunted by the blue lights and phlegm that had raided his lungs and robbed his body of breath, the sharp pricks in his arm as doctor and nurses tried to counteract the genetically altered y-pestis. It was too soon, he thought each time. Give it another year. Yeah, next year, I'll be able to give for sure.

It hadn't happened yet.

For the first year, everyone had accepted it, no one wanting to push the man who had just survived a nasty bout with pneumonic plague. Hell, he wasn't even sure if they would accept his blood anymore, but he promised that one day he would overcome his fear and give again if it were possible. Don't get him wrong—he knew better than most anyone else how incredibly important it was to give blood. On more than one occasion, he had been the recipient of the O- pint after being shot or beaten to a pulp and had always wanted to repay the favor to someone else who was in need. And he had, for many years, if he wasn't on antibiotics to counter an infection or was without a current case, driven to the Red Cross every eight weeks and donated a pint or two, depending on how depleted the blood banks were.

He knew it was the right thing to do, but couldn't actually fight back the memories and the fears long enough to give. He wanted so desperately to make a positive change in someone's life, but every year, he still drove away one pint heavier than he should have been. If apologizing was a sign of weakness, there was no way in hell an irrational fear of a pointy object would fly at NCIS, and though Tony had once come close to asking Gibbs to come with him, he had backed away at the last minute, afraid his boss would see it as "hand-holding" or "coddling." He was the great Anthony DiNozzo after all: college athlete; basketball team captain who lead OSU to their ninth Final Four finish before he had blown out his knee; one-time football quarterback until he had had his leg broken by one Bradley Pitt; general all-star at the BPD after he had single-handedly closed the Macalusso case without help from his partner who had chosen that very week to disappear with his consigliore to Vegas; and all-around good guy: yet he couldn't stand being afraid of something so small it was relatively painless. So, every year, he had gone by himself, afraid of being considered weak by others, left to his own devices to chase away the shadows and memories that threatened to drown him.

It was time.

Time for a change.

He snatched his phone from the bedside table and fingered the speed dial.

"Mmmmm…h'lo?" Abby muttered, sleep thickening her voice.

"I'm ready," Tony said without introduction.

He could picture Abby sitting bolt upright in bed, fully awake as if she had just thrown back an entire Caff-Pow!

"Really?"

Tony hesitated. "I think so."

"Good. Samantha's setting up the drive tomorrow at the FBI building so we can stop by then. Let's go in the morning and get it over with so you don't have to worry about it for the rest of the day. Then we can go to brunch—I know this great place you have to try: granted…"

This was when Tony stopped listening, offering the occasional "Hmmm" or "sure" when appropriate.

After ten minutes, they disconnected, promising to meet at 09:00 outside the FBI Building.

"It's not that bad, Tony," Abby promised as she led him into the elevator to take him to the FBI lab where Samantha was holding the blood drive.

His skin was covered in a cold sweat, and his stomach was clenching and unclenching with every passing second but he stepped into the elevator, ignoring his every instinct that told him to cut his losses and run.

They rode in silence down to the bottom floor, watching the numbers flash on the elevator screen. Tony's mind was elsewhere, stuck in the Bethesda isolation chamber: the blue lights flashed through his mind, his leaning helplessly into Nurse Emma, unable to breathe as he drowned in his own bodily fluids.

Then he remembered the helpless feeling he'd had for the last six years and steeled his face. He could do this...right?

Abby had been watching him for the last few floors and quietly observed his tense, defensive posture, reached out and flipped the emergency stop switch.

"Are you okay Tony?" Abby asked.

"Yes," he lied.

She quirked her eyebrows.

"No," he amended.

"We don't have to do this today," Abby offered. "There will be another chance."

He considered her offer for a second before shaking his head. He was done fighting, done hiding.

Before he could open his mouth though, Abby spoke up. "You know," she said quietly. "I was afraid of needles once."

Tony's eyes flew to her large spiderweb tattoo on her neck, the "P" on her wrist and the symbol on her ring finger. "Somehow I have a hard time believing that," he replied with a hint of a smile.

She rubbed her inner wrist self consciously. "Yeah, it is kinda hard to believe but it's the truth. Long story short, I had a bad experience with one of my grade school vaccinations—I walked with a limp for a week—was never going to get another shot again. But then, Uncle Horace, affectionately nicknamed Horace the Haggler by his coworkers, was in a terrible car accident the summer after second grade. This was right after the second worst hurricane New Orleans had ever seen and the blood banks were overdrawn. They thought he wasn't going to make it and were asking all my family what blood type we were. I knew I was a match and almost didn't say anything, until I realized what was at stake. So I raised my head, took my mother's hand and marched into that room, ready to do whatever it took to save Uncle Horace's life."

"What happened to Uncle Horace?" Tony asked when Abby fell silent.

"He survived, beat the odds. Went on to become the Horace the Haggler we know and love, taught me most everything I know about how to strike a bargain, bartend, how to sniff out the best deals, and a few other skills I won't for fear of being incriminated," she added with a sly grin. "I got over my fear of needles and have been donating ever since I became of age."

The two stood there for an indeterminate amount of time, Abby silently monitoring Tony's facial features and practically hearing the words he was telling himself: If an eight-year old girl could get over her fear to help her uncle, you certainly can. Cowboy up, Anthony!

She waited hopefully as he took a deep breath, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering faster than before. "I can do this. I'm going to do this. Today."

Abby frowned, and Tony was afraid he had said the wrong thing. "No, Tony, we can do this," she corrected, taking his hand and leading him into her lab.

She cut straight to the front of the line, ignoring the indignant looks the other employees shot her.

"Hi Samantha," she exclaimed to the peppy young RN. She turned to Tony. "See, I told you she was cute."

She turned back to the young lady. "I've got a fresh one for you."

Samantha eyed Tony from head to toe. "Big strong man like you shouldn't be afraid of anything."

Tony looked ready to bolt for the door, but Abby intervened. "He had a bad hospital experience," she said, staring at Samantha. The two exchanged a complete conservation without saying a word, ending with Samantha nodding once.

"Well," Samantha struggled to loosen Tony's vice-like grip on Abby's arm, "this is nothing like that at all. I promise." She finally freed his grip and led him into the room.

"I can't do this," he said again as he saw the needles laying side-by-side, glittering as the light reflected off of them.

Someone wrapped an arm around his waist and pushed a shaggy object under his arm.

"Yes, you can," Abby repeated, pushing his arm down so Bert released his trademark noise. While the other FBI employees looked around in surprise, the two women led Tony to an open chair.

Samantha tied the tourniquet, noticing how his fingers were beginning to turn white from being clenched so tightly.

She slapped his fingers. "Relax, you."

Tony made the conscious effort to open his fist, but his fingers seemed to have lost the ability to move.

She looked helplessly at Abby.

"Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Teddy?" she began, gently grabbing Tony's chin and facing him away from Samantha, who was hovering with the needle prepped.

Abby sat by his side the whole time, chatting amiably about whatever was on her mind, which ranged from Sister Rosita's highest bowling score, to her other uncle Teddy who had once torn his thumb clean off in a motorcycle accident. The smooth hum of her voice distracted Tony from Samantha who was able to insert the needle and extract the blood almost without any reaction from her charge.

"We're all done," Samantha's voice came, interrupting Abby's monologue about her brother and his newest accomplishments at his high-stress job.

"That wasn't so bad," Tony admitted, breathing deeply as he pulled his forearm to his chest to slow the bleeding in the crook of his elbow.

"I told you," Samantha bragged, leaning over to pick up the syringe case she had dropped earlier.

Abby frowned as she followed Tony's line of sight. "Not nice, DiNozzo," Abby gently swatted his arm.

"What?" Tony asked, eyes wide open in protest as he rubbed his sore arm, looking rather like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Nothing," Abby deflected, staring innocently at a colorized picture of a shattered fibula in the lab, as Samantha straightened up.

"You're all done, Mr. DiNozzo," she grinned, handing Tony a juice packet and a bagel. "No strenuous exercise for at least 18 hours, you got that?"

"Does that mean you won't be stopping by my apartment later?" he quipped, feeling the tension in his stomach slip away and his muscles loosening as the stress drained from his body.

"I said nothing of the sort," she replied with a seductive wink.

"Well, he'd better be getting back to work," Abby interrupted, though not entire sad to see Tony his usual playboy self. "I see you have other strapping young men to seduce, Samantha," she gibed lightly as she herded Tony to the other side of the lab where the givers were told to sit for 20 minutes.

"Lemonade," Tony commented with a wide grin as he punctured the juice box and watched Samantha prepare her next patient.

"You know," Abby said offhandedly after a moment of watching Tony ogle Samantha. "I've known Sam for forever."

"I would never—" Tony replied, ripping hungrily into his bagel.

"She's. Like. My. Sister." Abby repeated with pauses for emphasis. "You know what that means?"

"If I break her heart, you'll kill me without leaving a trace of forensic evidence," Tony recited without enthusiasm.

Abby grinned. "You got it."

Tony thought for a moment, shrugged, and went back to happily sipping his juice box while watching Samantha work her magic with a few other first timers.

"Thank you Abby for coming with me," Tony said after a while.

"I told you, Tony, anytime you want someone to come with you, gimme a call."

The elevator dinged its arrival. "Be expecting one of those calls in eight weeks, then," Tony called as the elevator doors slid closed.

Abby smiled before skipping off, most likely to coerce more FBI agents into parting with a few additional pints.

Inside the elevator, Tony stared at the tight bandage around his elbow. He'd done it—conquered a fear, accomplished the unthinkable—and he was a better person for it. His fear would still be a problem, his memories, the inability to breathe, the various needles and tubes stuck into his person in hopes that they would ease his suffering, but now that he had donated again, the rest of the times would never be as bad as today. And for that, he was grateful.

He owed Abby the world for helping him out in a way he had never thought possible.

One day, he hoped he would be able to repay the favor.