Title: One of Ten

Pairing: Tibbs - Tony/Gibbs

Rating: Mature for dark themes

Summary: A expansion to my tenth drabble in Ten of One: 10: I'll Be Okay - Swirl 360.

Author's note: This expansion of the Tenth drabble is dedicated to TonyDiNozzo42, for the wonderful review that urged me to go further. I hope you enjoy it!

AN 2: Haven, Alaska may or may not exist. For the purpose of this story, it's a fictitious town of my creation.

1. Leave It All Behind -

Leroy Jethro Gibbs had done exactly what he promised himself he would the moment that Abby had announced Tony was dead; he had gone home, packed the few things he decided to keep and got the hell out of DC. He had gone in the extreme opposite of Mexico, having finally realized just how much his 'retirement' there had hurt his friend and Senior Field Agent. He would not piss on Tony's memory by running there again.

Contrary to popular belief, he was semi capable of functioning with electronic devices. He had e-mailed his resignation to Vance, though he had not bothered to e-mail anyone else he had called friend. He would like to say that it was because he was being noble, not wanting to take out on them his terrible temper and self-deprecating self destruction that would come after losing someone he was so closed to, but in all truth, he just didn't have the strength or willpower to tell them good bye. They were still raw and broken from Tony. It would be easier for him to just ... slip away. They had lost a friend, he had lost the man he had come to love, but been too much of a bloody coward to say anything to. His one chance at something that may have been profound, epic, and beautiful, was gone. How could he stare at the blank screen of his computer and compose letters to those that had also lost Tony, without letting the entire, horrible truth come tumbling out?

So, he had gone straight home and down into his basement. Sitting there, of course, was the latest boat. THE Boat, as far as he was concerned, since it was the one had been teaching Tony woodwork with. He couldn't count how many hours had been spent sharing bourbon and secrets with his Senior Field Agent as they sanded, bore, sawed, fitted, and slatted together to create the beautiful masterpiece that was unfolding down in that dank, dusty, dark old room. Everyone on the team, as well as Fornell, a few Ex-Wives, and a few friends, had questioned how the hell he got them out of the basement; now, no one would ever know. He had been prepared to pass on that secret once he and Tony finished The Boat. He had every intention of letting his SFA name it, fully prepared for it to be dubbed with some kind of movie reference name, but it was going to be Tony's boat, so he could've named it anything he wanted to. Gibbs had daydreamed of the astonishment, and the wacky reference, Tony would've made when the big secret was revealed. He had imagined far more, as well, of course. That they might share a first kiss upon it's completion, when they were swept up in the moment of creation and bonding. It didn't even have to be a kiss! Just a moment where their hands brush and neither let go. Something to signify that there might be something deeper and meaningful, worth pursuing.

All of that is gone now. So, he had taken one last glance at his boat, dumped the old hand made tools into a heap on top of it and lit a match. He stayed long enough to watch it become a ragged, jutting carcass of charred wood before he put it out. The dousing of those flames was symbolic, as well as cathartic; it was the dousing of what little hope at love and passion remained within him. He reached for the bottle of bourbon that was always there, waiting, and stopped mid lift, before realizing that that was a part of an old, now dead, life. The bottle had been smashed against the wall, the meager contents sloshing down the wall to the ground as he turned, grabbed his bag, and left.

From there, it had been one bus ticket after another, paid for in cash. No paper trail. He had no desire for McGee and Abby to team up and track him down. He would only break their hearts when he told them to go away and never contact him again. It would be a second betrayal, after his leaving the hospital, and he doesn't think any of them could really survive that. Their hearts had been ripped out by the death of the goofy clown that held their strange little family together; none of them could handle that happening again. Or, maybe, he really is a bastard, and he's just using them as an excuse. That seems more like it, actually.

Bus after bus ... a steady diet of fast food and bottled water ... transient souls migrating from place to place, a different sea of faces every few days ... it was a depressing tapestry of hopelessness that seemed to represent his life so perfectly now that Tony is gone. He did not consciously decide where he was going, only knew that he was going North. So, imagine his surprise when he stumbled across a small destination for Haven, Alaska. In the end, it seemed perfect. What a better place for a second chance ... than a haven?

2. Three Years Later -

Haven, Alaska; Population 360. It is a small, wooded island off the mainland. It is not big on tourism, though there are more than a few fishermen running down wild Salmon. Small Mom'N'Pop stores dot the main street, which houses all of five businesses. The main road runs from one end of town to the other, a wharf at either end cluttered with boats of every size and kind, ranging from those that help their owners make a living, to those that are purely entertainment. Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Jeth to most in Haven, has a personal fishing boat anchored at one and a small handmade sail boat at the other. It is not a boat of his own making, but one he bought when he arrived in town. Despite the alimony payments, he had a nice little nest egg that he used to start over, make a new life for himself. The payments were still made, but he made damn sure that they couldn't be traced back to where he lives.

He will not tolerate the old world breaking into the vague sense of comfort in his new world.

It is a pleasant summer afternoon with temperatures in the high 60's, low 70's; a slow wind is meandering through the trees and a part of the population has gathered for a fourth of July festival. A few streamers of color hang from the old fashioned buildings of wood, undulating in the breeze. The local grocery store, owned by none other than Jeth himself, has donated steaks and trimmings for the festivities. Jeth currently stands over an open fire, 'Cowboy steaks' cooking away. The sound of children laughing and men and women gossiping up and down the paved street means very little to him. It does nothing to penetrate the cloud of maudlin reflection he seems to fall in to from time to time when the all too familiar bogs him down. Some part of his mind is dedicated to watching the steaks, but the rest of his mind? It is stuck in the throes of memories that were once happy and beloved and are now tainted.

How many times had Tony showed up with a case of beer to split between them while Gibbs made Cowboy steak in his fireplace? How many times had they let the stress of a recently solved case bleed away while they ate and drank in comfortable silence? And how the fuck does Gibbs reconcile the fact that it will never happen again, with reality? It seems a perverse lie, the death of Tony DiNozzo, and his mind still refuses to accept it. The others in town whisper that something from Jeth's past is killing him, eating away at him from the inside out like a cancer, and many lament the day he will simply fade away. But there is nothing they can do to save him. They are doomed to watch as he passes.

He flips the steaks with halfhearted attention, a spray of aroma causing his nose to wrinkle, a blast of heat bringing a thin sheen of tears to his eyes as he tries to remain in the moment, rather than floating away in a maudlin sea of memory. He reaches for the bottle of water next to him, his gaze momentarily fixed on a bottle of beer chilling in a cooler a few feet away. God, but he wants to attack that bottle and down it in a single gulp! However, he had made himself a bit of a promise; when he left, he left behind all of those things that could once be associated with his old life. He no longer drinks, works with wood, or any of those things. His life is now leisurely, and while that is killing him in some ways, it has also made it possible for him to get up day after day and continue on.

"Mr. Gibbs?" The soft, adolescent voice takes him by surprise and he turns those cool, inexpressive eyes on the little girl that is staring up at him with a big smile. "Mom didn't get enough plates. She gave me this, for you, to buy more, please." He watches the kid fish out a ten dollar bill, and he probably would've given at least a small smile back in the old days. Instead, he just waves a hand dismissively at the kid.

"Take it back. It's on me." He glances at the steaks, flipping them the final time before he turns and walks quickly into his store. The door had been propped open in case he needed to duck in and grab anything. A few minutes later, he reappears, handing the 80 count, bright package of paper plates to the youth before he returns to the task at hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Gibbs. I'll tell Mom it's almost done." The kid flashes another smile and then takes off. Not surprisingly, it seems the kids in town didn't think twice about his gruff, quiet exterior. And yet, even the adults didn't seem as dissuaded by his personality as they had in his old life. He watches the child run back to her mother before he turns his attention back to the food. His thoughts are once more trying to find their way to that dark place, but they never have the chance to get there. The sound of a plane chugging overhead draws the attention of all those gathered, every head whipping around and up to watch the clear skies as a small plane cruises over the town, headed to the small air strip on the edge of the island.

Maybe it's a reemergence of that famous Gibbs gut ... maybe it's a sense of paranoia at the small tatters of comfort he has reclaimed ... or maybe it's just a sense of doom that has overshadowed him since Tony's death, but the moment he saw that plane he knew someone was here for him. Why, or who it would be, he has no clue. He lowers his gaze back toward the platter that was being held out toward him, and he quickly forks the steaks on to it before he turns and heads into his store.

Twenty minutes later, he's not surprised to see two silhouettes blocking out the sun in his store's doorway. He finishes cleaning down the counter, tossing the old cloth to the side as he lifts his weary gaze toward the two black trench encased figures.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs?" A man with a smoky, abrupt voice wheezes, the largest silhouette stepping forward to produce a middle aged man with a puckered mouth and sallow cheeks.

"Who's asking?" The words could almost be described as petulant, bitter. It is a name he does not often hear in it's entirety these days, and the uttering of such has left him feeling old and worn out in the course of moments.

"I'm Marshal Eric Anderson, and this is my Deputy, Erron Jackson. We need to speak with you." Jeth sighs softly, a clipped, annoyed sign of agitation, before he gives a jerky nod of his head. The Marshal steps forward, flashing his badge, before he sets a folder down in front of Gibbs. The older man opens it, reaching down to spread a handful of photos out in front of him. His lips compress into a tight line of white hot anger.

"You're looking at a few photos of Stanley Markim. He's currently a member of witness protection. We have been keeping a close eye on him, but as of 0600 two Friday, he has fallen off even -our- radars. We have reason to believe he was abducted. We need you and your old NCIS team to rendezvous with our Agents at what we believe to be the crime scene." Usually, the thought of helping out another Agency went against most of his rules. However, he glances back down at the half a dozen photos. Each one depicts a sparkling, green eyed man with perfect teeth and a beautiful smile that could probably light up an entire room with little trouble. He knew those eyes .. he had seen them lit up and filled with sadness; he had seen the truth and the lies in those eyes for nearly 10 years. The man that always had his six ...

"Anthony DiNozzo Junior." Gibbs speaks the words out loud, hiding the desperation he feels to have some kind of validation about the truth and reality of what he's seeing. The Marshal glances at his partner, and then gives a quick nod.

"Yes, Mr. Gibbs. Stanley Markim was once Anthony DiNozzo Junior. The US Marshal's service faked his death three years ago and placed him in witness protection. Now you see why we need your help."