Chapter Eighteen

"I look like a freak."

Ziva sat down on the end of his bed and looked at him through the open bathroom door.

"Do not feel bad, Tony. You are a freak." She smiled. "Besides, what is it you say? Hens dig scars?"

"Chicks," he said. "Chicks dig scars."

She tilted her head in confusion. "I thought chicks were baby chickens."

"They are."

"Then you call women babies? Would you not prefer a hen?"

"No, I'm not calling women … Oh, never mind." He leaned forward so he could see himself more clearly in the mirror above the sink. His vision wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be, but it was still blurry at a distance "Anyway, scars, yes. But bruises that cover half your face and a solid red eyeball? Not so much."

"It is not that bad, Tony."

He turned toward her in disbelief. "Have you seen me lately?"

"Yes," she said. "And at the moment, I am just happy that you are here to be seen." She pushed herself up from the bed and walked toward him.

He smiled softly. "Okay, yeah. There's that."

"It looks much better than it did thirty-six hours ago. At least you can open your eye now." She reached up and gently brushed his hair away from his forehead. "You are healing, Tony. It will not be red forever. You look fine to me."

They stood in silence for a few moments, until he finally worked up the courage to say what he'd been wanting to say to her for more than a week.

"Don't go," he said. "Don't go back."

She sighed. "I must. My father is …"

"Not the reason you're going to Tel Aviv." She froze so completely that she didn't even breathe, and for the first time since he'd found the picture on her desk, he knew with certainty that he was right. "Who is he?"

"Who is who?" She smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I have told you that there is no one …"

"I'm done with people lying and hiding things to protect me, Ziva. I thought I made that clear the other day. I thought you understood."

She nodded slowly. "I do."

"Then tell me who he is."

"He …" She trailed off, as though she was searching for the right words to use. "He is no one that you need to be concerned about." She smiled again and touched his arm lightly. "But your concern is noted. It is misplaced and unnecessary, but very … sweet."

He wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed it. "Just promise me you'll be careful."

She lifted her head and looked at him. "I am always careful."

The door to the room burst open. Ziva dropped Tony's hand and stepped away from him, and he turned back to the mirror.

"I can't believe I left this in the car."

Tim tossed the duffel bag down on the bed. He picked up on the mild tension in the room, and he looked back and forth between Tony and Ziva. He narrowed his eyes in mild suspicion.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Nope," Tony said easily.

"Tony is simply admiring himself in the mirror, McGee. I would think you would be used to that by now."

Tony walked out of the bathroom and crossed to the bed. He noticed the way Tim and Ziva both watched him as he walked, and he was very aware of the fact that they were staring at the stitches on his back, across his chest, and down his side as he moved. They were counting the bruises, checking for any signs of a limp, and making sure that the straps on his immobilizer stayed tight.

He made a mental note to work with them on developing their subtlety, and he forced himself to ignore the way he felt under their scrutiny. He really did look like some kind of freak, and if he was going to go out in public – which he was – he was going to have to get used to people staring at him.

"There better not be jeans in this bag, McGee."

Tim looked down at the floor in embarrassment. "I am so sorry about that," he said. "I didn't even think about …"

"Yeah, I noticed that." Tony dug through the bag one-handed until he found what he was looking for, and he pulled the gray sweatpants out with a small cry of victory. "Yes! Good boy, McGee. You're forgiven."

Ziva looked down at her watch. "Oh, I must go now." She walked over to Tony and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Feel better, Tony." Then she walked over to Tim and gave him a hug. "I will be back on Wednesday."

"I thought you were coming back Monday."

"I was," she said. Then she turned toward Tony with a grin on her face. "But then my vacation was so rudely interrupted, and the director …"

"Rudely?" Tony didn't even have to fake the insulted tone of voice. "I'm sorry that I so rudely intruded on your holiday in Israel, Officer David. The next time someone decides to kill me, I'll make sure that they pick a more convenient time for you." He didn't mean the words to sound as angry as they did, but he couldn't seem to stop them. "You do know that I almost died, right?"

The smile fell from Ziva's lips. "Yes, Tony," she said softly. "I do."

He knew that she'd only been teasing him, and he'd started out teasing her back. He didn't know when, exactly, he'd lost control of the filter between his brain and his mouth, and he didn't know when he'd gone from playing along to lashing out, but it was obvious that he'd done both.

Ziva stared out the window, and Tony stared at the wall. Tim turned his head back and forth between them.

Tony swallowed loudly. "Um, that … that came out wrong."

"It's the pain meds. Right, Tony?" It was Tim, once again offering him the out that he couldn't find for himself. "You know how he gets on those, Ziva. He doesn't even know what he's saying half the time."

Ziva blinked and forced a smile back onto her face. "How is that different from any other day?"

"Hey!" That time, the indignation was fake. "There's a difference between not knowing what I'm talking about and not knowing what I'm saying."

"Really?" Tim asked. "And what would that be?"

"I don't know right now," Tony said lightly. "Ask me again when I'm not coming down off morphine. I'm sure I'll know then."

"You mean you will make something up." Ziva's smile was real again, and the atmosphere in the room had grown noticeably warmer.

"Probably," he admitted. "But it'll sound good."

It was Tim's turn to look at his watch. "You'd really better go, Ziva. You don't want to miss your flight."

"Yes, you are right, McGee." She smiled at them both one last time as she walked to the door. "Stay out of trouble while I am gone."

"You, too," Tony said.

She pulled the door open and walked out.

Tim and Tony stood, motionless and silent, watching as the door pulled itself shut behind her.

"You haven't had any morphine since last night," Tim finally said.

"I know."

"It wore off a long time ago."

Tony nodded. "I know that, too."

Tim shook his head and sighed. "So, are we back to that whole staring-at-the-spot-she-used-to-be-until-she-comes-back thing?"

Tony shook his head. "No," he said as he turned away. "No, we're not."

"Good." Tim walked over to the bed and sat down next to the bag as Tony dug through it again. "Because we have more important things to worry about right now."

"Like what?"

"Like how to keep Gibbs from killing us for what we're about to do."

Tony smiled. "Hey, I almost died this week, remember? I'm safe for at least three days."

"Oh, yeah, that's great for you. What about me?"

"Well, that depends." He pulled out a shirt and headed for the bathroom to get dressed. "How fast can you run?"

They'd made two stops on their way to the house, and they had taken so much out of Tony that he almost called the whole thing off. He was grateful that Tim was driving, because it meant that he could lay his head back and close his eyes for a while. He was just about to doze off when Tim started talking.

"You know … IA is all over the Rivers thing," he said. He sounded reluctant to start the conversation, maybe because he was worried about how Tony would take it, but it was obvious that there was something he needed to get off his chest.

Tony didn't move or open his eyes. "Why do they care?"

"Well, an agent involved shooting, and the person who died was an agent, too."

"Bruce River was no agent," Tony returned hotly. "The person who almost died is an agent. The person who did the shooting is an agent. The person who died wasn't."

"I know," Tim said. "But they're still looking at it that way."

"Well, IA is stupid." They pulled up to a stop light. Tony opened one eye and looked at Tim through it. "Do you think it was a clean kill, McGee?"

"Yeah." Tim nodded his head. "I do."

"Then what's the problem?"

The light turned green and the car started forward again. "I've never …" Tim took a deep breath and tightened his hands on the steering wheel. "Have you ever killed someone you … someone you knew?"

Tony finally understood what Tim was so upset about. It was a feeling he knew, and, unfortunately, one he knew well. "Yeah," he said. He closed his eye again and settled back against the seat. "I have."

"And?"

"And … it sucks. But sometimes, it has to be done."

Tim nodded slowly. "It's just … I don't know. Harder than it should be to deal with? A week ago, we were working with the guy. Talking to him, standing next to him, teasing him. And then the whole time you were in the hospital, he was there, and we thought we were working with him again, and now … now he's dead. And I killed him, Tony. I did that."

Tony turned slightly in his seat and opened his eyes. "Look, McGee. He was going to kill me. We know that. He damn near did Monday night. And he had it in for Gibbs, too, and maybe you and Ziva and Fornell. He'd already killed Santori and Duncan. There's no way of knowing who else he'd have killed if he got the chance. And maybe I'm biased, but I'm glad you stopped him. I'm happy you blew the son of a bitch's brains out."

"So am I," Tim said softly.

"I owe you my life, Tim. You saved my life. That's what you did."

Tim didn't speak.

"The only question that really matters is this. In the same situation, knowing what you know now, this guy's going to kill me and you're the only one who can stop him, do you take the shot again?"

"Yes." The answer was given with no hesitation.

Tony smiled broadly. "Then you did the right thing." He reached across himself and punched Tim lightly on the shoulder. "Thank you, by the way. For saving me. You're my McHero."

Tim laughed. "You'd have done the same for me."

"Of course I would." Tony leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes again. A few seconds of comfortable silence passed between them.

"So. You do know that Gibbs is going to kill us, right?"

Tony smiled. "Nah."

"You left the hospital early, without him, knowing that he was coming to get you. And now we're going to the one place he told you not to go without him."

"Yep."

"He's going to kill us."

"We're good, McGee. Trust me. He's not going to kill us."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you both right now."

Tim and Tony froze in place, then slowly turned toward the voice in unison. After a few seconds of guilty silence, Tony smiled.

"Hey, Boss!" he said cheerfully. "What are you doing here?"

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and glared down at them. "It's my house. The question is – what the hell are you doing here?"

Tim and Tony looked at each other. Tony shrugged his one good shoulder, and Tim held up the piece of drywall he'd just pulled down.

"Fixing your ceiling," Tony said. "Like I said I would."

Gibbs relaxed his face a bit, but he didn't smile. "You can't hang drywall with two good arms, DiNozzo. How the hell are you going to do it with one?"

Tony jerked his thumb in Tim's direction. "That's why McHandyman's here."

Gibbs turned from Tony to Tim. "You know how to hang drywall, McGee?"

Tim shook his head nervously. "No, Boss."

"Look!" Tony's voice was bright, excited, and happy. He walked over to the white bags laying on the workbench and started pulling things out of them. "We asked the guys at the hardware store what we needed. We got the drywall." He pointed at the 4x4 sheet Tim was standing next to. "And these screws …" He pulled out the box and held it up, then reached back into the bag. "And this mud stuff … Oh, and some shop lights! Because your old ones don't have cords anymore and …"

"DiNozzo!"

Tony stopped and dropped his head. Tim did the same.

Gibbs started down the stairs. "McGee," he said. "Vance wants to see you. Something about an IA investigation he's going to shut down."

Tim nodded his head silently. He glanced over at Tony, who didn't look up from the floor, and headed for the stairs. As he walked up them, Gibbs stuck his hand out and stopped him. Tim looked up.

"That's a good job, Tim." They both glanced over at Tony again, and Gibbs put his hand on Tim's shoulder. "A damn good job."

Tim smiled. "Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs moved his hand, and Tim jogged up the stairs. "See ya later, Tony!" he called out as he rounded the corner and disappeared into the kitchen.

Gibbs started down the stairs again, slowly.

"Did I not make myself clear, DiNozzo?" he asked. Tony didn't look up at him. "When I told you that I'd be back to pick you up from the hospital, did I do or say something to give you the impression that was optional?"

Tony shook his head.

"And when I told you that I didn't want you coming back here alone? Did that seem like a suggestion?"

"I wasn't alone," Tony muttered.

"That's not the point."

"Yes," Tony argued. "Yes, it is." He finally raised his head, and it was done in defiance. "I'm not a little kid, Gibbs. I don't need a bodyguard, and I don't need a babysitter. You can't tell me where I can and cannot go, or when I can and cannot go there."

Gibbs squared his shoulders and stopped a few feet from him. "When it involves my house, I damn well can."

Tony still held the tub of drywall mud in his hand, and he slammed it down on the workbench. "No," he insisted. "You can't." He motioned around the basement with his arm. "I've been here a hundred times by myself. It's never been a problem."

"That was before you almost died here." The conversation wasn't going the way he'd expected it to. He'd thought that he'd come in angry, and Tony would back down, but that hadn't happened. There were a lot of emotions flying around the basement, emotions that Gibbs had wanted to avoid, but once they'd started down that path, it was impossible to get it back on track. "Damn it, Tony. You almost died here."

"I know that!" Tony walked away from the workbench and toward the hole in the ceiling. He stopped right under the beam, in the exact same spot that Rivers had almost killed him before he'd died himself at the end of McGee's sniper rifle, and turned back toward Gibbs. "I was here! I know what happened. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry it happened here, Gibbs, and I wish I could change that. I wish it had happened somewhere else. Anywhere else."

Gibbs shook his head and stepped forward. "I don't," he said. "If it hadn't happened here, I wouldn't have …" He took a deep breath when he realized the truth of what he was saying. "If he hadn't brought you here, Tony, I wouldn't have found you."

Tony dropped his arm to his side and looked down at his feet again.

"If it hadn't happened here, I'd have lost you."

Tony licked his lips and took a deep breath. "Then why don't you want me here now?"

"It's not that I don't want you here," he insisted. "It's that I was worried that being here would upset you. That it would hurt you. That you'd be scared or nervous or …"

"He's dead, Gibbs," Tony interrupted. "He can't do any of that anymore."

"I know. But I just keep thinking about you in that hospital bed, trying to remember what happened, and …" He trailed off when he saw another bag sitting on the workbench. A brown paper bag, laying on its side, with tools in it.

His tools.

Tony noticed what he was looking at, and he walked back over. "I, um … we … me and McGee, we … stopped by the Hoover building." He reached into the bag and pulled out the antique handsaw.

Seeing that saw in Tony's hand almost stopped Gibbs' heart in his chest, and he swallowed hard. "Do you know … do you know what that …?"

"I know," Tony said, "That I gave this to you for a reason. And it wasn't so it could spend the next twenty-five years in a cardboard box in the FBI's basement." He smiled, almost shyly, and looked up at Gibbs out of the corner of his eye. "Whatever else was done with it, it doesn't matter. Just like what happened in this basement doesn't matter. Because it was never about the tools, or the basement, or you." Tony looked back down at the saw. "It was never about you, Boss."

Gibbs nodded silently.

"I told you I'm not going to let him change anything about this place for me, and I meant it. But I really need to know that he didn't change it for you, either."

Gibbs nodded, hesitantly at first, but then stronger. "He didn't." For the first time since he'd found Tony hanging from his rafters, he felt the truth of his own convictions. "He failed at everything he tried to do," he said. "Every single damn thing."

He took the saw from Tony's hand and looked down at it. The weight of it felt good, perfectly balanced, just as it always had. He liked it just as much as he had the first time Tony had given it to him. "Thank you."

Tony smiled.

Gibbs transferred the handle of the saw into his left hand, and he reached into the pocket of his coat with his right. "I've got something for you, too."

Tony turned toward him in surprise. "Really?"

Gibbs nodded. "You and McGee aren't the only ones who stopped by to see Fornell."

He pulled the keys out first, and Tony's eyes lit up when he saw them. Then he handed him his wallet, then his gun. And finally, he flipped open Tony's badge and handed it to him. As Tony ran his thumb lovingly around the edges of his shield, he was positively beaming.

"Feel good?" Gibbs asked.

Tony nodded. "It does. It feels like ... like I've got my life back." He chuckled and shook his head slightly. "Ya know, it's weird. I've never had someone try to steal my life before. End it, yeah. I'm used to that. But steal it? Why the hell did he want it so bad?"

Gibbs put the saw down and leaned back against the workbench, at ease in his own sanctuary for the first time in five days. "You mean why was he so jealous of you?"

"Yeah."

"Why are most people jealous?" Gibbs asked. "You have everything he wanted. You are everything he wanted to be."

Tony's mounting confusion showed on his face. "But … why? I mean, how?" He sat down in the chair at the end of the bench. "He was right about me, you know. I am a screw up. And I don't understand why you put up with me most of the time, either."

Gibbs sighed and pushed himself away from the workbench. "No, he was wrong about you. He was right about me."

Tony looked up at him.

"If your situations were reversed, and Kale had knocked you out and used your gun to kill Azari, I wouldn't have let Vance fire you over it."

Tony grinned. "You'd have had my six."

"Always," Gibbs said with a nod. "Fornell didn't do anything to save his job, and he knew that I'd have done anything in my power to save yours. But what Rivers didn't understand is that I didn't give that to you. I didn't just randomly decide to put my trust in you, or give my loyalty to you. You earned it." He put his hand on Tony's shoulder and looked down at him. "You deserve it, Tony. Every bit of it."

Tony looked up at him, the expression on his face somewhere between disbelief and awe. Then his grin turned mischievous. "Does that mean you like me, Boss? Really, really like me?"

"You'll do." Gibbs ruffled his hair fondly, then turned away. "Now, get up, DiNozzo. We've got a ceiling to hang."

Tony jumped to his feet, and Gibbs pretended not to notice that he wobbled a bit when he did it.

"On your six, Boss!"

'Right where you belong.'