Chapter Text
"…and after going through all that, when the poor bastard finally got out of the hospital he offed himself
anyways."
Martin Thomas’s heavy Boston accent carried out of the break room all the way to the bullpen and to all
points in between. But it wasn’t like everyone hadn’t heard a dozen versions of the story already. And even if
each adaptation was more grisly than the last none even came close to the truth as far as Tony was
concerned.
"No shit?" an unfamiliar voice gasped, a bit on the melodramatic side.
Newbie, Tony thought as he cradled his empty paper cup to his chest and let his head fall back against the
inside of the door. He sighed at the unpleasant realization that his tale of woe was already being used as a
warning to new recruits against the unexpected hazards of law enforcement. He should have expected it
though. It was just too juicy for the old-timers to leave alone. In fact it had a glut of selling points for a good
urban legend in general: obsession, male prostitution, torture, violence, poisoned coffee, rape, murder, and
teeny tiny glass angels.
"I don’t know how DiNozzo lives with the guilt."
Thomas again, getting louder to be heard over the murmurs of agreement and dissent from the peanut
gallery.
"He didn’t do anything."
Now that was Sheila Smith. Unlikely but true, there was simply no mistaking her breathy inflection with
anyone else. Aw, sweet Sheila. Sure her hair was a little too blonde and her bosom a little too perky, but
otherwise she was a very genuine person. Tony managed a smile for her defensive attitude on his behalf,
especially after the Christmas party debacle the year before. Still, it hadn’t been entirely his fault they got
locked in the janitor’s closet. After all, someone else had put the mistletoe there in the first place. He looked
up to see a nearly mummified piece of the clump still hanging over the mop sink.
"I know," Thomas agreed stupidly. "That’s exactly what I’m saying."
"No, I mean Tony didn’t do anything wrong. He shouldn’t feel guilty, he was just another victim."
‘Victim’. The word echoed hatefully in Tony’s head. He winced and almost came out of the closet.
"Come off it, Sheila, he’s a federal agent; he should have done something. He just sat there and watched
while that boy got all cut up and… defiled."
‘Defiled’ was spoken like a verbal leer. In his mind’s eye Tony could almost see the smirk on Thomas’s big fat
face. He gritted his teeth and straightened up, preparing to leave the safety of his little hidey-hole. While he
couldn’t disagree with the sentiment -- he should have done something -- he’d heard more than enough for
one day. He cracked the door to peek out but before he could make a clean get-away rapid footsteps beat a
path from the bullpen straight to the break room. Almost caught, he held his breath and waited.
"If it had been me I would have…"
"You would have what, Special Agent Thomas?"
The question was clipped and hard, almost Gibb-esque in its curtness. Not a tone Tony had ever heard
coming out of that mouth.
"Uh… What?" For once in his life at a loss for words, apparently Thomas never had either.
"What would you have done while drugged and cuffed to the wall? I won’t even list all DiNozzo’s other
injuries. But we’d all love to know, what the hell you would have done differently."
"McGee." Tony stepped out of the small closet and into the juncture of the hallway, coming into view of
everyone who was crammed into the break room. "Don’t."
Startled by Tony’s sudden appearance Thomas covered with a forced chuckle. "You need to rein in your
bulldog there, DiNozzo." No one else laughed.
"Tony." Sheila dropped her gaze toward the floor along with most of the rest of Thomas’s impromptu
audience, but for an entirely different reason Tony imagined. The newbie seemed unable to tear his wide-
eyed gaze away from the stalwart hero, or miserable failure of an agent and general blight on the good name
of NCIS, depending on who was telling the story.
McGee whirled around to Tony, his face flush with anger. "He said it was your fault."
"It doesn’t matter," Tony soothed as he slipped an arm behind McGee to propel him back the way he’d come.
"He also said your friend Doc is dead." McGee refused to budge.
"Yeah, won’t Doc get a kick out of that next time I talk to him? Either that or he’ll hop a plane to come kick
Thomas’s ass. It could go either way."
Thomas crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. "Now wait just a minute, I have it on good authority that
the gay boy killed himself."
Tony clenched and unclenched his jaw before speaking. "The gay boy has a name. It’s Michael Redding and
I assure you he is alive and well and living with his parents in Chicago. Obviously your source sucks. Come
on Probie, I’ll buy you a real cup of coffee. This stuff will kill you."
Everyone glanced down into their coffee at the stinging reminder. Someone’s nervous titter broke the
momentary silence before mugs began to empty out into the sink and paper cups started hitting the trashcan
as people scattered back to their departments.
McGee gave Thomas one last meaningful glare. "Let’s get out of here," he said as he turned the tables and
ushered Tony down the correct row of desks.
Tony allowed McGee his moment of protectiveness, a bit surprised and a lot grateful to see the extent the
Probie had his back. "You want to go get coffee?" he offered when they reached their own turf, thinking a little
fresh air might do them both some good.
"No." McGee sulked as he sat down to stare at his blank computer screen. "The suicide thing was new," he
added after a beat, glancing up timidly. "I mean Doc, not Kenny."
"Yeah, nice touch, don’t you think? Two suicides are always better than one in your really good tragedies."
Tony sat the cup he was still holding on the edge of McGee’s desk but kept his eyes on it as he spoke. "Take
Romeo and Juliet for instance. Claire Danes made a pretty good Juliet, by the way, but I just didn’t buy
DeCaprio as Romeo. Although I did like him better than say, oh, Leslie Howard who was already forty-three
when he took the role back in…"
"Tony."
"Right." Tony abandoned the cup and headed for his own chair. He took a deep breath then let it out slowly
as he sat down.
Appearing much calmer now, McGee reached over and trashed the cup. "Sorry I went off the deep end back
there."
"No, it’s… hey." Tony shrugged then absently rubbed at the minor ache in his shoulder. "Listen, Probie, you
don’t… you know, you don’t have to defend me."
"I know. I know what happened and I know people who don’t are going to gossip. I’m just tired of hearing it,
you know?"
"Yeah, I know. Thanks anyway."
"Any time," McGee assured with a ghost of a smile.
They both nodded solemnly, the matter settled. Satisfied with the brevity of their manly heart to heart, Tony
opened his browser and surfed to a couple of his favorite Web sites to try to get his mind off the
unpleasantness. But nothing held his attention for more than a few minutes and before long he realized he
was being watched.
"Something else on your mind, McGee?"
"No, I … I guess all this talk has me thinking about Kenny," McGee started then paused uncertainly. "He said
something. Before he died."
"Well I’m sure he didn’t say it after he died." Tony felt like an ass for the snipe when he saw McGee’s hurt
expression. "Sorry. What did he say?" he asked in a kinder tone. When McGee didn’t cave he added his best
puppy dog eyes.
After another minute of the silent treatment McGee finally replied in a reverent whisper. "He said ‘I dream of
angels, but I live with demons’."
Tony’s chest seemed too tight and he willed himself to breathe as he turned back to his computer with a
carefully crafted nonchalance. "That’s deep."
"What do you think it means?"
"I suppose it means he watched too much TV," Tony replied shakily, belying the cavalier attitude. "Must have been on 'Law and Order' or something."
McGee looked strickened.
"Do not," Tony said, holding up a warning finger when he could control his voice, "Say you’re sorry again."
"I’m not. I mean I am," McGee stammered. "I won’t say it."
With a sigh and a quick glance at his watch Tony got up and grabbed his jacket.
"Where are you going?" McGee asked with more concern than was warranted.
"It’s eight thirty on a Tuesday," Tony replied with a smile that might have fooled anyone who didn’t work with
him every day. "I’ve got a standing date with a lovely lady."
"Oh right," McGee said with relief as he checked his own watch. "Tell Doctor Lee I said hello."