I don't know what to feel. The fact is, I'm not even sure I can ever feel anything again.

I do know I'm still alive. As I wake up, I can see the early morning sun coming through the slanted blinds, can hear the muted sounds of several people moving around close by, and can smell the strong aroma of rich coffee and frying bacon drifting up from somewhere downstairs. I still maintain some of my senses, so I must be alive. I must be.

There's a clock somewhere to my right. I can hear the faint tick, tick, tick of the passage of time. So, very carefully and, oh, so slowly, I turn my head just enough to gaze at the round, metal device, watching the second hand clicking in increments in its circular cage, measuring each minute, each hour, each day. I think I should be concerned about the time but, for some reason, can't make myself reach to understand why. It's better just to lay here and do nothing. Much better.

Just past the clock is a framed photograph of a young boy on a red bicycle, hair wildly-mussed and a wide, gaped-tooth smile in place. He's frozen in that particular moment in time: vibrant, alive, not a care in the world. He doesn't seem to be very old, maybe ten or eleven, certainly not yet twelve, and there's a small license plate screwed to the bike directly under the handlebars. I don't have to read it to know what it says. I would recognize those brown eyes anywhere. But I do it anyway. Squinting my eyes, I can just barely make out the name.

Mike.

The name drifts hollowly through my mind and echoes through all the empty recesses.

Mike.

My fingers move slowly, seemingly of their own accord, toward the photograph, almost like moth to flame. I think if I can just touch the smooth surface of the glass, I may be able to feel something, anything, again. I really do want to feel again. Really. Maybe. I can get my fingers close to the photograph but it's just out of my reach and I can't seem to find the energy to roll nearer, the small effort it would take is just too much right now. It's easy just to give up, to not really try. I don't think I want to give up. Well...

There's a muted noise by the door. Someone's knocking, turning the handle, and pushing the panel open, entering very quietly. Small steps coming nearer. A familiar, soft voice asks a question, waits, and asks again. It takes too much effort to respond, to even grunt, so I remain quiet. The trespasser will go away, eventually, I just need to wait patiently. I can do that. I'm very patient. So, I wait. And wait. I know the seconds and minutes slip away and, still, I wait. The intruder remains by the foot of the bed but I can't seem to take my eyes off of the photograph to see who it is. The soft voice is speaking again but the words don't mean anything to me. Nothing seems to mean anything. As much as I don't want to do it, I close my eyes. I wish I could close my ears, too.

Finally, the soft footsteps are retreating and the door is closing once more. I open my eyes and immediately refocus on the boy on the bike. Those eyes. Those brown eyes. Those eyes remind me of...

I don't know what to feel. The fact is, I'm not even sure I can ever feel anything again.

********************************************

"Tony, honey, what are you doing sitting here?" Candace DiNozzo asked, slowly dropping to kneel in front of the boy at the bottom of the staircase. His elbows were propped up on his knees and his chin was resting on his fists, a weary expression marring the young face. "Did you take Jethro his coffee?"

"Yes," the boy's voice was soft and full of sadness.

"Did he say anything to you?" She inquired, running her fingers through his short hair, trying to bring a measure of comfort.

Tony shook his head and sighed. "No."

She moved to sit next to him and draped an arm around his slim shoulders, pulling him close. He didn't resist but he didn't seek her solace either. She didn't like to see him like this: he'd hardly spoken since he'd been told of Mike's death in Beirut and he'd taken to staying indoors, alone in his room. He didn't want to play, didn't want to watch TV, didn't want to see any of his friends. With school out for the summer, he didn't even have the diversion of public education to keep his mind occupied. The only time Tony had shown any spark of his old self was after being told Jethro would be accompanying Mike's body back to the States and would be able to remain a few days after the burial.

"Don't you worry, sweetie. He's just very tired and very sad right now. Give him a little time."

"Okay."

"Come on," she rose and tugged Tony up with her, "Jimmy has breakfast ready. Let's eat and we can talk about what's going to be happening during the next couple of days."

As they entered the kitchen, Jimmy DiNozzo turned from his position by the stove, his expression growing sour when he saw they were alone. He locked eyes with his wife, saw the small shake of her head, and had to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying something inappropriate in front of the child. He refocused on the pan of scrambled eggs on the burner and roughly pushed them around. They all knew Jethro was grieving, hell, they all were grieving, but he needed to be a little more aware of what his silent presence was doing to Tony. And to Candace.

When the news of Mike's death had arrived, Candace had, as Mike's only immediate surviving family member, ushered the two Marines into their home and accepted the information with grace and strength. She'd listened as they related the circumstances of the incident, telling her all they were able, and allowing her to ask questions. To know others considered him a brave and honorable warrior swelled her heart with pride. But, more than anything, she was grateful to learn he'd died instantly, with no pain, and had been surrounded by his comrades in arms. He wasn't alone at the end.

She didn't know how some military families coped when they recieved the news if their sons or brothers or husbands being captured by the enemy, or injured so horribly they returned home as bitter, broken men. Mike had alluded, about a year ago, that he Jethro had some type of agreement concerning themselves if either incurred injuries in battle that proved to be debilitating, paralyzing, or brain damaging. He had smiled sweetly at her obvious alarm, kissed her hand, and told her she would just have to trust them to do what they thought was right for each other. His words had chilled her at the time. She didn't want to think two healthy, vibrant young men had actually discussed, planned, and agreed on some type of pact. It was just too horrible to imagine. Now, she didn't have to worry, those concerns had been wiped away by a single bullet through his heart.

Candace sighed and took her seat at the square table in the sunny kitchen, watching as Tony eased into his usual place to her left. Jimmy was busy scooping some eggs from the pan he held and placing them carefully on the boy's plate, casting an anxious look at the child as he did.

"You didn't eat much last night," he said gently to Tony, as he moved to put some on Candace's plate, too. "I want you to eat a good breakfast. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," came the solemn response. He obediently lifted the fork and began poking at the hot eggs, moving them slowly around on the plate, bringing them closer to the strips of crispy bacon and then away, but never actually levering any up to his mouth. He picked up a piece of buttered toast and broke it in half...than broke the halves in half...than continued to tear those sections even smaller.

The adults watched as the child slowly and methodically destructed his breakfast, knowing he wasn't really going to eat anything but was just going through the motions. Candace sighed again and focused, instead, on her husband.

"The service starts at two o'clock. Mrs. Harrison is going to come over and watch the house while we're gone and she and her sister are going to get all the food set up for after the funeral. We won't have to worry about anything."

"That's good," Jimmy responded, picking up his glass of juice and casting another quick glance at the silent child. "Tony, I'm not going to tell you again. I want you to eat something."

Tony raised his bleak face to look at the man with wide, anxious eyes. "I'm sorry, Jimmy."

Jimmy sighed and reached to brush his fingers along the smooth cheek. "It's all right. This is going to be a rough day for everyone and I just don't want you to get sick. I know you may not feel like it but, at least, eat your toast and drink your milk."

The boy nodded in agreement and slowly reached for his glass of milk, bringing a small smile to both adults. Here was the one, true constant they could rely on right now.
In the two years since coming to live with them, Tony's love for milk had not diminished but had, incredibly, grown by leaps and bounds. If they didn't watch carefully, he would reach in, unscrew the lid, and take a few gulps every time he passed the refrigerator, day or night. They were up to two or three gallons a week and predicted that number to rise as the boy got older. Jimmy had once joked that it was time to invest in a cow.

"If Jethro doesn't come down soon, I'll go rouse him," Jimmy said quietly, eyes settling on Candace., trying to keep his voice level. "We'll need to get to the funeral home no later than noon, so that gives us about five hours. Anything I can do for you?"

"Thanks, honey," Candace gave him a grateful smile. "I think everything will just fall into place today. Mike knew exactly how he wanted this day to go and everyone has been so kind in making sure his final wishes are being followed. I just...I just never really thought this day would come, you know? I just thought he'd always be around, that I would always have time to tell him how much I loved him. Oh, Jimmy..."

"Sweetie, don't," Jimmy tried to offer some comfort from across the table but, as her tears started, he ended up moving around to gather her into a tight embrace. He knelt by her chair and stroked her back gently, continuing to whisper words of comfort. "Shhhhhh, baby...it's okay. He knew you loved him. He knew."

Jimmy knew this was going to finally happen at some point, he just hadn't known when. Candace had been so brave, so strong, so unflinching since recieving the news and he'd never once seen her cry. Now, as the time grew closer to putting her baby brother to rest, the finality of it all was sinking in. He turned slightly to check on Tony and found the boy was still in his chair, head bent over his cluttered breakfast plate and small hands laying limply on his lap. He was crying now, too.

'Shit,' mused Jimmy. 'What else could possibly happen?'

A slight noise near the doorway made Jimmy look up and, as he did, his eyes locked with Jethro's. The young Marine was fully dressed for the upcoming funeral, the uniform making him appear large and imposing, the grief etched around his eyes making him appear cold and untouchable. They stared at each other for a few moments before Jethro's eyes travelled quickly to where Tony was sitting, dismissing the boy rapidly, and immediately refocusing back on Jimmy.

"I'll be out on the porch," was all he said.

"Don't you want some breakfast?" Jimmy asked, his manners kicking in. "Got bacon and eggs."

"Please, Jethro," Candace added, wiping the tears from her face with her napkin, "sit down and have something."

"No."

And he was out the door.

Several minutes later, Tony was easing the front door open and slipping as quietly as he could onto the wide porch, blinking rapidly as the morning sun angled into his face. He raised a hand to shield his eyes as he looked for Jethro, scanning the immediate area, but couldn't locate him anywhere. He continued to walk to the left, following the wrap-around porch, until he found the Marine on the shaded side of the house, facing Candace's flower garden. He was sitting in one of the large, wooden rocking chairs Tony loved so much but was not moving, just staring blankly out over the sea of roses and mums and lilies. Walking carefully, his little snaekers almost soundless on the wood surface, Tony approached the man and stopped a few feet away from the rocker, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Gunny?" His voice was soft and uncertain. "Can I sit with you?"

There was no response, no indication the man had even heard the boy's question. Tony took another step closer, placed one small hand on Jethro's sleeve, and tried again.

"Gunny?"

Tony looked into the face he'd grown to love and trust but saw it was now concealed behind the mask of a stranger. There were dark circles under the bloodshot eyes, tiny lines around the tight mouth, and his face was void of all emotion. Tony had never seen such a blank look on anyone's face before, not even when he and Jeffery had watched as Jimmy slept on the sofa one Sunday afternoon. He took the final step and closed the distance between them.

"Gunny, please."

When no response came, Tony sighed and felt compelled to take action. Feeling the need to be closer, he raised a leg, his intention clear: he wanted to sit on Jethro's lap. Before he could move further, a strong hand shot out to land in the center of his chest, keeping him from moving forward. He stood frozen, one knee up on the rocker between Jethro's legs, and stared at the man, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Gunny?"

Before he could utter another word or try to move again, the hand was pushing him back, roughly. Tony stumbled but remained on his feet, his eyes filling with tears of rejection. Jethro still hadn't looked at him but there was a hard, angry glint in the blue depths that made Tony's stomach hurt. Why was Gunny doing this to him? The boy wiped a hand across his eyes and refused to cry, though it felt like someone was slowly squeezing his heart within his chest. He pressed his lips slowly together and stepped closer, putting the knee back into position and getting both hands on Jethro's arms before the second shove came.

This time, Tony landed hard on one hip and elbow and couldn't keep the tears from falling, no matter how much he tried. There was real pain now, in the hip and arm, but nothing compared to what was happening inside. The tight, squeezing sensation in his chest was getting worse and worse, choking his breath, and all he could think about was getting into Jethro's lap.

He looked up at the man, sitting so calmly in the rocker, and tried to understand what was happening. He needed Gunny now and nothing was going to stop him. He pushed himself up from the hard, wooden porch and got to his feet, stumbling a little before he was back in front of the rocker. He took a steadying breath and tried again. As his knee rose, the hand was back, impacting firmly in the center of the small chest and sending him sprawling, once again, to the solid, unyielding surface. Tony was stunned by the violence and the open rejection and didn't know which hurt the most. He was crying, openly but quietly, and stayed down for a few brief moments, catching his breath, before he tried again.

He didn't make it to his feet this time but chose to crawl the short distance before reaching up and grabbing hold of Jethro's sleeves. His little fingers gripped for all he was worth so, when the Marine's hand rose to dust him away, Tony held on like a terrier, keeping the fabric in his fists and fighting for purchase. It really wasn't much of a battle, the young boy no match for the bigger man, especially one trained in hand to hand combat. As Jethro swiftly freed one arm and raised a hand to strike the boy again, Tony managed to get his mouth to work.

"No!" He cried tearfully and pressed his face to Jethro's stomach, feeling a burn in his left arm as it was twisted cruelly back. "Gunny, please! I'm not going to give up! I'm not..."

He pushed forward and continued to squirm, caught in the strong grip, determined to reach his goal. He pulled himself upwards, got a knee back on the rocker, and then buckled under the intense pressure being applied to his arm. The burning sensation travelled from the grip on his wrist, up his arm, and settled in his shoulder. It was just too much. He cried out in pain, felt the hands abruptly release him, and was suddenly on his rear at Jethro's feet, shaken and heartbroken. He cradled the injured arm to his chest and sobbed in earnest, his young heart and spirit crushed by the rejection, leaning tiredly against one of Jethro's legs.

Suddenly, he was being lifted from the porch and wrapped in a tight embrace, the strong arms and wonderfully familiar scent surrounding him, immediately bringing relief to his damaged soul. He pressed his face to Jethro's chest and curled his fingers into the stiff cloth, determined to never let go. He was in Gunny's lap now and no one was going to move him. He felt kisses peppering his head and cheek, lips murmuring soft words of regret and sorrow, and sunk closer against the man, wrapping his little arms around the solid shoulders. He couldn't understand everything that was being said but it didn't seem to matter. He was where he was suppose to be and his Gunny was holding him tight, rocking him slowly in the chair, and rubbing soothing circles over his back. Everything would be all right now. Everything would be all right...

Tony continued to cry as he sat on Jethro's lap, his tears saoking the material of the dark uniform, but held firm and refused to budge from the haven of the lap. He knew Gunny was crying too, could hear the rough, ragged sobs and feel the tremors shaking the usually unshakable body. He'd never seen Gunny cry before, didn't even realize the man could cry, but, somehow, knew it was okay. They were both missing Mike and would probably do so for the rest of their lives. They shared their grief and gave their support, clinging to one another, and let the storm of their sorrow wash over their bodies and souls.

Hours later, after the body of Michael Wayne Johnson had been laid to rest, friends and neighbors milled around the home of Candace and Jimmy DiNozzo and took the time to express their respects to the fallen warrior's family. Several dozen stayed to eat, needing to remain close to those who knew Mike best, trying to understand and give comfort the only way they knew. So, they talked quietly in groups of two or three, sitting on the comfortable chairs or standing easily in the kitchen or around the buffet table, sharing stories or listening intently. Healing came in all guises and some needed to talk while others were content to hear.

A small handful of children were somewhere outside, behind the large country-style home, playing on the swing set Jimmy had assembled for Tony last year. The yard was enclosed and protected with a privacy fence, so there was no need to worry about one of them wandering away or out into the street. Besides, all the children were old enough to know the neighborhood drill: you never went anywhere without first telling an adult. If the people within the house took the time to listen, they'd be able to hear the soft, sporadic laughter or the sweet, dulcet tones of children at play. But those sounds seemed so out of place on this day of mourning that most simply tuned them out and concentrated on the conversations occurring indoors.

Tony sat apart from the other children, watching them play but not really wanting to participate, content to be a silent observer. Jeffery had approached him several times, trying to lure him into a game of hide and seek, but Tony just didn't feel like running or climbing or jumping. Not today. He sighed loudly and turned his face back toward the house, seeing a few lights coming on inside, and noticed for the first time that the sun was getting ready to set. He got to his feet and walked several steps away from the others, to a secluded place he'd found months ago, where the sunsets could be seen clearly and without the distractions of bushes or tree branches. He looked over his shoulder, to see if anyone was watching, and was glad to see he had slipped away unnoticed.

The sunsets weren't as nice here as they were at the bay but he found it gave him a warm, happy feeling to watch them anyway. He liked to pretend he was back at the cabin, sitting on the dock, with Gunny and Mike close by. Mike...

He choked back a sob and focused on the sun, fighting the aching tendrils that seemed to creep unbidden from his stomach, through his chest, and into his throat. Today had been hard. So many people had been crying, even Candace. He took a deep breath and forced those thoughts away. If he remembered the way she had cried, he'd end up crying again, too.

Instead, Tony focused on the sunset and the feeling he'd had at the cemetery earlier as he stood next to Gunny, his small hand clasped tightly within the larger, stronger grip. He'd felt safe and loved.

They'd remained side by side through the whole ordeal: during the service at the funeral home, riding in the dark car to the cemetery, and, finally, through the graveside ceremony at the place that reminded him of a deserted public park. There had been lots of trees and sunshine and Tony thought it probably was a pretty good place for Mike to be. The only moment of discomfort had come when everyone was leaving and Gunny had stayed still, his back straight and his eyes fixed on the polished wood of the casket. Tony had squeezed the man's hand and tugged slightly, whispering until the Marine had finally looked down at him.

"Gunny, it's time to go."

Jethro had nodded, casting one final look back to the box holding the remains of his lover, and turned away. Tony knew it would be a very long time before Gunny's hurt would lessen, before he'd be able to smile again, but he'd try to help him any way he could until that time came. Candace had said he could help by just being there. He could do that. Easy. Tony had led the tall man back to the waiting car, opened the door, and climbed in, waiting patiently until Jethro had joined him and closed the door. As his Gunny's blue eyes had turned to focus on him in the car, he'd reached out and pulled the small body close, hugging tightly.

"Thank you," was all he had said, and the simple words had made Tony's heart swell.

Now, hours later, with the sun about to go down, Tony could only watch with a numb, empty feeling. It wasn't the same, no matter how much he wanted it to be, it just wasn't. Sighing again, unable to enjoy nature's show, he turned and came face to face with an adult.

"Hello, Anthony."

Eyes widening in shock and fear, Tony staggered back, shoulders hitting a section of the privacy fence as he looked into the face he'd thought he'd never have to see again, the face of his own, personal monster.

Robert DiNozzo was back.


TBC