The day had been almost too much to bear: too many faces, too many voices, too many memories of the one person he would never be able to see or hear or be with again. Ever.

He'd tried to make small talk, to keep his true grief hidden behind a controlled mask of polite blankness but, as more and more people had approached to offer him words of condolence at the loss of his best friend, he'd almost lost his last bit of restraint. He wanted everyone to know Mike Johnson had been more than a friend, more than a comrade in arms, more than anyone could have ever imagined.

He wanted to tell them of the first time he'd met Mike, during basic training, at his honest surprise of discovering someone so good and honest and brave wrapped up in a true hard-ass uniform. He wanted to describe how they'd naturally gravitated to each other, despite the sea of other soldiers around them, because of their shared beliefs and ethics. He wanted to relate how he and Mike had grown to be best friends and confidants, spending hours confessing past secrets and future ambitions, finding they had much in common. But, most of all, he wanted to speak of the day they both realized their close friendship had expanded into a deeper, stronger connection, a day they had looked at each other and recognized what they both feared the most: they were falling in love.

He wanted to make them understand how he and Mike had tried to fight the physical attraction to each other and ignore what was happening with their emotions. He wanted them to hear how the strain of neglecting that part of their relationship had almost caused them both to self-destruct, how they'd suffered emotionally and physically during their joint time of denial, and how they'd done everything they thought possible to ignore and eliminate those feelings. He wanted to scream at them, so they would comprehend the agony they'd both endured, as they'd finally allowed themselves to face the truth and took the chance that could have meant the end of everything they were working for in their lives.

He wanted to describe the utter joy of holding Mike for the first time as a lover, of the inexpressable feeling of their first awkward kisses, of the heated rise of need that erupted between them, catching them by surprise. He wanted to tell of the sweet agony of making love to Mike, both men anxious and overwhelmed by the sensations but, finally, obtaining the level of completion and ultimate peace they'd so longed for. He wanted to explain how wonderful it had been to drop all pretenses and acknowledge the truth of their relationship and how scared they'd been as they embarked on the dangerous path of deception while serving in the Marines. He wanted to cry out at his loss, wanting them to know how his life would never be the same, that the one, single person who made him feel whole and alive was now gone forever.

All these thoughts were brewing within Jethro Gibbs as he stood, alone, in one corner of Candace and Jimmy DiNozzo's kitchen and cautiously watched as another stranger began to slowly walk his way. He closed his eyes tightly and held his breath, knowing he was going to lose control if he heard the words, 'I'm so sorry for your loss', one more time, that he might even let all the thoughts he'd been holding in check come spewing forth, that this mockery and deception of his role in Mike's life was slowly killing him and, if he didn't get out of here soon, he'd probably cause a scene that neither Candace nor Jimmy deserved.

"Jethro."

The familiar voice caused him to reopen his eyes and look into the face of his dead lover's sister. He blinked in surprise and scanned the area for the stranger he'd seen approaching but found no one else. Focusing back on the woman in front of him, he saw her concern, her compassion, her empathy, and was immediately embarrassed by his thoughts.

Jethro pulled Candace into a tight embrace, felt her momentary surprise at his gesture, and than seemingly melted into his hold, the strain of the past days apparent in her slight frame. Her arms came up to return his hug and her face turned so they were breathing the same air.

"Are you all right?" She whispered against his cheek.

"No," he answered honestly. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Candace pulled slightly back so she could look him in the eyes, seeing his fatigue and his misery. She cupped his face between her small hands and gently, but briefly, kissed his lips. This wasn't a kiss of promise or passion but one of understanding and compassion. After pulling back, she offered a tiny smile.

"Why don't you go on upstairs and try to get some rest. I don't think these people will be staying too much longer and, after they're gone, we can all just relax and have some time together. How does that sound?"

Jethro nodded. "Thanks, Candace. That sounds really good right now."

He left her there and trudged up to the room he was using, unbuttoning his uniform tunic as he took the steps one at a time. His legs felt heavy, leadened, like they belonged to someone else, and he was glad to finally make it to the top without his knees giving out. He re-entered the bedroom and headed straight for the closet, grabbing a hanger, and sliding the dress tunic onto the slim, plastic holder, placing that part of himself away.

As he started to unbutton his shirt, he turned, eyes falling on the photograph resting on the end table beside the alarm clock. The buttons momentarily forgotten, he navigated around the bed and sat on the edge, hands gently reaching to gather the framed image and bringing it closer for better inspection. It was a good picture of Mike, he could admit now, and he could imagine how precocious his lover must have been at that age, full of spunk and spit. The thought almost brought a smile to Jethro's face but, before the muscles could rearrange themselves into the appropriate configuration, a sharp twist of hurt coiled within his belly and surged up into his throat.

Flopping back onto the bed, Jethro held the photograph tightly against his chest and let the tears come. He'd cried more today than he could ever remember doing during his whole lifetime and there just didn't seem to be an end in sight.

"Shit, Mike," he whispered toward the ceiling, "I'm a fucking mess. What am I going to do without you?"

Jethro closed his eyes and let the emotions run their course. No need to fight. Not now. There just didn't seem to be any fight left in him anyway. He turned his head to one side and reopened his eyes, the tears blurring his vision, making the blue curtains on the side window resemble a small waterfall, especially with the strange way the setting sun was striking the back of the fabric. He blinked hard, trying to clear the illusion, but he was just too damn tired. He let his eyes drift close again.

*Jeth*

Blue eyes flew open at the sound of the familiar, much-loved voice and Jethro sat up, looking frantically around the room, searching for the location of his lover. "Mike?"

He rose from the bed, a little wobbly, and stepped closer to the side of the window, certain that's where the sound had originated. His eyes scanned the area anxiously, darting from one point to another, but he saw nothing but the usual bedroom furnishings.

Sighing loudly and running a shaking hand through his hair, Jethro collasped against the window frame. "I'm losing it, Mike. I'm really losing it."

Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, Jethro looked out the window to watch the sun set, bringing an end to this terrible day. He caught a movement in a secluded little spot to one side of the yard, near a section of the wooden privacy fence, and frowned. Something was happening there, between an adult and a child, but it was a little hard to see from this angle. It looked like the child was being scolded, reprimanded for some infraction or misdeed. He frowned as the adult suddenly raised a hand and struck the child, causing the boy to fall hard to the ground. The boy...

Tony!

Jethro flew from the room and down the stairs, no sign of his earlier weariness or aches, and was heading into the kitchen when he became aware of the sound of raised voices. He caught a glimpse of Jeffery, the child he'd met this afternoon, and saw the boy was crying and babbling something about a man with Tony, hurting Tony, hitting Tony, seeing Jimmy's face pale, hearing Candace's shout and movement toward the door. And then a name...

Robert DiNozzo.

Sight filming with red and body filling with uncontrollable rage, Jethro pushed his way past the few people who still remained and had gathered around to listen to Jeffery, and felt Jimmy join him in the race to get outside. The men overtook Candace on the front porch and they both jumped, by-passing the steps, meeting a scattering of frightened children running away from the back yard and toward the safety of those they knew. One was crying, one was yelling, but all he heard was Tony, Tony, Tony...

He pushed ahead in the sprint to get to the back yard, his youth and military conditioning allowing him to get where he needed fast. His memory rose like a demon, taunting, taking him back to the first days he'd spent with the boy, learning of the physical abuse, seeing the frightened face, hearing the broken, choked sobs, uncovering bruises and scars. And, then, learning of the sexual abuse. Jethro's gut tightened and he clenched his teeth in fury.

Through the now-opened gate and down the concrete path, jumping over a discarded skateboard, and getting closer, feet chewing up the distance. Jethro could hear Jimmy panting and cursing not too far behind but tuned him out. Jethro's body fairly sang in it's need for revenge and Jimmy was not part of the equation anymore. This had become personal and was between Jethro and the piece of scum hurting Tony. The Marine's brain was working on one thought only: how he was going to kill Robert DiNozzo.

"Gunny!"

The agonized scream ripped through the air and straight through Jethro's soul, making the hair on his neck stand on end. Instinctively, he yelled back to the boy.

"Tony! I'm coming!"

Finally, catching sight of the area he'd seen from the upstairs window, Jethro could only now see what his loud response to Tony's cry for help had done. Robert DiNozzo held Tony roughly to his chest, using the child as a shield, waiting for whoever had answered his call for assistance, the large body squeezing the smaller one too tightly. One, meaty hand covered the boy's mouth and nose, trying to keep him quiet, but was effectively hindering his breathing as well. Tony was struggling, hands flailing, nails scratching, and feet kicking, but Jethro could see he was weakening. Robert looked up as Jethro and Jimmy neared and something sharp and wicked glinted in the fading light.

"I'll kill him!" He shouted as they closed the distance, pressing a knife to the soft skin under Tony's chin. "I'll fucking cut his throat and let the little cocksucker bleed to death!"

Jethro immediately stopped, throwing an arm out to stop Jimmy from barrelling on by, hearing the pounding of his heart in his ears. His eyes locked with Tony's and he could see the stark terror reflected in them. One small hand reached out toward him and he felt his whole world narrow to this one point in time, tuning out the other sounds and sights, focusing only on the boy and the knife poised cruelly at his exposed neck. He could see Tony's struggles slowing, could see the light in the green eyes dimming, and knew the large hand covering his nose and mouth would probably kill him before the knife would. Jethro hazarded a step closer but stopped as Robert pushed the knife in, the shallow cut sprouting a fresh line of bright blood on Tony's white t-shirt.

"No!" Candace screamed from somewhere to the right, momentarily distracting Robert's attention and giving Jethro the opening he nedded.

He sprung forward and tackled Tony and Robert together, carefully wedging his arm between the man and the boy, bringing them all down to the ground in one heap. Jethro pulled at Robert's wrist, applied the right amount of pressure, and heard it snap, the sound bringing a pleased snarl to the Marine's face. He rolled the man away from Tony, ignoring the curses and screams spit into his face, and began to strike with all his strength, tuning out everything else and focusing on the need to crush, to destroy, to kill. The blood-lust sang loud through his veins, filling his head with the sweet melody of death and destruction. He felt the nose break and shatter under his fist, watched as blood blossomed and spurted, could see the white of exposed bone appearing though the skin. And, still, he continued to pound and pound and pound.

A hand on his back was trying to pull him away from his objective and he easily shook ot off, his goal of ripping Robert DiNozzo's head off far from completed. The hands returned, more urgently, and a few words broke through the haze covering his mind.

Tony...
Not breathing...
Needs help...
Dead...

Jethro shouted his frustration into Robert's ruined face and turned to where Tony lay motionless a few yards away, scrambling on hands and knees to push a distraught Jimmy to one side. He lifted the boy under the neck and pressed his lips to the slack mouth, forcing air into the unresponsive lungs. He did it again and then began compressions, counting the correct number silently to himself before angling back to breath into the mouth again. He couldn't think past this routine, focusing every fiber of his being on this task only, knowing it was up to him to keep Tony here, to keep him from dying and leaving like...

Jimmy was suddenly pushing back to help him with the compressions, allowing Jethro a moment of respite before he was breathing for Tony. Again and again and again.

"Come on," Jethro whispered desperately to Tony as Jimmy did the next set, blue eyes locked on the boy's pale face. "Come on, Tony. You've got to breath."

Jethro was dimly aware of a small disturbance to one side, close to where he'd beaten Robert DiNozzo, but he had to trust the other adults to keep that monster in check. He couldn't leave Tony's side now. This was what was important. Life. Not death. Life.

A siren could be heard, drawing closer, and Candace was yelling for someone to go around to the front to direct the paramedics to the back yard. He and Jimmy continued, each growing tired but determined to keep it up as long as necessary. They couldn't spare a glance around, their only focus on the small, lifeless body under their hands.

"God, please," Jimmy was crying openly as he worked, "don't take him from us. Please..."

"Shut up!" Jethro snapped furiously before breathing for Tony once again, angry at Jimmy for voicing his fears, angry at God for allowing this to happen, angry at himself for not keeping the boy safe. He breathed again, felt Jimmy do his set, and breathed again.

Strong hands tried to pull him back but he jerked away from the grasp, inwardly cursing whoever was trying to disrupt his focus and rhythm. The hands returned and he was suddenly face to face with a strange man wearing coveralls, a medical insignia emblazing the front pocket. Jethro blinked as comprehension settled in and he moved relunctantly aside, allowing the paramedics to get to Tony, and to start their evaluation. He crawled to lean against the fence, eyes never wavering from the still body and the duo who now were working feverishly to resuscutate him. They were speaking to Jimmy, to Candace, to each other, and working, working, working.

Jethro let his head fall back against the wooden slats, eyes slitting to almost nothing. It was taking too long. Much too long. Tony should have responded by now, should have shown some sign of coming around. Unwillingly, Jethro closed his eyes and felt the hot, angry surge of denial filling his soul. Not again. Not again.

Bitter tears came at the moment of his acceptance and he covered his face with his hands, weeping for the life cut short and for his inability to keep those he loved safe. 'He's yours now, Mike. Take care of him.'

"Jethro!"

Suddenly, Candace was beside him, reaching a hand to grab a fistful of his dirty dress shirt, trying ineffectively to get him on his feet. He frowned up at her in confusion, not understanding why she, too, wasn't crying for the dead child. His eyes went of their own accord to where Tony's body was laying.

He was gone!

Pushing up from the ground, he swayed dangerously for one moment before concentrating on the woman again. She was speaking way too fast for his addled brain.

"...Mercy Hospital...Jimmy's going with him...we can meet them there...Jethro!"

He didn't recall getting into the passenger seat of a neighbor's car or the ride to the hospital. He didn't remember walking into the emergency room or the startled looks he'd recieved from the staff when they saw his dirty, bloody clothing. He couldn't recollect the moment Candace had discovered the oozing gash across his upper arm or the young doctor who had carefully tended to the injury. He couldn't seem to remember the long hours of nothingness as they sat, side by side, in the stark waiting room. The only thing he did remember was the words the doctor who'd been with Tony had spoken.

"I'm fairly certain he should pull through this without any after-effects. The CPR was administered well, the cut on his neck has been sutured, and the bruises and abrasions will heal by themselves in time. He's young and healthy, a combination that can't be beat. I'm going to keep him for at least twenty-four hours as a precaution. I don't expect anything to happen but let's be safe...he did go without oxygen for a little while. All in all, I'd say he's a pretty lucky little boy."

The rest had been a blur.

Now, sixteen hours later, Senator Foster Hathaway stood silently beside the bed of his only grandchild and stared into the face of the boy he didn't really know but had almost lost. His eyes tracked the small form, hidden partially under the sheet and blanket, and wondered how someone so small could find trouble so easily.

Against the wall, Jethro watched the white-haired man with growing apprehension. He didn't like the manner in which Hathaway studied the sleeping boy and remembered the time Tony had asked if Jethro thought he'd have to go live with his grandfather one day. Now, it seemed so prophetic. The Marine shifted imcomfortably in the padded hospital chair and saw the man turn his head slightly in his direction.

"You have something to say?" Hathaway asked quietly, careful not to disturb Tony's slumber.

"Just wondering if you think this was somehow Candace and Jimmy's fault. Wondering if you think your lifestyle would be better for Tony than theirs. Wondering if you'd even give him the chance to tell you how he feels about the situation before you do something as stupid as ripping him away from the two people who've given him more love and stability in the past two years than he got during his first six with either his father or his uncle."

Senator Hathaway turned fully to gaze squarely at Jethro, eyebrow arching high and hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his expensive suit jacket. They sized each other up and Jethro fought the urge to rise from the chair to show his full height, knowing there was no need for silly posturing or false bravado. This was about Tony and what he needed. They didn't need to have a pissing contest to prove who was more dominant.

"You think I can't love him?" Hathaway asked bluntly but honestly.

"Sir," Jethro sighed and tried to be polite, "I think we both know how inconvenient it would be to bring an eight-year old into your household and for you, personally, to provide him with the affection he's grown to expect."

"I have a competent staff who would..."

"A staff?" Jethro interrupted and had to remind himself how important this man was in the government. "Sir, with all due respect, why would you take him into your home just to hand his care over to someone else? Isn't that what Frank DiNozzo did?"

"Don't you dare compare me to that worthless piece of shit!"

Jethro couldn't contain the short bark of laughter that escaped at the Senator's description of Tony's biological father. "Well, at least we agree on that. No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to equate you with him but, you have to understand, he didn't care about Tony enough to look out for him, so he passed him on to someone else. And, quite frankly, sir, just making sure he has three hot meals a day, a roof over his head, and an education doesn't make it right. Tony deserves so much more."

Hathaway regarded the Marine with shrewed eyes. "You love him."

"Yes, sir, I do."

"And he loves you."

"I suppose he does."

Hathaway took a step closer to Jethro, looking down into the Marine's blue gaze. "I was told that when Robert was hurting him, Anthony called out for you. No one else, just you."

Jethro felt his hackles rise and he stared up into the green eyes, only now realizing they looked just like Tony's. He sighed and gave up, getting to his feet and standing toe to toe with the Senator.

"I don't know where you're going with this. I once told Tony I would protect him and keep him safe. I think he was just hoping I hadn't forgotten my promise."

"I think it's much more than that," Hathaway replied.

Jethro frowned, not sure of the implications. "What's that suppose to mean?"

"Just making an observation," he responded cooly and Jethro could see the spark of something dangerous in those green depths.

"Gunny?"

Tony's soft voice startled both men and they moved to the bed, watching as the child struggled to focus on his surroundings. His face was peppered with finger-sized bruises, mostly around his mouth and nose, and the discoloration only accentuated how pale he looked next to the white sheets. The sterile dressing over the stitches in his neck was tinged with a few dots of dried blood and Jethro realized it was the only visible color in the entire monochromatic room. As Tony's eyes settled on and recognized Jethro, he tried to sit up, small arms reaching out for the man.

"Gunny," he sighed with relief as Jethro quickly sat on the edge of the bed and drew him into a tight embrace.

"Hey, Tony," the Marine whispered, lips against the boy's head. "How are you feeling today?"

" 'kay, I guess," he responded and then noticed the other visitor. He pulled slightly back but didn't release his grip on Jethro's shirt, his eyes growing serious and wary. "Hello, Grandfather."

"Hello, Anthony," Hathaway greeted the boy, watching the young face carefully, seeing the anxious expression forming and the small hands clutching the Marine's shirt tighter. "I came to see how you are feeling."

"I'm fine," he replied quickly and then immediately turned back to Jethro, eyes wide with apprehension. "I want to go home, Gunny. When can I go home?"

"Tony," Jethro soothed quietly and cast his eyes to the Senator, wanting to see if the man could read the child well enough to see how his presence was upsetting him. Clearly, he did. The white-haired man took a step back but stayed well within hearing range. "Tony, the doctor is going to let you go home in the morning. Hey, just one more night and you'll be back in your old, lumpy bed, eating Candace's crummy cooking..."

"Her cooking's not crummy," he interrupted seriously, not wanting or feeling like being egged into verbal play with Jethro. Not now. Not with all that had happened. Mike was dead and Uncle Robert had come back and, now, his grandfather was standing there and he just didn't feel like talking and he wanted Jethro to take him home and he was going to cry...

Jethro was pulling him back into the safety of his arms, holding firmly, whispering soothing words and rocking him gently back and forth. Tony buried his face in Jethro's neck and cried softly, small shoulders shaking with his emotional release. He was so tired of crying, so tired of being scared, just so tired.

He didn't know how long it took for Tony to cry himself back to sleep but it seemed to take an eternity. Jethro's arms were stiff and sore when he eased the child back into a more comfortable position and covered him with the sheet and blanket. He smoothed a hand over the short hair and bent to press a brief kiss to the pale forehead before rising. He turned and came face to face with Senator Hathaway.

"Sorry," he whispered and took a step back. "I forgot you were still here."

"It's all right," Hathaway spoke just as quiet. "Come out into the hallway with me for a moment."

Jethro followed the Senator and stopped when he did, just outside the door to Tony's private room. He saw Hathaway's assistant waiting patiently by the nurse's station but focused on the white-haired man and tried to prepare for the worse.

"Anthony seems to want to go home very badly," he stated the obvious.

There was no need to respond, so Jethro held his tongue and waited. Hathaway turned to one side, looking down the corridor, but not really seeing what was there. They stood silently for several long minutes before Hathaway finally returned his hard, green eyes to the Marine.

"I'm going to use every marker I've got and pull in every favor I've done to make sure Robert DiNozzo never sets foot outside of a prison again. And, if he happens to lose his life while incarcerated because of some twist of fate, it will be one less piece of filth we have to deal with in the world."

Jethro pressed his lips into a grim line. "Sounds like a solid plan to me."

Hathaway stared into Jethro's eyes and, finally, offered a hand in truce. He waited until the grip was returned but did not let go, pulling the Marine one step closer so he could whisper into his face.

"You make sure my grandson gets home safely, Gibbs. You make sure he's not left alone while he's still here. If I ever hear he's been hurt again by some member of the DiNozzo family, I'm going to pull him so quickly out of that home and no one will ever see him again. Even you. Do we understand each other?"

Jethro held the gaze and returned the hard grip. "Yes, sir, I understand."

Senator Hathaway stepped back, turned away, and was gone, leaving Jethro to stare at his reatreating back and watching as the assistant scurried to catch up. He remained by the doorway for only a moment more before re-entering Tony's room, walking a few paces to stand silently looking down at the sleeping child.

"Well Tony, that's one battle we've won. We need to be very careful how we pick them from now on."

Moving back to the chair by the wall, Jethro eased down and settled back, keeping his gaze on the boy. Senator Hathaway's threat hung heavy in the room and he had to physically shake those thoughts away. Tony was going back to Candace and Jimmy's home tomorrow, back to the life and people he'd grown to love, back to just being a kid. The scars of his childhood would never be erased but, with the right help and the right people, maybe they would fade.

And, maybe, it was time for Jethro to consider coming home for good. With Mike gone and the pull of law enforcement even greater, it seemed like the right thing to do. If Tony ever needed him again, he'd just be hours, not days, away. Nodding to himself, secure in his assessment, Jethro Gibbs whispered into the silence.

"Sounds like a plan to me."


FIN

"Through the Years:Twelve" in the works