'What the *hell* is wrong with my body?'
Not a good thought to have at any time but it was Tony DiNozzo's first impression as he struggled up from the depths of unconsciousness, limbs leaden and totally unresponsive, and any attempt to shift into a more comfortable position failing miserably and repeatedly. The mattress under his back seemed too firm, to restrictive, too...unfamiliar, and he slowly realized he was *not* in his own bed or his own apartment. There were some strange, distant whisperings coming from somewhere, everywhere, but he couldn't comprehend what, exactly, what was making the noises. Blinking back the haze that seemed to have settled over his vision like a soft, gray fog and trying to clear the hollow echo plaguing his ears, DiNozzo managed to get his head to roll minutely to one side and focus just enough to realize he didn't know where the fuck he was.
'We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto,' was his second bleary thought.
Someone, or something, was suddenly at his side but, male or female, human or monster, he just didn't know. In fact, with the figure covered from head to foot in some strange, futuristic garb, and with the smooth, slick faceplate over the facial features, DiNozzo considered the possibility he'd been abducted by aliens and taken away for experimentation on some high orbiting mothership in a galaxy far, far away. Yeah, that was it...aliens. Heh. But not the chest-bursting, acidic saliva-dripping kind. He tried to grin but the effort just seemed too great. Plus, it made his skull pound and his head spin in a really weird kind of amusement park ride kind of way.
Blinking purposefully, DiNozzo tried to clear his vision again, wishing he could muster the strength to bring a hand up to wipe the cobwebs away. Maybe he was on an episode of The X-Files and Mulder and Scully would be busting down the door at any moment, guns drawn and ready for action. Yeah, that would be cool. He'd like to have the chance to tell Scully just how hot she was with that fine, tight body and that fine, red hair and that fine, pouty, little mouth that looked like it was perfect for sucking some fine cock. Oh, baby, yeah. Maybe alien abduction wouldn't be so bad, if he could be rescued by Scully. The urge to laugh was just a heartbeat from happening but he didn't want to risk setting the room to spinning any faster than it already was so he narrowed his eyes and peered at the masked apparition.
Or, maybe, he'd been transported to another reality after mistakenly stepping through a Stargate somewhere and he'd have to prove to everyone he was, in fact, the real Anthony DiNozzo, and not some stupid clone or cyborg or replicant or whatever else they thought he was...wasn't. Then, he'd be able to go a couple rounds with that big Jaffa or, better yet, that ripe, young archeologist with the tight, little ass. What was his name? Johnson or Jefferson or, shit, why couldn't he remember the name? Fuck it...he was going to giggle like a girl if he couldn't get a handle on this soon.
He stifled the nervous laugh of panic threatening to bubble up from deep within his chest as the mysterious shape at his side suddenly moved even closer, bending low and bringing the scary reflective mask nearer, just mere inches away from his face. He could barely make out his own reflection on the glossy covering and what he could see made him flinchback with surprise, his own mirrored image staring back, dotted with small, flat pads and long, wire leads that spidered away from his flesh in several directions. Shit, it looked like they were either going to attempt to jump-start his brain or fry it with bursts of electrical current. Either way, it didn't look good for the home team. DiNozzo wanted to turn away but, because this all appeared so out-of-body and other-worldly to him and, because he knew he'd never, in a million years, get to have this opportunity again, offered what he hoped was a jaunty, carefree grin and spoke as best as he could to the spooky figure.
"Take me...to your...leader." he rasped dryly, the coarseness of his own voice surprising even him. He tried to swallow but his tongue got lodged somewhere on this side of his throat and he ended up coughing feebly and, to his chagrin, almost pathetically.
"Anthony."
A disembodied voice spoke his name and DiNozzo thought the tone sounded vaguely human and almost familiar, even to his clogged ears. He tried again to blink the persistent fog away, tried to swallow around the parched, desert-like conditions in his mouth and throat, and attempted to identify, somehow, the figure hovering so near. He wanted to reach up, to actually make contact with the ambiguous shape but, for some reason, he couldn't lift either of his arms from their positions on the bed. For that matter, he couldn't get his legs to cooperate either. Shit. DiNozzo didn't think he was paralyzed, couldn't recall experiencing any accident or incident that would cause this dysfunction, so this strange turn of events just added to his confusion and apprehension and, unfortunately, sent a sharp stab of fear to his soul. Unable to help himself in any way, he began to struggle.
"What..." he tried again but ended up hacking and choking and sputtering and having a really difficult time regaining his breath.
There suddenly seemed to be several other of these strange beings all around him, on both sides of the bed, pressing close, suffocating with their nearness, stealing the precious oxygen from the room, and they were all speaking so rapidly and touching him, moving him, putting something over his face, and, oh, God, please, couldn't anyone see he just needed a little space to get some air? And, for that matter, why was it suddenly getting so dark in here and...and...
Ducky was gently but firmly elbowed away from the hub of activity around DiNozzo's bed and felt the wash of cold fear run down his back. He didn't like standing on the sidelines like some casual observer, unable to help or contribute in any fashion, but he knew the people in this special room were the best in their field and were working to assist and stabilize his younger co-worker as quickly as they could. He sighed behind the faceplate of his protective gear and knew this new turn of events did not bode well for the agent but, thankfully, this didn't appear to be another one of those dreadful seizures and, for that, he was extremely grateful.
It didn't take long, the potent sedative a member of the medical team had administered immediately beginning to calm and settle the restless patient, and one of the other occupants from around the bed withdrew to come join the aging NCIS medical examiner against the wall. Ducky could tell by the set if the physician's shoulders she didn't like the lack of progress they were having in determining an exact diagnosis for DiNozzo's symptoms nor the fact they'd been unsuccessful in identifying the unknown substance now flowing through his veins. He touched her arm in a kind gesture of compassion and understanding and saw a small, grateful smile momentarily lighten the hard line of her mouth but her tired, red eyes reflected what everyone, at this point, was feeling.
"His fever is rising again, Doctor Mallard," Lieutenant Commander Wainwright sighed, crossing her arms over her ample chest, and looking back toward the now-still figure on the bed. "Just when we think he's making a little progress and showing signs of stabilizing, his blood pressure and heart rate and temperature go haywire. The lab techs are working round the clock with the CDC expert but, so far, they haven't been able to make hide nor hair of this. I don't need to tell you, we're all kind of stymied by the lack of cooperation from the FBI."
He nodded his agreement. Everyone was baffled but, when even the CDC couldn't get the FBI to respond to the inquires concerning the whereabouts of Emilio Martinez's documents, bewilderment had quickly turned into suspicion and anxiety and the whispers of some type of government cover-up began to float around, especially when orders had been delivered from someone, somewhere, keeping the staff assigned to the care of the young agent to only a select but highly qualified few. He cast another frustrated glance back to DiNozzo, keen eyes taking in the oxygen mask, the assorted cannulae running from machines or drip bags to various ports and positions on the young man's body, and couldn't help but wonder what in the world was going on.
"I'm going to step out for a few moments, Roberta," he spoke softly to the woman, giving her arm one last squeeze. "I need to contact Anthony's supervisor and let him know what's happening." He sighed, dreading the phone call he knew he couldn't put off any longer. "I think I'll pop down to your office and fix myself a spot of tea first, if that's acceptable to you."
"Of course, Doctor Mallard," she readily agreed, knowing the past eighteen hours had been harder on him than he was willing to admit. It had been obvious, from the start, this young, sick agent held a special place in the older doctor's heart and everyone here would be hard-pressed to break the news to him when orders came barring him from entering the isolation area again. Roberta Wainwright knew that time was rapidly approaching and could only pray it didn't fall on her shoulders to deliver the message when it came. "Make yourself at home and take all the time you need."
"Thank you, my dear. I shall endeavor to keep my mess to a minimum," he gave a quick, little mock bow, cast one last look at the bed-ridden half of Jethro Gibbs' heart, and turned to begin the tedious process of carefully removing all the shielding garb he wore in one of the outer rooms specifically designed to function as a catch-all for equipment disposal.
Twenty minutes later, ensconced on Roberta Wainwright's office couch with a hot mug of strong, dark tea, Ducky placed his call and wasn't surprised when the connection was established after just the first ring of the phone. The terse 'Gibbs' that immediately greeted the medical examiner was a good indicator things were not going well on that end of the line either.
"Hello, Jethro," Ducky spoke quietly, "I just wanted to check in and give you an up-date. Is this a good time?"
"Any time is good for you, Duck, though," Gibbs' tone betrayed his worry, "from the sound of your voice, I can tell I'm not going to like what you have to say."
"No, I'm afraid not," Ducky agreed and took a small sip from his steaming mug before continuing. "Unfortunately, there's been no breakthroughs and I can't express how all this subterfuge and secrecy concerning Doctor Martinez's documents is effecting the staff here. What in the world do..."
"Ducky," Gibbs broke in quickly, "how's DiNozzo?"
The medical examiner immediately realized his error. "Oh, my goodness, Jethro. I'm so sorry. That was very inconsiderate of me. I should have instantly..."
"Ducky, please."
The older man sighed. "Yes, well, there's not been any improvement, Jethro. There are moments when it seems he's regaining some coherence and actually tries to communicate and, then, it just dissolves away before our very eyes. The staff is doing their level best and trying to keep him comfortable but, I can tell you this much, everyone here feels they're doing nothing more than observing and documenting a test subject."
The silence at the other end of the connection was grimly expected but, still, he knew the sentiment had to be voiced. Why else would the FBI and the other governmental offices the CDC had been badgering for information and assistance remain so stoically closed-mouth and uncooperative?
"I think you're right, Duck," came Gibbs' bleak reply. "I think that's *exactly* what's happening. The only thing I can't figure out is why he's being quarantined at Bethesda. Seems to me, if they wanted to keep a closer eye on their lab rat, they'd provide their own space, use their own people, and keep better control over who's permitted to see him."
"Good Lord, I hadn't thought of that. Jethro, do you think that's still a possibility?"
"Hell, yeah, I do," the angry affirmation quickly changed. "Listen, I know you're probably wiped out right now and I know you haven't been away from his side for any length of time, but would you..."
"You don't even need to ask," Ducky interrupted gently. He didn't need to hear the remainder of the question to know what was on Jethro Gibbs' mind and knew how difficult it was for the agent to stay so far away from the young man now residing in isolation. "I have a fairly good professional relationship with the doctor in charge of his care right now, so I believe she'll permit me to stay close by. I can't promise I'll be allowed to remain inside the isolation unit itself but I suspect I can manage to convince her of the necessity for me to 'set up shop', if you will, in the adjoining observation room."
"That would be great," the blatant appreciation was apparent in Gibbs' voice. "Just so you know, Director Shepard thinks you're on your way back here now but I've got Palmer covering for you and he's willing to do whatever needs to be done until you do come back."
"Mr. Palmer will do just fine but, Jethro, my mother..."
"Abby and I are seeing to her care," Gibbs' tone held a note of apology. "I don't know how this will all end, Duck, but I'm depending on you to be my eyes and ears until I can get to Fornell and find out what the hell is going on."
"You still haven't located him?"
"No," the frustration was palpable. "This isn't like him, no matter what anyone else thinks. Tobias and I may not always get along but he and I have a professional understanding and have never resorted to witholding information or evidence, especially when one of our own is involved. Plus, I know how Fornell thinks. He wouldn't want Tony to go through this without offering us some kind of assistance. There's got to be something deeper going on here and I think we're all being shut out because of it."
"I have a very bad feeling about this, Jethro," Ducky watched the rain begin to splash against the windowpane behind Wainwright's desk, an ominous, dark sensation growing in the pit of his stomach.
"Me, too, Duck," Gibbs was beginning to sound very tired.
"Doctor Mallard!"
A young corpsman was pushing hurriedly into the semi-darkened office, his face alive with concern. Ducky instantly recognized him as one of the technical assistants used to monitor the equipment in the isolation area and, if he was here now, something was obviously wrong.
"Jethro, hold on," Ducky ordered as he rose quickly to his feet and focused on the young man. "What is it?"
"Sir, Lieutenant Commander Wainwright told me to come get you as quickly as I could," he panted raggedly, brown eyes wide with emotion. It was easy to tell he'd run all the way with his message. "Doctor Mallard, orders just came through. We're to begin preparations for Agent DiNozzo's immediate transfer!"
"To where?" Ducky demanded hotly, already in motion, joining the young man in the open doorway. "Who placed these orders? Where did they come from?"
"I don't know, sir," he swallowed anxiously. "I...I was only sent to get you."
Ducky nodded his understanding and remembered the phone still clutched in his hand. "Jethro..."
"I heard," came the clear growl from the man miles away. "God damn it! Find out what you can, Duck. Don't let them take him away without getting some sense of where he's going."
Ducky was matching the corpsman's walk, stride for stride, cell phone pressed firmly to one ear and a very determined look on his face. "You can count on me, Jethro. I'll be in contact as soon as I know something certain."
******************
Gibbs stood by his car in the provided lot and snapped his cell closed, wanting nothing more than to hurl the vile hunk of technology as far as possible and watch it smash to bits against some hard concrete surface. A wall would be good. Sighing, he resisted the urge, knowing it was still his only link with DiNozzo...but even that was through Ducky. Yanking open the door and throwing himself inside, the ex-Marine took a few moments to ineffectively slam his fists against the steering wheel, teeth gritted tightly together, and barely, just barely, containing the roar of frustration threatening to explode from his mouth.
Dropping his head back against the padding of the high seat, Gibbs wearily closed his eyes and tried to bring up an image of the DiNozzo he'd seen and held and kissed last weekend instead of the pale, trembling form he'd observed less than twenty-four hours earlier at Little Creek. The DiNozzo from Saturday night had been quieter and less playful than usual but had merely brushed off his uncharacteristic behavior by chalking it up to his current undercover assignment and the added stress of having to deal with so many different governmental agencies. They'd been able to laugh, finally, following several good, cold beers and after DiNozzo had confessed Emilio Martinez had started speaking Spanish to him, instead of his native Portuguese, because 'anyone raised in America couldn't possibly comprehend the delicate intricacies and nuaunces of *his* beautiful language'. They'd both smiled at that bastard's assumption because, if there was one thing DiNozzo was good at, it was languages. It was not something he bragged about to other people but Gibbs knew exactly how many tongues his senior field agent could speak and how many more he could understand.
But it hadn't been until later the same night, as DiNozzo had stood at Gibbs' sink, washing out a dirty glass, looking too serious and lost in his own thoughts, that the former Marine had brazenly stepped up close behind the younger man, reached around the strong, fine body, and plunged his own hands into the warm, soapy water caught in the basin of the sink, tangling his fingers with DiNozzo's and listening to the quick inhale of surprise. They'd stood, silently, for several long moments until, finally, DiNozzo had eased slightly back and rested some of his weight against the older man, letting the warmth and comfort and contentment ooze between them. It had been strangely comforting and arousing at the same time and, when DiNozzo had finally started drawing lazy patterns on Gibbs' sensitive palms and probe gently between the individual digits, pressing the tips of his slick, wet fingers into the web of softer skin, Gibbs had growled low in his throat and latched on to the side of DiNozzo's exposed neck, teeth and tongue and lips ready to mark new territory.
And the night had only gotten better from there.
DiNozzo had slowly turned away from the sink, staying within the soothing circle of arms, and had unflinchingly and unerringly pressed his mouth to Gibbs', immediately opening his lips and licking a wet, wicked, probbing path from top to bottom, corner to corner, and every spot in between. Twice. Thoroughly. There'd been no hesitation or second-guessing and the subsequent reaction had been something akin to fireworks going off in a closed, windowless room. Not spectacularly colorful or brilliantly shimmering but quick, loud, and hugely explosive. A firecracker. A cherry bomb. Or, better yet, a M-80.
Gibbs had surged forward, trapping the younger body against the sink, rocking and rubbing his pelvis until he was able to work a leg between DiNozzo's thighs, feeling the heat of the body and hearing the need in the voice. Because, between the kissing and the sucking and the biting, DiNozzo had spoken the language he was more proficient in than any other, the demanding words inflaming and scorching Gibbs' senses, coaxing and convincing, igniting a fire that could only be extinguished through release.
Gibbs sighed as he remembered watching DiNozzo push back and fall gracefully to his knees, their eyes never breaking contact, slim, able fingers expertly flipping the button of his slacks loose and tugging the zipper down, reaching inside to grasp his hard, aching cock. With his hands still braced on the edge of the sink, Gibbs had only been able to gaze down, gritting his teeth at the hot wash of sensation, as DiNozzo had flattened his wet, nasty tongue and licked a...
"Gibbs!"
The sudden hiss of his name and the quick opening of the passenger-side door brought the former Marine swiftly back to the present and he whipped his head to the right, immediately recognizing Tobias Fornell. Before he could think of the consequences, or even before inquiring why Fornell was sneaking into his vehicle like this, Gibbs was surging over to wrap his hands around the unsuspecting FBI agent's neck, squeezing tightly and perversely enjoying every second of the contact.
"Gibbs!" Fornell gasped, fingers digging at and trying to pry the vise from his throat, eyes bulging and face quickly turning red. "Gibbs...I've got...information..."
"It had better be about Martinez's briefcase or that damned syringe used on DiNozzo or you're shit out of luck, Fornell," Gibbs spat angrily in the agent's wheezing face.
"Yes...yes..." Fornell managed to choke and was immediately released. He coughed and sputtered, rubbing at the tender flesh, trying to draw huge drafts of oxygen into his lungs. "But...not here. Drive."
"Where?" Gibbs was instantly suspicious.
"Anywhere but here," the FBI agent shifted as far away from the dangerous man as he could and slouched down in the seat, eyes tracking from one end of the parking structure to the other. "I may have been followed."
Gibbs frowned and started the car, swiftly directing the vehicle from his spot and out into the gloom of the evening. He kept checking the rearview mirror and saw no indication of a tail but continued to drive aimlessly with purpose...if anyone was following them, they'd have a hell of a time staying close.
"You'd better start talking, Tobias, or I'll just pull over right here and finish the job I started earlier."
"Look, Gibbs, I know you're plenty pissed with me right now..."
"You think?" The NCIS agent snarled.
"...but all this was taken out of my hands after we got Martinez back to the Hoover Building. I've been all but confined to my office, gone through the most intense debriefing I've ever experienced since joining the agency, and very nearly subjected to some good, old-fashioned brainwashing."
Gibbs snorted in disbelief. "You expect me to believe that load of crap?"
"Well," Fornell turned to face the driver, "here's something you can believe: the Bureau has already turned Martinez and his documents and discs over to another agengy and, before you ask, I don't know which one. The Director, himself, paid me and my team a little visit to let us know, even though he was proud of the way we handled Martinez's capture, we now needed to forget all about the Brazilian 'for the good of national security'. He stressed we should put the whole ordeal from our minds and 'urged' us not to have contact with any of the other agencies involved in the capture, that 'those directors would handle the situation internally', and for us to get busy with other cases." He shook his head in amazement. "Just like that, Jethro, and he expected us to never think or talk about what had happened. Ever."
"What about DiNozzo?" Gibbs was furious. "You just going to conveniently forget bout him as well? Martinez injected him with something and, right now, someone has ordered him moved from Bethesda."
"What? To where?" Fornell was genuinely surprised by the news. "How do you know he's being moved?"
"Ducky's been with him all the way, ever since Little Creek. He called me a little while ago to let me know how things were going and we got interrupted when someone delivered the news to him."
"Shit," Fornell cursed and eyed Gibbs carefully. "How is he?"
The quiet, concerned question caught Gibbs unawares and he had to take his gaze momentarily from the road to look at the other man's eyes. Gibbs had learned a lot about Tobias Fornell, especially after the man married one of Gibbs' ex-wives, and he could tell the worry was real. Bringing his eyes back to the road in front of them, Gibbs sighed loudly before responding.
"Not good. Ducky says he sort of comes and goes. Fever is still up."
"Well, shit," Fornell cursed again. "Jethro, why do you suppose they sent him to Bethesda if they were just going to move him again so soon? Does that make any sense to you at all?"
"No, it doesn't," Gibbs agreed readily, "and it's been bothering me since I got the news. There's a team of specialists and a CDC rep at Bethesda right now. People have been in constant contact with him, have done a battery of tests on him, have tried to help him, and *now* someone decides he needs to be moved again? I don't like the implications."
Fornell looked away from the rage just boiling under the surface of Gibbs' facade. "You think they're going to make him disappear."
"Yes." There was no question about it. " Or worse."
Fornell's eyes swung back to study Gibbs' profile. "What could be worse?"
Gibbs swallowed and slowed the vehicle, pulling over to the side of the deserted street and throwing the transmission into park. He shifted his body so he could face Fornell, the dim illumination from a distant streetlamp casting shadows across most of his cheek and chin, leaving only the eyes visible. It made the former Marine look other-worldly and sinister.
"When I was still on active duty in Iraq, my platoon was sent on a special recon. We didn't really know where the hell we were going, just followed our CO, kept our asses low, and did a quick snatch and grab from right out under the noses of the enemy. It was a simple op, we'd done pick-ups like this before, but this one...well...it seemed a bit off from the getgo. We infiltrated a hospital, or what we assumed was a hospital because of all the medical equipment and crap, but there was only one patient in the whole stinking building. Struck most of us as pretty odd at the time but, hell, we just did what we'd been ordered to do and, if HQ said grab and go, that's what we did."
Gibbs turned away so he was in profile again and Fornell was honestly glad he didn't have to look into those hard eyes for the rest of the tale. The FBI agent could see Gibbs' throat work as he swallowed and began to speak again.
"We had to slit a few throats to get the patient out quietly but we managed. When we were finally clear and heading back with our package, our CO gets new orders, and we had to wait two two days out in the middle of nowhere for 'special transportation'. Everyone was confused, even the CO. We'd gone in most of the way by chopper and expected to go out exactly the same way. Hell, we could have hoofed it all the way home in two days but, no, we had to wait.
"To make a long story short, we hunkered down and dug in for the wait and our medic gets his first real good look at our 'guest'. Before you know it, he's in deep converstaion with the CO, they're having this private, little examination of the guy we rescued, and Cap is suddenly contacting HQ again, wanting to have 'clarification' of his orders, asking why we needed to wait for 'special transportation'. HQ went ballistic, told him he'd received all the orders he needed, and for him to do as instructed.
"Well, pick-up finally arrives and we get back to HQ and are dumped immediately into quarantine, without explanation, and don't find out until a month and a half later our package had been used as a guinea pig for these Iraqi scientists trying to develop some kind of biological agent capable of being transported inside a human host. They'd been experimenting on farmers and peasants and just about anyone they could get their hands on and our intel decided it would be wise to send a team in to see what was being cooked up. Six days after we'd rescued our package, we'd heard the whole place had been deemed a prime target and was bombed but, at the time, we didn't know why."
Gibbs fell silent and Fornell could only stare, his brain jumping from one conclusion to another. "You think that's what's happening to DiNozzo? That the government wants to use him as some kind of guinea pig?"
Gibbs turned to fix his cold gaze on the agent in the passenger seat. "Tobias, what's Martinez's specialty? Do you even know?"
"I'm not certain," Fornell was shaking his head. "Chemical warfare, for sure, but he also had his hand in other things as well. A lot of superficial things like anti-aging serums and memory-recovery agents and stuff we all thought he was tinkering with because he was getting so old and trying to recapture his own youth."
"Why did he leave Brazil?" Gibbs asked quietly. "What happened there that caused him to leave his native country and come to one he so obviously hates?"
Fornell leaned forward a bit and shook his head. "He was working at a government-run hospital and there were some suspicious deaths, including the wife of some high-ranking, local official. He should have stood trial but, because of his other work for the military, the government covered it up and allowed him to continue at a different facility. More deaths followed and, when he found out he was going to be arrested, he fled the country, stopping at several others along the way, sharpeneing his skills and killing a few more before, finally, entering here illegally and settling, we thought, in up-state New York."
"But he's suddenly in the Norfolk area and shows up in an old warehouse with a briefacse full of documents, wanting to sell what he's got, or so we were told, to someone who he thought was going to make him very rich. Why?"
Fornell could only shake his head again. "I just don't know, Jethro."
Gibbs' cell took the moment to chirp and he snatched it quickly from his pocket, levering it open with one hand. "Gibbs."
Fornell watched and listened, seeing the tension grow and coil tight, the former Marine's grip on his phone turning white under the pressure of his grasp. It was obvious, the news was not good. Within moments, the phone was snapped close and Gibbs' head fell forward to rest on the steering wheel and Fornell had never seen the NCIS agent look so defeated.
"Gibbs?" He asked tentatively. "Is it DiNozzo?"
"Yes," came the whispered response. "He's gone."
TBC
Author's Chapter Notes:
Gibbs, Ducky, and Fornell all try to make sense of events.