When the door burst open, I didn't know what the hell was happening.
Entering the small room that served as our bunk and down-time area, the tech woke me from a sound sleep, disrespectfully flipping on the overhead lights, and moving to loudly bang open the metal cabinet that contained our spare clothing and other gear. I was mad at first but quickly changed my mind when I got a real good look at his face. I knew it had to be something real important from the look in his wide eyes and by the slightly-panicky sound of his voice and my first thoughts went to the young test subject held in Martinez's lab. He wasn't suppose to be having anything done to him for several more hours, and the last injection of that quack's special serum had been given two days ago, so I had no idea what could be causing all this ruckus. Surely, something *else* hadn't happened to him. I cringed thinking about that possiblity...he'd gone through so much already.
"What?" I asked irritably, immediately pushing the covers back and scrambling for my pants, pulling them on quickly and zipping up, blinking hard in the sudden illumination. I peered in his direction and tried to make sense of his actions. "What the hell are you doing? What's going on?"
"They're shutting everything down!" The tech, Anderson, sounded really sacred and *that* made me a little anxious, too. "Martinez got a call and he's furious! He's running around, yelling at everyone, shouting and acting almost like it's the end of the world or something! He's ordered everyone to be ready to evacuate in an hour! Shit, Bowman, I heard him tell someone to prepare for 'sanitation' procedures...whatever the hell that means!"
To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I watched numbly as he began yanking his spare clothing from the wire hangers and shoving them into his duffle, disregarding the stick of deodorant and the half-empty tube of toothpaste, wasting no time for non-essentials. I really didn't have anything here that mattered all that much to me, except the henley
I was now reaching to pull over my head, so I ignored the few possessions I had in the closet and, after swiftly lacing up my boots, made a mad dash straight for the lab.
Truthfully, I didn't know what I was doing heading in that direction. I guess some stupid, weak part of me wanted to check to make sure the patient was not going to be left here, strapped down to that damned table, and 'sanitized' with the rest of the facility. I didn't want to think of the implications of the word or what it could mean for him but something was just compelling me to get to him as quickly as I could.
There were more people in the stark hallways than I'd ever seen before and, even though there were no more than a half dozen total, that was about four or five more than usually occupied the area. And they were dressed strangely...in something resembling containment suits...and Anderson's word echoed in my pounding skull. 'Sanitation.' Fuck! I knew these oddly-garbed guys had to be here to do just that, so I picked up speed and ran the remaining distance.
After quickly punching in the appropriate code, I entered the lab and immediately pulled up short, my stomach clenching at the sight. Martinez was bent over the terrified test subject, carelessly ripping out IV lines and monitor leads like a man possessed by demons, tearing open the fragile skin in his reckless haste. He even yanked out the catheter that'd been so cautiously reinserted only days ago, eliciting a sharp cry of pain that was ignored as if it never occurred. I flinched at the harsh sound, feeling my own nuts draw up in sympathy, and stepped forward to offer my assistance, if only to do the job with a little more consideration. Martinez glanced up as I moved to the opposite side of the examination table and his eyes barely settled on me before he removed his blood-splattered fingers.
"Good," he grunted and waved his reddened hands over the trembling body. "Remove the rest of the equipment and prepare him for transportation."
"Transportation? To where?" I asked before thinking, my surprise over-riding any common sense. I placed a hand on the patient's closest shoulder in an effort to calm his trembling and watched the glazed, green eyes turn my way, the anguish in their depths making my stomach clench. "What's going on, Doctor Martinez?"
Martinez was turning away and moving directly to the unit housing all the samples he'd taken from the test subject during the past few weeks: blood, tissue, bone marrow, semen, urine...I really don't know how many different ones he'd accumulated but he was carefully handling the small containers and placing them all into a well-padded, alloy briefcase. He didn't even look at me when he responded to my questions.
"That is not of your concern! Just get him disconnected!"
The doorway was reopening and Robertson was suddenly entering, heading straight for me and the examine table. He looked grim and I should have known it was going to come to this sometime but, I guess, just chose to disregard the inevitable. If 'sanitation' was going to occur, *everything* was going to be eradicated in the process, even the test subject. Our eyes met briefly and I could see the stark truth: they were going to do something to ensure the young patient was never recovered. Shit. I swallowed hard and looked down into the guy's face, again amazed by the transformations I'd witnessed since his arrival.
Where that smart-mouthed, grown man had been, a scared teenager now resided and, even though I believe he still retained his adult memories and mind, he looked so young and so apprehensive all I wanted to do was protect him. And he was now in constant pain...so much pain. No matter how miraculous that fucking madman Martinez thought his 'youth serum' was, the effects on this body were devastating. I'd carefully watched the gradual diminishing of his form, the drastic weight loss, the lessening of fatty tissue and the re-emergence of more youthful muscle mass and tone. I'd seen the slightly-loose skin begin to tighten and firm and beared witness to the vanishing of the small, fine lines and blemishes on the skin. But I'd also monitored the effects on his heart and liver, seen the stress put on the bones and tissues and joints, and assisited with hasty transfusions when we all thought he was just going to lay there and bleed out.
That sonofabitch Martinez could have stopped at any time, once some of the signs of the aging process had started to reverse, especially once we all could see the visible changes, but he chose to continue with the injections, pushing the limits of his theory and the patient to the breaking point, wanting to see how far he could go before having to stop...or until death occurred. Now, it looked like the choice was being removed from his hands by some outside force.
"Where are you taking him?" I whispered to Robertson, gently removing the cuff from the bruised left wrist and wincing at the open sore I could now see on the inside edge, the white of bone slightly visible through the ruined skin.
"Someplace close to Craters, I guess," he looked anxiously about and, seeing Martinez otherwise occupied, looked me straight in the eyes. "He wants me to dump this guy somewhere and just let him die, Andy. He wants him taken to an area where the wolves will get to him quickly and eliminate any sign of the body."
"Fuck..." I breathed in disbelief.
"I...I don't think I can do it."
"Let me take him," I offered hastily and moved my hands down to the binding around the ankle, wondering if the swelling there was an indicator of a break or just a very bad sprain. I could remember how hard this guy had fought at times: fought Martinez, fought us, fought the drugs, and kept fighting until there just wasn't anymore fight left in his weakened, altered body.
"You?" I could clearly hear the doubt in Robertson's voice. When I looked up and met his gaze, I knew he was suspicious, and his huffed voice reaffirmed it. "Andy, that's not your style. You couldn't dump him as wolf chow even if they were paying you a million bucks." His eyes shifted toward Martinez but he continued to whisper. "If...if I let you do this, you'll only take him some place where he can get some help and the people footing the bill for this whole operation will track you down and kill you!"
"Well, it'll be *my* hide! Christ, I just can't let him be tossed out like some piece of garbage! He's a human being!" I hissed back and, together, we began dressing the patient in the clothing Robertson had brought in. The too-large, faded jeans slipped up the slim legs quickly and I reached to snatch the long-sleeved pullover from Robertson's hands, working it over the mop of unruly, brown hair, determined to not be sorry for my decision. "He deserves more than that."
Robertson was still watching me as I finished putting the shirt on the limp patient and I know he saw something in me *I* didn't even realize I possessed. Shit, what was I doing? Robertson was right...if I did this, I'd probably be dead, too. I should just do like everyone else was going to do: cut and run.
"Please..."
The soft plea caught me by surprise and, when I looked down, the eyes meeting mine were bleak, lost, and filled with the misery of a much older man. I chanced a quick glance, saw Martinez was still bent over his precious briefcase, and focused on the patient, lowering my face close and grimacing when he recoiled slightly from my close presence. I laid my hand gently on the crown of his head and spoke low.
"Look, I'm going to get you out of here but we've got to be very careful. They want you dead...do you understand?"
His eyes seemed to clear a bit and I saw a small nod. The tired eyes left mine and tracked toward Robertson and I had the feeling he was trying to see if we'd have assistance. Robertson grunted and looked quickly away from the assessing gaze.
"Look, Andy," he focused only on me and completely ignored the patient, "I'll help you get him into your truck but Martinez still needs to think I'm going to be the one doing the deed. If he thinks I don't have the stomach, he'll probably have me killed before I can take a step out of here. Once we're outside, I'm out of here as fast as I can go and I'm not stopping for anything. If you're smart, you'll do the same."
"You do what you've gotta do, man," I managed before Martinez suddenly turned toward us.
"Aren't you finished yet?" He snapped, and then erupted into a sudden frenzy, moving quickly to the exam table and plucking at the clothes we'd just put on the trembling young man. "What is this?! You idiots! Take these things off him immediately! There must not be any clothing during the disposal, nothing that may get in the animals' way! Take these off and get him out of here now!"
Regretfully, we stripped away the coverings as ordered but I cautiously folded them up, determined to put them back on the shaking body once we managed our escape. We sat him up and Robertson quickly maneuvered him over his shoulders and into an easy fireman's carry.
"We're going now, Doctor Martinez," I spoke to the older man, hoping my nerves would hold out.
He turned and looked shrewdly at me. "You are going, too?"
"I'm going to get our duffels and coats from the bunk area and carry Robertson's out for him."
Those dark eyes held mine and I tried not to squirm under his assessing gaze. It felt as though he could see into my soul, so I focused on remaining as still as possible and silently prayed he'd move the feral look away before I cracked. He looked over to where Robertson stood, with the patient draped over his shoulders like some obscene, human shawl, and seemed to consider us both.
"You will make sure he is placed where the animals will locate him quickly, yes? There must be a certainty of this. You understand?"
Robertson nodded and, as far as I was concerned, doing a real good job of keeping it all together. "I understand."
"Then go."
And, just like that, we were dismissed. We hustled out of the lab, stopped only to grab our coats and Robertson's duffel, and hustled up the stairs and outside into the blowing snow, moving unerringly to my old truck near the end of the small parking area. We shoved the shivering young man into the passenger seat. I met Robertson's eyes one, final time, could see the fear flare before we looked away, and just knew he thought we'd all be dead before the day was over anyway. We were well and truly fucked now.
Not bothering with meaningless goodbyes, I quickly got onto the vehicle, turned the key in the ignition, and got the hell out of Dodge, casting one glance in the rearview mirror to get my last look at a place I never wanted to see again. There didn't seem to be any other activity outside the facility, except for Robertson's immediate departure, and there wouldn't be until the true sanitation process began in about a half an hour. I had to get as far away as possible but also make it look like one of us was following orders, so I headed my truck in the direction of Craters of the Moon National Preserve and tried to think of my options.
I managed to ignore my companion and keep my eyes trained solely on the road for only about twenty miles or so and then knew I had to pull over to get the scant clothing back on his trembling body. Even with the heater blasting, he was shaking so bad I thought he'd end up curled down on the floorboard. I whipped the truck over to a clear spot on the small shoulder, thankful this stretch of county road was hardly traveled, and manhandled him quickly, abeit awkwardly, back into the jeans and shirt. I tried not to hurt him but was so desperate to get him redressed and back on the road that when I heard his hiss of pain, I had to stop and apologize.
"S'kay..." he managed to mumble, trying to assist but unable to get his shaking limbs to do much of anything.
After getting the shirt past his head, he slumped forward into my arms and I ended up hurting him again as I pulled the coarse fabric down over each of his cold arms. I think he knew I wasn't purposely trying to hurt him because, for every flinch I felt, a soft "s'kay" was whispered. I wished I had socks and shoes to cover his bare feet but knew it really didn't matter. Not now. I just had to get him further away and try to get him to someone who'd help. Pushing him slowly back, he settled gracelessly against the passenger door and slouched, watching me through bleary eyes as I returned the truck to the road and tried to put more miles between us and certain death.
"...'m...Tony..." he muttered through dry lips.
I jerked my head in his direction. "What?"
He shifted a bit but didn't seem to be able to find a comfortable position. "...Tony."
That had been clearer and I immediately understood he was giving me a name. I pressed my lips together tightly and shook my head, eyes back on the deserted strip of road stretched out through the windshield.
"I don't want to know your fucking name," I hissed and then instantly regretted it. Shit, none of this was his fault. He hadn't asked for this, and sure as hell hadn't volunteered to be Martinez's personal guinea pig, so I took a deep breath and tried to control my anger and my fear. "Look, I'm going to take you to a payphone so you can call someone. Do you understand?"
The nod was almost non-existent, more of a tiny drop of his chin, but I knew he understood. The continual shaking seemed to be diminishing, so I turned the heat down. I saw his eyes follow my movements and felt I needed to explain my actions.
"You're going to have to be back outside soon, to make your call, and you'll only feel the cold more if you get too comfortable in here. You know the number of who you're going to call?"
When he didn't answer, I chanced another glance and saw him trying to look around at his surroundings, eyes blinking at the white landscape passing by, and frowning at what he could see. He attempted to straighten up a bit, to make his observations easier, but the movement only aggravated some sore spot and he clutched feebly at his mid-section, moaning quietly, forehead pressing against the back of the seat until the pain subsided.I could hear his soft, panting breaths, knew he was bad off, but kept to he plan. There was nothing else I could do for him.
"...wh...where..." he managed and it dawned on me he probably didn't even know where the hell he was at the moment.
"Idaho," I supplied and saw him frown when the word registered, eyebrows pulling down as his gaze broke away from mine. Something shifted in his eyes before they closed and it looked like he was resigning himself to something bad. I had to know. "What? What is it?"
"...'riend...DC..." was all he could manage to mumble before the slight trembling began anew.
Well, shit.
Washington fucking DC. How in the hell was he suppose to get help from someone so far away? God damn it to hell, could this just get any more screwed up? I fisted my hand and slammed it repeatedly against the steering column in anger, my frustration bubbling up and out before I could contain it.
"Fuck!" I yelled, just to get it all out at once. Not wanting him to think I was angry at him for this unexpected turn of events, I shifted to offer my passenger a word of apology and stopped, seeing what had to be a ghost of a smile pass quickly over his lips.
"...got...that...right..." he huffed in pained agreement, eyes remaining closed the whole time.
I hated to do this but just didn't have any other option available, especially if I had any hope of getting out of this mess alive. This was all about survival now...his and mine.
I pulled into the deserted parking lot of a long-ago abandoned diner along Route 26 and drove straight for the old payphone standing silently in the barren landscape at one edge of the snow-covered asphalt. Throwing the truck into park but keeping the engine running, I ran around and hastily pulled the unresisting guy from the cab, hauled him over to the small cubicle and pushed him inside the decrepit, old-fashioned booth. I shoved him into tight corner and yanked off my coat, determined to give him at least a little more protection before I left. I could feel his eyes boring into mine as I forced his limp arms into the sleeves and quickly zipped him in but I refused to look where I knew I'd see nothing but hurt and betrayal. Shit, didn't he know I was running for my life now, too?
"Thank...you..." the whispered graditude hit me so hard upside the head I just *had* to look at him.
There was no sarcasm, no treachery, no acquisitions, just an honestly grateful _expression of understanding. It all made me so mad, I felt like I wanted to hit something again.
"Fuck you!" I shot back angrily and watched the mouth twitch in a grin again. Keeping one hand bunched in the front of the coat to keep him on his feet, I used my other to dive into the depths of my pocket, pulling a handful of change from the confines, and slamming it on to the cold, metal shelf under the hanging phone. I pushed at him again. "You've got to do the rest yourself. I've got to get out of here before they realize what I've done, man. Can you stand up by yourself and do this?"
He nodded but I wasn't so sure. I let go and took a step away, watching as he fumbled with the coins and attempted to make his call, the slim quarter and dime slipping through his fingers and clattering noisily on the concrete at his feet. Fuck a damn duck...this was not going to work either. I pushed back at him until he collapsed to sit in a huddled mass in one corner and swept the remaining change back into my palm.
I thought about dialing 9-1-1 but knew that could bring a world of other problems. Looking down into the exhausted face I sighed.
"What's the number?"
Well, we had to do it twice before he was able to connect with someone he referred to as 'Boss' and, as I saw his expression morph through a wide range of emotions, I knew I had to leave. I started to step back enough to get the rickety door closed, to keep some of the cold from invading his small space...and maybe the animals, too...but a hand was suddenly grasping at my knee, stopping me from leaving. I looked again into a face now streaked with tears and saw the appreciation shining in the dulled, green eyes. Nodding once, I closed the door and ran for my life.
____________________________________
"There!" Fornell pointed toward an ancient-looking phone booth located at one end of the abandoned cafe's parking lot. "He's got to be there!"
Gibbs directed the fast-moving car in the indicated direction and peered through the falling snow, trying to get a glimpse of something that resembled a human shape within the small confines. It was getting harder to see, the wind pushing the snow almost sideways at times, and the booth was nothing more than a dark, ominous-looking rectangle against the bleak background of snow and more snow.
Skidding slightly on the icy blacktop, Gibbs got the vehicle stopped and all three men were rolling out, all eyes trained on the closed door. Gibbs got there first and carefully folded the door open, going to his knees as he spotted a shape, and reached for the still figure pulled tight into one corner.
Fornell and Ducky watched as Gibbs carefully manuevered the lax body from it's huddled position and pushed an awkward hand through the cold, brown hair, exposing the pale, bluish-tinged lips in an almost bloodless face, and then freeze. "What the hell?"
"Jethro," Ducky was pulling at a shoulder, "let me see."
"It's not," Gibbs cupped the chilled flesh and tipped the chin up, exposing more skin to the wane light, trying to make sense of what he was actually seeing. It was Tony...wasn't it?
"Oh, my God," Fornell's shaken voice, from somewhere over Gibbs' shoulder, sounded muted and strained.
"Ducky..." Gibbs couldn't finish his thought. It *was* Tony...but not like he'd ever seen him before. This...this person was a kid, just a teenager, but he had Tony's face and...
The lids fluttered and slowly opened, revealing the eyes they all knew so well, and they held their combined breaths as the tired, green gaze worked to focus on the shapes crowding around. The look skimmed over them all but quickly returned to Gibbs' face, the expression turning solemn and wary, almost as if he wasn't sure he believed what he was seeing.
"B...Boss?" He rasped in obvious confusion, body beginning to shake and teeth starting to clatter.
"Jethro, get him off the ground and into the car immediately," Ducky urged, tugging impatiently on the agent's coat. "We've got to get him out of this weather right now!"
Gibbs reached in and pulled the smaller body from the enclosed space and, even though there was significant weight still present, the older man instantly knew the body now pressed so close felt nothing like it should. He heard Fornell say something about the lack of footwear and frostbite and...oh, God, what had been done to him? Gibbs bit back his anger: this could *not* be Tony. Tony was bigger and stronger and older and they had been intimate...
"You drive, Tobias," Gibbs ordered sharply as he moved past the driver's door, cradling the shivering form close, trying to lift enough to get the exposed feet out of the snow. "Ducky, get in the back with me so you can take a look."
Fornell had them on the road in a flash, heading quickly back toward the town of Lost River, busily trying to assure McGee on the cell phone of DiNozzo's recovery and letting him know they were on their way. He fought the compulsion to turn around and look at DiNozzo's condition himself, especially when Ducky requested the illumination of the dome light, but settled himself on listening to the soothing sounds of the medical examiner's cultured voice as he spoke to the younger man, working to get some indications of what condition he was truly in...beside the blatantly obvious.
There were plenty of muffled groans and hisses of pain but, through it all, Gibbs remained eeriely quiet and subdued, completely at odds to how he'd been on the trip out. Fornell flashed a quick glance into the rearview mirror and realized Gibbs was not taking this new development well: the blue eyes were like chips of ice and the face was a mask of undisguised fury. This did not bode well for any of them, especially not the trembling, injured agent now reclining in Gibbs' lap.
They arrived at the bed and breakfast and Ducky took a moment to speak with the owner, explaining the reasoning for the sudden appearance of the beraggled teenager in their midst without giving away any of the real story. Gibbs heard something about runaways and religious cults and intervention but tuned it all out when DiNozzo began to droop heavily between him and the FBI agent.
"Almost there, DiNozzo," he spoke low, grasping a handful of the loose pants near the waistline and pulling, trying to keep him upright and mobile. He winced at the hiss of pain the maneuver elicited but kept going, taking the short flight of steps as quickly as possible.
As they entered the doorway, Ducky hurried past and entered first, brushing by a stunned, open-mouthed McGee, and reaching to yank the bedcovers back, exposing a wide expanse of clean, sweet-smelling linens. The two men tactically moved the nearly-limp form over to the bed and eased him down, tucking the thick covers around his pale, trembling form without even bothring to remove any clothing.
DiNozzo's eyes blinked lazily for a few moments, as Ducky and Fornell left to get the medical supplies from the other room, and his gaze finally tracked to where McGee still stood uncertainly by a table. He studied the young man and sighed.
"Hey, Probie," he mumbled weakly, his usually mellow voice altered by his condition.
Gibbs stepped forward and into McGee's line of sight, making the young man refocus his attention. "Go downstairs and ask Mr. or Mrs. Harrison for a large, clean bucket and as many towels as they can spare. Then, go to the bathroom and fill the bucket with hot water and bring everything back here. We're not going to risk putting him into that claw-footed monstrosity in the bathroom until we can assess the seriousness of all his injuries."
The younger man took off as Gibbs turned back toward the bed and toed out of his shoes and peeled off his wet jacket. He met Ducky's appraising eyes as he and Fornell re-entered with the supplies, dragging the small table closer to the bed for easier access.
"McGee's gone to get some hot water and towels," Gibbs informed as he crawled onto the bed at the foot and settled on his knees just to DiNozzo's left, seeing the green gaze grow anxious and wary.
"Good," Ducky nodded and rolled his sleeves up, turning to sit on the edge of the bed so he could comfortably look down into DiNozzo's face. "Anthony?"
He waited patiently until the head rolled slowly his way and offered a gentle smile of approval when the tired gaze finally met his. His practiced eyes took in the exhaustion, the pain, and the worrisome glint of fear. This was not good.
"Do you know who I am?" He asked quietly and studiosly ignored Gibbs' bristle of impatience.
DiNozzo nodded slightly, the cracked, dry lips parting, the wish to communicate something very clear. Ducky leaned closer.
"...w...water..." he managed.
"Christ," Gibbs hissed angrily and shifted away to grab a bottle of unopened water from an end table, missing the flinch of nervousness the word and movement brought to the injured agent. Ducky frowned but remained silent.
Twisting the lid open, Gibbs worked with the medical examiner to get DiNozzo levered into enough of an upright position to receive the fluid without choking, and then brought the narrow opening to the waiting mouth. Carefully, he made sure only a trickle escaped.
"Easy, now," Ducky soothed, watching diligently. "Not too much this first time, my boy. We don't want to cause any other damage by unknowingly trying to quench your thirst. I promise you, we'll get the necessary fluids back into you're body...just give me a little time to assess your injuries. All right?"
When the water bottle was removed, DiNozzo sighed, but kept quiet. He started to look back toward Gibbs but was stopped by Ducky's firm but gentle hand on his chin.
"Anthony," The medical examiner waited until the eyes shifted back, "we're going to remove these damp clothes so I can examine you thoroughly." A sudden pinched look appeared on the tired face and DiNozzo turned away from Gibbs to push his cheek against the softness of the pillow, breath hitching in his throat. Ducky tsked quietly. "Now, now...it's not as if I've never seen all of your assets before, Anthony. You know I will take the utmost care to ensure your modesty will stay intact."
The lttle bit of humor did nothing to ease the tension and Ducky looked to Gibbs for support. There was no humor in the blue eyes either but the senior agent took the initiative and began to speak.
"Let Ducky do this, DiNozzo," he whispered, trying to pitch his voice more like Ducky's. When that didn't seem to be doing the trick, he reverted back to what he knew best, letting his usual growl emerge. "Suck it up, DiNozzo. It's going to happen whether you want it or not."
There was another short moment of hesitation before the head rolled back and the eyes turned to seek out those of the older agent. He studied the face carefully, as if searching for something, before agreeing. "'kay..."
Together, Ducky and Gibbs began the arduous task of carefully removing the baggy items of clothing while keeping most of the chilled body covered, giving the young man a chance to recover after each new injury or hurt was discovered and evaluated. This was just a quick, preliminary assessment that served to show what needed to be treated first. As more and more injuries were uncovered, Ducky's face got slowly tighter and bleaker and, when McGee finally arrived with the water and towels, he stopped the young agent before he could approach the bed.
"Timothy, if you wouldn't mind waiting with Tobias in our room, Jethro and I can handle this for now."
Up to this point, Fornell had just been a quiet presence to one side of the room but, at Ducky's sudden request, he bridled and huffed a little at being dismissed so casually. "Now, wait a minute..."
"Thank you, Tobias," Ducky interjected before the FBI agent could continue any further, his tone brooking no argument or discussion and his pale, blue eyes letting everyone know he meant business. "Just put the towels on the end of the bed where I can reach them and give me the container. And, Timothy, make sure you close the door as you leave. Thank you, gentlemen."
Gibbs couldn't help the small surge of pride for his medical examiner's temerity but kept it well hidden, turning his attention back to DiNozzo, surprised to see a spark of amusement in the glassy depths. He raised his hand to push a lock of lank hair from the cool forehead and felt his chest constrict with worry when DiNozzo flinched away from the movement. Swallowing his worry, he gritted his teeth and tried to act as if nothing had occurred.
When they were alone and the door closed, Ducky retrieved some of the towels, passed a few to Gibbs, and carefully pulled the arm on his side from under the covers, indicating for the former Marine to do the same on his side. He watched as the young man squirmed slightly at the contact.
"Anthony, we're just going to wash you off a bit, help to get you warmed up and cleaned. We're going to start with your arms, all right?" He waited until the frightened eyes closed in resignation.
The two older men exchanged knowing looks over the tense body and began their tasks. Carefully, Gibbs cradled the left arm and passed the moist, warm cloth over the skin, bit by bit, slowly removing dried, red smears and uncovering bruises and wounds. Clearing his throat, he spoke low.
"Looks like there's been an IV line or something here," he indicated the torn bit of flesh on the delicate area just to the inside the elbow. It began to bleed sluggishly as the dried patches were cleared away. "And there's several old puncture marks...assorted bruising and..." He broke off when he found the injury on the left wrist. "Duck."
The doctor immediately stopped his own assessment at the tone of Gibbs' voice and looked at the wound, frowning even more. "Oh, dear, I was afraid of that. There's something similar on this wrist, as well, but not nearly as severe. I suspect he's been restrained for a very long time, Jethro."
Ducky reached for another clean towel and laid it on the area over DiNozzo's blanket-covered abdomen and indicated for Gibbs to gently hold the wrist suspended while he carefully began to clean it. He looked back into the young man's face and saw a few beads of perspiration begin to appear.
"Did you hear about the incident over at Lincoln Center last weekend, Jethro?" Ducky asked off-handedly, getting ready to launch into one of his winding tales, using it to lull DiNozzo away from the assorted aches and pains he had to be feeling, even though he was eerily quiet and subdued. The treatment of this open area would most certainly hurt but the tale would give them all something else to concentrate on. "The guest tenor...his name escapes me at the moment...accidentally knocked the lead soprano back into an amazingly realistic fountain that, of course, as only a stage prop, held no water but *did* contain the sleeping form of a drunken stage hand who'd..."
The story washed over them, calming in it's normalacy and allowing them to focus on the task without getting sucked under by the inhumanity of all they encountered. Gibbs and Ducky took their time, rinsing the wash cloths repeatedly until, finally, they had to call on McGee to fetch some more clean water from the bedroom. The young agent had taken one look at the red color in the bucket and blanched but hurried to do as asked. Ducky continued to treat the wounds he and Gibbs could see but soon realized there had to be more complex problems because of the 'reversal' process itself. He wasn't even sure *anyone* would know what to do about them, so he pushed the depressing thought away for the moment and focused on what he could do. They kept DiNozzo warm, tucking the sheet and blankets around him tightly as they worked from one point of the body to the next, careful to dry the wet skin and gently massage the chilled flesh until the natural warmth began to return.
Finally, when Ducky was satisfied they'd done all could do for the time being, they'd given DiNozzo a few more sips of the bottled water and retucked the thick comforter up under the quaking chin, watching the eyes fill slowly with tears and overflow into fat drops that ran down the sides of his face.
"Here, now," Ducky chided softly as Gibbs averted his face, unable to bear the raw emotion he was witnessing, "we'll be having none of that. Just sleep, Anthony, and we'll be right here when you awaken.
The tired, wet eyes gradually tracked back toward Gibbs but only encountered the hard, clenched profile and, in his weakened and confused state, could only read disappointment and rejection. Biting back a sob, DiNozzo let his lids slide shut and blocked out the agonizing sight. For once, the pain in his heart was worse than the pain in the rest of his body and the thought of death suddenly didn't seem so bad.
TBC
Author's Chapter Notes:
Tony's safe now, isn't he?
Chapter End Notes:
Part is told in an OC's POV, minor descriptions of DiNozzo's injuries.