Therapy Time Part Seven
Title: Therapy Time
Author: Spiceblueeyes
Pairing: None
Rating: R
Word Count: 20,010
Spoilers: None that I can see.
Warnings: Suicide of OC, violence, angst, brief mentions of child abuse.
Summary: The team gets a case that unsettles Tony more than he wants to admit.
Author's Notes: This is both my first ever NCIS story, and the longest story I've ever written, so I'm excited about it. The story was beta'd by devo79 who is awesome and really helped me make the story better.
Be sure to check out the totally cool art that kj_svala made for the story, she's very talented. You can find it here.
After he parked the van and everyone unloaded themselves and dispersed to whatever they had to do now, he headed to Autopsy. Maybe Ducky would have something for him from that psycho mumbo jumbo that he did.
“Hey Ducky, you have any psycho mumbo jumbo for me?” Tony asked, walking through the double doors into autopsy.
Luckily Ducky was a pretty easy going guy, so he just chuckled. “Actually Anthony, I was just about to call you. I do in fact have something you may be interested in.” He beckoned him over to the same table he’d been at earlier, where he had all the papers and photos from the file Tony had given him laid out.
“Our Seaman Suarez was a very lonely fellow. He had no pictures on his walls or in frames. He also had a few bottles of alcohol in his cabinets, although they all seemed to be unopened. So they were either for when he had guests, or, well, I’m not entirely sure. There could be a myriad of reasons.” Ducky explained. Tony listened to him and thought that he could probably guess what the bottles were there for. They were there for the same reason he had a bottle of ten year old scotch gathering dust in his closet. It was both a reminder of what he never wanted to be, and a temptation. Its presence was both reassurance and torture. He’d tried to get rid of it, but could never bring himself to throw it out or give it to someone else, and drinking it himself was not an option. So it gathered dust, and every time he went to his closet and didn’t drink any was a tiny victory over his father.
Ducky continued, “The pills you found were hidden, though according to the information you’ve gathered he did not have anyone to hide them from, except himself. That indicates that he was ashamed of his drug use, and didn’t want to be reminded of it. The types of drugs, along with several natural remedies for insomnia that were found in his apartment, like tea and melatonin, says that he wasn’t sleeping very well, if at all. There was a treadmill in his living room. It was one of those high tech ones that record your information from each session. I had Abby go over with Timothy earlier and they pulled the information off the machine. The poor boy was working himself to exhaustion every day, running for hours.” Ducky shook his head in sympathy. Tony could understand that too, exercising, working your body until it’s all you can feel, all you can think, and the rest of your thoughts fall away. He did it too sometimes, though glancing at the numbers on the chart; Suarez had gone overboard in a big way.
Ducky reached across the table and pulled one of the files closer. “I also looked over the medical files, and may I say that boy was in very bad shape when he reached Bethesda.” He flipped through the pages looking for something. Then he stopped and turned the file around so Tony could see a picture of Suarez’s injuries. Tony winced. “Yes,” Duck said, “horrifying, isn’t it? It reminds me of the time I was working in-“
“Ducky.” Tony headed off one of Ducky’s rambling stories before he got the chance to start. “So what does all of this mean?” He gestured to all the papers on the table.
“It means, Anthony, that I believe Rafael Suarez was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” Ducky answered.
“He had PTSD?” The diagnosis wasn’t truly a surprise, but Tony needed to be sure.
“Has, he has PTSD. I’m sure his condition wasn’t magically cured by shooting someone. In fact, it likely only made it worse.” Tony pondered that for a moment, thinking of the implications.
“He’s still responsible for his actions though, right? I mean, a jury won’t let him off the hook because of it.”
Ducky considered it. “Well, I would think that a good defense attorney could get a reduced sentence as a result of my findings, but I rather doubt he would be let off the hook entirely. How accountable he is would be for psychiatrists and the jury to decide.”
Tony just nodded, absorbing the information. The facts started to fit together in his head. Suarez had retreated from everyone, from the world. He’d hidden away from even his best friend. He’d known he was in trouble, that he needed help. Unfortunately, he had an upbringing that had instilled in him the idea that needing help was showing weakness. And despite knowing he needed it, he hasn’t been able to make himself go get it. So he’s tried to do it on his own. Tony picked up the charts of Suarez’s workout statistics; he’d pushed himself almost beyond the limits of his body in an effort to handle this problem by himself. But instead of “handling it,” he snapped and killed someone. Tony remembered the fear on Rafael’s face when he shot Mrs. Killigan, from the security tape. He’d been terrified, and until now Tony hadn’t been able to figure out why. But with Ducky’s PTSD diagnosis, it made sense.
“I’ll go tell Gibbs. That’s good work Ducky.” Tony said on his way out of Autopsy. Ducky thanked him and went back to work. During his trip in the elevator Tony thought hard about the case. Suarez had killed Mrs. Killigan, there was no doubt about that. It was a fact. Now, however, it looked like Suarez was dealing with his own demons, PTSD is an illness that’s very real. Nobody had seen the pain and suffering that Suarez was going through, he’d hid it away. Because he didn’t get help, a woman was dead.
What had happened to Suarez in Iraq was enough to give anyone PTSD, being tortured the way he was, he was lucky to have survived. Tony thought about all the experiences he’d been through. He’d been shot at, kidnapped, gotten the plague, left to die in a sewer, and even more from his time before NCIS. Sometimes he wondered in the middle of the night when he would crack, or if he already had and just not noticed.
He exited the elevator and went straight to Gibbs’ desk. “Hey Boss, Ducky figured something out.”
Gibbs looked up at him, “well, spit it out DiNozzo.”
“Right, he said that Seaman Suarez was showing classic signs of post traumatic stress disorder, and is probably still suffering from it now.” Tony reported.
“PTSD?” McGee asked from his desk across the aisle.
“Yep. Nightmares, anxiety, the whole shebang.” Tony confirmed.
“This would explain his behavior pattern in the last few months.” Ziva commented thoughtfully.
Tony nodded. “So this means we have a guy out there who is feeling guilty, anxious, terrified, and alone, with a gun. Not a winning combination, wouldn’t you say Boss?”
Gibbs shook his head, “we need to find him before someone else gets hurt.”
“On it Boss.” Tony replied, and went back to his desk. He made phone calls, went over reports, reviewed evidence, but nothing new was being revealed. They had no idea where Suarez was, or if he had any kind of plan. The frustrated noises coming from Ziva’s direction and the sharp punch of the keys on Tim’s keyboard told Tony that they weren’t finding anything either. Even Gibbs’ glower seemed moodier than usual.
The end of the work day came and went with no member of the team leaving. They only left when they were dismissed by Gibbs, and he gave no indication that they could go, so they stayed. However, with no new information coming in and nothing new to send out they may as well have been twiddling their thumbs, they felt useless. Eventually even Gibbs had to concede that nothing was going to happen tonight and gave them permission to pack up and go home, with clear instructions to be there bright and early the next morning.
So Tony, McGee and Ziva all trudged out the door, tired and feeling like the day had been a failure. “Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow…” Tony sang as they rode the elevator down. This got a couple of small smile from his colleagues and that’s what he’d been aiming for.
When the doors opened and they each went their separate ways Tim said “See you tomorrow guys.”
“Goodbye Tim, Tony.” Ziva waved and nodded at them.
Tony waved back and went to his car. He drove home the long way, just letting the zen of driving fill his mind. When he finally did get back to his apartment, he dropped his keys onto the counter and flopped down onto the couch. He wasn’t hungry; they’d ordered Chinese for dinner when it became clear that they weren’t going to be leaving with everyone else. He thought about popping in a movie, he would probably fall asleep before it was finished. Or he could go to bed and lie there staring at the ceiling for who knows how long before he actually fell asleep.
“Movie it is.” He decided.
He chose an oldie but a goodie, The Princess Bride, and let the familiar characters and lines lull him to sleep. The next morning he woke up with a sore back, his couch was really all that comfortable, and bits of a weird dream floating in his head. Suarez had been Inigo Montoya facing off with Count Rugan. He said his famous line “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.” But then he stopped and lowered his sword and said, “Wait a minute, my father’s not dead.” Suarez/Montoya laughed, “Just wishful thinking on your part I guess.” He continued, looking straight at Tony, who was wearing a jester’s hat and his gun holster and nothing else.
Shaking off the sense of ‘what the hell’ that image gave him, he levered himself off the couch and got up to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes. He moved quickly, Gibbs had been very clear that being late today would be very very bad, and he was the type of boss that you were never quite sure if he might really follow through with his threat of latrine duty.
Arriving at NCIS he was the second one there. McGee had beaten him to work today, apparently Gibbs’ version of motivational speeches worked well on him. “You’re here early, Probie. Afraid of what Gibbs would do to you if you were late?” Tony mocked.
“Yes.” Tim agreed, unselfconscious. “And so are you, or else you wouldn’t be here twenty minutes before you usually are Tony.” McGee shot back.
Tony made a face and sank into his desk chair. Two minutes later Ziva strolled into the Bullpen. “Looks like the Mossad Agent is afraid of Gibbs too.” Tony chuckled.
“Hardly,” Ziva said as she sat down, “I simply know when it is prudent to follow orders.” She said primly. Tony and McGee shared a knowing glance.
“Sure.” Tony said; his sarcasm evident.
Her eyes narrowed, “you do not believe me?”
Tony looked at McGee again, “What do you think McGeek, you believe her?”
McGee smiled. “Nope,” he said with a smug shake of his head. Tony gestured to Tim as if to say, ‘see?’
Ziva stood up, “I am not afraid of Gibbs.” She said firmly.
“Good to know.” Gibbs commented as he rounded the corner into the bullpen. Tony and McGee snickered to themselves while Ziva looked chagrined.
“DiNozzo.” Gibbs yelled to get his attention.
“Yes Boss.” Tony answered instantly, a smile still on his lips.
“You’re with me; we’re going to interview Suarez’s Doctor again.” Gibbs said as he picked up his own bag and walked back out of the bullpen without even sitting down.
“Oooh, yes Boss!” Tony remembered the hot Doctor and wiggled his eyebrows at Tim, who rolled his eyes.
“What do we do?” Ziva asked.
“Keep trying to find him.” Gibbs said with a tone that implied a monkey would have known that.
“Have fun,” Tony waved to them as he left behind Gibbs. Getting into the car Tony slid into the passenger seat without a fight. When the Boss wanted to drive, no amount of wheedling, begging, or bribing would change his mind. Gibbs was better than Ziva though.
The interview at the hospital didn’t really add anything to what they already knew. Gibbs asked Doctor Moran if Suarez had nightmares while in the hospital. She’d said that for most of his stay Rafael was too sedated to dream, but just before he’d checked himself out he’d started having nightmares. Usually one of the nurses would wake him up if they saw he was having bad dreams. Gibbs sent Tony to interview the nurses who had worked on Suarez’s floor.
“Hello, I’m looking for someone who remembers Seaman Rafael Suarez.” Tony held up a picture of him in front of the nurses’ station. Three of them shook their heads and went back to work, but one stepped forward. She had brown hair and green eyes, and was wearing blue scrubs with flowers on them. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and she looked like the kind of nurse who was caring, but that you didn’t want to cross.
“I remember him. He was in rough shape, poor guy.” She said.
“Yeah, what can you tell me about him?” Tony asked.
“Well, he had pretty eyes, with eyelashes most girls would kill for.” She smiled.
“Okay, do you remember anything he said to you? Like anyone he missed, or places he’d like to go?”
“No,” she shook her head. “He didn’t talk much at all actually. Just said thank you when we brought him food.”
“Did he talk to you about his nightmares?” Tony wanted to know.
“Oh, not really. All he ever said was that he couldn’t get the ‘Scar Man’ out of his head. I used to always wake him up if he started screaming in his sleep, whatever he was dreaming about, it was awful.” She had a look of sadness in her face as she spoke. “We can help the body heal, but the mind doesn’t always recover with it.” She sighed.
“Thanks for talking with me. That’s helpful.” Tony said.
“You’re welcome. I’ve got rounds to do, but I’m here all day so if you have any more questions you know where to find me.” She gave a soft smile and headed into one of the patient rooms. Tony headed back to Gibbs.
~*~*~*~
Tony thought about the answer to Henry’s question. He hadn’t lied; he did have lots of friends. He had his frat brothers and his work buddies and the bartender at his favorite bar. But when you got right down to it, he didn’t depend on them, didn’t trust them to know if something was wrong with him, or to look for him if he fell off the map.
Now Gibbs would look for him. Gibbs, Ziva, McGee, Abby, Ducky, and maybe even Palmer would look for him. And Abby could always tell when he was feeling down about something. The thing was, he had a hard time believing it. Sure, he knew it in his head, but inside there would always be doubt. The insecurities seeded by his father had never really gone away.
~*~*~*~
On to final part.
Author: Spiceblueeyes
Pairing: None
Rating: R
Word Count: 20,010
Spoilers: None that I can see.
Warnings: Suicide of OC, violence, angst, brief mentions of child abuse.
Summary: The team gets a case that unsettles Tony more than he wants to admit.
Author's Notes: This is both my first ever NCIS story, and the longest story I've ever written, so I'm excited about it. The story was beta'd by devo79 who is awesome and really helped me make the story better.
Be sure to check out the totally cool art that kj_svala made for the story, she's very talented. You can find it here.
After he parked the van and everyone unloaded themselves and dispersed to whatever they had to do now, he headed to Autopsy. Maybe Ducky would have something for him from that psycho mumbo jumbo that he did.
“Hey Ducky, you have any psycho mumbo jumbo for me?” Tony asked, walking through the double doors into autopsy.
Luckily Ducky was a pretty easy going guy, so he just chuckled. “Actually Anthony, I was just about to call you. I do in fact have something you may be interested in.” He beckoned him over to the same table he’d been at earlier, where he had all the papers and photos from the file Tony had given him laid out.
“Our Seaman Suarez was a very lonely fellow. He had no pictures on his walls or in frames. He also had a few bottles of alcohol in his cabinets, although they all seemed to be unopened. So they were either for when he had guests, or, well, I’m not entirely sure. There could be a myriad of reasons.” Ducky explained. Tony listened to him and thought that he could probably guess what the bottles were there for. They were there for the same reason he had a bottle of ten year old scotch gathering dust in his closet. It was both a reminder of what he never wanted to be, and a temptation. Its presence was both reassurance and torture. He’d tried to get rid of it, but could never bring himself to throw it out or give it to someone else, and drinking it himself was not an option. So it gathered dust, and every time he went to his closet and didn’t drink any was a tiny victory over his father.
Ducky continued, “The pills you found were hidden, though according to the information you’ve gathered he did not have anyone to hide them from, except himself. That indicates that he was ashamed of his drug use, and didn’t want to be reminded of it. The types of drugs, along with several natural remedies for insomnia that were found in his apartment, like tea and melatonin, says that he wasn’t sleeping very well, if at all. There was a treadmill in his living room. It was one of those high tech ones that record your information from each session. I had Abby go over with Timothy earlier and they pulled the information off the machine. The poor boy was working himself to exhaustion every day, running for hours.” Ducky shook his head in sympathy. Tony could understand that too, exercising, working your body until it’s all you can feel, all you can think, and the rest of your thoughts fall away. He did it too sometimes, though glancing at the numbers on the chart; Suarez had gone overboard in a big way.
Ducky reached across the table and pulled one of the files closer. “I also looked over the medical files, and may I say that boy was in very bad shape when he reached Bethesda.” He flipped through the pages looking for something. Then he stopped and turned the file around so Tony could see a picture of Suarez’s injuries. Tony winced. “Yes,” Duck said, “horrifying, isn’t it? It reminds me of the time I was working in-“
“Ducky.” Tony headed off one of Ducky’s rambling stories before he got the chance to start. “So what does all of this mean?” He gestured to all the papers on the table.
“It means, Anthony, that I believe Rafael Suarez was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” Ducky answered.
“He had PTSD?” The diagnosis wasn’t truly a surprise, but Tony needed to be sure.
“Has, he has PTSD. I’m sure his condition wasn’t magically cured by shooting someone. In fact, it likely only made it worse.” Tony pondered that for a moment, thinking of the implications.
“He’s still responsible for his actions though, right? I mean, a jury won’t let him off the hook because of it.”
Ducky considered it. “Well, I would think that a good defense attorney could get a reduced sentence as a result of my findings, but I rather doubt he would be let off the hook entirely. How accountable he is would be for psychiatrists and the jury to decide.”
Tony just nodded, absorbing the information. The facts started to fit together in his head. Suarez had retreated from everyone, from the world. He’d hidden away from even his best friend. He’d known he was in trouble, that he needed help. Unfortunately, he had an upbringing that had instilled in him the idea that needing help was showing weakness. And despite knowing he needed it, he hasn’t been able to make himself go get it. So he’s tried to do it on his own. Tony picked up the charts of Suarez’s workout statistics; he’d pushed himself almost beyond the limits of his body in an effort to handle this problem by himself. But instead of “handling it,” he snapped and killed someone. Tony remembered the fear on Rafael’s face when he shot Mrs. Killigan, from the security tape. He’d been terrified, and until now Tony hadn’t been able to figure out why. But with Ducky’s PTSD diagnosis, it made sense.
“I’ll go tell Gibbs. That’s good work Ducky.” Tony said on his way out of Autopsy. Ducky thanked him and went back to work. During his trip in the elevator Tony thought hard about the case. Suarez had killed Mrs. Killigan, there was no doubt about that. It was a fact. Now, however, it looked like Suarez was dealing with his own demons, PTSD is an illness that’s very real. Nobody had seen the pain and suffering that Suarez was going through, he’d hid it away. Because he didn’t get help, a woman was dead.
What had happened to Suarez in Iraq was enough to give anyone PTSD, being tortured the way he was, he was lucky to have survived. Tony thought about all the experiences he’d been through. He’d been shot at, kidnapped, gotten the plague, left to die in a sewer, and even more from his time before NCIS. Sometimes he wondered in the middle of the night when he would crack, or if he already had and just not noticed.
He exited the elevator and went straight to Gibbs’ desk. “Hey Boss, Ducky figured something out.”
Gibbs looked up at him, “well, spit it out DiNozzo.”
“Right, he said that Seaman Suarez was showing classic signs of post traumatic stress disorder, and is probably still suffering from it now.” Tony reported.
“PTSD?” McGee asked from his desk across the aisle.
“Yep. Nightmares, anxiety, the whole shebang.” Tony confirmed.
“This would explain his behavior pattern in the last few months.” Ziva commented thoughtfully.
Tony nodded. “So this means we have a guy out there who is feeling guilty, anxious, terrified, and alone, with a gun. Not a winning combination, wouldn’t you say Boss?”
Gibbs shook his head, “we need to find him before someone else gets hurt.”
“On it Boss.” Tony replied, and went back to his desk. He made phone calls, went over reports, reviewed evidence, but nothing new was being revealed. They had no idea where Suarez was, or if he had any kind of plan. The frustrated noises coming from Ziva’s direction and the sharp punch of the keys on Tim’s keyboard told Tony that they weren’t finding anything either. Even Gibbs’ glower seemed moodier than usual.
The end of the work day came and went with no member of the team leaving. They only left when they were dismissed by Gibbs, and he gave no indication that they could go, so they stayed. However, with no new information coming in and nothing new to send out they may as well have been twiddling their thumbs, they felt useless. Eventually even Gibbs had to concede that nothing was going to happen tonight and gave them permission to pack up and go home, with clear instructions to be there bright and early the next morning.
So Tony, McGee and Ziva all trudged out the door, tired and feeling like the day had been a failure. “Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow…” Tony sang as they rode the elevator down. This got a couple of small smile from his colleagues and that’s what he’d been aiming for.
When the doors opened and they each went their separate ways Tim said “See you tomorrow guys.”
“Goodbye Tim, Tony.” Ziva waved and nodded at them.
Tony waved back and went to his car. He drove home the long way, just letting the zen of driving fill his mind. When he finally did get back to his apartment, he dropped his keys onto the counter and flopped down onto the couch. He wasn’t hungry; they’d ordered Chinese for dinner when it became clear that they weren’t going to be leaving with everyone else. He thought about popping in a movie, he would probably fall asleep before it was finished. Or he could go to bed and lie there staring at the ceiling for who knows how long before he actually fell asleep.
“Movie it is.” He decided.
He chose an oldie but a goodie, The Princess Bride, and let the familiar characters and lines lull him to sleep. The next morning he woke up with a sore back, his couch was really all that comfortable, and bits of a weird dream floating in his head. Suarez had been Inigo Montoya facing off with Count Rugan. He said his famous line “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.” But then he stopped and lowered his sword and said, “Wait a minute, my father’s not dead.” Suarez/Montoya laughed, “Just wishful thinking on your part I guess.” He continued, looking straight at Tony, who was wearing a jester’s hat and his gun holster and nothing else.
Shaking off the sense of ‘what the hell’ that image gave him, he levered himself off the couch and got up to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes. He moved quickly, Gibbs had been very clear that being late today would be very very bad, and he was the type of boss that you were never quite sure if he might really follow through with his threat of latrine duty.
Arriving at NCIS he was the second one there. McGee had beaten him to work today, apparently Gibbs’ version of motivational speeches worked well on him. “You’re here early, Probie. Afraid of what Gibbs would do to you if you were late?” Tony mocked.
“Yes.” Tim agreed, unselfconscious. “And so are you, or else you wouldn’t be here twenty minutes before you usually are Tony.” McGee shot back.
Tony made a face and sank into his desk chair. Two minutes later Ziva strolled into the Bullpen. “Looks like the Mossad Agent is afraid of Gibbs too.” Tony chuckled.
“Hardly,” Ziva said as she sat down, “I simply know when it is prudent to follow orders.” She said primly. Tony and McGee shared a knowing glance.
“Sure.” Tony said; his sarcasm evident.
Her eyes narrowed, “you do not believe me?”
Tony looked at McGee again, “What do you think McGeek, you believe her?”
McGee smiled. “Nope,” he said with a smug shake of his head. Tony gestured to Tim as if to say, ‘see?’
Ziva stood up, “I am not afraid of Gibbs.” She said firmly.
“Good to know.” Gibbs commented as he rounded the corner into the bullpen. Tony and McGee snickered to themselves while Ziva looked chagrined.
“DiNozzo.” Gibbs yelled to get his attention.
“Yes Boss.” Tony answered instantly, a smile still on his lips.
“You’re with me; we’re going to interview Suarez’s Doctor again.” Gibbs said as he picked up his own bag and walked back out of the bullpen without even sitting down.
“Oooh, yes Boss!” Tony remembered the hot Doctor and wiggled his eyebrows at Tim, who rolled his eyes.
“What do we do?” Ziva asked.
“Keep trying to find him.” Gibbs said with a tone that implied a monkey would have known that.
“Have fun,” Tony waved to them as he left behind Gibbs. Getting into the car Tony slid into the passenger seat without a fight. When the Boss wanted to drive, no amount of wheedling, begging, or bribing would change his mind. Gibbs was better than Ziva though.
The interview at the hospital didn’t really add anything to what they already knew. Gibbs asked Doctor Moran if Suarez had nightmares while in the hospital. She’d said that for most of his stay Rafael was too sedated to dream, but just before he’d checked himself out he’d started having nightmares. Usually one of the nurses would wake him up if they saw he was having bad dreams. Gibbs sent Tony to interview the nurses who had worked on Suarez’s floor.
“Hello, I’m looking for someone who remembers Seaman Rafael Suarez.” Tony held up a picture of him in front of the nurses’ station. Three of them shook their heads and went back to work, but one stepped forward. She had brown hair and green eyes, and was wearing blue scrubs with flowers on them. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and she looked like the kind of nurse who was caring, but that you didn’t want to cross.
“I remember him. He was in rough shape, poor guy.” She said.
“Yeah, what can you tell me about him?” Tony asked.
“Well, he had pretty eyes, with eyelashes most girls would kill for.” She smiled.
“Okay, do you remember anything he said to you? Like anyone he missed, or places he’d like to go?”
“No,” she shook her head. “He didn’t talk much at all actually. Just said thank you when we brought him food.”
“Did he talk to you about his nightmares?” Tony wanted to know.
“Oh, not really. All he ever said was that he couldn’t get the ‘Scar Man’ out of his head. I used to always wake him up if he started screaming in his sleep, whatever he was dreaming about, it was awful.” She had a look of sadness in her face as she spoke. “We can help the body heal, but the mind doesn’t always recover with it.” She sighed.
“Thanks for talking with me. That’s helpful.” Tony said.
“You’re welcome. I’ve got rounds to do, but I’m here all day so if you have any more questions you know where to find me.” She gave a soft smile and headed into one of the patient rooms. Tony headed back to Gibbs.
~*~*~*~
Tony thought about the answer to Henry’s question. He hadn’t lied; he did have lots of friends. He had his frat brothers and his work buddies and the bartender at his favorite bar. But when you got right down to it, he didn’t depend on them, didn’t trust them to know if something was wrong with him, or to look for him if he fell off the map.
Now Gibbs would look for him. Gibbs, Ziva, McGee, Abby, Ducky, and maybe even Palmer would look for him. And Abby could always tell when he was feeling down about something. The thing was, he had a hard time believing it. Sure, he knew it in his head, but inside there would always be doubt. The insecurities seeded by his father had never really gone away.
~*~*~*~
On to final part.