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Chapter Text

McGee holstered his pistol, turned and started down the ladder in the almost too-narrow pipe. His shoes clanked on the rusted metal, the sunlight growing dimmer with each downward step. When he landed in the squelching mud, he glanced up to the cloudy sky briefly, pulled out his flashlight and flicked it on. Sweeping it over the tunnel revealed moist walls, brown puddles on the ground and chains hanging from the ceiling of the old mine. A thick scent of wet mud and something like a dead bird hung in the air.

“I’m in boss.” he said.

“Me too boss.” echoed DiNozzo.

“David?” Gibbs rough voice crackled over the intercom.

“In.” she said, “Although it is very cluttered on my end.”

“Okay, we move slow, do not turn off communications, and don’t do anything heroic. If you spot something, you call for back-up and wait.”

“Right boss.” all three echoed. McGee removed his gun, slipped the flashlight between tense fingers and eased down the tunnel. There was a faint dripping sound coming from behind him, the tunnel smelled stuffy, and in the muck he couldn’t see any footprints or disturbances. No one had used this place in a while.

He reached a corner, stopped, pressed his back to the wet wall. His breathing felt heavy, the air feeling almost thick. McGee shot out, gun ready. The tunnel sat empty. Releasing a breath, he continued on, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling coiling in his stomach. The place felt old, abandoned - darker than it should. He hadn’t seen any sign of life or footprints. Could they have been misled?

He shook his head. Not the time nor the place for doubts. They had to find those kids.

“Nothing on my end boss,” DiNozzo said, sounding a little breathless.

“You okay Tony?” McGee asked stepping around another deep puddle.

“Yeah,” he paused gasping, “The mud is pretty deep on my end.”

“If it gets too thick, retreat and join McGee.”

“Right boss.”

McGee pressed on, dread still building. This wasn’t right. There should be something, someone, some sign that anyone lived here. Two points suddenly glinted like flint in the darkness. McGee froze, he swept the flashlight over the spot again, revealing only another empty passage to the left. Fear clawed its way up his throat turning it tight. The tunnel suddenly felt two sizes too small.

-You need to get over it.

The words unbidden pushed up through the slogs of memory to ping like a siren, drawing him into the past.

“Dammit.” McGee rasped a deep breath and tried to steer clear of thought. He pushed on, the muck squelching beneath his shoes leaving sure signs of his visit – he felt as if he was trespassing. When he reached the corner, he once again pressed his back to the wall, staring at the muck. Like ink dipped in thought, the shadows took shapes on their own, spit straight from his nightmares. McGee's grip tightened on his gun, he snapped out and flashed it down the tunnel. Abandoned crates lined the sides, old, wet, and weary. Their collective weight sinking into the floor.

For some reason his breath would not calm, nor would his heart rate go down to a reasonable pace. Dammit, McGee thought again, taking a moment wipe his brow. He sniffed, wiping his nose to remove more sweat, and moved deeper into the tunnel.

-I don't like the dark.

-I know, but sooner or later, we all must get over it.

Sweat slipped in streaks down his face, pooling into his collar. McGee's breathing was turning erratic. He could see the shadows moving with every twitch of his light.

-But there are monsters in the dark.

-Only if you believe in them.

He shut his eyes and took another calming sigh, forcing his breathing back under control. So directly connected to his previous memory, another one rose up from the dredges of his mind, clogging his fogged brain up with even more backwater.

Then the faces began.

It was over his shoulder, and indistinctly that he first thought he saw a face. A little evil wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a hole. When he turned and confronted it, the face had vanished.

-You need to be as brave as Mole.

-But Mole had Ratty, and Badger and Toad and Otter.

-And one day, you will have them too.

It wasn't that he was afraid of the dark. More of what he couldn't see in the dark. Creepy crawlies wriggling their way down his back to sneak into his pants. Evil little things that surrounded him like an angry beehive. He suddenly, desperately, wishfully didn't want to be here.

He quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin imagining things, or there would be no end to it.

McGee took a deep breath, embedding the quote into his soul as deep as he could. Drawing strength from it he walked on, sweeping the light over the wet ground revealing only puddles like broken mirrors reflecting rotten crates. No signs of prints or footmarks anywhere.

A puddle splashed down the tunnel.

“Boss?” the word shot out on instinct, fuelled by adrenaline – more likely fear, but he refused to believe it.

“What is it, McGee?”

“Heard something in the tunnel,” he paused, realizing how stupid that sounded.

“Can you identify?”

Another splash, this time behind him. McGee spun around, his breath coming up short. He could still see the corner, but nothing else.

“McGee?”

“No boss.” his voice tightened, and his grip turned vice-like on both his gun and flashlight. “Could just be an animal,” he wasn't sure why he was rationalizing this, not when his heart was ramming in his throat and hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold his gun straight. The darkness felt pressing, like a blanket of fear suffocating every ounce of strength from his lungs.

He took a shuddering breath, pressing the fear out with sheer willpower. Then coughed, the smell of dead pigeon was getting stronger.

Gibbs was talking,

“- vigil McGee, don't let your guard down.”

“Right,” he said, surprised by the strength of his voice.

“Gibbs!” McGee jumped but smothered the yelp before it could escape. “I have found them! I can hear them behind the door.”

“Do not enter until at least one of us is with you. DiNozzo-”

“Already outside boss! Mud got too thick. Closing in on Ziva’s position now.”

“McGee!”

“Heading out boss!” he said, not caring if relief was as clear as crystal in his voice. He turned around and stopped when twin points flinted again. On instinct he fired, the flash illuminating matted fur. The thing ran and leapt, he fired again, illumining stained teeth and drool. He fired again and then jaws were sinking into his arm, throwing him back into the water and mud, missing the crates by inches.

The scream ripped through him like an electrical shock. Buzzing through his system, pumping adrenaline to his toes and head. The animal growled, rumbling right through his arm into his heart shaking it up, it dug its paws into his neck and face, scratching for purchase. McGee screamed again when teeth ground down on his arm, slicing through skin and gnashing into bone.

With desperate swings, he started beating the animal the flashlight. The bulb plinked out, dipping them in pitch darkness, his blood ran cold with fear. The beast yanked him left and right in retaliation, making his shoulder scream in agony. McGee switched his gun from his left hand to his right. Pressed the barrel under its head and fired.

A sharp yelp and a blast of blood splatter and brain matter cut the world off in ringing silence. McGee lay still in the muck, taking deep breaths through the stench of dead dog, trying to bring himself down from the pumping adrenaline. His arm stung like a bitch. With a shaking hand, he pushed the thing off of him. It slumped into the mud. McGee could feel tremors begin to ripple through him.

It’s dark.

No, no! Keep your head! Keep your head!

“Boss?” he asked, voice wavering.

No answer. Please no, please no. Don’t leave me alone down here. With eyes shut tight, desperately trying to ignore the pressing dark, he laid the gun on his chest and touched his ear which was now empty. He patted the water around his head with a shaking hand, splashing into the pools. It was most likely soaked by now. The water was cold and soaking into his suit. The tremors were growing, he knew it had nothing to do with the freezing water.

He had to get out of here, but the courage to move seemed to have died with the light. If I don’t move, the monsters won’t get. Tears pricked his eyes, his breathing still harsh and unforgiving to his bruised chest. Too close, too much memory and fear and terror. He swallowed and tried to calm down, he still had to help Ziva. 

Then the pattering began.

Just beyond the crates, he could hear the soft pat-pat-pat of something approaching through the thick of dark. McGee's hand tightened on the grip of his gun. The squelch of mud indicated it was getting closer. Several more followed.

His breathing picked up in pace.

“There are monsters in the dark.”

The lightest touch brushed his leg, he swung his gun up and fired.

Nothing happened. McGee swallowed, hearing the growl turn darker. He pulled the trigger, once twice three times, but it wouldn’t fire. What the hell? McGee kicked out, hitting the thing in the face. It yelped, growled and slammed its teeth into his leg.

Another scream tore loose. He brought his gun down on the dogs head or tried to before another pair of jaws clamped down on his right sleeve. McGee pulled back against the force, and hearing another approach, he pulled his left arm around his neck moments before the things teeth bit into his elbow. He struggled, pushing and pulling, kicking and screaming and only serving to make their teeth grind deeper, deeper into the bone –

Three shots clapped in the dark and the fierce jaws released him, the 'pat-pat-pat' swallowed by the darkness.

“McGee?” the voice sounded familiar, but McGee still had his eyes tight shut, blocking out shadows and hungry wolves in caves. His heart wouldn't slow down, his breathing wouldn't return to normal. Perhaps he was running out of it?

“Hey!” something brushed his shoulder, he winced and pulled himself away, hoping to keep jaws from eating him alive. “McGee!”

A voice. Yes. Wolves didn't speak. But did monsters speak? The whiteness to his lids convinced him otherwise and he cracked them open to reveal a worried face. A face, not some deformity from his nightmares. It was speaking fast and desperate. McGee needed him to stop.

“Ratty?” he asked.

He stopped, turning to look at him again. “It's Gibbs, McGee.” A rough hand was pressed to his forehead, “Are you alright?”

McGee nodded his thoughts were sensible; he knew this man he was his boss, someone he worked with. But memories were a fickle thing, pulling them away from their dark corners was not always readily successful. “Surely the brave Mr Toad wouldn't mind coming here by himself, would he?”

Gibbs didn't answer immediately, his thoughts clearly troubled if the creases in his face were anything to go by. He reached around and pulled McGee into a sitting position, resting him against his chest, the light pointed into the darkness where the wolves had fled. Then he said in a voice as soft and gentle as the arm supporting him. “Not for a hatful of golden guineas, McGee.”

McGee smiled and gripped the hand holding the light, his muddy paws staining the shirt sleeve jacket and rough hand. “That is good to know, Mr Rat.”

And he allowed a completely different darkness to sweep him away.

Chapter Text

The trip back to the surface was through an indistinct and curious blur of shapes, sounds and sensation that McGee hoped to forget. Shadows still sprouted teeth as sharp and long as swords, hands that reached out from the ground and ceiling still grazed his subconscious with rhythmic precision.

The reassuring “Almost there” and gruff “Stay with me McGee” cut the darkness into more manageable bits, it encouraged the fearful agent to keep himself grounded.

There were no such things as monsters.

Firm hands guided him through the dark. Pinpricks of pain clipped their way up his leg every time he put pressure on it, and if he leaned a little heavily on his charge, his companion didn't seem to mind it.

I want to go home.

McGee felt his jaw clamped down tightly. Such a thought was not welcome nor productive, but it was still prevalent. Demanding to be acknowledged and acted upon like some petulant child. McGee stamped down on it and refocused his attention of escaping the tunnel which growled at him at every turn.

The pain barely helped him focus on walking, flashes of words from his companion – it was Gibbs, not Ratty – kept him from falling into the nightmare completely. But there were still monsters in the dark.

Words bubbled and spurt out of him in rambling chunks, he had to talk to keep them away, to keep them sealed in their caves, locked in their closets and shackled to their walls. Words had always been his shield against their claws and teeth – he sure as hell had never had a father who helped him to fight them.

And then he was terrified, light surround him, but it suddenly fiercely, painfully reminded him of another dog – white teeth flashing in sunlight and his hands gripped his companion tightly, letting words still bubble forth to keep them away.

His companion spoke softly and McGee felt some of the tension leave. Words, words were good.

When they crawled back into the sun, the cool air felt like a lover's caress against his sweat-soaked skin. The grass felt heavenly to his hands and for a moment he toyed with the idea of pressing his face to the ground, just to smell the sunbathed sprouts, and appreciate exactly where he was and from where he'd come.

But strong hands pulled him back into a standing position before he could act on the urge, and they were once again moving, this time to the NCIS van. Oh yes, he realized through his fog of exhaustion, we still have a case to finish up. He should inquire, he felt obliged to at the very least, but the energy had left him as surely as he'd left the tunnel. Sunlight would keep nightmares away; he didn’t need words right now. He collapsed on the lip of the open van and took deep reassuring breaths.

“Wait here,” and Gibbs was gone, to McGee's chagrin. Being alone didn't bode too well with him, considering current events.

Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself -

He cut the quote off with a sharp shake of his head.

McGee rubbed his eyes, forcing his breathing to a calmer tempo. He couldn't go home, there was a case he remembered, and the case was important, children needed help. More so than he did now. He forced a swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“Ah, Timothy!” Ducky Mallard, warm and smiling, arrived just as the despondency began to take hold.

“Hey Ducky,” he sounded as tired as he felt. “Been having some bad luck with a dog again.” McGee wrung his hands, hoping to hide the shaking they'd taken to. Despite the warmth on his face, the coolness of the air, his mind had gotten stuck in that damned mine.

“Oh dear,” a gentle hand touched his face and was kindly guided upwards. “You look terrible my boy.” he smiled and the tension unfurled in his chest to rush up to his eyes. He bit down on the emotion and held himself in check as best he could. “Let's get you patched up.” McGee nodded, the ME took a moment to remove the soaked jacket and shirt, leaving McGee in only his undershirt to shiver against the cool breeze.

Ducky soon fell into familiar stories with little preamble. They weaved their way through facts and fiction with a consistent narrative. McGee let the words wash over him, but did not engage. His disposition too tired and low to be lulled back to higher spirits.

Over and done with, over and done with, he said quietly to himself. When things are over, then they are surely over, no need to dwell or pretend anything more will happen. He closed his eyes, a small drop slipped down his cheek and with soft 'plip' fell on the ME's hand. Ducky started, the story halted mid-sentence and looked up.

“Timothy?”

He swallowed thickly, shook his head, “Fine Ducky.” and wiped his eyes, but more fell without his permission, and soon his chest was contracting and heaving quite incessantly.

“Whatever is the matter?” the words followed a steadying hand on his shoulder, and the first real sob popped past his throat. McGee grit his teeth to stop more from breaking free.

He shook his head firmly, keeping his eyes closed. It would not do to look up now, that would only worsen everything, surely. But words were not so easy to stop, not when his chest contracted, desperate to force them out, to let someone hear what they had to say.

“I know what's coming.” he managed through hitches, his left leg bobbing up and down in a sort of attempt to calm himself down.

“And what would that be?”

“The teasing.” wiping his eyes again, he wished so it would stop. His arms pulled around him, holding his mid-section as tight as he could, hoping to ease some of the pressure.

“This bothers you?”

“No.” his voice was rising in pitch, “I don't mind, I never mind it.”

“Then what is the matter?”

His breathing turned erratic and the next words stumbled out with a choke. “I was really scared this time...”

“Of course you were.” he said, and quietly moved about until he was seated next to him, “I can imagine it was all quite terrifying. But you are safe now, Timothy.”

This time he nodded his head as ferociously as he'd shook it. “Still scared though.” he sniffed loudly and tried to stem the tide of tears with the press of a hand. “I don't mind, I never mind, just want it all to be normal so we can all laugh at me and move on.” he was breathless, words rushed out in shaking gasps, “It was so dark, too dark Ducky, too many shapes and things I couldn't see or do anything about. And my gun stopped working and they were everywhere and I could smell them and when the first one bit I tried to do something, but then there were more and it was too damned dark Duck.”

Ducky did not move or speak during the rant. His own arm having wrapped around the shaking shoulders and instead just listened intently to words not spoken.

I want to go home.

McGee pressed the heals of his palm into his eyes, hoping to stop the tears, “Stupid.” he shook his head, “It doesn't matter, Ducky. Sorry for saying anything.”

“No, my boy” Ducky finally said, voice dipped in kindness and coated with understanding. “We all get frightened for different reasons, and this was certainly a terrifying experience, there is no doubt about that.” he wrapped a kind hand around McGee's right arm, drawing his attention away from the patterns in the grass, “But your obsession stems from something clearly deeper, were you afraid of the dark, as a child?”

“Yeah.” his voice had turned hoarse. “Dad used to put me in the hope chest,” his throat hitched with surprise at how easily words he'd never shared with friend or doctor seemed to flow. “In the beginning, he gave me a flashlight and a book and told me to stay there for a few hours. Then he took away the book and then the light.”

“My word,” he offered a gentle squeeze to show some form of support. “And how did that go?”

“I started quoting the books,” his hands tightened, sparking hot stings up his arm and chest. “It was the only way to stop thinking about the dark,” more tears slid down his cheeks and fell on his clenched hands, soaking them with teardrops. He pressed both hands over his face and mumbled. “Gibbs'll be so disappointed when he finds out I cried. How weak can you get?”

Ducky considered the statement. “He's not an unreasonable sort, Timothy. He will understand that what happened down there was unique and quite frightening, considering your past.”

He sniffed again and let a harsh breath hitch by. “I don't want to disappoint him.”

“I don't think you can disappoint him.”

The very idea did not sit well with him, and he turned to stare at Ducky, demanding a sort of answer to the ridiculous statement. “Of course I can. I’ve done it before! When I screw up with computers, or when he punishes me for Abby screwing up, or when I …” he faltered, the words suddenly falling away at such an important point.

“Or when you?” The prompt was gentle enough to touch the part still safe from the monsters.

McGee swallowed, “When I was attacked by another dog.” he shook his head, angry at himself for even saying it, "Sorry, it doesn't matter Ducky."

The silence reigned over them like oppressive storm clouds, and only Ducky’s hand held a soft reassurance that he hadn’t somehow ruined everything. He needed to be away, to take the time to rebuild his walls and securities and not let these stupid things slip. He needed to go home.

He pressed his thumb and finger over his eyes, he wanted to go home.

“He has made mistakes Timothy, as have we all.” The voice drifted up and over the lip of his misery to settle in right next to him, he could not push it away if he tried, “We should have all done better. But I believe that if you feel like this about the events of that day, that maybe we somehow made you believe that we were somehow disappointed in you?”

“Got nearly killed by a dog,” he sputtered, “And the reaction was to slap a band-aid on, tease me, make me drive it back to the yard, ruin my jacket, make me feel wretched for defending myself and then forcing me to adopt the dog.” He swallowed around the stubborn lump in his throat, “What else was I supposed to think?”

“That we were all idiots, and we should apologise for treating your trauma so carelessly.”

It was strange what words can do to darkness. If used directly it can keep it at bay for as long as you speak, but if used correctly it can chase it far away as long as you listen. The sudden unbearable lightness untied the knot in his throat, and finally, he could raise his head and look at Ducky, “Yeah?”

The old smile perked, with care he pulled the uninjured hand into his lap, “Most certainly. But, if I may ask, why hadn’t you brought these grievances to us in that time?”

And words could certainly rush it back in, “Because I thought I’d disappointed Gibbs.”

“You’ve never done so in the ways that count.” the soft pad of Ducky’s thumb traced a soothing pattern on the back of his hand. “You’re too careful for that, and he, in turn, is too proud of you to ever doubt your sincerity.”

McGee turned back to consider the grass. Thoughts tumbled their way through his head like tumbleweeds, fleetingly quick and prickly. After some consideration, he tested the statement with a careful question. “He's really proud of me? It’s hard to believe.”

The grip on his hand tightened, “Would you still be part of this team if he wasn't?”

This thought seemed to be the tipping point for McGee. He blinked three times before another sob pushed up without his consent. Pride from anyone was not a luxury he was ever accustomed to. Acceptance perhaps, but pride, something he'd sought so long with no preamble if he would ever be at the receiving end of it. And Gibbs, at least according to Ducky was proud of him. Suddenly the idea of crying didn't feel as oppressive.

He wiped his eyes again. Bringing himself to a relatively calm state, he finally turned to look at the entrance of the mine where he could see children being led out of by the paramedics and his team.

Yet despite Ducky's reassurance, he felt a wave of despondency overtake him when he spotted Ziva and Tony, “They're going to tease me again. No matter what, they always do.”

“Then I will kick their arses from here to London bridge.”

The laugh slipped past the sob, creating a sort of choked sound, but the smile was undeniably lighter. “Would be nice to see.”

“I'll make a show of it,” he returned the smile and with care squeezed the shaking arm. McGee sniffed again and wiped his eyes which were finally drying. With some effort, he managed to place his free hand over the ME's.

“Thanks, Ducky,” he sniffed again, they were so incessant. “I think I needed that.”

“People often underestimate the healing power of a good cry,” he said and patted McGee's shoulder as a final reassurance, “Now then, do you feel better?”

McGee nodded.

“Enough to beat the world with one hand?”

He chuckled, “Not yet I think.”

Ducky nodded, satisfied. “Then let's get you patched up.”

Later, with McGee safely tucked away in the van, and Palmer bustling to pack everything inside, Ducky strode his way over the green to Jethro who had taken to surveying the entrance of the mine with intense fascination. But Ducky never took issue with interrupting scrutiny, particularity the brooding kind.

“Jethro!” he called, moving to stand behind his old friend but not too close. The gaping mouth of the cave cast ominous shadows in its belly, and for a moment Ducky could see a glimpse of the fear his co-worker had gone through.

“Ducky,” he greeted without turning or rising from his squat, “How's McGee?”

“Quite fine, all things considered,” the wariness abated, and he took a few careful steps closer, “I will, of course, be taking him to hospital, some of the wounds are quite deep, and I do not feel comfortable taking any chances.”

“Thanks.”

He waited for exactly five seconds to the mark before asking what he came here to ask. “So how much did you overhear, Jethro?”

“Damn near everything Duck.”

“Ah,” he said, considering his next question with care. Close to the cars, Ziva was teasing Tony about his ruined suit and in the near dusk light, some of the night birds were starting their concerts. “What will you do with the information?”

“Make sure my team understands boundaries, and when not to cross them.” He straightened to look the ME in the eye, a dark expression predominant on his features. “Me included.”

The smile faltered completely, drawn down by a memory he had not entirely forgotten, but never really scrutinized, "You do realise, we will have to discuss last year with both Timothy and the rest of the team?"

"I know." he said, voice a touch raw, "I know, Duck we messed up." He took a steadying breath and met his eyes head-on, "I will fix this."

And Ducky's smile returned full-force. “Capital.” he turned to leave but halted. “Do make sure that if you do end up kicking their arses – “

“I don't –!”

“– that Timothy has a front-row seat.”

Gibbs hesitated, his ice-blue gaze pinning the ME to the spot, but in the golden light, he offered a small smile, before nodding the affirmative. “I'll make a note of it,” and turned back to the mine.

Ducky started his way across the green, the warblers now singing loudly in the trees.

“Oh, and Duck?”

Gibbs was still staring at the mine when the ME turned. “Yes?”

“Send McGee home. He deserves a good rest.”

Ducky smiled. “Right, you are Jethro.”

Chapter Text

The scream made him stumble.

As dark as it was, his flashlight ensured he could still see enough to know where he was going. But the scream, shaped from nothing but cold terror and howling pain had made him stumble and nearly topple over, as if an invisible blow had punched him in the gut. His legs had picked up speed after that. A desperate “McGee!” thrown down the tunnel in desperate hope he would reply, let him know he was alright. That the snarling, growling noises were not aimed at him.

Finding McGee surrounded by a pack of dogs, with more drawing near had not been what he'd expected. But the surprise did not stop him from responding appropriately. All three shots missed their marks, Gibbs would later blame it on the darkness, and not the shaking hands or pounding heart or absolute shock of realising McGee had almost been...

He closed in, worry pressing, yet hope prevalent that his agent was alright, he barely answered a worried DiNozzo, telling him he had it under control and that he should stay with the kids.

When McGee flinched away from his touch it flooded a mix of relief and worry through him, McGee's verbal responses worried him more, clearly focused on a time long forgotten, but Gibbs wouldn't let him down, he would never. So instead of calling reality back to his attention, he pulled him closer and replied with his own vague memories of a book his father had read to him most nights and one he’d read to Kelly. It seemed to work a little too well and McGee slumped into his arms, his breathing evening out into a light sleep.

Now, resting against the wall, with adrenaline still spiking and pumping through him in high quantities, Gibbs just held McGee closer. This had shaken him. Finding anyone being mauled by angry yowling dogs would probably shake most people to their core. This time, cold-hard-ass Gibbs was no exception.

He rubbed his brow. But he's not supposed to, he's supposed to be steady and firm, keeping his team as grounded as he was. Reaching out he picked up McGee's gun which had slipped from his hands. Giving it a once over he took note the jammed hammer, and reflexively his jaw tightened.

“Boss?”

“Ya, DiNozzo?” Gibbs flicked up the safety-latch and holstered it.

“Is McGee okay?”

Gibbs turned a weary stare at his sleeping agent. “Yeah, I think he will be.”

“What happened, boss?”

Dog attack, he wanted to say, but the words stuck themselves in his throat, refusing to be formed.

“Tell you later.” he settled for instead, “I need to get him out of here.”

Pat-pat-pat.

Gibbs turned and lit into the darkness, revealing shaggy dogs with matted fur and glowing eyes that sent a shiver up his spine. Those eyes spoke of a long and painful hunger.

“You need any help boss?”

How the hell had they gotten down here? The idea of what they might eat was predominant on his mind, but he quietly tried to push the thought down. No need to get himself riled up. They still had to get out, and a clear head was what he needed.

“No,” he answered. “Kids are priority DiNozzo. We'll get out okay.” He shifted and touched the communicator. “Closing channel.”

He kept the light on the dogs. It seemed to frighten them enough to keep them at a safe distance, at least for the time being. The whimpers and whines were laced with pained desperation, a deep-rooted begging, reverting back to a twisted state of ‘good dog’.

“McGee?” he shook his agent with no success. The faint growl rippled down the tunnel and on instinct, Gibbs fired a shot straight at it.

McGee sprang awake, the dogs yelped and barked, one hitting the ground with a notable splat and the rest trotted further away, keeping a low, safe distance. Relief flooded Gibbs and he quickly pulled McGee to his wobbly feet. Behind him, the dogs snarled and snapped, tearing warm flesh from bones, smothering the faint whimper.

“Come on, son,” he said, trying to ignore the pack. “Let's get you out of here.”

His agent didn't nod, or even really acknowledge him, but he did move when prompted. Gibbs felt the worry begin to gnaw when the vacant expression wouldn't shift or fade. He slipped the limp arm around his shoulders and drew him closer. McGee leaned on him quite heavily.

He's alive, Gibbs thought, he can lean on me as much as he damn well pleases.

Despite the pool of light from his flashlight, the shadows and darkness felt even more oppressive than they did when he'd charged in. He adjusted his grip on McGee and stumbled on. Taking care to keep the injured leg out of puddles. McGee hissed when his leg bumped against the wall, and Gibbs guided him back to the centre, splashing through water. The sheer amount of bad luck his youngest agent had been graced with was nothing short of astonishing. But he couldn't find an excuse to see any amusement in it this time.

He would have been eaten alive.

Gibbs rubbed the sweat from his temple, the air surprisingly stuffy and hot in the muddy tunnel, more drops streaked their way down his brow and slipped over his nose.

“Ya with me McGee?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, pushing closer to him.

“Good. Almost there.”

The light swept over the wet walls, over puddles and footprints painted across the mud. Gibbs paused when he spotted canine prints pattered in between his and McGee's. The paw prints stuck close to the walls, heading back into the tunnel.

Taking a moment, he compared McGee's incoming prints with the animal's and felt his jaw slacken. The damned thing had followed him. Had stalked him. The worst-case scenario spun through his mind like a horror film. Gibbs wiped his mouth and pressed on, keeping an eye on the paw prints.

Another growl whispered up from behind. Gibbs turned and cast bright light down the tunnel. The dogs remained standing, a torn ear flattened to a manged head, and another twisted jaw flashing sharp teeth at him before slipping behind the corner.

“There are monsters in the dark.”

Gibbs jumped when McGee spoke, sparing a quick glance at his agent he checked the dogs again. But they weren't moving.

“Not when I'm around, son.”

They turned the final corner, with Gibbs keeping a close eye on the tracks and listening to the pat-pat-pat behind him. He wanted to see where they'd originated. From what he'd seen when he entered, the other side was a clear-cut dead end. He doubted the thing had used the ladder.

McGee suddenly sagged against him and Gibbs staggered to the right, throwing a hand out against the wall to re-balance them. “McGee?” he asked breathlessly. No answer. “Dammit, stay with me.” he checked over his shoulder, their shadows hadn't retreated. With a quick sweep, he shone the light over them.

He counted five in total, he swore, reached up to his communicator –

“The hour has come...”

– and stopped, Gibbs stared at him wide-eyed. “What?”

“Whose hour you should rather say...” pat-pat-pat, “Why Toads hour! I said I would take him in hand as soon as the winter was well over, and I'm going to take him in hand today!”

Gibbs stared at McGee for a full moment, then readjusted his grip and started down the tunnel again. The animals were still keeping at least a distance of sorts.

“Toad's hour of course,” Gibbs managed through breathless pants and quick turning of head to check on their pursuers, “I remember now. We'll teach him to be a sensible Toad.”

“Right you are!” McGee said, voice a little stronger than before, more certain and happier. “We'll rescue the poor unhappy animal! We'll convert him! He'll be the most converted Toad that ever was before we've done with him!”

Gibbs hitched a breathless chuckle. “Ya skipped a bit, McGee.”

The pool of light cast down from the ladder was like a beacon, drawing them closer to safety. McGee still muttered quotes and dialogue from the book, Gibbs offering a few of his own. If it helped keep him grounded, then so be it. Just beyond the pool of light twin eyes glinted and Gibbs' adrenaline pricked through his veins.

Turning he fired a warning shot at the beasts, who quickly scattered further down the tunnel. He seized the opportunity and swept the light to the other end. Catching only a glimpse of a shaggy dog seconds before it scrambled through a hole in the wall.

There was no telling how many there were now, but Gibbs didn't falter, only pressed on a little faster. When they finally reached the ladder, his arms loosened only to have McGee's in turn tighten.

“Don't leave me down here, boss.”

The 'boss' was a relief, but that didn't solve his newest problem. “McGee.” he said, voice firm but coated with understanding, “We can't climb up next to each other. You'll go first. I'll be right behind you. Okay?”

“Don’t leave me in the dark.” The last word fractured like the shell of an egg, oozing something horrible between them. Gibbs didn’t have time to analyse. Framing his face, he forced McGee to make eye contact, “I will never ever do that, I promise, McGee.”

McGee held on, but slowly his grip slackened enough for Gibbs to turn him to the ladder, keeping a steadying hand on his muddy shoulder. He tried to ignore the glint of eyes staring at him from the hole, and the movement closing in from behind. McGee gripped the rusted metal with both hands, lifted his uninjured foot and stepped up. The sharp hiss clapped in the darkness but didn't halt his progression up the ladder.

When McGee was making slow but steady progress Gibbs turned to face the darkness, only vague shapes shifting just beyond focus. He bit the flashlight between his teeth and gripped his gun tightly in one hand. Grabbing the ladder with the other he climbed up backwards, keeping his gun trained on shining eyes and ominous growls, which had started to circle the pool of sunlight.

Their growls rose along with their barks, all pretences dying in their unsated hunger. The commotion grew as they continued to bark, yip and whine, one suddenly howling and then the twisted-jaw turned and snapped at him, who immediately snapped back and then barks and growls suddenly overwhelmed the rise of howling whimpers and the crunch of bone.

The breach to the surface felt much like stepping through a portal of hell straight into heaven. Fresh air rushed into his lungs, the wind greeted him with cool air and he took a moment to accept a deep gratifying breath of it, the dogs fading into the darkness. McGee, plastered to the grass, looked about ready to kiss it, and Gibbs quickly pulled him to his feet.

Poor boy has had enough misery for one day.

It took them a few minutes to reach the van, where Gibbs deposited his agent with care. The eyes, although not as sharp as he was used to seeing them, did look brighter and Gibbs could even see a little more of his McGee shining through. Removing McGee's firearm, he sealed it in a plastic container and finally holstered his own.

“Wait here.” with McGee settled he dashed across the field to where Ducky was helping the paramedics with the kids. Without warning, Gibbs grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back to the van.

“Jethro!” he said, quite startled by his friend, “What in the world are you doing?”

“McGee's been hurt, attacked by dogs, need you to check him out. Now.”

Carefully the ME twisted his arm free of the steely grip and levelled a fairly unimpressed glare his way. “I understand your concern, but a little warning is preferable, Jethro.”

Gibbs didn't respond only gestured to the van. “He's waiting for you Duck, just fix him up please.”

'Please' when was the last time he'd used the 'magic word'. A damned long time ago if he could venture a guess. But his agent nearly died, had broken down in the belly of a mine, quoted storybooks, told him about monsters in the dark, and nearly died. Perhaps the situation called for a bit of magic.

Kindly the ME brushed his arm, nodded and patted his shoulder before heading for his newest patient.

As Gibbs watched him walk away, he felt quite lost all of a sudden. The rescue mission seemed to be handled and he didn't think he could face McGee at that precise moment. As an afterthought, he removed the NCIS cap and wiped the sweat away from his brow. Close by the paramedics, DiNozzo was watching him, even from this distance the worry was palpable. Gibbs waved and shook his head once.

He's fine. But don't go to him yet.

DiNozzo nodded and a stiff smile was all he offered.

Gibbs was about to sit down on a nearby rock when sweet recollection saved him.

There was a flask of dark roast coffee under the driver's seat in the van. It was damned good stuff, and something good after what he'd been through would most certainly be welcome.

Decision made he took a wider route around the field, making sure neither McGee nor Ducky spotted him. Thankfully the driver's side door stood wide open. With measured care, he extracted the flask and immediately took a swig of the burning coffee. On the other side of the van Ducky was telling McGee about the time he'd seen a man dance naked on a frozen lake. Gibbs smiled, he knew that story, it had a pretty good punchline. Leaning against the hard metal he listened quietly and sipped his drink, enjoying the normalcy after their ordeal.

Despite being in the open air, the mine seemed to hang around him, much like just after they left a warzone. Hours, even days later you’d still jump at a twig or the sudden rise of the wind like you were waiting for something. Gibbs breathed hard, and just counted his lucky stars that McGee was alive.

Then the story stopped.

“Timothy?” Ducky asked followed by a tight sob, and moments later Gibbs wished he'd forgotten all about the damned coffee.

Ten minutes later he was walking back across the field. His legs carried him with no destination rightly in mind, his only goal to keep moving. His thoughts scurried around like drowning rats, trying to make sense of it all. There was a lot he could have said, a few times he should have, but words had always failed him at crucial points. Damn Abby and her carelessness. He’d heard about it, and he’d wanted to discuss it with her, treating McGee like his life was less important than a dog had not been acceptable. But he’d never gotten around to it – but like always he’d never quite found the words. Ducky knew what to say, and so tonight he had offered words to McGee that Gibbs could never have given freely.

"He's proud of me?"

Gibbs sighed around the heaviness in his chest. More than you will ever know McGee. He smiled a little crookedly and took a moment to take in his surroundings. He was only a few feet from the entrance to the mine. Rotten support beams sagged and bent under the weight of aged muck and dirt. The twisted mouth still giving him a clear view of the darkness pressing out to him, almost reaching to pull him back in.

For a moment he could see twin points of light staring back.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. He sat down on his haunches and stared it down. And unbidden, like a memory drenched up from the gutter the first words slipped into his head.

The mole had been working very hard all morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters...

And he let the words flow, and flow.

Chapter Text

Only a sliver of light clung to the clouded-horizon when they finally pulled away from the scene. The NCIS car was silent, with Gibbs at the wheel, Ziva in the back and Tony in the passenger seat, conversation seemed to have been lost deep in the belly of the mine.

Gibbs followed the muddy road, the squelch of tires a clear indicator of the previous night's rain and strenuously he resisted the temptation to speed at a blithering pace to the tar road. He did have some pity for his two agents after all.

Although right now that small amount of pity felt strained and close to invisible. The ability to voice his thoughts had been burned down between his anger at them and anger at himself - the day's events having wrought up memories of only a year back when his agent had been mauled by another dog.

What frightened Gibbs most was not the similarity in events, but rather the similarity in expression. Over a year ago the same terrified eyes had stared back at him when he'd found him in the backyard, still shaking and scared. So much like today when his agent had gripped his arm in the dark so tightly and said:

“Don't leave me in the dark.”

As if he could even fathom doing such a thing. But McGee had fathomed it, had believed it so definitely that he had turned that stare of unadulterated terror right at him, and Gibbs now wondered fiercely what it could mean. What his boy had been trying to tell him over a year ago with that same stare.

'His boy' a soft smile tugged on his lips. He often reprimanded directors and policeman for calling him that. He was an agent, a man, a genius, always more than met the eye. McGee always exceeded expectations and surprised those who would think him to be less. The smile was drawn down by memory. But not today. Today he'd been a boy, a very scared boy who'd needed Gibbs as a crutch, a safety blanket.

Just like back then.

He turned the car and headed down another muddy path, his thoughts like frightened mice chased by hungry cats, eager to catch the meaning behind their fear, but refusing to offer the answer.

“Will McGee recover?”

Ziva's voice was about as welcome as a lightning bolt to the head.

He didn't want to answer, didn't want to tell them, he wanted to keep it a secret. A quiet secret to be locked up in that same damned hope chest McGee had been kept in. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. What father would do that to their own son?

“Gibbs?”

He blinked and quietly pushed down his rage. Realistically he knew he would have to tell them. Otherwise, their questions would only turn demanding and eventually they would do their own investigating, and then he would never be able to keep McGee safe. He took a hard breath, trying to ease the pressure in his gut. But he also wanted to believe his agents knew better, that this time they would understand, even if they hadn't back then.

He changed gears and drifted to the left, giving space for the approaching truck to rumble by. Returning to the centre, he changed gears once more and drove on.

“Boss?”

Gibbs continued for a little more, and then answered. “They're keeping him overnight at the Hospital.”

Perhaps giving straight answers will do the trick, shorter answers might glean some insight into the severity of the situation. It certainly got DiNozzo's attention.

“Was he hurt that bad boss?”

No, DiNozzo they're keeping him there for the hell of it. Gibbs bit his tongue, he wanted to keep this serious after all, and instead offered him a quick; “Yip.”

“Is he alright?”

“According to Ducky, he should make a full recovery.” Gibbs turned down another road, and flicked up the brights, “They're just keeping him overnight as a precaution.”

They continued onward, heavy clouds covering the sky with a cold blanket, hiding away the moon and stars, making the darkness press in. Gibbs tried to focus on the light spilling out on the road.

“Boss?”

Gibbs waited.

“What happened to him?”

The answer came after only a heartbeat of hesitation. “Attacked by dogs.”

The chuckle was almost instant, punctuated by a sharp grin, “Again? Damn, probie! Did he shoot it? Abby'll skin him alive if he did.”

Gibbs felt his frown tighten, a sudden hard disappointment crushed into his chest.

“They're going to tease me. No matter what they always do.”

Had he honestly expected anything else?

“ - doubt that's a good idea, Tony.” Ziva's stern reprimand pulled him from his thoughts and straight into an argument he honestly didn't want to hear at the moment.

“He'll love it.” DiNozzo said, “Big hairy dog attacking people, it'll cheer him up some.”

“Showing him a movie about a rabid dog killing people will not 'cheer him up!'”

“Ziva, Ziva, Ziva.” Tony turned in his seat, shaking his head “It's our duty to haze him and make him feel as silly as possible. Best way to ensure it doesn't happen again. I mean, he shot a dog. Again. If we don't get him, Abby'll probably-”

He slammed on the breaks, the car drifting dangerously on the muck and Gibbs barely kept it on the road. Both of his agents cried out in surprise, gripping the handles and seats as the car slid to a violent halt.

For a moment no one moved. Only the faint gasping from his two agents audible in the darkness of the car. Gibbs' hands tight on the steering wheel, staring intently at the road. It had started to rain.

“Boss?”

Gibbs watched the drops coat the windshield in glistening watery pearls, streaking down the glass in glowing yellow. The tension was palpable in the car, the worry radiating from them both in ample buckets. He sat back and finally said in a voice coated with anger and exhaustion.

"You done, DiNozzo?"

His agent's demeanour changed instantly; realisation coupled with the very real fear his boss might actually shoot him would do that to a fella. His smile had faded completely, sharp scrutiny slipping into his eyes. "Yes?" he waited, then "Why?"

“I found him with a jammed gun, broken flashlight, surrounded by rabid dogs who were trying to tear him apart.” Gibbs turned a sharp glare at DiNozzo. “If I hadn't run to him when we'd heard the first shot, he'd be dead now.”

Point made he turned back and dimmed the brights.

For a time, they all sat still, listening to the sporadic drops of water falling on the window. Slowly Ziva leaned closer, pressing herself between the seats.

“How many?”

“At least five.”

Tony, his confusion now turned to worry, leaned back in his seat. “Boss what happened down there?” he took a sharp breath. “This is more than just about dogs, isn't it?” he paused, pursed his lips and then said in a much quieter voice. “Is it about what you said after you found him?”

Gibbs frowned at that, but realisation soon dawned.

“Not for a hat full of golden Guinness McGee.”

His communicator had still been on. Open frequency, dammit. He spared his agent a quick glance, but Tony wasn't going to back off. Worry had overtaken curiosity and had been set by sheer obstinance. He won't let go of the damned bone now.

“I recognized the words, but could not place them,” Ziva said.

“It's from Wind in the Willows.” Tony offered, still staring at his boss.

“The book? Why did you quote a book?” she frowned, Gibbs could hear the whir of her mind as she analysed the information, and the 'ding' of realisation just as audible. “He was quoting the book. You responded with your own!”

He didn't admit or deny it, but for his two agents, it would be enough.

“Boss?” Tony asked again, the worry becoming thicker with each word, “What happened down there?”

Gibbs stared at the wheel where his hands still gripped it loosely. And slowly, as if in a dream the answer of how to explain it bobbed up from the recess of his mind like some lost boyo. He set the car in first gear, flicked on the wipers, and slowly pulled away, and just as they reached the first stretch of tar, he finally explained it the only way he knew how.

“On a battlefield, lads will often scream for their mothers. Especially when wounded.” He shifted gears, “During war, it's commonplace to tease and belittle your fellow soldiers. For various reasons it's a good thing.” the tall street lights dipped them in yellow pools. “But you don't tease a man who screams for his mother,” he leaned his elbow on the side of the window, pressing his hand to cover his mouth. “Because you know that you've been there too, and you all want to go home.”

Neither responded and Gibbs took the silence as some form of understanding, “Sometimes teasing isn't a good thing. Sometimes it's the worst. You won't tease him this time, because this time, it will be going too far.”

He paused, then “And I expect you both to understand and respect that.”

DiNozzo stared intently ahead, watching the pools of light rush over the car, “Boss? You know I'd ...never do anything that might really hurt him, right?”

“I know.” Gibbs said, reaching over, he placed a hard hand on his shoulder and squeezed, “But you sometimes forget yourself, and you struggle to see boundaries. You weren't really brought up with any.”

DiNozzo lowered his gaze.

“And keep in mind he didn't tease you about the plague.”

Finally Tony looked up, a veil of realization rising in his eyes. “He was scared, wasn't he boss.”

“Yip,” Gibbs only offered a crooked smile, another quick pat and then let go. “And like last year, yer first reaction was to tease him into the ground.”

“What?” DiNozzo blanched, “C’mon boss, this is nothing like that –“

“Damn mutt went for his throat,” he said, feeling a burst of anger in his chest, “I read the report DiNozzo. He lost his gun, couldn’t reach it, dog would have killed him.” He laughed, bitter. “And our response was ta make fun of it, make light of it, and let Abby run over him.” He shook his head, “Bugged him enough that he mentioned it to Ducky tonight, bugged him enough that he thought we were disappointed in him.”

He could feel DiNozzo’s anger, but he could also sense the confusion. Man was so used to doing what he liked to McGee that he didn’t quite understand he should probably feel guilty about what he’d done, about his immediate reaction to a new dog attack. Gibbs did, he did in copious amounts. He would help McGee, at least this time around. And whether DiNozzo would do the right thing was up to DiNozzo, but at least he knew now that Gibbs, at least in this situation, had McGee’s back.

Which he should have had a long time ago.