Flights of Fancy

Steter

lit_gal — Sat, 12 Jun 2021 18:24:45 GMT

So, the last fanish thing I wrote was a long Steter fic from Teen Wolf. I binged a bunch of fanfic, and there were a few things that annoyed me.
1. Perfect Stiles. Look, I love Stiles as much as the next person, and I am perfectly willing to power him up (literally); however, Stiles trips crossing a living room. If you make him all suave, he's not Stiles.

2. Sweet Peter. I happen to think Peter had a really good motive for killing all those people season one. He killed killers. We all rooted for Dexter when he did that, so I have no trouble treating Peter like an anti-hero instead of a villain. However, he has a dangerous edge, and even when he's calling Stiles "sweetheart," he's still going to be plotting the literal or metaphorical deaths of his enemies.

3. Quick Sex. I can see either Peter or Stiles indulging in casual sex. What I can't see them doing is jumping into bed quickly with each other or anyone they know. If it's a relationship, they're going to invest time and loyalty, and I don't see that coming with quick, easy sex. They need to build up to it.

And of course the thing that motivates most of my fanish writing is a good plot hole in the original. In Buffy, I never understood why Xander made a wish to Sweet. He knew better. He wouldn't be that stupid. So either he was drunk/stoned or he was covering for someone else, which is why I wrote Butterfly Kisses. Most of my fanish work comes from my annoyance at either canon or a fanon trope with logical flaws I can't forgive. That's when I have to rewrite them in my head (and often on the computer). Teen Wolf is rife with illogic.

a. Why can Scott become a True Alpha when that's apparently rare?
b. If Corienne didn't want to lose her power to a female child, why not get a legal abortion? Why not kill the infant?
c. How did Talia end up with Malia if Corienne knew that the baby was a threat to her?
d. Why did flashbacks sometimes show Peter and Derek having a great relationship and sometimes show dysfunction out the hoo-ha?
e. Why would Peter work with Kate to de-age Derek?
f. What the hell is up with Deaton. Seriously? What?

So I wrote a very long fiction that is posted over at AO3. It was one of those stories that I posted several chapters a week because it ate my soul. I tried to fix the logic holes that annoyed me while giving Peter and Stiles a healthy relationship. BTW, healthy required 100,000-120,000 before the sex, so don't expect the boys to be getting it on.

Anyway, here's the first chapter and a link to the whole series.

Stiles opened the door to have a bare-chested Peter practically fall on him. “Whoa! Personal space,” he yelped as he shoved Peter away. Peter tumbled to the ground, grunting as he landed on his elbows. That’s when Stiles noticed his back. Long, angry welts stood out against his pale skin. “Oh shit. What happened?”

“Most recently?” Peter asked dryly. “A barely legal human with a fraction of my strength or common sense pushed me to the floor.”

“Shit. Sorry.” Stiles knelt down next to Peter and got a hand under his arm. “Come on.” Stiles urged him to get onto his feet. “How can I help?”

“I need to rinse the poison off and apply an ointment, but given that it is on my back, I am limited in my ability to treat myself.”

“Rinse and ointment. I can handle that. That’s doable. What happened? Do we have another big bad on the horizon?” Stiles helped Peter up the stairs as he wondered if he should change his flight. He had a week before he was supposed to head back to Virginia for university. If there was a new evil in town, they needed to get with the banishing because Stiles didn’t want to develop a reputation for flakiness.

It was one thing for his high school teachers to rightly assume he didn’t pay attention in class, but Stiles had his sights set on the FBI. He had an interesting reputation already. On the one hand, he had waded in, saving a potential suspect who turned out to be the victim of a series of violent crimes—one Derek Hale. On the other hand, he had waded into an armed situation and had gotten shot in the foot when he was supposed to be staying at the van to observe. He needed to balance that out with years of boring, reliable college records. And if they had another rogue Druid or alpha pack on the hunt, it was going to be hard for him to be boring and reliable in Virginia.

“It turns out that someone who didn’t like Derek or the mighty true alpha decided to take it out on my back,” Peter said, his gritted teeth a testament to his pain. Considering that his skin appeared to be disintegrating in stripes, pain was reasonable. So very reasonable.

“Let’s get you in the shower.” Stiles walked sideways as he supported Peter’s weight through the bathroom door.

“My shoes,” Peter said. “They are alligator and I refuse to have them ruined.”

Stiles snorted. “Of course you do. Geez. They’re shoes. I’m more worried about your back.”

“My back will heal, I assure you. Thousand dollar alligator shoes do not.” Peter braced himself on the vanity and tried to bend over, but he only managed a sickening whine.

“I got it. I got it.” Stiles knelt down for the precious shoes. “They’re alligator. Shouldn’t they be fine getting wet?”

“Not since the skin was removed from the actual alligator.” Peter lifted each foot so Stiles could get the shoes off.

Stiles hesitated before he offered, “Do you want to take off your pants?” As much as he didn’t want to see naked Peter bits, the man was injured, and Stiles didn’t know how far the injuries went.

“I think I would rather avoid the poison running onto that skin. Having my back skinned is quite different than having other parts similarly damaged.”

Peter could sound so proper when discussing having his penis potentially skinned with poisonous chemicals. It was a talent—one that Stiles never wanted to develop since being burned alive twice probably had something to do with his lack of flappability. “So, is this something that could strip my skin?” Stiles asked as Peter stepped into the bathtub.

“No, it’s specific to various species of weres. I am sorry we did not have a store of it after dear Kate became a werejaguar. I would have enjoyed watching her skin disintegrate.”

“I would worry about your sadism showing, but since Kate locked you in a burning building, I would probably call that karma.”

“At least I survived,” Peter said softly.

He generally didn’t talk about his family, so Stiles wasn’t sure what to say about that. Normally he filled this sort of awkward silence with words. Wrong words, true, but words. But somehow that felt disrespectful of Talia Hale and all the others who died in the fire Kate had set. So he focused on getting the shower head set on the most gentle setting before diverting the water. It didn’t help much. Long strips of Peter’s back still came free, sliding off like silly slime. Stiles gagged, but he kept a hand under Peter’s arm.

“I should call Deaton. What sort of ointment would help?”

Peter even managed to make a snort sound elegant. He might be a murdering, sadistic bastard, but he did it with a certain panache. “What makes you believe Deaton is in town right now? He is absent as much as he is present these days.”

“True, but we need help with this. Should I call Derek?” Stiles bit his lip. He hated how Derek and Scott acted around Peter. True, Peter was a bastard who had killed innocent people, but the pack had killed him back, and ever since he had returned from the dead, he had been fifty percent less evil. And while Stiles was perfectly happy distrusting Peter or making fun of him or even giving Peter the sucky jobs like playing bait, he wasn’t okay with doing all that and then slamming the door in Peter’s face when he came over to Derek place. And he didn’t understand how Scott could forgive Deucalion who had killed far more people with far less reason and then condemn Peter. It all felt so hypocritical, and Stiles had never done well with hypocrites. So generally, he avoided being in the same space with Peter and the other two. Once again, Peter answered with an elegant snort. He was talented that way. When Stiles snorted, he sounded like a dork and had once—in an infamous incident that he refused to mention ever again—had blown snot all over his shirt.

“I have ointment in my car,” Peter said. “As I said, I simply couldn’t effectively treat my back.”

“Okay, will you be okay if I run out and grab it?” Stiles asked.

Peter waved him away, his other hand braced on the tiles. Stiles took off, but he wasn’t more than a half dozen feet before he raced back to the bathroom and stuck his head in. “Where exactly in your car did you leave it?”

Peter gave Stiles such a withering look that it was clear that he questioned Stiles’ intelligence. That was totally unfair. Stiles was brilliant, he just had a little trouble focusing on details. And he was getting better. In the past, he wouldn’t have realized he didn’t know where to look until he was down at the car.

“On the passenger side seat,” Peter said. “And Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell the others I am here or that I am injured.”

It was the ‘please’ that got to Stiles. Peter didn’t use that word. Ever. It made Stiles feel guilty for having a stray thought about calling Scott. “Of course not,” Stiles said with a bright smile before he darted downstairs. He didn’t actually blame Peter for not wanting the others around. Derek hunched his shoulders every time Peter spoke, and the rest of the pack would flinch, so Stiles could image what sort of scents Derek was putting out. Or maybe the pack was getting something through the pack bonds. Malia has said she could feel the aggravation and anger when Derek was in the same room with Peter.

No wonder, really. Stiles got it. If Peter had killed Stiles’ sister, Stiles would have trouble forgiving him. Lucky for Peter, Stiles didn’t have a sister, and since he’d helped kill Peter, Stiles didn’t feel the same anger as Derek. And Scott had been way worse since Derek had returned. Honestly, Stiles wasn’t sure why Derek had even bothered coming back if he was just going to make everything more awkward.

Ever since Derek had gotten back, Scott was always “Shut up, Peter” about this and “Go away, Peter” about that. The man ended up sitting on the steps behind the rest of the pack, unable to even voice an opinion without someone telling him to shut up. Stiles could not imagine the torture of being forced to remain silent while everyone else had opinions.

Peter sat with his chin resting on his fist as he watched as though amused at the pack’s flailing through the problem of the week. Sometimes Stiles got the impression that Peter knew a lot more than he was saying, but Scott did not want to hear that. Stiles opened the passenger side door of Peter's fancy car and found a leather satchel with a bunch of vials and tins and a bottle of bourbon. Since he wasn't sure which of the various medicines Peter needed, he just grabbed the entire satchel and headed for the house as fast as he could. Even werewolf healing was no match against getting skinned alive, so Stiles needed to get him the medicine as fast as possible.

Stiles had expected to find Peter still in the bathroom, but Peter had made his way into Stiles’ bedroom and sat on the bed with his shoulders hunched and his head hanging. The bloody tatters of his back were on full display now and the wound wept a yellowish fluid that made Stiles want to barf all over the floor. However, since Peter was already contributing to the unpleasant bodily fluids in the room, Stiles decided to forgo that pleasure.

“Which of these do you need?” Stiles opened the satchel right in front of Peter. Peter took a second before he raised his head enough to look in the satchel.

“Put some towels down behind me to soak up the mess and pour the bourbon over my back.”

Stiles stared at the bloody, weeping mess. “I don't think that's a great idea.”

“It is a perfectly horrendous idea,” Peter agreed in a near-amused voice. “However, the alcohol is necessary to neutralize the poison.”

Maybe it made Stiles an asshole, but he looked at his Star Wars bedspread and his sheets. “This might be better in the bathroom.” He reached for Peter’s arm.

“If I were in any way capable of supporting my own weight, I would agree. However, moving is not an option right now, and if you attempt to move me, I fear I may lose control.”

Stiles froze. An out-of-control Peter was very high on Stiles his list of creatures to avoid. They'd already gone through an entire year of what an out-of-control feral Peter could do, and that had included murder. A little booze smell in his bed was not nearly as horrifying as a feral Peter. Stiles went and grabbed a couple of garbage bags to protect his mattress and a bunch of towels to put on top. By the time he got back, Peter was a picture of misery. He had his elbows braced on his knees and his head hung low. “We should tell Scott there's someone doing this in his territory,” Stiles whispered. Maybe Peter was the murderous, creepy uncle in their dysfunctional family, but he was family.

Peter huffed. “I imagine Scott already knows that people hate him, and this is someone who is clearly unwilling to take action against either Scott or the more significant members of his pack. I rather think the danger is only to my designer shirts.”

“Seriously, you are creeping me out. Can you please care more about your skin than your shirts?” Stiles inched closer, forcing himself to look at the damage.

“As I already explained, my back will heal. My shirt will not.”

Sometimes Stiles wondered if Peter had ever truly recovered from his bout of insanity. Wolfsbane in the brain did not lead to logical decision, and maybe Peter wasn’t a murdering avenging angel anymore, but this didn’t seem logical. “This is going to hurt,” he warned.

“Far more than you can imagine, since a human would pass out from pain long before my werewolf constitution will allow me to. If I do manage to pass out, please refrain from moving me. I would feel devastated if Scott chose to hunt me down because I accidentally turned his friend.” Peter lifted his head enough to give Stiles a creepy smile.

“I can't say I’d be happy about getting turned, either.” Stiles wondered whether Peter was as selfish if he sounded or if this was his weird way of teasing.

Peter considered him like Stiles was a piece of art. “I've always told you you'd make a beautiful wolf.”

“You're not really doing a good job of convincing me to help.”

“And yet, you will help,” Peter said with confidence. “That is why I've always liked you and wanted you in the pack. You have loyalty that far outstrips your common sense, and that is an admirable trait in a wolf. One I personally do not possess, but I can still admire it.”

“Now you're just trying to butter me up so I’ll torture you by pouring alcohol and open wounds.”

Peter gave a strangled laugh but fell silent. Wincing, Stiles poured the alcohol over the weeping wounds. The liquid turned pink with Peter's blood and Peter hissed as his fingers grew long claws, but he controlled himself. “Is that enough?” Stiles asked once he had touched every bit of bleeding back.

“Is it still weeping yellow?”

“Most of it isn’t.”

“Any place where you see weeping, poor alcohol until the weeping stops.”

“This is seriously gross,” Stiles muttered, but he tipped the alcohol bottle up again. Peter reached out and grabbed Stiles’ leg. Stiles heart pounded in his chest, and he would've run away, only Peter's tight grip held him in place. After a heart-stopping second, he realized that Peter was just holding onto him like a teddy bear. It was almost endearing if one could ignore the vicious claws that were dangerously close to both his femoral artery and other pieces of equipment that he was very fond of. “I'm almost done here.”

“Thank the gods.”

“Are you going to tell me what attacked you?” Stiles set the bourbon to one side and picked the satchel up—and the whole time, Peter held onto his leg firmly.

“As I said, a creature that has a rather distinct dislike for the one-true-failure.”

“Don't call him that,” Stiles snapped. Maybe Scott was an asshole around Peter, but he was Stiles’ best friend. Even before the werewolf stuff, it had been the two of them against the world. Stiles, the spastic ADHD loser and Scott the asthmatic dork. Even Scott’s powers as a true alpha couldn’t change their bonds of friendship.

“What? Am I forbidden from pointing out the truth?” Peter huffed. “I created Scott to be a beta for me, to help me regain my sanity when parts of my brain were still infused with wolfsbane and I struggled to even recognize reality from the nightmares that it haunted me for six years. After your possession by the Nogistune, I imagine you understand something of the madness that follows when you are no longer able to discern reality from the nightmares that shred your psyche.”

Stiles swallowed. This is not a topic he wanted to discuss, but he did understand. The others thought Stiles could somehow walk it off, but what the Nogistune had done with his mind and his body would haunt him for the rest of his life. Stiles suspected that he had accepted the offer to go to university in Virginia largely because he needed to get away from California. He needed to get away from anything that reminded him of that darkness and madness and fear. The fact that the program in Virginia was known to feed straight into the FBI was a simple bonus.

Even though Stiles had not said anything, Peter nodded slowly. “I knew you would understand. And since Scott was created to help rein in my madness and help me find myself and the stability of pack bonds, you can hardly blame me for describing him as a failure.”

“He's a true alpha. He created his own spark.”

“Humans are inherently magical. Most humans do contain a spark, perhaps not one strong enough to ignite or balance the wolf to create an alpha, but the potential is there in most humans. It is only the belief and the knowledge which is lacking. You yourself have a spark that was at one point brighter than Scott's.”

“At one point?”

Peter didn't say anything, but Stiles knew. The Nogitsune had destroyed so much of him. It had smothered him, and in a way, Stiles still felt smothered, as if a blanket had been thrown over his true nature.

“What do I do now?” Stiles would rather focus on the more pleasant subject of Peter’s skinned back. Hell, Stiles would rather have a skinned back himself than reopen that wound.

“The blue bottle, pour some in a bowl with the powder from the black tin. Those will accelerate the healing and protect the muscle until the skin recovers.” Peter’s voice was, once again, businesslike. Stiles had no idea how he maintained his calm with this much damage.

Stiles had a clean bowl sitting on his desk from where he'd been trying to practice scrying, not that it worked. He tried to pull away, but Peter held his leg so Stiles had to stretch to pull the bowl closer so he could mix the two.

“Not so much liquid,” Peter corrected him. “Make it closer to a paste or gel that you can smooth on.”

A shiver went down Stiles a spine. He was going to have to touch those wounds. However, he wasn't willing to leave Peter shivering in pain, and calling another member of the pack didn't seem like a good solution, not when their help would come with conditions, assuming they would help at all.

So, gritting his teeth, he scooped up some of the purplish gel and carefully smoothed it over the worst of the stripes. Peter hissed in pain, but he didn't move. He did, however, tighten his hold on Stiles’ leg until pinpricks ran along his nerves.

“Sorry,” Peter muttered before he loosened his hold and leaned farther down to make it easier for Stiles to treat the wounds.

“There are white fibers in the skin.”

“No doubt the remains of my shirt,” Peter said with a mirthless chuckle. “If you can easily remove them, please do. It will make it easier for me to heal.”

“These aren’t healing well. Did an alpha do this?” Stiles bent all the way over Peter to get the wounds low on his back.

“No.”

“But they aren’t healing.” As far as Stiles knew, werewolf healing worked against all other injuries.

“A werewolf’s ability to heal is dependent upon the strength of his bond to his alpha and pack.” Peter sounded bitter. Stiles took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper as he realized Scott’s unwillingness to maintain strong pack bonds was hurting Peter. “After all,” Peter said, “healing is magical, and it is insanely difficult for a wolf to maintain a spark of magic. A wolf is magic, but it does not wield magic as most humans can. The wolf smothers it, so typically the alpha with the stronger alpha spark is the one who maintains the magical aspects of the pack.”

“Could Scott help with this?”

“Could he? Undoubtable. Will he? We both know the answer to that.”

Sadly, Stiles did. Some days he didn’t understand Scott. He wasn’t the same boy who had teamed up with him to survive Jackson’s bullying and dream about becoming a first-string player on the lacrosse team. Sometimes Stiles suspected he wasn’t even a good person.

Stiles flinched away from that thought. Scott had an ethical core that allowed him to become an alpha without killing another for his spark. And if he had problems with Peter—well, it wasn’t like Stiles didn’t have his own problems with the asshole. Peter might have been insane during his murderous vengeance phase, but it wasn’t like Stiles was a fluffy bunny either.

Stiles rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder and considered the slick mess of wounds and medicine that covered his back. No matter how vicious Peter could be with his words, he deserved pack support for something like this. Stiles felt a warmth grow in his chest. In the space of a heartbeat, a pain shot through him and then settled into a glow that felt like he’d sat in a hot tub too long. It verged on painful while feeling absolutely fucking perfect.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles looked down into Peter’s startled face. Startled. But not confused. Peter had done something he hadn’t expected Stiles to notice, only Peter’s subtlety button was clearly broken because that had been as subtle as a freight train full of TNT.

Stiles jerked back, freeing his leg from Peter’s hold. “What the fuck did you do?” he demanded. A half second later, his common sense reminded him that he was alone in a room with Peter, whose hold on sanity and morality was questionable in the best of circumstances.

Peter sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. “I had hoped you would not notice that.”

“Notice what?” Stiles demanded.

Peter looked up at him. “Notice that I was creating a pack bond.”

Read the rest at AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139276

Echo... echo... echo

lit_gal — Sat, 12 Jun 2021 15:35:30 GMT

Is there anyone who is still reading over here? Sometimes I see my LJ and I miss the times when this was a big part of my life, but then I don't see much going on in the old communities.

Monthly Update

lit_gal — Mon, 04 Feb 2019 02:43:22 GMT

So, January has seen the end of one WIP. Earth Fathers Are Weird is now officially done. I am editing now, and bless you to all the readers who are jumping on the edits. I love that I have readers who love me enough to tell me I have toilet paper hanging off my shoe. EFAW goes off to the editor next week, and I am playing with ideas for a new book.

I asked for some feedback on ideas, and the winner was the idea of doing a friends to enemies to lovers. So I started brainstorming. Mahlon went to the academy with Van, and they were classmates and allies. Both were working-class men determined to turn a natural talent with math and piloting into successful careers. They started together as junior officers. As the war between Command and the rebelling colonies heated up, they both earned their own ships.

But Mahlon stopped believing Command had any moral high ground one January day, and he walked away from his command, his ship, and his friendship with Van. Now Van is in command of the ship tracking down rebel ships as Command finally takes back control of all human-occupied space. However, everyone’s plans are upended when a Cy ship decides to destroy both human ships, forcing the surviving humans to take refuge on the very ship that had attacked them.

I have such a strong image. Mahlon is quiet. He lives behind masks and sarcasm and few people ever see past that. His father worked as a servant in a wealthy home, so Mahlon learned to be quiet and play at being respectful, but he has a vicious inner voice. And sometimes he turns that voice on himself. Van is serious, less likely to make a joke than Mahlon, and quick to assume the worst of most people. He has an ethical standard that he expects others to meet and he resents it when they don’t. However, he could always see the best of Mahlon when they were in school together.

The guys had started to really come clear. And then I looked at the poll again, and friends to enemies to lovers has the least number of votes.

*Sigh*

Well, once my brain decides on a path, the muse does not change gears easily, so this will be the next story. But before I get into that, I am going to finish Aberrant Magic 7: Durance. I’ve already contracted for a new cover and I really want to tell the rest of the story. This first arc in the Magic universe is setting up major changes in the world. Right now, their universe looks very much like ours with a few more bells and whistles. I see the first eight books as an introduction into a world that is on the cusp of radical change. So I’m looking forward to getting back into that universe.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to. Oh! I almost forgot. A French publisher has asked to translated one of my Dreamspinner books. Sometime in the next year or two, Tap-Dancing the Minefields will be released by MxM Bookmark. I’m excited about that. I know translated versions don’t do well financially for the original author, but I’m going to be in another language. That’s totally awesome. When it comes out, I will get copies, but I don’t know yet if that will be electronic or paperback. It would be so cool to hold a book with my words in French, but we’ll see.

Okay, so that’s really it. I hope everyone kept themselves and their families (including furbabies) warm during this hellish weather. Peace out.

Unanswered Prayers

lit_gal — Tue, 01 Jan 2019 23:53:50 GMT

So, how did 2018 go?

Work-wise, I am very much in a rut, and that’s fine. We all remember six or seven years ago when my teaching career was smoldering and on the edge of going up in smoke, so I will take boring any day of the week.

Writing-wise, this has been a year of learning. In late November of 2017, Loose Id accepted Texas Charm. Well, we all know how that ended. Loose Id did a great job of closing down, but emotionally it really knocked me on my ass. And then, the editor I had worked with all along said, “Let me know if you’d like me to slot you in for Texas Charm.” I got through a death in the family and the blow from having my publisher close, and when I contacted the same editor about starting edits, she then didn’t have room for me and wouldn’t even give me her new email. I was crushed (and I’m still bitter). I hate sharing my work with editors, and I think it took me a lot longer to get back on the writing horse because I was nervous about working with someone new.

But as often happens, what looked like an obstacle ended up being a stepstool that raised me to a new level.

I figured out how to use Draft2Digital, and I have most of my backlist up. It’s turning out a low but steady income. I’m actually getting a more stable income from Patreon. Not only does it take the pressure off to publish, but I’ve survived a car accident that totaled my old but mechanically solid car and a leaking roof (with an illegal three layers of shingles). My savings is not where it was (or anywhere near), but I’m not drowning in credit card interest payments because I have that steady stream. More importantly, it encourages me to write, write, write. So, what are the stats?

2 Books published (Claimings 4, and Aberrant Magic 6)
1 Book complete but not yet published (Saddled, submitted over at MLR)
6 Current WIPs

Hercules in Submission (dark, dark rewriting of mythology. I only update this when I want to fictionally torture someone.)

Earth Fathers are Weird (tentacles and aliens and mpreg oh my)

Aberrant Magic 7 (We’re getting back to Kavon and Darren and evil ifrit)

Kensho and other short tales and tails from the Claimings universe (Claimings short stories that only occasionally feature Liam and Ondry)

The Witness Wore a Puppy Tail: A huge reworking of my puppy!play fanfic The Witness

Royal Indiscretion (on hiatus, but a royal black sheep meets a wealthy American)

472,230 Words
Yep, you read that right. I have written almost a half million words. Loosing Loose Id and getting pushed into Patreon has been a great blessing. I may have kicked and screamed about losing my publisher, but the universe knew I would be alright. It also probably knew life was going to financially kick my ass and that I needed the extra boost. I am forever grateful to the universe, or Garth Brooks loves to sing, “Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers.”

Update and a Story Rec

lit_gal — Wed, 31 Oct 2018 05:03:03 GMT

Another month gone and now NaNoWriMo is staring me in the eye. So, it’s been a big month. Claimings 4 came out, and so far, it is selling almost as well as the first Claimings book. Fingers crossed that those sales hold. A lot of people are asking about more books. I will do more stories… I am already working on a series of stories with Liam’s brother and other side characters. I would like to do some short stories from Liam and Ondry raising their own eggling. However, I don’t think there is another full book focused on Liam/Ondry. That’s not to say that they won’t show up in other books, but they’re happy being an old married couple.

If I write another book in this universe it’s going to be Maya: a non-romantic love affair between a girl, a boy, a semi-parasitic alien and an insane AI. That’s set in the same universe, but Maya is a ship-rat who grew up trying to avoid soldiers from both sides of Liam’s war. Living in the middle of the war zone has given her a much different point of view, and running into a semi-parasitic alien changes everything. This would be an asexual romance… if that makes any sense. But that’s something for me to poke at later.

Right now I’m finishing up Saddled (pony play, dueling dominants, and major drama, oh my). I’m working on the closing chapters and then I’ll send it over to MLR Press. I’m also full speed ahead on Earth Fathers are Weird. Max has just figured out that he’s knocked up, and he’s less than pleased. I’m excited about the big twist that’s coming. If you think Ondry is alien, he can’t hold a candle to Rick (no, that’s not his real name). Maybe the universe thinks Earth fathers are weird, but Max is pretty sure these tentacle monsters are nuts.

I am also rereading the first three Aberrant Magic books as I start to plan my return. All the pieces are in place. The various powers (both guide magic and Earth magic) are in place and our guys are ready to deal with the first of the returning ifrit. A big one is coming through first, and it’s going to be one hell of a fight. And this battle could change the nature of reality. I’m thinking of doing this for NaNoWriMo (assuming I can keep myself away from Rough Trade long enough to write my own). I’ve gotten a bit lazy about meandering around in different universes, and I’m not finishing anything quickly. I would like to really change that with Aberrant Magic 7: Durance.

So right now I’m all about the alien life forms (both the interdimensional and intergalactic sorts). And I found a short story over at Tor that you should totally read. It’s a full novel shoved into a single suitcase of a short story, and I want to unpack every idea. If this author turned this into a book, I would gobble it up because these are alien aliens. And the humans are depressingly realistic.

The Kite Maker: https://www.tor.com/2018/08/29/the-kite-maker-brenda-peynado/

What are you still doing here? Go. Read.

Taming the Muse

lit_gal — Thu, 18 Oct 2018 01:48:00 GMT

I just got the notice that Taming the Muse has been gone for a year, and the name is about to go back out on the free market. I turned that over years ago, but I have such fond memories of the community that it hurts to see it disappear forever. At a time when my muse was threatening to go dry, having a weekly challenge forced me to get my ass in gear. It led my muse in new directions... and sometimes that shaped my stories in ways I hadn’t seen coming. I look at stories like Toys and Butterfly Kisses, and I see the influence of that community of writers and readers. It feels like a small spark has died. Sadly, I didn’t even realize Taming the Muse had closed. I hadn’t been part of the community for so long that it escaped my notice. Only now when LiveJournal emailed me the notice did I realize that I’d missed the death of an old friend.

A Babylon 5 marathon

lit_gal — Sun, 30 Sep 2018 02:35:48 GMT

A few weeks back I had a car accident. I got hit hard enough to total my car, and it turned out my headache was more than a simple headache and whiplash. I got a concussion. I didn’t even know you could concuss yourself just by wacking your brain against the inside of your skull. Luckily, it was minor, but it completely got in the way of my writing. I had hoped to get Claimings 4 done for early September. Instead we are at the end of the month and I just now sent the second set of edits to Sue.

But it’s coming.

I also haven’t finished Saddled or The Witness Wore a Puppy Tail, which I had intended to finish this month so I could clear the path For Maya: A Platonic Love Story With a Girl, a Boy, an Insane AI and a Semi-Parasitic Alien and Earth Fathers are Weird. I’m trying to not get stressed about the blown schedule. It’s not like it would help.

On the good side, the concussion means insurance gave me six thousand for pain and suffering. A lawyer told me I wouldn’t get much more because it was such a minor concussion and I didn’t miss work. Bringing my writing and the slowdown into the equation could have splashed my side job into real life, and considering I work in a small town, that would not be good. So I took it. I then had to spend it on a new (to me) car downpayment.

Still not worth it.

But I am feeling better. I am starting to work out again, and I’m writing. I hope that October will be the month where I truly get back to full speed.

So this month I have been watching (or listening to) more television than ever. I caught up on Supernatural (which I enjoyed the hell out of. They are back in the groove and I loved the Scoobie Doo episode. I’m shocked to say that, but I did. I needed shows I could listen to more than watch, so I went back to Babylon 5 (by the same guy as Sens8), and I have rediscovered my love for the first four seasons (minus the Garibaldi, season 4 crap).

I had forgotten how truly great the show was, and I have fallen in love (again) with Delenn. We need more women like her.

She’s strong and religious without being relegated to only showing spiritual strength. She can be a hardass and pick up a staff to fight off attackers. When a species went into voluntary quarantine, she chose to go into the contaminated section with them to offer comfort, and she openly sobbed when these religious fanatics allowed themselves to die foolishly rather than admit that a disease (that was a rather unsubtle allegory for AIDS) might kill the moral as well as the sinful and that prayer wouldn’t stop it.

She speaks softly and advises others to seek peace, but when the evil Earth Alliance threatens her people, she has one of my favorite exchanges of the series:

Delenn: [Delenn's fleet arrives after Earth Alliance attacks B5] This is Ambassador Delenn of the Minbari. Babylon 5 is under our protection. Withdraw or be destroyed!

Earth Force Officer: Negative! We have authority here. Do not force us to engage your ship.

Delenn: Why not? Only one human captain has ever survived battle with a Minbari Fleet. He is behind me. You are in front of me. If you value your lives, be somewhere else!

When she delivered that line, she was *terrifying.* She cried over her city being in flames during the Mimbari civil war, yet she didn’t allow that to stop her from ending that same war. She is soft and caring and strong and scary and flawed. She is so wonderfully flawed. She is so insightful about the enemy and those who are weak or evil or scared. But when she trusts someone, she is so incredibly naive. The only assassination attempt that came close to succeeding was orchestrated by people supposedly on her own side because she put such unconditional trust in them, and it wasn’t warranted.

I am tired of strong female being synonymous with emotionless female or emotionally damaged female or ninja. I love Zoe in Firefly because there was the same ability to kick ass one second, and have real emotions the next.

That’s the reason I had so much trouble with Ziva in NCIS. She played at being the sex kitten, but she rarely if ever had actual emotional development. And when she did, the writers used every opportunity to show her as emotionally damaged. Ivanava from Babylon 5 also fits into that category of emotional stunted women, and I find myself not as impressed by her. Ironically, I think I fell into the same bad habit with Paige Silver in Bitter Blood.

But Delenn is in there with Diane Prince and Zoe. She is so very noble and amazing and still real. I had forgotten how good Delenn was, but I remember now. I am so crushing on her.

I am also impressed by the diversity in the show. When they give lists of captains, there are men and women—European names and Asian names and African names. The extras are from every ethnicity. The show does not do as well at having minorities in leading roles, but I have to wonder how much of that was the production company.

I was also less than impressed that the only regular cast who was black got the drug addiction plotline, but at least it was in-character (I’m giving you the side-eye Stargate Atlantis). Franklin was the head doctor on a station in the middle of a war, so it makes sense he got addicted to stimulants as he tried to save everyone—and it fit into his character arc of being a perfectionist with a difficult relationship with a demanding military father.

Overall, I spent many a pleasant hour listening to a very enjoyable story, and if you haven’t seen it, I do recommend it. Just cut them some slack on the whole season five thing because they had been told they were going to be cancelled after season four, so they tied a few things up quickly, leaving the last season a little less well-plotted.

Still, I am looking forward to feeling better, watching/listening to less television and spending more time in my universes. I miss spending more time with my characters.

The state of me.

lit_gal — Sat, 01 Sep 2018 00:23:19 GMT

Claimings 4 has officially entered production. I have the first set of edits back from Sue (looking good) and I was looking forward to working on it, only I had the audacity to put my car in the path of an idiot who uses his accelerator without checking out his front windshield first. Long story short—I got t-boned. I’m aching, but I don’t have anything more serious that whiplash, pulled muscled and a totaled car. Shoot me. Shoot me now. Dealing with insurance people is worse than the whiplash.

But Claimings is slowly moving forward. To celebrate that fact, you can for a limited time get Rownt inspired goodies. Have you ever wanted a custom t-shirt, mug or tote bag to celebrate your love of all things Rownt? You’re in luck. Until next Wednesday Sept 5th (US time), you can order Rownt merchandise at Teespring (https://teespring.com/rownt-wisdom#pid=2&cid=2122&sid=front). After Wednesday, the goodies go bye bye. See the pretty graphic…

Aberrant Magic 6 just broke even (and the crowd goes wild). This means I can promise you an Aberrant Magic 7. The Assistant Director’s plan to bring in new people and create two teams is going to leave grumpy Kavon even grumpier, but with the honeymoon over, Darren is going to have to decide how he wants to live the rest of his life and how much he’s going to let Kavon get away with. Meanwhile, the first of the returning evil ifrit is sniffing around the spirit plane.

September should be a month of endings—reaching the end of Saddled and The Witness Wore a Puppy Tail. With the boards clear, I want to start Earth Fathers are Weird, Maya: a non-romantic love story between a girl, a boy, an insane AI and a semi-parasitic species, and Aberrant Magic 6. That middle one is set in the Claimings verse, but Maya has always lived in the colonies. So she sees the war a little differently, not that Liam ever paid attention to or understood the politics of the war he fought in.

And finally, who would like a little snippet. I mentioned that the first of the evil ifrit has returned. Let’s see if anyone knows mythology well enough to recognize this bad boy.

Target Practice

Zach sighted down his weapon and took a deep breath. His range scores were fine, but he would never be one of the guys who could brag about them. Art said it didn’t matter since most of the hotshot with perfect scores also got far too excitable in the field. Art hated the type of cop that got so excited by an incident that they stood around watching the drama. It offended Art. Zach took his first shot, and Pochi appeared halfway down the shooting alley, hovering a few feet off the ground and whirling madly in search of an enemy. Zach’s second shot went wild.

Fuck.

Zach glared at his annoying guide, but Pochi didn’t seem to care much. He darted around the space, investigating every corner. Zach and Art were the only ones shooting, for which Zach was infinitely grateful. While it wouldn’t hurt Pochi if a bullet went through him, Zach hated the idea.

Art leaned back so he could see around the barrier that separated the shooting lanes and pulled off his ear protection. “What’s he doing?” Art asked once Zach had removed his own.

Zach shrugged.

Art shook his head. “It’ll do you good to practice shooting with a distraction, only try to hit the target.”

“Fuck you,” Zach suggested.

Art smirked, and while he didn’t make an indecent comment, he thought it so loudly that Zach could practically read the thought bubble over his head. Then Art went back to his lane.

Zach put the ear protection back on and breathed out while doing his best to broadcast the thought “practice, practice, practice.” Maybe Pochi would understand the concept, maybe not. Pochi darted toward Zach and hovered an inch in front of his nose.

“Dude. Personal space,” Zach said. But since Pochi seemed interested, Zach did his best to project the idea of practice. Shoot now. Shoot better later.

Pochi stilled. Even though he had stopped moving his wings, he still floated in the air right in front of Zach. Zach’s vision grayed out, and a shadowy figure appeared superimposed over the shooting range. It was a bird—a huge one. But as the details became clearer, Zach realized it wasn’t a real one. It had huge wings and a thick neck, but the back of the body appeared almost mammalian. It was as if a scrawny donkey butt had been grafted onto a deformed bird and then someone replaced the back legs with two enormous vulture legs with too many joints. The front legs were short with three short fingers and a longer thumb. It was almost like a lion’s paw and a T-rex leg got blended.

The figure slowly became more solid, the feathers turning tawny yellow around the head and then slowly turning darker toward the backend of the animal where it had a short, black fanlike tail.

“What the…”

The bird turned to look at Zach. Huge teardrop shaped black eyes were set under upright ears that looked like a lion’s. The most disturbing part was the mouth. It had a beak of sorts, but it looked like cadaver teeth sticking out from a skull. It took Zach a second to realize that the creature had some sort of face armor around those razor-sharp teeth. With a scream, Bennu appeared in all his six feet of glory, but he was a third the size of this new bird. For a second, Bennu hovered and projected uncertainty, and then the new creature dissolved into smoke and Zach saw the target at the end of his shooting alley again.

Past. Past. Past. The belief that the huge bird was part of the past slammed into Zach. Given that the bird mutant was clearly gone now, the memory of it still left Pochi aggressive. After a second, Bennu vanished, and Zach wondered if Darren Oberton’s guide had actually been in El Paso at all or if Pochi was remembering some fight between the two ifrit.

Determination. Practice. Practice. Kill. Pochi projected the emotions with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer before he streaked toward the practice target.

“Weird bird,” Zach muttered before he breathed out slowly and took aim. Pochi whistled sharply and then trilled as he touched the center of the target and then flew to the left. He repeated the gesture several times.

Frowning, Zach eased his weapon to the left a tiny fraction. Pochi’s chirping trill just sounded happier. Zach squeezed the trigger and the target quivered. Zach couldn’t see where his shot landed from his spot on the firing line, but Pochi hovered near the center and just a little to the right. Zach took aim again, intentionally aiming high this time.

Pochi’s whistle was nearly deafening, and Zach lowered his sights. Pochi hovered to the right and below the target. Zach adjusted his aim.

At the end of the shooting session, Zach and Art both took their targets to the sergeant in charge of the range. When Zach laid his out for scoring, Art’s eyebrows rose.

The sergeant took one look at the tightly clustered shots and whistled admiringly.

“That’s a good score,” Art said.

“Better than usual, you mean,” Zach said.

Art grunted. No doubt he wanted to ask what had happened, but in the two weeks since Zach had inherited a guide, he had discovered Art was reluctant to discuss him or anything related to him. Sometimes Art needed a little time to wrap his head around change. Zach could give him a little space to adjust, and in the meantime, Zach looked forward to much better scores at the shooting range.

Two new books in the pipeline

lit_gal — Tue, 31 Jul 2018 04:12:02 GMT

Oh man, a month has flown by. It’s the end of the month again, and I’m going to tell Claimings fans to look for an announcement near the end. First, Aberrant Magic 6: Texas Charm is on the sidelines and ready to go. Book six is edited, the cover is done, I’m lining up reviewers, and we are a go for August 20th.

Detective Zach Johnson never resented his lack of magic, although he hated that as a mundane he had no power to stop a corrupt Talent council from stealing the resources of the magical community. However, the return of the ancient ifrit guides led a blood-thirsty hummingbird to choose him as a partner. Now he can be a true equal to his shaman lover, Art Lammas, and the two of them can take on the council and the entire community if need be.

Art Lammas loves Zach’s enthusiasm and sense of justice, but the Talent community is much more complex than he assumes. Not only does El Paso struggle under the corrupt leadership of the council, but it stands at a place where three different traditions clash: the Vatican-trained shamans from Mexico, the Egyptian-trained shamans of mainstream America, and the Native Peoples traditions, which are far more complex than Art can possibly describe. Art would far rather focus on solving their cases. More than that, Art fears that Talent might be the one force in the universe that could drive a wedge between them. Art would happily burn all the magic out of the world before allowing that to happen, but he may not have that choice.

This one is heavier on the magic, and it reveals some important information about book five. This is also the last piece I needed to put in place before I was ready for the first of the big bad ifrit to come through. Anzu waits in the wings, but our boys can’t win with having some new pieces on the board. Angel, Darren, and Zach are new pieces, and a few people who haven’t appeared for a while are ready to come back on the main stage.

So, all I need now are readers.

If book six breaks even in that golden thirty days on Amazon, I will definitely write Aberrant Magic 7: Defalcation. If book six doesn’t, I may need to cut the series loose. After 30 days, the Amazon algorithm will make it impossible to get the book in front of anyone searching for a certain type of book. People will then need to know the exact title and be looking for it specifically. So, what does break even mean in real terms? Well, let’s assume I don’t mind starving and get literally nothing for the HOURS of work. Then I need $150 for the cover and $740 for the editing. So the book has thirty days to make $890 or I lose money. If it does well and earns $2000 that first month, then I will definitely write the next book and call myself fortunate to make to make roughly $1.25-$2.00 per hour for my work on the title. Honestly, that’s worth it for me. I love telling stories. But I do hate editing, so I need some money for my time to compensate me for the misery of catching grammar and continuity errors.

What’s next up? CLAIMINGS! A Patron on Patreon offered to help defray these costs. They are helping with the editing costs and another Patreon angel is doing a cover. So that means I don’t have the same financial obligations. It does still mean I am spending hours in my least favorite part of writing—editing. But Patreon angels are also jumping in with that, helping me find grammar errors, so I just need to go through and correlate suggestions from different people into one master document before I send it off to the editor.

So the long and short of it is that Claimings 4 will be coming out as an ebook. My goal would be to hit by September 30, but I’m running tight and may not be able to hit that goal. We’ll see. I need to get my ass in gear and get to doing my editing work so I can get it sent off to my editing. This week I’ve been way more into catching up on Supernatural and doing some hours for recertification. Funny enough, I can’t afford to lose my day job.

But I will say this—Patreon is making it possible for me to continue to tell stories, even if I’ll never be able to make a full-time living out of it.

Writing Update

lit_gal — Sun, 01 Jul 2018 23:18:07 GMT

So, this is my first of the month update. Royal Indiscretion (contemporary m/m) is being a pain. I have some good dialogue written for when two protagonists actually start talking to each other, but right now it’s hard to force them into the same space without making them out of character. I often introduce a new character when a plot gets stuck, but adding in the sober sponsor Nick didn’t really help. Someone may get hurt soon. That often forces people to talk.

The Witness (mystery/kink adaptation of my Sentinel fanfic) is on a short break because I have too many plots going at once, and I needed to choose Royal Indiscretion or The Witness Wears a Puppy Tail. Doing both was hurting my head. Too many voices up there at once, ya know.

Saddled (contemporary kink m/m) is going hot and strong. While this started as pretty strictly pony kink, it is quickly developing one hell of a plot. When I’m done, I think I may send this over to MLR Press. However, I have to get John out of danger, navigate the relationship problems between John and Clive, save momma, deal with a drug addicted brother, and figure out how to get two stubborn alpha males to admit they’re in love. Yeah, I got a ways to go.

But as usual, my muse is always tempting me with new thoughts. Once Saddled is done, I’m thinking about two options.

Earth Fathers are Weird focuses on a pilot who took to the skies to fight off an alien invasion—or what Earth thought was an invasion. It was actually the equivalent of a high speed chase that spilled into undeveloped space. When his jet was shot, the alien authorities scooped him up to prevent his death. And when the chase was over, he was dropped at a very nice interplanetary port. The computers can mostly translate English. Sort of. And he can interface enough to see how much a ship would charge him to take him back to Earth. If he took a job helping refine the translator function, he could afford a ticket in roughly three hundred years. A job entry for what he thought was a nanny could get him home in seven to eight years. He might have mistranslated “nanny,” though.

Yes, this would be tentacle sex, although I don't think the tentacles would get much out of it. Our pilot might like it more than he is comfortable admitting, though. And of course if it's a male pilot and an alien tentacle, I'm sure you can guess what trope fatherhood would require.

Loyalty Betrayed is about a covert ops specialist. He’s run his own team for nearly a decade and had an on-again, off-again relationship with the team interrogator/psychologist. However, he is beginning to fear that their team is being misused in the worst ways. When he gets a warning to get out, he runs without looking back. However, he’s not willing to leave his lover. And even if he did, the man knows him well enough to act as birddog for the government agents trailing him. So our hero makes a horrible choice out of a desire to avoid an even worse one. When his friend comes for him, he knows the government will send killers to finish the job. So he sets a trap, grabs his lover, and decides to use what he learned about psychology and brainwashing to tie his lover’s allegiance to him. Only then will he feel safe to unravel the conspiracies working to turn his government against him.

This would be a lot darker. Good people would do terrible things to each other. I would have to be in a certain mood to write this one, but current politics makes that possible.

I think politics is why my current fanfic is dark. Over at AO3 I am writing another part to my Igigi series. It brings Atlantis into current day events. The city is starting to chafe under IOC control and a partial outting of the Stargate program makes them eager to redefine their relationship with earth. You can read that here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14841587/chapters/34353377

So, that’s me. Oh, and I am an amateur with book covers, so if anyone has feedback (especially anyone with the actual experience or expertise I lack), I would greatly appreciate it.

Does anyone want a free short?

Introduction to Xenolinguistics

Debbie studied the sea of fresh-faced babies. For a time, she panned the vid so her office screen would show her the entire class. She could already divide them into rough camps based on their seat choices and expressions. Proxemics, oculesics, and kinesics weren’t covered until much later in their training, so right now they exerted absolutely no control over how their bodies were shouting without even using words.

The three young men and two women in front were either serious students or wanted to present themselves as serious students. They were busy with their tablets, and Debbie’s monitoring program reported that all five were reviewing the class text. A small group near the window chatted away, their bodies twitching with sexual interest. Nothing wrong with that as long as they focused on the work once Debbie started the lecture.

A range of less confident students filled the middle section. Debbie groaned when she saw that two of them were reading Lost Words: The Unauthorized Biography of Lieutenant Liam Munson. Shit. That piece sensationalized Munson’s life—made him out to be some poor wounded soul abandoned by the system and abused by the authorities in his life.

Debbie had no idea how anyone could fall for the crap the modern press put out. Munson was a linguistic genius who had made the rare leap out of his culturally enforced point of view into the Rownt perspective. Leaps in translation could only be made after someone had navigated that chasm, and to reduce Munson’s contribution to luck and some lost puppy personality was incredibly offensive. The man had studied Rownt language before taking the post on Prarownt and had then spent years working to collect language samples and form relationships with natives.

His willingness to immerse himself in a new culture opened opportunities for the entire human race. The popular media might be fascinated with the Rownt because of a few vid shots of a female visiting a hospital and the young male clearly trying to protect Lieutenant Munson in a crowd. However, those involved in Command were more interested in the technology and raw materials the Rownt could provide. They were certainly better potential allies than the Anla. And Munson made all that possible.

She made a note of which students were reading that trash in her classroom. They would have to show much more dedication to linguistics if they wanted to follow in Munson’s footsteps. Assuming that an alien species would feel sorry for you and take you home was stupid. And Debbie did not like wasting her time on stupid students.

She turned her monitor off and sighed. Time for one more semester of teaching people who could never hope to achieve the genius of Colonel Diallo or Lieutenant Munson. Sometimes she regretted ever becoming a teacher. However, someone had to set the next generation of linguists on the path, and that was her sacrifice.

A long-overdue update (and a story)

lit_gal — Tue, 19 Jun 2018 22:15:54 GMT

I haven’t been here forever, and I’m going to try hard to change that. Part one in today’s update is a general state of where I am writing wise. Part two is a bonus snippet from one of my universes.

Loose Id closed, and they were my primary publisher, which really threw me. I now have my backlist all up. Yea me! Considering how I feel about 1) change and 2) new computer systems, I’m pretty damn proud of myself. The sales have been sluggish, but steady. Aberrant Magic 6 is trucking along. I’ve gone from 74K words down to 66K, so it’s much tighter. I did too much “show” on the casework, so I’m trying to “tell” on those bits so the book focuses more on the relationship. I also switched POV on a couple of chapters so the readers could see into the motives of grumpy Art. He has a cat as a spirit guide for a reason. He likes his butt scratched, but if you do it too long or wrong, he’s pretty quick to make a quick escape. That’s his personality, but I’m focusing more on showing why he’s that way.

When I’m done with trimming and editing Aberrant Magic, I have two thoughts. One, I might go back to Royal Indiscretion, the story of an ex-addict youngest son of a duke and the closeted bisexual football player. I think the guys could have some nice enemies to lovers moments. I’m also thinking about Carina Press. They have a call out for continuing series that combine romance with suspense or adventure.

I always wanted to do a second “season” of Aberrant Magic. Kavon and Coretta would have two separate teams, although they would work closely together. Coretta would bring in a new FBI agent with shamanic powers. Joe has an octopus guide and he is as clever and secretive as that would imply. What he doesn’t tell anyone is that he’s Roma and his mother has ties to the Earth magics that Native shamans use. Kavon brings in a new magic user. Milton is a cross between Blair Sandburg and Rodney McKay. He’s brilliant, flat out. He’s actually invented a new form of magic by combining crystals and computers into an interface that allows so much more control than a normal crystal user, but he refuses to believe in magic as anything other than an alternate power source. He’s hyper and ADHD enough that Kavon considers murdering him, and he generally rubs people wrong with his verbal diarrhea and ability to spout trivia.

Our team would still be there in the background, but with Joe and Milton taking lead, maybe I could convince Carina to pick it up as a new series. I’m still thinking about that one.

So, that’s me. Now on with the story. This time it’s Ondry’s mother having a mom/son moment from long before the first Claimings book.

“Asdria’s Fears”

Asdria flared her nostrils as she crouched down next to Ondry. He was such a willful boy that sometimes Asdria despaired for him. “You have gathered healthy fruit.” She would have liked to comment on her son’s diligence, but he had already passed the age when he would accept such compliments.

Ondry kept sorting the small, firm gasha berries.

“He who would trade must begin by trading in words,” Asdria rebuked him.

That got Ondry’s attention. He sat back, his short legs crossed in front of him. “I know you won’t trade.”

Asdria tried to calm herself before she could pale and give her headstrong son evidence of her disapproval. She was proud that he had taken to trading so well, but he was young enough that he should eat the fruit, or at the very least have competitions with other children to see how far they could throw it. However the drought that had led to her own eggs drying up had denied most of the town of a generation of children.

She considered moving to another town with more children, but she was loath to leave the Grandmothers she knew.

“How have you reached that conclusion?” she asked her child.

“You said I was too young. You disapprove of me trading; therefore, you will not buy from me.”

Asdria couldn’t fault his logic. He had so many centuries ahead of him—years of standing on his own and proving his own worth. During those long years before a woman left an eggling on his door, he would regret rushing toward adult responsibility. A Rownt would have centuries without touch, and those who had too little of it in childhood would suffer for it later. She had mourned each hatching when no children emerged from her eggs. She felt such a yearning to hold a youngling, and yet she had to satisfy herself with pulling the tail of some ambitious man or cheating an arrogant woman out of her profits. Those had been a poor substitutes.

And now Ondry was rushing into that same isolation. Since Ondry insisted he was an adult, she settled into the dust and tried to construct her thoughts as he might for an adult. “If you trade, you are growing up more quickly than most Rownt.” She tried to keep her statement factual so he would have no reason to show his stubborn streak.

“You would have me live forever with egg on my backside,” Ondry said with a childlike hiss.

“I would have you learn to steal meat from my table, but perhaps you can wait until you can see over the edge of the table.” Asdria knew she had made a mistake with that exaggeration the second she said it. Ondry paled. Normally he would rumble in pleasure when she treated him like an adult and insulted him, but clearly that permission did not extend to insults about his height.

He stood and walked away, his tail twitching in aggravation. Asdria shut her nostrils. Her son was quickly becoming more aggravating than a dozen kawt haunting her favorite trading trails. She failed to find the words to explain the truth he would not see. He rushed toward adulthood, and she feared he would suffer later. He would spend years unable to touch or hold another, and Asdria would be helpless to assist him then. But she could not find the words to help him now.

She sometimes feared she had some great flaw in her parenting that prevented her from clearly communicating logic.

But the gods would have their way, and she could not prevent Ondry from choosing his own paths in life. Hopefully he would prove profitable in trading. Maybe then he would have a youngling left on his door before he turned four hundred.

And then she would enjoy watching him try to explain logic to a child who was too willful to listen.

Patreon

lit_gal — Fri, 10 Nov 2017 23:40:06 GMT

Well I set up a Patreon. I don't know if this is something that is going to turn out to work wonderfully or not, but I'm trying it. I am NOT going to disappear from LJ. I will still post first chapters here, and I still consider LJ my home and this is where I look first for anyone who wants to be a beta reader. However, if you are a reading whore, particularly of the Claimings series or of original pony play, you guys are welcome to sign up over there, but it is a subscription service with a monthly fee. That also means there will be NO fanfic over there. Fanfic for money is an ethical line I won't cross.

https://www.patreon.com/lyngala

Wonder Woman and (probably too much) analysis.

lit_gal — Wed, 21 Jun 2017 16:56:39 GMT

Mad spoilers for Wonder Woman ahead, so if that bothers you, skip this post.

I’ve read several posts about what makes Wonder Woman great, and for the most part, I’ve agreed with all of them.

I loved seeing women engage men physically (and win) versus the old trope of having the token woman fight another woman while the men fought men. And what a fight scene. Holy shit. I can believe these are Amazons, capable of defeating the entire Greek nation to free slaves. Yep. I can totally see it, because those were some badass moves reinforced with some badass special effects. No wonder they were training for so long. Those were some killer moves.

I worship at the altar of the No Man’s Land scene. Watching Diana reject the male authority and insist that saving lives was just as important as some grand scheme made me love her. The fact that she put on General Antiope’s symbol for that moment gave me chills. And her power in that fight scene, and Steve’s willingness to be her backup, is a glorious moment. When they’re in the town and Steve does the “shield” bit, my mostly lesbian ovaries wanted his children. He will follow a strong leader, and despite the sexism of the day, he recognizes her leadership.

I am amazed at how many scenes (the first time Sir Patrick sees Diana walk in on a closed-door debate, Hippolyta’s discussion of the god killer, my beloved Antiope’s reactions to her niece) take on another meaning after you’ve seen the whole movie.

But the part that I adore, and the part where I’m going to get into huge spoilers for the end, is the way the mission is handled. Steve has his mission: stopping Dr. Poison. From the opening of the movie where he first sees what she is capable of (and then bombs her lab before running like hell) to the end, he is focused on stopping her poison from reaching the front lines.

Diana has her mission: killing Ares. From the time she is small, she learns about how Ares killed the other gods and corrupted man, and when she leaves her island paradise, she does so in order to stop the god of war.

And in the end, they each finish their own mission.

Think about that. They work together, occasionally step on each other’s toes, trust each other, and then don’t for a short time. They find comfort in each other’s arms. They celebrate together and mourn together, but each holds true to his or her own beliefs. That’s what Steve teaches Diana—that it’s not about what people deserve; it’s about doing what you believe.

And in the end, Steve saves the day and Diana saves the world.

Now, how many strong women are completing their own mission, and how many of them share a mission, advancing the man’s goals? I love Hermione, and she is a strong character, but what grand objective does she have? She works for Harry’s goal. And yes, she chooses to do that and she has her own agency and she’s an incredible character. But she doesn’t have her own arc.

And sometimes authors reverse it. Every man in the Resident Evil series exists to either advance or place obstacles in Alice’s way. She has a mission and everyone else is defined in relationship to that.

I expected Wonder Woman to do the second—to supplant the overbearing masculine main character with an overbearing feminine one. Before the director was chosen, I feared the first. I suspected a male dominated behind-the-scenes influence would turn Diana into the shiny weapon used to help Steve achieve his goal.

Instead, Patty Jenkins has given me something I never expected to see. Equality.

In the London scenes, Steve directs the actions and after some confusion, Diana largely follows him. She follows until she realizes her goal is not the same, and then she takes leadership from a startled Steve by climbing out into No Man’s Land, and what does Steve do? He follows. He gives her backup so that when the machine guns force Diana to a dead standstill, he’s leading the men the give her backup. He doesn’t take out the tower, he stands under the hunk of metal and is literally her stepping stone.

And then when their missions diverge, they each go to claim their own successes. And each does. Steve stops the chemical weapons and my ovaries want his babies. Diana confronts Ares and finds her own strength and I would totally have her babies too, although logically that might be more difficult, but hey. Science. Figure out a way for two women to have a baby when one is fictional, and I’m right there.

But the equality of it. The shared power. The mutual respect. The ability to disagree loudly. The ability to have sex without having it derail the mission. The end. Oh god, the end.

From now on, I want every movie to have main characters that respect and support each other. I want women to have their own goals and arcs, and I want storytellers to do this without taking away the men’s.

I want more Patty Jenkins. Now, will Hollywood get that message? I don’t know. I’m almost afraid to go to Justice League because I’m afraid someone else will take this perfect love I have and corrupt it with the same tired old tropes. If Diana starts flashing boobs or punching only women or fighting only to serve the male point of view, I might have to weep.

But for now, I’ll just go see Wonder Woman for the third time and bask in the glory of true equality.

Mafia and Magics

lit_gal — Fri, 02 Jun 2017 22:14:23 GMT

Mafia and Magics

Angel Zamora has always looked out for numero uno, even after getting sent to prison for robbing a convenience store at knife point. But now two crazy feds show up to tell him he has undeveloped magic. And they want him to inform on a group that has been recruiting and disposing of magic users. When Angel agrees, he expects to play the feds until he can make his own escape plans.

However, once he's inside the mafia and developing his Talent, he starts to realize that he's not as concerned about his own skin as he is young Matteo Burke. Matt is the cousin or nephew of one of the bosses--Angel has no idea. However, the hot temper, disdain for authority, and deeply in the closet attitudes are all so familiar that Angel aches for the young man. A relationship that starts with Angel seeking one more potential advantage quickly turns into Angel's worst nightmare--a deep sense of commitment to another human being. Escape routes are closing, and Angel fears he is going to end up one more body dumped in the river, and if Angel plays this wrong, Matt could follow.

Previous Post

Chapter Two

Angel watched the guard approach with the manila envelope full of Angel’s possessions. Release day. Two months ago, Angel would’ve expected this day to be the happiest one of his life. Now, getting out of prison was somewhat tainted by the fear of what would come next. He knew that Rima and her people had done everything they could to minimize the danger. But minimizing danger and being safe were nowhere near the same thing.

Rima had visited him every week for two months. She played the part of a prisoner’s advocate who had fallen for him, and Angel had played it off as him seducing a stupid blonde with stories of his poor impoverished life. The guys in the cellblock that it was hilarious that a gay man had seduced a straight woman. But behind closed doors they weren’t playing seduction games; Rima taught him incantations.

And now Angel was about to go out into the real world with a shaky understanding of incantations, a serious lack of any magical artifacts to power his incantations, and a whole lot of hope that he didn’t get himself dead. Hands down, this was the stupidest thing he had ever gotten involved in.

As much as Angel wanted that money the Feds had offered, he would be very happy to be poor and ignored by whatever Mafia was running this scheme.

“Sign here.” The guard shoved a clipboard under Angel’s nose. Angel didn’t bother checking his envelope of possessions. What was the point? If one of the guards had stolen something, it wasn’t like he was going to stay and file a complaint. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge. So he signed the paper, folded the envelope over, and shoved it in his back pocket.

“Try to stay out of here,” one guard suggested. He handed Angel the release plan paperwork Angel had done in the last couple of weeks. He had a city map, a one-day pass for the bus system and a description of the rules for a local homeless shelter that would take him. It was more than a lot of folks got when they got released, but Angel refused to act grateful for a few crumbs.

Angel was sorely tempted to tell the man off. After all, Angel was a free man. The guards couldn’t write him up for his attitude. No more showering with fifty other convicts or sleeping on a paper-thin mattress. Angel was tempted to give up crime and find a real job just so he could avoid this place.

Instead of mouthing off, Angel kept his attention on the final door that would lead outside. Freedom. And if the Feds knew their business—right into a new type of prison. Angel generally didn’t pray. He disliked the hypocrisy of asking God to help him when Angel ignored so many parts of the Bible, but he sent up a quick prayer this time. He actually meant it when he told the Lord that he’d try to break fewer commandments if God would make everyone ignore him. That’s all he wanted.

He finished his prayer as he passed the last guard at the gate and officially walked into the free world. The sky was gray and rows of lumpy clouds filled the sky as he walked down the sidewalk along the outside of the prison building. Tall concrete walls, razor wire, and cameras marked the edge of hell, and cars sped past without even a glance.

Angel passed a couple of guys who were either homeless or down on their luck. They sat on a concrete bench under a tree and played cards, laying hands out between them. For a second, Angel flashed to an image of him, Mario, Tree, and Darek sitting around the concrete tables in the common room doing exactly the same thing. No fucking way would Angel waste his freedom doing the same shit he could do on the inside. It was time to live.

He had the address for the homeless shelter, but fuck that. If the mafia was watching, he couldn’t stop them. But it was time for him to start making his own plans, and that meant connecting up with a few people from the neighborhood. Maybe someone had a shipment going out of town. If he could hitch a ride with some drugs going out west, he might be able to lose himself in a new city. He’d never been west of Pittsburg, so maybe it was time to explore the country.

And as a bonus, if Angel didn’t know where he was going, there was far less chance that anyone else would be able to predict his movements. He felt a slight twinge of guilt about vanishing on Rima, but she was a capable federal agent, and she could find another piece of bait for her case.

Besides, she claimed that he was useful only if the mafia targeted him, but that she didn’t want him to try and catch anyone’s attention. So he was taking that one step farther by not attracting attention by being in another state. If he could swing it, he’d go to another country, but he couldn’t speak Spanish well enough to hold his own against native speakers, and being a foreigner would make him a vulnerable target.

Once Angel made that decision, he felt a whole hell of a lot better. Fucking FBI, fucking mafia—they could go fuck themselves. With a bounce in his step, he headed down the street in search of a bus stop.

After three different stops, Angel had to admit that he had a problem. Mike didn’t work at the auto shop any more, Duane was in jail, and now Raoul seemed uniquely uninterested in renewing a friendship. Angel suspected the girlfriend nattering on in the background had something to do with that. Angel couldn’t blame any of them. Before, Angel bought something valuable to the table. He had money, friends, and contacts. He knew where to sell stolen goods and which pawn shops spent a little too much time helping the cops.

Now he was one more ex-con looking for favors.

Angel could still feel the bars, even if he’d walked away from the prison building. There were a few more people Angel could try, but these three had been his best options. These were the men he’d grown up with, that he’d let crash on his couch, that he’d picked up off the floor when they were drunk. And they didn’t have five minutes for him.

No wonder Angel hated people. Angel’s phone had been in the manila envelope, but the battery was dead and he couldn’t get to any of his contacts. Even if he found a place that carried new batteries or new phones, he couldn’t afford to buy one. So he had twelve dollars, a day bus pass, and twelve dollars cash. Angel wondered if he could play the Feds for a few hundred dollars. If he had some seed money, he could catch a bus going west.

The humidity was thick, and Angel stopped in the shade and leaned against a wall that separated the apartment parking lot from the sidewalk. A tree was trying to come up between the two concrete slabs. Angel felt like ripping it out by the roots, but he was too hot and sweaty to bother. Shit. Angel might need to steal a few things to get his feet under him.

A few couples wandered through the area, but the heat had driven most people inside. That’s why the guy walking purposefully across the street stood out. Maybe he planned to visit someone in the same complex where Raoul lived, but Angel’s gut told him that trouble was coming. Angel didn’t even have a knife to defend himself, so he turned and walked briskly. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but a moving target was always harder to hit.

The man altered his course to follow Angel, and know Angel knew he was in deep shit. The guy looked like a manual laborer, unshaven with a thick body and obvious muscles hidden under the loose gray t-shirt and unfashionable fat. Chances were that Angel couldn’t take him in a fight. So evasion offered the best escape.

The city had changed, and Angel didn’t know where gang boundaries might have changed, so he headed toward the bus line. If he could get on a city bus, he’d have witnesses and surveillance on his side. When Angel turned the corner, he could see his follower was closing the distance. Angel walked a little faster, but when a large van pulled out in front of him, Angel nearly ran right into the side.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” the driver screamed out the window.

“Fuck off!” Angel added a middle finger, but before he could hurry around the damn thing, the man behind him had caught up.

Up close, Angel could see the weathered skin even though the man couldn’t be older than mid-forties. And he was huge. Angel’s genetics were on the Native side rather than the Spanish side of the Mexican gene pool. He was wiry, short, and dark skinned. This guy was as white as french bread and a good six feet. However, now that they were in close quarters, running would just put Angel at a bigger disadvantage. While Angel didn’t have a knife, he did have a shit ton of ways to play dirty in a fight. Other men might avoid testicles, but Angel considered them fair game in love and war.

“Angel Zamora?” The accent was Brooklyn or something else middle-class New Yorkish.

“Do I know you?” Angel stepped to the left so he could use the brick wall to cover his side.

The smile the man offered was like a shark’s—toothy and full of threat. “We have a mutual friend who’d like to see you.”

“Then he can come see me.”

“Or you can come with me.”

A couple came walking down the street and both Angel and his follower offered polite nods. So neither of them wanted cops involved. That wasn’t a good sign. The man had used the couple’s appearance to move closer to Angel, and when they passed, he threw his arm around Angel’s shoulders, and Angel started to physically shove him away. Then he felt the hard metal press into his side. Angel froze. When he looked down, the stranger had the muzzle of his gun pressed against Angel’s side.

That changed the game. “I don’t want any trouble,” Angel said. And as long as he was unarmed, he even meant that.

“Then don’t make any. Our friend simply wants to have a conversation.” He pulled Angel closer and leaned back against the wall. To anyone passing by, they’d probably look like a loving couple taking a moment’s privacy on a fairly quiet street to catch a quick grope and tickle. Angel couldn’t count on anyone realizing there was serious trouble, and he couldn’t fight back with a gun pressed to his side.

“I don’t know who you think I am, but trust me, I am not important enough to bother with.”

“It’s sad you would say that. My employer feels that you have great potential. Trust me, this is an opportunity for you.” The shark smile reappeared, and beads of sweat ran down Angel’s spine.

Angel glanced down toward the muzzle of the gun pressed against his side. A wound there would make for a slow and sloppy kill. “Opportunity isn’t the first word coming to mind here.”

“Give the boss a chance. He’s got a lot riding on getting you to join up.”

Angel started to argue, but the stranger grabbed Angel’s arm and squeezed hard enough to leave a bruise. Angel got the hint and shut up. He needed to play nice until he could kill this fucker. Never before had Angel even considered killing someone, but necessity was the mother of invention, and he was imagining all sorts of ways to gut this son-of-a-bitch.

A black van, one of those SUV style vans that could fit a whole team of little leaguers pulled up and the man pushed Angel toward the side door. “And if you don’t like the sales pitch, I’ll give you a ride back here,” he said. The door slid open and the bastard shoved Angel inside and toward the back where there was a third row of seats. Knowing he couldn’t fight, Angel sat as the gunman closed the door and sat in the row in front. He’d put the gun away now, but Angel the threat hadn’t diminished.

“Why do I doubt that?” Angel asked as the driver pulled away from the curb. The whole kidnapping had taken under a minute.

“You’re too young to be this cynical.”

“I’m too old to be naïve,” Angel countered.

The man nodded. “Prison does that. So, how long have you been out?”

Angel crossed his arms. Now the asshole wanted to play nice. That would have worked better without the kidnapping. “If I had a watch or a cell phone that still worked, I’d let you know.”

He looked down at his watch. “It’s almost four.”

“Then I guess I was free for about three hours.” Angel wasn’t going to play games and call this anything other than being captured.

The man laughed. “You are a negative guy.”

“I think of it as realistic. So, now that you have me here, where are we going and who are we meeting?”

“Does it matter?” He sounded honestly curious.

“To my cooperation? No. As long as you have a gun and I don’t, I plan to be exceptionally cooperative.”

The man reached back and slapped Angel’s knee like they were old friends. “I like your attitude.”

“Stick around. You’ll change your mind.”

“Just make sure you’re respectful of the boss.”

“And who might the boss be?”

The man gave Angel a hard look, all humor gone. With the masks dropped, Angel could see the danger in that gaze. This was someone who knew how to kill and was calculating the odds that he was going to put a bullet in the back of Angel’s head and dump the body. “The boss,” he said. The hardness of the words made it clear that Angel had better agree or the situation was going to go downhill quickly.

“Boss. Right,” Angel said with a sigh. He just had to stay quiet long enough to blast his way free of these fuckers. But on the bright side, prison had taught him to smile and play along. He could sing a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ without blinking an eye, and Angel suspected he might need that skill. He could only hope that Rima had the sort of skills she’d bragged about because he was up shit creek, and as much as he hated admitting it, the FBI might be his only lifeline.

Writing projects

lit_gal — Thu, 01 Jun 2017 19:08:07 GMT

I finished my edits on Tapdancing the Minefields. I really love that one. It's coming along to be one of my favorites. I did a little work on Dry my Dreaming (my NCIS/Aberrant Magic crossover) and then tried to settle into a new profic story. I just couldn't write.

I tried to go back to Texas Magic, but I think I need to back up on that one. I like the characters, but there's no character arc that fits. I think I need to go back and put a few more cracks in their relationship so I have somewhere to go relationship-wise with that couple.

So I stared at the file and then said screw it and started a new idea. It's still in that magic universe, but this is rougher, cruder, and I have a lot more room to try and redeem my bad boy main character. As always, feedback is welcome.

Mafia and Magics

Angel Zamora has always looked out for numero uno, even after getting sent to prison for robbing a convenience store at knife point. But now two crazy feds show up to tell him he has undeveloped magic. And they want him to inform on a group that has been recruiting and disposing of magic users. When Angel agrees, he expects to play the feds until he can make his own escape plans.

However, once he's inside the mafia and developing his Talent, he starts to realize that he's not as concerned about his own skin as he is young Matteo Burke. Matt is the cousin or nephew of one of the bosses--Angel has no idea. However, the hot temper, disdain for authority, and deeply in the closet attitudes are all so familiar that Angel aches for the young man. A relationship that starts with Angel seeking one more potential advantage quickly turns into Angel's worst nightmare--a deep sense of commitment to another human being. Escape routes are closing, and Angel fears he is going to end up one more body dumped in the river, and if Angel plays this wrong, Matt could follow.

Angel grimaced when one of the guards mangled his name. He didn't hang out with God and fight demons, so he sure as hell wasn't no angel. Ahn-hell. It was pronounced Ahn-hell. However, arguing with the guards was a fool's game, and Angel hoped he'd grown out of being a fool. So he dropped his cards on the table and headed for the guard gate. Damn. He’d had a good hand too.

"Angel Zamora?" the guard asked without looking up from his computer. Angel hated that the guards couldn’t even give him the respect to look him in the eye.

"Yeah, that's me." Angel waited as the guard typed. The asshole made Angel stand and wait, even though he could have just waited until he was ready to call Angel up.

Finally the guard looked up. "Red line, interview room fourteen." He hit his button and the heavy white gate clicked open as an alarm rang. Angel pushed it open and followed the red line. Behind him, another guard followed. Angel's life was all about routine, so all this change made the hair on the back of his arms stand up. He hadn't been to the interview rooms since he'd been convicted. Oh, his lawyer had visited once to tell him his appeal had been denied, but these rooms were for the guys who had an actual shot at a new trial. Angel had given up on that.

He stopped at room fourteen and glanced over at the guard, unsure about whether he should go in. The guard looked uninterested in the whole matter, so Jesus opened the door and hoped he didn't get slapped with a write up for failing to read some guard's mind. Inside, a man and woman waited, papers spread out in front of them and a laptop running. They looked like lawyers--all suits and shit. At least the man did. The lady lawyers Angel had seen in the courtrooms were all buttoned up in tailored suits, and this one looked a little on the sloppy side. Maybe she was the paralegal.

He didn’t know these two. "I think you got the wrong guy," he said.

"Close the door," the man said. Angel had been in jail for sixteen months, long enough to know to shut up and follow orders. He closed the door.

"Please, Mr. Zamora, have a seat," the woman suggested. She was a looker, but Angel had always leaned more toward the men. The lawyer had a nice body, even if he looked like he was too high maintenance for Angel's taste. His suit was definitely tailored for him, and he was trimmed and groomed within an inch of his life. He was the prettiest damn thing Angel had seen for a long time.

Angel took the seat opposite the pair.

"I'm Agent Darren Oberton of the FBI. I'll be conducting an interview on your arrest process. You were caught after robbing a convenience store on Stiles and High Street?"

A fed. Angel lost all interest in pretty boy. "I don't see my lawyer here, so I ain't talking."

"You are not under investigation," Oberton said. The woman put her hand on Oberton's arm, and he glanced over. They shared a quick look, but Angel could tell they'd reached some decision in that moment. These two had worked together a while, so that meant she was a fed too.

"Mr. Zamora," the woman said, "are you aware that you have an affinity for magic?"

"What? Don't pull no bullshit with me," Angel snapped. He hated feds and the fucking games.

The woman pulled a glowing crystal out of her lap and set it on the table. "Go on, touch it."

"No fucking way," Angel said. He stood.

"If you call for the guard, you'll be dead within six months," Oberton said loudly. Angel froze. The damn fed believed that. Angel could hear that in the tone.

He slowly turned around. "Are you threatening me?" The guards would never back him up, and the damn surveillance camera light was dark, so a fed just might have the balls to do that. It wasn’t like Angel could make a complaint and have anyone believe him.

The fed stood. "No, no I'm not. I'm here to try to keep you alive."

Angel snorted. The day a cop cared about him was the day Angel ate his shoes.

"You have untrained Talent," Oberton continued, "and we have reason to believe that when you're released in two months, you'll be put into a difficult position, and sometime after that, you will become victim number four in our latest case." Oberton opened one of the files and spread out pictures. Three men--all bloodied and faceless. Someone had shot them in the back of the head.

"Darren, you've been hanging out with Boucher too long," the woman said. She picked up her crystal and moved closer to Angel. He stood motionless, not sure how to react to crazy ass Feds with murder on their minds. She held the crystal close to his chest and the pink glow intensified, and thin threads reached out for Angel's bare arms. "This is a spell. It reveals the presence of Talent, and since the prison system has no record of you being a magic user, I assume you're untrained. If you've simply hidden your Talent, we don't care. We do care that your magic has just put you in the crosshairs of our case."

"Please," Oberton said, "sit and we will explain this.”

Angel looked from one to the other. “I don't have any talent. I'm not one of those crazy shaman people.” Angel didn’t know much about shamans, but he knew you didn’t fuck with them. They talked to invisible animals and dead people and shit like that, and they had powers. Some couldn’t do much more than cheat at cards, but others had scary-ass demonic powers.

“No, you aren't. I am one of those crazy shaman people,” Oberton said with a touch of humor. Angel immediately regretted his words and felt even more uncomfortable being trapped in a small room with these two. “If you had shamanic skill, I would've known immediately. But you do have Talent, and unfortunately, that's about to make you very interesting to the wrong people.”

“Like who?” Angel asked. He didn’t want to believe them, but his gut was screaming at him that this guy was a straight shooter.

“Let's start from the beginning,” Overton said. He took his seat again, and the pretty fed sat next to him. They both watched him.

If they had ordered him to listen, Angel would have told them to fuck themselves, but they waited in silence. Curiosity won, and Angel sat.

The woman spoke. “I’m Agent Rima Dolen from the FBI’s Talent team. I’m an incantation user, which means I use language and magical artifacts to create spells. Several months ago we were brought in to investigate a murder. The officer at the scene recognized that there was a magical signature on the body.” She looked over to the man.

Oberton pulled out one of the pictures and pushed it closer to Angel’s side of the table. “We investigated and found that our victim had been recently paroled. He had no history as a magic user, and yet we found several people who, in the months leading up to his death, had witnessed him performing magic. In the course of our investigation, we found that there had been an earlier murder follow the same pattern. A man with no history of talent was released from prison, he began showing signs of using magic, and he was then shot in the back of the head.” Oberton pushed the other two pictures closer to Angel.

The last thing Angel needed was to look at that shit. He was a bad man; he’d never lied to himself about that. But he had always avoid violence. “And you think I'm on some hit list? Do you think somebody is going to assume I have talent and put a bullet in the back of my head?” Angel knew there were plenty of hate groups. People with Talent caught just as much shit as immigrants or Chicanos. If the feds said he had a target on his back, Angel would vanish the second he walked through the prison gates. He knew how to take care of number one.

Dolen answered, “We think it's more complicated than that. We suspect someone is recruiting.”

Angel’s blood turned cold. Recruiting. That was a nice word for what some of the gangs did. Angel had grown up avoiding taking favors from anyone because that’s how you ended up getting snatched off the street and ordered to pay off that debt. Considering that Angel had gotten kicked out of school for refusing to listen to teachers, he didn’t want to get mixed up in some fucked up situation where he had to follow a gang leader or get a bullet to the head. “Not an issue. You warned me, so I won’t be anywhere that they can recruit me.”

“It’s not going to be that simple,” Oberton said. “Whoever is recruiting is finding targets in the prisons.”

Angel might not have finished school, but he wasn’t an idiot. These people had someone inside. “One of the guards?” Angel had a mental list of assholes who would sell him out or write a false behavior report just for the hell of it.

“Can’t be,” Dolen said. “They’re recruiting at different prisons. We have teams out at four different prisons.”

Angel frowned. “Someone’s going to notice all those feds.”

“That’s why we are running a cover story.” Oberton pulled a thin file from the bottom of the pile. “Here’s the deal. If you agree to help us, we can help you, both with any outstanding legal issues and with finances.” Oberton slid the file across the table. Angel knew he would be under a microscope. The detective who nailed him suspected him of other crimes. And he was right. If the ass found more evidence, Angel could end up back here for one of his older robberies. However, that was a big if. It wasn’t worth sticking his head in a noose.

“Not interested.” Angel pushed the file away.

“Mr. Zamora—”

“Listen asshole.” Angel stopped when a wind stirred all the papers in the room. Oberton threw his arms over several files, and Dolen grabbed a couple of papers that had fluttered to the ground. In a heartbeat, Angel was on his feet, looking around the room. Shaman. Right. That meant Angel probably shouldn’t insult the fed, at least not to his face. “No offense, but I don’t feel like playing the part of the bait in your little trap. You can find someone else.” The wind that had come from nowhere vanished, and Oberton sat up and started rearranging his piles.

Dolen stood. If these pendejos thought Angel would be more likely to agree with a pretty girl, they were even stupidier than he thought. Then again, Angel seen a lot of men piss their lives away over a beautiful woman. Angel wouldn’t even do that for a gorgeous man. “There’s nothing you can say to sweeten this deal. I don’t want to get in the middle of the feds and whoever is on the other end of these murders.”

“You already are in the middle,” Dolen said. We have no idea how they’re getting information on who has hidden talent, but my guess is they’ve identified you. You’re close to release. If this is a large organization that is looking to recruit and blackmail magic users, you’re vulnerable, and that means if we walk out of here, you’re screwed.”

Angel did appreciate a blunt woman, but that didn’t mean he was going to go along with some stupid ass plan. “If they know anything, it’s because you pulled me into this room. They’re recruiting people with hidden talent, so you show up and start interviewing people hidden talent? I know feds are stupid, but that takes the cake even for you idiots.” Angel crossed his arms and waited for them to explain that.

“I like him,” Dolen told Oberton.

Clearly the woman was an idiot. “I don’t give a shit if you like me or not. However I would like to go back to my card game, so I think I’m leaving.”

Oberton spoke, and Angel felt a cold chill down his back. “No, you aren’t. We have already told you enough that you are an operational security risk. You will either listen to our offer, or we will have you transferred to secure federal prison in place you in solitary confinement until this operation is concluded.”

Angel slapped both hands down on the table. “You fucking piece of shit. I’m due out in two months. Where the hell do you get off playing games with my life?” This was exactly why Angel hated cops, hated feds, basically he hated anyone who had power because humans beings turned into assholes the second they had the power to hurt someone else. Angel expected the fed to pull out handcuffs and make a show of proving his power, but he didn’t. If anything, Oberton got quieter.

“We aren’t, but someone is. We aren’t willing to get you killed, and we’re not willing to let this organization continue to manipulate and kill magic users. If you end up stuck in a prison for two more years will we run the investigation, then that’s your choice. Personally, I feel better about locking you up for a couple of extra years than I would if we let you walk free and then found your body washed up on some riverbank.”

Angel took a step backward. “Don’t pretend you give a shit about me.”

Dolen sat on the edge of the table. “That’s the thing about Darren, he gives a shit about everyone. It’s a personality flaw.” She looked at him fondly.

Goddamn feds with their good cop bad cop routine. No way was Angel falling for it. “Look, you can play your games, but this is blackmail. Don’t lie to yourself about that.” However, Angel sat at the table again. He might not want to work with feds, but he sure as hell didn’t want to get locked up for another two years. “All right, let’s hear this dumbass plan of yours.” If nothing else, Angel could better make his own plans if he knew what the feds were thinking.

“Your support is underwhelming,” Oberton said.

“Fuck you.”

Surprisingly, Oberton nodded. “Okay, you’re entitled to your opinion. So we have good reason to suspect you’ve already been identified. The second you’re released someone is going to pick you up.”

“You’re assuming I can’t take care of myself. I don’t get picked up that easy.” Angel had the triple curse of being poor, attractive, and gay. He’d been slipping away from creepers since he’d been fourteen. He could lead a man on, steal his wallet and then slip away before the victim got more than a quick grope. Those skills had served Angel well as he grew up.

Dolen spoke. “If these guys are the professionals we think they are, you will get picked up. And they will have some magic user on their staff that will offer to train you in developing your talent.”

“Now I know you’re talking shit. There is no way I would ever be stupid enough to accept a favor like that.” Angel knew the true cost of favors.

“You may not be given a choice.” Dolen sounded so damn certain, and so concerned.

“There’s always a choice. The whole way that these guys get your loyalty is by giving you a choice and making you think you chose them. That way when everything goes to shit, you can’t blame them because it was your choice. I’ve been around these sorts long enough to know how they work.”

Oberton nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

Damn straight he was right. These two had grown up in some nice suburb. Angel had lived on the streets.

“However, what you’re not taking into account is that they may do something to use your talent against you,” Oberton added.

Angel wasn’t sure he Talent, but if he did, he had shocking quantities of ignorance about how it worked. Even if he wasn’t going to help the feds, he sure didn’t mind getting a little information for free. “So what might they do to convince me I needed them?”

Oberton slid the thin file across the table again. “We’ll tell you after you signed the informants’ agreement.”

Angel pulled the thin file closer and studied Oberton’s face. The man didn’t seem particularly cruel, but it could be that his good looks were throwing Angel’s judgment off a bit. Sometimes pretty boys were like that. They seemed all soft and sugary, and then when you bit through to the center, they were raging assholes. “I don’t want favors from you anymore that I want favors from the group that did that.” Angel gestured towards the photographs of the three dead men.

“Luckily what we’re offering is not the exchange of favors. What we’re looking for is somebody who can work with us. Consider this an employment agreement,” Oberton said. “And if this is as big as we think, a very lucrative employment agreement.” Oberton gestured toward the file. Angel started reading the small print.

“I could give you a breakdown,” Dolen offered.

“No offense, sweet cheeks, but I wouldn’t trust your word if you threw in a blow job from the pretty boy.” Angel gave Oberton a lewd smile. He really was a pretty man.

Dolen chuckled. “At least this one is being sexually inappropriate with you instead of me,” she told Oberton. Angel expected the other fed to blow a gasket, but Oberton just shrugged. “Yeah well, Kavon is a jealous bastard, so I think I’ll skip the blow jobs. Besides, I’m not sure what the director’s position is on offering blow jobs in return for information.”

“Hopefully he’d be against it.”

“I assume so.”

Angel ignored their banter and read through a lot of legalese which seemed to come down to he would testify against whoever tried recruiting him and in return they would protect him from prosecution for any previous crimes that were of a nonviolent nature or any crimes that he committed with prior approval in order to complete the mission. Angel had been around enough convicts to know that was a pretty standard agreement. “I don’t see anything here that’s particularly lucrative.” Angel pushed the file back toward the center of the table.

“Then you need to read this section again.” Oberton leaned over and tapped a particular paragraph.

“You’re offering me one half of one percent of whatever might be seized. That does not sound like a lucrative payday.”

Oberton leaned back in his chair, his expression smug. “Rima, how much did the accountants confiscate and that human trafficking ring we brought down last year?”

“When we took out the main facility in El Paso, they got about fifty million dollars.”

“And what is one half of one percent of fifty million dollars?”

Dolen slowly smiled, “That would be two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Angel sucked in a breath. A quarter of a million dollars. Fucking A. He had never even dreamed of a score that big. This might change things a little.

Then Dolen added, “Of course by the time we tracked down all the players involved and all the bank accounts, the final amount was six or seven times that.”

Dollar signs swam in front of Angel’s vision. Six or seven times? Greed raised its fuzzy little head and started begging with those big brown eyes. However, Angel still had a few concerns. “If there’s that much money involved, you’re talking about serious organized crime. You’re talking about one of the mafias. Who is it? Colombians? Russians? Old-school Italians?” This had so many opportunities to go disastrously wrong. As much as Angel had always avoided street gangs, they never scared the shit out of him the way the mafias did. That was like a slippery slide straight to hell.

Both agents’ expressions turned serious. “It’s dangerous. And I wish there were a way for us to get someone undercover without having to use an informant. But the fact is, our investigation suggests that your name is already on their list. It’s too late for you to keep your head down. So we aren’t bringing danger to your door as much as telling you it’s there ahead of time.”

Angel grimaced as he tried to think his way out of this trap. If his name was on a Mafia list, running wasn’t an option. Anywhere that Angel could run, they’d find them. He didn’t have enough resources or money to vanish, and he sure as hell didn’t have anything to offer the feds other than his cooperation on this case.

Oberton pushed the agreement back toward Angel. “We’re going to do everything we can to provide backup. You will get just as much support as if you were one of our agents.”

“Your agents get killed on Mafia cases,” Angel pointed out.

“Sometimes they do,” Oberton admitted. “But we have something that most FBI teams don’t.”

“Ethics that actually apply to everyone?” Angel’s sarcasm was a little thick, but he meant what he said. Maybe middle-class America had some illusion about the feds and the cops all being good guys, but Angel knew full well that they chose who to protect and serve and they chose who to screw over.

Oberton frowned, but he didn’t argue the point. “No, we have big ass magic users. Our assistant director really came down on the team when we accidentally flattened the building.”

“You’re the one that blew up a street,” Dolen said in a teasing voice. “And actually, didn’t you do several thousand dollars’ worth of damage to Arlington?”

Oberton pointed at her. “You were there for the incident with the falling building.” He turned his attention back to Angel. “But my point is that my team is good. And my boss is an unforgiving hardass who will never walk away from a case or hang someone out to dry. Even when it would be politically easier for him to do it.”

Angel had always trusted his gut. The one time he hadn’t, he’d gotten caught by two police officers who’d been having breakfast around the corner when he tried to rob a convenience store. And despite every bit of common sense that he possessed, Angel’s gut was telling him that these two were straight shooters. It didn’t hurt that there was a quarter of a million dollars dangling on the line right in front of him.

“I’ll tell you how committed we are to this case,” Dolen said. “We have four teams out interviewing everyone arrested in Baltimore during a six month period. Anyone who starts poking around is going to assume that we’re investigating dirty cops. And we’re going to keep right on investigating Baltimore arrests after you sign that agreement. We will spend thousands and thousands of dollars on interviews we don’t need, all to protect your cover.”

Angel picked up a pen and signed the confidential informant paperwork. “If you two get me killed, I will find a way to haunt your asses.”

Dolen laughed. “Deal.”

Dry my Dreaming (NCIS)

lit_gal — Tue, 30 May 2017 17:55:15 GMT

Dry My Dreaming

Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still...
Iris, blue each spring ― Bashō Matsuo

NCIS / Aberrant Magic
Tony angst
Eventually Tony/Gibbs
Before Bishop's breakup
The new team does not exist

Previous chapters HERE

Chapter 23

Tony stood outside Gibbs' house and started to question his sanity. Jethro had offered to come with him, and like a fool, Tony had turned him down. Sure, Tony had to face Ziva alone eventually, but he wasn't sure that today was the day for that. But since Jethro was at work, Tony had set himself up for this mess.

He took a deep breath and got out of the car. Part of Tony wished he could call Gibbs and ask for backup, but that was the coward's way. Tony had to deal with the mother of his child without hiding behind his.... What was Jethro? Friend was probably the safest word, but Tony did hope for more. Sure, Jethro was a cantankerous, short-sighted bastard who knew about as much about human psychology as the average housefly. But Tony still wanted him.

Standing in front of Jethro’s door, Tony took a deep breath and braced himself for a confrontation with Ziva. He never knew what to expect from her, and now that he knew her guide had been feeding from him, the feeling had doubled. She had always confused him—playing seductress one moment and damaged soul the next. She would play the ninja and pretend to be above everything and then cry over a case they hadn’t solved fast enough to save someone.

Tony knew all those masks were part of who Ziva really was, just like Tony the playboy and Tony the hard ass and Tony the goofball were all him in a way. They were aspects of him that he played up or down depending on what he needed at the time.

The door came open before Tony could make any decisions about how to handle the situation.

“Tony.” Ziva sounded guarded.

“Surprise,” Tony said with a smile.

“I expected you to come with luggage so you could move in. Why would I be surprised?”

Tony sighed. He didn’t really know how to talk to Ziva, not that he ever did. She had a language all her own.

“Where is your luggage?” Ziva leaned around him to look toward the car.

“I didn’t bring any. I’m not actually moving in.”

Immediately all of Ziva’s defenses slammed into place. After taking a step backward she crossed her arms. “Oh?” With her chin raised, she waited. Her body language demanded explanations. Tony felt a little sorry for their daughter the first time Tali tried lying to her mother.

“Where’s Tali?” Tony asked as he passed Ziva.

“She’s playing.”

“Playing?” Tony felt a shiver as he wondered if Tali was in the basement. That place was damp and full of sharp tools, but Ziva had shown a certain preference to put Tali in bomb-proof enclosures.

“Upstairs,” Ziva said with a touch of anger in her voice.

“Oh.” Tony glanced up and saw someone had fitted the top of the stairs with a sturdy child gate. Reassured that she was safely out of earshot, Tony headed for the couch. “I thought we could talk.”

“Talk?” Ziva still had that defensive tone. They’d been partners for a lot of years, so while she might think she was hiding her fear, but Tony could see it in every move. She shifted to stand near the bottom of the stairs, telegraphing her fear of losing Tali.

Tony sat on the couch. “Did I ever tell you about my mother?”

“No.” Ziva sounded unsure now.

“She drank too much and she had definite flaws, but she loved me. I always knew that.”

Ziva took a step closer. “She died, yes?”

Tony nodded. “She did. But I had her love for eight years, and that’s what saved me when things got really bad with Senior. But losing her caused me more pain than I can describe.”

“My mother tried to keep my father from influencing me. She would take me to the ballet and buy dolls, but she was not a shaman. She did not understand the link between my father and me.”

Tony wondered how Ziva would have turned out if her father hadn’t been a shaman, able to manipulate his children into following his agenda. Tony did understand that guides could influence a shaman, and Ziva had a wasp guide that would have pushed her to remain faithful to the nest. Her father would have understood that. Tony wondered what sort of guide Eli David had connected with.

“I never want my daughter to know the pain of losing her mother. I mean, I want us to die before her, but not until we’re all old and she has grandkids of her own. She needs you. I don’t want her to spend her life cherishing memories of you instead of having the real you to run to. There are going to be times that I’m too busy to come home or a case takes me out of town, and there will be times your life gets crazy and you need time to yourself, and it’s going to take both of us to raise her.” Tony thought about Jethro. “All three of us, counting Gibbs. Face it, he’s the only one with experience.”

Ziva came into the room and sat on the dining room chair. God Jethro needed new furniture. “Tony,” Ziva said softly, “I have experience raising Tali. I have always been there for her.”

“Yes, and you’re a good mother. But raising her alone is not healthy.” Tony was proud of himself for not bringing up the damn bomb shelter Ziva had turned into a nursery. Who the hell did that? It wasn’t like the PLO was going to break in and blow up the house.

“I wanted to tell you.”

Tony studied her. He could read the truth of that statement in the guilt she practically projected. “Why didn’t you? Did you know when you told me to go back to NCIS?” Tony figured that’s when she got pregnant. They’d only had sex four times, and three of them had been after she left NCIS and he’d followed her.

Ziva’s gaze dropped to the floor between them. “I suspected, but I was not sure.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have stayed.” Ziva looked up. “My mother returned to my father after they had split, and she never stopped hating my father for all the freedoms she gave up to be in that relationship. I know she did it for me and my sister, and sometimes I imagine she looked at us as anchors that held her to a life she did not want.”

“Oh Ziva.” Tony hated all the misunderstanding and betrayals that they carried. Some of those were times they had betrayed each other, but they were both damaged long before they’d met. And while Tony and Jethro were damaged in ways that they could patch each other’s flaws, Tony realized he and Ziva were damaged in the same ways. Their flaws lined up so each would weaken the other. Neither of them knew who they were, so together, they were simply more lost.

Ziva shrugged. “It is what it is. That is past.”

Tony doubted that. As long as Ziva felt the pain, it still existed. Tony had learned that from his own difficult history. But pity had never been the way to go with Ziva. “So, we need to figure out how to respect and like each other well enough that Tali knows we will both always love her and we won’t ever put her in the middle.”

Ziva cocked her head slightly to the side. “I always thought we would end up together.”

For a moment, shock robbed Tony of the ability to form words. They’d always had an up and down relationship, but that train had long ago left the station. Tony could feel his wolf begin to pace at the very thought of being vulnerable near Ziva. Her guide might have instincts, but his did as well. And his wolf was in favor of ripping Ziva’s throat out. “How could….” Tony held up a hand. He didn’t need to reopen this wound. “Nevermind.”

The resigned nod spoke volumes. “You are upset because of my guide,” Ziva said calmly.

Tony had to take a deep breath and remind himself that his daughter was right upstairs where she could hear them. He had to practice disagreeing without fighting or Tali would learn too many bad habits from him. “Well, yeah. You let your guide feed off mine.”

“I honestly did not allow it,” Ziva said, but then gave a slight grimace. “In the beginning perhaps I was not vigilant.”

“You wanted me off the team.”

Ziva was silent for a time. “I will not lie. My mission was to make myself an integral part of NCIS, and you were more resistant to my attention than my research had led me to believe you would be.”

“You thought I would fall into your bed,” Tony translated.

“Yes.” Ziva fell silent, and her guard was up again. Now Tony honestly couldn’t read her.

“And from there?”

She shrugged again. “From there you would be easy to manipulate as I needed. But your reputation did not reflect your true motives or actions. And Gibbs was too attached to you. I needed you to leave.”

Tony thought back to those early years. He avoided bringing up that damn dinner party, but he could still feel the hot flash of embarrassment when he thought about all his friends stabbing him in the back. “So you started your campaign of harassment. You invited everyone else to dinner; you followed me into the bathroom.”

“I told the others you had blown me off. It made Gibbs very aggravated when I told him how bothered I was by your refusal and asked him how I could better relate to you.” Tony stared at her. Hell, that put a few things in a different light. Ziva sighed. “It was supposed to make you transfer. I never had any malice toward you. And the longer we worked together, the more I regretted that politics had put such barriers between us.”

“There were no barriers. We were team members. The fact we have a daughter shows how close we became at one point,” Tony pointed out. He was starting to think he deserved a medal for having this conversation without yelling. The topic warranted screaming and swearing and a few thrown dishes.

“I know.” Ziva didn’t even try to present a defense.

“Then how could you let your guide do so much damage?”

Ziva stood, clearly agitated. “Because I did not understand that I would grow to like you so much and because I am not strong enough to stop my guide. He will do as he does.”

“But he chose you because you two are alike—so can’t you communicate with him?”

Her flinch told Tony everything he needed to know. Tony’s voice turned deadly quiet. “You did communicate with him.” In the distance, Tony could hear a strange cross between barking and howling. The long series of vocalizations ended with a growl, and a sense of danger washed over Tony. His heart started to pound faster.

“It’s not what you think,” Ziva said.

“What? You didn’t send your wasp against me?” The sharpness of the tone surprised even Tony and he had to take a few calming breaths.

“Not directly, no. After Gibbs returned from Mexico, I knew I did not want to continue to hurt you. I thought you were ill, and you had a hospital bracelet and I realized I wanted you in my life. I fought him. I told him he had to stop and he usually did, although I had to remain vigilant.” Ziva crossed her arms over her stomach.

Tony stood. “You wouldn’t feel this guilty if you had done even a halfway decent job of keeping your guide in line.”

She glanced toward the front door. Maybe she was waiting for the cavalry to arrive, but they had to solve this together—just the two of them. That’s why Tony had asked Jethro to stay out of it. Finally she said softly, “After Michael died…”

Tony interrupted. “Seriously? Are you still blaming me for that?”

“No!” she said quickly, her voice rising, but then she lowered her voice. “No, I know Michael had been drinking. He was irrational, and no matter what I might have implied at the time, I do not wish for him to have won that fight. That is not what made it so difficult to keep my wasp from feeding.”

“Then what changed?”

“My father…”

“Your father changed?” Tony was definitely losing track of the conversation.

“No. No, it is not—.” Ziva sighed and sat again. “My father was the center of my life for so many years. He raised me to be his warrior. What is it you always called me? Your Mossad ninja? That is too true. He was my leader, my general, far more than my father. He would send me on missions—tell me to use my body to trap men. He would choose those with whom I would spend my time. Michael was the first man I chose for myself—that I chose despite my father. And when we went to Israel…” Her voice cracked.

Tony could finally see the pattern. He slowly sat back down on the couch. “I showed you that Michael was your father’s tool all along.” Tony couldn’t imagine what Ziva had felt. She had thought she was finally finding her independence, and the manipulative bastard had been pulling her closer all the time.

“I never had broken away from him. I was still the Mossad ninja.” Ziva sounded so broken. “I had wanted to be a ballerina. I had wanted to paint or create beauty in the world, but I was Eli David’s daughter first and always.”

“You don’t believe that,” Tony said firmly. Eli David was dead, and while plenty of dead shamans remained on the spirit plane for years after their deaths, he couldn’t control her anymore.

“Perhaps not now.” Ziva looked up at Tony. “And I have you to thank for that. A child would never have been in my father’s plans, not unless the father had enough political clout that having a child would make good leverage. My father did not approve of your or your lack of ambition. You have shown me how to reject his judgment.”

“I never cared what your father thought of me.”

“You also do not care for what I think of you anymore,” she said sadly, “but I believe you are a good man, a forgiving one. You have encouraged me to return when most men would have either cursed me or denounced me.”

“I’m not perfect, Ziva. I’ve ruined lives. I ruined Jeanne Benoit’s illusions and drove her out of the city. I pushed Wendy into a corner, and I’ve let people down.”

“Your flaws are a fraction of those others carry. You are a good man, and I always thought that if I could only tell you the truth you would forgive me.”

“And I do.” Tony said. Forgiving had never been as difficult as understanding, and maybe he understood a little more today than he had yesterday. His daughter’s mother was one more person Eli David had damaged and then sent out into the world.

“And us?” Ziva asked. There was no artifice or seduction in her tone, just a simple, weary question.

“I forgive you because we’re going to be co-parenting Tali for decades. We need to be partners and friends, but I can’t—. We won’t be involved.”

She nodded. “You don’t trust me.”

“I trust you to have my six every time. I trust you to love our daughter. But I don’t trust you in a relationship. And I’ve moved on. I can’t risk ruining my new relationship by letting you nurse some hope that we’ll get back together.”

“I see.”

Tony didn’t want to hurt her. “Ziva…”

She waved his words away. “No. It is fine. You should move on. I will find my own way.”

“You don’t have to find your own way. I’m here for you.”

“You are here for Tali. I should find employment so I can pay my own way. You are not responsible for me.” She had her stoic look on her face as she turned her face away. Tony mourned for her. The second she thought someone couldn’t use her, she assumed they would throw her away.

“No, but I’m your friend.”

“How can you be?”

“Because we’ve worked together for nine years, because we have a daughter together. Because I understand that life has backed you into a corner over and over.”

When she looked at him again, her eyes shone with tears. “This would be easier if you would be normal.”

“So sorry for making your life difficult with my abnormality,” Tony said with a grin.

“This new woman of yours is lucky.”

Tony blushed. “Well….” He stopped, unsure about how to explain what had changed. He didn’t understand his relationship with Jethro, so explaining it was out of the question.

“The woman is not new? Wendy or Jeanne perhaps?”

“What? No.” Shock made Tony’s voice go up an octave.

Ziva jumped to the right conclusion. “Tony, are you dating a man?”

“If I am?” If she was going to get offended, he wanted to deal with the issue now and keep any tension away from Tali.

“Good for you. I have always admired your ability to not care what others think of you. Then I hope he knows how lucky he is.” Ziva’s smile was genuine.

“He’d better. If he doesn’t, I’ve had it up to here with his sullen and silent act.” Tony held his hand up to chin level.

Ziva’s eyes grew larger. She had caught his reference.

“Just because he’s a functional mute does not mean he’s going to get a pass if he pulls attitude,” Tony said, enjoying the look on her face. Most of the time Ziva policed her expressions, but right now every thought appeared in her face.

“You are seeing Gibbs?” Surprise. A touch of horror. “Truly? This is not a joust?” Suspicion.

“Jest, and no, it isn’t. I don’t know if we’re going anywhere, but I promised to give him a chance.”

Ziva’s expression slowly settled on a reserved smile. “Yasher koach, my friend.”

Tony didn’t know the phrase, but the meaning translated well enough. He stood and offered Ziva both his hands. She took them and he pulled her to her feet before kissing her cheek. “You will always be my beautiful partner,” Tony said, carefully omitting the “ninja” from his well-worn name for her.

She smiled at him, but he could feel the regret there. “Partners,” she said.

Tony wanted to see Tali, but he had to get to work. Vance would want to talk to Tony sooner rather than later, and Tony needed his professional life settled so he could focus on his personal one. “I have to get to the office, but maybe we can have dinner.”

“Tali and I would like that,” Ziva said.

Tony nodded. Ziva still had a lot of work to sort out her own life, but Tony felt like he’d cut her free of a piece of the past that was threatening to pull all of them down. He let go of her hands and left.

lit_gal — Mon, 29 May 2017 01:42:34 GMT

It's funny, but a story I love becomes a steaming piece of crap I want to burn the second the editing process starts... and the longer the editing takes, the more I hate it.

But if I don't go through the pain now, I will get shredded by reviewers later. Why do I write??

lit_gal — Sun, 21 May 2017 17:09:05 GMT

So, I know I've been silent lately. I'm dealing with a few health problems and struggling to keep up with real life. I sometimes poke Facebook a little, but I'm low on energy. So I know I vanished on the AO3 fanfic, and I will get back there, but ya'll may need to be patient.

LJ 18th anniversary

lit_gal — Tue, 25 Apr 2017 23:16:08 GMT

#mylivejournal #lj18 #happybirthday

lit_gal — Sun, 19 Mar 2017 21:45:35 GMT

Dry My Dreaming

Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still...
Iris, blue each spring ― Bashō Matsuo

NCIS / Aberrant Magic
Tony angst
Eventually Tony/Gibbs
Before Bishop's breakup
The new team does not exist

Chapters 15-18

Chapter Fifteen

The flight was halfway over the ocean and most of the passengers had settled into some activity, but beside Jethro, Tony kept right on fidgeting. Jethro thought he would settle after a time, but if anything, the behaviors were getting worse. It definitely reminded Jethro of the young Tony DiNozzo who had first shown up at NCIS. The contrast between this Tony and the tired, worn man he had become was stark. Ziva had a lot to answer for, even if she hadn’t been the one to damage Tony’s guide.

Finally Gibbs couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s bothering you?”

“What? Nothing.” Tony had a wide-eyed look of panic. For someone who was as good as Tony was at undercover, he sucked at lying.

Jethro raised an eyebrow. Sure enough, Tony folded. “I don't know how to be a father,” he said in a horrified whisper.

Christ that brought back memories. “None of us know,” Jethro reassured him. “We figure it out.”

“Easy for you to say,” Tony popped off with. Immediately he turned white and his face twisted with horror. “Shit. Boss, I didn't mean it.”

Jethro rode through that old pain. He’d expected the words to gut him, but they were nothing more than a rusted knife twisting his guts. For him, that was an improvement. But right now, Jethro could see that Tony needed a little support, and Jethro was man enough to face his own pain. Sometimes. Other times he hid in a bottle of bourbon, but this wasn’t the time for that. Jethro said quietly, “I relied on Shannon to know what she was doing, but Kelly was about eighteen months when she told me she'd been faking it the whole time. We all feel insecure.” Jethro remembered an old story Shannon had told him, one he hadn’t thought of in twenty years. “One book told Shannon to powder Kelly's rear end and another told her to use lotion. So she did both. The two mixed and when they dried, it turned out Shannon had glued Kelly's diaper to her backside.” Jethro smiled even as the pain made his eyes scratchy with tears he refused to shed.

“Seriously?” Tony’s voice had such hope. He needed to know he wasn’t the first or the last parent to panic at the thought of raising a child.

Jethro nodded. “I couldn't figure out whether to reassure Shannon or laugh. Since I valued my hide, I didn't laugh.”

Tony gave a little breathy laugh. “That sounds like something I would do.”

“All parents screw up. You'll get through it. Tali will get through it.” Jethro believed that. The way Tony looked at his daughter made it clear that he would keep trying until he got it right.

“Will I?” Tony asked. “Ziva is going to be right there to point out every mistake. I grew up in the middle of a home with parents who hated each other. I don't want that for Tali.”

“So don't make that mistake.” Seemed like a simple solution to Jethro, although he did know it wasn’t going to be that easy. Ziva did complicate issues.

“How can I avoid it when she looks at me like she's waiting for me to attack her, and I'm so angry with her that I can't look at her. I can't live under the same roof.”

Jethro took a deep breath. Honestly, it was probably for the best that Tony wasn’t living with him. Now that Jethro’s old desires were back, he needed to keep a little distance between them. “That's fine. We can set up a bedroom for you so you can stay when you want and you can spend most of your time at the apartment.”

Tony closed his eyes. “You keep being reasonable,” he said in a tone that was clearly a complaint. Jethro stared at Tony. “You’re not supposed to be calm. You’re supposed to be the one who refused to bend and makes the rest of the world deal with it.”

Ah. Tony never had liked change, and Jethro had played the bastard for a long time. “It’s different with kids.”

“Yeah?”

Jethro snorted. Tony would learn soon enough. Tali was about to become the center of his life, and any thought Tony might entertain about running his own affairs would quickly end. A bolt of guilt hit Jethro just under the ribs. Kelly had cried the last time Jethro had gotten orders to ship out. He’d promised her that it would be his last deployment, and then he’d walked out of her life. Again. Maybe if he had put his family before his love for his country, they would still be alive. Maybe they wouldn’t. Sometimes the worst part was knowing that Jethro would never have any answers.

“Are you going to be okay if I leave at five instead of staying at the office half the night?” Tony asked. His incredulity was front and center.

Jethro pulled his thoughts back to the present. Would he? No. But telling Tony that would be sidestepping the real issue. As much as Jethro wanted to ignore reality and his own less charitable attributes, he needed to man up with Tony before doing any more damage to their friendship.

“Truth is, I’m likely to be more of a bastard,” Jethro confessed.

Tony’s expression was painful to see.

“Now that your guide is healthy again, you’re different,” Jethro explained. He wasn’t sure how to say what he needed to without damaging their partnership. As much as Jethro liked Tony, he respected him more.

“And you’re more likely to be a bastard?” Tony prompted Jethro when Jethro paused too long.

Slowly, Jethro nodded. “When your guide is healthy, you have a power around you.”

Tony’s features twisted with a sort of angry resignation. “And God forbid anyone challenge you,” he snapped.

Jethro’s blood pressure went into the danger zone. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you made it damn clear over the years.”

“The only think I made clear was that I needed to keep distance between us. I fucked up with Jenny, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it again. Rule twelve exists for a reason,” Jethro said firmly.

“What?” All the anger had vanished, and Tony just looked stunned. Jethro chose to ignore the obvious and pretend that Tony was asking about his relationship with Jenny.

“If I’d been in the field with any other agent, I would have checked to make sure the target was eliminated. But I was sleeping with Jenny and she gave me the whole song and dance about trusting her. I didn’t follow my gut because my dick got in the way. That won’t ever happen again.” Jethro stared at the back of the seat in front of him and hoped that shock held Tony at bay for a while. And for a few short minutes, it worked.

Then Tony asked in a small voice, “Boss?”

Well, fuck. DiNozzo never could let sleeping dogs lie.

“If you’re screwing with my head…” Tony let his words trail off.

“I’m not screwing with anything. We work on a team, and all we do is work,” Jethro said firmly. He ignored the hard knot of longing that came from long years of trust and shared stories and support.

When Jethro had lost his memories, Tony had held Jethro’s world together until he came back, and Jethro knew the price he had paid for that. When Tony’s father had appeared, questioning Tony’s value, Jethro had told Anthony senior that Tony was the best agent he had ever worked with. They’d saved each other’s lives and shared cowboy steaks so often that Jethro couldn’t even keep track of it. The ghosts of Tony cooking in the kitchen or sitting on the basement stairs competed with the ghost of Shannon. No, they didn’t compete. They lived together in Jethro’s memories, each having a unique spot. And sometimes he could even imagine Shannon’s ghost smiling at Tony, telling him to kick Jethro’s ass because she was too far away to get the job done.

And sometimes Tony did exactly that. Tony and Shannon were the only people who had ever told Jethro off in his own home and still been welcome back the next day.

“Boss, I’ve had a thing for you since the day you set me up in Baltimore—making me tackle you and arrest you so you would have a credible cover story.”

Jethro knew that too. It had been the main reason Tony had overacted when Kate had made jabs about Tony’s heterosexuality. And because Jethro had been the center of that crush, Jethro had feared getting involved in their spat and drawing Kate’s attention to his own relationship with Tony.

When Jethro didn’t say anything, Tony kept talking. “Working without backup or a partner was pretty ballsy, boss. And then aggravating the local cops? You could have gotten yourself shot.”

“I knew your reputation as a cop. I knew you wouldn’t fire at a fleeing suspect.” At least based on DiNozzo’s record, Jethro gut had told him Tony wouldn’t. It turned out he’d been right.

“When I found out you were a fed, I was equal parts interested and angry. When you called me to DC, I was actually hoping it was a social call. Instead you offered me a job.”

“I remember.”

“Then… why? It’s been ten years.” Tony threw his hands up.

“Rule twelve,” Jethro said firmly. He knew the damage a relationship could do to a team. He’d seen Ziva and Tony do their push-pull dance long enough to have his dislike of in-team romance confirmed, even if at the time he’d thought they were suffering from unrequited love.

“So you tell me you care about me and then quote your rules? That’s sadistic, even for you,” Tony said with some real anger behind the words.

Jethro hadn’t meant it that way, but his relationship with Tony had grown so tangled that maybe Tony couldn’t read him anymore. Maybe it was time to be direct. “You were a team lead years ago, and then you seemed to lose more and more of some part of yourself, so I kept you on my team even when Leon wanted to transfer you out. I didn’t trust you to take care of yourself. If you’re really back to full strength and interested, you know the way around rule twelve,” Jethro said, and he had to stomp down on the selfish part of himself that didn’t want to give up Tony as a partner.

If Tony took Jethro’s advice and left the team, freeing both of them to explore whatever attraction had survived years of Jethro’s frustration and Tony’s spiritual damage, then Jethro was losing his work partner. He wouldn’t be able to count on Tony always having his six. Tim could do the job, but Jethro wasn’t as fast as he used to be, and he’d grown to rely on having Tony to pick up the slack. He and Tony could read each other in the field so Jethro didn’t have to give orders.

Tony was silent for longer this time, and Jethro took out a wood working magazine and started mentally planning his next project. Jethro needed something to distract him, especially now that Tony had recovered whatever part of himself that had been dying with his wolf. Even now, just considering pursuing a relationship was enough to make Jethro’s pants a little too tight. Jethro definitely needed the distraction of a complex project. As hard as it was for Jethro to give up control, he had to give Tony the space to decide what he wanted his life to look like.

Chapter Sixteen

Tony still hadn’t wrapped his head around all the changes in his life as he walked into the arrival area of the airport. Since Ziva had chosen a seat in business class, she had already debarked, and she was probably getting her luggage. Tony had no idea how much she’d brought or if she was planning on trying to take Tali back to Israel as soon as she could convince Gibbs to back her. That would be a Ziva thing to do.

And now that Gibbs had made his confession about being attracted, Tony had no idea how that changed the dynamics. A year ago, Tony would have bet money that Gibbs would side with Ziva. But now Gibbs claimed to want a relationship with Tony, but he also admitted that wanting a relationship was likely to make him more of a bastard.

Some days Tony suspected that Gibbs needed therapy… and to grow the fuck up. People weren’t supposed to be bigger bastards when they liked someone, at least not after they got out of fifth grade and left the pigtail pulling stage.

When a woman in a hijab started walking deliberately toward him, Tony’s instincts screamed at him. There was something dangerous about her, even though she looked like a stiff wind might knock her over. She stopped several feet away and offered a smile.

“Shaman DiNozzo?” she asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony could see Gibbs taking up position to the side, but close enough to intervene. Tony wasn’t the only one who had pegged her as a danger. Tony didn’t even pretend to have good manners. “Who are you?”

She bowed her head. “I am Salma al-Ghamdi. Agents Oberton and Boucher wished to meet you, but a case required they go out of town, so I offered to bring you the paperwork on what has been done in your absence. Since you were out of communication, I took actions to protect your legal position.”

“You what?” Tony was definitely not processing well.

Gibbs closed the distance between them in three strides. “What actions?” he practically growled.

She wasn’t intimidated, which seemed a little unusual. She pulled some papers out of a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. “At the urging of Agent Oberton, I collected affidavits from those shaman who interacted with you during your time in Baltimore and Peoria.” She handed him a file folder. “All report that they noted your Talent was muted or missing. Several assumed you had a religious conversion that caused you to reject your Talent, so this supports your position that you have not had access to your Talent. I have forwarded these affidavits to NCIS.”

Tony opened the file and glanced through the legal documents. He would have to read them, but it did seem like these were in support of him. When al-Ghamdi reached into her bag again, Tony refocused on her.

“Since I was unable to reach you, I employed Karla Whitham from Rice, Begovic, and Whitham. She specializes in employment issues, and she asks that you contact her as soon as possible. She has attended meetings with your Director Vance and has a number of concerns about how the agency has discriminated against you. She would like guidance regarding how aggressive a stance to take with the agency.” Al-Ghamdi handed over another file.

Tony really was starting to feel like he was in an episode of Candid Camera. He expected someone to jump out and yell “surprise.” Life wasn’t giving him one second to catch up before hitting him with more.

“Who the hell are you to get involved?” Gibbs demanded. Thank God Gibbs was here because Tony did not feel up to demanding answers for himself.

“I apologize for not speaking to you before getting involved,” she told Gibbs with a demure tilt of her head. She was either very subservient or manipulative as hell. The way Gibbs narrowed his eyes made it pretty clear he’d settled on the second. “However, I did not wish for others to take advantage of your absence. I felt Ms. Whitham would defend your position more effectively than I could.”

Tony finally found his voice. “Who exactly are you and why would you get involved?”

She gave him a small smile. “I am the Egyptian emissary from the Talent community.”

“Like from the Egyptian council?” Tony asked, slightly horrified. That would make her a representative of one of the most powerful magical groups in the world. It never worked out for Tony when powerful people noticed him. He definitely preferred to fly under everyone’s radar, but this meant that he had failed spectacularly at that goal.

“In a way,” she agreed vaguely. “We have long advocated for keeping the Talent community separate from the mundane world, but Agents Oberton and Boucher have convinced us to study the possibility of integrating the two worlds. So I am here to learn from them and support them in any shamanic endeavors.” She held out a card for Tony. “Agent Oberton is particularly concerned that you have been treated poorly and wishes for you to have all the possible support of the Djedi center, so if you need anything, please feel free to contact me.”

After Tony took the card, she stepped back. When Tony glanced at the card, he recognized the phone number as using the FBI office prefix. That didn’t seem like coincidence, particularly if she was working with Boucher and Oberton. “I appreciate the offer,” he said although he had no intention of ever calling her. He planned to spend the next year trying to avoid anyone with as much power as she had. Hell, he’d spend the next decade working at that task.

“Tony?” Ziva called across the crowded room. She had Tali on her hip, a long scarf securing her in place, and she was pulling the largest trunk Tony had ever seen outside of the movies. It was one of those wardrobe trunks women in the forties always seemed to haul around train stations.

“Ziva.” Tony’s heart sank when he saw the fury on her face. Sure enough, she focused right in on Salma al-Ghamdi.

“So this is your new woman,” Ziva spit out. “And did she tell you that she too is a shaman?” Ziva’s body language was all angry angles and sharp elbows.

“I sort of assumed the shaman part,” Tony said. “But she’s here delivering some paperwork.” Tony reined in his temper. Tali watched with big eyes, and Tony didn’t need to make the situation more tense.

“Actually,” al-Ghamdi said, “I am an adept, but my training is quite extensive, so some may read the Talent that surrounds me as being closer to a shaman, so the mistake is understandable.”

Tony glanced down to see if she had the characteristic veining on her hands, but they were covered with gloves that were nearly hidden in her long sleeves. He had assumed her modest clothing had to do with her religion, but perhaps she had ulterior motives.

She gave Ziva a cold smile. “I am Adept Salma al-Ghamdi, North American representative of the Egyptian Authority. I assume you are Shaman Ziva David. Shalom, Shaman David. Welcome back to DC.” The words were delivered with such sweetness that Tony almost could have mistaken them for being friendly. However, there was an edge there that he couldn’t quite define, and Ziva lost nearly all the color out of her face.

“We should get to Gibbs’ place,” Tony said. Gibbs was eyeing al-Ghamdi even more critically now, probably because Ziva was having such a strong reaction. Ziva wrapped her arm around Tali protectively before turning a horrified look toward Tony. In that second, he could see such raw fear. Everyone she’d ever loved had ultimately betrayed her or used her. She expected al-Ghamdi was here to help Tony take her child.

Tony’s heart broke a little. He didn’t love Ziva, not anymore. Not after all the pain she had caused. But he had loved her once—even if it had been a fragile love devoid of any depth. And even more importantly, she was the mother of his daughter, and Tali would suffer if she lost her mother.

“Ziva is moving back with our daughter,” Tony told al-Ghamdi. “Would Ms. Whitham be able to draw up a joint custody arrangement with full decision making abilities for both of us or is that too far outside her area of expertise.”

Weirdly, al-Ghamdi glanced over toward Gibbs. Then again, Gibbs was hovering and putting out some weirdly possessive vibes, so she was probably trying to decide who was sleeping with whom. “I don’t believe Ms. Whitham would feel confident with family law, but I will find an attorney would can complete that paperwork,” al-Ghamdi finally offered. “Shall I send the paperwork to Agent Gibbs’ house or would you prefer to consult with the attorney about the final details of custody before he or she draws up the agreement?”

“I don’t need to consult,” Tony said. “Standard full shared custody sounds fine. Ziva, do you want to talk to the lawyer beforehand?” Tony turned toward her, and the flash of confusion was heartbreaking. However, Ziva quickly plastered that over with a false confidence.

“A shared custody would be acceptable.” She raised her chin, and the defenses were all back in place. Tali watched her mother curiously.

“If that’s settled, I want to get home before we have to deal with Vance,” Gibbs said. He took charge by simply walking away, leaving everyone else to scramble after him. Since Tony had only taken a small go bag, he took the handle of Ziva’s trunk and started after Gibbs. Ziva watched him with suspicion, but only time would teach her that she could, in fact, still trust Tony.

Tony might be angry with Ziva and he might not trust her, but he loved his daughter. Besides, fighting with Ziva had never ended well for him. He preferred a truce, just as long as they both kept their relationship professional. Considering that Tony’s love life was a fucking disaster with one lover betraying him and one boss suggesting he’d rather be a lover, Tony needed professional.

Chapter Seventeen

Jethro pulled up in front of the café and the shadow of a hawk slid across the truck’s hood. Big bugger. Jethro had seen several giant hawks lately, which wasn’t surprising in rural Israel, but a little more unusual in DC. “You ready?” he asked Tony. Already Jethro regretted talking to Tony about his own attraction. Tony was carrying enough, and Jethro was a big boy. He could damn well keep his lust under control without acting like a bastard around Tony. And now Tony had a lawyer to deal with.

Jethro didn’t like it. And he didn’t like al-Ghamdi. As soon as they got to the yard, he was going to have Abby do a little digging on the woman.

Jethro recognized the lawyer, Ms. Whitham, the second they walked into the cafe. The expensive suit had no place in the diner. If he had his way, they would walk out again, but Jethro was trying to tone down his attitude. Tony needed to make his own decisions, especially when his Talent could cause serious problems with his credibility as an agent. Jethro didn't even disagree with getting a lawyer, although he would prefer to hire one himself because he definitely didn't trust al-Ghamdi. She was too meek, especially when Jethro's gut told him that she had a lot more power than she revealed.

The lawyer stood and walked toward them, hand outstretched. "Agent DiNozzo, nice to meet you." She gave Tony a smile before turning a colder expression toward Jethro. "Before we begin, I should advise you that the presence of a third party negates our confidentiality. I would recommend that we move this meeting to my vehicle."

Jethro appreciated her directness, but he still hated her.

"Gibbs is fine. He can hear whatever you have to say," Tony said. Jethro's stomach unclenched a little. He wouldn't have liked it if Tony had left with the woman, although he would have accepted the decision.

Ms. Whitham wasn't ready to give in, though. "I respect your loyalty, but since he is a supervisor--"

"He's fine. Anything you say, I'm going to repeat to him later, and since I trust his motives more than yours, he can stay." Tony's inner strength made an appearance. This was the man Jethro remembered from Baltimore. Now that Jethro saw all the years of change erased in one day, he had to wonder how he could have ever dismissed the changes in DiNozzo as simple aging.

"You're the client." Whitham's tone made it clear that she considered Tony an idiot. However she returned to the booth in the back of the cafe where they had at least some privacy. She sat on one side and when Tony took his seat across from her, he scooted in to make room for Jethro. Jethro was more than happy to follow and present a unified front.

"Am I?" Tony asked. His voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable power there. "Am I your real client?"

"Yes. You are. It's true the council hired me, Adept al-Ghamdi specifically. However, I was hired to protect your interests in your absence. No one wanted NCIS making precipitous decisions."

Tony grinned, and the danger vanished under a layer of goofy camouflage. He was playing with her. "Yeah, I don't get that part. Why do you care?"

"Are you asking me personally or professionally?"

"Both."

Whitham studied Tony, and Jethro got the impression that she had finally recognized Tony's power. Most people dismissed him, so Jethro gave her some credit for showing some caution around DiNozzo.

Finally she said, "Personally I hate it when even inept people get screwed out of their rights by overzealous and dictatorial employers, but when good men get the shaft, I tend to develop deep resentments. Professionally, I was paid to protect your interests so that your case does not set a precedent that would harm the entire shamanic community. Accidental shamans are unusual, but they happen often enough that they aren't a surprise, especially with the growing opioid addiction in this country. Everyone with Talent who is young enough to be open to both living and dead magics is one bad trip away from shamanism if they overdose. That means that as more and more accidental shamans come to light, the council is going to have to get more involved in their legal rights." The answer surprised Jethro. He hadn't considered the larger implications, but now that she laid them out, it made sense that the Talent council would want to get involved.

"So it's not Tony you care about," Jethro summarized.

"Originally, no," she admitted easily before she focused her attention on Tony again. "However, after sitting through a number of meetings, I am trying to decide if you're a saint or an idiot for putting up with the current administration of the NCIS office. And no offense, Agent Gibbs, but you are a big part of my problem with how Agent DiNozzo has been treated."

Tony opened his mouth, probably to defend Jethro.

Jethro interrupted. "Don't. She's right."

"Boss." Tony wanted to argue the point, but Jethro needed an outside point of view. He was too close to this problem, and while he still didn't trust Whitham, he wanted an outside view of the problem.

"Why don't you come right out and tell me what you mean?" he challenged her.

Her smile was dangerous. "Are you sure? Because I have some fairly specific problems with your behavior, and if I can talk Agent DiNozzo into it, we'll be filing a complaint against you and NCIS."

Tony said fiercely, "No, we won't."

She gave DiNozzo a weary look. "At least let me present the case."

Jethro interrupted again before Tony could present a misguided defense. "Let's hear it."

"Fine. Your personnel reviews are consistently lower than any other supervisor in the entire building."

Jethro was sick of everyone criticizing his managing style. "I've always been hard on my people." Jethro refused to apologize for that.

"If that was the end of it, you might have a defense, except that office has no agent in charge, so no one else is filing reviews for your people," Whitham said. "However, every review you file for McGee has a supplemental from Director Vance praising his work on specific cases in which McGee used technology in innovative ways. And now you have a new agent, and your reviews for Agent Bishop are glowing. So that means my client and only my client is left with artificially low ratings."

Jethro hadn't known Vance was doing that. Before he could say anything, Tony jumped in.

"I know I'm a valuable part of the team."

"Yes, part of the team, only you are never promoted off that damn team. You were a team lead seven years ago, and yet when Agent Gibbs returned, you were demoted. Vance promoted you to Agent Afloat, and yet the first time Gibbs wanted you back, he demoted you again. And I don't even want to start on your working hours under Director Shepard. When Director Vance brought the Benoit case up, I nearly passed out. That is a lawyer's wet dream. You were overworked, the agency failed to pay for overtime, you were denied backup and the whole mission was unsanctioned. That was clear from the reports the team reviewed. And Director Vance's concern is that the case suggests you used shamanic energy to keep functioning. I'm more concerned about the multiple federal employment laws NCIS violated."

Shit. Vance was looking at whether to hang DiNozzo out to dry. Jethro knew where a lot of bodies were buried, and if he had to choose between protecting Tony's position, and protecting Vance's, there wasn't any question. Hopefully Whitham had already headed off the worst danger. The only thing that scared Leon more than a lawsuit was an actual lawyer. DiNozzo having one sit in the meeting for him would have made an impression.

"I didn't use shamanic energy," Tony said firmly.

Whitham rolled her eyes. "Clearly whatever myopathy Director Vance suffers from, it's contagious. Of course you didn't. I have affidavits from a dozen different shamans, all of whom confirm that your Talent aura was null. You had been stripped of all energy. Several shamans have expressed great guilt that they never spoke to you about it, but they wanted to respect your privacy. I realize I've pushed in, but I am your advocate. So, my question is whether we want to handle this situation with kid gloves or an iron fist. My choice would be the latter. I have fantasies about ripping certain people new assholes." She leveled her glare at Gibbs.

Tony gave a lopsided grin. "What is it with shamans and scary women?" It was classic redirection, and Jethro figured Tony was uncomfortable even considering pursing any path that would put Jethro in a bad light. As much as Jethro appreciated the loyalty, he was a Marine. When Whitham laid out all the facts, Jethro could see that it was time for him to take one for the team.

Whitham gave Tony a genuine smile. "Thank you. I consider that a compliment, but I'm not a shaman. I just work for them."

"Why did al-Ghamdi pick you?" Tony asked.

"Because she thought a minority would be underestimated by the agency and I would have an opportunity to gather a lot more evidence than a male colleague. Sitting in those meetings, the legal department has allowed me to hear enough to put the whole agency in serious trouble, so either I'm only seeing the tip of the iceberg and NCIS should be burned to the ground or your whole agency is so dismissive of women that the strategy worked."

Tony huffed. "It's not that bad."

Jethro disagreed. "Yes it is." Even though Ziva had been Mossad, plenty of agents had underestimated her, and Jenny had to fight for every ounce of respect. Jethro wondered if she would have been a better director if so many agents hadn't constantly questioned and undermined her. But that was water under the bridge. Whatever crap Jenny had taken, she had made the choice to break the rules and screw up a dozen different operations.

Whitham ignored the debate and asked Tony directly, "So, am I filing for the world's greatest severance package complete with a personal apology from SecNav or would you rather stay with the agency with a legal mandate for changes in personnel reviews?"

Tony's discomfort was obvious. "That might be going too far."

"No. It isn't. Vance should have promoted you already," Jethro said.

His support clearly aggravated Whitham. "Oh, now you're saying that. You are the one who filed a stack of horrendous reviews, which you then made even worse by filing flattering ones for Bishop."

When Whitham laid it out, Jethro felt a twinge of guilt. "Yep. I know. You tell me how to undo that and I will."

"You can't unless you're willing to write an addendum admitting that you were an ass."

Here is where the rubber met the road. That was the last thing Jethro wanted to do, but this was his mess and he needed to fix it. "Would it work to say that I had been using negative reviews to motivate improved behavior when I believed an agent had more potential and that my review of Bishop changed because I decided that I was driving away too many good people?"

Tony gave Jethro an incredulous look, but Whitham seemed more open. She nodded slowly. "You have gone through more temporary agents than every other senior agent on that floor combined. Would this come with a more accurate review of DiNozzo?"

"Boss, you don't have to," Tony rushed to say.

"I don’t, but you deserve it."

"It's going to reflect badly on you as a team lead,” Tony argued. He was still trying to protect Jethro, even after all the shit that had landed on his head.

"I can handle that,” Jethro assured him. “Besides, it's my mistake. Jenny told me to knock it off with the low reviews, but I was so busy refusing to listen to her that I didn't take good advice. I'll write a more accurate review.” Jethro turned his attention to the lawyer. “It will reflect the fact that Tony is the only agent I've ever completely trusted both at my six and to handle my team."

Whitham's smile came slowly, but it spread to her whole face, making the corners of her eyes crinkle up. "I might not hate you."

"I could say the same," Jethro said. He turned to Tony. "So, what do you want? I’ll back you, but I need to know where you want to end up after all this is over." Jethro couldn’t help but remember the ultimatum he had given Tony.

No one could change the fact that Tony was going to have to sit through a lot of case reviews with JAG, but only Tony could make the big decision of what he wanted to do afterward. Part of Jethro wanted to keep his partner. Besides, if Tony were off the team, Jethro wouldn't have an excuse to avoid having a relationship with the man. Shannon had been Jethro's only successful relationship, and in the end, they had actually lived together for less than six months. Deployments had ensured that their marriage had been filled with more longing phone calls than arguments over whose turn it was to pick up groceries. Jethro wasn't sure he could do a relationship, and if he ruined this with Tony, the friendship would vanish.

But if Jethro held Tony back and kept him as a partner, the friendship might end anyway. No matter what happened, he could see the danger. And this time, Jethro wasn’t in control of his own destiny; this time Tony had to choose.

Chapter Eighteen

The lawyer had pleaded with Tony to discuss the onset of his shamanic powers before coming to NCIS, but Tony was only having this conversation once. So Tony was leading a merry little parade into Vance's conference room. Gibbs and Whitham jockeyed for position right behind him, but Tony ignored them both. His ability to deal with life was quickly dwindling, and Tony still hadn't confronted the one person he knew was responsible for his damaged Talent--his father.

Cynthia had told Tony that Director Vance was waiting in the largest conference room, but when Tony opened the door and saw the crowd arranged around the large table, he nearly turned and bolted. He might have only Gibbs and Whitham were blocking his retreat.

"Agent DiNozzo," Director Vance said as he stood. Next to him was Robertson from legal and Hernandez from JAG. Tony didn't recognize the woman with graying hair or the weasel-faced man. He did recognize FBI Agent Boucher, who was busy on his phone. And then there were the obvious assistants, either sitting next to or behind their various bosses. Everyone else seemed perfectly comfortable staring at Tony.

Tony was staring back when Ms. Whitham breezed past Tony and took command of the room. "Director Vance, Captain Hernandez, Mr. Nazir, Agent Travers, Mrs. White. And Agent Boucher. How nice of you to join us. Are you here to represent the FBI or the Talent Council?"

Tony decided he loved his lawyer a little because she distracted everyone, allowing him to slip into the room and quickly take a seat.

Boucher looked up from his phone. "If the council has to act, I want all the information."

Ms. Whitham seemed to ignore his answer, sitting in the seat closest to Director Vance. "Director, my client is here against my advice. Given NCIS's history of discriminatory actions that directly contradict agency policy, I suggested he file a formal complaint and handle any issues through my office. He is here because he would prefer to protect NCIS's position."

"We can't endanger any cases," Tony said firmly. Whitham was making it sound like Tony was a cross between a martyr and a saint.

"I appreciate that,” Captain Hernandez from JAG said. “Mr. Nazir has handled the FBI cases called into question after Agent Oberton's Talent appeared recently, and I believe we can minimize any legal exposure as long as we can show that you didn't have access to your Talent during your time at NCIS."

"Which I believe is already established by the affidavits submitted by Ms. al-Ghamdi." Ms. Whitham sounded uniquely unamused, and from the flash of surprise that crossed Vance's face, Tony got the impression that she had been much less confrontation in previous meetings. He really hoped that Vance didn't blame Tony for the change in her tone.

Gibbs took the seat next to Tony and said, "Let's cut the bullshit. DiNozzo was on my team for his entire NCIS career. He was targeted by a serial killer, and he had to use his wits and training to get out of the situation. If he had magic, he would have used it."

Tony thought about that--about the two times he'd been alone with serial killers. If he'd had magic, he definitely would have used it.

"You have to admit DiNozzo has survived some implausible situations," Vance said.

"Because I'm damn good and because Gibbs has taught me to be even better," Tony said. "I never knew I was a shaman."

Captain Hernandez shot Vance an unhappy look. "I would like to focus on the critical points that Mr. Nazir identified. Agent DiNozzo, can you identify the near-death experience that would have triggered your shamanism?"

Tony took a deep breath. This was personal information he didn't want to share, so he had to give JAG what they needed without exposing all his secrets. "When I was twelve, I was playing in the woods and I got lost. I was hospitalized for exposure, and I told the hospital that I was saved by a wolf that sat with me."

"And they didn't call the Djedi center?" Boucher asked, his voice sharp enough that Tony got the feeling that he wanted to gut someone for a mistake like that. If Boucher and Gibbs ever went head to head, Tony would leave the state to avoid the fallout. They both were terrifying.

"This was thirty years ago," Tony pointed out. "There was a lot more prejudice against Talent, and my father and the doctor agreed that I had suffered hallucinations. The doctor was under the impression that twelve was too young for shamanism."

"That does seem young," Captain Hernandez said. "Agent Boucher, you're our expert on shamanism, is that possible?"

Boucher nodded slowly. "Guides don't attach themselves to children, but if Tony was a particularly mature twelve year old, his guide might have seen Tony as a young man. In societies where twelve year olds have rites of adulthood, guides do choose shamans that young.”

“DiNozzo’s father left him alone in a hotel to fend for himself at twelve,” Gibbs said. Tony really didn’t need that piece of information getting around, but Boucher slowly nodded.

“That makes it likely that the guide recognized that Tony was taking on adult responsibilities. Someone should have called the Djedi center and asked for a consult.”

“Water under the bridge,” Tony said and he hoped Boucher dropped it. The shamanic council should have censored the hospital thirty years earlier, but no one responsible for that mistake would still be there. The current hospital staff couldn’t be blamed. And while Tony didn’t intend to get into it with Boucher, Tony’s father also took most of the blame. He had charmed and threatened the staff, and looking back, Tony suspected his father had used more than a little magic to get them to go along.

Boucher narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything as Captain Hernandez took the lead again. He had a legal pad with a list he was clearly working down.

“In the case of Agent Oberton, his Talent was so faint that he never realized he possessed any. Why didn’t you realize you had Talent?” Hernandez leaned forward, and Tony had the sudden sense of anxiety and anticipation. Hernandez wanted Tony to give a good answer. No, he was desperate for it. This was more than Tony’s investigative instinct—this was an almost palpable sense of the other man’s emotions.

“My guide was damaged,” Tony said calmly, even though the thought of that proud creature suffering in pain for so many years made him near homicidal. “That’s why the shamans I interacted with couldn’t feel any magic. My guide had essentially bled out and was barely hanging onto life.”

“Is your guide still damaged?” Hernandez asked.

“He’s fine now,” Tony said. He assumed that was true because he could sense his wolf stalking in the shadows, even if Tony couldn’t get the wolf to respond to his call.

Hernandez frowned. “What changed, and when did it changed?”

Boucher interrupted. “The change took place three days ago when I first visited. Anything else is shamanic business.”

Hernandez blinked at Boucher, clearly shocked. However, Boucher’s expression made it clear he wasn’t going to budge. The two men stared at each other until Whitham interrupted.

“Talent is a proprietary skill. You can’t ask for shamanic secrets or an incantation user’s methods any more than you can require a company to reveal an industry secret. If you want to know the ingredients in the secret sauce, you have to figure it out yourself,” Whitham said. “And since Boucher is on the council, he has a good legal claim that any of his specific skills are unique to him and therefore protected from government inquiry,” she said sweetly. She was vicious when sweet. “Next question.”

Hernandez cleared his throat before focusing on Tony again. “Do you know how your guide was damaged?”

“I’m still investigating,” Tony said.

Hernandez continued on that line of questioning. “And who—”

He didn’t get any farther before Whitham cut him off. “Irrelevant to the problem at hand, which is protecting NCIS convictions. When Agent DiNozzo is finished with his investigation, the results will go to Shaman Boucher and the council since they have jurisdiction over any assaults that are limited to the shamanic plane and don’t result in any physical harm.”

Gibbs snorted, and every muscle in Tony’s body tensed. He waited for Gibbs to jump in and start making demands, but after that non-verbal commentary on the lack of harm, he fell silent again.

Vance was watching with a concerned expression, as if he couldn’t figure out what had changed. To tell the truth, Tony hadn’t figured it out, either. Gibbs revealed his interesting in having a relationship and then backed off. Either he was trying to give Tony space or he was regretting his confession. Tony had no idea how he was supposed to even react. If Gibbs went back to his normal bullying, blustering ways, at least Tony would know how to handle it. This new Gibbs who let Tony take lead was, quite frankly, terrifying.

Tony knew he’d played doormat to Gibbs’ bully routine. Their dynamic had changed so much since Kate had died, and now Tony wondered if Gibbs hadn’t turned more and more aggressive in part because Tony was floundering. It would explain a lot, even if it didn’t excuse anything. And frankly Tony didn’t have time to sort his feelings, so he focused on Vance.

“How does NCIS plan to handle having an active shaman on the payroll?” Tony asked the question and then braced himself for an unpleasant answer.

Vance frowned for a fraction of a second before shrugging. “I see no reason to change anything. Are you going to use your Talent?”

“As soon as I can train, yes,” Tony said. Before he could say more, Ms. Whitham jumped in again. Back at the café, Tony had shared his vision of a perfect world, but he was shocked when she went straight for his wish list.

“And when he is trained, it’s inappropriate to have someone with a unique skill and this many years of experience in a subordinate position. What are you prepared to offer in terms of promotions?” Whitham asked.

Vance gave Tony a surprised look, but Tony kept his mouth shut. Whitham knew her job, and he was letting her take the lead because if he opened his mouth he was going to make a joke and try and hide behind humor to defuse the rising tension in the room.

“If he wants a promotion, there’s always agent afloat,” Vance said. That was a threat, and Tony knew it. Gibbs clenched his fists and looked ready to take Vance’s head off. Even Boucher shifted as though not sure whether the silent threat of violence was metaphorical or physical.

“And if you can’t find an investigative position appropriate to his experience, there are other agencies,” Whitham said. Tony wasn’t sure he was willing to pull the trigger on that threat, but he might be. He couldn’t keep living in Gibbs’ shadow, not when Tony felt so different. If he and Gibbs were partners, he’d be fine, but Tony needed the people who worked with him to acknowledge his skills, and he felt like that wasn’t happening. He loved Abby, but she saw him as some sort of appendage to Gibbs, and Tim liked Tony without every truly respecting him—at least that’s how Tony felt sometimes. Other times he thought he was probably being a drama queen.

Boucher spoke up. “There are so many law enforcement agencies who need Talent that the council is considering hiring some shamans and magic users who could liaison with any law enforcement agencies who require help. The CIA, local police forces, ATF, and a number of smaller agencies have all said they would hire consultants when their cases involved Talent. If Agent DiNozzo is interested in heading up that unit, I would offer him the job today.”

Vance turned ashen gray. Oh yeah, he was seriously hating Boucher. Tony suspected the offer was smoke and mirrors—all intended to force Vance’s hand—but Tony appreciated it anyway.

“If he’s interested in an investigative position, there is a position coming open in cold cases, a two-man unit losing the head investigator.”

Whitham stared at Vance, and Tony narrowed his eyes. Cold cases were interesting sometimes, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to work them full time.

After a few seconds, Vance said, “Any other promotions would require budgeting changes, which could take two to three months to process. In the meantime, he is going to be busy working with JAG and training his new Talent, correct?”

Captain Hernandez leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Nazir has laid out such a clear path with Agent Oberton’s late-appearing Talent that I don’t think we are going to have too many problems. No doubt a few defense attorneys will find friendly judges, but if we can get the hospital records from the time Agent DiNozzo was twelve and then show that he was left magically incapacitated by an attack, we won’t have legal problems. Agent DiNozzo, realistically what are the chances that you’re going to find who attacked you?”

“Oh, I’m fairly certain we’ll get our answers quickly,” Tony said. He could see Vance wanted more, but the man leaned back and watched, clearly unsettled by the changing dynamics in the room.

“And do you need any resources in this investigation?” Hernandez was clearly fishing for information.

“No,” Tony said.

Hernandez nodded. “Director Vance, Agent Boucher, if you could get me information on the outcome of the investigation, that would help me prepare a plan for any cases that get in front of judges. Agent Boucher, what is the council likely to do if they confirm that someone attacked Agent DiNozzo’s guide?”

Boucher looked at Tony for a second. The man had one hell of a poker face because Tony couldn’t figure out what the man was thinking. “The council could issue an advisory, warning the community that the individual abused his power. They could block the person’s Talent or drain the guide’s magic to the point where the shaman couldn’t perform much magic. In the worst case scenario, if the guide is deemed corrupted to the point that it is helping in the assault because it wants to hurt people, it can be either destroyed or reduced in power to the point that it is a shadow of itself.”

A shiver went up Tony’s back.

Boucher continued. “If Agent DiNozzo brings a case to the council, we will address the severity of the assault as well as any extenuating circumstances at that time.”

Whitham frowned. “As a lawyer, I have to say that sounds a little like you’re offering to be judge, jury and executioner. Where is the protection of the rights of the accused?”

“The accused is the guide,” Boucher said. “We don’t do anything to the human except deny them access to the guide’s power so they are effective mundane again. But if they want protection from a particular council, then they need to stay out of that council’s territory.”

Tony heard a distant howl, and he could have sworn something hit the ground hard enough that he could feel the vibrations in his bones, but no one else seemed to notice. At least he didn’t think anyone noticed until Gibbs turned his head and checked the corner of the room. The empty corner. Weird. But since Tony had reached his limits on strange, he decided to ignore it.

Dry My Dreaming

lit_gal — Sun, 05 Mar 2017 05:12:00 GMT

Dry My Dreaming

Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still...
Iris, blue each spring ― Bashō Matsuo

NCIS / Aberrant Magic
Tony angst
Eventually Tony/Gibbs
Before Bishop's breakup
The new team does not exist

Chapters 12-14

Chapter Twelve

The pressure built in Tony's chest, and he wanted to hurt Ziva. She had his child. She'd hidden his child from him after feeding from his guide, ensuring that his guide would never gain the strength to recover and defend himself. The anger was so great that Tony couldn't see anything but the enemy in his path. Ziva. She had done this. Then Gibbs caught Tony's arm. While Tony could have easily pulled free, he stilled. Instinct told him that he could hurt Gibbs too easily right now.

"Are you now to show your true colors?" Ziva demanded. Tony could sense the determination, the sense of danger and her silent warning to sting him, and yet he instinctively knew her sting wouldn't be enough. His wolf howled, and for a second, Tony braced to throw himself on her. But Gibbs' fingers tightened into his arm, and Tony fought against the fury.

Ziva had hidden his child, and Tony didn't know where to begin with his feelings. Children terrified him. Tony set all that thought aside for later, possibly after a large quantity of alcohol or after he'd found a good therapist.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Gibbs demanded.

"I would not have my daughter in the middle of this conflict. I would not have her see who I had become," Ziva cried, and Tony could feel the truth of the worlds like cold, clear water. Ziva's love lacked any taint of guilt or anger. She loved her child, and she was desperate to protect her. Tony now understood why she had come out here. She wanted to keep their child away from enemies.

"So you lied to us?" Gibbs demanded. Tony couldn't even imagine how this was hitting all Gibbs' buttons, and maybe Tony was focusing on that because he didn't know what to feel for himself. He couldn't process the idea that he had a child.

Ziva's angst fell away and she gave Gibbs a cold look. "You did not ask."

Tony got the feeling that bloodshed was imminent, and he had enough trauma already without letting Ziva's father issues with Gibbs get in the middle of this fuck up. "I want to see her."

Ziva's expression turned fierce. "No."

Tony didn't know where his anger came from, but he shouted, "She's my child!"

"I have raised her," Ziva yelled back just as loudly.

"Because you didn't tell me!" Tony's skin itched with anger, and then he heard the growl, low and heavy and loud enough to fill the room. Ziva's eyes grew large.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said, his voice fierce even though he kept it so soft it was almost a whisper.

"You will not keep me away from my daughter," Tony said. He could feel his wolf at his back, and the guide was snarling and ready to attack.

Tony took a deep breath and focused on calming his own thoughts before his wolf got the wrong idea and attacked. The worst part was that a tiny part of Tony wanted to attack Ziva. He wanted to make her pay for hiding his daughter and making him feel like he hadn't been good enough for her. When she'd sent him away with nothing more than her necklace after they'd shared a bed, Tony had felt like a complete failure. He'd given Ziva everything. He'd risked his career and his life to show her that he would always have her back. He'd shared her bed and forgiven the ways she'd misused him, and he'd thought she'd forgiven him the many ways he'd hurt her. Instead, she let him believe that she couldn't love him, couldn't trust him. She'd made him feel like it was him forcing her into the box of ninja-Ziva so she couldn't find her dreams. He'd felt like he'd emotionally abused Ziva.

And the whole time, she had been hiding her own guilt.

"You cannot come dancing into her life and then leave again," Ziva said.

"I lost my own mother as a child. Why are you assuming I'd leave my child?" Tony demanded. Ziva's expression was closed off, but Tony took a deep breath as he realized what she was saying. "You think I hate you enough that I won't have anything to do with our daughter."

Ziva didn't say anything, but Gibbs did. "If she thinks that, she doesn't know you very well."

She pivoted to face off against Gibbs. "I do know him. I have harmed him. It is as you said, Gibbs, I betrayed my partner. He will not forgive that."

"No, I won't forgive that," GIbbs said. "Tony is nicer than I am."

Tony felt like making a joke about how that wasn't a high bar, but the words didn't fit in his mouth. Not now. All he wanted now was to see his child. "Ziva, where is my daughter?"

She turned toward him. "You do not like children."

"I don't like other people's children," Tony corrected her. He moved forward, and she bent her elbows slightly. Before Tony could even register the danger, his wolf was there between them, hackles raised and growling. Ziva retreated and ended up with her back against the door.

"Tony!" Shock colored her voice.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs warned. He had less shock and more aggravation in his voice. "Ziva, move."

She looked at him. "Gibbs!"

"Ziva, you are the one who said that shamans can't control their guides, and you're standing between a wolf and a child he considers his own. Do you really want to push this?"

Ziva looked down at the wolf and then up at Tony. "I am a good mother. You do not have to worry about her. I will always protect her." Her words had a strength to them, a fierceness that told Tony that she meant it. She had given up everything except their daughter, and now she held their daughter close. Maybe too close. Children deserved to play, to explore the world and make their own mistakes, and Ziva had a brittleness about her that suggested she was too afraid of the world—too afraid of losing her daughter. It made Tony worry about his daughter.

“I will be a good father.”

Ziva grimaced.

Tony narrowed his eyes. He understood her need, but he would not allow her to "I'm her father and she has a right to know me." He pulled his arm away from Gibbs and strode forward. The second he touched his wolf, the guide vanished. Then, before he could reach Ziva, Gibbs hurried to grab her arm and pull her to the side. Tony went through the door into a long corridor. The wolf’s tail vanished into a door near the end of the hall, and Tony headed for it.

“You cannot go in there!” Ziva called.

“Give it up, Ziva,” Gibbs said as the two of them followed Tony. “This is his daughter. You can’t stop him from seeing her.”

The fact Gibbs was backing him up shocked Tony, but he took advantage to get ahead of the two of them. They were still squabbling when the wolf appeared and then vanished through a new door. Tony pulled on it, and the heavy blast door slowly opened to show a nursery inside. One brick wall was painted in wild colors with a blue and yellow zebra drinking at a surreal pond while a turquoise turtle watched and a red seagull flew overhead. In the center, huge letters in English and Hebrew spelled out the name: Tali.

Slowly Tony walked toward the play pen in the center of the room. The child was not a baby and not yet a little girl—she was sort of halfway between. She looked up at Tony with wide, dark eyes and chortled, and something in Tony’s heart stopped. Behind him, Gibbs was urging Ziva back and out, but Tony didn’t care. He looked at that small face and he could see Ziva in her dark eyes, but he could also see his own mother’s baby pictures in the wild curls and light brown hair.

Gibbs moved to Tony’s side, and Tony could only stare as his daughter held out her hands. “What do I do?” Tony asked.

With a huff, Gibbs reached down and scooped her up. “You love her, DiNozzo.” Gibbs held her, bouncing her a little as she smiled at him and giggled. Tony had a daughter. He had a beautiful daughter.

Tony reached out and touched her leg.

“She’s real. Come on. Hold your daughter.” Gibbs held Tali out toward him.

Tony took a step backward. “What if I break her?”

“Fathers have been terrified of that for millennia,” Gibbs said without mercy. “Man up and hold your daughter, DiNozzo.” He shoved Tali toward Tony, and Tony took her in his arms out of instinct more than intent. His daughter.

She looked at him and smiled. “Ima!”

Tony stared at her. Ima. Mother. Tony looked at Gibbs, not sure what to tell the child, but he was wandering around the tidy room. Gibbs stopped near a shelf and picked up a picture of Tony and Ziva. Tony recognized it from Berlin.

“She’s not hiding you from Tali,” Gibbs said. Tony walked over toward him and looked at the photo. He and Ziva were both laughing, and his heart tightened as the betrayal hit him.

“How can I ever trust her?” Tony asked.

Tali reached for the picture. “Ima! Aba!” Mother. Father. Ziva had shown the child a picture of Tony and expected that to stand in for having a real father. Tony turned toward the door, but it was shut, and this was a bomb shelter, so Tony couldn’t hear anything outside the room.

“DiNozzo, you have to decide,” Gibbs said quietly, and Tony was freaking out because that was the voice he used with victims. “Which do you feel more strongly—love for that child or anger at her mother?”

Tony turned to face Gibbs. He had no right to ask that question because Tony was entitled to feel both. Gibbs kept his gaze focused on the little girl. “Every second you spent trying to get even with Ziva for this is a second where you hurt your daughter. Are you willing to hurt her?”

Tony held Tali closer at the very question. “Of course not.”

“Then we have to take this calmly and logically.”

“She’s built a nursery in a bomb shelter. She’s hiding. How is any of this okay?” Tony demanded. His heart ached for it all, but most of all, he feared for Tali growing up under this cloud of paranoia, although in Ziva’s case, she might have enough enemies to warrant the security.

“I’m not saying it is okay, but you’ve got to keep your calm. Can you do that?” Gibbs asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“If you want to protect your daughter, no.” Gibbs studied Tony for a second, and Tony could feel the weight of his gaze. If Tony wanted to have a place in his daughter’s life—if he wanted to protect Tali from Ziva’s paranoia or her past or whatever had made Ziva build the nursery in the safe room—then Tony had to be reasonable with Ziva. She was Tali’s mother. And since they were in Israel and she was Jewish, Tony had no hope of going to the courts for help. He had to convince Ziva to do the right thing.

Tony nodded. Message received. He had to stay calm and put Tali’s interests first. “Let her in.”

Gibbs continued to study Tony for a second as though looking for a sign that Tony was about to fuck this up. But Tony knew the stakes, and he buried all his anger and his longer under brittle layers of calm and logic. Gibbs headed over to the door and pushed it open, revealing Ziva right on the other side.

She rushed forward toward Tony and Tali, but then she stopped a foot away, her gaze darting from Tony to Tali and back. Tony could feel her fear and guilt and apprehension like a whirlwind of emotion, and Tali started to cry.

Chapter Thirteen

Jethro was proud of Tony. The moment he had taken his daughter in his arms, he had focused on her. Even the general sense of danger and power had fallen away, leaving Tony staring at his daughter in awe. Jethro’s heart ached as the feeling of holding Tali polished old memories that Jethro usually pushed away through bourbon and work. Now that Tony was under control, Jethro went over and opened the door to allow Ziva in. He’d shoved her back and ordered her to give Tony some space, but honestly, he was shocked she had followed the order.

The second the door opened, she hurried toward Tali, but she stopped a couple of feet from Tony and stared at him. The two radiated distrust, but Jethro only got a sense of loss and desire from Ziva. Tony was closed off—holding tightly to Tali and staring at Ziva the way he had after the whole Rivkin mess. Jethro doubted he would forgive this betrayal as quickly.

“How could you?” Tony asked, the pain clear, and if it wasn’t obvious enough, a wolf howled in the distance. Jethro hadn’t been around many shamans, but he wasn’t sure that was normal. Ziva even flinched.

Ziva looked away. “I have protected her.”

“By keeping her in a bomb shelter?”

“She plays outside,” Ziva said with such defensiveness that Jethro knew Tali didn’t play outside nearly as often as she should. Ziva’s guilt was front and center. But Jethro had a hard time blaming her because her own parent had used his three children—putting them in the middle of his grand war and moving them around like chess pieces. Jethro had more respect for an overprotective parent than one who would use his children like that.

“What life does she have here?” Tony demanded

“Better than the one she would have with you. I am her mother.”

“I am her father!”

Tali twisted up her face and started to cry, and Jethro waded between them. “Both of you, knock it off.” He took the little girl from Tony. “Fix this.” With that, Jethro retreated to the corner and sat in a rocking chair. Having a little girl in his arms was equal parts heaven and hell, but Tony and Ziva needed him to be the calm figure in the room, so he repressed all his emotions and watched as the two faced off. In the past, Jethro would have bet on Ziva winning any battle, physical or emotional.

However, Tony had a new strength—one that reminded Jethro of the man he’d met in Baltimore. Jethro reconsidered that. No, he’d seen a shadow of this strength back then. Jethro’s gut had told him that there was iron at the core of Tony, but he had assumed that the breakup with his fiancée and the betrayal of his partner had tarnished that strength. Instead of recovering, after Kate’s death, Tony had grown more and more brittle. Now Jethro could see the power he’d once sensed in Tony.

Tony took a deep breath, and when he spoke, he was calmer. “I won't walk away, Ziva.”

Ziva glanced over toward Jethro and Tali before focusing on Tony again. “You don't have a place here.”

“You don't either. Look at what you're doing--hiding in a farmhouse and keeping our daughter in a bomb shelter. There's no place for you or for our daughter to have a healthy childhood.”

“She is safe.”

“Her limbs, her body, maybe. But she's going to grow up.” Tony gestured around the room. “Do you really think she's going to be healthy growing up isolated from everyone and everything?”

Ziva drew herself up. “I would not do that.”

“Look at you! You already are doing that. Your fear is controlling you.”

That hit the mark so well that Ziva flinched. However, she was not ready to cede the fight. Tali started to breath faster, and Jethro bounced her to distract her from the stress.

Ziva clenched her teeth before saying, “I'm protecting her.”

“No, you aren't. That little girl should have friends. She should be playing outside and exploring the world. What the hell is wrong with you that you think any of this is okay?” Tony started to raise his voice.

Jethro spoke up before they could go off the rails, but he kept his tone light as he made eye contact with Tali and smiled. “DiNozzo, you have every right to be angry, but you need to think about how that anger affects your child. The only parent that little girl has ever known is Ziva, and attacking her is the same as attacking your child.”

The silence the followed spoke of Tony’s guilt. When he spoke again, he had a much softer tone. “I never wanted that.”

“This is why I took her away. You deserve to have a life, and we deserve to have peace, and what I have done is the best way.” Ziva came over and held out her arms for her daughter. Jethro would have happily ignored her tacit request, but when Tali reached for her mother, Jethro surrendered the child. Since Ziva had come to stand next to him, maybe he could get her to see a little clearer.

“No, it's best for you because you didn't have to face what you did. Now Tony, what do you think would be best for your daughter?”

Tony immediately answered, “I want to be in her life.”

Ziva flinched.

“I have a right to that.”

“Focus on Tali,” Jethro reminded him. He didn’t blame Tony for his anger—he would have been equally furious. But with Tali in the room, none of them could afford to indulge in that emotion.

Ziva flashed Tony a smug look.

Jethro’s anger started to boil over. He was not siding with her, and yet she was trying to twist it around to look like he was. She never changed. Jethro stared right at her. “Tony is right. Tali needs to know her father and other people if she is going to grow up healthy.”

Betrayal colored her expression. “Tali is safe.”

“You keep saying that, but she isn't. She lives in a bomb shelter like you expect an imminent attack. She needs to be around people. She needs to have a normal life with a mother and a father.” Jethro pinned her with his most unforgiving glare. Ziva broke eye contact first, and her body language screamed her discomfort. She knew she was out of line. Jethro exchanged a look with Tony, understanding passing between them like when they worked in interrogation.

When Tony spoke, his voice had a much more conciliatory tone. “Ziva, do you really think we would let something happen to her?” Tony asked softly.

Ziva wrapped her arms around Tali and held her tightly. “You could not protect her.”

“The hell I can’t,” Tony said fiercely. Tony's wolf appeared again, his hackles raised and he teeth shown in a deep growl. Jethro had an urge to hold his breath, but he knew that the wolf wasn’t real in a physical sense. It could certainly damage a magic user, but as far as Jethro knew, a spirit guide couldn’t hurt a mundane. Right now Jethro hoped that was true because Tony’s guide was terrifying.

Ziva took a deep breath.

“You don't need to live here to be safe,” Tony said firmly.

“Tony.” Ziva said the name with such desperation that Jethro knew she was close to the edge, but her guilt about draining Tony’s guide was still in the room with them, so she was going to have a lot of trouble trusting him. If Tony had done the same to Ziva, she would have sought revenge. Luckily for her, Tony was more forgiving. But Jethro wasn’t sure Ziva would listen to Tony because she would always be waiting for him to retaliate.

“Ziva, you need to come home,” Jethro said.

She turned her pain-filled gaze toward Tony.

“Come back.”

She shook her head. “You cannot mean that, not after what I have done.”

“Ziva, I will never trust you or your guide near my wolf. I won't,” Tony said firmly. “But Gibbs is right--our daughter comes first. You are her mother, and I want to make sure you can continue being her mother.”

“In America.”

“Yes.”

Ziva raised her chin. “Where you will have the legal upper hand.”

Tony threw his hands in the air. “You’re an American citizen, you've raised the child this far without me, and you're the mother. You have the legal upper hand in America. But I won't allow you to continue to raise my daughter in a bomb shelter.”

Jethro rolled his eyes as they circled back to the same damn point. If he’d ever met two more stubborn human beings in his whole life, he couldn’t remember them. Before Jethro could interrupt them, Ziva was in Tony’s face, Tali shifted to her hip.

“If something were to happen, it is the most secure area,” Ziva said.

“If someone came and shot you, she would be locked in a room with a door too heavy for her to open, and then she could slowly die of starvation and thirst,” Tony countered.

Ziva paled. "That would not happen."

“It could and you know it. Don't play stupid,” Jethro said before they could continue. Move back to DC.
You can stay at my house.” The second Jethro said that, he could see the shadow of betrayal on Tony’s face. Jethro had made enough mistakes that he feared one more could permanently damage their relationship, so he added. “Tony, you're welcome to move in as well. I have four bedrooms.” Jethro schooled his features to reveal nothing because Jethro hadn’t used his fourth bedroom in twenty years. He’d locked his daughter’s bedroom and refused to let anyone use it.

However, he could imagine his little girl would have taken Tali under her wing. She would have wanted to help such a wide-eyed child who had so much against her. By the time Kelly was Tali’s age, she was an outgoing and happy child. In comparison, Tali was too quiet and too withdrawn.

From the look of horror on Tony’s face, he understood the meaning of Jethro offering all four bedrooms. “Boss, we couldn't.”

Jethro snorted. “Stop being stupid. Of course you can.” Jethro took Tali from Ziva’s arm. “Go make three reservations for the next flight to DC.” Jethro used his most authoritative voice, and Ziva reacted. After a brief pause, she turned and headed out of the room.

“Boss,” Tony said.

Jethro handed Tony his daughter. That cut off any further discussion. Right now, Jethro wasn’t prepared to talk about what it would mean to have a new child in Kelly’s room. But if that was the only way to get Ziva to give up her ridiculous plan to raise a child in a bomb shelter, then had to do the right thing. Kelly wouldn’t want him to turn his back on family, and Jethro hoped that the bonds that tied him and Tony together hadn’t degraded so much that Jethro had lost Tony and now Tali as family.

Chapter Fourteen

“Well this is a good sign,” Tony said sarcastically before dropping into the seat next to Gibbs. Ziva had gotten herself a seat in the business section, and he and Gibbs were exiled to economy. Tony would have rated this as worse than flying military, but she had been kind enough to buy the center seat so he and Gibbs had the row to themselves.

“Would you rather she sit here?” Gibbs glanced down toward the center seat. Tony imagined how that would go—Ziva between them, feeling trapped and angry. After a second, Gibbs said, “Exactly.”

“It’s still not a good sign.” Tony started wiggling his foot, but when he realized he had started fidgeting, he stopped before he could annoy the boss too much. Tony figured Gibbs was probably near his limits already, especially since Tony had managed to break rule twelve so spectacularly. From the beginning, Ziva had gotten him all turned around, and that never changed. What had changed was Tony’s interest in having any relationship with a woman who would hide his child, lie to drive him away, and all that after draining Tony’s guide of his power.

There were layers of wrong there.

“Look, boss, we should probably talk.”

Gibbs grunted. Of course he did. God forbid he have a real conversation like a normal person. Most of the time Tony appreciated Gibbs’ eccentricities, but right now he really wished the man would just pretend to be normal.

“So, when I get my phone back, am I going to find out that Vance is sending me out to sea angry or firing me angry?”

“He won’t do either,” Gibbs said in a fierce growl. Tony wished he could trust that, but he couldn’t afford to have illusions. He did have money saved—more than most would probably suspect. He couldn’t live easily, but if he could get a partial retirement from NCIS, he could afford to retire. Well, as long as he was okay being poor. Another few years and he could have taken early retirement, but with his new status as a shaman, Tony probably didn’t have a lot of choice.

Although realistically, NCIS might keep him around until all the court cases he’d worked got through the appeals process. That might take long enough to get him to early retirement.

“Boss, we have to be realistic. I know Vance won’t let me stay on the team, and frankly, I’m going to count myself lucky if I get to stay at NCIS until I get my finances in order.”

Gibbs turned and gave him an incredulous look. Clearly Gibbs disagreed, which didn’t mean much. Gibbs pulled Tony’s phone out of his jacket. “Call Vance.”

“Yeah, that’s going to be a happy conversation,” Tony said, but since he was a bandage fast sort of guy, he opened his texts and started reading. Mostly he had a lot of orders to call Vance ASAP with a few texts from Gibbs telling Vance that he refused to pass on the message. Tony gave Gibbs a dirty look before checking his watch. It was just after 1:30 in the afternoon, so it would be either 6:30 or 7:30 back in DC, Tony couldn’t remember, and he didn’t want to look up the conversion with Gibbs sitting next to him. It was early, but not middle of the night, so Tony took a chance and dialed the number Vance kept leaving.

On the third ring he got a terse, “Gibbs, I swear to God if you don’t give DiNozzo his phone I’m going to put out an international hold on sight order.”

“Sir,” Tony said uncertainly. He had no idea what Gibbs had been doing with his phone, but apparently it hadn’t been good. “This is DiNozzo.”

“Oh.” There was an ominous pause and then some audible shuffling of paper. “Okay, I need to ask a few questions, and when you answer, keep in mind that you will have to answer these again during a lie detector and during an examination by the shamanic council.”

“Examination?” That sounded dangerous. “What would that entail?”

“I have no idea. Now, before Agents Boucher and Oberton visited NCIS, did you know you had Talent?”

“No.”

“And when did you go on your shamanic journey?”

Tony opened his mouth, but he had no answer for that. He certainly didn’t want to get into his shitty history with Senior, not now and not with Vance. Before Tony could decide what to say, Gibbs had snatched the phone out of Tony’s hand.

“Leon, that’s a little personal for him to answer while on a plane full of strangers. Now tell DiNozzo he’s still on the team and we’ll talk to you when we get back to DC.” Gibbs thrust the phone back at Tony.

Tony took it and apologized to Director Vance. “Sorry, sir. He took the phone.”

“He does that,” Vance said dryly. “But he is correct that you still have your job. You will need to work with the DA to address any hearing defense attorneys may schedule and get a legal certification on the limitations of Talent on the job, but that’s all logistics. My question is whether you can get control of your Talent well enough to use them on the job.”

Tony blinked. He hadn’t expected that question. He’d mentally prepared for every possibility that included getting fired, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Vance might see potential Talent as an advantage. “Um, I don’t know. I can’t actively do anything.” Tony couldn’t even summon his wolf. He’d tried all night, and spectacularly failed. Tony would be doubting his Talent right now, only his wolf had shown up to defend Tony’s right to his daughter. And Tony could feel the wolf in the back of his mind. His guide was a shadow lurking through the dark corners of the world, watching and always prepared to leap to Tony’s defense. It was a comforting presence, but Tony wasn’t sure he could turn that into an actual advantage during an investigation.

If anything, Talent was more of a deterrent right now. If a suspect asked for a Talent-free interrogation, Tony would be immediately banned from the room. It limited Tony’s options, especially since he would have to notify suspects of his status.

“Find someone to train with. I understand Boucher runs the Talent unit over at the FBI and he has a number of techniques he uses on scene. It’s an area where you can distinguish yourself,” Vance said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Report when you land.”

“Yes, sir. We’re just going to drop Ziva off at Gibbs’ house and then we’ll be there.”

“Ziva? Ziva David?” Tony cringed. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. When Tony looked over, Gibbs was giving him the hairy eye.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Forget I said that last part.”

“Are you pressing charges against her for assault?”

“Absolutely not,” Tony said firmly. He didn’t know whether or not her actions were assault, but with a child in the middle, he refused to even consider it. The only thing that had kept Tony sane through the hard times were the memories of his mother. Her laugh. The way she would lean forward during a beautiful piece of music. Her tears flowing during movies. The way she would fall asleep with a glass of booze and dump it down her leg. They weren’t all good memories, but she had loved him, and Tony had clung to that when life got hard.

And he could see the same devotion in Tali when she reached for Ziva and watched her with those large dark eyes. His daughter adored Ziva, so Tony would do whatever he needed to in order to make sure they stayed together. The only way he’d press charges was if Ziva took Tali and ran. He wasn’t even afraid of her wasp guide because Tony’s gut told him that her guide was no match for his now that his wolf had recovered.

“Long story,” Tony said.

There was an awkward pause before Vance finally said, “Brief me when you’re back in DC.” And then he hung up.

Tony ended the call and put his phone in his pocket before Gibbs could confiscate it again. “Vance is interested in me developing my Talent at work.”

“He should be.”

“Seriously? I thought you’d vote for avoiding it.” As far as Tony was concerned, Gibbs vetoed any investigative method that involved technology he didn’t understand. Sure, Gibbs understood the value of progressive methods, which is why he brought on first Tim and then Ellie, but he was hard-core old school.

“If the tool works, use it.” Gibbs studied Tony.

“Even if it’s legally a mess and could lead suspects to challenge the authenticity of our evidence?”

“NCIS has wanted someone with Talent for a long time. Fibbies have their own team, and the CIA isn’t even subtle about recruiting. Do you think all those people would recruit if the tool wasn’t valuable?”

Tony knew there was only one answer, and Gibbs didn’t say things just to reassure an insecure subordinate, but Tony still had trouble wrapping his head around it. Talent made Vance value him more. Yeah, that sounded wrong. Instead of dealing with the issue, Tony changed the subject. “Are you sure you want Ziva and Tali at your house?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.”

“But this can’t be easy… having a little girl in your house. I can afford to get them a place.” Especially now that it looked like he might still have a job.

“Nope. You’re a father. You need to start putting money aside for Tali’s education.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Gibbs said firmly. “Kelly was a beautiful little girl, and I will always love her. That doesn’t mean I can’t let Tali into my heart, too.” Gibbs said it, but his entire posture screamed his discomfort. Tony’s heart ached at the pain Gibbs carried. If someone killed Tali, Tony wasn’t sure he could recover. Now Tony better understood why part of Gibbs had died with his family.

“I don’t want you hurt,” Tony said softly.

Gibbs looked over quickly, as though surprised. “I’m fine.”

“If I lost Tali, I wouldn’t be.”

Gibbs drew a deep breath. “You would. You would know that you still had a job to do in the world, and you would make yourself go on.”

Tony didn’t say it, but he thought that Gibbs hadn’t gone on as much as some part of him had frozen in time so he would always live in the moment when he lost his girls. His work life went on. His sex life went on, because Tony had seen the string of redheads the boss had fallen for, but some essential part of Gibbs was still back there in time.

Gibbs gave Tony a sad smile. “I’m fine. Kelly would have loved playing with Tali. She loved kids who were littler than her. She would play mother and bring them toys and read to them.” Gibbs’ eyes glazed over. The pain was so deep that Tony was afraid to say anything. It was like Gibbs was raw and bleeding and the wrong word could kill him, so Tony stayed silent. “Kelly wouldn’t forgive me if I let that little girl keep living in a bomb shelter.” A grimace crossed Gibbs’ face and he turned toward the window.

The pain was a cat who had curled up between them to sleep in the heat of Gibbs’ emotions, so Tony gave the man some space. Tony pulled his phone out and started Googling law enforcement techniques that used Talent. Sure, right now he couldn’t even get his guide to show up, but Tony could feel that deep well of power right at his fingertips, so if there was a chance to access it and do some good, that meant Tony needed information.

lit_gal — Sat, 04 Mar 2017 20:39:38 GMT

The muse is still being uncooperative, and I'm still unhappy with the first Claiming 4 chapter, so instead I'm poking around with Aberrant Magic 5 instead.

Aberrant Magic 5
Texas Charm

Chapter Two

Zach looked at the nearly headless body. Several shots had hit the back of the skull, and more the crime scene techs had already marked the impact marks from other shots that had gone wild. Someone had emptied an entire clip. Zach gave a whistle "This guy was seriously unpopular."

"This goes beyond unpopular," Art said. "But it looks like the shots were aimed at the back of his head." He left it there, but they'd worked together long enough that Zach could figure out what Art was thinking. Shooting someone in the face meant anger. Cold executions were often in the back of the head. This was a bizarre combination.

"It looks like," the assistant coroner said. He was finishing up with his photographs. "I can't say for sure, though."

Zach didn't pay much attention to him. The assistant didn't have a medical degree and was basically a glorified taxi driver for the dead. His job was to secure the body for transport and preserve evidence. The actual coroner would have to give time and manner of death. Although Zach didn't think there was much doubt this time. Several shots to the back of the head tended to provide a pretty clear cause of death.

"Do we have a name?" Art asked.

The assistant coroner shrugged. And Art looked at Leah Butler, the head of the crime scene techs identifying evidence under the floodlights.

"No wallet or name we found," she said. "We haven't run license plates on nearby cars. That may give us a hit." With that, she reached her limit for small talk and walked to the far corner of the scene. Leah was stunningly good at evidence analysis and had an eagle eye for spotting anything out of place. More than one case had been saved by her habit of scooping up every bit of interesting detritus at a scene, but she wasn't known for her chattiness.

"Do you want me to run licenses?" Zach asked. There wasn't much else he could do until they had a name. God have mercy on the soul of the detective who touched a piece of evidence on one of Leah's crime scenes. Zach certainly wasn't going to get his oar in her water.

Art grunted and gave a nod. He was already focused on the body and the case, so Zach headed for the street. Art tended to get his head into a set of details and live there for a time, so Art settled in with his tablet computer to check for car owners. He could tell their victim was a white male on the taller side, so he set out to get a list of car owners who matched the general description.

Another car pulled up behind the sea of flashing police lights, and Zach glanced over to see if Art wanted to meet their newest arrival. Art was crouched next to the fire hydrant, leaning against it as he studied the scene. Most of the cop assumed Art was using his Talent when he did that, but he was just as likely to be trying to figure out what kind of suspect or what kind of perp would be in this particular place.

Even if he didn't have official training, Art was one hell of a profiler.

Since Art was wrapped up in the scene, Zach headed over to meet the assistant DA. It looked like they'd pulled a good one with Hernandez. He took his cases seriously and hadn't yet thrown a cop under the bus. No doubt the day would come because DAs would do anything to win their cases, including making the detectives look like idiots, but so far Hernandez hadn't.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Zach said. The DA normally showed up only if they had a name and needed to start thinking about search warrants.

"I was only a couple of miles away, so I thought I'd see how your scene looked."

"Ugly. Multiple gunshots to the back of the head. It looks like the whole clip got emptied."

"And the suspect only shot the head?" Hernandez's eyebrows went up.

"Yep."

"Nothing..." He gestured toward his crouch.

"You got one sex crime case and now you have it stuck on the brain," Zach accused him, but he grinned to take the sting out of the insult.

"Hey, that's the only other case I've had with multiple shots to the head. Although she managed to hit both heads several times."

"She wasn't a half bad shot for a meth addict." Most couldn't focus long enough to tie their shoes. "This guy was shot in the back of the head and no where else. Art is doing his communing with the crime scene thing."

A minute flinch went across Hernandez's face before he nodded. Zach changed the subject before the DA could say something stupid about Talent.

"How does the other case look?"

Hernandez barked out a dark laugh. "Cut and dried. Two neighbors have been threatening each other for months. They had mutual restraining orders. One dog is in surgery at the vet, two neighbors are dead, and everyone had their lawyers on scene before I even got there. The only question is which family members get charged with murder, which with assault, and which ones get simple interfering with a law enforcement officers in the performance of their duties."

"Yuck." Zach would rather have a near-headless body.

"I'm going to be tied up on that one for a while. The lawyers are already at the station waiting for their clients to get booked, and I'm going there now. Do you need anything?"

"Until we can ID this victim, we're limited to the scene. We'll canvass the area and start calling car owners in the morning. When we get a name, we'll call for the paperwork."

Hernandez nodded and headed back to his car.

Rather than head back to the cars, Zach walked over to Art. This was a bad neighborhood. The locals had tried renaming it Angel's Triangle, like that would change the poverty or the crime rates, but most people still called it Devil's Triangle because the name fit better. Death was normal out here, although it usually came in the form of drug addicts overdosing or the elderly found dead in their homes. Murder was rare, even in this part of town.

Zach leaned against the hood of the nearest patrol car and waited as Art slowly stood. He came over and leaned next to Zach.

"Clothes are nice, not ripped or worn."

Zach waited. He watched as Leah worked her way across the territory her techs had covered, occasionally calling one over to point out something they had missed. As Zach expected, Art started talking again. "His shoes aren't worn, so he isn't a habitual walker, and he still had a ring of some sort, so I don't think this was a robbery."

"Wedding ring?" Zach asked.

Art shook his head. "Right hand."

Zach's job was in their duo was to poke holes in Art's observations and theories, so Zach got right to work. "The wallet is missing. The thief might have bypassed the ring because it was too tight to get off."

"They could have cut the finger post mortem." Art only paused a half second before adding, "but that's a messy job and whoever did this does not have a lot of experience. He put a lot of ammo into the ground trying to finish the job. He may not have wanted to get that close to the body post-mortem. Robbery is a solid possibility."

"But robbers don't usually kill someone like that," Zach said as he watched the assistant coroner shift the body onto a stretcher before raising it up. The death was definite overkill, and that meant emotional involvement."

"What's the new body guy's name?" Art asked.

"No idea."

"Huh." After a second, he focused on the case again. "So, the anger could be personal or we could be looking at someone who had rage issues and this poor guy just pissed him off at the wrong time."

Zach summarized. "So, we look at local robberies, local hot heads with a background in serious assaults, and we look into this guy's life--once we know who he is."

"Seems like. Until we get an ID, we have to canvass the area."

Zach looked around. This area was all railroad tracks and city park. "Homeless?" This time of night, most of them would be settling into their hiding holes, and they would be particularly difficult to find.

"Yep," Art said.

Joy. Zach just loved canvassing the homeless population and having rotten food thrown at him by people who assumed his goal was to harass poor people.

"You don't have to make that face," Art said dryly.

"Yeah, I do. This isn't going to be an easy one, is it?"

"Are any of them?"

"No, but usually we have a fairly good idea about what happened. We know it's a drug-related shooting or that someone had trouble with their family. We can tell it started with a robbery or a rape. The hard part is usually getting a witness to go on the record or getting a confession. Here we don't even know where to start."

"Until we know who he was, we can't make any assumptions. It may turn out that he's a loan shark, and we have a long list of people who wanted him dead."

Zach wasn't buying that. The sharks in this area worked for the gangs, and killing them would just bring the gang down on the perp's head. So if Art were right, they were in a race to find a truly stupid killer before he became the next homicide victim. Art's phone rang, but Zach didn't pay much attention. Since they'd caught a case, any number of people might be calling.

"Lammas," he answered curtly. After a second of listening, he frowned deeply. "Are you okay?" A long pause followed, longer than required for a simple answer. "And your neighbors?"

Zach gave up any pretense of giving Art some privacy and openly stared as he tried to figure out who Art was talking to.

"How much damage was there?" As Art listened, he mouthed the word mom. Art's mom? His mom never called after nine pm. Hell, she'd drilled that rule of good manners into Art with fervor that the man would drive halfway across town to see if someone's house lights were on before calling them at night.

"Where are you right now?" Art nodded. "Okay. Stay put and I'll come get you." He paused briefly. "No, it's fine, Mom. Zach can handle our case."

This time the pause was longer, and Art's eye started to twitch.

"It's not a problem. We're stuck and can't do much until morning anyway. I can come get you." Pause. "Zach is perfectly capable of pulling records without me. If anything, you're saving me from a paperwork chase. I would rather come get you.”

Zach started imagining what Nelba might be saying on the other end. She was probably concerned about interfering with Art’s job, but Zach figured she probably had a little worry in there that Zach couldn’t handle things by himself. She always tended to look at Zach like he was constantly failing to live up to some standard she had in her head.

“No, I’m coming right now,” Art said. “Mom, no. I just need thirty minutes to get there. Wait for me.” He paused briefly before saying, “Love you, too.” He disconnected.

“What happened?” Zach asked.

“Her apartment building caught on fire.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” Art blew out a long breath. “She’s quietly freaked out. The fire department won’t let her go in her apartment, and she’s outside with the Red Cross volunteer trying to offer her vouchers for a hotel.”

Nelba hated charity, so Zach felt sorry for the volunteer trying to get her to take money. “Go. I’ll catch a ride with a uniform,” Zach said firmly. If his mom called, he’d be on the next airplane. He could imagine Art was even more anxious to get to Nelba.

Art hesitated.

“Go,” Zach repeated. “I’ll wait for you before I canvass the area, so unless you want to run backgrounds on license numbers, you don’t have anything to do on scene.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

Zach nodded. If Nelba was upset, soon might be a relative term, but Zach could cover. “Just make sure she’s okay.”

“Will do,” Art said. He touched the back of Zach’s hand for a second. And then with a nod toward Leah, he headed for the car. Since canvassing was a two-detective job and dragging the uniforms along as backup would just make the homeless run away, Zach went back to running backgrounds on the cars parked in the area.

lit_gal — Thu, 23 Feb 2017 05:10:35 GMT

I"m having trouble focusing and I'm poking around in universes. How does this work as an opening chapter.

Aberrant Magic 5
Texas Charm

Zach pulled up to the house. He wished they had some time off because the brown had faded into something purplish and close to bruise colored. It didn’t exactly match the bright paint in their El Paso neighborhood. But he and Art had caught case after case after case, and then Agents Oberton and Boucher from Washington DC had dropped a political hot potato in their laps, and now the yellow paint they’d picked sat in the garage.

When he came into the living room, he could smell beans cooking. So Art had been home a while. Zach dropped his computer bag on the end of the couch and headed around the old fireplace into the kitchen dining room space. “Hey.” He leaned against the island and peered at what Art was cooking.

Art looked up from the crockpot. “Hey.”

“Been home long?”

Art dropped the lid back down. “Nope. I started the Tejano beans this morning.”

Before the big confrontation with the local magical council. Somehow that felt like Art had put a lot of faith in their big plan because Zach had made arrangements to be in the hospital or filling out paperwork on why a large number of shamans were out of commission. But that’s why Zach loved Art. The grouchy old coot might pretend to be the pessimist in the partnership, but he always planned for things to work out. Zach wanted to be optimistic, and he could talk one hell of a game, but when push came to shove, he always expected to crash and burn in the end.

On the bright side, that made their successes so much sweeter.

Art pulled out a cooking knife and slapped it on the counter. “Make yourself useful while I make a sauce.”

“What am I making myself useful doing?” Zach asked as he picked up the knife.

“Pambazos in the cupboard, last night’s steak in the fridge.”

And that added to Art’s sauce would be steak sandwiches with guajillo pepper sauce. Zach went to get the leftovers. “That was less of a fight than I expected. Am I the only one who expected a lot more fighting and a lot less running away and screaming like a little girl?”

“That’s an insult to little girls,” Art said with a hint of growl in his voice. He was just like his guide, all arched back and hissing over the idiots in his life, not that the ex-council members would be in their lives any more. Zach was almost sure they were all packing their bags and making plans to be elsewhere.

Art had convinced all the local shamans and adepts to go to the spirit plane and confront the local council of five shamans who controlled the Talent services in the area, including the federal money that went to the Djedi center. While the medical center had the bare minimum required to provide medical care, the five council members had fancy houses and expensive clothes.

“I’m kinda disappointed my baby bird didn't get to take his anger out on them,” Zach said in an exaggerated pout as he sliced the steak.

Art paused his pepper chopping to glare at Zach. “You’re scaring the shit out of me when you talk like that. You do realize is that hummingbird of yours is an ancient power with access to nearly unlimited magic from another dimension, don't you?”

“The way you say it, you take all the fun out of having a guide.” Zach winked. He did understand that Huitzilopochtli was an ancient ifrit who had lived with the Aztecs and either inspired their god or been inspired to take the hummingbird to honor their god—Zach wasn’t sure which came first. However, Zach refused to freak out. It was too cool for that.

“That bird of yours can do a lot of damage. We’re lucky you didn’t ask him to get involved today.”

“Hummer isn’t interested in causing havoc and destruction. If anything, I get the feeling that he thinks Agent Oberton’s guide is too reckless. Hummer was only willing to step in if the council refused to give up their seats because those five were using their guides to try and control the spirit plane. There's something seriously wrong about harassing people on a plane of existence that doesn't have courts or restraining orders.” Zach finished thin slicing the steak and went to get the pambazos. “There really should be a spiritual restraining order system set up.”

“Yeah you can have fun running that. Personally, I plan on getting a beer, relaxing, and possibly ravaging my lover later.”

“Cool. Sounds kinky. Is this someone I know?” Zach wiggled his eyebrows.

“I thought I might go to a bar and pick up a random gay guy.” Art’s voice was desert dry.

“That's extra special kinky. Now I want to watch.”

Art snorted. “If you develop a kink for voyeurism, I'm trading you in on another lover. And if you put those pambazos in the microwave, I’ll kill you and hide the body. I know some good dumping grounds, so don’t even push me on this.” Art used his knife to point at Zach.

“No you won't. No one else will put up with your dirty socks.” Despite that, Zach did dump the two loaves on the oven rack before turning it on. As far as he was concerned, it was a waste of electricity to heat the oven and the whole kitchen for a couple of oversized Kaiser rolls, but he’d learned to not get between Art and his food.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, Mr. Stinks-A-Lot. For the sake of my poor nose, I have banned cauliflower from this house. I was afraid I was going to have to declare our bathroom a toxic zone.”

“That's why God made guest bathrooms.”

“Yeah, and it be great if you used it.”

“Hey. You're the one with the ultrasensitive nose. You can use the guest bathroom.”

“Or I can just keep throwing out all the cauliflower.” Art grabbed a couple of plates and started dividing up the food. “Seriously, your intestines are thanking me for this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. So, now that the whole community has gotten together their mob and driven off the evil counsel, I'm feeling a need to celebrate by declaring your candidacy for the head of the El Paso Shamanic Council.”

For a second Art froze and then he slowly turned toward Zach. That was not a playful glare or even a confused stare. Art had gone straight to unvarnished horror. “Or we don't,” he said firmly.

“I'm serious. We had a problem with the council embezzling money and treating the magical community unfairly. If we want to have a fair counsel, then having you at the head of it would ensure that.” Zach would take the position himself, but he had chosen to keep his guide a secret. Eventually he would soak up enough magic that someone might notice something, but Zach doubted that would happen any time soon. Until then, Zach was going to play the part of a mundane, largely by actually being mundane. Hummer had a habit of ignoring any requests for magical intervention unless he felt like getting involved.

“And it would ensure that I never had a moment's peace again,” Art objected. “I'm a cop. Between being a cop and being a lover and being a human being who wants to sometimes hang out on his couch and drink beer in his underwear, I don't have time to run a magical council. I don’t want to spend my evenings reviewing budgets and requests for resources for the medical center.”

“But at least if you were on the council the resources would actually get to the medical center. Right now this whole area is ground zero for theft and grift and embezzling and skimming and every other word for bad moral behavior that I can think of. I’m even pretty sure the council used blackmail. The Talent community needs a moral center to rally around.” This made perfect sense to Zach, but from the look of revulsion on Art’s face, the argument wasn’t going well.

“Art, I love you, but there is no way I'm going to run for council. Never. I am amazingly proud of you for organizing the community and convincing them to have their own little peasant uprising against the council. I am. I thought it was a crazy idea, but it worked. So in hindsight I'm willing to call you brilliant.” Art held up a hand to stop Zach from interrupting. “I am not willing to give my life to the magical council so that I can serve people who didn't want to protect themselves until you made them.”

Zach frowned. “That's kind of cynical way to look at it.”

“Well I'm kind of a cynical guy, so I'm okay with that.” Art headed for the oven to save the bread. “Besides, they have to step up and handle their own business. Trust me when I say that sooner or later anyone I served with on the council would want me off. So it's better for them to figure out how to do by themselves in the first place.”

“What's that supposed to mean? If you're having more of your low self-esteem, no one loves me moments, I can drag you to therapy.”

Art gave him a dirty look. “Physician heal thyself.”

“Fuck you.”

“I'd rather be the one fucking you,” Art said, but then he shrugged, “but if you wanted or the other way around tonight I am totally okay with that.”

Zach took his plate. If there was going to be fucking, he wanted to eat his meal first. As he got himself some beans to go with his sandwich, he tried to focus on being reasonable. He reasonably wanted Art on the council. “Look I get this whole social taboo thing around magic. Like our whole society says that the polite thing is to ignore magic and pretend it isn't there. Kind of like we all pretend to ignore race and then completely don't. So I get that ignoring magic is the polite thing to do, but now that I have my own magical guide and have access to my own magic, don't you think we can have some serious conversations about some of your magical hang-ups. Because I’m really tired of being polite about this.”

“You were never polite about this. You've asked me more questions about my magic than everyone else in my life combined.”

“Yeah well that's because I'm your lover.”

“And because you nosy as hell.”

Zach couldn’t argue with that. His curiosity made him a damn good detective. “The fact I’m nosy as hell is why I'm your lover. Now if you're through changing the subject, would you like to explain to me using very small words with very few number of syllables why you think other magic users would turn on you?”

Art shrugged before dipping his steak sandwich in his pepper sauce. “They just would.”

“Oh yeah like that answer is going to work. Since when has that ever worked with me?”

“I live in hope that one day I might be able to just tell you to drop the subject and you’ll drop it. It's like a fantasy. Only less likely than most of my fantasies because you seem to be more open to whips and blindfolds then letting me handle my own business.”

Zach glared. That wasn’t fair. They were partners at home and at work, and if Zach wanted an explanation, it was because he had a right to one. The Talent community had decades of financial abuse to overcome, and Zach knew some of that was his fault. Art couldn’t challenge for a council seat—he couldn’t develop his powers as a shaman—because more powerful shamans often absorbed energy from the world around them. The most powerful shamans could drain a lover of all life force because sex opened the magical barriers that even mundanes maintained naturally.

When the two of them had gotten together, Zach had understood the sacrifice Art had made, but now Zach had his own guide who would guard Zach’s life force, and Art could get involved. And for all his grumpy complaining, Zach knew that Art suffered every time the Djedi center turned away a patient or magic user couldn’t find help because the council had bled the community dry of funds. Zach had stood at ground zero for every fit of temper Art had thrown and every plate he’d broken over that shit.

“You treat everything like it was some goddamn confidential file. So either you're going to tell me why the others would turn on you or I’m going to keep nagging you.”

“I can sleep in the den,” Art threatened.

“I can nag you there.”

The starch went out of Art and he sagged. “You are such an asshole.”

“Yeah, well from what I hear you have a thing for assholes.”

“I must I live with you.”

Zach recognized this technique. “Changing the subject won't work. Why are you so sure that local shamans wouldn’t work with you?”

“This is something that is just between us. And I mean it. I know you don't get why I'm so private, and maybe I am too closed up sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Zach challenged him. Art had his gruff asshole act down pat. People only noticed he was a nice guy when they stopped listening to him bitch and started noticing how he would mentor younger cops and tutor them on the range.

“A lot of times okay?” Art said. “But this is difficult staff to discuss. Most people don't talk about their Talent except with their mentors. Would you want someone interrogating you about your relationship with your hummingbird? Would you want someone questioning your hummingbird's motives for suggesting that he wasn't powerful enough or ethical enough or human enough?”

“I'm going to assume you mean that people question your humanity and not your guide’s,” Zach said. Art’s guide was either a creature from another dimension or an alley cat, depending on how a person looked at it. “And questioning your humanity is bullshit.”

“Well that's debatable,” Art muttered.

“Meaning what?”

Art sighed before he answered. “Give me your word that what I'm about to say does not leave this house ever.”

“Okay.”

“No I want a serious commitment I'm talking you don't tell people about this on pain of torture. Well maybe torture but nothing less, and your sister’s bitching does not count as torture.”

“You're freaking me out here. But you know if this is important to you I would never share with anyone else. You have my word.” Zach could feel a heaviness in his gut, and Hummer appeared in front of the architectural drawing of the Empire State building. He hovered for a moment before darting around, searching for an enemy.

Art ignored him. “People with Talent don't often talk because of all of the discrimination that magic is endured over the years, but it's more than that. Shamans from different schools of thought have very different ideas about how magic is supposed to work. The easiest way to avoid getting in huge conflict over how Talent should be used is to just not talk about it.”

“So you're saying that magic users are split into Democrats and Republicans and they are eternally trying to share a Thanksgiving dinner without pissing each other off.” That sounded like a level of hell. Years ago, Zach’s divorced parents sometimes tried to do the whole working together for the kids routine, and it had generally ended with a screaming match over presidential politics. Not fun.

“That's pretty close, and it’s worse around here. If you go up north you're going to find most shamans have trained under the Egyptian system.”

“Would that include our two recent guests from DC?” Zach asked. He’d liked Oberton, and Boucher had come off as eminently capable even if he had all the charm and cuddliness of a porcupine, but Zach hadn’t spent a whole lot of time talking magical theory with them. They’d solved their trafficking case, blown up the local FBI office with discrimination and incompetence complaints, and then run back to DC.

“Definitely. Kavon Boucher has a lot of power, and there is something unique about the way and Egyptian trained shaman feels. But I get the feelings he doesn't exactly toe the line.”

That was surprising because Zach got the feeling Boucher made love to his rules. “That might mean something to me if I knew where the line was. What exactly does it mean to be an Egyptian shaman?”

“For the most part it means that they try to avoid getting entangled in mundane society.”

“Boucher runs his own FBI unit, so I'm fairly sure he's involved in mundanes activities all the time.”

“Yes, but he wasn't throwing his magic around. His team was for magic users and shamans and adepts, and yet most of the investigation was fairly traditional. The only used magic when they had to counter the suspects’ Talent. That’s the influence of the Egyptian school shamanism. The Egyptians believe shamans should be separate and not affect earth or earth politics.”

“But you said that this was a particularly divided part of the world. If the Egyptians control up north then what we have south of us?”

“The Vatican. The Vatican trained shamans see magic as a temptation, and they tend to center their life in the church. They rely on the church to provide a sort of moral checks and balances system to keep them from going off the rails. So they’re integrated in society but there sort of shielded behind the church.”

“And we are sort of caught between Mexico and the US, I'm assuming.”

“Something like that,” Art agreed. “When England dumped the Catholic church, they embraced the Egyptian system as more modern, and in big chunks of the Western hemisphere, that really stuck.”

Zach knew how to follow clues, and right now, he didn’t have enough of them. Art hadn’t been inside a church as long as Zach had known him. But he sure as hell didn’t believe in keeping his magic separate from his job. Talent helped them track killers, and Art didn’t make any pretense of hiding that. “So which side are you on?”

“Neither, which is why I would be uniquely unpopular on the council. Eventually, everyone would hate me.”

Maybe Zach was being obtuse, but that didn’t make sense. “Explain the potential for hate.”

Art gave Zach a dirty look, as if he was being dim on purpose. “They’re going to figure out that no matter which side of this divide they’re on, that I think they’re full of shit.”

“You think everyone is full of shit,” Zach pointed out, and it was almost true. Art would help anyone who wanted it, but he could be a judgmental bastard about it.

“And people usually don’t like that.” Art jammed his sandwich in his bowl with such vehemence that red sauce slopped everywhere. “God damn it!” He leaped up from the table and grabbed the paper towels. Zach hurried to help before the mess spread. He was just reaching for the towels when his phone chimed.

A second later, Art’s phone went off.

Well shit. That meant they had a case. And since Carson and Guiles were on call tonight, that meant that it was either something big enough for four detectives or the second major event of the night.

“Grab your sandwich and let’s go,” Art said.

Zach looked at his Tejano beans with regret before doing exactly that.

lit_gal — Sat, 18 Feb 2017 19:12:53 GMT

Dry My Dreaming

Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still...
Iris, blue each spring ― Bashō Matsuo

NCIS / Aberrant Magic
Tony angst
Eventually Tony/Gibbs
Before Bishop's breakup
The new team does not exist

Chapters 8-11

Chapter Eight

Tony stared out over the Naval Yard. He wasn't exactly surprised when he roof door opened, but he didn't know what to expect. Tony's status as a shaman endangered every conviction where Tony had worked in interrogation. Gibbs was going to kill him, but the questioned remained--would it be a slow or a fast death. Gibbs might throw him off the roof or just fire him. Maybe he would pretend to be reasonable and just boot Tony off the MCRT, exiling him to a desk job. All roads would all lead to the same place.

Gibbs came over and sat on the ventilation cover next to Tony. Every muscle in Tony's body tensed and he waited for the ax to fall, but Gibbs--the manipulative bastard--just sat there. Time grew heavy and the distant sounds of the Navy Yard seemed nearly overwhelming.

"I fucked up, huh?"

"Nope."

Tony stared at Gibbs incredulously. Of all the possibilities Tony had planned for, that wasn't one. The silence grew progressively more awkward until Gibbs spoke again.

"You want to talk about what happened when you were twelve?" Gibbs asked.

Tony would rather spork his own eyes out. "I'm going to have to talk to legal, huh?" Tony figured if there was any chance of saving their convictions, Tony owed it to the victims.

"Yep," Gibbs said.

"I guess I should practice the story." Tony sighed and waited for Gibbs to run for the hills. Talking about feelings wasn't exactly his thing. He was even less interested in listening to anyone else talk about feelings. However, Gibbs just continued to sit next to Tony. When Tony closed his eyes, he could almost feel Gibbs' body heat. If he talked to Gibbs, Gibbs would see him as a victim. Tony never wanted that--not again. However, if he didn't talk, he knew Gibbs would never understand and never forgive him for risking all their cases.

Ten years. Ten years of administrative reviews and defense lawyer challenges. Tony didn't have to worry about getting fired because NCIS was going to chain him to a desk in the legal department and make him testify in the five thousand appeals defense lawyers were going to file.

"Any time you're ready," Gibbs said.

Tony winced as Gibbs used the same phrase Tony had heard him use so often with victims. "I was a stupid kid." Tony stopped, not sure how to explain what he'd done and what Senior had done. After taking a deep breath, Tony tried to focus on facts, just as if he were testifying. And he was going to have to repeat this story in front of a lot of juries if the defense lawyers had anything to say about it. "My father and I were staying with one of his business associates in a large estate on Long Island. My mother had recently died and I resented my father for not paying attention, so I ran away. He thought I was playing with his associate’s son and didn’t discover I was missing until hours later. I suffered from exposure and spend several days in the hospital.” It all sounded so damn reasonable when Tony said it like that. It was a good tactic to take for the stand. Hopefully none of the defense lawyers would dig too deep into Tony’s background and ask painful follow up questions.

Gibbs pursed his lips and seemed to think about that. Tony held his breath and waited for the final ax to fall on his career.

“So, since I know you and I’ve heard some of the stories from your childhood, let me translate that,” Gibbs said. Tony would have objected vehemently, but Gibbs kept talking. “You father cared more about the deal than a grieving son, so he pushed you off on some nanny or butler and expected them to take you to some play room, but you weren’t about to be ignored so you decided that if you weren’t wanted, you’d just leave. How many hours was it until your father’s associate asked about you?”

Tony hated the lump that formed at the base of his throat. It shouldn’t matter to him. Tony was a grown man, and he shouldn’t care that Senior had shown more sympathy to a dying woman with a brain tumor than he had to his own son. Senior could apologize to her because that didn’t require admitting blame, but he could never look Tony in the eye and say he regretted any of it. Tony didn’t know if his father lacked the ability to regret or if he had just sanitized his own memories so he didn’t remember the worst of it.

“Several hours,” Tony finally admitted.

“Did you tell them about the wolf?”

“When I woke up in the hospital, sure. They said I was hallucinating. Twelve was too young for a guide to notice me, and I had no Talent in my family. Most people who develop shamanic abilities have Talent somewhere in the old tree.” Tony gave a rough laugh.

“Your father refused to tell them about his Talent,” Gibbs said. Tony didn’t bother answering because Gibbs would put the pieces together. Back then, Talent was either more rare or fewer people admitted to it. Society had equal parts fascination for and fear of Talent, and Senior had no interest in outing himself. Even today Tony wondered if Senior believed the wolf was a hallucination or if he just didn’t care.

It was so hard to tell because Senior came across as so sincere and charming, even when he lied through his teeth. His barbs were always subtle enough that they left Tony wondered if he was overreacting. His insults were buried under layers of saccharine and insincere compliment. No wonder Tony sucked at relationships.

“Is that when he sent you to military school?”

Tony snorted. “He told his friends that I had run away and I needed more discipline than he could give because he loved me too much.” Tony had heard that story years later, and the irony killed him. Senior probably did love Tony, but he certainly never loved him too much or allowed the emotion to get between him and a profit. He sent Tony away because he could make more money without an inconvenient offspring underfoot.

“The wolf ever show up again?”

Tony shook his head and then looked Gibbs right in the eye to make his point. “Boss, I had a couple of dreams, but I never saw anything that led me to believe I had Talent. I wouldn’t have hidden that.” Tony needed Gibbs to believe that. Vance was going to want to crucify Tony, and Tony needed to have one person in his corner. Sure, Abby would support him, but her support included a certain amount of emotional damage. She was going to be pissed that Tony hadn’t told her about his Talent, and he wasn’t sure it would matter that he didn’t know.

“I know,” Gibbs said.

“Vance won’t believe that,” Tony warned. As much as he wanted Gibbs in his corner, he didn’t want Gibbs to tank his own career.

“My team, my call. Vance can piss in a corner for all I care,” Gibbs said, and he had that fierce expression that usually came two seconds before Gibbs did something really heroic and self-destructive.

“Boss?” Tony sat up.

“You think your father damaged your wolf.”

“Well, yeah. Guides can feed off each other.” And Senior had sent his guide to cannibalize his son’s guide. There was a century of psychotherapeutic issues in that piece of fatherly unlove.

Gibbs grimaced.

Suspicion began to nag at Tony. “Gibbs?”

“There’s another possibility.”

“My father is our best and only suspect here, Gibbs.” Tony didn’t like defending his father, but he had to be realistic. The little boy in him wanted the father-son relationship Senior kept dangling in front of him, but it was all smoke and mirrors and deception.

“Ziva was a shaman.”

“What?” Tony damn near fell off the ventilation unit.

“She didn’t want to deal with American prejudice.”

Tony shot to his feet. “So you lied to us? Again? How many times are you going to play the almighty, all-knowing lord who lets his underlings have a few tidbits when he feels like it?” Hot anger ran through Tony’s veins, and he could feel a pressure under his skin, like it all wanted to peel off so a newer, bigger Tony could burst through. It was that image of his skin splitting that distracted Tony, and then feeling vanished like smoke. “Maybe it’s good that I can’t be on your team anymore because you sure don’t respect me.”

“What?” Gibbs got up and crowded closer. “I’ve never lost respect for you.”

“Tell someone who might believe it.” Tony whirled around and headed for the stairs, but he hadn’t gotten more than a few steps before Gibbs grabbed him by the arm.

“Get your head out of your ass, DiNozzo. Agencies will cut off their right nut to get a shaman law enforcement officer. Your career options just got better, and I’ll fight like hell to keep you on my team.”

“By keeping secrets?”

Gibbs closed the gap between them so they were chest to chest and Tony fought an urge to back down. “Ziva’s secret, not mine. I kept her away from witnesses who would need to testify and she reported if she ever used Talent in the field. She almost never did. She never told me what her guide was, but I got the feeling that her father was disappointed because it wasn’t impressive or useful. She came here to escape all that.”

From Gibbs, that was almost eloquent, but Tony wasn’t buying it. “She was on my team. I was her SFA. I had a right to know.”

“Maybe, but knowing would put you in danger.”

Tony snorted. “So, it’s for my own good? Not buying it, Boss.”

Gibbs’ jaw tightened, and Tony could tell he had a good head of anger building up. Gibbs did not like being challenged, but as the SFA, one of Tony’s responsibilities was to call bullshit when he smelled it. Tony wondered how long it had been since he had stepped up and done it, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this crap excuse slide, even if it cost him his job.

“Her father sent people to check on her,” Gibbs said. “He assumed that if her shaman status was a secret from us, she was still working for Mossad.”

“Small problem, Gibbs. You knew. Either you didn’t trust me to keep my mouth shut or you’re claiming that if the good Director David had sent a mind reader, you could have kept the secret anyway.” Mindreaders were generally a work of fiction, but Tony knew plenty of Talent users could bring up a topic, like if someone worked with a shaman, and then test the response for truthfulness. It was close enough to mind reading to give Tony the hives.

“I can,” Gibbs said in a growl.

Tony crossed his arms.

“One of my skills is being hard for shamans or adepts to read,” Gibbs said.

“And you know this because…” Tony doubted it was true, but even if it was, there was no way Gibbs could know it. Sure, plenty of mundane people like Abby had a natural openness to magic that let them sense more than the average person, but Gibbs was not exactly a posterboy for being open to mystical forces.

“Counterintelligence work always requires a Talent review,” Gibbs said. “Shamans can’t get a good read on me. Call it part of being a closed off bastard. But that’s why Ziva told me. That fact was in the file she researched on me, and her brother confirmed it.”

The pieces slotted in. “Ari was a shaman.”

“Yep.” Gibbs nodded. “So we have two suspects for who might have put your wolf in that condition.”

Tony shook his head. “I lost my connection to my guide when I was a kid. My father is the only one who had access.”

Gibbs reached up, and Tony half expected a head-slap. Instead Gibbs rested his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “You started changing after she came. I thought you were tired. If I had known you had Talent, I might have suspected something, because you changed so much. Before we go and confront your father, we need to talk to Ziva. We need to find out if she was involved.”

“And you think she’ll tell us?” Tony wanted to believe that Ziva and not Senior had assaulted him, but it felt too much like a desperate and childish hope. Not that he would be thrilled at having a former teammate and lover stab him in the back, but he had experience with that sort of betrayal.

“I think she’ll tell me,” Gibbs said firmly.

Tony frowned as something occurred to him. “Is your gut telling you Ziva is involved?”

Gibbs didn’t answer, but the utter lack of expression on his face said everything. He was hiding every emotion, but then he never had dealt well with betrayal. Tony figured he had less experience with the emotion because if Tony got that upset every time someone stabbed him in the back, he’d never get over being angry.

“Have you considered that your gut comes awfully close to having Talent?” Tony asked.

Gibbs ignored that. “Get us two tickets to Israel while I talk to Vance.”

“Israel?” The last Tony had talked to Ziva, she wanted to travel the world and rediscover the part of her that had wanted to be a ballerina as a child. Clearly Gibbs knew more, but before Tony could ask, Gibbs turned and vanished into the building. Bastard.

But at least the bastard was on his side. That gave Tony some hope.

Chapter Nine

Jethro’s temper threatened to boil over, so he walked away from DiNozzo as fast as he could. It hadn’t been his secret, damn it. Ziva had legitimate reasons to fear American discrimination. But the part that made Jethro homicidal was that now he suspected she had other motives—ones she’d hidden from him.

Before Ziva, Tony had been so much more energetic, quicker to recover from the blows this job delivered. But Kate’s death had hit all of them so hard and Jethro knew it had hit him hardest. He hadn’t kept his eye on the ball, and when he finally did start focusing on his team again, he assumed Tony’s change was because of Kate’s death.

Rule eight.

Every time Jethro broke a rule, he paid for it. Or someone else paid for it, sometimes with their lives. He was a damn fool for not pushing the issue with Tony and Ziva earlier. No, he was a jealous fool who didn’t want to ruin whatever happiness other people might find.

Rule twelve.

He couldn’t afford to break that one. But if Ziva had played him… Jethro couldn’t even finish his thought because he didn’t know what he’d do. Damn it. Jethro would have happily shoved all the blame onto Anthony, senior, but the man hadn’t been around enough to do that sort of damage. Maybe he could assault Tony’s guide from a distance, but Jethro’s gut said that Ziva’s guilt and Tony’s magical injuries were related.

And Jethro wasn’t going to walk into a battle with senior until he knew exactly what Ziva had done. Jethro reached the director’s office and made eye contact with his assistant. She didn’t jump out of her seat or seem panicked, so he ignored her calls for him to wait and went through into Leon’s office. Leon shut down his computer and turned to face him.

“Nice to see you. You do know what an assistant is for, don’t you?”

“DiNozzo and I need to go to Isreal.” Jethro also had to admit that it could be a while before legal let DiNozzo back into the field, and Jethro didn’t want to deal with temporary agents. “And you may need to find another team for Bishop and McGee to work with temporarily, but they’re my people and I expect them back. Both of them.”

Leon’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me? Did someone promote you to head of the agency when I wasn’t looking? And why do you need to go to Israel?”

“I think Ziva assaulted a member of my team.” Jethro’s gut roiled just saying it.

“And she did this from Israel?” Leon asked dryly.

“Magically,” Jethro said.

For the second time, Leon seemed to lose the ability to speak for several seconds. He put both hands on his desk palm down as though unsure of his balance. “Are you saying Ziva has Talent?”

“Could be,” Jethro said. He didn’t want to burn any of her bridges, but he wasn’t going to allow an assault on Tony to slide. He’d let too much go.

“Well, fuck.” Leon turned to the computer and brought up a new screen. While he typed, he asked Jethro, “How long did you know?”

“Officially, I don’t know.”

After Leon finished typing, he turned to give Jethro a dirty look. “That’s a political answer.”

“And you’re a politician,” Jethro countered. If Leon didn’t know the details, he couldn’t get blamed for not addressing them.

“She doesn’t have anything on any of her applications,” Leon said, “not to immigration and not when she applied for an agent’s position.”

“Her issue.”

“And I’d fire her for it, but she doesn’t work here. If she has Talent, we have to inform legal and they’ll need to review cases.”

Jethro gritted his teeth, but it couldn’t be helped. With both him and Tony tied up with legal issues, the other two would need to work with other teams. But legal would eventually figure out that all their convictions would stand. “I never let her near suspects whose testimony we needed. Legal won’t have problems.” The suspects Jethro had allowed her to question were the ones that had information he considered so important that he didn’t mind losing their convictions. He’d even warned a few DAs about Ziva’s temper to warn them off putting her on the stand. He hated every deal those criminals had gotten, but he had made sure that no jury trial ever relied on Ziva’s testimony.

Leon leaned back in his chair. “Which implies you knew she had Talent the whole time, and that means you violated agency rules.”

“Or that I had a gut feeling she wasn’t going to stand up well on the stand. She had a temper and questionable ties to Mossad. A defense lawyer would have ripped her to shreds.” Jethro stared at Leon and silently dared him to start a fight over this. Eventually Leon sighed, just like Jethro knew he would.

“None of this explains why you need to confront her now, and if you do, leave DiNozzo in charge of the team. He can run MCRT until you get back.”

“He deserves a right to confront her.”

“DiNozzo? DiNozzo is the one she assaulted? What the hell is going on?” Leon stood, which generally meant he was too interested in getting involved in Jethro’s business.

“The FBI shaman was over here and he found that DiNozzo had been severely assaulted on the spirit plane. She’s one of the main suspects. When we get back from Israel, we’ll know more.” And by that time, legal would have heard from the FBI lawyers who sorted out Agent Obertson’s hidden status. Hopefully Vance would be more inclined to deal with DiNozzo fairly if the legal problems were in hand. Leon never had taken to Tony and he didn’t have enough respect for the sort of old-school police work Tony was capable of.

“And what is the purpose of this? Does DiNozzo plan to press charges?”

Jethro wished he would, but the relationship between Ziva and Tony was too complicated for that. “It depends on what we learn.”

“I don’t see that this is NCIS business.”

“Then we won’t turn in the receipts for reimbursement.”

“But you still plan to go,” Leon said slowly. He sank back down into his chair. “DiNozzo has the experience to lead a team and he could use the practice. Go chase your wild geese, but leave him here to get a little work done.”

Jethro crossed his arms. “Nope.” Experience had taught Jethro that the less he said, the more power he held in the conversation. Since he refused to give Leon any reasons, the man had no way to provide counterarguments. So instead they stared at each other.

“You are a self-destructive old bastard,” Leon finally announced. Jethro couldn’t exactly argue the point so he stayed silent and waited. Leon caved. “One week, and NCIS is not paying for any of this. The time comes out of your vacation pay, and all expenses are yours.”

Jethro nodded and turned to leave. He got to the door before Leon called out. Jethro turned back around.

Leon’s face was serious as he said, “If you need something, call. If she did assault a member of this agency, I am more than willing to get involved. Officially.”

Jethro appreciated that support, especially when Tony was the victim. He gave Leon a nod and then headed out of the office. He needed to get Tony and get on that plane before Leon found out Tony was a shaman. One of the first rules of warfare was to avoid engaging two enemies at once. Legal would have to handle Vance and the legal issues around DiNozzo’s status. Jethro needed to focus on finding out who had done the damage and making sure it never happened again.

Ziva was the first step in that, but she wouldn’t be the last one.

Chapter Ten

Tony studied Gibbs as they climbed off the crowded bus. "Are you going to give my phone back now?" The fact Gibbs confiscated it meant someone was blowing it up. Either Vance wanted to rip into Tony about the mess Tony had made by being a shaman or Abby was demanding answers. Gibbs would be more likely to get involved in the first, especially if he had neglected to tell Vance the whole story.

"Nope," Gibbs said, answering Tony's question about the phone.

The street was fairly quiet here, and the smells of Israel made Tony's arm ache. This place didn't have good memories for him, but he followed as Gibbs strode toward the edge of the small town he'd brought them to. Either he knew where to find Ziva or he was having a psychotic break. With a sigh, Tony followed. "How angry is Vance?" Tony asked. It was a guess, but from the slight tightening of Gibb's shoulders, he'd hit the mark.

"It's on me, not you."

"He signs my paycheck. He can put the blame wherever he wants."

"I told him I had your phone."

So Gibbs really was going to take the blame for this. It didn't reassure Tony since Vance was capable of being angry at both of them at once, but it was comforting to know that Gibbs was willing to stick his neck out. Tony just wondered if that sentiment would survive a meeting with Ziva. She had always had a special place in Gibbs' heart. After she left, Tony could see that play out with Bishop. Gibbs felt so guilty about not giving Ziva whatever it was she needed emotionally that he had given Bishop way too much leeway. Other agents had been booted from the team for doing half the stupid shit she had.

Tony didn't approve of Gibbs' sort of unbending obsessiveness, but until Ziva left, Gibbs had never even tried to consider another point of view. Maybe that made Tony more protective of Ellie. He wanted to prove to Gibbs that people could fuck up and still turn into damn good agents. Sometimes Tony wondered if he was trying to save Ellie or himself from the wrath of an unforgiving Gibbs, but only one of them every needed saving. Gibbs had infinite patience with Bishop, even when Ellie's inexperience in the field led to injuries.

"Do you know where you're going?" Tony asked as the houses began to thin out. Tony didn't relish the idea of wandering around the Israeli countryside and getting lost.

"David family farmhouse," Gibbs said. That was more of an answer than he usually offered, so Tony pushed his luck a little.

"Anyone other than Vance calling?"

"Oberton texted. Said there's a shaman you can train with."

Tony closed his mouth so fast his teeth clacked. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Yes, he desperately wanted to get back to his wolf, but letting someone he didn't know enter that space felt like a betrayal of his guide. Tony had felt that flash of panic from his guide when the wolf realized he'd been seen, and not only that, but strangers had seen him weak and injured. The fear had been so palpable that it made Tony's chest ache.

And now Agent Oberton came in suggesting that Tony work with some stranger to push his way into the wolf's domain. It felt wrong. And Tony had been following his gut too long to set aside all the anxiety just to play nice with the shamanic community.

Maybe Gibbs picked up on some of that because he asked, "Are you going to?"

Tony went with playing dumb. "Going to what?"

Right in the middle of the street, Gibbs stopped and gave Tony the hairy eye of doom. Tony hated that half-disappointed, half-aggressive stare Gibbs had developed.

"I don't know that I want to talk to a stranger about this," Tony said. The wording made him cringe because he was going to have to talk to more strange lawyers than would fit into a cruise ship. "I don't want to let a strange shaman into my wolf's world," Tony amended himself.

Gibbs grunted. Yeah, like that was helpful. But he started walking again. "You going to give up going to that spirit place?"

That was the rub. Tony wanted to get back there like he wanted to breathe. He kept hearing the distant howl of his wolf, and the pained loneliness in those tones tore at his heart. He wanted to sit under the trees and hold his guide, but more than that, he wanted to protect him. And something in Tony's gut told him that required him to hide his wolf. Someone had hurt him, and Tony didn't know how to protect the wolf. The danger was still out there. Instinct told him to hide, and his wolf seemed to feel the same.

During the long silence, Tony watched the town. It was so hard to think of his super secret ninja Ziva out here. People drove trucks down dusty lanes while kids ran barefoot over cobbled walks. It was like the Israeli version of Norman Rockwell. Tony had always imagined Ziva in Paris, going to performances and wandering through the cafes listening to a dozen different languages, most of which she spoke. If this was her home, it made Tony wonder how well he'd ever known her.

"This is it," Gibbs said as they stopped at an iron gate leading into a dirt driving path lined with trees.

"Ziva lives here?" The scene was definitely too pastoral for Ziva. There were goats wandering through the trees. After two days in a place this quiet, the Ziva Tony knew would have climbed walls.

"Yep." Gibbs pushed the gate open and headed up the lane toward the stone building.

Tony followed. "Does she know we're coming?"

"Nope."

Of course not. Sometimes Gibbs was entirely too predictable. Tony actually felt a little sorry for Ziva because no one should be exposed to Gibbs without a little warning. Gibbs strode up to the heavy wooden front door and rang the bell. This was going to be a disaster, and since Tony was still almost positive his father was the attacker, they were going to invade Ziva's space and offend her for nothing.

For a long time, Tony thought that either Ziva wasn't home or she wasn't interested in opening the door. He would have left, but Gibbs stood firm, his arms crossed as he faced the security camera. However, not even Gibbs' glare could open a solid door, and breaking into Ziva's house was just stupid. Tony would walk away if Gibbs even tried it.

"It looks like she's not home," Tony said.

"She's here." Gibbs continued to stare at the camera and a second later, the door slowly opened. Ziva stood there looking about as unZivaish as Tony had ever seen. She had a scarf covering her hair and a black skirt that went almost to her ankles. She might not look like Ziva, but Tony would be a year's salary that she had weapons hidden in there. And she was wearing an American t-shirt with a strange stain on one shoulder. Tony couldn't figure out what to make of that. Maybe she missed America and maybe she was in the middle of doing something so hopelessly rural and messy that she didn't want to ruin a good shirt.

She stared at them for a second before saying cautiously, "Gibbs, Tony." The words were a wary greeting.

"Ziva." Tony couldn't figure out what else to say, and Ziva turned her attention to Gibbs.

"Is there a case? A suspect in the area?"

"Nope." Gibbs' interrogation techniques didn't work as well outside an interrogation room, but he didn't seem interested in changing his strategy. Ziva shifted and tightened her hold on the edge of the door until the knuckles turned white.

Tony jumped in before tempers could fray too much. "We actually came to see you."

If anything, Ziva seemed more worried. "I see."

"To ask you about something." Tony stopped, not sure how to bring up the subject. Hey, have you magically assaulted me seemed a little brusque.

After a second, Ziva raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

Gibbs took a step closer to her, and her chin went up. "Do you have something to say?" Gibbs asked.

She gave him a plastic smile. "It is good to see you. Are you well? Is that what you expect, yes?"

Tony really didn't want to stand out in the heat and watch the two most stubborn people in the universe tap dance, so he came right out and asked. "I thought you might say something about my spirit guide being less damaged."

Ziva drew in a fast breath.

"You did know,” Gibbs said.

Ziva looked around as though expecting a sniper to drop out of her trees. "Come inside if you must. This is not something to discuss on a front porch." With that invitation, Ziva headed into the cool dim interior of the home. It was a nice house with tile floors and heavy furniture that had the nicks and dents of surviving multiple generations of children. Ziva planted herself in front of an interior door and crossed her arms in a near mirror-image of Gibbs.

Now Tony remembered how much he hated getting caught in the middle when these two fought.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" Gibbs demanded.

Ziva flinched before glancing over toward Tony. "No doubt Tony has his own reasons for keeping his lips zipped." Something in her words felt oily, and Tony narrowed his eyes and really studied Ziva.

"That’s a lie," he said. He'd never found Ziva particularly easy to read, but he would bet his life on his judgment in this moment.

Her eyes flashed with anger. "Excuse me?"

"You’re lying," Tony repeated. He took a step forward and tried to think that through to the most logical conclusion. She didn't keep the secret because she was respecting Tony's decision, so why had she? Tony could think of one reason. "You figured out that I didn’t know about my guide."

Her answer was quick and insincere. "I do not know what you are talking over."

Gibbs snorted. "Give it up, Ziver."

"Gibbs, this is…" She verbally stumbled before recovering. "We should meet for dinner. Discuss old times in a more friendly atmosphere." She offered another fake smile as she clearly invited them to leave and make an appointment for later.

However Gibbs was on the hunt. "Did you attack Tony?"

Ziva's eyes grew large. "What?" Tony could sense a growing panic, but she was genuinely startled by the accusation.

"Did you?" Tony asked.

She turned on him. "How can you accuse me of such a thing?" The anger was real, but so was the guilt. Tony shook his head, disturbed by how much emotion he could read from her even though her body language was all stiff angles and aggression.

"I made the accusation first," Gibbs said, "because Tony’s guide was injured and you always had more guilt around him than I could understand."

"I toyed with him." The words rushed from Ziva. "It was not something to be proud of. It is part of the reason I had to leave."

"Part. But you feel guilty about what you did to his guide." Gibbs pressed the issue, and Tony stood back and watched. Ziva was more likely to answer Gibbs anyway.

Ziva still appealed directly to Tony. "No. Tony, I never attacked your guide."

"But you knew about him," Tony said.

"Of course I did. I am a shaman. I could see…" She let her words trail off.

"You could see what, Ziva?" Gibbs demanded in a hard voice.

She turned to face him. "I could see he was dying, too injured to protect himself or heal, but unwilling to give up his connection to Tony."

Guilt stabbed Tony in the guts. Shit. His guide was dying because of him, because he hadn't wanted to leave Tony. Tony remembered being twelve and cold and so scared and he'd clung to the wolf's thick fur and he'd wanted so much to not be alone. And the wolf had nearly given his life because he refused to leave Tony alone again. Tony heard the distant howl and the need to touch his wolf was a physical pain in Tony's chest.

"I did not do any of that damage," Ziva said firmly, and Tony's gut told him it was the truth, but not the whole truth. She did something she regretted.

"Then why are you radiating guilt?" Tony asked.

"I did nothing wrong!"

"And yet you feel guilty. What did you do?" Tony took a step closer so he stood next to Gibbs.

"Ziva?" Gibbs asked in a clear warning.

Ziva kept her gaze focused on Tony. "I did not know you well. You were an obstacle, someone who watched too closely. I did not yet know Tony the person."

"What did you do?"

"I did nothing," she insisted, and Tony's anger grew like a bubble in his chest--a hard bubble that threatened to shatter his ribs and crush them all. Ziva continued, "I simply allowed my guide to absorb some of the magic your guide bled."

"You fed off me." Tony couldn't breathe.

"My guide absorbed magic."

Tony took a step backward and collapsed into an overstuffed chair. Every breath was pain. Gibbs shifted so he was in front of Tony, and he said in a cold voice, "Ziva, you betrayed your partner."

"Gibbs, no. The situation was difficult. I did not know who was to be trusted, and the injured guide lost his magic through the wounds he suffered. Parasites had set in. I could not fix that."

"You could have told me," Tony shouted the words and a glass lantern on the mantle rattled.

"How was I to know you were unaware of your own nature?"

Tony looked up. "Because we talked about it. We talked about Talent, and you never told me any of this."

"That was later. It was different then."

Tony forced himself to his feet, and Gibbs was right there with a hand under Tony's elbow, steadying him. "Why? Because I had killed Michael? Is that why you tried to kill my guide?"

"No! I never tried to kill your wolf. I was just not able to keep my guide from him. I tried to protect you. It is why I left."

"What?"

"I told you. I became a woman I did not like. I had to get away."

"From me." Tony remembered that conversation too well. He had followed her to the ends of the fucking earth, and she had told him that she would rather be alone than come back to him. As much as they had as much hate as love between them, Tony had always had her back, and she had thrown him out.

"Yes, from you. Your guide released all that power, and I could not—" She whirled around and turned her back on them.

"Couldn’t what, Ziva?" Now Gibbs was calm, countering Tony's anger.

"Gibbs, you must understand." Ziva leaned her head against the wood door.

"I don’t understand any of it. When we thought you’d died in Africa, Tony demanded we avenge you and look for your body. Tony always stood up for you."

"And he shamed me. Every time I looked at him, I knew what I had done and I couldn’t stop."

"What do you mean, you couldn’t stop?" Tony asked. That's the part that made no sense.

Ziva turned around, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. "My guide had grown used to feeding from you. I couldn’t stop him."

Anger made Tony physically hot. "You could have stopped in the beginning. You let him get used to feeding from me."

She shook her head. "No, I couldn’t have. It’s not… you don’t understand."

Gibbs said calmly, "I think you need to explain, Ziva."

"I can’t, not to a mundane.”

"Ziva." There was the Gibbs growl.

"Gibbs, this is not something I can explain." She emphasized 'can' as if claiming some inability would help her escape the wrath of Gibbs.

His expression and tone was flat as he said, "Try."

She closed her eyes, and for a second, Tony thought she might refuse him, but as much as Ziva had a strange affect on Gibbs, the opposite was also true. After a second, she sank into the straight backed chair flanking the door and began to speak. "Israelis… we are not like the big shamanic powers. We do not control our powers through religion like the Egyptians and the Vatican. Our religion is one thing. Our shamanism is something different, something inherited through nature.” She held her two hands out and stopped speaking.

Tony encouraged her to continue. "You’re going to have to draw the dots a little closer together, there Ziva."

"We train to follow our instincts, to use what the guides provide rather than trying to force them to serve."

"And?"

"And I am limited by the instincts of my guide. You demand that I do things I do not have the power to do. I cannot tell my guide to be what he is not."

That brought up a new problem. Tony wondered if her guide was a carrion eater or one of the parasites she said had already infected his wolf. If her instinct was to feed on others, Tony knew he could never have her around him, and that made him ache. His feelings for Ziva were tangled, and he didn't want a romantic relationship with her again, but they would always have their past and their partnership, and he had once hoped a friendship. But he would never risk his wolf for her. "And what is your guide?"

"That is personal." Ziva's voice took on a brittle quality.

Gibbs spoke before Tony could appeal to her sense of fairness. "If you don’t want to give full disclosure, we can call the head of the DC shamanic council and ask him to come out and investigate."

Ziva hand waved that away. "He has no authority here."

"I hear he has the backing of the full Egyptian council. Would Israel protect you in a full international conflict over your assault of a shaman in his territory?"

Ziva's head snapped up so fast that Tony thought she might get whiplash. "Gibbs, you cannot."

"God damn it, then explain why. Explain why I should cover for you again," Gibbs demanded.

Tony could see the moment something in Ziva snapped. She sagged in the chair and almost whispered, "Because my guide is a wasp."

Chapter Eleven
Her guide was a wasp.

Jethro looked at Tony to see if that meant anything to him. Ever since they had returned from the spirit plane, Tony had changed so much that Jethro wasn't sure what to expect.

In some ways, he was the old Tony of Jethro's memory. He was much more amused at Jethro's games, like when Jethro had confiscated his phone. The contrast just drew Jethro's attention to how brittle Tony had grown through the years . But there was something more. Tony's surface charm was at full strength, but that had never really vanished. What Jethro saw in Tony was both a deeper insight than Tony had ever shown before paired with a return of that underlying sense of power and sensuality that Jethro had thought he'd grown immune to. He'd lied to himself. Because now that Tony's guide was healed and Tony was back to acting like the brash and confident investigator Jethro had once known, all Jethro's ability to ignore his own desires had vanished. His lust for his second was stronger than ever. His lack of self-control and Tony's sudden unpredictability were making Jethro grumpier than usual.

Tony shrugged, his eyes wide, so Jethro turned his attention to Ziva.

"What difference does that make?"

"You can't understand. You're a mundane," Ziva said. Jethro didn't need Tony's new nearly telepathic powers to see how broken Ziva was. Jethro went to Ziva's side and crouched down.

"Talk to me. Talk to Tony. He's a shaman and he doesn't know how to be."

Ziva looked up at Tony, and Gibbs could see the attraction was still there. She wanted him. Badly. And yet the guilt was all over her. After a few seconds, she dropped her gaze back down to the floor.

"Guides are drawn to people with similar personalities, and we are taught to use that connection--to find our true selves." From the way Ziva whispered the words, Jethro assumed this was not public information.

"So, your guide is a wasp, so you're wasplike?" Jethro could see that. Ziva was a fierce fighter.

"Wasps protect the nest." Ziva drew in a deep breath. Before Jethro could ask her more, Tony made one of those intuitive leaps of his.

"Mossad was your nest."

Ziva nodded, and Jethro could see the problem laid out in front of him. She did anything for Mossad, and she saw her Talent as part of the reason she felt trapped. Jethro's temper frayed.

"I don't care what your guide is, you had a choice," Jethro said firmly.

"That's not how it works," Ziva said.

"So, you have no free will?" Jethro asked. If he followed her logic, that's where they'd end up. "You're an animal following your guide's instincts, and that's why you came out here?"

"No," she snapped, righteous anger pulling her out of that strange mental withdrawal she was retreating into. "I wanted to be better. I wanted to stop hurting..." Ziva looked at Tony. "I don't control my guide. He wouldn't stop."

"Make him," Jethro said without mercy. He'd seen enough stupid movies and television shamans to know they controlled their guides all the time. They made their guides bring them power so they could do crap with their Talent, although Jethro suspected that most of what happened on television was pure fantasy. Jethro figured it would have ended up on the news if anyone actually had the power to summon tornados or kill with the sweep of an arm.

"Boss," Tony said softly. He was always too quick to forgive, and Jethro had been right there encouraging him to. Jethro carried that guilt next to all his old wounds.

"No. She is not an animal and she will not blame her guide for all of this."

Ziva shot out of her chair. "You do not know what it is to feel another's thoughts all the time. He wished to protect the nest. All else did not matter."

"So none of us mattered?" Jethro asked, his voice low. He stood and backed away from her, and maybe she saw the danger.

"No, of course not. I wanted to make a new life."

Tony replied. "You wanted Gibbs to be the center of your new nest, but where did that leave the rest of us?"

"I did not know!" Ziva threw her hands up. "My father... he hoped I would be something more impressive--more dangerous. But he saw in me a child who would be always faithful. He wanted my sting to serve Mossad always. He sent me against Ari." Her voice cracked. Jethro had no idea how being a shaman slotted into this mess, but he knew that her father had damaged her beyond all belief, and still she had been faithful to him in the end. She had hidden his identity all the way up to the point that Jackie Vance had died in an assassination targeting the man. Ziva never put NCIS first. She never put her team first. And something in Jethro rebelled against the idea that she could blame her guide for any of that.

Tony slowly stood and moved like an old man. "After Somalia, after he'd abandoned you and we were the ones to come and get you, why wouldn't you give us your loyalty?" Tony sounded so hurt, but he was the same. Even after everything his father had done, Tony had taken his father in. Neither of them had been able to cut off fathers who had damaged them. Jethro wondered if he would have caused his own girls as much harm if they'd lived. Would he have forgotten to put them first? He'd gone off to war leaving Shannon to raise Kelly alone, so Jethro wasn't sure. Even if he'd left the service, he might have gotten so caught up in his work that he would have been one more man emotionally gutting his child. The thought almost broke Jethro, but he had a task to focus on.

"Why didn't you stay with us if you were so driven by your guide to find a nest?" Jethro asked, repeating Tony's question since Ziva hadn't answered it yet.

Ziva turned on Tony. "Because of you. How can I want you and feel safe in your arms when I know how I've hurt you and how I'll hurt you again. I am not the sort of woman you should have, and I don't like who I become when I am with you. I am jealous. I am determined to prove I am worth loving, but I look at you and see how easily you love, and I feel like I am less. I want to give you loyalty, but it is as if the ease with which you give your loyalty mocks me. I cannot be near you and be a good woman. My wasp would feed on you to remove the conflict."

Tony looked like he'd been hit with a rotting fish. What a fuck up.

Jethro rested his hand on Tony's shoulder. "You are feeling guilty because you lied, Ziva. That's all it is."

"No, as a shaman--"

"Enough," Jethro said loudly, cutting her off. "You are a human being. Having a connection to a guide doesn't make you any more or less human. Stop using that as an excuse." Jethro knew there were legal cases where suspects did lose themselves in their guide's emotions and turned into primal monsters, but that always included drugs or some overwhelming situation. A few years back, a man's wife had been murdered in front of him during a home invasion. The man was a shaman, and he'd gone primitive, attacking the intruders and later the police with all the viciousness of a wild animal. However, Ziva was talking like she ceded all her human judgment. Shamanism didn't work that way. Jethro didn't know how it worked, but he would not accept that Tony had one ounce less control, and he wouldn't accept Ziva making excuses for herself.

Ziva sat. "You should leave."

Jethro moved closer. "Did you ever actively harm Tony?"

"No." She looked up at Jethro and his gut said she was telling the truth, but Tony said with certainty, "That's a lie."

Jethro turned to Tony and waited for an explanation.

"I don't know what she did, but she's lying about never hurting me."

"I absorbed what energy was there; I never touched your guide," Ziva said. Tony frowned, but he didn't contradict her.

Jethro focused on Ziva. "And if you hadn't taken that energy, would Tony's guide have healed?"

Ziva looked away. It was a long time before she said, "I don't know. Perhaps."

"Christ," Jethro swore softly. He turned to look at Tony, but DiNozzo was clearly distracted. He had his head tilted to the side and a curious expression. "DiNozzo?"

Tony stared at Ziva. "Who else is here?"

Ziva scrambled to her feet and swore in Hebrew.

"DiNozzo?" Jethro repeated louder, but something shifted in DiNozzo's body language. He channeled something alien and powerful as he moved forward. Jethro caught Tony by the arm, and a shiver travelled through him where they touched. It was like holding a low-powered electrical line, but at least Tony stopped.

"Tony, stand down," Jethro ordered, but Tony ignored him.

"Who is here?" he demanded.

Ziva puffed up like an angry cat. "She is not your business."

"Who is it?" Tony demanded.

Ziva lifted her chin, and Jethro could feel the danger swirling the room like a storm cloud. "I am her mother," Ziva cried. Jethro felt the truth like a punch to the gut. Ziva had a child. Ziva had Tony's child. Jethro looked at DiNozzo and he had lost all the color out of his face.

Dry My Dreaming

lit_gal — Sun, 05 Feb 2017 18:46:02 GMT

Dry My Dreaming

Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still...
Iris, blue each spring ― Bashō Matsuo

NCIS / Aberrant Magic
Tony angst
Eventually Tony/Gibbs
Before Bishop's breakup
The new team does not exist

Life is normal for Tony—Gibbs is a bastard, Bishop is annoyingly enthusiastic, Senior is playing the part of a good father, and Tim is Tim. Their newest case even seems normal—a marine shot in the head three times. Only it turns out the victim is a shaman, and the case gets tangled in the Talent community. Tony has avoided magic since he turned twelve and his shaman father kicked him out of the house, not that Senior wants anyone to know he’s a shaman. No, that would damage his reputation. As the case gets more complicated, Tony’s masks and his history start to unravel.

Gibbs has always cared about Tony, but his patience is at an end. No matter what Gibbs says or does, Tony will not pull his head out of his ass and take care of himself. Gibbs feels helpless—like he’s on the front lines with a fellow Marine self-destructing in slow motion, and there’s nothing he can do. The fact that it’s Tony falling apart just makes it all worse. All he can do is push on and hope that Tony is strong enough to survive. Gibbs can’t do anything else because there’s no way to protect Tony, at least that’s what he assumes until a new shaman pushes into his case and changes everything—including how Gibbs sees Tony.

Previous chapters HERE

Chapters Four - Seven

Tony was riding the ragged edge of a serious crash when the whole floor went silent. That was ominous. When he looked up, two men were getting off the elevator and asking for directions, both wearing guest passes.

The older one had a shaved head and off the rack suit. It was a nice one, but it lacked tailored details and his side holster made a horrible bulge. The younger one was in his late thirties, maybe. He wore a tailored suit, a mid-price American if Tony was judging right. He wasn’t wealthy, but he did like to look good. Feds.

Tony could smell them from a mile away. Hopefully these two would be more interested in Carl Shaffer than in framing Tony for another murder. Since Gibbs was still talking to legal, Tony stood and waited for the feds to make their way to the MCRT.

Tim stood and moved to Tony’s side. “Is that them?” he asked in a loud whisper.

“Do you know any other fibbies coming today, McLoud?”

Tim sighed even louder. Ellie stood and sat on her desk without coming around to the center aisle, and about that same time, Agent Spiller pointed them toward the MCRT. The younger one took lead while the senior agent followed.

“Hi. I’m Agent Oberton from the Talent unit. I was looking for Special Agent Gibbs.”

“He’s busy,” Tony said, “I’m Special Agent Tony DiNozzo, and these are Agents McGee and Bishop. I hate to break it to you, but you’re a little late to solve the case.” Tony’s smile invited them to turn around and get the hell out, and he trusted these two were smart enough to get the message.

The older agent narrowed his eyes, so the message got through loud and clear.

Oberton spoke up, which probably meant the partners were playing good-fed, bad-fed. “This is Supervisory Agent Boucher, and I understand the suspect you’re questioning has Talent.”

“Yep.” Tony figured neither Marine knew what the hell they were doing with magic, but they had it. And Richards had blackmailed Carl Shaffer, not understanding the depths the other man would go to in order to hide his status. The Marines wouldn’t have cared if he had Talent, but they sure as hell didn’t appreciate a Marine who murdered another. “He already confessed.”

Boucher took a step forward. Okay, so if the hardass wanted to take a swing, Tony could handle it. He’d worked for Gibbs for a decade, so he had immunity to the sort of dark glares this one was leveling at him. “Did he?”

“Yep. We caught the bad guy, so that’s when we have high fives and go out for celebratory drinks.” Tony figured he was laying it on a little thick, but he was tired and he didn’t want to put up with the bullshit.

“You didn’t do anything to encourage that confession, did you?” Boucher asked.

Oberton gave his partner a strange look, and Tony looked over at Tim. Okay, maybe these guys were friends with Agent Slacks, but if they wanted to question his professionalism, that seemed like a strange place to start.

“Actually, yes. I did encourage him to confess since he was guilty,” Tony said slowly, making it clear that he thought Boucher was a little slow in the head. Oberton flinched at the insult, but Boucher just glared more.

Tim said, “Maybe I should get Gibbs.” He hesitated a few seconds, before he turned and fled. Ellie moved to take his place, standing shoulder to shoulder with Tony.

Tony didn’t need anyone to save him. “This was about money more than magic,” he told the FBI agents. “Neither the victim or the suspect was a working shaman. They had Talent, but neither really used it, and it was dumb luck they ended up in the same unit.” That coincidence made Tony wonder how many people had Talent and didn’t know it. His own father had become a shaman by accident after a tonsillectomy had gone wrong when he’d been in his early teens. He’d nearly died on the operating table, and that had allowed him to slip onto the spirit plane. More than once Senior had told that story to try to impress on Tony that a man made use of any opportunity life presented him.

Boucher took another step forward, and Tony had to admit he felt a little intimidated. The fed was huge. However, that didn’t mean Tony intended to back down. Ellie gave Tony a concerned look, but held her ground at his side. “How much encouragement did you give him?”

Tony looked at Oberton since he seemed to be the sane fibbie. “Does your partner have a problem with me doing my job?”

Boucher responded. “Agent DiNozzo, why aren’t you registered as a shaman with the prosecutor or JAG?”

Tony’s mouth fell open. He prided himself on being able to handle any situation, but this was so out of the blue that he couldn’t come up with an answer. Ellie actually spoke first.

“Tony’s not a shaman. You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not,” Boucher said firmly.

Tony’s brain slowly came back online, and he could only figure out one reason why he would hit a shaman’s radar, and it would mean that Senior was up to his old tricks. “Agent Boucher, you are out of line,” Tony said as firmly as he could, but the anger was boiling inside, and he was having trouble staying calm. As a child, Senior would use Talent-based charm on Tony to keep him from telling people at school about the drinking or the neglect, and if Tony had shamanic cooties on him, there was only one good reason. The bastard was using his magic against Tony again.

Senior wanted back in Tony’s good graces and instead of being a decent human being and proving that he cared about Tony, he was taking a shortcut and trying to make Tony like him.

“If you’re using shamanic powers against suspects, I won’t let that slide,” Boucher warned darkly.

Tony really didn’t want to get into this here, but the situation was getting out of hand. “Any shamanic vibes you’re getting are from my father—not me.”

“Your father?” Ellie’s voice rose a good octave.

He gave her a weary look. “Yes, and he doesn’t want people to know. As a civilian, he has no obligation to tell anyone his Talent status.” Tony turned and gave Boucher a cold glare.

Instead of looking chagrined, Boucher looked confused. “Your father?”

“Yes, my father. I’ve spent several nights with him this week.” Tony lied to try and give a plausible excuse for having shamanic fingerprints all over him. But there was no way he was going to tell the fibbies that he was trying to keep his father at arm’s length by limiting their interaction to one dinner per week, and any excess magic clinging to Tony came from the fact that his father was a narcissist who thought he had a right to manipulate the world any way he wanted it.

When Tony spotted Gibbs striding across the room, he was relieved. Gibbs was about to make a huge interagency stink, and Tony would be more than happy to take advantage of that distraction to get the hell out of Dodge. He was going to track down his father and rip him a new one.

Maybe.

Faced with Senior’s charm and lack of genuine malice, Tony did have a history of caving. But this time, Senior’s stunt had endangered Tony’s career. A member of law enforcement who didn’t reveal his Talent status would have all his work reviewed to determine if he’d used magic to induce confessions. That would lead to sanctions and termination and criminals being released from prison. Senior couldn’t do anything that might make Tony show up on shamanic radar.

“Agent Boucher,” Gibbs said, completely ignoring the junior agent. “The case is closed, and I appreciate you coming, but you aren’t needed.”

“Aren’t wanted, perhaps,” Boucher said. If Tony had been giving someone advice on how to piss Gibbs off, that would have been near the top of the list of things to say. McGee was following one step behind Gibbs, and he froze. Gibbs leaned in, his lips pressed together as he radiated fury and danger. Boucher didn’t even flinch.

Surprisingly, Agent Oberton got in the middle. “We just have a few questions about how you handle Talent cases, Agent Gibbs.”

“I don’t care about your questions.” Gibbs gave Oberton a cold stare.

“Then we’ll take our concerns to Director Vance,” Boucher said.

Tony could just imagine how that would go. Vance didn’t like him to begin with, and if there was any reason to believe that Tony had failed to register a Talent as a law enforcement agent, the lawyers and Vance would race for shovels to bury Tony. It would be a bloodbath, and even after everything got sorted, Tony doubted he would have much of a career left. Reputation was everything.

“Knock yourself out,” Gibbs said.

“Gibbs, no. I can explain this,” Tony said quickly.

“They think he’s a shaman,” Tim said in a voice caught between horror and disbelief.

Immediately Gibbs turned on Tony. Tony felt a flash of anger that sputtered and died before it could really take root. He didn’t know why he expected anything else from Gibbs. Of course the man would put the blame for this on Tony.

“It’s his dad that’s a shaman,” Ellie said softly.

Gibbs looked over at her, and now the anger vanished under confusion. This was not a conversation Tony wanted to have in the open. “Could we find a conference room?” Tony asked. He looked at Gibbs, silently begging the man to not air all Tony’s dirty laundry in public. For a second, Gibbs appeared implacable, and panic climbed up Tony’s throat. Then something shifted, and Gibbs turned.

“This way,” he said as he strode away. McGee fell back rather than get run over, and Tony froze, not sure how the FBI guys would react to Gibbs’ style. Boucher looked particularly unamused, but Oberton followed Gibbs, and after a pause, Boucher followed Oberton. Tony came up the rear, signaling Tim to stay behind and hoping he would keep Ellie out of this. The fewer people privy to this meeting the better, because Tony really did not want to admit that his father was so unethical as to try and magic his son into loving him.

And he didn’t want to admit that despite whatever magic Senior had used, Tony didn’t want to give that love.

Chapter Five

Jethro’s gut was tied in knots by the time he found an empty conference room. If Tony had hidden his Talent status, Jethro would have backed him. Hell, Ziva had told him about her Talent and her fear of American prejudice surrounding Talent, and he’d protected her. He’d kept her away from any witnesses they would need to later put on the stand and never told a soul. Jethro would have done no less for Tony. But letting himself get caught by one of the top shamans in the area was just stupid. Was Tony’s head up his ass so far that he couldn’t come up with a good excuse to get out of the office?

The other alternative was that Agent Boucher was either wrong or pulling some sort of prank. Considering the man was not only an FBI agent but one of the three shamans who controlled the local Djedi center, Jethro doubted it was the first, and Boucher’s reputation made the second pretty damn unlikely.

And if any of this hit Vance’s desk, DiNozzo was going to be out on his ass. And once defense lawyers caught wind of it and their cases started getting reversed, Tony would eat his own gun. The whole fucked up mess made Jethro want to shoot someone, and Tony might be at the head of the line. Jethro stood aside and let the other three enter the conference room before he slammed the door.

“Okay, talk,” he ordered Tony. He braced himself for the shit and the fan to have a spectacular meeting.

“I’m not a shaman,” Tony said.

Boucher crossed his arms and Oberton grimaced. Jethro didn’t know much about the junior agent, but Boucher had a reputation as a straight shooter, so Jethro decided to put his cards on the table. At this point it couldn’t do much more damage.

“In ten years I’ve never seen him do anything that would have included Talent.”

“And would you recognize it?” Boucher demanded.

That was a direct hit. Jethro hadn’t been around much magic, and it wouldn’t take much digging to uncover that fact. When Jethro lied, he preferred to make sure he couldn’t get caught, so he pressed his lips together. Boucher raised his eyebrows and stared back. Jethro was quickly learning to hate this bastard. Like usual, DiNozzo jumped in to smooth issues over.

“My father is a shaman, and he has a questionable history of using his Talent to manipulate others.” DiNozzo cringed, no doubt wishing he didn’t have to share this detail. Jethro fought to keep a neutral expression on his face, but if he had a chance to tell Senior what he thought of that sort of manipulation, he wouldn’t pass it up.

The worst part was that Jethro had tried to smooth the way for that reconciliation. Jethro had lost so many years with his father that he had hoped Tony could avoid making the same mistakes. But it had never occurred to him that Senior’s bad behavior had continued to the present day.

Agent Boucher seemed interested in this topic. “Manipulate how?” His voice carried a dangerous edge that Jethro approved of, assuming Tony didn’t get caught in the middle.

Tony shrugged. “I’m not a shaman, so I don’t know. But he has always been charming—able to talk people into investing in his projects or forgiving him. If I have magic around me, it’s probably him, and this is a topic I would rather avoid discussing in public.”

“Has anyone filed a complaint with the Djedi center?” Oberton asked.

Tony gave another shrug. “I have no idea. Our relationship is usually strained to the point of not speaking.”

Jethro could confirm that. “He didn’t show up when DiNozzo contracted the plague.”

Oberton grimaced, and Jethro had to stomp down an urge to tell the man to shove his sympathy where the sun didn’t shine. Tony didn’t need some fed’s sympathy.

“Yeah, not a great relationship there,” Tony admitted. “Which is why I would not be surprised if he was trying to ‘encourage’ me to forgive him.” Tony used air quotes around the word ‘encourage.’ “So you can see why I might have some shamanic energy around me.”

“That wouldn’t explain what I’m sensing,” Boucher said.

Tony did have a temper, although he rarely let it show. However, it came out now as he snapped, “Well I don’t have another explanation. Maybe you didn’t have your Wheaties this morning and you’re just off your game.”

Boucher stiffened, and Jethro started calculating how many favors he would have to call in to try and minimize the fallout from this disaster. As soon as they were alone, Jethro was going to head smack DiNozzo into the middle of next week.

“That’s possible,” Oberton said. He looked at his partner, but Boucher didn’t seem to think so, and he was the senior partner. “If we were on the spirit plane, it’d be easy to tell, right?”

Jethro could see the trap, and Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you think I can get to the spirit plane, which would be possible only if I’m a shaman, but two problems. First, I’m not a shaman. Second, if I were a shaman, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall for bullshit like that.”

“I don’t know. You’re lying to my face,” Boucher said, and Jethro couldn’t take it anymore.

He stepped right into Boucher’s personal space. “My agents don’t lie. My team. My rules. Back off.” Jethro had to look up at Boucher, but that also meant that Jethro was right at Boucher’s unprotected stomach. Boucher clenched his fists, clearly uncomfortable with the tight quarters, which is exactly what Jethro wanted. Jethro waited for him to back off a step, but after a second, Boucher seemed to lean in. Jethro mirrored his posture, and they stared each other down. Jethro had gone nose to nose with terrorists and mass murderers—he sure as hell wasn’t going to back down to a fed, not when Tony’s neck was on the line.

“Okay, this is not going the way I expected,” Oberton said softly.

“Funny. I actually did expect feds to accuse me of something. It’s like a pilgrimage for you guys over at the Hoover building,” Tony snapped back. “Are you playing some weird version of Bingo where framing Tony DiNozzo is the center square? Because that would explain a lot.” Tony had his best devil-may-care voice going, which usually meant he was feeling pretty damn insecure.

Boucher turned his stare on Tony, which Jethro did not approve of. Jethro growled, “DiNozzo.” Hopefully the self-destructive idiot would shut up.

Oberton stepped into the breach. “Actually, we can get anyone to the spirit plane, so you wouldn’t need to be a shaman. Agent Gibbs could even come, and if you say you’re not a shaman while you’re there, Agent Boucher will be able to see that you’re telling the truth, and then this is all cleared up.” Oberton’s voice trailed off, and he looked at Boucher. Clearly the supervisory agent has his junior partner well in line. Gibbs had very little respect for that sort of partnership. He preferred DiNozzo standing up to him. Not that he did often these days, and when Tony did take a stand, it was inevitably for the worst damn reason in the world—like when he’d gone haring off after Ziva. DiNozzo’s loyalty led him to do some pretty stupid shit lately.

Boucher took a step backward. “If you come to the spirit plane, we can clear this up quickly.”

Jethro was not ready to let this asshole off the hook that easily. If he was backing down, it was because he knew he was in the wrong, and he was. “I thought the spirit plane was dangerous—that people got lost and never came back to their bodies,” Jethro said.

“Happens to some people,” Boucher agreed with a cold stare in Jethro’s direction.

Oberton quickly jumped in with, “But not us. If you’re with us, we can easily navigate the spirit plane.” He had his good cop routine going to balance out Boucher’s bad cop. “Where’s your meditation room?”

“Don’t have one,” Jethro said.

“What?” Oberton appeared alarmed by that, and if NCIS had any shamans, there would probably be a good reason for that, not that Jethro understood the reason shamans needed a room to take a time out in.

“NCIS doesn’t have any Talent on staff, so it’s a waste of space,” Jethro explained.

“No shamans will work for you? Shocking given your interagency cooperation skills,” Boucher said dryly.

Jethro narrowed his eyes. “Don’t like it, file a complaint.”

“I might,” Boucher answered.

Oberton put his hand on Boucher’s arm. It was a familiar gesture, and Jethro wondered how close the partners were. “Let’s not burn any bridges,” Oberton suggested. “Agent DiNozzo, if you could lock the doors, we could get comfortable in the chairs, and that will work.”

“Assuming we’re doing this little spirit plane journey,” Jethro said. This sounded like a Talent version of a lie detector, and the only suspects who submitted to those were idiots. If they showed a person was telling the truth, an investigator could accuse the suspect of faking the test. If the person failed, even for unrelated reasons, and the investigator would never stop hounding them. It was a lose-lose situation.

“Boss, it’s fine,” Tony said, that same horrible timing showing up again.

Jethro glared at DiNozzo, silently ordering him to back off, but now Tony dug in his heels and stared right back. Jethro was going to head slap him into the next century.

Boucher went around Jethro to lock the door before he headed for the chairs. “Let’s get this over with. The best way out is to just tell the truth, DiNozzo.”

“Yeah, I keep trying, but you suck at listening,” Tony said, and again, Boucher’s whole body stiffened. The man did not like being disrespected, and he was biting back more than one nasty response. Well as far as Jethro was concerned, Boucher needed to keep his opinions to himself, especially when it came to Jethro’s senior field agent. DiNozzo was off limits.

Chapter Six

Tony had no idea what bug had crawled up Gibbs’ ass and died, but he was too damn tired to fight Gibbs and Boucher at once, especially when he would just have to hunt down Senior and fight him later. Tony’s anger had dulled from a fire to nothing more than dull embers. It hurt so damn much to know his own father would manipulate him, but that was an old pain. Tony still bore the scars of that pain.

“How do we do this?” he asked Agent Oberton. The man was definitely the reasonable one in the partnership, although that might just be his professional persona. Tony certainly found he got more done when he was less of an asshole. He looked over at Gibbs.

Yep, he was still a bear with a sore paw. And Boucher didn’t look much happier, although he was settling himself into a chair.

“Boss?” Tony asked. He wasn’t sure what he wanted—either Gibbs to volunteer to go with him or to stay here and guard their bodies. However, after a second, Gibbs sank into the chair next to Tony, so Tony figured they were going to the spirit plane together.

“So, how—” Tony fell silent. In the blink of an eye he’d gone from the NCIS conference room to a version of the Providence Performing Art Center. The red and blue scrollwork along the curved ceilings, the gilding, the ornate chandelier set in the gold circle, the high arches and intricate carvings were all exact replicas from Tony’s memory. But the seats went farther back than Tony remembered. They stretched on for at least a half mile, and the sea of red seats was broken by irregular lines of gold, like someone had splashed rivers of gaudy paint across the fabric.

“What the hell?” Gibbs stared at the stage. When Tony turned all the way around, the wide performance area had been replaced by an archway that led to a rich forest. A dusting of snow gave everything a storybook quality, and red swoops of curtains blocked the view of the tree tops.

The first and last time Tony had been at the Providence Performing Art Center, his mother had brought him to a dance performance. Tony couldn’t even remember who had been on stage. He’d been too young to really appreciate the performance, but he remembered holding his mother’s hand tightly. He remembered all the bright coats and the wonder of having his mother bring him.

Her evenings out were her escape from the family home, and she had always left Tony behind with a nanny up to that point, but the art center was the first time he became part of her inner circle. It was him and his mom against the world, and it had all started in this building, although back then, the forest had definitely not been there. The theater, movies, art—this was the secret world Tony shared with his mom.

As a child, Tony had simply wanted to avoid his father’s mood swings. When a deal went well, Senior would promise ponies and trips to Australia and pet kangaroos. When some business venture tanked, Tony hid from the screaming and drinking. Going out with his mother was a chance to enjoy the world without always having to watch for his father’s mood. He remembered asking his mother why his father didn’t seem to love him, and his mother had told him that all fathers had trouble talking to their children. Maybe that’s where Tony had gotten his fear of having children of his own.

“What do you see?” Boucher asked, but then Oberton put a hand on Boucher’s arm, and he nodded as though he had his answer. “Oh.”

Tony turned to Boucher. He didn’t want the fibbies here one second longer than required because this place felt sacred to him. “So, ask your damn question.”

Boucher raised his eyebrows.

After clearing his throat, Oberton asked, “Are you a shaman?”

“No,” Tony said firmly. If he was, he would have ripped the charm right out of his father.

Oberton turned to Boucher. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Gibbs practically growled the words. Tony wished he could believe that Gibbs was getting protective and territorial over Tony, but the more likely answer was that he resented the hell out of losing so much time to a wild goose chase. Maybe Tony could sic Gibbs on Senior. Gibbs’ famous gut and Marine stare against Senior’s charm and Talent. Tony would bet on Gibbs.

Boucher tilted his head. “Agent DiNozzo believes that.”

Tony threw up his hands. “Because it’s true.”

“But it’s not,” Boucher said. “Words have a reality here, and your words are truth to you, but untrue of reality.”

“You mean he doesn’t know he’s a shaman?” Oberton clarified.

Tony turned his back and started walking up the aisle of the theater. “Where’s the exit because I am not going to stand here while you accuse me of being stupid.”

“Whoa! Wait! Don’t wander too far or you might actually get lost,” Oberton called.

“I thought you said this was safe,” Gibbs snapped.

“Because I assumed he wouldn’t wander away,” Oberton defended himself. “Agent DiNozzo, I was a mundane up to a couple of months ago when I found out I had shamanic powers I didn’t know about. It’s impossibly rare, but it does happen.” Oberton exchanged a concerned look with his partner, and Tony headed back toward them. His gut might not be as well developed as Gibbs’, but he knew when someone was trying to hide information.

“What aren’t you saying?”

“Excuse me?” Boucher demanded. Having him speak instead of the less threatening Oberton was definitely an attempt to get Tony to back off. Tough shit. Tony didn’t do what anyone expected.

“You know something you aren’t saying.”

Boucher crossed his arms. “I know a lot of things I have no intention of telling you, Agent. Darren, find Agent DiNozzo’s guide.”

“On it,” Agent Oberton agreed.

Tony sighed. “Look, you clearly confused. Possibly well-intentioned, but definitely confused because I don’t have a guide. I don’t have Talent, I’m not a shaman or a magic user. You have gotten all your wires mixed up somewhere, and I’m just the poor guy standing center stage when you did.” Tony spread his arms out to gesture at the stage they were standing on.

“DiNozzo, shut up,” Gibbs said. That was unusually direct.

“Boss?”

“Words have a reality here.” Gibbs repeated Boucher’s early words, and the light bulb came on so fast that it hurt. Words. Boucher wanted words, and Tony was the huge schmuck who kept talking. Tony was giving Boucher some version of Tony’s reality, and as a shaman, he had all the power. Tony pressed his lips together and Gibbs gave a tight nod.

“Let’s go back,” Gibbs said. Tony regretted coming, not that it helped much after the fact. All Tony could do was keep his mouth shut and wait for Boucher to get them back to the real world.

“I found it,” Oberton said even though he hadn’t done anything except stare up at the sky. Tony had assumed Oberton had ignored his partner’s order to find Tony’s guide, but apparently not.

Boucher turned to him. “Where?”

“That way,” Obertson gestured toward the forest.

“Found what?” Gibbs asked with a growl.

“DiNozzo’s guide,” Boucher said.

“Oh for the love of—” Gibbs cut himself off, and Tony didn’t know what to say. Shamans ran this world, and he never should have come. Worse, Gibbs would never forgive him for dragging Gibbs down with him.

Boucher took a step closer to Gibbs. “Agent Gibbs, give us ten minutes, and then maybe you will understand why your agent reads as a shaman. I promise you, I’m not the only shaman to notice DiNozzo’s status. I do, however, find it disturbing that I’m the first to mention it to him.” With that, Agent Boucher turned and headed into the woods, following the footsteps Oberton had left in the snow.

“Boss?” Tony asked. He had no idea what to do at this point, and they were trapped on the spirit plane with mentally disturbed shamans.

Gibbs didn’t answer, but he did stride into the forest after Boucher. With a sigh, Tony followed. This was the strangest day he’d ever had, and coming from someone with his history of serial killers, plagues, and ghost ships, that was saying something.

Chapter Seven

Jethro’s gut churned as he followed Boucher’s back. Other shaman would have recognized Tony. Something told Jethro that the fed was telling the truth about that, but Jethro didn’t want to believe it. Maybe Ziva had a good reason.

When she’d started with the team, Jethro would expect her to hide that sort of information. She’d been insecure about her place, and more than once she’d pushed too damn hard, like with that damn dinner. Looking back, Jethro shouldn’t have gone along with that, but she’d felt so isolated. Several days she’d come to his house and sat on his steps to watch him sand the boat because she’d had nothing else to do. It seemed like such a small joke and a good way to make Ziva feel at home.

And when Jethro wasn’t being a coward, he could admit that he had to push Tony away because his feelings for Tony were not fatherly, and Jethro would not make that mistake again. Jenny had taught him the folly of having feelings for a teammate, and Jethro did not like to repeat the same mistakes. Pushing Tony away had been the best way to avoid future disaster.

But if she knew Tony was a shaman, why wouldn’t she address it with Tony or with Jethro later—after her place on the team was more secure? Jethro knew she had feelings for Tony. Her attraction was equal to the guilt she felt for letting her personal feelings affect her so much when her father expected her to be the perfect Mossad agent.

After Ziva left Mossad, Jethro had resigned himself to the two of them starting a relationship. He’d drunk more than ever and started to really hate Tony and his heterosexuality, but he’d resigned himself to seeing Tony make a commitment to Ziva. But even after renouncing her ties to Mossad, Ziva had still continued the same dysfunctional relationship, pulling at Tony’s loyalties one second and pushing him away hard the next day. Despite loving Ziva like a daughter, Jethro had started to hate her for the way she screwed with Tony’s head.

He’d been relieved when she left, only to have Tony go chasing after her. And now all those unhappy and uncomfortable made even less sense because if Agent Boucher was right, she’d known all along that Tony was a shaman, and she’d never told anyone… including Tony. What the hell had she been thinking? Some days Jethro could not figure out what passed for logic in other people’s minds.

Ahead Boucher stopped, and Jethro took a slight step to the side so that he would be between DiNozzo and Boucher, but the second he saw the animal beside a large boulder, he forget all about the two shamans. The grey wolf was large, at least his bone structure was, but he was starved down until skin stretched across bone. He had a huge wound on the back of his neck and some sort of disease or parasite had clearly set in. Jethro reached for his sidearm to put the wolf out of its misery, but apparently his gun hadn’t come to the spirit plane with him.

Then before Jethro could figure out what to do about the suffering animal, DiNozzo threw himself forward. Jethro grabbed for him, but missed, and for a second, fear ripped at Jethro’s guts as he waited for the badly injured and dying wolf to gut Tony. If it had the strength to lift its head, that was the only possible outcome.

Instead, Tony put his head on the wolf’s shoulder, and the wolf moved its muzzle just enough to lick Tony’s arm. With a sob, Tony wrapped his arms around the wolf, running his fingers through the patchy fur. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know,” Tony whispered. Someone else might take that as an apology to Boucher for lying about his Talent, but Jethro had the feeling Tony was apologizing to the wolf. That would be more like Tony—to feel bad for his inability to protect everyone.

“He’s in so much pain,” Oberton said softly. “All he can do is suffer.”

“That’s why DiNozzo didn’t have access to his Talent. Fuck.” Boucher growled the last word, his anger making the air feel heavy. Jethro couldn’t deny what his eyes were telling him, so he that meant he had to shift gears.

“Who did this?” Jethro looked at Boucher for answers.

Boucher stared back at him without saying anything.

“Is there any way to know?” Oberton asked.

Boucher looked over to where Tony had his arms wrapped around the dying wolf. “The scars look old, and the guides tend to follow the rules of the physical world. At least when they feel like it. But my guess would be that the wolf has been injured for years or even decades.”

Jethro gritted his teeth. He wanted to rage, but no one here had done the damage. Right now, Jethro knew that Tony would blame his father, but Jethro wasn’t as sure. His gut told him Ziva was involved somehow, but that wasn’t a conversation he would have in front of this FBI agents. Ziva was his mistake and his responsibility. And if she had done this much damage to Tony, he was going to find her and kick her ass so hard she’d feel it when she was eighty. What the hell had she been thinking?

“Can you help him?” Jethro asked.

“I could,” Oberton said, but he looked at Boucher as if asking for permission. To hell with that.

“Then fix it!” Jethro snapped. Oberton didn’t do anything until Boucher nodded, and Jethro was starting to have homicidal feelings toward these two. But then Oberton looked up and a white bird swooped down out of the sky and landed on the wolf’s shoulder near Tony’s head.

The wolf whined, and Tony picked his head up. “Don’t hurt him.” Tony growled the words.

Oberton knelt down next to Tony. “He won’t. He’s going to give your guide enough energy to heal. He’s been hurt for too long to heal himself.”

Tony looked at Oberton with suspicion. Good. Jethro disliked these two enough that he didn’t want his second to like them. Finally Tony said, “Okay.”

The bird started combing through the wolf’s hair, picking out the parasites and worms that infected the nasty wound.

Tony stroked the wolf’s head, and he had such a smitten expression that Jethro was jealous of a damn wolf that wasn’t even real. “How could I have forgotten him?” Tony asked in a pained voice.

“Enough,” Jethro said before anyone could answer. “We’ll discuss this back in the conference room.” Jethro stared at Boucher and dared him to contradict the order. There was no way that he or Tony would talk while the shamans had a magical version of a polygraph going. The damn PR department hadn’t managed to get Jethro to take a polygraph, and Boucher wouldn’t either. Boucher stared at him without moving. Bastard. They might have kept staring at each other, but Tony’s voice distracted Jethro.

“He’s healing.”

Jethro looked over and the wolf’s wounds were closed and he had more meat on him. However, he wasn’t fully healed. He struggled up onto wobbly legs, and Jethro’s gut screamed about having a predator so close to DiNozzo. With Tony sitting on the forest floor, the wolf was taller than him. It was a huge creature that must have been a good 180 pounds when healthy. It still wasn’t there yet. The bird had flown off when the wolf got to its feet, but now it settled on the wolf’s shoulders. The wolf should have treated the cattle egret like prey, but instead it ignored the bird as the wolf’s hair began to grow back. Mangy clumps fell out, replaced with healthy fur.

Before long, a solid gray wolf stood in the forest. He shoved his head forward, burying it in DiNozzo’s lap, but then it looked up and with the grace of its species, leapt away and vanished into the shadows.

“Wait!” Tony cried out. He bolted to his feet, but Jethro hadn’t forgotten what Oberton had said about getting lost, so he caught Tony by the arm before he could go running off into the woods. Tony jerked his arm. “Let go!”

“No,” Jethro said firmly.

“Damn it.” Tony shoved at Jethro’s chest, and this was the most aggressive Jethro had seen Tony in years.

“Your guide is still there,” Oberton said. “But wolves are private. He’ll want to get to know you alone, not with all of us standing around.”

“Then leave,” Tony said. His head was so twisted around that he clearly thought that was a good idea.

“You don’t know how to navigate on the spirit plane. Shamans get lost and die here,” Boucher said. “We’re going back to the conference room.”

Jethro tightened his grip on Tony’s arm and was about to agree when the world vanished in a blink and they were back in the conference room.

Tony shot out of his chair. “You bastard. You had no right to drag me back here.” He closed in on Boucher. The fed stood, and Jethro scrambled to catch Tony before he could assault a federal agent. Tony was faster and he shoved at Boucher’s chest before Jethro could stop him.

“DiNozzo!” Gibbs snapped, and when he reached Tony a second later, he head slapped him.

Tony whirled around, and for a second, he seemed confused. He stared at Jethro like he’d never seen him.

“Okay, let’s all calm down.” Oberton moved between Boucher and DiNozzo, and Jethro pulled Tony away from both shamans.

“It’s okay.” Boucher put his hand on Oberton’s shoulder. “DiNozzo’s guide has been severely attacked, and his own reactions have been compromised by that assault. It’s evident that while he is a shaman, he has had no access to shamanic powers. Agent Gibbs, your agent will need to go on stand down until legal can sort this, and I would recommend you get him to the Djedi center for training on how to access the spirit plane. He’s been damaged enough that he needs a better connection to his spirit guide.

“I’ll take care of DiNozzo,” Jethro said. Even if he had to drag him to the Djedi center kicking and screaming. “But if you tell people he’s been a shaman all this time, he’s going to lose his job.”

Up until now, Tony had been straining against Jethro’s hold, but now he sank into the nearest chair and put his hands over his face. “Oh fuck.” Tony’s words cut through Jethro. Once again, Jethro hadn’t protected someone he cared about. The failure tasted like ash in his mouth.

“I’ll have the FBI legal team call NCIS,” Boucher said. He gave Oberton a fond look. “We just had to complete the same review for Oberton who showed signs of shamanism pretty late in life.”

“Near drowning when I was in high school, but I didn’t have enough power to trip anyone’s shaman alarm until much later,” Oberton said with a shrug. “Look at the bright side, Agent DiNozzo. Even horribly wounded and near death, your guide had enough power for Agent Boucher to recognize the Talent. You could develop into a significant shaman, and law enforcement is always looking for shamans to work Talent cases.”

Jethro glared at the man. If Oberton was trying to recruit Tony, Jethro was going to break the man into small pieces.

“We will need to identify when you became a shaman,” Boucher said. With that and my testimony that your guide was damaged enough to prevent you from using Talent, that should suffice. It would help if there were other shamans who could testify that in the past you were also unable to access your magic.”

Jethro appreciated Boucher’s professional tone, but they couldn’t afford to have Boucher go digging into that mystery. It would be too easy for someone to mention Ziva, and Jethro was almost sure that Abby knew Ziva had talent. Before Jethro could figure out what to say to get them off this track, Tony offered another name.

“The Djedi center in Baltimore. I was working a serial rape case, and all the guys told me the center would kick me out on my ass, but they didn’t. They were a huge help in catching the rapist.”

Boucher nodded. “They probably knew you had Talent, so I’ll contact them and see what sort of impression you made. DiNozzo, you’re one of the few shamans in law enforcement. I will always have your back if I can.”

Tony gave a dismissive snort. Jethro moved to Tony’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. Tony needed to know he had someone he could trust in his corner, and he could trust Jethro. A shiver went through Tony’s frame and then he leaned forward, breaking contact. “As for near-death experiences, you can have your pick. My first vote would be the plague,” Tony said.

“I heard that story,” Oberton said. “That one gets told over at the Hoover building like a campfire horror story. But you were an agent by then.”

“So?” Jethro asked.

Boucher answered. “If someone has Talent, if they don’t seek a guide on the spirit plane, the ability to perceive living magic fades, and their Talent focuses on inanimate magic like crystals or incantations. The travel to the spirit plane has to happen during adolescence, so we’re looking for a near death experience somewhere around fourteen, maybe as late as twenty-two or three.”

Tony lost most of the color out of his face. “Subpoena my records from the Long Island Jewish Medical Center from February when I was twelve.” And with that, he stood and stalked out of the room, his back stiff. Jethro was grateful that neither shaman tried to follow because Tony was acting as prickly as a porcupine, not that Jethro would let that deter him. With a nod at the two feds, Jethro got up and followed Tony out of the room.

At some point, he’d need to talk to Vance, but right now Jethro really only cared about DiNozzo.