After a breakneck day in NCIS, Special Agent McGee decided out of the blue to relax in a bar. Even though he is not a drinker, he does occasionally enjoys a beer with his colleague and friend Tony DiNozzo, or even have a team evening after a gruesome case with Ziva and Abby.

Today however he decides to go on his own, he stops his Porsche close to the bar where the team usually meets, walks to the door and takes a seat on the bar desk besides a young woman, sitting ramrod straight staring at glass of vodka on ice. He glances at her and gives her a brief head shake, which she reciprocates.

After glancing at the menu, he finally decides on a Cuba Libre, looks around the bar and is surprised when the stranger interrupts his thoughts.

"You are not a drinker," She says with conviction.

"Excuse me?"

"You are not a drinker, and whenever you do drink, Cuba Libre is not your drink of choice."

Tim turns and really looks at the stranger. Late twenties to early thirties, long wavy hair past her neck on a simple twisted pigtail which reminds him a little of Ziva's, natural tanned skin that proclaims that somewhere, one of her forefathers were latino descendants, and a melodic accent that identified her as someone who spent a long time on the West Coast. However what was most striking on the stranger was how tense her shoulders were, how her fingers were tensed around the vodka glass and the sadness that seemed to pour out of her every pore.

"No, I'm not a drinker," Mcgee says "but neither are you." It was an educated guess.

After a pause, the stranger silently agrees. Before Mcgee can say anything else, a very loud drunk pops on the other side of the stranger, and tries to pick her up.

"Hey beauty, what a babe like you is doing alone in a place like this, let me pay you a drink."

He starts talking and puts a hand on her shoulder. She immediately tenses even more, as if that was even possible, and very slowly turns her chair towards the drunk and whispers in a menacingly voice:

"If you value your hand, you will remove it NOW." The drunk tries again to say something else but she catches his hand and twists it painfully.

"Ok ok, if you wanna stay with the geek, it is your choice" says the drunk as he goes away. When he is out of hearing distance, he murmurs "bitch".

Mcgee is watching the scene happen before his own eyes, and sees how the woman struggles to have a better grasp on her emotions again.

"So… Bad day, uh?" He asks.

"Bad year," she looks at him and chuckles. There is a very small smile, but Mcgee can see that it does not reach her eyes and at every breath she takes she is trying very hard not to cry.

His drink arrives and he raises his glass. "I propose a toast"

"A toast?" She sounds mildly interested.

"Yep." He looks in her eyes and thinks that she does have gorgeous eyes; big doe like eyes, surrounded by the type of eyelashes girls usually spend fortunes to have.

"What kind of toast?"

"To a better year."

"To a better year."

They touch their glasses, and sip their drinks.

NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS

Two hours later, hands are desperately trying to find the keys. Once found, one hand is struggling to fit the keys in the lock, at the same time the other one holds firmly silky strands of hair, trying to better the angle for a desperate attack of mouth and tongue.

The door finally opens, and two forms enter the small apartment without disengaging of each other. The man closes the door with his feet, and supports the woman against the door while he attacks voraciously her neck. She is petite close to him, and in order to give him better access she jumps and puts her legs around his waist. He moans but does not stop his attack.

"I don't usually do this," his voice is muffed by her neck.

"Uh?" Her brain is on standstill, not fully able to grasp what he said.

McGee stops the attack on her neck and looks at her face for a second. Her big brown eyes are smoky, and the sadness that was present during the whole evening is temporarily gone.

"I don't usually pick strangers in bars," he explains again. "I don't usually do one night stands."

She pauses for a second, breathing deeply and processing the info he gave her.

She smiles and starts kissing him.

"Four years," kiss on the neck "seven months," kiss on the lips "seventeen days," another breathtaking kiss with lots of tongue "fourteen hours West Coast time."

McGee's brain tries to process the info along with the stimuli, and takes him some seconds to question her:

"Four year since what?"

"Since the last time I've had sex."

They keep on kissing and McGee suddenly stops, grabs her shoulder, and stares at her face asking astonished:

"Four years?" His voice is loaded with incredulity. How a gorgeous woman like that stayed alone for so long?

"Four years, seven months, seventeen days and" she looks briefly at her watch "fourteen hours give or take." She smiles at his incredulous look. "LA time. I would have to redo the math for DC time."

"But … " She silences him with a small finger on his lips

"Who is counting anyway?"

Both smile and resume their kissing. McGee gets a better grip on her body and carries her to his bedroom and closes the door.

And as they say, so it begins...

Darkness.

Darkness is the first thing I truly remember.

In Italian, to give birth means to come into the light. We are conceived in darkness and through a very painful process we are brought in to the light of the new world where we might live, love and learn.

However, even after I was born I stayed in darkness. I had no name, no wishes, no rights. I existed only to serve my Master's wishes. I was the Servant.

One of my main tasks a Servant was to dive in the Pit. The black endless Soul's Pit. It was a huge cold pound in Master's propriety where He usually asked for answers from His Masters. There, swimming in those black waters, I would have terrifying visions of things that were, that are, and might come to be, and I would bring the answers to my Master. I had to dive and stay under until I had the answer He wanted. Otherwise spankings would be a certainty in my near future.

Of course, let's not forget that the Pit was also where he used to dump the bodies of those he had to kill during his many business ventures.

The smell was extremely foul. Not that I had any chance or right to complain about it. I was, after all, only a Servant.

But time went by, and one day something changed. Some men in cars with flashing blue and red lights came into Master's propriety and arrested Him and His minions. I had no idea what was happening, as I was down under when they broke into the House. And one of the men with very little hair and a trench coat, once he was told that a child was in the pound, did not hesitate and dove into the black waters. And for the first time, ever, someone dove into the Pound and rescued me from the visions that held me under.

He took me out of the water, involved me in his trench coat and ordered a blanked to be brought to him. All the while he kept talking to me, asking me questions. And when I looked at him, it was the very first time that I felt something amazing. Later on there would be only two other times I would feel it again. I felt the reek of purity .

First Time

Things changed a lot after the man in the trench coat took me out of the Pit. Master was arrested and I was taken to a building where a nice lady with tired eyes kept asking me questions about my Master.

I did not say a word.

A Servant had no permission to speak, unless clearly granted by her Master. My Master was gone, so I had no idea how proceed in this new world that was opening itself before me.

The lady with tired eyes left the room where she put me and spoke to someone I could not see. Words like "mentally hindered", "autistic", "Post Traumatic something" were repeated a lot.

Myself, I just looked around this new place with curious eyes.

Then He came in. The man of the trench coat. However he was not using the trench coat anymore; probably he had to throw it away after the dive in the Pit.

He sat down in front of me on the other side of the table. I sat down on the tip of the chair and looked at his face.

He smiled at me.

I smiled back.

I imagined that he probably had no idea how good his soul smelt to me.

"Listen" he started "you do understand what I say, don't you?"

I smiled at him.

He smiled back.

"So… what is your name?"

I kept on smiling at him.

"How long have you lived with Mr. Swanson?"

"Do you remember who your parents are?" "Are they alive?"

"You do understand that what he did to you and others was wrong."

Ah, his voice was very nice if you really paid attention to it. A little bit gruffly, as if he doesn't use it a lot.

"I want to help you, but you have to talk to me"

No I don't. Don't you know that Servants only speak if given permission to talk?

"If you don't speak or at least give any sign that you understand what people are saying, things might get complicated once they put you in the system."

How complicated?

Something in my face must have given him a clue that I had no idea of what he was talking about, so he explained in details to me.

"What will happen is the following: they are going to take you to this house, big house with a lot of children. You see that lady outside"

He pointed the lady with tired eyes. She must have felt our eyes on her, as she waved her hand lightly to us.

"She is Ms. Doreen Thorn, she is the social worker on your case. She will take you to this big house full of children and there you will be able to play, to live a better life than the one you had in Mr. Swanson's House. And if you are a very lucky child, after you spent some time in the foster care you might find a family that might take you in."

Uh?

"Yeah, they might decide to adopt you. But the chances of that happening increase drastically if you start speaking." The last sentence he enunciated it very slowly, as if the slower he spoke the better chances I would decide to answer him back.

Silence.

"I know you're not autistic. I know you're not retarded." Pause "Swanson was nothing but a perfectionist; he would never have kept you if you had any real or imagined defect. But you have to help me."

More silence.

"Will you help me?"

I silently nod. I would give him what he wanted.

He smiles, stands up and stretches his hand to me. I put my smaller hand into his, and he takes me to the social worker outside.

"She promised to collaborate."

"Well that's a start. So dear, what's your name?"

I shake my head.

"What's your name, dear?"

I shake again, I look at my hero and he interferes again on my behalf.

"She might not have one. Swanson wasn't very big on his care of her; he might have neglected her to the point of not naming her. Right, pumpkin?"

I look at him, and nod.

"So we have to fix it, don't we?" Says the social worker.

She holds out her hand, and my hero puts my hand in hers. She starts dragging me to the exit, all the time talking about possible names for me and the people and the children I would meet in the house she was going to put me in. Before the end of the corridor I look back and see my hero looking at me with sad eyes. He waves his hand and that's the last image I have of him.

Mrs. Thorn did find me a nice foster family to live with. They had two other foster girls and a boy. They were indeed a nice family.

I only lasted there four months. I ran away in the beginning of spring.

Second time

The second time I felt it again, I was at a train station. I had been living on the streets for a couple of months, since I had left the house Mrs. Thorn had put me in. The lady had a very screech voice she used whenever she ordered us around to do chores, and her mate had wandering hands.

Master indulged himself into many pleasures, but he was adamant that the Servant would not be used like that. I would help some of his household chores but I was specially separated for the Pit. His bedmates would never dive in the Pit.

I was a street urchin, living on petty theft and rest of food restaurants in the area would throw away. I found out some shelters where they would serve hot soup some days of the week, and they would always gladly give me a bowl and comment what a pity that such gorgeous angel had to live on the streets.

I never complained, as long as they gave me food. It was even better when they left me use the showers and gave me some ratty (but clean) clothes.

But on that beautiful autumn day, as I was strolling on the busy tarmac trying to decide who should be my next victim, I felt it again. A mixture of wild roses and passion fruit flower, along with something that words could not describe.

My victim forgotten, I simply followed my nose. I came to a café on the station where a tall man was talking on a phone booth. He had his back to me. I could see he had tall shoulders, a thick head of hair, and a soothing voice.

But the scent was simply intoxicating.

"Yes, darling, I got delayed at the conference so I am going home on the next train. Yes, it will arrive in Montana two hours later. No, I will just have a coffee while I wait. Give a kiss at the rug rats." Silence "I love you too" He puts the phone down, turns around and sees me there standing.

"Hi"

Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

"Is there any problem?"

Run, idiot, run!

"So…"

Chaplain Joseph Buchanan, retired Colonel of the United States Air Force, stood there looking at a small child, probably not older than ten years old. She had clothes that, even though clean, were clearly second hand. Her hair was on a ponytail, but the most striking feature were her deep brown eyes, which at that moment were looking at him with a doe on the headlights expression.

"So… bye" He started to walk away, but he did not take two steps before his heart felt constricted. He looked back and the child was at the same spot, looking at him as if he had murdered her best friend. He did not question his reasons, but followed what the Lord told him to do. He walked to the child, lowered on one of his knees so he could be on her same height and offered:

"I have to wait for my train, and I am planning on having some hot chocolate and cake. Would you like to join me?"

Chaplain Buchanan would later say that it was one of the most amazing transformations he had ever seen. The little urchin opened a shy smile that shone through her eyes and warmed his heart, took a step forward and lifted her little hand to him.

He took her hand and led her to one of the tables, where they shared huge cups of delicious hot chocolate and two slices of cake.

She did not say a single word the whole time, but her smile was worth thousand words.

However, when he tried to buy a coffee on the train to Montana, he had no money. The little urchin had stolen his wallet.

22 years later

Washington DC is not a new city to me. I had to live here on my first two years of training, and even before that during my backbreaking time in Virginia.

I just never imagined or wanted to come back here the way and for the reasons I had to come now.

As little disgrace is no fun at all, I just found out two hours ago that the moving company misplaced my things. Instead of sending it to Olive Street NW, Georgetown, they sent it to Olive Street, Georgiatown, Minnesota. Yep.

Just my bloody luck.

So while I am here, on a bar like so many others in America, trying to find the meaning of love life, stuff and everything on the bottom of my vodka on ice that I still have to take a taste of, I feel it again.

It.

It wafts by me and I close my eyes, wondering why of all times this had to happen to me again.

I open my eyes and I am surprised to notice that the scent comes from a man who sits by my side. Not old, not young, he acknowledges my presence with a nod, which I polite reciprocate. Clean nails, no wedding ring, nice tailored jacket, not those extremely expensive but a nice one nonetheless, which fits his pale skin and light hair.

He has one of those faces that, regardless of how old he might get, will always retain a part of his youth on it.

He asks for the drink menu, and after some consideration chooses a Cuba Libre. My mind does not catch up with my mouth because before I tell myself to shut up I hear my own voice speaking.

"You are not a drinker."

He looks at me surprised, and it is my turn to be surprised. Regardless of his age, he has the most soulful eyes I've ever seen, deep green pools that once directed at me simply freezes my brain.

"Excuse me."

Duh. I should stop taking lessons from my brothers on how to irritate and alienate people. Be normal, be normal!

"You are not a drinker, and whenever you do drink, Cuba Libre is not your drink of choice."

The green eyed stranger turns to me and start seizing my person. I have the opportunity to do the same to him. He is not as young as I first imagined, neither as innocent. There is a slight hardness once he studies me that make me wonder how he can balance what he has seen with the purity I feel on him.

After a while, he must decided that I am not one of the crazy drunk chicks trying to pick strangers on a bar, like the blondie throwing herself out at the guy in the corner of the bar, and answers with a smile.

"No, I'm not a drinker, but neither are you." He points to my vodka, now more ice than vodka.

I refrain to answer verbally and merely nod. The odds of anything else happening beyond this friendly conversation are close to null. But that does not stop my overactive brain of creating possible scenarios.

Who he is?

Where is he from?

What does he do? After a few seconds of this I simply scream to my subconscious to shut up.

Not before the smell of alcohol and sweat fouls the air on my other side.

"Hey beauty, what a babe like you is doing alone in a place like this, let me … "

I tune down the stranger and use my interrogation voice that made convicted murderers cry:

"If you value your hand, you will remove it NOW". The last word I pronounce it more forcefully, already calculating in my mind how much force would be needed to snap his fingers. He keeps on mumbling and I on a practiced movement catch his hand and twist it. He whimpers like a babe and he must see how close to the edge I am, as he gives up and leaves muttering something.

I hear him calling me "bitch" once he thinks I can't her him, but I simply ignore him and turn back to my vodka. And the green eyed man. I feel my eyes starting to tear up, but I refuse to let any to fall.

"So… Bad day, uh?" He asks.

"Bad year," I look at him and chuckle.

His drink arrives and he swirls the glass in his hand. I return my eyes to my glass and accept that our conversation is over.

"I propose a toast."

What the… that was unexpected.

"A toast?"

"Yep," his eyes slide over my face and fixate on my eyes. I try to look away but for some reason I can't hide myself, and the more he looks at me, he really sees me and I struggle to put my barriers up but he has the uncanny ability to see through all my walls and reservations.

"To a better year," he murmurs, trying to break the tension.

"To a better year," I respond.

We touch our glasses, and sip our drinks.

NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS

I don't think I can describe the next two hours.

We had a silent agreement not to say our last names. His name is Timothy, by the way, but he prefers Tim, but some close friends call him Timmy.

We talked about everything and nothing. Sports, politics, music, movies. We both suck at group sports, we had no real understanding on what the hell they are doing at the Senate, we like completely opposite types of music, and we are both absolutely crazy about scifi. He told me he is master in RPG and he even has a funny playing name, Elflord, elfling, something like that, and I told him about this time I went to the Lord of the Rings convention in Germany. He laughed himself in stitches when I described to him my father dressed up as Gandalf, my older brother dressed up as Saruman and my mother dressed up as Lady Galadriel waiting for a train in Dusseldorf.

He looked at his watch and sobered a little, it had been a pleasure but he had to work the following morning. I told him I had to leave as well, and he gallantly offered to pay my tab.

We walked outside and I hailed a cab, and he insisted to wait until one of the crazy cabbies stop for me. It stopped and I looked at him and thanked him sincerely. He rolled on the ball of his feet and shoved his hands on his pockets, and shyly said he had a great night.

I look into his eyes and feel the most extreme case of brain freeze ever. I can speak eight languages fluently, but I can not utter a single word at that time.

The cabbie horns, "are you coming or not?" we smile at each other and I think, why not, and lean over to kiss the side of his face.

His eyes become huge and for some reason he turns his face. Our lips meet. And whatever was frozen melts. My body molds to his and my arms surround his neck. I vaguely recognize that I folded my body into the taxi and dragged him with me inside.

"Where do you live?" I ask between kisses.

"Silver Springs" he manage to answer before kissing me again.

I take his head and lead it to my neck where he starts leaving a route of kisses, and with the last of my functioning brain cells I turn to the taxi driver who is leering at us.

"Silver Springs, drive". The driver smiles a dirty smile but keeps his mouth shut.

I don't remember the taxi ride, I just remember that it was short. Probably too short for the twenty dollar note we gave the driver, but we didn't want to wait for the change.

Before I situate myself I feel him pressing himself at me against the door of his apartment. I have no idea how we got there. And to be sincere, I don't care.

I'm too short and he is quite tall, and he had to fold himself to hug me. I solve this little difference using all my ability of years at the gym to jump and support my weight on his waist.

He mumbles something and I do not understand.

He stops whatever he is doing on my neck (I never knew I was so sensitive there) and stares at my face, like he is looking for something, and repeats himself.

"I don't usually pick strangers in bars," he pauses "I don't usually do one night stands".

I try to filter what he is saying, adding to what I know and what I feel about this man.

I smile and inform him of my situation.

It takes some seconds for him to process the information I just gave him, but I would be proud to think that it might be related to the kisses we were enjoying at the moment.

When he grasps what I told him, his face is comic.

"Four years," I don't know if I should be flattered or bothered by the incredulity on his voice. I decide to lean on humor.

"But..." I silence him with my finger on his moist full lips.

"Who is counting anyway?"

We smile and he carries me to his bedroom, where he proceeds to make me very welcome in DC.

After we are finished, our bodies are wet with our sweat and I can still feel the his heart hammering against my breasts. He silently kisses the old scar on my right shoulder and newly healed one located little above my left breast. Two centimeters down and I would be singing with angels. He raises his head to look at me, some dam inside of me breaks.

I break down. Huge great sobs shake my body and regardless of how hard I try I can't stop them.

I cry for myself.

I cry for my family.

I cry for my friends.

I cry for the lives lost and for dreams and potential unfulfilled.

I cry for the lives destroyed I could not save, and the lives I've tried so hard but did not wish to be saved.

I cry for the team that for so long had been my family, but in the moment they need me most I was not there to back them up and to protect them. And because of that they were dead.

And I cry for that little girl who was taken from the Pit, grew up and was trained to slay dragons and walk on the brink of the abyss. We hunt monsters, but sometimes, if we are not careful enough, we become them.

He did not utter a word. He simply gathered me in his arms and let the storm pass. And for the first time in many months, I was given the chance to mourn and grieve.