‘Buried'

I have a stitch in my side that refuses to go away. It also happens to be the side I'm lying on. I don't think I've ever been this cramped before, not even… no. I don't want to think about that. I don't want to think, period, but when you're lying in a glass box under five feet of dirt and snow, all you really have are your thoughts.

The bastard did leave me with something though- a gun and a timer. It's obvious where this is leading. He wants me dead. What else is new? I've made so many enemies since I became a cop that I'm sort of losing track of them all. Gibbs would probably make me keep a record of them.

At least it's not cold. In fact, I'm sweating so much that the bottom of my coffin is wet. And all I'm wearing is a tee shirt and boxers… someone out there has a twisted sense of humour, and I have a feeling I know who it is.

My chest hurts. The timer tells me that I have exactly half an hour before my air runs out. How comforting.
They're looking for me- at least I hope they are. I know how irritating I can be- god knows my parents told me that often enough- but they're the only people I can count on to look out for me. They're my family; the only people I've come to trust with myself, the only people who have seen the person I really am.

My parents never saw that. I don't know why I'm thinking of them now; I've managed to keep them out of my thoughts for…oh, it must be at least three days now. A Tony DiNozzo record. I only ever think of them when I've had too much too drink or when I get sick or sometimes when I just feel… lonely.

I remember getting sick one year when I was a kid. It was the first time my mother showed anything for me- she sat and read to me. I can still remember what her perfume smelt like- something light, floral, the sort of thing I think Kate would like. Then again, maybe not. Kate seems… citrusier. Oranges and lemons and maybe just a hint of cinnamon. That seems more like her- sweet, with just enough spice to keep things interesting. Abby, on the other hand, is not the type to wear perfume. My gothic goddess is like fire- enticing, captivating, but deadly if you push your luck.

Thank God I know the real Abbs- behind the tats is a heart of gold. She -somehow- always finds the time to listen to me, and not once has she told me that she doesn't want to hear what I have to say, even if she's heard it all before. Abby knows more about me than anyone else. I've been able to be myself with her and funnily enough, she still accepts me for who I am.

I must be running out of air. Yep, the timer says ten minutes.
I don't think I've ever realised just how fast time goes when you're about to die. Take the Y. Pestis thing for example. The hours I spent with Kate in isolation seemed a lot faster than I thought they would be. One minute I was talking to Kate about the king of cool- Travolta, of course- the next I had Doctor Pitt telling me I had the plague. Before I knew it, I was choking on my own blood. That can change a man, that's for sure.

I survived purely because Gibbs told me to. He slapped me upside the head and told me I wasn't going to die. I believed him. He has this motto- semper fi- and he always lives up to it. Always. I wish he was here now. He's like a father to me, one who at least shows me that he cares. He actually told me I was irreplaceable once, and had the audacity to say it again. In front of witnesses, I might add. When I feel really down, I replay that scene in my head, over and over. It helps.

It suddenly strikes me that this is something probie would probably want to mention in one of his books. He's always taking inspiration from our cases, is Tim. I should really stop calling him probie. He's shaping up to be a good agent- developing a set of instincts that I'll probably wish I had. He's still too naïve, though. Tim still sees the best in everyone and everything, while I'm the exact opposite. I'm too cynical. Someone- Director Morrow I think- once said I was heading for burnout, and he might have been right.

No one knows it, at least not yet, but I come in to work often at night. It's when I do my best work. Kate would be in stitches if she knew that I catch up on my work, if she knew that I brush up on my cases- any cases we work on- during the night. How else do I know so much when it looks like I do nothing throughout the day? I mean, there have been times when I've spent whole weeks at the office, going home only to get fresh clothing. I have a sneaking suspicion that Ducky knows, but if he does, he's not telling.

I know I seem lazy, but it's all just a pose. It's the only way I could be invisible to my peers at school, at college. People like dumb Tony. They don't seem to see that smart Tony is lurking beneath the surface, just waiting to be found. Sort of like I am now, actually. I wonder what McGee would say if he knew that I had been accepted at MIT. My GPA was high enough, and my shrink- counsellor, I should say, told me that I was one of the most intelligent people she'd ever met- if I could just stop being lazy. Gibbs says the same thing, but old habits are hard to break.

Two minutes. Already my lungs are feeling like they're slowly being crushed in a vice. That, and I'm seeing stars. Of course, it could be a side effect from not having eaten anything for three, maybe four days. Bad Tony would come out now, but he doesn't want to play. In a way, I'm actually grateful for that. This… this is almost like being back in that cage, only worse. Much worse. I'm suffocating. I could always put a bullet through my brain, but I'm not the type anymore.

God, I wish I could see them all one more time.

I would apologise for being so lazy, for taunting Kate, for baiting probie. For the times I've cried on Abby's shoulder- and yes, I mean that literally, for not living up to Gibbs' expectations. He's the one person I hate disappointing. Me dying is a sure fire way to truly piss him off.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes are closing. In my head, I can almost hear Gibbs telling me to hold on, to hang in there, and I can almost hear myself telling him that I'm trying. I realise that I'm smiling, and a part of me wonders how I can find anything funny when I'm inches away from doing exactly what papa DiNozzo told me I would.

I remember the photo. For some reason I can see it clearly, the picture of me, Abby, Kate, Gibbs and Mcgee. We're all laughing. I keep it on my windowsill, next to my bed. It reminds me that I'm alive, that I'll get through another day.

I should probably pray. I used to. If I'm going to die, I really should be making peace with my Maker only the darkness is calling me. I can feel my muscles relaxing, and I'm almost happy. For the first time in days, I'm not tense. I'm not holding myself away from the glass. Ever since that cage, I've been a little claustrophobic, but no one except Gibbs knows that. He's the only person I told and he understood. Told me to stay away from small rooms for extended periods until I could handle it.

I can't fight it anymore, and I don't want to. The one thing about being inside a box without anyone to talk to is that you don't have anyone's expectations to live up to. It's almost nice.
Just when I can feel myself drifting, I hear a noise. The first noise apart from my breathing.
Scraping.
Hope fills me.

They've found me.

I keep my eyes closed, feeling light on my skin for the first time in days. I can hear the glass breaking, and I'm peppered with tiny shards. I'm too numb to know if any of them cut me.
Hands reach for me, lifting me out of the coffin. For some reason, I want to cry. No one has touched me in days. I sort of feel like a nobody. I need to be touched. I need to know I'm still real, that I'm still human. I need to know people care.
I hear his voice then, rough with…could that be fear? He's afraid. He's pleading for me to talk to him, to open my eyes. He's also warning me not to die on him, telling me to hang on.
The cold is seeping into my shirt. Before I can do anything about it, I am lifted again, so carefully that it brings a lump to my throat, and something is wrapped around me. A blanket? A jacket? I don't know and I don't care.
All I want is to be held. To be comforted. It's a little childish, I know.

Somehow I force my eyes to open. His face is above mine, blurred, a little fuzzy, like some old black and white film. I blink and it comes into focus. I have to ask him, but my throat feels like its been sandpapered. Swallowing helps, but only marginally. I end up mouthing the words. Maybe it's better that way. No one else will know how much it shames me to admit weakness, to ask for help. I've always tried to be so strong. I've always tried to hide the fact that I feel like I'm drowning. I just can't do that this time.

‘Hold me.'
I'm not sure if he understands, so I say it again. I'll beg if I have to.
‘Please. Hold me.'
He's like a father to me, for God's sake.
I am humbled to know that he does understand. Humbled… and touched.

He doesn't even hesitate. He just lifts me into his arms, cradles me like I'm just a little kid, and tells me that it's going to be ok. Tells me over and over that I'm safe. That I'm still alive, still real.
This time, I believe him.
This time.
This time, I make a decision- to show him the real me. To trust him with myself.

This time… when my nightmares stop coming.