She's dead. She's dead and it should have been me. Should be me, lying on the roof, a neat bullet hole in the middle of my forehead and oh God she's dead and-- I couldn't hold it in. I threw up, doubled over, retching on that warehouse rooftop, arms wrapped around my ribs for support. Fell to my knees, not even noticing the pain because it didn't matter because who the hell cared if my ribs hurt from the coughing or my throat was raw from acid? It didn't matter, because she was *dead* and nothing was going to change that, nothing at all. I don't know what happened, how we got through that, how we got Kate's body--oh, God, just her body now, not *her*--off the roof and down to the truck and back to the morgue. And the thought of her on Ducky's table--I threw up again, in the sink this time, and didn't even look to see who handed me the water, just rinsed and spit and rinsed again. Gibbs called her parents and I'd never heard him sound so old in his life. He told us to go home but we couldn't leave. I couldn't face my apartment--couldn't stand to be alone, not now, not when all I'd only stare at the blank TV screen and see her fall over and over again. McGee just sat at his desk, looking at his keyboard, and it wasn't until Abby came in that he even looked up. Abby was crying. *Abby*, who never cries. She threw herself at Gibbs, who caught her and held her and let her sob on his shoulder until she was a bit calmer. Then she came to me. "I dreamed it was you," she said, her voice thick, her eyes red. "I dreamed--" And I couldn't even move to hold her because it should have been me. It should have, and I didn't care that there was no logical reason for it, that it could have been any of us. It should have been me. She went to McGee. I don't know what their deal is, I don't know if they're together or friends with benefits or what, but she said something to him and he got up and they left, leaning against each other, Abby's shoulders shaking as she cried and his arm around her protectively. That left me and Gibbs, two silent men in a silent office, neither of us willing or able to get up and go to our respective homes. "Go home, Tony," he said wearily, but he couldn't look at me when he said it. "I will when you will, Boss," I told him. He closed his eyes, rubbed a hand over his face. "You want a drink?" he asked. "I've got brandy at my place," I offered. "You like bourbon?" It was as close as he was going to get to admitting he wanted company and it was an offer I wasn't going to refuse. We went back to his house, where he poured bourbon into two chipped white mugs and we drank in silence, unable to look at each other. "I should have known," Gibbs said finally, downing his drink. "I should have known." "No one could have stopped that shot," I said, but I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince. Gibbs just stared at his mug. "Damnit!" The mug flew across the room and shattered against the wall, drops of amber liquid flying (her blood spattered across my face, warm on my hands) and I nearly threw up again. I don't know who moved first. I don't know if I reached for him or if he grabbed me and shoved me up against the wall but then his mouth was on mine and his hands were around my wrists and it felt so good, so *necessary* to have him there, warm and needy and *alive* that I didn't even care. We didn't make it to the bedroom. His hands were down my pants before I could say boo and his mouth was on my throat, demanding and rough and hard, like his fingers wrapped around my cock, jerking me off. I grabbed for the wall, my head hitting the smooth paint with a thunk. I felt tears burning and closed my eyes, not wanting him to see them. It was fast and frantic and I came all over his hands with a gasp and a choked-off sob and before he could see me cry I slid to my knees, reaching for the waistband of his pants. He was already hard, the skin hot and smooth under my fingers and he tasted salty when I licked the head of his cock, right before I sucked him down. I needed this as badly as he did, needed to taste him and feel him, hot and tense under my hands, hard and thick in my mouth. My jaw ached and if a couple of tears ran down my cheeks I blamed it on my gag reflex. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me deeper, forcing me to take more of his cock until I had to grab his hands and make him ease up. I swallowed around him, again and again and again, the kitchen floor hard under my knees and my pants sticky with my own come. He gasped and cursed and came in my mouth and I swallowed again, licking him clean before I raised my head. He pulled me to my feet and kissed me, hard. I tasted salt and didn't know if it was from his tears or my own. I didn't leave. I didn't know if he wanted me to but I didn't care. I followed him upstairs and took the washcloth he handed me and cleaned myself off before stripping and crawling into bed next to him. We lay next to each other in bed, a few inches apart, but it felt like there were miles between us. And I couldn't stand that. I rolled over and wrapped an arm around him, resting my head on his shoulder. He tensed under my touch but relaxed after a moment, shifting so we were facing each other, holding each other close. And after a while, the tears came. Slow, painful, silent tears that had us holding on tight, desperate to remind ourselves that we were alive and in one piece, unlike--no. No. He fucked me later that night. I rolled over on my stomach and got on my hands and knees and cried as he pushed into me and took me, hard and slow, and if there was more than a hint of desperation in it I don't think either one of us cared. I didn't know what any of it meant. I didn't know if we'd wake up in the morning and regret it or pretend it never happened or if we'd actually go somewhere from here. I didn't care. We were alive and that was all we could hold to. The rest would come later. Visit www.identityprops.com