FLASH

She's on her knees, hands tied above her head, bloody and scratched and bruised. She fought as much as she could, but she wasn't trained in self-defense and with her hands behind her back, it was pretty much hopeless.

She screamed when he cut her. She cried when he raped her. And now she has no way to protest at all.

The pain of the knife barely registers as he carves his mark into her back.

FLASH

He's on his knees, hands tied above his head, the strain in his shoulders a dull ache compared to the fire across his back. A drop of sweat rolls down his face and he licks it aside, panting a little.

His throat is sore from the cries he can't hold back, his safeword tucked away in the back of his brain if he needs it. He knows he won't. She won't--can't--push him that far down.

The whip comes down again and he gasps, pain mixing with pleasure until it blends together in the fire running through him.

FLASH

"No...please, no..." She scrambles backwards frantically, the cuffs digging into her wrists. "Please..." She can't stop herself from begging, the low desperate words tumbling from her lips even though she sees the cool, calculating look on his face.

He walks toward her, one slow step at a time, and she begins to cry. "You already know how to beg," he says, and the smile on her face makes the blood freeze in her veins. "Good. You'll need it."

With one savage yank, he tears her shirt open. The cool knife blade rests against her skin.

She squeezes her eyes shut when the camera goes off.

FLASH

"Oh God...oh, God, please..." He writhes on the bed, pulling at the cuffs. The soft leather's lined with fleece but he's struggling hard enough that it might just leave marks.

He hopes it will. He wants to remember this night, the woman who's got him bound and sweating and lost on the bed. She's come closer than almost anyone to bringing him down hard, to dragging him to the point where nothing else matters.

It's not enough, but it's close, and he's willing to give in and let himself ride it. "Please," he begs shamelessly. "Please..."

FLASH

She shouldn't be taking the shortcut by herself, not this late, not when three girls have already gone missing this spring. But she's so tired and it's late and the bar was crowded and hot and noisy, and it's cool and lovely outside. And her date was drunk and her friends were too and all she wanted to do was get home. So she's hurrying, her heels clicking on the pavement, glancing around every few seconds.

In all likelihood, she's being paranoid and there's nothing to worry about. The media always makes a bigger deal out of things than there actually is, and she's in the middle of DC in May, for crying out loud. There are always people around. But still...the back of her neck is itching and she speeds up her steps a little.

The pebble catches in the sole of her shoe and she trips, catching herself painfully on the sidewalk. She's about to pull herself up when a dark figure looms over her and she freezes.

"Need a hand?" he asks, holding one out.

"Y-yeah. Thanks." She takes it and gets to her feet.

But something doesn't seem right, and he won't let go of her. And then she sees the bat in his free hand.

She has just enough time to try and scream before the blow connects with the back of her head and she crumples.

FLASH

The bar's crowded and hot and noisy and he's on his second beer, watching the masses of people by the bar, on the dance floor, posing and preening and trying to hook up. He wonders why he's there--he's not going to find what he's looking for. Not here, not in a place like this. But he doesn't have the courage to go to the bars where he might. Not when there's a chance--however infinitesimal--he might find the man he wants, instead of an adequate substitute.

Call him a coward, but he doesn't know what he'd do if he actually found what he wants.

He sets down his beer abruptly and heads for the door. This is pointless and there's no sense in wasting his time.

But on the way, he gets intercepted. The man doesn't say anything, just raises an eyebrow. He takes a moment to study him--tall, nicely muscled, with the air of arrogance and confidence he's looking for.

It won't be enough, but it'll do. He nods, once.

FLASH

"You're a fighter. I haven't had one of those before."

She adjusts the sling absently. The graze on her cheek hurts, as do the myriad of bruises and scrapes--and cuts--she's got under her clothes. But she's alive. She's alive and in one piece--well, not counting the sprained shoulder.

Small price to pay for her life.

She'd been holding on, albeit by the skin of her teeth, but she hadn't been sure how much longer she could. He'd gotten her shirt, her bra; she'd been bleeding from nicks all over her arms and her chest. One more serious cut and she'd have been down for the count.

Tony and Gibbs had pelted into the barn just then, though, and she'd ducked just in time. When she'd looked up again, O'Neil was dead and Tony had come running to her to undo the cuffs.

She'd expected jokes, wisecracks--she'd been half-naked, for crying out loud. But there had been nothing in Tony's face but professionalism and concern. He'd given her a T-shirt, had bandaged the cuts, and had helped her settle her arm in the sling.

She's not sure why, but she's pretty sure it had something to do with the look Gibbs had given him. She doesn't want to know what that look meant.

It's over now, but she still shivers, remembering the girl tied to the tree, the insanity on O'Neil's face. The pictures. And she knows this is part of her job, but she doesn't want to think about how one human being can do that to another.

Not tonight, at least.

FLASH

He's trying not to think about it, about how close they were to losing Paula. About how close they came to finding her tied up like one of Boone's girls, or O'Neil's, hands over her head and a heart carved into her back.

Normally he'd be hitting the bars tonight, trying to forget. Trying to find something to take away the memories, the images in his head. But it's too close to home, too raw, and he knows that if he went in search of the pain he craves he'd be seeing girls with bloody faces instead of himself, seeing Boone instead of whoever he ended up with.

He sits in his living room, looking at the untouched glass of whiskey on his table. He hasn't decided whether or not it's a good idea to drink it when there's a knock on his door.

When he opens it, he's somehow not surprised. "Boss," he says, his voice rusty. "C'mon in."

And later, when it's all done, when they're lying in bed sated and exhausted, with his back throbbing and his wrists chafed, Gibbs holds him through the shakes, through the painful tears he can't quite hold back, until he's drained. Empty.

Cleansed.

It's enough. Finally, it's enough.