It's raining. Steady, hard, the kind of soaking rainfall that sinks into the ground, drenches the grass and the plants, splashes on the streets. It's the soft drum on the roof, the splatter of drops against the windshield, blurring the oncoming headlights late at night. It's cold, and it's a little windy, and the leaves rustle and shake as the rain continues to fall in the dark.

It's raining, and my jeans are wet to the knee. My sneakers are soaked, my socks clinging to my feet, and my hair is plastered to my head, water running down my neck and under my collar, dampening my shirt under my windbreaker. I have a hood, but I'm not using it. I have an umbrella, but it's in my car. I don't care.

I want to feel the rain. I want it to pour over me, soak into my skin. I want to feel the cold, the wet, the wind cutting through my clothes.

I want to feel something.

I don't.

I don't feel anything. I'm numb, completely numb from the inside out. The rain doesn't touch me, the wind doesn't make me shiver, and if I were to open my mouth I wouldn't taste a thing.

In my head, I see it over and over again. The blood, the way his body jerked, the way he fell to the ground, boneless.

Dead.

It was a clean shot; dead on impact. I hadn't had a choice. That's what they'd all told me, even Gibbs. It was a clean shot.

But I feel dirty, and the rain won't wash me clean. Can't. There's blood on my hands now. It won't ever go away.

Over six years as a cop and I'd never had to fire my gun with intent to kill before. And now...

I've killed a man. A murderer. He was trying to kill me.

That doesn't make me feel better.

The rain's falling harder now, and I keep walking. I don't know where I am, where I'm going. I'm not even sure I know how to get back to my car. I don't care.

Cars drive past me, headlights bright in the dark night. There aren't any streetlights where I am now, and if someone were to come up on me...

Well. I've already proven I can kill, haven't I?

The thought makes me laugh, bitterly. The laugh turns into dry heaves and I end up bent over the sidewalk, fighting not to retch.

Oh God, what have I done?

I'm just grateful Gibbs can't see me like this. I've only been on his team for a month, and if he were to see me lose it like this after a justified shooting--well, I don't think I'd be on his team much longer. Gibbs doesn't have patience for the weak.

I just need a night to get my head together. That's all.

Somehow, I find my way back to my car, but there's another car parked behind me, blocking me in. I go to see if the driver's in it and nearly fall flat on my ass when I see Gibbs in the driver's seat.

"Get in," he says, and I don't bother to argue.

He's already spread towels over the seat--a good thing, since I'm wet as a drowned rat. He's got the heat on, and as I buckle my seatbelt I realize just how cold I am and shiver.

We drive, and I don't know where we're going but I don't ask. But when we pull up outside a medium-size white house, I realize this must be his.

"Inside."

I go inside and follow him upstairs, to the spare bedroom. He gives me a clean set of sweats and a pair of socks and a towel and tells me to come down to the basement when I'm drier.

I change and towel off, wrapping my clothes in the towel and leaving it on the dresser for lack of a better place. And then I go downstairs and blink at the sight of the skeleton of a boat in the basement.

"Here," he says, handing me a sanding block. "Just copy what I do."

I watch him for a little while before beginning to work on a rib. The motion is rhythmic and strangely soothing, the activity a good distraction from my own thoughts. I can feel the muscles in my arms and upper back stretching as I work.

For a while, we work in silence. I don't know how long it's been when he motions me to put down the block and takes down a bottle of bourbon, splashing some into two mugs and handing me one. I don't really like bourbon, but I want the alcohol, so I drink.

"Your first?" he asks quietly, finally.

I look into my chipped white mug and nod. "Yeah."

He nods and sips his drink. "Mine was in Panama," he says. He doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask.

I finish my drink in one long swallow. "Does it get easier?" I ask, the question fueled by alcohol and a desperate need to believe that it does.

"Define 'easier', DiNozzo." Gibbs shrugs. "You want to know if it'll get easier to pull the trigger? To watch someone die? To accept the responsibility?"

All of it, I don't say.

"Yeah." Gibbs sets his mug down. "It gets easier. And every time it does, you lose a little more." He looks tired, drawn. "You hope you'll never have to see it again," he murmurs, and I don't know if he's talking to me or just lost in thought. "But you do."

He looks at me, and his eyes are clear. "Welcome to the adult world, Tony," he says.