So, so sorry about the mix-up with this chapter. My chronic "messing simple 'ish up"-osis was flairing up. My bad!

Anyway, 'Ello: So, I'm back—for real this time. And, I bring with me a chapter, a long chapter. Consider it an apology for promising you all an update and then leaving you hanging—again!

Also, a very big thank you to everyone who has supported this story in various capacities along the way. I cherish every reader, reviewer, follower, private message, and person who placed this story on their favorites list. Big, industrial sized ups to you all!

Lastly, please forgive any grammatical mistakes. I've tried to catch them all, but alas, I am a mere mortal with no beta.

-McFlash

The Lightening Strike

Chapter Ten: Penumbra

It's a cold I can't seem to find.

When it breaks, I hope we survive.

I feel one day I'll see it through.

When it breaks,

if it breaks,

it will be overdue.

Slow down,

hold on,

I'm waiting.

-Here We Divide, Dead Letter Circus, This is the Warning

Ducky knocked on the open door of Tony's hospital room to find Gibbs, glasses perched on his nose, perusing what the older man recognized as a legal document. Gibbs acknowledged the medical examiner's presence with a curt nod and returned to the piece of paper he was scowling at. Removing his scarf and gloves, Ducky gave one of Tony's blanketed legs a squeeze before turning his gaze on his riveted friend.

"I take it DiNozzo Senior elected to take his campaign to the legal theater," Ducky narrowed his eyes at the collection of blue legal documents haphazardly stacked on Tony's nightstand. "Abby mentioned he broached the idea of retaining counsel during his unsolicited visit to her lab. I must admit, I didn't expect him to move so quickly."

"He's trying to overturn the healthcare proxy. Pretrial discovery's in a few days."

"Hmm. Well, Anthony was of sound mind and body when he had those documents drafted. They were also witnessed by decorated federal agents and notarized. I dare say there's a rather strong possibility the case will be thrown out."

Gibbs gave a derisive snort. "I wouldn't count on it. He's already convinced himself that I somehow manipulated Tony into signing those papers. That and he's got connections out the ass. All he has to do is pander to the right judge and…" He paused and looked over at Tony, as if hoping to find the right words peppered like freckles on the young man's blank, inanimate face. "He can't win, Duck."

"Senior's political and unctuous cunning aside, Jethro, I have to ask: how much thought have you given to consequences of the course of action you wish to take? I, ahem," he cleared his throat at his friend's wintry scowl. "Well, the immediate sequel to pulling the proverbial plug is that young man's death –"

"Doesn't have to be."

Ducky's brows knitted in confusion. "Come again?"

"I don't know if Tony can function without those machines. I do know he wouldn't want to be shut up in some convalescent home with tubes shoved down his throat for the rest of his so-called life. If he has any hope of functioning without life support, I wanna give him a chance to try."

Ducky regarded him with an anchored stare. "That's quite a gamble."

"It is."

They sat in silence for a time, Gibbs' eyes focused on the artificial rise and fall of Tony's chest, Ducky's musing wandering farther afield.

"Some years ago," Ducky finally began. "I read an article about a wild elephant who gave birth to a stillborn calf. A videographer filmed on in horror as the mother repeatedly kicked her child for hours on end. Subsequently, a wondrous phenomenon occurred: the calf stirred. That elephant had kicked her child back to life! Only instinct could've driven her to such drastic measures, drastic measures that worked."

When Gibbs remained enveloped in his brooding quietude, Ducky stood and retuned his scarf to his neck and his gloves to hands, bidding Tony goodbye with a grandfatherly pat on his cheek.

Ducky turned around just as he reached the threshold. "Get some rest, Jethro. I don't think Anthony would approve if you wound up in a bed beside him."

While morality was often fluid and open to conjecture, one thing Gibbs knew for sure: instinct was an internal process. He stood by his gut to the hilt. His principles concerning the distinction between right and wrong, good and bad—he could begrudgingly admit—were, at times, unfortunately susceptible to outside influences, ideas, even verities. He was willing to believe his moral compass could be off center. But his gut, his adamant and unwavering visceral convictions, told him that Tony had a real shot. It went beyond probability and chance. His gut only spoke a language of absolutes:

Tony was fighting.

He just needed a push.

Unable to follow his very expensive lawyer's advice, Senior found himself at Bethesda just as visiting hours had ended. He managed to charm the young desk nurse, blandishing her with blarney only a DiNozzo could deliver. She gave him an hour, and though he smiled in appreciation, he could barely contain the bitterness and indignation of having to ask permission to visit his own son.

Junior was given one of the private suites at the end of the Intensive Care Unit's long hallway. The corridor alone had a bleak twinge to it. It was deserted, save for a member of maintenance staff mopping the bleached linoleum. He stopped at his son's door, almost afraid of what would greet him.

At least the kid's digs were ergonomically sound, Senior thought as he gingerly eased into the space's inviting light. The walls were painted a warm yellow, as if the genial color alone would induce a smooth recovery. The charming joviality of the room's homey decorations seemed to contradict the seriousness of the room's purpose. Senior wondered if had been designed that way.

The rest of the room was standard intensive care issue: the adjustable bed, the battalion of machines and tubes, the ever-beeping monitors. A door led to a small private bathroom. Senior couldn't help but wonder if Junior would ever be able to walk to it—if he would even remember what a bathroom was.

He moved further into the room and stood next to the bed. He looked at his son, the sportive scion he never really knew what to do with. A thick swaddle of white bandages blanketed his bald head, though a few stubborn prickles of brown hair sprouted erratically from beneath the gauze near his ears. He was paler than the paper thin sheets bunched below him, his muscle tone slowly receding along with the weight on his bones.

Senior reached posed Junior's hands neatly on the cool sheets, straightening his blankets. It was only the third time he'd tucked his son in.

He shook his head, scattering away the ripening particles of guilt and held onto one of Junior's limp hands as he reached into his pocket and fished out his wallet. He delicately removed the creased photograph, tenderly fingering the worn image.

He could smell the salty water, feel the waves gently rocking the boat. Senior proudly hoisted up the fish, a triumphant smile turns up his face. Junior stood at his side, an arm curved and his fists on his hips—so happy to be there.

Senior had read that some traumatic brain injury patients often remembered their childhood in remarkable detail, but were incapable of recalling events from their adult lives. They could blather on and on about schoolyard companions, talk about little league championships as if they'd been won minutes ago. They could remember their first day of school, but were unable to recall their wedding. They'd reminisce about old fishing trips, only to be unable to define the word boat.

Senior wondered if Junior would have any left memories to sift through. What recollections would be enshrouded by the damage, what memories would aid him in describing of his childhood?

The old man sat, scrutinizing his own mental mementos. It was then that he realized there weren't many to grasp onto, that the moment he was in, with his son's cold hand in his own and the madrigal of the machines inundating the room, was a defining moment in their relationship.

"Well boy," he sighed, tugging at the wrinkle-less sheets. "What do you think of the accommodations? Yeah, it's no Four Seasons, but it beats the Isolation Ward, don't cha think?"

He listened as the ventilator inhaled for his son, clung to the steady sound of the heart monitor testifying to the life left in Junior's broken body.

"From isolation to the ICU, that's a real kick upstairs kid. You're doing something right," he paused, carefully searching for the right words. "I gotta tell you, Junior, those people, those people you consider your family: they all think they know you, but they don't. They're either afraid of a life that isn't defined by their sublime principles or Gibbs' lofty tenets. They're so busy placating him instead of fighting for you..."

The thin strikes of colored bars on the brain monitor continued their languid dance.

"I know…I know he's been somewhat of a surrogate father," he spat out the word, only to wince as if the syllables were barbed and jagged. "You've grown a lot as his knee, I'll give him that. I suppose I…well, I respect your loyalty to and reverence for him. I know earning his approval is a driving force in your life. I also know you'd die for him. So, in a way, I'm hoping you'll live for him too."

He sucked in a breath and shut his eyes, softly shaking his head. When he opened them, he stared at his son with eyes that held decades worth of pain and regret. A lone tear trickled down his cheek as his eyes grasped onto the black sky outside the room's window. He sat quietly, weeding through the shame, deciding which words to throw away and which to keep.

"That man loves you like a son. I'm sure he's never told you. He's the 'actions speak louder than words' type. Every time he looks at you, languishing in this bed, something inside of him shatters. I can see it.

"He's doing his best to fight for what he thinks are your wishes, but I can see what it's doing to him. I know you don't want him to live with such a deep regret, tormented by the what ifs: 'What if he had given you the chance to breathe, just one more day to see if you'd open your eyes?' Don't do this to him, Junior. Don't be the next ghost to haunt—"

"—we need to talk."

Senior looked up to find Gibbs leaning against the doorjamb, holding is ever-present coffee cup in one hand and a stack of legal papers in the other. He didn't look as incensed as Senior had expected, but the old man was acquainted enough with Gibbs' antics to know he wouldn't show the enemy his hand.

Gibbs kept his face impassive, his eyes inscrutable. When he spoke his tone was soberly stern. "In the hallway."

"I take it you were served?"

Gibbs simply tilted his head and waited.

"I did what I had to for my son."

He took a silent sip of coffee and blinked.

"How much of what I…of that did you hear?"

Gibbs continued to stare in lieu of an answer. Taking another swig of his coffee, he finally unzipped his equanimity and revealed a raw vulnerability Senior didn't think he was capable of.

"You need to understand that this isn't personal, Gibbs. I'm doing what's best for my son. The doctors say he's not in any pain. I don't see the harm in waiting."

"Waiting isn't the issue," Gibbs kept his tone benign, but firm. "You're acting like Tony's asleep and if we yell loud enough, if we shake him hard enough, he'll get the message and wake up."

"It's not impossible."

"I wish the doctors shared your optimism."

"Why are you rolling over and accepting this? Isn't it one of your precious rules—number three, isn't it?—'don't believe what you're told.' "

Gibbs forced out an exasperated sigh. "I've held his hand. I've begged. I've read the books. I've done the research," he ticked them off on his fingers. "Nothing changes. He's not going to have a real chance until those machines are unhooked and he's able to decide for himself."

" 'Decide!' Decide for himself?" flummoxed, Senior's face twisted in incredulous outrage. "In case you missed the memo, Junior isn't exactly on speaking terms."

"You know as well as I do the longer he's hooked up to those machines, he moves further and further away from being able to function without them. You're so damn busy analyzing my moral code that you can't see that your son's dying. Tony deserves to stay or go on his own terms. I want to give him the chance to choose whether he lives or dies."

"So that's what this is about? Your omniscient gut's telling you that Junior can function without life support and you're just running with it? Is this what he trusted you to do, gamble his life away? You know, it's not my kid that's lost: it's you! Instead of fighting—"

"I am fighting! I'm fighting for him to make the choice. Not the doctors, the machines, or even you..."

"Tony's not the one in pain, Gibbs, you are. Your answer is to pull the plug because you can't deal with the unpredictability of the situation. You can't handle the affliction of another loss you couldn't do anything about, so you're trying to control the situation. Why can't you just wait for him? He just might surprise you!"

"And how long should we wait, Dr. DiNozzo?"

"We can take it day-by-day, week-to-week, year-by-year if it comes—"

"Years? Years of him being on those damn machines, worrying if the machines will disintegrate or he will? Terrified of a power outage or computer glitch? How is that fair to him? How is watching him die little by little what's best for him?"

"As long as my son's breathing, even if the ventilator's the reason, he's still alive and there's a chance of recovery. See you in court."

"I don't see how I can be of much help to ya, ma'am," Lance Corporal Eugene Bailey shifted in chair as he stared out at Ziva from MTAC's colossal sized screen. "I haven't thought of, much less heard from Jimmy Dunne since I was a shorty."

"James Wilson Dunne is a suspect in the attempted murder of one of our agents as well as several social workers here in Washington and in New York. We would be grateful of any information you can give."

"A murderer?" his broad shoulders slumped. "Guess foster kids really can go either way, huh?"

Bailey sighed and leaned back in seat, removing his beige cap. His solemn brown eyes looked out over his wide, straight nose as he rubbed a hand over his baldhead. He brought his eyes upward, seeming to dig through his memories for something, anything that could help.

"Uh, lets see, Jimmy Dunne. He and I were the youngest in our barrack, but he'd been in the system longer than me. He had a chip on his shoulder or whatever, but I don't remember him being anymore violent than the rest of us. That's why were we at Camp Unity, because we all had 'issues'. He was actually pretty mild when you compare him to some of the other hard cases the state dumped there. The only thing I remember that could really make him lose his sh—err, stuff, was talking about his mama."

"His biological mother?"

Bailey nodded. "Dude loved his moms like crazy. He freaked out on a kid from our barrack for callin' her a ho once. Broke dude's jaw in three places. The counselors put him in the box for a couple of days. It was crazy."

"Did he confide in you about his mother or any other family member, maybe mention any names?"

"No, ma'am. No names. Nobody was big on getting personal. That type of stuff was ammunition for the wolves in there. He did mention he'd been bounced around to a couple homes, though. Oh—yeah!—the Dunnes were the second family to adopt him before they got sick of him like the first one and gave him back to the state. He was pretty pissed about that. He bitched about it in group therapy a couple times."

"With your permission, we ran your social services case file against the caseloads of the dead social workers and we determined the two of you did not have any caseworkers in common. Do you remember who his caseworker was?"

"Sorry, ma'am, I don't, but…" his eyes brightened as the memory registered. "…but I remember him going off on her when she arranged for him to be shipped off to some farming family in Virginia."

Ziva perked up. "Do you know what city?"

"Not off the top of my head, but—but!— I know I wrote to him a couple of times after he left camp!" he was visibly excited, his large hands flapping like flags in the wind. "He only wrote me back once to tell me not to contact him anymore. Ya know, now that I think about it, the whole thing was pretty crazy."

"How so?"

"It wasn't him. I could tell. It was his handwriting and all that, but it wasn't him. The whole letter was on some 'ol cultish and generally screwed up type crap about how he'd found a new family and didn't want to talk to nobody from his old life and all that. I, uh, still have the letter for ya want it. I don't know why I even bothered to hold on to some of my stuff from back in the day. It's stashed somewhere in my storage unit back home. My wife lives in family housing aboard Lejeune. I could have her find it and ship it, if ya want."

"NCIS can handle the logistics, but we'll need you to sign a release."

"Consider it done, ma'am."

"Thank you for your help, Lance Corporal Bailey."

"It was no trouble, ma'am. I'm sorry about your agent and those social workers. I'm…uh… sorry Dunne turned out this way. Ya know, some of those homes," He paused, a haunted look tinting his chiseled features. His voice was course with deep, primeval emotion as he navigated his baritone voice around his words. "Those homes, if ya can call them that, where they stashed us "troubled ones", I gotta tell ya…I'm not excusing Dunne or anything…but ya gotta understand, ma'am, some of those places were some serious hell holes, straight up. I guess I'm saying I get why he turned out the way he did."

"You turned out all right."

Then he snapped his spine straight, and his gaze turned sober. "I owe my life to the Corps, ma'am. Who knows where I'd be, who I'd be without the Marines. I'm sorry to cut this short, ma'am, but our convoy is Oscar Mike in a few. If there's anything else I can do for your investigation, let me know."

"Will do. Take care of yourself, Bailey."

"You too, ma'am. Bailey out."

Twenty-four hours after disconnecting the feed, the team had yet another name— James Wilson Murphy—a name with a sordid history all its own.