Summary: In the aftermath of a supposed job counseling gone bad, Special Agent Gibbs does what he does best. He investigates.

Notes: Multi-chapter story. Timeline AU... maybe season 8-ish. Character death, but keep in mind - The character we lose remains a main character throughout. Rated T for swearing and violence.

HELL BENT

Introduction

Timothy McGee stood still with hands outstretched, clenching the gun. His body was frozen in place and stiff with shock. Feet splayed and balance teetering off-center, all he could do was heave in breath after breath while his mind wailed over and over again - holy shit holy shit holy shit.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Director Vance crawling - more like dragging - himself from behind the desk, one hand clutching a bloody gut, gagging out mangled syllables. His face contorted in pain and fury, Vance was swearing a blue line. But Tim's eyes didn't linger on that horror because they were already fixated on what lay straight in front of him, straight in front of his Sig that still reeked of gunpowder.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

Tony DiNozzo was on the floor, crumpled on his side and curled slightly in a fetal position. His cheek was pressed against the thin blue carpeting. His eyes had drooped halfway shut as the blood spread slowly, coagulating into a murky red in the carpet's tight Berber tangles. He did not move. He did not twitch. Not like he had when he'd first been struck.

Tim still smelled the burnt gunpowder, now with the addition of blood. He'd smelled blood many times before, but in this circumstance, the cloying scent twisted his stomach. Tim's wide eyes then glued themselves to the gun held loosely by Tony's still hand. And then he noticed his own gun again, how it pointed in the body's direction, barrel aimed high - just about where Tony's chest had been before he dropped to the carpet.

Bang bang. He remembered squeezing the trigger. Once, twice. Just like in training, just like out in the field. Like it was second nature.

Oh, God.

"God damnit. FUCK. Fuck, my stomach is on FIRE." That wasn't coming from Tony; it was coming from Director Vance who was in the process of bleeding all over the office.

Somebody gently extricated the gun from Tim's grip, and then that same somebody moved towards Tony. The blurred shape nudged the gun out of Tony's grasp, kicking it away from the body. The shape hesitated before finally kneeling down.

Tim ripped himself to the side, bile suddenly leaping in his throat. He had half a mind to aim for the wastebasket, nearly tripping over his own feet as he dove and weaved to the side. Whoever was in the room had made the dash with him and was now gripping his shoulders, preventing him from taking a header into his own vomit.

"Easy there, Tim," his shadow was attempting to soothe - but Tim wasn't listening. He'd been deafened by his own gun. Bang bang. His eyes turned again to Tony who hadn't moved an inch, not even to laugh in Tim's face for his weak stomach. In a haze he continued to stare, long and hard, the image searing itself into his gray matter.

"DiNozzo?" Tim croaked. The spread of blood across the carpeting had since stopped expanding. His stomach twisted again, but he had nothing left to throw up. Like some newly born creature, Tim took one staggering step towards his friend, bleating again, "Tony?"

His mystery shadow acted fast, firm hands impeding his progress and turning him away. And Tim, subject to the whims of the room, put up no resistance. He stumbled along, not even sure where he was headed, his shadow close beside him.

Outside the room a confused group had assembled into a throng, all of them murmuring to each other about shooters, victims, heroes. "Was that DiNozzo?" Someone asked. A hand thumped him hard on the back, making his teeth clack together. "You're a hero, son."

"Hero" echoed in his brain. Hero.