“…and after going through all that, when the poor bastard finally got out of the hospital he offed himself anyways.”

Martin Thomas’s heavy Boston accent carried out of the break room all the way to the bullpen and to all points in between. But it wasn’t like everyone hadn’t heard a dozen versions of the story already. And even if each adaptation was more grisly than the last none even came close to the truth as far as Tony was concerned.

“No shit?” an unfamiliar voice gasped, a bit on the melodramatic side.

Newbie, Tony thought as he cradled his empty paper cup to his chest and let his head fall back against the inside of the door. He sighed at the unpleasant realization that his tale of woe was already being used as a warning to new recruits against the unexpected hazards of law enforcement. He should have expected it though. It was just too juicy for the old-timers to leave alone. In fact it had a glut of selling points for a good urban legend in general: obsession, male prostitution, torture, violence, poisoned coffee, rape, more torture, murder, and teeny tiny glass angels. Throw in a drunken redneck with a high powered rifle and a cell tower and it was a done deal.

“I don’t know how DiNozzo lives with the guilt.”

Thomas again, getting louder to be heard over the murmurs of agreement and dissent from the peanut gallery.

“He didn’t do anything.”

Now that was Sheila Smith. Unlikely but true, there was simply no mistaking her breathy inflection with anyone else. Aw, sweet Sheila. Sure her hair was a little too blonde and her bosom a little too perky, but otherwise she was a very genuine person when she was sober. Tony managed a smile for her defensive attitude on his behalf, especially after the Christmas party debacle the year before. Still, it hadn’t been entirely his fault they got locked in the janitor’s closet. After all, someone else had put the mistletoe there in the first place. He looked up to see a nearly mummified piece of the clump still hanging over the mop sink.

“I know,” Thomas agreed stupidly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“No, I mean Tony didn’t do anything wrong… this time. He shouldn’t feel guilty. Well, not about that angel business. He was just another victim.”

‘Victim’. The word echoed hatefully in Tony’s head. He winced and almost came out of the closet.

“Come off it, Sheila, he’s a federal agent; he should’a done something,” Thomas rebuked. “He just sat there and watched while that boy got all cut up and… defiled.”

‘Defiled’ was spoken like a verbal leer. In his mind’s eye Tony could almost see the smirk on Thomas’s big fat face. He gritted his teeth and straightened up, preparing to leave the safety of his little hidey-hole. While he couldn’t disagree with the sentiment -- he should have done something -- he’d heard more than enough for one day. He cracked the door to peek out but before he could make a clean get-away rapid footsteps beat a path from the bullpen straight to the break room right around the corner. Almost caught, he held his breath and waited.

“If it hadda been me I would’a…”

“You would have what, Special Agent Thomas?”

The question was clipped and hard, almost Gibb-esque in its curtness. Not a tone Tony had ever heard coming out of that mouth.

“Uh… What?” For once in his life at a loss for words, apparently Thomas never had either.

“What would you have done while drugged and cuffed to the wall? I won’t even list all DiNozzo’s other injuries. But we’d all love to know, what the hell you would have done differently.”

“McGee,” Tony called out hastily as he stepped out of the small closet and into the juncture of the hallway, coming into view of everyone who was crammed into the break room. “Let it go.”

Startled by Tony’s sudden appearance Thomas covered with a forced chuckle. “You need to rein in your bulldog there, DiNozzo,” he tried to joke. No one else laughed.

“Tony,” Sheila muttered in surprise as she dropped her gaze toward the floor along with most of the rest of Thomas’s impromptu audience, but for an entirely different reason Tony imagined. The newbie however seemed unable to tear his wide-eyed gaze away from the stalwart hero, or miserable failure of an agent and general blight on the good name of NCIS, depending of course on just who happened to be telling the story.

McGee whirled around to Tony, his face flush with anger. “He said it was your fault.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony soothed as he slipped an arm behind McGee to propel him back the way he’d come.

“He also said your friend Doc is dead,” McGee persisted, refusing to budge.

“Yeah, won’t Doc get a kick out of that next time I talk to him? Either that or he’ll hop a flight to come kick Thomas’s ass. It could go either way.”

“Now wait just a minute, I have it on good authority that the gay boy killed himself.” Thomas crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

Tony clenched and unclenched his jaw before speaking. “The gay boy has a name. It’s Michael Redding and I assure you he is alive and well and living with his parents in Chicago. Obviously your source sucks. Come on Probie, I’ll buy you a real cup of coffee. This stuff’ll kill you.”

Everyone glanced down into their coffee at the stinging reminder. Someone’s nervous titter broke the momentary silence before mugs began to empty out into the sink and paper cups started hitting the trashcan as people scattered back to their departments.

McGee gave Thomas one last meaningful glare. “Let’s get out of here,” he said stiffly as he ushered Tony down the correct row of desks.

Tony allowed McGee his moment of protectiveness, a bit surprised and a lot grateful to see the extent the Probie had his back. “You want to go get coffee?” he offered when they reached their own turf, thinking a little fresh air might do them both some good.

“No,” McGee sulked as he reached his desk and sat down to stare at his blank computer screen. “The suicide thing was new,” he added after a beat, glancing up timidly. “I mean Doc, not Kenny.”

“Yeah, nice touch, don’t you think? Two suicides are always better than one in your really good tragedies.” Tony sat the cup he was still holding on the edge of McGee’s desk but kept his eyes on it as he spoke. “Take Romeo and Juliet for instance. Claire Danes made a pretty good Juliet, by the way, but I just didn’t buy Leo as Romeo. Although I did like him better than say, oh, Leslie Howard who was already forty-three when he took the role back in…”

“Tony.”

“Right.” Tony abandoned the cup and headed for his own chair. He took a deep breath then let it out slowly as he settled in.

Appearing much calmer now, McGee reached over and trashed the cup. “Sorry I went off the deep end back there.”

“No, it’s… hey,” Tony shrugged then absently rubbed at the minor ache in his shoulder. “Listen, Probie, you don’t… you know, you don’t have to defend me.”

“I know. I know what happened and I know people who don’t really know are going to gossip. I’m just tired of hearing it, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks anyway.”

“Any time,” McGee assured with a ghost of a smile.

They both nodded solemnly, the matter settled. Satisfied with the brevity of their manly heart to heart, Tony opened his browser and surfed to a couple of his favorite Web sites to try to get his mind off the unpleasantness. But nothing held his attention for more than a few minutes and before long he realized he was being watched. “Something else on your mind, McGee?” he asked warily.

“No, I … I guess all this talk has me thinking about Kenny,” McGee started then paused uncertainly. “He said something. Before he died.”

“Well I’m sure he didn’t say it after he died,” Tony sniped but immediately felt like an ass when he saw McGee’s hurt expression. “Sorry. What did he say?” he asked in a kinder tone. When McGee didn’t immediately cave he added his best puppy dog eyes.

After another minute of the silent treatment McGee finally replied in a reverent whisper. “He said ‘I dream of angels, but I live with demons’.”

Tony’s chest suddenly seemed too tight and he willed himself to breathe as he turned back to his computer with a carefully crafted nonchalance. “That’s deep.”

“He said he heard it on a TV show one time. What do you think it means?”

“I suppose it means he watched too much TV,” Tony replied shakily, completely belying the cavalier attitude.

McGee looked strickened.

“Do not,” Tony said, holding up a warning finger when he felt he could control the tremble in his voice, “Say you’re sorry again.”

“I’m not. I mean I am,” McGee stammered. “I won’t say it.”

With a sigh and a quick glance at his watch Tony got up and grabbed his jacket.

“Where are you going?” McGee asked with more concern than was warranted.

“It’s eight thirty on a Tuesday,” Tony replied with a smile that might have fooled anyone who didn’t work with him every day. “I’ve got a standing date with a lovely lady.”

“Oh right,” McGee said with relief as he checked his own watch. “Tell Doctor Lee I said hello.”