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It was an ordinary morning, better than usual, even. Tony had been on time, found a good parking spot, was making headway on the never ending paperwork that came with a federal job and so he was taking a moment to mess around, trying to wind up Ziva. Naturally this was the moment that the Director chose to make an appearance in the bullpen, with a pretty woman. Because that was his first impression of Dr. Rachel Cranston, the next was the strongest sense of deja vu he’d felt in years and the overwhelming urge to scrub at his face, certain that he could feel something hot and wet on cheek. Yet, the Director’s introduction proved that he had never met her, after all the only person who avoided the psych team more than him was Gibbs.
But again, on the USS Colonial, her response to his jokes felt like a sucker punch, stripping him of his best defence mechanism and leaving him once again reeling from the familiarity that he still couldn’t place. Even though his efforts to get back in his comfort zone by laughing at her enquiry seemingly worked, for some reason, as he walked away, he could still feel her burning gaze on his head. He shook it off, and convinced himself that it was her judgement that he was running from. Just do your job, he assured himself, he couldn’t get in trouble for that. So he photographed the crime scene, interviewed potential witnesses/suspects. That wet feeling was back on his face.
He spent the rest of the case trying to avoid her - even going as far as to ferret himself away in autopsy. All that had led to, though, was him whinging to Ducky like some spoiled child who had been told to be nice to a hated relative, and letting slip that this woman, above all other head doctors, was getting to him in a way that no one had since… he wasn’t sure how to finish that thought. At least Ducky had the grace to let his confused complaints slide and just deliver the post-mortem report. Unfortunately, the doc. had followed him down, and forced him into running away, his tail between his legs.
As the elevator doors slid closed he leant back against the wall feeling drained; he just wanted to go home at this stage. Typically, this was the moment that Gibbs chose to step into the elevator. Gibbs made a double take at the site of him and Tony snapped upright - almost to attention - and began delivering Ducky’s finding, wincing internally at the fatigue in his voice. Once he had finished Gibbs nodded once, before telling him to go home and get some rest; that nothing was going to change tonight.
Despite Gibbs’ order, Tony heads to the break room for a snack and some coffee, knowing that even if he went home he wouldn’t sleep until the case was done. But then Cranston managed to sneak up on him and Tony, in turn, managed to look completely unstable by fighting with a vending machine, then losing his temper and admitting far too much. He, yet again, fled, going straight to his car leaving his coat and wallet at his desk, his only focus now getting as far away from the shrink as possible.
Getting home, Tony threw his keys on the side and looked longingly at the liquor cabinet, knowing that he didn’t dare have so much as a sip, in case a lead came through overnight and he had to head back to work. Instead he shoved some two-day-old chicken chow mein down his throat then staggered into the bathroom without turning on a single light. Alone at last - and far, far away from the doctor - Tony gave into the need to wash his face that had been following him all day, lathered up a flannel, and scrubbed at his face, over and over again, until the pain of the friction finally registered. His cheek now felt raw and tender, and when he checked his watch it was about 1 in the morning. Tony realised that he had been standing at the sink for nearly a quarter of an hour. A fresh wave of fatigue crashed over him and he flopped on the bed, still in his shirt and trousers, where he curled in on himself and faded in and out of consciousness, true sleep still ever elusive.
Mercifully, he was never alone with Dr. Cranston again, until after the case was finished (He suspected that Gibbs - having spoken to Ducky - had carefully arranged it that way to try and keep his head in the game). The case was rattling around his head and, so, Tony decided that a final goodbye to the victim was in order and headed down to autopsy.
This time when Cranston followed him, rather than anger at her judgement, he felt a level of acceptance and reassurance from her presence. He was just starting to see the light with this whole talking to the shrink thing when she brought up Kate, and it was like everything fell into place, then straight back out. This was Kate’s big sister. All the familiarity suddenly made sense, yet the realisation also felt like someone was squeezing his heart in a vice. He quickly concluded the discussion with Rachel (her insistence) handing him her card and telling him to give her a ring if he ever needed to talk to someone. Tony forced a smile and took the card, humouring her more than anything, before walking her up to the bullpen where Gibbs assured them all that it was over and they could go home for the night.
That evening he gave into the earlier longing for the contents of his liquor cabinet, and, managed to get through most of some hideously sweet, pre-mixed bottle of vodka, something that an old hook-up had left behind, desperately trying to avoid the growing anger inside - the anger at himself for not recognising Kate’s sister, at Rachel for not telling the team outright who she really was, and at Kate for dying and leaving him in this horrible position. He snapped and lobbed the bottle at the base of the dresser that held Kate-the-Goldfish’s tank, where it shattered, the dregs that had been left in the bottle staining his previously pristine rug. He didn’t truly understand the anger coursing through his veins, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Cranston what she thought it meant, not when he could still feel her sister's hot blood splattered across his face like some messed up Jackson Pollock. Instead he staggered to his feet, sent a text to McGee to tell Gibbs that he wasn’t going to be in the next day, then collapsed on his bed in a bizarre parallel of yesterday, except this time he passed out, feeling utterly miserable and desperately lost and alone.