Box Out 3/9
Jul. 24th, 2010 10:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: Box Out Pt 3/9
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marzipan77
Category: Pre-slash/Post-slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: Mature – more angst than action
Summary: Tag for Boxed In – don’t give me the eyebrow! Tony goes home – alone.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Link to Part 1
Link to Part 2
Link to Part 3
Link to Part 4
Link to Part 5
Link to Part 6
Link to Part 7
Link to Part 8
Link to Epilogue
((“All I can tell you, kid, is don’t stick your nose in there unless you want it cut off.”
Tony tore his stare away from the closed office door and glanced up at the tall detective facing him. Detective Crane. On another day, Tony would have grinned at the resemblance between the tall, thin figure resting his bony hip on one desk and the man’s name. But not today. He frowned, trying to force his mind from the bloody, confused images still flashing behind his eyes, and tongued at the cut on the inside of his cheek. He hurt – every muscle and joint – as if he’d been tackled by the entire Michigan defensive line, but there were no bruises or cuts or broken bones to justify the pain. Nothing to show off in the locker room; nothing to arouse a sympathetic caress from the girls or a congratulatory chest bump from the guys. And nothing that could possibly explain his stolen voice and the anguish that scraped along every nerve whenever the dead eyes of the teenager he’d shot beneath the flickering street light stared up at him from his memory.
The raised voices were barely muffled by the thin oak door, rage and frustration carrying clearly through the large squad room on the second floor of the Peoria Police Department. But the individual words were hopelessly garbled into a raving jumble, one building on another until a shout silenced them so they could start all over again. After the total crapfest that had torn a hole in his partner’s leg and left one boy wounded and another dead - Tony shivered - he had been called up here, to the lofty realm of the plain-clothed detectives and the department Chief. And behind those doors were the men deciding whether Officer Anthony DiNozzo would get to keep the shiny silver badge that he’d been wearing for only six months.))
Tony rolled his shoulders, trying to find a comfortable position for his large frame in the cramped seat of Ducky’s Morgan. For once, the medical examiner didn’t fill the air with his musings and remembrances, and, for once, Tony really wished he would. He’d much rather have the older man’s stories wash over him, numbing the discomfort in his arm and providing new images for his skittering thoughts to dwell on rather than the same, tired old memories. He glanced at the figure next to him in the momentary glow of passing headlights and the yellowish radiance of the antique car’s gauges, lingering on the deeply carved lines and the paper-thin skin beneath the doctor’s eyes. Tony wasn’t the only exhausted man in this car.
“Thanks for the ride, Ducky. Sorry to keep you out so late.”
The older man smiled grimly without taking his eyes off the road. “Not at all, my boy. Happy to be of service.”
He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Right. Sure. Ducky would never begrudge Tony a ride home, would always do his best to see to the physical welfare of any member of Gibbs’ team. But this – what had happened tonight – he shook his head. This was different.
((Crane stood. “I’m serious, DiNozzo,” the detective took a step closer to him, intensity drawing his narrow features into a predatory scowl. “When you go in there, you just nod like a good boy and do what they tell you. You hear me?”
Tony had tried to blank his features, tried to pull the reserved, controlled mask into place as he had done so many times before, but he could tell it wasn’t working. Crane was still hovering over him like a bird focusing on the field mouse that was darting in circles looking for cover. He looked down at his lap, focusing on the fingers of his left hand where they worried the cuff of his sleeve, picking at the thin line of dried blood that had caught in the seam. Finnegan’s blood.
The claw-like hand that tightened on his shoulder brought Tony’s chin up. “I asked you a question, kid.”
He felt his muscles clench. “I hear you, Detective.” Yeah. Loud and clear.))
Message received.
Tony had dragged something out into the light tonight, something dark and poisonous like a bloated, sludge-covered body. As long as it had been hidden in the dark, as long as you could still walk by, eyes carefully averted, never admitting the stench, as long as everyone was willing to ignore it, they could all pretend it didn’t exist. He’d done it before; gone along, kept quiet, let himself be carried with the flow just to keep peace with the team, with the family. Too many times. He felt the deep ache in his chest and swallowed the emotions that tried to explode from his mouth. Maybe he could have done it again, maybe he had one more in him. Just one more.
Ducky was, without a doubt, the fairest minded man Tony had ever met. Maybe it was the doctor’s age, or his European upbringing, or the years he’d spent gazing into the eyes of the dead, but Donald Mallard rarely jumped to conclusions – good or bad – and always had the strength to admit it on the rare occasions that he’d been wrong. He’d worked with Gibbs for a long time, seemed to know the man inside and out, and Tony would bet he’d become intimate with more of the taciturn man’s secrets than any of his ex-wives.
Tony understood – he’d worked with Jethro Gibbs for only a fraction of the time and he felt the same irresistible pull of the man’s character and the force of his convictions. More, he’d been drawn to trust him with his life, with his loyalty, and, unfortunately, with his heart. Tony knew that Ducky and Gibbs – their connection was different, but strong, profound, he smiled wryly to himself, much stronger than Tony’s, apparently. There was respect there, and a deep mutual trust. And Tony’s accusations, the way he’d used Ducky to expose Ziva’s manipulations, had opened up a breach in that trust.
((“Chief.”
Tony stood, feet apart, shoulders back, his cap in his hands, keeping his gaze fixed on the graying man on the other side of the desk. Williams and Saldano were behind him, radiating hostility, the smell of angry testosterone reminding Tony of that military school locker room so many years ago. He pressed one elbow against his ribs as if to protect them from the memory.
“Take it easy, son,” the chief grimaced, attempting a smile that quickly became a glower, heavy eyebrows a single line across his thick brow. “Finnegan is in recovery – he’s gonna be fine.”
One layer of regret and fear lifted from Tony’s soul and he clenched his teeth tightly, not quite sure whether it was to keep from sobbing in relief or shouting in condemnation. Finn should never have been… it was their fault, the two behind him… they’d been shadowed in the dim parking lot of the convenience store… if Tony and Finn hadn’t stopped for coffee…
“Now I know how you’re feeling – first shooting, first fatality – and for it to be a fifteen-year-old …”
Tony mentally flinched from the man’s words, but struggled to hold perfectly still. The emptiness of the teen’s lifeless eyes wanted to pull him back, back to his split-second decision, to the glint of light on the dull silver barrel, the shifting shapes in the background, the smell of gunpowder and blood in the air. But something wasn’t right – something there, in the room. The chief shook his head and clucked his tongue, and Tony felt his own eyes narrow quickly in suspicion.
“You’re probably pretty confused – it hits ya like that sometimes. Kinda forces your mind away from the memories.” The chief rubbed one hand across his forehead. “Nobody’s gonna blame you if your report has some holes, kid. Everybody here has got your back – we’re a team, after all. Us against them.”
Sweating. The Chief was sweating. Beads of moisture collected at the edge of his hairline in the cool air-conditioned room. His voice was strained, worried, covered over with a blanket of mock sincerity and sympathy. Tony glanced down at the man’s gnarled hands splayed flat against his desk. They weren’t fidgeting or shaking, but the knuckles were whitened and the tendons strained along the backs of his hands. Lying. He was lying.
“Chief, I-”
One of the hands flew up to cut him off. “Listen, DiNozzo, we don’t want this to look bad for you – a rookie’s first incident report, his partner wounded. Why don’t you take the night, go home, get drunk, get some sleep. Go see Finnegan in the morning before you come in here to finish your report.”
The fine hairs along the back of Tony’s neck were standing on end, but he didn’t turn, didn’t want to see the smirking expressions on the detectives’ faces. The message was clear. Crystal. The only person who would be accused of anything in this room was him – the rookie. The new guy. The kid.
His gut tightened, acid burning up the back of his throat. Somehow he knew that Finn, his partner, his mentor, would agree.
And he had. The next morning Tony had dragged himself from Finnegan’s bedside after being cursed out and sworn to secrecy. Williams and Saldano were good detectives, Finn argued, it wasn’t their fault one of the kids they were ‘interviewing’ had panicked and pulled a gun. He cut Tony off every time he opened his mouth, getting angrier and angrier, telling him to ‘wise up,’ to ‘pick a side.’ Nobody in the department wanted to hear that those detectives had been shaking down the teen-aged dealers for drugs and money behind the neighborhood 7-11 when he and Finn had pulled up.))
So Tony learned to keep his silence. Take the hit, just like usual. Swallow the guilt. Look out for the team. And he transferred out as soon as he had his two years in. The greatest lesson Peoria taught him was that without trust there was no team.
He opened his eyes when the Morgan pulled to a stop. His apartment building loomed up, silent and brooding in the darkness and Tony awkwardly fumbled for the door latch with his left hand.
“You’ll keep that bandage dry, Anthony, and I want to see you wearing that sling at the office tomorrow.”
“Will do, Ducky, and thanks again. I’ll catch a cab in the morning.” Tony straightened as the car pulled into traffic; he clutched his coat almost closed over his bent elbow and peered through the icy drizzle to watch the low taillights blur into one continuous red stream like one of those time-delayed photos. Each drop of rain fell with a tinny chime against the sidewalk, soaked into his clothes, his hair, as he stared at the lights hurrying away.
Why tonight? Why had he chosen this time, with this team, to open his mouth and open their eyes to the splintering trust? He’d been on the outside before – he could take it. Ducky was a good man, but tonight, instead of swallowing his words and keeping his silence, instead of taking the hit himself, Tony had screamed and pointed at his hurt as if he was a five-year-old child. As if he had learned nothing in the past. How could anyone respect him for that?
He moved slowly, muscles aching, the heavy glass door of the lobby nearly defeating him before he wrestled it open. The elevator delivered him to the fourth floor before he realized that it had begun to move. He managed to get his key into the lock and carefully let the door close behind him, dropping his ruined coat to land in a puddle on the hardwood floor of his foyer. Tony’s eyes were drawn through the dark apartment to the light filtering in through the open blinds across the living room. He crossed the room and laid his cheek against the cool glass, looking up into the sky to watch the raindrops appear out of the darkness. Long moments later he turned his back and shed his keys and wallet and cell phone to spill onto the coffee table and lowered himself into the comforting arms of his sofa. He’d just lie here a minute, he promised himself, just until he could remember where he’d lost the anger and stubbornness that had fueled his words to Gibbs in autopsy. Maybe the rain had washed them away - along with his mask.
((He’d welcomed each blow, laid there, let them hit him, curse him. He’d never told a soul. They were his team – no matter what. He wouldn’t let a little pain drive him away.
“Chunt – slow cooked beef with potatoes and beans. It wasn’t bad.”
“Oh, look, Gibbs, now he is sulking. How … cute.”
“Enemies are everywhere, always looking for a way in, for any weakness. Don’t let them in.”
Warm pressure against the skin of his back, callused fingers skating across his belly, stoking the heat burning in his groin, the welcome pressure of a heavy body above him, warm, blue velvet eyes and a spark of silver hair, mouth and lips and tongue teasing him to ecstasy.
“I trust Ziva, DiNozzo. That should be good enough for you.”
Cold. So cold. Freezing rain tumbling from the sky beneath the glow of a single streetlight, falling onto the dead boy’s staring eyes.))
Tony jerked awake, his stifled shout echoing in the empty room, and tried to pull ragged gasps of air into his lungs. The shrill ring of his phone where it danced across the coffee table finally broke the dream into sharp fragments and Tony unconsciously reached out with his right hand. The pain brought him up short and he clutched his arm back to his body, blinking his way to complete awareness, the memories of the night before crowding back.
He unfolded his long legs from the couch and sat up, dropping his head into his left hand. The phone rested quietly for a moment before it began its song and dance again. Frowning in the early morning light, Tony managed to focus on the words on the small screen before flipping his phone open with a sigh.
“Bark, McLassie, and this better be about how little Timmy has fallen into a well and we’ve got to save him!” Tony raised his voice to a high falsetto on the last few words, loading them with mock angst.
“Tony- I just-”
McGee’s voice trailed off into silence and Tony stretched, straightening his spine and feeling the joints pop, one by one, back into place. He waited, unwilling to fill in the gaps for the younger agent this time, the image of that smug face turned towards him in the bullpen last night bringing back the taste of betrayal.
“Tony, are you there?”
He stood, shaking out his legs. “I’m not the one unable to get out a complete sentence, Probie, and I haven’t taken a leak yet, so stutter faster. We catch a case?”
“No – no. Listen,” Tony could almost see McGee’s determined frown, his lips disappearing in a thin line, “I wanted to call to apologize. To tell you how sorry I am that I got… that we left you out…”
Tony couldn’t take it anymore. “That you got suckered in by the shapely Mossad agent and left your teammate high and dry?”
“Yes.” That one syllable hissed through the phone with a huge sigh of relief. “Tony, I don’t –”
“That you took her word over mine and felt pretty good about sticking it to the one guy who had your back when you shot that cop last month?” Anger kicked in and Tony delivered each word like a blow.
“Yes – Tony-”
“The one guy who has always had your back, no matter how much I’ve teased you, or how pissed off Gibbs has been?”
“Tony! Yes, okay!? I screwed up!”
Tony wedged the slim phone between his chin and his shoulder and reached back to release his right arm from the sling. He couldn’t have this conversation now. He was groggy and dirty and hungry – his stomach moaned in protest – and liable to bite into McGee so hard he’d never recover. He kicked off his shoes and began to unlatch his belt, moving slowly down the hall towards the bathroom.
“Pick me up in half an hour, Probie, we have to talk.”
He tossed the phone through his bedroom doorway in the direction of his bed and continued stripping out of the smelly, dank clothes he’d been wearing for 24 hours, angrily trying to strip away the sense depression and failure that clung to him like smoke. Enough. Enough wallowing in the past, allowing the hurt to draw him back to all those other times and other places, the teams, the families, the bruises and scars. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, noting the streaks of soot on his neck, the red-rimmed eyes, the scruffy growth of beard.
“Time to decide, DiNozzo,” he snarled at his reflection. “You gonna run? Gonna whine like a little girl because the Boss doesn’t like you best?” He ruthlessly squashed the deep ache that tried to surface. “Or are you gonna man up and fix this, fix this team?” He leaned closer to the mirror, his breath fogging the surface. “*Your* team?”
The man in the mirror stared back, as if waiting for the answer.
End Pt 3
Author:
marzipan77Category: Pre-slash/Post-slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: Mature – more angst than action
Summary: Tag for Boxed In – don’t give me the eyebrow! Tony goes home – alone.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Link to Part 1
Link to Part 2
Link to Part 3
Link to Part 4
Link to Part 5
Link to Part 6
Link to Part 7
Link to Part 8
Link to Epilogue
((“All I can tell you, kid, is don’t stick your nose in there unless you want it cut off.”
Tony tore his stare away from the closed office door and glanced up at the tall detective facing him. Detective Crane. On another day, Tony would have grinned at the resemblance between the tall, thin figure resting his bony hip on one desk and the man’s name. But not today. He frowned, trying to force his mind from the bloody, confused images still flashing behind his eyes, and tongued at the cut on the inside of his cheek. He hurt – every muscle and joint – as if he’d been tackled by the entire Michigan defensive line, but there were no bruises or cuts or broken bones to justify the pain. Nothing to show off in the locker room; nothing to arouse a sympathetic caress from the girls or a congratulatory chest bump from the guys. And nothing that could possibly explain his stolen voice and the anguish that scraped along every nerve whenever the dead eyes of the teenager he’d shot beneath the flickering street light stared up at him from his memory.
The raised voices were barely muffled by the thin oak door, rage and frustration carrying clearly through the large squad room on the second floor of the Peoria Police Department. But the individual words were hopelessly garbled into a raving jumble, one building on another until a shout silenced them so they could start all over again. After the total crapfest that had torn a hole in his partner’s leg and left one boy wounded and another dead - Tony shivered - he had been called up here, to the lofty realm of the plain-clothed detectives and the department Chief. And behind those doors were the men deciding whether Officer Anthony DiNozzo would get to keep the shiny silver badge that he’d been wearing for only six months.))
Tony rolled his shoulders, trying to find a comfortable position for his large frame in the cramped seat of Ducky’s Morgan. For once, the medical examiner didn’t fill the air with his musings and remembrances, and, for once, Tony really wished he would. He’d much rather have the older man’s stories wash over him, numbing the discomfort in his arm and providing new images for his skittering thoughts to dwell on rather than the same, tired old memories. He glanced at the figure next to him in the momentary glow of passing headlights and the yellowish radiance of the antique car’s gauges, lingering on the deeply carved lines and the paper-thin skin beneath the doctor’s eyes. Tony wasn’t the only exhausted man in this car.
“Thanks for the ride, Ducky. Sorry to keep you out so late.”
The older man smiled grimly without taking his eyes off the road. “Not at all, my boy. Happy to be of service.”
He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Right. Sure. Ducky would never begrudge Tony a ride home, would always do his best to see to the physical welfare of any member of Gibbs’ team. But this – what had happened tonight – he shook his head. This was different.
((Crane stood. “I’m serious, DiNozzo,” the detective took a step closer to him, intensity drawing his narrow features into a predatory scowl. “When you go in there, you just nod like a good boy and do what they tell you. You hear me?”
Tony had tried to blank his features, tried to pull the reserved, controlled mask into place as he had done so many times before, but he could tell it wasn’t working. Crane was still hovering over him like a bird focusing on the field mouse that was darting in circles looking for cover. He looked down at his lap, focusing on the fingers of his left hand where they worried the cuff of his sleeve, picking at the thin line of dried blood that had caught in the seam. Finnegan’s blood.
The claw-like hand that tightened on his shoulder brought Tony’s chin up. “I asked you a question, kid.”
He felt his muscles clench. “I hear you, Detective.” Yeah. Loud and clear.))
Message received.
Tony had dragged something out into the light tonight, something dark and poisonous like a bloated, sludge-covered body. As long as it had been hidden in the dark, as long as you could still walk by, eyes carefully averted, never admitting the stench, as long as everyone was willing to ignore it, they could all pretend it didn’t exist. He’d done it before; gone along, kept quiet, let himself be carried with the flow just to keep peace with the team, with the family. Too many times. He felt the deep ache in his chest and swallowed the emotions that tried to explode from his mouth. Maybe he could have done it again, maybe he had one more in him. Just one more.
Ducky was, without a doubt, the fairest minded man Tony had ever met. Maybe it was the doctor’s age, or his European upbringing, or the years he’d spent gazing into the eyes of the dead, but Donald Mallard rarely jumped to conclusions – good or bad – and always had the strength to admit it on the rare occasions that he’d been wrong. He’d worked with Gibbs for a long time, seemed to know the man inside and out, and Tony would bet he’d become intimate with more of the taciturn man’s secrets than any of his ex-wives.
Tony understood – he’d worked with Jethro Gibbs for only a fraction of the time and he felt the same irresistible pull of the man’s character and the force of his convictions. More, he’d been drawn to trust him with his life, with his loyalty, and, unfortunately, with his heart. Tony knew that Ducky and Gibbs – their connection was different, but strong, profound, he smiled wryly to himself, much stronger than Tony’s, apparently. There was respect there, and a deep mutual trust. And Tony’s accusations, the way he’d used Ducky to expose Ziva’s manipulations, had opened up a breach in that trust.
((“Chief.”
Tony stood, feet apart, shoulders back, his cap in his hands, keeping his gaze fixed on the graying man on the other side of the desk. Williams and Saldano were behind him, radiating hostility, the smell of angry testosterone reminding Tony of that military school locker room so many years ago. He pressed one elbow against his ribs as if to protect them from the memory.
“Take it easy, son,” the chief grimaced, attempting a smile that quickly became a glower, heavy eyebrows a single line across his thick brow. “Finnegan is in recovery – he’s gonna be fine.”
One layer of regret and fear lifted from Tony’s soul and he clenched his teeth tightly, not quite sure whether it was to keep from sobbing in relief or shouting in condemnation. Finn should never have been… it was their fault, the two behind him… they’d been shadowed in the dim parking lot of the convenience store… if Tony and Finn hadn’t stopped for coffee…
“Now I know how you’re feeling – first shooting, first fatality – and for it to be a fifteen-year-old …”
Tony mentally flinched from the man’s words, but struggled to hold perfectly still. The emptiness of the teen’s lifeless eyes wanted to pull him back, back to his split-second decision, to the glint of light on the dull silver barrel, the shifting shapes in the background, the smell of gunpowder and blood in the air. But something wasn’t right – something there, in the room. The chief shook his head and clucked his tongue, and Tony felt his own eyes narrow quickly in suspicion.
“You’re probably pretty confused – it hits ya like that sometimes. Kinda forces your mind away from the memories.” The chief rubbed one hand across his forehead. “Nobody’s gonna blame you if your report has some holes, kid. Everybody here has got your back – we’re a team, after all. Us against them.”
Sweating. The Chief was sweating. Beads of moisture collected at the edge of his hairline in the cool air-conditioned room. His voice was strained, worried, covered over with a blanket of mock sincerity and sympathy. Tony glanced down at the man’s gnarled hands splayed flat against his desk. They weren’t fidgeting or shaking, but the knuckles were whitened and the tendons strained along the backs of his hands. Lying. He was lying.
“Chief, I-”
One of the hands flew up to cut him off. “Listen, DiNozzo, we don’t want this to look bad for you – a rookie’s first incident report, his partner wounded. Why don’t you take the night, go home, get drunk, get some sleep. Go see Finnegan in the morning before you come in here to finish your report.”
The fine hairs along the back of Tony’s neck were standing on end, but he didn’t turn, didn’t want to see the smirking expressions on the detectives’ faces. The message was clear. Crystal. The only person who would be accused of anything in this room was him – the rookie. The new guy. The kid.
His gut tightened, acid burning up the back of his throat. Somehow he knew that Finn, his partner, his mentor, would agree.
And he had. The next morning Tony had dragged himself from Finnegan’s bedside after being cursed out and sworn to secrecy. Williams and Saldano were good detectives, Finn argued, it wasn’t their fault one of the kids they were ‘interviewing’ had panicked and pulled a gun. He cut Tony off every time he opened his mouth, getting angrier and angrier, telling him to ‘wise up,’ to ‘pick a side.’ Nobody in the department wanted to hear that those detectives had been shaking down the teen-aged dealers for drugs and money behind the neighborhood 7-11 when he and Finn had pulled up.))
So Tony learned to keep his silence. Take the hit, just like usual. Swallow the guilt. Look out for the team. And he transferred out as soon as he had his two years in. The greatest lesson Peoria taught him was that without trust there was no team.
He opened his eyes when the Morgan pulled to a stop. His apartment building loomed up, silent and brooding in the darkness and Tony awkwardly fumbled for the door latch with his left hand.
“You’ll keep that bandage dry, Anthony, and I want to see you wearing that sling at the office tomorrow.”
“Will do, Ducky, and thanks again. I’ll catch a cab in the morning.” Tony straightened as the car pulled into traffic; he clutched his coat almost closed over his bent elbow and peered through the icy drizzle to watch the low taillights blur into one continuous red stream like one of those time-delayed photos. Each drop of rain fell with a tinny chime against the sidewalk, soaked into his clothes, his hair, as he stared at the lights hurrying away.
Why tonight? Why had he chosen this time, with this team, to open his mouth and open their eyes to the splintering trust? He’d been on the outside before – he could take it. Ducky was a good man, but tonight, instead of swallowing his words and keeping his silence, instead of taking the hit himself, Tony had screamed and pointed at his hurt as if he was a five-year-old child. As if he had learned nothing in the past. How could anyone respect him for that?
He moved slowly, muscles aching, the heavy glass door of the lobby nearly defeating him before he wrestled it open. The elevator delivered him to the fourth floor before he realized that it had begun to move. He managed to get his key into the lock and carefully let the door close behind him, dropping his ruined coat to land in a puddle on the hardwood floor of his foyer. Tony’s eyes were drawn through the dark apartment to the light filtering in through the open blinds across the living room. He crossed the room and laid his cheek against the cool glass, looking up into the sky to watch the raindrops appear out of the darkness. Long moments later he turned his back and shed his keys and wallet and cell phone to spill onto the coffee table and lowered himself into the comforting arms of his sofa. He’d just lie here a minute, he promised himself, just until he could remember where he’d lost the anger and stubbornness that had fueled his words to Gibbs in autopsy. Maybe the rain had washed them away - along with his mask.
((He’d welcomed each blow, laid there, let them hit him, curse him. He’d never told a soul. They were his team – no matter what. He wouldn’t let a little pain drive him away.
“Chunt – slow cooked beef with potatoes and beans. It wasn’t bad.”
“Oh, look, Gibbs, now he is sulking. How … cute.”
“Enemies are everywhere, always looking for a way in, for any weakness. Don’t let them in.”
Warm pressure against the skin of his back, callused fingers skating across his belly, stoking the heat burning in his groin, the welcome pressure of a heavy body above him, warm, blue velvet eyes and a spark of silver hair, mouth and lips and tongue teasing him to ecstasy.
“I trust Ziva, DiNozzo. That should be good enough for you.”
Cold. So cold. Freezing rain tumbling from the sky beneath the glow of a single streetlight, falling onto the dead boy’s staring eyes.))
Tony jerked awake, his stifled shout echoing in the empty room, and tried to pull ragged gasps of air into his lungs. The shrill ring of his phone where it danced across the coffee table finally broke the dream into sharp fragments and Tony unconsciously reached out with his right hand. The pain brought him up short and he clutched his arm back to his body, blinking his way to complete awareness, the memories of the night before crowding back.
He unfolded his long legs from the couch and sat up, dropping his head into his left hand. The phone rested quietly for a moment before it began its song and dance again. Frowning in the early morning light, Tony managed to focus on the words on the small screen before flipping his phone open with a sigh.
“Bark, McLassie, and this better be about how little Timmy has fallen into a well and we’ve got to save him!” Tony raised his voice to a high falsetto on the last few words, loading them with mock angst.
“Tony- I just-”
McGee’s voice trailed off into silence and Tony stretched, straightening his spine and feeling the joints pop, one by one, back into place. He waited, unwilling to fill in the gaps for the younger agent this time, the image of that smug face turned towards him in the bullpen last night bringing back the taste of betrayal.
“Tony, are you there?”
He stood, shaking out his legs. “I’m not the one unable to get out a complete sentence, Probie, and I haven’t taken a leak yet, so stutter faster. We catch a case?”
“No – no. Listen,” Tony could almost see McGee’s determined frown, his lips disappearing in a thin line, “I wanted to call to apologize. To tell you how sorry I am that I got… that we left you out…”
Tony couldn’t take it anymore. “That you got suckered in by the shapely Mossad agent and left your teammate high and dry?”
“Yes.” That one syllable hissed through the phone with a huge sigh of relief. “Tony, I don’t –”
“That you took her word over mine and felt pretty good about sticking it to the one guy who had your back when you shot that cop last month?” Anger kicked in and Tony delivered each word like a blow.
“Yes – Tony-”
“The one guy who has always had your back, no matter how much I’ve teased you, or how pissed off Gibbs has been?”
“Tony! Yes, okay!? I screwed up!”
Tony wedged the slim phone between his chin and his shoulder and reached back to release his right arm from the sling. He couldn’t have this conversation now. He was groggy and dirty and hungry – his stomach moaned in protest – and liable to bite into McGee so hard he’d never recover. He kicked off his shoes and began to unlatch his belt, moving slowly down the hall towards the bathroom.
“Pick me up in half an hour, Probie, we have to talk.”
He tossed the phone through his bedroom doorway in the direction of his bed and continued stripping out of the smelly, dank clothes he’d been wearing for 24 hours, angrily trying to strip away the sense depression and failure that clung to him like smoke. Enough. Enough wallowing in the past, allowing the hurt to draw him back to all those other times and other places, the teams, the families, the bruises and scars. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, noting the streaks of soot on his neck, the red-rimmed eyes, the scruffy growth of beard.
“Time to decide, DiNozzo,” he snarled at his reflection. “You gonna run? Gonna whine like a little girl because the Boss doesn’t like you best?” He ruthlessly squashed the deep ache that tried to surface. “Or are you gonna man up and fix this, fix this team?” He leaned closer to the mirror, his breath fogging the surface. “*Your* team?”
The man in the mirror stared back, as if waiting for the answer.
End Pt 3
