Box Out 4/9
Sep. 13th, 2010 05:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: Box Out Pt 4/9
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 and Tim discuss.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Can I just blame the zombies again and promise to do better? Sigh. No cookies for me.
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
The warm water loosened his muscles and his memories and Tony drifted in the steam-filled air, left hand braced against the smooth tiles as if to maintain a grasp on the sharp, cold present through the fog. Peoria slipped away, another hard lesson, one that cost far more than a few bruises and a broken team. The dead eyes still haunted him, they probably always would, but he’d honed his skills since then – now, when the memories surged, when the regrets and hurts rose up from their graves no one could tell.
((“You’re a natural, DiNozzo, just try to keep that quick mouth in check.” Philadelphia Detective Pete Osbourn had smiled a crooked smile and finished adjusting the wire that they’d strung through the intricate Celtic chain hanging around Tony’s neck. Finally satisfied, he tucked the chain inside the tight white shirt and patted his chest. “Remember: observe and adjust. Don’t take any chances.”
Tony had buried his doubt beneath energetic antics and near-manic excitement. His first solo undercover op – even if Pete and Samuels and six other cops were listening in and hovering in the background, it would be Tony in that club, trying to attract the attention of their suspect. And, hopefully, getting the guy to take him home – into his life, into his trust.
He’d arrived at Philadelphia with expectations – with just two years of law enforcement under his belt, he’d expected to run the gauntlet, he expected to have to prove himself, to be shuffled to the outside, to fight and work and bleed for acceptance, let alone respect. He didn’t expect to be thrown into an already eight-month-long investigation of gun running and execution-style killings simply because he was a new, young face.
They’d all been surprised at how quickly he’d taken to undercover work – how easy it was for him to put on a mask, to slip into a shallow, smiling role and only let people see what he wanted them to see. They didn’t realize he’d been doing it all his life.))
Tony carefully stretched and bent his right arm, exploring his limits, stopping just as the stitches began to pull painfully. Ducky was bound to check. He shut off the water and smoothed his fingers through his hair, shivering as the last few drops slipped in a cold trail down his back. He stepped out onto the thick mat and dried himself, taking pains to gentle his motions near the red and swollen flesh of his arm, dropping the towel to the floor after swiping it across the mirror. The face reflected back was nearly unrecognizable.
Serious. Brooding. Thoughtful. Words few would use to describe very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Very few. His brow tightened and he smoothed his fingers over the new lines that had begun to appear one day on a sunny rooftop when blood showered across his face in a hot, angry burst.
“I miss you, Katy.” The words surprised him, and the sudden vision of Kate’s teasing gaze transformed into the hooded, watchful stare of the dark-haired agent who sat in her chair and hungered for his partner’s place. He gritted his teeth and reached for his razor.
((A crash course in undercover work submersed Tony in the world of lies and deceit and paranoia. Within two days of his arrival he had a new name, an apartment, and an adjusted history that was beginning to feel more real to him than his own. A job at the Navy Yard gave him access to the kinds of weapons that were disappearing, a regular drop at a local bar gave him contact with the department, and a weekly dinner with his ‘Uncle Pete’ kept him from forgetting he was not really Tony Bianchini – young, rebellious, a pretty face, a tight ass, and not much more. At least, that was the theory.
It wasn’t the first time he’d sacrificed his body for the team. Basketball, football, locker room fights and bruising reminders in the night – it was all the same, he’d told himself. Don’t make a fuss, don’t whine, don’t complain – do it for the team. Prove yourself. Take the blows. Keep your mouth shut.
He hadn’t exactly argued. No, Tony had leapt at the chance to go deep, to forget Tony DiNozzo and the dead eyes of a child and the betrayal of his peers, to make himself significant - valuable - to these people; to earn his spot in this new city. But, after six months of deep undercover, becoming Billy O’Toole’s boytoy, slipping under the radar and into the man’s life to become enough a part of the scenery to be ignored and disregarded while the criminal planned his jobs and made his connections, Tony found that he was more of an outsider than ever. And it was too late to change his mind.))
He knew there was a connection here, something his subconscious was trying to get him to see, some reason these dark memories were floating to the surface, reminding him of every time he thought he’d found a home, a team, and every time he’d failed. It was more than the threat of another loss, more than a trip down the dim, garbage-strewn alley that was Tony DiNozzo’s memory lane. He rinsed his blade and raised his left hand to his face, setting the razor carefully against his cheek. Philadelphia had ended just like they all had – why dwell? He hissed at the sudden sting and watched a bright drop of blood swell beneath his jaw.
((“Enemies are everywhere, always looking for a way in, for any weakness. Don’t let them in.”
“We’re a team, after all. Us against them.”
“Remember: observe and adjust.”))
Clear green eyes met his. Of course.
Tony managed to wrestle his jeans on, clumsily zipping and buttoning one handed, but was fumbling his attempts to re-bandage his wound when his cell phone rang.
“What?” he snapped, glancing at the clock. He’d said thirty minutes – was McGee so anxious to get this awkwardness between them cleared up that he’d forgotten how to tell time?
But it wasn’t McGee’s strained tenor. “I’ll be there in fifteen, DiNozzo – don’t make me wait.”
He felt every muscle tense, every barrier to his soul rise and lock into place, immovable. His throat too tight to choke out words, Tony closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath, unwilling to play the faithful lap dog for even a moment. Been there, done that, and, dammit, it never ended well. Not for him – not for anyone. The cost was too high; even if the bad guys were put away, the good guys came away from the fight with too many scars, too many wounds that never really healed. Marriages crumbled, blood pressure rose, and friendships fell apart. Tony had allowed the new status quo to develop around him, around Gibbs’ team, without lifting one finger. Enough was enough. He wasn’t the new guy anymore. He’d finally figured it out.
“I already have a ride, Gibbs – and, I may as well let you know that McGee and I are going to be late. My fault,” he added hurriedly, before the storm of Gibbs’ reproach could break over him. “For some reason I’m not my usual sparkling self this morning.”
The growl was almost inaudible, but Tony could feel it across the empty air between them. “How late?”
His grip on the cell phone became a choke-hold but he forced a lightness to his tone. “I don’t know,” he finally answered, “until Tim gets a clue, so, I suppose, we could be a while.”
The silence buffeted his ear, but, for once, Tony waited Gibbs out, smothering any hope, any expectation of support.
“Are you really so desperate for allies in your little imaginary war, DiNozzo?”
Tony nodded wearily. It wasn’t one of Gibbs’ rules, but ‘the best defense is a good offense’ seemed to be an unwritten Marine motto. “Not a war, Gibbs, more of a puzzle. Just trying to figure out the picture on the box. You ever try to put together the Statue of Liberty when the pieces look a hell of a lot like Mount Rushmore?”
“DiNozzo-”
“Look, Gibbs,” Tony moved toward his front door, the hesitant knocks announcing McGee’s arrival, “you don’t want to deal with this? Want to pretend all is well in the Kingdom of Gibbs? Fine. I’m your senior field agent, that means the crap jobs fall to me.” He threw the door open, watching McGee pale and take a step back in the face of his controlled rage. “I am *on it*, *Boss*.” The words didn’t so much drip as glow with radioactive sarcasm.
Closing the phone with a snap he grabbed Tim’s jacket with his left hand and yanked him into the apartment. “Move it, Probie. We’ve got exactly ten minutes to blow this popsicle stand before ‘perfect storm Gibbs’ gets here.”
((After Tony had let himself be made a pet, accepted, fondled and tasted by O’Toole, had shared his bed and his confidence, after the arrests, the interrogations and the depositions and the testimony before the open court, Tony had tried to find himself again. But Tony DiNozzo had never even existed within the Philadelphia PD; he had no desk, no partner, and no identity. Just a reputation as a pretty boy willing to do just about anything, to be just about anyone, to get the bad guys. His very presence was suspect, as if his co-workers were always looking for the lies in his teasing words and easy smile; as if Tony had played in the dirt for so long that it might rub off on them.
Vice requested him more than once. Narcotics. Fraud. A new set of faces to trust his life to every week. By the time he’d been in the city eighteen months he’d answered to over a dozen names, and his small apartment felt crowded with the meaningless relationships and shallow, empty lives he’d worn like suits of clothes. And, standing naked before his own reflection, Tony had realized that he was still alone.))
“Tony - you okay?”
Tony blinked into the bright sunshine and plucked the sunglasses from the neck of his shirt. Funny what eight hours could do. From icy rain to clear, blue skies – even the puddles from the night before were drying up. He slid the shades onto his face as the last piece of the puzzle slid into place. Ziva, Gibbs, McGee – he should have seen it before, should have been the first to recognize what was happening. Funny that it had turned out that all those years of hiding, all those desperate plays to win his own place had left him so blind. Well, the sun was out now.
McGee was peering at him like a lost puppy – again. Ever since he’d gotten a good up-close-and-personal look at the ragged wound in Tony’s arm, the probie had been stumbling all over himself in guilt. And Tony didn’t have the heart to take advantage – this time.
He leaned back in the wrought iron chair, easing the sling over his arm, stretching his legs out into the sidewalk, utterly uncaring about who had to step around him. “You’ve never been undercover, have you, Probie?”
Tim’s fingers danced nervously across the outdoor table before reaching for the steaming Styrofoam cup. “I’ve read all the manuals, studied the case files.” He met Tony’s accusing stare. “Uh, no, not really. Well, unless you count my waiter gig while you and Ziva were-”
“No.” Tony cut him off. “Doesn’t count.”
McGee’s eyes narrowed and Tony smiled as the younger man sipped his coffee instead of biting off a reply.
“Okay, listen up, Mcprentice. There are three basic approaches to going undercover.” Tony held up one finger. “First, there’s the ‘Actor.’ He designs a detailed new identity, researches exhaustively, memorizes a full blown past and falls into it completely. Completely immerses himself in the role – forgets about his own life, his prior connections, pretends he’s on the stage one hundred percent of the time. It’s exhausting and confusing and dangerous, but it’s the way some long-term operatives do it.”
“Tony, what does that have to do with-”
“Don’t interrupt, McKnow-It-All.” Tony let his mind return to those first few days in Philly, the intense voice of Pete Osbourn trying to give the raw, eager new cop enough tools to pull off the op and not get himself killed in the bargain. He had been a good man – Tony had been a pall-bearer at his funeral. He shook himself. “The second method, and my particular favorite, is ‘Observe and Adjust.’ It takes quick thinking and the ability to size up a situation and make changes on the fly. This guy doesn’t take a whole lot into an op with him except his own personality. But – and here’s the important part, Probie - he can change tactics, change his back-story, adjust to whatever happens in a split second. His only goal is to fit in and become a part of the suspect’s world.”
The frown on McGee’s face made Tony hesitate. This was a risk, this honesty. He was breaking his own rules here, giving McGee a peek into Tony DiNozzo’s head, letting him in. His father wouldn’t understand, Finn would have cursed him, his coach would have been livid. But, even with the memory of the smug superiority on the probie’s face in the bullpen last night, Tony could not think of Tim McGee as his enemy. Not if this team was going to survive.
“That’s what you did on the undercover case with Ziva.”
Tony let a sigh escape. “I did.”
Tim was nodding now. “Yeah, you were still you, still annoying, still immature…”
“Yeah, thanks, Probie, glad to see you’re getting this,” Tony drawled.
“So, what’s the third approach?”
Tony leaned forward, making sure he had all of the younger man’s attention before he continued. “The third method is something I call the ‘Grand Gesture.’ This guy takes charge of the situation as soon as he steps into the room. Manipulates the reactions of everybody around him to make a place for himself in their world. Usually, he finds the weak link in an organization and exploits him, sets himself up as stronger, better, a replacement for the poor shlub he’s targeted, effectively cutting him out and creating an opening he can step into. Making himself indispensible.”
He watched carefully, waiting for it, waiting for the penny to drop, the other shoe to land, the fish to take the bait. Come on, Probie.
“Tony.” McGee shifted closer, eyes wide. He cleared his throat and whispered as if he was voicing the hard-held secrets of the universe. “You think Ziva is undercover? That she’s undercover for Mossad with NCIS?”
“Are you asking me or telling me, McGee?” The time for nicknames and teasing was over – either Tim would see it, see her manipulations, her attempts to put them on the defensive, to put Tony aside as the weak link that she could easily replace, or Tony had permanently alienated him, had all but hand-delivered him to Ziva.
McGee sat perfectly still, every thought that raced through his mind visible on his face. Tony felt the time drag on, and, with every moment, tried to prepare himself for another rejection. Honesty had never been his game, but it was all he had left.
Color rushed into the younger man’s face and his lips tightened, a steely resolve darkening his eyes to grey. “Holy shit,” he breathed.
All of the frustrated desperation that had fueled his explanations seemed to drain out through Tony’s pores, leaving him shivering with cold in the warm sun. He dropped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, relief loosening the tight control he’d drawn around his emotions. Yes. Finally. Maybe Gibbs was right, maybe he had been looking for an ally. But it felt more like he’d found a friend.
A hand clutching his sleeve had him blinking, staring back at McGee’s suddenly frantic figure.
“Tony?”
“Yeah?” He frowned and then turned awkwardly in his chair to try to follow the young agent’s frozen stare. His heart lurched.
“Gibbs doesn’t know, does he?”
The tall, silver-haired figure detached itself from the coffee shop’s doorway and strode towards them.
Tony unconsciously bent forward, cradling his injured arm. “He does now,” he groaned.
End pt 4
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 and Tim discuss.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Can I just blame the zombies again and promise to do better? Sigh. No cookies for me.
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
The warm water loosened his muscles and his memories and Tony drifted in the steam-filled air, left hand braced against the smooth tiles as if to maintain a grasp on the sharp, cold present through the fog. Peoria slipped away, another hard lesson, one that cost far more than a few bruises and a broken team. The dead eyes still haunted him, they probably always would, but he’d honed his skills since then – now, when the memories surged, when the regrets and hurts rose up from their graves no one could tell.
((“You’re a natural, DiNozzo, just try to keep that quick mouth in check.” Philadelphia Detective Pete Osbourn had smiled a crooked smile and finished adjusting the wire that they’d strung through the intricate Celtic chain hanging around Tony’s neck. Finally satisfied, he tucked the chain inside the tight white shirt and patted his chest. “Remember: observe and adjust. Don’t take any chances.”
Tony had buried his doubt beneath energetic antics and near-manic excitement. His first solo undercover op – even if Pete and Samuels and six other cops were listening in and hovering in the background, it would be Tony in that club, trying to attract the attention of their suspect. And, hopefully, getting the guy to take him home – into his life, into his trust.
He’d arrived at Philadelphia with expectations – with just two years of law enforcement under his belt, he’d expected to run the gauntlet, he expected to have to prove himself, to be shuffled to the outside, to fight and work and bleed for acceptance, let alone respect. He didn’t expect to be thrown into an already eight-month-long investigation of gun running and execution-style killings simply because he was a new, young face.
They’d all been surprised at how quickly he’d taken to undercover work – how easy it was for him to put on a mask, to slip into a shallow, smiling role and only let people see what he wanted them to see. They didn’t realize he’d been doing it all his life.))
Tony carefully stretched and bent his right arm, exploring his limits, stopping just as the stitches began to pull painfully. Ducky was bound to check. He shut off the water and smoothed his fingers through his hair, shivering as the last few drops slipped in a cold trail down his back. He stepped out onto the thick mat and dried himself, taking pains to gentle his motions near the red and swollen flesh of his arm, dropping the towel to the floor after swiping it across the mirror. The face reflected back was nearly unrecognizable.
Serious. Brooding. Thoughtful. Words few would use to describe very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Very few. His brow tightened and he smoothed his fingers over the new lines that had begun to appear one day on a sunny rooftop when blood showered across his face in a hot, angry burst.
“I miss you, Katy.” The words surprised him, and the sudden vision of Kate’s teasing gaze transformed into the hooded, watchful stare of the dark-haired agent who sat in her chair and hungered for his partner’s place. He gritted his teeth and reached for his razor.
((A crash course in undercover work submersed Tony in the world of lies and deceit and paranoia. Within two days of his arrival he had a new name, an apartment, and an adjusted history that was beginning to feel more real to him than his own. A job at the Navy Yard gave him access to the kinds of weapons that were disappearing, a regular drop at a local bar gave him contact with the department, and a weekly dinner with his ‘Uncle Pete’ kept him from forgetting he was not really Tony Bianchini – young, rebellious, a pretty face, a tight ass, and not much more. At least, that was the theory.
It wasn’t the first time he’d sacrificed his body for the team. Basketball, football, locker room fights and bruising reminders in the night – it was all the same, he’d told himself. Don’t make a fuss, don’t whine, don’t complain – do it for the team. Prove yourself. Take the blows. Keep your mouth shut.
He hadn’t exactly argued. No, Tony had leapt at the chance to go deep, to forget Tony DiNozzo and the dead eyes of a child and the betrayal of his peers, to make himself significant - valuable - to these people; to earn his spot in this new city. But, after six months of deep undercover, becoming Billy O’Toole’s boytoy, slipping under the radar and into the man’s life to become enough a part of the scenery to be ignored and disregarded while the criminal planned his jobs and made his connections, Tony found that he was more of an outsider than ever. And it was too late to change his mind.))
He knew there was a connection here, something his subconscious was trying to get him to see, some reason these dark memories were floating to the surface, reminding him of every time he thought he’d found a home, a team, and every time he’d failed. It was more than the threat of another loss, more than a trip down the dim, garbage-strewn alley that was Tony DiNozzo’s memory lane. He rinsed his blade and raised his left hand to his face, setting the razor carefully against his cheek. Philadelphia had ended just like they all had – why dwell? He hissed at the sudden sting and watched a bright drop of blood swell beneath his jaw.
((“Enemies are everywhere, always looking for a way in, for any weakness. Don’t let them in.”
“We’re a team, after all. Us against them.”
“Remember: observe and adjust.”))
Clear green eyes met his. Of course.
Tony managed to wrestle his jeans on, clumsily zipping and buttoning one handed, but was fumbling his attempts to re-bandage his wound when his cell phone rang.
“What?” he snapped, glancing at the clock. He’d said thirty minutes – was McGee so anxious to get this awkwardness between them cleared up that he’d forgotten how to tell time?
But it wasn’t McGee’s strained tenor. “I’ll be there in fifteen, DiNozzo – don’t make me wait.”
He felt every muscle tense, every barrier to his soul rise and lock into place, immovable. His throat too tight to choke out words, Tony closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath, unwilling to play the faithful lap dog for even a moment. Been there, done that, and, dammit, it never ended well. Not for him – not for anyone. The cost was too high; even if the bad guys were put away, the good guys came away from the fight with too many scars, too many wounds that never really healed. Marriages crumbled, blood pressure rose, and friendships fell apart. Tony had allowed the new status quo to develop around him, around Gibbs’ team, without lifting one finger. Enough was enough. He wasn’t the new guy anymore. He’d finally figured it out.
“I already have a ride, Gibbs – and, I may as well let you know that McGee and I are going to be late. My fault,” he added hurriedly, before the storm of Gibbs’ reproach could break over him. “For some reason I’m not my usual sparkling self this morning.”
The growl was almost inaudible, but Tony could feel it across the empty air between them. “How late?”
His grip on the cell phone became a choke-hold but he forced a lightness to his tone. “I don’t know,” he finally answered, “until Tim gets a clue, so, I suppose, we could be a while.”
The silence buffeted his ear, but, for once, Tony waited Gibbs out, smothering any hope, any expectation of support.
“Are you really so desperate for allies in your little imaginary war, DiNozzo?”
Tony nodded wearily. It wasn’t one of Gibbs’ rules, but ‘the best defense is a good offense’ seemed to be an unwritten Marine motto. “Not a war, Gibbs, more of a puzzle. Just trying to figure out the picture on the box. You ever try to put together the Statue of Liberty when the pieces look a hell of a lot like Mount Rushmore?”
“DiNozzo-”
“Look, Gibbs,” Tony moved toward his front door, the hesitant knocks announcing McGee’s arrival, “you don’t want to deal with this? Want to pretend all is well in the Kingdom of Gibbs? Fine. I’m your senior field agent, that means the crap jobs fall to me.” He threw the door open, watching McGee pale and take a step back in the face of his controlled rage. “I am *on it*, *Boss*.” The words didn’t so much drip as glow with radioactive sarcasm.
Closing the phone with a snap he grabbed Tim’s jacket with his left hand and yanked him into the apartment. “Move it, Probie. We’ve got exactly ten minutes to blow this popsicle stand before ‘perfect storm Gibbs’ gets here.”
((After Tony had let himself be made a pet, accepted, fondled and tasted by O’Toole, had shared his bed and his confidence, after the arrests, the interrogations and the depositions and the testimony before the open court, Tony had tried to find himself again. But Tony DiNozzo had never even existed within the Philadelphia PD; he had no desk, no partner, and no identity. Just a reputation as a pretty boy willing to do just about anything, to be just about anyone, to get the bad guys. His very presence was suspect, as if his co-workers were always looking for the lies in his teasing words and easy smile; as if Tony had played in the dirt for so long that it might rub off on them.
Vice requested him more than once. Narcotics. Fraud. A new set of faces to trust his life to every week. By the time he’d been in the city eighteen months he’d answered to over a dozen names, and his small apartment felt crowded with the meaningless relationships and shallow, empty lives he’d worn like suits of clothes. And, standing naked before his own reflection, Tony had realized that he was still alone.))
“Tony - you okay?”
Tony blinked into the bright sunshine and plucked the sunglasses from the neck of his shirt. Funny what eight hours could do. From icy rain to clear, blue skies – even the puddles from the night before were drying up. He slid the shades onto his face as the last piece of the puzzle slid into place. Ziva, Gibbs, McGee – he should have seen it before, should have been the first to recognize what was happening. Funny that it had turned out that all those years of hiding, all those desperate plays to win his own place had left him so blind. Well, the sun was out now.
McGee was peering at him like a lost puppy – again. Ever since he’d gotten a good up-close-and-personal look at the ragged wound in Tony’s arm, the probie had been stumbling all over himself in guilt. And Tony didn’t have the heart to take advantage – this time.
He leaned back in the wrought iron chair, easing the sling over his arm, stretching his legs out into the sidewalk, utterly uncaring about who had to step around him. “You’ve never been undercover, have you, Probie?”
Tim’s fingers danced nervously across the outdoor table before reaching for the steaming Styrofoam cup. “I’ve read all the manuals, studied the case files.” He met Tony’s accusing stare. “Uh, no, not really. Well, unless you count my waiter gig while you and Ziva were-”
“No.” Tony cut him off. “Doesn’t count.”
McGee’s eyes narrowed and Tony smiled as the younger man sipped his coffee instead of biting off a reply.
“Okay, listen up, Mcprentice. There are three basic approaches to going undercover.” Tony held up one finger. “First, there’s the ‘Actor.’ He designs a detailed new identity, researches exhaustively, memorizes a full blown past and falls into it completely. Completely immerses himself in the role – forgets about his own life, his prior connections, pretends he’s on the stage one hundred percent of the time. It’s exhausting and confusing and dangerous, but it’s the way some long-term operatives do it.”
“Tony, what does that have to do with-”
“Don’t interrupt, McKnow-It-All.” Tony let his mind return to those first few days in Philly, the intense voice of Pete Osbourn trying to give the raw, eager new cop enough tools to pull off the op and not get himself killed in the bargain. He had been a good man – Tony had been a pall-bearer at his funeral. He shook himself. “The second method, and my particular favorite, is ‘Observe and Adjust.’ It takes quick thinking and the ability to size up a situation and make changes on the fly. This guy doesn’t take a whole lot into an op with him except his own personality. But – and here’s the important part, Probie - he can change tactics, change his back-story, adjust to whatever happens in a split second. His only goal is to fit in and become a part of the suspect’s world.”
The frown on McGee’s face made Tony hesitate. This was a risk, this honesty. He was breaking his own rules here, giving McGee a peek into Tony DiNozzo’s head, letting him in. His father wouldn’t understand, Finn would have cursed him, his coach would have been livid. But, even with the memory of the smug superiority on the probie’s face in the bullpen last night, Tony could not think of Tim McGee as his enemy. Not if this team was going to survive.
“That’s what you did on the undercover case with Ziva.”
Tony let a sigh escape. “I did.”
Tim was nodding now. “Yeah, you were still you, still annoying, still immature…”
“Yeah, thanks, Probie, glad to see you’re getting this,” Tony drawled.
“So, what’s the third approach?”
Tony leaned forward, making sure he had all of the younger man’s attention before he continued. “The third method is something I call the ‘Grand Gesture.’ This guy takes charge of the situation as soon as he steps into the room. Manipulates the reactions of everybody around him to make a place for himself in their world. Usually, he finds the weak link in an organization and exploits him, sets himself up as stronger, better, a replacement for the poor shlub he’s targeted, effectively cutting him out and creating an opening he can step into. Making himself indispensible.”
He watched carefully, waiting for it, waiting for the penny to drop, the other shoe to land, the fish to take the bait. Come on, Probie.
“Tony.” McGee shifted closer, eyes wide. He cleared his throat and whispered as if he was voicing the hard-held secrets of the universe. “You think Ziva is undercover? That she’s undercover for Mossad with NCIS?”
“Are you asking me or telling me, McGee?” The time for nicknames and teasing was over – either Tim would see it, see her manipulations, her attempts to put them on the defensive, to put Tony aside as the weak link that she could easily replace, or Tony had permanently alienated him, had all but hand-delivered him to Ziva.
McGee sat perfectly still, every thought that raced through his mind visible on his face. Tony felt the time drag on, and, with every moment, tried to prepare himself for another rejection. Honesty had never been his game, but it was all he had left.
Color rushed into the younger man’s face and his lips tightened, a steely resolve darkening his eyes to grey. “Holy shit,” he breathed.
All of the frustrated desperation that had fueled his explanations seemed to drain out through Tony’s pores, leaving him shivering with cold in the warm sun. He dropped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, relief loosening the tight control he’d drawn around his emotions. Yes. Finally. Maybe Gibbs was right, maybe he had been looking for an ally. But it felt more like he’d found a friend.
A hand clutching his sleeve had him blinking, staring back at McGee’s suddenly frantic figure.
“Tony?”
“Yeah?” He frowned and then turned awkwardly in his chair to try to follow the young agent’s frozen stare. His heart lurched.
“Gibbs doesn’t know, does he?”
The tall, silver-haired figure detached itself from the coffee shop’s doorway and strode towards them.
Tony unconsciously bent forward, cradling his injured arm. “He does now,” he groaned.
End pt 4
