marzipan77 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marzipan77) wrote2010-09-19 07:52 pm
marzipan77) wrote2010-09-19 07:52 pm
Box Out Pt 5/9
Title: Box Out Pt 5/9
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, bad words.
Summary: Tag for Boxed In – Tony! Language! He and Gibbs finally have ‘the talk.’ Or, maybe they don't.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
For those new to this fic: ((flashback/memory))
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
Gibbs dropped into the empty chair on Tony’s right with a dramatic sigh, tugging at his coat and settling in as if the metal café chair was his favorite recliner. Tony automatically shifted left, away from the chill of the other man’s bland, studied gaze and the contradictory warmth that always seemed to radiate from his skin. He clenched his teeth, trying to school his body to not respond, to not lean into the aura of the man’s heat. It would be so easy. But Gibbs couldn’t fix this mess with a knowing smile or a slap on the back of the head – and after their conversation last night in the morgue, Tony was sure anything Gibbs said now would only make matters worse. Glancing up, seeing the pale, gaping expression that signaled utter panic on McGee’s face, he knew he was right. Tony had to think, he had to act, or the probie would be steamrolled by that specific combination of hero worship and fear that Special Agent Gibbs instilled in all of his subordinates.
The silence around the table grew and Tony tried to force his face into its familiar amiable mask, ready to bluff and quip and play the fool in order to break the tension and hold onto the tenuous trust that had been building between him and McGee, but, this time, the disguise escaped him. Tony’s past – his father, his coaches, the stress of loneliness and the particular challenges of fitting in to the old-boys’ network of law enforcement – it may have prepared him for Ziva, prepared him to get under her own mask and come to grips with the plots and plans that were fed by her Mossad training and a life-long paranoia, but nothing had prepared him for Gibbs.
((The opening in Baltimore had come at just the right time, after the seductive lure of undercover work had faded and before Tony had completely lost himself and flamed out. A detective by default – experience alone made Tony more qualified than any of his peers - he’d buried himself in the ins and outs of investigation, his need to prove himself submerged for once beneath his drive to disappear into the work, to become the job as wholly as he had become so many fleeting and fantastic identities in Philadelphia.
He’d laughed and joked, paid for his share of the beer and flirted with more than his share of the waitresses, all the time holding himself separate, withdrawing, unwilling to let himself care about becoming part of the team. He’d studied and learned and worked long, tedious hours on case after case, honing his empty role as overgrown frat boy as keenly as his skills until neither were questioned, and his ease with witnesses and his proficiency with every aspect of procedure became accepted – understood. A good detective. Always up for happy hour. Reliable on the stand. Jock. Ladies’ Man. Cop.
The day the Navy investigators arrived, Tony was hip deep in garbage, searching for a murder weapon in a dumpster ten feet from the broken corpse of a Navy captain. The barked orders and lilting brogue washed harmlessly over him; his head was bowed over his task, eyes intent, taking in the action nearby without being distracted. It wasn’t until his gloved hand found one end of the blood and brain smeared tire iron and he’d whooped out a “Yes!” that he’d raised his head and been faced with the icy blue stare of Leroy Jethro Gibbs.))
“Got it all figured out, DiNozzo.”
Tony wished the smile playing around Gibbs’ lips was genuine, but he heard the unveiled sarcasm, the bite that turned the question into an accusation of betrayal. Next to him, Tim huffed out an impatient breath.
“Boss – Ziva – ”
“Probie!”
“McGee.”
He could almost hear the man’s jaw slam closed. Tony held McGee’s startled gaze for a moment before turning to face his boss.
“Sort of a private conversation, Gibbs,” Tony said evenly. “We won’t be long.”
Gibbs stared, but Tony didn’t look away. Not this time, he silently told himself. This time the all-powerful Gibbs was wrong and Tony couldn’t let the probie’s stuttering questions or half-realized conclusions compromise the team even further. Trust was already broken – his trust, Gibbs’ – both. It had to stop and stop now. One second of doubt, one fleeting moment of suspicion out in the field and this fraying faith in each other could cost Tim his life. Or, Gibbs his.
Callused hands lifted the coffee cup and steam raised a thin shield between Tony and the older man’s distrust. He felt the tightened muscles in his chest loosen just a fraction and pulled a deep swallow of the clear morning air into his lungs.
“Tim,” Gibbs never looked away. “Go pick up Abby. And Ziva.”
“Uh…”
The coffee cup came to rest on the table and Tony’s stomach knotted into a hot, searing mass. What the hell?
“Tony and I have a few things to discuss.”
He closed his eyes and felt a humorless smile curl his lips as a coating of ice grew along his spine. Tony shook his head. ‘Discuss.’ This would end well.
“You – you want me to bring Ziva and Abby… here?”
Tony rested his head against the back of the chair, beaten by waves of bright confusion on one side and controlled anger on the other.
“Sure,” he muttered to himself, “why not. What this team really needs is another party, isn’t it?”
Movement to his left – a sleeve brushing against his arm – and Tony blinked up into McGee’s anxious face.
“Go ahead, Probie – you heard the Boss,” he offered, flashing a toothy grin. “The more the merrier.” This wasn’t Tim’s fault, no matter how much Tony would love to blame him for being well-played by the dark-haired spy. Best to get him out of range of the blowback; keep the guy safe from flying shrapnel when this thing between Tony and Gibbs really blew. Which would be in T-minus…
McGee nodded, gaze darting back towards Gibbs before settling again on Tony’s weary face. “Okay. But we’re not done here, Tony.”
Tony watched his retreating back. “Oh, I think *I* am,” he whispered.
“You’re what?”
The flat tone coming from behind him was all too familiar.
((“You find something, officer?”
Flat blue gaze, flat, dull tone. Tony had found himself straightening to his full height, the correction leaping instantly from between his lips.
“Detective. Detective Anthony DiNozzo.” He’d been held there, gore dripping into his gloved palm, as if he was an insect pinned to a middle-school student’s board. The mock surprise and half-smile on the other man’s face had narrowed his eyes in hard-won wariness.
“‘Detective?’” Disbelief didn’t so much color the tone as flash with neon warning lights. “Okay, ‘detective,’ what have you got?” It was dismissive, cold, but the power of those eyes wouldn’t release him.
Tony had frowned, glance darting towards the knot of Baltimore detectives huddled near the alley’s entrance, and then to the squat figure crouching over the captain’s body. Comments that had been unheeded while he was working replayed in his head and he pulled the tire iron in closer to his body, as if to protect it from the federal agent’s scrutiny. The innate command in every line of the man’s body and the calm expectation in those eyes somehow made him want to reconsider.
It was an instant magnetic pull, as if there was a tether, deep down in Tony’s gut, linked directly to the needs and wants of this stranger. All of the suspicion, the native barriers that had hardened to lead between Tony and the world were threatening to crumble to dust with just one stinging phrase. The urge to give the agent what he wanted, everything he wanted, had Tony hurriedly shoring up the remnants of his control with an attempt at a matching sarcasm. “Well, as much as I was hoping for some help from the feds to identify this wacky hickamajig with this funny goop on the end,” Tony opened his eyes wide in mock ignorance, “I think I can handle it, Agent…”
The older man had stilled, allowing the silence to spool out between them like tangled fishing line, and, Tony realized, sweat beginning to trace a trail down his back, that playing games with this guy would be like playing with fire. Very hot fire. Very hot. He lifted his chin, unwilling – unable – to back down.
The slightest warming of the ice blue stare, a hint of real amusement, and Tony felt a wave of relief.
“Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.”
He hadn’t made a move to reach for credentials, but he really didn’t need them; authority oozed from his pores. Tony nodded and Gibbs stepped closer.
“Good work, DiNozzo,” he reached out and Tony found himself handing over the murder weapon, “but we’ll need photos and a more thorough search of the contents…”
Tony glanced down at his brand new Gucci boots. “Figures,” he muttered. Meeting the NCIS’ agent’s direct gaze, he’d smiled. “Got a camera I can borrow?”))
It had been just that quick – the connection, the ease of working in the man’s shadow as if Tony had been born there, and suddenly his drive to win, to succeed, to put the pieces together was now directed towards living up to Gibbs’ expectations. He’d obeyed the man’s orders without question, not unthinking, exactly, but, he smiled ruefully at the memory, with the eagerness of a raw recruit, and the passion of a new lover.
“So, you’re up to your ass in crap, DiNozzo, just like the first time I met you.”
The words crashed Tony back into the present with a painful shove and he shook his head, trying to dispel the hurt and self-loathing. Gibbs could still read him so easily. He knew he’d been back there, in that Baltimore alley, warming himself with the memory of their first meeting and the immediate hold Gibbs seemed to have over him. He shrugged and regretted it as the wound pulled and his arm burned. A low hiss escaped before he could catch it back.
A hard grip on his shoulder kept him from pulling away and Tony turned, bitter words rushing to the surface.
“Hey, take it easy.”
The silvered head leaned close, too close. Blue eyes stared beneath crooked brows and above the dark shadows of sleeplessness. This time, Tony made himself look. Was that concern? Guilt? Tony blinked, searching for any hint of that one-time solid connection, an echo of tenderness, or, at least, a memory of friendship. His eyes burned as he wondered if he would recognize it if it showed up.
He forced his muscles to relax, to stop pulling back, and felt Gibbs’ grip loosen, but the older man didn’t let go. “What is this, Gibbs?” Tony found himself whispering, throat tight. “I’ve already got the personal kiss off, got pushed out of your bed. Is this where you tell me if I can’t suck it up and trust Mossad Officer David with my life I should get the hell off your team, too?”
Gibbs didn’t move, didn’t blink, but the hand on Tony’s shoulder changed from steel to softness and Tony’s eyes slid closed. No. Too much. And not nearly enough.
“This is not about you and me, Tony – it can’t be.”
“That’s not –” Tony shuffled his feet beneath him as if to stand, but gave it up when the hand moved to grip the back of his neck, drawing his eyes back to the pale face beside him. “Dammit, Gibbs, I know that. You’re the one who won’t see.”
The crooked, half-smile didn’t mock Tony this time. If anything, the bleak expression turned inward. “Yeah, believe me, I heard all about that last night from Ducky.”
“Ducky?” Memories of guilt, shame at involving the older man in his own problems, surged. A rough thumb raised goose bumps on Tony’s skin as it tracked up and down, up and down against his neck, scattering his thoughts.
A moment later Gibbs leaned back in his chair, both hands carefully flat on the table in front of him. “Oh, yeah. Let me have it with both barrels after he dropped you off.”
Refusing to acknowledge the sudden chill Gibbs’ withdrawal left, Tony dropped his gaze. “I didn’t mean to put Ducky in the middle, Gibbs, I should never have mentioned it…”
“I don’t know – I certainly wasn’t listening to you, DiNozzo.”
Tony waited. “And now?”
“Now?” The muscle in Gibbs’ jaw jumped. “Now we fix this.”
Anxiety still clouded his mind, sizzled along his nerves, but before Tony could put words to this new dread, demand an explanation, Gibbs spoke again.
“You’re going to have to trust me, Tony.”
The anger that had been briefly sidetracked into nostalgia threatened to return, churning Tony’s gut with acid. “Don’t fucking play me, Gibbs.” He meant it to be a snarl, a growl, but it came out more pleading than powerful.
“I am not playing you.” Each word was shot out with a sniper’s precision, designed to hit its target, as Gibbs lunged forward to take Tony’s wrist, squeezing just hard enough to keep him still. The blue eyes bored into him. “Will you let me finish?”
“Finish then,” Tony seethed, his breath tearing at his throat.
Gibbs leaned even closer. “I was going to say, ‘You’re going to have to trust me, Tony, but that’s not gonna happen until we get some things straight between us.’”
Tony wrenched his left hand from Gibbs’, throwing himself backwards in the chair, ignoring the sharp pain in his arm. He didn’t bother to meet the man’s glare – he knew he couldn’t win. There were only two choices here: hear Gibbs out, listen meekly while he laid out Tony’s new place in the bastard’s personal pecking order, or flip his badge onto the table and flip off his job at NCIS – at least with Gibbs’ team. No choice then – he’d already decided that this was his fight, his responsibility, his team.
He swallowed what was left of his pride, his dreams of rebuilding a friendship with the older man, his hopes for something more, and he raised clear eyes to Jethro Gibbs’, letting the numbness grow up around him so that nothing could touch him. Nothing showed on his face, less in his eyes – he knew the feel of this mask and it fit him perfectly. Tony held his shoulders back against the uncomfortable metal chair, cradled his now throbbing right arm in his left hand and cocked his head.
“I’m listening.”
Anger smoked behind the deadly glare – anger mixed with … something else. “Like hell you are,” Gibbs released a sigh.
He blinked. It didn’t sound like anger.
“You’re already so sure of what I’m going to say that you’re just sitting there, waiting to get it over with.” Gibbs turned and tossed his empty coffee cup into the trashcan before running one hand through his hair in frustration. “What the hell can I say to get through to you?” It sounded like Gibbs was talking to himself. After a moment he raised his head and Tony watched his throat move as he swallowed. The blue eyes were bright now. “Kate died, Tony. She died, right there in front of us. And you – you didn’t.”
Tony felt the mask slip.
End Pt 5
Author:
marzipan77Category: Pre-slash/Post-slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: Mature – more angst than action, bad words.
Summary: Tag for Boxed In – Tony! Language! He and Gibbs finally have ‘the talk.’ Or, maybe they don't.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
For those new to this fic: ((flashback/memory))
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
Gibbs dropped into the empty chair on Tony’s right with a dramatic sigh, tugging at his coat and settling in as if the metal café chair was his favorite recliner. Tony automatically shifted left, away from the chill of the other man’s bland, studied gaze and the contradictory warmth that always seemed to radiate from his skin. He clenched his teeth, trying to school his body to not respond, to not lean into the aura of the man’s heat. It would be so easy. But Gibbs couldn’t fix this mess with a knowing smile or a slap on the back of the head – and after their conversation last night in the morgue, Tony was sure anything Gibbs said now would only make matters worse. Glancing up, seeing the pale, gaping expression that signaled utter panic on McGee’s face, he knew he was right. Tony had to think, he had to act, or the probie would be steamrolled by that specific combination of hero worship and fear that Special Agent Gibbs instilled in all of his subordinates.
The silence around the table grew and Tony tried to force his face into its familiar amiable mask, ready to bluff and quip and play the fool in order to break the tension and hold onto the tenuous trust that had been building between him and McGee, but, this time, the disguise escaped him. Tony’s past – his father, his coaches, the stress of loneliness and the particular challenges of fitting in to the old-boys’ network of law enforcement – it may have prepared him for Ziva, prepared him to get under her own mask and come to grips with the plots and plans that were fed by her Mossad training and a life-long paranoia, but nothing had prepared him for Gibbs.
((The opening in Baltimore had come at just the right time, after the seductive lure of undercover work had faded and before Tony had completely lost himself and flamed out. A detective by default – experience alone made Tony more qualified than any of his peers - he’d buried himself in the ins and outs of investigation, his need to prove himself submerged for once beneath his drive to disappear into the work, to become the job as wholly as he had become so many fleeting and fantastic identities in Philadelphia.
He’d laughed and joked, paid for his share of the beer and flirted with more than his share of the waitresses, all the time holding himself separate, withdrawing, unwilling to let himself care about becoming part of the team. He’d studied and learned and worked long, tedious hours on case after case, honing his empty role as overgrown frat boy as keenly as his skills until neither were questioned, and his ease with witnesses and his proficiency with every aspect of procedure became accepted – understood. A good detective. Always up for happy hour. Reliable on the stand. Jock. Ladies’ Man. Cop.
The day the Navy investigators arrived, Tony was hip deep in garbage, searching for a murder weapon in a dumpster ten feet from the broken corpse of a Navy captain. The barked orders and lilting brogue washed harmlessly over him; his head was bowed over his task, eyes intent, taking in the action nearby without being distracted. It wasn’t until his gloved hand found one end of the blood and brain smeared tire iron and he’d whooped out a “Yes!” that he’d raised his head and been faced with the icy blue stare of Leroy Jethro Gibbs.))
“Got it all figured out, DiNozzo.”
Tony wished the smile playing around Gibbs’ lips was genuine, but he heard the unveiled sarcasm, the bite that turned the question into an accusation of betrayal. Next to him, Tim huffed out an impatient breath.
“Boss – Ziva – ”
“Probie!”
“McGee.”
He could almost hear the man’s jaw slam closed. Tony held McGee’s startled gaze for a moment before turning to face his boss.
“Sort of a private conversation, Gibbs,” Tony said evenly. “We won’t be long.”
Gibbs stared, but Tony didn’t look away. Not this time, he silently told himself. This time the all-powerful Gibbs was wrong and Tony couldn’t let the probie’s stuttering questions or half-realized conclusions compromise the team even further. Trust was already broken – his trust, Gibbs’ – both. It had to stop and stop now. One second of doubt, one fleeting moment of suspicion out in the field and this fraying faith in each other could cost Tim his life. Or, Gibbs his.
Callused hands lifted the coffee cup and steam raised a thin shield between Tony and the older man’s distrust. He felt the tightened muscles in his chest loosen just a fraction and pulled a deep swallow of the clear morning air into his lungs.
“Tim,” Gibbs never looked away. “Go pick up Abby. And Ziva.”
“Uh…”
The coffee cup came to rest on the table and Tony’s stomach knotted into a hot, searing mass. What the hell?
“Tony and I have a few things to discuss.”
He closed his eyes and felt a humorless smile curl his lips as a coating of ice grew along his spine. Tony shook his head. ‘Discuss.’ This would end well.
“You – you want me to bring Ziva and Abby… here?”
Tony rested his head against the back of the chair, beaten by waves of bright confusion on one side and controlled anger on the other.
“Sure,” he muttered to himself, “why not. What this team really needs is another party, isn’t it?”
Movement to his left – a sleeve brushing against his arm – and Tony blinked up into McGee’s anxious face.
“Go ahead, Probie – you heard the Boss,” he offered, flashing a toothy grin. “The more the merrier.” This wasn’t Tim’s fault, no matter how much Tony would love to blame him for being well-played by the dark-haired spy. Best to get him out of range of the blowback; keep the guy safe from flying shrapnel when this thing between Tony and Gibbs really blew. Which would be in T-minus…
McGee nodded, gaze darting back towards Gibbs before settling again on Tony’s weary face. “Okay. But we’re not done here, Tony.”
Tony watched his retreating back. “Oh, I think *I* am,” he whispered.
“You’re what?”
The flat tone coming from behind him was all too familiar.
((“You find something, officer?”
Flat blue gaze, flat, dull tone. Tony had found himself straightening to his full height, the correction leaping instantly from between his lips.
“Detective. Detective Anthony DiNozzo.” He’d been held there, gore dripping into his gloved palm, as if he was an insect pinned to a middle-school student’s board. The mock surprise and half-smile on the other man’s face had narrowed his eyes in hard-won wariness.
“‘Detective?’” Disbelief didn’t so much color the tone as flash with neon warning lights. “Okay, ‘detective,’ what have you got?” It was dismissive, cold, but the power of those eyes wouldn’t release him.
Tony had frowned, glance darting towards the knot of Baltimore detectives huddled near the alley’s entrance, and then to the squat figure crouching over the captain’s body. Comments that had been unheeded while he was working replayed in his head and he pulled the tire iron in closer to his body, as if to protect it from the federal agent’s scrutiny. The innate command in every line of the man’s body and the calm expectation in those eyes somehow made him want to reconsider.
It was an instant magnetic pull, as if there was a tether, deep down in Tony’s gut, linked directly to the needs and wants of this stranger. All of the suspicion, the native barriers that had hardened to lead between Tony and the world were threatening to crumble to dust with just one stinging phrase. The urge to give the agent what he wanted, everything he wanted, had Tony hurriedly shoring up the remnants of his control with an attempt at a matching sarcasm. “Well, as much as I was hoping for some help from the feds to identify this wacky hickamajig with this funny goop on the end,” Tony opened his eyes wide in mock ignorance, “I think I can handle it, Agent…”
The older man had stilled, allowing the silence to spool out between them like tangled fishing line, and, Tony realized, sweat beginning to trace a trail down his back, that playing games with this guy would be like playing with fire. Very hot fire. Very hot. He lifted his chin, unwilling – unable – to back down.
The slightest warming of the ice blue stare, a hint of real amusement, and Tony felt a wave of relief.
“Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.”
He hadn’t made a move to reach for credentials, but he really didn’t need them; authority oozed from his pores. Tony nodded and Gibbs stepped closer.
“Good work, DiNozzo,” he reached out and Tony found himself handing over the murder weapon, “but we’ll need photos and a more thorough search of the contents…”
Tony glanced down at his brand new Gucci boots. “Figures,” he muttered. Meeting the NCIS’ agent’s direct gaze, he’d smiled. “Got a camera I can borrow?”))
It had been just that quick – the connection, the ease of working in the man’s shadow as if Tony had been born there, and suddenly his drive to win, to succeed, to put the pieces together was now directed towards living up to Gibbs’ expectations. He’d obeyed the man’s orders without question, not unthinking, exactly, but, he smiled ruefully at the memory, with the eagerness of a raw recruit, and the passion of a new lover.
“So, you’re up to your ass in crap, DiNozzo, just like the first time I met you.”
The words crashed Tony back into the present with a painful shove and he shook his head, trying to dispel the hurt and self-loathing. Gibbs could still read him so easily. He knew he’d been back there, in that Baltimore alley, warming himself with the memory of their first meeting and the immediate hold Gibbs seemed to have over him. He shrugged and regretted it as the wound pulled and his arm burned. A low hiss escaped before he could catch it back.
A hard grip on his shoulder kept him from pulling away and Tony turned, bitter words rushing to the surface.
“Hey, take it easy.”
The silvered head leaned close, too close. Blue eyes stared beneath crooked brows and above the dark shadows of sleeplessness. This time, Tony made himself look. Was that concern? Guilt? Tony blinked, searching for any hint of that one-time solid connection, an echo of tenderness, or, at least, a memory of friendship. His eyes burned as he wondered if he would recognize it if it showed up.
He forced his muscles to relax, to stop pulling back, and felt Gibbs’ grip loosen, but the older man didn’t let go. “What is this, Gibbs?” Tony found himself whispering, throat tight. “I’ve already got the personal kiss off, got pushed out of your bed. Is this where you tell me if I can’t suck it up and trust Mossad Officer David with my life I should get the hell off your team, too?”
Gibbs didn’t move, didn’t blink, but the hand on Tony’s shoulder changed from steel to softness and Tony’s eyes slid closed. No. Too much. And not nearly enough.
“This is not about you and me, Tony – it can’t be.”
“That’s not –” Tony shuffled his feet beneath him as if to stand, but gave it up when the hand moved to grip the back of his neck, drawing his eyes back to the pale face beside him. “Dammit, Gibbs, I know that. You’re the one who won’t see.”
The crooked, half-smile didn’t mock Tony this time. If anything, the bleak expression turned inward. “Yeah, believe me, I heard all about that last night from Ducky.”
“Ducky?” Memories of guilt, shame at involving the older man in his own problems, surged. A rough thumb raised goose bumps on Tony’s skin as it tracked up and down, up and down against his neck, scattering his thoughts.
A moment later Gibbs leaned back in his chair, both hands carefully flat on the table in front of him. “Oh, yeah. Let me have it with both barrels after he dropped you off.”
Refusing to acknowledge the sudden chill Gibbs’ withdrawal left, Tony dropped his gaze. “I didn’t mean to put Ducky in the middle, Gibbs, I should never have mentioned it…”
“I don’t know – I certainly wasn’t listening to you, DiNozzo.”
Tony waited. “And now?”
“Now?” The muscle in Gibbs’ jaw jumped. “Now we fix this.”
Anxiety still clouded his mind, sizzled along his nerves, but before Tony could put words to this new dread, demand an explanation, Gibbs spoke again.
“You’re going to have to trust me, Tony.”
The anger that had been briefly sidetracked into nostalgia threatened to return, churning Tony’s gut with acid. “Don’t fucking play me, Gibbs.” He meant it to be a snarl, a growl, but it came out more pleading than powerful.
“I am not playing you.” Each word was shot out with a sniper’s precision, designed to hit its target, as Gibbs lunged forward to take Tony’s wrist, squeezing just hard enough to keep him still. The blue eyes bored into him. “Will you let me finish?”
“Finish then,” Tony seethed, his breath tearing at his throat.
Gibbs leaned even closer. “I was going to say, ‘You’re going to have to trust me, Tony, but that’s not gonna happen until we get some things straight between us.’”
Tony wrenched his left hand from Gibbs’, throwing himself backwards in the chair, ignoring the sharp pain in his arm. He didn’t bother to meet the man’s glare – he knew he couldn’t win. There were only two choices here: hear Gibbs out, listen meekly while he laid out Tony’s new place in the bastard’s personal pecking order, or flip his badge onto the table and flip off his job at NCIS – at least with Gibbs’ team. No choice then – he’d already decided that this was his fight, his responsibility, his team.
He swallowed what was left of his pride, his dreams of rebuilding a friendship with the older man, his hopes for something more, and he raised clear eyes to Jethro Gibbs’, letting the numbness grow up around him so that nothing could touch him. Nothing showed on his face, less in his eyes – he knew the feel of this mask and it fit him perfectly. Tony held his shoulders back against the uncomfortable metal chair, cradled his now throbbing right arm in his left hand and cocked his head.
“I’m listening.”
Anger smoked behind the deadly glare – anger mixed with … something else. “Like hell you are,” Gibbs released a sigh.
He blinked. It didn’t sound like anger.
“You’re already so sure of what I’m going to say that you’re just sitting there, waiting to get it over with.” Gibbs turned and tossed his empty coffee cup into the trashcan before running one hand through his hair in frustration. “What the hell can I say to get through to you?” It sounded like Gibbs was talking to himself. After a moment he raised his head and Tony watched his throat move as he swallowed. The blue eyes were bright now. “Kate died, Tony. She died, right there in front of us. And you – you didn’t.”
Tony felt the mask slip.
End Pt 5