Box Out Pt 6/9
Sep. 20th, 2010 07:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: Box Out Pt 6/9
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 – Not a pleasant talk. Explanations and discoveries.
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
He felt the blood rise to his face, red, throbbing anger jerking all of his muscles to tautness. Tony’s hands fisted, knuckles white as Gibbs’ words slammed through him. He could barely see, the hot, wet splash of Kate’s blood blinding him. “You fucking-”
Gibbs’ hand slapped down onto the metal table, the sound ringing through the outdoor café like a shotgun blast. “Hey! Do not put words in my mouth, DiNozzo!” Matching Tony, glare for glare, he pressed forward, his chest tight against the table. “I have never wished it was you instead of Kate. Never,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “not on my worst day.”
Tony’s heart thudded back into place and he swept a dry tongue across his lips. He loosened his death grip on his injured arm and breathed again, looking away from the stabbing glare across the table, raking the thinning crowd with a glance. Heads had turned their way, murmurs rising, but he didn’t care, couldn’t seem to come up with the quick flash of smile or shrug of his shoulders that would ease their tension and leave him and Gibbs suspended within their cocoon of public privacy.
Turning back, he frowned down at the debris left from his breakfast with McGee, wondering that he couldn’t see the cracked shards of his faithful old mask lying there. The outburst had cleared some of the tension between them, siphoned off some of the anger, but it had left Tony flailing, all the guilt and loss he’d kept to himself, kept hidden beneath the surface, rushed up his throat until he could taste it. He couldn’t look up, wouldn’t let Gibbs’ see the honest pain written in his eyes.
A rustle of clothing and the screech of metal against the brick sidewalk announced that Gibbs was moving, shifting his chair closer. One finger tapped at the tabletop. “Look at me, DiNozzo.”
Tony closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Gibbs, just say what you came here to-” His words shuddered to a halt when he looked up and caught the tiny glints of guilt and shame that were soon overshadowed by Gibbs’ relentlessly stubborn determination.
“You listening now?”
((Blue lights and pain and the sensation of drowning, broken glass tearing at his lungs with every cough, but one touch on the head and a whispered phrase had hauled Tony’s awareness from his battered body and flipped his eyes open.))
“I’m – I’m listening, Boss.” No undertone of perfect submission, no pathetic eagerness to soothe and please even as he neared death. The words were the same, but Tony heard the difference – and if he could, so could Gibbs.
“Good.” Gibbs shifted uncomfortably. “Because, what I’m saying is that a woman – an agent – in my command was murdered because I had my head up my ass. And I’ll be damned if I lose anyone else because I still can’t see daylight.”
The frown threatened to gouge permanent furrows in Tony’s forehead. What? That wasn’t… “Gibbs.” Yeah, Gibbs should have seen Ziva’s manipulation, but Kate? He cleared his throat, searching for something, anything, to say. “You can’t seriously blame yourself.”
“Damn straight I can.” Gibbs sat back, shaking his head back and forth. “Ari knew who his target should be from the beginning, but his own twisted mind couldn’t give up its fixation on Kate. Why?”
Tony’s mind reeled. This – this was the last thing he’d expected to be discussing. How the hell had they come back, full circle, from trust in the team, in Gibbs, to Ari and Kate? To guilt and blame and blood on a Norfolk rooftop and that bastard’s bullet between her eyes? “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, DiNozzo, think.” Intense, demanding – Gibbs was relentless in his focus. “Why Kate?”
The same old theories flitted through Tony’s mind. “Because she’s a woman- she was a woman - because he knew you would react – you’d be distracted and hurt – more from a woman’s death. Especially a woman you held yourself responsible for.” All realized too late to save her; not all of the Monday morning quarterbacking, the second-guessing they’d done, could give Kate back her life.
Gibbs’ head tilted, compelling an explanation. “And how would he know that?”
“Gibbs, where the hell are you going with this?” Tony pushed forward in his chair, impatient, off balance. “We all know Ari did his homework – learned everything there was to know about you down to how you used Lapua, .308, boat-tailed and moly coated ammo.”
A ghost drifted across Gibbs’ face, aging the man by decades. The blue eyes, unfocused, turned to some inward hurt that Tony had never hoped to reach. “Yeah, Tony, he knew me, knew how I reacted when someone close to me came to harm, died,” he seemed to choke on a memory, “on my watch.”
Tony allowed him a moment and then shook his head, confused. “So?”
“So – Ari had files on me, on every member of my team, and he wanted me hurting, on edge, coming after him without thinking. Just like I’d done before,” he snapped. Teeth clenched, Gibbs lowered his head, his fingers curling around each other until his hands were fisted together in his lap. The fierce blue gaze suddenly lifted to strike Tony like a blow. “So, tell me, Tony, why the hell didn’t he go after you?”
Tony heard himself grunt, the air forced from his lungs as if a powerful hand had slapped him to the mat; he couldn’t focus, his eyes blinking quickly as images twisted and changed and snapped to perfect clarity within his mind. Holding Gibbs in the morgue after he’d been shot in the shoulder; the silver head leaning over him in the hospital, and then at home, getting him through the painful remnants of the plague. The blond jogger Ari had tried to lure him with, the bomb strapped to the trunk of the car, the bullet through the lab window. Kate’s wide, staring eyes, body lying so still under the blue spring sky.
Bitterness and guilt coated his tongue, causing his words to slur and smear together. “I know you may have forgotten, but I’m not a woman, Gibbs.”
“I got that, DiNozzo,” Gibbs spat out, humorless, “but if Ari’s first priority was to hurt me, why didn’t he target the guy I was sleeping with?”
Jaw tight, Tony turned his face away as he answered. “Maybe he was smarter than you think and had figured out it didn’t really mean all that much to you.” Dammit. The deliberately casual reply sounded wounded, petulant. He snapped his head back around, attacking first before Gibbs could call him on it. “What the hell does it matter, anyway? As you so cleverly explained, Kate’s dead and I’m not and Ziva’s sitting at her desk, screwing with the team. That’s the reality.”
Gibbs sat perfectly still, staring back calmly in the face of Tony’s spite. The morning breeze caught at his hair, at the collar of his coat, and the smell of exhaust and freshly baked bread spiced the air around them; the voices of passersby, the ringing of cell phones, heels clattering against the refurbished sidewalks in the trendy DC neighborhood as men and women hurried to work all added background music that made this strange, unlooked for discussion just that much more surreal. On a corner street of Georgetown sat two federal agents, lingering over coffee and talking about guilt and redemption, sex and death, endings and beginnings. Scorsese should direct.
“Or,” Gibbs’ expression was somber, his voice slow and level, “maybe he had figured out how much it meant, but made his choice based on something completely different.”
Tony dropped his head and rubbed both hands over his face, hard, ignoring the pain. Enough. He didn’t come here to wallow in his ridiculous, unfulfilled sex life, or to talk about his dead ex-partner. Gibbs could go to hell. He flattened his hand against the table and had half stood before that same damned hand latched around his wrist. Tony jerked his arm away, flinging it out to the side and leaning down from his full height towards the still too calm face of the older man. A cynical grin pulled at his mouth. “Okay, what? What the hell are we talking about?”
The only evidence of Gibbs’ own anger was the tightening at the corners of his mouth. “We’re talking about Ari’s agenda.”
“Ari’s agenda – Ari’s agenda?” Raw emotion overflowed and Tony’s thoughts spewed out without filter. “He was a whack-job, Boss, with daddy issues and mommy issues, who hated his heritage and couldn’t figure out if he was a Jewish patriot or a Muslim terrorist. He played the FBI, SecNav, and Mossad,” a near hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat, “hell, his entire family, and then – then – he fixated on you as, what, another father figure he wanted to punish?” His voice was too loud, gestures too big, but he couldn’t hold it back any longer, couldn’t put up a front, couldn’t find his calm, cool, and collected mask anywhere. He pushed the chair out of his way and rounded on Gibbs, still seated, still unmoved.
“Ducky’s gonna kill you if you pull out any more stitches, DiNozzo.”
“Yeah, well, apparently, Ducky can damn well get in line,” Tony spat, yanking at the sling beneath his coat.
Gibbs stood all in one motion and crowded Tony back against the table, one hand fisting in his jacket. “You need to hear me out,” he breathed, the warm air brushing against Tony’s cheek.
“No, you need to back off, Gibbs,” he growled.
The murmur of other voices grew around them until both reached and drew out their credentials, simultaneously, badges displayed to either side while their eyes remained locked in battle.
Finally, the older man took one step back and held both hands out to his sides, his eyebrows raised in mock surrender. “Where you gonna go, DiNozzo? I thought you were gonna fix this.”
His head ached, his arm ached, his gut coiled restlessly. “I am. I will,” he thrust his jaw forward. “It would have been better if you hadn’t come, Gibbs, if you’d just let me handle it. If Ducky had never said anything…”
Both hands came up to Tony’s shoulders, framing his neck, fingers gentle against his skin, holding him there without real restraint, without overpowering. “If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have remembered who it was that put together all of Ari’s information about me and about the team.”
“Ziva-” Tony blurted, without thought.
“Yeah, Tony, Ziva. Ari’s control officer,” Gibbs sighed tiredly. “His little sister, *half*-sister, born to his hated father’s legitimate Jewish wife. Eli David’s crowning joy,” he announced sardonically. He dropped his arms and moved back, his eyes asking the question. Tony tightened his lips and reached back for his seat. When they’d both settled, Gibbs quirked a half-smile. “You ever see a picture of Mossad Director Eli David?”
Tony shook his head.
Gibbs’ snorted. “Powerful guy. Tall. Silver-haired. About my age.” The same smile flashed again. “Doesn’t talk much.”
An Israeli Gibbs, Tony immediately thought. Images spun, memories racing. Eli and Gibbs, father figures. Kate and Ziva – the smart, trusted daughters. And, in a moment, he had it. The connection. The reason Ari had killed Kate, even knowing about Gibbs and Tony’s relationship. A painful hope flared in his chest. “You’re not here to tell me I’m wrong, are you, Boss? About Ziva?”
A disdainful grimace came and went on Gibbs’ face. “Hell, no, Tony. You’re not the one with his head up his ass, here, for once.” He leaned forward, eyes suddenly intent, communicating so much more than his words ever would. “I’m here to get it through your head that Ari, the crazy bastard, targeted Kate because of his own twisted need for revenge against a father who had rejected him. And if you tell Ducky that I’m spouting his psycho-babble I’ll shoot you,” he added quickly.
“And Ziva?”
The blue eyes narrowed. “Ziva is too smart to make the same mistake.”
Tony turned and stared, unseeing, down the busy street, the adrenaline that had kept him going, kept him moving and fighting and positioning himself so that he could block Ziva’s move, keep her from the inside, from scoring against his team, drained away and left him cold, shaking, exhausted. “So, even though we haven’t been together… haven’t … we haven’t …” He swallowed, chin lifting, mind straining for purchase against the thoughts flooding him.
“There’s a damn good reason for Rule 12.” Gibbs’ voice sounded raspy, deep, as if the words were pulled from him against his will.
Tony knew his smile was brittle. “So, when you were talking about trust, you meant,” he turned back, plunging his hand into the pocket of his coat and pressing his frigid fingers into a fist, “you meant with this - us.”
Nothing changed behind the blue eyes. There was no revelation of love, no weakness, no hint of desire. “There can’t be an us. Not like that.”
Huh. Yeah, no real surprise there.
But Gibbs wasn’t finished. His right hand moved across the table to lie, palm up, like a promise. “You’re my senior agent. And a damn good one.” A dark cloud of apology passed over his face. “And have my permission to ream me a new one if I ever forget it again.”
Tony nodded, once. “Got it, Boss.” He strangled a plea for something more – partnership, understanding, even friendship. Not offered. Not available. Work – duty – respect; nothing more. It was enough. He straightened his shoulders and fastened a mocking grin on his face. It had to be enough.
“So, now what?”
Gibbs stood. “Now, I’m gonna get me some coffee and you one of those girly drinks you like so much and we’ll wait for the rest of the team to show up.”
He leaned his head back and blinked up at his boss. His coach. His mentor. “And?”
Coat flapping, Gibbs strode off. “And we’ll straighten out Miss David, one way or another.”
Tony watched the commanding figure move unhesitatingly through the crowd of diners until he disappeared behind the café’s doors. He huffed out a breath, hunching forward and drawing his legs in to try to conserve what little warmth - what little energy - still flowed sluggishly through him. Drawing his hand from his pocket, he clenched and unclenched his fingers, finally rubbing his hands together and gazing up at the bright sun. “Count your blessings, DiNozzo,” he muttered. “It could have been worse.”
He grabbed his sunglasses from where they hung against his chest and slipped them on.
End Pt 6
Author:
marzipan77Category: Pre-slash/Post-slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: Mature – more angst than action, bad words.
Summary: Tag for Boxed In – Not a pleasant talk. Explanations and discoveries.
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
He felt the blood rise to his face, red, throbbing anger jerking all of his muscles to tautness. Tony’s hands fisted, knuckles white as Gibbs’ words slammed through him. He could barely see, the hot, wet splash of Kate’s blood blinding him. “You fucking-”
Gibbs’ hand slapped down onto the metal table, the sound ringing through the outdoor café like a shotgun blast. “Hey! Do not put words in my mouth, DiNozzo!” Matching Tony, glare for glare, he pressed forward, his chest tight against the table. “I have never wished it was you instead of Kate. Never,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “not on my worst day.”
Tony’s heart thudded back into place and he swept a dry tongue across his lips. He loosened his death grip on his injured arm and breathed again, looking away from the stabbing glare across the table, raking the thinning crowd with a glance. Heads had turned their way, murmurs rising, but he didn’t care, couldn’t seem to come up with the quick flash of smile or shrug of his shoulders that would ease their tension and leave him and Gibbs suspended within their cocoon of public privacy.
Turning back, he frowned down at the debris left from his breakfast with McGee, wondering that he couldn’t see the cracked shards of his faithful old mask lying there. The outburst had cleared some of the tension between them, siphoned off some of the anger, but it had left Tony flailing, all the guilt and loss he’d kept to himself, kept hidden beneath the surface, rushed up his throat until he could taste it. He couldn’t look up, wouldn’t let Gibbs’ see the honest pain written in his eyes.
A rustle of clothing and the screech of metal against the brick sidewalk announced that Gibbs was moving, shifting his chair closer. One finger tapped at the tabletop. “Look at me, DiNozzo.”
Tony closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Gibbs, just say what you came here to-” His words shuddered to a halt when he looked up and caught the tiny glints of guilt and shame that were soon overshadowed by Gibbs’ relentlessly stubborn determination.
“You listening now?”
((Blue lights and pain and the sensation of drowning, broken glass tearing at his lungs with every cough, but one touch on the head and a whispered phrase had hauled Tony’s awareness from his battered body and flipped his eyes open.))
“I’m – I’m listening, Boss.” No undertone of perfect submission, no pathetic eagerness to soothe and please even as he neared death. The words were the same, but Tony heard the difference – and if he could, so could Gibbs.
“Good.” Gibbs shifted uncomfortably. “Because, what I’m saying is that a woman – an agent – in my command was murdered because I had my head up my ass. And I’ll be damned if I lose anyone else because I still can’t see daylight.”
The frown threatened to gouge permanent furrows in Tony’s forehead. What? That wasn’t… “Gibbs.” Yeah, Gibbs should have seen Ziva’s manipulation, but Kate? He cleared his throat, searching for something, anything, to say. “You can’t seriously blame yourself.”
“Damn straight I can.” Gibbs sat back, shaking his head back and forth. “Ari knew who his target should be from the beginning, but his own twisted mind couldn’t give up its fixation on Kate. Why?”
Tony’s mind reeled. This – this was the last thing he’d expected to be discussing. How the hell had they come back, full circle, from trust in the team, in Gibbs, to Ari and Kate? To guilt and blame and blood on a Norfolk rooftop and that bastard’s bullet between her eyes? “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, DiNozzo, think.” Intense, demanding – Gibbs was relentless in his focus. “Why Kate?”
The same old theories flitted through Tony’s mind. “Because she’s a woman- she was a woman - because he knew you would react – you’d be distracted and hurt – more from a woman’s death. Especially a woman you held yourself responsible for.” All realized too late to save her; not all of the Monday morning quarterbacking, the second-guessing they’d done, could give Kate back her life.
Gibbs’ head tilted, compelling an explanation. “And how would he know that?”
“Gibbs, where the hell are you going with this?” Tony pushed forward in his chair, impatient, off balance. “We all know Ari did his homework – learned everything there was to know about you down to how you used Lapua, .308, boat-tailed and moly coated ammo.”
A ghost drifted across Gibbs’ face, aging the man by decades. The blue eyes, unfocused, turned to some inward hurt that Tony had never hoped to reach. “Yeah, Tony, he knew me, knew how I reacted when someone close to me came to harm, died,” he seemed to choke on a memory, “on my watch.”
Tony allowed him a moment and then shook his head, confused. “So?”
“So – Ari had files on me, on every member of my team, and he wanted me hurting, on edge, coming after him without thinking. Just like I’d done before,” he snapped. Teeth clenched, Gibbs lowered his head, his fingers curling around each other until his hands were fisted together in his lap. The fierce blue gaze suddenly lifted to strike Tony like a blow. “So, tell me, Tony, why the hell didn’t he go after you?”
Tony heard himself grunt, the air forced from his lungs as if a powerful hand had slapped him to the mat; he couldn’t focus, his eyes blinking quickly as images twisted and changed and snapped to perfect clarity within his mind. Holding Gibbs in the morgue after he’d been shot in the shoulder; the silver head leaning over him in the hospital, and then at home, getting him through the painful remnants of the plague. The blond jogger Ari had tried to lure him with, the bomb strapped to the trunk of the car, the bullet through the lab window. Kate’s wide, staring eyes, body lying so still under the blue spring sky.
Bitterness and guilt coated his tongue, causing his words to slur and smear together. “I know you may have forgotten, but I’m not a woman, Gibbs.”
“I got that, DiNozzo,” Gibbs spat out, humorless, “but if Ari’s first priority was to hurt me, why didn’t he target the guy I was sleeping with?”
Jaw tight, Tony turned his face away as he answered. “Maybe he was smarter than you think and had figured out it didn’t really mean all that much to you.” Dammit. The deliberately casual reply sounded wounded, petulant. He snapped his head back around, attacking first before Gibbs could call him on it. “What the hell does it matter, anyway? As you so cleverly explained, Kate’s dead and I’m not and Ziva’s sitting at her desk, screwing with the team. That’s the reality.”
Gibbs sat perfectly still, staring back calmly in the face of Tony’s spite. The morning breeze caught at his hair, at the collar of his coat, and the smell of exhaust and freshly baked bread spiced the air around them; the voices of passersby, the ringing of cell phones, heels clattering against the refurbished sidewalks in the trendy DC neighborhood as men and women hurried to work all added background music that made this strange, unlooked for discussion just that much more surreal. On a corner street of Georgetown sat two federal agents, lingering over coffee and talking about guilt and redemption, sex and death, endings and beginnings. Scorsese should direct.
“Or,” Gibbs’ expression was somber, his voice slow and level, “maybe he had figured out how much it meant, but made his choice based on something completely different.”
Tony dropped his head and rubbed both hands over his face, hard, ignoring the pain. Enough. He didn’t come here to wallow in his ridiculous, unfulfilled sex life, or to talk about his dead ex-partner. Gibbs could go to hell. He flattened his hand against the table and had half stood before that same damned hand latched around his wrist. Tony jerked his arm away, flinging it out to the side and leaning down from his full height towards the still too calm face of the older man. A cynical grin pulled at his mouth. “Okay, what? What the hell are we talking about?”
The only evidence of Gibbs’ own anger was the tightening at the corners of his mouth. “We’re talking about Ari’s agenda.”
“Ari’s agenda – Ari’s agenda?” Raw emotion overflowed and Tony’s thoughts spewed out without filter. “He was a whack-job, Boss, with daddy issues and mommy issues, who hated his heritage and couldn’t figure out if he was a Jewish patriot or a Muslim terrorist. He played the FBI, SecNav, and Mossad,” a near hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat, “hell, his entire family, and then – then – he fixated on you as, what, another father figure he wanted to punish?” His voice was too loud, gestures too big, but he couldn’t hold it back any longer, couldn’t put up a front, couldn’t find his calm, cool, and collected mask anywhere. He pushed the chair out of his way and rounded on Gibbs, still seated, still unmoved.
“Ducky’s gonna kill you if you pull out any more stitches, DiNozzo.”
“Yeah, well, apparently, Ducky can damn well get in line,” Tony spat, yanking at the sling beneath his coat.
Gibbs stood all in one motion and crowded Tony back against the table, one hand fisting in his jacket. “You need to hear me out,” he breathed, the warm air brushing against Tony’s cheek.
“No, you need to back off, Gibbs,” he growled.
The murmur of other voices grew around them until both reached and drew out their credentials, simultaneously, badges displayed to either side while their eyes remained locked in battle.
Finally, the older man took one step back and held both hands out to his sides, his eyebrows raised in mock surrender. “Where you gonna go, DiNozzo? I thought you were gonna fix this.”
His head ached, his arm ached, his gut coiled restlessly. “I am. I will,” he thrust his jaw forward. “It would have been better if you hadn’t come, Gibbs, if you’d just let me handle it. If Ducky had never said anything…”
Both hands came up to Tony’s shoulders, framing his neck, fingers gentle against his skin, holding him there without real restraint, without overpowering. “If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have remembered who it was that put together all of Ari’s information about me and about the team.”
“Ziva-” Tony blurted, without thought.
“Yeah, Tony, Ziva. Ari’s control officer,” Gibbs sighed tiredly. “His little sister, *half*-sister, born to his hated father’s legitimate Jewish wife. Eli David’s crowning joy,” he announced sardonically. He dropped his arms and moved back, his eyes asking the question. Tony tightened his lips and reached back for his seat. When they’d both settled, Gibbs quirked a half-smile. “You ever see a picture of Mossad Director Eli David?”
Tony shook his head.
Gibbs’ snorted. “Powerful guy. Tall. Silver-haired. About my age.” The same smile flashed again. “Doesn’t talk much.”
An Israeli Gibbs, Tony immediately thought. Images spun, memories racing. Eli and Gibbs, father figures. Kate and Ziva – the smart, trusted daughters. And, in a moment, he had it. The connection. The reason Ari had killed Kate, even knowing about Gibbs and Tony’s relationship. A painful hope flared in his chest. “You’re not here to tell me I’m wrong, are you, Boss? About Ziva?”
A disdainful grimace came and went on Gibbs’ face. “Hell, no, Tony. You’re not the one with his head up his ass, here, for once.” He leaned forward, eyes suddenly intent, communicating so much more than his words ever would. “I’m here to get it through your head that Ari, the crazy bastard, targeted Kate because of his own twisted need for revenge against a father who had rejected him. And if you tell Ducky that I’m spouting his psycho-babble I’ll shoot you,” he added quickly.
“And Ziva?”
The blue eyes narrowed. “Ziva is too smart to make the same mistake.”
Tony turned and stared, unseeing, down the busy street, the adrenaline that had kept him going, kept him moving and fighting and positioning himself so that he could block Ziva’s move, keep her from the inside, from scoring against his team, drained away and left him cold, shaking, exhausted. “So, even though we haven’t been together… haven’t … we haven’t …” He swallowed, chin lifting, mind straining for purchase against the thoughts flooding him.
“There’s a damn good reason for Rule 12.” Gibbs’ voice sounded raspy, deep, as if the words were pulled from him against his will.
Tony knew his smile was brittle. “So, when you were talking about trust, you meant,” he turned back, plunging his hand into the pocket of his coat and pressing his frigid fingers into a fist, “you meant with this - us.”
Nothing changed behind the blue eyes. There was no revelation of love, no weakness, no hint of desire. “There can’t be an us. Not like that.”
Huh. Yeah, no real surprise there.
But Gibbs wasn’t finished. His right hand moved across the table to lie, palm up, like a promise. “You’re my senior agent. And a damn good one.” A dark cloud of apology passed over his face. “And have my permission to ream me a new one if I ever forget it again.”
Tony nodded, once. “Got it, Boss.” He strangled a plea for something more – partnership, understanding, even friendship. Not offered. Not available. Work – duty – respect; nothing more. It was enough. He straightened his shoulders and fastened a mocking grin on his face. It had to be enough.
“So, now what?”
Gibbs stood. “Now, I’m gonna get me some coffee and you one of those girly drinks you like so much and we’ll wait for the rest of the team to show up.”
He leaned his head back and blinked up at his boss. His coach. His mentor. “And?”
Coat flapping, Gibbs strode off. “And we’ll straighten out Miss David, one way or another.”
Tony watched the commanding figure move unhesitatingly through the crowd of diners until he disappeared behind the café’s doors. He huffed out a breath, hunching forward and drawing his legs in to try to conserve what little warmth - what little energy - still flowed sluggishly through him. Drawing his hand from his pocket, he clenched and unclenched his fingers, finally rubbing his hands together and gazing up at the bright sun. “Count your blessings, DiNozzo,” he muttered. “It could have been worse.”
He grabbed his sunglasses from where they hung against his chest and slipped them on.
End Pt 6
