marzipan77 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marzipan77) wrote2010-10-11 02:02 pm
marzipan77) wrote2010-10-11 02:02 pm
Box Out Pt 7/9
Title: Box Out Pt 7/9
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 – Defense or offense?
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Oy, Tony was not cooperating with this one.
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
Eyes closed behind his shades, Tony let his head fall back against the sun-warmed metal of the café chair, and, muscle by muscle, forced his clutching fingers to relax where they’d dug deeply into the skin just above his right elbow. The sounds of traffic and chattering patrons hummed across him, enveloping him in their movement, their drive and energy, but somehow leaving him untouched. He felt a twitch in his lips and wondered what he’d see if he opened his eyes - if the scene would reveal one single, motionless man, aching and unaware, within a slipstream of fast-forward images, like a car in one of those wind tunnel commercials, where stripes of cold air slid along its contours without ever actually brushing against its metal skin. If he opened his eyes, if he moved just an inch to the right or left, or stood, unexpectedly, could he disrupt the perfect pattern around him, could he make a dent in the stream, a bump in the smooth road of progress? Is that what he’d been trying to do when he looked at his reflection this morning and decided to take a stand?
((“You’re my senior agent. And a damn good one.”))
Gibbs hand had lain across the table as if beckoning him, as if waiting for Tony to reach out and grasp it. It had been an invitation to return to his place as trusted sidekick, to stand just behind Gibbs’ right shoulder, tall and unbending, safe in his shadow but still alert for any threat that Gibbs might not see. Teammate. He should have been happy. Gibbs had seen the truth of Tony’s warnings about Ziva, about her manipulations and schemes, and he was willing to act. To defend the team, to put back the faith and confidence in his second that had evaporated away. And yet, here Tony sat, alone, trying to pull the sunshine in through his skin to reach the cold, numb places inside.
He twisted his shoulders against the cruel iron behind him. Maybe it was because it took Ducky’s word to get through Gibbs’ own iron stubbornness; Ducky’s, not his. Maybe it was because it had taken a real, physical threat, the sight of an open wound oozing blood on Tony’s skin to open the man’s eyes. He knew about taking one for the team, he knew about sacrifice and putting yourself in the line of fire for your family. But the tough-jock-punching-bag role was getting old and so was he, and he didn’t know how many more holes they could put in him before everything he was leaked out.
Tony snorted and shook his head. “No, even you can’t fool yourself that easily,” he quipped, a thin smile creeping across his face. He’d take a bullet for Gibbs any day. For Timmy or Abby or Ducky – or even Ziva. He’d throw himself in front of danger without a second thought – the kind of danger that came from the barrel of an enemy’s gun or from the sly machinations of a Mossad spy. He rubbed at his forehead to try to push away the growing ache there. The problem was Tony didn’t want to do it alone anymore. And that’s where Gibbs’ bald-faced, matter-of-fact quoting of Rule Twelve had left him.
The smile died. If he was honest, if he put away the resentment and anger and righteous fury that Ziva’s plans and Gibbs’ blindness had sprouted within him, if he tore away his own iron blinders and really looked he’d see it was one little phrase that had slammed him in the gut, that left him boneless and tired in the beautiful sunny morning, that stole all the smugness that should accompany Gibbs’ admission of guilt. Just one.
((“There can’t be an us; not like that.”))
All the denial in the world couldn’t cover it, couldn’t rationalize his reaction to those words, and couldn’t explain away the emptiness with glib reassurances that Gibbs’ second was all he ever wanted to be.
Some nagging clue, a taste of wrongness, a change in air or sound flipped open his eyes and Tony straightened, gaze searching for an answer. The tables were emptier, the streets no longer clogged with cars jockeying for position, a teen-aged girl in a black apron was running a wet rag over tables and chairs and collecting lipstick smeared cardboard cups and the last bite of crumb cake left on a tattered napkin. He growled at himself. How long had he been sitting here, all morose and pouty over his long-lost boyfriend? And just how long did it take one surly, focused ex-Marine to fetch two cups of coffee?
Gibbs should have been back long before Tim showed up, long before Tony was required to face the accusing gaze of the dark eyed spy and the bright energy of hurricane Abby. After all, the trip from Georgetown to Anacostia and back during rush hour, even if it was only a few miles, could take upwards of thirty minutes, and Gibbs only had to walk thirty feet. But the suddenly sparse crowd and the familiar engine noise of a certain NCIS sedan told Tony that it had been more than a few minutes.
Tony’s mind shifted into third gear. Gibbs’ rules. Senior Field Agent. Damn it, he seethed. He wouldn’t look around, wouldn’t give in to the raised hairs on the back of his neck, the sure and certain knowledge that he was being watched. His teeth clenched, the headache pounding red blurs behind his eyes. Great.
The man had a rule for every occasion, all neatly numbered and chiseled into the granite of Gibbs’ Marine heart. Rule Nine – always carry a knife; Rule Seven – always be specific when you lie; Rule Twenty-three – never mess with a Marine’s coffee if you want to live; Rule Twelve … yeah, he knew that one, no need to dwell. Tony drew in a deep breath. Now would this situation fall under Rule Thirty-eight – your case, your lead, or Rule Forty-five – clean up your own mess? Probably somewhere in between, Tony groaned, as this mess had not been Tony’s fault in the first place. “You wanted to be senior agent, Anthony,” he reminded himself.
If the rules were in play that meant Tony was on his own, dangling out here on the end of Gibbs’ hook so he could bait the team, flop and flash his fins until they were ready for Gibbs to reel them in. It was annoying, maddening, and so damned familiar that Tony nearly laughed out loud.
He heard Abby coming long before anyone else. It was more than the loud clomping of her platform boots on the sidewalk, more even than her distinctive, gravelly voice that could cut through any others around her – he could sense her in the immediate lifting of his spirit and then the wrench in his gut when he realized what was coming, and why Gibbs, the bastard, had made himself scarce. He stood quickly, bracing himself physically for Abby’s usual greeting, and mentally digging in his heels for purchase against the shit that was, without a doubt, about to hit the fan.
“Tony!”
The long, thin arms twined around his neck and Tony drew her in, left hand coming up to hold her close for a second, to revel in her friendship and easy acceptance. She backed off quickly, hands raised and fingers splayed in her black lace gloves as if encompassing the entire scene. “A field trip! We hardly ever get to take field trips, well, at least when there’s not a dead body – there’s not a dead body, is there?”
Tony took in the full length black cloak, its hood draped over her head to block out the sun, and glimpsed the leather and chain collar and the embroidered white shirt that peeked out from between the folds. He grinned, shaking his head, “What, no parasol today, milady?”
Abby sighed. “No,” she moaned, “Timmy made me leave it in the car.”
“You always hit me in the head with that thing whenever we go anywhere,” McGee complained shrilly.
“That just means you’re walking too close,” she shot back, settling into the chair across from Tony, making sure the sun was at her back.
He raised his gaze from her twinkling eyes to take in the other figures. The strain was evident on McGee’s face, in his haste to fill in the small empty silences with the familiar give and take with Abby, in the way he moved hurriedly to slide into the chair between Abby and Tony before Ziva could get too close. The younger agent flicked frequent glances towards the Mossad officer, brows drawn, mouth tight, the look on his face making it clear that he was trying to piece together everything that Tony had said and everything that Ziva had done since her unexpected arrival months ago. And Ziva…
Ziva hadn’t missed a thing. Eyebrows lifted just a hair as if asking a question, she stood, calm and serene, but outside the group, unwilling to take part in whatever was going on until she had some answers. Tony eased himself back down, hating the way the flat, metal chair bit into his thighs, his back. This wasn’t the venue he’d have chosen for this – it was neutral ground. He would have arranged to be in a position of strength, dressed in one of his favorite suits, well-pressed, well-rested, comfortable. Not off-balance, a new abandonment tearing at his soul as the wound in his arm reminded him of his every vulnerability. He needed… he needed - Tony tried to bite back the hated thought – he needed Gibbs.
Slim fingers grasped the heavy chair to Tony’s right, tugging until it sat at an angle, too close to Tony for comfort, where Ziva could easily keep one eye on the street and the other on the faces around her. She settled there, on the surface the very picture of a woman who knew exactly what to expect, and whose intricate planning – she was sure - left only one path through the maze for this particular rat. Tony slouched back, left hand behind his neck, refusing to broadcast the frustration and anger that filled him, scrutinizing her behind his shades. Fine lines around her mouth. Hands carefully flat against the table. He felt his brows twitch. Perhaps Ziva wasn’t as perfectly composed as he’d first thought.
Even though the curve of Ziva’s lips spoke more of disdain than humor, the shadows behind her eyes revealed more, he suddenly realized, than she wanted. Doubt. Anger. Maybe even a hint of fear.
“Ziva.”
“Tony.” Her smile looked tenuous. “So, we are playing hockey, yes?”
Tony dredged up the automatic correction, the answering grin, the hint of condescension that she’d be expecting. “Hookey, not hockey, Zeeva,” he shot back, “but I don’t think it’s the same when it’s your boss’s idea.”
The gaze she swept around the emptying tables was pointed, obvious. “So, where is Gibbs?” Small, sharp eyes pierced him, challenging. “Or was his invitation some sort of ruse so that you could pull one of your childish pranks?” She clucked under her breath. “Gibbs would not like that. Perhaps you should be more careful, Tony.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” he admitted loudly, teeth flashing in the sun. That was the understatement of the century. More careful with his life, with his heart, with the trust he still placed too easily in others. Tony heard the echoes of his coach, his father – “Defend, Defend, Defend.” He frowned and cocked his head, watching her – watching her poke at him, stab at him with her words and wiles. The flash of victory in her eyes, the dark joy of a predator that watched its prey panic and turn into that blind alley. Tony blinked and sat up, gaze riveted to Ziva’s as he slowly slid the sunglasses down his nose. Well, I’ll be damned.
He’d been on defense since Ziva made her first move to the inside. He’d backed off and tried to shelter behind Ducky and McGee, and now Gibbs. He’d closed himself off, wandered back down the paths of his past and stuck to hard earned habits of a lifetime. And he’d let Ziva, let her offense, rule the court. He almost turned around, almost looked to those narrow blue eyes that were surely watching, almost gave in to his urge to yell, to demand to know if this was what Gibbs had been waiting for. For Tony to stop backing down, stop leaving himself open for the blows in the first place. Someone had once said, “Offense wins games but defense wins championships.” Well, whoever it was, Tony realized, he’d forgotten one thing. If you didn’t win the games, your team never got to the championships in the first place.
Abby’s gaze had been darting back and forth between them, her mouth open and her thin black brows knotting fretfully. Tony knew she’d felt the tension, watched the interplay of words underscored with snark and surliness and he saw the sudden wariness smother her usual frantic good humor. “Yeah, where is Bossman, Tony?” A little breathless, a lot worried. “And how come you’re still wearing that stupid sling?”
“Well, now, that’s a very good question, Abby.” The tightness of his smile hurt, but Tony couldn’t let it drop, he wouldn’t. No damn way he was going to give Ziva another opportunity to make a play. Gibbs was giving him the signal to take the lead, to step out, to poke the hornets’ nest and draw the foul. He leaned forward, letting his broad shoulders and physical presence dominate, intimidate. “Why am I still wearing this sling, Ziva? A little scratch from a wooden box sure doesn’t rate this kind of treatment, now does it?”
Ziva put one finger on her chin as if she was deep in thought but Tony noticed the fleeting glance towards McGee as if assessing a teammate’s position. “To garner sympathy from a cute waitress?” She blinked coyly. “I am sure the wounded hero routine can be quite successful.”
“Hey!”
Tony patted McGee lightly on one arm at his outburst to show his gratitude, his eyes never leaving hers. Yep, that’s right, he’s my teammate – he let her read it in his face. “No, that’s okay, Timmy. Ziva’s right – girls do lap up the injured warrior act.” He looked off into the distance momentarily. “Many a coed fell before Anthony DiNozzo’s portrayal of ‘The Brave Little Soldier’ back in college. Ah, those were the days.” He let the full force of his gaze settle back on the Mossad agent. “But not this time.”
“Does it really matter?” Ziva huffed, determined to make her point, “the real question is, where is Gibbs?”
Tony slid into the opening she’d left him. “No, the real question, Officer David, is why you lied in the first place, and why you are so determined to hang onto that lie with your sharp, pointy fingernails,” he screeched, curving his hands into claws.
“Don’t be a fool, Tony- or at least not as big a fool as you usually are.”
“Ooo, nice come back,” Tony slapped the words back at her, leaning further into her space, “but I’ll ask you again. Why am I wearing this sling?”
“Tony, what…” Abby’s question trailed away.
Tony felt McGee shift restlessly beside him.
Ziva’s body went completely still.
He smacked his hand flat onto the metal table just as Gibbs had done not so long ago, the sound and fury scattering pigeons and making Abby and Tim lurch back in their seats. “Answer the question!” he shouted.
Suddenly, it was as if they were the only two at the table. Ziva’s eyes narrowed dangerously, all semblance of play or camaraderie erased. “Because you are a weak, fragile pretty-boy who is still tiredly clinging to the dream that you are good enough to be on Gibbs’ team,” she hissed, inches from his face. “Because you were stupid enough to lock us in a metal box and then too fat and lazy to get out of the way of a bullet.” She pointed one finger at him as if she’d stab him with it, “and because, for reason of some past ‘favors,’” she hooked her fingers into quotes and laced her rising voice with scorn and contempt, “Gibbs’ hasn’t yet transferred you to a desk job where your constant need for attention won’t get you or someone else killed.”
Tony closed his eyes, a real smile on his lips, and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. “Thanks, Ziva,” he breathed, “that sounds a lot like the truth. For once.”
He knew Abby was on her feet, flying to attack, and felt the buffeting of the air as McGee fought to control her. The snarled words, insults, and shouts rained down on him, the slap of skin loud in the morning air, the turbulence increasing as Abby and Tim strove to defend him in the face of Ziva’s mounting attacks, but it was the warm presence at his back that Tony focused on, ignoring all else.
The aroma of dark roast coffee and sweet hazelnuts made him open his hand and close it again around the cardboard cup. A firm grip on his shoulder grounded him, but it was the murmured, “Good job,” against his ear that touched him.
“Thanks, Boss,” he murmured, eyes still closed. He’d have to open them soon enough.
End Pt 7
Author:
marzipan77Category: Pre-slash/Post-slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: Mature – more angst than action, bad words.
Summary: Tag for Boxed In – Defense or offense?
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Oy, Tony was not cooperating with this one.
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
Eyes closed behind his shades, Tony let his head fall back against the sun-warmed metal of the café chair, and, muscle by muscle, forced his clutching fingers to relax where they’d dug deeply into the skin just above his right elbow. The sounds of traffic and chattering patrons hummed across him, enveloping him in their movement, their drive and energy, but somehow leaving him untouched. He felt a twitch in his lips and wondered what he’d see if he opened his eyes - if the scene would reveal one single, motionless man, aching and unaware, within a slipstream of fast-forward images, like a car in one of those wind tunnel commercials, where stripes of cold air slid along its contours without ever actually brushing against its metal skin. If he opened his eyes, if he moved just an inch to the right or left, or stood, unexpectedly, could he disrupt the perfect pattern around him, could he make a dent in the stream, a bump in the smooth road of progress? Is that what he’d been trying to do when he looked at his reflection this morning and decided to take a stand?
((“You’re my senior agent. And a damn good one.”))
Gibbs hand had lain across the table as if beckoning him, as if waiting for Tony to reach out and grasp it. It had been an invitation to return to his place as trusted sidekick, to stand just behind Gibbs’ right shoulder, tall and unbending, safe in his shadow but still alert for any threat that Gibbs might not see. Teammate. He should have been happy. Gibbs had seen the truth of Tony’s warnings about Ziva, about her manipulations and schemes, and he was willing to act. To defend the team, to put back the faith and confidence in his second that had evaporated away. And yet, here Tony sat, alone, trying to pull the sunshine in through his skin to reach the cold, numb places inside.
He twisted his shoulders against the cruel iron behind him. Maybe it was because it took Ducky’s word to get through Gibbs’ own iron stubbornness; Ducky’s, not his. Maybe it was because it had taken a real, physical threat, the sight of an open wound oozing blood on Tony’s skin to open the man’s eyes. He knew about taking one for the team, he knew about sacrifice and putting yourself in the line of fire for your family. But the tough-jock-punching-bag role was getting old and so was he, and he didn’t know how many more holes they could put in him before everything he was leaked out.
Tony snorted and shook his head. “No, even you can’t fool yourself that easily,” he quipped, a thin smile creeping across his face. He’d take a bullet for Gibbs any day. For Timmy or Abby or Ducky – or even Ziva. He’d throw himself in front of danger without a second thought – the kind of danger that came from the barrel of an enemy’s gun or from the sly machinations of a Mossad spy. He rubbed at his forehead to try to push away the growing ache there. The problem was Tony didn’t want to do it alone anymore. And that’s where Gibbs’ bald-faced, matter-of-fact quoting of Rule Twelve had left him.
The smile died. If he was honest, if he put away the resentment and anger and righteous fury that Ziva’s plans and Gibbs’ blindness had sprouted within him, if he tore away his own iron blinders and really looked he’d see it was one little phrase that had slammed him in the gut, that left him boneless and tired in the beautiful sunny morning, that stole all the smugness that should accompany Gibbs’ admission of guilt. Just one.
((“There can’t be an us; not like that.”))
All the denial in the world couldn’t cover it, couldn’t rationalize his reaction to those words, and couldn’t explain away the emptiness with glib reassurances that Gibbs’ second was all he ever wanted to be.
Some nagging clue, a taste of wrongness, a change in air or sound flipped open his eyes and Tony straightened, gaze searching for an answer. The tables were emptier, the streets no longer clogged with cars jockeying for position, a teen-aged girl in a black apron was running a wet rag over tables and chairs and collecting lipstick smeared cardboard cups and the last bite of crumb cake left on a tattered napkin. He growled at himself. How long had he been sitting here, all morose and pouty over his long-lost boyfriend? And just how long did it take one surly, focused ex-Marine to fetch two cups of coffee?
Gibbs should have been back long before Tim showed up, long before Tony was required to face the accusing gaze of the dark eyed spy and the bright energy of hurricane Abby. After all, the trip from Georgetown to Anacostia and back during rush hour, even if it was only a few miles, could take upwards of thirty minutes, and Gibbs only had to walk thirty feet. But the suddenly sparse crowd and the familiar engine noise of a certain NCIS sedan told Tony that it had been more than a few minutes.
Tony’s mind shifted into third gear. Gibbs’ rules. Senior Field Agent. Damn it, he seethed. He wouldn’t look around, wouldn’t give in to the raised hairs on the back of his neck, the sure and certain knowledge that he was being watched. His teeth clenched, the headache pounding red blurs behind his eyes. Great.
The man had a rule for every occasion, all neatly numbered and chiseled into the granite of Gibbs’ Marine heart. Rule Nine – always carry a knife; Rule Seven – always be specific when you lie; Rule Twenty-three – never mess with a Marine’s coffee if you want to live; Rule Twelve … yeah, he knew that one, no need to dwell. Tony drew in a deep breath. Now would this situation fall under Rule Thirty-eight – your case, your lead, or Rule Forty-five – clean up your own mess? Probably somewhere in between, Tony groaned, as this mess had not been Tony’s fault in the first place. “You wanted to be senior agent, Anthony,” he reminded himself.
If the rules were in play that meant Tony was on his own, dangling out here on the end of Gibbs’ hook so he could bait the team, flop and flash his fins until they were ready for Gibbs to reel them in. It was annoying, maddening, and so damned familiar that Tony nearly laughed out loud.
He heard Abby coming long before anyone else. It was more than the loud clomping of her platform boots on the sidewalk, more even than her distinctive, gravelly voice that could cut through any others around her – he could sense her in the immediate lifting of his spirit and then the wrench in his gut when he realized what was coming, and why Gibbs, the bastard, had made himself scarce. He stood quickly, bracing himself physically for Abby’s usual greeting, and mentally digging in his heels for purchase against the shit that was, without a doubt, about to hit the fan.
“Tony!”
The long, thin arms twined around his neck and Tony drew her in, left hand coming up to hold her close for a second, to revel in her friendship and easy acceptance. She backed off quickly, hands raised and fingers splayed in her black lace gloves as if encompassing the entire scene. “A field trip! We hardly ever get to take field trips, well, at least when there’s not a dead body – there’s not a dead body, is there?”
Tony took in the full length black cloak, its hood draped over her head to block out the sun, and glimpsed the leather and chain collar and the embroidered white shirt that peeked out from between the folds. He grinned, shaking his head, “What, no parasol today, milady?”
Abby sighed. “No,” she moaned, “Timmy made me leave it in the car.”
“You always hit me in the head with that thing whenever we go anywhere,” McGee complained shrilly.
“That just means you’re walking too close,” she shot back, settling into the chair across from Tony, making sure the sun was at her back.
He raised his gaze from her twinkling eyes to take in the other figures. The strain was evident on McGee’s face, in his haste to fill in the small empty silences with the familiar give and take with Abby, in the way he moved hurriedly to slide into the chair between Abby and Tony before Ziva could get too close. The younger agent flicked frequent glances towards the Mossad officer, brows drawn, mouth tight, the look on his face making it clear that he was trying to piece together everything that Tony had said and everything that Ziva had done since her unexpected arrival months ago. And Ziva…
Ziva hadn’t missed a thing. Eyebrows lifted just a hair as if asking a question, she stood, calm and serene, but outside the group, unwilling to take part in whatever was going on until she had some answers. Tony eased himself back down, hating the way the flat, metal chair bit into his thighs, his back. This wasn’t the venue he’d have chosen for this – it was neutral ground. He would have arranged to be in a position of strength, dressed in one of his favorite suits, well-pressed, well-rested, comfortable. Not off-balance, a new abandonment tearing at his soul as the wound in his arm reminded him of his every vulnerability. He needed… he needed - Tony tried to bite back the hated thought – he needed Gibbs.
Slim fingers grasped the heavy chair to Tony’s right, tugging until it sat at an angle, too close to Tony for comfort, where Ziva could easily keep one eye on the street and the other on the faces around her. She settled there, on the surface the very picture of a woman who knew exactly what to expect, and whose intricate planning – she was sure - left only one path through the maze for this particular rat. Tony slouched back, left hand behind his neck, refusing to broadcast the frustration and anger that filled him, scrutinizing her behind his shades. Fine lines around her mouth. Hands carefully flat against the table. He felt his brows twitch. Perhaps Ziva wasn’t as perfectly composed as he’d first thought.
Even though the curve of Ziva’s lips spoke more of disdain than humor, the shadows behind her eyes revealed more, he suddenly realized, than she wanted. Doubt. Anger. Maybe even a hint of fear.
“Ziva.”
“Tony.” Her smile looked tenuous. “So, we are playing hockey, yes?”
Tony dredged up the automatic correction, the answering grin, the hint of condescension that she’d be expecting. “Hookey, not hockey, Zeeva,” he shot back, “but I don’t think it’s the same when it’s your boss’s idea.”
The gaze she swept around the emptying tables was pointed, obvious. “So, where is Gibbs?” Small, sharp eyes pierced him, challenging. “Or was his invitation some sort of ruse so that you could pull one of your childish pranks?” She clucked under her breath. “Gibbs would not like that. Perhaps you should be more careful, Tony.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” he admitted loudly, teeth flashing in the sun. That was the understatement of the century. More careful with his life, with his heart, with the trust he still placed too easily in others. Tony heard the echoes of his coach, his father – “Defend, Defend, Defend.” He frowned and cocked his head, watching her – watching her poke at him, stab at him with her words and wiles. The flash of victory in her eyes, the dark joy of a predator that watched its prey panic and turn into that blind alley. Tony blinked and sat up, gaze riveted to Ziva’s as he slowly slid the sunglasses down his nose. Well, I’ll be damned.
He’d been on defense since Ziva made her first move to the inside. He’d backed off and tried to shelter behind Ducky and McGee, and now Gibbs. He’d closed himself off, wandered back down the paths of his past and stuck to hard earned habits of a lifetime. And he’d let Ziva, let her offense, rule the court. He almost turned around, almost looked to those narrow blue eyes that were surely watching, almost gave in to his urge to yell, to demand to know if this was what Gibbs had been waiting for. For Tony to stop backing down, stop leaving himself open for the blows in the first place. Someone had once said, “Offense wins games but defense wins championships.” Well, whoever it was, Tony realized, he’d forgotten one thing. If you didn’t win the games, your team never got to the championships in the first place.
Abby’s gaze had been darting back and forth between them, her mouth open and her thin black brows knotting fretfully. Tony knew she’d felt the tension, watched the interplay of words underscored with snark and surliness and he saw the sudden wariness smother her usual frantic good humor. “Yeah, where is Bossman, Tony?” A little breathless, a lot worried. “And how come you’re still wearing that stupid sling?”
“Well, now, that’s a very good question, Abby.” The tightness of his smile hurt, but Tony couldn’t let it drop, he wouldn’t. No damn way he was going to give Ziva another opportunity to make a play. Gibbs was giving him the signal to take the lead, to step out, to poke the hornets’ nest and draw the foul. He leaned forward, letting his broad shoulders and physical presence dominate, intimidate. “Why am I still wearing this sling, Ziva? A little scratch from a wooden box sure doesn’t rate this kind of treatment, now does it?”
Ziva put one finger on her chin as if she was deep in thought but Tony noticed the fleeting glance towards McGee as if assessing a teammate’s position. “To garner sympathy from a cute waitress?” She blinked coyly. “I am sure the wounded hero routine can be quite successful.”
“Hey!”
Tony patted McGee lightly on one arm at his outburst to show his gratitude, his eyes never leaving hers. Yep, that’s right, he’s my teammate – he let her read it in his face. “No, that’s okay, Timmy. Ziva’s right – girls do lap up the injured warrior act.” He looked off into the distance momentarily. “Many a coed fell before Anthony DiNozzo’s portrayal of ‘The Brave Little Soldier’ back in college. Ah, those were the days.” He let the full force of his gaze settle back on the Mossad agent. “But not this time.”
“Does it really matter?” Ziva huffed, determined to make her point, “the real question is, where is Gibbs?”
Tony slid into the opening she’d left him. “No, the real question, Officer David, is why you lied in the first place, and why you are so determined to hang onto that lie with your sharp, pointy fingernails,” he screeched, curving his hands into claws.
“Don’t be a fool, Tony- or at least not as big a fool as you usually are.”
“Ooo, nice come back,” Tony slapped the words back at her, leaning further into her space, “but I’ll ask you again. Why am I wearing this sling?”
“Tony, what…” Abby’s question trailed away.
Tony felt McGee shift restlessly beside him.
Ziva’s body went completely still.
He smacked his hand flat onto the metal table just as Gibbs had done not so long ago, the sound and fury scattering pigeons and making Abby and Tim lurch back in their seats. “Answer the question!” he shouted.
Suddenly, it was as if they were the only two at the table. Ziva’s eyes narrowed dangerously, all semblance of play or camaraderie erased. “Because you are a weak, fragile pretty-boy who is still tiredly clinging to the dream that you are good enough to be on Gibbs’ team,” she hissed, inches from his face. “Because you were stupid enough to lock us in a metal box and then too fat and lazy to get out of the way of a bullet.” She pointed one finger at him as if she’d stab him with it, “and because, for reason of some past ‘favors,’” she hooked her fingers into quotes and laced her rising voice with scorn and contempt, “Gibbs’ hasn’t yet transferred you to a desk job where your constant need for attention won’t get you or someone else killed.”
Tony closed his eyes, a real smile on his lips, and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. “Thanks, Ziva,” he breathed, “that sounds a lot like the truth. For once.”
He knew Abby was on her feet, flying to attack, and felt the buffeting of the air as McGee fought to control her. The snarled words, insults, and shouts rained down on him, the slap of skin loud in the morning air, the turbulence increasing as Abby and Tim strove to defend him in the face of Ziva’s mounting attacks, but it was the warm presence at his back that Tony focused on, ignoring all else.
The aroma of dark roast coffee and sweet hazelnuts made him open his hand and close it again around the cardboard cup. A firm grip on his shoulder grounded him, but it was the murmured, “Good job,” against his ear that touched him.
“Thanks, Boss,” he murmured, eyes still closed. He’d have to open them soon enough.
End Pt 7