Box Out Pt 8/9
Oct. 25th, 2010 10:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: Box Out Pt 8/9
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 – The final play.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for your kind words, patience, and encouragement!
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’ silent presence struck like heat lightning through the tense figures, but the air still crackled with potential violence, and anger and resentment hung like low clouds just about to burst. Unfortunately, the pause only gave the combatants time to refuel and rearm.
“Gibbs! Did you know Tony was shot? That-” Abby shook her head, her eyes screwed up tight, “-that this… this *person* lied?” She gestured towards Ziva, clearly unwilling to even speak her name.
“Abby.”
“No!” The Goth scientist’s shoulders hunched in anger. “Don’t you ‘Abby’ me, Gibbs! This is wrong!”
“I know.”
“Even if it is just a graze – you can’t tell me that Tony deserved it!”
“You’re right.”
“It’s crazy! It’s – it’s – the dinner and, and,” red streaks of anger splashed across Abby’s pale cheeks, “and those other things she said,” she twisted in her chair, one fist punching against Gibbs’ chest, “you didn’t hear what she said about Tony!”
Abby was all but spitting, the hood of her cloak blown back by her fury and her gloved hands fisted. Ziva, straight and stiff and poised like a knife, her dark eyes on fire and hands held carefully open at her sides, looked like she was readying herself for a blow. And McGee – poor McGee. His voice rising shrilly as he tried to manage the middle ground, McGee was taking the only real damage. The probie had more guts than brains to get between those two.
The earsplitting screech of a metal chair being dragged slowly, agonizingly slowly, across the space from table to table finally shut them up and turned each pair of eyes towards the stern, controlled features of their boss. Tony watched, blowing cool air through the tiny slot in the lid of his coffee cup, focusing on the whistle of the air as, with Gibbs’ proximity, the pressure rose again to explosive levels.
“Sit.”
The command was dropped into that small gap, that instant between reaction and action, between an opened mouth and the spoken word. It cracked the heavy, stifling mood and Tony smiled grimly behind his cup. No censure, no biting reprimand, just one word tightened the reins that Gibbs had always wielded like a master, and reminded them that they were federal agents – Gibbs’ agents – and that he was, most definitely, in charge. The twinge of pride mixed with sorrow, the flavor of loss in his throat – Tony wouldn’t blame himself for those; he was only human, after all. He held the cup with a carefully even pressure as he kept his eyes lowered, his gaze lingering on the spark of the sun’s bright reflection along the curved edge of the lid, allowing the glare to fill his vision, to block out every other sight until the moisture that hung between his eyes and the figures around him painted them with indistinct outlines and softened the sharply drawn silhouettes.
What a group. More than a combination of their skills – which were too many to count – more than a bunch of quirky individuals, or the seething mass of territorial fury spouting immature insults that they seemed right now. Tony felt their bond deep in his gut. This was a team – his team. Gibbs’ team. Tim’s. Abby’s. He glanced to his right. Ziva wanted in and would claw her way ruthlessly, searching out and exploiting any vulnerability. He’d known that – had told Tim as much. And Gibbs, Gibbs knew it, too. She’d targeted Tony, focused exclusively on him, and that could only really be about one thing. His breathing quickened as he looked up into Gibbs’ face. In the next few minutes this team would either leave this table with the deep ties that bound them intact, stronger even, or they’d fracture and spill every connection like blood onto the brick sidewalk.
Gibbs slid his chair into the narrow gap between Abby and Ziva, wedging its metal arm up tight against the Mossad officer’s chair. Tony saw the fleeting spark of victory in the eyes she turned towards him, the smug smile beginning to twist her lips as she gracefully relaxed back into her seat, one long arm artfully posed where, when Gibbs settled, it would naturally rest against his. His stomach tightened, but he clamped down on his reactions and stared into Gibbs’ hooded blue eyes, the slight tilt of his boss’ chin and a tiny crook of his lips signaling both apology and resignation. Tony’s gaze darted swiftly, his fight or flight response engaged as he measured, assessed, looking for an opening that would let him misinterpret Gibbs’ signal. His eyes fluttered closed. Of course. This couldn’t go any other way. A sick helplessness shook through him and Tony’s lips clamped down tightly, trapping a guttural laugh.
Gibbs had left Tony alone, had left him to open the first crack in the Mossad agent’s firm control, to ignite her fury and get her to expose herself, to make the first mistake. Oh, but he wasn’t finished, was he? There were more to come, much more – secrets, lies, not-so-fine and private things. And they weren’t all Ziva’s. Tony could feel that strange combination of terror and adrenaline pumping through his veins as it had so many times before. His boss’ cue was unmistakable: Gibbs was calling a Trap Play.
((Tony could hear the quarterback’s barking voice, smell the sweat and grass and taste the copper on his tongue from the last hard hit. They’d told him it was a cold day in Michigan, but he didn’t feel it. His skin was hot, his breathing fast, his nerves sparking with adrenaline. If they lost – if Ohio State lost this one, it would be his last game. No bowl, no championship. The coach had been even more tense than usual, his muscles bunching in his jaw in the locker room at the half. He’d been so certain, so positive as he described the changed strategy for the second half in his quiet, intense voice. But the whiteness of his lips, the deep creases around his eyes, and the trembling in his hands as he held the pages of stats in front of him had been telling – it was always the little things that gave his Coach away.
Coach pushed each player beyond his fears, beyond his position, to the very edge of his abilities. Took chances. Tony had five receptions already, had been targeted by the other team, double teamed, and covered so closely that the ball would never get near him. So Coach shook it up. And the team advanced, made the most of every opportunity, every small mistake made by the Wolverines. And, now, they were close, twelve yards from the goal; one big play from victory. Coach had called a time out and had sent Quarterback Sandy Carter in with a new play. As he laid it out, Tony’d looked across the huddle to where Robinson’s dark eyes stared back at him from within the shadows of his helmet. He’d felt the shuffle of feet beside him, the unease, and the blood rushing through him as the words finally sank in. Coach had called a trap play – and Tony would be the bait.))
Tony nodded once, tapping into his own rising tension to fuel his muscles and sharpen his mind. Gibbs wanted bait, wanted Tony to expose his weakness so that Ziva would strike. That he could do. Tony felt the feral grin stretch across his face. He’d done it before.
((“You good, Sex Machine?”
Tony showed all his teeth. “Watch my smoke, Robbie,” he’d muttered, snapping the chin guard securely as he sauntered towards the line of scrimmage. A sharp smack against his butt made him snort with amusement. “Yeah, they’ll be staring so hard at my ass they won’t even notice Danny sneaking through the gap.”
“Don’t get cocky.” Gene Robinson was a huge, hulking offensive lineman and one of Tony’s best friends. The quips didn’t quite hide the real concern in his eyes.
Tony couldn’t help the bounce in his step before he settled into place on the weak side between his buddy and the tackle, nowhere near his usual position. He caught the shift of Michigan players across the line and winked at the defensive tackle frowning back at him.
“Gonna squash you like a bug, pretty boy,” the Wolverine leered.
“Gotta catch me first, Lurch,” he’d shot back.
Sandy, the quarterback, settled behind the center and began the play call. Snap count. Tony stiffened, ready. A final count, the snap, muscles driving, and Tony turned abruptly to the inside and hustled down the line, leaving an enticing gap. The perfect lure.))
“Do something, Gibbs,” Abby muttered, eyes narrowed threateningly, “she said awful things.”
“I heard, Abs.” The older man’s fingers smoothed over hers, holding her hand tightly in his. Gibbs’ voice was quiet, even. Controlled. Tony watched the way he stopped Abby’s frantic sputtering with a few words and an assured stare.
Ziva’s dark chuckle drew his attention. “Of course he did.” She flicked a coy glance towards Gibbs. “Gibbs is not blind to Tony’s … shall we say, limitations?”
“No, we shall not! Uh,” McGee’s outburst trailed off uncomfortably, and Tony cringed as the younger man seemed to deflate before him. “I mean… Ziva – you lied about Tony’s injury!” McGee lifted his chin, clearly willing to wade in in Tony’s defense again.
Way to go, Probie, Tony thought wryly. On any other day he’d be wholly satisfied to hear McGee ride to his rescue, but not today, not as Gibbs was trying to encourage Ziva to take the bait. He let a deep breath out slowly, ignoring the cramping in his gut, wondering if McGee would be so quick to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in a moment.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was a joke, Tim. Don’t tell me that Tony is the only one allowed to poke fun.”
McGee huffed. “I don’t see the fun in it.”
Tony shook his head, all focus and spring-loaded tension. Shut up, Tim, he shouted mentally. Ziva had to be lured into showing her hand, admitting her agenda – a Mossad agent would never reveal anything under a normal interrogation. He had to get her attention, keep her focus on him. *Tony* was the weak link, the ‘fat and lazy’ frat boy who’d slept his way to the top. He kicked at McGee’s ankle. Hard.
“Maybe we should,” Tony suggested, covering McGee’s painful grunt. He held Ziva’s bold stare and nudged McGee’s knee more gently under the table. “Maybe we should talk about my ‘limitations,’ Ziva.” He watched out of the corner of his eye as Gibbs placed Abby’s hand back on the table and squeezed, startling a suspicious frown from their favorite Goth just as she was opening her mouth to rejoin the fight.
“Yeah,” Gibbs sighed into the silence, timing perfect, as usual. “I think, maybe, it’s time for a change.” The team leader leaned back and raised his cup to his lips, mouth moving as if he drank, but Tony saw the ruse, heard the double meaning behind the words, and realized there was real tension, real concern flashing in the blue eyes.
It was the little things that gave his boss away.
Tony trusted him. Even now, even after all of this, after the rejection and the bitterness and the blindness. Gibbs’ promise still rang in his ears, still inspired Tony’s trust. If Gibbs thought this was the only way then Tony would follow through.
Ziva preened, one eyebrow rising, her black eyes sparkling. Abby tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Tony held himself still; poised; waiting.
“Boss-” Tim had paled, eyes wide, gaze flickering between Ziva, Gibbs and Tony. “I don’t think you understand.”
Tony felt his eyes widen momentarily, marveling at the probie’s inability to take a hint. He couldn’t deny that it felt great, that McGee’s concern and Abby’s fiery defense had expanded that inner warmth that Gibbs’ whispered praise had seeded in his chest.
“Yes, well, neither do I, McGee,” Ziva leaned back, completely comfortable, dark gaze wandering up and down Tony’s body, lingering for a moment on the sling as she shook her head in mock censure, and then focusing on his eyes. “I do not understand how Gibbs could continue to overlook Tony’s frequent mistakes, especially when they endanger himself – and others.”
She wanted to see the knife go in; to feel the sharp blade twist in his guts, and Tony winced, the guilt that flooded his eyes not completely false. Remembering Pacci, Kate, the line of lifeless faces continuing into his past until he was caught, once again, by a dead teenager’s eyes open wide beneath a streetlight. He shuddered, letting the memories pull at him, huddling back into his chair, left arm wrapped around his sling.
((He wouldn’t know that the trap play had worked until it was all over. His job was to leave the gap, luring the defensive tackle inside, away from his spot, so the ball carrier would get a straight shot – no one between him and the goal line. The action was behind him now. He looked up into the face of the Michigan tight end coming around the corner and saw the player’s realization, caught the shifting of his muscles as he readied himself to launch towards the gap, but Tony’s job now was to block. He met the bigger guy head to head, his teeth gritted, every muscle tense, and stopped him. For a moment.))
“What exactly do you think I should have done, Zeeva,” Tony made sure to lace his voice with just the right amount of defensiveness, shifting his eyes towards Gibbs awkwardly as if afraid.
“I do not think it is my job to fix you, Tony,” she snapped back at him, “in fact, I am fairly sure that you cannot be fixed.” She paused a moment. “Perhaps another team – one that does not require such a … high degree of intelligence. Or proficiency.”
“Okay, hold on…”
“Gibbs, this is…”
No. He wouldn’t let them distract him. Focus, Tony. There were only two players on the field now, straining against each other, stumbling for footing. Tony remembered smiling into the face of that great big football player all those years ago and bared his teeth in the face of Ziva’s disdain, tilting his head provocatively, the picture of ‘I know something you don’t know’.
“Gibbs will never transfer me, Ziva,” he chuckled, holding himself tightly. It was true, he told himself, but not for the reason she was about to throw out onto the table in full view of everyone.
“No?” She narrowed her eyes, anger and contempt cracking like ice between them.
He forced a laugh. “No way.” He flicked one finger around the table’s circle until it pointed at her. “You’re the outsider here, Officer David.” Come on, Ziva, Tony urged silently, go for the jugular.
She leaned forward and hissed. “Why, because you let him fuck you?” Her laugh was ugly. “Clearly you failed at that as well.”
((They told him later that the huge tackle that had followed him through the gap had tripped, causing a small avalanche of hulking bodies until Tony and the tight end had ended up in a pile of twisted limbs on the turf. Brad Pitt had walked away. And, although the team won and had gone on to the Sugar Bowl, it did end up being Tony’s last game. He watched UCLA beat the Buckeyes flat from his hospital room, his left leg casted to his groin.))
He’d been expecting it, hoping for it, but the words still left him breathless. There it was, lying on the metal café table in the watery light of a Wednesday morning. Tony kept his gaze locked on Ziva’s, his face locked back into its bland mask, denying nothing. All movement had stilled around him, the accusation raw, throbbing in the silence. Ziva smirked, opening her mouth to send another slick barb his way to make the kill shot, but Gibbs beat her to it.
“And here I thought all your surveillance on me and my team had stopped with Ari’s death. You only did it because you were his control officer, right?”
Tony watched the alarm spread across her face, the doubt and fear there giving her fiercely rigid features a semblance of humanity. “What? I – of course I have not,” she turned to flash a feeble smile at the older man. “You know that I had no choice but to keep detailed records on your team when I worked with Mossad.”
“Sure,” Gibbs nodded, his half-smile bitter. “I knew that. Mossad is nothing if not thorough.” He shifted in his chair to bring his blue glare down to Ziva’s level. “So what makes you think Tony and I still aren’t heating the sheets?”
Tony swallowed the bile that filled his throat at that particular turn of phrase and shot a glance at his teammates. McGee’s mouth opened and closed like a fish – pretty much what Tony figured. Abby was sitting back, hands crossed across her waist, eyebrows disappearing beneath her heavy bangs. Oh, yeah, this would end well, just like his sports career.
“Well,” Ziva drew one hand through the air, “I mean, it is obvious, is it not? You treat him with such contempt, that …” She stopped abruptly as Gibbs’ head started to shake back and forth. “What?”
“You were back in Israel for your brother’s funeral when we stopped – when it happened.”
A half-stifled laugh escaped as Tony brought up both hands to scrub across his face.
“You had to have been still ‘surveilling’ us since Jen made you a part of our team,” Gibbs continued.
“You – you’ve been spying on us?” Abby’s voice rumbled threateningly and Tony frowned.
“No – Abby,” Ziva exclaimed, “I would not do that – we are a team.”
“You did it. You wanted more information on us, on Tony.” McGee. Tony lifted his head, surprised. The probie’s glare was boring holes into the Mossad officer.
“McGee – Timothy – I would never…”
“Never, what, Ziva?” Gibbs voice was cold. “Never use McGee as your mule? Flirt with Palmer to get intel? Never undermine DiNozzo with every one of us?”
Ziva held up both hands, palms out, and lowered her eyes for a moment. “Wait.”
Tony stared, wondering how he’d never noticed how small she was before. The distance between him and the rest of team seemed to elongate as if he was looking at them from the wrong end of a telescope. This isn’t what he’d expected.
“I did not.” Her lips tightened into a line, explanations and excuses nearly visible as they swept through her mind and she discarded them one by one. Finally, she leaned forward. “This is what I do, Gibbs,” she seethed.
“No.” Abby sounded sad, beaten. “No, Ziva. This is what you *did.*”
“You were already a part of the team, Ziva,” McGee added softly, “why did you think you had to get rid of Tony? Hurt him?”
Her gaze shifted his way, almost meeting his, but Tony sat frozen. Motionless. The words and actions were confusing, remote, too vague to make out. He listened, searching for the contempt, the hatred, the sound of closing doors and ended friendships.
“He – Tony,” Ziva started and stopped and then straightened her shoulders. “It is standard practice,” she said simply, her hands clasped in front of her, “when infiltrating a group to focus on the weakest link and to … exploit his … vulnerabilities. That way an operative can be absorbed into even a closely knit team quite easily.” She glanced up at Tony from beneath her lashes. “I collected evidence that Gibbs was not pleased with Tony, that he had discarded him on a personal level, so …” Ziva shrugged.
The laughter was raw, grating, a sound borne of desperation and bitterness instead of joy. For a long moment Tony didn’t even realize that horrible noise was coming from him.
“Tony.” Abby’s face was pale, mascara smeared along one cheek. McGee sat, frowning, lips pushed forward in a familiar pout. And the third figure, her long, dark hair fluttering in the breeze, sat, shoulders hunched forward, her dark eyes open far too wide.
“C’mon, now that’s funny!” Tony sputtered, his fingers digging bruises into his knees. “Boss, you’ve gotta love the irony here!” He staggered to his feet. “Your precious Rule Twelve,” he gasped, panting, wondering why it was so hard to catch his breath, “‘protecting me,’” he clawed at the air to emphasize his words. “Well thanks, Boss, that worked great!”
He wanted to run, to leave, to get away from the stares and the questions and the apologies that hadn’t even begun. He fumbled into his back pocket for his badge, his hands numb, useless, his calves banging into the metal chair as he shifted away. He blinked, head down, trying to ignore the warmth suddenly pressed close against his right side, unwilling to concentrate hard enough to make sense of the sounds around him. A callused hand moved to grip the back of his neck, urging him to turn, but he resisted, holding on tightly to his shattered control.
“Tony.”
Coffee scented breath brushed across his cheek. Sawdust and cheap after-shave filled his nostrils.
“Boss.” One soft word would break him, one murmured plea for forgiveness, one caressing glance.
“Looks like Officer David needs a little help understanding the concept of ‘team.’” Gibbs voice growled – a little too gruff and a little too desperate to completely disguise the regret. He cleared his throat. “And I need my Senior Agent to help me clean up this shit-fest.”
Tony breathed deeply as Gibbs stepped away, letting the panic, the hurt, and pain fall away, forced them back into the tightly locked box of his psyche. Senior Agent. Holder of crap jobs, sometimes clown, verbal punching bag, trusted second. No more, no less. He nodded. McGee, Abby, and Ziva were still waiting, watching, hopeful, wary.
“On it, Boss.”
That glaring, neon pink elephant in the room would just have to wait. Tony’s team needed him.
End
(Hmmm, I think it might need an epilogue. Yes? No?)
Author:
marzipan77Category: Pre-slash/Post-slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo
Rating: Mature – more angst than action, bad words.
Summary: Tag for Boxed In – The final play.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for your kind words, patience, and encouragement!
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’ silent presence struck like heat lightning through the tense figures, but the air still crackled with potential violence, and anger and resentment hung like low clouds just about to burst. Unfortunately, the pause only gave the combatants time to refuel and rearm.
“Gibbs! Did you know Tony was shot? That-” Abby shook her head, her eyes screwed up tight, “-that this… this *person* lied?” She gestured towards Ziva, clearly unwilling to even speak her name.
“Abby.”
“No!” The Goth scientist’s shoulders hunched in anger. “Don’t you ‘Abby’ me, Gibbs! This is wrong!”
“I know.”
“Even if it is just a graze – you can’t tell me that Tony deserved it!”
“You’re right.”
“It’s crazy! It’s – it’s – the dinner and, and,” red streaks of anger splashed across Abby’s pale cheeks, “and those other things she said,” she twisted in her chair, one fist punching against Gibbs’ chest, “you didn’t hear what she said about Tony!”
Abby was all but spitting, the hood of her cloak blown back by her fury and her gloved hands fisted. Ziva, straight and stiff and poised like a knife, her dark eyes on fire and hands held carefully open at her sides, looked like she was readying herself for a blow. And McGee – poor McGee. His voice rising shrilly as he tried to manage the middle ground, McGee was taking the only real damage. The probie had more guts than brains to get between those two.
The earsplitting screech of a metal chair being dragged slowly, agonizingly slowly, across the space from table to table finally shut them up and turned each pair of eyes towards the stern, controlled features of their boss. Tony watched, blowing cool air through the tiny slot in the lid of his coffee cup, focusing on the whistle of the air as, with Gibbs’ proximity, the pressure rose again to explosive levels.
“Sit.”
The command was dropped into that small gap, that instant between reaction and action, between an opened mouth and the spoken word. It cracked the heavy, stifling mood and Tony smiled grimly behind his cup. No censure, no biting reprimand, just one word tightened the reins that Gibbs had always wielded like a master, and reminded them that they were federal agents – Gibbs’ agents – and that he was, most definitely, in charge. The twinge of pride mixed with sorrow, the flavor of loss in his throat – Tony wouldn’t blame himself for those; he was only human, after all. He held the cup with a carefully even pressure as he kept his eyes lowered, his gaze lingering on the spark of the sun’s bright reflection along the curved edge of the lid, allowing the glare to fill his vision, to block out every other sight until the moisture that hung between his eyes and the figures around him painted them with indistinct outlines and softened the sharply drawn silhouettes.
What a group. More than a combination of their skills – which were too many to count – more than a bunch of quirky individuals, or the seething mass of territorial fury spouting immature insults that they seemed right now. Tony felt their bond deep in his gut. This was a team – his team. Gibbs’ team. Tim’s. Abby’s. He glanced to his right. Ziva wanted in and would claw her way ruthlessly, searching out and exploiting any vulnerability. He’d known that – had told Tim as much. And Gibbs, Gibbs knew it, too. She’d targeted Tony, focused exclusively on him, and that could only really be about one thing. His breathing quickened as he looked up into Gibbs’ face. In the next few minutes this team would either leave this table with the deep ties that bound them intact, stronger even, or they’d fracture and spill every connection like blood onto the brick sidewalk.
Gibbs slid his chair into the narrow gap between Abby and Ziva, wedging its metal arm up tight against the Mossad officer’s chair. Tony saw the fleeting spark of victory in the eyes she turned towards him, the smug smile beginning to twist her lips as she gracefully relaxed back into her seat, one long arm artfully posed where, when Gibbs settled, it would naturally rest against his. His stomach tightened, but he clamped down on his reactions and stared into Gibbs’ hooded blue eyes, the slight tilt of his boss’ chin and a tiny crook of his lips signaling both apology and resignation. Tony’s gaze darted swiftly, his fight or flight response engaged as he measured, assessed, looking for an opening that would let him misinterpret Gibbs’ signal. His eyes fluttered closed. Of course. This couldn’t go any other way. A sick helplessness shook through him and Tony’s lips clamped down tightly, trapping a guttural laugh.
Gibbs had left Tony alone, had left him to open the first crack in the Mossad agent’s firm control, to ignite her fury and get her to expose herself, to make the first mistake. Oh, but he wasn’t finished, was he? There were more to come, much more – secrets, lies, not-so-fine and private things. And they weren’t all Ziva’s. Tony could feel that strange combination of terror and adrenaline pumping through his veins as it had so many times before. His boss’ cue was unmistakable: Gibbs was calling a Trap Play.
((Tony could hear the quarterback’s barking voice, smell the sweat and grass and taste the copper on his tongue from the last hard hit. They’d told him it was a cold day in Michigan, but he didn’t feel it. His skin was hot, his breathing fast, his nerves sparking with adrenaline. If they lost – if Ohio State lost this one, it would be his last game. No bowl, no championship. The coach had been even more tense than usual, his muscles bunching in his jaw in the locker room at the half. He’d been so certain, so positive as he described the changed strategy for the second half in his quiet, intense voice. But the whiteness of his lips, the deep creases around his eyes, and the trembling in his hands as he held the pages of stats in front of him had been telling – it was always the little things that gave his Coach away.
Coach pushed each player beyond his fears, beyond his position, to the very edge of his abilities. Took chances. Tony had five receptions already, had been targeted by the other team, double teamed, and covered so closely that the ball would never get near him. So Coach shook it up. And the team advanced, made the most of every opportunity, every small mistake made by the Wolverines. And, now, they were close, twelve yards from the goal; one big play from victory. Coach had called a time out and had sent Quarterback Sandy Carter in with a new play. As he laid it out, Tony’d looked across the huddle to where Robinson’s dark eyes stared back at him from within the shadows of his helmet. He’d felt the shuffle of feet beside him, the unease, and the blood rushing through him as the words finally sank in. Coach had called a trap play – and Tony would be the bait.))
Tony nodded once, tapping into his own rising tension to fuel his muscles and sharpen his mind. Gibbs wanted bait, wanted Tony to expose his weakness so that Ziva would strike. That he could do. Tony felt the feral grin stretch across his face. He’d done it before.
((“You good, Sex Machine?”
Tony showed all his teeth. “Watch my smoke, Robbie,” he’d muttered, snapping the chin guard securely as he sauntered towards the line of scrimmage. A sharp smack against his butt made him snort with amusement. “Yeah, they’ll be staring so hard at my ass they won’t even notice Danny sneaking through the gap.”
“Don’t get cocky.” Gene Robinson was a huge, hulking offensive lineman and one of Tony’s best friends. The quips didn’t quite hide the real concern in his eyes.
Tony couldn’t help the bounce in his step before he settled into place on the weak side between his buddy and the tackle, nowhere near his usual position. He caught the shift of Michigan players across the line and winked at the defensive tackle frowning back at him.
“Gonna squash you like a bug, pretty boy,” the Wolverine leered.
“Gotta catch me first, Lurch,” he’d shot back.
Sandy, the quarterback, settled behind the center and began the play call. Snap count. Tony stiffened, ready. A final count, the snap, muscles driving, and Tony turned abruptly to the inside and hustled down the line, leaving an enticing gap. The perfect lure.))
“Do something, Gibbs,” Abby muttered, eyes narrowed threateningly, “she said awful things.”
“I heard, Abs.” The older man’s fingers smoothed over hers, holding her hand tightly in his. Gibbs’ voice was quiet, even. Controlled. Tony watched the way he stopped Abby’s frantic sputtering with a few words and an assured stare.
Ziva’s dark chuckle drew his attention. “Of course he did.” She flicked a coy glance towards Gibbs. “Gibbs is not blind to Tony’s … shall we say, limitations?”
“No, we shall not! Uh,” McGee’s outburst trailed off uncomfortably, and Tony cringed as the younger man seemed to deflate before him. “I mean… Ziva – you lied about Tony’s injury!” McGee lifted his chin, clearly willing to wade in in Tony’s defense again.
Way to go, Probie, Tony thought wryly. On any other day he’d be wholly satisfied to hear McGee ride to his rescue, but not today, not as Gibbs was trying to encourage Ziva to take the bait. He let a deep breath out slowly, ignoring the cramping in his gut, wondering if McGee would be so quick to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in a moment.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was a joke, Tim. Don’t tell me that Tony is the only one allowed to poke fun.”
McGee huffed. “I don’t see the fun in it.”
Tony shook his head, all focus and spring-loaded tension. Shut up, Tim, he shouted mentally. Ziva had to be lured into showing her hand, admitting her agenda – a Mossad agent would never reveal anything under a normal interrogation. He had to get her attention, keep her focus on him. *Tony* was the weak link, the ‘fat and lazy’ frat boy who’d slept his way to the top. He kicked at McGee’s ankle. Hard.
“Maybe we should,” Tony suggested, covering McGee’s painful grunt. He held Ziva’s bold stare and nudged McGee’s knee more gently under the table. “Maybe we should talk about my ‘limitations,’ Ziva.” He watched out of the corner of his eye as Gibbs placed Abby’s hand back on the table and squeezed, startling a suspicious frown from their favorite Goth just as she was opening her mouth to rejoin the fight.
“Yeah,” Gibbs sighed into the silence, timing perfect, as usual. “I think, maybe, it’s time for a change.” The team leader leaned back and raised his cup to his lips, mouth moving as if he drank, but Tony saw the ruse, heard the double meaning behind the words, and realized there was real tension, real concern flashing in the blue eyes.
It was the little things that gave his boss away.
Tony trusted him. Even now, even after all of this, after the rejection and the bitterness and the blindness. Gibbs’ promise still rang in his ears, still inspired Tony’s trust. If Gibbs thought this was the only way then Tony would follow through.
Ziva preened, one eyebrow rising, her black eyes sparkling. Abby tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Tony held himself still; poised; waiting.
“Boss-” Tim had paled, eyes wide, gaze flickering between Ziva, Gibbs and Tony. “I don’t think you understand.”
Tony felt his eyes widen momentarily, marveling at the probie’s inability to take a hint. He couldn’t deny that it felt great, that McGee’s concern and Abby’s fiery defense had expanded that inner warmth that Gibbs’ whispered praise had seeded in his chest.
“Yes, well, neither do I, McGee,” Ziva leaned back, completely comfortable, dark gaze wandering up and down Tony’s body, lingering for a moment on the sling as she shook her head in mock censure, and then focusing on his eyes. “I do not understand how Gibbs could continue to overlook Tony’s frequent mistakes, especially when they endanger himself – and others.”
She wanted to see the knife go in; to feel the sharp blade twist in his guts, and Tony winced, the guilt that flooded his eyes not completely false. Remembering Pacci, Kate, the line of lifeless faces continuing into his past until he was caught, once again, by a dead teenager’s eyes open wide beneath a streetlight. He shuddered, letting the memories pull at him, huddling back into his chair, left arm wrapped around his sling.
((He wouldn’t know that the trap play had worked until it was all over. His job was to leave the gap, luring the defensive tackle inside, away from his spot, so the ball carrier would get a straight shot – no one between him and the goal line. The action was behind him now. He looked up into the face of the Michigan tight end coming around the corner and saw the player’s realization, caught the shifting of his muscles as he readied himself to launch towards the gap, but Tony’s job now was to block. He met the bigger guy head to head, his teeth gritted, every muscle tense, and stopped him. For a moment.))
“What exactly do you think I should have done, Zeeva,” Tony made sure to lace his voice with just the right amount of defensiveness, shifting his eyes towards Gibbs awkwardly as if afraid.
“I do not think it is my job to fix you, Tony,” she snapped back at him, “in fact, I am fairly sure that you cannot be fixed.” She paused a moment. “Perhaps another team – one that does not require such a … high degree of intelligence. Or proficiency.”
“Okay, hold on…”
“Gibbs, this is…”
No. He wouldn’t let them distract him. Focus, Tony. There were only two players on the field now, straining against each other, stumbling for footing. Tony remembered smiling into the face of that great big football player all those years ago and bared his teeth in the face of Ziva’s disdain, tilting his head provocatively, the picture of ‘I know something you don’t know’.
“Gibbs will never transfer me, Ziva,” he chuckled, holding himself tightly. It was true, he told himself, but not for the reason she was about to throw out onto the table in full view of everyone.
“No?” She narrowed her eyes, anger and contempt cracking like ice between them.
He forced a laugh. “No way.” He flicked one finger around the table’s circle until it pointed at her. “You’re the outsider here, Officer David.” Come on, Ziva, Tony urged silently, go for the jugular.
She leaned forward and hissed. “Why, because you let him fuck you?” Her laugh was ugly. “Clearly you failed at that as well.”
((They told him later that the huge tackle that had followed him through the gap had tripped, causing a small avalanche of hulking bodies until Tony and the tight end had ended up in a pile of twisted limbs on the turf. Brad Pitt had walked away. And, although the team won and had gone on to the Sugar Bowl, it did end up being Tony’s last game. He watched UCLA beat the Buckeyes flat from his hospital room, his left leg casted to his groin.))
He’d been expecting it, hoping for it, but the words still left him breathless. There it was, lying on the metal café table in the watery light of a Wednesday morning. Tony kept his gaze locked on Ziva’s, his face locked back into its bland mask, denying nothing. All movement had stilled around him, the accusation raw, throbbing in the silence. Ziva smirked, opening her mouth to send another slick barb his way to make the kill shot, but Gibbs beat her to it.
“And here I thought all your surveillance on me and my team had stopped with Ari’s death. You only did it because you were his control officer, right?”
Tony watched the alarm spread across her face, the doubt and fear there giving her fiercely rigid features a semblance of humanity. “What? I – of course I have not,” she turned to flash a feeble smile at the older man. “You know that I had no choice but to keep detailed records on your team when I worked with Mossad.”
“Sure,” Gibbs nodded, his half-smile bitter. “I knew that. Mossad is nothing if not thorough.” He shifted in his chair to bring his blue glare down to Ziva’s level. “So what makes you think Tony and I still aren’t heating the sheets?”
Tony swallowed the bile that filled his throat at that particular turn of phrase and shot a glance at his teammates. McGee’s mouth opened and closed like a fish – pretty much what Tony figured. Abby was sitting back, hands crossed across her waist, eyebrows disappearing beneath her heavy bangs. Oh, yeah, this would end well, just like his sports career.
“Well,” Ziva drew one hand through the air, “I mean, it is obvious, is it not? You treat him with such contempt, that …” She stopped abruptly as Gibbs’ head started to shake back and forth. “What?”
“You were back in Israel for your brother’s funeral when we stopped – when it happened.”
A half-stifled laugh escaped as Tony brought up both hands to scrub across his face.
“You had to have been still ‘surveilling’ us since Jen made you a part of our team,” Gibbs continued.
“You – you’ve been spying on us?” Abby’s voice rumbled threateningly and Tony frowned.
“No – Abby,” Ziva exclaimed, “I would not do that – we are a team.”
“You did it. You wanted more information on us, on Tony.” McGee. Tony lifted his head, surprised. The probie’s glare was boring holes into the Mossad officer.
“McGee – Timothy – I would never…”
“Never, what, Ziva?” Gibbs voice was cold. “Never use McGee as your mule? Flirt with Palmer to get intel? Never undermine DiNozzo with every one of us?”
Ziva held up both hands, palms out, and lowered her eyes for a moment. “Wait.”
Tony stared, wondering how he’d never noticed how small she was before. The distance between him and the rest of team seemed to elongate as if he was looking at them from the wrong end of a telescope. This isn’t what he’d expected.
“I did not.” Her lips tightened into a line, explanations and excuses nearly visible as they swept through her mind and she discarded them one by one. Finally, she leaned forward. “This is what I do, Gibbs,” she seethed.
“No.” Abby sounded sad, beaten. “No, Ziva. This is what you *did.*”
“You were already a part of the team, Ziva,” McGee added softly, “why did you think you had to get rid of Tony? Hurt him?”
Her gaze shifted his way, almost meeting his, but Tony sat frozen. Motionless. The words and actions were confusing, remote, too vague to make out. He listened, searching for the contempt, the hatred, the sound of closing doors and ended friendships.
“He – Tony,” Ziva started and stopped and then straightened her shoulders. “It is standard practice,” she said simply, her hands clasped in front of her, “when infiltrating a group to focus on the weakest link and to … exploit his … vulnerabilities. That way an operative can be absorbed into even a closely knit team quite easily.” She glanced up at Tony from beneath her lashes. “I collected evidence that Gibbs was not pleased with Tony, that he had discarded him on a personal level, so …” Ziva shrugged.
The laughter was raw, grating, a sound borne of desperation and bitterness instead of joy. For a long moment Tony didn’t even realize that horrible noise was coming from him.
“Tony.” Abby’s face was pale, mascara smeared along one cheek. McGee sat, frowning, lips pushed forward in a familiar pout. And the third figure, her long, dark hair fluttering in the breeze, sat, shoulders hunched forward, her dark eyes open far too wide.
“C’mon, now that’s funny!” Tony sputtered, his fingers digging bruises into his knees. “Boss, you’ve gotta love the irony here!” He staggered to his feet. “Your precious Rule Twelve,” he gasped, panting, wondering why it was so hard to catch his breath, “‘protecting me,’” he clawed at the air to emphasize his words. “Well thanks, Boss, that worked great!”
He wanted to run, to leave, to get away from the stares and the questions and the apologies that hadn’t even begun. He fumbled into his back pocket for his badge, his hands numb, useless, his calves banging into the metal chair as he shifted away. He blinked, head down, trying to ignore the warmth suddenly pressed close against his right side, unwilling to concentrate hard enough to make sense of the sounds around him. A callused hand moved to grip the back of his neck, urging him to turn, but he resisted, holding on tightly to his shattered control.
“Tony.”
Coffee scented breath brushed across his cheek. Sawdust and cheap after-shave filled his nostrils.
“Boss.” One soft word would break him, one murmured plea for forgiveness, one caressing glance.
“Looks like Officer David needs a little help understanding the concept of ‘team.’” Gibbs voice growled – a little too gruff and a little too desperate to completely disguise the regret. He cleared his throat. “And I need my Senior Agent to help me clean up this shit-fest.”
Tony breathed deeply as Gibbs stepped away, letting the panic, the hurt, and pain fall away, forced them back into the tightly locked box of his psyche. Senior Agent. Holder of crap jobs, sometimes clown, verbal punching bag, trusted second. No more, no less. He nodded. McGee, Abby, and Ziva were still waiting, watching, hopeful, wary.
“On it, Boss.”
That glaring, neon pink elephant in the room would just have to wait. Tony’s team needed him.
End
(Hmmm, I think it might need an epilogue. Yes? No?)
