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You're not there, when I wake up.
Did I send you away? I can't remember… blood loss and morphine have a way of scrambling my cogs beyond recognition. But I must have sent you away—I always do that, when all I want is for you to stay near.
It's only much later, when the blank spots begin to colour with all the ways I screwed up in the last many weeks, that I'm informed Leon sent you off to clean up my mess, while I remain benched and too doped to argue in the USS Daniel Webster. Then they pack me off home with a bum knee, enough anti-inflamatories to make my kidneys capsize and PT sessions till kingdom comes.
You visit me, sometimes. And you have that tight look about you, like a string seconds from snapping—you always do, when you gotta keep secrets from me. But it's not my place to push, not anymore. And it's high time my silences stop mattering so damn much to you. So you leave, and the visits grow farther apart until they cease.
The others come, beating themselves up for their sworn secrecy. In an insignificant corner of my ego, I'm pissed off at being left out—a third wheel to my own mistakes. But it's nothing that every other pain in my body and conscience won't drown. In my mind's eye, I can see vividly all that they won't share: you and Joanna Teague, hopping from the dusty heart of Iraq to some bustling urban center in Europe, or Asia, or whenever Daniel Budd might have left a whiff.
A bloodhound. That's what I reduced you to.
You're ready, Tony. More than ready. So why the hell won't you go? How many times do I have to shove you out of the damn nest before you fly?
Or maybe it's not you. Maybe you can just feel it, the pull behind every push. The strings of my threadbare heart, holding on to you. True to yourself, you trade the wide blue sky for your loyalty to me—and that's how my love cripples you.
~*~
I come back to work. Longer hair and neater clothes, in a half-hearted attempt to make something different outta myself. And there you are, every pointed gesture and glance a Morse code message of concern, driving me crazy. Asking me if we need to talk. Deferring to my pain like you're not carrying inside yourself the death of a young man—shot in the knee, and in the chest, lex talionis. Like my failure hasn't made a murderer out of you.
No, I don't wanna talk.
You have always called me a functional mute, DiNozzo. You know me well, but you don't know it all. If only you knew how much my mind talks. How it never stops, except when I'm up to the gills, drifting somewhere between don't ask and gone, and even then… My mind, it's a dredge. It scoops mud, weeds and all kinds of trash from the bottom of my memories, and counts my errors like sheep till I cannot sleep. It talks so much it even conjures up ghosts, when nothing else will do.
At some point, in the haze of medicated sleep, Kelly's ghost has asked me who will stop the bad guys, if not me. And here is my finger on the trigger. And over there is Pedro Hernandez' brain, oozing from the shattered eggshell of his head onto the floor of his goddamned truck. Serves him right.
Sorry, baby. Dad's the bad guy now.
I wish I could rest in the certainty that at least you don't know how this feels.
(Daniel Budd's body collapsing silently in some distant Chinese alley)
But I've made you my creature, Tony, and that's also on me.
~*~
"You think you know everything, DiNozzo. You don't."
"I'm just trying to protect you here."
"You know why you got sidelined? This."
"This?"
"This isn't about me."
I'm hard on you. Maybe too hard. I never seem to get it right. Too much, too little. Never enough. With McGee, Bishop... I can keep it clean. Straight. But you? No, Tony—everything about you hits too close. With you, it's always personal.
You take my silence either as reproach, or as a sign that I'm ten steps ahead in the advanced strategy game that you think I play. You never take it for what it often is—just me, not really knowing what to say. Lost for words at how you give me everything you've got like it's nothing, and take so little for yourself.
I can't have you believing I'm the end-all, be-all, Tony, when I need you to be better than me. When I know that you can—heck, you already are—better than me. So I urge you. Keep your eyes on the team. Keep your head in the case. Do your job. Forget my goddamned six.
Somewhere inside you, you have built me this altar. You've made me this unwavering hero, who stares down danger until it withers, who always knows exactly what to do. And I won't lie—I've basked in the light of your adoration, I've stood on that pedestal, wanting to believe in this infallible Gibbs that you created. Trusting that you'd already be far away by the time the curtain fell.
I should've known better.
But can you see me now, Tony? See me as I see myself, half-dressed in front of the mirror, my skin an old map of scars that only hint at the ugliness of the wounds? Can you see the fine lines, the prickly stubble, the rising veins beneath the thinning skin? Because this is what I am. There is no hero, Tony. There is only this aging bastard, full of flaws, mistakes and regrets.
Not what you asked for. A helluva less than you deserve.
~*~
You drop in as I am packing to California, still bent on having the talk. The garment bag is an excuse, we both know it, but it makes me smile. Trust you to always notice the details, to step in and up. It's just who you are—loyal to a fault to others. Merciless to yourself.
You wanna talk Iraq, but Iraq is just another place where we've done our job and bled for it. Iraq was just me, insisting on making things right by dint of my misplaced will, and making everyone else pay the piper. And I can't stand it, this straitjacket of guilt you wrap yourself into, for my sake. You owe me nothing, DiNozzo. And yet—
"Years ago, you had a shot at your own team. You turned it down."
"Yeah, that was my decision."
"Do you wanna be a leader, or not?"
"You mean, do I wanna be you?"
"Day I joined NIS all I had was a reason. Things change. The reason stays the same. It's always with me. Never leaves."
"Shannon and Kelly."
"Either you got a reason or you don't."
Because that's what it is about. Without a reason, you're adrift; with one, you're bound to it. I don't say it, but Shannon and Kelly are no longer my only reason. The team's a reason. They're family now, and I want to be there for them for as long as I can. You are a reason—and I sure as hell don't want you to be anything like me.
But it can't be helped, can it? The more we dance, the more you take my steps for your own. When does the music stop, I wonder. When I finally barge outta the ballroom, and order you to stay behind like I did when I took off to Mexico? Or when I draw back, one step at a time, till we're so far apart we fall completely out of sync? Either way, I lose you. And if I were a decent man, that would be an acceptable price to pay for your freedom.
~*~
Funny how nothing quite heals after a certain age.
Take the knee, for instance. Months of PT, plenty of skipped doctor appointments, and I still can't take my pants off standing. Can't work long on the boat without having to sit down like a cripple. The knee acts up at the slightest barometric change, grumbles at any extra effort, like it's got a goddamn mind of its own. At this rate, I might as well give it a name and a social security number.
I wonder if it's like that, with you. If the injured leg still aches sometimes after so long, a token of the road not taken. You always say you have no regrets. That you are right where you want to be. But are you happy, Tony? Is this enough?
I can tell it's you by the low rumble of your engine when you pull in. The opening and shutting of my front door, your familiar steps into my house, my living room, my kitchen, my life. The treacherous little thing my heart does at the sounds of your arrival. Of course you are here. Seems I can't think too long about you without you hearing it somehow. And answering.
Why are you here, Tony? Still. Again.
"Already down in the basement, I see," you say out loud, announcing yourself. As if you need to. "Aren't there doctor's orders against that?"
"Not anymore", I mumble, sanding the wood slowly.
"At least you're sitting down."
Your good-natured grin catches me off guard, and my scowl doesn't stand a chance. I crack a tentative smile, keeping my eyes on the boat, but all my other senses are tuned to you.
"Is it a bad time, boss?"
"Never a better time than now, DiNozzo."
"Really?" Your voice drops a register, quieter now, cautious. "'Cause I haven't been so sure lately."
"Front door's still unlocked, isn't it?"
"Yeah. But you're still holding your cards close. If you know what I mean."
For Chrissake. And they call me stubborn. I set down the sandblock, lift off my safety goggles, and turn on the bench—finally facing you. So there's no mistaking this is an actual attempt at a conversation. My best damn try.
"What do you want, Tony?"
You tense up, obviously taking my abrupt tone as a blow-off. I don't know who to blame for this—my own verbal incompetence or the full body armour of ambiguity you wear, to keep everyone at arm's length. So when things don't go your way, you can always pretend you didn't mean it. How am I supposed to reach you, when you hide in a pantomime? Because the enigma wrapped up in a riddle has never been me, Tony, no. I'm a lot simpler than you give me credit for.
I watch your back straighten, a little too rigid. It borders on confrontational, but I know you're just bracing yourself for whatever you think is coming. And it's never anything good.
"Well, when you ask it point-blank like that—"
"From me, Tony," I interrupt, trying to keep my voice light. Comes out gruff anyway. "'Cause it's clear you've been wanting something, but I just can't seem to get it right. So tell me."
You take two steps back on the stairs, grip the railing tightly. You don't bolt, but I can see your eyes scanning for the nearest escape hatch. It can be a physical door or a verbal detour, or both. Typical. You want us to talk, Tony, but you keep expecting me to figure you out, like a goddamned mind-reader. The silence stretches for so long, I consider turning back to the boat. Then I hear you sigh.
"I want you to stop almost dying on me, Gibbs."
"Could ask the same from you, DiNozzo," I counter, standing up slowly so as to not upset my lame knee. And I can see it takes you a lot not to rush to my side.
You snort, sharp and defensive. "It's not the same."
"That so?" I demand, and now I'm getting real tired of this. I might be the functional mute here, but you can be full of crap yourself sometimes. "Then what is it? Afraid you can't do it without me? Think you can't lead the team—"
"It's not about the team," you grit out.
"No?" I ask, crossing my arms. "Well, Tony. You said you wanted to talk. So talk. Or are we just gonna keep going in circles?"
Your eyes narrow on me. "I know I can lead the team, Gibbs," you say, steady as steel, though I catch the strain beneath. I give you a nod and take a step closer, encouraging you to go on. Maybe we'll get somewhere this time.
"Weeks ago, you asked me my reason for being here," you start reaching for that easy smile you use to smooth things over, but it doesn't stick. Your eyes are all nerves, like you're fixing to drop a bomb right on my lap. "And here's where it gets really complicated, because I actually have a reason. I've always had one. You."
No. This can't be it. This can't—
"You are my reason, Gibbs," you repeat, softly now. "Always with me. Never leaves."
And by the time your words sink in, you're already peeling out of my driveway, tires squealing. Damn it, DiNozzo.
~*~
Stay with me, Tony, as I tear through the streets.
Too little, too late, uh? Guilty as charged, but I still need you to stay with me. I don't know if there's still time to fix any of this—all I know is that I gotta try. So I barrel through yellow lights, I roll stops, I weave. I gamble on the hopes that no cop is really watching the streets after 2 AM.
Why? Because to hell with it, that's why. Because I oughta tattoo Rule 51 somewhere on my damn body, just to remind myself to get off the high horse once in a while. I've always known that my love for you was ruining you, Tony. I just never understood how.
Way to go, Gunny, making assumptions. Rule 8 is another one that deserves a tattoo.
I snort, ruefully, my knuckles white on the wheel. Like any of my rules could have prepared me for you.
You open your door after the fifth knock. Your whiskey breath tells me that you've been drinking, but you're steady on your feet. You step aside, begrudgingly, and stretch out your arm in a mock gesture of welcome. I see what you're doing, Tony. I won't let you slip through my fingers.
"Say it, DiNozzo," I ask, trying to pin your eyes with my own, so you'll stop running.
You clench your jaw. "Bold of you to barge into my apartment—"
"I didn't barge in," I state, quietly. "You let me in."
You've got the gall to look pissed off. You hate being caught mid-detour. I see your wheels turning—already figuring how to steer away, how to twist the words. You're a real piece of work, you know that, DiNozzo? I cut in before the armour of bullshit is back on.
"C'mon, Tony. Just say it."
Ball's in your court now. You fight yourself a moment, then drop your guard.
"I don't know what to say, Gibbs. I just… I can't live without you."
Your words pull a dry chuckle out of me. For all the gab you've got, for the things that matter you can be as inarticulate as me. I can't help but probe.
"Didn't you tell Ziva that?"
You blink, taken aback for a moment. "Yeah, I did. Back in Somalia. How d'you know that?"
"McGee," I answer with a shrug, and you let out a self-deprecating grin. But there's no real humour behind it, only hurt.
"I did, and she still turned me away," you comment, almost casually. "Is that what you came here to do? Turn me away?"
"Is that what I am? Ziva's fill-in?"
It's a low blow, I know it. But it shakes you up just right. "No! Not even close, I mean... Ziva is a dear friend. But you, Gibbs… you're my reason."
And it never ceases to amaze me, Tony, how easily you knock me to shambles. If only you knew the power your truth has over me. "Not sure I deserve to be, Tony…"
"That's my decision to make. And look, I'm not asking you to change."
"What're you asking, then?"
"More," you say, and the ache in your voice scrapes something raw in me. "Just… more."
I don't leave you hanging. I encroach on your space before you can second-guess it, holding you gently by the chin. Your eyes don't leave mine as I do what I've forbidden myself to even think about for years. I kiss you.
It's no neat movie kiss. It's hard and frantic, only softening when I feel your lips yield wetly beneath mine. This is my way of saying it—everything. You know I can't do anything by halves, Tony. And I'm done wasting time.
I pull back to watch you—the changes in your face, the moist green of your eyes. They widen, like you can't believe what just happened. I take in your lips, flushed and slightly parted, because your heart is racing between us and you need more air. Because you want to speak up, but love is a grenade and you ain't got no movie quotes or smartass one-liners for that.
I know it. I'm right here with you. My heart, that stubborn horse, racing like it has forgotten itself. Running all the way to you.
You smile, and it's not like any smile I have ever seen. It's open and brilliant, miles apart from subdued grins you've been wearing lately. It strips you from all artifice. It says you're right here with me, too.
I could strip every piece of clothing from your body, Tony, and still you'd never be as naked to me as you are right now.
~*~
We end up in your bedroom by some miracle of coordination.
You're stripped down in no time, comfortable in your skin as you've always been. Me, I take a while. I sit on your bed, and I unwrap myself slowly, suddenly self-conscious about the reality of me, of how I will appear before you—my body, a terrain shaped by loss.
But desire is the weight of your gaze on me, Tony, wanting this body, this heart, this man, after all. So I pull down my underwear, my last protection, and offer myself entirely to your eyes. See, Tony? This is all that I am. Flesh, bone, some stubborn muscle, skin. This is all I have to give. This is the table of me, more famine than feast. I'll still welcome your hunger, though, if you'll have me.
I needn't ask—you say yes with your body, falling back into the pillows and pulling me down with you. I follow.
Now this is my body next to your body, my tongue exploring the depths of your mouth. My teeth biting the fullness of your lips, the corded juncture of your neck. And these are my hands, mapping you, your chest, your shoulders, your flanks, your back, everything just right. Can you feel me, Tony? Here, making up for the mistakes of my words with my touch?
And these are your hands running down my sweaty back, grabbing me by the buttocks, the hair, pulling me close, closer, closer still. These are your lips, chasing my kiss when I pull back to breathe, parting with a needful sigh when I fit our bodies together, showing you exactly what you do to me.
Your head snaps back with a mute cry when my fingers reach for your hardness between us. I feel you in my hand, the weight and girth of you, and palm your heat while you offer your neck to my hungry mouth. If I were a musician, Tony, I'd play you, just to hear the sounds you make. But me, I'm a mere woodworker, I can only carve your pleasure out.
I stroke you, watching your face for signs that I'm getting the rhythm right. If only you could see, Tony, what I see—the flush rising on your haired chest, the subtle trembling of your limbs, your thighs parting to give me more room to work. Gorgeous. You leak wetly on my fingers, groaning and begging as my movements get easier, fucking yourself in my hand till it's too much and you come all over us, crying out my name.
I give you some room to catch your breath, but not too much. I kiss you again, swallowing your tired little gasps, chasing your taste, and then it's your hand on me, grasping and pulling expertly till I'm forced to break away from your lips for air. Till searing bliss spreads from your touch to my spine and legs, and I'm lost, completely lost in you.
I come grunting against your cheek, covering you in my seed, spit, and all that is left of me. You watch me as the pleasure subsides, like you've been given a gift. A lonely tear slips from the corner of your eye, even though you're smiling, and I wipe it away with a calloused thumb.
Don't worry Tony. I'm done pushing you out of the nest.
I'll build a new one with you, instead.
~*~
I'm not sure what time it is, but I gotta hit the head.
Your bathroom mirror's too big. Got those built-in lights that make me feel like Dr. Taft's about to operate on me again. Figures. I hit the goddamned switch off before I go blind.
Then I catch myself in the dimmer, more generous light of early morning. The fine lines, the prickly stubble, the rising veins beneath the thinning skin. My hair looks like I crawled out of a ditch, and I could definitely use a shower. I want to laugh at the bright-eyed wild man staring back at me, but he doesn't look so bad—just a little less tight around the edges, I guess. That's new. I put my hand over my heart and, yeah, it's still beating. It's still me. And my gut tells me, it's gonna be alright.
So it's back to bed. Back to you.
Nothing will ever be the same, you know? Being together will change everything. And you will change too, Tony. That's ok. I can change with you. I can try to be more than my regrets, and better than my mistakes.
It's about the future now, right, Kelly? Guess dad won't know till he tries.
I join you once more under the covers. The dawn glows on your exposed skin, an invitation. My arms seek the strength of your body and I tether myself to you, to never let go. You let out a deep sigh, like you've been holding your breath for a lifetime, waiting for me to come.
Sleep now, Tony. I'll be here when you wake up.