Fic: Ginger Snaps - Part Two (Gibbs/DiNozzo, PG-13)
Title: Ginger Snaps (Part Two)
Author: little_ozzo (Jules)
Word Count: 16,750+ (in total)
Rating: PG-13
Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo, Gibbs/Shannon (peripherally)
Summary: Five times Gibbs and DiNozzo meet pre-series.
Spoilers: Pre-series, but mentions and interprets all back story given for Gibbs and Tony so far, up to Season 7. Canon will probably de-rail this in January. Minor change to a fact given in 6x04 Heartland.
Warnings: Bad language, references to sexual activity, brief but graphic description of a murder involving a child.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: This is a fairly self-indulgent fic, though technically plausible. Feedback and constructive criticism would be really appreciated! Un-Americanized, so apologies for that and any weird Britishisms I’ve thrown in by accident. ETA: some of these have been rectified, thanks to some very helpful commenters, and also thanks to tejas, who put up with my whiny impatience to beta this despite my cluelessness over geography, how to speak, and aversion to full stops - or periods! Hey, I'm getting it! She's a diamond, thanks hon!
Ginger Snaps - Part Two
3a. 1993
4. 1996
“Hey, Mister, I think you’ve had enough.”
Gibbs heard the words clearly enough, but when he tried to reply, his voice failed him, coming out slurred and unintelligible. He fumbled for the glass of bourbon he knew was in front of him, thinking he probably just needed to wet his lips.
His fingers closed around the glass, and the voice sliced through his brain once more. “Uh uh, I definitely think you’re done with that.”
He felt a tug on his fingers, someone trying to dislodge them from the glass, and he growled and pulled away. The momentum had him falling woozily sideways off the bar stool he was perched on, and he felt the glass go flying out of his hands.
He managed to catch himself on the bar so that he didn’t face plant right on the floor, but it was a hard-won struggle. By the time he’d recovered his equilibrium and his stomach had settled, he looked up and saw someone - the bartender, maybe, he couldn’t quite tell with his vision whirling like it was - holding back another guy from getting to him.
“Easy, Rick, the guy’s dead drunk, he wasn’t aiming it at you or anything,” he heard that first voice say.
“That glass landed right above my fucking head, shit-for-brains, he coulda killed me,” another voice protested, presumably the guy currently trying to get to Gibbs. “He wants to get drunk, I’m gonna show him what it’s like to be punch-drunk!”
“You’ve really gotta work on your catch phrases, Ricky,” the bartender sighed.
“Hey, if I gotta get through you, Mike, don’t think I won’t!”
Gibbs took umbrage at that - he disliked the thought of someone trying to kill a guy who was trying to stand up for him - and so he fumbled at his hip for his weapon. It took him a little longer than usual to find it, but when he did, he brandished it proudly. “Ricky,” he slurred, “you let Mike go. He’s a nice guy.”
“Woah, fuck,” he heard one of them breathe shakily.
“Hey, Mister, I appreciate the sentiment and all, but maybe you could just put the gun away and we’ll talk this out with no shooting, okay?” Mike attempted, sounding scared. Gibbs frowned - he wasn’t going to shoot him, but it was kind of hard to focus on which was Mike and which was Rick, and blinking only seemed to make his vision swirl more.
He squinted, then jumped as the door slammed open and a new voice entered the mix. “It is freezing out there, Mike, I need a-”
“Hi, Tony,” Mike said, gulping audibly. “We’ve kind of got a little situation here.”
“Yeah, I see that. Which one of you pissed this guy off - oh, fuck!”
“No prizes for guessing - Tony, what’s wrong?” Mike lowered his voice then, but Gibbs had always had excessively keen hearing and so he heard his whisper. “You recognise this guy? Is he some psycho mass-murderer or something?”
“No,” the strangely familiar voice said, sounding a little shell-shocked. “No, he’s a cop. Fed, actually.”
“You got your gun?” That was Rick again, sounding high-pitched and scared. Gibbs tried to home in on his voice and adjusted his aim unsteadily. “Holy shit, Tony, shoot him before he kills us all!”
“Shut up, Rick, and try not to wet your pants. Let me through, Mike.”
Gibbs saw the new guy step up, right into his line of fire, and he growled in frustration. “You’re in my way,” he said.
“Gibbs, do you recognise me?” the new guy asked gently. “It’s Tony.”
Yeah, he’d heard Mike call him that. He swallowed hard, trying to make the connection with the name in his mind. He thought of food, and the feel of hair against his palm, and a strange sense of calmness and warmth. “Tony. Anthony?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you remember me? You bought me a cheeseburger and fries and a chocolate sundae at a diner in DC.”
Gibbs felt a sudden, unexpected wave of relief flush over him. “Hey, kid. I told you our paths would cross again.”
“I should have trusted your gut,” Tony said, a smile in his voice. “Hey, listen, you want to put the gun down and we can catch up a little?”
He was having a little trouble remembering why he had his weapon out in the first place, so he shrugged. “Sure,” he agreed, and he let the firearm drop down.
Tony moved forward slowly, reaching out carefully, and Gibbs felt warm fingers fasten around his hand, loosening his grip on the gun. “Thanks, Gibbs,” he heard Tony murmur, right up close to him. He felt a wave of dizziness and nausea hit him, and leaned forward, reaching out to grab Tony’s waist and hold himself upright.
“I got it,” Tony said, though he didn’t seem to be talking to him.
“Christ on a mother-fucking bike. Come on, Tony, cuff him.”
“Mike, get him out of here.”
“Sure thing, Tony. Rick, get out. Everyone, out. I’m closing up for tonight.”
“How’ve you been, Tony?” Gibbs asked, clutching at Tony’s shirt. He was warm under his hands, solid and real, and it was strange, Gibbs thought, to be touching him so much when he’d only ever made contact with his hair and jaw before.
“I’ve been okay, Gibbs. I’ve been great, compared to you, it looks like. What happened?”
His voice was so very quiet and gentle, really concerned, and his hands were holding Gibbs up, one at his waist and the other at his elbow. Gibbs felt his stomach lurch, and he leaned his forehead against Tony’s torso, feeling something in his chest break as he thought about Shannon, and Kelly, and the last case he’d worked on. He could see it so clearly, even now, a week after he’d taken off from the office: the way he’d ignored the terrified looks that Steve, the new guy, had thrown at him as he pinned up photos of the dead mother and child, curled together on the floor of the little girl’s playroom, bullet wounds in their chests and bellies. There had been tiny little red handprints marking a trail on the carpet, and at the crime scene Ducky had looked at them over the top of his glasses with a sad look on his face before he told Gibbs that the little girl hadn’t died immediately - she’d bled to death, slowly, from the bullet in her stomach, and while she was dying she’d somehow summoned the strength to get onto her hands and knees and crawl over to her mother, so she could die in her arms. “Everything,” he croaked, hating how very shattered his voice sounded, and then his stomach lurched again and he threw up all over Tony’s shoes.
What happened after that was kind of a blur - he remembered his eyes feeling hot and wet, and he remembered Tony wrapping one arm around his waist and ducking his head under Gibbs’ arm and patiently helping him up the stairs. “Hey, it’s a good thing I’ve got the apartment upstairs,” he heard Tony saying, the younger man chattering constantly in that oddly soothing way of his. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world … I’m really glad you walked into mine, Gibbs.”
He struggled to help as Tony laid him down on a comfortable bed and started to undress him, and he called out for him when he vanished, only for the mattress to sink as Tony sat down next to him and pushed the hair off his forehead. “Easy, easy. I went to get you some water and a bucket. You need to puke again, it’s right here.”
The spinning was easing off, by then, leaving a growing headache in its wake, and he looked up at Tony and managed to focus on his face for the first time that night. “You’re gorgeous, Tony, you know that?” he said, lifting one hand up to touch his face. The skin was smooth under his fingers and a faint layer of stubble, and Tony’s lips were soft and dry when he let his thumb rub over them.
“I’ve heard it said before,” Tony admitted, smiling against his palm, but his voice wasn’t happy. “Go to sleep, Gibbs. You’re going to feel like shit in the morning.”
“Why don’t you stay with me?” Gibbs asked, desperately, when Tony shifted his weight on the bed like he was going to get up. He reached up to rest his other hand on Tony’s lean hip. He was so warm, and solid, and constant. “I need …”
Tony leaned down so that Gibbs could see how very green his eyes were in the dim light. “I don’t know who you want right now, or who you’ve lost, but it’s a rule of mine not to sleep with anyone who’s still drunk enough they might throw up on me in the night. Believe me, Gibbs, it’s not that I don’t want to.”
He pulled back, standing, and then turned and left Gibbs alone in the dark room, one hand thrown mournfully over his eyes.
Gibbs woke up the following morning feeling, as Tony had predicted, like shit, but when he rolled onto his side, he found himself staring at a full glass of water with three aspirin next to it, all on top of a neatly scribbled note. Gibbs sat up carefully, downed the aspirin and drained the water, then picked up the note. Out for a run. Will be back by 9, help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. No coffee, sorry. I’ll bring some back. Tony. P.S. Help yourself to my toothbrush.
He stumbled into the bathroom, and saw that Tony had left a pair of jeans and a sweater for him to wear, and he showered quickly, grateful for the hot water that left him feeling a lot more human. He used Tony’s toothbrush like he’d said to, and then he headed out into the rest of the apartment.
It was small and cramped, but neat enough, and at first glance it didn’t seem as though Tony had a whole lot of stuff. On examination of the window behind the couch, though, which didn’t seem to shut and explained the chill in the air, he nearly tripped over a pile of unpacked boxes, as though Tony had just moved in or was planning on moving out sometime soon. Gibbs wouldn’t blame him for wanting to; aside from the broken window, when he moved into the kitchen he saw that the microwave was shut with tape, and the lino on the floor was worn down and peeling at the corners.
The general rundown state of the apartment only caught Gibbs’ attention briefly, before he started to notice things about the place that interested him more - like the ballistics report lying on the coffee table, and the photos of blood spatter patterns on a cream wall, splashed over a family photograph. That brought back memories of his last case again, and he quickly put those face down on the sofa and headed over to investigate the leather shoulder holster hanging on the back of one of the mismatched dining chairs.
He searched the kitchen for anything edible that wasn’t Pop Tarts or kid’s cereal, and grimaced at the boxes of old takeout in the fridge, confirming his suspicions: cop. There were a couple of eggs, though, and some miraculously in-date milk, and a more thorough search turned up some butter and flour.
By the time Tony returned, at 9 o’clock on the dot, a cup of coffee in his hand, Gibbs was just about to flip the first pancake over.
“Hey, morning,” Tony said, handing over the coffee before grabbing a towel and scrubbing it over his sweat-dark hair. “That smells great - you look like you’re feeling better than I expected.”
“I am,” Gibbs said, taking a long, grateful drink. “That helps. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Tony said, sliding into a chair. “You sleep okay? You kinda sounded like you were having a rough night.”
He regularly suffered vivid, unpleasant dreams, he had done for years, but Karen had never mentioned him making noises in his sleep. He glanced over at Tony, who was casually examining a fingernail. “Did I disturb you?”
“No,” Tony said quickly, which Gibbs knew probably meant yes, but he didn’t really want to go into the matter any further. Except as he flipped another pancake onto the growing pile, he remembered another detail from the night before and grimaced.
“I think I puked on you,” he said, keeping his tone light, like they were both just talking about the weather.
“Not so much me as my Gucci shoes,” Tony said, briefly distraught.
“I’m really sorry, Tony,” Gibbs murmured, swallowing hard, and he heard Tony get up and move to stand behind him.
“I don’t give a shit about the shoes, Gibbs. I’m a little bit more worried about why you came to Peoria and got so blind drunk you pointed a gun at a room full of civilians, though!”
Gibbs turned around and pressed a heaped plate into Tony’s hands. “Eat.”
It was avoidance at its most obvious, but after a moment, Tony seemed to accept it, and went back to his seat. “What is your obsession with feeding me?” he asked. “Every single time I’ve met you, you’ve given me some kind of food - burger and fries last time, a candy bar the time before that, those ginger snaps-”
“You remember that?” Gibbs asked, surprised, as he sat down with his own plate and reached for the maple syrup he’d put on the table. He smiled slightly to see that Tony had slathered it all over his own pancakes too. “You didn’t recognise me, in the hospital.”
“I did, but only after you’d left,” Tony told him. “I don’t remember it very well - I was what, five? Six? But I remembered a Marine giving me a box of ginger snaps, and you know, your hair’s pretty memorable.”
Gibbs reached up to feel his hair automatically, the close cut at the sides and the longer strands on top.
“Those ginger snaps saw me through my childhood, seriously. I couldn’t go on a car journey without them. Still take them, if I’m going further than about an hour away. I bet my dad would thank you too, if he knew you were the one who cured me.” Tony looked down at his food, and shoved half a pancake in his mouth in one go, chewing loud and fast. He started talking again as soon as he’d choked it down. “He wouldn’t thank you if he knew you’re one of the reasons I became a cop. You figured that part out, right?”
Gibbs rolled his eyes and reached behind him to hook the holster with his finger. “Wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I hadn’t. But I wasn’t a cop when you first met me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have made a very good Marine, so it’s a good thing you changed professions,” Tony said. “I wouldn’t go for the hair, and I’m not that reliable.”
“You keep turning up in my life, regular as clockwork,” Gibbs pointed out mildly. “Every five years.”
“You think that’s how this works?” Tony frowned, thinking for a second. “Where were you in ‘81?”
“Must have missed you, that time. I was doing a lot of cold combat training overseas.”
“I started boarding school that year.”
“Explains it,” Gibbs said, taking another sip of hot, strong coffee. He looked over at the photographs he’d left on the couch. “Working a hot case?”
“Getting steadily colder,” Tony informed him, a muscle in his cheek twitching.
“Bad one,” Gibbs said, recognising the signs all too well.
Tony nodded.
“I know a little bit about them,” he said, and then, because Tony had always had this habit of drawing more out of him than he usually shared, and because he had thrown up on the guy and kicked him out of his bed, he added; “Had a lot of bad cases recently. One after the other.”
“I can understand that,” Tony said. “Makes you want to get in your car and keep on driving, sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” Gibbs agreed, knowingly. “You didn’t happen to find my car keys anywhere last night, did you?”
“Mike found them. I’ve got them safe, along with everything else in your pockets. I put your clothes in a bag by the door, you want to take them?”
Gibbs thought about it, and wrinkled his nose. They weren’t blood-stained, like other clothes he’d had to throw away after cases gone bad, and he didn’t think he’d even soiled them last night in his drunken haze, but something felt unclean about them.
“It’s cool, I’ll get rid of them,” Tony offered quickly.
“Thanks.” Gibbs lifted his coffee cup, and realised that it was almost empty. He drained it slowly, and put it down with a degree of reluctance. “I have to go back to DC.”
“You tell anyone you were coming up here?” Tony asked, getting up and crossing to the cupboard by the oven.
“I’ve been promoted. I don’t answer to anyone right now,” Gibbs informed him, feeling anger coil in his stomach at the memory of the way Franks had walked out on him just a couple of months ago, leaving him with a heap of responsibility he wasn’t sure he wanted and a nervous senator’s aide to train up.
Tony was rooting around behind some cans, and he tossed the keys to Gibbs’ car over his shoulder and onto the table with unerring aim. “I couldn’t find a wedding ring, so you might have some explaining to do when you get home,” he said casually.
Gibbs lifted his hand and fingered the white band around his finger that still hadn’t coloured up. “I’m between wives at the moment,” he said with a wry chuckle, and Tony turned around, placing the rest of Gibbs’ belongings on the counter behind him.
“Well, that explains your hitting on me last night, then. Had a change of heart from last time?”
Gibbs ran his eyes over Tony and the way his hips were angled against the counter as he leaned back, the running pants he was wearing clinging to his form and leaving little to the imagination - not that Gibbs’ mind didn’t fill in the rest of the picture. “Well, you look a lot less like jailbait, now,” he admitted, and laughed when Tony adjusted his pose just minutely, so that his hips rocked forward just that little bit further. “You were right to turn me down, though. What I’m looking for - it doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”
Tony looked disappointed. “I can try,” he offered. “I’m great at pretending. I’m always the first guy they go to for undercover work.”
“Dangerous work,” Gibbs said, unsurprised given what he’d seen over the years of Tony’s ability to control exactly which emotions he showed on his face. “You like being a cop?”
Tony shrugged. “The hours suck, most of the people suck, and the wages are crappy. I have to live in a shitty apartment with no heating over a dive of a bar just to keep myself in Zegna ties.” He broke into a wide grin. “But hey, the donuts are great.”
“I bet you’re real good at it,” Gibbs said, hearing the note of pride in his voice and not bothering to hide it at all. “I’m pleased you’re doing well, Tony.”
Tony flushed with pleasure, and fiddled idly with Gibbs’ badge. “You get my note?”
“Yeah,” Gibbs confirmed. “You should have waited. They pay better at NCIS, I wasn’t missing that $250.00. And if you’d waited the full five years, I’d have gotten a better deal due to inflation.”
“I guess my gut isn’t as good as yours, Gibbs. I wasn’t sure I’d see you in five years.”
“You’ve gotta trust your gut in this business, Tony,” Gibbs warned, getting to his feet and switching his keys from one side to the other. “You got any hunches about this case of yours?”
“One or two.”
“Follow them up. The evidence will come, if you’re right.”
“That sounds like boss-talk, Gibbs,” Tony said, running his long fingers over the golden eagle on Gibbs’ badge. If he stayed there much longer, Gibbs thought, he’d give in to those seductive hips and low voice.
“It is. Give me my badge, Tony. We’ve both got to get to work. You want me to mail these back up to you?” He gestured to the sweater and jeans Tony had lent him.
“Keep them. They look good on you,” Tony said, leering a little at the way the jeans hugged Gibbs’ thighs and bunched a little at his ankles. “My address might be changing, soon, anyway” he said nonchalantly, and Gibbs squinted, thinking about the unpacked boxes under the window. “If you’re so sure we’re gonna meet again in 2001, you can give me them back then. Here.” He handed over Gibbs’ badge, and then picked up Gibbs’ gun. He looked hesitant as he held it out, and when Gibbs reached out to take it, he met resistance.
“Tony. I’ll see you again. In five years. You believe me?” Gibbs asked, looking up and seeing the worry lining Tony’s face at handing the weapon over. “What does your gut say?”
The corner of Tony’s mouth crept up. “I’m not so sure I’m thinking with my gut, Gibbs.”
Gibbs couldn’t help but grin, outright, at that - the first time he’d smiled like that in a couple of months, before Khobar Towers and before Karen had handed him the divorce papers. He reached up and whacked Tony on the back of his head. “Start,” he ordered him, and then let his hand fall to squeeze Tony’s nape. He wasn’t expecting Tony to move like he did, stepping into the touch and drawing Gibbs into an awkward, stiff hug, but he relaxed into it after a moment and breathed in the salty, syrupy scent of Tony’s neck.
It was Tony who broke the embrace, pushing the gun against Gibbs’ chest to separate them, and when he spoke it was half begging, half threatening. “Five years,” he ground out. “I’ll see you then,” he said, and then he pushed off and headed for the bathroom, leaving Gibbs to grab his keys and leave.
“I promise, Tony,” Gibbs murmured, and headed back to Washington.
5. 2001
“Listen, Special Agent Gibbs, this is an FBI case. NCIS has no jurisdiction here - you will not win this one.”
Gibbs wavered between summoning his most furious, or most disdainful look, and eventually decided that the latter might irritate Agent Brooker a fraction more. “As soon as my ME gets here,” he drawled, “he’ll confirm that whoever killed this guy was following the same MO as the guy who left three dead sailors back in Anacostia. I do not need to fight you on this, because I have already won.”
Brooker was sweating in the hot August sun, having decided to rigidly stick to protocol and keep his flak jacket on. Gibbs had abandoned his earlier, and so was comfortably cool as Brooker spluttered in an extremely satisfying manner. “The fact that they’re sailors isn’t relevant to the case! We’re looking at a serial killer here who happened to start out on his killing spree down by the Navy Yard - he doesn't have a personal vendetta against boats, Gibbs, he’s just killing for the hell of it!”
“He still killed three sailors,” Gibbs responded, putting as much boredom into his voice as he possibly could and turning back to look at the body. “That makes this mine.”
“Gentlemen!” A loud, clear voice carried easily over the light breeze, and Gibbs’ ears twitched at the familiar tone. “Oh, my apologies, ladies,” the voice continued, in a lower, purposefully charming tone. “That’s a nice jacket, you look great in polka dots.” Gibbs stifled a chuckle, sensing Brooker stiffen beside him - yeah, he definitely knew that voice.
“I’ll start over. Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Anthony DiNozzo, and I will be your friendly Baltimore Police Department Liaison Officer today! Now, I know you’re all just dying to get into a big three-letter pissing contest over this body, but the fact remains that whoever wins this will have to work with me - and you should probably have a good long think about that before you make your case - in order to get swift, efficient access to our highly skilled team of forensic experts. Who’s first?”
Predictably, Brooker leapt in first, actually making his points with numbers, ticking them off on his fingers. Gibbs was still facing the body, not letting Tony see him just yet, and he waited for Tony to respond to Brooker with impossibly over-exaggerated seriousness: “That was extremely detailed and articulate, Agent Brooker. I will be sure to take all of your points on board and consider them very carefully. Now, who’s next?”
Gibbs stood up with a loud exhale and a fortuitous crack of his knees, knowing that he had timed it perfectly and that he was going to be the next object of attention. He waited half a second before turning, allowing Tony to notice the military haircut he still sported, despite Abby’s constant comments about growing it because it would apparently make him look hot.
“Detective DiNozzo,” he said, not quite able to keep the smile out of his voice even though he kept it off his face.
Tony, for all that he’d always been the best of them at schooling his emotions off his face, didn’t even do that: his face lit up with the widest, most genuine smile Gibbs had ever seen on him. “Let me guess, CIA?” he asked innocently, and Gibbs nearly choked on his suppressed laughter.
“NCIS,” he enunciated, bringing his cap out of his pocket and waving it so Tony could see the initials. “You heard of us?”
Tony scratched his head. “Have I seen you on TV?”
“They’re Navy cops,” Brooker interrupted. “This stiff’s not even close to being military, NCIS has no business taking the lead on this.”
“Agent …?” Tony said, cocking his chin.
“Special Agent Gibbs. I’m going to be your lead agent on this,” Gibbs said, confidence doubled by Tony’s arrival and further trebling as he saw Ducky arrive through the milling crowd of LEOs.
“Uh huh. How’d you figure that one, Gibbs?”
“Well, I have a medical examiner for you,” Gibbs said. “Duck, come on through!”
Ducky approached, and Brooker began to splutter in that ridiculously pleasing manner again. “DiNozzo,” he began, but Tony didn’t even look at him, still staring at Gibbs, when he cut him off.
“NCIS is taking the lead on this one,” Tony announced. “Four letters beats three. Why don’t you get your guys to set up and check out a perimeter?”
He left Brooker gaping in shock as he walked around the other side of the body and crouched down, Gibbs mirroring his actions on the opposite side.
“Got your body over here, Ducky,” Gibbs called, keeping his gaze on Tony too as the M.E. reached them, liver probe in hand. “Hey, Tony, you’re looking great,” he said casually.
“You too, Gibbs,” Tony replied, letting a note of lasciviousness creep into his voice.
“Oh, you two know one another!” Ducky commented pleasantly.
“Detective DiNozzo and I go way back,” Gibbs informed him.
“Nice to meet you, um, Ducky.”
“Dr. Donald Mallard,” Ducky explained. “The nickname has always stuck - I suspect Jethro is particularly fond of using it because it’s so short and easy to call me over, rather like a dog. How long have you known one another, then? Excuse me, my boy.”
Tony shifted sideways to allow Ducky to take the victim’s liver temperature.
“About twenty-five years,” Gibbs said.
“Or less than twenty-four hours, in total,” Tony added, and Ducky frowned in confusion.
“It’s a long story,” Gibbs said.
“Ah,” Ducky said. “Inappropriate for a crime scene, then?”
Gibbs chuckled. “Absolutely,” he agreed. “DiNozzo, let’s get to work.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
He and Tony worked together for the rest of the day, processing the crime scene until early afternoon, then interviewing the victim’s relatives and making up a list of potential suspects. Gibbs was both surprised and somehow not surprised at all at how easy it was to work with Tony, after five years of having quiet, obedient Stan Burley at his side, followed by nearly six months of working as a lone ranger. Tony was the complete opposite of that; chattering constantly as he worked about anything and everything, from movie quotes to sordid crime stories, reminding Gibbs of an x-rated Ducky. The mostly one-sided conversation, though, was peppered with well-timed pieces of useful information or shrewd observations, so that if at any moment Gibbs felt his general frustration at working on a difficult case threatening to turn into anger, Tony quickly pulled him back over the edge and - on most occasions - avoided a head slap.
He was, Gibbs realised, as they sat up in the precinct drinking cold, syrup-thick coffee and flicking through files late at night, exactly the kind of investigator he liked to work with: hard-working and obedient, despite the constant suggestive comments and hyperactive chatter.
It was nearly 3:00 AM when Gibbs decided to call an end to their day, having spent more of the last hour looking over at Tony, curled up in a chair in an absurdly awkward, uncomfortable-looking position, than he had looking over the case files. “Tony. Time to sleep.”
“Boss, I’m sure there’s something I’m missing,” Tony replied, the honorific slipping out with disturbing ease.
“Whatever it is, you’re not gonna spot it without getting some shuteye first,” Gibbs pointed out, and Tony’s jaw cracked with a sudden yawn, proving his point.
Tony switched off the monitor he was looking at and scrubbed at his eyes, looking very young, for a moment. He was pushing thirty now, Gibbs guessed, and could pass for mid-twenties, but for just a second he was the exhausted kid Gibbs had bought dinner for ten years ago - but during the course of the day, Gibbs had watched Tony pull his gun on a fleeing suspect, and there had been nothing childish in his expression at all.
Tony stood, stretching his arms up with a little whine, exposing his tanned, hairy stomach in a move that Gibbs suspected was entirely intentional. His suspicions were confirmed when Tony eased out of the stretch and aimed a seductive smile in his direction. “Your place or mine?” he asked with a sly grin, nodding at his desk and the one Gibbs had commandeered so that they could work on the case together.
Gibbs had seen Tony flirt with no less than six people that day, and he’d eyed up countless more, but there was a nervousness in Tony’s stance that told him that this wasn’t just flirting. “Tony,” he began, and watched as Tony registered his tone and instantly shut himself off.
“Hey, no worries,” he said lightly. “I’m not what you’re looking for, I get it-”
“Shut up, Tony, it’s not that,” Gibbs said. “What I was looking for before - I’ve learned, now, to quit looking.” He rubbed absently at the back of his head - the tan-line from his third wedding ring since Shannon had disappeared, now, but Stephanie and her baseball bat had left a more permanent reminder of their marriage.
“So, what? It’s been five - ten! - years, Gibbs,” Tony said quietly, almost a whine.
“I’ve got these rules, Tony. Rules that I stick to, and one of them is that co-workers do not get involved. Right now, we’re on a case, and that makes you my partner.”
Tony looked hurt, for a moment, and then Gibbs watched as he rolled that word quietly over his tongue: partners. He looked pleased, then, and Gibbs relaxed and bundled up his overcoat to toss on the floor as a makeshift pillow. He settled down onto it with a groan, listening as Tony prepared a temporary bed under his own desk. “So, Gibbs, that means that once we’re finished the case, we’re free from that rule, right?” he asked quietly, just as Gibbs was drifting into sleep.
“I guess it does, DiNozzo,” Gibbs replied, and fell into slumber with a smile on his face.
He woke up to a violent shake to his shoulder after what felt like only a couple of hours, and a painful squint at his watch confirmed that it was barely 5:00 AM. “DiNozzo, what the hell?” he asked, scrubbing at his dry, bleary eyes.
Tony looked as exhausted as he felt, cheeks pale and puffy and hair sticking up in every direction, but his eyes were feverishly bright. “You awake, boss?” His hands were on Gibbs, tapping at his waist, and Gibbs rolled his eyes and slapped him away.
“We’re still on the goddamn case, Tony, getting up early doesn’t count. You’ve waited long enough, surely one more day isn’t going to give you blue balls,” he half-moaned, and then growled and sat up, coming to full awareness as Tony burst into a fit of smothered laughter. “What?” he demanded.
“I’m not trying to sleep with you, Gibbs - not right now, anyway,” Tony managed to choke out through his mirth. “I think I’ve found something on the case. It’s good to know that your mind’s in the gutter, too, though.”
Gibbs blinked, caught out, and then struggled to his feet, feeling his face heat a little in embarrassment. He was grateful for the dim lighting in the squad room that hid his flush as Tony pulled him to sit in front of the grainy monitor he’d been looking at the previous night.
“See this? It’s the footage from that CCTV camera we checked earlier to see if we could get a glimpse of Todd and his killer.”
“Yeah, we saw them, but the only visual on the killer was his right leg and the top of head, DiNozzo, we got nothing useful from this.”
Tony was already shaking his head. “Look closer, right here, you see that homeless guy, right there? Now, it’s too dark in this video to get a good visual on him, but on this one-” he paused and changed tapes, and Gibbs watched as he stuck his tongue out in concentration and barely concealed anticipation at getting a lead- “see? We thought he was blind, ‘cause of the sign, but he’s a dummerer, Gibbs, he’s only pretending to be blind in order to get more money in his hat. Watch, watch, he drops his mug and knows exactly where to reach for it!”
“He could have seen something,” Gibbs realised, feeling adrenaline surge through his own system, tiredness forgotten. “You got an ID?”
“I’ve got five guys it might be, according to arrest records, so we’re going to have to go searching for him, but if he was there that night, Todd was killed just across the road from him. If he can ID the suspect, we’ve got our guy.”
“Good work, Tony,” Gibbs said, reaching out to rub his hand along Tony’s back.
“Just followed my gut,” Tony replied, turning under his touch to smile at him. Gibbs froze, for a moment, suddenly aware of how very close they were and how warm Tony’s knee was where it was pressed against his.
Tony leant in just a little bit, getting close enough so that he almost had to nod his head up and down to look at Gibbs’ eyes or lips. His breath tickled Gibbs’ nose warmly, and his cheeks were flushed like Gibbs’ were, green eyes turning dark.
Gibbs stared at him for a long moment, then lunged forward, wrapping one hand around Tony’s neck, and closing the scant distance between them for a kiss. Tony’s mouth was hot and willing, and he kissed like he talked; unceasingly, never stopping exploring Gibbs’ mouth with his tongue, alternating between gentle half-caresses of his lips and bruising nudges as the two men pushed against one another for control. When they finally pulled apart, Tony’s hands had slipped down to Gibbs’ upper thighs to hold himself up, and he was breathing heavily. “Do you have any idea how hot you are, Gibbs?” he panted, and Gibbs was taken aback by the sheer passion in his voice, and the openness on his features. Pure want and trust were written all over his face, and Gibbs was glad that the question appeared to be rhetorical, because he wasn’t sure he had enough breath left himself to form a reply.
“Maybe,” Tony tried after another moment; “Maybe we should have gone back to my place after all. I could do with a cold shower.”
Gibbs leaned forward and laughed into Tony’s neck, lips brushing against his pulse point. “Rule #12,” he breathed out. “Not until we’re done with the case.”
Tony leapt to his feet at that, grinning widely and recovering his breathing. “Then let’s solve this case, boss. Right now, let’s go. I don’t think I can wait.”
It took them six hours of trawling the streets before they managed to track down their potential witness, and it took about half an hour of playing bad-cop-worse-cop before they managed to get an ID on a Carl Rogers, a salesman with a murderous streak who had popped up in one of the cases Gibbs had investigated back in DC, but hadn’t been linked to the other two crime scenes with evidence. Three hours after that, evidence taken from Rogers’ rented motel room did tie him to those other two murders, and he was rocking back and forth in interrogation, chewing on his ragged, bloody nails and crying like a baby.
“Does outstanding paperwork count as still being on a case?” Tony whispered as they left his Captain’s office, earning himself a light swat to the back of the head.
“I can wait, Tony,” Gibbs said. “Go do the necessary stuff, I’ll just let Ducky know I’ll be staying an extra night.”
Tony grinned and practically skipped off to his desk, setting about the usual forms with an enthusiasm not usually associated with police paperwork, and Gibbs headed over to stand with Ducky next to the water cooler. He was just informing him of his plans - leaving Ducky to decide what the reasons for his extended stay were for himself - when his cell phone rang.
When he was finished, he flicked his phone shut with more force than was necessary, making Ducky flinch and look up at him with concern.
“Trouble, Jethro?” he enquired.
“Possibly. Looks like I’ll be travelling back with you after all.” Picking up his backpack, he went over to where Tony was bent over a pile of paperwork, and perched on the edge of his desk.
“Hey, Gibbs, I know I’m good, but I haven't finished yet,” Tony joked good-naturedly, and then sat back in his chair with trepidation when he saw the look on Gibbs’ face. He swallowed, looking bleak. “What?”
“It looks like I might not be able to stay on another night after all,” Gibbs began, and watched as Tony wiped his face clear of all emotion in that horrible, practiced way of his. “Hey, don’t do that,” he barked. “I got a call from the Director, and there’s been some serious intel on Al Qaeda movements, potential major threats coming soon. I can’t ignore that, Tony, you know I can’t.”
Tony’s face eased minutely. “Yeah, Gibbs, I understand. It’s just - I really don’t want to have to wait another five years, okay?”
Gibbs felt his gut churn ominously, and was suddenly struck with a horrible fear that he wouldn’t see Tony again, not ever, not even on their five-year schedule, if he let him go now. “So don’t,” he said.
“What?” Tony asked, confused. “Gibbs, I know Washington’s not that far but we’re both too caught up in our jobs to ever make something long-distance work. And I’m not reliable, Gibbs, this is the third job I’ve had in under six years and my feet are getting itchy again-”
“So come work for me,” Gibbs interrupted. “I’m a one-man team at the moment, and the Director’s been telling me I need to find good men.”
Tony stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, but Gibbs could tell he was considering it. He had been shying away from hiring someone to be on his team for so long, rejecting all the agents he was assigned because he didn’t think he could stand yet another person leaving him in the lurch, but right now he didn’t think he could stand leaving Tony in Baltimore and risk not seeing him again. “Rule #12,” Tony said hoarsely. “Would it still apply?”
Gibbs swallowed, thinking about Jenny, and answered with regret, “Yeah, Tony, it still applies. For now, it’s still a rule.”
“It’s a big risk, Gibbs,” Tony said, mulling it over. “Either I say no, and I risk not seeing you for another five years, if at all, or I come with you and I don’t get to be with you until you decide it’s okay. That right?”
“Hey, you already worked out I’m a bastard, Tony. But I’ll do everything I can to scratch those feet of yours.”
Tony started to smile at that, slow and sweet, and Gibbs stifled a sigh of relief at the flush he spotted rising on Tony’s cheeks - he nearly had him. “You hand in your resignation, Tony, and in two weeks time you come down to Washington and you start training at FLETC. Here. Have something for the journey.” He leaned back to rummage briefly in his backpack for the item he’d been carrying around all summer, and tossed it into Tony’s lap.
He hopped down off the desk as Tony flipped the box over in his hands, and then burst into a bolt of laughter that turned a couple of heads. “Washington’s only forty miles away!” he said with a grin.
Gibbs was already starting to walk away, but he threw one more incentive over his shoulder as he did. “You won’t officially be on my team until you’re finished at FLETC, Tony. Rule #12 will not apply.” He didn’t need to look back to see the smile grow on Tony’s face.
He met Ducky back at the water cooler, tossing his backpack over one shoulder. Ducky was waiting for him, ready to go, and he looked up at Gibbs curiously. “What on earth did you give him, Jethro?”
Gibbs could feel himself grinning, knew that he looked ridiculous, and didn’t care. “Ginger snaps.”
End.
Note: Just a last, quick one, but getting that admittedly pretty awful shot of Tony's note and the money was tougher than I thought it was going to be - I'm in the UK, and have no American bank notes, so I decided to print those out - not realising that my printer has, like, some anti-counterfeiting detector and literally would not let me! It beeped and flashed a warning on my screen! Presumably my printer does not actually have a direct line to the FBI, though hopefully Fornell's lot would be smart enough to realise that a geek girl would have absolutely no use for one-sided, wrong-sized American money in the middle of the Scottish countryside. Thought I'd share that awkwardness with you - and if anyone does require $250.00 in fake bills for fanfic purposes, let me know! ;-)
Directory: Part One | Part Two
Author: little_ozzo (Jules)
Word Count: 16,750+ (in total)
Rating: PG-13
Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Gibbs/DiNozzo, Gibbs/Shannon (peripherally)
Summary: Five times Gibbs and DiNozzo meet pre-series.
Spoilers: Pre-series, but mentions and interprets all back story given for Gibbs and Tony so far, up to Season 7. Canon will probably de-rail this in January. Minor change to a fact given in 6x04 Heartland.
Warnings: Bad language, references to sexual activity, brief but graphic description of a murder involving a child.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: This is a fairly self-indulgent fic, though technically plausible. Feedback and constructive criticism would be really appreciated! Un-Americanized, so apologies for that and any weird Britishisms I’ve thrown in by accident. ETA: some of these have been rectified, thanks to some very helpful commenters, and also thanks to tejas, who put up with my whiny impatience to beta this despite my cluelessness over geography, how to speak, and aversion to full stops - or periods! Hey, I'm getting it! She's a diamond, thanks hon!
Ginger Snaps - Part Two
3a. 1993
4. 1996
“Hey, Mister, I think you’ve had enough.”
Gibbs heard the words clearly enough, but when he tried to reply, his voice failed him, coming out slurred and unintelligible. He fumbled for the glass of bourbon he knew was in front of him, thinking he probably just needed to wet his lips.
His fingers closed around the glass, and the voice sliced through his brain once more. “Uh uh, I definitely think you’re done with that.”
He felt a tug on his fingers, someone trying to dislodge them from the glass, and he growled and pulled away. The momentum had him falling woozily sideways off the bar stool he was perched on, and he felt the glass go flying out of his hands.
He managed to catch himself on the bar so that he didn’t face plant right on the floor, but it was a hard-won struggle. By the time he’d recovered his equilibrium and his stomach had settled, he looked up and saw someone - the bartender, maybe, he couldn’t quite tell with his vision whirling like it was - holding back another guy from getting to him.
“Easy, Rick, the guy’s dead drunk, he wasn’t aiming it at you or anything,” he heard that first voice say.
“That glass landed right above my fucking head, shit-for-brains, he coulda killed me,” another voice protested, presumably the guy currently trying to get to Gibbs. “He wants to get drunk, I’m gonna show him what it’s like to be punch-drunk!”
“You’ve really gotta work on your catch phrases, Ricky,” the bartender sighed.
“Hey, if I gotta get through you, Mike, don’t think I won’t!”
Gibbs took umbrage at that - he disliked the thought of someone trying to kill a guy who was trying to stand up for him - and so he fumbled at his hip for his weapon. It took him a little longer than usual to find it, but when he did, he brandished it proudly. “Ricky,” he slurred, “you let Mike go. He’s a nice guy.”
“Woah, fuck,” he heard one of them breathe shakily.
“Hey, Mister, I appreciate the sentiment and all, but maybe you could just put the gun away and we’ll talk this out with no shooting, okay?” Mike attempted, sounding scared. Gibbs frowned - he wasn’t going to shoot him, but it was kind of hard to focus on which was Mike and which was Rick, and blinking only seemed to make his vision swirl more.
He squinted, then jumped as the door slammed open and a new voice entered the mix. “It is freezing out there, Mike, I need a-”
“Hi, Tony,” Mike said, gulping audibly. “We’ve kind of got a little situation here.”
“Yeah, I see that. Which one of you pissed this guy off - oh, fuck!”
“No prizes for guessing - Tony, what’s wrong?” Mike lowered his voice then, but Gibbs had always had excessively keen hearing and so he heard his whisper. “You recognise this guy? Is he some psycho mass-murderer or something?”
“No,” the strangely familiar voice said, sounding a little shell-shocked. “No, he’s a cop. Fed, actually.”
“You got your gun?” That was Rick again, sounding high-pitched and scared. Gibbs tried to home in on his voice and adjusted his aim unsteadily. “Holy shit, Tony, shoot him before he kills us all!”
“Shut up, Rick, and try not to wet your pants. Let me through, Mike.”
Gibbs saw the new guy step up, right into his line of fire, and he growled in frustration. “You’re in my way,” he said.
“Gibbs, do you recognise me?” the new guy asked gently. “It’s Tony.”
Yeah, he’d heard Mike call him that. He swallowed hard, trying to make the connection with the name in his mind. He thought of food, and the feel of hair against his palm, and a strange sense of calmness and warmth. “Tony. Anthony?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you remember me? You bought me a cheeseburger and fries and a chocolate sundae at a diner in DC.”
Gibbs felt a sudden, unexpected wave of relief flush over him. “Hey, kid. I told you our paths would cross again.”
“I should have trusted your gut,” Tony said, a smile in his voice. “Hey, listen, you want to put the gun down and we can catch up a little?”
He was having a little trouble remembering why he had his weapon out in the first place, so he shrugged. “Sure,” he agreed, and he let the firearm drop down.
Tony moved forward slowly, reaching out carefully, and Gibbs felt warm fingers fasten around his hand, loosening his grip on the gun. “Thanks, Gibbs,” he heard Tony murmur, right up close to him. He felt a wave of dizziness and nausea hit him, and leaned forward, reaching out to grab Tony’s waist and hold himself upright.
“I got it,” Tony said, though he didn’t seem to be talking to him.
“Christ on a mother-fucking bike. Come on, Tony, cuff him.”
“Mike, get him out of here.”
“Sure thing, Tony. Rick, get out. Everyone, out. I’m closing up for tonight.”
“How’ve you been, Tony?” Gibbs asked, clutching at Tony’s shirt. He was warm under his hands, solid and real, and it was strange, Gibbs thought, to be touching him so much when he’d only ever made contact with his hair and jaw before.
“I’ve been okay, Gibbs. I’ve been great, compared to you, it looks like. What happened?”
His voice was so very quiet and gentle, really concerned, and his hands were holding Gibbs up, one at his waist and the other at his elbow. Gibbs felt his stomach lurch, and he leaned his forehead against Tony’s torso, feeling something in his chest break as he thought about Shannon, and Kelly, and the last case he’d worked on. He could see it so clearly, even now, a week after he’d taken off from the office: the way he’d ignored the terrified looks that Steve, the new guy, had thrown at him as he pinned up photos of the dead mother and child, curled together on the floor of the little girl’s playroom, bullet wounds in their chests and bellies. There had been tiny little red handprints marking a trail on the carpet, and at the crime scene Ducky had looked at them over the top of his glasses with a sad look on his face before he told Gibbs that the little girl hadn’t died immediately - she’d bled to death, slowly, from the bullet in her stomach, and while she was dying she’d somehow summoned the strength to get onto her hands and knees and crawl over to her mother, so she could die in her arms. “Everything,” he croaked, hating how very shattered his voice sounded, and then his stomach lurched again and he threw up all over Tony’s shoes.
What happened after that was kind of a blur - he remembered his eyes feeling hot and wet, and he remembered Tony wrapping one arm around his waist and ducking his head under Gibbs’ arm and patiently helping him up the stairs. “Hey, it’s a good thing I’ve got the apartment upstairs,” he heard Tony saying, the younger man chattering constantly in that oddly soothing way of his. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world … I’m really glad you walked into mine, Gibbs.”
He struggled to help as Tony laid him down on a comfortable bed and started to undress him, and he called out for him when he vanished, only for the mattress to sink as Tony sat down next to him and pushed the hair off his forehead. “Easy, easy. I went to get you some water and a bucket. You need to puke again, it’s right here.”
The spinning was easing off, by then, leaving a growing headache in its wake, and he looked up at Tony and managed to focus on his face for the first time that night. “You’re gorgeous, Tony, you know that?” he said, lifting one hand up to touch his face. The skin was smooth under his fingers and a faint layer of stubble, and Tony’s lips were soft and dry when he let his thumb rub over them.
“I’ve heard it said before,” Tony admitted, smiling against his palm, but his voice wasn’t happy. “Go to sleep, Gibbs. You’re going to feel like shit in the morning.”
“Why don’t you stay with me?” Gibbs asked, desperately, when Tony shifted his weight on the bed like he was going to get up. He reached up to rest his other hand on Tony’s lean hip. He was so warm, and solid, and constant. “I need …”
Tony leaned down so that Gibbs could see how very green his eyes were in the dim light. “I don’t know who you want right now, or who you’ve lost, but it’s a rule of mine not to sleep with anyone who’s still drunk enough they might throw up on me in the night. Believe me, Gibbs, it’s not that I don’t want to.”
He pulled back, standing, and then turned and left Gibbs alone in the dark room, one hand thrown mournfully over his eyes.
Gibbs woke up the following morning feeling, as Tony had predicted, like shit, but when he rolled onto his side, he found himself staring at a full glass of water with three aspirin next to it, all on top of a neatly scribbled note. Gibbs sat up carefully, downed the aspirin and drained the water, then picked up the note. Out for a run. Will be back by 9, help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. No coffee, sorry. I’ll bring some back. Tony. P.S. Help yourself to my toothbrush.
He stumbled into the bathroom, and saw that Tony had left a pair of jeans and a sweater for him to wear, and he showered quickly, grateful for the hot water that left him feeling a lot more human. He used Tony’s toothbrush like he’d said to, and then he headed out into the rest of the apartment.
It was small and cramped, but neat enough, and at first glance it didn’t seem as though Tony had a whole lot of stuff. On examination of the window behind the couch, though, which didn’t seem to shut and explained the chill in the air, he nearly tripped over a pile of unpacked boxes, as though Tony had just moved in or was planning on moving out sometime soon. Gibbs wouldn’t blame him for wanting to; aside from the broken window, when he moved into the kitchen he saw that the microwave was shut with tape, and the lino on the floor was worn down and peeling at the corners.
The general rundown state of the apartment only caught Gibbs’ attention briefly, before he started to notice things about the place that interested him more - like the ballistics report lying on the coffee table, and the photos of blood spatter patterns on a cream wall, splashed over a family photograph. That brought back memories of his last case again, and he quickly put those face down on the sofa and headed over to investigate the leather shoulder holster hanging on the back of one of the mismatched dining chairs.
He searched the kitchen for anything edible that wasn’t Pop Tarts or kid’s cereal, and grimaced at the boxes of old takeout in the fridge, confirming his suspicions: cop. There were a couple of eggs, though, and some miraculously in-date milk, and a more thorough search turned up some butter and flour.
By the time Tony returned, at 9 o’clock on the dot, a cup of coffee in his hand, Gibbs was just about to flip the first pancake over.
“Hey, morning,” Tony said, handing over the coffee before grabbing a towel and scrubbing it over his sweat-dark hair. “That smells great - you look like you’re feeling better than I expected.”
“I am,” Gibbs said, taking a long, grateful drink. “That helps. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Tony said, sliding into a chair. “You sleep okay? You kinda sounded like you were having a rough night.”
He regularly suffered vivid, unpleasant dreams, he had done for years, but Karen had never mentioned him making noises in his sleep. He glanced over at Tony, who was casually examining a fingernail. “Did I disturb you?”
“No,” Tony said quickly, which Gibbs knew probably meant yes, but he didn’t really want to go into the matter any further. Except as he flipped another pancake onto the growing pile, he remembered another detail from the night before and grimaced.
“I think I puked on you,” he said, keeping his tone light, like they were both just talking about the weather.
“Not so much me as my Gucci shoes,” Tony said, briefly distraught.
“I’m really sorry, Tony,” Gibbs murmured, swallowing hard, and he heard Tony get up and move to stand behind him.
“I don’t give a shit about the shoes, Gibbs. I’m a little bit more worried about why you came to Peoria and got so blind drunk you pointed a gun at a room full of civilians, though!”
Gibbs turned around and pressed a heaped plate into Tony’s hands. “Eat.”
It was avoidance at its most obvious, but after a moment, Tony seemed to accept it, and went back to his seat. “What is your obsession with feeding me?” he asked. “Every single time I’ve met you, you’ve given me some kind of food - burger and fries last time, a candy bar the time before that, those ginger snaps-”
“You remember that?” Gibbs asked, surprised, as he sat down with his own plate and reached for the maple syrup he’d put on the table. He smiled slightly to see that Tony had slathered it all over his own pancakes too. “You didn’t recognise me, in the hospital.”
“I did, but only after you’d left,” Tony told him. “I don’t remember it very well - I was what, five? Six? But I remembered a Marine giving me a box of ginger snaps, and you know, your hair’s pretty memorable.”
Gibbs reached up to feel his hair automatically, the close cut at the sides and the longer strands on top.
“Those ginger snaps saw me through my childhood, seriously. I couldn’t go on a car journey without them. Still take them, if I’m going further than about an hour away. I bet my dad would thank you too, if he knew you were the one who cured me.” Tony looked down at his food, and shoved half a pancake in his mouth in one go, chewing loud and fast. He started talking again as soon as he’d choked it down. “He wouldn’t thank you if he knew you’re one of the reasons I became a cop. You figured that part out, right?”
Gibbs rolled his eyes and reached behind him to hook the holster with his finger. “Wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I hadn’t. But I wasn’t a cop when you first met me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have made a very good Marine, so it’s a good thing you changed professions,” Tony said. “I wouldn’t go for the hair, and I’m not that reliable.”
“You keep turning up in my life, regular as clockwork,” Gibbs pointed out mildly. “Every five years.”
“You think that’s how this works?” Tony frowned, thinking for a second. “Where were you in ‘81?”
“Must have missed you, that time. I was doing a lot of cold combat training overseas.”
“I started boarding school that year.”
“Explains it,” Gibbs said, taking another sip of hot, strong coffee. He looked over at the photographs he’d left on the couch. “Working a hot case?”
“Getting steadily colder,” Tony informed him, a muscle in his cheek twitching.
“Bad one,” Gibbs said, recognising the signs all too well.
Tony nodded.
“I know a little bit about them,” he said, and then, because Tony had always had this habit of drawing more out of him than he usually shared, and because he had thrown up on the guy and kicked him out of his bed, he added; “Had a lot of bad cases recently. One after the other.”
“I can understand that,” Tony said. “Makes you want to get in your car and keep on driving, sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” Gibbs agreed, knowingly. “You didn’t happen to find my car keys anywhere last night, did you?”
“Mike found them. I’ve got them safe, along with everything else in your pockets. I put your clothes in a bag by the door, you want to take them?”
Gibbs thought about it, and wrinkled his nose. They weren’t blood-stained, like other clothes he’d had to throw away after cases gone bad, and he didn’t think he’d even soiled them last night in his drunken haze, but something felt unclean about them.
“It’s cool, I’ll get rid of them,” Tony offered quickly.
“Thanks.” Gibbs lifted his coffee cup, and realised that it was almost empty. He drained it slowly, and put it down with a degree of reluctance. “I have to go back to DC.”
“You tell anyone you were coming up here?” Tony asked, getting up and crossing to the cupboard by the oven.
“I’ve been promoted. I don’t answer to anyone right now,” Gibbs informed him, feeling anger coil in his stomach at the memory of the way Franks had walked out on him just a couple of months ago, leaving him with a heap of responsibility he wasn’t sure he wanted and a nervous senator’s aide to train up.
Tony was rooting around behind some cans, and he tossed the keys to Gibbs’ car over his shoulder and onto the table with unerring aim. “I couldn’t find a wedding ring, so you might have some explaining to do when you get home,” he said casually.
Gibbs lifted his hand and fingered the white band around his finger that still hadn’t coloured up. “I’m between wives at the moment,” he said with a wry chuckle, and Tony turned around, placing the rest of Gibbs’ belongings on the counter behind him.
“Well, that explains your hitting on me last night, then. Had a change of heart from last time?”
Gibbs ran his eyes over Tony and the way his hips were angled against the counter as he leaned back, the running pants he was wearing clinging to his form and leaving little to the imagination - not that Gibbs’ mind didn’t fill in the rest of the picture. “Well, you look a lot less like jailbait, now,” he admitted, and laughed when Tony adjusted his pose just minutely, so that his hips rocked forward just that little bit further. “You were right to turn me down, though. What I’m looking for - it doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”
Tony looked disappointed. “I can try,” he offered. “I’m great at pretending. I’m always the first guy they go to for undercover work.”
“Dangerous work,” Gibbs said, unsurprised given what he’d seen over the years of Tony’s ability to control exactly which emotions he showed on his face. “You like being a cop?”
Tony shrugged. “The hours suck, most of the people suck, and the wages are crappy. I have to live in a shitty apartment with no heating over a dive of a bar just to keep myself in Zegna ties.” He broke into a wide grin. “But hey, the donuts are great.”
“I bet you’re real good at it,” Gibbs said, hearing the note of pride in his voice and not bothering to hide it at all. “I’m pleased you’re doing well, Tony.”
Tony flushed with pleasure, and fiddled idly with Gibbs’ badge. “You get my note?”
“Yeah,” Gibbs confirmed. “You should have waited. They pay better at NCIS, I wasn’t missing that $250.00. And if you’d waited the full five years, I’d have gotten a better deal due to inflation.”
“I guess my gut isn’t as good as yours, Gibbs. I wasn’t sure I’d see you in five years.”
“You’ve gotta trust your gut in this business, Tony,” Gibbs warned, getting to his feet and switching his keys from one side to the other. “You got any hunches about this case of yours?”
“One or two.”
“Follow them up. The evidence will come, if you’re right.”
“That sounds like boss-talk, Gibbs,” Tony said, running his long fingers over the golden eagle on Gibbs’ badge. If he stayed there much longer, Gibbs thought, he’d give in to those seductive hips and low voice.
“It is. Give me my badge, Tony. We’ve both got to get to work. You want me to mail these back up to you?” He gestured to the sweater and jeans Tony had lent him.
“Keep them. They look good on you,” Tony said, leering a little at the way the jeans hugged Gibbs’ thighs and bunched a little at his ankles. “My address might be changing, soon, anyway” he said nonchalantly, and Gibbs squinted, thinking about the unpacked boxes under the window. “If you’re so sure we’re gonna meet again in 2001, you can give me them back then. Here.” He handed over Gibbs’ badge, and then picked up Gibbs’ gun. He looked hesitant as he held it out, and when Gibbs reached out to take it, he met resistance.
“Tony. I’ll see you again. In five years. You believe me?” Gibbs asked, looking up and seeing the worry lining Tony’s face at handing the weapon over. “What does your gut say?”
The corner of Tony’s mouth crept up. “I’m not so sure I’m thinking with my gut, Gibbs.”
Gibbs couldn’t help but grin, outright, at that - the first time he’d smiled like that in a couple of months, before Khobar Towers and before Karen had handed him the divorce papers. He reached up and whacked Tony on the back of his head. “Start,” he ordered him, and then let his hand fall to squeeze Tony’s nape. He wasn’t expecting Tony to move like he did, stepping into the touch and drawing Gibbs into an awkward, stiff hug, but he relaxed into it after a moment and breathed in the salty, syrupy scent of Tony’s neck.
It was Tony who broke the embrace, pushing the gun against Gibbs’ chest to separate them, and when he spoke it was half begging, half threatening. “Five years,” he ground out. “I’ll see you then,” he said, and then he pushed off and headed for the bathroom, leaving Gibbs to grab his keys and leave.
“I promise, Tony,” Gibbs murmured, and headed back to Washington.
5. 2001
“Listen, Special Agent Gibbs, this is an FBI case. NCIS has no jurisdiction here - you will not win this one.”
Gibbs wavered between summoning his most furious, or most disdainful look, and eventually decided that the latter might irritate Agent Brooker a fraction more. “As soon as my ME gets here,” he drawled, “he’ll confirm that whoever killed this guy was following the same MO as the guy who left three dead sailors back in Anacostia. I do not need to fight you on this, because I have already won.”
Brooker was sweating in the hot August sun, having decided to rigidly stick to protocol and keep his flak jacket on. Gibbs had abandoned his earlier, and so was comfortably cool as Brooker spluttered in an extremely satisfying manner. “The fact that they’re sailors isn’t relevant to the case! We’re looking at a serial killer here who happened to start out on his killing spree down by the Navy Yard - he doesn't have a personal vendetta against boats, Gibbs, he’s just killing for the hell of it!”
“He still killed three sailors,” Gibbs responded, putting as much boredom into his voice as he possibly could and turning back to look at the body. “That makes this mine.”
“Gentlemen!” A loud, clear voice carried easily over the light breeze, and Gibbs’ ears twitched at the familiar tone. “Oh, my apologies, ladies,” the voice continued, in a lower, purposefully charming tone. “That’s a nice jacket, you look great in polka dots.” Gibbs stifled a chuckle, sensing Brooker stiffen beside him - yeah, he definitely knew that voice.
“I’ll start over. Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Anthony DiNozzo, and I will be your friendly Baltimore Police Department Liaison Officer today! Now, I know you’re all just dying to get into a big three-letter pissing contest over this body, but the fact remains that whoever wins this will have to work with me - and you should probably have a good long think about that before you make your case - in order to get swift, efficient access to our highly skilled team of forensic experts. Who’s first?”
Predictably, Brooker leapt in first, actually making his points with numbers, ticking them off on his fingers. Gibbs was still facing the body, not letting Tony see him just yet, and he waited for Tony to respond to Brooker with impossibly over-exaggerated seriousness: “That was extremely detailed and articulate, Agent Brooker. I will be sure to take all of your points on board and consider them very carefully. Now, who’s next?”
Gibbs stood up with a loud exhale and a fortuitous crack of his knees, knowing that he had timed it perfectly and that he was going to be the next object of attention. He waited half a second before turning, allowing Tony to notice the military haircut he still sported, despite Abby’s constant comments about growing it because it would apparently make him look hot.
“Detective DiNozzo,” he said, not quite able to keep the smile out of his voice even though he kept it off his face.
Tony, for all that he’d always been the best of them at schooling his emotions off his face, didn’t even do that: his face lit up with the widest, most genuine smile Gibbs had ever seen on him. “Let me guess, CIA?” he asked innocently, and Gibbs nearly choked on his suppressed laughter.
“NCIS,” he enunciated, bringing his cap out of his pocket and waving it so Tony could see the initials. “You heard of us?”
Tony scratched his head. “Have I seen you on TV?”
“They’re Navy cops,” Brooker interrupted. “This stiff’s not even close to being military, NCIS has no business taking the lead on this.”
“Agent …?” Tony said, cocking his chin.
“Special Agent Gibbs. I’m going to be your lead agent on this,” Gibbs said, confidence doubled by Tony’s arrival and further trebling as he saw Ducky arrive through the milling crowd of LEOs.
“Uh huh. How’d you figure that one, Gibbs?”
“Well, I have a medical examiner for you,” Gibbs said. “Duck, come on through!”
Ducky approached, and Brooker began to splutter in that ridiculously pleasing manner again. “DiNozzo,” he began, but Tony didn’t even look at him, still staring at Gibbs, when he cut him off.
“NCIS is taking the lead on this one,” Tony announced. “Four letters beats three. Why don’t you get your guys to set up and check out a perimeter?”
He left Brooker gaping in shock as he walked around the other side of the body and crouched down, Gibbs mirroring his actions on the opposite side.
“Got your body over here, Ducky,” Gibbs called, keeping his gaze on Tony too as the M.E. reached them, liver probe in hand. “Hey, Tony, you’re looking great,” he said casually.
“You too, Gibbs,” Tony replied, letting a note of lasciviousness creep into his voice.
“Oh, you two know one another!” Ducky commented pleasantly.
“Detective DiNozzo and I go way back,” Gibbs informed him.
“Nice to meet you, um, Ducky.”
“Dr. Donald Mallard,” Ducky explained. “The nickname has always stuck - I suspect Jethro is particularly fond of using it because it’s so short and easy to call me over, rather like a dog. How long have you known one another, then? Excuse me, my boy.”
Tony shifted sideways to allow Ducky to take the victim’s liver temperature.
“About twenty-five years,” Gibbs said.
“Or less than twenty-four hours, in total,” Tony added, and Ducky frowned in confusion.
“It’s a long story,” Gibbs said.
“Ah,” Ducky said. “Inappropriate for a crime scene, then?”
Gibbs chuckled. “Absolutely,” he agreed. “DiNozzo, let’s get to work.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
He and Tony worked together for the rest of the day, processing the crime scene until early afternoon, then interviewing the victim’s relatives and making up a list of potential suspects. Gibbs was both surprised and somehow not surprised at all at how easy it was to work with Tony, after five years of having quiet, obedient Stan Burley at his side, followed by nearly six months of working as a lone ranger. Tony was the complete opposite of that; chattering constantly as he worked about anything and everything, from movie quotes to sordid crime stories, reminding Gibbs of an x-rated Ducky. The mostly one-sided conversation, though, was peppered with well-timed pieces of useful information or shrewd observations, so that if at any moment Gibbs felt his general frustration at working on a difficult case threatening to turn into anger, Tony quickly pulled him back over the edge and - on most occasions - avoided a head slap.
He was, Gibbs realised, as they sat up in the precinct drinking cold, syrup-thick coffee and flicking through files late at night, exactly the kind of investigator he liked to work with: hard-working and obedient, despite the constant suggestive comments and hyperactive chatter.
It was nearly 3:00 AM when Gibbs decided to call an end to their day, having spent more of the last hour looking over at Tony, curled up in a chair in an absurdly awkward, uncomfortable-looking position, than he had looking over the case files. “Tony. Time to sleep.”
“Boss, I’m sure there’s something I’m missing,” Tony replied, the honorific slipping out with disturbing ease.
“Whatever it is, you’re not gonna spot it without getting some shuteye first,” Gibbs pointed out, and Tony’s jaw cracked with a sudden yawn, proving his point.
Tony switched off the monitor he was looking at and scrubbed at his eyes, looking very young, for a moment. He was pushing thirty now, Gibbs guessed, and could pass for mid-twenties, but for just a second he was the exhausted kid Gibbs had bought dinner for ten years ago - but during the course of the day, Gibbs had watched Tony pull his gun on a fleeing suspect, and there had been nothing childish in his expression at all.
Tony stood, stretching his arms up with a little whine, exposing his tanned, hairy stomach in a move that Gibbs suspected was entirely intentional. His suspicions were confirmed when Tony eased out of the stretch and aimed a seductive smile in his direction. “Your place or mine?” he asked with a sly grin, nodding at his desk and the one Gibbs had commandeered so that they could work on the case together.
Gibbs had seen Tony flirt with no less than six people that day, and he’d eyed up countless more, but there was a nervousness in Tony’s stance that told him that this wasn’t just flirting. “Tony,” he began, and watched as Tony registered his tone and instantly shut himself off.
“Hey, no worries,” he said lightly. “I’m not what you’re looking for, I get it-”
“Shut up, Tony, it’s not that,” Gibbs said. “What I was looking for before - I’ve learned, now, to quit looking.” He rubbed absently at the back of his head - the tan-line from his third wedding ring since Shannon had disappeared, now, but Stephanie and her baseball bat had left a more permanent reminder of their marriage.
“So, what? It’s been five - ten! - years, Gibbs,” Tony said quietly, almost a whine.
“I’ve got these rules, Tony. Rules that I stick to, and one of them is that co-workers do not get involved. Right now, we’re on a case, and that makes you my partner.”
Tony looked hurt, for a moment, and then Gibbs watched as he rolled that word quietly over his tongue: partners. He looked pleased, then, and Gibbs relaxed and bundled up his overcoat to toss on the floor as a makeshift pillow. He settled down onto it with a groan, listening as Tony prepared a temporary bed under his own desk. “So, Gibbs, that means that once we’re finished the case, we’re free from that rule, right?” he asked quietly, just as Gibbs was drifting into sleep.
“I guess it does, DiNozzo,” Gibbs replied, and fell into slumber with a smile on his face.
He woke up to a violent shake to his shoulder after what felt like only a couple of hours, and a painful squint at his watch confirmed that it was barely 5:00 AM. “DiNozzo, what the hell?” he asked, scrubbing at his dry, bleary eyes.
Tony looked as exhausted as he felt, cheeks pale and puffy and hair sticking up in every direction, but his eyes were feverishly bright. “You awake, boss?” His hands were on Gibbs, tapping at his waist, and Gibbs rolled his eyes and slapped him away.
“We’re still on the goddamn case, Tony, getting up early doesn’t count. You’ve waited long enough, surely one more day isn’t going to give you blue balls,” he half-moaned, and then growled and sat up, coming to full awareness as Tony burst into a fit of smothered laughter. “What?” he demanded.
“I’m not trying to sleep with you, Gibbs - not right now, anyway,” Tony managed to choke out through his mirth. “I think I’ve found something on the case. It’s good to know that your mind’s in the gutter, too, though.”
Gibbs blinked, caught out, and then struggled to his feet, feeling his face heat a little in embarrassment. He was grateful for the dim lighting in the squad room that hid his flush as Tony pulled him to sit in front of the grainy monitor he’d been looking at the previous night.
“See this? It’s the footage from that CCTV camera we checked earlier to see if we could get a glimpse of Todd and his killer.”
“Yeah, we saw them, but the only visual on the killer was his right leg and the top of head, DiNozzo, we got nothing useful from this.”
Tony was already shaking his head. “Look closer, right here, you see that homeless guy, right there? Now, it’s too dark in this video to get a good visual on him, but on this one-” he paused and changed tapes, and Gibbs watched as he stuck his tongue out in concentration and barely concealed anticipation at getting a lead- “see? We thought he was blind, ‘cause of the sign, but he’s a dummerer, Gibbs, he’s only pretending to be blind in order to get more money in his hat. Watch, watch, he drops his mug and knows exactly where to reach for it!”
“He could have seen something,” Gibbs realised, feeling adrenaline surge through his own system, tiredness forgotten. “You got an ID?”
“I’ve got five guys it might be, according to arrest records, so we’re going to have to go searching for him, but if he was there that night, Todd was killed just across the road from him. If he can ID the suspect, we’ve got our guy.”
“Good work, Tony,” Gibbs said, reaching out to rub his hand along Tony’s back.
“Just followed my gut,” Tony replied, turning under his touch to smile at him. Gibbs froze, for a moment, suddenly aware of how very close they were and how warm Tony’s knee was where it was pressed against his.
Tony leant in just a little bit, getting close enough so that he almost had to nod his head up and down to look at Gibbs’ eyes or lips. His breath tickled Gibbs’ nose warmly, and his cheeks were flushed like Gibbs’ were, green eyes turning dark.
Gibbs stared at him for a long moment, then lunged forward, wrapping one hand around Tony’s neck, and closing the scant distance between them for a kiss. Tony’s mouth was hot and willing, and he kissed like he talked; unceasingly, never stopping exploring Gibbs’ mouth with his tongue, alternating between gentle half-caresses of his lips and bruising nudges as the two men pushed against one another for control. When they finally pulled apart, Tony’s hands had slipped down to Gibbs’ upper thighs to hold himself up, and he was breathing heavily. “Do you have any idea how hot you are, Gibbs?” he panted, and Gibbs was taken aback by the sheer passion in his voice, and the openness on his features. Pure want and trust were written all over his face, and Gibbs was glad that the question appeared to be rhetorical, because he wasn’t sure he had enough breath left himself to form a reply.
“Maybe,” Tony tried after another moment; “Maybe we should have gone back to my place after all. I could do with a cold shower.”
Gibbs leaned forward and laughed into Tony’s neck, lips brushing against his pulse point. “Rule #12,” he breathed out. “Not until we’re done with the case.”
Tony leapt to his feet at that, grinning widely and recovering his breathing. “Then let’s solve this case, boss. Right now, let’s go. I don’t think I can wait.”
It took them six hours of trawling the streets before they managed to track down their potential witness, and it took about half an hour of playing bad-cop-worse-cop before they managed to get an ID on a Carl Rogers, a salesman with a murderous streak who had popped up in one of the cases Gibbs had investigated back in DC, but hadn’t been linked to the other two crime scenes with evidence. Three hours after that, evidence taken from Rogers’ rented motel room did tie him to those other two murders, and he was rocking back and forth in interrogation, chewing on his ragged, bloody nails and crying like a baby.
“Does outstanding paperwork count as still being on a case?” Tony whispered as they left his Captain’s office, earning himself a light swat to the back of the head.
“I can wait, Tony,” Gibbs said. “Go do the necessary stuff, I’ll just let Ducky know I’ll be staying an extra night.”
Tony grinned and practically skipped off to his desk, setting about the usual forms with an enthusiasm not usually associated with police paperwork, and Gibbs headed over to stand with Ducky next to the water cooler. He was just informing him of his plans - leaving Ducky to decide what the reasons for his extended stay were for himself - when his cell phone rang.
When he was finished, he flicked his phone shut with more force than was necessary, making Ducky flinch and look up at him with concern.
“Trouble, Jethro?” he enquired.
“Possibly. Looks like I’ll be travelling back with you after all.” Picking up his backpack, he went over to where Tony was bent over a pile of paperwork, and perched on the edge of his desk.
“Hey, Gibbs, I know I’m good, but I haven't finished yet,” Tony joked good-naturedly, and then sat back in his chair with trepidation when he saw the look on Gibbs’ face. He swallowed, looking bleak. “What?”
“It looks like I might not be able to stay on another night after all,” Gibbs began, and watched as Tony wiped his face clear of all emotion in that horrible, practiced way of his. “Hey, don’t do that,” he barked. “I got a call from the Director, and there’s been some serious intel on Al Qaeda movements, potential major threats coming soon. I can’t ignore that, Tony, you know I can’t.”
Tony’s face eased minutely. “Yeah, Gibbs, I understand. It’s just - I really don’t want to have to wait another five years, okay?”
Gibbs felt his gut churn ominously, and was suddenly struck with a horrible fear that he wouldn’t see Tony again, not ever, not even on their five-year schedule, if he let him go now. “So don’t,” he said.
“What?” Tony asked, confused. “Gibbs, I know Washington’s not that far but we’re both too caught up in our jobs to ever make something long-distance work. And I’m not reliable, Gibbs, this is the third job I’ve had in under six years and my feet are getting itchy again-”
“So come work for me,” Gibbs interrupted. “I’m a one-man team at the moment, and the Director’s been telling me I need to find good men.”
Tony stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, but Gibbs could tell he was considering it. He had been shying away from hiring someone to be on his team for so long, rejecting all the agents he was assigned because he didn’t think he could stand yet another person leaving him in the lurch, but right now he didn’t think he could stand leaving Tony in Baltimore and risk not seeing him again. “Rule #12,” Tony said hoarsely. “Would it still apply?”
Gibbs swallowed, thinking about Jenny, and answered with regret, “Yeah, Tony, it still applies. For now, it’s still a rule.”
“It’s a big risk, Gibbs,” Tony said, mulling it over. “Either I say no, and I risk not seeing you for another five years, if at all, or I come with you and I don’t get to be with you until you decide it’s okay. That right?”
“Hey, you already worked out I’m a bastard, Tony. But I’ll do everything I can to scratch those feet of yours.”
Tony started to smile at that, slow and sweet, and Gibbs stifled a sigh of relief at the flush he spotted rising on Tony’s cheeks - he nearly had him. “You hand in your resignation, Tony, and in two weeks time you come down to Washington and you start training at FLETC. Here. Have something for the journey.” He leaned back to rummage briefly in his backpack for the item he’d been carrying around all summer, and tossed it into Tony’s lap.
He hopped down off the desk as Tony flipped the box over in his hands, and then burst into a bolt of laughter that turned a couple of heads. “Washington’s only forty miles away!” he said with a grin.
Gibbs was already starting to walk away, but he threw one more incentive over his shoulder as he did. “You won’t officially be on my team until you’re finished at FLETC, Tony. Rule #12 will not apply.” He didn’t need to look back to see the smile grow on Tony’s face.
He met Ducky back at the water cooler, tossing his backpack over one shoulder. Ducky was waiting for him, ready to go, and he looked up at Gibbs curiously. “What on earth did you give him, Jethro?”
Gibbs could feel himself grinning, knew that he looked ridiculous, and didn’t care. “Ginger snaps.”
End.
Note: Just a last, quick one, but getting that admittedly pretty awful shot of Tony's note and the money was tougher than I thought it was going to be - I'm in the UK, and have no American bank notes, so I decided to print those out - not realising that my printer has, like, some anti-counterfeiting detector and literally would not let me! It beeped and flashed a warning on my screen! Presumably my printer does not actually have a direct line to the FBI, though hopefully Fornell's lot would be smart enough to realise that a geek girl would have absolutely no use for one-sided, wrong-sized American money in the middle of the Scottish countryside. Thought I'd share that awkwardness with you - and if anyone does require $250.00 in fake bills for fanfic purposes, let me know! ;-)
Directory: Part One | Part Two