Slow, by Revanche
Title: Slow
Author: Revanche (whereupon)
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Spoilers: Through 2 x 23.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: G/T
Summary: Airports are terrible places in which to say goodbye.
Dusk has fallen early tonight, as though the hours are too stark and harsh for the drowsy candlelight glow and the soft hush of fading wind. It was dark before he’d really noticed; he thinks that this could be a metaphor for quite a lot of things, but he’s not one to make those connections. Now, the road unravels before him, a halting series of stoplights and one-ways, guardrails that glint with rainwater when the headlights of his car shine upon them.
He should be at home, turning restlessly between cold sheets, dreaming of the warmth of blood, pale skin and viral destruction. He should be at home, working tirelessly, each scrape of sandpaper a step across desert, an affirmation of life.
He should be a lot of things, but he’s managed to be none of them. For every time that he has succeeded, there are so many more that he’s failed. Not all of them have names, identities. Numbers. The ones that matter are those that came in between. At the tomb of the unknown soldier, the fire is always burning, and so it is with him. He switches on the heater and the answering rush of air is almost enough to silence these thoughts.
He yawns. Gunpowder tears into his skin; there’s a roaring in his ears and a terrible, unnameable heat in his shoulder. Vines like steel wrap around his arms and by dream-law, they only grow tighter when he struggles. Those around him go down. They are lost to the clatter of AK-47s, concealed knives, unstable combinations of unpronounceable chemicals. He is left alone in a train station, amongst the sprawl of cold sheets, in the middle of a humidity-soaked jungle, surrounded by flag-draped caskets.
He hits the brakes in time to avoid being hit by a speeding SUV.
He parks the car and slams the door shut. The sound is muted and pathetic. Unslept hours rattle and jitter at the corners of his eyes and the metal of the car key jabs into his palm as though to draw blood.
Dulles in the security-light near-darkness is unrelenting, a monolith of steel and concrete, tinted glass and fading lines on sidewalks. The air, tinged with sea-salt and distant snows, slides around the edges of his coat, but he refuses to huddle, to draw his shoulders, to shove his hands in his pockets. He stands alone among the dark-clad businessmen with their heads drawn down against the wind, among the weary families, the sleep-deprived mothers, the irritable children, the apathetic fathers. There are so many of them, and none of them really know. They all look so alive. He waits for a minute, watching the eternal flow of airport traffic, and then he counts the steps on his way inside, senses the exact moment when the night air is replaced by the disaffected harshness of fluorescent lights, the grimy blandness of the decor.
Airports, he thinks, are a crime against nature. Especially at night.
He pushes through security with a badge and force of will. They let him go through because he’s unarmed, because he’s a little bit scary, a little bit desperate.
The paper is worn in his hand, printed ink soft and bleeding. He has memorized the information and does not need to be caught with this evidence. He crumples the page and shoves it into his pocket, remembers the resignation in her eyes as she’d handed him the printout. This time, she hasn’t told Gibbs to bring him back. Maybe there’s a reason for that.
Maybe she knows she doesn’t need to, or maybe she knows it’s an impossible task.
He’s chosen not to think about this.
He rounds the corner and sees him, sitting in the corner, hands folded in his lap, slouching in his leather jacket. Utterly still. He’d thought that Tony would be wearing shades; in his mind, that’s how he envisions this. And Tony smiles, not unkindly, and turns away, but that’s not how this will happen. In his mind, Tony is untouched by grief and age -- may you stay forever young -- but that’s not how it really is and to value Tony for his innocence would be to never see beyond the surface, the image Dinozzo projects for God knows what reason.
The image he projects because it makes things like this, things like running and dying and never saying goodbye, easier.
He takes a step forward, another. Dinozzo’s just sitting there in the corner, in front of the window. He’s not looking out, he’s looking down. And even if he were looking out, he wouldn’t be seeing D.C., anyway. He never has. He looks tired and pale, burnt-out. He looks as though he hasn’t been sleeping, as though he hasn’t slept since the funeral. Gibbs knows this isn’t true.
Tony doesn’t look up until Gibbs is standing almost directly in front of him, and when he does, when he sees who it is, his smile dies, incomplete. His shoulders slump a little and he draws a shuddering breath.
“Gibbs,” he says, and if it were anyone but Gibbs, this would be scary, because he should be saying “boss,” should be acknowledging that relationship, whatever the hell it is. But Gibbs doesn’t get scared, or at least he doesn’t admit it to himself, so it’s just normal. It’s just what happens.
“Where’re you going?” Gibbs asks and immediately hates the inanity. He’s beyond asking these questions, beyond needing these answers. He makes demands and his orders are fulfilled.
“I’m guessing Abby already told you,” Tony says, crossing his arms. “Probably when she gave you the flight details. Which is why you’re here.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Gibbs says, finally finding his bearings.
“Yeah, it is.” Tony closes his eyes as if in dismissal, as though he’s too weary to fight, as though drowning, and Gibbs has the feeling that this is it, that maybe this time he’s too late. That this time, there is no command he can give, no power strong enough to keep him here, to keep him from breaking. To keep both of them from breaking, maybe.
And then Tony opens his eyes, nods to the windows, the dark storm-clouds. “Have you ever noticed how often it rains here? It’s raining, like, all the time.”
“Come home, Tony,” Gibbs says.
Tony shrugs, gives up. “You resigned,” he says. “You gave it up. And now you’re back. What the hell’s keeping you there?” He speaks softly. It doesn’t sound like an accusation. It sounds like a plea, a prayer.
Gibbs doesn’t have an answer. “Duty.”
“Right,” Tony says, and his smile is real, though sad. Like he doesn’t quite believe Gibbs, but he’s not going to argue. He shakes his head. “I gotta keep moving,” he says, and Gibbs wonders if Tony has ever stopped. If he knows what would happen if he did.
If that’s why he keeps running.
All of this time and Gibbs has never asked this, has never asked why. It occurs to him, as he watches Tony fray the edge of his ticket, that even Tony doesn’t know where he’s going, and that Gibbs has never asked him about that, either.
“Until what? You’re dead?” he finally says.
And Tony just looks at him, waiting. Has he ever been afraid of death? Gibbs has. Gibbs is. The contradiction bothers him more than it should. If one of them is to leave, it should be him, but he gave that up a long time ago, traded it for ideals and promises, for forever, though right now, none of those seem to matter.
“I’ve got a flight to catch,” Tony says eventually, ignoring the question. “Nice of you to come say goodbye.”
He nods to Gibbs, stands, shoulders his bag. The flight attendant stands at the jetway gate, waiting. Tony looks at her, hesitates. “You could leave,” he says. “You don’t have to stay. Vegas is great. Hot. Great weather.” He smiles, raises his eyebrows, looks like he really hopes Gibbs will say yes. Like he really thinks there’s a chance.
And maybe he does. Maybe it’s not an act. Maybe this is finally real. But his ticket says Chicago and he’s leaving, going beyond reach, out of control, and this time, there’s nothing Gibbs can do about it, except mourn, and regret, and do all of the things that he’s sworn he’ll never do again.
Gibbs looks at him, looks out the window behind him, at the planes taxiing in, the streaky lines down the glass.
“Gibbs,” Tony says, his eyes darkening, and there’s nothing that Gibbs can say. There’s nothing left to say. He watches the rain slide down the window, blur the distant runway lights. He’s losing another one, losing the most important one (all that he has left), and there’s nothing he can do about it.
It’s raining in D.C., a bitter haze from a starless midnight sky, and though Tony’s fingers are laced tightly through his own, he’s not sure that he’ll ever be warm again.
xxxxx
End
Author: Revanche (whereupon)
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Spoilers: Through 2 x 23.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: G/T
Summary: Airports are terrible places in which to say goodbye.
Dusk has fallen early tonight, as though the hours are too stark and harsh for the drowsy candlelight glow and the soft hush of fading wind. It was dark before he’d really noticed; he thinks that this could be a metaphor for quite a lot of things, but he’s not one to make those connections. Now, the road unravels before him, a halting series of stoplights and one-ways, guardrails that glint with rainwater when the headlights of his car shine upon them.
He should be at home, turning restlessly between cold sheets, dreaming of the warmth of blood, pale skin and viral destruction. He should be at home, working tirelessly, each scrape of sandpaper a step across desert, an affirmation of life.
He should be a lot of things, but he’s managed to be none of them. For every time that he has succeeded, there are so many more that he’s failed. Not all of them have names, identities. Numbers. The ones that matter are those that came in between. At the tomb of the unknown soldier, the fire is always burning, and so it is with him. He switches on the heater and the answering rush of air is almost enough to silence these thoughts.
He yawns. Gunpowder tears into his skin; there’s a roaring in his ears and a terrible, unnameable heat in his shoulder. Vines like steel wrap around his arms and by dream-law, they only grow tighter when he struggles. Those around him go down. They are lost to the clatter of AK-47s, concealed knives, unstable combinations of unpronounceable chemicals. He is left alone in a train station, amongst the sprawl of cold sheets, in the middle of a humidity-soaked jungle, surrounded by flag-draped caskets.
He hits the brakes in time to avoid being hit by a speeding SUV.
He parks the car and slams the door shut. The sound is muted and pathetic. Unslept hours rattle and jitter at the corners of his eyes and the metal of the car key jabs into his palm as though to draw blood.
Dulles in the security-light near-darkness is unrelenting, a monolith of steel and concrete, tinted glass and fading lines on sidewalks. The air, tinged with sea-salt and distant snows, slides around the edges of his coat, but he refuses to huddle, to draw his shoulders, to shove his hands in his pockets. He stands alone among the dark-clad businessmen with their heads drawn down against the wind, among the weary families, the sleep-deprived mothers, the irritable children, the apathetic fathers. There are so many of them, and none of them really know. They all look so alive. He waits for a minute, watching the eternal flow of airport traffic, and then he counts the steps on his way inside, senses the exact moment when the night air is replaced by the disaffected harshness of fluorescent lights, the grimy blandness of the decor.
Airports, he thinks, are a crime against nature. Especially at night.
He pushes through security with a badge and force of will. They let him go through because he’s unarmed, because he’s a little bit scary, a little bit desperate.
The paper is worn in his hand, printed ink soft and bleeding. He has memorized the information and does not need to be caught with this evidence. He crumples the page and shoves it into his pocket, remembers the resignation in her eyes as she’d handed him the printout. This time, she hasn’t told Gibbs to bring him back. Maybe there’s a reason for that.
Maybe she knows she doesn’t need to, or maybe she knows it’s an impossible task.
He’s chosen not to think about this.
He rounds the corner and sees him, sitting in the corner, hands folded in his lap, slouching in his leather jacket. Utterly still. He’d thought that Tony would be wearing shades; in his mind, that’s how he envisions this. And Tony smiles, not unkindly, and turns away, but that’s not how this will happen. In his mind, Tony is untouched by grief and age -- may you stay forever young -- but that’s not how it really is and to value Tony for his innocence would be to never see beyond the surface, the image Dinozzo projects for God knows what reason.
The image he projects because it makes things like this, things like running and dying and never saying goodbye, easier.
He takes a step forward, another. Dinozzo’s just sitting there in the corner, in front of the window. He’s not looking out, he’s looking down. And even if he were looking out, he wouldn’t be seeing D.C., anyway. He never has. He looks tired and pale, burnt-out. He looks as though he hasn’t been sleeping, as though he hasn’t slept since the funeral. Gibbs knows this isn’t true.
Tony doesn’t look up until Gibbs is standing almost directly in front of him, and when he does, when he sees who it is, his smile dies, incomplete. His shoulders slump a little and he draws a shuddering breath.
“Gibbs,” he says, and if it were anyone but Gibbs, this would be scary, because he should be saying “boss,” should be acknowledging that relationship, whatever the hell it is. But Gibbs doesn’t get scared, or at least he doesn’t admit it to himself, so it’s just normal. It’s just what happens.
“Where’re you going?” Gibbs asks and immediately hates the inanity. He’s beyond asking these questions, beyond needing these answers. He makes demands and his orders are fulfilled.
“I’m guessing Abby already told you,” Tony says, crossing his arms. “Probably when she gave you the flight details. Which is why you’re here.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Gibbs says, finally finding his bearings.
“Yeah, it is.” Tony closes his eyes as if in dismissal, as though he’s too weary to fight, as though drowning, and Gibbs has the feeling that this is it, that maybe this time he’s too late. That this time, there is no command he can give, no power strong enough to keep him here, to keep him from breaking. To keep both of them from breaking, maybe.
And then Tony opens his eyes, nods to the windows, the dark storm-clouds. “Have you ever noticed how often it rains here? It’s raining, like, all the time.”
“Come home, Tony,” Gibbs says.
Tony shrugs, gives up. “You resigned,” he says. “You gave it up. And now you’re back. What the hell’s keeping you there?” He speaks softly. It doesn’t sound like an accusation. It sounds like a plea, a prayer.
Gibbs doesn’t have an answer. “Duty.”
“Right,” Tony says, and his smile is real, though sad. Like he doesn’t quite believe Gibbs, but he’s not going to argue. He shakes his head. “I gotta keep moving,” he says, and Gibbs wonders if Tony has ever stopped. If he knows what would happen if he did.
If that’s why he keeps running.
All of this time and Gibbs has never asked this, has never asked why. It occurs to him, as he watches Tony fray the edge of his ticket, that even Tony doesn’t know where he’s going, and that Gibbs has never asked him about that, either.
“Until what? You’re dead?” he finally says.
And Tony just looks at him, waiting. Has he ever been afraid of death? Gibbs has. Gibbs is. The contradiction bothers him more than it should. If one of them is to leave, it should be him, but he gave that up a long time ago, traded it for ideals and promises, for forever, though right now, none of those seem to matter.
“I’ve got a flight to catch,” Tony says eventually, ignoring the question. “Nice of you to come say goodbye.”
He nods to Gibbs, stands, shoulders his bag. The flight attendant stands at the jetway gate, waiting. Tony looks at her, hesitates. “You could leave,” he says. “You don’t have to stay. Vegas is great. Hot. Great weather.” He smiles, raises his eyebrows, looks like he really hopes Gibbs will say yes. Like he really thinks there’s a chance.
And maybe he does. Maybe it’s not an act. Maybe this is finally real. But his ticket says Chicago and he’s leaving, going beyond reach, out of control, and this time, there’s nothing Gibbs can do about it, except mourn, and regret, and do all of the things that he’s sworn he’ll never do again.
Gibbs looks at him, looks out the window behind him, at the planes taxiing in, the streaky lines down the glass.
“Gibbs,” Tony says, his eyes darkening, and there’s nothing that Gibbs can say. There’s nothing left to say. He watches the rain slide down the window, blur the distant runway lights. He’s losing another one, losing the most important one (all that he has left), and there’s nothing he can do about it.
It’s raining in D.C., a bitter haze from a starless midnight sky, and though Tony’s fingers are laced tightly through his own, he’s not sure that he’ll ever be warm again.
xxxxx
End