Revelation, by Revanche
Title: Revelation
Author: Revanche (whereupon)
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Spoilers: 1 x 15
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Late-night surveillance, post “Enigma.”
He wakes to the brief and distant glow of headlights, piercing through layers of dreams. The engine roar grows louder, quieter, sleek lines of metal and glass already disappearing down the street by the time he remembers where he is. He’s dreamt of the ocean and starlight and entwined with these were a man whose face remained in the shadows and a woman who would not stop whispering. Would not stop screaming.
Eight hours ago, he watched Gibbs watch Ryan stare at an all-too-familiar hell, and he’s not sure that Gibbs wasn’t seeing the same thing, the same devastation, the same loss. Tony didn’t say anything, then. He knows that sometimes there’s no need to speak, no way that words or smiles can ever provide enough of a distraction to be worthwhile. It wouldn’t be sacrilege, but something like it. Terrible, to intrude on that final grief, that proud and solitary mourning. He wonders what would happen if he bled out on the cold, dirty asphalt of some nameless back alley. Would anyone’s grief for him be enough to drive them over the edge? Would he be anything to anyone, to inspire even the fear of not knowing, not understanding why?
He’ll find out soon enough, he thinks morbidly. But not yet. Not today, not tonight.
Raindrops speckle the windows and rivulets run down the glass where the water has collected. The heater is on, warm air blowing faintly against early spring storms, and he feels safe and drowsy in this voluntary isolation. How long has he been here, waiting? A glance at the dash tells him that it’s almost midnight. If this had been a stakeout, he would have screwed up, given his position away long ago, and probably his career along with it. But it’s not. It’s . . .
Something else.
He yawns, pokes at the radio to keep himself awake. A low-voiced DJ with an improbable name blends into a half-remembered song. The streetlights blur around the edges, stretch outwards. He listens, does not hear the rapping of rain on the roof. The light in the house has not gone off; it seeps around the edges of the drawn curtains. There’s no one else outside, no late-night joggers and no other watchers, as far as he can tell. He crosses his arms, his corduroy jacket rustling loudly, counts the hours until dawn, until zero-eight-hundred. He wants a new case, a theft, maybe. Something that is completely unrelated to any of them, so that he does not have to worry about the past. Something that matters in terms of economics and not people, money and not fragile sanity. His eyes drift closed; here, there is nothing to disturb him.
There’s a knock at the window and he almost jumps, reaches to unroll the window, instead. Gibbs frowns at him, not quite peering through the window-frame as the glass retracts. He looks tired, oddly unfinished, in his faded t-shirt. “What are you doing outside my house, Dinozzo? It’s almost midnight.”
He shrugs, pulls himself back from sleep. “Convenient parking?”
Gibbs stares at him wordlessly and he stares back, wishing it were day so that he could wear shades, but that isn’t really what this is about. He, who learned a long time ago that all he can count on is himself, is here for Gibbs’ sake. He is. Because he’s worried, damn it, and because he cares and because they’re a team and this is what they do --
And this is why he hasn’t gone near the house, hasn’t left the car, since he arrived just after dark.
Right.
Gibbs doesn’t tell him to go, but is it because he knows that there’s no point, or because he doesn’t want him to leave? It’s probably a mistake, but Tony chooses the latter. Even when Gibbs turns and walks away, leaving him with nothing to choice but to follow. “Hey, boss,” he says. The car door shuts loudly, sharp and crisp in the stillness, and he winces. He catches up with Gibbs halfway up the driveway.
“Yeah?” Gibbs says over his shoulder. Illuminated by streetlights, half-shadowed, his expression is inscrutable. But that’s how he usually is, has nothing to do with the fall and play of shadows. This is disturbing; Tony did not intend to force him into blankness.
He wonders how long Gibbs knew he was here.
There are all sorts of things he can say, all sorts of things that he needs to say, but what comes out, all that comes out, is, “He seemed like a good guy.” Aside from the psychosis and the paranoia and, oh, yeah, he almost killed you, but Tony doesn’t need to say any of this.
“Yeah,” Gibbs says. “He was.” His words are flat, spoken in a monotone, like he’s trying not to encourage Tony. He continues down the hall, leaves Tony to close the front door, contain the light that spills wildly across grass and stone and concrete. As Tony follows Gibbs downstairs, watches him return to his goddamned boat, it occurs to him that maybe Gibbs is already halfway gone. That he obsesses over the boat because he’s got to have something to cling to, something tangible, something real. Which is really stupid and not at all insightful, because who bases their sanity on a _boat_?
And what happens when the boat is finished?
He rests his head against the wall, closes his eyes. It’s far too late, even though it’s only midnight. He’s exhausted. He should have returned home a long time ago, or just not left at all. Gone home after work and crashed in front of the television, or headed out and found somebody -- just not come here. It’s only being real, being honest, that’s hard, and this is one of the few places in which his defenses have absolutely no effect.
Coming here was an incredibly bad idea, but getting caught’s what’s going to kill him. He should have pretended it was a stakeout. Should have made sure that he wouldn’t be seen. Wouldn’t be found. Should have been more careful, but regrets don’t make a difference. And he's not sure that he had a choice. One way or another, he thinks, he would have ended up here. What does that mean?
“So my mom had this dog,” he says, opening his eyes like he’s made a decision, though he doesn’t think that he has. “Horrible, ugly, yippy thing. She really loved it, though . . . after she died, it kept waiting for her. Like it thought she was gonna come home, you know, any minute. Like it really thought any minute . . .and she didn’t, but it kept waiting by the door. It got out once, ran out into the street . . . got hit by a Corvette. She drove a Corvette, see, and I always wondered if he thought it was her. It bit me once,” he adds out of habit, because he can’t help it. And he’s forgotten what his point was, if he had one other than immediate distraction, and he’s not sure why he brought this up. It’s not at all helpful, not even relevant. Just sort of depressing. Gibbs will think he’s crazy, except crazy is thinking everybody’s out to get you and then trying to shoot your friends, so maybe Gibbs will just think he’s weird.
Case in point: “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” Except for maybe he’s making a point about obsession and death and dedication, but if he doesn’t get it, why should Gibbs?
“So,” Gibbs begins, and then shakes his head like he doesn’t care, doesn't want an explanation. Or like he doesn’t need to hear it from somebody else. Does he question his own sanity? Does he wonder?
And Tony finds that he doesn’t want to know. Because despite everything, despite his desperate self-reliance, Gibbs being unsure is sort of like the end of the world.
“You could have told us sooner,” Tony says.
“Next time,” Gibbs says, and Tony’s not sure what he’s promising.
“I’m sorry,” he says. And he is. Because people die, they do it all the time, but Gibbs risked everything for this and now the guy isn’t even dead. He’s worse than dead. He’s just -- gone. And there’s nothing Gibbs can do about it. And it shouldn’t be like that.
And Gibbs looks at him, and nods, and stops moving. The air hangs heavy and silent. Tony thinks of heavy fog on the water, cold and grey. “Me, too,” Gibbs says. This doesn’t really make anything better, because words can never be enough, can never explain why it matters, but it’s something. For the first time, he sounds like he means it. Like he’s actually heard what Tony’s said.
Like he actually cares.
If Tony died, Gibbs would notice. Suddenly, Tony’s sure of it. And though he’s not sure it would go beyond that, all the way to insanity, maybe it’d be better that way. There’d be no need for two casualties, after all.
And this is what he’s come for, something nameless, affirmation. “Night, boss,” Tony says as he heads for the stairs. Gibbs mutters something that could be goodnight, but it could just as easily be in his head, wishful thinking.
As he opens the front door, steps outside, he doesn’t think that he minds. He returns to his car, alone as ever, but he no longer needs to wait, to keep watch. It’s past midnight and the air still smells of recent rain and dark, skittering things, and death can still come, and it will, but right now . . . right now all he needs is sleep, layers of warm blankets and the promise of sunshine on his skin in a few hours.
Right now, he doesn’t need to worry.
Right now, he can go home.
xxxxx
End
Author: Revanche (whereupon)
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Spoilers: 1 x 15
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Late-night surveillance, post “Enigma.”
He wakes to the brief and distant glow of headlights, piercing through layers of dreams. The engine roar grows louder, quieter, sleek lines of metal and glass already disappearing down the street by the time he remembers where he is. He’s dreamt of the ocean and starlight and entwined with these were a man whose face remained in the shadows and a woman who would not stop whispering. Would not stop screaming.
Eight hours ago, he watched Gibbs watch Ryan stare at an all-too-familiar hell, and he’s not sure that Gibbs wasn’t seeing the same thing, the same devastation, the same loss. Tony didn’t say anything, then. He knows that sometimes there’s no need to speak, no way that words or smiles can ever provide enough of a distraction to be worthwhile. It wouldn’t be sacrilege, but something like it. Terrible, to intrude on that final grief, that proud and solitary mourning. He wonders what would happen if he bled out on the cold, dirty asphalt of some nameless back alley. Would anyone’s grief for him be enough to drive them over the edge? Would he be anything to anyone, to inspire even the fear of not knowing, not understanding why?
He’ll find out soon enough, he thinks morbidly. But not yet. Not today, not tonight.
Raindrops speckle the windows and rivulets run down the glass where the water has collected. The heater is on, warm air blowing faintly against early spring storms, and he feels safe and drowsy in this voluntary isolation. How long has he been here, waiting? A glance at the dash tells him that it’s almost midnight. If this had been a stakeout, he would have screwed up, given his position away long ago, and probably his career along with it. But it’s not. It’s . . .
Something else.
He yawns, pokes at the radio to keep himself awake. A low-voiced DJ with an improbable name blends into a half-remembered song. The streetlights blur around the edges, stretch outwards. He listens, does not hear the rapping of rain on the roof. The light in the house has not gone off; it seeps around the edges of the drawn curtains. There’s no one else outside, no late-night joggers and no other watchers, as far as he can tell. He crosses his arms, his corduroy jacket rustling loudly, counts the hours until dawn, until zero-eight-hundred. He wants a new case, a theft, maybe. Something that is completely unrelated to any of them, so that he does not have to worry about the past. Something that matters in terms of economics and not people, money and not fragile sanity. His eyes drift closed; here, there is nothing to disturb him.
There’s a knock at the window and he almost jumps, reaches to unroll the window, instead. Gibbs frowns at him, not quite peering through the window-frame as the glass retracts. He looks tired, oddly unfinished, in his faded t-shirt. “What are you doing outside my house, Dinozzo? It’s almost midnight.”
He shrugs, pulls himself back from sleep. “Convenient parking?”
Gibbs stares at him wordlessly and he stares back, wishing it were day so that he could wear shades, but that isn’t really what this is about. He, who learned a long time ago that all he can count on is himself, is here for Gibbs’ sake. He is. Because he’s worried, damn it, and because he cares and because they’re a team and this is what they do --
And this is why he hasn’t gone near the house, hasn’t left the car, since he arrived just after dark.
Right.
Gibbs doesn’t tell him to go, but is it because he knows that there’s no point, or because he doesn’t want him to leave? It’s probably a mistake, but Tony chooses the latter. Even when Gibbs turns and walks away, leaving him with nothing to choice but to follow. “Hey, boss,” he says. The car door shuts loudly, sharp and crisp in the stillness, and he winces. He catches up with Gibbs halfway up the driveway.
“Yeah?” Gibbs says over his shoulder. Illuminated by streetlights, half-shadowed, his expression is inscrutable. But that’s how he usually is, has nothing to do with the fall and play of shadows. This is disturbing; Tony did not intend to force him into blankness.
He wonders how long Gibbs knew he was here.
There are all sorts of things he can say, all sorts of things that he needs to say, but what comes out, all that comes out, is, “He seemed like a good guy.” Aside from the psychosis and the paranoia and, oh, yeah, he almost killed you, but Tony doesn’t need to say any of this.
“Yeah,” Gibbs says. “He was.” His words are flat, spoken in a monotone, like he’s trying not to encourage Tony. He continues down the hall, leaves Tony to close the front door, contain the light that spills wildly across grass and stone and concrete. As Tony follows Gibbs downstairs, watches him return to his goddamned boat, it occurs to him that maybe Gibbs is already halfway gone. That he obsesses over the boat because he’s got to have something to cling to, something tangible, something real. Which is really stupid and not at all insightful, because who bases their sanity on a _boat_?
And what happens when the boat is finished?
He rests his head against the wall, closes his eyes. It’s far too late, even though it’s only midnight. He’s exhausted. He should have returned home a long time ago, or just not left at all. Gone home after work and crashed in front of the television, or headed out and found somebody -- just not come here. It’s only being real, being honest, that’s hard, and this is one of the few places in which his defenses have absolutely no effect.
Coming here was an incredibly bad idea, but getting caught’s what’s going to kill him. He should have pretended it was a stakeout. Should have made sure that he wouldn’t be seen. Wouldn’t be found. Should have been more careful, but regrets don’t make a difference. And he's not sure that he had a choice. One way or another, he thinks, he would have ended up here. What does that mean?
“So my mom had this dog,” he says, opening his eyes like he’s made a decision, though he doesn’t think that he has. “Horrible, ugly, yippy thing. She really loved it, though . . . after she died, it kept waiting for her. Like it thought she was gonna come home, you know, any minute. Like it really thought any minute . . .and she didn’t, but it kept waiting by the door. It got out once, ran out into the street . . . got hit by a Corvette. She drove a Corvette, see, and I always wondered if he thought it was her. It bit me once,” he adds out of habit, because he can’t help it. And he’s forgotten what his point was, if he had one other than immediate distraction, and he’s not sure why he brought this up. It’s not at all helpful, not even relevant. Just sort of depressing. Gibbs will think he’s crazy, except crazy is thinking everybody’s out to get you and then trying to shoot your friends, so maybe Gibbs will just think he’s weird.
Case in point: “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” Except for maybe he’s making a point about obsession and death and dedication, but if he doesn’t get it, why should Gibbs?
“So,” Gibbs begins, and then shakes his head like he doesn’t care, doesn't want an explanation. Or like he doesn’t need to hear it from somebody else. Does he question his own sanity? Does he wonder?
And Tony finds that he doesn’t want to know. Because despite everything, despite his desperate self-reliance, Gibbs being unsure is sort of like the end of the world.
“You could have told us sooner,” Tony says.
“Next time,” Gibbs says, and Tony’s not sure what he’s promising.
“I’m sorry,” he says. And he is. Because people die, they do it all the time, but Gibbs risked everything for this and now the guy isn’t even dead. He’s worse than dead. He’s just -- gone. And there’s nothing Gibbs can do about it. And it shouldn’t be like that.
And Gibbs looks at him, and nods, and stops moving. The air hangs heavy and silent. Tony thinks of heavy fog on the water, cold and grey. “Me, too,” Gibbs says. This doesn’t really make anything better, because words can never be enough, can never explain why it matters, but it’s something. For the first time, he sounds like he means it. Like he’s actually heard what Tony’s said.
Like he actually cares.
If Tony died, Gibbs would notice. Suddenly, Tony’s sure of it. And though he’s not sure it would go beyond that, all the way to insanity, maybe it’d be better that way. There’d be no need for two casualties, after all.
And this is what he’s come for, something nameless, affirmation. “Night, boss,” Tony says as he heads for the stairs. Gibbs mutters something that could be goodnight, but it could just as easily be in his head, wishful thinking.
As he opens the front door, steps outside, he doesn’t think that he minds. He returns to his car, alone as ever, but he no longer needs to wait, to keep watch. It’s past midnight and the air still smells of recent rain and dark, skittering things, and death can still come, and it will, but right now . . . right now all he needs is sleep, layers of warm blankets and the promise of sunshine on his skin in a few hours.
Right now, he doesn’t need to worry.
Right now, he can go home.
xxxxx
End