Weekend Duty - Chapter 7 - Sunday, 04:30 EST
Title: Weekend Duty
Author: SA3466996
Rating: PG-13, T
Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Genre: Gen
Pairing: None
Character: Gibbs/DiNozzo/Team
Summary: Tony went AWOL. Gibbs wants to make sure it never happens again. After ordering him to work the weekend shift, Gibbs finds out a little more about his senior field agent and Tony finds out just how big that second 'b' is. Sequel to The Onion and Word Salad. Tag to 'Boxed In'. Could also be read as a backstory for the comment "You'll do" in 'Hiatus'.
Spoilers: References to 'Boxed In', 'Mind Games' and 'Caught on Tape'.
Warnings: Minor violence, minor language.
Disclaimer: NCIS characters belong to Bellisario, CBS and Paramount. No copyright infringement intended.
Betas: CSIGeekFan, Obsessed Pam and Will.
Chapter 7 - Sunday, 04:30 EST
Tony felt himself falling. The force had sent him down hard. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but he’d expected more pain than this. He was breathing hard; his breath clearly visible as small wispy clouds against the cold night air. From where he lay on the ground he could see two people down; one lifeless girl and another guy clutching at his thigh, blood pouring from between his fingers. Tiny pieces of grit dug into his left palm and the fingers of his right hand which were still wrapped tightly around his own firearm. He heard the footsteps of someone walking calmly towards him. There should be more pain. As he tried to move he found he could, quite easily; and there was no pain. The footsteps were closing on him and he heard someone laughing. Turning to look at the source of the noise, Tony reacted instinctively when he saw the man levelling a gun at his head.
The shooter went down. Two shots to the head from Tony’s gun. Dead.
Tony physically shook; whether from fear, relief or adrenalin overload he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the perp was down and he himself hadn’t been shot. The noise of his own gunfire still rang painfully in his ears, but he didn’t care; he hadn’t been shot. “Mike... he didn’t get me. I’m okay, Mike,” he managed to call out. “Mike?”
Detective Mike Foster had been Tony’s second partner at Baltimore. Detective Mike Foster had been a friend. Detective Mike Foster had died saving Tony’s life.
In the line of duty.
His Captain’s words startled him back from nightmare number 23 to consciousness. Tony jolted forward in his seat, arms flailing wildly while sending several case files hurtling to the floor beside his desk. Running a hand across his face and rubbing his sore eyes, Tony abruptly took in the sound and touch of his surroundings. A low hum signified air conditioning and he could feel the gentle heat from his desk lamp. Opening his eyes fully, he realised he’d fallen asleep in his chair and he was alone in the squad room.
In the line of duty.
His Captain’s words echoed in his thoughts again. The nightmare always ended with those words.
Mike and Tony had both received commendations. Jan had accepted on behalf of Mike. But Tony, as much as he liked recognition, wanted it, strived for it even... well, it was one commendation he had desperately wanted to refuse. Politics had dictated otherwise. He’d wanted to shove that commendation in a box; ship it out, cut it off from the rest of the world... let it float away never to be found. He’d hated that commendation. It hadn’t been earned and Tony didn’t think he deserved it - knew he didn’t. His first thoughts had been relief that he’d not been shot. Where had his concern for his partner been? He’d done nothing to protect Mike, and Mike had done everything... given everything to protect him. Mike had died pushing him out of the line of fire. Mike should never have had to do that. Mike wouldn’t even have been there if it wasn’t for him.
It was his lack of discipline that had killed Mike.
If he hadn’t lacked self control, he wouldn’t have shot his mouth off at Collins. The Captain wouldn’t have overheard and they wouldn’t have been the ones ordered to transfer the suspect to D.C. that Friday night. They wouldn’t have been driving back late. Mike wouldn’t have seen the girl. They wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have gotten himself in the line of fire and Mike wouldn’t have died saving him.
He stood alone.
Some of the guys back at the station had tried to placate him with an abundance of sympathy, empathy and empty platitudes. How many others might have died if you hadn’t been there to take him down? It wasn’t your fault. Mike knew the danger. You were doing your job. Wrong time, wrong place. He died doing a job he loved.
Some of the other guys’ comments hadn’t been quite as effectively moderated. He’d handled those a lot more easily.
It was supposed to be a great healer - Time. That was a load of crap. No one ever said how much time it took. A week? A month? A year? A lifetime?
Never?
The feelings, memories, guilt - they would always be there, no matter how much time had passed.
Crap! How much time had passed? The clock at the right hand corner of his monitor stated the time... 04.30. Tony swore. He should never have fallen asleep. There were still six more SWOT analysis reports to do before 17:00. He’d lost two hours and he couldn’t guarantee how much time he’d get to finish them once Gibbs arrived.
As Tony picked up the fallen files from off the floor and placed them back on his desk, his eyes were drawn to the piece of paper he’d read a few hours earlier. Gibbs’s assessment had been fair and accurate. He hadn’t been ready. Cursing, for the second time in under two minutes, Tony took the form, folded it in half and placed it securely in his jacket pocket. Why did the bastard always have to be right?
Hunger gripped the senior field agent and he hunted in his drawer for his candy bar. Once located, Tony ripped it open, stuffed the whole bar in his mouth, chewed and threw the wrapper in the trash. Sleep taken care of and hunger abated, Tony stood up, retrieved one of the clean shirts he’d put in the cabinet behind him the previous day, and headed for the showers down in the gym.
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Abby had partied hard after winning the match and, as was customary practice, Sister Rosita and her charges had all gone to the club with her. They had danced their way through the invisible, but nonetheless still present, tiredness barrier until Sister Rosita had ordered the girls to ‘hustle up’ and suggested they ought to head back before the date changed. Abby had protested when they’d told her to carry on without them but they’d insisted she stay and enjoy herself. There was absolutely no possibility of going against the words of Sister Rosita, so she’d stayed for an hour and then moved on to another club; one of her more regular haunts, had a few more drinks and danced with a couple of friends she’d met there before.
Slowly, carefully and with concentrated effort, Abby closed the front door to her apartment. She knew she was more than a little tipsy; the cab driver having almost refused to let her ride in his cab... that and the fact that the room was spinning faster than the centrifuge ever had done back in her lab.
Abigail Sciuto... what would your mother say? Abby signed to herself, surprised when her fingers wouldn’t move quite as quickly and deftly as they normally did. You really need to lie down now.
Relieved that she wasn’t working later in the day and knowing that her head and stomach would most definitely protest, she used all her concentration to walk the few metres into her front room.
Swaying slightly, Abby dropped her bowling bag on the wooden floor, hauled the backpack from her shoulders and threw it on the couch. She gasped as the loosely-tied pack spewed its contents across the floor and her couch. Her beloved cell clattered nosily on the floor boards, skidding to a halt underneath the table beside her couch. As she dropped on all fours and groped around under the table for her cell, she slipped; falling flat on her face, giggling. Much better position, she thought, her head spinning slightly less than before.
After a concerted effort, Abby had grabbed the cell and brought it close to her face squinting at the display, surprised at the number of messages she’d missed. Her fingers were all hinky and, after struggling briefly to flip the cell open, she finally managed to navigate to the text messages and opened up the first.
To: Sciuto, Abby
From: DiNozzo, Tony
Time: 19:57
Message: Way to go Abs, never doubted you for a min!
Tony. The warmth that shone in her black-rimmed eyes matched that evident in the growing smile on her face. Ton... knee. “Ow!” Abby cried out as the studded cuff that had escaped from her back pack and landed on the floor poked painfully into her knee. Shifting her right leg slightly, Abby relaxed, the warmth slowly leaving her eyes as she gave in to a mixture of tiredness and alcohol induced slumber.
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Kate shook her head and stared at the girl lying prone on the wooden floor of the apartment. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was all to indicate her hold on life... well, that and the peaceful expression the girl wore. A rookie might have started shooting and sketching at the sight of the woman lying, unmoving, on the bare floorboards; cell grasped loosely in her hand, contents of her bag strewn across the floor and the couch. The immediate scene had all the outward appearances of a robbery gone wrong. Maybe the girl had interrupted an intruder? Perhaps she had tripped on her heels and fallen, cracking her head on the edge of the table? It was only through closer inspection that the presence of slow regular breathing, absence of any visible trauma to the girl and no signs of forced entry to the apartment revealed that the girl was actually very much alive and sleeping peacefully.
Abby used to sleep on the floor of her lab... still slept, she corrected quickly. Kate had to remind herself constantly that she was the one who was dead - not the others. She liked to keep an eye on her friends from time to time, especially Abby. It wasn’t that she thought they couldn’t take of themselves; they could. She just wanted to watch them. A little voyeuristic, Caitlyn, she thought.
When she’d been alive, Kate had, albeit informally, personally profiled them all; for her own interest, satisfaction, amusement... she wasn’t sure which, or why. In death, she was able to feel and see them; observe as they went about their daily activities. Competitive by nature, and somewhat of a perfectionist, Kate wanted to know whether she had been right. She liked to watch them sleep, think, talk out loud to themselves. She had watched them laugh, smile, curse, cry and love... and she had watched them bowl, sand their boat, write, care for loved ones, run, dream, assimilate and remember.
Abby was her favourite. Her enthusiasm, fierce determination but sometimes childlike awe and innate nature of worrying about everyone except herself made her a frequent stop for Kate.
Gibbs was the most irritating to watch. Leaning back against the staircase in the basement, Kate eyed her former Boss; his hands firmly pressing sand paper to wood, going with the grain. Even in solitude, Gibbs seemed to hide his inner thoughts. He certainly never voiced them.
McGee was easier to read and perhaps the most calming of her friends to watch, despite his on-line role playing activities where he turned into some kind of mad man. Kate often joined him at weekends whilst he tapped away at his old typewriter. She loved to see that smile stretch across his face and the glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he found that angle or set of words that smashed through his frequent but rarely sustained writer’s block.
Ducky was the most comforting to watch. Whether she observed as he was looking after his aged mother, gently guiding Jimmy Palmer in his work or attending to an unfortunate soul in autopsy; he never failed to make her feel welcome. It was the ease with which he cared and comforted. The ease with which he advised, and the ease with which he talked to his audience - live or dead. He was her grounding.
Tony, on the other hand, was the most disturbing. He worked, flirted, watched movies, took in the game, listened to music, ate take out, met up with his frat brothers, took the Mustang for a spin; all the things she had expected of him. What she hadn’t seen before were the nightmares, punishing early morning runs, moments of self loathing and the intense pain behind the eyes of a more subdued Tony. That darkness and pain was evident in her partner’s... ex partner’s... eyes as, barefoot and shirtless, he let fly at the punch bag in the NCIS gym. At least this time he’d had the sense to wear gloves.
Always pleased to spy on Palmer, she had been shocked to find him the most entertaining to watch. He was a guy with hidden talents, many he probably hadn’t yet realised he had. First impressions had led her to think of him as a shy, insecure and naive young man. Shy, he most definitely wasn’t; not out of work anyway, and young ‘Jimmy’ had surprised her on more than one occasion with his fortitude, awareness and intelligence.
Although she hadn’t met Ziva or Jenny when she had been alive, she still elected to observe them too. They were part of the team she had belonged to. Always battling her emotions and guarding them tightly, opting to consider such outward displays as a sign of weakness, Ziva was the most interesting to watch. Director Sheppard confused her. Jenny had the authority and gravitas of any of her counterparts in the male-dominated upper echelons of law enforcement. She was the bright young thing; a genuine success story. Completely committed to the cause, and her agents, but, mixed in with that, Kate sensed a woman with an undisclosed mission and she vowed to keep a close eye on her.
That was what she should be doing to Abby now; keeping an eye on her. For a brief moment Kate was torn between leaving Tony and checking on Abby. However, with Tony fully engrossed in beating the wadding out of the punch bag, she found the dilemma easier to resolve than expected. Tony had the upper hand and she even pitied the punch bag. A second later, Kate had left the NCIS gym in favour of Abby’s apartment.
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After a twenty minute session with the punch bag in the gym and after taking a brief shower to rid himself of the sweat and effects of another all too common nightmare, Tony had stopped by the vending machine to grab an energy bar and a soda and had returned to the empty squad room. He’d completed another two SWOTs and surmised that if he could just finish his current one before Gibbs got in he could possibly manage the remainder before 17:00.
Speaking of which, it had to be almost 07:00. Glancing at his watch, he realised 07:00 had come and gone. Where the hell was Gibbs? Gibbs was always in before 07:00, even on a weekend. Although it had given him a few extra minutes sans stare or threat, and even though they weren’t due to re-interview Webb until later that afternoon, Gibbs not being in still unnerved him. He cursed Gibbs for being Gibbs.
The ping from the elevator signalled that he’d spoken too soon. His suspicions were confirmed when Gibbs strode through the squad room and straight past Tony, refreshingly calm for a man who wasn’t carrying a cup of coffee.
“You’re late Gibbs. Thought we were working this shift together.”
Gibbs forced himself not to turn back and whack the guy over the head. Only DiNozzo would have the nerve to say that. He was obviously pissed with him. Good. He wanted a pissed DiNozzo. It gave him an edge. Much better a pissed, self-assured, DiNozzo than a cowering, timorous one.
As he looked over at his senior field agent he could sense the man was obviously waging a war with himself, and he had a pretty good idea what it was about. He crooked a finger, motioning for Tony to stand in front of his desk.
You’re late Gibbs. He couldn’t believe he’d said that out loud. The guy hadn’t had his caffeine hit yet. If Gibbs wasn’t pissed enough already, he would be now. Crap. That energy bar hadn’t done much for his flagging energy levels at all; he was dog tired and it just came out... he couldn’t help it, and he was just slightly annoyed at his Boss’s relentless digs and ability to unnerve him.
Gibbs was beckoning him over. Crap, crap and, oh yeah, crap! This didn’t bode well. He knew the drill. Sighing, Tony prised himself from his chair, walked over to Gibbs’s desk and stood front and centre staring into space.
“Something wrong, DiNozzo?”
Tony toyed with the idea of saying ‘no’ but Gibbs’s voice was calm and relaxed. He was still sitting in his chair and when Tony glanced down he noticed that Gibbs had leaned back in his seat slightly, and he didn’t seem to be angry at all. That was unexpected. Momentarily at a loss for what to say, Tony searched his brain for the right words. Gibbs beat him to it.
“Well this is a change,” Gibbs smiled up at Tony. “Not sure I like it.”
“I was thinking the same thing, Boss,” he said collecting his thoughts and resuming his earlier stance of staring into space.
Gibbs leaned forward. “I’ll ask again. Something wrong, DiNozzo?”
More forceful this time. That was the Gibbs Tony knew. That was the Gibbs that wasn’t going to let this go. Oh well... no time like the present, he surmised. “Found this...” Tony sighed, fished in his jacket pocket and handed the folded piece of paper to Gibbs, “... in the Boone file... misfiled.”
“You read it, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asked, taking the folded promotion assessment form from Tony and placing it securely in his desk drawer.
Tony grimaced. He couldn’t lie. Gibbs would know. “Yeah... I did.”
“What d’ya think?”
“I...” He stopped... realisation slapping him square in the face. He should have caught that sooner. What is wrong with you, Anthony? You idiot! Gibbs taught you better than that. He thought he saw the hint of a smile sweep across his mentor’s face. Bastard. Gibbs knew what that piece of paper was without even looking at it. He also knew that Tony had just mentally head slapped himself. A tiny ripple of a laugh escaped as Tony shook his head. Capturing Gibbs’s eyes with his own he answered, “I thought it was a fair assessment, Boss.”
“Would you have said anything different?”
“No,” Tony replied firmly and honestly.
Gibbs nodded. “Good.”
Gibbs eyes widened during the short silence and Tony thought he saw the hint of something akin to genuine respect seep through the bright blue rings. Tony waited whilst his boss angled his head to the right, scratched his chin and then dropped eye contact with him. Gibbs began to boot up his computer and hinted, not unkindly, “You’ve got some time until we re-interview Webb. Might want to use it wisely, Tony.”
And that was his cue to leave - simple.
Were they good now? Was he still in Gibbs’s bad books? Making progress, he reckoned... if the use of his first name was anything to go by.
As he walked slowly back to his desk and his waiting closed case files, Tony felt oddly pleased with himself - although he wasn’t quite sure why. Something had happened during that conversation. He’d done something good in Gibbs’s eyes, but he couldn’t place exactly what that was.
At least he’d been honest with Gibbs; that had to count for something. The last thing he wanted to do was lie to Gibbs.
TBC...
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SA3 - To the LE EXPO 2009 and beyond: Part 5 - Parallels.
“That is not Italian!”
SA3 heard the protestation from where he stood halfway down the queue in the food hall. Some guy at the front was having a go at the poor woman behind the counter. He just wished it would end soon. The Boss had told him to go grab them some lunch ‘none of that junk crap’ and ‘be back in ten or else’ and he didn’t want to annoy the Boss further; his hair was already starting to thin at the back of his head where the Boss generally whacked him. Making a decision, SA3 stepped out of the queue and started towards the man at the front.
“Sir, it’s Insalate Caprese. Italian.”
“Processed cheese, a sliced tomato and three strips of lettuce is not Insalata Caprese.”
“Nope. That would be Mozzarella, plum tomatoes, basil, pinch of salt, black pepper and a generous drizzle of extra virgin olive oil,” SA3 interjected, catching the attention of the fuming woman. “He’ll have the chicken and pasta salad. Wait... make that three.”
“Four. Hey!”
SA3 offered a hand. “SA3466996.”
“Monteleone,” the slightly annoyed man replied, simultaneously casting an eye up and down SA3’s frame and shaking his hand.
The awkward handshake was rudely interrupted by the rough shove from a body and an impatient cry. “Make a hole. Chicken and pasta salad. Two please.”
“DiNozzo?”
The man who had barged through them spun around knocking SA3’s arm in the process. “Monteleone?”
“Hey!” SA3 hissed. “Watch the suit.” SA3’s hackles immediately rose as he took in the glare that the stranger gave him. He hated conferences. Thankfully the glare the other man wore was quickly replaced by surprise and admiration.
“Nice tie, Armani?”
“Is there any other?” SA3 replied sarcastically and then feeling slightly awkward at his scathing tone, introduced himself. “SA3466996. I take it you two know each other.”
“We worked a case together a while back,” Monteleone stated proudly.
“Yeah...” DiNozzo pondered, recalling some distant memory, “that was just plain... weird... Cheney and Gibbs... in the same room... together. Sorry...” Tony shrugged apologetically and shook SA3’s hand. “DiNozzo.”
“Now that we all know each other, how ‘bout we get out of here.” Monteleone huffed, “I hate conferences.”
“Sorry, I... Gibbs...” DiNozzo gestured towards the queue for liquid refreshments. “I gotta get back.”
“I know where we can get some stress Sigs,” Monteleone teased, raising his eyebrows.
“Ambidextrous grip, safety catch.” SA3’s eyes lit up and then burned low as he sighed. “I’ve already seen them. You guys go.”
Monteleone pressed the two killjoys further. “Hey, come on. Five minutes won’t hurt. Seriously, Gibbs can’t be that bad... ”
“Trust me, if I’m not back like...” DiNozzo tapped his watch, “ten minutes ago...”
“Sounds like the Boss,” SA3 sympathised.
“You haven’t met Gibbs,” Tony grimaced, and ran a hand through his hair. “Has these... rules... and other stuff.”
“Other stuff...” SA3 winced. “You haven’t met the Boss.”
“Gibbs... the Boss,” Monteleone replied nonchalantly, “the way you’re talking, anyone would think you’re afraid of them or something.”
“Hey, I’m not afraid of...” DiNozzo and SA3 answered in unison, both giving Monteleone a hard senior field agent stare.
Monteleone smirked. “Guys, DiNozzo, SA3466996... come on. We can eat on the way. You guys need some stress relief.” Monteleone raised an eyebrow and beckoned for the two men to lean in closer as he whispered, “The sort you can only get from a rubbery, foam-filled, Sig Sauer with ambidextrous grip and built in safety catch.”
DiNozzo thought for a brief moment. “That is one of the most incredibly stupid and childish suggestions to come out of a law enforcement officer’s mouth. Guns are not toys,” he replied in a deadly serious tone. “I’m in.”
“Me too.”
The three LEOs grabbed the six chicken and pasta salads between them and hurried off in the direction of the exhibition hall in search of the Sig Sauer stand to grab their ‘gear’.
TBC...
Chapter 8 - Sunday, 14:51 EST