FIC: This is Not (McGee, Tony, PG-13)
Apparently, I wrote more stories about Tony and McGee than I really remembered. This is a stream-of-consciousness "Twilight" AU that I was never quite sure of--it's dark, angry, a little strange. Warning for character death.
Tony never, ever called him by his first name; Tony teased him; Tony dangled approval like a carrot and only ever used the stick. He carried Tony’s coffee and he did Tony’s paperwork. Tony never remembered how to spell “quarantine.” Tony was frustrating, Tony was loud, Tony was infuriating. Tony stuck to Gibbs’s heels like a puppy and got big eyes when no one would scratch him on the belly, got so sullen and hopeless-looking that McGee almost pitied him, until Tony would turn around and do the same thing to him. Tony was annoying. Tony pissed him off. Tony never really liked him that much. And quarantine, dammit, it wasn’t that hard to spell, not even that long of a word, and Tony just couldn’t get it, brain stuffed full of T and A and films to the point where there wasn’t enough room for him to absorb letters. All slick, all surface, with his smile and his gun and his laughter, nothing underneath, no words at all, but Tony had said, “This is not a debate,” and McGee had listened. He had picked up his heels and started running, because sure, yeah, that made sense, of course the guy who had just gotten over the plague would be able to run the marathon, right? Like he could really believe that. But he had, somehow he had, he would swear to God that he’d honestly believed that Tony could outrun that explosion.
*
He stumbled over the cusp of the embankment with Kate, arms pin wheeling and legs struggling to gain that extra inch over the incline to put him further out of harm’s way. There was only silence behind them, endless yards of quiet, no footfalls to reassure them that Tony had ever moved, and he came flying over the edge and onto the road.
“It’s the car!” he shouted, and he could hear his voice going embarrassingly high and squeaky on the last word, but Kate was right behind him (“It’s wired to explode!”), and when the blast behind them erupted, McGee ended up sprawled on the pavement because he tripped over a rock, not because of the sudden force that toppled the rest of them a second later.
Kate was up first, calling Tony’s name.
And her voice rolled down the hillside, and when the last of the echoes had faded away, there was still only silence.
*
McGee had dreams for months after that. He would wake up sweating, his hands tangled in the sheets, thinking quarantine and blackout and thisisnotadebate.
*
Gibbs ran down the edge of the world and McGee stood there with his hand on his chest, thinking that he had seen Gibbs run before, certainly, but not like this, never like this, God, with that speed and that tension, that fear in every step. He didn’t run. He stood where the ground dropped away at the tape and he watched the smoke lift from the car, carried off toward the sun. There was no reason for him to move. He knew that Tony was dead.
And Kate was standing beside him and then she had turned to him, catching at his arm, and he hadn’t known what else to do but hug her. She smelled like peach shampoo and she left scratches on his back that he examined later in the mirror.
He didn’t cry the way she did, all open and unashamed and gasping. He grabbed at the back of her shirt, fabric balled up underneath his fingertips, and his mind was screaming quarantine - quarantine - quarantine over and over again, like an air raid siren, and Gibbs was shouting for Tony, and Kate was sobbing into his jacket, and Tony was dead.
He hadn’t been Tony’s friend and Tony had said that it wasn’t a debate.
*
“Heroic” and “self-sacrificing” were words that came up a lot at the funeral, where snappishly-dressed officers and jaded ex-partners offered cliché goodbyes. McGee held Abby’s hand and raked his thumb over each black-painted fingertip. No one had asked him to say something to remember Tony. They had never been close.
*
Three years later, McGee worked a case into the ground. He handled it solo - - they were stretched to the limit on personnel - - and worked for thirty-six hours straight. He thought he heard Tony egging him on during interrogation. He excused himself, went to the bathroom, vomited, rinsed off his face, slept for a scant twenty minutes, and got back in the game.
*
“It was an honor working with Special Agent Dinozzo,” Ducky said, “and it was a pleasure to work with Tony.”
Everyone loved that, it was so meaningful and structured and profound.
McGee thought that the better eulogy came when Gibbs finally found Ari, when he tracked him down into the corner of that alley and never stopped firing his gun, even after the bullets were gone. He heard each click of empty chambers, closed his eyes, and thought: Amen. Amen. Because he and Tony had never spent time together outside of work, but Tony had steadied him after Erin and been so damnably gentle; because Tony had hazed him, but Tony had hazed worse anyone else who ever got in McGee’s way. Because Tony had said that it wasn’t a debate and McGee had listened.
Every bullet in Gibbs’s gun was gone before McGee could fire, and he thought that felt horribly like loss.
*
“Tony wasn’t my friend,” he said, when someone asked.
*
Tony held the trunk closed, his fingers glued to the key that McGee had so willingly surrendered to him. In the harsh sunlight, he looked as if he might still be carrying the plague inside of him, hot and festering and waiting for its chance. He turned to them, just his head, and his eyes locked on McGee’s, on Kate’s.
“Okay, both of you, run.” Kate protested, but Tony said quickly, “I’m a lot faster than you are, I’ll be right behind you, this is not a debate.”
And they ran.
*
McGee tossed the rose down on Tony’s grave.
His hand was shaking, and he didn’t know why.
Tony never, ever called him by his first name; Tony teased him; Tony dangled approval like a carrot and only ever used the stick. He carried Tony’s coffee and he did Tony’s paperwork. Tony never remembered how to spell “quarantine.” Tony was frustrating, Tony was loud, Tony was infuriating. Tony stuck to Gibbs’s heels like a puppy and got big eyes when no one would scratch him on the belly, got so sullen and hopeless-looking that McGee almost pitied him, until Tony would turn around and do the same thing to him. Tony was annoying. Tony pissed him off. Tony never really liked him that much. And quarantine, dammit, it wasn’t that hard to spell, not even that long of a word, and Tony just couldn’t get it, brain stuffed full of T and A and films to the point where there wasn’t enough room for him to absorb letters. All slick, all surface, with his smile and his gun and his laughter, nothing underneath, no words at all, but Tony had said, “This is not a debate,” and McGee had listened. He had picked up his heels and started running, because sure, yeah, that made sense, of course the guy who had just gotten over the plague would be able to run the marathon, right? Like he could really believe that. But he had, somehow he had, he would swear to God that he’d honestly believed that Tony could outrun that explosion.
*
He stumbled over the cusp of the embankment with Kate, arms pin wheeling and legs struggling to gain that extra inch over the incline to put him further out of harm’s way. There was only silence behind them, endless yards of quiet, no footfalls to reassure them that Tony had ever moved, and he came flying over the edge and onto the road.
“It’s the car!” he shouted, and he could hear his voice going embarrassingly high and squeaky on the last word, but Kate was right behind him (“It’s wired to explode!”), and when the blast behind them erupted, McGee ended up sprawled on the pavement because he tripped over a rock, not because of the sudden force that toppled the rest of them a second later.
Kate was up first, calling Tony’s name.
And her voice rolled down the hillside, and when the last of the echoes had faded away, there was still only silence.
*
McGee had dreams for months after that. He would wake up sweating, his hands tangled in the sheets, thinking quarantine and blackout and thisisnotadebate.
*
Gibbs ran down the edge of the world and McGee stood there with his hand on his chest, thinking that he had seen Gibbs run before, certainly, but not like this, never like this, God, with that speed and that tension, that fear in every step. He didn’t run. He stood where the ground dropped away at the tape and he watched the smoke lift from the car, carried off toward the sun. There was no reason for him to move. He knew that Tony was dead.
And Kate was standing beside him and then she had turned to him, catching at his arm, and he hadn’t known what else to do but hug her. She smelled like peach shampoo and she left scratches on his back that he examined later in the mirror.
He didn’t cry the way she did, all open and unashamed and gasping. He grabbed at the back of her shirt, fabric balled up underneath his fingertips, and his mind was screaming quarantine - quarantine - quarantine over and over again, like an air raid siren, and Gibbs was shouting for Tony, and Kate was sobbing into his jacket, and Tony was dead.
He hadn’t been Tony’s friend and Tony had said that it wasn’t a debate.
*
“Heroic” and “self-sacrificing” were words that came up a lot at the funeral, where snappishly-dressed officers and jaded ex-partners offered cliché goodbyes. McGee held Abby’s hand and raked his thumb over each black-painted fingertip. No one had asked him to say something to remember Tony. They had never been close.
*
Three years later, McGee worked a case into the ground. He handled it solo - - they were stretched to the limit on personnel - - and worked for thirty-six hours straight. He thought he heard Tony egging him on during interrogation. He excused himself, went to the bathroom, vomited, rinsed off his face, slept for a scant twenty minutes, and got back in the game.
*
“It was an honor working with Special Agent Dinozzo,” Ducky said, “and it was a pleasure to work with Tony.”
Everyone loved that, it was so meaningful and structured and profound.
McGee thought that the better eulogy came when Gibbs finally found Ari, when he tracked him down into the corner of that alley and never stopped firing his gun, even after the bullets were gone. He heard each click of empty chambers, closed his eyes, and thought: Amen. Amen. Because he and Tony had never spent time together outside of work, but Tony had steadied him after Erin and been so damnably gentle; because Tony had hazed him, but Tony had hazed worse anyone else who ever got in McGee’s way. Because Tony had said that it wasn’t a debate and McGee had listened.
Every bullet in Gibbs’s gun was gone before McGee could fire, and he thought that felt horribly like loss.
*
“Tony wasn’t my friend,” he said, when someone asked.
*
Tony held the trunk closed, his fingers glued to the key that McGee had so willingly surrendered to him. In the harsh sunlight, he looked as if he might still be carrying the plague inside of him, hot and festering and waiting for its chance. He turned to them, just his head, and his eyes locked on McGee’s, on Kate’s.
“Okay, both of you, run.” Kate protested, but Tony said quickly, “I’m a lot faster than you are, I’ll be right behind you, this is not a debate.”
And they ran.
*
McGee tossed the rose down on Tony’s grave.
His hand was shaking, and he didn’t know why.