Title: A Stack of Photographs
Author: Seven Positions
Rating: T for swearing, sexual imagery, and violence.
Disclaimer: Don't own NCIS
Characters: Tony DiNozzo-centric. Also Gibbs, Ziva, McGee, Abby, Ducky.
Summary: Oneshot, Tiva. Centered around the sudden death of Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.
Jethro Gibbs gripped his desk phone hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Apprehension and anger and disbelief filled his head until there was no room for anything else. He jerked the phone up to his ear and dialed the number scribbled on the sticky note in front of him.
After the third ring: "Roberto DiNozzo speaking."
"Mr. DiNozzo," he said, working hard to remove the spite from his voice. "This is Special Agent Gibbs, your son's boss."
There was silence, but not the click of a phone line being disconnected. He took this as an invitation to continue.
"I'm calling to inform you that Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was shot and killed on duty this morning."
More silence, and then he did hear that click. Rage surged in him.
Calm down, Jethro, he told himself. That was just an unfortunate but necessary step. It's out of the way. Don't think about it anymore.
He looked around. The other three desks in the bullpen were empty. He had sent Ziva and McGee home immediately following the removal of the bodies, the tagging of the weapon. McGee's face-- Gibbs wouldnever forget it-- was shocked, and... and devastated. Ziva's Mossad training kicked in quickly; her face was carefully blank. Gibbs worried for her.
He stood and his joints creaked painfully. Stiffly, he made his way to the desk diagonal from his own.
Neat stack of paperwork, Mighty Mouse stapler, wastebasket full of greasy napkins, an unfinished report just waiting on the computer screen. Blinking cursor.
Gibbs sat in the chair and opened the desk drawers. Nothing unusual, for the most poart, except a group of stiff, glossy pictures. Ducky, examining a body under the eager eyes of Jimmy Palmer. McGee, startled by the camera's flash. Ziva, giving a beautiful, rare smile. Gibbs, intently listening to a local LEO's briefing of the scene. Even Abby in her lab, posing with a huge grin on her face and a giant CafPow.
Suddenly too tired, Gibbs laid the photographs on the desk and sighed. It had been a long goddamn day.
Ziva closed the door to her apartment and felt all the muscles in her body turn to jelly. She sagged slightly.
"Tony," she whispered, and collapsed on the floor with her arms over her head like a shield, like she was trying to protect herself from the image of her dead partner, from the pain of missing him.
She hated the sobs wrenching from her body. She hated Tony for dying. She wouldn't have let herself get shot, she wouldn't--
And God, but she loved him.
The Star of David swung wildly from her neck as her body shook.
"Stop crying, dammit, or I will give you something to really cry about! DiNozzo men do not cry!"
Anthony DiNozzo was three years old, and this was the first time his father ever hit him.
The hand came down again on his bare skin as he writhed in the immovable grip. He could smell the alcohol and he loathed it vehemently as he thrashed and yelled.
When he was suddenly hauled up and backhanded across the face, though, his voice gave out to shock and he stilled. Tears still leaked out of his eyes, but his father was beyond caring. He was shoved onto the floor and left to pull up his pants and clean himself up.
That was the first time Anthony DiNozzo's father hit him. In the years to follow, anger took over sorrow. He learned to take his punishment with silence, with a clenched jaw and hating eyes. And eventually, he even learned to fight back.
They had their man-- all they needed to do now was apprehend him.
It was easier said than done. Mark Palermo was a fighter, a serial killer who targeted Marines and their families, and a damn fast runner. Thankfully, he was unarmed.
The agents had followed him into an empty house, where he had subsequently disappeared.
Tony entered a room with sparse furniture and no closet. "Clear," he shouted.
Holding his gun at the ready, he slid silently into the next room. His eyes roamed around, searching for the suspect--
Pain exploded in his face and he was thrown into the wall. His gun flew out of his hands. Palermo was attacking him, trying to wrap his hands around his throat.
After a brief moment of trying to decipher which way was up and what the hell was happening, Tony started fighting back, throwing his elbow into Palermo's chest.
They fought, each trying to pin the other and remove the threat. After about a minute, the killer managed to slam his opponent onto his back and straddle his waist.
Tony struggled valiantly-- until he found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun.
The other agents, led by Ziva, rounded the corner just as Palermo pulled the trigger. Tony's body jerked, then was still. Gibbs shouted: "DiNozzo!"
The killer hauled himself to his feet and ran, still holding the gun.
Without hesitation, Ziva aimed and fired. Palermo shot forward as the bullet ripped through his chest, his limbs flung around him, and fell.
Gibbs looked behind him to see McGee frozen to the spot, staring. He turned back around and slowly stepped toward the body of his senior field agent. With the wound, he was eerily remniscient of Kate. He had died with his hands on either side of his head in the universal sign of submission, of surrender. His mouth and eyes were open.
Gibbs cleared his throat. "McGee," he rasped. "McGee." In moments the young man was at his side.
He hated himself for what he had to ask his agents to do.
"Take pictures of the bodies. Ziva, tag the weapon."
Mechanically, they set about their tasks. Gibbs pulled out his cell phone and dialed a very familiar number.
"Ducky, I need you to get down here as fast as possible."
Ducky sighed. He simply could not handle any more of this. He needed to retire as soon as he could to a nice cottage in England, away from all the madness that allowed a man such as Anthony DiNozzo to die.
He currently had two bodies on the autopsy tables. One belonged to Mark Palermo, the serial killer. The other belonged to Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Palermo's ninth and final victim.
The autopsies hadn't revealed anything unexpected. Cause of death in both cases was gunshot wound. Ducky just had to stich them up and slide their cold bodies into cold, metal drawers.
Palermo was easy, of course; just like stitching up any dead man, once you got past the fact that he had killed Anthony.
He found that it was suddenly near impossible, however, to even touch his young colleague's icy skin. Instead, he sat on the stool with his eyes closed, letting an absolute weariness settle into his bones.
The man's death had been so heartbreakingly sudden; he wasn't sure anybody had been able to process it yet. When he and Jimmy had arrived on the scene, the other three agents had been wearing identical expressions of utter confusion. When Ducky had begun to solemnly examine the body of their fallen friend, their faces changed: Ziva's and Gibbs' hardened, while Timothy's took on a look of horror.
Gibbs had immediately sent his team home- all except Anthony, who still lay in th esame position. Ducky couldn't stand looking at his final pose, a look of fear and desperation. Gently, he closed his mouth and his eyes, and moved his arms to rest byy his side. He had looked much more peaceful that way.
Now, it appeared Ducky had reached his limit. He couldn't even open his eyes and look at the poor boy. He half-expected him to open his eyes and speak to him, as Kate had. It might have been nice, really, to have one more conversation with him, to have some closure, even if he was imagining it.
But no, he was being foolish. Steeling his nerve, Ducky stood and began the task of stitching up the body of Anthony DiNozzo. The dead man did not speak once.
Three days ago, Ziva David and Tony DiNozzo were sitting on the couch in the woman's apartment. They were smiling at each other, each drinking from a glass of wine. They were laughing together.
Tony's eyes had softened, and, embarrassed, he had made a confession. Ziva's expression had changed, and he had thought she was going to hit him.
Instead, she had kissed him.
He had marvelled at how soft her lips were- and, later, how soft her breasts were.
Now, Ziva is crying in her apartment, glad they had decided never to tell anyone what had happened. That way, she can pretend it never did happen.
A month from now, Ziva will read a positive pregancy test, and all the wounds that had been created when she saw Tony die will rip open fresh, and she will lean against the bathroom wall and sob.
Abby didn't think she'd ever felt so down in her entire life.
No more Tony. No more Tony hugs, no more DiNozzo smile. What a rotten bastard, she thought, getting himself shot in the head.
She sat in her lab with her head buried in her folded arms, silently crying. It hurt, it really did. She felt like her chest was ripping apart anew with each breath.
She could hardly even register that, from that point on, the world would be Tony-less. It didn't make sense, it didn't. And who would Gibbs hire to replace him? She was sure, whoever it was, she would hate him. Or her. How couldn't she?
"Abby?"
Startled, Abby pushed herself up and around, furiously rubbing the tears and running makeup off of her face.
"McGee! What are you doing here? I thought Gibbs sent you home."
She noticed McGee looked kind of nervous.
"Yeah, Abby, he did. I just... couldn't stay there, y'know? I-- I needed to talk."
"Oh, McGee," she said, launching herself forward with her arms open. He folded himself into her embrace, grasping at the sides of her lab coat, and released a shuddering sigh.
"Abby, it was... he was just... I never thought..." He choked on tears, and, ashamed, hid his face in her shoulder.
"I know, McGee, I know."
"There was so much blood everywhere. He looked so scared. I--"
"Shh," she soothed through her own gasps and whimpers, rubbing his back.
He shut up, just let himself cry. She did, too, holding onto him like she would never let him go. She wouldn't, she decided then. She wouldn't let any of them go again. Because look where that had got them, had got Tony. Dead on Ducky's table. She moaned, squeezing her eyes shut, attempting to scrub her mind of that imagery.
After minutes, McGee had calmed down enough to just breathe in the scent of Abby's perfume. He wanted nothing more than to be called McGeek. McCrybaby, even.
"Abby," he said softly, "I don't think I'll ever forget... the look on his face."
"I'm sorry," she breathed, feeling a surge of compassion for her friend.
"Me too."
Gibbs noticed the man sitting in the back at the funeral. He had a completely impassive look on his face, watching the proceedings with mild interest.
Gibbs had seen a picture of him, once.
McGee caught him staring at the man in the back. "Who's that, boss?" he asked. He received no answer.
The man didn't move when the attendees each passed by Tony's casket. Gibbs watched as Abby twirled her parasol absently, running her thumb over Tony's hand. He watched Ziva's face tighten and her eyebrows knit together-- he watched her hand hover above him like she wanted to touch him so badly but couldn't bring herself to do it. He watched McGee grip the side of the casket and bow his head respectfully. And he watched the man sitting in the very back continue to just sit.
Until the funeral was over, and everyone had begun to walk away. Only then did Roberto DiNozzo stand and approach his son. His fingers ghosted over the dead man's cheek and his careful face broke, just enough that for a second he couldn't put it back together again. But he did, and he took his hand away and feigned indifference.
Gibbs saw this and smiled, unsure if it was a vindictive smile or a happy one.
Roberto walked back to his shiny car, adjusting the collar of his expensive suit, not looking back once at the casket that held his only son.