Author's Notes:
Well, this is definitely not the kind of story I typically write. Heavily influenced by slash and Xanthe, I decided to try and write a BDSM slash fic. There were many times I was ready to abandon it, but after I got so far in it seemed terrible to waste it. So I finally finished, and hope someone out there enjoys this crazy AU romance.
If you do not want to read slash or BDSM, stay away from this story! I don't think I can warn you any more forcefully.
If you have read the warning and choose to proceed, I hope you enjoy the adventure.
Tony snapped a picture of the body then let the camera hang loosely around his neck. He tilted his head, brow furrowed in concentration. "How long do you think it took him?"
Tim McGee stopped scraping under the dead man's nails and looked up at the senior field agent. "How long do I think it took him to do what?" he asked, trying to use a bland, non-committal expression to hide the fact he was curious about what Tony was going to say next.
DiNozzo knew that McGee acted like the perfect little federal agent, but deep inside he believed his Probie enjoyed the irreverence he brought to their often gruesome work. Tim hadn't come out and said it, but Tony could tell he'd been missed during his months away as Agent Afloat; raising his eyes toward the ceiling he sent a silent prayer of thanks to heaven that his sojourn at sea was finally over.
Bending down closer to the corpse, Tony waved his hand over the man's lower extremities that were encased in skin tight black leather. "To get these pants on. You ever tried to slide into a pair of leather pants, McGee? It definitely takes some effort – a person can work up quite a sweat. Baby powder helps, though. Makes them less sticky."
"And you know this how, DiNozzo?"
The slightly caustic statement warmed his heart. McGee had years ago mastered the art of being his straight man - the perfect Hardy to his Laurel. A month after Vance had reassigned him back to DC, Tony still couldn't get enough of all the things that had made him homesick in their absence; Ziva's mangling of the English language, Abby's breathless tirades, Palmer's inability to follow a map. The fun he had at the expense of McGee's boundless innocence was one of those missing pieces he didn't know how much he cherished until it was gone.
Of course, he never planned to verbalize those feelings to Tim, so Tony merely shrugged in reply. "I've worn leather a few times in my misspent youth, McVirtuous. One thing I can promise – it's a hell of a lot easier to take off than get on." He grinned mischievously, earning an exasperated shake of his partner's head.
After sealing the evidence bag and storing it in his pocket, McGee stood and walked over to the various guitars displayed along the wall beneath multiple framed gold and platinum records. "It's hard to believe that an obsessed petty officer barely out of his teens killed an eighties heavy metal rock icon. Did you ever see his band in concert?"
"Oh, yeah – four or five times at least," Tony answered, the dreamy look on his face revealing some very good memories. "I loved White Tiger, they were one of my favorite hair bands. And poor Eric Davies here was a guitar god." He nodded at the deceased who lay face-down, long curly blonde hair smeared in a pool of his own blood, his rail-thin body littered with stab wounds.
Letting out a reverent sigh Tony joined McGee next to the display. "I didn't get to go to many concerts," Tim said wistfully. "My parents were pretty strict when I was a teenager. They loosened up a lot with Sarah."
"Well I'm sure you snuck out for a few Star Trek conventions," Tony remarked cheerfully. He let his gloved finger trail over the strings of a black guitar decorated with bright orange flames. "I got laid to a White Tiger song once. Allison was a senior cheerleader and I was a sophomore starting forward. The heavy bass line created the perfect rhythm for…." He smiled broadly in response to McGee's shocked expression. "They were good times, Probie, good times."
"You shouldn't touch that, Tony," the younger agent warned, glancing about nervously while Tony continued to lovingly trace the contours of the instrument.
"I've already photographed everything and you've scoured every inch of this place," the senior field agent replied. "Picking this up won't do any harm. Plus, I have on these." He waggled his gloved hands theatrically.
"This is a really bad idea." Tim folded his arms in frustration.
Ignoring McGee's admonition, he lifted the guitar out of the rack and held it up admiringly. "It is beautiful, isn't it? I can play a little – wanna hear?" He didn't wait for an answer before he slipped the strap over his head and held the guitar in position. "Man, I bet it was a rush for him to be onstage with thousands of girls screaming his name while he drove them wild with his solos."
"Come on Tony, put it back. Gibbs could get done with his interviews any minute," McGee's eyes flicked to the door apprehensively.
"Don't be such a McGoodyTwoShoes. This is like a real live version of Guitar Hero; I thought you might be able to relate." Tony hummed softly as he bounced on his toes, then let his shoulders bob, finally his head started banging up and down and he let loose with an air guitar riff while he mouthed the music to one of his favorite eighties songs. His arm pinwheeled and he jumped up in the air in a semi-split, landing with a curled lip and a loud screech worthy of any heavy metal star.
At that moment the door flew open and Gibbs stood framed in the opening glaring icily at his agents.
"DiNozzo, what the hell are you doing?"
"Uh, well," Tony straightened and carefully removed the guitar from around his neck, trying to improvise a way out of this somewhat embarrassing predicament. "I was just showing McGee here some of my favorite moves from Davies' concerts. We were done with processing, and….I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time." He grinned sheepishly and put the guitar back in place on the rack. "I really am a big fan, and not many of our dead bodies turn out to be celebrities – it's not like DC is a hot-bed for the rich and famous. It's dumb luck that he grew up here and wanted to live in his hometown. I didn't think he'd mind since I was paying my respects with one of his best songs and he always did that split thing at the end of his concerts…."
Tony's rambling trailed off when Gibbs stalked over to him, Ziva quietly slipping into the room behind the lead agent.
"So just because you're done processing you get to act like an idiot? What if an LEO had walked in here? Or a reporter sneaked inside? How do you think Vance would react to a picture of an NCIS agent playing rock band at a crime scene plastered all over the news?" Gibbs' eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Tony knew he had gone too far this time - Gibbs had been telling him to get his pranks under control for weeks. He anxiously waited for the head slap, but none came. Surely, a break of protocol of this magnitude would be worthy of a physical reprimand. Tony's eyes stayed glued to Gibbs' hands, watching them clench into tight fists. He tensed the muscles in his neck, and in a small part of his soul, hoped for the signal that all had returned to normal.
Instead, Gibbs pressed his lips into a firm line of aggravation. His hands uncurled and wiped at his pants. He stepped in close to whisper menacingly in Tony's ear, so near it would be impossible for anyone else to hear his threat. "Think DiNozzo. It might be hard for you sometimes, but think before you pull another stunt like this one. You're my senior field agent and I expect you to start acting like it. No more stupid shit."
Without another word to Tony he turned and walked away.
Tony watched him go and his muscles twitched. He'd just been fooling around; no big deal. Did it really merit Gibbs calling him an idiot? Once upon a time, the lead agent might have even laughed at his actions. He scrubbed a hand over his face in annoyance. Those days were long gone.
Ziva approached, wagging her finger like an uptight school-marm. "He let you off easy, Tony. You should be glad he is not still yelling at you for something so incredibly childish."
McGee carefully placed his equipment and evidence in a backpack and zipped it. "You didn't earn a head slap for it; I really think you should stop trying to provoke him. I kind of figured you'd be glad he stopped hitting you."
"You think I want Gibbs to head slap me?" Tony laughed self-consciously. "Why would I want that? You're way off base."
Ziva scoffed loudly. "Do you expect us to believe that? Everything you have done since the first time Gibbs did not slap you has been to force his reaction. I agree with McGee, it is time to stop the nonsense before it goes too far. I am afraid instead of the result you want he is going to fire you instead."
"Or he could shoot you," McGee added helpfully. "What did he whisper in your ear? That was kind of scary."
"None of your beeswax, McNosy. And for the record, I am not trying to make Gibbs head slap me. Let's get out of here." He headed toward the door, stopping when a frazzled Dr. Mallard appeared with Jimmy Palmer in tow.
"I'm surprised our body hasn't decomposed by now, considering how long it took Mr. Palmer to locate our destination." The ME cast the skinny young man an irritated look.
"I told you, the directions were wrong!" Palmer protested, juggling several large cases of equipment. "It isn't my fault this time!"
The doctor ignored his assistant and brushed past the departing agents to kneel over the corpse. "Be that as it may, we are still late to the party." He tilted his head up at Tony. "Tell Jethro I'll have a report to him as quickly as possible; I do hope he isn't upset by our tardiness."
Tony gave a small and bitter laugh. "Don't worry Ducky, he's so pissed at me you have nothing to be worried about."
The ME's blue eyes showed concern; as the "elder statesman" of the team he didn't like it when things were amiss and didn't hesitate to take their leader to task when he felt it was necessary. "Is there a problem?"
Ziva and McGee stared at Tony waiting for his response. "No, no problem," he muttered, and headed back to the van alone.
NCISNCISNCIS
Tony balled up another piece of paper and shot it into the trash can; sadly only he, Wally the night janitor, and the bright orange walls witnessed his tenth basket in a row. At least Wally gave him a nod of approval before gathering his supplies and turning the corner. That's what you get when you file your report at 4:00 in the morning, he admonished himself. Doing his best work at night really kind of sucked sometimes, although being at his apartment wouldn't have made a difference considering he hadn't managed to get a decent night's sleep in longer than he could remember. He felt tired, surly, unpleasant, and completely incapable of shaking his foul mood.
Ever since returning from his time as Agent Afloat nothing in his life had been quite right. He thought he could come back and fit into his old routines like slipping on an old pair of shoes, but it hadn't been that simple. All around he sensed judgment for what he'd done – or rather not done – that ended in former Director Jenny Shepard's death. He could see it in the eyes of Ziva and McGee when they refused to follow his orders, hear it in the voice of Jenny's secretary Cynthia when she choked out a strangled hello in the hallway, unable to bring herself to look at him, smell it when another woman passed by wearing Jenny's favorite perfume, and taste it with every bitter swallow of alcohol that never burnt away the memory of the fiery redhead lying dead at his feet.
He felt the loss most keenly with the absence of every head slap that Gibbs refused to give, a constant reminder that some sins are unforgiveable.
Gibbs claimed not to blame him for his former lover's untimely death, but that statement hadn't been supported by the older man's actions. The once easy camaraderie they'd shared was over. At one time Tony had visited Gibbs' place at least every few weeks for Chinese take-out or pizza, occasionally they went to a Wizards game or to catch the Redskins, and there were a few evenings after tough cases – like the undercover op with Jeffrey White – when Tony had sat on the steps in Gibbs' basement drinking beer and watching him work on the boat until he felt ready to face the world again. Gibbs' recent cold demeanor made it clear he didn't intend to extend similar invitations any time soon. The perpetually unlocked door to Gibbs' house had been slammed in his face. The senior field agent had screwed up and he knew it; he supposed it had been naïve to believe everything could go back to the way it was before. Jenny had been Gibbs' lover and Tony let her die; nothing he ever did could change that, despite what he would give to do it all differently.
It was no wonder Gibbs had lost faith in his ability as an agent since most days Tony didn't have all that much faith in himself anymore. The long, lonely days at sea had provided plenty of opportunity to figure that out.
Rubbing his weary eyes, he closed down his computer and laid his head on his desk. There wasn't enough time for him to go home now, so a few hours sleep here and a quick shower in the agent's locker room was the best he was going to get. He hoped no one else noticed his slightly rumpled state, but considering that Gibbs wasn't the most nattily dressed man he'd ever met, there was a pretty good chance he'd still be the sharpest guy in the room even if he was wearing yesterday's clothes. That is, with the exception of Leon Vance; the new Director always managed to look like he'd stepped straight out of a Versace dressing room, a fact Tony found incredibly irritating.
Pillowing his head on his arms, he let his mind drift until he finally dozed off.
"Doesn't he look sweet when he's asleep?" The soft voice broke through his consciousness and he felt a warm hand gently pet his hair. Sounds of people moving through the office announced that morning had arrived far too soon.
"I'm not asleep," he grumbled, sitting up and raising his arms over his head in a languid stretch. "At least not anymore."
Abby grinned happily, tossing her long body onto his lap and giving him a big hug. "Tony, you should have gone with us to the book signing instead of pulling another all-nighter here. Meeting Doctor Sawyer was so exciting!"
DiNozzo kissed the top of the forensic scientist's head and accepted the cup of coffee McGee held out to him. The younger man could be such a pompous ass some days that it nearly drove Tony out of his mind, but that didn't stop them from looking out for one another.
"Thanks, Probie," he said gratefully, taking a sip over the Goth's dark pigtails, being careful not to spill any on her. "Abs, you know how I feel about Sawyer; he's a glorified quack and I can't believe the three of you have jumped on his bandwagon. I'd rather be here finishing up paperwork than standing in line for hours to shake hands with the great and powerful Oz. He's a fake, a charlatan, a con-man."
McGee took a drink of his own coffee, gazing at his co-worker thoughtfully. "I don't know, Tony, it was pretty cool. I'd say over five hundred people were there. Of course, Abby not only managed to get Sawyer's autograph, he also promised to email her his latest research paper."
The scientist giggled. "Isn't that so awesome? I mean the most influential man of the last fifty years, and he's corresponding with little old me? I can't believe it!"
Ziva put her hands on her hips and frowned at their sleepy-eyed partner, who had his arms wrapped tightly around Abby's chest and his head resting lazily on her shoulder. "You have not even read the doctor's book, have you Tony?"
DiNozzo shifted position to better accommodate Abby's size; she wasn't a small girl even without the three inch heels currently strapped to her feet. "No, Ziva, I'm the last red-blooded American who refuses to read that crap. You guys can change your entire life philosophy based on some mumbo-jumbo the esteemed doctor shoves down your throats, but Anthony DiNozzo has no intention of following the masses like a lemming heading blindly over the edge of a cliff."
Abby tapped him on the nose. "You are scared, Very Special Agent DiNozzo. You're afraid of what you might discover if you let your guard down and accept that Dr. Sawyer's theories might be right."
Tony scowled and moved, causing Abby to lose her balance and slide toward the floor.
"Hey!" she yelled, before he snatched her arm and tugged her back into place on his lap.
"I am not scared," he complained into her ear. "I just don't need some stranger telling me that my approach to life should be based more on his neat little hypothesis than on my own choices. Besides, if someone hadn't filed the preliminary reports on this case Gibbs was going to kill all of us. So consider it my duty as senior field agent to stay here and work while the rest of you go out and have a good time."
Ziva waved her hand dismissively, completely ignoring Tony's self-anointed sacrifice. "When we picked the petty officer up at his apartment he was covered in the victim's blood. This case is open and shut; you were looking for an excuse to avoid us last night. Abby is right – you do not want to know any more about yourself than what you have already decided. We have all completed our profiles, Tony, and I believe it has been liberating to discover where we stand in regard to our relationships and sexuality. McGee and Abby are both submissive in nature, and I am more dominant. It is a part of our innate make-up, an aspect of our psyche that is better accepted than ignored so it cannot cause problems when we select romantic partners. Most people find Dr. Sawyer's research to be very enlightening." She smirked at him. "I am honestly surprised that someone of your less than virtuous appetites has so much difficulty embracing the concept."
"I thought at least you might hold out against the psychobabble, Ziva, but I guess not. I certainly wouldn't want to stand in the way of you selecting the right romantic partner." Tony's voice dripped with barely contained sarcasm, and Ziva raised her eyebrows at his cynical statement.
"Perhaps this stubborn unwillingness to explore your sexuality explains your recent lack of dates, Tony," she countered.
"I think it's more because he looks like he slept under his desk," Gibbs commented dryly, striding through the bullpen to sit down in his own chair with a pinched look on his face. He took a long drink from his coffee cup and eyed his team appraisingly. "DiNozzo, hit the showers - you smell like a pair of dirty gym shorts."
Abby lifted Tony's arm and sniffed his armpit, before wrinkling her nose with disgust. Tony snarled at her and sat his friend gently on the floor, taking a final drink of his own coffee before throwing the cup in the trash and grabbing a shaving kit and clean shirt out of a file cabinet drawer. He made a face at Ziva and sauntered across the bullpen, flicking a gaze at Gibbs as he walked. The lead agent seemed focused on the papers scattered across his desk and showed no interest in the awkward conversation he'd interrupted. It was fairly obvious that Gibbs didn't need to use the Sawyer scale to determine his dominant persuasion. One look at those steely blue eyes and the sound of his low growl placed him at the top of that particular chart; Tony doubted a submissive bone existed anywhere in the man's body.
Gibbs unexpectedly glanced up and caught him staring; Tony quickly averted his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable - maybe Gibbs had been paying attention to their discussion after all. The lead agent didn't smile, and Tony could literally feel those eyes boring into him all the way to the elevator. It took a vast amount of self-control to not run in order to escape the penetrating gaze.
After the metallic doors slid shut behind him, Tony leaned against the cold wall and considered everything from the past ten years that had led to this point, where it was perfectly normal to have a conversation at work about sexual orientation and lifestyle choices and no one gave it a second thought. Dr. Sawyer's groundbreaking book, Choosing Sides: Are You a Dominant or a Submissive? proposed the idea that every person is born with an inclination to be either a Dom or a sub, and not only is there little choice in the matter, that innate desire is what drives human actions in all relationships. The book was based on years of research the scientist had conducted for the Kinsey Institute, and the support of such an esteemed organization immediately lent credibility to the study.
Then, of course, there was the fact Oprah had added the work to her book club list and invited the doctor to be a guest on her show. Immediately, what was once a part of the alternative fringe subculture became a socially acceptable way of life. When the talk show host and her best friend revealed their own D/s relationship to the world, there was no stopping the momentum. Everyone wanted to find out his or her natural preference, and a societal revolution was born.
Now, asking someone if they were a Dom or a sub had become as common as asking for a birth date or a phone number. Dominants could partner with a submissive in a legally recognized contract. While walking through the mall no one batted an eye when passing a collared and leashed sub being led by a Dom. He shook his head as he shut the shower room door and stripped off his dark grey suit, folding it carefully and placing it on a chair. A decade ago he predicted this was just another fad, like pet rocks or Valley girls. But he had been very wrong in his analysis – every year more people accepted the doctor's position as truth and joined in following the trend. Of course there had been opposition and backlash, but holdouts like him were becoming few and far between.
He turned the water on as hot as he could stand it and ran a bar of his favorite mint-scented soap over his body; it had been a long time since he'd been in any kind of significant relationship so the D/s movement hadn't made much difference to him. The closest he had come was the thing with Jeanne. He had cared about her more than anyone in years, his foolish heart ignoring his mind's warnings that it was all for naught. She'd encouraged him to daydream about buying a house with a white picket fence – something that hadn't appealed to him since breaking up with Wendy.
The memory of his auburn-haired fiancé sent a pang through his stomach as it usually did, and he wondered how his life would have been different if they had stayed together. Her decision to call off their engagement had altered the course of his existence in the most profound way possible. The friends who got so much enjoyment out of teasing him over his love-them and leave-them attitude had no clue that if things had worked out the way he'd planned there was every possibility he would currently be the father of two kids who went home every night to his beautiful and loving wife.
But fate determined that wasn't meant to be, so he forcefully pushed those memories aside like he always did, unwilling to deal with the torrent of feelings they evoked.
Still, there was something intriguing about Sawyer's findings. In the bedroom he'd always taken charge with his fiancé; it had been the same with Jeanne and all the one night stands he'd had over the years. There was never a question he was the dominant personality in those relationships. He hadn't earned the sex-machine nickname for nothing.
Occasionally, though, he indulged in his darker interests, the ones he tried for the most part to ignore and only acknowledged when he felt that succumbing to them might keep him from flying apart in a million pieces. They were tendencies linked to painful moments buried so deep inside he couldn't let himself think about them – ever.
He gave up control when sleeping with a man.
It had been like that the first time he got drunk and hooked up with a guy in college and every time since then and he couldn't explain why. All of the men he'd ever been attracted to were alpha males of the most dominant kind. He could let himself go with them and not worry about pretending to always be tough, or confident, or in charge.
Fleetingly he considered if that's what he needed right now; a good hard fuck to soothe out his rough edges and mend him back together, an opportunity to let go and forget about having to make the right decisions twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. Years had passed since he'd even considered it; the last time was during a drunken weekend a few months after Wendy called off the wedding. Letting a guy pound his brains out hadn't been the best way to deal with her leaving, but somehow that and a lot of alcohol got him through the worst of it. Psychologically, he knew it was warped beyond explanation.
Tony sighed and shampooed his hair. At least one good thing had come out of Dr. Sawyer's books; Tony no longer considered the fact he enjoyed a good-looking man as much as a good-looking woman to mean there was something wrong with him. Sawyer theorized that although some people were inherently attracted to one gender or the other, many more were attracted to the individual and gender was irrelevant. As long as the potential partner matched the Dominant or submissive's nature that was all that mattered to Sawyer and his groupies. Tony doubted he'd ever announce to the world that he swung both ways every once in a while, but it certainly had been a relief to find out he could consider at least that aspect of his personality fairly normal.
It also let him feel a little better about the way he sometimes got goosebumps whenever a certain silver-haired agent stood too close or how his cock twitched when that particular agent smacked him on the back of the head. Which, of course, hadn't happened at all recently. McGee and Ziva were right, all the shit he'd been pulling had been designed to elicit the feel of Gibbs' hand making contact with his skin, even if he had to be reprimanded to receive it.
It wasn't like he was in love with Gibbs…..not really. Anybody in their right mind would find the man attractive, considering his clear blue eyes, strong physique, and commanding presence. The half-smile he sometimes gave to Tony when they shared a private joke or how he tilted his head when he was lost in thought….. Shit, Tony's dick was already bobbing at half-mast. "Stop that," he admonished his penis, which had been known to get him into trouble when he wasn't paying enough attention to what it was doing. Thinking about Gibbs in any manner other than professional was not an activity he needed to indulge in because it was sure to lead to catastrophe. Gibbs had never shown an interest in anyone other than a red-headed female and he certainly wasn't sexually attracted to his screwed-up senior field agent.
Gibbs never made any comments about the whole Dom/sub thing, piquing Tony's curiosity about the older agent's opinion on the topic. Was it possible Abby had forced Gibbs to complete a profile like she had him? He'd have to ask her. His own results had been less than comforting. He had fallen into a small category the doctor identified as "unknown" – according to the test he didn't exhibit enough traits to be classified as either Dominant or submissive; Tony determined it to be hopelessly confused. Abby nearly accused him of lying to skew the outcome, until she'd realized how bothered he was by the ambiguity. In a world where everyone was picking sides, he couldn't figure out what he wanted, and not even the most prestigious scientist alive today could make any sense of him. There was something missing from his life, a hole he couldn't fill, and it grew larger every day threatening to consume him. It would actually be nice to know if he was a Dom or a sub, because then he might not feel so fucking lost.
Over the last few months while sailing around the ocean enduring forced isolation he had come to one stark conclusion. Destiny had spoken, and clearly no great love waited for him - it was high time he accepted that and quit fighting the inevitable. No matter how depressing it might be, resigning himself to the fact there was no one out there for him would make everything else so much easier. He could enjoy his meaningless hook-ups without remorse.
He let the water run over his head and down his body; overcome by a wave of exhaustion he leaned his hands against the wall for support. Nothing in his life had turned out the way he thought it would; his past had left him with a mountain of regret. Jeanne's angry eyes would haunt him forever. Then there was the terrifying memory of Gibbs' vacant eyes staring at nothing after Tony pulled him from the murky river, the hopelessness of Jenny's lifeless eyes when she lay on the filthy floor of that diner, and the finality in Wendy's eyes when she told him it was over. For some reason the vision of Kate's sightless gaze was worst of all, and he wished she were here now to point a finger in his face and ream him out for his recent dysfunction.
He shook his head, droplets of water flying in all directions. He had to stop this, letting his mind roam off on these morbid tangents. It was happening way too often lately, and he had to somehow refocus on the here and now. Self-pity would get him nowhere fast. Turning off the water, he let out a bone-weary sigh, ignoring the pit in his belly that never seemed to go away.
Exiting the shower, Tony dried off and quickly dressed, smoothing out the wrinkles in his Armani the best he could. Grabbing some gel from his kit, he styled his brown hair and grinned slightly at his reflection, deciding he didn't look too bad for a man leaving his thirties behind and moving toward the unknown path of his forties. He straightened his tie and let all his masks slip into place, allowing their familiarity to give him a small measure of comfort. The clown, the prankster, the chauvinist, the brat – they were all him, yet somehow not. No one got to see the true Tony for more than a few minutes at a time, and then only when he let his guard down. The real Tony he protected at all costs.
He straightened his shoulders; it was time to quit brooding and enjoy being home even if that meant he had to accept responsibility for what he'd done and come to terms with the fact Gibbs might never treat him the same way again. For all intents and purposes he'd lost the affection of the one person he had been stupid enough to delude himself into believing would always be there for him. They were boss and subordinate - not equals, not friends, and certainly nothing more than that.
He'd been through it all before, in other times and other places, and he knew from experience his life, for whatever it was worth, would go on with or without the support of those who had ultimately turned their backs on him; his father, his family, his partners, his coaches, and even Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
NCISNCISNCIS
Gibbs looked over at where his team was ooing and aahing about the signature in that damn book that had turned everybody around him inside out and upside down. He longed for the days when kinky sexual practices were kept hidden under lock and key – he was much more comfortable with repression than all this open honesty. The elevator dinged and Ducky rushed into the bullpen, followed by Palmer close on his heels.
"Did you meet him?" the medical examiner asked, his excitement making the elderly physician seem more like a young boy than a stately coroner in his twilight years.
McGee held out the prized possession and displayed the handwriting on the inside page. "We even got an autograph! Dr. Sawyer was really nice and very taken with Abby's knowledge of his theories. I couldn't believe he actually spent a few minutes talking to us."
The physician nodded. "I have always been impressed with his gentlemanly qualities despite the lofty status he has acquired. I knew him quite well in his days as a mere student at University, but of course back then his ideas were met with a great deal of derision and disdain. How that has changed with time!"
Palmer bit his lip. "I can't imagine what it was like before everyone starting identifying themselves. It must have been very confusing to not know who was a Dom and who was a sub."
"Not so much," Gibbs interjected, standing up and approaching the group. "We just had to work to figure each other out – the key word there being work, which I think is what all of you are supposed to be doing right now." His eyes narrowed. "I would appreciate it if you'd quit fawning over this," he snatched the book out of Ducky's hand and tossed it onto Tony's desk, "and get back to doing your jobs."
"Yes, yes, of course," Ducky said apologetically. "I have confirmed our deceased musician expired as a result of multiple stab wounds, specifically one that severed his femoral artery. Our findings support your theory that the petty officer attacked Mr. Davies in a crazed and ruthless frenzy. I would guess the killer may have been under the influence of narcotics as well as experiencing a psychotic break. I have yet to receive his medical records, but I expect to find some history of mental illness."
"So in order to close this case I need tox screens on the petty officer's bloodwork, a complete medical history, as well as statements from his friends and family regarding any evidence of obsession regarding the victim?" Gibbs listed the remaining items in a brusque, businesslike fashion.
Ducky cleared his throat. "Yes, that does sound like it would suffice. Mr. Palmer, let us return to Mr. Davies in autopsy and see if he has anything more to tell us." He motioned for the young man to follow, and the two of them made a quick retreat to the safety of the elevator.
Abby glanced between Gibbs' angry expression and Ziva and McGee's worried ones. "Hold that elevator!" she said loudly, turning on her incredibly high heels to join the ME and his assistant. "I'll have that tox screen in thirty, Gibbs," she exclaimed. As the doors closed she smiled apologetically at the two colleagues who were about to feel the brunt of Gibbs' formidable wrath.
Ziva hastily withdrew behind her desk. "I am going to see why it is taking so long to get the medical records." She immediately picked up her phone, studiously avoiding looking up at their boss.
Gibbs quirked an eyebrow at McGee who took a few steps backward. "And I am going to access the petty officer's cell phone records to see how many times he called Davies. Maybe he posted threats on the band's web sites – I'll look for that, too." When Tim's legs hit the edge of his desk he turned around and rushed to sit down.
The lead agent stood in the center of the room for a few minutes and watched them silently working, before returning to his own desk.
Satisfied that his team was back on track, he mulled over the problem of his senior field agent. He was glad Tony had stayed at work last night; it was a good sign that maybe the younger agent was getting his head straightened out. DiNozzo hadn't been himself since his stint as Agent Afloat, and Gibbs hadn't been able to fix the situation.
He knew Tony felt guilty about Jen's death; hell the two of them had been peas in a pod during his time-out in Mexico, and Tony considered her more than a boss but a friend as well, even after the entire La Granouille disaster. It was difficult for DiNozzo to accept that Jenny had manipulated him in order to die the way she wanted; granted Gibbs would have never left the Director alone while on a protection detail, but Jenny had understood exactly how to entice Tony to do so. It had been a mistake, yet it wasn't something Tony had to spend the rest of his life paying penance for. The last few months had helped him deal with the pain of Jenny's death, and even though he had been angry for awhile, he knew Tony had ultimately been following orders and deserved to be forgiven for not being able to see Jenny's hidden agenda.
It also didn't mean the younger man wasn't good at his job – he was more talented than any other agent Gibbs had ever worked with, except for the last few weeks when Tony seemed to have given up and become content with playing the clown most of the time. They needed to get rid of this incarnation of his senior field agent and return to the work smarter not harder DiNozzo from several years ago, before all the shit hit the fan.
He did have some ideas about how to help his agent, but he doubted the younger man would be very open to his methods, especially considering the conversation he'd walked in on earlier. Gibbs had always been able to see right through the layer of bravado and designer suits that Tony tried to hide behind. The former cop was tough as nails, stubborn as a mule, and a hell of a lot more competent than anyone would guess. He was also a submissive in need of someone to ground him from time to time, and he doubted even Tony was aware of that fact. In all that hiding the man did, he'd managed to hide from himself most of all.
The way Tony had been practically begging for a head slap hadn't escaped Gibbs' keen observation and yesterday's antics reaffirmed Tony's desperation for the familiar correction that he continued to withhold. Tony had to find another way to get his needs met, so Gibbs had consciously decided to withdraw the physical contact hoping it would push DiNozzo to accept what was glaringly obvious to everyone around him.
The decision hadn't been easy; it was frustrating to watch Tony's increasingly outrageous behavior and there were moments he wanted to take DiNozzo into the elevator and swat more than the back of his head, but ultimately Tony needed to ask for his or someone else's assistance. DiNozzo was wound tight and ready to snap, years of denying his true self building up to the point of potential self-destruction. Gibbs could force Tony to accept his help, but he knew that would backfire; DiNozzo was too damn obstinate and proud to simply be told he needed to be topped. No, Tony had to figure it out for himself for it to ever work.
Gibbs didn't particularly like the idea of Tony going to another Dom to help bring him down, as a matter of fact the thought made him want to hit something. But he was Tony's boss, and Rule Twelve existed for a reason. So he was giving Tony space to figure things out before something else happened that drove the young man to try even more distressing coping mechanisms.
Or he did something so reckless that Vance would have an excuse to send him away forever.
Gibbs' musing was interrupted when his phone rang. He listened to Vance's request before rising and addressing his agents. "I've got to go help the Director prepare a press conference about our dead rock star. You two finish up the details on this case so we can close it before the media turns it into a three ring circus."
"So I guess NCIS finally made the news?" McGee asked hopefully. "Tony will be thrilled."
Gibbs headed toward the stairs. "Yeah, well you tell DiNozzo he'd better have something to add to this case besides a list of the guy's best make-out songs or I'm going to reassign him as Agent Afloat myself."
Ziva raised her eyebrows as their boss jogged out of sight. "I do not believe that Tony is one of Gibbs' favorite people these days."
McGee tugged hard on a drawer that wouldn't open, finally placing a foot on one side and pulling with all his strength until the metal popped loose, sending him scooting back in his chair. "He has been pretty out of control lately. Half my desk drawers are still super-glued shut, and if I'm not mistaken you set off another hidden confetti bomb just yesterday."
Flicking a stray piece of colored paper off the top of a stack of files, Ziva sighed. "He is absolutely frantic for Gibbs' attention even if it is negative. I believe he wants to be assured that Gibbs forgives him for….you know."
"You said it yourself, Ziva, he should have never left Jenny alone. He has to deal with that." McGee squinted at something on the computer screen.
"I was there, too, McGee. I could have done more." Ziva stared out the window at the cloudless sky. "Perhaps then Jenny would be alive and Tony would not have turned into a twelve year old."
McGee stopped typing and leveled a gaze at her. "He's the one always reminding us that he's senior field agent. He made the call to leave her alone, not you. Nothing you or I or even Gibbs can do will ever change that. Before anyone else can forgive Tony, he has to forgive himself."
Ziva blinked her large brown eyes. "I do not know if he can do that, Tim." With the unpleasant statement hanging in the air between them, she picked up her phone and went back to work.
NCISNCISNCIS
Tony glanced at his watch. Gibbs had yet to budge from his meeting with the Director; while his teammates worked feverishly on assignments Gibbs had given them with orders to be finished by the time the meeting was over. McGee hunched over his keyboard and Ziva talked softly into her phone – they glanced at him from time to time, but neither seemed willing to breech his somber mood.
He swiveled in his chair and tried to think of something to do to help make up for yesterday's embarrassment. He might have no choice but to accept his role in past mistakes, yet that didn't mean he couldn't try to do his best from now on. He wouldn't give up that easily; his role at NCIS meant too much to him.
Surely Gibbs placed more value in the real-world experiences he had gained in his tenure as a police officer and homicide detective than any Ziva had attained while in the Mossad and Probie had acquired when leading the team of geeks down in the basement. The lead agent just needed a reminder of his importance to the team.
The belief the older man had shown in his talents meant the world to him and he couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose that support indefinitely. The current situation, although bad, was hopefully just be a bump in the road. It wasn't like he hadn't been appreciated in his other jobs; he'd always had a few superiors and co-workers who could see his true worth. Ok, sometimes he annoyed people and the Philly position had ended in a huge cluster-fuck, and of course Baltimore had gone to hell in a handbasket, but for the most part his career had maintained an uphill trajectory – he'd gone from beat-cop to detective to federal agent without much pause.
But working with Gibbs was a different scenario than any other he had encountered; from day one Tony knew he couldn't manipulate the man or win him over with witty banter or cute repartee. Gibbs didn't give a rat's ass about his latest conquest of the opposite sex or that he'd played basketball for Ohio State. Gibbs had no interest in pop culture or movie trivia, all of which Tony considered to be the backbone of his charm. Instead, the silver-haired federal agent was notorious for his uncompromising tenacity and unwillingness to tolerate incompetence on his team. Gibbs expected nothing less than 110% every moment of every day on every case. And for some indefinable reason Tony gave him that without question, and had been giving him that for nearly seven years. He had no intention of stopping now. Tony didn't try to analyze his overpowering need to do what Gibbs wanted too much, it just seemed to be embedded in his DNA.
In return, Gibbs usually overlooked his little idiosyncrasies that drove others crazy and to the uninitiated seemed like goofing off at best or adult onset AD/HD at worst. If Tony got too far out of line, a solid thwack on the back of the head pushed him in the right direction. He knew everyone else, except maybe Abby, saw the head slaps as demeaning and beyond the realm of professional conduct. Tony didn't see them that way at all. To him they were reminders that Gibbs cared enough to push him to do better. Not many people in his life had ever taken the time to give him any kind of guidance and Tony appreciated it even if the method was a bit unorthodox. That's why their loss hurt so much.
"You don't waste good." Gibbs told him that when he first joined NCIS, and Tony had never forgotten those words. It was his goal to prove that Gibbs was right and that he really was good enough to be a part of the Major Crimes Response Team, a part of Gibbs' team, regardless of the LA disaster. He was a reflection of Gibbs, and he always came through for his boss when it counted. Tony propped his feet on his desk and tapped them to an imaginary rhythm – where others wilted under the weight of the former Marine's demands, Tony excelled; it was definitely one of the reasons they complimented each other so well and he had survived so long with Gibbs' where countless others had been forced to cut and run.
Even the great Stan Burley had ended up with an ulcer for his efforts.
He was damn proud that Gibbs could see him for what lay beneath the surface. Tony laced his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. When he started at NCIS he never would have imagined this is where he would find a home. It was like discovering the lost piece of a puzzle he hadn't even known was misplaced until it snapped into position. Of course, that didn't mean his need for constant reassurance was gone – he could thank his dear old dad for that little legacy born from years of neglect and parental disinterest.
In the past, Gibbs didn't seem to mind his occasional bouts of insecurity. Lately though, even the ex-gunnery sergeant acted more aggravated by his behavior than usual, and the missing head slaps had gone from mildly weird to downright scary. Maybe his boss had lost some faith in him because of Jenny, but that's what made going the extra mile so important. He had to prove that he deserved to be here. The time had come to wipe the slate clean and start over – he'd be the best damn agent Gibbs had ever dreamed of.
Tony hopped to his feet and grabbed his jacket. "I'm heading out to interview members of the petty officer's unit. Add what they have to say to him taking a bath in Davies' blood and there should be no doubt about his guilt."
Ziva stood and popped the kinks out of her back. "I will go with you. I have been unable to get the records we need over the phone; maybe a personal visit will prove more successful."
McGee smiled humorlessly. "I'll stay here with Gibbs. Thanks."
"Way to take one for the team, McGee. See you in a few!" Tony called as they left, determined to do something right for a change.
He wouldn't give up until he found a way to win Gibbs' forgiveness. He had made his way back on the team, and he wasn't about to lose what mattered most in his life, regardless of what he had to do.