(A/N: Yes, I know, yet another songfic – this to Tracy Chapman's "Baby Can I Hold You". I just keep hearing songs and getting plot ideas (or, in many cases, prompts for some pretty plotless fluff/angst/general slashiness.) I've played fast and loose with the details of Kate's death – and, by the way, I have no idea what time of year she died, so that's all a little vague – but it just seemed a convenient plot device. Sorry; that's all a bit sloppy. But that said, I really hope people like it. I do.
As always, none of it belongs to me, blah. And this is slash (well, pre-slash), so if it offends you please go somewhere else.)
1. Sorry
Sorry
Is all that you can't say
Years gone by and still
Words don't come easily
Like sorry, like sorry
It was that time of year again, the time when a barely detectable fog of gloom descended upon the team. Everything ran as normal, otherwise: work continued, the long-established roles were maintained, and to the untrained eye there was really discernable difference. But to those in the know, all the clues were there. Tony, far more subdued than usual, actually working with his head down, cracking fewer jokes at McGee's expense; McGee himself buried in his computer, messing around with lists of numbers that appeared completely meaningless to everyone else; Abby, lost in her music, and without her customary sunny demeanour; Ducky far less inclined to ramble on for hours; and Gibbs slamming his coffee or two down with the extra force that caused everything on his desk that wasn't actually held down to jump an inch into the air. Ziva was relatively unaffected, or if she was, it was for a different reason to everyone else, and she was very good at hiding it; even so the lowered mood got to her as it did all the others.
This time around it was intensified by the fact that work was very slow. They hadn't had a really interesting or complex case for weeks, no cryptic murders or kidnappings, and Gibbs had resorted to setting them to work on cold cases. This did little to improve anyone's temper, especially as their boss, in his awful mood, had seemed to pick the oldest cases with the least evidence to go on.
One morning, when the grey sky heavy with clouds outside perfectly mirrored the subdued atmosphere inside, Tony sat at his desk, head in hands. It seemed very quiet all of a sudden. Abby hadn't been in for the last couple of days – he assumed Gibbs had told her to take some time off, there being little for her to do. McGee was still sifting through reams of numbers, and the only noise that came from his desk was the occasional beep of the computer as it finished running whatever scans he had set up. Ziva had disappeared somewhere, possibly to talk to Ducky, and Gibbs was taking longer than usual on his third coffee break of the morning.
Tony didn't blame him. He could really have done with a coffee himself, though he doubted caffeine would do anything for the waves of guilt and depression washing over him. Even after all this time it still came back to haunt him once a year.
He supposed it was understandable. Ducky probably would have said it was survivor's guilt or something similar, but it wasn't something he felt like taking to Ducky. But after all it was only reasonable that he and Gibbs should be the most affected. They had been there, after all. How Gibbs coped, he didn't know. All he did know was that he, Anthony DiNozzo, should have done more.
He knew it was irrational. What can you do to stop a sniper? But Kate had been his colleague. They'd been working side by side, together through everything. And after what she did for him when he had the plague, it felt like the ultimate betrayal. He hadn't even tried to save her, not even after that first shot which scared the wits out of them. So many times he had cursed himself for having forgotten that this was Ari they were dealing with. One of them should have realised that Ari would not be put off by a bullet-proof vest and a miraculous first recovery. But no, they'd all just stood around laughing like idiots while he took aim and fired.
A loud thump made him jump. Looking down, he realised that it had been his fist connecting with his desk. What was more, there was a small damp patch on his collar and what felt suspiciously like tears on his face. Checking that McGee wasn't looking, he wiped them off surreptitiously, and looked almost normal when Gibbs strode in bearing not one, not two, but three coffees. He's going to give himself a heart attack if he carries on at this rate, he thought.
The silence suddenly grew even more intense as even the incessant tapping of the keyboard on his right ceased. Feeling his face turning red, he tried hastily to calm himself.
Shit. I said that out loud, didn't I?
A shadow fell over him and he looked up slowly to see the angel of doom himself, Jethro Gibbs, standing in front of his desk with an unreadable expression on his face. Tensing his shoulders, he hung his head again and prepared for the inevitable headslap, but it never came. Instead a white polystyrene cup appeared in front of him. Reaching out for it instinctively, he drew his hand back at the last minute as he remembered his manners and raised his head to thank his boss. When he saw the outstretched arm coming towards him he had no time to duck, but he was pleasantly surprised. Instead of the ringing blow he expected he felt a hand brushing through his hair and cupping his neck. It lingered there just a little too long, and he was reminded of another occasion when this had happened; he was getting the same tingles now. Then, it had been because of a sense of pride; he had felt honoured by the sign of affection, like it was a form of unspoken praise. Now, however, there was something more behind it, though what it was he could not tell. Something at the very back of his mind stirred, half-rearing its head in the gloom, but he pushed it back down. Not that. Not now.
A small cough from his right brought him back to his senses, and he realised that Gibbs' hand was still on his neck; it quickly withdrew as both men turned simultaneously to stare at McGee, who blushed.
"Something up, McGee?" Gibbs' voice sounded weary, but it lacked none of its usual authority. The younger agent shook his head hastily.
"Nothing, Boss. I'm – I'll just get back to work now." He bent his head over his keyboard once again, and Tony strongly suspected that he was typing randomly in an attempt to appear busy.
As Gibbs returned to his desk, almost flopping into his chair, Tony watched him. Sometimes it seemed like they had grown apart after Kate's death. The three of them, eventually four with McGee's arrival, had made a good team, helped inordinately by the fact that Tony and Gibbs had worked together previously, and so did not rub each other up the wrong way quite as much as they otherwise would have done. And then she had been killed, and nothing had been the same. Gibbs had become obsessed with Ari, and Tony… well, he had wanted to apologise so badly, to at least show that he recognised he'd messed up, but the time was never right; and then Ziva turned up and the moment passed forever.
And now… now Gibbs looked tired and washed out and there was nothing Tony wanted to do more than hug him, hold him close, tell him it would all be okay, that it wasn't his fault…
Stop it, Tony told himself with a mental headslap. Stop imagining things that will never happen in a million years. And now, of all times? Falling for your hetero-as-they-come boss would be bad enough whenever, but now? Do you have no shame? One moment you're guilt-tripping over Kate, and the next you're eyeing up Gibbs?
Maybe I am as sex-mad as the rest of them think, he mused, grinning a little in spite of himself. Suddenly a thought struck him, and he occupied himself for a few minutes before picking up his coffee, taking a long swig and announcing his intention to leave.
"Boss, I think I'll head off now. Um… things to do, you know, and it's not as if I'm doing any good here."
At any other time of year he would have got a stinging headslap for that statement, let alone leaving before Gibbs gave the order, but now everything was just topsy-turvy enough for him to get away with it. Gibbs just grinned, suddenly, with that (adorable) smile of his, and nodded. "Hot date tonight, Tony?"
This prompted a snort from McGee, but Tony looked thoughtful, quietly enjoying the lightened mood while it lasted. Then he, too, smiled.
"Maybe. See ya, Boss," and he sauntered off into the lift, leaving Gibbs looking strangely dejected.
(A/N: Not one of my best, but I needed to write something. I know it's a little uneven, but please go easy on me. It's eleven pm, I've been revising Chemistry for over an hour and I have two exams tomorrow. This will get better, I promise. And I'm working on a couple of the other fics that I need to update, and also some new ones. Yes, there will be more chapters to follow – five in total, probably. Now, reviews, anyone? Offer me some comfort? *begs shamelessly and totally uncharacteristically*
Oh, and I'd like some opinions – do people on the whole prefer McNozzo or Tibbs? Just curious, but feedback's always appreciated.)