A/N: I'm still on the first season, and from the joy of NCIS season 1 came this little guy.

Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously. As much as I'd like to hang on to them, they belong to DPB and company. No profit, yada, yada.

Playing To The Gallery

I press the button for the elevator, and wait impatiently. I glare at my watch. Half past eleven. Not really the time to be at NCIS collecting my sweater, really, but I didn't remember till I was on the way home, and I wouldn't have bothered, except that Tony scourge-of-the-earth had squirted ink on it today, and after the way I reacted, it would probably look a little silly if I just left it at work instead of getting it drycleaned at the earliest possible opportunity… the elevator dings and the doors slide open, and I sweep in quickly, punching the button for the floor.

Hopefully the night shift will be out, and not sitting in the squad room wondering what one of the regulars is doing at the office at almost midnight. I glare at my watch again. If it weren't for Tony I could have been at home and curled up in bed by now. I scowl as I try to visualise Tony, lounging at his apartment, in front of the TV obviously watching the movie of the night, or even worse, sound asleep he probably sleeps like a kid, spread out over the whole bed and not at work in the middle of the night.

The doors hiss open and I quickly wipe the scowl off my face, in case the night shift is here after all, and step out of the elevator. Okay, get the sweater and out, only one light on and I huff, because the light is on at the desk across from mine, and that really can't be adequate lighting to work in , can it? And then I see whose desk it is, and not that I needed to, because I know that profile, and what on earth is Tony doing here at almost midnight?

Working, from the looks of it. He glances alternately between his computer screen and something that from this distance I can't see. It looks like a printout, and I wonder if he's got the financial records that we were looking for earlier today, at half past six when Gibbs told us to go home because there was nothing else we could do till tomorrow.

And the odd thing is that Tony's usually so restless when he's working, can't sit still for a minute, always needs to throw paper missiles at someone-who-is-me-sitting-across-from-him. Well, evidently he can, because the only movement is the jabbing of his hands at the keyboard obviously he's made some effort to learn to type and the slight tilt of his head as he tries to read the printout and the screen at the same time. There'e none of the usual half-smile lurking about his face. It's tight and focussed and I don't think he'd notice twenty other agents in the room, never mind the solitary one by the elevator.

And what is he doing here at – I check my watch – midnight anyway? He spends his days goofing off as much as Gibbs will let him get away with it which isn't much but still and he's here, working on his own at night by… choice?

Suddenly a lot of things make sense like they never have, and I know why Gibbs lets Tony get away with goofing off without much more than a smack upside the head, and how Tony always seems to have something on the case, and how… how he knew the night security guys by name when we were here late once. This isn't a one-off thing and somehow something inside feels a little better, he's not a slacker after all and I smile and turn around, make for the stairs instead of the elevator he'd hear the doors opening and go back downstairs to my car. The ribbing I'm sure to get tomorrow about my sweater will be worth it, because I know when he's breezing about how well his evening went, and it doesn't matter, because now I can accuse him of being lazy and not mean it.

As I turn the key in the ignition downstairs I am still thinking about why, and maybe--maybe Gibbs was right and Tony knows it.

Maybe Tony really does work best without an audience.