Title: The Solace of Music
Fandom: NCIS, Tony
Word count: 1730
Rating: PG
Summary: Years of Tony's life, in music.
He spins music with his hands. That's what his mum had told him once, back then.
He remembers the little recorder she had given him for his fifth birthday, and how he'd drive the staff mad with his wild tooting, as mummy played the harp. Tony remembers the quarter-sized violin she had placed in his arms, wrapping his chubby fingers around the bow and adjusting his hand around the neck. He remembers being sat upon her lap, her fingers curved over his as they picked their way over ivory keys, guiding him through arpeggios. (He hated lessons with the mean lady; her ruler had bruised the backs of his hands and he'd gotten grounded when Senior heard he'd thrown his books at her in retaliation. But he doesn't mind playing, at home, if he's with mummy.)
Tony hadn't understood what she meant at the time, his imagination full of ballerinas and globes, carousels and tops. "I can spin too, mummy," he had informed her, and whirled about until he dropped.
This was before the drinking, before the screaming and the echoing silences, and the blood upon the plush carpet. Mummy had smiled indulgently and informed him that he'd understand when he grew older. Little Anthony quickly forgot about the whole thing, going back to banging a makeshift drum he'd purloined from the kitchens. Being in the music room with mummy, he hadn't a care in the world.
Tony finds comfort hiding underneath the baby grand piano. He's seven, and he's tired of coming home to muted yelling in the library and pitying glances from the housekeeper and cook.
He's silently terrified when mummy comes to him, eyes red and empty, and tells him to play her some Paganini, won't you please, there's a good boy.
Tony closes his eyes and pretends he can't smell the gin and tonic, that he didn't see the red finger marks blooming on her wrists, can't feel the ghost of her cold hands patting his cheek. He tells himself he's not about to cry, and focuses on letting his fingers dance upon the strings.
Tony is eleven, and he scratches angry lyrics into the back of his English notebook. He'll skip his next class, if he can, to duck back to his room and figure out the right chords to go with the words. He's at his third boarding school in as many years. One for each year since mum died, he thinks, morose.
He knows his father doesn't care, not anymore, not really, but at least he'd sent him a new guitar when Tony had asked. The Gibson is a gorgeous instrument, if too big. It's a casual illustration of Senior's general attitude toward Tony; throw money at the whelp, without paying any attention to what he really needs. Tony's still small for his age, and though his fingers are long and thin (like his mother's, he carefully doesn't think), it's still a stretch to properly reach the chords. He'll grow into it though, he knows, and he cherishes the gift as it deserves, regardless of the sender.
The Gibson gets hidden in its case when Tony is disowned and shipped off to RIMA. The military academy is no place for a sensitive blossoming musician, he quickly discovers. It takes some time, and more than a few beatings, before Tony figures out how to adapt. There is a lot to adapt to; he's figuring out puberty, the changes to his voice and his body, and he guesses it's a good thing there are no girls around, because he doesn't even know what to do with his libido. He becomes a joker and a jock. He learns that his hands are also good for shooting three's on the basketball court, and quick flea flicker plays out on the field. His guitar calluses get reshaped and traded for ones from the weight room, and his old sheet music never sees the light of day.
When Tony goes to Ohio State, the Gibson once again becomes a tried and true friend. He digs it out of storage and restrings the entire thing, feeling something in his gut unknot as he tunes the instrument. It's how he relaxes after long days, first in class, then practice, then work. He has to work a dozen odd side jobs; his sports scholarships will only go so far, and he can't go crawling back to Uncle Clive, not again.
He does some busking, when he's got free time. He's quick to pick up the tricks to the trade. (Timing and location are everything. Look smart. Start out with a few coins in the case, but don't let them accumulate too much. Work the crowd.) And he's good. His frat brothers find it funny that the Buckeyes' star guard and up and coming quarterback can play a mean Clapton.
He doesn't let his frat brothers see his classical side though. He doesn't have his old violin, not since he got kicked out, but sometimes he'll sneak to the music building and reserve a room. He warms up on the piano, Bach preludes, and then will return to the comforting familiarity of Paganini on a borrowed violin.
On occasion, he'll fill in for the Piano Man at the Canopy, letting beautiful girls and hipster boys buy him drinks as he pounds out Nat King Cole and Neil Diamond, Elton John and Billy Joel and the Beatles. There's always something about the club on those Tuesday nights that makes his heart sing.
Tony's got a better voice than you'd expect, and he betrays his own cover one late night at the precinct. He'd just been awarded his detective's shield, and earlier in the day he'd run into his old music teacher, Wendy. He'd had such a crush on her, back then, in love with both her beauty and the way she her fingers coaxed such elegant melodies from her cello. He'd asked her to dinner with him this coming weekend, just on impulse, and had flushed with uncharacteristic embarrassment when she'd agreed. He's putting the finishing touches on a report now, and with so few people left in the bullpen, had started singing Sinatra.
"Looooove is a many splendored thing!"
"Whoa there, DiNozzo. Didn't know you had chops."
Tony whirls in his desk chair, sputtering. "Sorry, chief, I didn't know you were still here."
The captain gives him a smirk, and beckons him to follow into his office.
Tony gets dropped undercover singing at the jazz club the week after, and in the following two months, everything goes to hell in a handbasket. Tony books it out of Philly after the case ends, with glowing recommendations despite the 'extenuating circumstances.' He's hurt though, inside much more than out, and when he bags a job in Baltimore homicide, he vows never to let his personal hobbies out in the open again.
Tony doesn't bring anyone back to his apartment. Not women, not old frat buddies, and certainly not his coworkers. Even after NCIS becomes his family, he still manages to neatly sidestep Kate's curiosity and Abby's persistence. Even Gibbs has never gotten more than a peek from the crack of his door. Tony prefers it that way, to hide the most vulnerable parts of him in his bookshelves, in crumpled sheet music held down by a 300SL gull-wing replica and half-used cakes of rosin.
He manages to keep his secret for three years before his notorious luck kicks in, and there's a SWAK and blue lights and endless coughing jags. Gibbs is the one who drives Tony back to his apartment, while he's still feeling tender in the chest and weak as a kitten. Tony had outright refused to stay with his boss, not realizing that Gibbs would take it as tacit permission to invade his own space. ("Christ, Tony, you can barely walk to the head on your own, without getting out of breath. Just shut up and let me help.")
Tony studiously avoids Gibbs' uncensored surprise as they walk in. He has to restrain himself from snapping when Gibbs trails his fingers along the curve of the grand piano's lid, when he presses down one key (B flat, his perfect pitch tells him, and it is flat, he needs to call in a tuner sometime soon), loud in the otherwise silent apartment. But Tony's both too weary and wary of his boss to pick a fight, so he just closes the fallboard, then crawls into bed, and ignores the sounds of Gibbs wandering through his kitchen.
Surely enough, they drive each other nuts, just as they had when Tony had stayed at Gibbs' those two times in the past. "Look, boss," he says on the third evening, "I'll be fine. I'll be good, and rest, and then I'll be back at work in a week." Gibbs levels him with a look, but doesn't comment on Tony's hitched breaths and shallow wheezing, or indeed, say anything else as he walks out of the apartment. Tony can't contain his sigh of relief.
And at last, he is alone. He can turn back to his music for comfort, as he always had. Lifting the fallboard, he rifles through a small pile of music, searching for a piece that fits his mood. He loves the whimsy of Rimsky-Korsakov, the fullness of his sound and his saucy flair. He loves Rachmaninoff for his rich texture, for the sweeping melodies and sultry Russian moodiness. He keeps an entire shelf of Morricone-scored films, and once spent a weekend reconstructing the soundtrack of The Mission. (He's still stiffly outraged that it had been scorned for the Oscar, but damned if he'll let anyone know he cares.) He ends up ignoring the piano in favor of the violin, because, well, Paganini. And finally, he can breathe.
At night, in his apartment and with no one around to hear, Tony spins music with his hands.