HI! I've been having a HUGE case of writers block for a long time now. This story, and maybe one or two others, are my attempts at getting the creative juices flowing again. That being said, this story is not the most coherent of stories. It needs some love, and maybe one day I'll come back and flesh it out. For now, just realize I didn't really think of the plot-line behind the scene, just the scene itself. Hope it's not too horrible.
Disclaimer: I own no part of NCIS, including characters used in the following story.
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The bourbon was starting to get to him. It was making his head spin and his thoughts were becoming foggy. Good. That's why he was here. He wanted to forget. He wanted to pass out into oblivion. He didn't want to remember. He heard the front door open and footsteps upstairs. Well, maybe now he wouldn't have to drink alone. As the heavy footsteps moved and began to descend the stairs, Tony shakily got to his feet.
"Hey, Boss," he said called out. Damn, he wasn't even slurring yet. Tony sat back down on the stool and reached for the nearly empty bottle and a second jar. He topped off his own glass and drained the bottle into the second. He held out the jar with an unsteady hand. "Can I offer you a drink? I didn't want to drink all yours so I brought my own."
Gibbs took the glass and leaned on the counter, not saying a word. Tony threw back his head and swallowed nearly half the drink he just poured. He no longer winced at the burning in his throat. He relished the pain. The older man watched him silently, his concern only showing in his eyes. Tony stood again, wobbling slightly. Then he took a bit of the sandpaper lying on the workbench, running his fingers over it.
"It's weird…" he finally mumbled after a minute of stroking the rough surface. "I mean… this thing. It's paper, but it hurts. Whose bright idea was it to make paper that hurts?"
Gibbs only answered with a blink and a swallow.
The basement fell into silence again. Tony swayed a bit as he walked over to the table in the center of the room. Giving the paper one last stroke, he picked up a random piece of wood. He studied it for a moment, turning it over and over in his hand. It was small and rough, most likely a left over piece from one of the many projects crafted in this basement. The mostly drunk man slowly blinked as he looked between his two hands, one holding the sand paper, the other the wood. Sluggishly, as if dragging his hands through syrup, he brought his hands together. The light brushing scrapping sound bounced around the room as he began to sand the board. Always with the grain, just as he had been taught.
It wasn't until he had the board completely smooth on one side did he look up again. He looked to Gibbs, who had taken Tony's spot on the stool. Piercing blue eyes watched him, always waiting for Tony to speak his mind. Just as he had with the paper and board, Tony looked between his boss and the paper. Then he held the paper at arm's length so he could see it next to Gibbs.
"You're sandpaper," he told Gibbs. The older man cocked and eyebrow, so Tony nodded sagely. "You're rough, and it hurts to rub you the wrong way. But we all need your help. You smooth things out, fix things. So," Tony dropped his hand with the paper and instead held out the board, offering it to Gibbs, "how're you gonna smooth this out?"
Gibbs took the wood and smoothed his hand first over the side Tony had worked on, and then the still rough side. "I'd say that piece of sandpaper in your hand was fixing this thing just fine."
"Not that!" Tony snapped, his voice suddenly harsh. "I mean this!" He waved his arms wide, gesticulating to nothing. "Me, the team, everything!" The Italian glared at Gibbs expectantly.
The old Marine shook his head. "I can't… not this time."
"What do you mean you can't?!" Tony nearly roared. "You always fix things! You're a fixer! You're sandpaper!" Tony grabbed his jar again and gulped down the rest of his drink. His head was really starting to spin now, but his sudden anger granted him enough clarity to speak. "And… and… Damn it! I hate this! I hate feeling like this! This is all his fault!"
"You're pissed," Gibbs noted.
"You're damn right I am!" Tony shouted. "But you should be too. I mean, you should be more pissed than I am! Tim… he disobeyed you! Aren't you going to do something? I mean, nobody gets away with pissing off the Boss!"
Seeing that Tony was starting to seriously become unbalanced, Gibbs stood from his stool just in time to catch Tony as he tipped forwards. Once is agent was righted again, Gibbs left his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I am pissed," he admitted. "I'm pissed at Admiral Sites for stonewalling us simply because of his pride. I'm pissed at Petty Officer Keys for not telling us she let her boyfriend, who happened to be a nutcase, on board. I'm pissed that Sam Siren managed to plant a bomb on that bomb." But," he said firmly, squeezing Tony's shoulder, "I am not angry with Tim."
"Why?" Tony challenged, his eyes glaring. "You should be."
"Well, I'm not. Two reasons. One," Gibbs held up is finger in front of Tony's face, forcing the green eyes to focus on him, "Tim was a field agent, just like you and me. He, like all of us, swore his life to serve and protect. That's what he did. If he hadn't triggered that bomb, nearly forty sailors would have died. He's made me prouder than hell. Two," a second finger went up, "I can't be mad when he used one of my own rules against me."
That made Tony blink in confusion. "What?"
"When he called that last time," Gibbs explained, "when he told us what he had to do…."
"I know! I heard you! You told him he didn't have permission!" Tony interrupted, his voice halfway catching in his throat. He knew that the alcohol was starting to take effect as water gathered in the corners of his eyes. "He didn't listen! You told him he didn't have permission, but the idiot got himself killed anyways!"
"I know," Gibbs said softly. "But just before he hung up he told me 'Rule 18'."
Tony swayed again. His eyes widened as he whispered. "Better to seek forgiveness than ask permission."
"He didn't need my permission," Gibbs reasoned. "He had found his loophole."
The younger agent began to pitch forward again. This time Gibbs lowered him to the floor. He knelt in front of his senior agent, silently giving the younger man the support he needed. Tony leaned his forehead against Gibb's shoulder, refusing to let any tears fall. "Damn him…" he whispered. His voice was growing hoarse and his vision was blurred. Soon the bourbon would take over and he's get the oblivion he wanted. "Damn him to hell…"
"Don't do that Tony," Gibbs admonished. "Tim used Rule 18 because he knew what he had to do, and he only wanted one thing: forgiveness."
"I don't… know if I can, Boss," Tony sighed. "I'm still… angry!"
"Be angry at the man who took his life," Gibbs advised. "But we can't do anything for Tim now except forgive him."
Tony didn't respond. Gibbs looked down and saw the dazed look and knew Tony was too far gone for anymore talk that night. He slung Tony's arm across his shoulder and helped the inebriated man upstairs. Gently, he helped the younger agent lay down before taking off Tony's shoes. By the time he had fetched a blanket, Tony had finally passed out. Gibbs covered him before crouching down to examine his agent's face. Even in sleep his face was drawn, and the pain of his grief remained on his features. He sighed and laid a hand on Tony's shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm sandpaper," Gibbs thought to himself, "not glue. I can't put things back together. At this point, I don't think any of us can." He spent a few more minutes watching over his agent, just to make sure Tony's unconsciousness actually transferred into sleep. Once he was satisfied, he stood and headed towards the stairs. Before he left the room, he gave one last glance to Tony. Then he sighed shook his head.
"Don't be too disappointed with him, Tim," he said softly, watching the blanket rise and fall over Tony's chest. "He's a bit lost right now. One day, though, he'll forgive you. We all will."
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Ok... I hate that ending... sorry for wasting your time...