Abby paced her lab—her sanctuary, usually, but right now she wanted to be anywhere but there.
The case was solved.
The bad guy—well, bad girl, this time—was locked up.
Clea Thorson would be buried in the morning.
And they still didn't get it. Not one of them got it.
Yes, Abby identified with Clea. Of course she did. They were both scientists, both seriously smart cookies who immersed themselves in their work to the point of what could be called obsession. And yes, they were both a little odd. Abby knew she had days when she spoke more words to herself than to other living, breathing people, but it didn't mean she was crazy.
And maybe Clea was crazy.
That tape of the young woman—wearing no dog collars or chains but weighed down by the same shackles of expectation and misunderstanding as Abby—had been shocking, seeing Clea having an argument with nothing more than a shadow.
But Abby, too, often found herself railing at nothingness. It was why she bowled with nuns, why she did wiring for Habitat for Humanity, why she went to concerts so loud she couldn't help being reminded of the experience for days because of the ringing in her head.
She filled her existence with those experiences, with friends, with meaning, and yes, with work.
And yes, sometimes she let her work consume her. And yes, sometimes she spent too many hours at the office—so many that she often forgot Gibbs was her boss and not her stand-in father, that Tony was a co-worker and not an annoying little brother.
So when Gibbs had raised his voice to her—when Gibbs had raised his voice to her—she felt that shouted "Stop!" like a slap in the face. And it wasn't just the shout that had bothered her. She had known him long enough to see the concern in those blue eyes, to know that Gibbs' fear often burst forth from behind the dams he kept on his emotions—it was why he had ordered Tony to survive the plague rather than asked him to stick around a while longer. So it wasn't the shout.
It was his fear itself.
Did Gibbs really think that just because she had identified with one brilliant dead girl that she was going to lose it entirely? That she would devolve into Mad Abby, puttering around her lab in a robe and slippers, muttering about restriction fragment length polymorphisms?
Okay, so she had muttered about restriction fragment length polymorphisms just last week.
And the whole team had seen her in her pajamas.
More than once.
But!
But that did not mean that she was teetering on the brink of insanity.
Clea—God rest her brilliant, beautiful soul—had dealt with issues her whole life, and her mother had described a long-suffering soul, too. But as much as Abby was a scientist, she was also a human with a heart. Maybe Clea would have put emotions aside, like her mother said, but Abby doubted the girl would have put them aside entirely had she been investigating a friend's murder.
Okay, so Abby had never met Clea—alive.
But she knew she would have liked her if they had ever had a chance to meet. If some mundane bitch with mediocre skills hadn't been jealous enough to kill. Abby had hacked Tony's report to see if Jealous Bitch had tried to justify her actions, but that had been a bad idea. Reading Jealous Bitch's lines about how everyone treated Clea like a princess had Abby's blood boiling. Sure, Gibbs treated her like a princess, but Abby knew theirs was not an average work relationship. It was far more likely that Clea had been treated like most everyone in the building—outside Team Gibbs—treated Abby at first, with stares and gawks and no doubt mystification that some Goth's work should be held in such high esteem.
Abby didn't even consider herself a Goth. She knew it was odd, but scientist Abby who worked in a world of black and white, right and wrong, good and evil, theories and facts really hated the thought of being so easily defined, of fitting a mold, of being labeled with a single word. She didn't want to be a question with an absolute answer.
And Abby never wanted to become emotionless about murder. She knew gallows humor was practically issued with badges and guns, but still she fumed thinking about Tony and his dumb joke about Clea's very unfunny illness.
Abby may not be teetering on the brink, but that didn't mean she couldn't sometimes see the edge.
And they just didn't get it.
They all saw her as happiest-Goth-you'll-ever-meet Abby, never realizing that she wasn't always sunny expressions and puppies and cute skulls with pink bows.
Sometimes she was just skulls.
And darkness.
And sometimes her soul felt as black as the clothes on her body.
But not always.
And not even most days.
But some days…
They just didn't get it.
Abby stopped pacing. Wondered why she was still at work when there was no good reason to be. A glance at the clock showed she had missed most of bowling night but still had time to catch up with the nuns for the traditional post-pins pizza.
"Abbs, what're you still doing here?"
She cringed, setting down her parasol before slowly turning around. Tony was the last person she wanted to deal with right now.
"How did you know I was?" she asked stiffly.
He grinned. "I'm an investigator," he said. "It's what I do."
And you think you've got me all figured out, then? she thought, still angry with him for the cruel joke about Clea.
"I saw your lights were still on when I was leaving," Tony said when she didn't speak. "I was wondering why you weren't running out of here after working your butt off all week." His tone was confused.
And concerned, she noted with renewed annoyance.
He glanced at the parasol. "But you're leaving now?" he asked, his worried green eyes searching her face.
She nodded. Ignored the parasol.
They stared at each other.
"You wanna get some dinner?" he finally asked, clearly unsettled by her silence.
She shook her head in the negative, pigtails swaying gently against her dark head.
"Are you okay, Abby?" He frowned hard, the emotions on his face genuine for once.
She wondered if she should feel honored.
"Why do you ask?" she said, her smile brittle. "Are you afraid I'm starting to crack up, Tony?"
He took a step closer, taking her right hand into his as he looked her in the eyes. "No, but I might start checking your arms for equations if you don't stop acting like PodAbby practicing her silent treatment mode."
Abby slapped him.
Left-handed, but hard.
She gasped a little when she saw the thin line of blood on his cheekbone from her ring.
He didn't make a sound.
And her guilt over hurting him didn't outweigh her anger at his hurtful jokes.
"You think this is funny?" she hissed, yanking her arm out of his grasp and taking a few steps back. She could feel her fury building, rising like mercury in a heated thermometer.
"No, Abby, I don't," he said, his tone blank. "I think it's scary when you ditch McGee to go run down leads like a super-secret agent. Your obsession with this case—"
"My obsession?" she shouted, planting her hands on her hips. "You're going to talk about my obsession? You? The guy who fell in love with a woman you'd never met? You want to talk about obsession? You ran halfway across the world on a fucking suicide mission, Tony. Why? Could it have been your obsession with avenging Ziva's supposed death? And Gibbs let you go, probably because he knows all about obsession after Ari. But no, it's just me who's crazy. Never mind that McGee followed you to Somalia—the most dangerous place on the entire planet. Do you know how much McGee talks to himself while writing? Probably about as much as talk to myself down here. But no, I'm the crazy one."
Tony never flinched during Abby's tirade, and she couldn't help but hate him a little for it. She knew he rarely showed his true emotions, but he also rarely kept the façade in place when it was just the two of them. And she also had to admit—only to herself—that she envied his control, his ability to hide in plain sight, to keep himself safely locked away when necessary. Abby knew a little about hiding—she used her dog collars and tats like shields to keep out those who were too judgmental to look beyond them—but she didn't have the control on her emotions that he did.
"I never thought you were crazy," he said, softly, gently. "I don't think you're crazy, Abby."
She closed her eyes, wishing fiercely for his ability to deflect. But it was no use. She was simply too expressive a person to pull it off. She decided to just ignore him until he went away.
"And when I said 'obsession,' I didn't mean it in a bad way," he continued. "To me, in an investigation, obsession and determination and that unwillingness to give up are all the same thing, and I—"
"That's not why I'm angry with you," Abby blurted, instantly annoyed with herself that she had so quickly abandoned her plan.
"You're pissed about my joke about something that's obviously not funny," he said. He tried to continue, but she cut him off.
"Which one?" she asked, caustically. She tried to glare but the blood on his cheek made it difficult.
"Both," he answered. "I'm really sorry, Abby."
She chewed on her lip, trying to decide if she believed him. "Why did you say it, Tony?"
He lifted a shoulder. "You know me, always trying to lighten the mood."
She studied him, sensing he was holding back. And she was not in the mood to be lied to. Abby's Rule No. 1—Do not lie to Abby—was No. 1 for a reason. She unclenched her jaw and said, "So that's it? You just wanted to get a laugh in a tense situation?"
"That's it," he said, his face a picture of sincerity.
But she had known him too long, had seen him without his masks too many times to not recognize one when she saw it.
"Stop lying to me, DiNozzo," she shouted, her anger boiling over as she advanced on him, clunky boots allowing her to meet his eyes on level. "Stop lying to me, Tony, or get the hell out."
His green eyes were glass, so startlingly emotionless in the face of her rage that she missed the slight tic in his jaw as he turned to leave.
"That's even worse," she yelled at his back. "So you were just making a joke about a very sick young woman—a dead girl, for fuck's sake—just to get a laugh? Who cares how much she suffered, as long as McGee and Ziva chuckle at your supreme wit? Who cares how much her family—"
Her mouth stopped at the same time his feet did, her hands flying upward as his clenched into fists. She covered her trembling lip with trembling hands, realizing too late her mistake as he whipped around, those green eyes finally flooded with emotion. Real emotion.
It was agony.
"You think I don't know how much her family suffered?" he asked.
Abby had no idea how someone could sound so calm and radiate such intensity all at the same time. It should have been impossible. Her eyes welled with tears, and she tried to speak but nothing came out the first time.
"Tony, your mother, I know she…" she managed, unable to continue as tears streamed down her cheeks while she stared at a lone drop of blood rolling toward his chin.
Tony's words were deadly quiet when he spoke. "Ten different shrinks diagnosed her with ten different things when all they really had to do was pry the bottle out of her hand." He took a harsh breath, and she realized there was anger in his eyes now, too. "So I'm sorry if I don't have a whole lot of respect for doctors and their magic solutions in convenient pill form. Not one of those pills stopped her from drinking herself into an early grave."
Abby knew that. And she knew Tony was hurting—and that she had hurt him. And as much as she loved him and hated to see him in pain, a part of her still knew he deserved it. He should know that Clea's illness was no more her fault than his mother's alcoholism was his.
"I wasn't asking you to respect some shrink," she said, her words heated despite the wetness on her cheeks. "I was asking you to have enough respect to not to make light of someone's suffering. Everyone's been all up in arms, falling all over themselves thinking I'm identifying too much with a dead girl, but what if that dead girl were me? Huh? What if someone murdered me and some cop was making jokes over my lifeless corpse?"
"Abby, there was no corpse in that warehouse when I said that," Tony said. He held up his hands at her glare. "But I would punch any idiot who ever disrespected you, and you were right to be upset with me over what I said. It was stupid and unnecessary, and I'm sorry."
Abby heard the sincerity—very real this time—in his voice as he flagrantly violated Rule No. 6. But she wasn't done being angry. They still didn't get it, and she feared that they never would.
"What if I told you that I was on antidepressants?" she asked, hiking her chin up even as he swiped at the blood on his. "Would you just write me off as a crazy and ignore all my lab results?"
He looked surprised by that, but he just shook his head slowly. "I would tell you that if you ever needed to talk, I'm always here for you." He paused, looked her in the eyes. "Abby, if you ever need to talk, I'm always here for you."
She sighed heavily, feeling tears prick her eyes again because she knew he was not lying about that. She had proof, even, because she had called him at four in the morning on more than one occasion, simply needing to hear a voice that wasn't her own thoughts buzzing in her head.
"I'm not on medication," she said. And then she wondered why she had said that, considering they were mid-fight about the stigma of mental illness.
"I wouldn't judge you if you were," he said.
She threw her hands up and glared at him. "How the hell can you be so sweet and kind one minute and such a stupid, insensitive jackass the next?"
She saw from the faint flicker in his eyes that she had hurt him. Again. But he started it.
"The same way you can be empathetic Abby defending a dead girl one minute and slapping me in the face the next," he said, wincing when she flinched at his words. "Don't get me wrong, Abbs, I know I deserved it. But no one is ever just one thing. Everyone has more than one side."
Abby was quiet, realizing he was speaking almost her exact thoughts from her earlier mental tirade. "So how can you know that and still try to shove Clea in a box and label it 'crazy'? I'm pissed because you made a completely inappropriate joke, Tony, but I'm more pissed that you just dismissed her like that. Why would you do that?"
His green eyes were steady on hers. "I was scared."
Abby blinked a few times, looking at him as if he'd just revealed that he was a part-time lion-tamer on the weekends. Not that she didn't think he could tame lions—Tony was, as she had told Ziva, one hundred percent rock on the inside—but he rarely had enough weekends free to make a go of it.
"When I saw all that ink on her body," Tony said, taking a step closer, "when I saw how you looked at it, when I saw the look in your eyes as we went through the warehouse… It scared me."
Abby looked down as he wiped away the single tear that rolled down her face. She couldn't look at him as she whispered, "So you do think I'm crazy."
"Abby," he breathed, using the hand still on her cheek to lift her face. "I know you're not crazy. That's why I needed Clea to be. To separate you two. I knew someone had killed her for her brains, and I couldn't handle the thought of that happening to you. And I reacted in my own emotionally fucked-up way. Instead of just being scared and admitting that, I made a dumb joke."
More tears slipped down her face as she stepped into his offered embrace, feeling safe and secure as he wrapped strong arms around her. She wished she had skipped the platforms today because she always fit better against him when she wasn't wearing giant boots. She grinned as he straightened up to his full height, as if in answer to her thoughts, and she rested her head against his shoulder.
But then she found herself crying harder as she wondered if Clea had ever known this kind of safety. Tony shifted her slightly to he could more easily rub her shuddering back, and Abby's eyes fell on the copy of "Leaves of Grass." She sniffled, smiled, decided Clea had at least had a friend in the kind professor who made such awful-tasting tea.
"You know what else was dumb?" Abby asked, pulling back even though she wanted to stay nestled against her friend forever. "You thinking anything like that could ever happen to me. Did you forget I have a big strong federal agent for a friend?"
He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. "More than one," he said, making Abby smile wider at the reminder of everyone she had looking out for her.
Her smile faded as she got a good look at his cheek, still bleeding from the sharp stones in her ring. She bit her lip to keep from crying again and whispered, "I'm so sorry I hurt you, Tony."
He shrugged. "I started it."
She half-frowned at him. "You kinda did."
He nodded. "I totally did." He put his hands on her shoulders. "I promise I won't make dumb jokes about serious things like mental illness ever again."
She nodded. "I promise I won't hit you ever again."
"I, uh, can't promise I won't ever make another dumb joke ever again."
"And I can't promise I won't ever Gibbs-slap you ever again."
They smiled at each other.
"Deal."
Tony moved his hands and winced. "I also promise to buy you a new shirt."
Abby craned her neck and pulled at the shirt, noting the bloodstain on her left shoulder. "You would have to bleed on me on the one day a month that I wear white." She shrugged and pulled off the shirt, heading to the sink.
She realized at the same time he did that she suddenly looked a bit like a stripper in her bra, short skirt and fishnets.
"Um, Abbs, speaking of Gibbs-slaps…"
She stopped rinsing the shirt and turned to grin at him. "You scared the bossman is going to walk in with his impeccable timing?"
Tony glanced at the door. "I'm afraid he'll kill me."
"Nah, Gibbs likes you too much to kill you now," she said, holding up the shirt and cocking her head at it. She turned and headed for her lab table. "Now, Timmy, on the other hand... He might try."
Tony grinned, no doubt wondering if she and McGee were once again… whatever they had been before. Even Abby wasn't sure—about any of it. But she didn't mind. If there was something to figure out between her and Tim, she was sure they would figure it out. Eventually.
"Is that what I think that is?" Tony asked, his eyes on the waistband of her skirt.
She took a moment to curse her freakishly observant friend before smiling sweetly. "Maybe."
He sidled closer, wiggling his fingers as he reached toward her.
She smacked his hand. Gently.
"Come on, Abbs," he whined in that adorable way of his. "Let me see your new tat."
Suddenly the playful back-and-forth wasn't so fun, and Abby tucked the edge of the plastic wrap covering her new ink into her skirt. She concentrated on mixing the chemicals for her super-secret gets-blood-out-of-anything formula, pretending not to notice the perplexed look on Tony's face as he watched her.
"Abbs? Please?" he asked after a moment.
"Maybe if you would ever take me up on getting one with me, you'd already know what I got this time."
He looked momentarily horrified and she remembered too late his needle phobia. There had to be a way to get him over that…
"Please?" he begged again. "I'm really, really curious."
She arched an eyebrow at him. "Curiosity killed the cat."
"Are you calling me a pussy?" he asked, mock-affronted.
"Not at all," she said. "If anyone has a right to be needle-phobic, it's you," she added, making sure she hadn't actually wounded his ego. He was a guy, after all.
"Right," he said, grinning. "So now I have to live my life as a tatted-up badass vicariously through you. Show me? Please?"
Abby tossed the shirt onto the table with a frustrated sigh. She marched up to Tony and crossed her arms over her bra as she stared defiantly at him. "Fine," she said. "But you have to promise you won't freak out."
The worry was back in his eyes, but he just said, "I've liked all of your ink before." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "All of the ones you've shown me, anyway."
She continued glaring. "I mean it, Tony. No freaking out."
"Okay," he said, holding up his hand, pinkie extended.
She smiled a little as she extended her own finger and shook with him. She reached down and folded over the waistband of her skirt, peeling the plastic off her tender skin with a wince. She felt suddenly exposed, and it had nothing to do with her shirtless state.
"Now do you think I'm crazy?" she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
Tony looked down at the freshly inked equation.
"I just picked a few lines of the core of her idea," Abby said quietly, looking down as Tony put his hand on her hip—far enough from the healing punctures that he wouldn't hurt her. "Clea Thorson will always be a part of this world because of her brilliant work as a scientist. But I wanted her to live on—as a person, as a young woman with thoughts and dreams and hope for the future—through me."
Abby swallowed hard and looked up again, once again hating that she couldn't read Tony's face.
"Now do you think I'm crazy?" she repeated, suddenly terrified of his answer.
Tony smiled—one of the real, genuine ones he reserved for moments with his real friends. "I think you're beautiful, Abby Sciuto."
He pulled her close again, making her feel warm and safe and loved, and she knew in that moment that if ever the darkness overtook the light, he would be there to pull her up and into the sun again. Always.
"From that big brain of yours down to that even bigger heart down to those clunky boots, Abbs," he said, kissing the top of her head, "I think you're beautiful. Inside and out."