Defiant
"Right." Director Morrow summarized. "So, you recovered the stolen antiquities, closed three unsolved murders, apprehended a dangerous criminal, and pissed off the Deputy Secretary of State."
Gibbs interjected. "Royally pissed off -"
"Royally pissed off the Deputy Secretary of State," the Director amended himself. "So, I'd say it was a highly successful operation."
McGee still wasn't going to sleep easy that night. "She - she said she filed a… a complaint, sir."
Morrow smiled enigmatically. "I haven't seen a formal complaint on my desk." He turned to Tony. "You did a good job, Agent DiNozzo."
Tony's grin was wide. Anyone who knew him knew it was artificial. "Thanks."
Ducky had applied a foul-smelling salve to the raw places on his wrist and wrapped it loosely in gauze. Abby had engulfed him in one of her famously life-threatening hugs. McGee had brought him coffee, and actually put in enough sugar for once. Kate, he knew, was dying to ask Tony if being chained to another man was better or worse than making out with a transsexual; but she refrained, and for that, Tony figured he should be profoundly grateful.
Tony powered through his report by focusing on the pizza he'd order once he returned home. Supreme, extra cheese, hold the olives. The motivation was apparently successful; Tony hammered out seven concise paragraphs summarizing the days' events, turning it in to Gibbs in record time. Gibbs merely appraised the neatly typed passages with a detached flick of his steely blue eyes, then sent Tony on his way with a nod and a grunt.
Tony had a six-pack waiting in his apartment fridge, and the moment the pizza was ordered, he cracked open a cold one. It was a ritual he'd picked up from Mike Shelley, his partner in Philadelphia. After a successful undercover operation, you drank a six-pack of beer. After an unsuccessful op, you drank two.
He hadn't yet decided if this one counted as a success or not.
Tony left his beer on the bathroom counter and stepped out of the government issue red jumpsuit. The clothes he had worn that day had been entered into evidence - spattered as they were with Jeffrey White's blood - but Tony was okay with that. He knew for a fact that they had been purchased at the Goodwill in Arlington, Virginia. No great loss there. The shower felt better than he'd expected it to, so he remained until the water became tepid, scrubbing away dirt and sweat and way too much hair gel.
Draped in Egyptian cotton towels, Tony picked up his razor. The stubble had been Tony's least favorite part, itchy and ridiculous. It reminded him of that guy on that one sci-fi show - he couldn't remember the name, but Jessica Alba was in it and she was hot. Tony shaved his face as ritualistically as Gibbs would sand his boat, splashed on expensive aftershave, and wandered into the bedroom,
What really scared Tony wasn't how easily he'd adopted the criminal persona, or how close he'd been to death. Those things were just part of his life as a Federal agent; he'd accepted the risks a long time ago. And it wasn't the fact that Jeffrey had seen through his disguise. Stubble and an orange jumpsuit weren't going to win the Oscar for Best Costume Design anytime soon. Heck, he even used his own name. He'd applied only the thinnest of veneers; no carefully crafted backstory along the lines of Gus Bricker. Tony almost would have been disappointed if Jeffrey hadn't seen through it.
No, what really freaked Tony out was the fact that Jeffrey had made him for a cop almost immediately, and let him live. What kind of psycho lets you live just because he likes you? And who wants to be liked by a creep like that, anyway? Maybe Lane Danielson had never quoted movies to him. But Tony had bought into it, had seen Jeffrey's patheticness as an indicator of his innocence. Maybe it was Jeffrey White who was the master of disguise. He'd gotten Tony to open up, to talk about his father even. Made him speak the one true sentence in two days' deception. Tony felt cheap, dirty, and used. He would have stepped back into the shower if not for the fact that he knew perfectly well he'd used up all the hot water.
Dressed in his favorite Ohio State sweatshirt, Tony made his way into the kitchen to toss his empty beer can. He knew the tradition demanded that he start on the second one immediately, but he couldn't. Not tonight.
Tony had killed before, had felt the warmth of the Sig in his hands as he squeezed off three rounds at center mass. Exactly as he'd been trained. Tony had never before shot a man he'd been chained to, ridden a motorcycle with or woken near…
Tony sent up a silent prayer to whatever patron saint governed fools, children, and NCIS Special Agents that he never, ever had to be that close to another man again.
The pizza would be arriving soon. Time to start a movie, so he could time the opening credits perfectly with that first hot, cheese-laden slice. Tony scanned over the titles on the shelves that covered an entire wall. His fingers stopped when he reached the 'D' section.
Nausea crept in his throat. His fingers shook a little as he opened the case; he told himself it was from hunger and lack of sleep. He stepped out on his balcony, the December chill seeping into his damp hair. Tony hefted the thing in his hands before he tossed it. The disk shone in the moonlight, like a miniature UFO, until it disappeared into the dark.