Summary: Tony struggles with alcohol, while the team struggles to help him.
Challenge: Written for the NFA Five Stages of Grief challenge. Thank you, sondheimmcgeek.
Dedication: This story is for all of those I know in law enforcement who struggle daily. It is grief, and it is a battle. Asking for help is not weak. You do a job not many will ever fully understand.
Warnings: Alcohol dependence. Language.
Characters: Tony DiNozzo, Timothy McGee, and others
Catagories: Drama, angst, dark
Misc. Notes: The title of this piece was inspired by The Weepies - "World Spins Madly On"
(Spinning) Madly On
by K9LASKO
I. Denial
A river in Egypt.
A state of being.
Denying gave him strength. Control.
He was in control. He needs to be in control.
"You're a lush," they tell him. They laugh. Clap him on the back. They drink together. They always do. Same bar, same time.
He has friends. Cops, mostly. DC Metro, guys from Baltimore, some feds.
He drinks a lot. The binge is a release.
Things change, eventually. NCIS is different. He knows it; his friends know it. It's not like being a city cop. Not at all. They part ways. A gradual releasing of ties.
So on a Friday night, he stops by the grocery store. Picks up a few odds and ends to get through the weekend. Bread, milk, eggs and Fruity Pebbles. A bottle of vodka and gin and some sweet vermouth. Middle shelf, all of it. He's not made of money, after all.
There's no shame in drinking alone, not when there's a good movie on. Something old, in black and white. It reminds him of his mother, and he's seen it enough times that he doesn't have a problem leaving it to refill his glass. Again. He can take his eyes off of it. Doesn't have to obsess over it.
Curls up on the couch. Socks on. Swirls the glass. Brine mixed with filtered ice. Lets the liquid relax his limbs. Lets the sting of liquor settle on his tongue. Lets him forget. Sleep. Heal.
He wonders how Gibbs does it. How he functions in his basement. Focuses like he's got a singular purpose. How he fills up that jar, probably dusty with wood gunk or whatever. How he drinks it all down and creates.
If Tony had something else to fixate on. A boat, a rocking chair, a casket, a wooden whatever - he probably couldn't do anything with it. Too numb. Hands too fumbling. Head buzzing pleasantly.
But he likes it. Feels good to settle in and let the alcohol heal the gaping wounds. It's no problem, locking himself away. Locking all of it away. It helps him, like therapy might. Better than therapy.
At least he's not an alcoholic. He could stop, for sure. One night, he could choose a diet coke instead of gin and tonic water. It would be no problem. He would be okay with that. He's not an alcoholic.
Not an alcoholic.
Not an alcoholic.
And he'll get up the next morning. Go to work. He'll be Agent DiNozzo. Do the only job he's ever done. He'll enjoy it because he loves it.
"Uh, Tony?"
He almost forgets that tonight, he's not at home. He's visiting McGee. Despite all indications, he likes McGee. He's calm… usually. And balanced… usually. He's easy to talk to… usually. He's a listener. He doesn't judge, mostly.
Tim forgives Tony for a lot of things. Tolerates him because most of the time, he figures that Tony knows not what he does.
But now he knows that something is just not right, and it's strange how it's only become apparent during this one moment. This one moment when Tony is engaged in some truly bizarre activity. Everything kind of comes together then. Smashes together, makes him cock his head and say, "oh, right."
Because Tony is crawling across his living room carpet towards Jethro's dog bed.
"Uh, Tony?" Tim calls from the couch. They had been playing a video game, something easy. But after killing Tony's character and then killing him again after only a minute, things had fishtailed into boring. "How much have you had to drink?"
"Just a little," Tony answers before rolling over as Jethro starts licking his face without mercy.
On a Monday morning, things start slowly. He has a headache. Feels like a dagger stabbing into his brain meat. The DiNozzo hangover cure doesn't work anymore. Now he shakes five Ibuprofen into his sweaty palm and swallows them with the watered down remains of last night's cocktail. Brackish with some bite. Takes the edge off.
McGee corners him by the stairs. He's nervous and uncertain. Tony thinks he's been planning this for days. Weeks, maybe. Tony scoffs, says he's busy, got things to do. But McGee's got enough gumption for the both of them, and he actually reaches out to grab Tony by the arm.
"Tony," he starts. He looks really serious. Really earnest and worried. He's laying out the words slowly, carefully, cautiously, like this is a chess game. Strategy is everything. "I'm going to say this because I consider you my friend."
He must have read about this somewhere. Must have researched it and researched it some more. Must have agonized over it. What to say and how to say it, when to say it, where to say it - because for whatever reason he considers Tony a friend. And for McGee, friendship is serious business.
Tony stares at him without blinking. For once, he's silent.
"Look, I don't know how else to say it. But I'm concerned. We're… uh, we're concerned. About you."
Obviously McGee's preparations hadn't done much good for his diction.
"Who is 'we'?" Tony asks, voice cool. His calm is deceptive. Inside, his gut is churning. His heart is beating faster. This is exactly what he knew it would be.
"Me, Ziva, Abby-"
"What about Gibbs?"
McGee frowns. "Well Gibbs, he-"
"Exactly." Tony wants to pull away. He moves backwards to do just that, but McGee tightens his hold. He isn't done yet. He doesn't want Tony to have the last word. Not about this.
"That doesn't change the fact that the rest of us are worried." McGee must have gotten his second wind or something. His eyes are hard and determined. "I don't want to ignore it anymore, okay? We need to fix it. And I think you can, Tony, if you just-"
"Fix what?" Tony finally grinds out. He can convincingly play stupid any other day. But today it's a glaring lie.
McGee answers him honestly. Baldly. "Your drinking. It's getting bad, and-"
"I've always been this way!" Tony nearly yells. But he keeps a cap on it, for now. They are at work, and inquisitive minds love to pry.
"It bothers me!" McGee counters. It's not something he'd planned on saying, but out it comes all the same. He's going off script into uncharted territory. Where logic fails, emotion reigns, and McGee is frowning now. Eyebrows knit together. He needs Tony to see what he sees. To see that maybe it's not normal. "You're too - you're too smart for this, Tony. After Abby's birthday, when we all went out to dinner. You came; you were already drunk. Two months ago, Ziva and I went with you to that street festival. You were drunk the entire time. Two weeks ago, at your apartment. Drunk. At my apartment. Drunk. Tony, I don't understand. Help me understand, so we can help you."
At first, Tony doesn't know what to do or say. He doesn't know what to do with McGee. McGee who has just regurgitated a whole year's worth of grievances and concerns. It is evidence. Evidence Tony wants to deny and dispute, because he does not have a problem. This is not a problem.
"It's just stress," he begins lamely. It's one of the few times he's ever been unsure of himself. "I'm just stressed out right now, okay? It helps me relax. It helps me sleep. I'm fine. I'm peachy-keen."
Helps me get to the next day.
Helps me feel nothing at all.
"You have a problem, Tony."
It's like a nail in his coffin. Because it can't be a problem. He's got a handle on it, damnit. He's in control. He's a cop. And he's in control. Always.
Tony rips his arm away. Nearly drives McGee into the wall while deflecting any further attempts. "Don't. Just don't."
II. Anger
Anger was a familiar friend.
It was comforting. An outlet.
A companion.
For the remainder of the day, Tony is pissed. Minutes meld slowly into hours. They don't get a case. He feels like a tiger trapped in a cage. He feels like everybody is watching him. Everybody is judging him. He avoids McGee. Tries to avoid everybody, really. He snaps at Abby. Her music is like a hypodermic needle to the eyeball. He snaps at Ziva. She's got that worried expression on her face. She's probably wondering how McGee's little "intervention" turned out. They all know.
They all see it.
They all know except for him.
And it pisses him off.
Everything pisses him off, and he's pissed off that everything pisses him off. Because he's a happy person, damnit. He's supposed to make jokes and he's supposed to smile and he's supposed to be fucking happy. And he's supposed to keep everybody else happy. He's supposed to be in control. Of himself. Of everybody around him.
He's a cop. Cops don't need help.
He needs a drink. He needs a goddamn drink.
On a Wednesday afternoon, something bad happens. Something really bad.
He and Gibbs have been at odds all day over who is right and who is wrong. About what, neither of them can remember.
McGee has lapsed momentarily into techno-babble.
"Just get to the point already, Probie," Tony barks loudly. His head is throbbing, threatening to split open and spill his booze-pickled brains all over his desk.
He senses the head slap coming before he actually feels it. And when he does, things happen quickly. Like an explosion. He feels himself grappling with something, someone. The entire office tilts on its side. The edge of his desk is suddenly digging into his side. All he can see is the fake simulated wood grain. He pants as his stomach churns.
"You done, DiNozzo?" Gibbs is very close to his ear. His voice is hard but not without a slight tremor born from both exertion and surprise. It isn't everyday that his senior field agent turns on him like a rabid dog. He's got Tony's body pinned against the desk, wrist twisted painfully. He repeats, shaking the man for effect, "You done?"
"Yeah," Tony wheezes, a little dazed. "Yeah, boss."
Everybody is staring. Ziva and McGee and a few others who had been passing by.
Carefully, Gibbs releases his hold and steps away. Like he's releasing an animal back into the wild. Tony straightens painfully, rubs his wrist. He smoothes his clothes, refuses to make eye contact with any of them.
"Get your stuff," Gibbs says. It's the calmness that is unnerving. He wipes some sweat off his brow. "Get out of here."
Tim goes home to Jethro.
The dog wags his tail and waits for dinner. Tim cooks something uncomplicated and reasonably healthy; he drinks a beer. And afterwards, while the two of them settle down for an evening of bone chewing and MythBusters, Tim worries.
He finishes the beer, puts it down, and watches the brown bottle sit there on the end table. It's innocent enough.
Innocent.
How is it that he can stop at one or two, but Tony can't even seem to count? What did Tim have that Tony didn't? Genetics? Self-control? Luck?
He admits to the room, "I don't know what to do."
That night, Tony trashes his apartment. Rips open the cabinet door. Grabs tumbler glasses. Throws them, one after the other in a rage.
Frustration. Anger. Shame.
Bubbling up from somewhere within. Boiling over. Like a pot on a bright red coil.
Glass shards spread across the tile. It's beautiful. Beautiful. He sees the half-empty bottles of liquor. An array of everything. He wants to dump it all down the drain. He wants to watch as it mixes together, as it disappears into the maw of nothing. Wants to get rid of it all. Wants it all to just go away.
He's more than just angry. He's angry in a way that's confusing. That burns from the inside out. He doesn't know where it's all coming from. Why it's showing up now. Right now. He is pissed at himself and at everybody else. Furious at Tim for knowing. For daring to suggest it.
Furious at himself. Furious at the drunk Tim said that he knew.
Because Tony's so damn idiotic. So stupid. Been stupid for years.
He'd become his father. He'd become his fucking father. A functional alcoholic. Things are suddenly unraveling despite the fact that he has held it all together for years.
And, Jesus Christ, he just needs a damn drink.
He doesn't know where else to go. How else to handle the stress and the pain and the disappointment. Leaving Baltimore. Being left by Wendy. Learning this job. Kate's death. Jenny, Paula, all of them. Gibbs leaving. Leading a team that didn't want to be lead. Gibbs coming back. Jeanne. Being afloat, the only cop in a city-sized ship of shifty sailors. Ziva. Somalia. E.J. That fucking bomb that blew the place up.
For years he's been sad. For years he's been lonely. For years he's buried it deeper and deeper until none of it was recognizable. Filled the hole with women and booze and deflective humor. Filled it with nothing.
Tony needs a drink.
So he has one, and then some.
III. Bargaining
Sometimes the act of bargaining wasn't worth the bargain.
There's a pounding at the door. Tony awakes with a start, cheek pressed against the bathroom tile. He blinks, the nausea roiling around in his empty stomach.
The pounding comes again. "DiNozzo? Open the door."
Tony groans, presses his sweaty forehead against a cool patch of tile. He is using some of his vacation time, a week or two or three. He's got a lot of it. He'd told everybody he was going to dry out. Get a handle on things. He plans to do it. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. He'll drink the rest of what he has. It would be a waste of money not to-
But Gibbs has already used his key. Tony gets to his feet as he hears the deadbolt unlock. He splashes his face with sink water. His place is a mess. A real mess. Just like he feels.
They sit together on his pleather couch. Tony holds his head in his hands. It's awkward. It's embarrassing. But Gibbs is surprisingly relaxed. Like he's seen it before. Like he knows exactly what to do. This is, perhaps, only a small bump in the road.
"Everybody wants you back at work," he says quietly.
"Even you?" Tony mumbles.
"What do you think?"
Tony doesn't know what he thinks, so he says by default, "I'll stop. Tomorrow I'll stop." He knows he can stop, maybe not completely. But maybe enough to go back to work. Like he was before he'd suddenly hit rock bottom.
"That's what you said two days ago."
"This time, I'll do it." Tony seems like he's sure. Just as sure as he was two days ago. He's strong; he's in control. He doesn't need help because he can help himself.
Gibbs nods, as if he'd been expecting that answer. "Okay." He reaches over and in a stunningly affectionate gesture, squeezes Tony's knee twice. "Get help."
Tony doesn't expect this reaction from Gibbs. He expects something a whole lot more unsympathetic. An ultimatum. Get control of it or get out. Tony was already prepared to balk.
But Gibbs seems to understand. It makes him want to work harder. Makes him want to fix all of it. For Gibbs. For the team. For himself.
The hope is brief. But while it lasts, it feels good, almost as good as a mixed drink.
Ziva has an entirely different approach. She has the ultimatum.
They meet up for coffee. Some place quiet. Sedate.
"Tony, I cannot be around you when you are drinking. Not anymore. Do you understand?"
That's it, and nothing else.
Tony understands. But he'd rather not.
He grieves what never existed.
IV. Depression
He was no stranger of depression.
And this - this - drew the depression in. Welcomed it with open arms.
This struggle.
Depression.
It was the only other thing that could dull the pain.
On a Thursday morning, he realizes he's been living a lie. He thought that admitting it would be the hardest part. But it wasn't. Isn't. Because things have gone downhill from there, and he feels like he's getting torn in two.
Bereft of comfort. Of solace.
Without the liquor, all of the complicated emotions rise to the top. He's forced to face them.
The hardest part is this. All of this. Admitting it merely rips the bandage away from the wound. What it reveals is something putrid and rotten. Something that has festered and born maggots. A writhing mass of decay.
He's done this to himself. It's his fault.
Get help, Gibbs says. Some days he doesn't want the help. Doesn't want to get "better." Not if this putrefying wound is what he must face. To endure.
By sheer will alone, Tony dries out enough to go back to work. Everybody is happy to see him. So they say. He smiles and teases; he sees McGee relax. But they watch. They always watch.
Because when it's too much, and it often is, he crawls back into a bottle. One of these days, he'll kill himself. Poison himself. He admits he wouldn't regret it.
Immediately, he's ashamed.
V. Acceptance
Admitting it wasn't an end.
Nor was it acceptance.
Acceptance was the hard fought beginning of an end.
On a Saturday night, McGee brings a DVD to Tony's place and finds him dead on the couch.
Or at least he looks dead, sprawled on his left side, passed out, left arm flung out towards the coffee table. Face lax. Peaceful, even. Empty glass. Empty bottle. Tim can't rouse him. Not even when he shakes him, or shouts in his ear. Not even when he screams out that Tony is stupid and he's selfish and oh my god, please wake up. Completely unconscious. As good as dead.
The ambulance takes a lifetime. It gives Tim time to call Ziva, call Gibbs, call everybody in a panic, because DiNozzo may have just killed himself on his own living room couch.
Tony's breathing is soft. Slow and irregular. Not right. He's cold to the touch. He smells like a distillery. Like it's seeping from his pores. Like at any moment, he'll dissolve into nothing more than a vat of booze. The only thing left to do is mop him up.
After a few more shakes - a violent but futile endeavor - Tim gives up, steps back, palms pressed against his own forehead. Tony isn't waking up. Not now, maybe not ever. He doesn't know what else to do. Maybe he should have seen this coming. Maybe he should have done more. He paces once. He sits on the coffee table. He had actually hung up on Gibbs. He can't remember where he dropped the phone.
He watches Tony. It's hard to tell he's even breathing.
Did he want this?
Is this what Tony wants?
McGee still resents Tony for that night. He probably always will.
In detox, he awakes to the same misery. The same pain. He's alive. Still alive. Sunlight filters through the window. He's groggy. He's stiff.
He feels so damn old.
Abby sits with him. They gaze into each other's eyes for what seems like hours.
He's so tired. So fucking tired.
"They saved you," she says. She reaches out, touches his hair, rubs the pads of her fingers over his temple.
He blinks slowly. Tries not to let the grogginess drag him under. "Abs," he croaks.
"Tony."
"I think I need help."