Hey everyone. Seeing as how I'm stuck in HTF for now, I decided to try and work on something else, so I re-opened an old file of mine with the few stories that never made it and haunted me since. This one was supposed to be a series of one shots, so maybe one day I'll complete it, but for now, this is it.
A bit different from the others, as usual. Tell me how you feel about it!
Hope this will make the wait for HTF better.
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He couldn't stop talking. He just couldn't. His jaw was probably broken seeing as how his words were not really sounding like anything an actual human would say, but he couldn't help it. He had to talk. He paused a second, just long enough to spit the blood and dirt that had somehow ended up in his mouth, take a deep breath, and resume where he'd left off.
He was still declaiming the lines from Fight Club because he had learned earlier that day that McGee had never seen it. How could any man say he had never watched Fight Club and not apologize immediately after? It wasn't exactly Tony's type of movie either, but damn, it was just that good. His throat was hoarse and so dry it was actually a greater problem to his ability to speak than the broken jaw thingy. He tried to open his eyes again, but the left one was too swollen to oblige, and his right one's vision was so blurred he could barely make out his own -tied- feet.
He tugged on the chains tying his hands behind his back again, maybe hoping they'd just fall off and he could get up and go to his probie. They didn't. He'd been trying that for the last three and a half hours and would probably keep doing so every other minute, but now was not the time to really try hard. It exhausted him every time he actually gave it all his strength, and the last time he couldn't breath properly for at least three minutes after that. But he couldn't allow himself that luxury now. He had to talk.
Was McGee still blindfolded or had their captors taken it off? Tony swore, realizing he hadn't been careful enough and couldn't remember. Nevermind, Tony knew there was nothing in the room that would help them so McGee wasn't missing anything. They'd thought it would destabilize the younger agent, blindfolding him in addition to the tape they had put on his mouth and the cuffs immobilizing him. It could've been a good idea. Probie was certainly more than destabilized at this point -the beating helped- but they hadn't taken away the only thing that could've really brought him down. Only Tony knew. His Probie only needed one thing to keep going.
To hear him talk.
It could seem ridiculous, really. Why would hearing Tony blabber away help anyone?
But that was just it. It wouldn't help just anyone.
To Timothy Probie McGee, Tony's idle chatter meant hours of getting annoyed like hell. It meant a headache for the end of the day and a knowing glance from Ziva because she shared his pain (just like it had meant a snappy remark from Kate when she had been the one listening to the endless jabber with him). To Tim, Tony's never ending speeches as he waxed lyrically about an actor, a song or the new girl from accounting meant bullpen. The scent of coffee. Sprinkled donuts without the sprinkles. And Tony didn't just talk. Oh no. Tony sang, whispered theatrically, made weird sounds with his mouth (threw spit balls at him. Glued his face to his desk. Changed the order of the letters of his keyboard.) Tony's presence could never be missed because he always talked so much.
At least that was what Tony had heard McGee complain about to Gibbs.
The team leader -who had spotted Tony coming when the Probie was giving his complaint- just looked up at his SFA and smiled his knowing smirk of a smile.
"And man, I know I told Ziva Brad Pitt was overrated, but truth is, I think that guy is a genius sometimes," Tony said, ending his sentence with a cough. That's when he heard them, footsteps echoing their way in the corridor. Tony heard McGee whimper, and his heart beat faster. Damn, they would get tired of him and turn to McGee. The sound of the heavy metallic door opening and closing had the SFA start panicking. They couldn't touch him. They couldn't.
"And he says, 'No man, the Russians couldn't do it, they're just a bunch of pussies' and -"
Tony nearly smiled when he felt the knuckles on his face, interrupting his invented insult to the Russians. Those guys were so touchy it was not even fun.
"Oh hey there, Lev, didn't hear you coming," Tony greeted flippantly.
He tried to straighten up but felt a piercing pain in his stomach and stopped short. Damn, when had that happened? With his luck, there was some big bad internal injury killing him right then, and even if Gibbs barged in that very the second, he'd die in the ambulance. Huh, way to think positive, DiNozzo! Tony groaned and straightened anyway. He would've tried to school the wince of hurt away if he hadn't been so sure that with the state of his face, pain was probably not a hard thing to guess.
"Not Nikolaevich," some smug voice corrected, "but he ordered you are separated" the heavily accented voice went on.
No. No. He couldn't let them have McGee. He couldn't let them take him where his probie couldn't hear him anymore. He had to know Tony was here. He had to -
"Nikolaevich thinks you will not be as brave alone," the dumb henchman actually explained his move.
Okay. Okay, so it wasn't to get their hands on McGee. That was a good thing. They wanted to corner him alone. Not so good, but better than the alternative. But Tim. How could he leave Tim alone? Tony didn't have the time to think of a way out of the mess, he felt rather than saw at least three men surrounding him and grabbing him and the heavy chair he was on. They dragged the chair across the floor while Tony tried to engage in a polite conversation with the man moving him. They were not talkative. Maybe they didn't understand the American accent, Tony thought. Maybe I have a concussion.
Despite his idle chat, Tony's agent's skills were working at full blast. They weren't using the first door from which Nikolaevich -aka. Lev - and his goons came and went, they were pulling the chair from behind and he could feel he'd left the first room and entered another one. Some people got out, others came in, and the door closed. Okay. One door was keeping him away from McGee. Well, a door, unbreakable chains and an unknown number of armed and angry Russians. Easy Peasy. As long as McGee could hear him.
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But Tony was wrong. Oh so terribly wrong. His monologues turned into sentences. Than into random grouping of words that made no sense. Then words. Mostly names of actors and cities, he thought maybe McGee would understand he was talking about the cities he wanted to go to, or was he naming the worst places he'd ever visited? Tony himself didn't really know what the words leaving his mouth meant.
Then… then they brought the bag and the hose.
And the words died on his lips when the fighting for air under the bag became a priority. Except it couldn't be his priority. What was breathing when he was a Senior Field Agent abandoning his Probie? So he tried to talk. He really did. But the words didn't have any letter, they were guttural sounds, and this, this was what was killing him. He knew his Probie. His Probie needed to hear him. Tony had to talk, damn it, but he couldn't: he was drowning and would probably die like that, because his captors miscalculated how much their victims could take and how much torture was enough to kill them.
He fought it at first, but they didn't stop and already he felt light-headed. He was gonna pass out, he knew. Pass out or die. He could feel his body becoming heavy and something akin to peace release his muscles from their tension. It was psychological, he knew. It was his mind preparing his body. Telling it to stop fighting and just. rest. Except he couldn't rest. He had to tell McGee. He had to tell McGee. He couldn't talk, he couldn't yell, he couldn't even make those disgusting noises with his throat because he wasn't sure he was even breathing anymore. But fuck, he had to tell him.
So he did.
To hell with the damn heaviness. The weight on his limbs was nothing, nothing. He kicked the ground and tugged on his chains behind his back, letting the clinging metallic noise replace his words. Talk louder than him. They must have thought he suddenly became hysterical, jumping on his seat, fighting like a beast to make as much noise as possible. What happened next was almost an accident.
Almost.
He felt a man coming from behind, probably to restrain his suddenly agitated body, and in a reflex he would later not be able to remember, he brought his head back with all the force he could muster, slamming into the nose of one of the men that he heard cry and fall back. He wasn't even sure he had hit something, he couldn't be sure because all his body hurt, because they were still pointing the hose on the bag on his face, and mostly because they had turned it on again. But Tony was possessed, and he kept struggling against the water eating away the little air the bag let him have and against his shackles. Nothing had even been louder.
He was telling him. Telling McGee.
I'm here, Probie. I. Am. Here.
Because McGee was right. Tony's presence could never be ignored because he talked so much.
So McGee always knew his partner was there. He always knew Tony had his six. Because even when they were chasing a suspect or being shot at, DiNozzo was the one to crack a sarcastic joke before he started running or returned fire. DiNozzo was the guy who called his probie four times the night after their last pedophile case to gloat about the hot chick he had a date with, to state how drunk he was, to ask about his elf lord business and to ask him not to tell the boss.
Not because Tony needed someone to call, but because McGee needed something to take his mind off. Because he needed to have a sense of normality back in his everyday life. Because he needed his partner and best friend to tell him everything was alright and they'd be okay, just like they always were.
Tony's voice was Tim's life's soundtrack now. It was McGee's own words, and even though he had told Abby this in a rant against their friend's last practical joke, it actually meant something real.
Tony's voice meant Tony's presence meant safe.
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Then the hose stopped, but air still wasn't getting in, and men were now yelling and probably cursing in Russian. He thought maybe someone said something about someone being dead. Tony didn't realize he had killed the man he'd hit with the back of his head. He just sensed someone coming straight at him and so he ducked as low as he could and threw his head forward as if he was an invincible bull. This time, he knew he had hit someone in the chest because that man grabbed him by the back of his head and pulled as if he was trying to take it off.
Tony didn't know how hard he had actually hammered against the man. Gibbs had never been more right when he said DiNozzo's head was as hard as a rock, because he had just broken one of his captors' ribs and within seconds, the man crumbled to the ground, yelling. The room was in utter chaos, men were yelling, running in and out, something was being dragged off, and Tony was still kicking, this time more in a desperate attempt to get the bag out of his head because he hadn't taken a breathe in nearly a minute and panic and pain had seized him.
His savior nearly tore off his ear when he took the bag off his head. Tony took a deep breath and it even felt too much as he started coughing and swallowing large gulps of air at the same time. He had been on the bridge of consciousness and so didn't realize right away that a man had taken him by the hair to make him look up. Tony fought to open the only eye that could actually work, and then took a few more seconds to have his vision stop swimming. He was exhausted and as he stared blankly at the man holding him, the only two things going through his mind were how cold he was and how he had to talk. Say something, anything. I'm here Timmy. He opened his mouth but a rough hand slapped it shut. He tried to focus on the man in front of him. It was Nikolaevich, looking at him with fury and a crazed glint in his eyes. His face was red with anger.
"You will pay for this. If my brother dies, you will be begging for me to use the iron again."
The metaphorical bulb over Tony's head lit, realizing the man he hit in the chest was probably the one that had been dragged away and that he was in a bad shape.
Tony opened his mouth, and Nikolaevich actually looked at him as if he was expecting an answer.
"Ooh-RAH!"
Tony's following maniacal laugh was interrupted by a strangled indignant roar and Lev's furious and violently powerful backslap. And well, whatever Senior may usually say, sometimes DiNozzos do pass out.
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Once he woke up, it took more than a few seconds for Tony to gather the strength to try and open his only available eye to evaluate the situation. He was on the ground, his cheek pressed on the dirt that tickled his nostrils, making him want to sneeze. How ridiculous would it be, sneezing in that situation? It seemed totally ludicrous for some reason. His body had somehow fell off the chair he'd been sitting on for the past 4-ish hours, and though he was now sure someone had stabbed him in the stomach without him noticing, he was relieved he was not on that damn torture chair again.
It must have been one hell of a whack to make him lose balance and fall, he thought. Luckily, his body felt like one giant injury, so he didn't feel the effect of that hit specifically. When his open eye could finally make out forms and colors (sort of) he realized he'd been ejected from the chair and that his body was lying toward the door. He tried to move away a bit because the first man to open the door would probably smash it against his head in the movement, and well, Tony couldn't die like that, it wouldn't look good on the autopsy report.
However, his body didn't seem aware of the danger as it refused to obey. So he stayed there, totally limp, his breathing and blinking the only signs of his being alive. Well that was just peachy. And how long had he been out anyway? Did the brother die? Wait.. huh, there was another unmoving body on the ground on the opposite corner, Tony spotted. He couldn't see who it was, a pair of legs the only thing in his visual range. Huh, must have killed someone, Tony realized, mentally shrugging. He stayed like that for long seconds, seemingly happy to just try and calm his speeding heart and clear his head for a few moments. Mind over matter, he chanted in his head as he tried to overlook the impossible pain he felt. Damn, even Somalia hadn't been quite that bad. He really had a knack at pissing people off.
Those Ruskies sure looked annoyed when Tony had found a way to lock them out of the surveillance room they had been aiming at. He would have been smug about it if it hadn't meant locking McGee and himself with them. Yeah, didn't think that through, genius. To top it all, Gibbs and Ziva (and their guns) were in the room he had managed to seal by setting off the alarm mechanism in an awesome move that cost him his knife too. So though the mission was successful in that it had stopped the bad guys from entering the room they wanted, it had taken a bad turn when Ziva and Gibbs had witnessed their two partners being taken away by a group of eleven big, tattooed, (and ugly) suspected terrorists. By the time the rescue teams had come, Tony and McGee were already long gone and Gibbs had nearly found a way to blow up the door keeping him from getting to his agents, MacGiver style. Well, that's what Tony imagined anyway. He had no way of knowing what had really happened when the terrorists had knocked McGee and him unconscious on the scene. One thing he knew: the leader, Nikolaevich, had not been happy with him.
Lost in the foggy thoughts of his concussed self, Tony became aware of the moaning coming from the next room only after long minutes of the lament echoing in the room. His heart picked up again, and as a reflex, he ordered himself still to be able to prick his ears. Had he not already been as still as a corpse, it could've helped. It was McGee, he knew it was. Probie was trying to yell but his cries were muffled by the tape that was probably still sealing his lips. Was he hurt? What was happening to him? The wailing sounded like weeping, heart-broken and desperate at the same time. What was happening? Tony tried to get on his knees but didn't even move an inch. He tried to crawl but his hands wouldn't bulge. What was happening? WHAT THE HELL WAS HAPPENING?
Scanning the silence -the only thing he could do-, Tony cursed his weakness and felt frustration and panic grow heavy in his chest. Was that how it felt to cry? Was he crying right now? He didn't think his eye was watering, yet the feeling was killing him.
His Probie.
What was happening? The worst part was he couldn't hear anyone else in the next room. No footsteps, no talking, no movement, nothing. That's when he understood. Nothing.
McGee's soul-wrenching moans weren't the expression of his physical pain. Probie had just stopped hearing him. He was probably terrified, thinking Tony was dead or dying. Fucking idiot, Tony cursed himself. How could he have forgotten? He had to tell his Probie. Except this time he knew he couldn't even gulp down properly, let alone move his limbs. Move. Move, Tony chanted to himself. But he couldn't. He managed to raise his head to look down on his own body only to see how unmoving it was. Unmoving, freezing, dripping with water, blood and other disgusting bodily fluids, and overall battered. What a mess. The moans stopped, but pricking his ears Tony could hear the frenetic breathing that seemed to reflect an anxiety attack. His mouth was taped, Tony remembered, if McGee didn't calm down he could choke. Tony didn't care, he had to find a way to communicate.
And he did.
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Loud bangs were resonating in the room every ten seconds. It took several of them before Tony could hear his partner calming down. I'm here.
Tony was dizzy and definitely light-headed when he heard men come in the next room, probably on their way to him. He heard one of them groan a "What the hell?" but wasn't sure because it sounded suspiciously like Ducky's voice and well.. that was just not possible. Then again, he had been hearing his father's voice in his head for some time now. Senior had congratulated him on finding a way to make some noise. Well, he didn't congratulate him so much as said something like "You always did find a way to be annoying," but in Tony's exhausted mind, it counted anyway.
Truthfully, the Agent didn't know exactly how long it had been since he'd started banging the door, just that his body was starting not to hurt anymore. Was that a good sign? He wasn't so sure. His head felt heavier and heavier though, and weirdly enough, something was itching in his left arm. Damn, he would have groaned in frustration when he tried and was unable to scratch it, but no sound was coming from his throat. After each bang, he had to fight with himself to stay awake.
"Sleeping on the job, DiNozzo?"
The bangs were more and more spaced out from one another too. A mental voice tried to warn him that it was dangerous and that he should stop, and though the voice sounded like Abby this time, he just ignored it. His head fell to the side after a heavier bang and he nearly let himself embrace the rest and peace the darkness behind his closed eyes was offering when he heard the men and picked up where he'd left off.
When the door to the room he was in opened, it was fortunately cautiously enough not to behead him on the spot. The Ruskies were actually curious to see how the hell he was making so much noise. The three men that entered closed the door and just stood staring as Tony ignored them too to focus on his job. He wasn't even really aware of what he did exactly, he just knew he had to do it.
Raising back his head as high as he could, he slammed it against the door again. The side of his face was burning and he could feel something dripping on his neck, making him want to make it go away with his shoulder -if he could move it. He didn't really care finding out it was blood, actually. His eyes were drooping closed again when one of the men that had entered kicked him on the legs, probably to try and make him react.
Tony wondered in a fleeting thought if he had lost the use of his limbs for good, but then the same man kicked him again and his leg muscles spasmed in a cramp that took his breath away for a second.
"What hell you do?" the man asked, motioning to the trace of blood Tony's head left on the door but couldn't see.
It was weird how no rational thoughts came to the Senior Field Agent's mind. He felt disconnected and knew, right then and there, that it was over for him. He had nothing left to fight with. His body was in too much pain. A hysterical sob threatened to escape his chest when he realized his ear was so covered with blood it was partially deafened. He felt crippled and useless and sad.
He barely felt anything when a giant grabbed him by the collar (of what was left of his clothes) and carried him in the first room like he weighed nothing. Something very deep inside him knew that he was with McGee now, but he couldn't see him nor hear him.
Tony realized his eyes were closed when Nikolaevich opened his eyelid with his hand and forced him to look straight ahead.
"You killed him."
The anger and the hate were so deep now that the Russian nearly looked calm. The second Nikolaevich took off his hand, Tony's eyelid fell close again, but the slap on his face brought him back to consciousness and a blurry shadow sitting in front of him came to view. His brain didn't understand who it was, too tired to connect the dots or make the simplest connection.
Not until Nikolaevich said it.
"A brother for a brother."
That's when it all came into focus. How Nikolaevich walked back to stand at arm length from Tim's chair. How he extended his armed hand so that it was perfectly aligned to the side of Tim's head. How his gun was grazing Tim's temple.
Tim. Tim.
Tony could only think one word, one name, but he couldn't even focus on his face. His only working eye locked on the gun threatening him.
"A last word?"
Nikolaevich wasn't talking to McGee, whose mouth was still taped shut. Tony tried to open his mouth but his jaw hurt too much now, so it barely slid open. He pushed on his vocal chords to produce sounds but the Russian executioner tilted his head and shook it, as if to signal he couldn't hear. Tony closed his eye, exhausted, and breathed deeply in. When he opened it again, Lev was just by his side, and someone was trying to pour water down his throat, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his head backward so he would swallow.
"I want to hear you," Nikolaevich explained with a sneer and the glazed eyes of someone that was not totally sane.
Tony wanted to snort. As if he couldn't talk because his throat was too dry. The Russian drew closer, putting his ear just by Tony's mouth so he wouldn't miss the words. Without the exterior help, his head nearly fell on the man's neck, and Tony just knew he didn't have the strength for another headbutt.
He couldn't help the scream of hurt when something in his jaw snapped as he opened his mouth wide and sunk his teeth into Nikolaevich's neck. The hot white pain seemed to call forth all the others and he was momentary deafened as his body cried in his brain.
The man under him crumbled in surprise and in pain, but he didn't pull away. Not even when a lukewarm liquid ran to his nose and nearly made him choke and gag at once.
Then he was sent to the other side of the room flying, and his brain didn't even try to understand. That's when he heard it.
"NCIS, drop your weapon!"
And he wanted to cry, laugh and yell at the same time, so instead he let himself go, and slipped into sweet, sweet nothingness.
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The next time he woke up, his eyes were blinded and for a second he wondered if he'd been buried alive, because he felt like a ton of brick was weighing on his body and he could barely breath. Then he heard someone sniff and he could have sworn a man was crying around him, so he thought that maybe he really was dead.
"I couldn't do anything," Probie's voice said, all broken and low and wrong.
"Sir, calm down, it's over now," someone else said. "You have to let us check-"
"They barely touched me. Help him!"
"Your colleague is being taken care of-"
Tony dozed off with this sweet promise in mind.
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"Tim, turn it down, you're going to wake him."
"He wouldn't mind."
"What? Look McGee, I don't know what it is with this movie, but the lady doctor didn't seem to think it was a good idea to bring all your material in the room."
"He hates hospitals anyway."
Focusing on what he heard (with no annoying buzzing sound as a background, this time), Tony didn't even try to open his eyes or move. That's when he heard another familiar voice saying things he already knew somehow.
"I am Jack's cold sweat," the voice said, and Tony's lips cracked as a smile twisted them.
Apparently, neither one of his friends noticed. He was too tired to actually wake up, so he was content being in between states, hearing the movie and his friends as if from far away and letting his mind wander freely in weird fantasies probably drug induced.
He came back to himself when he heard a door close. The movie was apparently not playing anymore. Tony thought he was alone when someone whispered wearily.
"I'm so sorry, Tony. I couldn't do anything but watch. I …. most of the time, I was so terrified I couldn't even try to think about a solution. Now I realize I could have helped. I could have tried to get a gun. I should have tried to untie my hands."
A weight fell on Tony's chest as memories from there came back to him. Memories of the iron (he still didn't feel his legs) and the hose. Of McGee's gut wrenching sobs when he thought he was dead. Of someone else's blood in his mouth.
Through it all, the only thing that had been okay had been that his Probie was not the one living it. That Tony managed to keep them away from him. It had been the only thing driving him. He could explain this to his probie. He probably would, one day. Maybe when this whole thing was way behind them, in a few years. Maybe when McGee would get his own probie. Because then he would understand. Better me than my men. Any day.
But it was too soon, and McGee was still talking, probably not aware that Tony was actually listening as he listed his flaws and burdened himself with a weight that wasn't his to lift. Yes, it was too soon, and talking about it only made it worse, if Tim's tormented voice was any indication.
"Probie," he finally said, and he wasn't expecting the pain that shot through his face as if tearing it apart. He stopped short, waiting for the little stars behind his eyelids to go away, before he tried to open his eyes. Both eyes opened, and he was glad he could see McGee clearly, even though the man beside his bed was dishevelled and tired.
Tim was apparently surprised because he just stood there, red-shot eyes wide open and mouth hanging half-open. Then he jumped and came to help his friend, as if Tony suddenly needed his covers higher and his pillows changed.
"It's alright, McGee," he whispered, barely opening his mouth to avoid the pain. McGee stopped mid-movement and didn't move, his face morphing in a way that told Tony his probie had maybe understood the deeper meaning behind the simple words.
"I should have-"
"First rule of the Fight Club."
Tony's voice interrupted Tim's with finality and authority, and the younger man's mouth snapped shut, his eyes still locked on his bed-ridden friend.
"You do not talk about Fight Club," McGee recited.
"Atta boy."
Tony closed his eyes and sighed contentedly, ready to go back to sleep.
"Thank you, Tony."
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So?
Go ahead, tell me everything.
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