Author's Note: So, I'm trying to figure out where I want to take my NCIS stories. I feel like I'm in my twilight in this fandom, but I don't want night to come yet. The ideas come, but mostly they go. But here's the tentative schedule of events thus far: I am committed to write at least two (longer) new stories (as part of writing exchanges.) Both are due out in June. Based on what I've got planned, one will be very Tony/McGee and the other will be a GEN piece (probably angsty and hopefully action/adventure-y, too) focusing on both Tony and McGee. Gibbs always has to be involved, too, somehow. I also have other stuff hanging out in my Word files. A "Tony as hostage"/political thriller type thing - I'm actually really excited about that one, and I've got lots of material to work with. I HAVE to finish Two Hundred Miles, too.
I'm very partial to my short stories, though, which is what I put out most often.
Anyway, this one is a SEQUEL to one I wrote not too long ago titled "Semper Fortis." It's pretty much a direct continuation of it. I know at least one person was extremely concerned about my killing DiNozzo. While I'm not shy to do that (I've done it more than once), I'll let the story speak for itself.
Title: "Semper Fidelis"
Rating: FR18 for pretty awful graphic imagery/violence (and some swearing.) I am NOT nice to these characters.
Genre: Drama, angst
Pairing(s): Gibbs/DiNozzo (implied)
Characters: Jimmy Palmer, Timothy McGee, Tony DiNozzo, Gibbs, Breena Palmer and baby Victoria
He ran.
Ran like the beasts of hell - aurochs and three-headed dogs and the like - were after his body and soul.
The tear gas canisters had already been thrown and the cloud billowed, confusion pressing in. The shouts came from all over- overhead, underfoot.
Jimmy ran through them, over them, past them, until someone caught his arms, gripped them tight, claw-like fingers digging into spasming muscle. A familiar face hovered in his myopic view, its eyes wide, bloodshot blue, screaming: "Palmer! You're out! You're out!"
He'd lost his glasses, at some point.
And he must have passed out after that, because the last thing he remembered was Agent Gibbs' face and his shouts. Then nothing. No "fade to black." No "last thoughts." No instant replay of the horror he'd witnessed. Just nothing.
A second later, Jimmy woke up at a hospital miles away, ribs wrapped tight, head floating feet above his gently breathing body, IV pushed into a fat vein.
Breena held their baby in her lap beside him. She sat, looking out through the window at a parking lot bathed in summer sunlight. Her blonde hair hung limp and stringy in her face, skin honey gold. She was like a painting - carefully, lovingly drawn - and it was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in a while, like sunrise after the longest, coldest night. He almost forgot to breathe. And if it weren't for the nurse who disturbed them, in that moment, he may very well have asphyxiated on the poetry of it.
"You had a panic attack," the nurse said, face blurry and unremarkable.
A panic attack. He sobbed in stunned laughter. Breena held his hand and kissed it, her face already wet with tears. The baby woke up and cooed and burbled, arms waving without intent. Miniature fingers wrapped around his thumb.
This.
This was what he had run for.
Gibbs didn't know what, exactly, he'd find in that partially collapsed room, but he ran in anyway, leaving preparation to instinct. He paused only long enough to ensure his head wouldn't be blown off by someone hiding 'round the corner.
No one was hiding, but the room was occupied - a brutal mauling in full-swing.
Some asshole brute - big as a bear and dressed all in black - had Tony - who wasn't exactly small himself - flat on the ground. The man had his hands around Tony's neck, right under his jaw. He straddled Tony's middle, as he squeezed and squeezed and shook him by the throat like a pit dog finishing an easy fight. Tony's begrudgingly defeated gaze was fixed on something that wasn't there, yet still his hands, bloody from mindlessly scratching himself and his attacker, hovered and twitched, either still in lingering fight or odd neurological response, who knew. Gibbs didn't know. He only felt cold, empty rage gripping him around his middle.
He wasted no time with shock or yelling. He knew how the drive to kill worked, having felt it before. His body and mind reacted just as it had been trained to. He lifted his gun, aimed, squeezed the trigger.
The man lurched, part of his skull blasted away. Brains and bone decorated the wall behind them. Gibbs had caused and been witness to this familiar chain of events many, many times before. After the initial lurch, the man pitched slightly to the side. But mostly he just sagged in place, hands still gripping Tony's throat convulsively in death, blood-soaked forehead pressed against Tony's face.
Gibbs looked around before breaking cover. He noticed the other dead man, shot in the neck, but no one else, except for the dead petty officer lodged beneath a large shelving unit. He rushed forward, grabbing the warm body by the shoulders and roughly shoving it off of DiNozzo. It fell to the side with a heavy, dead thud.
"Need some major help in here!" Gibbs yelled out through the busted door. "Wake up, Tony!" he then demanded as he dropped to his knees.
No breathing. No pulse. Maybe he missed it. Gibbs dug thoroughly around bruised flesh with two fingers to find it. Still, no pulse. His conscious mind said some prayers, but his heart made him do something about it.
Gibbs found himself carefully straightening Tony's head, fingers ghosting over damaged skull. For the first time in a long, long time, Gibbs felt like pitching to the side and puking. God, his head. Tony's head. Fuck, fuck. This is bad. His heart hammered. This is Tony. This is Tony. Gibbs hands searched for that spot on Tony's chest where he'd need to pump down on.
It was time to repay a favor, long overdue.
He started to piston his arms hard down on the still chest. He clenched his eyes shut and just counted the compressions. One and two and three and four and - Hard and punishing enough to bruise and crack.
"You're not doing this to me, damn it."
He leaned down and breathed for him.
Gibbs continued the CPR. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Over and over.
"Need some help in here!" Gibbs hollered again, breathless. He knew it would take time for the scene to be cleared sufficiently for emergency medical personnel, but right now, he could use the help of a spotter to take over once he became completely exhausted.
Tony looked no more alive due to his efforts, but Gibbs did not stop. He wouldn't. Not until the paramedics came and forced him to. He wasn't resuscitating a brain dead body. No, he wasn't.
"I'm not ready," he growled at the body he was trying to force life into. "Not ready for you to go. I'm a selfish fucking bastard, and you're an asshole. Don't you fucking," he panted, "dare."
The tear gas had long gotten to his eyes. They burned and watered.
One and two and three and four - Gibbs was exhausted. He panted hard. Tony's vacant half-lidded stare seemed to accuse him as he went on. Why aren't you trying harder, Gibbs? This all you got old man? Ten and eleven and twelve and -
"I know. I know," Gibbs gasped for no one's benefit as he prepared to breathe some more into this fucking dead body.
NOT dead.
If he knew DiNozzo - which he did, very well - he knew he was probably clinging onto the smallest shred of life by those bloody fingernails.
DiNozzo. Stupid, stupid DiNozzo.
Maybe you should quit teaching that CPR class at the Y, boss, because you're not really good at this, the Tony in Gibbs' head taunted.C'mon. I've been treated rougher by some of my girlfriends.
Sweat dripped off his nose. He coughed at the burning in his lungs. Just keep it up. Keep it up.
The paramedics came in a flurry of motion that was overwhelmingly confusing, and then they left, still working on Tony. Everything fast. Everything yelled. Urgent, clipped. Gibbs stayed behind, too dizzy from the effort to even get up. He rested on his hands and knees, arms trembling, and just panted. Agents moved in and out, took pictures of the bodies. Marked evidence. Jotted notes. Stared at him. But Gibbs couldn't move.
A fellow agent had been shot and killed outside during the initial gunfight. There were plenty of dark looks on the faces of the people working around him. One or two looked his way, but they wouldn't catch his eye. It's as if they knew Tony was already a dead man, despite Gibbs' best efforts.
Slowly, Gibbs sat on the floor. He then felt a warm hand on his shoulder.
"We should go, Boss."
Gibbs startled, and he turned his face upward to stare at McGee, whose eyes were just as red and swollen from the lingering gas as his own must be. Gibbs didn't know what to say.
Luckily McGee did. He held out a hand. "C'mon. Let's go."
Several days later.
They pulled away from the cemetery. Gibbs drove. Jimmy sat beside him, arm resting against the window, fingers tapping. Both of them had gotten wet from the persistent rain, and mud clung to their black dress shoes.
Agent Balboa's funeral had been well-attended, and the burial afterward had drawn a crowd. Lots of family. Lots of friends. Many coworkers, too. Fellow brothers-in-arms.
They skipped the reception. The last thing Gibbs wanted to do was chuckle and jaw his way around a crowd of acquaintances, and he could tell Palmer didn't seem much up for it either. So they left.
When Gibbs eased the car onto the highway, Jimmy tugged at his tie. He was uncomfortable; his ribs screamed and cursed at him, but he figured that's what he deserved for forgetting to swallow the pain pill with breakfast this morning. Breena had made sure to put it out for him, right next to the orange juice. But he'd pocketed it instead. She'd been none the wiser. He shifted in the seat, black suit tugging in awkward places, and stared through the windshield at the traffic. There was strange beauty in brake lights and wet pavement.
The wipers whispered thrum, thrum; thrum, thrum noises as the rain fell harder.
No talk. No radio. The silence pressed in, but neither felt the need to break it. At least not for the first few miles.
When Gibbs finally did talk, it was out of necessity: "Going to your place?"
Jimmy nodded. "Yeah. That's fine. Breena's probably waiting with supper. Thanks for driving me. I just- I really wanted to go, and I can't drive considering the whole pharmacy I've been taking lately."
"Or haven't been taking," Gibbs deadpanned.
Jimmy closed his mouth. Then said, repeating, "Thanks again for the lift. Agent Balboa... He was a good man."
Gibbs said nothing.
Jimmy kept tapping his fingers. He finally noticed how calmly Gibbs was driving, and he sighed in relief for the sake of his poor fractured ribs. Apparently, adrenaline was a great buoy of the human will during crisis. He winced.
"The hospital's this way, too. I'm headed there after I drop you off," Gibbs said, casually.
Jimmy's heart started to beat a little faster.
"Of course, you could tag along with me, if you've the time."
"I can't," Jimmy said quickly. "Breena's waiting. She'll need help with Tory."
Gibbs nodded. He had noticed Jimmy's sudden nervousness. "Your baby girl. She's beautiful."
Jimmy gave an automatic smile, although he was unsure what Gibbs' sudden chit-chat was all about. "Isn't she? Best baby, too. She already sleeps through the night."
"Mm," Gibbs hummed, a small smile on his face as he drove.
Jimmy stared at the side of his head. Was this real Gibbs or body-snatched Gibbs?
"You know Kelly didn't sleep straight through a single night until she was a year old. Oh you shoulda seen the looks on Shan's face." Gibbs chuckled quietly. "Breena got off lucky."
"We were actually worried," Jimmy said, touched that Gibbs would share such an intimate detail from a part of his life hardly anyone ever heard about. "We both asked the pediatrician if she thought Tory was sleeping too much. That was a good laugh."
"Yeah, well no one knows what they're doing the first time. Not sure if it gets any easier the second time, either."
"I guess not."
"You've been doing a helluva job, Palmer," Gibbs remarked. "At work and outside of work. I'm proud, you know. Proud to work with you, and to know you as a friend."
Now Jimmy openly stared at Gibbs, floored by what the man was saying. "Uh," he swallowed. "Thank you. That's nice of you to say."
Gibbs chuckled, and both of them sat in comfortable silence until Gibbs pulled the car into the Palmers' driveway. It was a small home. Ranch-style. Jimmy reached for the passenger-side door, opening his mouth to say, "Thanks for-"
But Gibbs interrupted, "He thinks you're avoiding him."
Jimmy froze. Damn. He knew this was coming. Eventually. He took his hand off the handle and folded them in his lap, staring straight ahead through the wet windshield at his closed garage door.
Gibbs shut off the car. The engine ticked as it cooled. Rain pattered on metal. "And he's right; you are."
Jimmy swallowed.
"If you're afraid, you're afraid. That's okay, Palmer. What happened-"
"Happened," Jimmy broke in, voice shaky yet surprisingly resolute. "It's over, Agent Gibbs. I'm not... I'm not avoiding him. I just don't want to... revisit it."
Gibbs studied him. "He asked about you, when he woke up."
Jimmy stared at his hands.
"He doesn't remember much. Anything, really. But he remembered you were there, and he remembered telling you to run. He was afraid you hadn't taken the chance."
Jimmy's jaw worked. He felt Gibbs' eyes on him, but he was too ashamed to meet his gaze.
"The doctor said it was remarkable that he woke up at all. And even more remarkable that he remembered that detail. They say it's remarkable, but I call it a miracle."
Jimmy swallowed hard. He felt pressure building behind his eyes and the first sting of impending tears.
"He wants to see you. Can you do that for me?" Gibbs asked. "Bring Tory and Breena. He'd like that."
Jimmy breathed, long and slow, willing away the creeping fingers of panic.
"He's... he's not himself these days," Gibbs admitted so quietly Jimmy almost couldn't hear him.
He wiped at the sudden wetness on his face. "Agent Gibbs, I'm a coward. I ran."
"You had to."
"I left him. That man was killing him."
"He would've killed you too."
"I left him," Jimmy repeated.
"He wanted you to."
"And so did I," he blurted.
Gibbs studied him.
"Yeah. I wanted to do nothing more than run, and I knew there was no way he could come with. I needed to save myself, and I did. Here I am now. Untouched. Alive," Jimmy voice raised. He swiped a hand at his face again. "God," he attempted to calm himself down. "I can't face him. Facing this funeral was enough. I-"
Gibbs waited patiently for Jimmy to go on.
"I can't do it, Gibbs. I can't-" Jimmy felt a hand on his arm. He balled his other hand into a fist and pressed it hard against his forehead, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Hey," Gibbs soothed. "Breathe for a bit, will ya. It's okay."
"Not okay," Jimmy mumbled.
"You didn't run out of there unscathed, kid. Nobody did. Not one of us."
They sat in silence together in the growing dark. A porch light switched on. The yellow light pooled on the rain-drenched pavement, welcoming and warm. Safe.
Breena must have noticed the headlights pull into the driveway. There was no use keeping her waiting.
Carefully, Jimmy worked to piece himself back together again. He had a family who needed him whole.
"Think about it," Gibbs said before Jimmy got out of the car. "Please, just think about it. Room 1107."
That made Jimmy pause, briefly. He'd never heard "please" from Gibbs before. It compelled him to say something. "I just need some time."
Gibbs nodded.
Tony lay motionless on his side in the hospital bed, staring at the wall outlet, just like he'd been doing for the past hour or longer. He looked like a rather tragic figure - and fairly miserable, too - with ugly bruises ringing his throat and half his hair shaved away to make room for gauze bandages.
The nurse had taken off the neck brace, which was a relief for all involved in managing him. Often, Tony would forget where he was and start clawing at the thing in mad hysterics. And afterward, he'd be so confused and exhausted that he'd resort to just staring at nothing, eyes eerily empty, sightless - still trapped in that room, defeated, heavy weight holding him down.
Traumatic response, one of the doctors explained. She'd seen it before, she assured.
"It fades with time." Her exact words. And with a lot of help. Her unsaid words.
Whatever the case, everybody was glad the damn thing was done away with. Tony probably the most.
Gibbs rapped gently on the half-open door before stepping inside. He saw Tony's back to him, the sheets pulled up, and even, gentle breathing, so he figured he was sleeping. But when Gibbs rounded the bed, he noticed that Tony's eyes were open and fixed on the wall outlet. He nudged the chair into Tony's trance-like field of vision before sitting down.
"DiNozzo," he said quietly, hoping to gently pry the man from wherever la-la land he inhabited.
In response, Tony blinked and looked up slightly, right at Gibbs' face. He breathed out and tried to smile. "Boss."
"How long've you been staring at that wall?"
"Oh I don't know." Tony swallowed, carefully. "Long enough." His words were slurred, and he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if afraid he'd make a mistake in syntax.
"Have you eaten anything?"
"No."
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
"I talked to Vance today and he said-"
Tony cut him off, voice small and raspy. "Do you mind leaving, Boss?"
Gibbs stared at him, taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"Can you just leave? I'm sorry, but I'm tired."
"Hey. DiNozzo-"
"I said I'm tired."
"Tony-"
"I'm so confused. Shit." Tony now looked utterly bewildered as he stared past Gibbs' head. "Why is everything so confusing."
"Have the doctors talked to you today?" Gibbs leaned forward.
"I told them to leave," Tony replied bluntly. "I don't know what they said." He shut his eyes, and when he opened them again it was like the TV channel had changed in his head.
Gibbs watched him with a frown, noticing the sudden and familiar clarity that had come - and would go - again. Impulsively, he rested his hand against Tony's cheek and rubbed a callused thumb against oily skin.
"Gibbs," Tony spoke, concerned. "Why are you crying?"
McGee was waiting in the basement, sitting cross-legged on a work bench, jar in-hand, and already drunk off Gibbs' middle-shelf Kentucky whiskey. The scene was so unexpectedly out of character that Gibbs almost tripped over the last step. He grabbed the handrail just in time, steadying himself. McGee laughed at him, hiccupped, and then covered his mouth, although it was hard for him to cover that manic-looking Cheshire cat smile on his ruddy face.
"McGee!" Gibbs barked, halfway between surprise and anger. "The hell are you doing?"
"Drinking."
"Well, yeah." Gibbs stared at him. "I can see that."
"Honestly I didn't think you'd be back tonight," McGee said. "Thought you'd be staying... with him... again. Considering... you know. I've figured it out."
"Figured what out?" Gibbs prodded.
"Figured you two... out." McGee laughed at his own drunken nonsensical pun, then grew serious. "I'm not stupid, you know."
Keeping a wary eye on his uninvited house guest, Gibbs moved across the basement to grab his own glass, and then the bottle of bourbon from beside McGee. "Is this a problem?" Gibbs asked.
"No."
"Is it gonna become a problem?"
McGee paused, thinking. Then he said, again, "No."
"Good." Gibbs sat down heavily next to him and leaned back, staring at the ceiling rafters. "Figured I'd sleep tonight. In a bed."
"There's no bed down here, Boss."
"No, Tim. There isn't." Gibbs kept staring at the ceiling, empty glass still in his hands. He stretched his legs out. The current boat project sat in front of them, calling out for eager, busy hands.
"Are you okay?" McGee asked, tongue made loose from the booze. "You don't look okay."
Gibbs chuckled darkly, then poured himself a drink, bringing it to his lips, chapped from too much sun. Just two weeks ago he'd taken Tony out on his boat, the Kelly, and they'd spent a whole weekend in the sun.
Just them, and the sun and the boat and the water.
Gibbs smiled, vacantly, letting the semi-silence drape around them. The neighbor's damn dogs were barking again.
"What are we gonna do." McGee shook his head slowly, swaying a bit to one side. "What are we gonna do. What are we-"
"Shut up, will ya? Just," Gibbs drank, "shut up." Then he asked, voice sharp, irritated, "And why are you down here drinking all of my good bourbon? Thought you never touched this stuff."
"I went to see him today," McGee replied, glassy eyes now fixed on his hands. "Tony."
"Yeah?" Gibbs voice softened. "What do you think?" He sounded oddly curious, and hopeful.
And McGee would have been completely caught off guard, but he was too drunk to realize it. He said, with perfunctory honesty, "Bad." Always so honest. "Really bad."
A pregnant pause. Then Gibbs, offering, "Go ahead and take the guest room upstairs."
"What about the boat?"
"What about the boat." Right now, Gibbs would like nothing more than to rip it apart, piece by piece. Bit by bit. And he'd do that; he sure as hell would.
Gibbs picked Tony up at the hospital early on a Wednesday morning, and by Wednesday afternoon, Breena was waiting in the driveway, baby in her arms, staring at the front door with awkward uncertainty.
"It's unlocked, you know," Gibbs said, ushering her inside.
"I can't stay long, but-" Breena straightened baby Victoria's onesie. "There's just something I wanted to do. Needed to do."
Gibbs smiled, wide and warm and open. "Sure. He's out back. I'm sure he'd love to say hello."