Disclaimer: I own neither NCIS nor the characters involved. This is for entertainment only, I make no money from this.
Credits: To Rinne and Kate98, thank you so much, both of you, for the beta.
Author's Note: Previously published in the LiveJournal NCIS flashfiction challenge.
Home
"Sit."
Tony sat.
"Where were you last night?"
"Last night?" He tried to keep his face still. Not this again. Please, God, not this. "I was here."
"Don't lie to me," she snapped. No, she'd snapped a long time ago. This was just… residuals. Fallout. "You went out."
News to me. Again, he didn't let it show. You didn't let anything show during one of these sessions. "I had an exam today. I studied last night."
"Don't…" He could smell it; it was strong enough to make him drunk just from the second-hand fumes. "You went out. You were seeing girls."
Would you prefer I saw boys? Best not to ask that – she might. It was a moot point anyway. To get girls, you needed a car. And he didn't have a car. He couldn't lay hands on a car last night, either: Dad hadn't been drunk enough for Tony to sneak the keys. But how else was he going to get enough practice hours in to pass the road-test?
"You were drinking, weren't you?"
"No." Could anyone blame him if he did? He certainly had the genes for it, not to mention the training. Name another kid his age who had The Bartender's Guide memorised. Nobody knew more about drinks than Tony DiNozzo. He qualified as a teenage-king for that alone. Throw in the occasional appearance with a Beemer and, well…
"Don't lie to me." Her hand smacked against the table. "I know what you were doing."
Obviously not, or she'd know a few more chemical formulas and a few less fantasies. "I was not out, I wasn't with girls, I was doing homework." After all, he had an eighty-percent average to maintain. He couldn't do that without studying, and studying hard.
This time her hand smacked against his face. He examined the inside of his lip with the tip of his tongue, the salty-metal taste confirming that she'd drawn blood. He wondered what he'd blame it on this time.
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry." She gathered him up in her arms, holding him close as he stared blankly over her shoulder. "You know I don't mean to do that. I just get so worried about you, and I want you to be okay. You know that. Mommy loves you, you know that."
I know. He loved her, too. That was the only reason he bothered to think up excuses for the bruises and the swellings. That was the only reason he forged her signature on notes from school and made up stories as to why his parents couldn't come to the parent/teacher conferences or to his games or any other school events. That was the only reason he played along with the interrogations, instead of pushing past her and heading out the door. "It's okay, Mom. Really, it is."
She let him go and examined his face. "We better put some ice on that. And don't tell your father, okay? It'll only make him upset."
"I won't." Of course he wouldn't. Dad could hit harder. Even just fooling around – those shots to the shoulder or the ribs as he remembered his days growing up, the old boxer coming to life – those often hurt like hell. If he caught Tony whining about anything, let alone how 'Mommy hit me'… well, Tony wasn't sure if he could come up with a believable excuse short of 'motor vehicle accident' for that one.
But he needed the excuses… he needed an explanation if somebody asked. If someone got suspicious, they'd look closer, and then what? Would they decide it wasn't safe for Tony to live with his own parents? Would they decide he was better off in some over-crowded foster home, or an institution? No. He wasn't going to do that. He'd lie forever, if he had to. You did that. This was family. This was home.