Jenny's funeral was tomorrow.
Tony checked his watch with bleary eyes and took a minute to read the dial in the dim, smoky bar.
"Make that today."
The bartender eyed him but didn't speak. He also didn't refill the empty glass Tony had gestured to in the universal sign for "I'm not nearly shit-faced enough."
"I think you've had enough," the big, burly man said, his tone brooking no argument.
But Tony argued anyway. There was only one man with that tone who could scare him. And he was blissfully far, far away.
"I haven't had nearly enough," Tony said, knowing he was slurring slightly. "I can still feel my face."
"Probably not much else, pal," the bartender said, his eyes softening slightly at the red rims ringing Tony's green ones. "Go home. Sleep this off, and things'll look better in the morning."
Tony regarded him for a moment, considered the almost gentle tone coming from the bear of a man, saw the compassion in his eyes, and then laughed in his face.
He saw the man bristle even before he chuckled out, "A shrink bartender? Great. Just my luck."
"Look, pal—" he started.
"I am not your pal," Tony said darkly, eyeing his empty glass and frowning. He stood and leaned over the bar, managing to get into the bartender's face even with the smoothly polished wood between them. "Not your buddy, your friend, non ami, no compadre. But I'm not your enemy either. But I will be if you don't just refill the glass and walk away."
The bartender's massive arms crossed over his barrel chest as he took in Tony's six-foot-two frame and the anger simmering in his bloodshot green eyes. "I'm two seconds from throwing you out of here," he said, and the threat was in his tone, not just his words.
Tony leaned back and flashed his most charming grin. "Aw, you wanna dance with me, pal?" he asked sweetly. "All you had to do was ask."
The man just glared, narrowing clear blue eyes, and all Tony could think of was Gibbs. "Why don't you step out from your hiding place and we'll settle this?"
The bartender just laughed and picked up Tony's glass. Instead of filling it, he dunked it into a wash basin and set it into a rack to dry. His eyes never left Tony's. "Get out of here, son. You're in no place to be drinking like this, and it don't take no shrink bartender to see that. Go on, before you pick a fight with someone who will gladly give you the beating you're obviously itching for."
Tony blinked drunkenly, anger warring with embarrassment as he shoved away from the bar. He tossed enough cash on the bar to cover his tab and then some, apologizing with his wallet because his mouth wasn't cooperating with his shamed brain.
It was raining when Tony stepped out into the night, and he stood there for a few minutes, looking up into the downpour as if to wash the shame from his face, the very thoughts from his mind. He flicked a glance at his car and then his watch, knowing he needed to sober up—a lot—before driving home.
Idiot, he berated himself as he thought longingly about getting in and going home to collapse. The last thing he needed was to show up to Jenny's funeral looking like crap.
Nothing like killing a woman and then showing up to her funeral looking worse than the corpse.
He knew he hadn't actually killed her, but that didn't seem to matter right then.
Because he also knew he hadn't stopped her from getting herself killed. And he blamed himself for her death.
And worst of all, Gibbs blamed him for her death.
Tony put a hand to a stomach suddenly set on spin-cycle and breathed deeply, trying not to throw up—and trying to make himself believe it was all the alcohol's fault.
Fault.
"Goddammit," he said as he staggered toward the nearest open bar, thanking his lucky stars there were several on this particular street in the District.
"Not your fault," Gibbs had said.
"But did he really mean that?" Tony asked himself, drawing odd looks from a passing couple.
Tony ignored them, twirling drunkenly and yelling at the pair's backs, "He never says things he doesn't mean!"
The man threw a glare over his shoulder and they continued on their happy way, leaving Tony standing shame-faced in the middle of the wide sidewalk. He shrugged and walked into another dimly lit bar, marveling at how little he cared about the twenty-something hot chick who looked him up and down with an appreciative eye and a wink.
"No one fucking winks anymore," he muttered at her as he passed, then grinned at the shock in her expression.
"Prick," she said, an ugly sneer twisting her pretty features.
"You don't know the half of it," he growled, watching her turn back to her circle of female friends, no doubt to discuss the epic failness of his douchebaggery.
Tony watched an older couple get up from the bar to leave and he took the woman's seat, noting her shiny red hair and wanting to tell her it couldn't have been a more obvious dye-job unless she'd poured a bottle of ketchup over her head.
But apparently his brain-mouth barrier was of solid construction and withstood the battery of alcohol he'd spent the last few hours throwing at it.
The bartender eyed him dubiously and he ordered a water with a twist of lemon—with a smile. The guy looked annoyed but relieved and quickly filled the order before walking away. Tony waited for him to wander to the other end of the long bar before signaling a much younger, much hotter young female bartender. He watched her lick her lips and try not to drool over his easy smile as he ordered a whiskey—"Jameson, neat, and could you make that a double, please?"—with a wink thrown in for good measure.
She practically melted like an ice cube in the desert.
The desert. Hell. Why did I have to think that?
Because you're about as full of guilt as you are liquor, he thought, downing the drink in one gulp to try to fix that ratio.
And then he remembered his parked car and the longing he felt to just go home and sleep—through the funeral, if he had to. She wouldn't have wanted him there anyway, he was sure.
He wouldn't want you there anyway.
Tony realized he'd been lost in his thoughts and had missed the hot young bartender refilling his glass. He picked it up, swirled the amber liquid and stared at it thoughtfully before giving the scowling male bartender a jaunty toast and pouring the drink down in one burning swallow. The man, who was obviously much better at his job than the woman, started walking toward him, and Tony tossed some money onto the bar and shoved away, heading for the dance floor and losing himself expertly in the pulsating crowd.
He lost himself in the music for a moment, his body moving with an ease and natural grace that made most of the writhing men around him look like hapless seizure victims. There were a sudden pressure against his body and he looked down to find the twenty-something who apparently thought he was a prick grinding a perfect ass on his hip.
He grinned, eyeing her revealing outfit appreciatively and wondering if she was drunk or just had a memory as short as her miniskirt.
"And here I thought it was an insult," he said, still smiling at her and watching her eyes widen as she recognized his face. "If I had known you were asking for it, I'd have given it to you right away."
His finely honed instincts picked up on her instant fury, the subtle tensing of her muscles, but he didn't stop her when she drew back and slapped him hard across the face.
He just smiled, his cheek stinging.
He leaned down, his mouth at her ear, knowing she was trapped by the dancers around them and had no choice but to hear his soft words.
"Don't trust your friends to watch your drink," he said, pulling back slightly and watching her eyes go big as saucers. "Blondie's had her back turned for five minutes now, and it would be oh so easy to slip something nasty into that fruity mess you call a cocktail."
He could tell she was terrified of him even through his drunken haze and he turned and left, feeling slightly bad but knowing she would probably never forget him—even if it wasn't for the usual reasons.
Tony glanced at the door, feeling that last drink kick in so hard he wondered if the hot bartender had slipped him something nasty, and he tried desperately not to think about another bar, another drink, and a particularly nasty sewer.
"As far as I'm concerned, you're irreplaceable."
"Ha," he said out loud with a fine shiver. He couldn't remember exiting the bar, but the lack of throbbing music and the chill of the soggy night led his impeccable investigative skills to conclude that he was, indeed, outside.
"Probably not anymore," he muttered to himself, wondering if he should just go lie down in the gutter and get it over with.
Tony found himself suddenly sipping another drink. He didn't remember stumbling into this bar or finding a stool, but he figured he must have remembered not to actually stumble—or slur his order—because the requested drink burned all the way down to his toes.
He wished it hurt more.
"Oh, it's gonna hurt plenty in the morning," a voice said and Tony found himself suddenly fighting the iron grip hauling him to his feet.
He swung around to get a glimpse of his thoroughly pissed off—though probably correct—assailant.
He gaped.
"Gibbs?" he squeaked, though he would swear on a stack of Bibles in front of a jury of his peers—Good luck finding that many fuck-ups in one courtroom without using the criminals—that he simply said the name.
Tony stopped fighting the hold his boss had on his arm and allowed himself to be dragged out of the bar, but not before shooting a murderous glance at the bartender and realizing he'd ended up in his usual haunt, a place Gibbs had picked him up from before. He ran a hand over his pockets for his pilfered phone.
"I've got it," Gibbs said tersely, shoving Tony roughly out of the door and pointing to his car. "You puke in it and it'll be the last thing you ever do."
Tony stopped short, his hand frozen on the handle as he debated the sanity of getting into a vehicle with a Marine this pissed off—especially this Marine.
Gibbs saw his hesitation and barked, "Get in, DiNozzo. Now."
Tony obeyed automatically and kept his mouth shut even though he had to fight the strong urge to start babbling apologies until Gibbs' ears bled. But he didn't. He knew he owed Gibbs an apology—hell, he owed the man his life—but Gibbs deserved an actual, sober apology instead of the drunken groveling Tony knew was all he was capable of at the moment.
He mostly just wanted Gibbs to know he hated himself as much as his boss hated him.
Tony realized the car was moving and where it was headed, and he gave Gibbs a grateful look—until he saw the suit bag hanging in the back seat. Gibbs saw the glances.
"I'm staying at your place, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, and if it had been different circumstances and if it hadn't been two in the morning, he would have laughed at the comically stunned look on his agent's face. "And you will be at the funeral tomorrow."
Tony didn't speak. He was too shocked that Gibbs had apparently figured out what Tony hadn't even been able to admit to himself. He had gotten wasted tonight so he wouldn't feel quite so guilty about missing the funeral in the morning.
Time hopped forward in that magical way that only massive quantities of alcohol could manage, and Tony found himself watching Gibbs hang his suit bag on a curtain rod in Tony's living room. The lead agent turned back, his blue eyes completely unreadable, but Tony waited for the onslaught anyway. He was suddenly glad he had practically made a pastime out of getting screamed at, but he wasn't sure even he could withstand whatever Gibbs was about to throw at him. He wondered idly if Gibbs was going to hit him—or shoot him.
But all Gibbs said was, "Sleep, DiNozzo."
Tony stayed rooted to the floor, expecting the rest.
But all he got was, "And set multiple alarms. You do not want me coming in there to wake you up."
Tony didn't move.
"Hey," Gibbs barked, taking a step forward and snapping his fingers in front of Tony's face.
He watched as Tony blinked and took two quick steps backwards, his eyes never leaving Gibbs' hands. Gibbs watched him sniff carefully and wondered if Tony even knew he was the one who had the liquor on his breath.
"Sleep," Gibbs said again, softening his tone just the slightest.
Tony nodded, turned, snuck a wary glance back over his shoulder and started for the hallway.
He stopped, meeting Gibbs' eyes and saying, "I'm so sorry, Gibbs. I fucked up, twice now, and you're still here. And I have no idea why."
He was gone before Gibbs could pick his jaw up off the floor at the raw pain and guilt and self-loathing that he had seen in those green eyes—that had been there since that moment in the desert but had stayed beneath the surface until now. Gibbs cursed Tony and his ability to hide in plain sight. And he cursed himself for having bought the shiny-happy-okay-"I'm fine" act.
He felt all of the anger that the 0200 phone call had brought disappear. He sank down onto Tony's black leather couch, wondering how he was supposed to sleep now, having realized just how much not telling Tony straight away that Jenny's death wasn't his fault had affected his agent.
Gibbs did manage to sleep, only to be awoken by a whisper of movement and a soft sound a couple of hours later. He sat up, instantly on alert in that way that Marines never really shake, and realized the sound was Tony closing the balcony door. Gibbs glanced at the clock, glowing an angry red 4:02 in the darkness of the room, and debated going back to sleep.
The second his eyes closed and he saw that black body bag on Ducky's table again, he knew sleep was no longer an option. His eyes strayed to the glass doors and he told himself to stay put. His annoyance at receiving the bartender's call was bubbling up again and he didn't think now was a good time to have a serious conversation with his agent, who was likely still half-drunk.
He found himself getting up anyway, doing his best to shove down the anger and the images from those crime scene photos. He walked out onto the small balcony and found Tony lounging in a plastic chair, leaning back with his long legs propped up on the railing. His posture was a study in casualness; his eyes were not.
Gibbs wondered what it meant that Tony didn't react to his presence. Gibbs simply leaned against the rail, looking out over the darkened city and waiting for Tony to start talking.
He never did. Gibbs gave him a solid ten minutes and then glanced back to see if he had passed out in the chair.
He found a pair of sad green eyes watching him instead of the skyline.
Gibbs didn't speak because he had no idea what to say. He had meant it when he said it wasn't Tony's fault.
Hadn't he?
"I feel like I should say something," Tony said quietly.
Me too, Gibbs thought, though he stayed stubbornly silent. He kept his position with his back to DiNozzo but wasn't surprised when he heard Tony get up and move to stand beside him. Gibbs gave him credit for not hiding—or falling over. He could imagine just how awful Tony was feeling thanks to his own indiscretions with the bottle.
"I know you hate apologies—" Tony started, his knuckles bone-white on the wrought-iron rail in front of him.
"Don't," Gibbs said, surprising both of them with the harshness in his tone. He snuck a glance sideways and found Tony's eyes downcast, watched him nod slowly.
"Right," Tony said. "It won't fix anything."
"And drinking yourself blind will?" Gibbs asked, knowing he sounded disgusted. Like you haven't woken up under that boat wiping up sawdust and spilled bourbon?
Tony didn't make a sound. He simply nodded again.
"You can blame yourself all you want, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, wondering when he had become the talkative one—and finding himself frustrated by Tony's silence. "It won't change the fact that she's dead."
Gibbs saw Tony flinch at the word "dead" but still he did not speak. Gibbs saw the death grip Tony had on the railing and wondered what was going through his mind, other than regret at having drank so much.
"You were really going to skip out on the funeral?" Gibbs asked, his derision over that decision weighing heavily in his voice.
Tony just lifted an infuriating shoulder.
"Answer me," Gibbs barked, turning and standing up straight. He watched Tony eye him before sinking back into the chair, his arms wrapped around himself, and Gibbs couldn't tell if the position was defensive or if he was just trying not to throw up.
Gibbs was about to repeat his order when Tony said quietly, "I don't know."
"Bullshit, DiNozzo."
Tony looked away again, and Gibbs wondered what he would do if Tony stayed silent.
"I didn't plan on getting this shit-faced," Tony said, not really understanding that he was lying until he said it out loud. "I just figured whatever happened, happened."
Gibbs' mouth twisted downward and he said, "So just leave it to chance? And if you miss your director's funeral, so what?"
"I—" Tony started.
"If you miss the chance to pay your respects to a friend, then so be it?" Gibbs interrupted, sounding closer and closer to furious in that quiet way of his.
Tony recognized the anger and wondered what it said about him that he chose that moment to fight back. "A friend?" he asked, incredulous. "Seriously, Gibbs? She might have been your friend, your… whatever. But she and I were not—"
"You blame her for Jeanne," Gibbs said angrily, abandoning his own feelings on that in the heat of the moment. "I bet she didn't order you to fall in love with her."
Tony looked shocked and hurt for a split second before making his face blank. He didn't say a word.
Gibbs turned to face him, looking down at him and saying, "So you just wash your hands of her? You get a free pass to shove her out of your life? Are you that afraid of being close to people?"
Tony ignored that. "We were not friends, Gibbs," he said with finality. His boss was crowding his space on the small balcony but Tony looked up at him with defiance in his eyes. "Let's cut the crap, okay? This isn't about friends. You're not here because you're worried I'll miss my chance to say goodbye. You're not here because you're my friend."
"Then why am I here?" Gibbs asked, exasperated and long out of patience.
Tony smiled and shook his head. "I may be drunk off my ass, Gibbs, but I'm not stupid. There's a cover-up in progress and your senior agent—who was on protection detail—needs to show up to the funeral." He looked sick for a moment before continuing darkly, "Gotta keep up appearances."
Gibbs felt his hands ball into fists. "So you think we should broadcast the truth? Call up ZNN and give them an exclusive on a major NCIS fuck-up?"
"Finally," Tony muttered, standing and returning to the rail.
Gibbs shook his head. "Really, DiNozzo?" he asked, suddenly unsure whom he was angry with. "Is that what you want? Fine. She's dead and it's your fault. You fucked up and got your director killed. And she wasn't just the director, she was my partner and she's dead because of you."
Gibbs had taken a threatening step toward Tony as he spoke and he felt something twist in him when Tony didn't back down, didn't even blink in the face of Gibbs' fury. Gibbs watched him take the body blows without even thinking about lifting his hands.
"Thank you," Tony said softly, turning and reaching for the glass door.
"Hey," Gibbs barked, grabbing his arm and pulling him around to face him.
Tony just stood there, patiently, and Gibbs had the odd, sickening feeling that he was just waiting to get punched.
Gibbs released him. "I wasn't talking about LA when I said fuck-up, Tony," he said, the anger gone from his voice. He watched Tony eye him warily. "I meant Jenny's mistake. The one that got her killed. The one that had nothing to do with you."
"So we both screwed up," Tony said blankly. "Still my fault she's dead. That whole protection detail thing? It doesn't matter what she did, it was still my job to keep her safe."
Gibbs watched him, saw the pain he couldn't quite keep out of his green eyes, and wished he had held his temper earlier. He marveled at Tony's ability to get exactly what he wanted, even if it was undeserved blame.
"Have you ever disobeyed a direct order?" Gibbs asked. "Professionally?"
Tony just turned and stared out at the sleeping city.
"I didn't think so," Gibbs said. "So you had a choice. Obey an order you didn't like or go against everything you believe in and disobey it. I'm not surprised by the choice you made."
Tony didn't speak.
"And don't think that Jenny didn't know you well enough to know what choice you would make. Give her some credit," Gibbs said, smiling slightly. "I did train her."
Tony didn't smile back. In fact, he looked as close to breaking as he had all night, and that simple fact made Gibbs want to find certain figures from the younger man's past and kill them, slowly. That Tony could stand unblinking and take his rage but not his kindness made Gibbs unspeakably angry.
"She sent you away knowing exactly what she was up against," Gibbs said. "I meant it when I said it wasn't your fault."
And he did, he realized. Any lingering anger he felt, he knew he should direct at Jenny—for trying to go it alone when she could have simply asked for backup. He shook his head, thinking maybe she had learned too much from him.
Gibbs pulled his thoughts out of the past and focused on the present. Tony looked sick again, and Gibbs was fairly certain it wasn't just the alcohol. But he was also out of words. He knew there was nothing more for him to say so he simply walked back inside.
Tony sank back into the chair, feeling exhausted and wrung out like a dish rag but unwilling to go back inside to face his boss again. He knew Gibbs wouldn't lie to him, or say things just to make him feel better. That wasn't who Gibbs was. But he also couldn't get himself to believe that the man didn't blame him. He had heard the anger in his tone when he'd said it was his fault.
He let his mind run around in circles, his guilt like a rabid dog snapping its own tail, and he watched the sun rise with anguished eyes blinded to its beauty.
"What a clusterfuck," he said softly.
And in less than eighteen hours, he would be standing on this balcony knowing just how true that assessment was. Later, he would stand here, orders as agent afloat in hand, watching the sun sink below the horizon, taking irretrievable pieces of him with it. He would watch the setting sun pull a shroud of darkness over the city, ending the day and ending with it one of the few bright chapters in an otherwise dusky life.
"Yeah," he'd say, looking at the half-dead plant and wondering who would water it. "What a clusterfuck."