Author: Revanche
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Rating: T
Spoilers: 2 x 10, but there's a reference to 1 x 20, too.
Tony's not really coping. Post "Chained."
xxxxx
30,000 feet and holding and he's breathing stale, over-circulated air, shivering in the timeless chill of late-night flying. The case is not so urgent, their destination not so far-flung, that they needed to commandeer a plane, and so he's stuck in coach, exit row, arms crossed and eyelids heavy. The world is vast outside the window, and were it day, the sunlight would probably be blinding across the clouds. Right now, though, the dark is almost complete and all he can see is the flickering of the distant wingtip light as it passes in and out of clouds. They left Dulles an hour ago and until they land, they're just a green blip on somebody's radar, just a headcount and an ETA.
The flight attendant rattles a cart down the aisle, bumping elbows and catching on luggage. The PA system chimes softly and then resumes its silence, pointless over the roar of the engines. Cold coffee sits uneasily in his stomach. He's already looked at the glossy pictures of Baja and Vegas in the airline magazine and he's pretty sure that Gibbs and Kate are really asleep, not just faking it to avoid conversation.
He looks out the window and thinks about the towns they're flying over, all the houses and apartments, cars on the road, destinations in mind. It seems a lonely place to be, down there, and limited, but right now, he'd give anything to be on the ground, safe and asleep and oblivious.
It's kinda scary, Jeffrey says, and really dark. But it's not so bad. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
It's kinda scary.
The plastic handle is cold in Tony's hand as he yanks the curtain down over the window, over clouds and cold and hallucinations. Within these new confines, he stares resolutely at the dull blue stitching on the seat in front of him and imagines the miles passing by, one by one.
xxxxx
Sometimes when he can't sleep, he compiles a list -- ways in which I am not like my father -- and compares it to the lists of previous nights. He makes sure that he's not slipping. Nobody wants to grow up to be like their parents, he thinks, or at least most people don't, but he wonders if everybody else is scared of it, too, or if they just don't want to be caught up in the daily routine of small, dull sadnesses.
If they're scared of tedium, or if they're scared of sharp, dark, violent things.
Most people, he decides, have never really been scared to begin with.
xxxxx
He hasn't slept much lately. Not much, not well. Maybe out of habit. It's not a conscious effort, not something he's trying to do, but it happens anyway. He'll spend the night watching old movies, the color monochrome and the acting stilted, and somehow it'll be light and his alarm will be screaming in the other room, and he'll still be there, waiting, back aching from the harsh contours of the couch, and as soon as he stands, the gun will kick in his hand, there'll be an explosion infinitely blinding, bright and loud, and he'll feel the quick splatter of blood.
They come out of nowhere, these strange flashes of insight, fill the lulls in conversation, the blank spaces on walls, sunlight on the floor. Not what it's like to kill someone you like, necessarily, but who he'd been. And the sudden knowledge, crashing in again as if for the first time, that it had been real, and that it was over, and that if he hadn't known how to survive, it could have just as easily been him.
It's not your fault, Jeffrey says. I mean, I would have done it, too. Had to be one of us. His laugh is shaky and nervous.
Tony's finding it harder and harder to make it through the afternoons, stifling and still, so he sends e-mails to Kate every two minutes, listens for her sighs, watches for the breaks in her concentration. It's satisfying and he doesn't think she really minds, feels anything more than annoyance, and, after all, he has to do something.
Because if he doesn't, he just might fall asleep and decide to never move again.
xxxxx
The PA system chimes again as the cabin lights come on and the passengers begin to awaken. Tony feels grimy, exhausted, haunted. Kate yawns, blinks to clear her eyes, and Gibbs just looks at his watch. Tony could tell him exactly how long it was, exactly what time it is now, but of course he doesn't. How do you translate ghosts and thoughts to minutes, hours? Measuring distance in terms of landmarks is not universal.
It's not until the wheels touch the ground that Tony opens the curtains, and when he does, he's greeted with a grey, rainy light. Chicago has not changed. As he follows the others into the terminal, he can't help but wonder how much longer he'll be able to do this. He thinks that he's losing time, falling away for seconds. Maybe this is what happens when you kill somebody you like.
(When you watch your friends die.)
He fixes a smile on his face and stares at the off-white tile as they stand in line to get a rental car. I liked him, he'd said. No matter how good a cover story is, it takes an artist to pull it off, make it believable. He'd found out a long time ago that he's good at that, at making it real.
The trick, he thinks, is telling the truth, as much as one can without giving away things like real-life identity and occupation. Because bad guys, like dogs and sharks and Gibbs, can sense lies as easily as they can sense fear.
So he'd liked Jeffrey and then shot him in the head, and if that's what he does to people he likes, what about the ones he hates? It's the sort of comment he would have made had he not done it himself, had it been anyone else sitting there, looking dazed when Gibbs opened the door.
But that's not the point at all and what's done is gone, and if he doesn't hurry, they're going to pull away and leave him standing on the sidewalk, and he's starting to doubt that he'd have the energy to chase after them.
He breaks into a run before it's too late and hopes that Gibbs won't comment and Kate . . . Kate will blame it on jet lag.
He slams the door shut behind him, falling forward as Gibbs hits the gas, and this, he thinks, is it.
Again.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy, he tells himself, and appreciates the humor, dark as it is.
xxxxx
An hour and a half later and he's starting to wonder why they flew all this way. Who in their right mind would be here now, would come here willingly? Kate's snappish and Gibbs has taken to glaring at those who speak without permission, and Tony . . . Tony's not even sure why he's still doing this. It's not just Jeffrey, he tells himself. Not just this case. It's the way this whole year's gone, like he's overstayed his welcome. Like he's running on nothing but necessity, forward momentum, and any minute now, he's gonna smile too widely, say the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it'll all come crashing down.
"If urban decay ever comes back in style, this place'll be worth millions," he says. Gibbs takes a sip of coffee and Kate sighs, and it's early enough that the streetlights are still on, still glowing. A motorcycle speeds by, he remembers the chain pressed against his neck, choking, and he really should have learned distance by now, learned not to get attached, but he hasn't and he opens the door hastily, tasting bile and old, icy coffee, and really not wanting to piss Gibbs off even more by losing their security deposit.
Gibbs opens his own door. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Tony?"
He mumbles something about needing a walk, needing fresh air, and steps forward to the edge of the sidewalk. He's never really questioned this, the balance between good and evil and the necessity of what he's done. The light begins to flash 'walk' and he steps onto the asphalt, feels a breath of air on his face as Gibbs says something, words frantic with urgency, and when he turns to see what's wrong, he thinks he sees Jeffrey, just for a minute, and he's smiling.
He's smiling, and he doesn't say a word.
And then Tony realizes that somebody's screaming, brakes are squealing, and he doesn't even feel the impact before he hits the pavement.
(And thinks this, this isn't bad at all –)
xxxxx
The air slams back into his lungs without warning and he finds himself sitting on the edge of a cold, plastic-covered gurney. The room reeks of latex and rubbing alcohol and Gibbs and Kate are staring at him. He rubs the place where the needle sank in, tries to ignore the ache in his head, this marrow-deep feeling of emptiness. His hands are scraped. He can't remember getting here. Being here. Nothing after what he thinks must have been impact, the car against his body. He tries to summon anger, rage, even irritation -- let me get my hands on him, who the hell was it, did you get the license plate -- and fails miserably. It seems sort of trivial. He's just here, a little deadened, but finally alone. Finally, he thinks, it's quiet.
Jeffrey's gone.
He stands carefully, cautiously, and Gibbs frowns at him as they take the elevator down to the parking garage, accompanied by a strange sense of deja vu. Gibbs is annoyed, of course, as he has a right to be, that Tony's managed to start this case off with a visit to the ER, and it's not even case-related, not related to anything at all. The result of nothing more than a series of coincidences.
Still, inevitable.
Gibbs is annoyed, but that's normal, and Tony thinks he's concerned, too, because of the way he looks at Tony as he climbs inside the car, shuts the door. Concern. Meaning that maybe the ramifications of his having screwed up this case, too, won't be quite as severe as they could have been. Meaning that maybe he'll relent just a little, stop glaring as harshly. Funny that should matter to him at all.
But what's important right now, he thinks, is that Jeffrey's gone, and he can stare out the window, watch buildings blur past, watch raindrops mist against the pane, without worrying about what he'll see. Without worrying about the future, or the past, or anything at all.
He can sleep without needing to wake up, and he does, and when he does awaken, soft rain is battering against the window, and he is still alone. Gibbs and Kate are gone, but he knows they'll be back, and he closes his eyes again.
This isn't peace (fear, sedation, or post-traumatic stress, maybe), he knows.
This isn't peace, but it's close enough.
xxxxx
The End