The soft rasp of sandpaper calmed him as the wood offered up its mysteries. Warm golden tones and intricate whorls emerged with every sweep of the paper, every puff of air. Jethro lightly blew across the surface before sighting along the piece. He glided his fingers along the delicate length, pausing with a frown when he found what he was looking for. Changing grit, he followed the grain, smoothing ever so attentively.
The patience he showed towards the wood was not one he shared with the circumstances. There was too little he knew about the op Tony had found himself in with the Feebs; too much time without any information. Fornell wouldn't answer his calls. Vance had nothing to offer and Abby and Tim's strange computer magic had produced only the barest of worrying information. Ghosting his fingertip over the troublesome spot, Gibbs paired the wood up with its mates, trying not to think too much about the way it slotted so perfectly with the others.
Wind blew hard against the house, making the windows creak in their sashes. The snow fell silently, reflecting the street lights as it dove for the earth. Jethro wondered if Tony was keeping warm tonight. The younger man had been more sensitive to the cold since his bout with the plague and Gibbs couldn't help but worry about his scarred lungs with the biting cold. He knew Tony hadn't brought his heavy winter coat, not even his Ohio State letterman jacket was missing from his closet and the thick hoodie he kept at Gibbs' was still hanging on the peg where he had left it.
Tony had been gone for nearly three weeks, without as much as a phone call. Jethro knew he had to be in deep, and yearned for even so much as a text, an off color joke at midnight, or even for someone to flush the damn toilet while he was in the shower only to silence his indignant protests with a willing mouth, a seeking tongue, and very talented wandering hands.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he double-checked the charge, then frowned with a squint at the display which showed no new messages. Plunging the phone back into his pocket to resist throwing his best means of hearing from Tony as soon as possible across the room, he grabbed his jar of Jack with his free hand and tossed it back, breathing out his frustration through the burn in his throat.
Jethro wasn't accustomed to being the one left behind to worry. He hated the uncertainty, especially considering he had no idea who or what Tony was doing, but, if the FBI brought him in specifically, he knew it had to be especially dangerous. Why else would they go outside their own, much larger agency?
He thought about all of those times he had been gone, himself, especially when he was with Shannon. The deployments, the Black Ops, the training exercises, any of which could have gone wrong. He remembered all of those times Shan had put on a brave face and kissed him goodbye, watching and waving the entire time he drove away, and then how she had greeted him upon his return as if she had thought she would never see him again. He'd taken for granted that they had the rest of their lives to share with each other, only to be proven horribly wrong.
And yet, and yet, he was, once again, taking someone he cared for so deeply for granted, he suddenly realized. For all he knew, his last memories of Tony would be of him hesitantly standing by his dresser when he came out of the shower, angry at the world, and impatient with his lover's patience as well as his own refusal to do something about it. His three other marriages dissolved because he wouldn't or couldn't commit.
Couldn't let go.
"If you always do what you always did, you will always get what you always got," echoed in his head, as a resolve to change the circumstances began to grow within him.
Now, if only Tony would come home…