Tony and Ziva returned from interviewing the waiter with no more information than when they left, but Tony was glad they went—not because it was what Gibbs would have had them do, but because the three men in the alley were still nagging at Tony and he couldn't figure out why. Talking to the waiter hadn't solved the issue, but at least he knew he had tried.
"How goes it, McGoo?" Tony asked, trying not to grin when the probie jumped about a mile at the sudden voice behind him.
McGee sighed and stretched. "I'm about halfway through Jansen's records and so far no one stands out as the buyer," he said. He yawned and then added quickly, "But I'm not giving up."
Tony saw the yawn—and Ziva digging for change in her desk, likely for vending-machine dinner money—and he said, "Yeah, you are. Go home, both of you, and we'll come back at it in the morning."
"Tony, we are in the middle of a murder investigation," Ziva said, pausing in her digging and giving her boss an incredulous look.
The unspoken "Gibbs would never let us go home now" hung in the air, but Tony spoke before anyone could put voice to it. "I know. But we're also mere mortals who need food and sleep." He found a grin for Ziva. "Well, me and McGee are, anyway. I don't know how much sleep ninjas need, but I'm tired and I'm making the executive decision that we go home."
The junior agents eyed him distrustfully but apparently decided he was serious and started to gather their things. It wasn't like he was tricking them into leaving so he could score brownie points with Gibbs, after all.
Tony sank into his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, half-watching them go without even asking him if he was leaving, too. He wasn't sure why he cared if they cared so he shoved away the useless thoughts and picked up the file holding photos of Jansen's dead body. He wondered if he was doing the right thing—and then wondered when he had started second-guessing himself so much. Gibbs' handing over the team to him should have boosted Tony's confidence, but he wasn't sure he had ever been so filled with self-doubt. It didn't make sense.
Like the case.
His eyes strayed to the photos of the fake bills and he found himself looking at Ziva's desk—and seeing Kate standing there instead.
"I did work for the Secret Service. We tend to get all hot and bothered over large sums of hundred-dollar bills."
"Is that what does it for you?" Tony had asked during that long-ago case.
"What does it for me, Tony, is a mystery that you will never solve."
Tony smiled even though his memory had supplied Kate with a dark red hole in her forehead and he knew she had been right in that assessment. He wiped absently at his face and wondered how the pain of losing her could feel so fresh—why he found it suddenly hard to breathe as longing filled his entire being. He just wanted her back, even if it was just to tease him or one-up him by solving the case.
And if she could snag Gibbs from his self-appointed Never Never Land on her way back, well, that would be a dream come true.
He tapped the photo of the bills and said softly, "You'd know what's wrong with these, wouldn't you, Katie?"
Tony popped to his feet and turned, catching Jimmy in the act of slinking away.
"I'm really sorry, Tony."
The agent had no idea what the apology was for—and he had a sneaking suspicion Jimmy didn't either—but he just shook his head. "Don't worry about it." He noted the lack of files in Palmer's hands and realized the assistant was probably checking on him. It made him feel kinda strange inside. "You wanna go get that drink now?" he asked.
Jimmy blinked several times before saying, "Oh. You meant that?"
Tony cocked his head, studying Palmer with a slight frown. "You don't have a lot of friends, do you, Jimmy?"
"Um, not really," Palmer said quietly, suddenly finding his shoes rather interesting.
Tony smiled. "Me neither. Let's go get drunk."
They met at a bar on K Street in the District, one trendy enough to have the martinis Jimmy so enjoyed but with music low enough so they could talk without shouting. The silent piano in the corner made Tony feel at once nostalgic and oddly forlorn, so he ignored the instrument and took a slow sip of his scotch.
The liquor burned its way down to Tony's empty belly and he looked up to ask Jimmy if he wanted something to eat—only to find the assistant already perusing the menu. His small, genuine smile felt strange on his face, like the stiff leather of brand-new shoes.
"The burgers here are unbelievable," Jimmy said, lowering the menu and sliding it across the booth to land in front of Tony.
"Harder to get loaded on a full stomach," Tony observed, still eyeing the menu with its glossy pictures of grease-oozing goodness. He realized this was way better than looking at photos of dead bodies and struggled to remember the last time he had been out to dinner with an actual person. "And if we're gonna get wasted on a school night, Jimster, we should probably get going."
"Shut up and order some food, Tony," Palmer said, surprisingly firm.
"Whoa, killer," Tony teased, holding up his hands. "You're not gonna pull a gun on me, are you?"
Jimmy rolled his eyes, pushing the menu closer. "You need to eat, Tony," he said. "Or you'll make yourself sick."
It was Tony's turn to blink in surprise as he tried in vain to remember the last time someone had reminded him to take care of himself. He forced a smile. "You should have stuck with the first order. Way more badass."
Jimmy frowned but his words were unexpected—even to Tony, who spent the better part of his days trying to anticipate.
"You don't have to do that with me, you know."
"Do what?" Tony asked, suddenly more wary of the autopsy gremlin than he had ever thought possible.
"Fake smiles. Deflect," Jimmy said, lifting a shoulder. "I won't tell anyone very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo had a moment of weakness and didn't feel like smiling."
Tony took a moment to decide if he believed that—and a longer one to wonder why the word "weakness" had him thinking of Gibbs. He erased all emotion from his voice and asked, "Are we going to talk about our feelings now?"
"Only if you want to. I'm actually pretty good at it. I have six sisters, you know, so I'm also very used to talking about my feelings."
Tony made a grunty little noise and said without looking up from the menu, "I'm not."
"No shit," Jimmy returned, watching Tony's eyes pop up to his face. "What? We work for the Navy. We should be required to cuss like sailors."
Tony drained his glass while considering that. "I'm sure Abby would have no problems with it," he said, smiling. "But McGoo still blushes when he says 'hell' in front of G—" He stopped, his eyes dropping back down to the table.
"Imagine Dr. Mallard puttering around autopsy dropping F-bombs," Jimmy said, noting—and mercifully ignoring—the wounded look in Tony's eyes at his slip. He plowed on, knowing he was again butchering the accent and again not caring, "Who killed ya, you poor bastard? Hmmmm? And where the fuck are your hands, my lad?"
The corner of Tony's mouth twitched up, and Jimmy decided to go for broke. "Although he and I might have some miscommunications, considering 'bloody' is both an adjective and an epithet, where he comes from." He slipped back into the poorly imitated accent. "What the devil did you do with this man's bloody spleen, Mr. Palmer?"
Tony was fighting giggles when the waitress arrived at their table and took Jimmy's order.
"Another scotch" was all Tony said—until Jimmy kicked him under the table. "And whatever he's having," he added grudgingly, drawing a huge smile from Palmer.
The woman nodded and walked away, and Tony gave Jimmy a calculating look.
"What?" Palmer asked, sounding a touch nervous again. "You're looking at me like Dr. Mallard looks at bullet wounds."
"You really have six sisters?" he asked, watching Jimmy relax and nod. Tony felt himself smiling again and he pulled out a movie quote, "Do you know all their names?"
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "They're my sisters."
"What are they called?" Tony quoted again when Jimmy didn't start rattling off names. The agent had a feeling there was a reason for that.
"Amy, Danielle, Sarah, Lindsay, Karen and Lisa," Jimmy said, pausing and grinning. "Sorry, no Skylar."
"No Willy either," Tony said, shrugging with a smile.
The silence held that slight awkwardness of two people who saw each other almost daily but barely knew each other. Tony resolved right then and there to get to know his team better—as people rather than agents and doctors and scientists. He realized it was one way in which he didn't want to be like Gibbs, too absorbed in getting the job done to remember that not everyone was the job.
The funny thing was that if Tony hadn't been so busy comparing himself to his missing mentor, he would have realized he already did operate that way: Tony always strove to know his coworkers, from Abby's favorite band to Ducky's brand of scotch to Bill the security guard's favorite snack from the vending machine. Tony was a talker, for sure, but he also knew how and when to shut up and listen.
"So when Ziva and I went to interview the waiter—"
"No talking shop," Palmer said firmly. He saw the agent formulating a protest and he asked, "What part of 'downtime' don't you understand?"
The sharp tone had Tony thinking of Gibbs again, but Jimmy continued before Tony could even begin to analyze why the snappishness eased the near-constant knot of grief he seemed to be carrying around in his chest these days.
"I heard Matt Damon and Ben Affleck wrote 'Good Will Hunting' because they wanted to be actors but didn't think there were any decent roles out there for them," Jimmy said, pausing and thanking the waitress who delivered their dinners. "Can you imagine that?"
Tony stopped thinking about absent mentors and dead bodies and witnesses, and allowed himself to be pulled into the conversation. "Imagine being Matt Damon—a nobody back then—and suddenly you're sitting on a set with Robin Williams delivering lines you wrote."
"Or changing them to fart jokes," Jimmy said, munching on a fry. He saw Tony's face go skeptical. "That was totally ad-libbed," he said. He adopted a very serious expression and said, "IMDB doesn't lie."
Tony laughed. "Either way, it was pretty funny."
"Yeah," Jimmy agreed. "Even the cameraman must have been laughing with the way that whole scene shakes in the film."
They continued, eating and talking about movies, Jimmy's sisters, everything but cases and work. Even the silences, when they popped up, started becoming more comfortable, and by the time Tony checked his watch, it was almost midnight and he was on his fifth drink. He wasn't drunk, but he did feel pleasantly warm and Jimmy was being handed change even though Tony didn't remember getting a check.
"Jimmy," he said, leaning forward and finding himself feeling a bit dizzy. "You didn't pay for mine, did you?"
"Don't worry about it. You can get the next check," Jimmy said, his eyes hopeful behind the round glasses.
The agent wondered if Jimmy even knew how much Tony had needed this, how lonely his life had become in his constant pursuit of Gibbs' approval.
"Deal," Tony said, grinning. "But after that, we split checks. Otherwise, I think i's a date."
"Deal," Jimmy agreed, noting the slight slur in the agent's words. He pulled out his wallet to pocket the leftover change after leaving a generous tip. " 'Cause you have expensive taste in whiskey and this doesn't go as far as it used to."
Tony blinked blearily at the bills Jimmy was waving. "Holy shit, Jimmy, you're a genius."
The assistant raised an eyebrow, studying Tony's face. "Thank you?"
Tony grinned. "I need to get back to the Navy Yard."
Jimmy rolled his eyes and reached out a hand to steady the agent, who was swaying slightly on his feet. "You need to go home and sleep, Tony. Work can wait until morning."
"Uh-uh," Tony said, shaking his head. "Sleep is not an option until I check to see if I'm right about this."
"About what?" Jimmy asked, neatly snagging Tony's keys out of his hands. "And driving is not an option for you right now either."
"The bills," Tony said, wanting to be annoyed with Jimmy for the nagging and key-snatching. But the gremlin was right: Tony was in no shape to drive. "I know what's wrong with them. But I need to see them to make sure."
"And waiting until morning is not an option because…?" Jimmy trailed off, opening the door and following Tony out into the warm spring night.
"Jimmy," Tony said, stopping short on the sidewalk and turning to face the assistant. "If you opened up a body and found his liver missing, would you be able to sleep without knowing where it went?"
Jimmy considered that for a moment. "Fine. I see your point," he said, pocketing Tony's keys. "But you're coming with me, and I don't want to hear any protests."
"No, sir," Tony said, snapping off a sloppy salute with a smile.
As they walked toward the parking deck, Tony eyed his newfound friend and asked, "Any chance you drive a Gremlin, Gremlin?"
Jimmy laughed. "No. It's a boring old Camry," he said as they walked up the ramp, his eyes falling on a shiny Audi sports car. "I do sometimes wish I'd picked something more exciting, something more fun to drive, but you just really can't beat the fuel economy and safety ratings of a Camry. And the resale value for Toyotas is among the best of any brand these days. You drive a Mustang, right?"
Tony watched Jimmy's eyes linger on the Audi. "Yep. And you have the keys to it in your pocket, Jimbo."
Palmer stopped, his eyes almost as round as his glasses. "You'd… You'd let me drive your car?"
Tony shrugged and started walking in the opposite direction. "You're doing me a favor, Gremlin, driving my drunk ass back to work at midnight. Why not?"
"But you love that car," Jimmy said quietly, not moving.
Tony stopped, rolled his eyes, and walked back to grab Jimmy by the arm, dragging him higher in the parking deck and saying, "I said you could drive it—not break it. So don't break it." He released his hold and gave Jimmy a once-over as he fell into step beside him. "I have complete faith in your ability to get us to the Yard without killing us—or my baby."
"Thank you, Tony," Jimmy said, smiling again. "You know, Dr. Mallard and I did have a case of a missing organ once. There was this body that was pulled out of the Potomac, and it was a real mess—all gooey and drippy and—"
"Whoa there, Junior Duckman," Tony said, pausing beside his car and putting a hand to his stomach. "If you're gonna tell stories that are gonna make me puke, we're taking your car."
"Oh," Jimmy said sheepishly as he slid behind the wheel of the classic car. He slid the key into the ignition and grinned. "Okay."
