Sorry! I know I'm late! I had a bit of a writers block and A LOT to do, but enough of the excuses:
Thank you for all of your reviews and to my great Beta Budgie4!
Not at all
by cucumbersaregreen
Chapter 4
Tony was leaning against a concrete wall in the storage room of a supermarket in Philly with the very creative name "Philadelphia's supermarket", staring down at a worn book. Its cover was yellow from age and the corners had been ripped off long ago. Something indefinable, but sticky, covered the back of it and made the blurb barely legible. In his whole life Tony DiNozzo hadn't read as much as he'd done the last few weeks. Today's lecture was "To kill a Mockingbird". He could only vaguely remember how bored he'd been when they'd forced him to read it in school, but now it made for an interesting few hours. He'd had enough past experiences with racism to admire Atticus for defending the black guy, Tom Robinson. The primary reason he'd started to read had been boredom. Being a shop assistant wasn't demanding enough for the ex-agent. The only challenge he'd faced that day, was helping an old lady to find the peanut butter.
At first it had only been something to keep him busy, but after the first two books he'd started to become more passionate about reading, and even though he'd refused to touch any books by "Thom E. Gemcity" he'd found out that he rather liked thriller. Out of habit, it seemed, he regularly got extremely agitated when the mentioned agents, cops or private detectives did something insanely stupid. The TV in the storage room, where he'd started to spend his lunch breaks together with his new boss, after they'd realized that you just couldn't hold a proper conversation outside, had only one channel that showed constant repetitions of some soccer matches. Staring off into space had made him brood. Long ago Tony'd decided that brooding made people wrinkly, because they'd always frown while doing it, and getting crinkly at the young age of twenty-five (wink, wink) wasn't part of his scheme of life. So he'd started to read, and when his boss realized that he was interested in that kind of stuff he'd started recommending books, mostly from British authors.
Tony rather liked Mr. John Smith, the owner of the store he was working at. He had red hair, that kind of red that people in the Middle Ages would've burned him for as a witch, totally ignoring the fact that he was a guy (witches could probably change gender anyways), and green eyes. The first time they'd met, Mr. Smith, who wore trench coats, liked tea and chips with vinegar, had made it perfectly clear that he didn't want to be in any way associated with "those Englishmen". Later, after a bit of gentle prodding, he'd admitted the quite obvious fact that he was indeed British, but that he'd felt so betrayed by his fellow countrymen when they'd lost that soccer world championship semi-final against Germany in 1990 that he'd promptly decided to emigrate to the States. He had a dry humor Tony very much admired, and was generally a nice enough fellow. He let the ex-agent leave early and come in late without instantly shouting at him and talked a lot, sometimes even about his private live. Besides initially being bored half to death, Tony's new life was starting to shape out quite nicely. Even though it was very different to the one he'd lead in Washington, with only his frat brothers and team as friends, he loved his life more than he'd done in years. Sometimes it had only seemed like an annoying necessity, because there had to be something before death, after all. As if trying to make up for years of constant disaster, Tony now felt as if he'd finally struck lucky. After his first day at work, he had been a bit hyperactive and decided that it was time to re-discover the city. His first stop was to be a bar he'd often visited while working at the PPD. It had been a nice place, a bit filthy, but still acceptable. Faster than he ever had, he'd found new friends and hadn't yet had the misfortune to meet any of his old colleagues. Tony could really live without questions about the development of his career. From special agent to shop assistant wasn't exactly what you'd call "climbing the ladder".
One of his new buddies had agreed to meet up with him tonight to watch a Doctor Who marathon. He'd just have to get the next six hours over with and he'd be free for the weekend. No stressful cases on Sundays, no calls about protocols and the odd trial he'd have to attend. He was truly free to do whatever he wanted. The first weekend had to have been some kind of premiere in his life. Tony sighed, closed his book and took a last bite from a cream cheese bagel, his dinner. Stretching his muscles, he straightened and placed his book on one of the storage cupboards. He'd have enough time to pick it up later, before he left.
"Tony!" A wide grin split his burly friend's face in two as Tony opened the door. Simon Timson may have towered over his not-at-all small host like an elephant over a mouse, but with his long pale brown strands falling into his face and his expressive brown eyes, he should better be compared to a lion. The first thing that would catch one's eyes if Simon ever were to knock on one's door wasn't his quite good looks and enormous height, but the strikingly orange t-shirt he wore. It had a giant blue peace sign printed on the front, and paired with his greenish blue pants made for a fantastic eyesore. He would have gotten along fabulously with Gibbs, Tony had mused sarcastically the first time he'd met Simon, or rather Simmy as his friends called him. The fact that those two were the exact opposite was so obvious that even a narcissistic psychopath with no ability to judge character whatsoever would've noticed. They'd become fast friends by both taking part in the same discussion about war that Simon had started with some of his buddies in the bar the first day Tony'd visited it. And even though they had quite different opinions on the topic, they at least agreed on some points. Simon was an ex-Marine and convinced pacifist. After having killed a young boy during a gun fight in Iraq he hadn't reenlisted, and thereby effectively ended his career in the Marine corps, at least that was what he'd told Tony. But said man wasn't as convinced by that story as he probably should be, there was something fishy about it and his gut screamed bloody murder every time it came up.
Simon stepped over the threshold and walked right into the kitchen.
"Got something to munch in here, Tony?" He ripped open the refrigerator doors and grabbed some cold pizza.
"Made it yourself?" he mumbled between bites. Tony nodded and slumped down into one of the two existing kitchen chairs.
"Got any news from Jenny?" he asked his friend and grabbed his half empty beer bottle from the kitchen table. Taking a swing he watched as a grin spread over Simmy's face.
"Ohh, you would really want to know that, wouldn't you?" he mused with a smirk, for once forgetting to eat his pizza. Tony rolled his eyes.
"We've seen each other twice so far, and that weren't dates but random meetings at the bar. She had surgery yesterday, idiot! Shoulda known you wouldn't have a clue."
Simmy's eyebrows knitted together. He'd known Jenny far longer than Tony did and obviously liked her in a buddy kind of way, which made it way easier for Tony to find her cute. You just don't hit on your friend's girlfriends or even future girlfriends.
"What was it for?"
Tony frowned. "Something with the kidneys I think. She said it was nothing dangerous." And his gut had kept silent, which was a nearly sure sign for Tony that Jenny was okay, but he didn't need to tell Simmy about his gut right now. It'd just lead to a conversation about his failed NCIS career and he really didn't need any of those for the next few years, oh screw it, ever actually.
"Moved the TV," Tony said with a grin. "We'll be able to sit on the ground." Simmy groaned.
"If you'd told me that you don't even possess a couch Tony, I'd have thrown my flatmate and his new chick out and we'd've something proper to sit on!" Tony gave him a wicked grin.
"You know the tiles are quite soft if you want to sit on them instead of the mattress I pulled off my bed..." He trailed off, leaving Simmy coughing wildly as he tried to get the pizza out of his windpipe and meanwhile glaring at Tony.
Seven hours and the same number of Dr. Who episodes later, Simmy decided that it was high time for him to leave. It was 11 o'clock and the sky outside the bedroom window had turned black long ago. As Simmy shuffled, feet dragging from fatigue out of the front door and down the stairs of Tony's apartment, the ex-special agent leaned heavily against the wall. He was tired, but he hadn't had that much fun in ages. Simmy and him both knew close to all episodes by heart, and they'd had a lot of fun imitating the Doctor. The problem was that it had reminded him of the one time he'd had a movie marathon with Jimmy and he realized that he kind of missed the Autopsy Gremlin. He was quite different than his new friend, and Tony somehow preferred his old colleague's calm and shy demeanor to Simmy's self-confidence. With slumped shoulders and heavy eyelids Tony dragged himself to his bedroom. The moment his head hit the pillow he fell asleep, absolutely unaware that he was sleeping on quite hard tiles.
The next two days flew past accompanied by a stiff neck and sore muscles. On Sunday Tony decided to take a trip to the ocean which had shaped out to be a very bad idea, because apparently he was not the only one that had had that splendid idea. Masses of families with kids had crowded the beaches and very soon Tony'd had enough and left again. So when he woke up on a rainy Monday morning with a headache and for some reason a sore throat he was in a very bad mood. As he quickly ate some breakfast and set off towards the supermarket, he noticed something that was worse than any cold or stiffness: His gut was twisting. The closer he got to the market the more the horrible feeling of his impending doom intensified, and when he finally arrived at his workplace he instantly knew that his gut wasn't acting up for no reason.
On the walkway in front of the lay a mangled form. Tony rushed towards it. The man was lying on his back, feet and arms sprawled out on the wet asphalt, his uniform blotched with his own blood. He was a marine, young, handsome and badly injured. A slow trail of blood, dropping from a deep cutting wound at the base of the man's neck, mixed with the rain pouring from grey clouds above, flowed into the gutter, and the man's blue lips nearly shone in the dim light of the street lamps. Tony knelt down beside the marine and pressed two fingers to the man's pulse point. Nothing. Leaning down Tony checked his breathing. Nothing again. Standing up and rubbing his now wet pants, Tony cursed wildly as he realized whose task it would be to solve the murder of this man. He took out his phone and dialled 911, unaware as he left of two bloody fingerprints he'd left on the man's neck.
Two hours later Tony had managed to convince himself that he would not, under any circumstances, let his old colleagues see his face. After having reported the crime, making his voice seem high pitched and squeaky, he went back to his apartment, put on a new pair of pants and waited until he could be absolutely sure that the police had already arrived. Then he walked to the crime scene, acted like a noisy stranger and lied to the police about his name and whether he'd known the dead marine. Which actually wasn't that much of a lie as he'd never seen him before that day. As his boss finally arrived he told him that he was sorry, but that he had a cold and had to take a day of work. Mr. Smith was annoyed, but okay with it. Not taking any chances on his way back home, Tony pulled the hood of his jacket deep into his face. He really hoped that he would not have to leave this place so soon.
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