Abby and Gibbs are looking at him when he heads in. Abby speaks first. "That sounded like the single least satisfying telling off you've ever done."
Tim nods, slowly and sits down next to her.
"It doesn't work if he doesn't fight."
Gibbs and Abby both acknowledge that.
"I put your go bag in my office. Looks like I'm taking you in tomorrow."
"No problem."
Tim's not really paying any attention to anything, just letting the feeling of right this second, and how… disappointing it is, rush though him.
He'd only fantasized about telling Tony off fifty million times those first five years, and a good six or seven million times in the five years after that, and maybe only ten or twenty times in the last three years, and this, just… wasn't it.
"Gibbs, you good on stairs now?" he asks. Because he doesn't know what to do to get whatever it is he wants out of Tony, but he does know that his office isn't the most comfortable sleeping environment ever.
"Yeah."
"You want our guest room?"
Gibbs shakes his head. "I'm good downstairs."
"You sure?" Abby asks. "Bed's bigger upstairs, more comfortable."
"It's quieter downstairs," he says with a smile.
Abby giggles a little at that. Tim sees it, flashes him a, I'm so done with you look at Gibbs, rolls his eyes, sees Gibbs grin at him, trying to jolly him, rolls his eyes again, not angry so much as just… whatever the hell this is… and heads upstairs.
Yeah, he would have rather taken the beating.
Hell, he still might rather take the beating.
Just because Tim didn't say it, doesn't mean that 'Go home, think about what an asshole you are, and we'll get back to this tomorrow,' wasn't clear when Tim sent him off.
Fuck.
What's Murphy's Law? Everything that can go wrong, will, at the worst possible time?
Something like that. Because it's not like he isn't dealing with enough of this shit with Ziva right now. Not like he's not constantly having to think about it with their marriage counselor.
No, toss on another heaping serving of not being good enough for the people you love. Bring it on, more the merrier, right?
Normally, if he was having this bad of a day, he'd go home, listen to some music with Ziva, share dinner with her, probably not talk, not about why he's in a funk, they're both better off with just being quiet about it. But they'd talk about something else, like the book she's reading and how it got turned into a movie. Or how the book and the movie were different and why and how it works. Or a case. Or office gossip. Or the family. Or politics… or something.
And it'd get his mind off of it.
And she'd snuggle into him, and he'd hold her close, remember that he's loved, and that he loves, and there's a peaceful place in his heart and home and that's her.
But she's not home. She's with Draga, in the bus, watching the monitor.
And right now, they may be doing better, but they aren't back to good yet, and she's probably not going to be wildly sympathetic to the idea that Tim's really overreacting. Let alone to the idea that he doesn't deserve this level of comeback for the years of crap he laid on McGee.
Normally, he'd go to Gibbs' place if he was having this bad of a day and Ziva was working.
But Gibbs is at Tim's. (Probably whacking himself upside the back of the head. Not like he doesn't know Gibbs well enough to see him feeling guilty, too.)
And if Gibbs is already feeling guilty, he's sure as hell not going to be particularly good on the comfort front.
Normally, if this was before Ziva, and Gibbs was busy, he'd go pick up a woman at a bar. Have a few drinks, flirt, let her body get him out of his head, remind him that people want him, that he is pretty and fun and…
Shit.
And exactly what Tim just said to him, and what the counselor's been hinting at, trying to get him to say for himself. (So far with less than successful results.)
He's fairly sure Jimmy would just look at him and say, "Karma's a bitch."
Or maybe something about that part of why you don't pull the kind of crap he did on Tim is because you don't know, you never know, not really, what the back story is and who the guy you're pulling that crap on is.
He's fairly sure that some of the guys who used to pick on him back in boarding school would have felt really bad about it if they knew his mom had just died.
They wouldn't have laughed so hard about him loving old movies if they knew why.
His apartment is empty. There's nothing here but him and space and quiet and thoughts the he's had more than often enough and doesn't really like.
He pours himself a drink and shoots it down. Then pours another, and goes slowly. He watches about ten minutes of seven different movies, none of them catching him.
The other thing about apologizing is this: just because you rationally know that if you mean it, you need to lie down and take what's coming, doesn't mean you like it.
And Tony doesn't.
And just because you mean it, doesn't mean the other person is in enough control to be fair or even-handed or anything other than so fucking pissed they can't see straight. He literally just did this with Ziva, just let his own anger and fear go spewing around, hurting her just because he was so hurt he couldn't deal with it.
And just because, rationally, he knows this is part of what Tim's doing, doesn't mean that it's not pissing him off, too.
And he especially doesn't like the fact that Tim's taking him to task for things that are over. Things he can't change or do anything about. He's already made the change he needed to make to be a better man. He hasn't pulled any of this shit in years.
Sure, Tim and Jimmy have this being a good man thing down pat. Sure, they're great at it and it doesn't take any work, and they can just be married and kind and useful and all the rest of that shit. Great.
Doesn't mean it's easy for him.
Doesn't mean he doesn't work at it every goddamn day.
Doesn't mean he doesn't see dozens of openings from Tim and Draga and Jimmy and everyone else, and physically forces himself to not take them.
Doesn't mean the eyeliner doesn't make him squirm, the kilt isn't creepy, and the fucking collar, does Tim know what the fuck he's saying when he wears that out? Really? Is he going to make that big a deal of it?
He never says half, hell, a third of what that stuff makes him think, not anymore. Won't say it because it's mean and because he's working hard at not being that guy anymore, because that guy was an asshole, and it doesn't fucking matter if he's trying because apparently the last two years are just shit to Tim, and what matters is what came before, what can't be changed, and being sorry about it isn't enough.
It's not enough to regret what he did, no, Tim wants him to regret who he is, and that's just not fucking happening.
"Cute nails," Tony says as he steps into the bus.
Tim glances away from the monitor and glares at him. "Seven seconds. Even I thought you could go longer than that."
Tony sits next to him, staring at his nails for a few seconds and then looking at the monitor. "That's why you've still got the polish on, right? Trying to push my buttons and make me say something about it. Why waste time?"
"Yep. Passive aggressive argument technique. Good way to spot someone who spent most of his life getting bullied. I was thinking you had enough self-control that it wouldn't be, literally, the first thing out of your mouth."
"Yeah, well, I've got a reputation as a sadistic asshole to keep up, so I can't let little things like politeness get in the way."
Tim stares at him, seeing that Tony's ready to fight. Whatever happened last night after he went home has him fired up now. Good. "What, you think that wasn't accurate? Think you don't deserve that?" He switches into a babying voice. "Did I hurt your poor little feelings?"
"Fuck you. And no. I don't deserve that! I haven't pulled any crap on you or anyone else in years. No matter how much you're begging for it."
Tim snorts at that. "You still get off on it. You still want it."
"That's not fair. Doesn't matter if I still like it. I don't do it anymore."
"You think I give a fuck about fair right now?" Tim says, shaking his head. "Your regularly scheduled mild-mannered Tim who cares about stuff like fair is gone right now. I don't give a flying fuck about fair. Yeah, it's been years. Thanks. Your noble restraint in not bullying me is noted. The fact that you have to restrain yourself proves you're still an asshole and you're still a sadist."
Tony's glaring now, fire in his eyes. "So, if I'm such a flaming sadistic asshole, why the fuck are we friends? I mean, what the hell does that say about you? That you chose me to spend time with, you invite me to your home, that you picked me to stand up with you at your wedding, or agreed to stand up with me at mine. You telling me that's why you wear the collar, that you like it, you want it, you need to be put down? Just can't own up to it or say it out loud, gotta loop it around your neck and have Abby beat it into you?"
Tim pushes back in his chair so fast that it squeaks. "You do not say one word about that or I will beat the ever-living fucking shit out of you! You… No!"
Tony snorts at him. "I worked vice. I know how that game gets played. Getting picked on gets you all hot and bothered? Is that why you like me?"
"I don't want it or need it and I have never asked for it from you or anyone else and... And that's not what the collar means. And if you ever even hint that Abby's ever... Just... No!" Tim's staring at him, eyes wide and blazing, mad beyond words for a second and then pulls it back in enough to say, "How long do you think we've been friends?"
He can see Tony thinking, trying to remember when he started. "What, November 2002? Something like that, right?"
"That's how long we've worked together."
"Yeah."
Tim's eyes are cold. "That's not how long we've been friends. It wasn't until after Jeanne that you even started to try to treat me like a human."
"I treated you the same way I treated everyone else."
"So? That doesn't make it any better. Being an asshole to everyone doesn't make you any less of an asshole. That makes you more of an asshole."
"Fine, when do you think we became friends?"
"Like I said, you started to treat me like a person after Jeanne. Wasn't until we got Ziva back that you actually started treating me with any real respect. Think about it, I wrote a novel, didn't tell you about it. Got it published, still didn't tell you about it. Unless Abby or Kate or Ziva was there, I didn't volunteer any real information about myself, and only told you little bits and pieces when I couldn't get you to stop bugging me. Is that how friends act? You're going on and on about your astronaut costume and trick or treating, did I say anything about my Halloweens?"
"No."
"You think I came from some alternative universe where people don't have Halloween? You're telling me that horrible lie about you and the Rockette, did I tell you anything about my first time? You think I'd never had sex? Think I hadn't lost my virginity? It's been thirteen years; you've never heard my first time story, and you're never going to, because you'd mock the shit out of it. You and Kate are joking about pot. I tell you I didn't like drugs. You just assume that means I'd never tried any, so you smirk, and don't ask, and I don't tell you anything about that again until we're on a triple date with Jimmy and Breena. And guess what, you still don't have the whole story on that one, either. Sound friendly? Is that a caring, intimate relationship to you? You're telling me about your glorious and probably seventy percent bullshit sports career. I say nothing. You think I never played sports?"
"Well, yes, on that last one."
"I played baseball, football, and wrestled. Never for long and I was never really good at it, but I played. And I never told you. Hell, you didn't know I was the team mascot at MIT until I'd been out of school for a decade, and the only reason you ever found that out was because we ran into Stuey. And you find that out and you act like it's the funniest thing ever."
"You dancing around in a beaver costume is the funniest thing ever."
"Yeah, it was, because I was good at it. But that's not why you thought it was funny. You thought it deserved to be mocked, as opposed to something I spent time planning, had to audition for, and came up with a routine that beat out the forty other guys who tried out for it."
"I didn't know that."
"No, you didn't. Because you didn't ask and I didn't tell. Because we were just barely friends then. You just thought it was something goofy and girly that I should be vaguely embarrassed about because real guys, real men, play on the team, they don't dance around and rile up the fans."
"They don't."
Tim's fairly sure the last time he was looking at Tony like this, he was shaking up the over easy eggs and two seconds away from smacking him silly. "I'm a good father. I'm a great husband. I'm a great lover. I'm a good cop. I'm a good son, a decent brother, and a good friend. That's all the man anyone ever needs to be. I don't have to be John Wayne or Gibbs or your dad or whatever the fuck you've got labeled as 'man' in your head to qualify.
"You're being just like my dad. You always were. You look at me and see some sort of soft, girly, thing that needs to be toughened up and turned into a 'man.' Newsflash, asshole, just like I'm not actually shorter than you are, I've got just as much dick as you do, and I've actually made a person with it, so I'm ahead on the points when it comes to the 'man' contest."
"I am not your dad!" Tony's horrified by that.
"Like fuck you aren't. You just don't have the balls to put some real hate into it. You've got this idea of who I'm supposed to be, and you've done everything you could to make me into it. And every time I wander off your straight and narrow path you either mock me, slap me down, or flip out and have an existential crisis over it.
"I mean, who the fuck cares if I want to dress up in a fuzzy, blue elf costume to impress a girl? I liked it. She would have liked it if she had ever seen it. So what business of yours was it? Where do you get off saying anything, at all, about it, let alone flashing it all over the bullpen, showing Ziva, and getting me caught by Gibbs?"
"It was fucking weird!"
"That's exactly what would have bugged him about it. It's weird and girly, 'cause real men don't dress up and play, let alone sew, and I had to sew to make it. Well, fuck you and fuck him. I am weird. I've always been weird. I was a weird kid and a weird teen and weird in college and I'm still fucking weird. I will always be weird. Same with girly. The fact that I learned to blend so I didn't get the shit beaten out of me on a regular basis doesn't make me any less weird, it just makes me a survivor."
"A survivor, really? Because of hard words? Fuck that, Tim, quit crying. My mom died! My dad sent me away two months later! Wendy, you remember joking about her leaving? You were right, she left me, at the altar. My whole making sure we got there on time thing doesn't seem so funny now, does it? Wanted to make sure Ziva was really there, that she didn't wander off, because Wendy did. So, yeah, you got teased, and yeah, I didn't use your name for years, get over it. They were just jokes, it didn't fucking matter, and you need a thicker skin."
"Fuck you, you whiny little cunt!" He saw Tony's eyes jerk wide at that, but didn't slow down to acknowledge it. "Oh, my mom died. My fiancee left me. My dad ignored me. Boo fucking hoo, asshole. You are not the only one who ever had a sucky childhood.
"My mom died…" Tim says with menacing sarcasm. "Your mom loved you every single minute she could! And if Jethro's right about them still being out there, she still loves you. She loved you when she found out she was pregnant and you were probably the last thing she ever thought about. You got hugs and kisses and petting and trips to the city to see movies, and more love and more petting. You were her special little boy and you got everything you were supposed to get out of a mom from her. And I'm sorry you only got eight years, but at least you got eight fucking years!
"I was six, Tony, six, when they decided I wasn't tough enough. How fucking tough does a six-year-old need to be? Your mom died, she left you, and you miss her, so fucking what? My mom betrayed me! She let him rip me to shreds. She knew about it, approved of it, and never did a single thing to protect me from him!
"You were her little prince, perfect exactly the way you were, loved for who you were, cherished because you were hers. I was the thing that needed to be changed. I was too soft, too shy, too asthmatic, too bookish, and I had to be beaten into Navy shape and neither of them cared how much it hurt because I wasn't good enough the way I was."
Those words break through Tony's anger, and he takes a deep breath, figuring it out. Yeah, Tim's pissed at him, that's real, and genuine and true, but this right here, this is not about him. He's here and convenient and a direction Tim can take to let the real anger out. "Tim."
"Your dad ignored you. Fuck that and fuck you for thinking that justifies anything! I would have given my left arm to be ignored. Being ignored was my definition of a good day! Because if he was ignoring me he wasn't using his tongue to make me feel worthless, he wasn't telling me that nothing I ever did would ever be good enough, and he wasn't threatening to hurt me, and not just these pussy little psychic wounds that have left me with nightmares twenty years later, but real, tangible, bleeding from my anus, gaping maw where my dick was, mutilated, hurt. So, don't you ever tell me about how tough it was to get sent off at the age of nine, because by the time I was nine I would have paid good money to get sent off."
"Tim." Doesn't even slow him down, the words keep pouring out.
"My fiancee left. Screw that. Oh no, Anthony DiNozzo, God's gift to women got dumped! Because no one's ever had to deal with that before. For all the shit you've pulled with women, you deserve to be dumped by every one of them you've ever loved! Jeanne alone is so much bad karma you need to get down on your fucking knees and beg God's forgiveness every single solitary fucking day just to hope Ziva stays with you for another month."
"Tim." He puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, but Tim jerks away from him, still not slowing down.
"Your past doesn't matter. Yours sucked. Mine sucked. Ziva's got both of us outclassed on suckage by a mile. Gibbs' sucked. It doesn't matter!
"All that matters is now and how we treat each other. And you failed, fuckhead. You failed for thirty years. You failed until you were forty-five and right now you're only holding onto not failing by your goddamn fucking fingernails!
"That's it! I don't get a pass for a fucked-up childhood and you don't either. No one does. Here. Now. Not making everyone feel worse. That's all that matters." Tim's eyes are wild, and he's breathing hard, chest pumping, and Tony's honestly not sure if he's about to get the shit beaten out of him, or if Tim's let it go.
A very long, very silent, very on edge moment passes while Tim keeps staring at Tony, and Tony tries to figure out if Tim's going to jump him.
"You done?"
Tim's glaring at him, but nothing else comes out, so Tony pulls him into a hug. He's stiff, and pulling back, but Tony doesn't let him go.
"What are you doing?"
"It's called a hug."
Tim's still struggling, but not hard, a lot of the fire burned out over the last few minutes.
"Let go of me."
"Nope."
Tim closes his eyes, puts his hands on Tony's shoulders, and firmly pushes him back while stepping in the opposite direction. "Let go, or I will hit you!"
Tony does.
"I. Am. Done. Taking. Your. Shit. You not listening to me. You not respecting my decisions, that's shit."
"It's not shit, Tim. It's just… proof."
"Proof?"
"I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. You can't yell at him: he's far away, and it wouldn't end well. You won't scream at her, though I don't know why. Fighting Jimmy or Ziva doesn't really touch it, because you're not angry at them. Beating yourself up doesn't work because… because it's not what you need. You're hurt enough, more pain isn't the answer. I don't know what's going on with you and Gibbs. You either can't stand it, or it's really not her fault, so you won't yell at Penny. Kate's dead, can't yell at her. I'm all that's left, so I'll take it. I know you're pissed at me, and I know it's real, and I know I deserve some of this, but it's not my fault your parents are bastards. That's not on me.
"But I am your friend, and yeah, I sucked at it for a decade, but I am your friend now, and I was as much of a friend as I could have been before, and if I'm the only target you've got left that scratches that itch, have at it. I'm here. I'll take it. You need to call me a cunt, do it. You need to swing at me… Well, let's get Ziva and Draga back so someone is watching that locker… But take your best shots once they get here."
Tim sits down, hard, back against the far wall of the bus.
Tony takes a step toward him, but Tim shakes his head, and Tony abides it.
He sits down, gingerly, at the monitor, and goes back to watching it, very carefully not keeping his eyes on Tim, intentionally not seeing if he's crying or cursing or whatever it is he's doing over there.
But after about twenty minutes, he feels the change, and, though he doesn't look over, he can imagine that little look up, close eyes, lick lips, thing Tim does when he's stressed.
"I know it's been years and you've been doing better."
"Good."
"Probably should have let that out a long time ago, too."
Tony nods, still not looking away from the monitor, but completely sure that thirteen years of not saying anything probably had a lot to do with how hot Tim got.
"You're right, you don't deserve all of that. And I am sorry your mom died and your dad left and Wendy… Pain is pain, my pain doesn't make yours less or vice versa, and comparing it sucks. I'm sorry."
Tony shrugs, still looking at the monitor. "I know I was a jerk. I know I hurt people. I know. And I know I went after you longer, harder, and more often than anyone else, because you always just took it. And, yeah, I like it. I like the power. I like the control. I like the fear. I like the fact that it makes other people laugh. I like that they like me because I can do it. I like all of it, and I always will.
"But I'm not doing it anymore. I don't even own superglue these days. And, God, you have no idea how many pranks go through my head on a given day. Especially for you and Jimmy. You two are just so fucking easy. And I don't do it."
"Thanks," Tim says, dry, sarcastic. "Good to know you're restraining yourself."
"It is, because this is something I'm always going to want, always going to need, but I don't always have to do.
"If I was still Catholic, I guess they'd call it a come-to-Jesus moment, but since I'm not, since this was part of the conversion, I guess it's a run-away-from-Jesus moment, but… But it's not really different. Not really, God's God wherever you are, but… But you remember how thinking it is almost as bad as doing it? The thought is a sin, the intention is a sin, doing it's a sin, and on and on?"
Tim nods, he remembers that not just that from catechism, but also George Carlin's routine on it, though he doesn't know why Tony's bringing it up.
"Doesn't work that way for Jews. The only thing that matters is what you do. You're Catholic, there's no reason not to do it once you've thought it, you've already taken the hit, so you might as well get the pleasure, too."
Tim's shaking his head.
"What?"
"I don't know. Didn't know you even still cared about ideas like sin."
"Not as an adult, not much, but as a kid, yeah, and that set the pattern."
"Okay."
"And it's… easier, to think that the only thing that matters is what we do."
"Good for you." Tim says, very dry, very sarcastic, very much thinking this was the sort of crap you were supposed to figure out at about the age of fifteen, and he's not feeling particularly impressed by Tony telling him this.
"You're still mad."
"Yeah, I am. I know it's been years. I know you're doing better. I'm glad you're doing better. But I am still mad."
"It's okay."
"I don't need your permission to be mad."
"Nope. You're doing that just fine on your own. Just… I get it."
"Wonderful. Take your break. I've got the monitors." Tim stands up and heads to the screens, staring at them.
Tony does notice his face is red and puffy, and his eyes are bright green. He realizes that he didn't hear anything, not even hard breathing, and that he didn't think it was possible to cry without making any noise. And it hits him that if Tim can do that, can shut down any sound that might attract attention that he's probably had way too much practice at trying not to get caught crying.
That was probably part of not being tough enough. He probably never mastered shutting down the ability to cry (like Tony did) so he learned to hide it.
Tony lets out a long, slow breath, and spends a few minutes walking around, trying to burn off some of the jittery from the fight.
For a half hour, all of Tim's turn, neither of them say anything.
When he's done, Tim gets up, heads to the far end of the bus, where the coffee maker is, and gets them both a cup.
Tony looks up at him, when he hands over the cup and sits down next to him.
"I'm still going to tease you about the skirt and the eyeliner." Tim just stares at him. "I can't not make fun of that. Still going to call you McWhatever. That's just who I am, and if you're my friend, if this giving each other what we need thing works both ways, you'll accept that I need that. That I have to have that edge. But you don't have to just take it and smile. You're allowed to fight back."
"Fuck off and die, asshole." Tim says with a grim smile.
"God, you're mean when you're angry! Flipping me off works just fine and is a whole lot closer to what I'm doing to you."
Tim snorts at that. "It's wonderful that you've lived in such a sheltered world that you think this is mean. I haven't even gotten close to mean. I can't be mean to you. The power dynamics aren't there for it. You're not afraid of me. I don't control anything you hold dear. Your job, your loves, your life, your comfort, none of it is in my hands. All I've got is your affection for me, and that's not nearly enough."
"It's enough, Tim. I hate the fact that you're so mad at me, and I am genuinely sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry I was an asshole, and I'm sorry you were a bad target for it, and I'm sorry it took this long to get this out and done. I'm sorry I can't make it better by wishing, and I'm sorry that I've ever done anything that makes you think I'm like your dad."
Tim nods, that had been a low blow, but it also wasn't just out of the blue. Can't be a low blow if there's no truth to it. "Anything girly pissed him off, got him yelling. And it's the same thing for you, the eyeliner or the nail polish or the kilt or the costumes. They set you off, too. You don't yell, but… Anything soft or girly makes you uncomfortable."
Tony shrugs. "It just hits me wrong. Maybe it didn't always. Maybe that's the armor left in place from being the kid who cried a lot because I did get shipped off to boarding school when I was nine and my mom had died two months earlier and it was 1977 and they didn't have school counselors and we didn't talk about stuff like that. But it hits my buttons and makes me feel squirmy, and I handle that by making jokes."
"Yeah. I know. Just about everything about me makes you feel squirmy."
"That's not true."
"It's true enough."
"No, it's not. You don't make me feel squirmy. Some of the things you do, do."
"That's not how it works. You are a bully, whether or not you're doing it, you're a bully because it's who you are and what you like. I am a geek. I don't just do geeky things. I am a geek. I could go completely normal, whatever the hell that is, and I'll still be a geek because that's me. The things that make you squirmy are ME."
"Tim…"
"The Snow Elf costume. That hit your squirm button, right? I mean, you photoshopped my head on to Brainy Smurf and stuck it in the break room right after, and two weeks later, Ducky gave me the ears back saying, 'Timothy, you need to keep a better hold on these. Anthony seems to think it's amusing to put them on the bodies or Jimmy.'"
Tony tilts his head, acknowledging that. Palmer did fall asleep studying in the morgue one night, so he carefully slipped the ears on him, and got lots of pictures.
"That wasn't just something I put on for a day. That was me. I met a cute girl, who actually seemed kind of interested in me and liked to game. She invited me to a party and suggested we go as our characters. Cool, I was good with that. My character rocked. But I'm six one and back then something like one ninety. You can't just walk into a Halloween store and buy yourself a snow elf costume, especially not for a guy my size. So, hell, I'm in, I like games and costumes and hot cheerleaders, and sure I'm not cool and I don't look anything like the guys she works with, but I can learn to sew, and I can cos play, and I can get so into it, I'll blow her away. So I get a sewing machine, spend fifty hours on youtube learning how to sew and design costumes, design the damn thing, sew it, over and over and over because it is not nearly as easy as it should be to do that, and you take one look at it, and laugh. Ziva's telling me that she's feeling every ounce of respect she ever had for me oozing away because you decide she has to see it. And now you're telling me it's something I do, not who I am.
"That's who I am. The kilt, the tattoos, the games, the music, the writing, all of it is who I am. And if you've got to pretend that they're just hobbies or weird little side interests, then why are we friends?"
"Because you're my Probie." Tony sees Tim bristle at that, and says, quickly, "Just, let me get it all out. You're my partner. Because you can't be a clown without a straight man. Because Laurel needs Hardy and Holmes needs Watson. Because learning to deal with each other makes both of us better men. Because you always have my back and will slap me upside the back of the head when I need it. Because I like you, even if some things about you freak me out. I mean, I don't have to like everything about you. We aren't married. But, right now, I guess the bigger question is, why do you think we're friends?"
Tim thinks about it for a much longer time that Tony did, and can see him getting nervous by it, but he's not rushing this, but he's not saying the first thought he had, habit, which was mean, and was mostly angry still coming out.
He sighs and says, "You never doubted me. And on things you think matter, you've always had my back. And you have occasionally provided a whack upside the back of the head, and forced me out of my shell when I needed it. And learning to deal with each other is making both of us better men. Sometimes you make me laugh. And I need men who approve of my work. There's a dad-shaped hole in my life, and you fill some of it."
"I can live with that."
"Okay."
Several more minutes go by, and another shift change. This time Tony's watching the monitors when he asks, "Do you actually like me?"
Tim shrugs. "I like things about you. I love you, if that helps."
"How does that work?"
"I don't know. I like Jimmy. It's easy to be with him, because I'm not constantly on guard, afraid I'll do or say something that'll flip him out or get me mocked. And I know you're not really that guy anymore, but you were for so long, that I can't really relax around you. I like the fact that you're getting better about it. But, you and I, it's not easy.
"I don't like how you treat people. I don't like the nicknames. I know you think of them as being affectionate, but it's an affectionate slap. Affectionate or not, it's still a slap. You need that, fine. Usually, I'm calm enough it doesn't bug me. But that doesn't mean I like it.
"I loathed the way you treated women. Hated the way you treated Kate. If it wasn't for the fact that it would have bugged her, I would have reported you for sexual harassment. And look, honestly, I'm glad Howard failed the practical part of the interview, because she was young and cute and green and trusting and I have no idea what you would have done with her.
"I have a daughter. I have a niece. And the fact that one of these days they're going to be out there with womanizers and misogynists like the guy you were scares the shit out of me, and that's nothing you can do anything about, too, but it's still there. I'm still aware of it. I still see that when I see you, and I know you aren't that guy anymore, but it's still there."
"Sex addict," Tony says quietly without looking away from the monitor.
Tim's eyes go wide and he looks away from the monitor for a second, to Tony, before going back to it, fast. "Huh?"
"Not sure if womanizer means something different, or if it's just an old term, but I'm a sex addict."
"Tony?"
"I like women. They make me feel good. Gibbs has a bad day, he drinks it away. You have a bad day, you shoot shit and get into fights. I have a bad day, I crave women. I need the external validation they give me. I don't get 'petted,' as you put it, often enough, I start to get itchy. Start thinking too much about what, if anything, is behind the mirrors. Part of taking so long to start things up with Ziva was about seeing if I could be on the wagon. Didn't like it much, especially before we were dating, because that's a lot of time alone with my thoughts and no one proving, over and over, that I'm good enough."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"That's why you were worried about looking."
Tony nods, shrugs a little, playing it off. "Ziva knows. Has known for a while. She's the one who gave me the words when I told her about how it worked. I didn't want her going into it blind. But, at least with girls, that's why I was always hunting down the next one. It was my fix. Daddy didn't want me. Wendy didn't want me. Well, all those other women did. Spent what should have been my honeymoon with her drunk off my ass and fucking anything that moved and somehow didn't get past that for five years. That's probably why 'no' would always stop me cold, but dead drunk didn't matter because as long as she was into me, I was getting what I needed from it."
"Oh."
"You just did that."
"I know. But, I don't know what to say to it."
"Don't have to say anything."
"I guess not."
Another shift change, this time Tim's watching the monitor, and Tony asks, "So, now what?"
Tim shrugs. "We go on. You need to call me McGeek, I'll take it, but you might not like what comes out after that."
"I can live with that. I'll lay off on the rest of it as much as I can. Won't always be able to do it, but I'll try."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"I'm still mad."
"I know. It's okay."
Tim nods.
Fourteen minutes later, when someone, a male someone, finally got to that locker, giving them both something else to do besides sit in a bus and stare at the monitors, they were both very relieved, and mad or not, they both did just fine at corralling the guy, getting him to the Navy Yard, interrogating him, and shutting down the case by dinnertime.
A/N: Okay, so what was that weirdness yesterday? Basically, one of the readers decided that she needed to leave me a comment on STAW about how annoyed she was at having to switch from Shards To A Whole to Shards in order to continue following the non-McPalmer story line and that I should have made the McPalmer lovers switch. (You can check the STAW comments and see what I'm talking about.)
And, I, well, I went bugfuck mad on that one.
And I let her know I was bugfuck mad.
And, well, as you've all noticed, I'm sort of *ahem* pushing the edge on the M rating scale. And if someone, say a reader who got a somewhat rude response about being an ungrateful twat decided to report Shards for a terms of service violation... well, I wanted all of you to make sure you knew how to keep finding my stuff.
So, once more (since I'm deleting the PSA chapter) I will also be posting the non-McPalmer version on Archive Of Our Own. I use the same user name everywhere, so I'm easy to find.
One last bit of housekeeping, EarthDragon, if the last few chapters haven't cleared things up, feel free to shoot me a PM, I'm happy to talk about what's going on.