"Agent Gibbs?" Irene asked, watching the coffee pot and wringing her hands.
"It's Jethro, please," Gibbs said, trying not to think about how the poor woman would react when the door was closed behind the agents.
She smiled—or tried to. It came across broken. "Jethro, I was wondering … " She suddenly looked nervous and glanced the way her husband had left with DiNozzo. It immediately put Gibbs on alert, but he didn't hear raised voices so he concentrated on the distraught woman beside him.
"Just ask. Anything you need."
She shook her head. "No, it's not … I was just wondering … Agent DiNozzo's … injuries … I hope that my husband didn't cause all of them. I mean, I was here when he … well … and I don't remember Phil punching him, but his mouth … those bruises—"
Gibbs finally stopped her rambling. "Agent DiNozzo was injured apprehending a suspect in another case. The lip, the knee, the ribs, they're all from that separate incident."
"Ribs, too? My, my. The poor dear." She pondered that for a minute. "I guess I'm not surprised. He's obviously a remarkable young man. My Phil is a big boy, but your agent stood in the face of his rage like it was nothing."
Gibbs smiled, but it faded quickly. It wasn't the first time DiNozzo had been reckless with his own safety, and that bothered him. Irene's description also called up thoughts of a young Tony facing down his drunken, abusive father, and that image made Gibbs shudder.
He realized the woman was still talking and forced his attention to her.
"—and he didn't even fight back, even with Phil … choking … him like that. And the younger agent was so angry that he wouldn't let him arrest my Phil. I don't know why Agent DiNozzo didn't press the issue, even though he had every right to. I saw the bruises at his throat, even if he tried to hide them. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that he didn't let that agent arrest Phil."
"Don't tell me," Gibbs said, not unkindly. "Tell him."
***
Tony didn't know what to say. He did know what not to say, though. Admitting he felt nothing would require a long explanation he wasn't willing—or even able—to give, and it wasn't what the man wanted or needed to hear.
"Never mind," Phil said, reading Tony's hesitation as discomfort. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
Tony thought for another long moment. "I feel like I owe you an answer. After what I insinuated before."
Phil shook his head and stood. He put a hand on Tony's arm. "If anything, I owe you for not letting your partner arrest me. You have every right to press charges after what I did to you."
"Don't worry about it," Tony said sincerely. "It was just a reaction. No harm, no foul."
Phil harrumphed. "That sweater says otherwise, Agent DiNozzo."
Tony gave him the best version of his usual mega-watt smile that he could considering the stabbing pain in his knee that was getting harder to ignore. "Maybe I just like sweaters."
Phil smiled, but there was little happiness in it. Tony knew his thoughts were with his dead son, and as he turned to hobble out the door, he stopped.
"I knew the second I saw where my knife ended up that she was dying. She asked me why she deserved to die. I told her it was because your son didn't. I meant that. Scott was a good person, and I just wish I had gotten to know him better. And I wish I could tell you that everything felt right after I killed her, but I knew it wouldn't bring your son back. I wish it would have. I'm so sorry."
***
Tony hobbled out to the car with Gibbs at his elbow. Leave it to his boss to know when he was struggling—emotionally and physically. Tony just felt spent. He had almost lost it when Irene softly thanked him for not arresting her husband and added a sincere, "Thank you for bringing my son home."
Tony gave Gibbs a quizzical look when the older agent opened the back door of the car.
"Sit sideways," he said gruffly. "It'll support your leg better."
Tony was too tired to argue even though he felt silly. He sat and scooted back across the seat, his leg extended in front of him. He laid his head against the back of the seat while Gibbs stowed the crutches on the floor beside him. He blinked sleepily and silently admitted that this was more comfortable, if anything could be called comfortable in his condition.
Gibbs was driving again, and Tony checked his watch. It was just after 1 p.m.
On Saturday?
"It's Saturday," he said, not realizing he'd said it aloud until he saw Gibbs give him a concerned look in the rearview mirror. When his boss didn't reply, Tony said, "Ducky did the autopsy this morning?" He smiled softly. "Of course he came in to do it: Ducky wouldn't leave them suffering, wondering what had happened to him."
Gibbs nodded, but he was thinking something else. He came in on a Saturday to spare you a second phone call to the grieving parents, too. We all know you wouldn't let anyone else make that call. It was so very DiNozzo to think of everyone else's pain first. Gibbs wondered if Tony would ever understand that Ducky had been being kind to him, too. He thought about the look that had crossed the young man's face when Gibbs had tried to offer comforting words that he would never be a drunk like his father, and it reminded him of just how deeply scarred Tony was.
Gibbs glanced in the mirror again, not having to try to read the clear agony on his agent's face. He noticed DiNozzo's eyes were open and staring at him.
DiNozzo read Gibbs' silence as a question and answered, "He wanted to know what it felt like to kill her." He huffed out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a groan. "Don't worry, I didn't tell him I felt nothing. He probably would have hit me."
Gibbs was silent, letting him talk.
"I don't even know exactly what I said, but it seemed like the right thing. Or at least enough of the right things. He thanked me, Gibbs." Tony's tone was incredulous. "I come to tell him his son is dead and he thanks me."
"You could have had him arrested and you didn't. You found his son and killed his murderer. You deserve his thanks, DiNozzo."
DiNozzo just sighed and leaned his head back against the window, eyes closed in pain. Gibbs couldn't help but think just how vulnerable his normally unshakable agent looked in that moment.
Gibbs drove, stealing glances in the mirror and feeling extremely relieved when he saw that DiNozzo had fallen asleep—or passed out. He smiled a little when he heard Tony's voice in his head: DiNozzos do not pass out.
"But they sure do sleep soundly," Gibbs murmured when the car in front of him checked up and he quickly swerved around it. There was not a peep from the backseat.
***
"That was amazing, Abbs," Tony said from his couch later that night. The dinner she had made had been delicious, and she was finishing up the dishes.
"I'm glad you liked it," she said, wiping her hands on a towel before joining Tony on the couch. She drew her knees up and felt the buttery softness of the leather under her bare feet. Laying her head on his shoulder, she asked, "How are you feeling? You were totally out when I got here."
Truthfully, Tony barely remembered getting home. He did remember Gibbs stopping and shoving a water bottle and pills into his hands at some point on the ride home. He remembered Gibbs hauling him bodily out of the backseat, but then everything was a blur until Gibbs set the cordless phone beside him and forced a promise out of him that he would call if he needed anything before Abby got there. Tony was pretty sure he'd kept his promise. He couldn't have really needed anything if he couldn't remember the interlude between the door closing on Gibbs and opening for Abby, right?
Tony was sure that he had a much better understanding of the term "punch-drunk," at least.
"That good, huh?" Abby teased, and he realized he hadn't answered her question.
"It hurts like hell, Abbs," he said, unafraid to be truthful with her. Or is it afraid to be untruthful? He didn't want to think about the consequences of lying to the scientist. "I haven't been in this much pain since … well, last time."
"Remember what I said. Positive thoughts," she admonished gently, sitting up and looking into his green eyes. "Everything is going to be fine." She laid her head back on his shoulder, careful not to put her weight on his damaged ribs.
They were quiet, and he drew strength from her presence.
Finally, she said, "Come on. Let's get you to bed so you can get some real sleep."
He groaned, the thought of getting up and moving the short distance to his room making him nauseous. "I'm actually more comfortable here."
She sat back, taking in his slouched posture and the leg propped up on the coffee table. "Not like that, you're not."
He let her settle him in and even let her pick the movie. She put one in and went to curl up in the big comfy chair, but he motioned her over, and she stretched out at his side, her small frame barely taking up any room. She lay with her head in the crook of his shoulder like a lover, but the position was somehow natural for them and there were no sexual overtones to the otherwise intimate positioning of their bodies. She couldn't see the TV, but she didn't care. She knew she would be asleep within minutes even though it wasn't even remotely late by her standards. There was just something about the man lying next to her that grounded her. His solid strength was an overwhelmingly comfortingly foil to her usually frenetic, flighty personality.
He fell asleep to the hypnotic whisper of her steady breathing on his neck. She drifted off, feeling safe and warm under the soothing weight of the arm he had draped around her.