Deep in the middle of Suspension: Week Two, Tim still doesn't track the day or time. He set an alert on his phone for next Tuesday night, so he can prepare for his return on Wednesday. If he even considered the time, the near boredom of his house arrest would be eating him alive. Sarah is busy with getting settled back at Waverly and can't spend time with him. So Tim entertains himself with a computer game that's been on his TBP—to be played —list for months. Whenever he comes up for air, remembering his suspension makes his skin feel too tight, like he can't breathe, like the air is suddenly water, like that's all he can think about. He does what he does best these days: burying his head in the sand until it's time to confront it on Wednesday.
He shouldn't hear the knock on the door. He has noise canceling headphones and they crack with simulated explosions from his game. But he has the volume turned down while he waits for the takeout he ordered not long ago. Pushing back his desk chair, he blinks owlishly in the fading light of his apartment.
Dinnertime. I thought I just ordered lunch…
He called the Chinese place down the street only a few minutes ago. At least, it feels like minutes. It could be hours and he wouldn't know the difference. As he opens the door, he fumbles with his wallet. He holds out the money while reaching for the bag of food. He has grown far too accustomed to the routine in the last few days. No talking, no social interaction. Just a transaction that ends with him getting his meal.
The person in the hallway snatches the cash, but they leave Tim empty handed.
He glances up, face folded into a question.
He starts, "Hey, where's my – "
When he notices the person on his doorstep, his mouth goes dry.
Oh.
Tony DiNozzo, wearing a bemused smile, displays the twenty-dollar bill between his index and middle fingers. He waggles the cash at Tim like he used to in the bullpen.
Suspension looks surprisingly good on him. Tony appears to be well-rested for the first time since Tim met him. There aren't any bags under his eyes—the black eye is long gone—and his cheeks have taken a healthy, pink tinge. He seems to be well-rested, well-fed, and not hungover. Exactly everything Tim is not. He wears his normal designer suit—Armani or maybe Zegna because they all look the same—all clean black lines and starched white shirt and thin black tie. Tim's eyes drop to his threadbare MIT shirt and faded grey, Sears-brand lounge pants.
Great, I'm never going to hear the end of this.
Then, he remembers the team being splintered. His heart plummets.
I bet he's here to rub the new assignment in my face. Maybe he'll say goodbye if I'm lucky.
Tony looks leaps and bounds better than Tim, for whom pants are usually optional and can't tell the difference between day and night. His nose suddenly burns when he inhales sharply.
Tony meets Tim's eyes and the younger man sniffs on reflex.
Tony waves the money at Tim. "I guess I should visit you more often, McMoneybags."
"Where's my food, Tony?" Tim asks.
"What do I look like? A delivery guy?" Tony uses his hands to frame his suit.
Tony laughs as though it's the funniest thing he's heard all week. Tim just blankly stares at him, this moment feeling oddly surreal. As if on cue, a harried delivery man comes huffing up the stairs. He moves down the hallway, panting and eyeing Tim and Tony curiously. After seeing Tony has money, the delivery man hands for food to him. Tony tells him to keep the change. The delivery man bolts down the hallway before Tim has a chance to tell him he didn't want to tip ten bucks. Tony holds out the food with a Ta-da flourish.
"Right here," he says smugly.
Struggling to hide his smirk, Tim takes the bag. It feels heavier than it should. Tim moves into his apartment, leaving the door open as an invitation for Tony to follow. Under the light of his computer monitor, Tim bungles around for a light switch. When did it get so dark?
Once the kitchen light flickers on, Tim is mortified by the state of his place. While he typically describes himself as neat, it looks as though a hurricane blew through. There are dirty clothes and take out containers and empty cups everywhere.
"Really embracing bachelor pad living, huh, McGee?" Tony says, but his tone doesn't match his words.
Concern tinges Tony's face. He puts his hands on his hips, biting his lower lip as he surveys the space.
Tim's cheeks grow hot. Turning his back to Tony, he starts to remove his takeout from the bag. His shoulders tense as the hot food bites through the plastic container. Whatever brought Tony here—on whatever day it is at whatever time it is—it can't be good. If he can't wait to tell Tim in person, he's likely going to be gone when they return to the office. Tim can't bear to hear the words I'm not coming back. And sure, Tim doesn't mind the thought of working under Gibbs alone and maybe he would like to be senior field agent. He doesn't know how he'll keep Gibbs in line after Tony leaves.
Tim knows what's coming, but he wants to hold onto how everything is right in the world for a little longer. He needs to believe they're going to remain a team for a little longer.
He doesn't know how to deal with the after...
Tim places his Moo Shoo Pork and Crab Rangoon on the counter. Inexplicably, there's an extra chicken lo mein. He holds it questioningly because he didn't order it. It's Tony's favorite.
"That one's mine," Tony announces, snatching the container and the only pair of chopsticks.
Then he claims Tim's desk chair. Tim starts to protest, but he decides against it. He finds a fork on the counter. Unsure if its clean or not, Tim wipes on a towel. Then he grabs the lone chair from his dining table and moves to join Tony. When he sits down, Tony is shoveling the lo mein in his mouth as though he hasn't eaten in years. His earnest eyes are roving Tim's apartment.
"Why don't you have a couch, McGee?" Tony asks.
"It's on the to-do list," Tim replies around a mouthful of food.
With a nod, Tony uses his chopsticks to gesture at Tim's writing corner. "You could put it over there."
"Maybe," Tim says, shrugging.
Nodding again, Tony returns to inhaling his food. Tim tucks into his too, but he doesn't enjoy it. Too salty and too greasy and not enough pork. Too much on his mind to take him out of the moment.
The uncomfortable silence stretches for a long time until Tony is scraping the bottom of his container with the chopsticks. The scritch scritch is driving Tim crazy. He cringes at the sound.
To fill the silence, he says: "What kind of couch should I get?"
Tony half-smiles that lazy one of his. "I'm not here to discuss your decorating choices." He makes a face at a steel bookshelf, then frowns at the matching computer desk. "Or lack thereof."
Sighing, Tim looks at his pork. "I know."
"The director didn't fire me," Tony says matter-of-factly as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "She didn't fire Gibbs either."
Tim quickly bites into a Crab Rangoon. If anything, he needs to be doing something because he doesn't know quite what to say. The interior might as well be molten lava and it torches the inside of his mouth. Flinching violently, he snatches a half-empty water bottle from the kitchen counter. Tony doesn't even notice. Instead, his eyes are locked on Tim's writing desk. Wherever he is, it's miles away.
"I'm not sure what I was expecting." Tony's voice is monotone.
Swallowing hard, Tim rasps: "Did you think you would get fired?"
Expression still far-off, Tony slides his chopsticks into the container. He abandons the mostly empty package with the rest of the detritus on Tim's desk. After locking his hands behind his head, Tony takes a lap around the apartment.
I wonder how long it'll take before my downstairs neighbor starts pounding on the floor again.
"I don't know." Tony is on the move. "I mean, I punched my boss. At work. In the middle of a workday. I feel like that's something HR just isn't going to ignore."
"But Gibbs started it with the head smack. Those always were kinda…degrading. It always felt like we were kids getting smacked around." Tim bites his lip. "It always felt weird."
"That's what Shepard said. Well, not about the us being kids."
Tony's expression darkens like a cloud front rolling in. Tim doesn't need to be an investigator to suddenly understand Tony has firsthand experience. Even though he is curious, Tim chooses not to pry.
Tony laughs morosely. "Shepard told me she wished she could've punched Gibbs on more than one occasion. That was off the record, of course."
All Tim has to offer is a clipped nod. He considers his conversation with Gibbs a few days ago. If Tony is still working at NCIS, when he should've been fired. That must mean…
"What happens to Gibbs then?" he asks.
Tony's face pinches, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. "Nothing really. He'll have to take a course on anger management and a disciplinary mark in his file. Like there aren't a million there already."
Tim smirks. "That course will probably hurt more than being written up."
"I bet he's on a first name basis with the instructor by now." Tony shifts his weight. "Though Shepard let it slip that he'll be retiring soon. Right after the New Year when his pension officially kicks in. Apparently, he never read the paperwork before he went to Mexico. He didn't have enough years of service." Tony pushes a breath through his teeth. "His full pension never went through. He only had his partial."
For all Tim knows, that could be a lie. Something Shepard told Tony to make the whole incident easier to accept and easier to move on from. While it might not be the truth, Tim chooses to believe it because fall into place better. Tony seems to buy it too.
That must be what Gibbs meant by a truce. A clear exit plan with Gibbs riding off into the sunset with promises never to return. A promise that would mean Shepard would finally be rid of that thorn in her side named Leroy Jethro Gibbs. And in the mix, Tony and Gibbs both keep their jobs. If it weren't for Gibbs' and Shepard's history, Tim knows Gibbs and Tony would've been fired with no recourse and blackballed by every agency in Washington. And a fight in the agency could've blown up in Shepard's face. The best way to keep everyone employed was to make it go away. Quietly.
Tim's face folds into a question.
Usually, a truce means tit for tat. Give a little, get a little. Instead, everyone gets a little for the silence that allows Shepard to save face. It's like cover-up light.
"What happens to you then? It's not like you can stay on the team." Tim pulls a face. "Can you?"
When Tony looks at Tim, he looks like he has aged decades. Before he even breathes a word, Tim already knows the answer. His heart plummets as though someone just chucked it off a cliff. He inhales deeply through his nose. It still burns, but only a little. It distracts him the heaviness weighing down inside his chest.
Tony shakes his head. "No, I can't."
"Oh," Tim says.
"Shepard offered me my own team." Tony scratches at the back of his neck. "She said I should be giving orders, not taking them. I didn't know I would have to fight Gibbs before I got my own team."
"You had your own team!" Throwing his hands out, Tim scrambles to his feet. "You took over when Gibbs left. It was yours. Even if it was only for a little while."
Tony whirls around to face him. "Everyone keeps saying that, but no one understands. It never was mine and it never will be. I just held the space until he got back. Even when he retires for good, it'll always be Team Gibbs. Shepard helped me realize there isn't space for Team DiNozzo in DC."
As Tony's voice trails off, Tim catches the emotion slipping over his face. It's raw and real and there. Tony deflates in front of Tim. Gone is the easy confidence his partner oozes like a transformation of a nerdy actor into a ladies' man in a deodorant commercial. In that man's places stands an uncertain and tired child. For the first time, Tim realizes this Tony isn't an act. He is looking at the real Tony.
And Tim doesn't know where his partner will end up from here, but he only hopes he'll be half as happy as the part Tony plays at work. Tony deserves that much.
When their eyes meet, Tony turns away. Facing one of the bookshelves, Tony makes a show of going through Tim's books. He pulls out a copy of The Silmarillion and riffles through the pages.
"You don't even read the good stuff," he chides, but his heart isn't in it.
Tim clears his throat. "Where is Team DiNozzo?"
Tony fidgets with the book some more. "Shepard offered me two positions. One is out of Boston at the Northeast Field Office as an SSA with a four-man team already in place." Tony won't look at him. "The other post is out of the Northwest Field Office on Whidbey Island in Washington state, but the team is incomplete. Right now, there's only a junior agent named Polinski running the show. He's a real bastard from what I hear."
Tim's heart lifts a little at the news. Maybe there's a chance…
"Which one are you going to pick?" Tim asks.
"Honestly, I don't know," Tony says, reshelving the book. "One option lets me walk into a team and take over on day one. It's close to the set-up we have in DC. Not quite an MCRT, but close enough to make me happy. I don't have to deal with personnel issues. I'd hit the ground running. With the one at Whidbey, I can pick my SFA and build the team I want. I mean, I'd have to deal with Polinski, but I could make it work. The team is smaller, but we'd get more cases since we're the only one in that area."
When Tim picks on Tony saying we—not once, but twice—he thinks it might mean Tony still wants them on the same team. He doesn't say anything because he doesn't want to break the spell. He needs to hold onto that feeling of being united, of being partners for just a little longer. Once Tony tells him that it's over, that's it. It's really over. Tim will be back to reality and back to realizing how he screwed up what could've been a good thing.
Tim lets the silence stretch until it borders on uncomfortable. He glances at his food, long cold and congealing in the bottom of the container. Tony looks at him. Tim half-smiles back, certain their working relationship is over as soon as he speaks.
Biting his lip, Tim lets go. "That sounds like a tough choice. How will you pick?"
Tony tilts his head. "It depends."
Tim matches the motion. "On?"
"Whether you can pull your head out of your ass."
Taking a full step-back, Tim bumps into his counter. His brow furrows, mouth folding with the uncertainty. He was so sure that he and Tony were done.
Tony resumes pacing, gesturing like a madman. "What you said in the bullpen. You were right. We work well together. We might not be BFF's or even friends, but together, we are…" he searches before settling on "…effective. We get results and I'd like to think we could be good together as long as…"
At the way Tony's voice trails off, Tim drops his gaze to the floor. He runs his tongue over the teeth, searching for the right thing to say. He leans against the counter, arms crossed as tightly against his chest as they go. His shoulders are rigid.
"I don't act the way I did when Gibbs was gone," he whispers.
Tony's silence speaks for him.
Tim continues: "It wasn't my finest hour."
"Ya think?" Tonys sounds so much like Gibbs that it makes Tim laugh.
"I shouldn't have acted like I did, and I understand that now." Tim presses his lips together before breaking Gibbs Rule 6. "I'm sorry."
The apology makes Tony stop and turn to face Tim. They hold each other's gaze while seeming to struggle with what to say. Finally, Tony steeples his hands against his lips.
"That's the thing," Tony says. "I need that."
Tim furrows his brow.
"I need…no, I want someone to challenge me because then, I know my decision is the right one. I don't want a senior agent who is going to be a yes man." His eyes dart back to the bookshelves. "I played that part to Gibbs for so long and it became a problem. I never reined him, and he turned into a loose cannon. I couldn't control him."
Tim shakes his head. "That's just who Gibbs is. Nothing you did would ever have changed it."
"Regardless, I don't want that to be me. I want someone who will make me justify my choices." Tony's eyes widen. "I don't want to turn into a steam roller."
Tim's smile is small. "Tony, you're already steam roller, but in an entirely different way."
"But still…"
Tim nods. "Still."
"I don't want to turn into Gibbs." Tony's voice is barely audible.
Tim holds his hands out, placatingly. "There's a lot of good in Gibbs and a lot of not so good. You've got a lot of the good, but you already know how to avoid the bad."
"See, Tim, that's the thing. I don't know how. That's why I still want you on my team because I want someone who will tell me when I'm turning to the dark side."
"Tony, you're not a Sith lord," Tim says, laughing.
"You're the one with the movie today. Too bad it's always Star Wars." Tony chuckles. "But that's the thing, I want someone who will help me not turn into a better dressed version of our fearless leader."
For some inexplicable reason, an image of Gibbs dressed in one of Tony's suits pops into Tim's head. He can't help but smile at the thought.
Tony smirks. "Are you picturing Gibbs in Zegna too?"
Tim half-shrugs. "Is that who makes the black ones?"
"I doubt Gibbs could pull off Zegna." Tony scratches at his chin, deep in thought. "Maybe Armani, but I doubt it. Sears will probably be the only thing for him. Ever."
Tim laughs at the absurdity of the direction the conversation just took.
"Are you sure about this?" Tim asks.
"Yeah, I really don't think Gibbs could wear Armani." He presses his lips together before nodding resolutely. "No, I know."
Tim laughs. "Are you sure you want me to be your senior agent?"
"Yeah, I am. I mean, you can't act the same way you did when Gibbs is gone. Challenge me, sure. Keep me in check, please. But if you make me feel as though I have to justify my actions or if you directly question my orders, I'll ship you back here so fast your head will spin."
Tim rubs at the back of his neck. "Right."
"Will you be my SFA?"
They share an awkward look. Tim crooks an eyebrow.
Tony's face blanches suddenly. "I'm not getting down on one knee."
Tim cracks up. "Yes, I will."
Tony is laughing now too. "Well, that wasn't awkward. Was it?"