Title: Classified

Chapter 4

Author's Notes:  I have this story 90 percent planned out.  But like I said in the first chapter, I still haven't decided who, if anyone, Tony will wind up with.  *taps fingers on her computer desk* What to do, what to do . . .

*****

So, far this been a bad, bad day.

First, my car died on me.  It's been threatening to do so for a while now, but today, it finally breathed its last.  So, I called Gibbs to let him know I might be late. 

And so, he decided to pick me up himself.  That I could've lived with.

But while I was waiting for Gibbs, I decided to hang a picture my mom sent me, and somehow, I managed to slice my hand open on a nail.  I bandaged it all up (and did a pretty good job, I thought).  Gibbs took one look at it, ripped off the bandages I apparently "just threw on."  Then he insisted on taking me to the emergency room to get stitches because "Kate will kill us both if you get an infection." 

Consequently, both Gibbs and I are a half and hour late to work.

Kate walks over to meet us as soon as we enter the office.  "Where have you guys—oh my God.  Tony, what happened to your hand?"

"Well," I say, about to weave an exciting tale.

Until Gibbs interrupts, "He lost a battle with a nail."  And then he adds as an afterthought, "While trying to hang a picture of a horsey walking through autumn leaves."

Kate laughs a bit too loud. 

"It was a present from my mom," I say defensively, my cheeks starting to burn.  Scowling, I inquire, "Hear from Mr. Drama?"

Kate casts me a weary look.  "No, not yet.  We'll hear from him eventually.  I think he likes Gibbs."

Gibbs smiles slightly.

"What?" I say.  "Because they bonded over whatshisname?"

"Sadik Fahd," Gibbs says.  "He was a monster." 

"Well," I say.  "I hope Agent Wonderful pans out, Kate."

Kate turns away, but I can hear her chuckling. 

"It wasn't that funny," I say.  "Lots of people have autumn equestrian scenes."

"That's not what I was laughing about," Kate says.  She looks at me with a bright smile on her face.  "It's just . . . you remind me a little of Clay."

"What?"

"Not exactly.  But you could be his little brother."

I glance over Kate's shoulder at Gibbs, who is fighting a smile.

"I'm like his little brother?"  I say.

"Yeah," she says sweetly.  "You're a lot alike.  You're both insecure, but you try to mask it with bravado."

"Now, wait a sec," I snap.  "I am not insecure.  And what you mean by bravado?"

"Well," she shrugs.  "He uses sarcasm and work to hide his lack of self-confidence.  You use humor and flirting."

 "What?"

"Come on, Tony," she says. "You like to be the center of attention, so you make jokes and hit on anything that moves."

I stare at her, open-mouthed, then I walk over to my desk.  My mind searches for a snarky comeback, but I can't think of a thing.  The problem is, she's right.  I do like attention.  I love it.  That's why I like to flirt.  Instant gratification. 

I'm probably the biggest flirt in the room.  But ironically, I probably have the lousiest social life.  I can turn someone's head, but after that . . . I have no clue how to act.

So, Kate's right.  And that's why it hurts so much.

"Tony," Kate says, walking up to me.  "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say, flustered.  "I'm fine."

She puts her hand on my shoulder.  "I was teasing," she says.

"I said I'm fine," I snap.

Gibbs, who has been watching the whole time, decides to intervene.  "Katie," he says. "I want you to talk to the Marine we spoke to earlier.  The one who put us on to the Agency.  I want to know more about Pickett's habits, friends."

"I'm on it, Gibbs," Kate says.

"What about me, Boss?" I ask. 

Gibbs pats me on the shoulder.  "You, Tony, are coming with me.  We're going to have a look at Pickett's apartment."

"You and me?"  I ask hesitantly.  I love it when Gibbs and I work together.

"Yeah," he says exuberantly.  "Since you're wounded and vulnerable, you're gonna need me to make sure you don't get yourself shot.  Or skewer yourself on a thumbtack." 

Reluctantly, I break into a slight smile. "Funny, Boss."

*****

"So, we know he collected fishing magazines," I announce, tossing a periodical onto the coffee table.

Gibbs glances at me.  "I fish," he says.

"And a great sport it is."  I walk over to the counter that separates Major Pickett's living room from his kitchen.  "I just don't understand why you'd want to read about it."

"He rode horses competitively," Gibbs says, motioning to an assortment of medals and plaques. 

I lift myself onto the counter, wincing at the pain in my hand.

Gibbs turns toward me.  "Watch it," he says.  "You're gonna tear your stitches."  He walks over to the counter and reaches for the phone that's sitting beside me.  He starts to scrutinize it.

"Oh, come on, Gibbs," I say.  "You actually think they'd bug his phone?"

"You never know," he says. 

I let out a long-suffering sigh.  "Wouldn't a spy check for bugs?"  I start to lean back on the balls of my hands, but then I feel a throbbing where the cut is.  Leaning forward, I start to swing my leg back and forth, hitting the wall every time my leg goes back.

"Stop it," Gibbs says after about five seconds. 

"What?" I ask.

He reaches down and places his hand on my knee.  "That," he says.

"Sorry."

He narrows his eyes.  "Are you still pouting because Kate said you're insecure?"

"I'm not pouting," I say.

"You're pouting."

"Whatever."

Gibbs leans against the counter.  "Listen to me," he says.  "You wouldn't be on this team if I didn't have confidence in you."

I nod.  "Yeah, I know Gibbs."  I jump down off the counter. 

"She was just kidding."

"Yeah, I know."

I sigh. Maybe he's right. If there's anybody in the world I'm close to, it's Gibbs.  Despite his gruffness, I'm pretty sure he cares about me.  He may not always be the nicest guy, but he's always been there for me when the chips are down. 

I walk across the room and start rifling through Pickett's garbage.  I really hope I don't find anything wet and gooey in here.

Damn.  Something gooey. "Eyyuuck," I say. 

"What?"

"Gum."  I keep digging though the trash.  Mostly papers.  Sticky notes.  I pull them out and spread them over the carpet.  "Nothing much, Boss."

"Keep looking."

I walk into Pickett's kitchen and wash my hands.  Then I walk over to Gibbs, who's finally given up the phone to look in Major Pickett's drawers.  I scan the counter, and my eyes finally fall on a pad of sticky notes.  Snatching up a nearby pencil, I shade the top sheet.

"Gibbs," I say. 

He walks over to me.  "Find something?" 

"I found a phone number.  It's not one he called."

"You actually remember the numbers he called?"

"He called, like, four people."

Gibbs takes the sticky notes out of my hands and picks up the phone.  "Well, let's try it out."  Gibbs dials the number.  He listens for a moment, and then puts the phone back onto its cradle. 

"Well, who was it?"

"Answering machine.  We have reached the number of Thomas Rothwell."

"Okay."  I say, shrugging.  "Who's that?"

"Let's go find out."