Author: Revanche
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Yes, please.
Spoilers: Through 1 x 23.
Tony and the human highway.
It's foggy this early in the morning, even in the mountains. This time of day is best spent between warm sheets, unaware of the slow ticking of the alarm clock and the rap of newspapers being tossed at closed doors. The only people who actually consider this a good time to be awake are people who are being paid for the inconvenience and Marines, by which he mostly means Gibbs. Tony steps out of the rental unit and closes the door behind him, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. Wisps of mist cling to the trees and hover over the cracked tarmacadam, and he rubs his hands together, the produced heat inadequate against the morning chill. He looks blearily at the parking lot, wondering if Gibbs would consider a stolen car to be sufficient reason to head back to bed for another few hours. Unlikely, and anyway, the sedan's still there, dew glistening on the dark-blue paint.
At least they got to stop for the remainder of the night, he thinks, rather than heading back to D.C. immediately. Spending the day looking for body parts scattered across the Skyland Mountain trails was not his idea of fun, especially when what should have been a few hours' work stretched on through the hottest part of the day and into the humid evening. The day's only redeeming value, its high point, was Kate's expression when they reached the summit and she realized that latrines do not necessarily require running water. He grins, remembering the glee with which he'd pointed out how easily one of the plastic units could be toppled, but that moment wasn't worth the efforts of the entire day. His muscles ache, unused to this much exercise, and he thinks that he really does need to get in shape. At least Gibbs had looked tired by the end of the day, he thinks, and immediately feels ashamed. It isn't Gibbs' fault they were called out here; Gibbs didn't kill the ensign, he just took the call. Was assigned the call, actually, because Morrow's not overjoyed about the bullet fired through Not-A-Terrorist's shoulder.
Still, Tony has to admit, Gibbs requisitioned the motel rooms without even being asked. It's a sign, though he's not sure of what. He sighs, setting his pack down next to him so that he can zip his jacket. Another few degrees and he's sure he would be able to see his breath in the air.
The sound of movement close by has him glancing over his shoulder in time to see Kate leaving her own room, looking as tired as he feels. She locks the unit behind her and crosses her arms over her chest. She remembered gloves, he notes enviously. Technically he has gloves, too, but they're more of the preserve-a-crime-scene variety than the sort which provide warmth.
"Morning," Kate says. Her running shoes are quiet on the damp asphalt as she comes to stand next to him. "I'd ask if you slept well, but I really don't want to know."
"That hurts," he says, looking away from the surreal blue-tinged forest. It's tourist season, but it's early enough that the tourists are still asleep, safe and warm. Where he wants to be. "Because if you wanna tell me how you slept, I'm more than willing to listen."
She groans. "I'd hit you, but that'd require moving."
He grins. "Think of the experience as communing with nature."
She drops her bag with a thud to the ground and watches as it slowly tips over, uses her foot to nudge it upright. "'Communing with nature' is something I can do without. And you don't look like you'd disagree."
He shrugs. "Ah, but you didn't want to know how I slept."
"I wasn't asking, I was making an observation," she says.
He narrows his eyes at her, surveying her carefully. "Likewise, your collar's crooked and there's some sort of winged beetle going for your ear." She yelps and reaches to brush away the offending bug, and he grins.
She glares at him, slides her hands into her pockets. "Not funny."
"But the look on your face was," he says, and she decides that hitting him is worth the pain, her knuckles pressing into his unprotected stomach. He winces.
"So's the look on yours."
He grits his teeth, straightens with effort. "Now that's mature, Kate."
"You're one to talk." She retrieves her bag and adjusts the straps, positions it over her shoulders. "Where's Gibbs?"
"Either already checking out or still sleeping," he says, though he scans the area just in case. No, the senior agent isn't lurking, waiting to catch him at the most inopportune time. "I say we give him ten minutes."
She bites her lip. "Seven."
"Works for me." He glances over at her. "Your lip's bleeding."
She reaches up to confirm, looks at the blood on her hand. "Damn it." She rustles in her pocket, pulls out a tissue and presses it to her mouth.
"Tough love?" he asks. Her eyes widen and he decides that, considering that he knows exactly who split her lip, that is probably the most singularly unfunny thing he's said.
Well, at least today.
She pulls the tissue away, crumples it into her pocket without looking at the blood, runs her tongue along her lip as if unaware of the stain. He resists the urge to shudder and wonders if that was on purpose. "Goes with the job," she says. "You do know what was going to happen to you?"
He looks down, away. A few blades of grass are growing through a crack in the asphalt and he scuffs at them ineffectually with the toe of his shoe. "Yeah. Your pinup guy was gonna let his girlfriend kill me."
"Tough love," she repeats, looking down just as he looks back up. Their eyes meet for an instant and then he's staring at the empty road in front of them and she's looking into the forest, eyes level with the exposed roots. "I'm sorry," she says. He wants to ask her if she really is or if she gets any satisfaction from the idea that this time she was right, that there was no point to making an ass out of himself trying to catch up with the blond woman, whose name, he recently learned, was Marta. All he'd been doing was being played, just like with Paula and with the waitress he'd underestimated. And with Amanda Reed, he thinks, for what it's worth.
"Not your fault," he says finally. He wonders how much traffic comes up here, how many people. He wonders why the ensign came all the way out here, if he made it to the top before being subdued and dismembered. He wonders if the climb, the sight from the summit, was worth that price.
"I know," she says. She shoves her hands into her pockets, sighs and doesn't make eye contact.
"Hm," he says, looking down at her. "Is that sympathy or empathy, Agent Todd?"
She rolls her eyes at him and he's saved from being hit a second time when Gibbs exits the main office, the rustle of Gore-Tex growing louder as he approaches them. He's already got coffee, though it's in a generic styrofoam cup, and his other hand's holding several forms, which he thrusts at Kate. "Accounting, when we get back," he says. She nods and follows him across the lot to the sedan. Tony closes his eyes for a minute, taking what will probably be his last breath of smog-free air for a long time, and thinks that it would be very nice to go back inside, or just to sit down here, use his bag for a pillow. He's done it before.
Gibbs' voice breaks through his thoughts before any decisions can be made. "Dinozzo, get in or we're leaving without you."
He opens his eyes at the threat, hoists his bag over his shoulder, and breaks into a jog as he hurries to catch up with the others. Birds are chirping in the distance and the sky is the brilliant blue of daybreak, and by the time he reaches the car, there's a song running through his head. All the girls of summer. Kate's riding shotgun, but he's content to sit back, watch the trees passing by and feel the promise of sunlight filtering through the window.
After all, his luck's got to get better sometime. He wonders if Monica down at the bakery likes Aerosmith.
xxxxx
The End.