Gibbs nodded a brief affirmation at the questioning glance that was directed at him as he crossed the kitchen. He stopped only long enough to snag his mug from the table and headed to refill it a third time. After that they sat in silence, both listening to the faint snatches of noise from the bedroom: the sound of water in the pipes, the murmurs of one-sided conversation Tony held with Rufus, finally the arrhythmic steps as Tony maneuvered his way down the hall.

"So who's our mystery—"

"Hello, Anthony."

Tony caught himself against the frame of door, Rufus immediately positioning himself protectively across the front of his knees to offer stability even though he was harnessless. Gibbs was up in a split second, a palm wrapping around Tony's arm, another stabilizing his back.

"Sit down," he ordered, manhandling him to the nearest chair.

"Wh—" Tony began, but whatever question the syllable began, it was lost behind the hand he palmed across his mouth. "Mother," he said more distinctly, when he'd gathered himself. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't a mother visit?"

"No," replied Tony, although Gibbs was unsure from the tone whether it was a declaration or a question in return. He looked from one DiNozzo to another, trying to gage the situation. Tony's mother was still maintaining her look of well-polished poise but he could see her gaze flit to the dusky circles that seemed to always curve half-moons under Tony's eyes these days, could see her notice the morning tremors that shook Tony's hands in minute, nervous vibrations.

"Mr. Gibbs and I were just having a talk."

"About what?"

Pat DiNozzo shrugged. "This and that." She put out a hand, covering one of the shaking ones. "I wanted to see you." Gibbs could see her eyes narrow, the lines at their corners drawing deeper as she looked him over again critically.

"Calling would have been nice."

"You're too thin. Do you eat enough?" She turned to Gibbs. "Does he eat enough?"

"Mom," the rebuke, Gibbs noticed, was softened with the slightest grin.

"I'm fine," Tony pulled his hand out from under hers, switching their places to cover hers with his own. "My father know you're here? Mom..." he urged when it the question went unanswered.

"No, he doesn't know I'm here."

"Just another of our little secrets?" Tony missed the frown that formed on Gibbs' face. He gave his mother's hand a reassuring pat. "I'm fine."

"I've got something for you," she pulled away to open the clasp of her purse, folding the rectangle of paper into his hand. "I've been squirreling away my decorating fund. Your father doesn't know. He thinks that I can't see a Faber Mobili chair I can't live without."

Tony left the folded check on the table, without so much as a glance. "No, Mom, we're fine. And I'm not fifteen. Slipping me $50 so I can take Mary Alyce Kopinski to the movies and, on the way, stop and get you a bottle of whatever is handy isn't going to cut it anymore."

"You know I haven't had a drink in fifteen years."

Tony sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, that was a little unfair, but we're not doing the money thing. I don't need the money." He held out a hand in Gibbs' direction, found it reassuringly gripped, a powerful, strong clasp. "We," he emphasized the point by tightening his grip on the calloused fingers, "don't need the money."

"Look--" he finally continued, having endured the silence that had stretched out after his declaration foras long as he could. He reached his free hand in her direction, saw the blurry motion of her own coming to meet it, their fingertips tangling clumsily. Partly, the on-again-off-again focusing of his eyes. Partly, the little practice they'd had at this kind of comfort.

Irony, maybe, that it was Gibbs, the man who spent most his workday radiating Marine Corp stiffness, who'd taught him the value of casual touch -- of brief, everyday caresses that were only meant to ground, to reassure.

"If you want to see Sam, I'll arrange it."

The slender fingers entwined deeper, squeezing his own. "I would."

Gibbs leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets.

Tony folded the check in half again then ripped it decisively. "Unlike my father, she means well. Unfortunately," he gestured toward the scraps of paper, "the result often looks the same."

"The drunk driving conviction …"

"Brought on by a half-gallon of Gallo's finest." Tony moved a fingertip through the shredded remains of the check. "I bought it. My dad always found some infraction that cut off my allowance. She gave me pocket change and …"

"You brought her wine," Gibbs surmised.

"Also scotch and vodka."

"At fifteen."

"Fake ID," shrugged Tony. "It was the 80s -- anyway, about that time Dad found a new prep academy to dump me in that was a few too many hours away for weekend visitation. Cured the problem rather nicely." He smiled a too-smooth smile. "Told you the family was fucked up."

Gibbs restrained himself from offering a hand when Tony rose stiffly, balancing against the table's edge. "Where're you going?"

"To take the seven pharmaceuticals that call my name." Tony pointed casually in the direction of the bedroom. "Then I think I'll lie back down for a while." The smile was half-heartedly seductive. "You can join me if you want."

"Be there in a minute."

Gibbs gathered up the scattered paper remains, the amount that had somehow survived intact jumped out at him in well-executed razor-point black: $60,000. One hell of a decorating budget.

(tbc)

I thought "short" was better than none at all. Hope I was right. Apologies if I haven't managed to thank you personally for the feedback. I always appreciate it! Just been one of those weeks (okay, one of those months ... maybe one of those years) and I haven't gotten much net stuff done. Thanks to C and Aly for helping me straighten even this little bit out. Don't know what I'd do without you guys.