Author: Revanche
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Rating: PG-13. Slash.
Spoilers: Another post-2x10 story for, you know, the hell of it.
Summary: Most people don't notice the fraying edges.
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The hum and growl of downshifting cars on the motorway and Tony is in his backyard, the crispness of his new sweater and the sharp clean lines of his khakis vivid against the cool dry grass in midwinter, because despite what the weather report has predicted, they have yet to see snow. His knees are drawn up against his chest and his arms surround them, as though he can hold himself together with the strength of a physical grasp. Distant skyrises reflect the fading light of a far-off sun, alternately glittering and fading in government-approved colors against an expanse of deep blue sky that is broken only by the wisps of clouds that hover on the horizon. His sleeve slides up as he leans back, dead grass crackling under the weight, and he looks so young, his shade-covered eyes on the sky above as the winter chill soaks into his body, dirt speckles his expensive clothes.
But he contemplates death and darkness and there is a raw red line around his wrist where the handcuff chafed, drew blood. Crackling yellow leaves spin near his feet, bitter and out of place in December. The clouds are darkening. He doesn't react as wind rubs at his skin, rustles through his hair.
Maybe he's fallen asleep.
Standing in the doorway, on the weatherworn deck boards, Gibbs feels the aftermath of an adrenaline rush settle over his shoulders. He is exhausted and he has every right to be, but it's Tony who should be feeling the effects of this . . . this near-death, near-loss experience, not him. After all, all he did was watch. Follow, one step behind. One body behind. But Tony is brilliant and unknowable, and since when has he reacted like he should? Contemplative Tony scares him, because he's never sure he'll be able to answer the inevitable questions, the ones spoken out loud. Or the ones that don't get asked, that shadow the younger man's eyes, because maybe he's afraid that Gibbs won't know the answers.
Tony almost died. This happens with surprising regularity. He shouldn't expect anything else. It wouldn't have been his fault, after all. Not really.
Not really.
But tonight he is responsible for keeping Tony safe, and he has always taken his responsibilities seriously. Tony's perfectly capable of surviving by himself, but sometimes survival isn't enough.
Tony doesn't look away from the sky as Gibbs comes towards him, crosses the yard, crouches next to him. Crouches, but does not sit, does not lean back, because he's never been able to manage that kind of carelessness, that kind of pointless grace. "Cloudwatching, Tony?"
"What I don't get is how people see shapes in them, you know? I mean, they all look the same."
"You gonna come inside any time tonight?"
One corner of his mouth twitches, but his eyes are hidden by the shades. "Why? You have anything planned?"
"It's getting cold," he says, ignoring the question. He stands, offers a hand to Tony and pulls him up. Tony's hands are white with chill. They walk together, the short distance back to the house, and he wonders why he never asks what Tony thinks about, either. Not on these occasions, during these times. Maybe he knows all too well what the answer would be, and maybe it's something that doesn't need to be said. The house is warm and too still. Morning will come too soon; it always does. Tony tosses his sunglasses onto the kitchen table as he passes by. Gibbs wonders if he'll regret that, later.
"I really liked him," Tony lies, because he thinks that it's better to feel loss than to feel satisfaction. This is something that Gibbs understands, even if the understanding comes reluctantly, difficultly, and he can think of nothing to say to this. Tony drops onto the couch as though the journey inside has exhausted him, and Gibbs has no choice but to sit beside him.
Only the look in Tony's eyes, urgency, get me out of here before I break, stopped Gibbs from telling the all-too-helpful ER doc exactly what PTSD looks like, when it's real and messy and shattering, when it isn't in the neat, concise bullet-points listed in the lavender brochure. Stopped him from telling the doc that there's no real "post" anymore, but that his agents are stronger than that. That they do not break.
He hopes he would have been telling the truth.
"You remember to take your Tylenol," he says, making it a statement. Tony doesn't flinch, doesn't touch the thin line across his throat, doesn't touch the myriad of bruises and scrapes, doesn't touch his ankle, twisted somehow in the fall down the hill into what he says amounted to little more than a large puddle. He doesn't like stronger painkillers, doesn't like narcotics. He says that he knew somebody who used them. He always manages to change the subject before anything more can be said.
"Yeah," he says. He leans his head against Gibbs' shoulder, sighs. There's grass in his hair. Gibbs' thumb traces circles on Tony's shoulder as Tony slides down, rests his head in Gibbs' lap, his gaze falling somewhere on the opposite wall, seeing patterns in the fading plaster.
"I told him about my dad," he says. "I lied. I don't think he was lying, though. He might have been. How do you know? What with being a serial killer and all, he probably lied really well." He's not really asking for any of the answers that Gibbs can give him. Tony has always known more than he lets on, more than he should. He's too young to have these thoughts, and so he masks them with a quick smile, bad one-liners, easy grace. He feigns effervescence. Most people don't notice the fraying edges. Gibbs does.
"You can go," Tony says after a few minutes, his words heavy and slurred with sleep. "Work on your boat or whatever. I'm not going anywhere."
"Me, neither," Gibbs says. Tony murmurs something too low for Gibbs to hear. The light sneaking in around the corners of the windowblinds darkens and goes out. Tony's hand twitches as he dreams, and Gibbs stills it. Tony won't tell him what happened on the bus, on the road, in the cabin. He won't speak of the minutes before Gibbs and Kate arrived, the irrelevant cavalry arriving too late, and Gibbs hasn't asked. If it's necessary, Tony will tell him, later. He just hopes that it won't be too late, then.
Time unravels. Gibbs listens to Tony's quiet breathing, keeps his hand on Tony's shoulder. The night wind howls. Branches press at bare windowglass. They are safe.
They are safe.
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End