Chapter 14:- Intimacy

Gibbs nodded at Tony's softly spoken reply, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Tony wouldn't see the gesture from the other end of a phone line. He listened a little longer. "Understood," the comment was clipped, almost military, and uttered with no emotion. Gibbs cradled the receiver, staring straight ahead for a moment not moving. Kate almost exploded with the building tension but somehow she could not break the moment, the stillness, the silence.

She watched Gibbs' reactions carefully, trying to read him, trying to gauge the news from his responses. She should have known better. Gibbs' emotions could only be read when he wanted them to be. Still it didn't look good. She felt the muscles across her back tense into knots as she waited.

Finally Gibbs turned his head slightly and met her gaze.

"Call Ducky, tell him Tony's on his way in," he said standing, his tone neutral.

Kate felt the sense of relief washing over her as she picked up her phone, still warm from Gibbs touch, his unnaturally tight grip on it creating excess heat that now lingered. Her shoulders dropped as some of the tension of the last few minutes, of the last few days, drained away. Tony was coming in, he would see the bodies, gain some closure and then he would come back, and they could pick up where they left off. She could finally get her revenge for that 'Shitsu called Kate' comment. She was sure that she could think up something suitable if. . . ."

"McGee see if you can get some file boxes for Dinozzo to clear his desk." Again Gibbs kept the tone of the comment neutral, allowing his military side to cut off the emotion.

Kate stopped, her finger hovering over the buttons that would call up Ducky's extension. If that had been Gibbs first comment she could almost have handled it, almost. . maybe, but it wasn't. His first comment had given her hope, had robbed her of the tension that would have formed a barrier, would have helped her to cope with the idea that he wasn't coming back. Instead the comment hit her with her defences down, stabbed like a betrayal. She almost dropped the receiver. She stared at it for a moment before slamming it down. "What?" She stood, unable to control the swirl of emotion that now manifested as anger; anger that needed a focus and Gibbs was there. "But I thought that you just said he was coming in. He's following your advice. He just needs more time. He. . ."

Gibbs stopped part way back to his desk and turned to meet her gaze. Dropping his guard he allowed her to see the raw emotion, the understanding, just for a moment. She broke off her tirade as their eyes met, the silence hanging.

"He wants to collect his stuff," Gibbs said quietly, "I can't stop him."

No matter how much he wanted to, Tony had made his choice. He couldn't stop him, all he could do was deal with it, deal with the emotion. Deal with the. . . No! the walls slammed back into place, protective barriers that slid down as though they were on a hair trigger, blocking the emotion, protecting what was left of his soul from the ravages of the outside world, from seeing too many friends and comrades fall, too many falter, too many fail. Self preservation kicked in, it always did. His gaze hardened. "Now I suggest you deal with it Agent Todd, or get McGee to find you some extra boxes so you can clear your desk too." He stepped back then turned away, walking off in search of coffee. He needed coffee. He repeated the thought as he ignored the eyes that now bored into his back.

Kate just stared after him as he left, stunned as ever by his apparent callousness. This was Tony. How could he. . ? She slowly sank down into her chair, the anger draining to leave a deep sorrow in its place.

"He doesn't mean it." McGee stated quietly. He'd moved across to stand at her desk, flicking his gaze between her and Gibbs' retreating figure.

"Yes he does," Kate stated looking up at him, and neither of them knew if the other was talking about Gibbs or Tony.

NCISNCIS

The journey so far hadn't been as hard as Tony expected. Then again he'd expected it to be Hell. It had taken three buses and quite a lot of walking but he'd finally made it to the building that housed the NCIS offices.

He looked up at the subdued gold lettering, bit of a non sequitur- subdued gold, but it was. Quietly unassuming in the bright sunlight, maybe it was the font? Whatever it seemed to perfectly suit the agency inside the building, the gold representing the brash confidence, the strength of purpose that was necessary to get the job done, and yet it wasn't an agency swallowed by its own ego, a prisoner of its own public image like some of the other agencies that were there to uphold the law. NCIS could never be accused of driving its own publicity machine. They just quietly got on with the job.

A job that Tony loved.

A job that he was here to give up.

He had made it to two therapy sessions in the week since he had left the hospital. He had gone because he wanted to be fixed, wanted to get back to work, wanted to answer Gibbs question with a yes. He had left each time having to face the truth, the unpleasant conclusions. Kate and Gibbs had seen it when they'd looked at him, they had known and he'd known too. When he'd pulled that trigger something inside him had shattered, split into a thousand fragments, and even if he could put it back together, and that was only an if, then it wouldn't be achieved in a short space of time.

There was very little he could do about it, but the one thing he could do he had been avoiding, until Gibbs had called him on it. Gibbs, Kate and the team needed someone to fill his shoes, to take his place. Not someone on temporary assignment, here to cover for a week or a month before picking up something permanent somewhere else, continually being replaced, rotated round. It wasn't as safe that way, you couldn't build up the trust, didn't get to know them well enough to anticipate their moves, and that, in their profession could be dangerous. Tony didn't want to leave his team in that position. He'd thought about this long and hard, hadn't had much else to do. He could leave the team working with temps, risking their lives or, potentially worse, attempting to cope short handed, and for what? Until he finally got around to admitting that he wasn't coming back, because at that moment in time he genuinely didn't believe he ever could.

So he'd decided to make it easy on them, clear his desk, and if one day in the distant future he did make it back, then he could only hope that he'd make it onto a team as good as the one he'd left.

Not that he was giving up. He was here because he wasn't giving up. He was here to face the man he had killed. He knew that it would help. How had the therapist phrased it? '. . .contribute significantly to his eventual recovery.' The operative word in that sentence had been 'eventual.' Gibbs had seen it, Kate had seen it, and the therapist, Diane, had seen it too. So, he was here to pursue that part of his therapy. Now, if he could just make it through the damn doors. He stared at the sign and let out a long sigh.

NCISNCIS.

The world around didn't really register on his senses, not in any normal way. It was as if he was in a bubble that extended a few centimetres from his skin. He could see his own hands, could feel the tingling sensation that rippled up and down his skin as he moved. The metal handle of the drawer was visible only as his fingers approached, as though it was materialising in front of him.

He wasn't even sure how he'd made it here, vague recollections of corridors and carpet and nodded greetings as he'd passed. His interactions with the world must have seemed normal to everyone else. They didn't stop and stare, at least he didn't think they did.

Ducky had been in the room when he'd arrived, he'd pointed out which drawers Tony needed. He wasn't in the room any more. He must have left. Not that Tony could focus his senses on the rest of the room, so he wasn't sure how he knew that he was alone, but he was.

He could hear his own heart pounding in his chest, could feel the trickle of sweat run off his forehead, could hear his own harsh breaths as he drew air in and out, in and out; could feel the cold metal leaching the heat from his hand as his fingers grasped it. He drew one last deep breath in and pulled.

His vision expanded in a rush, the bright lights reflecting off the polished silver that surrounded him, and it took him a moment to deal with the head-spinning disorientation, until the world settled back to something approaching normality, and he found himself staring down at the pale features of Jeffrey White.

He almost fell back, tears sprang to the edge of his vision, prickling but not falling, bile rose in his throat, and the tightly knotted muscles of his abdomen attempted to rearrange themselves in new more painful patterns, dragging at his hollow stomach. He stood and rode the waves of nausea, holding them in, along with he tears. Finally he took another deep breath.

"Why?" he asked Jeffrey quietly.

"I've been here before, I've killed people before, perhaps with less reason. You would have killed me." He put his fingers up to the still healing scar on his throat, suddenly angered by his own reaction to the death of someone who was a vicious killer, who would have killed him. He turned pulling open the drawer behind, the nausea rising once again as he looked down at the body of Lane Donaldson, saw for the first time the brutality of the attack. Donaldson's head had been half separated from the body, the deep gash running from ear to ear.

He stared for a moment, shock replacing the anger. He touched his neck once again, confronted by his own mortality. 'That could have been me.' The thought held him in a silent stare for a few moments before he turned back to face White. "You would have killed me. Why?" and this was a different question from the one he'd asked moments earlier, then he'd been questioning his own motivation, now he was questioning Jeffrey's. "We were friends," not true, but then again in some ways the bonds had been stronger than friendship, but why? That question again. "I wanted to help you?"

The anger drained out of him. "Why couldn't you let me help you?" The tears began to fall, he didn't try to stop them, didn't even notice them.

That wasn't the question he needed to ask.

Jeffrey White had been a lost cause long before the time Tony had spent with him. He was beyond any help that Tony could have given him. Tony knew that, Tony had known that in the car, had suspected it before he offered Jeffrey a deal. Had known it when he killed him, so why. . .?

That question again.

He stared at Jeffrey's body but did not see, his mind transported him back, vivid images played, details of their day together, no specific incidents, just looks, emotions.

Tony knew the answers; he just didn't want to admit them.

Jeffrey White was the embodiment of everything he was afraid of being. Lost, alone, someone desperate to be liked who had no friends, no purpose in life. Tony was afraid of becoming that, worked hard not to be. Physically worked out, styled his hair, chose his clothes carefully, worked so hard at getting people to like him, to need him, to want him. Fear drove him. Fear that he would be like Jeffrey.

Jeffrey had the same sense of abandonment that he felt, it pervaded through him, allowed him to identify with him in a way that exposed feelings like raw open nerves. Jeffrey's father had beaten him. Tony's father had never actually hit him, just terrorised him, ignored him and eventually disowned him, but the effect on the psyche had striking similarities. Similarities that had strengthened the bond, had made Tony want to like Jeffrey, need to like Jeffrey, need to save Jeffrey, because a part of Jeffrey was in him.

His mind played through the different sensations, bright pictures, flashing through conversations at lightning speed, until he was sitting in the car, and time suddenly froze, and there it was. That perfect moment of intimacy, that moment on the cusp between life and death, between taking a life and sacrificing your own. An intimacy, a melding of mind and soul and being that left him closer to another human being than anything else could have, an intimacy that was not even achieved at the moment of orgasm. It was in that moment that part of his soul had shattered.

He stared down at Jeffrey White's corpse, and realised that part of himself was still trapped in that moment, trapped in that car, and for as long as it was he wasn't coming back. "I guess I know why," he whispered softly.