author's note. I really did intend for this story to be a oneshot. I wrote the first chapter the same night that 'Escaped' was aired, based on my immediate feelings from watching it, and I tried to explore what could happen. Obviously the show has moved beyond that, so this has less to do with what could happen and more to do with what exists inside my head. Does that make sense? In other words, this chapter (and the next, when I finish editing it) will be much more AU than the first. It's also a bit darker, for me, since I don't usually hurt Tony...

I really should stop apologizing; I'm told it's a sign of weakness.

The second knock went unanswered, even though he knew the occupant was inside. And on some level, Gibbs didn't blame DiNozzo for refusing to answer the door. He could feel the other man's presence, his anger radiating through the door like a slow burn. And he knew that if he opened the door, adding oxygen to the fire might cause the room to explode.

This didn't stop him.

Gibbs carried keys for all of his team members, plus Abby and Ducky. He had learned the hard way the value of being prepared. "I'm coming in, DiNozzo," he said, forehead pressed into the door frame as he sorted through the keys on his chain. He had removed a lot of keys over the years. The one engraved 'TD' was still there.

He had expected boxes, but he hadn't expected blood. There was a lot of blood, and there was broken glass. Gibbs' hand immediately went to his weapon. "Tony!" he shouted, not seeing the younger man immediately. "DiNozzo! You okay?"

"I'm here," Tony said wearily, and coming around the couch, Gibbs saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor alongside an open box. Half of his DVD's had been haphazardly packed, while the other half remained on the shelf.

Gibbs holstered his gun. "What happened in here, DiNozzo?" Tony still hadn't met his eyes.

"I cut my hand," Tony said, raising his right arm to indicate the appendage wrapped in a dishtowel. A filthy dishtowel, knowing Tony's housekeeping skills. "I broke a glass."

"Of all the stupid things to do," Gibbs said, insulting the man again in his relief. Blood usually indicated a crime scene, and that was one thing he couldn't take right now. "Let me see."

"No," Tony refused. "It's fine. Either start helping me pack, or go away, all right?"

Gibbs wasn't stronger, but he took him by surprise. He pried the younger man's arm away and loosened the bloody towel. "Looks like you'll need stitches, Tony," Gibbs said, trying to keep his tone light. Trying to act like Tony had been injured in the line of duty - again - and not sliced open his hand in what Gibbs wasn't totally convinced was an accident.

"It's not your concern, Jethro," Tony replied, avoiding the word 'Boss.' "I've already given my resignation."

"And I haven't accepted," Gibbs said calmly. It was something that they both already knew. "You're going to have to turn in your badge to the Director if you want to be gone that bad."

"Maybe I do," Tony whispered, retrieving his injured hand. He curled his upper body protectively over it, his Baltimore PD t-shirt already streaked with blood.

"Come on," Gibbs said, pulling at the younger man's shoulder. "At least let Ducky see it." Tony shook his head mutely, and returned to packing his movies. Using only his left hand, it was very slow going. "It's your right hand, DiNozzo," Gibbs added. "What are you planning on doing with your life if you can't shoot?"

And that seemed to turn the tide for Tony. He had carried a gun and a badge for so long now, he couldn't imagine going back. It had become a part of him. "All right," he sighed with resignation. "But just Ducky."

"Just Ducky," Gibbs agreed. He knew there was a good chance that Dr. Mallard would take one look at the hand and send him to the emergency room. The hand is a very complicated appendage, full of… tendons and stuff. Might as well burn that bridge when we get to it. "Come on. I'll drive you."

Tony rose, and made a move to the door. Apparently he had forgotten that he wasn't wearing any shoes; glass crunched under his bare feet. "Don't move, Tony." Gibbs stopped him with his hands on Tony's shoulders. "I'll get your shoes."

Tony nodded mutely; Gibbs left him standing there among the ruins of his living room and moved off down the hall. He had seen that look before; he had been in combat enough to know the shell-shocked expression of men who just stopped caring entirely. They could be bleeding to death or just have a scratch, and they'd just stare and stare as if that spot behind and six inches to the left of your head was the most fascinating thing in the world. Somehow, Gibbs had never expected to see that look coming from Tony.

Tony's bed was piled with the contents of his closet and dresser, Hugo Boss suits intermingling with dirty jeans and sweatshirts. Half-concealed by the Ohio State jacket was Tony's striped shirt - the one he had put on when Gibbs sent Tony home to change, when his clothes were soaked through with rain and Kate's blood. Gibbs had always hated that striped shirt. It seemed like when Tony wore it, he was shouting to the world, "Look at me! I can wear a ridiculous shirt and still be a competent federal agent!" Come to think of it, the shirt hadn't appeared for a while.

Gibbs was surprised to realize that he missed it.

There was no time for regret, or for swearing, or for screaming and shouting and breaking the rest of DiNozzo's drinking glasses. Gibbs found a pair of worn running shoes that would at least prevent Tony's feet from being cut to ribbons, and hoped the man hadn't moved from the exact spot in the living room where Gibbs had left him.

He'd grown skittish, colt-like, all long legs and big eyes. Not just this evening, but over the past few weeks. Gibbs knew he had to approach the other man carefully or he'd cut and run, both literally and figuratively. It was different when Stan Burley left. Then, there had been a manly handshake and a regretful parting of ways, and each man had missed the other for all of about a week. Not that Burley wasn't a good agent - he was - but Gibbs had never viewed him as anything but dispensable. DiNozzo, now, had that odd combination of hyper-competence, puppy-like need, and happy-go-lucky slackerness that had made him Gibbs' perfect other half.

They were sort of a crime-fighting yin and yang.

Had been, anyway.

Gibbs moved carefully across the living room, finding Tony doing his impersonation of a statue. Always was good at impressions. He put a hand on each of Tony's shoulders, in what passed for a hug among men. "Let's go," he said gently.