Warning: This chapter contains corporal discipline; you've been warned.

SF part 3 - What Child Is This?

12-15-07 18:57PM

The events of the past few days blazed through Gibbs's mind as he descended the stairs, registering somewhere in the back of his mind that the ringing had stopped and that he could just hear Tony's voice. Leave it to DiNozzo to find a way to work his mouth even if he couldn't work his hands.

Jurisdiction transferred just after midnight, barely staying out of the CIA's greedy hands (DiNozzo's name tended to send up little flags of sick glee among agents like Kourt,) and Gibbs and McGee sent the probie who'd come to join them to oversee the transfer of evidence from the local to the NCIS lab. The two men examined the scene, then Tony's apartment, and then they started canvassing the neighbors; it wasn't like the few who weren't at holiday parties were going to be getting any sleep tonight, anyway. The canvas was largely a bust for the sheer lack of people, but then...

Gibbs knocked on the door farthest from the blast point, ironically Tony's closest neighbor. No one responded, there was no sound, the locals' reports had indicated another dud, but... "NCIS." Nothing. It wasn't a sound, or a smell; it was more of a feeling. "I know you're in there. Open up." Now he heard something soft, like a chuff or a sniffle. Willing to do just about anything to get information, Gibbs forced himself to gentle his voice. "We just need to talk to you."

Silence, then another sniffle. "Can't."

Gibbs blinked. "Why not?"

"Not s'posed to open the door. Promised."

A child.

The child?

Gibbs sank to his knees, closer to the source of the voice. "You promised? That's a big deal. Can you tell me what you promised?"

Sniffle. "Not to open the door when I'm 'lone or when I don't know who it is. 'Cept if they have the badge."

"There were policemen here earlier, and you didn't open the door then; they had badges."

"Not the right one. Has to be the badge, like his."

"That makes sense, I guess. Are your mom and dad home?"

A pause. "Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

Gibbs almost smiled. "That's my job." He took a guess. "You're a very smart young lady; I bet you could answer some of my questions."

"Maybe. Still can't tell you if Mommy and Papa are here. Promised him that, too."

Definitely a girl--no boy would stand for the 'young lady' line. She sounded forlorn, and Gibbs found his fingertips resting against the door as if he could reach through and soothe her. "Sounds like a good promise to make, and a good friend to ask for it. Who is he?"

A longer pause, more sniffles. "Mr. Nose." She was almost whispering now.

Gibbs closed his eyes for a moment, then forced himself to open them again. "I see. I know Mr. Nose, and he is a very good friend to have. He looks out for you?"

"Uh huh. 'Cause he said he likes me and he wants me be safe."

She couldn't be more than six or so, if his memories of Kelly, which he'd only tap for a very short list of people, were any measuring stick; when Kelly'd gotten into school, she'd taken great pride in not dropping words like 'to' and 'I', though she'd been in about second grade before she'd really grown out of it.

He took a breath against the old pain. "Yep, that's the Mr. Nose I know. Tell you what--I bet I can find out out smart you are without making you break your promise."

"How?"

"I have something you should see."

"What?"

"I have a badge. Oh, but not just any badge--the badge, the super-special badge that only good friends like our Mr. Nose wear. Would you like to see it so that you know it's okay to talk to me?"

A rustle. "Uh huh. But I can't--promised not to open the door."

He smiled. 'Tony, you big poser.' Gibbs glanced up at the door. "Can you look up for me, at the door? Do you see that metal thing sticking out way up there where your papa's head would be?"

"Uh huh."

"Good. That's a hole, and it goes all the way through to this side of the door so that you can see out without breaking your promise. Now, I want you to be very, very careful when you do this; ready?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I want you to go find a chair--a good, strong chair, one of the ones around the table, and I want you to very carefully bring it over to the door. I'll wait right here."

He stood up and waited while a few minutes passed, listening carefully for sounds of anything falling, and he was just starting to get worried when he heard a scraping from the other side.

"Okay," she said, huffing and puffing.

"Very good! Is it a very strong chair, one that won't fall over?"

"Uh huh."

"Atta girl! Now I want you to stand on your knees on the seat, and then carefully stand up on the chair and face the door."

A pause. "Okay." Her voice was definitely closer to his now.

"Good. Now, can you stand on your toes and look into the hole? I don't want you to fall, so be careful."

"I know, I know." Gibbs shook his head at the childish exasperation. He heard a rustling and another sniffle and then, "Okay. Is that you?"

He smiled at the peephole. "Can you see me talking to you?"

"Uh huh. You're old."

"I guess I am. My name is Gibbs, and this is my badge." He held it up to the peephole for a thorough inspection, a little impressed that she'd noticed the differences between Tony's and the cops'. "What's your name?"

He was beginning to wonder if he'd lost her when he heard the deadbolt turn. There was more scraping and huffing, and then the knob rotated and the door slowly opened. "Marie," she mumbled.

Huge, teary eyes looked up at him from an opening barely the width of his hand. He would be surprised if she was six yet. He smiled and dropped to a crouch again. "Hi."

She waved shyly at him. He saw her glance back into the hallway, toward the place where Tony had fallen, where the blood still stained the walls and floor, and then quickly drop her eyes. "No, baby, you don't need to look at that. Why don't you just look at me, instead?" She pulled her eyes up to meet his, searching for some sort of reassurance. "He's going to be just fine, and you know why?" She shook her head, eyes wider than he thought possible. "Because you called for help right away. You're a hero, sweetheart--you saved Mr. Nose!" He was more than a little surprised when she shook her head and tears fell. "No? I think you did. Why don't you?"

"Saved me." She was crying hard now, wiping irritated eyes on dancing Santas. When she hiccuped, he decided that he didn't give a flying flip about propriety; he opened his arms, and she rushed into them, burying herself in the front of his shoulder. Burying his own pang, he gave her a couple of minutes to ride the wave, rubbing her small back, then murmured to her. She thought, then nodded, and he stood up with her in his arms, gesturing for McGee to follow him into the apartment. McGee produced a soft handkerchief and Gibbs mopped her up, the gentle touches helping to steady her. Gibbs sat her on the couch and wrapped a blanket around her, and before McGee went to stand in the doorway of the apartment to guard the scene, he pulled out his badge and said that his name was Tim.

She was very young and very scared and she thought that she might have made Mr. Nose go away forever, but her memory was sharp, including being able to hum enough of the bomb's tune for them to know that she'd probably never be able to listen to "Silver and Gold" again, and if she'd missed some details while she'd been throwing a tantrum, well, these things happened. She remembered enough to have Gibbs calling to have someone check on Ross and make sure that the bomber hadn't found his target after all. She told them that her family had never left her alone before and probably wouldn't ever again, and she told them where her uncle had gone and why. They were just finishing up, and she was just about asleep, when McGee intercepted a man with a very clean Husky at the door, and the dog went straight to a sleepy but relieved Marie, letting her burrow into his neck. The man was demanding to know who they were and where his niece was, and Gibbs steered him back out into the hall with a demand for a reason not to call CPS. When the alarmed uncle showed genuine shock that Marie had been left alone, Gibbs relaxed just a fraction and explained the situation. The man went pale when he heard that his neighbor had been hurt, and almost collapsed at the news that the bomb may have been meant for his nephew. He started asking for someone to check on the boy, who was staying with a friend closer to the high school, and Gibbs assured him that it was already ordered.

By the time they'd sent the two off to stay with relatives in the next town, McGee had texted the former primary on a hunch, and had learned that the DCPD was working a serial of prank pipe bombs that had, until now, caused only minor injuries. Gibbs sent McGee 'home' knowing that the young man would be sleeping on hospital tiles that night, checked in with the hospital, where Tony was still in surgery, and suggested something to Jenny that nearly shocked her out of her waiting room chair. Another hour saw him back at the hospital, updating Jenny before dozing off.

First thing in the morning, Gibbs had entered the quiet office to find Palmer inspecting the bomb fragments in Abby's lab--he said he'd done time in a lab before and saw no reason why he shouldn't leave Abby asleep at the hospital so that she could be fresh later to help nail the sucker--and a scared-looking teenage boy in the waiting area. Ross didn't know much, but he stood--for his sister, he would spill every embarrassing secret he'd ever had. Gibbs sent him to his uncle with an escort, checked in with Ducky, took some coffee down to Palmer, and returned to find the lead cop at his desk.

She'd taken over the pipe bomb case at his request, and two days later, with the DCPD's information and Lieutenant Nieto's grit and the NCIS's clout and sheer fury and top forensic scientist, the two agencies nabbed not only the actual serial, but the teenage copycat who'd tried to hurt Ross for embarrassing the kid's sister by refusing to sleep with her. Though the DCPD officially got the serial and NCIS settled for the copycat, McGee got to arrest the teenager, Abby and Palmer got credit for helping with both cases, and Gibbs got to get into both perps' faces, scaring the c out of them with phrases like "federal prison" and "attempted capital murder." The copycat would probably plead down but would be charged as an adult and would be kicking himself for years in jail for not making sure that the Christmas card he bought with his father's Visa wasn't a limited release sold only at two stores, and the serial was going back to jail for parole violation, which carried more weight than malicious mischief in his case. At the end of the day, it was more than they would have expected from a joint investigation, and Gibbs treated Lieutenant Nieto's team to a round of drinks to celebrate both the collars and Tony's release the next day.

Unfortunately, Tony's release hadn't meant that he was healed. His hands were heavily banaged and immobilized, and he had to have wound care several times a day; the real tell that there was something more going on in his head, though, was the fact that he had completely passed on the opportunity to crack on getting wound care from a man who cut up the dead--and talked to them while he did it. Ducky had been concerned enough to bring it to Gibbs's attention while they were waiting for the release paperwork, and while the younger agent put on a good act, he couldn't fool his boss or his 'nurse.'

Even needing the bed for more immediate patients, the doctor hadn't wanted to release him, knowing that Tony lived alone, but Gibbs had resolved that problem rather neatly when he'd announced that the younger man would be staying with him until he was able to handle things himself. Tony had been stunned by that declaration, stumbling to assure Gibbs that he didn't have to do this, that Tony would be fine on his own, but a look from Gibbs silenced him long enough for the doctor to challenge the young man to try to handle a button or a zipper. Tony had been stubborn enough to protest but smart enough not to make a fool of himself by taking the challenge; a few hours later, he'd been settling in to Gibbs's guest room, trying to be independent and to not think about his future resting in the hands of his doctors, who had warned him that until the swelling went down, there would be no way to tell if he'd ever be able to fire a gun, or cut up his own food, again.

He had emphatically not wanted Gibbs to stay home, and Gibbs hadn't been keen to leave the boy alone for long periods, so they'd compromised--Gibbs had planned to come home for lunch every day, and Jenny had privately arranged to keep the lead agent in town for as long as possible, which had meant that a couple of other teams actually got some field time and McGee was getting some leadership experience keeping them out of trouble. He, Ducky, and Abby had all offered to take shifts staying with Tony, but Gibbs had known Tony well enough to redirect them; it had been hard enough for his protege to accept just his help with most things, and the younger man had already declared that he'd rather take baths than have to be helped with a shower and could get by just fine on coffee and energy drinks in lieu of anything that required utensils. Caving on the hygiene but not on the food, Gibbs had spent considerable energy trying to figure out how to take care of the boy without totally demoralizing him--he'd tried joking about Playboy Bunnies with nursing experience, but Tony had barely reacted, and Gibbs had had the sudden thought that he was losing him even as he was bringing him home.

That thought had plagued Gibbs for days, bringing with it an uncertainty that the former Marine couldn't accept in himself and an unexpected bitter fury toward Jeanne for not being here to get the man she supposedly loved through this, and now, as he stood just outside of his own kitchen and listened as a young man he considered his in more than one way shared more with a voice on the phone than he would with Gibbs, the senior agent knew that something had to change.

As he tuned in, he realized what Tony was saying, and his heart turned over again.

"...out, but I can't help it, man. What if I lose it? What if I can't go back to it? The job is everything, you know that--I earned the badge to prove to my father that I could be something. But my father was right--I've never made anything out of myself. The badge made me; cop or NCIS doesn't matter, it's all I've got. Without it, I'm nothing. I have no identity. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the job listings and all, but seriously, who's gonna hire me now? Who'd want me? No wonder Jeanne didn't stick around; there was nothing to stick to. I might as well be invisible. I can't--no--I--listen--hey--"

Gibbs's blood pressure skyrocketed, but he kept his grip. How blind had he been, and for how long? He'd known that Tony's father wouldn't win any awards, but he'd never imagined that the problem ran this deep. He hoped that whomever was on the other end of the line was tearing Tony a new one for all that bull. As he strode through the kitchen door, he was planning to make the point, as drastically as possible, himself.

He was planning to... and then he saw Tony fumbling to hang up the phone, trying not to look guilty and failing, and the plan stalled before it was really formed. Stowing the boiling anger under a tarp of Gibbsness, the older man gave the younger a bland look. "I'm gonna charge you double if I see any 900 numbers on my bill."

Tony flushed, obviously relieved (and obviously off his game if he was buying the act, but that was okay--Gibbs could let him be off his game for a little while,) and mumbled an apology, something about a buddy checking up on him. Gibbs ignored it, opening the fridge and pulling out the Crock Pot liner that Palmer had dropped off at his desk without explanation that morning, and peeling back the foil over the clear lid to find the dish full of some sort of stew--he recognized largish chunks of beef and potatoes and carrots among other things--and wondered how they were going to engineer this. He was mulling over it when he remembered a smaller foil package that Palmer had folded into the foil covering the lid, both of which Abby had been kind enough to store in the lab while they'd all spent their Saturday finishing up paperwork for the end-of-year audit. Gibbs fished through the foil to find the packet, then opened it to reveal two gleaming new sets of hinged metal salad tongs and a note. The note said to put the pot into the microwave for ten minutes (which Gibbs did) and then went on to apologize for only being able to do the smaller version of Spike Salad, something he'd apparently learned in college, where it was customary to eat with the most unusual utensil available, and the salad tongs had won for this dish, giving it its name. As a postscript, Palmer had added that he'd guessed Gibbs might appreciate not having to order take-out after spending all day on the phone with Accounting more than Palmer's usual gift of a coffee mug.

Funny, how it didn't mention Tony. Or a desperate need for man-food. Or the fact that salad tongs might actually work with bandaged hands.

'You are a deep well, Palmer,' Gibbs thought as he realized that he was smelling bacon, baked beans, corn, molasses, and, if he wasn't mistaken, cooked-out Jack Daniels.

Spike Salad.

He turned back to Tony, his expression innocuous. "So, what else did you do today?"

Feeling the reassuring solidity of the oak breakfast table behind him, Tony shrugged--he kept forgetting that it hurt to do that--and tried to hide the wince. "Not much. Wrote a book, played a sonata, donated all your stuff to Volunteers of America."

Gibbs didn't even bother to roll his eyes. "Take your shirt off."

"Huh?"

Gibbs crossed to Tony in two long strides. "You hurt your hands, not your ears. You heard me, DiNozzo. Shirt. Off." When Tony didn't budge, Gibbs leaned closer. "If you can't do it yourself, I'll help you." The tone was kind, but the warning was clear: do it or I will. Tony sighed and turned around. "Oh, so now you're shy? Face me, DiNozzo."

Tony paused for a moment before slowly turning back to face his boss. Resentment emanated from him as he reluctantly started to remove his shirt. It was a painful struggle, and Gibbs had to resist the urge to 'rescue' his protege, knowing that that would only compound Tony's lack of self-esteem. Gibbs felt like a jerk, standing there watching while the younger man forced himself to endure pain and vulnerability on his order, but the irony of the situation was that in order to feel whole and strong, the ex-cop was going to have to learn to accept that it was safe to be so vulnerable, was going to have to be willing to show that trust not only in Gibbs but in his own ability to be in whatever circumstances. Gibbs knew this a little too well, as it had never been his strong suit, and he would sooner drink drain cleaner than see Tony suffer as he himself had. He'd realized long ago that he was invested in this young man, but hadn't known how invested until he'd nearly lost him through his own stupidity; he'd promised Tony then that he would never let pride or presumptions damage their trust again, and he'd promised silently at the same time that he would be there when this boy needed a hand, that Tony would always be able to trust Gibbs to find him and show him the way back.

When Tony finally had his shirt off, having found ways to get around gripping and twisting, Gibbs ran a critical eye over every inch of the younger man's arms and torso, finding what he'd expected and having to bury his own wince--deep bruises had finally shown up around the shoulders and upper chest, compliments of the shock wave from the bomb blast, and a couple of the stitches on the boy's right arm looked inflamed. There wasn't any blood showing through the bandages, but Gibbs wasn't in the mood to take chances.

"You haven't taken anything." It wasn't a question, but the boy was drn well going to answer for it.

"I don't know, seems like I'm taking something right now." Tony's defensive grumbling was maybe a good sign, but not just at the moment, not when what he needed was real confidence, not reflexive petulance. Tony was going to have to learn to genuinely trust himself as well as Gibbs.

This was going to take awhile.

Ah, well. Semper fi.

"Okay, now you can turn around."

Tony gave Gibbs his snarkiest look. "Well, I don't exactly need to now."

Gibbs moved in. "Oh, I think you do." Before Tony could do more than start to lean back, Gibbs got a grip on the largest unbruised area of Tony's left upper arm and spun him around, sliding around to the younger man's left side as he levered the well-built torso down over the table, careful to avoid impacting the sore areas as much as possible.

"Gibbs--what the--" Tony sputtered, trying to get away, but physics was not his friend at the moment, and while Gibbs might not be stronger in a fair fight, he had the advantages of having eaten today while Tony hadn't and of meaning just enough to DiNozzo to make the younger man hesitate at the idea of truly fighting him. Gibbs hated the idea of taking advantage of that, especially when that was part of the relationship that he would need to foster for a while, but for all his cocky front, the junior agent had actually fallen in pretty quickly under Gibbs's authority on the job, and the senior agent could only hope that Tony would submit as swiftly this time; it wasn't going to be easy for either of them, but he was willing to fight for this young man--maybe the only one who ever had.

"Oh, I think you recognize the position." Gibbs gritted his teeth as he recalled Tony making references to childhood punishments that had always struck Gibbs as abusive, and he knew that he was going to have to make his point fast and firm and establish this as a new order and not a repeat of past pains. "Here's what you're gonna learn to recognize now." With his left hand pinning Tony's back, he brought his right hand down hard over the thin sweatpants. "Feel this? This is my hand connecting with your backside." He kept swatting, rhythmically but in no particular pattern, not surprised that Tony was shifting from foot to foot, trying in vain to stay out of the line of fire. "This is me telling you that I see you." Though he wasn't fighting as hard as he could, Tony had evidently decided to be the tough guy and run silent. Well, that wasn't gonna wash. Gibbs notched up the force, feeling the young man jump beneath his hand with each strike. "This is me telling you that I know who you are." He ramped up the speed of his swing now, determined to brand this concept into his charge with his words and tone while his hand stoked the fire; it be a long road for both of them, but this was just the ignition, and Gibbs had no intention of burning out the starter. "This is me telling you that I'm sticking, no matter where I am, no matter where you are, no matter what happens, I'm sticking, and there's nothing you can do about it." Tony had stopped fighting, had lowered his chest to the surface of the table, and was just listening through the sounds of distress that he tried so hard to stifle, and Gibbs could feel the engine turning over. "This is me, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, talking to you, Anthony Michael DiNozzo, without the badge. You don't think you exist without it? Ask your butt--I guarantee you it believes you're still here."

Barely winded, Gibbs paused for a few beats; he'd stopped swatting in the middle of his last sentence, and he flexed his right hand a few times while his left still rested on the younger man's back. After a moment, he shifted so that he was hip-to-hip with Tony, leaning down beside and over the junior agent, right arm over the trembling back so that one hand tented on the table on each side of the boy, in something that was halfway between a cage and an embrace. Inches from Tony's ear, Gibbs said, low and firm, "This is me telling you that you're not nothing, you're not a piece of tin, you're a cop, and a d good one. You're my cop, Tony. I picked you; you think you got shoved on me, but you didn't--I studied everyone, every candidate they marked, and I chose you, I told them to call you in with an offer. Your captain said I'd regret it, but I never have. I want you. If I didn't, you wouldn't be here. I haven't been training a badge, DiNozzo; I've been training a lead, you've already proven that this summer, and whether you're a lead NCIS agent or a lead griddle scrubber, you're still more than most of the guys out there. The badge didn't make you, Tony; you made the badge. You made it every time you helped close a case, every time you caught a killer, or stood up in court against a gangster, or walked a beat in a Baltimore winter, or refused to take a kickback that would pay for a Maserati. You make it every time you go under against a terrorist, every time you stand for a sailor or a Marine. You make it every time you do something a lesser man wouldn't. You made it Monday night, off the clock, five feet from home, without a flack jacket or a warrant or anyone giving you orders." He leaned just a touch closer. "You're a Federal agent, a cop, because you choose to serve and protect. You're a good agent, a good cop, because you can't be less. No piece of shiny metal can make that, and no piece of paper, no doctor's report, no fitness ruling, no angry words from an idiot father can unmake you."

Gibbs held position--and silence--for a moment to let that sink in, then he stood up and turned and crossed to the microwave, checking the temperature of the 'salad' before pulling out the two-pack of oversized cereal bowls that Maddy had sent him (in a box with a large bag of cereal, a can of cranberries, a huge plastic spoon, and a convenience-store-style personal fried apple pie) as a Thanksgiving joke that he was surprised she remembered. While he set to work dishing up dinner, he listened for an indication that Tony was recovering his composure; the younger man needed a couple of minutes to gather himself before carefully levering up to standing and then leaning down and reclaiming his sweatshirt. Gibbs made sure to give him plenty of time to redress, counting on Tony to figure it out and to ask for help if he needed it, before the older man brought over the bowls, tongs, and napkins. He heard quiet sniffles, which didn't embarrass the former Marine but did give him a twinge of guilt, but DiNozzo wordlessly went to the fridge and dug out a beer, carefully ferrying it to the table between two potholders that protected his bandages from the moisture, and set it down by one place before going back and getting another so that they'd both have something. The silence didn't surprise Gibbs--most of the team didn't realize it even after all this time, but Gibbs had seen Tony quiet before, though it usually meant that something major was brewing behind his eyes--nor did the younger man's ability to resume his routine on the heels of a major shock, as he'd done after the plague and after Kate's death. For the first time, it started to rankle on Gibbs that he didn't really know what was going on in Tony's head, but as long as DiNozzo was here, that can of worms could wait. The older man thought about switching Tony's beer for soda, but as DiNozzo had stubbornly refused to take any of his pain medication for the last three days, and as he didn't have a prayer of getting buzzed enough to forget what had just happened, Gibbs let it slide.

Tony wouldn't make eye contact, which wasn't exactly surprising, but rather than angry or pouty, he seemed... broody. When Gibbs told him to sit down and eat before it got cold, the young man looked a little dismayed but slowly complied, shifting subtly before determinedly capping the urge to squirm. Gibbs watched him with an increasingly practiced eye, satisfied--the boy was sore and would be for a few hours, but it was nothing that some sleep wouldn't take care of, and he'd probably be fine by the time Ducky arrived in the morning.

As for Tony's future with the job, well, they'd cross that bridge after it got built.

It took Gibbs a minute to get used to the salad tongs, though DiNozzo seemed to master them easily enough, and while the younger man picked at his dinner, appetite probably off commisserating with his dignity, Gibbs had no such reservations as he snagged a bite of beef.

Rib-eye.

Oh, yeah. Palmer was getting a raise.