Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.
BLINDSIDED
Chapter Eleven
Gibbs woke around 5am and immediately checked on Tony. The younger man was still lying insensate on his bed, lips slightly parted in sleep, snoring lightly - his skin ghastly pale against his dark hair and lashes. The medication had eased the lines of pain that framed Tony's eyes and creased his brow the previous night.
He prepared the coffee pot and left it percolating while he took a quick shower and dressed. Coffee in hand, he made his way to Tony's desk, tucked neatly into a corner of the large living room and he fired up the PC. He spent the next hour, browsing several websites and reading up on medical advances in Neurological Vision Impairment and Cortical Blindness.
He poured himself a refill before continuing his online search, this time choosing Vision Rehabilitation Services and the best practice methods of human guide techniques. He was determined to ensure that his inexperience and lack of knowledge on the subject would not endanger Tony.
A barely audible thump at the door signalled the arrival of the morning newspaper and Gibbs opened the door and bent to pick up today's 'Post.'
"Good morning, Agent Gibbs!" a cheery voice sounded from across the hall.
"Mrs Cantrell," he said, looking up in surprise. "You're an early riser."
Tony's neighbour was a vibrant and loveable eccentric with a cheery disposition and a quick smile framed by deep dimples. She reminded Gibbs of Betty White with a blue rinse.
"I have an African tribal-dance class at 8am." The elderly lady replied. "And please, you must call me Gladys."
"Only if you call me Jethro, Ma'am."
"Jethro! How delightful!" Mrs Cantrell remarked. "I once courted a young man named Jethro, before I met my Arthur, of course. Lovely young man, not the brightest light in the chandelier but he sure was a looker!"
"Yes, Ma'am," Gibbs grinned. "Thank you for dinner last night. I hope you didn't go to any trouble."
"Oh, it's no trouble. I like to cook for Anthony – he calls me his "blue-rinse angel", she replied with a girlish giggle. "He's quite the charmer, that one."
"So I'm told."
Mrs Cantrell chewed her bottom lip anxiously and reached out to take Gibbs' hand. "Jethro, how is Anthony?"
"He's gonna be fine, Ma'am – just gonna take a little time."
"Of course. Well, give him my love, tell him I'll be by to visit soon and please let me know if there's anything at all I can do, anything! That young man has been very good to me, especially since my Arthur passed on."
"Thank you, Ma'am, I'll keep that in mind."
"Well then, I must get going to my class –we're learning a SuSu seduction dance called the Macru. I have to be early to get my pick of the hot young men! Bye for now."
"Ma'am." Gibbs did a double take and grinned in amusement as 86-year-old Gladys Cantrell, power-walked her Lycra-clad body down the corridor.
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Although it was getting late by his standards, Gibbs let Tony sleep, hoping the extended rest would chase away the remnants of last night's headache. He continued to half-heartedly read the paper, listening for movement from the other room.
It was almost 0930 before Tony walked slowly into the living room - one arm outstretched in front of him as he tried to reorient himself with the furniture. He greeted Gibbs with a short grunt, located his recliner by touch then allowed himself to fall heavily into it.
Though the painkillers had forced sleep upon him, the dark smudges under his eyes laid testament to the fact that very little of it had been beneficial.
"Want some breakfast?" Gibbs asked.
"Just coffee." came the short reply.
"Coffee's not breakfast. You need something to eat before you have your meds."
"Oh, right, 'cos that worked so well last night!" Tony snapped, his face flushing at the memory of last night's dinner mishap.
"Man's gotta eat."
"I haven't shopped for a while, Boss, been a little busy with the whole unable to see thing," Tony replied sharply, then huffed resignedly. "Maybe some Cheerios."
"Cereal, toast and juice," Gibbs countered. "Go wash up."
"You eaten yet?"
"Been waiting on you, DiNozzo. Move your ass, I'm hungry."
With breakfast under control and Tony in the shower, Gibbs slipped into Tony's room and opened his wardrobe. He shook his head at the huge array of clothing, ranging from faded jeans to designer dinner suits and very few items were "off the rack."
He grabbed the jeans and a casual navy shirt and laid them out on the bed with a clean pair of boxers, socks and pair of Nikes and with a nonchalant "Clothes are on your bed" he headed back to the kitchen before the younger man could complain.
In his current mood, Gibbs wouldn't have been at all surprised if Tony had silently protested having his clothes laid out for him by marching out for breakfast in a bathrobe. But, twenty minutes later, Tony re-entered the living room, dressed, looking a little fresher and, hopefully, a little more receptive than before.
"Breakfast's ready," Gibbs said, his voice leading Tony to the dining area.
Tony seated himself at the table and gently felt around his place setting, locating a bowl that Gibbs had already filled with Cheerios, milk and a spoon.
"What time is the rehab instructor due?" Tony tried to ask casually but Gibbs knew the impending visit was largely behind his agent's testy attitude this morning.
"Thirteen hundred," Gibbs replied. "You've got a few hours."
Tony flipped open the crystal on his watch and with gentle fingers, confirmed that it was just after zero ten hundred.
"I agreed to visit the reorientation centre with Ducky next week, why do I have to see this guy, too?" Tony's voice was low and definitely edgy.
"This is agency sanctioned," Gibbs said, keeping his voice level. "You need to be evaluated…"
"Evaluated? Evaluated for what, my blindness?" Tony laughed humourlessly and the anger burning within him suddenly ignited. "What are they gonna do, Boss? Watch me walk into a few walls? Take me for a drive and tell me to find my own way home? I'm blind and I don't need a freakin' evaluation to tell me that!"
Patience was something Gibbs had never had in abundance and he knew he was fast approaching his limit. As Tony started to push himself away from the table, Gibbs grabbed a tight hold on his forearm.
"Stand down, DiNozzo!" he barked in his best DI's voice.
He watched the muscles along Tony's jaw line contract and for a moment, thought the younger man was going to defy him. After a long moment, Tony shrugged off Gibbs' hold and sat heavily back into his seat, tension radiating from every pore.
"Tony…listen to me," Gibbs said firmly. "The evaluation is for medical insurance and worker's compensation approval. Unless you want to foot the bill for your own medical expenses, this has to be done."
Tony gave a curt nod and Gibbs continued.
"The guy's a Vision Rehabilitation Therapist. He can help you with every day living skills. You wanna keep your independence til your sight returns, here's your chance. You wanna make your own decisions, have control? You can let him help you for a few hours a week or you can start packing for the reorientation centre. You decide."
"You call that a choice?" Tony asked brusquely after an awkward silence.
"Never known you to run from a challenge, Tony," Gibbs said plainly. "Now's not the time to start."
The two men ate the remainder of their breakfast, barely speaking a word. Usually, the taciturn lead agent was comfortable, grateful even, with a peaceful silence and the opportunity to gather his own thoughts. But silence from DiNozzo usually meant sickness, loss of consciousness or trouble and, despite Tony's lingering headaches, he was certain he could rule out the first two.
Ten hours that only registered as thirty minutes on the clock, passed without a word. Tony finished his toast and juice, got to his feet and walked back into his room, closing the door firmly behind him.
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Gibbs had returned to the PC and had been lost in his research when the intercom sounded. He checked his watch, surprised that he had lost track of time. He looked at the small CCTV screen located near the intercom and saw a man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, waiting to be let in. Gibbs established that he was Steven Myles, the Vision Rehabilitation Therapist who was here to speak with Tony and he pressed the button to allow him entry.
When the younger man arrived at the apartment, they introduced themselves and Myles took a seat in the living room while Gibbs made coffee. Gibbs did not miss the cautious and methodical manner in which the younger man moved and realised that he was, at least partially, visually impaired.
"I'll get Tony," Gibbs said.
"Before you do, Agent Gibbs, I'm guessing by the closed door that Tony isn't too happy about this meeting – has the agency arranged any professional help?"
"Just you."
Myles chuckled. "I'm more than happy to answer any concerns Tony has and to teach him new living skills but I'm not qualified to assess his mental attitude. Individuals with new vision loss are at high risk for depression. Learning what he needs to know to stay active is Tony's best defence against depression and believe me, no matter how stoic or resilient Tony may be - depression is the real enemy. You can learn to live fully with vision loss but you cannot live fully with depression."
Gibbs nodded. "Accident happened less than a week ago. He's still coming to terms with it."
"If by 'it' you mean the blindness," Myles stated. "The background information I received from your agency, said Tony was a uniformed cop, then a detective before joining NCIS as a field agent."
"That's right."
"Has anyone spoken to Tony about how his loss of vision will effect his employment with NCIS?"
"Not yet. We wanted to give him some time."
"Time for what? For his vision to return?"
"We were told this could be temporary."
"And, for Tony's sake, I hope it is." Myles replied. "But I'm sure you were also told that this could be a permanent condition and, therefore, one of Tony's greatest concerns at the moment must be whether he would still be able to earn a living and support himself. I'm sure things will be a lot easier for him if he knew that he had the support of the agency, no matter what happens."
"I'll talk to him."
"If I could make a suggestion, those assurances might be better coming from Director Vance – might make it seem more official – not just comforting words from a friend."
"I'll see to it."
"Good." Myles said. "Tony's frame of mind is crucial to this type of training. One thing I have learned during my career as a Vision Rehabilitation Therapist is that I cannot teach an adult client a skill that he or she is not ready to learn, no matter how important and useful I feel the skill might be. If this training is going to be beneficial, Agent Gibbs – for the long term or the short term - Tony needs to be willing to work hard at it."
"He will," Gibbs said confidently.
"Today is just an informal chat and initial therapy assessment to discuss some of the concerns and goals Tony may have regarding the training sessions. Have you had any human guide training?"
"We have a friend, who's a doctor. He gave us minimal instruction."
"But not enough for you to feel totally comfortable about Tony's safety, right?" Myles guessed. "Why don't I go talk with Tony then, when we've finished, I can run you both through some techniques designed to keep you safe when moving around indoors or outdoors. The best training though, is practice. Take a few short walks – to the park or the corner store – you'll be surprised how quickly you both adapt. Now might be a good time to meet Tony."
"He had a rough night and a bad morning, he may not be too receptive," Gibbs warned the younger man.
"I'm sure we'll be fine."
Gibbs nodded and walked to the closed bedroom door. He knocked briefly before entering.
"Tony?"
Tony was lying on the bed, open eyes staring upwards but seeing only darkness.
"He's here?" Tony asked without expression.
"He's here," Gibbs confirmed.
"I'll be right out," he huffed.
Moments later Tony walked carefully from the bedroom to the living room, using his hands to locate the furniture to orient himself.
The visitor was immediately on his feet and walked directly to Tony, speaking so that Tony could hear him coming.
"Tony," the younger man said. "I'm Steven Myles, your Vision Rehabilitation Therapist. Please, call me Steve."
Tony reluctantly extended his hand and Steve grasped it in a firm handshake.
"I'd tell you to call me Tony but…wait a minute…you just did," Tony said sarcastically.
"DiNozzo!" Gibbs hissed.
"No, he's right!" Steve said. "That was my fault – I made an presumption and I apologise. Would you prefer me to call you, Agent DiNozzo?"
"Tony's fine," he muttered grudgingly.
They all took their seats and Steve continued.
"I know this is a terribly difficult time for you and you have every right to be a little …confused."
"Do I have the right not to be confused, as well?" Came Tony's pissy reply.
Gibbs and Steve exchanged a glance and Gibbs rubbed his fingers over tired and concerned eyes. Steve pressed on.
"As a Vision Rehabilitation Therapist, I teach adaptive independent living skills that enable adults who are blind or have low vision to perform a range of daily living activities. These include home management, mobility and orientation, personal self-care and everyday things like using the telephone, shopping, or reading and writing Braille."
"Been doing this long, Steve, 'cause you sound pretty young to me?" Tony asked in a clipped tone.
"Well, if you're concerned about my qualifications, Tony, I have lived with low vision since I was eight years old – that gives me about seventeen years first hand experience," the young man said, matter-of-factly. "I attended the Academy for Certification of Vision Rehabilitation and Education Professionals, graduating with honours in Orientation and Mobility and I have a Masters Degree in Blind Rehabilitation from Western Michigan University – I have the written proof in my briefcase but seeing as though you can't read it anyway, you might just have to take my word on that."
Gibbs watched his agent intently, not knowing how Tony was likely to react. The stubborn set of his jaw flexed slightly and the flint hard look in his eyes softened marginally.
"Seems we got ourselves a wise-ass, Boss," Tony said with a hint of a grin.
"Takes one to know one, DiNozzo," Gibbs replied without malice.
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They made a small list of things that were currently of greatest concern to Tony as he fought to maintain his dignity and his independence. Mobility, personal hygiene and grooming were at the top of the list.
Although Tony had no words to express his appreciation for his boss' care and support, he needed to be able to take a shower without knowing the older man was pacing worriedly outside. He wanted to find the shampoo bottle or the soap when it fell to the floor; clean his teeth without spending ten minutes locating the cap of the toothpaste. This morning's mix-up with the deodorant can and the hairspray left him with smelly but maximum control underarm hair with a high sheen. He wanted to choose his own clothes, find matching socks and shoes, know whether his ties matched his shirts and he wanted to sit at the table and eat a meal without most of it ending up in his lap.
Steve assisted Tony into his room and the adjoining bathroom to address some of those issues with easy techniques. They re-arranged the bathroom cabinet, getting rid of the clutter so that Tony could find things more easily. Steve made a list of items that would make showering easier and the bathroom safer – from toothpaste with a hinged cap, to shampoo, conditioner and shower gel dispensers that stick to the wall, rubber-backed, slip-proof mats and a small safety rail for Tony to hold on to should he feel disoriented or dizzy.
They discussed organising his wardrobe so that his clothes would be grouped together and arranged combining his next lesson with lunch so that they could practice eating and dining skills.
Steve spent the next hour with both men, learning and practicing new human guide techniques, emphasising the fact that practicing was the only way to increase their confidence and mobility. They scheduled another visit in two days time, incorporating a meal and to begin Tony's program of learning new skills.
Despite the somewhat rocky start, Steve left the apartment pleased that the few hours spent together had been beneficial. He was concerned that Tony appeared to be treating his condition as short term and became agitated and depressed at the thought that his condition could be permanent. He made a mental note to discuss this with Agent Gibbs during their next appointment.
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Gibbs had gone back to reading the newspaper, leaving Tony to his thoughts, when the younger man spoke up.
"Boss," he said, rubbing his knuckles through stubble that was quickly becoming a light beard. "I need a shave."
"You want me to do it?"
"No offence, but the thought of you holding a KA-Bar to my throat is likely to keep me awake nights."
"I just sharpened it?" Gibbs said, happy to keep up the banter. "It will take those whiskers right off?"
"It's not the whiskers I'm worried about - KA-Bar's likely to take off my whole damn face," Tony said grimacing at the thought. "I'd go see my hair stylist but I need to book six weeks in advance."
"For a hair cut!" Gibbs said incredulously. "Don't need an appointment with my guy – just walk in off the street."
"Yeah, um, I kinda guessed that, Boss."
"Something wrong with my hair, DiNozzo?"
"No, Boss, on you it's very…er…chic…I'm just saying that not everyone can pull off that look," Tony said thinking fast. "There's a unisex hair salon about four blocks from here…maybe they can fit me in?"
"Feel up for a walk?" Gibbs asked.
"Really? Four blocks means crossing four roads – we haven't done that yet."
"They all have crosswalks or traffic lights, right?"
"Well…yeah…"
"Grab your shoes, Tony, we'll take a walk."
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They travelled to the lobby of Tony's apartment building and on to the sidewalk, cautiously making their way down the block toward the first crosswalk. Tony had a talon-like grip on Gibbs' guiding arm and his short sharp breaths were a telltale sign of the younger man's anxiety.
Gibbs spoke in a calm, reassuring voice, warning Tony of the step, and then stepping off the kerb and onto the road. Tony took a few deep breaths and tried to listen to and separate the different noises around him. He found it disorienting and overwhelming and only Gibbs' confident tone kept him from turning back to his apartment.
Forty-five minutes later, Gibbs guided a clean-shaven Tony back along the sidewalk toward his apartment building. Gibbs was pleased that Tony's anxiety appeared to be lessening and, as they walked, he asked Tony to describe what he was hearing or smelling so he could orient himself. The smell of freshly baked bread told Tony that they were passing Del Vecchio's Bakery and the hiss of steam presses, several minutes later told of Bright's Dry Cleaners.
They reached the last crosswalk before the apartment building and Gibbs waited for a break in the traffic before guiding Tony off the sidewalk.
"Almost home. That's a good job!" Gibbs said. "We're almost across the road. We'll be stepping up onto the kerb in 4 feet."
Gibbs was so intent on keeping Tony relaxed and ensuring that his agent didn't trip and fall that he didn't hear the sound of the approaching vehicle - shifting gears and accelerating toward them. Tony had been listening to the sounds of the vehicles around them, trying to discern distance from the volume and revs of the various engines. The sound of gears shifting up rather than down and a motor getting louder rather than quieter, immediately had Tony's heart pounding hard against his sternum.
Tony thrust both his hands forcefully into Gibbs' back and dived headlong for the kerb. He felt the rush of air as the speeding car raced passed, missing them by inches. He landed with a force that knocked the breath out of him and lay on his back trying to squeeze the air back into his lungs. Pandemonium erupted all around him as other pedestrians hurried to assist them. He was confused and overwhelmed by the number of voices all shouting excitedly at one time and vying for prominence over the thunderous sound of his own rapidly beating heart. He felt hands upon him, holding him still as he writhed to escape their grasp. Then, despite his best efforts, the cacophony of sounds and voices rushed over him like a tidal wave and he began to panic.
It took just one voice, speaking only one word, to cut through his terror.
"Tony."
"Boss!" Tony shouted, struggling to sit up as the lead agent knelt beside him, assessing him for injuries.
He couldn't help it, he was trembling from shock and adrenalin and clutched at Gibbs as if he was the only anchor in a ocean of turmoil. The former Marine held him tightly against his chest.
"We're okay, we're okay."
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