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 Sixteen
It took every ounce of Gibbs' restraint not to kick his agent's inebriated ass into the middle of next week. What the hell was he thinking?
Several minutes later, they had managed to get him into a semi-sitting, semi-slouching position against the wall and had determined that, apart from bruised and skinned knuckles, the soberly challenged man was not injured.
Needing a few moments to rid his mind of acts of violence against his second in charge, Gibbs went upstairs to cancel the ambulance and call Ducky.
"Duck?"
"Good evening, Jethro!" the ME replied cordially. "I trust young Timothy delivered you safely home?"
"Not soon enough," Gibbs muttered.
"I'm afraid you've lost me there, my friend, is everything alright?"
"Duck, do you have a list of DiNozzo's meds?"
"Yes, yes I believe I did jot them down somewhere. Surely you don't need a prescription refilled already?"
"Nothing like that. I need to know what kind of effect alcohol would have with them."
"Well, as a rule, alcohol and prescribed medication should never be mixed, however, if Anthony wishes to partake in a little of the amber fluid with his dinner, I can't see that one small beer would harm him. Just one, mind."
"What about half a bottle of bourbon?"
"That would be very foolhardy indeed…I can't believe you would even consider allowing Anthony to consume that much alcohol – with or without the prescribed medication!"
"Forgot to lock the liquor cabinet, Duck."
"You mean he…that Anthony…that he's…"
"Hammered," Gibbs said. "Found him passed out in the basement."
"Oh my, is he conscious? Can he speak to you?"
"McGee's trying to get some sense out of him now."
"Well, if Anthony took his medication on time, it has been several hours since his last dose but I shouldn't give him the evening meds if I were you."
"Understood."
"It would probably be best for all concerned if you gave him something to induce vomiting."
"You ever seen DiNozzo drink bourbon, Duck? He's likely to take care of the vomiting part all by himself."
"Oh dear, what a crying shame!"
"And a waste of good bourbon."
"Have him drink lots of water, he'll more than likely be dehydrated and get him into bed to sleep it off as soon as you can," Ducky said. "If you're worried about him, give me a call and I'll come right over."
"Thanks, Duck."
"Oh and Jethro? Go easy on the lad."
"I intend to, Duck, right after I kill him."
He heard the sounds of movement and muffled laughter coming from the basement and took a moment to gather his thoughts as Steve Myles' earlier words replayed in his mind.
'What's he really passionate about? You need to find that, Agent Gibbs, something that will break through his desolation and give him the push he needs to move forward.'
He'd seen something - walking around Tony's apartment earlier, Gibbs knew he'd seen something that could help get his agent back on track. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was.
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"Okay, Tony, let's try this again, alright?" McGee said with exaggerated patience. "I'm gonna help you to your feet and this time you're gonna wanna lock your knees or you're gonna fall on your ass again, okay? Then, I need you to put your arm around my shoulders and we're gonna walk up the stairs. Got it?"
"Umm…no…I think...I think I missed…missed something, Probie," Tony slurred.
McGee rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently.
"That's okay, I'll repeat it again, what part did you miss?"
"The part after…okay Tony," he said, dissolving into fits of laughter. "Come on, Probie, that's a Maxwell Smart classic. Where's you hence of sumour?"
"My hence of sumour disappeared the first five times I tried to get you on your feet," McGee replied. "You're not exactly a lightweight you know. Now, come on…on three…"
He managed to finally get Tony vertical, only to have him sway dangerously and almost pitch both of them to the floor.
"Hey!" McGee scolded. "Stop swaying!"
"That's me? Sorry man, I thought…I thought that was you!"
McGee gagged and flinched away from Tony's bourbon breath.
"S'matter?" Tony asked.
"Stop breathing on me!" McGee protested. "Your bourbon breath could clear a chat room!"
Tony's face instantly took on a wounded expression. "That hurt, McGee."
"Okay, now I need you to pay attention – this is very important. We're gonna walk to the stairs and slowly climb up each step one at a time."
"Oh, I don't know, man, those stairs are really steep and…and I can't see. What if…what if I fall or something?"
"You won't fall, I've got you," McGee encouraged. "I need you to trust me, Tony, can you do that?"
"I can do that, Probie, you know why I can do that?" Tony asked without waiting for a reply. "Cos when it comes to people I trust, your close to the tippity-top of my list."
McGee stood stock-still, surprised and touched by his senior field agent's admission.
"Tony, I…thanks - I'm really flattered," he said sincerely.
"Don't be – it's a short list," Tony said, bursting into side splitting laughter again.
McGee struggled to hold his partner upright and groaned as the stairs loomed over them ominously.
"Dammit, Tony! You really need to stop laughing now - this could be very dangerous. If we're ever gonna get out of the basement you have to listen to me!"
"I always listen to you, McGoo," Tony said, nodding his head emphatically and almost losing his balance.
"Really? When have you ever listened to me?" McGee challenged.
"I always listen to you. You may not know this but I'm your best listener. I may not understand a single word you say…but I always listen."
"Okay…are you ready to go?"
"Where? Sorry, Probie, I wasn't listening."
More howls of laughter burst forth from Tony as Gibbs arrived at the top of the stairs. A small grin softened the former Marine's features as he enjoyed a sound he hadn't heard for far too long.
He watched his two agents take three precarious steps toward the staircase before Tony lost all colour from an already pale face.
"Um…Probie…don't feel s'good," he muttered.
McGee eyed him warily. "Should I be worried?"
"What shoes you wearing?"
"Testonis."
"Be worried, McGoo," Tony said with a nod, swallowing convulsively.
"Ah…um…wait, Tony, hold on okay? Give me a sec."
Gibbs quickly walked down the stairs, past the two agents and reached under the workbench for a bucket. He backed his senior field agent up until he was sitting on the bottom steps and placed the bucket in Tony's hands as his stomach started to rid itself of the excessive alcohol.
McGee and Gibbs both turned away while Tony retched continuously for the next few minutes. By the time they'd turned back, Tony and the bucket were listing dangerously.
"Whoa!" Oh no you don't," McGee said, quickly stepping forward and grabbing an arm. "It took me long enough to get you on your feet last time."
He grimaced, took the bucket and placed on the ground behind them as Tony started to list again. McGee took one arm and Gibbs the other and they hauled him to his feet, each stepping closer to prevent Tony from becoming too disoriented. They placed his arms around their shoulders and each wrapped their own arm around his waist to support him.
"You got him?" Gibbs asked.
"Got who?" Tony mumbled.
"Yeah, Boss, I got him," McGee said, rolling his eyes at Tony's confusion.
It took several seconds for Tony to realise he needed to lock his knees and they turned and stopped at the bottom of the staircase.
"Listen up, DiNozzo, we're going up the stairs," Gibbs said. "Let me and McGee do the work – we gotcha."
The senior field agent nodded his head sullenly all signs of the jovial drunk had disappeared into the bucket when his stomach purged itself of the alcohol.
Tony stumbled and staggered several times but Gibbs and McGee managed to safely negotiate the narrow staircase – all three exhausted by the time they'd reached the living room and eased their burden onto the couch. Tony wished that the world would stop spinning - it was like the ground surged up and then dropped out from under him, throwing his equilibrium off more than usual.
"Boss, should I make some coffee?" McGee asked.
"For us - he gets water, Ducky's worried about dehydration."
"Ducky's dehydrated?" Tony asked worriedly, lifting his head from the back of the couch and attempting to sit forward.
"Lean back," Gibbs replied, concerned the younger man would fall flat on his face.
He placed the heel of his hand on Tony's forehead and gently pushed him back into the cushions. Tony's hands gripped the cushions on either side of him as the room spun and tilted perilously.
Moments later, McGee re-entered the living room and handed Gibbs a cup of coffee. He placed a large glass of water on the coffee table when he saw that Tony had nodded off and was snoring softly.
Gibbs sighed and reached for the younger man's shoulder.
"Hey, DiNozzo! Wake up!"
Tony blinked his sightless green eyes owlishly. "Wasn't sleeping."
"You need to drink this, Tony," McGee said, taking Tony's hand and wrapping his fingers around the glass.
Tony wrinkled his nose in irritation. "Not thirsty," he said.
"Empty bottle of bourbon says otherwise. Drink!" Gibbs growled. "All of it."
The alcohol forced its way through Tony's defences, causing his moods to swing like a pendulum as he fought to curb his wildly fluctuating emotions. Huffing impatiently, he drank the water down in three large gulps and then, feeling with his outstretched hands, placed the glass firmly back on the coffee table in a display of righteous indignation.
"M gonna hit the rack," he slurred.
As he attempted to get to his feet he found, to his embarrassment, that his trembling limbs weren't ready to cooperate. He swayed alarmingly, causing McGee and Gibbs to make a grab for him. Ruthlessly shrugging off their assistance, the world dipped wildly and Tony fell on his ass with a jaw-snapping thud. McGee moved forward to assist but was halted by Gibbs' arm on his bicep and a shake of the head.
"You done?" Gibbs said laconically.
A groan of frustration and contempt burst from Tony and the muscles along his jaw line contracted while he continued to bite down on his anger and humiliation. He attempted to get up again but the combination of excessive alcohol, an ever-tilting room and trembling legs conspired against him and set him on his ass a second time.
"Well?" he yelled in Gibbs' general direction.
"Well what?" the former Marine asked, his calm voice belying his anger.
"If you're waiting for an apology, Boss, then you shouldn't have shoved your rules down my throat for the past nine years! Never apologise, remember?"
"Nope, not waiting for an apology – I'm waiting for the absence of witnesses so I can kick your stubborn ass," Gibbs said.
Nodding to McGee, the two men crossed the room to help him up. Once again, they each took an arm and hauled him to his feet, steadying him before placing his arms around their shoulders. They moved across to the staircase leading to the bedrooms and slowly made their way to the guest bathroom. Waiting outside as Tony attended to business, McGee knocked on the door.
"Don't forget to brush your teeth, Tony, your bourbon breath would make a TicTac cry."
He cringed at the venom in the curse that came back through the closed door.
"I think I preferred the happy drunk," McGee muttered before receiving another head slap from Gibbs.
"He's not pissed enough for ya, McGee, really?"
"Sorry, Boss," McGee said.
The bathroom door flew open and the hardened expression on Tony's face left no doubt that his demeanour hadn't improved. Turning to his left, the icy glare and snarl meant for McGee would have sent shivers down the young agent's spine if he hadn't actually been standing on the other side of the doorway with Gibbs - but he got the gist nonetheless.
"I got this, McGee, go home, get some rest," Gibbs said, watching Tony feel his way across the hall into the guest room.
"Sure, Boss, I'll call you tomorrow," McGee replied. "Night, Tony."
McGee accepted the unintelligible grumbling as Tony's gracious farewell and went outside to brief the agents who had just arrived to relieve Kendall and Harris - that done, he went home.
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Gibbs stood in the doorway, watching as Tony's uncoordinated fingers failed in their repeated attempts to undo the buttons on his shirt. The younger man sighed audibly and raked his fingers through his hair, growing visibly more frustrated by the minute. The combination of excessive alcohol and residual meds was making itself known and the young man looked out on his feet.
Despite his anger over DiNozzo's attempt to drink himself into oblivion, Gibbs couldn't continue to watch the younger man's struggle. He took three long strides into the room and attempted to unbutton the shirt, only to have Tony push his hands away.
"Shut up and keep still," Gibbs said in a voice far gentler than his words.
"I can do it," he growled, brushing Gibbs' hands away again and shrugging from his grasp.
"Then do it," Gibbs said, stepping away.
Tony tried again but the buttons were too small and his long fingers too uncoordinated to meet the challenge. Frustrated at his failure to accomplish such a trivial task, he tried to toe off his shoes, lost his balance and fell onto the bed. Deciding it was all too hard; he laid back and turned his face into the pillow, fully clothed.
"Close enough," Gibbs said, waiting the few minutes it took for Tony's breathing to even out and sleep to take him.
Expelling a long calming breath, Gibbs reached down and slipped DiNozzo's runners off his feet, placing them by the wardrobe where Tony wouldn't trip over them. He opened the top of the wardrobe, shifted the cardboard box full of stored items and pulled a light comforter down, covering the slumbering man. He went down to the kitchen, intending to get a small bottle of water and two Tylenol for Tony's bedside table, when the recollection hit him like a ton of bricks.
He took the stairs two at a time and ran back into the guest room. Noting Tony hadn't moved, he placed the water and the Tylenol within the younger man's reach and re-opened the top of the wardrobe. He reached for the cardboard box, placed it on the small desk in the corner of the room and looked at the tarnished and dusty trophies contained within – athletics, football and baseball trophies from Stillwater High and shooting range and football trophies from the USMC.
Several hours ago, at Tony's apartment, he had opened the wardrobe to pack an extra bag for his agent. He had seen several boxes of trophies from the younger man's school, college and police academy days. Sport was Tony's passion, he was a college athlete with a degree in Phys Ed who ran every morning, still played football with his buddies and played basketball in the local LEO's competition. Tony spent much of his personal time playing or watching sport when the team was off rotation.
He looked back at his deeply sleeping agent and sighed with relief; this could be the opportunity he'd been looking for. From this moment on he refused to cut the young man any slack - he was going to pull Tony back into life, even if he had to drag him kicking and screaming all the way. His heart pounded frantically against his sternum as he packed the box away, flicked off the light and hastily made his way downstairs to make some calls.
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"DiNozzo! Up and at 'em!"
Gibbs' barked order resonated through the guest room and reverberated painfully within Tony's skull as he sat bolt upright in bed and gasped loudly. Blinking owlishly and with one of the most frightening cases of bed hair Gibbs had ever seen, the younger man's body swayed dangerously close to the edge of the bed.
"Wha…what?" Tony stammered, his brain struggling to engage.
"Clean clothes on the foot on your bed and fresh towels in the bathroom. You've got 10 minutes to shower and haul your ass downstairs."
"Go to hell," Tony groaned, barely recognising the gravelled rasp of his own voice as he rolled over and pushed his face into the pillow.
The comforter was whisked away and the pillow disappeared from under his head.
"Nine minutes – get up!"
The pneumatic drill continued to hammer away at Tony's brain, ensuring that sleep was no longer an option.
"Go build a boat!" he growled, not even trying to be civil.
"No boat, no work – today you've got my full attention. Get up!"
"What the hell, Gibbs?" he snapped.
"Eight minutes," the lead agent said calmly.
Unfazed by his agent's show of temper, Gibbs walked across the hall to the bathroom and started the shower.
"Water's running. Move."
"Jesus, Gibbs, what is this? You pissed cos I drank you damn bourbon? If it meant that much to you, I'll buy you another bottle!"
"Damn straight you will. Seven minutes."
Tony sat on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees, cradled his head in his hands and pleaded with it to stop throbbing. He was so tired of well-intentioned people telling him what to do. He breathed deeply, his stomach raw and uneasy and ready to defy him at any moment.
"Why are you doing this?" he sighed in resignation.
Gibbs' sigh was almost as long suffering as Tony's.
"Tried doing patient – that didn't work. Now we're doing things my way."
Tony's lethargy vanished and was replaced by a burst of anger.
"Your way?" he laughed contemptuously. "I got news for you, Gibbs, this isn't about you…it's my life! I didn't ask for your freaking help!"
The tenuous grip Gibbs had on his patience, slipped and - in one stride - he stepped into the younger man's personal space, took two fists full of his shirt and hauled him to his feet roughly.
"You didn't have to ask!" he yelled angrily into Tony's startled face.
Swallowing his fury he released his grip on Tony's shirt and forced himself to take a few calming breaths. When he spoke again his voice was thick with barely restrained emotion.
"You. Never. Have. To. Ask."
The words were almost Tony's undoing as his despairing, unseeing eyes pleaded with Gibbs to help him find the strength he needed. The former Marine reached out and tapped his fingers gently against the younger man's cheek.
"Hit the shower and get dressed," Gibbs said, quietly but firmly. "Be downstairs in five."
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Breakfast had been a subdued affair with Tony's ailing stomach managing only one piece of toast and a small bottle of water before he was bundled into the car by Gibbs, Kendall and Harris as they headed across town.
The drive took 20 minutes with Agents Kendall and Harris riding "up front" and Tony and Gibbs in the back. Gibbs silently assessed his agent's pallor that was offset by the dark smudges set deeply under his eyes and the additional, self-inflicted biliousness that added to the ex-detective's misery.
Tony had nodded off by the time they had arrived at their destination. Gibbs nudged the younger man awake and offered his guide arm as they climbed from the car. Kendall and Harris flanked them closely as they walked the short distance to the entrance of the building.
The large door opened and Gibbs and Tony entered, leaving Kendall and Harris to take up their positions outside, ensuring there were no "unwanted visitors." The echo of their footsteps resonated in the large open building and when he caught the faint odours of linament, rosin and artificial turf, Tony knew he was in an indoor sports centre.
"Boss?"
Before he had a chance to form the rest of his question a loud voice bellowed from the other side of the building.
"That you, Gunny?"
"It's me, Sarge," Gibbs replied, guiding Tony across the synthetic artificial grass on the playing field.
The two former Marines greeted each other with a cordial handshake. "Slammin' Sam" Robinson was a tall, African American with sharp, lively eyes and a quick smile who looked as fit in his 50's as he did when he fought with Gibbs in the Persian Gulf. He owned and ran the popular in door sports complex.
"Thanks for helping out today, Sam," Gibbs said.
"No problem, Jethro, this is usually our day off, so you have the whole place to yourself," Sam replied, glancing at the younger man by Gibbs' side. "This must be Tony."
Gibbs introduced the men, noting his agent still appeared subdued and hesitant. Normally anyone from Gibbs' past was subjected to multiple rapid-fire questions as Tony attempted to glean any and all information about his boss' history.
"You get the gear?" Gibbs asked.
"All set up and waiting. You wanna get started?" Sam said, handing Gibbs a set of keys. "Stay as long as you like, Gunny, just lock up when you leave."
"Appreciate it, Sam."
"Nice to meet ya, young fella," Sam said to Tony. "Go easy on the Gunny, he ain't as young as he used to be, ya know!"
Gibbs waited until his old friend had cleared the playing field before turning back to Tony.
"Let's do it," he said.
He led Tony further across the playing field until the younger man dug his heels in and pulled back fiercely.
"You want me to cooperate, Boss, you better tell me what the hell we're doing here."
Gibbs shoved a baseball bat into Tony's hands.
"Batting practice," he responded.
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope," Gibbs replied, placing a helmet on Tony's head and knocking his fist on it twice. "Batter up, DiNozzo."
Tony's jaw hung slightly open and his face was a picture of confusion.
"You want me to play baseball?" Tony asked stupefied.
"Got a problem with that?"
"You mean…apart from the fact that I can't freakin' see?"
"We've been to batting cages a hundred times," Gibbs said. "This'll be a hundred and one."
"What's the freakin' point, I can't see the damn ball!" Tony snapped.
"It's not about seeing, Tony, it's about timing and the consistency of your swing."
The former Marine went on to explain that he would call 'ready' and then 'pitch' as he released the ball from a distance of 20 feet and attempted to place the ball on DiNozzo's bat. Each pitch would be the same speed and the height of Tony's swinging bat.
"No point me pitching balls you can't hit, I'll be pitching ones you can," Gibbs said. "You hear me call 'pitch,' you allow a split second to pass before you swing. You can do this, DiNozzo."
After the first two-dozen pitches, Gibbs was beginning to think he'd made a bad decision. Tony hadn't connected once and was frustrated, embarrassed and angry. Twice he'd thrown the bat away in disgust only to have Gibbs thrust it back into his reluctant hands.
"You're the college jock, DiNozzo, show me what you've got!" he goaded, hoping to ignite the younger man's renowned competitive spirit.
"I can't do it!" Tony snarled.
"Whew! Feel that breeze!" Gibbs said, after a huge air swing landed Tony on his butt. "I've seen better swings on a porch, DiNozzo!"
"This is stupid!" Tony growled, unaware of Gibbs' proud grin as he watched him dust himself off and take up his stance once again.
Another pitch, another mighty swing and another huge miss had Tony cursing and swearing at the futility of it all - but he faced up again.
"Come on, Dracula, wake up your bat!" Gibbs needled. "You couldn't drive home Miss Daisy!"
Then came the words that were music to Gibbs' ears as the first sign of the infamous DiNozzo self-confidence revealed itself.
"Keep serving 'em up, Boss, cos soon you'll be chucking and ducking."
The very next pitch caught the top edge of the bat and travelled 30 feet in the air. Even though it was a miss-hit, Tony was thrilled to get some bat on it.
"Better watch out, I got the range now!"
"That so?" Gibbs replied, grinning with satisfaction.
With his confidence growing by the minute Tony started consistently making good contact with the ball and soon the DiNozzo mega-watt grin and healthy ego started pushing their way to the fore.
A good hit, straight down the base line, felt great off the bat and prompted Tony to give a little attitude back to the lead agent.
"Come on, Boss, Yoko Ono's got better pitch control than you!"
Soon it all came together, the stance, the swing and the follow through and Tony was hitting far more than he missed.
"Hope you're wearing your Kevlar, Gibbs, cause the next one's coming at ya like a bullet," he announced, just before a cracking drive almost cut Gibbs in two.
An hour later they called a halt to practice as a thoroughly exhausted but charged senior field agent sat down in the batting cage and leaned against the chain-link fence.
"You okay?" Gibbs asked, sitting down beside him and passing him a bottle of water.
"I'm good," Tony said quietly. "Just didn't realise how much I was gonna miss this."
"Don't have to miss it, there's a Beep Baseball team looking for a few extra players."
"Beep Baseball?" Tony asked.
"Team of blind or low vision players with a sighted pitcher and catcher. The ball makes sound so the fielders can locate it," Gibbs said. "There's only two bases – first and third – both are four-feet high and buzz loudly so the runner can locate them. Make no mistake these guys play hard and play to win. What do ya think?"
"I dunno, Boss," Tony said his confidence waning suddenly.
"You're a good athlete, Tony, you'd be an asset to a team," the lead agent said. "What if I said I'd join with ya?"
"You'd do that?" Tony said in surprise. "You'd join a team with me?"
"Team's looking for a pitcher and now the boat's gone, I'm looking for a hobby," he replied. "Team always needs sighted players, you can keep playing when your sight returns."
Tony considered the question for a long moment. "I'll think about it?" he said around a yawn.
Gibbs stood up, groaning inwardly at the sound of his popping knee and he pulling the younger man to his feet. His pallor and the dark smudges were still strikingly evident but Gibbs was pleased to see a small spark of life in the sightless green eyes.
"You did good today," Gibbs said earnestly. "Temporary or permanent, life without sight – is still life."
"I know," the younger man replied quietly.
"Oh, and DiNozzo – you touch my bourbon again, I'll break your damn fingers."
Tony's roguish grin appeared on his handsome face. "I gotcha, Boss."
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A/N Until I began writing this story, I knew nothing about Beep Baseball, so my decision to have Tony and Gibbs join a Beep Baseball team is, in a small way, a measure of my newfound admiration for the courage and tenacity of these sightless athletes.
(Those of you who are interested can check it out on You Tube.)
Many countries around the world now have a National Beep Baseball Association. Blind athletes dive onto the ground to stop a beeping ball and run at full speed for 100 feet toward the sound of a buzzing base to score a run. (I defy you to close your eyes and try that some time, scary stuff!)
They have desire, determination, team work and, most importantly, these sightless players have fun in the midst of extreme competition. There is also the occasional injury. Beep baseball is not a game for those who are concerned about a scraped elbow. Safety precautions are high priorities, but due to the nature of the game, some injuries do occur. Players know this and fully accept the injury risks for the sake of playing a sport they love. I'm in awe of their tenacity, so please forgive this little spiel.
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