3
A week on, and he'd managed to settle in to a holding pattern. It was looking like a couple of the feelers he'd put out might net positive results, and in the meantime he arrived early, left on time and in between was systematically reviewing all his own cold case notes to make sure everything was covered and in order. That way, his replacement (McGee? Kate? A new hotshot not yet picked out?) could pick up where he left off without problems or unexpected phone calls from irate ex-bosses.
He deflected the comments about his lack of goofing off (so – who are you, and what have you done with Tony DiNozzo?), and made sure to keep enough of the banter and inane chatter running not to send up any red flags about sudden personality changes. He'd laughed off the couple of comments about his appearance, with a "nudge nudge wink wink" for anything about lack of sleep, and some vanity if it was the weight loss. Once he'd moved on, he'd be able to sleep and eat again. The hurt would stay in DC, with this version of Tony.
He'd had his counselling appointments, with Dr Winters – Julia out of hours, she'd said with a soft smile. Pulled his old personality around him, toned the nudge nudge wink wink down into a soulful glance and a remark about a little much needed tlc, admitted his feelings of fear and vulnerability over being drugged and held captive, and passed with flying colours.
They'd only had one active case all week, and it was a straightforward domestic assault. Gibbs had busted the marine, Kate had sorted out the wife, and he'd stayed out of the way and processed, processed, processed. Photographed the smashed bottle of beer, and the other empties and the slash marks on the wife. Taken the blood from the doorframe and the splinter from knuckles.
Gone back home that night via the victim's place, and left a telephone number and address with her sister that might just help.
Out of hours he'd stayed home, watched movies, listened to CDs and stared into the darkness. The bag was still on the balcony. He needed more coffee. And shower gel. Coconut stuff would be good, too. He didn't go out, unless it was to St Mary Queen of Martyrs, where he could sit in the shadows at the back and try and grasp on to that elusive sense of peace that would never settle. Occasionally Father O'Reilly would come and join him, and sit quietly next to him, and ask him if he would like to share a prayer. Every time he said no, and that praying had never worked for him, and that he wasn't entirely sure he believed in God in any case; and Father O'Reilly told him not to jump to conclusions and that he would pray for him regardless. And then he would sit silently for a few minutes, before he stood up, and gave his neck a squeeze, and told him that he wasn't alone. And Tony would feel pathetically grateful for that, and wonder if that feeling there, where the nausea and the emptiness twisted into a knot that wanted to choke him, if that was belonging.
He'd shown O'Reilly his badge once, the first time he'd crept in silently in the middle of the night, and been given permission – not that he expressly needed it, but this was a church, and things had to be done right – to carry his gun. If those solemn green eyes noticed how lately, every so often, Tony would ghost his hand over the weapon to check it was still there, and his brand new knife too, then he never mentioned it.
Finally, when his thoughts had slowed and his emotions lay dormant, he'd head home, and be able to sleep for a while before he started all over again.
***
"Gibbs?"
"Abby."
"What's wrong with Tony?"
He raised his eyebrows at her, and she was off and running. "He's all… not-Tony. Too quiet and too pale and too Stepford wife. And well… boring."
"Stepford wife?"
"You know… Actually, probably, being you, you probably really don't-"
"Abby!"
"The Stepford wives were replaced by aliens, or robots, or – anyway, that doesn't matter. Point is, there were all, like, perfect identikit little people. He's a perfect little person Gibbs, and you have to have noticed. I can't believe you couldn't have noticed!"
"I noticed."
"So-"
"So?"
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"He's an adult, Abs. If he wants to devote his days to doing his work, maybe I should let him."
"No. No, it's all wrong. You need to talk to him."
"Why don't you?"
"'Cause he just deflects and starts acting normal. Normal for Tony, not normal for normal people. Not that he's not normal, 'cause he is, but not at the moment. See? That's where you come in. You can grr him into being himself again."
"You want me to intimidate Tony into being more childish?"
"No! Yes. Not exactly. You know what I mean. Talk to him, Gibbs. For me? Please?"
***
"And how is the delightful Rachel-" The line abruptly went dead, and his eyes followed the wire back, until they found the large, annoyed looking finger sitting on the top of the phone. "Boss?"
"With me."
"Right boss. We going far? Ow!"
"Not very."
By the looks he wasn't getting, nobody was that surprised at that. Which meant that most likely, this was going to be A Chat. Fine. He could handle that.
He could.
Into the elevator. He waited, but there was no emergency stop. Ground floor. Out again. Through the front door. Somewhere on foot was good. The nausea was bad enough as it was, without getting in a truck with-
"Keep up, DiNozzo!"
Mind you, the need for speed would appear to be the same on foot.
Around the corner. Straight on. Left.
"Lionel's?"
"I have spent three solid hours on spurious paperwork for interdepartmental liaison. I need real coffee, and proper food. And company. You weren't busy and could use the food."
Ah, right. Everyone else is too busy to be dragged out of the office. And this way, you can take your paperwork out on me without upsetting anybody important, and have That Chat without an audience.
"You got a problem with that?"
"No, Boss."
***
Fifteen minutes later he was lazily rearranging a chicken salad around his plate, occasionally sipping his water, and watching the systematic destruction of a lasagne that looked like it should have smelt delicious.
Unfortunately it just made him feel sicker, and he couldn't offer it the devotion it deserved.
"This all down to your little trek in the sewers?"
After the silence, the abrupt question took a minute to process, which he spent staring back at an increasingly interested looking face.
"Not that hungry, I guess. Had a donut not long back." The waitress passed by again – the fifth time since they'd sat down – and he took a moment to appreciate the view.
"You are never not hungry. Haven't actually seen you eat anything in a week."
"You and Kate have spent months telling me you don't like to watch me eat in the bullpen."
"You listened?"
Yeah, I listen. Don't look so surprised. "Thought you might appreciate it if I took your words of wisdom on board once in a while, oh fearless leader."
"Huh."
Sum total of my feedback – a noncommittal grunt. Wonderful. He stabbed semi-viciously at a particularly inoffensive piece of chicken, and made sure to eat it, just to prove a point. When it looked like it was going to stay put, he recklessly followed it with a forkful of leaves.
"It's not just the eating, you know. It's the pale face, and the bags under your eyes, and the… the…"
"The…?" Jeez, that sounded cold even to himself. Need to watch that sensitive spot there.
"The Stepford Wife thing."
He looked across in disbelief. "You've been talking to Abby."
He winced. "Abby has been talking to me."
"And this little dinner-cum-interrogation is the result?"
He winced again. New record.
"She's worried about you. I promised her I'd talk to you."
"I told her I was fine. Hell, I concentrate on my work a bit more than people expect and everybody thinks I'm a cause for concern?"
"You have been a bit – flat."
"I still haven't quite stopped smelling corpse." And he hadn't meant to say that. Oh well, there were worse things he could have admitted to. But that was it. The salad was done. One more bite and he'd be back in the bathroom, and that was not going to happen in front of Gibbs. "Forgive me if I'm not quite keeping to Abby's master schedule."
"I thought Dr Winters passed you?"
"She did. I'm fine. I believe the phrase she used was 'a normal human reaction'." He paused and swilled his water about a bit, looking for a way to finish this conversation quickly. "I know it's difficult to believe, but I am only human, after all." If you cut me, do I not bleed? He heaved a sigh, and decided to add on the honesty. "Look, close calls make you re-evaluate, you know? I've just been thinking more than normal."
There was that small twist of lips that denoted a private joke. "No wonder people are uncomfortable."
He felt the sudden increasingly familiar pain spreading out from the hole that had taken up residence around his breastbone in the last week. "Guess not."
"Leave the thinking to McGee. It's what he's good at. You done?"
Done thinking? After that put down, I should hope so. Oh – the salad. Right. "Yeah."
"Come on then. Haven't got all day."
***
They were back inside the office before either of them spoke again.
"Boss? That phone call-"
"Should have been made on your own time. Work time is for working, DiNozzo."
Didn't you just get through telling me how my working in work time is upsetting people, and I should be more…less…whatever? Story of my life: damned if I do and damned if I don't. Just call me Simpson – Bart Simpson. "I think I may have a lead on a case you worked. Four years ago – Marine named David Patterson was beaten to death in a parking lot?"
"I remember."
"You interviewed the mistress, Lesley Tolsen? Well I worked a case in Baltimore where a runner was beaten to death in a park. Witness that called it in was a Lesley Tolsen. I was on the phone to Pete Graham, my old boss over there – he's sending the files across this afternoon for me to take a look at, see if there's any link."
"Keep me posted." He strode off towards his desk, leaving Tony standing in his wake, wondering why after all his self-lectures and personal pep talks, he was still padding around like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head that was never gonna come.
The sooner he moved on, the better.