9

He was pulled from a light doze when the cell in his pocket rang, and he cast one eye toward the couch as he answered it. "Jethro! Finally! Hold on one moment…" Ducky slipped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him. "My apologies. Abby is asleep on the sofa, and I'd really rather not wake her until I must. She was in quite a state, poor girl."

He paused, unsettled by the fact that he hadn't been cut off within half a dozen words. Instead, the response that came across the line was – unexpected. "How was your evening?"

Given as Gibbs knew full well that they'd spent it waiting for him to call, this qualified as a delaying tactic. He could not think of a single scenario where that would be a sign of things going well. "Subdued, for the most part. Caitlin only left about half an hour ago. I promised I'd call her as soon as you called me."

"Did-"

No. This could go on forever if he let it. "Don't prevaricate, Jethro. It doesn't suit you. Tell, me, how is he?"

This silence had a different tone, and he couldn't stop the worry that was starting to seep into his bones. "Not good."

"Oh dear." He rather thought it might be an understatement. He waited a little longer, hoping for more information, but all that was forthcoming was a dark, tense nothing.

Most phone calls from his friend took one of two paths. The work call, which was as short as humanly possible, and twice as abrupt. Or the social call – less common, and distinguishable from the work sort only by the occasional word or phrase that was not strictly essential creeping in.

Calls like this one were rare. They had been few and far between in all the years they'd known each other. The calls they both pretended he didn't make, with the long pauses, and the oblique references and the shortage of words. The calls where he listened to nothing at the other end, and knew to interpret the silence in bold, dark brushstrokes, like 'Bad', and 'Pain', and 'Doubt'.

These were the conversations where he would grit his teeth, and ignore his friend's ill-mannered gruffness, knowing that it was not aimed at the listener, but at Jethro himself, as he struggled with some nameless emotion he couldn't put a lid on quite so easily.

Something had obviously gone very badly wrong.

"Have you made any progress at all?"

"I… It's hard to tell. He's a mess, Ducky."

And not anywhere in earshot, apparently. "Where are you?"

"His apartment. He just ran out of here like the hounds of hell were on his tail."

"I thought you calmed down before you went to see him?"

Another of those long, loaded pauses, before a careful answer. "I was calmer."

"Jethro!"

"Don't."

Of course not. Proceeding with extreme caution. "So now what?"

"Now I find him. Thought I'd let you have an update first."

Which sounded thoughtful, but had absolutely nothing to do with the reason he'd called. They'd yet to get to that, he was sure. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"You'd rather I left him to it?"

"You know I wouldn't. Dammit Jethro, don't twist things!" There was no answer from the other end, and he softened his tone to carry on, knowing the message wouldn't be welcome. "You can't force him to accept your help."

"I know."

Damn and double damn. 'Oh dear' was evidently not going to do this justice. It didn't take a genius to determine that unravelling this mess wasn't going to be easy, but he'd firmly believed it could be done.

Unfortunately, with Tony alternating between splendid isolation and lashing out at anyone within range, and Jethro seemingly at a loss either to see the problem or to deal with it, he could fair feel the strains pulling the whole team apart at the seams. No wonder most of NCIS was giving both men a wide berth. He half expected to arrive one morning to find designated safe zones – most likely in the Director's office and Abby's lab.

Oh yes, if you listened to his words, everything was as it should be. But the tone? That was shouting 'I don't know how to fix this' loud and clear. Not a state of mind his friend was used to dealing with, and uncertainty and Jethro were never good bedfellows.

He'd tried to talk to Tony himself a couple of times, to little effect. And he would happily keep trying, but there was only one person likely to be able to get past the man's defences and make him listen.

That, he feared, went both ways. There was only one person who could lift the cloud of guilt that lay on his friend's shoulders, and that wasn't him, either.

He'd been fighting a losing battle against it for the last three weeks. He knew those thought processes well by now, and he knew his lines - however tired he was of having the same conversation on a daily basis without ever getting through one of the thickest skulls he'd encountered.

This was why it had to be Jethro. Because if he wasn't the one to sort this out, then he'd merely add that to the list of things to blame himself for. And God forbid, if Tony did leave, then the rest of them were in for a hellish ride for as long as it took to get some resolution.

"Haven't we already had this conversation? This is not your fault."

It wasn't strictly true. He'd little doubt that somewhere in all this, he'd managed to push the younger man past his tolerances. But that wasn't his conversation to have. Not without knowing more.

In the meantime, he'd settle for pointing out – repeatedly – that currently, he was blaming himself for things he hadn't done wrong. And, come to that, not taking some of those he had done seriously enough. And that neither were of any help to the situation at hand.

"Tell it to DiNozzo."

Hell. Not good indeed. "What did he say?"

This time the pause was even longer, until he was wondering if there was going to be a response. When it came, it was terser than usual.

"That I'm just like his father." The click on the line followed immediately.

So that was it.

No, not good at all.