10

Gibbs threw the phone down onto the couch, frustration and impatience getting the better of him. After a moment of glaring at it - because it was there, and he could – he rammed a hand through his hair, growled under his breath, and threw himself down next to it.

Ducky was right. They had had that conversation, more than once. But they'd yet to reach common ground. His friend refused to accept that he was to blame. He couldn't understand why the other man felt he'd done nothing on that op to feel guilty about.

Of course, that would change if he mentioned the comment he'd made to McGee three weeks ago. He'd be furious, at great length.

No change there then. He may have been haunting the morgue on a semi regular basis recently, but he couldn't argue that it had been peaceful for either of them.

Certainly not today, when he'd arrived there straight after leaving the bullpen. Ducky hadn't batted an eyelid in the face of his temper, fully stoked by over an hour with the Director – who'd been more than clear about where he felt responsibility for DiNozzo leaving may lay, and who should be putting it right.

Instead of doing the decent thing and backing off while he prowled, he'd got in his face, dragged an account of events out of him, and then proceeded to take his ear off both for what he'd said, and for walking out on the situation.

To be fair, ten minutes, a lot of shouting, and three broken I don't care whats later – and why the hell did they make them out of glass anyway? - Ducky had conceded that exiting stage left while he calmed down had possibly been the prudent thing to do.

He'd still refused to cut him any slack for outing Tony's plans to the entire building and leaving him to the consequences.

With hindsight, he may have had a point, and if he ever managed to get the team back on an even keel again, he might consider telling him so.

But only if Ducky could adequately explain why it was fine to tear strips off him for a handful of words, when the whole disaster of losing an agent under his command was nothing to get worked up over.

He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. This was ridiculous, and he'd been around this block often enough to know better. Dwelling on blame could and should wait. He had a man out there who needed… well, he wasn't sure what he needed, but he needed it, and he was apparently in a position to do something about it.

So why the hell was he sitting on Tony's sofa, feeling sorry for himself?

Checking in had been the easy option. The self-indulgent one. He wasn't completely immune to needing a friendly ear at times, regardless of what he led everyone else to believe.

Didn't change the fact that it had been a needless waste of time.

He should be trying to sort out what had gone wrong, and what to do about it.

The evidence had been there in full view. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not driving everybody to insanity. What else had he missed while he was busily assuring himself nothing was really amiss?

He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and for the first time since that case had gone to hell in a handcart, really thought about the past three weeks.

It didn't take long.

He didn't waste time being surprised when he finally admitted to himself that the events of three weeks ago were still a major issue, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise – more so than would be expected, that was.

He spared a few seconds to admire Tony's ability to snow his way though the pysch eval in direct contravention of the facts. But the clothes on the balcony? That admission in the diner - "I still haven't quite stopped smelling corpse."? Not the signs of a man at peace with things. Why the hell hadn't he said he was having trouble with it?

Because your damn fool comment led him to believe you wouldn't… be interested.

Of course, if he hadn't okayed the surveillance in the first place, it wouldn't have got to that.

He stamped down on the thought ruthlessly once more. Plenty of time for blame and guilt later. There always was.

If your team could see you now, they'd never be intimidated again. Now concentrate on the job at hand.

What he should have been taking notice of all along were the fleeting clues that had gotten through before Tony locked them down. The expression of dismay when Kate stalked off after his own insistence that his senior agent be the one to go to interview the harassment witnesses, not her. Usually he'd have been rubbing her nose in it.

Confusion when he brought up that commendation earlier – then hurt and anger before both disappeared behind the 'fine' mask, and he sharply moved the subject on. He'd never mentioned it once. He should have been crowing about it for two weeks straight.

The tension, every time he'd got in his space. When normally he'd have made a joke of it, let the moods roll over him without a thought, quipped, and teased and poked away until it was all Gibbs could do to not give in and lighten up… instead he'd ducked his head and bitten his lip, kept his mouth shut and taken each and every growl to heart.

So he was moodier, and it showed. Ducky was snapping at him. Abby had lost her bounce and was giving him straight answers. Kate was keeping her head down, her nose in a file and her opinions to herself. McGee found any excuse not to get called in.

He hadn't realised how much he relied on Tony to keep it all in balance. Or how easily he did it.

And then there were the other emotions, the familiar ones, there and gone, several times over. Loathing. Disgust. Resentment. All turned inwards. They'd been there whenever Abby came up. When he'd tried to get him to leave, and failed. At random times when he sat at his desk, staring into a blank screen.

He was turning on himself. For what? Why? Being angry at them – at him – made sense. But at himself? What on earth did he think he'd done wrong?

That was a question he was going to have to get an answer to. Somehow.

So now we're getting somewhere. What else?

The best form of defence is attack. And every time things had gotten personal, that was when DiNozzo had – well, had mounted an offensive defence. When he'd mentioned his appearance and behaviour in the diner. Every time somebody had brought up his leaving, according to Kate. At pretty much everything he'd said tonight. Accusation, deflection, distraction- misdirection.

Anything he thought would work. Pushing them away, time after time. Whenever the topic of conversation stepped a bit too close.

He was getting a very, very nasty feeling about this.

And then the anger, when he'd kept after him. The desperation and tension as he threw his hand off his shoulder as though it burned.

A fuss about nothing, he'd called it.

And when he'd asked, he hadn't said that he wanted to leave. He'd said he couldn't stay.

He was definitely running. From what was as yet undecided. The op? His past? His boss? Himself?

Whatever was driving him, it had him scared, that was for sure – full on, don't stop to think, get the hell away scared. Which was bad, but might at least mean that he wasn't the whole problem.

Then again…

You really are just like him, aren't you?

That had hurt. Didn't take much to work out who "him" had been referring to, and even without tonight's clues, he knew enough to know it wasn't a compliment. That the kid could think…

He cut it off abruptly. That train of thought would get him nowhere. He was supposed to be trying to figure out what was happening in Tony's head, not indulging in his own self pity at even greater length.

He'd settle for the fact that he was more than ready to live the rest of his natural life without seeing that kind of reaction again.

Which was all very well, but almost certainly out of his hands. And honestly? He'd sit there and listen to every last bitter detail if it would help.

If Tony needed to work out whatever issues these were on his flesh and his psyche, then he would let him.

If it would fix this.