18
Gibbs might have stopped speaking, but the apartment was still ringing with the echoes of everything he'd said. Tony had been immensely grateful for the chance for the thrall to break - before something else did – only to find it didn't help. Just made his internal debating all the sharper.
He couldn't listen to another word without losing whatever sense of self he had left. And if he actively thought about what had been said, something was going to short circuit.
So he focused on the practical part. The bit he could do something about. Or not.
Talk to me.
He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. To take the whole lot, and hand it over and say Here, this is me. Know me. Find me. Tell me it's gonna be ok.
But.
But.
But what could he say? It was all so bad, and so messy, and he didn't quite understand what was going on himself. How was he supposed to explain it to someone else?
And what if he did talk, only for Gibbs to decide he didn't want to know after all? If he worked up the nerve, gave it a shot, and his boss only had to hear a few sentences before he really did understand?
What then? When he realised Tony was a mistake, one who didn't deserve better? What would be left? How far could the pieces scatter? Another question he never wanted an answer to.
Because it was all so easy for Gibbs to pull his strings. It could just be one more game. The man could turn around and cut the ground out from under his feet with a single, casual dismissal, and not notice the difference. He already had.
And that speech was fine, and clean and pristine glorious. But how did you measure a man's intent? You couldn't. It wasn't possible. And there was the problem. There was no way to know, not without risking everything. Only the two of them there, and he didn't trust his own judgement any more. Which left Gibbs, who would simply talk him round whether he wanted it or not. Not exactly about to rely on his judgement either.
It was a well kept secret – and one he was certain the other man would never comprehend - but there were battles that it was better never to fight. Days when the only sensible choice was to cut your losses, walk away, and save your strength for a different challenge.
He could start over so easily, and it would be his choice. He'd much rather his boss left here frustrated and annoyed and thinking that he was an ungrateful SOB, than he left knowing it all and regretting everything. Wishing he'd never left Baltimore with one second hand – or was it fourth or fifth hand by now? – cop in tow.
If he was going to leave, he wanted it to be on his own terms, not because he tried and failed and let more people down. He didn't want to wait so long that they had to show him the door. If he didn't try and make it work, then he couldn't get it wrong. Couldn't fail. It was his to control. It would never be rejection – just a road he'd decided not to take. His choice, not his fault.
Nifty reasoning, Tony, but really, it has nothing to do with the options available, does it? Because Gibbs had been right on more than one count.
Throw what you like at me. Figuratively or literally. I'm not going anywhere.
And he hadn't, had he? Despite any and all provocation that Tony had dredged up and sent his way, he was still there. It would appear he was running out of things to throw quicker than his boss was tiring of fielding them. And he didn't even know if he wanted the other man to go any more.
Oh, he still wanted to be alone, because alone had been safety since forever. But - whisper it quietly – for the last three weeks, alone hadn't been all he remembered it being. Alone came with a constant creeping sense of unease that he couldn't shake. Alone was dusted with the scent of sewer, and sounded with a hollow echo in empty spaces. It was feeling a lot like lonely, gnawing around the edges of his control in any unguarded moment.
You can't carry on like this.
Another point to Gibbs. That had been bang on the money. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't see sense, even if it was from a distance. He knew full well that sitting evening after evening alone in the dark wasn't too healthy. Couple it with the fact that he had to switch the lights on to sleep at all and there was something definitely not right. And that was leaving aside everything else.
Up until now, he'd been ignoring everything. Convinced himself that moving on would solve all his problems. But on current evidence, he was just parcelling up another suitcase of issues to carry with him. And there was no guarantee he was up to the burden.
He wanted to believe. Wanted so badly to give in to the plain, simple, alluring words that swirled in the air around him. They were calling to the hole in the centre of him, confusing and painful, enthralling and unavoidable. He wanted them to be true. Gibbs had said they were true.
And he didn't lie to him.
It was becoming uncomfortably clear that he wasn't going to be able to sort this out on his own. He needed that help. Wanted it. Wanted those friends his boss had mentioned. Wanted to know that there was a limit. That however bad he thought this was, there was somewhere he could shelter. That it would stop. That somebody somewhere could make it stop.
He wanted to accept what was being offered.
I'm not gonna give up on you. No matter what.
He was terribly, cripplingly afraid that the moment he stretched his hand out to take it, it would all be snatched away again. And he knew himself well enough to know that he couldn't take it. To take that chance and be wrong… that might just be enough to finish off his resilience for good. Even the thought was enough to stop the words in his throat.
And even if it didn't all slip through his fingers like grains of sand, just how did you tell a man like this that you were scared? How did you look him in the eye and ask for help without losing any respect you'd ever earned? Surrendering any chance to earn it again?
And he was back to that little word again. But. But … Gibbs had waited out the freak out in the kitchen, and stayed. Followed him when he bolted, and brought him back. Dealt with the panic attack. Made him chocolate. Actions were supposed to speak louder than words. More than a truism in the case of his boss.
Did he really think he was still hiding anything from the man after tonight?And he hasn't turned his back on you yet, has he Tony?
He wanted a way out of this mess he'd gotten himself into. He wanted that other place that Gibbs had shown him. It had all sounded so warm. Safe. Close.
But he was still cold, and he could want all he liked. The fact was he had no idea how to get to there from here.
***
Gibbs waited as Tony thought.
It was plain as daylight just how uncomfortable the younger man was with the way the conversation had gone.
Couldn't bring himself to regret a word of it.
He'd said what he said, and gotten one more of those pained, why are you doing this to me looks. Then the eyes had closed. Face disappeared into hands that were trembling again.
Tony had retreated into his head. This fight was being held where Gibbs couldn't even see which side had the upper hand.
If you don't believe me, then I'll keep going until you do.
Not an empty threat. Promise. Whatever.
But not right now. Too much too soon. There was such a thing as pushing too hard. These stakes were too high to risk losing the ground he had by going on the attack when he should be lying in wait.
Instead he offered a silent plea to anyone who cared to listen that he'd said enough to break through the web of self-destructive panic the other man was tangled in.
Had to be enough. If it wasn't, he didn't think he had any more cards left to play.
Tony's mask was long gone, lost about the same time his temper had spilled over. He was glad there was no more hiding; but the indecision, the anguish, the sheer desperation were painful to see.
More so when he'd helped put them there.
He'd tried to make it as easy as he could, but he seen Tony find every last word difficult to listen to. Showed in the tension that never once let up. The stillness. The constantly shifting expressions. Bewilderment. Longing. Distress.
He'd known it would be hard. Knew it had to be done anyway.
What did it say about the kid's experiences to date that you could attack from any angle and he'd dodge and regroup and give as good as he got; but treat him with care and compassion, and he so obviously didn't have the first clue what to do with it?
There was another flash of anger, but he ignored it. It was getting easier to do.
All he could do now was wait. And he did. He had.
But the silence was too long, and Tony's head was down, unmoving, and he knew. He knew.
That was the last roll of the dice, and it hadn't worked, because he'd wrecked his own credibility three weeks ago.
It was his fault.
"You don't trust me."