It was raining when they returned to the hotel room later that afternoon after spending half the day in the emergency room waiting to get Tony's hand checked out. Tony had apologized about a thousand times, stopping only when Gibbs headslapped him and said, "Not the first day I've spent with you in an ER, DiNozzo. Knock it off."
Tony dropped exhausted onto the bed and looked over at Gibbs. "You mind if I take a nap? Between the hangover and painkillers, I can barely think straight."
And grief, Tony. Don't forget that pain. You lost your father today. It's okay to hurt.
But Gibbs just nodded and found a pen to start working on the newspaper's crossword puzzle. He waited about two minutes before looking up again and studying his sleeping agent. He sighed at the cast resting on DiNozzo's stomach, knowing he'd be losing his senior agent while the broken bones in his hand healed. But he was actually somewhat grateful that Tony had vented his pain and anger and frustration—even if he wasn't happy with the method. He knew bottling up emotions that strong was never a good thing, and he wondered if he could get DiNozzo to talk to him some more. Gibbs considered dosing him with a handful of painkillers and interrogating him since plying him with alcohol and seating him at a piano was out of the question.
Gibbs winced, thinking about Tony's graceful fingers on the instrument last night and knowing it would be a while before he could play again. He had really never seen DiNozzo as relaxed as when he had been playing, and he filed that away for future use even while hoping it wouldn't ever be necessary.
Once he was sure Tony was well and out, Gibbs pulled out his cell and called the director, letting him know Tony would be taking bereavement time and Gibbs would need to take a vacation day or two. Vance was surprisingly understanding and promised to take the team off rotation until their return. He hung up and briefly thought about calling Abby, knowing the deep bond she shared with his agent. But he decided not to, figuring Tony could use the rest and some space before having to deal with telling his friends of his father's death.
Gibbs' eyes settled on Tony's face again, the lines erased by sleep and strong painkillers, and he stifled a yawn. He got up, stretched and scribbled a quick note about a coffee run, debating whether to make it an extended one or not. Warring urges to give Tony space and stay close to his side waged in his head as he left the room and headed out into the rainy evening.
Tony awoke to an empty room and saw the note on the table beside the bed—and the bottle of painkillers Gibbs had apparently filled for him. Tony didn't need Gibbs to actually write the order—Take them, you stubborn ass —to follow that order. He grabbed the plastic hotel cup Gibbs had left for him and downed two of the pills, hoping they would ease the ache from his damaged hand.
He groaned softly, thinking about the weeks of desk duty—and time away from the calming piano—he had earned himself with his stupidity. But it had made him feel better at the time, when all he had felt was blinding rage that battled bleak nothingness at the news of his father's death.
Oh, shit, Tony thought, the morning suddenly rushing back at him. He felt a flash of shame as he realized he had almost forgotten the man had died.
Gone. He's just gone now. And I still don't know what to feel. I thought coming here, seeing him would make it better, would make things make sense to me. But it didn't. Seeing his sunken face just made it worse. Now I can't make myself hate him as much. Every time I see his fists, see my blood on them, I have to see his ashen pallor, too.
And Marianne. I want to hate her. Just like I wanted to hate all of the stepmothers. But she loves him. And she obviously saw something in him that I can't. Maybe there was something there toward the end that changed. But he could have called me. He came all the way to the District to see me—and now I can't imagine why. Maybe he was going to ask me for money and he backed out when he saw a chance for one last score. And I got relegated to the backburner again. Just like always.
I can't go to that funeral tomorrow. There's no way I can face the rest of the family, who all think I'm some traitor to the DiNozzo name because I chose sports over business. I wonder how they would feel knowing I lost everything with a single snap of a ligament. That I never even considered coming crawling back to the family. That I chose law enforcement over them because at least I would make a difference. I knew I would never matter to him, to them, but at least my life would be worth something, to someone.
The door opened, interrupting his thoughts—and he was grateful. Gibbs nodded to him, and Tony could have sworn he saw guilt in the man's eyes.
"You been up long?" Gibbs asked warily, confirming Tony's suspicions.
Tony shook his head, pushing himself up with a wince.
"Hurting?" Gibbs asked, his eyes narrowing in concern at the lines of pain bracketing Tony's mouth.
"A little," Tony admitted, shifting uncomfortably.
"They don't work unless you take them," Gibbs said mildly, jerking a nod at the bottle beside him.
"Just did," Tony said, eyeing the bag in Gibbs' hands.
Gibbs followed his gaze. "Dinner," he said gruffly. "Thought you might be hungry."
He nodded even though the thought of food made him queasy. "Thanks, Boss."
Gibbs saw the sick look on Tony's face, and he turned the bag slightly sideways, watching his agent's eyes widen as he saw the logo. He couldn't help smiling as Tony gave him a small smile of his own and a look of pure wonderment.
"You were listening? All those times I went on and on about that place?" Tony said softly, wondering why his chest hurt all of a sudden.
Gibbs just handed over the bag of sandwiches from Tony's favorite deli and shrugged. "Just because I don't say anything doesn't mean I'm not listening."
Tony looked upset for a moment and Gibbs couldn't figure out why until the younger man spoke, his voice belying pain that Gibbs couldn't quite attribute to his hand.
"But you remembered."
Gibbs settled onto the bed opposite his agent and sighed. It made him ache to think that a simple act of kindness could cause such an adverse, almost mournful reaction. Gibbs was fairly certain Tony expected him to dump out the bag and find only lumps of coal. The worst part was that Gibbs also figured Tony would simply laugh convincingly at the "joke" and order a pizza. He wanted to say something about it, to ask Tony why he always expected cruelty, but he already knew that answer. And Tony looked tired and still a bit green, so he just rolled his eyes.
"You saying there's something wrong with my memory?" he teased, handing Tony his dinner.
Tony took the sandwich as if it were made of gold and smiled at his boss. "Thanks, Gibbs. For everything. This is all really above and beyond, and I appreciate you going so easy on me."
Gibbs almost choked at the odd sentiment. He couldn't help the thought that verbalized itself without permission. "What did you expect me to do?" he asked, incredulous.
Tony nodded at the cast on his hand. "Be mad at me? I'm going to be on desk duty for weeks because I'm an idiot."
Gibbs took a breath, pulling a bottle of beer from the bag and watching Tony grimace at it. Gibbs opened it and took a long pull before saying, "You were angry, and upset—"
"And an idiot," Tony supplied, cutting him off.
"And hurting, Tony," Gibbs said, his eyes boring into Tony's. "No I'm not happy you punched a wall hard enough to break bones in your hand, but I am glad that you at least got it out. What you do… The way you hide and stuff everything down… It's not healthy."
Gibbs looked a bit uncomfortable and hid it behind the beer bottle.
Tony just raised an eyebrow. "And chugging coffee like it's going out of style is?"
Gibbs set the bottle on the nightstand with a solid thunk and glared. "See? I haven't even said half the things that are going through my head, and you're already deflecting."
Tony blinked and felt a little shiver run through his body. He set aside the half-eaten sandwich and went to stand by the window, his back to his boss. He was feeling more than a little unsettled. He wasn't dumb enough to think Gibbs didn't have him and his act completely figured out, but Gibbs had never actually called him on it.
Gibbs watched Tony roll his shoulders, presumably to ease some sort of tension, and he frowned tightly. "This is a perfect example," he said, exasperation in his voice. "I even start to talk about something serious, and you have to get up and get some physical space between us—even though I know the painkillers are making you dizzy and you're still feeling that hangover."
"I'm—"
"Fine," Gibbs finished with him, taking a deep breath to try to quell the sudden urge to shake some sense into his agent. He reached down deep and found a well of patience he kept around for rainy days. The way he figured it, it was goddamn pouring. "I know, Tony. You're always 'fine'—whether you actually are or not."
Tony sensed the unspoken words hanging over them, but he had no idea what they were. He turned, schooling his face into a mask as blank as freshly fallen snow and lowering his damaged hand to his side even though he wanted to cradle the throbbing limb to his chest.
"So just say it," Tony said, sounding annoyed and fearful despite his best efforts to not sound anything.
Gibbs just eyed him, wondering if he should let it go. He knew the well was only so deep, and the last thing he wanted to do was end up losing it and hurting Tony more. Not to mention that Tony had already opened up to him more in the past two days than in all the years they had worked together. Not to mention the man had just lost the father who had badly abused him and had the added burden of wrestling with how to feel about that.
"I just thought you were starting to trust me," Gibbs said, quietly, waiting for the automatic response he knew was coming.
"I do," Tony said just as softly, forcing his eyes to stay on Gibbs' face. "With my life."
Gibbs just sighed. "I know that," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "But not with anything else."
Tony flinched and turned back to the window, having no idea what to say to that.
"I know you trust me out in the field," Gibbs said. "You know I'll always have your back. But that's the easy part."
Tony still didn't speak. He just stared out into the rain, fighting the urge to go throw up and trying to make himself believe it was the painkillers.
Gibbs took another pull from the bottle and started twisting it in his calloused hands. After a moment, he looked up and said, "And you're doing it again. I mention trust and you immediately dive into work and pay me the biggest compliment one agent can give another. And somehow that's the easy way compared to actually dealing with what you know I meant."
Tony scoffed lightly at the gathering darkness. "You know me, always taking the easy way."
Gibbs' tone was hard when he countered, "No, Tony. I told you. Never when it counts."
Tony turned, his eyes dark in the softly lit hotel room. "Well this is going to knock you on your ass, then. I'm not going to that funeral tomorrow."
Gibbs just nodded. "Good."
Tony's eyes narrowed fractionally, a reaction no one but Gibbs would have even noticed. Then Tony smiled, the expression making a mockery of the emotion it should have represented. "Good," Tony repeated. "You were starting to scare me. If you had been anything other than glad you don't have to hold my hand through a stranger's funeral, I think I might have died myself."
"You think that's why I don't want to go?" Gibbs asked, his tone soft but holding a dangerous edge that Tony vaguely recognized from the interrogation room. Gibbs' mouth tightened and he said softly, "I've sat through worse."
Guilt slapped the smile off Tony's face and he turned back to the window, suddenly fighting tears again. He felt like sitting down and sobbing until the world made sense again. As if it ever had. How unfair was it that Gibbs had lost his entire loving family so soon and Tony's bastard father had gotten to stay around this long just to ignore his only son?
Gibbs knew the moment the words left his mouth that they were the wrong thing to say. He knew without thinking about it that Tony would take full blame for things that were completely out of his control, adding the crushing weight of guilt to already trembling shoulders. Gibbs rose and approached Tony slowly, watching him blink back tears. That simple act of bravery was almost too much for Gibbs. How unfair was it that the man wouldn't cry over his father's death but was close to shedding tears for a family he had never met?
Gibbs' hand found Tony's shoulder, but he didn't make eye contact. "You know why I don't want to go?"
"Nothing to wear?" Tony ventured, needing the paltry attempt at humor because Gibbs' hand was burning through his shirt and searing his skin. He made a mental note to check for damage later.
Realizing Tony was about to bolt, Gibbs dropped his hand and stepped back. He considered again just letting it go. But he was Gibbs, after all. "I don't want to go because your family will be there."
"That makes two of us," Tony snorted.
Gibbs met Tony's eyes in the glass, knowing the real thing would be too much. "I don't want you to go—because they'll be there. And I know you. You'll stand there and let them hurt you because you think you deserve it. That it's the right thing to do. You just lost your father, Tony. The only thing you should be worried about is getting through that, not worrying about how the family will feel about you being at his funeral."
Tony had closed his eyes about halfway through Gibbs' speech—and it was a speech, for Gibbs. Tony could feel the man's eyes on him during the short silence afterward, and it was all suddenly too much.
Gibbs let him bolt for the door, but he tried calling his name.
Tony turned back, his eyes on the floor. "Sorry, Gibbs. But I just lost my father," he said, slamming the door on his way out.
Gibbs rubbed his hands over his face, debating. He knew anyone overhearing their conversation would have heard the sarcasm in Tony's voice and would think he was throwing Gibbs' kindness back in his face. But Gibbs knew him too well to think that. He knew what Tony was doing, and he knew it was his fault for pushing too hard, getting too close—physically and otherwise.
"I know you're going to feel guilty for saying that," he said to the empty room. "I just wish I could get you to believe that you shouldn't."