Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks to who's read, favorited and followed. Extra thanks to those who left a review.
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Tony isn't a religious man. After everything he's seen, he doesn't even pretend to be. Still, he tries to beg something or someone…at this point, he'll take anything, as long as it listens. He keeps thinking someone will prod him until he wakes from this nightmare.
Gibbs isn't even here to head slap him because he thinks Tony is 'lollygagging' again. Whatever that word means, Tony never learned. He never even looked it up because he couldn't figure out how to spell it. The word was one Gibbs only said once. Maybe twice and only in passing. Gibbs did—does, DOES—most things in passing. But it stuck inside Tony's head so deep that he hears Gibbs' voice call it out when he gets distracted.
Will I ever have a chance to hear Gibbs say that dumb word again?
His eyes itch again, gnawing and stinging beneath the lids. The sensation is weird and foreign, a phantom sensation from a previous life. As a kid, he always was a crier. Anything and everything seemed to set him off from his mom accidentally drinking his sea monkeys to his dad throwing away his carefully created crayon masterpieces. Yet, after his mom died, it was like the tear ducts dried up because he'd gotten everything out. They were empty, barren, a desert.
Why Gibbs? Why was he reacting like this to Gibbs?
Gibbs isn't even nice to me.
Tony barely shed a tear after Kate died. The switch flipped and he was there, following Gibbs like a good soldier and forcing Tim to keep his head on straight until the job was done.
And now, he teeters on the edge of turning into a hysterical, blubbering mess. That deep chasm has been there since Gibbs went down. Waiting and threatening to swallow him.
Tony manages to keep ahead of it. Just barely.
He doesn't know how he is supposed to keep going. When everything turns out wrong, Tony usually crawls headfirst into a bottle until he finds peace. Right now, he is as dry as a Sunday school teacher. And somehow, he is supposed to keep his eye on the ball.
A shuddering breath wracks his chest, but he searches, in vain, for some inner Zen. All those yoga classes should've taught him a trick or two. It wasn't like he was just there for the ladies. Okay, maybe he started going for the ladies, but he stayed for the calm he learned. Deep down, he knows he shouldn't be as emotional, as frayed, as ragged as he feels right now. He should keep his head down, focused on the case until they find the man who shot Gibbs.
I need to be Gibbs when he can't.
That scratching strengthens.
He buries the heels of his hands against his eyes until stars burst in his retinas. Rapid and white-hot like blazing, beautiful fireworks. And it hurts. The itching subsides slower than he'd like.
When Tony peels his eyelids open, nothing changed in the bullpen. The orange walls are still close enough to make his skin crawl. The air, still too thick to breathe. Outside the windows, the world grew dark. He hadn't realized it got so late. The floor is surprisingly deserted, and he is very much alone. Tony's computer screen is idle, winged toasters float lethargically across the screen. Gibbs and Ziva's desks are mausoleums, monuments to a lifetime ago even though it's only been a day.
Tim's desk is empty too.
Tony expected him to be back from the breakroom—or wherever he went to collect himself—by now, arms laden with a week's worth of snacks and cheeks bulging with whatever couldn't wait.
Deciding to give Tim more time, Tony checks his BOLO.
Zip. Zilch. Nada. Absolutely nothing.
Worse than nothing even because some overzealous uni hasn't even sent a possible sighting.
He updates Davenport's report with his and Tim's interview of Tyler Morgan and their newest information. He reviews the case file again. Even though he was there, and he's read it a hundred times already, he might've missed something. Almost on reflex, his hand slips into his pocket for his cell.
Instead of hard plastic, his fingers curl around cold metal.
Biting his lips, he removes the object from his pocket. It's a small revolver, Gibbs' backup weapon. Tony must have scooped it off his desk when he got back from the director's office, but he can't remember. He doesn't have the heart to put it back in Gibbs' desk because he wants a part of his boss to hold onto. A tangible piece of Gibbs that will be here when his boss isn't. A talisman as though it could make Gibbs pull through. He re-pockets the weapon.
He pulls his cell phone out this time.
Maybe I should call Ducky.
Flipping open the phone, his thumb slides over the buttons. The act is surprisingly comforting, but Tony stops short.
What would Gibbs do? He wouldn't get distracted.
I need to find Arram and Ziva before they're too far in the wind.
He slips the phone closed, shoves it back into his pocket. As much as he doesn't want to, finding out Gibbs' condition would have to wait.
Rising from his chair, Tony crosses the bullpen to Tim's desk. Things are the way they were when Tony arrived from the director's office. The snacks he chucked on Tim's desk are still in a haphazard pile, but a few Nutter Butter packages slid to the floor. Tim's monitor is dark. Tony doesn't remember how long Tim set it before it hibernates. Knowing how paranoid Tim is, it's probably less than a minute. Tony doesn't bother trying to boot it up because he could never guess Tim's password. Not in a million years.
Just where did McGee get off to?
Tony pulls out his cell phone and hits Tim's number on speed dial. He's still at number three, but only because Tony can't bring himself to reassign number two from Kate Todd.
It goes straight to voicemail.
Dumbfounded, Tony glares at his phone before trying a second time.
He mutters, "Call me, Probie," to the voicemail and hangs up.
Uncertainty courses through Tony like the blood in his veins. He checks the bathroom and finds one of the stalls occupied. If Tim is still trying to work through his emotions, he'll need Tony's help to refocus. Trying to keep things light, Tony serenades Tim with the titular song from Bye Bye Birdie. There's some banging, a flush, and one of the MTAC agents wanders out to give Tony the hardest side-eye of his life. He mutters a half-hearted apology before scuttling to the breakroom. Also empty.
He checks the little alcove with the vending machines. Since they're still full, he knows Tim hasn't even been here. Even though it's closed, he checks the cafeteria. He wanders down to Tim's least favorite place, the gym. He even tries the roof where they'll go sometimes to catch their breath.
Tony stares out at the city lights twinkling like jewels on the other side of the Anacostia River. A barge moves sluggishly down the river. Despite the bone seeping chill in the air, it's a beautiful night. Cloudless sky with a heavy moon and a few stars poking through the smog. Tony doesn't let himself admire it.
Perplexed, Tony heads back into the bullpen. He rests his hands on his hips as he stands in front of Tim's desk. Nothing has been touched, the monitor still dark.
He didn't notice the Post-It pad at first glance. He grabs it and there appears to be a dent of what was written on the previous one. He barely makes it out. It looks like it might be an address.
He calls Tim's cell again. Straight to voicemail.
"Rule Three," he says and hangs up.
He doubts Tim is even still in the building because there are so few places without reception. The evidence locker, for one, but the team makes a habit of leaving a note on each other's desks whenever they go down there. Unfortunately, Tim once locked himself in there overnight during his earliest probie days. It was Abby who found him the next morning.
Tony decides he might as well do the computer voodoo himself. He used to do it all the time when the team consisted of just him and Gibbs. His boss sure as hell wasn't doing anything computer-related, so the task instantly fell to Tony. It would take forever, and Gibbs would just stand there, glaring him down while asking, 'Got anything yet?' on repeat. Then, Tim joined the team and thankfully, Gibbs had someone else to harass for computer stuff.
Tony fumbles through the steps to ping Tim's cell phone. It's been a while, but he still knows what to do. If Tim turned off his phone, it should still spit out a location. It takes a few tries and some colorful threats at the computer, but eventually, it kicks back, No data found. That result only appears when a phone has been destroyed, the SIM card removed, or it's out of range of a cell tower.
"Hm," Tony mutters.
He loads a different search parameter. Somehow, he manages to convince the computer to tell him where the phone stopped transmitting data.
The last known location was within one hundred yards of a residence in Dupont Circle.
"What the hell were you doing there, McGee?" Tony stares at the pulsing red button. "And where are you right now?"
Shaking his head, Tony scribbles down the address on a Post-It note. He doesn't know what to make of it, nor does he know what to think. Then, he notices the address on his Post-It might be what was written on the previously removed one. He frowns at the pad, shaking his head.
Did Tim try to run down a lead on his own? But why would he do that?
He knows better. He should know better.
Tony's eyes remain on the screen. Against his better judgment, Tony pings Ziva's cell phone. Of course, there aren't any results. Tony didn't expect anything different. He pulls her last location, and her phone went offline right after Gibbs was shot. Mere minutes after Gibbs started bleeding out.
Dread worms its way through Tony, feeling like ant legs crawling all over his body. He shudders.
Did Tim try to make contact with Ziva?
No, McGee wouldn't do that to me and Gibbs.
The air leaves Tony's lungs as though he's been punched in the gut. He shakes his head rapidly, narrowing his eyes at the computer. He pulls another breath through his teeth.
He considers telling Barrows where he's going, but he decides not to. Whatever just happened to his team, it's his responsibility to sort it out. He would rather confront Tim himself and figure out what the hell is going on. If Barrows and his team are looking for Tim, that's three fewer people hunting Arram and Ziva.
Set in his decision, Tony grabs his gear and strides towards the elevator. As soon as he arrives, the doors slide open and Jimmy Palmer dances—literally dances—straight into Tony.
Palmer wears headphones, one hand clutching a file to his chest and the other thrown out like he's doing a waltz. He bashes his outstretched arm into the side of Tony's head.
"Watch it, Palmer," Tony warns.
Embarrassed, Palmer slips his headphones around his neck. "Sorry about that, Agent DiNozzo. I didn't even see you there."
Tony tries to force a smile, but it comes off more like he's baring his teeth.
"And where are you headed on this fine Friday evening?" Palmer asks conversationally.
And Tony just stares at him because he can't understand how Palmer is acting so normal when Gibbs was shot. When Tony discovered Ziva is a spy. When Tim is MIA. When his entire world is falling apart.
He tries to move past him, but Palmer darts in the same direction. Even though it's clearly an accident, Tony clenches his teeth.
Palmer releases a pained laugh. "Come on, Tony. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing." When Tony looks toward the darkened windows, Palmer barks another laugh. "Well, the sun was shining, and the birds would be singing if it wasn't winter. Love is in the air."
Tony decides not to tell him it was snowing earlier. When he moves for the elevator, Palmer slips into his path. On purpose, this time. Tony balls his right hand into a fist.
"Are you okay?" Palmer appears suddenly concerned.
"Never better." Tony's entire body stiffens. "What are you doing up here, Autopsy Gremlin?"
Palmer flinches at the name, just a little. "Dropping off a file that Agent Gibbs requested."
At the mention of his boss' name, Tony shoves his fist against his mouth. The furrow in Palmer's brow deepens as he leans too close into Tony's personal space.
"Is everything alright?" Palmer asks.
Tony barely shakes his head. If asked later, Tony wouldn't be able to tell you what possessed him in that moment. He jerks his head towards the elevator. Without a single question, Palmer leads the way. The doors close, the elevator heading towards the garage, until Tony smashes the emergency stop button. There's a far-off alarm, light and tinny. For how many times he's been here, Tony doesn't even hear it anymore. And after all of Gibbs' private meetings he hosts, no one bothers to check anymore until it's been ringing for at least an hour.
Palmer is better at reading situations than Tony thought because he waits, hands clasped around the file against his chest. He doesn't speak a word, just keeps his breathing even and steady, as though Tony might attack him instead of talking. He is facing the elevator doors, eyes fixed on Tony's reflection.
"You didn't hear?" Tony asks.
Palmer tilts his head. "I took the day off to study for the medical boards. I forgot my cell phone here last night. I stopped by to drop off the file for Gibbs and grab my phone. The battery is dead."
Tony pulls a shaky inhale. "Gibbs was shot earlier."
Palmer holds a hand to his mouth.
"They don't know if he'll make it." Tony licks his lips. "It was my fault. I didn't get there in time."
Tony knew the situation was bad, but saying it out loud makes it so much worse. The words pinballing around his brain were one thing. He could pretend they weren't true, maybe even pretend they'd happened to someone else. Yet, once he says the words, they are real. A living, breathing thing. That monster no parent could ever protect you from.
Palmer places a steady hand on Tony's shoulder, and it makes that itching in his eyes kick up again. He stares up at the ceiling. He never notices one of the panels was punched up like someone climbed up the elevator shaft. Maybe from someone trying to escape a Gibbs meeting.
"It couldn't have been your fault, Tony," Palmer says.
Tony shoots him a look. Palmer offers a sympathetic smile.
"Did you arrest the shooter?" Palmer asks.
Tony shakes his head. "We're looking for them, but it's…" he searches for the right word, but settles for, "complicated."
"I find things are only as complicated as we make them."
In that moment, Jimmy sounds so much like Ducky that Tony bursts out laughing. The laughter sounds sick and strange in that tiny, metal box. Tears cling to the edges of his eyes, but the laughing leaves him doubled over. His sides shaking and his breath heaving.
Palmer watches, a dubious smile on his lips.
"Was that too much?" Palmer asks.
"Not if you're a fortune cookie," Tony offers.
Palmer blanches. "Where are McGee and Ziva in all this?"
At the sound of her name, Tony sobers quickly. "That's where it gets complicated. Ziva's in the wind and we think she's protecting the man who shot Gibbs. And McGee…" he exhales slowly, shrugging "…I don't know where he is. He disappeared when I was updating the director."
Palmer rubs at the back of his neck. "That does sound complicated."
The silence lingers as Palmer turns to face him. There's a question written on his face Tony recognizes all too well. Tony keeps his body pointed at the elevator doors. In the low light, the unpolished metal door might as well be a funhouse mirror. It leaves him, shapeless and faceless in a black suit with a peach-colored lump on top. A special kind of monster.
"They're not working together, are they?" Palmer asks for him.
Tony snaps his head toward Palmer. "This is McGee you're talking about. He's a boy scout."
Palmer considers this for a moment before nodding resolutely. As if Tony's trust in his teammate is enough to sway his opinion, too. Tony might not know exactly what's going on yet, but he isn't ready to throw Tim under the bus without hard evidence. For Ziva, there is more than enough to know exactly what she has been up to.
Without warning, Palmer gives Tony a very tight and very manly hug. One arm, no body contact with a football field between them. Just enough let Tony knows he's there. Tony leans his head against Palmer's shoulder, taking a deep breath. Palmer smells exactly like he should, of hand soap and dead people, that sickly-sweet reek of putrefaction he can never get out of his skin. When they pull apart, Tony takes a full step back. Any self-respecting man knows the only way to reinforce manliness after a sign of affection is space. Lots and lots of space.
Palmer exhales, long and low. "I wish I could tell you everything will be fine, but I can't. All I know is that it'll work out."
"Yeah?" Tony says.
"If it hasn't worked out, it isn't the end."
Tony laughs again. "Did you memorize a bunch of fortune cookies?"
Palmer shrugs a shoulder. "My ex-girlfriend's parents used to own a Chinese food restaurant. They'd let us have the expired ones and we would compete to see who could find the most absurd one."
"That sounds like a fun date." Tony goes for sarcastic, but he misses his mark.
"You have no idea." Jimmy's expression turns wistful. "We used to – "
Tony clears his throat. "What was the worst fortune you got?"
"It was a misprint that said, 'Run'."
Tony blinks. "What? That's all it said?"
Palmer runs a hand along his chin. "Now that I think about it, maybe it was trying to tell me something. After my ex and I broke up, she went psycho on me."
"Single White Female?"
"Close, but not quite." Contemplation settles deeper on Palmer's face. "Maybe I should've listened to the cookie before it was too late."
"About time I listened to the cookie too," Tony says.
With a self-assured nod, Tony ends the emergency stop. The elevator shudders before returning to life as it resumes its course for the garage. Whatever moment he and Palmer just shared dissipates into nothingness. Palmer looks like he knows not to expect it again anytime soon.
"Where are you headed?" Palmer asks.
"Tim's last known location before his phone…" Tony presses his lips together. "You know, I'm not sure what happened to his phone."
"That doesn't sound good."
Again, that monster rears its head. They are tiny, little, innocuous things that you don't realize how bad they are until they grow legs and wings and teeth.
Tim just wasn't here. Tony hadn't thought about the fact that he doesn't know where Tim is.
"It's not," Tony admits quietly.
"Did you let Barrows know?"
Tony's silence speaks for him.
"Agent DiNozzo?" More silence. "Tony?"
Tony is shaking his head now. "I need him running point on Gibbs' case. If the shooter gets away because I couldn't handle my team. I…I don't know what I'll do. Got a fortune cookie for that, Palmer?"
His face pinches as though he smelled something sour. "No, but I wish I did."
And just as the elevator stops at the garage, Tony's phone chimes with a text. He checks it, frowning because he doesn't recognize the number. It must be from Ziva.
It reads: You will find McGee at the following address. He is unharmed.
Moments later, the phone chimes with another text. The same address where Tim's phone went offline. A pit forms in Tony's stomach as though the elevator plummeted straight to the basement. He scrambles into the garage, but the feeling won't leave him. The blood drains from his cheeks to pool in his feet. His heart rattles maniacally in his chest, slamming into his sternum.
Palmer is looking at him again, his lips moving, but Tony can't make out the words.
"Ziva's got McGee," Tony says slowly as though he speaks a foreign language.
And even though Palmer keeps talking, the only word Tony hears is Run!
He does just that.