When Solas arrived, the question of who would occupy the observation room and who would enter interrogation was solved with expedience when Gibbs walked into interrogation and slammed the door behind him.
Shrugging, Tony went into observation, Solas not far behind.
Through the window, they watched Gibbs sit across from Tessler and level a stare at the crazy bastard.
It was only a mild intensity stare by Gibbs' standards, Tony knew. Curious. Why wouldn't he pull out the big guns?
"Detective." Solas' overly cultured tones broke the spell of silence.
"Yeah, what?"
"Could you tell me what's going on? Agent Gibbs ordered me down to the station, but didn't give a reason."
Briefly surprised, then amused, DiNozzo replied, "I don't think explaining himself is high on Gibbs' list of things to do today." Glancing away from the silent interrogation room towards the shrink, he grudgingly offered more. "You said you weren't a profiler, but you've got more profiling training than we do. Suspect in there," he jerked his chin towards the window, "likes to bash body parts. Might like him for our killer."
"He might be the man who killed Keith?" Solas blinked rapidly three times, the only indication of emotional reaction he gave beyond a new intensity to his eyes. "Ah. Well, if he'd speak, it would be easier for me to tell you something."
"Give it time."
Tony stood, watching the next room with his arms crossed. Why wasn't Gibbs making a move? They didn't have enough intel on the guy to know if drawing out a prolonged silence like this would work. The fed must have something up his sleeve, though – he hardly seemed the type to take an open-eyed nap in the same room as a murderer.
The shrink was tenser now; it was subtle, but added a buzz to the air.
To pass the time, Tony talked. "Kinda weird that you weren't nervous when you had no idea why Gibbs ordered you to the police station, but now you're all riled up."
Well. Riled up was maybe a bit of an exaggeration. But a guy had to entertain himself.
Eyes never leaving the glass, Solas replied calmly, "If I can help, I want to."
Damn.
It sounded like Solas truly wanted to nab Collins' killer. Tony considered trying not to hate him anymore. Just because Solas gave him the heebie jeebies didn't mean he was evil personified.
The shrink in question spoke again, eyes still straight ahead. "Kinda weird that you're profiling me when you called me here to do the profiling."
With a half-innocent, half-crafty grin, Tony claimed, "Nah. I'm just your basic, garden-variety cop."
"Do basic, garden-variety cops partner up with federal agents on murder cases often?" Solas had that shrink look, the one where they tried to maintain a nonjudgmental expression while still raising one eyebrow to indicate they found something you did interesting. Like you were a bug that just started square dancing with a mouse.
That look was irritating. "I'm an investigator, not a paper pusher. I didn't study profiling, but it doesn't mean I can't pick up a few things. Cops have streets smarts, you know?"
Solas issued a nonjudgmental smile to go with his expression. Tony took it as a putdown, and therefore a challenge.
DiNozzo pushed away from the wall, and let a dismissive gaze fall from Solas' head to his toes. "You try to present a posh image, but you're working from the head down. I'd say your haircut is the most designer thing on you, followed by your glasses, then the tie, then the suit, then the shoes." He paused for dramatic effect, leaned in closer, lowered his voice. "But real wealth, especially old money, invades everything you do, everything you wear. So my guess is, you're from a poor background, one you're not proud of, maybe even ashamed of, working to forget your history." Tony pushed one finger against' Solas' shoulder. "How am I doing, Doc?"
"I'd have to say that to notice, you must have a wealthier background that one might think."
"Touché." DiNozzo knew he shouldn't be annoyed. He was just tired. He lost a little of his emotional control when he was this tired, so the annoying pest was getting to him a little. But recognizing it didn't always help when you couldn't stop yourself.
He wanted to win. Why didn't anyone ever get to win against a freaking therapist?
"Your shoes aren't just the cheapest thing on you, they're old and unpolished. Now, that could mean you don't care about your appearance much, but your shave is close and your hair is styled, so that seems unlikely. Maybe it means you don't have the time to deal with it right now, or maybe that you don't have the money to give it to someone else to deal with. But you've got lackeys, so that seems unlikely, too. So my guess is you had a fancier pair of shoes on you but something happened, and these were your only backups."
The corner of the shrink's mouth ticked up at the corner. "I begin to see how a detective making logical deductions is both similar and very far from a psychological profile. You're very creative."
"Am I right?"
Solas briefly glanced at Tony. "I stepped in something red and sticky at the hospital. It might've been jam. Or, not. These were in my car."
"What kinda car do you drive, Doc?"
"A '99 Buick LeSabre."
Tony grinned. "Yeah, I bet you do."
"And that tells you what?"
"Depends, what color is it?"
"Dark red."
"See, that's interesting. You put the year of the car first, which means you might place more value on the newness than the model, meaning you're not a car guy."
"True enough."
"You didn't mention the color at first, so you probably don't see your car as a fashion accessory, or an extension of yourself, just a tool to transport you from place to place." Tony leaned against the wall again, secure in victory. "You're missing out," he advised.
"And you obviously do not view your car as merely a tool, suggesting you place a great deal of value in yours as a status symbol. But in order for you to find value in it, it likely has some real purposeful value as well as the tool it was meant to be. Meaning you spent a great deal of time traveling or commuting at some point, or still do. Added to your career, I'd say that means it's unlikely you have stable romantic relationship at the moment. And, odds are that you don't feel a great draw to any one place – to a home."
DiNozzo rolled his eyes. "So I love my car. So what?"
"You're deliberately misunderstanding me."
"No, I really do love my car." Tony examined the fingernails of his left hand.
"You like to win. But do you always like to win fairly?"
"Who defines fair?"
"That is a very interesting question. Somehow I think your counterpart in there wouldn't ask it." Solas pointed towards the two silent men in the next room. "I'm curious, what do you see when you look at Gibbs?"
Ah, the game gets serious. "The worst haircut I've seen in a long, long time. And I once busted a crack operation run entirely by guys with mullets, so that's saying something."
"Aside from the haircut, Detective. Aside from the clothes, the trappings of the man. What do you see?"
Tony studied Gibbs through the window. What did he see?
Sharp eyes. And sharp eyes meant a sharp mind. Gibbs was no buffoon.
Stubbornness. The shoulders, the expression, the effortless domineering posture all conveyed a stubborn streak, and with that stubborn streak, a sense of strength, a great measure of fortitude. He flashed back to the night of the accident, but shoved it out of his mind.
Arrogance. Not so much arrogance as self confidence, but still a little. Was it a front, or was it real?
Responsibility. No, no, that wasn't quite right. More ability mixed with duty. Yes, duty, that was the right word. For the fed, and the Marine he used to be. Still was at heart, probably. Marines didn't retire, they just shifted duties.
Tony's focus was entirely caught on studying Gibbs now. He knew he hadn't answered Solas' question, he knew he should pull back, regain his grasp of the room, his control of the situation. But he was so damned exhausted, and it sounded like so much work. So he let his thoughts float, since Solas returned his attention to the glass and remained silent.
Gibbs was no superhero. He was kind of an ass sometimes, honestly. And he had weaknesses. He wasn't perfect. He could be hurt.
Again a flashback to the night of the accident. To working the flipped cars in the dark, in the slush. Helping the victims, and helping each other move on when there was nothing they could do. To Gibbs sliding over the edge.
Tony blinked and gave a small jerk of his head, loosening the thoughts and tossing them aside. But a memory of the stairwell after his first meeting with Ducky popped in to replace them. Confronting Gibbs, standing up to him, feeling him out. Then fighting with Gibbs – the fist fight, their first encounter.
He didn't notice a smile tug across his own face.
They could keep up with each other. And as commanding as the bastard could be, he could let go – he had let Tony take the lead with the missing kid, let Tony handle the gang when the rookies screwed things up. Wasn't happy about it, maybe, but he had let it happen.
Jesus. Guns and rookies and Gibbs and gang members and tattoo parlors. If he never had to deal with another gun pointed in the wrong direction, that'd be just fine. He had no desire to see his partner's head explode in front of him.
Were they partners? Temporarily? Gibbs liked to run the show, but if what Gibbs wanted continued to be what Tony intended to do anyway, he hardly cared.
Solas murmured, "Why doesn't he do something? Ask a question?"
Distractedly, Tony replied without thinking. "Give him time. He'll get it done," and returned to his musing.
Solas' eyebrow raised again, but not in the aren't-you-a-curious-alien way this time – more a human expression of disbelief. "Have you two known each other long?"
"A week? Less, maybe. It's been a long couple of days."
"That's impressive."
"Of course it is. What are we talking about?"
"You trust him. Without consideration, without hesitation. True trust is a rare thing. And I get the feeling that you're not exactly the trusting type. So, that's impressive. Fast. You two must gel well."
"Couldn't be more different, doc."
"I doubt that, detective."
Trust?
Did he trust Gibbs?
He'd never even seen Gibbs in a true interrogation. Why did he assume Gibbs would get the answers they needed?
Suddenly Gibbs himself leaned back in his chair, posture loosened, nearly lounging. "Damn delivery guys."
Crazy Punk's bushy eyebrows narrowed. "Don't you say anything about the mailman. Mailmen are good, solid people. They come at the same time every day."
"And if they don't, they have a damn good reason," Gibbs agreed.
"The UPS man, he's shady. Shows up whenever he wants to. No regard for anyone's schedule, no regard at all."
"But at least he didn't promise you he'd be there a certain time. You know he's unpredictable."
"Exactly!" Spittle flew. "Exactly! The boy from Golden Wok would never promise to be there in 25 minutes and not show for an hour. Never!"
Gibbs shook his head in apparent dismay. "No respect."
"A man has to eat!"
"You always order in? Never go out to eat? Hard to get a table sometimes, have to wait around…"
"Exactly!" Mr. Exactly jumped around in his chair. "So unpredictable."
"Wallace, when's the last time you left your house before today?"
Brow furrowed, the man asked, "What month is it?"
Tony and Solas looked at each other in the only moment of common understanding they would likely ever share.
This wasn't their man.
Two hours later, Solas had gone and Wallace had been transferred back to the arresting cops, and Tony sat with his chin propped on his folded arms, staring at the wallpaper on his computer – a picture of a Mountie Tony had arbitrarily named Roy.
Roy the Mountie would know what to do right now. He'd never lie down on the job.
Mmmm, lying down. Sleep sounded so good…
Mentally shaking himself away from the lure of that particular forbidden drug, he tried to get up.
Nothing happened.
Normally he was excellent at motivating himself. But normally he had something to go on. Anything. A crazy idea. A hunch. An actual freaking clue.
He was tired of having nothing.
"Hey." How did Gibbs make 'hey' sound like a command?
"What?" Tony snarked.
"I gotta go back to DC."
Of course he did. Probably to get away from the worthlessness in front of him. Tony didn't bother to raise his head, merely tilted his face to his cheek so he was looking at Gibbs instead of Roy. "Okay. See you whenever."
"Hey!" A sharper tone, definitely a command and a reprimand all built into one.
Too bad Tony didn't actually work for the man, or he might give a shit. He considered blowing a raspberry instead. "Take off, then."
Gibbs' fist slammed down on the desk. "You do not give up. You hear me, DiNozzo?"
"I'm not giving up." He meant it, but it sounded lame even to himself.
With a sigh, Gibbs looked away. "I have to go back to DC to sign some papers early tomorrow morning."
Oh.
Oh.
Tony tried to wipe the cobwebs from his head. All he managed to do was push himself off the desk and flop his body backwards until it hit the back of his chair. "I thought that was all finished the other night?"
"Never enough paperwork for lawyers, DiNozzo. There are rules for these things."
He felt like a shithead for whining about how tired he was when Gibbs was still dealing with a drawn-out divorce. "Okay. I'll go over some of the older cases again, see if there's anyone that might be worth re-interviewing."
"You do that. Tomorrow. Go home and get some sleep, Tony."
"I'm good. I'll hit the vending machine, get some sugar, wake myself up." If he could get to the vending machines.
"I need you to do something for me."
Man, if ever there was a sentence from Gibbs that would make you straighten up and pay attention…
Tony straightened up and paid attention.
"Go get Abby. Take her back to your apartment, make sure she gets at least four hours of sleep."
Gibbs started to turn, as if to leave. He stopped, pointed a finger in Tony's face. "She gets your bed. With the door closed, and you not in the room. You sleep on the couch. Got it?"
The grin came naturally to Tony, just as the headslap came naturally to Gibbs.
Both oddly satisfied, they parted for the evening.
DiNozzo braved the empty forensic labs to search for Abby and finally found her dancing around a lab full of chemicals to music only she could hear.
"Abby, time to sleep." He lacked the energy to try to banter with her.
"Here?" she questioned, though she seemed to have no problem with that concept.
"No, my place."
The grin on her face probably matched the grin he'd recently shot at Gibbs.
"You in the bedroom with the door closed, me very much not in the bedroom."
"Gibbs set the rules, huh? Where's he sleeping?"
"He went back to DC. Divorce stuff."
Her eyes widened. "He told you that?"
"Yeah. So?"
"The only reason I even know he's going through a divorce again is because he's trashed three phones in a month and keeps restating lawyer rules. He never told me outright."
Uncomfortable, not wanting to make it seem like Gibbs was actually confiding in him or anything, he offered, "It's no big deal. It's not like we had a heart-to-heart on the topic."
She put her hands on his shoulders. "It is a big deal. And I think it's great." She hugged him.
He had no idea what was going on, and was too tired to care. "Sleep time."
"Okay, Tony." She made a circuit of the room, turning dials and moving vials. "Ready! Do you want me to drive?"
"No," a sleepy, self-satisfied smile crossed his face. "I've got someone I'd like to introduce you to."
They went out to the parking garage together and he honed in on his Corvette, sinking into bliss as he dropped to the seat. "Abby, meet Corvette. Corvette, meet Abby."
"I always like a car with character. Have you had her long?" Abby climbed in the passenger seat, running her hands along the dash, the door, the seatbelt.
"Yes, a while now." Years upon years. "She's my longest running relationship."
A frown crossed Abby's face. "Who taught you to drive, Tony?"
He startled. She couldn't know about that… "Mostly I taught myself. I had a couple of friends with too much money who didn't care if I tooled around in their rides and banged them up a little. Just gave them a reason to get a new one."
He turned the key in the ignition and smiled again when she purred for him. "This car was in pretty rough shape when I got her. I didn't have much money to spend, but I couldn't bring myself to settle on just any old junker."
He'd had $800 to spend, and a desperate need for a car to get him between his job and classes during college.
"When I saw this one, I just knew. She had a lot of rust, a holey muffler, all sorts of engine problems, ripped up seats. But she still ran, and continued to run for me even when parts fell off." He stroked the steering wheel as he pulled out onto the street.
A very serious Abby replied, "She sounds loyal."
"The best. She never quit on me, not when I really needed her. And when I started to make a little bit of money, I put it all into her first." Loyalty had to be repaid.
"You're more at east here than I've seen you anywhere."
"She's home," he said simply, and realized Solas was wrong. A car didn't have to be just a tool or a status symbol. And a home didn't have to be some stationary place you always returned to.
He was weary enough to be honest, at least with himself, even if it sounded sentimental. But inside this car was the place he felt most comfortable, the place he felt most loved.
He smiled at the fanciful thought – his car loved him as much as he loved it.
It could happen.
They rode in silence for a while.
When he parked at his apartment, he considered letting the sloppy words come out, telling her how much his car loved him.
It's not like he could point to anyone else who did the same.
Instead, he shrugged aside the foolish thoughts and put a grin in place, letting his head sink to her shoulder. "I'm sleepy, Abby."
She smiled back at him. "You're kinda cute when you're like this."
He removed his head from her shoulder. "I'm always cute."
"It's definitely time for bed."
The both grinned. Gibbs would have killed them.
So close to a real bed now – or a real couch, whatever, he wasn't going to be picky – motor skills started deteriorating and he leaned on every wall and surface he could find as they climbed up the stairs to his door.
His tour consisted of pointing. "Bedroom. With bed included. Clean sheets in the closet next to the bathroom if you want them. Bathroom. Kitchen. Couch." He started towards the couch, but stopped himself.
"Clean sweats in the top drawer in my bedroom, you can sleep in those if you want. Don't have much to offer you for clothes for tomorrow."
"I've got a change of clothes in my car, don't worry. Thanks, Tony! Now get some sleep. You totally look like crap." She pecked him on the cheek and went off to the bedroom.
He fell on the couch, then remembered falling on bullet wounds – even grazes – was not a great idea. Moaning softly to himself, he kicked his shoes off and turned to his less battered side.
He debated taking off more clothes or getting a pillow but it seemed like far too much work. Everything was fine as it was.
He started to drift off as Abby reappeared in the dim glow the bathroom and bedroom lights provided the rest of the apartment. She was wearing an old Ohio sweatshirt with the arms cut off and his blue workout shorts.
Somehow, it worked on her.
"Tony," she called softly.
"Mmfh?" he replied intelligently.
"I think if your car could talk, she'd tell you she loved you too." She padded back to the bedroom.
Pleased with the world in general, Tony finally relaxed into slumber.
At the same moment, on a dark road with a buzzing, flickering streetlight not so far away from where Tony slept, another man was murdered by the Baltimore Basher.
A/N - Props to Agent Malkere, who suggest Tony's computer desktop image.