3

It was a decidedly sorry looking troupe that trailed back into the office a couple of hours later. Four dripping wet, three liberally doused with mud, two sporting bruises - McGee had eventually succumbed to the order of the universe and slipped on a soggy slope; Tony had tried to stop him and got landed on - and one minus a shoe.

Ziva was not happy. They'd given her the front seat, control of the heater and as wide a berth as could be managed inside a vehicle.

It almost felt normal, and that almost grated and rubbed at Tony's nerves.

They had found no further evidence at the site, aside from some damage to the vegetation which it was impossible to prove had been caused by a vehicle, let alone by a specific one. Now it was over to the PD files, the body, and some root and branch investigative work.

Tony hovered in the garage for a few moments, before catching himself being indecisive. That was a new trait. He'd worked hard at the cocky, self-important image, and it served him well. No way was he going to let uncertainty have enough breathing room to let it become a habit. He refused to let things start getting to him to a degree where it would sap his confidence.

Except he was well aware it already had. Why else would he keep backing off on investigations, goofing around rather than getting involved?

Back on the point – because he wasn't thinking about the differences in himself recently, no sir-ee - and really, there was no point in standing around wondering whether he should go change or not. If he did, no doubt he'd be accused of wasting time better spent working on the case. If he didn't it would more than likely be an exasperated snap about not having the sense he was born with.

He'd feel better being sniped at in dry clothes. He went to change.

***

Ziva was already waiting serenely at her desk when he returned. McGee joined them a couple of minutes later, refusing to look at either one, and they shared a glance behind his back that eighteen months ago would have been the prelude to some good-natured Probie teasing.

"Are you still wound up about-"

"About you dropping me on my ass in the mud yet again? What do you think, Tony?"

Unfortunately, good-natured was no longer in anybody's vocabulary around here.

"I think it's not my fault you haven't mastered walking yet, McMuddy. And I didn't drop you, I tried to stop you."

The younger man snorted derisively. "Tony DiNozzo, boy scout extraordinaire. I don't think so."

Ziva was watching the exchange with interest, and she smirked at the jibe. Tony felt both hit, and the sheer wrongness of it all jarred his mood further.

"You know, I was mostly clean and unbattered before I tried to help you, Probalicious. I'll be sure not to do it again."

"Good. I don't need your kind of help."

His mouth was already open on the way to telling McGee where to shove his attitude, when Gibbs swept past.

"Leave it, DiNozzo."

Just him? Not McGee? 'Cause of course it was all on his shoulders. Why did everybody always assume the worst where he was concerned? Couldn't they at least wait until he did something to earn it?

"McGee – you got the email from PD?"

Golden boy didn't even bother with a reaction, the 'uh-oh' expression there and gone in a flash as he beat a hasty retreat behind his desk.

"Ah…" There was frantic clicking as Gibbs waited in exasperation for an answer. "Yes. Yes, all here."

"Someone's doing their job then."

The smirk fell off Ziva's face. Piercing blue eyes swept them all once, leaving trails of burning in their wake. No-one was suicidal enough to speak.

Gibbs didn't help them out, instead folding his arms and glaring. He settled back into a further bout of exasperated waiting and offered no more pointed comments.

Tony watched McGee and Ziva flicking wary glances across the bullpen, and thought across all the available options.

He came up with nothing clear cut.

Recently, general practice was for Gibbs to expect them to fill in his part of the conversation as well as their own; to know what he wanted before he said so, and have it ready. Why should today be any different?

But every so often something was different, and Gibbs actually wanted them to wait until he gave them his lead to follow, rather than take their own paths. This felt like one of them. So far they had precious little. Running off in random directions wouldn't make a dent.

He waited back, trying not to be too belligerent about it.

McGee was still scrambling around his keyboard. "I'll have it on screen in just a sec…"

"No. Print outs. One each."

The tapping stopped abruptly, and McGee looked vaguely flummoxed. "Print outs?"

Ooh. The sideways stare of doom.

"Ok. Print outs. Coming up."

"Ziva."

Four years, and it still never failed to impress him that she had such close control over her reactions. He knew Gibb's abrupt change of direction startled her, but all there was to be seen was the raise of a dark head from the computer screen.

It was almost as impressive that he could read the minute twitch in her shoulders, the tightening around her eyes and that raised chin to know that she'd been wrong footed.

What he didn't know was how he could read her so well, and yet not understand her at all. His fault? Hers? Or a collective effort from them all?

Then again, if he knew the answer to that, he'd probably be several strides closer to knowing where to step next.

"Take the evidence to Abby and go through it with her. Then come back and go through the file with McGee. Tell me what we have, what we don't and where we go next."

That was as close to speechless as he had ever seen their tame assassin.

"Problem, Officer David?"

She shook her head uncertainly. Tony could sympathise. That had sounded – co-operative. Unusually so. And he wasn't sure what to make of it, which meant Ziva would feel like she was lecturing her way through a field of American idiom and colloquialism.

Normal procedure in the last few months was simple: obey Gibbs' every dictat, spoken or unspoken, without thought or hesitation. Result? They either got it spot on Gibbs-right, and all was quiet. Or they got it wrong, and there was sarcasm and frustration and annoyance.

That pronouncement had sounded perilously like he was resigning the dictatorship and opening this one to the floor. Gibbs had pulled something like this a time or two before, leaving investigations – or parts of them - up to the three of them.

It was never good. It was far too divisive: Ziva, himself, McGee – they all got competitive. Really competitive. Death Race 2000 competitive.

Gibbs never used to encourage that. He'd lead by example, and call on all his team's individual strengths, but he never used to play them off against each other.

Then again, that was when you knew where you stood with him. Back then, it was possible to please him. You always knew when he thought you'd done well, even if his methods of demonstrating the fact were – unorthodox.

These days it always felt as if they all constantly had to prove themselves, Abby notwithstanding. To be the best. No – to be seen to be the best. Like they were all on trial for just one place.

He wasn't the only one who'd changed recently, that much was plain. When Tony had first joined NCIS, Gibbs had still been Gibbs, but he'd been willing to put his faith in his people. None of this perpetual running off alone, keeping secrets. There had been more to the man than just catching the next bad guy and being bad tempered. Tony knew full well he would never have jacked in Baltimore if that was all there was. Wouldn't have followed him to DC for a job that sounded equal parts Hell and Holy Grail. Wouldn't have stayed.

The old Gibbs would never have stooped so low as to assign his people boxes and expect them to stay in them. That second B was getting way out of hand.

"DiNozzo." He'd been expecting it, and stayed lounging back on the edge of his desk as all eyes turned his way – even if two pairs pretended otherwise. Gibbs had the same sharp, speculative look as earlier, and he was still none the wiser as to whether it was good or bad.

"With me."

He fell into step without a word.

***

The elevator stopped almost as soon as it started, and even that seemed boringly predictable. He was living in tropes, for God's sake.

But Gibbs said nothing, just ran yet another appraising eye over him. Calm and steady, and for once, not annoyed.

After a while, Tony's feet wanted to shuffle, and his head wanted to dip away. He forced himself not to give in to the fidgets, but stopping himself from breaking the silence was an ask too far.

"You know Boss, you sent Ziva down to Abby. She's going to be mighty pissed if we hog the elevator."

"She can walk."

Alright… "New shoes. She'll be even worse with blisters."

No response. Just more looking. He waited for as long as he could, but that stare was creeping under his skin and making him itch.

"Maybe we should…" he flicked his hand toward the switch, not quite feeling brave enough to actually propose they carry on with the case.

"Maybe."

But he didn't do anything, and Tony was back to the definitely not belligerent waiting.

More seconds crawled by, and Gibbs hadn't moved, and Tony was going to have to grab the bull by the horns.

"If you're waiting on me, you're gonna have to give me a clue."

The head dropped to one side. "You used to ask."

So we're doing cryptic. And it's probably not long until creepy waiting Gibbs morphs into annoyed why-haven't-you-worked-it-out-yet? Gibbs.

He used to ask? He used to do a lot of things. They all used to do a lot of things that quite simply didn't fit anymore. McGee used to relax. Ziva used to listen. Gibbs used to understand team.

Of course, it fitted the profile that he was the only one getting singled out for interrogation.

He used to ask? Ask what? What was there to ask?

Just one thing.

"I figured I'd find out when we got there."

A twitch of lips betrayed an approval that seemed to have been missing for some time. "You used to ask."

Ok. Never let it be said that he was completely oblivious. "Fine." He sighed heavily, held his breath for a moment, and then relaxed again when Gibbs didn't call him on it. "Where're we going, Boss?"

Stupidly, saying it out loud made a difference. It was familiar, and comfortable, in a way that everything didn't seem to have been for a long time. He bounced on his toes a couple of times, and waited for the answer.

"You'll find out when we get there." Gibbs leaned over and flicked the switch again, leaving Tony staring at his ear in confusion, and irritation – and amusement.

Somewhere between the bullpen and here they'd taken a leftward shuffle into the surreal, and he had no idea why. But it wasn't predictable, and that was good.