Back to Tony's perspective for this chapter.
Thank you for the reviews and follows! I hope to get back to you as soon as I can (I'm terrible about responding to reviews but trying to be better).
Tony thinks, all things considering, that he's doing a pretty good job.
He's on time, he gets the work done, he teases and pokes as much as is expected of him and no more, he limits his alcohol intake, he rewatches the first two seasons of Magnum, he talks things over with Gibbs, he cooperates with their temp workers, and he smiles easily. He even practices the piano regularly. When Abby gets a letter in mid-October, he does not tear it out of her hands and squirrel it away to pore over at night. When Ducky comes up to the bullpen waving a postcard, he gives the ME a wide, honest grin. He doesn't try to contact her. She'll call when she's ready.
In fact, you know what, forget pretty good job. He thinks he should receive some sort of lifetime achievement award for the act of mental stability he's pulling right now.
So it's a little irritating that McGee keeps glancing over at him from the passenger seat like a worried mother with a feverish child.
The seventh or eighth time he catches McGee sneaking a glance over at him, he throws on his blinker and moves to the slow lane.
"Okay, out with it, McGee."
McGee clearly thinks about playing dumb. Tony flips the blinker again and begins to cross over the bold line at the edge of the road.
"Hey!"
"Talk or walk, McTightlips."
"I'm just worried about you!" McGee bursts out, and Tony swerves back into the lane. He's glad he didn't actually stop the car, because then he'd have to look his partner in the face and they'd both probably have emotions and he's been confining his emotions to Lifetime movies lately and doesn't really want to break that streak.
"What? Why?"
"Because ever since Israel, you're being all—adult!"
"I'm forty-four years old," Tony points out.
McGee rolls his eyes. "I know how old you are, Tony. I've worked with you for nine years. I've seen your medical records. And your birth certificate."
"So what's the problem?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Tony sees McGee battening down his hatches. "I've never seen you so serious for such a long time. It's freaking me out. And Abby! It's freaking her out, too. And probably Gibbs," he tacks on as an afterthought.
This is nonsense. He's been mindful of displaying jubilance and jocularity at all the right times. Why, just this morning he'd signed McGee up to receive email newsletters and advertisements from a dozen women's clothing companies.
Delilah is a well-dressed woman. Timmy might thank him one day.
"Hang on, are you actually trying to imply that Gibbs would freak out over that? Because I think you've been spending too much time in autopsy breathing formaldehyde fumes—"
"I've given it time," McGee said. "I thought, well, it's only been a week. Well, it's only been a month. But I talked to Borin today, and she mentioned it too."
Working with Borin this week had been difficult. In her direct, faintly Gibbsian way, she'd made it clear that she felt the team was down a man, regardless of how they framed Ziva's absence. She'd also started giving him deep, probing looks whenever he wasn't looking. He'd been waiting all week for her to say something.
He's not sure which reaction he wants to give McGee, so he simply grunts.
"But it's driving me crazy, Tony. I give you crap and then I spend all this time feeling bad about it because you don't dish it back!"
That does get his attention, and he grins.
"So? I did that to you all the time when you were just a wee young thing, too scared of breaking the rules to tattle on me."
McGee evidently does not appreciate Tony's nostalgic tone, because he gets grumpy. "And that's always been the difference between you and me."
It doesn't sting much, because he knows McGee doesn't mean it. Still, he doesn't think it really deserves an answer. He concentrates on merging into the exit lane instead.
McGee sighs. "This illustrates my point perfectly, you know."
Tony decides to be generous and sweep the whole thing under the rug. Without looking, he extends one arm and thumps McGee on the chest. Then he amps up the animation in his voice. "I don't know what you're talking about, Probie. I'm perfectly fine and functional. Emphasis on the fun." He smirks. "And also on the fine."
"Then why are we listening to the classic country station playing the most god-awful song I've ever heard?"
You don't have to call me darlin', darlin'
You never even called me by my name
Tony blinks at the radio. "Oh." He shrugs. "I dunno, I kinda like it."
McGee casts his eyes to the ceiling, and before he can say anything else annoying, Tony goes ahead and gives him permission to change the radio. It's just not worth the aggravation.
For you, for you
Baby I'm not movin' on
I'll love you long after you're gone—
He takes it back. But McGee's hand actually beats his to the dial, spinning it to some sort of fruity flamenco music.
"Isn't this Ducky's station?"
"Yeah, I think so."
They are silent for a long moment, but eventually Tony sighs. McGee is trying to help. Tony's more than familiar with the feeling of watching somebody you care about hide their pain—boy, is he ever familiar with that—and he doesn't mean to inflict that kind of worry on his partner. He is a little disappointed that his performance of everything being perfectly peachy is not quite as Oscar-worthy as he had thought, but he comforts himself with the thought that most actors don't see each other every day for a decade and learn each other's personalities so well they can't get away with faking a mood any longer.
"Tim, would it make you happy if I went out with you tonight?" He'd already been invited and had declined when Abby and Borin had both cited other plans, but what the hell. Why not.
"It would be a start."
"Okay then. Sounds like fun."
It turns out to be even less fun than he'd expected.
He'd known Delilah would be there and that Abby and Borin and the rest of the gang would not. Somehow that hadn't translated in his mind into "middle-aged man third-wheeling it big time."
He really likes Delilah. She's cute and smart and classy and she and McGee have a good chemistry going for them. She also doesn't seem to mind in the least that her boyfriend brought along his sad schmuck of a friend to a night that otherwise could've been quite cozy. He wants to tell McGee that he's a lucky man, but he also wants to tell Delilah that she's managed to snag one of the best guys on the planet (trust him, he's been around it a time or two) and not to dare mess with his heart, but he also wants not to make a sentimental fool of himself, so ultimately he steers away from that line of conversation. He does try to be as vibrant and DiNozzolike as possible, though, for everyone's sake. By the time he orders a second drink, a few women have noticed him.
He notices them back, partly out of old habit and partly because noticing things is his job, and he flashes a flirtatious smile or two in the direction of a tall strawberry blonde with a pretty smile and pink fingernails.
She walks over after a while, and strikes up an easy conversation. He can feel McGee beside him, half wanting him to buy the woman a drink so that things will be like old times and half wanting him to say "no, sorry, didn't mean to lead you on" out of respect for Ziva.
McGee is so transparent sometimes.
He does think about it as he chats with the woman about nothing in particular. He could take this further. He really could. He's heard nothing from her, nothing at all, and they have no official commitment, and he knows he could wrangle an invitation to go home with her, if he wanted.
He's good at this stuff.
He could.
He can't.
She's beautiful and seems witty and charming, but he doesn't want to run his hands through straight strawberry blonde hair. He doesn't want to wake up in the morning wracking his brain to remember her name.
He doesn't want to make love to anybody but the woman he's in love with.
"Sorry, but ah, would you look at the time?" he says interrupting her and abruptly breaking off their conversation. He's aware that McGee is sending him a look that's half disappointed and half relieved.
"You turn in this early?" she asks, a little confused. Still smiling.
"Well, law enforcement, you know…always on call. Gotta be prepared. Nice meeting you, though!"
He makes no effort to get her number, and she turns away, looking the slightest bit affronted.
"Gotta go, kids," he tells McGee and Delilah as he pays for his drinks. "Be good. Have fun." He points at Delilah as he backs away. "Call me if he starts playing that awful stuff he thinks is good bedroom music, and I'll have a talk with him."
"Okay," she laughs, "goodnight!"
"Tony, you sure you're—"
"Perfectly fine, Tim, right as rain. See you Monday!"
An hour later, sitting on the edge of his piano bench and looking pensively out at the streetlights, he realizes he should probably feel bad for rushing out on McGee and Delilah.
He can't quite manage it, though.
The whole business worries him. He's been thinking more about his career lately. Goals…I Wills…his bucket list. That's forward-thinking, and he's been proud of himself for facing the future seriously in a way he hasn't in the past several years. He's been careful lately to nurture his relationships with Gibbs and McGee and Abby and Jimmy and Ducky, because he loves them and doesn't think he can afford to ignore that. Maybe if he hadn't taken for granted—but no, there's no point torturing himself with that kind of thinking.
But this is the first time he's thought of the future in a more…physical way. He's only had sex once this year, and that makes this his driest spell since he was barely out of puberty. By all accounts, he should be champing at the bit to get laid, and it throws him off to realize that at the bar tonight, he had no desire to make that happen. Does this portend his lonely future? He's never before bothered to think that there could possibly be a time he'd not be interested in this sort of thing. Just a second, he worries that he's getting old and losing his virility, even though that's not how DiNozzos work (his father's defilement of his bed last year is proof of that), and even though he's still fairly young and healthy.
But no, it's not his body. It's in his head. Worse, it's in his heart.
He can't sleep with somebody else because he remembers her palms on his face, pulling him to her again, her mouth open against his. Because he remembers the thump of his shoes falling to the floor, remembers the splendid curve of her hip, remembers trying to taste every bit of her skin and looking up to see her lips parted in a gasp, eyes closed, face glowing. Remembers that hair—that dark, curly hair you could lose a hand in. Remembers brushing his lips along the dip in her hairline. Against the inside of her wrist. Remembers going slowly, making it last. Remembers her tears wetting his bare shoulder.
He can't fathom the idea of sleeping with someone else when he remembers the sweet, sweet sadness of it all, his desperation—and hers, too—to commit every second to memory.
His phone buzzes over on the coffee table, and he tears his eyes away from the window. It's McGee.
You get home ok? PS Delilah LIKES my music.
He sends a cheery response and drops the phone on the couch, taking one last long look out the window before he closes the blinds.
Delilah and McGee are probably undressing, giggling, fooling around, a little tipsy. They're in for a sweet night—two lovely people—and although any other time he'd be annoyed, tonight he's a little bit touched that they checked in on him.
Yes, they're all cuddled up, whispering between kisses, and he's pulling on his sweatpants and falling into his cold twin-sized bed. And all he sees when he's lying there, lights out, are her eyes. Seeking his, holding his, pleading for him to forgive her for this, pleading for him to understand.
It's been over a month, and this is still all there is for him.
This is the one thing he cannot make future plans for.
He's not quite sure what to do.
I'm sorry if this is sloppy, but I wanted to go ahead and post it because otherwise it'll be another week before I get the chance.
We all know Tony listens to Sinatra, etc., but there's a time somewhere in season 1 or 2 when Tony's in a bad mood and won't let McGee turn the station away from country, and I thought it might be fun to have a little callback to that moment.
PS, if you've never heard "You Never Even Called Me by My Name" by David Allan Coe, it is my personal opinion that you are missing out. It's the perfect country-western song (literally), and the last verse is hilarious.
Oh, and the line "dark curly hair you could lose a hand in" is blatantly stolen from Junot Diaz's This is How You Lose Her. I'm sorry. I just had to. It's definitely not mine.