Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Title: Deep End
Summary: After nearly a decade on Team Gibbs, Tony DiNozzo finally decides it's time for his own team. He thought telling Gibbs would be the hard part, but it turns out that might be the easiest. Written for the 2023 Big Bang on Livejournal.
Rating: Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General series spoilers though most seasons. Some violence. Nothing worse than on the show.
Author's Note: This story was written for the NCIS Big Bang on Livejournal. It is already complete on AO3 with art. I'll shooting for one chapter a day here until it's posted in its entirety. 14 chapters.
Lots of Tim and Tony friendship and Gibbs and Tony father/son relationships.
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If you ask Tony DiNozzo when he knew it was time to leave, he couldn't tell you.
Maybe it was Tim McGee's exasperated eye roll after that perfectly placed movie quote. Or perhaps it was how Ziva David harrumphed—made the sound with hitched shoulders and downturned mouth—after he made simple corrections to her report. It even could have been the way Jethro Gibbs just snapped, "DiNozzo," and Tony dropped his task to blindly follow.
Until that moment, he never noticed his actions to follow Gibbs were like a reflex. Something instinctive and natural, so deeply ingrained, it felt like walking.
The need to leave starts gradually, growing and gnawing away at him like a slow-moving cancer.
He should be happy with the way things are.
Tony is at the top of his game. Senior Field Agent on the MCRT, NCIS' top team that handles only the top cases. Once they are investigating, almost no perpetrator escapes. Their closure rate is higher than the agency average, higher than any other team in recent history. The contents of the drawer where he keeps his and Gibbs' medals grows so full that it barely closes now.
He has more than he could ever need. More than he could ever want.
Somehow, it isn't enough.
He wants something more. No, he needs it. That's the funny thing between a need and a want. With a want, he could get by and make do until the feeling passed. This need, it's like air for breathing or food for nourishment. He'll evaporate into nothing without it.
A change. A life preserver. Something.
Whatever it is, he needs it now.
On a rather nondescript day in late April, Tony works at his desk. The team's current case involves a dead petty officer named Thomas Q. Thomas. As if the unfortunate name wasn't enough, the poor man met a disastrous end involving a car crash with a severed brake line. If it hadn't been for an extremely intuitive Metro officer, it would have gone unnoticed. The death would have been ruled accidental.
Today, Tony is quiet and contemplative and downright brooding, all the things he shouldn't be.
Tim and Ziva try not to stare, sneaking furtive glances with furrowed brows and tilted heads. They shoot each other questioning glances as though the other might know what's gotten under Tony's skin.
He ignores them, pretending like he doesn't catch them looking. He is focusing on the job, trying to find the killer of the unfortunate man with the most unfortunate name. Thomas Q. Thomas might not have had justice when he entered the world, but he'll have it on his way out.
We'll find who killed you, Tom Tom.
Gibbs strides into the bullpen, coffee cup in hand and irritation clear on his face.
"Somebody tell me something," he barks.
Since he already holds the plasma remote, Tim goes first. He conjures a few images to the screen. From where Tony sits, they appear to be financial reports.
"I looked into Thomas' bank records, Boss," Tim says. "There were several large wire transfers over the last three months. The total is in the low five figures."
Gibbs glances over his shoulder. "Who sent the money?"
Wincing, Tim presses his lips together. "I'm still trying to find the owner of the originating bank account. I contacted the managing bank, but they would need a warrant. I could – "
"Just do it," Gibbs says.
With a clipped nod, Tim turns back to his computer. If Tony had to guess, Tim will probably consider hacking into the bank for a few minutes before deciding on another way. He might even get that warrant. In the end, Tim will find the information they need. Gibbs will never ask how he got it, and Tim will never tell. It's the team's very own version of Don't Ask, Don't Tell.
"Ziva?" Gibbs asks next.
"I have examined Thomas' roommate, Gary Johnson," she says. "The man has no criminal record. There was not much information on him before early last year when he became Thomas' roommate. He does not even appear to have a state-issued identification card."
Gibbs tilts his head, nodding. "Where is he now?"
Ziva shrugs with one shoulder. "I have placed a BOLO, but I have received no contact regarding it. I have reached out to my contacts. No one has any information. I await their return call."
Gibbs grits his teeth. "DiNozzo?"
Tony is still sitting there.
Gibbs wheels around. "DiNozzo!"
Suddenly, Tony jumps as though he's been electrocuted. He was only half-paying attention, watching his team go through motions with bland disinterest. Then, suddenly, it's show time and all eyes are on him. Well, it might just be Gibbs, but those eyes are the most important.
Tony riffles through his huge stack of papers, the Post-It notes, the scribbles on loose printer paper, and that half-eaten slice of Hawaiian pizza left over from lunch. He finally unearths his paper under the greasy pizza plate. He peers at the lopsided chicken scratch that constitutes his handwriting. He can't remember what he wrote.
When Tim chucks the plasma remote to him, Tony catches it deftly. Still, he is trying to translate what he scrawled down earlier in the heat of the moment. When he finally deciphers his notes, he snaps his fingers and pops his head back up. There are three sets of eyes staring at him. He plasters a huge smile on his face, straightening his jacket lapel.
Show time!
With a few clicks of the plasma, he sends an image of small scissors to the screen. The handles are a dull green, the shears a glistening yellow-silver.
"Abby believes the brake line was cut with these." Using the remote, Tony gestures at the screen. "Luxury Japanese pruning shears for bonsai trees. Who knew they made pruning shears for bonsai trees, let alone luxury ones. But here we are."
"Bonsai?" Gibbs repeats as though he speaks a foreign language.
"You know, those little trees people grow." Tony uses his index finger and thumb to indicate a tiny object.
Swiveling around, Gibbs stares blankly at him. Sometimes Tony wishes Gibbs' interests included more than just booze, boats, and sending dirtbags to jail. It would make these conversations so much easier.
Across the bullpen, Tim interjects. "It helps you focus your energy while you prune the branches on the tree. Shaping the tree forces you to focus your internal energy on creating harmony and balance in your life. Between you and nature. It's very calming."
Tony shoots Tim a questioning glance. Gibbs and Ziva are staring at him too.
Tim winces, his face flushing several unnatural shades of red.
"Or so I've heard," he mutters.
Ziva tilts her head, suddenly contemplative. "I find a cup of hot tea and a novel is best to attain internal balance. If that fails, going to the gym is also beneficial. Nothing settles the soul like sparring with a partner."
"If that's what you want to call it." Tony laughs. "Sparring…"
"And you would watch movies," Ziva retorts.
Tony leans forward, challenging her. "Nothing wrong with a classic film after a long day."
"I will take your word for it," she says.
As if sensing the impasse, Tim glances at Gibbs. "How do you find balance, Boss?"
Tony wants to smash his hand against his face and mutter, Oh, Probie. Gibbs doesn't even bother to turn around, just keeps his back rigid and eyes fixed on the plasma.
"Do I look like I need balance, McGee?" Gibbs growls.
That makes Tim glance back at his computer. Even Ziva flinches slightly as she tucks back into her work.
"Not at all, Boss. You're the most relaxed out of all of us." Tony lets the easy grin slide over his face. "Though we can't forget the benefits of quality time with the three B's. Basement, boat, and Bourbon."
Gibbs just glares at him. "I prefer W for work."
That makes Tony's smile broaden. "The shears are sold by a company called, get this, Banzai Bonsai."
"They called it Bonsai Bonsai?" Gibbs still stumbles over the words.
"Not Bonsai," Tony clarifies. "Ban-zai!"
Gibbs' face folds into a question. "It's the same thing."
"Banzai!" Tony repeats.
When Tony pauses for the effect, the rest of the team just looks at him. He sighs like no one ever understands him because sometimes, they really, really don't. As far as movie references go, this is the lowest hanging fruit.
"The Karate Kid? Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita?" Nothing from his team. "Mr. Miyagi?"
When no one says anything, Tony sighs again.
"'Wax on, wax off,'" he says, but no one reacts. So, he moves on: "The company wouldn't tell me who bought the shears. Apparently, they've only sold a few, but no warrant, no talkey. The girl on the phone said she would be very helpful as soon as I got one."
Just as Gibbs opens his mouth to speak, Ziva's eyes light up. She motions at her computer with her jaw.
"We have a hit on our BOLO," she says. "Metro has taken a man into custody with the name, Gary Johnson. They did not provide a physical description."
Without saying a word, Gibbs rushes to his desk. He grabs his weapons and creds while the team all wait to see who he will take in the field. Tony often pictures Gibbs mentally playing eeny-meeny-miny-moe. Tim is still typing while not looking at his computer. Ziva waits, one hand on the drawer where she stashes her weapon. Tony clasps his hands on his desktop, the picture of a good little agent.
"Ziva," Gibbs announces. "You're with me."
It shouldn't feel like punishment, but in a way, it does. The not being ready at the exact moment he was supposed to, at the exact moment Gibbs called on him.
Deflated, Tony jiggles his mouse to rouse his computer from sleep mode. Something is still bothering him about the roommate. The comment Ziva made about how Gary Johnson doesn't have much history before becoming Thomas' roommate. Everyone has a history, even if it's just a string of parking tickets or overdue library books or petty larceny.
Before they leave, Gibbs glances over the male agents.
"McGee," Gibbs says.
"Still trying to find the owner of the account," Tim replies.
"DiNozzo."
Raising his eyebrows, Tony just nods. "On it, Boss."
And Gibbs, he doesn't even bother to check with Tony because he knows Tony will find exactly what he wants. Trusts his senior agent to dig into whatever he needs. Through whatever connection they have, Tony will just know what Gibbs wants him to do. And he'll have it there, ready and waiting for Gibbs' return. Tony is at his peak performance, and he should be reveling in it, but he isn't.
Tony knows exactly how his life is meant to go and he hates it.
Gibbs and Ziva stride towards the elevator. Gibbs is in the lead with Ziva only a half-step behind him. For a moment, Tony wonders what it would be like to call the shots. He did once, if only for a little while.
"Watch out for falling coconuts!" Tony calls after them.
As soon as they're gone, he loads Gary Peterson's photo into a facial recognition search. The only image they have is a single picture from Thomas Q. Thomas' digital camera. While Tony's hunch might be nothing, he wants to play it out to see if the roommate is who he says he is. If being a cop taught him anything, he learned to listen to his gut.
Suddenly, he feels a set of eyes on him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck rise, his skin crawls, his stomach bunches into knots.
Tony glances toward Tim, who watches him carefully. As though he is trying to make it as unobvious as possible, but he fails miserably. Tim is staring a literal hole through Tony.
And McGee wonders why he stays in the car during undercover work.
"What matter?" Tony asks, channeling his best Mr. Miyagi voice.
Tim's face pinches. "Nothing."
"You remember lesson about balance?" Tony is still doing his Mr. Miyagi impression. "Lesson not just karate only. Lesson for whole life. Whole life have a balance. Everything better. Understand?"
Tim gives him a bewildered look. "Is everything okay, Tony?"
Tony stares back. "Never better, Probster."
"It's just that you haven't been acting like yourself lately and…" Tim lets his voice trail off.
Tilting his head, Tony furrows his brow because he doesn't know what Tim means. Tony has kept up with the work, quoted the movies, and played the part everyone always expects from him. That zany, off the wall, movie quoting agent who never gets it wrong. Sure, he has been shorter with everyone lately and maybe more animated and more over the top than usual. If anything, he has been more like himself.
But that's just the way everyone expects him to be, right? Loud and energetic and vibrant with a movie quote for every situation. Everyone expects him to be everything that Gibbs is not: a human with emotions and who knows how to use words, lots and lots of them. A caricature of himself. His therapist used some mumbo-jumbo to describe it, but he can't remember the words she used.
"I'm here if you ever need to talk." Tim's face is open and earnest as if he really means it.
Tony forces a grin. "There won't be much talking if we don't have something for Gibbs when he gets back. Did you find the owner of that account yet?"
Tim winces, expression closing off. "Not yet. I'm almost there."
"Let's get back to work."
With that, Tim dives back into his computer as though the conversation never even happened. Thankfully, Tim probably won't bring up the conversation again. He tends to be like that, leave the door open and let you know he's there, but not bother you about it.
When Tony checks his facial recognition search, the computer is still working. Distractedly, he doodles on a piece of paper until it finishes.
Merely a few minutes later, the search spits out a name: Gary Leighton. When Tony runs the name through the crime databases, it turns out Gary Leighton—aka Gary Johnson— has a rap sheet nearly a mile long with everything from B&E's to aggravated assault to attempted murder. He also fell off the radar about a year ago, when Gary Johnson came into existence. Tony calls Gibbs with the update and for a job well done he earns a grunt as Gibbs slams his phone closed.
Already having done with his work, Tony leaves Tim to tie up loose ends with the bank account information. He tries to shout the information about Gary Peterson's true identity across the bullpen, but after a couple of tries, he gives up. Tim is so absorbed in his work that he doesn't even notice.
So, Tony sends Tim an e-mail. That gets him a quick Thanks to his inbox.
Since he still has time until Gibbs returns, Tony logs into the job listing website for NCIS.
He double-checks that Tim is still deeply engrossed in his project and of course, the younger man is. Sure, Tony might scroll through the listings from time to time and daydream about another life. Daydream about being a team leader somewhere else. He might have updated his resume once or twice this year, just in case. Not that he would ever leave, but it doesn't hurt to think about it.
Letting his mind wander, Tony scrolls through the listings for a Supervisory Special Agent position.
Usually, there aren't any openings, or they are for places he wouldn't want to visit, let alone live. Great Lakes seems to have a permanent posting because who wants to live in Chicago in January? Today, there is an opening in the Northeast Field Office at Newport, Rhode Island. Tony has been there a few times to assist on a case and from what he remembers, he liked the area.
Tony hazards a glance around the bullpen. For the last decade, this collection of desks and cubicle walls has been his home. He spends more time here than he does in his apartment. But lately, the orange walls feel like they're pressing way too close, and the air is too thick. Sometimes, he can't even breathe because there's too much in the way. Most days, home is starting to feel like a cage.
It's just the same thing, day after day.
The team catches a case. Gibbs issues the orders. Tony makes a perfectly placed movie quote no one understands while using it to show them a lead. Tim does his computer voodoo. Ziva beats up a dirtbag or two. And they ride home, triumphant with another closed case on the books. In the end, Tony feels like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. No matter how much he tries to change, it never does.
What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same, and nothing you did mattered?
Deep down, he knows that everything he does matters. Closing cases and bringing justice to the victim's families. Being there for his teammates when they need him. Being the human buffer between Gibbs and the rest of the world. Being a part of something bigger than himself.
Regret bubbles inside his chest, but it's fleeting. Blossoming and wilting in the same breath.
He lets himself have a moment, considering what it would be like to be a team leader. He goes through the motions of uploading his resume to the website because he likes going through them. He likes pretending there might be a chance for another life, somewhere far away from here. It doesn't take much, merely a few taps of a keyboard and the click of a mouse.
He doesn't even realize he hit send until he's staring at a screen that reads, We'll be in touch soon.
Oh, what did I just do?
Across the bullpen, Tim releases an incredulous laugh. "Hey Tony, you're never going to believe this."
"Yeah?" Tony asks, keeping his wide eyes locked on the website.
"The owner of that account is named Gary Leighton. It looks like Thomas' roommate was the killer after all." Tim rips his eyes off the computer to look at Tony. "Why was Leighton giving Thomas money while living with him under a different name?"
"Beats me," Tony says. shrugging. "As long as we got the guy, who cares why he did it?"
"Because it's weird."
Tony fixes Tim with an inquisitive look. "Does anything the dirtbags do ever make any sense?"
Tim's expression turns thoughtful. "Not usually."
Tony nods sagely. "Banzai."