Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who read, fav'd, followed and left a review. Don't forget that it's already fully posted on AO3.
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Somehow, Tony manages to avoid Gibbs for the rest of the week. They move around as the days pass, giving each other a wider and wider berth. Given how long they've worked together, they don't even have to talk anymore. It's almost as if Gibbs thinks an order and Tony, knowing what he wants, does it like a Pavlovian reflex. They stumble through an entire case without speaking a word to each other. If Tim and Ziva notice anything out of the ordinary, neither of them voices their opinion. Tim is too busy wallowing in his situation and Ziva probably couldn't care less.
By Saturday, Tony can't stand the silence, can't stand the way Gibbs is freezing him out.
Tony leaves his apartment in the late morning, right before lunchtime. He means to head straight to Gibbs' house, but he takes a few detours instead. First, he takes a long trip to a liquor store in the heart of DC for a bottle of Scotch and another to Rock Creek Park for a long walk down the wooded trails in the blazing heat. Every time he thinks he is done, he walks another mile and then, another. By the end of his walk, he expects some kind of mental clarity or an answer on how to tell Gibbs. In the end, all he gets is a clammy shirt, a dry mouth, and his suit reeking like a gym bag.
Now, he is parked in front of that quaint little Craftsman in Kingman Park that Gibbs calls home. It grew to be somewhat neglected a few years ago because Gibbs just never seems to have the time. Tony can't remember exactly when it happened when because it always looks the same.
Tony stays in the car.
From his vantage point, he watches the streetlights flicker on. Most of the house lights are starting to come on too. Even though it might not be anywhere near bedtime, it's late enough that Tony feels like he should be sleeping or diving face-first into that bottle of Scotch.
His bottle is nestled into the passenger seat, a perfect companion to a less-than-perfect day. Liquid courage and if he ever needed it, now would be the time. He wishes he could drink some. He needs just enough of that fuzzy confidence to take over. Then, he could stride into Gibbs' basement, hold his head high, and say, "Thanks for everything, Boss!" It was something he never thought he would ever do: quit the team. Tony always dreamed of taking over after Gibbs hit that dreaded milestone of forced retirement at the ripe old age of fifty-seven.
I thought I could make it a few more years.
Tony rests his hand on the warm bottle of Scotch. Later, he tells himself. If he drinks now, he won't be able to drive until he sobers up. And with how he expects things to go with Gibbs, he might need to get the hell out of dodge as quick as he can.
With a loud exhale, Tony pulls himself out of his car. He grabs the bottle on his way air is still thick with the day's heat. Sticky and uncomfortable as though he is breathing through a straw. His dress shirt clings to his skin like a jilted lover and sweat instantly pours down his back. From Gibbs' front yard, he hears crickets singing. A few fireflies flicker lazily around the porch. He can't remember the last time he saw one.
Tony takes the uneven sidewalk up to Gibbs' house as he tries to remember the last time he came here. Different time, different circumstances. Probably while they were working a case, or he came over late at night for a jar of Bourbon and some life advice. Now, it's Scotch and a farewell.
I bet he'll be pissed…
The porch steps creak loudly under his weight. While the house appears to be in good repair from the curb, the little things give clues that Gibbs has no time to keep up with it. The shaggy grass in desperate need of a mow. The front garden choked with weeds. The door still a sun-bleached porch swing is still languishing on the far side of the porch, unhung.
The porch is dark, the interior dark as well. Tony wonders if the bulbs need replacing or if Gibbs just never bothered to turn them on. Right now, he is probably in the basement. Gibbs likely doesn't even know it's dark outside.
Tony fumbles in the dark for the door handle. He opens it as loudly as he can, stomping around the hallway into the kitchen. The last thing Tony needs is for Gibbs to come up the stairs, guns blazing. Tony shifts the bottle of Scotch from one sweaty hand to the other.
As he heads through the house, Tony examines how small and dark the place is. The air is more stifling here than outside because Gibbs doesn't have air conditioning and can't be bothered to crack a window. It never occurred to Tony, until this very moment, that's probably why Gibbs pulls those long hours in the summer. Not because that's when crime is at its worst, but because he can't bear to breathe the stifling, uncomfortable air in his own home.
Light from a nearby streetlamp slides through the big picture window, highlighting a couch made up into a bed. Long fingers of light just graze the empty fireplace mantle and a crooked painting above it. Tony wants to straighten it so badly, but it isn't his place.
He continues through the kitchen on his way to the basement. The whole house smells like musty air and burnt coffee.
There, he finds the only sign of life. As soon as he opens the door, he catches a television prattling away to itself. By the sound of it, it could be the nightly news. Right now, it's some feel-good story about local police officers opening a fire hydrant so neighborhood kids could play in it.
The stairs are quiet on his way down, barely making any noise as Tony goes. Halfway down, he pauses on the landing. Watching Gibbs smooth his boat hull with sandpaper. A haze of saw dust floats around the air as Gibbs, in his old NIS shirt and safety glasses, works.
After this moment, nothing will ever be the same again.
Tony wants to hold on to it for as long as he can, try to keep it close because he enjoyed their working relationship more than he could ever express in words. And yet, they've changed over the years. They haven't grown together. Instead, they grew in two very, very different directions. Still, for a fleeting moment, he wonders if he is making the right choice.
Should I be leaving the team?
Then, Gibbs looks at Tony over his safety glasses.
"Ya just gonna stand there, DiNozzo?" Gibbs says.
He always knows just what to say…
Half-smiling, Tony realizes his moment of regret is over.
He heads down the stairs, pausing to place the bottle of Scotch on the tool bench. Gibbs gives it a derisive glare and a grunt.
"They out of Bourbon?" Gibbs asks.
Tony nods. "Yeah."
Then, Tony grabs a pair of safety glasses and some sandpaper. Over the years, Tony has been here enough to know the drill. To know where to stand and how to work the sandpaper with the grain. Anything else will earn him a swat to the back of the head and Gibbs' ire.
On any other night, Tony would stand next to Gibbs. Watch the way his boss handles the wood as though it's a lover, as though it's an extension of himself. Tony always attacks the word with a certain ferocity, wishing to force it to bow to his own whim. Desperate to control it. He works the same tonight, grinding out his frustration on the same spot.
And suddenly, there's a hand over his. The skin is rough and calloused. He glances up to find Gibbs guiding his hand, watching him with a bemused smile.
"You're gonna put a hole in it, Tony," Gibbs says.
Tony's heart rises into his throat. "'You're gonna need a bigger boat.'"
Gibbs' face softens. "Going to have a pile of sawdust by the time you're done."
And in his heart, Tony knows that will be the last quote before he quits the team. His last moment of normalcy in Gibbs' basement with everything right in the world.
When Tony stops damaging the boat, Gibbs chooses a spot just beside Tony. He keeps his eye on Tony as if to ensure Tony won't sand through the hull and into the cabin. Tony just watches the way Gibbs moves, unhurried and precise and thorough. Gibbs smells like he always does, coffee and sawdust. It always makes Tony feel oddly at home.
"Boss, can we talk?" Tony asks.
Gibbs raises his eyebrows. Doesn't look over. Doesn't stop sanding.
Tony wavers for several long moments as he desperately tries to figure out the best way to tell his boss, to tell Gibbs. He could use movie quotes or sleight of hand or even a roundabout way of saying ten words when only one or two will do. In the end, he chooses to do it the way Gibbs would.
While Tony worked though the paperwork, his meetings, and the talks with Vance, he never said the words out loud. Releasing them into the world is a point of no return, that spot where he will jump off a cliff to find no safety net. The weight of his decision hits him, hard and fast.
"I'm leaving the team, Boss," Tony announces.
In the silence of the basement, the words reverberate like a gunshot. Gibbs doesn't speak for a long time. He just works the wood, his movements slow and cautious. It feels as though Tony never breathed a word, and for a long moment, he wonders if he has.
Eventually, Gibbs nods. "It's about time."
Tony blinks. "You knew?"
"No, I didn't." Gibbs stops his work. "Rule five."
Tony raises his safety glasses for a better look at his boss, but Gibbs keeps his eyes fixed on the boat. He has his sandpaper frozen, mid-stroke, and his free hand flat against the hull.
"I know the rules," Tony says. "I just don't understand how that fits here."
With a quick shrug, Gibbs resumes working at the same spot. Now, it's his turn to try to make a hole through the hull. Tony crosses his arms, leans against the boat for a better look at his boss. The sawdust cascades around them like a blizzard.
"You did the most you could on the team." Gibbs is nodding like he is trying to convince himself. "It's time for you to do good on your own."
"If you knew I was ready, why didn't you tell me?" Tony whispers.
"Rule eighteen."
Tony's brow furrows. "You'd rather I ask for forgiveness than permission?"
Gibbs nods again. "You don't need my permission. You have my blessing."
Nodding slowly, Tony understands the conversation is over. That's the most he'll get out of Gibbs for tonight. A lump crawls in his throat and Tony swallows it back down. If Tony were ever to have a meaningful conversation with his own father, he would've wanted it to be like this. Not that his dad ever knows what to say other than how to ask for money.
Tony shoves a hand against his mouth. After he closes the distance between them, Gibbs clasps his arm around Tony's shoulder and the younger man leans his head against his boss' shoulder. It's a slight and quick touch, but at the moment, Gibbs feels more like Tony's father than his own ever has. Then, Gibbs pulls away and it's gone as quick as it came.
"When are you leaving?" Gibbs asks.
"In the three weeks," Tony says.
Gibbs nods carefully, his lips pulling into a tight line. He doesn't look over. Now that his position has an expiration date, Tony is desperate to fill the silence.
"It'll be weird to have McGee as senior field agent, huh?" Tony asks.
Gibbs lets the silence stretch until Tony looks over. There is something so damning and gut churning in the silence, but Tony can't bring himself to ask. Sure, he should be concerned since he is part of the team, but he won't be for much longer. Over the last few weeks, he pulled away, little by little, and he doesn't want to get reeled back in so close to the end.
In response, Gibbs asks: "Where are you headed?"
Tony clears his throat, a strange guffawing noise that strains his ears.
"The team is in DC," he mutters.
Gibbs swivels to look at him. "What?"
"The team is here." Tony smiles awkwardly. "In DC…"
And those words hang between them, out and in the open. Gibbs' expression remains as impassive as ever until a slight sweat rises to Tony's forehead. Then, one corner of Gibbs' mouth ticks upward.
"Good," he says finally. "I can keep an eye on you."
And after that, Tony and Gibbs fall into a quiet rhythm of working on the boat for hours. Only the quiet noise of their sanding and the garbled television serve as their conversation. They split—at Gibbs' grumbling—the Scotch and eventually, some Bourbon, as they relive their glory days.
It's well into the early morning hours after they've run out of things to say, and Tony has sobered up enough to drive. As he climbs those stairs, Tony throws one last look over his shoulder. Gibbs watches him with a quiet and simple expression. Pride, Tony would like to think.
On Monday, Tony will head into the office as if it's just another day. But after he leaves this house, nothing will ever be the same again.
I'm on my own now.