As they leave the prison, Tony and Harris take the trip in silence. They are both lost in their own worlds where there are no words to fill the gaps between them. Tony is trying to figure out how to tell Tim about his predicament while Harris' mind is likely already spinning to determine just how he'll prove Leon Vance is not Leon Vance. In the end, Ziva was unable to offer any proof. That, she swore, lies in Israel with Mossad. All she had to bargain with is her word as a spy and a traitor. It might not be worth much, but Tony believes they need to trust her. She asked for nothing in return, but to dig the knife Tony had carefully extricated from his heart straight back to the hilt.
After Tony and Harris reclaim their possessions from the prison check-in desk, they are released back into the darkness. The doors close behind them with an ominous thud. The snow has picked up, now falling in thick white puffs. There is a slushy mess accumulating on the darkened parking lot. Tony is freezing.
Harris starts, "Agent DiNozzo – "
"Don't." Tony throws out his hand. "Just don't."
Harris sighs heavily. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
"Rule Six," Tony fires back.
There's a long pause before Harris says quietly: "I feel like I'm supposed to know what that means, but I don't. This is a huge mess, and I never should have involved you."
Tony doesn't deny it.
Instead, he leads the way to the car. It takes Harris a moment before he jogs to catch up. They dart across the slick asphalt until they reach the safety of the car. As soon as they're inside, Tony starts it and turns the heater on full blast. Within a few minutes, he is sweating through his shirt. He doesn't put the car into drive. Instead, he glances at Harris who has pulled his notebook from his coat pocket. It might be damp and wrinkled at the edges, but the man is frantically trying to fill the pages in the dim light from the parking lot lamp. Tony waits until Harris is finished.
"Do you believe her?" Tony asks carefully.
Harris presses his lips together. "I don't have another choice. This is my last lead. Everything else dried up and if I can't prove this, I'm going to have to wait for something new. Agent Fornell won't go after the director of an agency without a smoking gun."
Tony turns full in his seat. "Since when are you working with Fornell?"
"Since I handed off Ziva David's Mossad documents." When he catches Tony staring, Harris looks out the passenger window. "Right now, I'm doing the legwork while he occasionally throws me a bone. There's only so much I can do on my own without agency resources."
Tony laughs darkly. "Yeah. Been there, done that."
Harris tucks his notepad away. When he looks over, his good eyebrow is raised questioningly.
"Care to explain?" he asks.
"It was an undercover job a long time ago." When Harris opens his mouth, Tony vehemently shakes his head. "A long, long time ago and no, I don't want to talk about it."
"Right." And that's the end of it as Harris moves on. "How will you tell Agent McGee?"
The ensuing silence is tortuous with only the sound of the purring engine and the hissing heater and the snowflakes splatting against the windshield serving as conversation. Tony's thoughts had slowly changed from considering how he would tell Tim, but rather if he would tell the younger man at all.
Tony sighs heavily. "I don't even know yet."
"If it were me," Harris says, "I wouldn't want to know. I'd rather not have that noose around my neck for the rest of my life."
Tony presses his lips together. Swallows audibly.
"I should never have brought you," Harris sighs.
Tony shakes his head. "We needed this."
"No, Agent DiNozzo, I needed this." Harris gestures at the prison. "This is the most I'm going to ask of you. And even still, it feels like it's too much."
Tony laughs morosely. "I'm used to it."
When Harris doesn't respond, Tony understands their conversation is finished. He sets up the GPS to lead him to Gibbs' house. After putting the vehicle in gear, Tony guides it down the slippery and darkened driveway. They might eventually get back on the highway, but they don't see another car for a long time. Tony doesn't know if it's because the hour nears midnight or if it's the terrible road conditions. In places, the road isn't plowed and Tony has to slow down considerably to ensure they don't slide straight into a ditch. It might only be a few inches of snow, but with untreated roads, it might as well be feet.
Thankfully, the farther the head east, the lighter the snow turns until it is nothing more than a light, misting rain. The lights of Washington twinkle through the water on the windshield like reclaimed jewels from a shipwreck. As Tony takes the exit for Kingman Park, Harris removes his cell to send a quick text.
Mere minutes later, Tony pulls up to the curb at Gibbs' house. Across the street, an ancient pick-up truck idles at the curb. The engine is rough enough to hear it inside the agency sedan. Tony has endured enough firefights in Gibbs' living room to know how this will end.
Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt.
Tony is already reaching for his sidearm, but Harris holds his hand out.
"I texted Uncle Chuck to pick me up," he says. "I didn't think he'd be here already."
At that, Tony nods. When Harris attempts to an easy smile, his scar keeps his left side frozen and in the near dark, he looks like a fun house mirror. Everything is where it's supposed to be, but it doesn't look quite right. Tony shouldn't look away, but he does. He swallows hard at his own insensitivity. If he notices, Harris doesn't respond.
"I'll take care of the car," Tony offers.
"Thanks. I'm supposed to head back to Chicago tomorrow." Harris sighs at the rain still ploinking against the windshield. "It might be here a few days at this rate. We already got several inches of snow in Chicago."
"Yeah, I don't think you're going anywhere. Should we meet tomorrow?"
Harris shakes his head. "I'll handle it from here."
And without another word, Harris scrambles out of the car. Tony watches his retreating from as he jogs across the street to the pick-up. A moment later, the car drives into the rain.
After he kills the engine, Tony leans his head against the headrest. The icy fingers of cold slowly work their way around his body as the heat from the car leeches away. By the time he is ready to head inside Gibbs' house, Tony's fingers are completely numb. He works his hands into fists. He picks his way across the icy patches on the walk up to the front porch. It's dark enough that Tony can't notice the bits and place of disrepair clutching to Gibbs' house. It always twists his insides as he watches the hose slowly fade from its former glory. In the dark, it always looks exactly the same.
As Tony heads inside, he doesn't bother with the hall light. It might be dark outside, but Gibbs won't be sleeping. Some days, Gibbs will only sleep in autopsy. Tony can't fathom how the cold, hard slabs where the dead lie could be more welcoming to Gibbs than his own home.
Tony stomps as loudly as he can on his way to the basement. He walks, slow and deliberate, to give Gibbs a few moments to rouse on the off chance he is sleeping. Mostly, Tony doesn't know how to form into words exactly what happened. He hopes he'll know what to say when he sees Gibbs' face.
When he arrives in the basement, it feels like it could be any other time in Gibbs' house. The television is turned on with the volume low enough to know it's there, but not loud enough to hear it. The sound of wood sanding stops as Tony heads down the stairs. The house is comfortably cool as if Gibbs never turned on the heat.
Gibbs glances up over his safety glasses. His ratty NIS shirt has a hole on the front that Tony never noticed before. One look at Tony and Gibbs moves to the work bench. He abandons the planer before he fills two mason jars with bourbon. He hands the fuller one to Tony, who takes it and down it in one gulp. Gibbs' eyebrows jump, but he doesn't say a word. He merely passes Tony the other jar and the younger man downs that one too. The bourbon burns like fire before the dull warmth ignites in Tony's gut. Gibbs gets him a little more, but not much.
"Bad time with Harris?" Gibbs asks.
Tony licks his lips. Sighs. "We went to see Ziva."
And suddenly, the bourbon in his newest mason jar is gone. He downs it in one go and a split second later, the mason jar is refilled with another finger's worth. He loosens his tie until he hangs around his neck and he undoes the top button of his shirt. He perches himself against a work stool and Gibbs is right there, leaning into his personal space. Gibbs removes his safety glasses to look expectantly at Tony, but he doesn't dare push the senior agent to talk.
Tony sips the newest jar of bourbon. The air in the basement is too hot, the air stifling and reeking of wood shavings. Tony loosens his tie again. He suddenly remembers how much he hates bourbon.
Would it kill Gibbs to keep a bottle of Scotch down here?
They remain motionless for a long time. Tony perched, half on and half off the stool, while Gibbs watches his face as though he might read Tony's mind. The quiet is pained and wounded, living breathing thing that could cry out if it wanted. It could be minutes or hours, Tony can't really tell. The alcohol is loosening the chokehold on his soul. It numbs the gaping wounds that Ziva left behind.
"I know why McGee wasn't arrested." Tony voice sounds strange to his own ears. "I thought you called in a favor, Boss. I thought it was you who took care of it." He laughs, a little crazed, a little broken. "I thought it was you…"
Gibbs sighs quietly. "I couldn't do that."
And they both stare at each other, Gibbs almost knowing that Tony sees him a demigod, a hero among men. The kind of person who could move heaven and hell to protect one of his team because they are the closest thing to a family that he'll ever have.
Tony looks at him, eyes bleary.
Gibbs looks away. "I wish I could, but I can't."
"Ziva did," Tony whispers.
Gibbs raises his eyebrows.
"She cut a deal with Fornell," Tony continues. "She fed him information in return for McGee's freedom. She said she can take it back whenever she wants." The alcohol is hitting him hard now. Tony is more off the stool than on. "She said he wasn't involved with her spying, but I doubt that matters. She can throw him to the FBI when she feels like it. I don't know if I believe her."
Gibbs' expression slowly turns murderous.
Tony shakes his head. "But if there's even a chance, Boss…"
At that moment, Gibbs releases a few choice words that Tony would never dare repeat. He snatches the empty mason jar from Tony's hands and chucks it against the far wall. It explodes into tiny shards that glitter on the basement floor like fallen stars. Then, he thunders around the boat hull. Glass smashes, wood splinters. More foul, foul words fly around the basement like bullets.
Tony hugs his arms to his chest. The bourbon did its job because he is comfortably numb and his insides are on fire. The world might be falling apart, but for a moment, it doesn't really matter.
Gibbs returns a few moments later, the knuckles on his right hand slick with blood. He probably tried to punch a hole through his boat hull. He grabs a piece of grimy fabric off the work bench and tenderly wraps his knuckles.
"That it?" Gibbs asks.
Tony looks up, morose. "'My life just got flushed down the toilet.'"
Gibbs' brow furrows as he wraps the fabric tighter around his knuckles.
"Twins," Tony says as though it explains everything. "Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Guy finds out he has a twin that looks nothing like him, and hijinks ensue."
Gibbs ties off the fabric. "The point, Tony?"
"Vance isn't Vance." Tony chuckles because it sounds so wrong when he says it out loud. "He is the evil twin. Vance is really some guy named Tyler Owens who took over the real Leon Vance's life. Or so Ziva claims. Not like she has proof or anything, but Harris wants to run down the lead on his own."
Gibbs releases a deep sigh that sounds as though his soul just exited his body. He rubs at the back of his neck before his head roves toward the ceiling. Tony finds another mason jar and a bottle of bourbon on the floor. He fills it with a few fingers' worth and downs it.
"What do we do, Boss?" he slurs.
Gibbs contemplates for a moment. "We don't tell McGee about Ziva."
That leaves Tony nodding because he finally decided that he wasn't going to tell Tim anyway. As much as he hates to admit it, Harris is probably right. Tony wouldn't want to live with that weight about his neck either. Sometimes, the most important secrets are the ones you keep from those you care about the most. If they told Tim, he would do something he saw as heroic—Tony and Gibbs would think it insane—like throwing himself onto the mercy of the court system.
When Tony tries to sip at the bourbon, his jar is empty. He goes for the bottle, but the world tilts too much and he almost falls off the stool. Gibbs is on him in an instant, two strong hands to keep him upright. Tony is still stretching for the bourbon bottle because he suddenly remembers just how much he loves the stuff. He'll never drink Scotch again.
Gibbs carefully slides the bottle and jar away. Then, he presses a sheet of half-used sandpaper into Tony's outstretched hands.
"Boss?" Tony slurs questioningly.
"It'll be alright," Gibbs promises.
Even though it's a complete and utter lie, Tony wants to believe it with every fiber of his being. There is something about how Gibbs says the words as though life might actually turn out okay. Tony wishes it could be true, but the entire world is turning even more upside down by the moment. Gibbs is being nice, and he is never, ever nice unless everything is going straight to hell. And yet, Tony has never needed it more than he does at this very moment.
Tony cracks a broken smile. "What am I supposed do, Boss?"
Gibbs smashes a pair of safety glasses over Tony's face before he says: "Get to work."
"We're in your basement." Tony makes a surprised face. "And I'm a little drunk."
"More than a little." Gibbs smirks. "The wood, Tony. Work the wood."
When he climbs to his feet, he is more than a little unsteady. The world feels as though it could tip sideways and he'd slide straight into oblivion. He staggers to the spot where Gibbs is pointing. It doesn't take much for Tony to discover the rough spot with his fingers. Everywhere the wood is sanded until it's nearly as smooth as glass except for that one spot. No matter how many times Tony is here, there is always that one spot.
Gibbs already has his cell phone out. Tony leans against the boat to stop from falling over.
"Who are you calling, Boss?" Tony asks.
"Fornell," Gibbs says. "Gotta tell him to get his head out of his ass."