First Published 7.21.2016.

Author's Note: Experimental fiction. Freestyle poetry. Tony/Gibbs

-THE MOSAIC-

I.

Cold morning. Warm sheets. Hot coffee.
The place is quiet. Empty. Stale.
Water heater is broke again.
Calls the handyman.
No answer; he doesn't leave a message.
Looks at the bed, looks in the mirror.
Touches his hair,
limp and brown.
Is that a gray hair?
Waits until he likes what he sees.
The wait is long.
Clock on the wall says, "Time to go."

II.

"Grab your gear."
Gear is grabbed.
They move in sync.
Gibbs first. Then Tony, right behind.
Then McGee and Ziva.
Marching.
Tony asks, "Boss, you're handy, right?"
An invitation.
"Handy with what?"

III.

Dead body on display.
Smells like blood and decomp and—
"Probie, would you move?"
Gloves. Tags. Photographs.
Statements. Sketches.
"What did you see?"
"Who were you with?"
A cyclical, predictable script.
They wait beside the truck for Ducky.
All of them, a loose friendly circle.
Tony takes off his hat,
hair pressed down and sweaty.
Puts it on again backwards.
Smiles into the sun.
Gibbs' eyes are on no one
but him.

IV.

Suspect says nothing.
Sits and stares at nothing.
Nothing.
"Didn't do it. I didn't do it."
McGee takes point.
Needs the practice.
"The experience," Tony says,
"for someday. You'll need it.
Someday soon."
(It's a conversation
they once had,
not long after Kate's murder.)
Murder.
Questions. Questions.
Didn't kill him? Didn't strangle him?
Didn't leave the corpse to rot?
Didn't leave anything else behind?
Didn't, didn't, didn't?
They watch, from behind the window.
Two solitary voyeurs.
Gibbs turns to ask, eyes heavy,
on Tony, on all of him:
"What time d'you want me over?"
A look in reply, pure smoke.

V.

Like a canary, he sings,
beautiful bursts of birdsong.
All of it, he divulges.
Disgorges.
Vomits.
And all of it into neat, little piles.
Truth rolls into justice.
Into consequence.
"Good job, McGee."
That's Tony, not Gibbs.
Blushing.
After, it's quiet.
Strangely lonely.
Tony says, to Gibbs: "Nine o'clock."
Gibbs says, to Tony: "Awfully late."
"For what?"
"To fix your damn water heater."

VI.

"Nine o'clock!" the clock says.
It chirrups, ticks and tocks.
Tony makes up the bed.
Makes up himself.
Looks in the mirror.
Touches his hair.
Waits until he likes what he—
"You've got to turn it on, Tony."
Gibbs, behind him, screwdriver in hand,
"Duh?"
Tony turns, smiles. "Easy fix then."
They like what they see.
It's instant, instinct.

VII.

Rub and thrust and kiss and bite
and scratch and tug,
grab and pull.
Harder, faster.
Gasps, groans, wild gusts of air,
in, out,
blowing frantic,
stuttering laughter because
this is fun,
and there's joy, real joy,
and they spiral out and out and—
then nothing.
The aftermath.
Silence.
Stale.
Empty.
Broke.
Hands rove, feel.
Finger pads, rough and smooth,
mixing.
They lie still.
Count their breaths.
Their years.
Together and apart, both.
One, two, twelve.
Give or take.
Give,
take.
Push,
shove.

VIII.

Bed shifts, dips and rolls,
creaking on a rusty frame.
Whispers.
Hoarse replies.
No "I love you's"
or "love you, too's."
Fabric rustling.
"Where's my damn sock?"
"Look under the bed."

IX.

Cold morning. Cold sheets. Cold coffee.
Hot shower.
Looks at the bed,
empty.
Looks in the mirror,
ugly.
Makes something up for himself.
Touches his neck.
Inspects the marks.
Waits until he likes what he sees.
The wait is long.

X.

"Grab your gear."
Gear is grabbed.
They move out of sync,
awkward.
Gibbs first. Then an empty space,
right behind.
Then McGee and Bishop, lagging.
Further and further.
Marching.
Tony asks, on the phone,
days later, feels like forever and ever,
"Do you miss me, Boss?
Do you miss me, like I miss you?"