Disclaimer: I still don't own NCIS.

A/N: To those of you who celebrate it, Happy New Year!

Tag to 10x10: "You Better Watch Out," with mild spoilers.

Chapter Nine: Letting Go

✔10. Tell Dad it's okay.

After the team parted ways into the dark Christmas night, Tony drove his dad to a nearby hotel.

At his father's puzzled look, Tony said, "We're both staying here tonight. My back can't take another night on that couch."

"I could always take the couch," Senior pointed out.

Tony shook his head firmly and grabbed his emergency overnight bag out of the car along with his dad's suitcase.

"I insist," Tony said. "Really. It's my Christmas present to the both of us: a night in a 5-star hotel with incredibly comfy beds."

Senior raised a grizzled eyebrow. "You've tested them personally?"

"It's a 5-star hotel. The beds had better be comfy," Tony said tersely, doing his best not to rise to the bait.

They'd just made up after all. No need to let things deteriorate all over again in the same night.

At the front desk, Tony managed to get two non-adjoining rooms on the same floor. (Hey, if his dad ended up sleeping with the pretty young thing from said front desk (whom he was currently flirting with), the last thing Tony wanted was to walk in on that.)

He dropped his dad's suitcase off in his room.

"Want to watch a little TV before you go, Junior?" his father asked casually. "I bet there're a couple of holiday classics playing somewhere on this thing."

Tony's first instinct was to say no, but there was something hopeful in his dad's tone, and damn it, Tony still had enough of that kid desperate for his dad's attention in him to give it a go.

"Sure," Tony said, dropping his own bag onto the floor and taking a seat in one of the room's padded armchairs.

Eventually, they settled on A Christmas Story.

Some time into the movie, Tony said quietly, "It's OK, you know. What you did to me when I was a kid."

"It's no excuse," his dad said, voice suddenly hoarse, "but – your mother, she was the love of my life. When she died, half of me died with her. The way I treated you – it wasn't OK, Junior. I wasn't a bad father, but I sure as hell wasn't a good one."

"No, it wasn't OK," Tony agreed. "And I'm glad that you recognize that. But – I'm an adult now. And, I just want you to know: I forgive you."

His dad jerked his head in a nod and blinked his eyes hard.

"Thanks son," he said gruffly.

Tony nodded jerkily.

This didn't solve everything, didn't make up for years of being abandoned and made to feel not-good-enough.

It didn't change the fact that his dad would never fully change; that he'd always be a self-indulgent, mildly delusional bastard.

But in forgiving him – and in telling him that he'd forgiven him – Tony felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

Forgiving didn't mean forgetting. It meant acceptance. It meant coming to terms with stuff in order to move on. It meant having no regrets.

"I love you," his dad told him before he left the room later that night.

"Love you too, Dad," Tony said.