AN: Off canon, some time season 8 onwards. Be warned – another Tony spits in Gibbs' eye and quits story, all I seem to think of any more. A reviewer asked if my last one like that was meant to be funny, so I wrote another one, as I love to amuse – they're going to plait themselves at this, then. Like Ziva? Like Gibbs? Don't read.

Destina

by scousemuz1k

Tony liked Liz. She was by degrees flirty, brisk or motherly, depending on what he needed at the time, and seemed always to read which that might be. Of course, he knew she didn't reserve the talent for him alone; she was one of those genuinely nice people who had kindness and caring in their blood, but he loved to feel it directed at him. She could, of course, be the dragon that guarded the Director's door, but she never used that particular personality with Tony. Now Gibbs was another thing….

Liz, for her part, liked Tony. Fine, there were many people around HQ that she liked, but she had a soft spot for the tall, somewhat careworn these days agent who always had a smile for her, or an enquiry after her family. He didn't just remember she was a brand new grandma, he remembered the baby's name. He'd often greet her with 'How's Lily?', and no-one else did.

Right now, looking at Special Agent DiNozzo, (because it wasn't really Tony who'd just walked into her office,) she couldn't help thinking how much better he'd be doing if he had a family. 'Stop putting people in boxes, Liz,' she told herself sternly, 'they either won't fit or they won't stay there.'

And looking at him now, reading him as he hesitated beside her desk, she felt her heart sink. She didn't believe he was going to stay anywhere.

"Oh, Tony," she said softly, her eyes filling, "I will miss you."

He couldn't raise a smile, but just nodded. He reached across the desk and squeezed her hand. His voice was husky. "Same here Liz, same here."

"Director, Special Agent DiNozzo would like a word, if possible?"

Leon Vance hesitated. He really wanted to say no, and put this off, as he had been doing for a couple of weeks. He sighed, and hoped that it was too quiet a sound or DiNozzo to hear – the guy was certainly sharp enough to have heard the hesitation. Come on, Leon, do your job.

"Sure, Liz. Send him in."

The door opened.

"Sir..."

"Come in, DiNozzo." He didn't have to look at him closely for it to register - "Sit down, man, you look exhausted."

The agent lowered his long frame into the leather arm-chair by the coffee table, that Vance had indicated. "Thanks, Sir." He smiled wryly. "It's been a rough few days, but things are getting better."

The Director thought for a moment, then stuck his head out into the outer office.

"Liz, could you rustle me up a cup of tea? My usual? And something hot for DiNozzo?" He thought the agent would politely decline, but he sure as hell couldn't if the Director was having one. "DiNozzo... tea? Coffee?"

Liz said, "I have some lemon tea, I can put some manuka honey in it if you like. That's good for a sore throat."

Tony didn't like to say no, although all he wanted was to speak his piece and get the hell out, but he knew that she'd noticed the rather hoarse voice, and had figured that it wasn't just the prospect of missing her. He was touched that she cared, so he nodded. "That would be good, Liz."

Vance dropped into the chair opposite the agent, with a good deal more ease than the fifteen years younger, active SFA had done, and steeled himself.

"Now, DiNozzo, what can I do for you?"

Tony looked at his hands, then looked up again. He was, after all, at peace with all this now; he just had to say it.

"I need a couple of favours, Sir," he said, calmly, all things considered.

Vance nodded gravely, and waited.

"I need you to expedite my retirement from NCIS, as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible." Done.

Retirement? Didn't see that coming. He looked at the weary agent again, and tried to keep the alarm out of his voice, as he said, "That... would have to be on health grounds?"

The same wry smile. "Do I look that bad, Sir?"

Confession time. "I watch, DiNozzo. I've been intending to ask you up here for a chat for a few weeks now… but I was waiting for things to slot into place elsewhere. Damn… should have followed my nose. Seems like I've dropped the ball here."

"Sir?"

Vance had paused, and Tony watched him curiously. For a moment, when the Director had mentioned a 'chat' he'd thought they were back to point one on the show-Vance-I'm-not-the-waste-of-space-he-thinks-I-am scale and he was about to be fired. Now here he was, receiving a sort-of apology, for he knew not what.

"To be honest," Vance went on, "I thought you were going to slam your resignation down on my desk, or demand a transfer."

Tony said without reproof, "I don't slam, and I don't demand, Sir."

"No," Vance agreed thoughtfully, "you don't." He paused, and added ruefully, "Not that you wouldn't have had cause…. Well, I was going to answer either the same way." He looked DiNozzo in the eyes. "I'd have said, take a couple of weeks leave. If you haven't got that much due, I'll authorise it anyway. Get yourself the hell away from Gibbs. And get some rest, while I work out a worthwhile TAD until a team lead position comes up."

He watched the other man's reactions carefully… and saw only regret. "But… I see that's not to be." He found himself suddenly using a familiarity he disapproved of – even Gibbs didn't get 'Jethro', in an effort to show that his concern was genuine. "Tony, how bad is it?"

The younger man held up both hands, palms out, anxious to reassure. "Oh, not that bad. Honestly."

Both men had to pause as Liz brought a tray in. She bore fine bone china for the Director; but she set down a tall glass for Tony, within an elegant wire holder. It was full of a clear, hot, golden liquid which smelled wonderful. Surprised and delighted, Tony said so.

Liz smiled. "It tastes even better than it looks, Tony. It'll do you good." She went out, beaming.

Vance poured his own tea, while his agent took a taste of the liquid gold and sighed with pleasure. After a moment Tony set his glass down, and squared his shoulders. Whilst he might like to sit sipping this wonderful drink all afternoon, he knew the Director was waiting patiently.

"My lungs will last me until I'm eighty, if I treat them more kindly than I'm doing at the moment," he said slowly. "If I don't, they won't last me 'til fifty. Or if by some miracle they do, I'll likely be a chronic invalid. I really don't fancy that. I'm back to seventy-five percent capacity now – when I went to see Brad on Thursday morning, and he decided to admit me on the spot, I was down to sixty and falling."

Vance winced, but didn't interrupt

"I spent three days in hospital, then Sunday at home, fighting off a bronchial infection that could have turned to pneumonia – I didn't fancy that either." (Vance was beginning to hate that wry grin.) "I can get back to eighty-five, maybe even eventually ninety, but only if I do the right things. No-brainer, really. This morning..." he went on pensively, "I got 'Three days off for a cough, Tony? Really?' from Ziva. Gibbs said nothing until I went to the water cooler with my antibiotic, then it was, 'Popping pills on company time, DiNozzo?'"

He spread his hands and gave Vance another version of the DiNozzo grin, a bright, blazing, empty one which didn't fool the Director any more than the others had. "It just confirmed the decision I'd already made, really."

He frowned, and went on thoughtfully, "You know, he used to look after me in an off-hand way. If I sneezed he'd bark at me to 'go see Ducky'. Or if we got caught out in the rain, he'd send me back with evidence, so I could get dry clothes and a rain jacket. Was a time, he even fixed it that there was a spare one in every car in the pool. Now… he just seems to think I should get with the program. Maybe he's saying that if I still get sick at the least thing, I shouldn't be on his team. Or I shouldn't be an agent at all. Difficult to say though, cuz he doesn't. Say."

"When was the last time you got sick before this?"

"Three years ago. And no, it wasn't after I dragged Gibbs out of that submerged car. Just a throat infection that got a grip."

"Nothing since? You'd think it happened every week!"

The Director took a deep breath, and this time it was Tony who took a deep pull of his honey drink, and waited.

"Tell me… none of my business… why have you stuck it for as long as you have?"

The agent's answer was prompt enough to show he'd thought about that one a few times.

"I don't give up easily. I wanted to find out what's wrong. I wanted to put it right… I've not managed to do either! Things changed… maybe… after Jen – Director Shepard – was killed… You know, when you've regarded someone as a friend, and then they're not, it's worse than if you'd never been friends in the first place… a month ago I'd have taken – heck, I'd have grabbed your offer with both hands, and I probably wouldn't have caught the bronchial thing… maybe it's for the best… maybe I'm really not fit enough to be a field agent any more."

"Once every three years is hardly unfit, DiNozzo. How about if I sent you to Florida? San Diego? Naples? Hawaii?"

Tony almost wavered for a moment. "Sir…" he said sincerely, "Thanks. Really. But I've been told mountains rather than coast. Less pollution, fewer allergens, better for building up diffusing capacity."

Vance pursed his lips and nodded.

"OK." He sighed. "Shame… I'd like to have kept you. No, DiNozzo, I would. OK… I'll have HR work out the best possible severance package -"

He was surprised for the second time that day when Tony held up a hand, and shook his head. "Don't worry about that, Director. Put anything I'm owed into the welfare fund." He looked a bit embarrassed; he'd known he'd have to admit this bit, and he had no idea what the reaction would be. "I've got money. I mean… enough money… I always have had." He waited for the explosion, and the why isn't that in your file.

However, Vance's reaction astonished him, and he didn't think that after ten years with Gibbs he was easily surprised. The Director shifted slightly in his seat, and gave a small smile that could have been read as triumphant. "Ah. I wondered." Tony blinked.

"I recall your father cut you off when you were twelve," Leon Vance went on carefully. "When he showed up last year, I read your file. To be honest, I was going to tear you off a strip, or at least tell Gibbs to do it; your behaviour was a bit erratic while he was around, and I wondered why. I can't say I trusted him, so I held off on the knee-jerk reaction."

"Thanks for that, Sir. It was a weird time."

"Well… I know you gained a couple of scholarships to help you through college… then it goes on to say, 'support by mother's family'. If you read carefully between the lines it suggests you were handed control of that support when you were twenty-two."

Tony nodded. "The family were apparently satisfied I wasn't going to blow my inheritance. I… er, I made sure the wording was obscure. I didn't really want anyone to notice."

"Well, no-one will ever find out from NCIS. Especially your father. Who – stop me if I'm wrong – is the reason for your need of secrecy."

The other man looked up, taken by surprise again. He broke into a delighted smile – the first genuine one Vance had seen. "That's right, Sir. I use the interest to supplement my income a little; the capital is well hidden until the day I find some damn good use for it. And no, my dad's never going to get his hands on it. It just seemed easier to say nothing to anyone. Um… thank you."

"You're welcome." Vance found himself having to fight down a sudden blast of acute discomfiture. He was having the first genuine, relaxed conversation he'd ever had with this agent – because the guy was leaving. He'd thought the man was an embarrassment to the agency until he'd started to observe him properly, which wasn't until he'd returned from Agent Afloat with Gibbs determined to have him back, and rousing endorsements from two distinguished captains. Shame on you, Leon. Well, I've surprised him twice and not offended him – third time's the charm.

"So… er… you used a bit to buy the motorcycle."

This time Tony's reaction was pure amazement. He set his glass down hastily, before he spilled it. "Director, how the heck – I mean… why... would you notice… I've only ridden her into work a few times..." He became aware that Vance was grinning at his office door. "Oh… Liz."

"Never underestimate a PA," Leon chuckled. "She goes down to lunch with some of the HR ladies, and they were all aflutter about this tall guy in leathers, who never took his helmet off until he was out of their sight, and who was he, and how they couldn't hang around outside the men's locker room to find out… next day, Liz looked out of the window and made you in one. Kept it to herself, though." He paused. "Look… I have to say though... DiNozzo, with what we've been talking about, are you sure a motorbike is the right thing for you right now?"

o0o0o

A few weeks before….

He had wondered if fate were plotting against him; and had come to the conclusion no, but it was certainly plotting. Fate had it that the temporary traffic signal about a mile from his home was against him every morning for a week, and every morning he sat there for maybe 90 seconds before he could drive on again.

He had plenty of time to look round; and the first time he saw her, (a lady, of course,) he didn't take a lot of notice. 'Italian,' he thought, 'Gotta love that style,' and went back to dwelling on other things less pleasant.

On the Tuesday, fate made him stop directly outside the shop window. Ducati, he mused. Not new, but in really excellent condition. She'd been loved, but now she was alone; in pride of place in the side window of the corner showroom, but still alone. Bit like him really… With McGee in Florida investigating a massive fraud, and a green-as-grass TAD who clung to him as a lifeline but couldn't relate to anything but a rule book, a Boss who lived in his own bad tempered world, and an Israeli assassin who heeded him and only him, (unless you counted her mostly absent CIA boyfriend,) he might as well have been on the moon.

On Wednesday, that damn light stopped him again; the lonely bike got his attention again. She was a tourer, black and sleek, complete with pods, an extra, rear mounted lockbox, and a tough canvas back-pack style bag on top of the tank. She'd been places, and he wondered if she longed for the open road again. Enticing thought...

On Thursday, with fate hovering hopefully, he dawdled, to the annoyance of the guy tailgating him, because he wanted to miss the light. As he stared thoughtfully at the bike, it occurred to him to remember the name of the showroom, and as soon as he got into the bullpen and powered up his computer, he looked her up. In a few moments he knew all about her – her price, which was fair, he thought, her 1000cc capacity, her age, (the lady was 9 years old,) and her mileage, which was quite high. He didn't, oddly enough, find that off-putting; as he had suspected, the lady had been places, and had tales to tell.

He minimised the information as Ziva entered, and brought up the cold case he'd been looking at yesterday. There were too many secrets flying around the place lately, but one more wouldn't hurt. The lady was his. The lady was his…. He made up his mind.

On Friday, the light changed quickly, and he only had time to fling a quick 'I'll be back' at her… but on Saturday, crossing fingers that he wouldn't be called in, he proved he wasn't lying. His heart beat faster as he walked from the metro; fate loping happily alongside him, having achieved its purpose. The lady had better not have been sold in the last twenty-four hours!

Taking a deep breath, he entered the shop… An hour, and a test ride in a borrowed helmet later, Tony DiNozzo was the proud owner of a Ducati Sport Classic 1000.

Several thousand dollars lighter, with a helmet with an earjack for his phone and a filter that meant he never had to breathe freezing cold air; boots with attitude and state-of-the-art, waterproof, close-fitting leathers with detachable insulation to protect vulnerable areas in the winter, he spoke briefly on his cell phone, and rode over to pay a house call on Brad Pitt.

o0o0o

Tony nodded acknowledgement of the Director's concern. "Dr Pitt agreed I couldn't stop living, and told me to be sensible. Seek shelter if the weather turned bad, which I'd do anyway, use my common sense."

"You didn't get put in hospital by riding the bike?" Vance worried that he was sounding like a mother hen, but DiNozzo didn't seem to mind.

"No, Sir… a homeless man -"

"Ah." Vance had read the report. Gibbs wanted to bring the man in for questioning; Tony knew well what very sick lungs sounded like, and said he needed hospital. Gibbs hadn't cared much for being contradicted, and told him fine, but he could wait with him for the ambulance. He'd done so, gone in the ambulance, since the guy had no-one else, and seen him settled in and made comfortable. The man had died two days later. "But at least not alone in an alley," Vance said quietly, repeating what the nurse who called Tony with the news had said.

"Yes, Sir. I knew it wasn't Destina's fault, but when I started to feel breathless, that was when I went straight to see Brad."

"Destina?" The Director's eyebrows went up.

"Italian for fate. It was Dr Sciuto's idea." He shook his head ruefully. "She knew what was in my mind way before I knew it myself."

AN: One more chapter, hopefully tomorrow, then possibly an epilogue if anyone wants one.