Part VI: It Goes Like This

It goes like this:

There's the Director and Gibbs and a bottle of scotch. After a hard case, they share a drink and talk about anything other than death and violence. Sometimes it's about golfing, sometimes it's about the brand of hand saw they prefer, and sometimes it's about Gibbs' propensity to drive away every partner he's been assigned.

"They aren't chew toys," Morrow says. "And you can't expect them to live up to Mike."

Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "I never said I did."

Morrow eyes him critically from across the mahogany desk and swishes his glass. Gibbs, if possible, relaxes more into his chair. Arrogant, Morrow will think. Unconcerned. But Gibbs knows exactly how much he's been toeing the line with this revolving door of probies. It's never been that he expects them to live up to Mike. Nobody can. The problem is that Gibbs doesn't trust the ladder-climbing gleam in their eyes. They're so young that they can't keep their eyes on the ball in front of them. Their so young that they're still spending time looking at someone else's court. He can't trust someone with his life if they can't focus on what's about to smack them in the face.

Morrow sighs and sets down his glass. "You only get to choose one more, Gibbs. In the mean time, you're on undercover duty. Clear?"

Gibbs smirks wryly and lifts his glass. "Clear."

It goes like this:

Gibbs needs to get arrested. He needs street cred. He's too far removed (hell, growing up in the small town that he did, he's always been too far removed) from the young and thuggish crowd to earn their trust on his own. He has to show his solidarity. The only thing he doesn't plan for, really, is Tony DiNozzo, whose face lights up like the last street light on a new moon, green eyes shimmering in humor and smile enveloping his lean, tanned face. DiNozzo, with his naïve earnestness. Like a dog determined to eat the squirrel, even though he can't climb the tree. A child with the determination of a pitbull.

The moment the kid faces his own partner about his mistakes, the moment the kid lets his partner go, Gibbs thinks there's no way he can get so lucky. But he can, because DiNozzo takes the bait. DiNozzo is his. And Gibbs from then on always thinks, in the back of his mind, if only he was an omega. If only, if only.

It goes like this:

DiNozzo is handsome, but that's not what catches Gibbs' attention.

DiNozzo is capable.

There is a term, called the Code Hero, from Ernest Hemingway. The Code Hero lives by a set of rules, much like Gibbs, but the Code Hero doesn't speak about them. He is, effortlessly, a "man's man." He drinks, he sleeps around, and he fights for life as if it is everything in the world to him. He can face death as if he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. And another phrase comes from that, the real requirement of the Hero: grace under pressure. When Gibbs first hears about this in grade school, he immediately wants to shape himself into this hero. But the Code Hero, by definition, can't be made. Even now Gibbs is often too gruff under pressure. Too much of a Gunny. But Tony, with his smiles and slick words and smooth, quick movements...

Tony has grace.

It goes like this:

When Tony's scent hits his nose, any anger in Gibbs leaves him. He's heard before, probably from Ducky, about the pacifying effect a mate's scent can have, but he's never really believed it until the moment all his frustration and resentment dissolve into relief. That's all he's got left. Everyone is staring at him with wide eyes, waiting for the ball to drop, and it never will. Gibbs has lost everything once. Gibbs has married his best friend who smelled like sugar and had a daughter who always, for some reason, smelled like musky grass, and he's stood on their graves, helplessly inhaling air, trying to remember exactly what they smelled like.

So the ball never drops.

Gibbs sets up a routine of visitors so Tony is never alone. Gibbs memorizes all the medications Tony has to take and when. Gibbs makes sure the bedroom of his house is stocked with water bottles and cough drops, and he even drags his little tube TV up onto the dresser. Gibbs drives Tony home, and he tries not to think about when he started considering it their home instead of his. Gibbs looks at Tony, half-asleep and nuzzling the scent of Gibbs' bed with the most typical omega contentment, and he wonders how he could've missed it. He goes to the couch that night, and he doesn't sleep for the feeling of guilt in his chest.

It goes like this:

Tony gets up the next morning. Gibbs is already in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, when the footsteps slowly, haggardly, with pausing stutters, make their way downstairs. Gibbs forces himself to stay seated at the table instead of rushing up to help. Tony eventually staggers in, and he sits pointedly across from Gibbs, within eyesight, out of reach. He smells a little less like death, but he's pale. He's thinner than he should be. His chest is heaving just from the walk from the bedroom to here, and he's got a look in his eye like he's waiting for Gibbs to stick a knife in him. It's too much. Gibbs slides over the plate of toast.

Tony glances at the plate. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and he curls forward like he's been punched. "Gibbs?"

Gibbs sighs a little. He hates talking about things, but there is one point, still, he needs to get across. The rest of it doesn't matter.

He doesn't mean for his voice to be so soft. He doesn't mean to sound unsure. But he does. "Do you trust me?"

Tony chokes, stutters, "Look, when we met—"

"No, Tony." Gibbs tries to harden his stare. Fails. Tries again. "I mean now, moving forward. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Immediate. Earnest.

Gibbs nods. "Okay."

He pushes forward the plate of eggs and bacon and lifts up the newspaper so he can read. He hears a huff as Tony laughs, and Gibbs, behind his paper, smiles.

So you see, it goes like this:

Gibbs never stood a chance.