The Third

10

On behalf of the population, the federal agent had punched the man dead in the face. Which explains his current predicament.

Like old movies where an interrogation spotlight shines almost fatally upon the guilty, the Gibbs Glare, patent pending, narrows on Tony. Eerily reminiscent, in fact, of the look Tony had given his giggling son just this morning when the Cheerios were engaged in unauthorized flight testing. Of course, the audience appreciates every ticking second of Tony's discomfort, the evidence of which he tries to stifle by pointedly not fidgeting in his chair. The effect is spoiled by his desperately dodging eyes, scanning various quadrants of a fascinating carpet for fiber flaws. But the boss wants this conversation, in the way that an inquisition wants flaying.

"What do you think happens next, DiNozzo?"

The voice, something carved by whiskey and anchored by sawdust, bears indicators of profound restraint. Despite this, an element of triumph refuses to drown, buoying Tony's pride in an act steeped in integrity and, unfortunately, witnesses.

"I'm thinking awards ceremony?"

"Think again," Gibbs suggests.

"But there was applauding," Tony reminds the assembled naysayers. "And a form of paparazzi."

McGee snorts. "Teenagers with camera phones don't count."

Tony had intended to be generous with his thank you's when accepting the medal. That mental list now excommunicates everyone present.

Sadly, the off-button on Tony's brag controller is rusted and thus the following gem is mined;

"Give it a few minutes and it'll go viral."

The hand that slams on the desktop has, in preceding days, struck Tony's head a mere thrice. Five determined digits attached to an unforgiving palm left too far to be safe and too close to be stopped. Tony's own hand should, by rights, be shaking the mayor's.

"Will the internet," blue eyes ask, "make a federal agent decking a civilian look better?"

Pride deflates. "No sir."

"Then we have a problem."

"Yes sir."

Gibbs notes the interested observers. "I didn't give you enough to do?"

McGee rises first, exiting to the lab with something that sounds suspiciously like 'black-eye dispenser' trailing behind him. The dark-haired woman with the shining diamond stays seated, coerced either by guilt or pity. She fiddles with the ring set, clearly measuring the wisdom of speech against the weight of sense. Tony is encouraged by this faithfulness right up until she stands, gathers records and with what he'd like to consider a hopeful glance, departs. She leaves and there are curses in his head that Tony prays his son won't learn until at least second grade.

Defenses are collected, shoved into a single sentence and dropped on the foot of the executioner.

"Had to do it, boss."

"The director might be understanding." Gibbs folds his arms across his chest, a sign that the guillotine blade has indeed been sharpened. "You'll have a harder time with me."

Can a man dedicated to the practice of divorce understand that Tony's kind of love comes with a fierceness that protects and defends whether it's welcomed or warranted? The sort of unabashed devotion that will know no end because it's been down all the other streets already. Can Gibbs sympathize with the requirement to jam the stake of mine in the soil that defies public etiquette and lacks the appropriate permits? That his claim had been questioned with flippancy and had to be answered with a fist?

Some foreign shade of seriousness must have tripped over Tony's face because Gibbs backs down, backs off and backs up into McGee's chair. Thus seated, the boss takes the deep breath of the well and truly put-upon and waits. Waits for an explanation he knows Tony cannot help but supply if left to silence too long. Some people must shovel themselves up to their own necks in the verbal gap. And when it arrives, it does so in embarrassed mumbles that will hang, despite their heaviness, for possibly eons.

Because it will undoubtedly sound worse aloud than it already does in his head.

"The guy was one of those annoying gawkers trying to stare over the dead side of the police tape. Made sure we noticed him."

"By heckling?"

"In a way."

Gibbs squinted. "In what way?"

The fabric that manufacturers favor for cubicles is lacking pizzazz. And Tony knows this because scrutiny is being paid in an effort to avoid other objects, like steely eyes and deepening frowns. Tiger stripes, he's thinking. Or fluffy kittens. Or flowing lava, perhaps.

"Stalling makes a later night, makes a cranky kid, makes an suffering dad," Gibbs reminds the father who only recently detailed the bedtime ritual, complete with bulletpoints on the toddler manifesto, to the assemblage.

"He said," the first swing at it comes up short. "He said she'd look good pregnant with his spawn." The words are presented slowly because a fury reborn weighs down his tongue. "Said he'd like to lay her over the patrol car and… and calm wasn't happening."

Gibbs says nothing because he'd have to take a running start to hurdle that reason. Eyes turn warmer by fractions and there will be, Tony realizes, no discipline, no punishment. Before him is a man digesting what McGee had mistaken for jealousy. What Ziva had labeled testosterone. What God and the angels ought to trumpet as righteousness. What truth will call possessive.

"I saw her face and just…" there's no forgivable word for spitting at protocol and decency, "snapped."

The air turns leaden with the words and while no judgment appears forthcoming, there will be advice. Oh yes. Advice he will be forced to ponder the way a manic jumper must consider the quickened ground. And it is ordained that the line of suggestion Gibbs will present shall be plucked from the rack of The Rules. Their numbers have multiplied since Twelve went missing in action.

"I should say that during working hours, she's your partner first, wife second." Fingers are drummed in useless fashion. "But I can see it'll never be like that."

"Don't know how to make it otherwise."

"I get that. But answer me this, DiNozzo. Why are you still in that hole?"

This is the point when Tony thinks perhaps that conveniently fatal heart attack is tardy again. "Hole, boss?"

"The one you cover with twigs like that'll hold weight. And then you forget it's there and fall into the emptiness you've dug."

Exposure to high concentrations of unfinished boats must do this to a man.

"Not following."

"You fall into old ways faster than an addict.'"

Silence consumes the moment it takes for Tony to eyeball his backpack and consider an insubordinate dash. Keys are only inches away, a simple reach down and a quick escape...

"What I want to know," Gibbs muses to the happier audience of ceiling tiles, "is why you married her."

The question should injure some deep parts, but something in that stare, the one that got left out of his dad's DNA, bathes him in Because I Care, You Will Answer Me. But too many years have wedged themselves into the crease of Tony's spine. He can just about match that stare if he strains.

"Why, DiNozzo? So no one else could?"

"I love her."

"Her," Gibbs challenges. "Or the idea of her?"

It's almost humorous, since the idea of her equals distant, unknowable, decidedly uncuddly ninja. "Her, boss."

"Just seems to me that embattled friends turned to legalized spouses awful quick."

"Our timing's not for the weak."

"That paper give you some momentary something that you have to deck people to resurrect? 'Cause I'm pretty sure she's never needed a security guard."

This he knows. It's been a flavor in his mouth that the toothbrush can't reach. She doesn't need him in the traditional sense, like a woman requiring the strength and shield of her man. Her heart, that is all Tony's been asked to guard and usually that duty is enough for him. None of this can he speak, however, not under the steady gaze of his mentor, evolutionary proof that man derived from the armadillo. An odd predicament, running out of words. Which appears to suit Gibbs fine.

The twenty-four hour building seems purposely quiet, taking sides against Tony. And as the brew of marital advice is stirred by a firm hand, Ducky walks past like a Hitchcock cameo, raincoat across one shoulder. Not unaccustomed to these standoffs, the older man waves an absent hand and lets the elevator steal Tony's last chance at distraction. Damn.

Gibbs settles further into a chair not made for lounging. The head is tilted and Tony has a fleeting sympathy for every fishbowl he's ever tapped.

"Wanna know what I think?" Gibbs asks.

Since 'do I have a choice' is not on the bestseller-and-live list, Tony clamps down on his lips.

"You cancel each other out. Met someone whose level of grief and guilt equals yours." Standing, Gibbs moves to his desk, pokes around for glasses, gun and badge, then recalls his hostage and a half-finished opinion. "Like a one-legged boy meeting a one-armed girl."

Tony hooks the sigh and reels it in, knowing it would only add steam to the LJG train and possibly hours to this dissection. He'd like to perform legalized spousal acts with his one-armed metaphor before sunrise. Rising and securing his backpack is an attempt to divert continuance that fails since Gibbs is preparing to shove the analogy down Tony's throat.

"They get each other. What's missing is shared. Familiar. But still, never quite whole."

"Saying we're hopeless?"

"Saying there's only so many outsiders you can punch. Confidence would've let you block him out, not knock him out."

The conversation, in some kind of mercy, receives the nearly finished signal. The lights have dimmed in the course of the debate and night, the damned straggler, has decided to turn up. Of course, Gibbs will get the last word. He's like that. Tony can actually detect the special breath being drawn.

"Before I sand, I think about the after."