SquidgeWorld Archive

It's gray outside, the light faint and dim through mostly-closed blinds. Rain rattles against the windows, wet leaves slapping the glass in a rhythm Tony hasn't bothered to learn. Occasionally a gust of wind will make the window frame tremble and a breeze sneak in around the edges, but curled up as he is under the thick soft comforter he doesn't feel it.

The little clock next to him says it's 2:16pm; the sheer decadence of lying in bed this late, stretched out against cool clean sheets and sinfully thick pillows, is enough to make him want to purr. But nothing comes without a price, and this afternoon of hedonism is the result of a month-long undercover chase that took him through four states, cost him a sprained wrist and a hairline fracture to his right forearm, and nearly got him killed before backup showed up.

Gibbs, of course, arrived just in time to see him hit the ground on his bad arm, unable to even grab his gun. Sheer luck kept him from *getting* shot; he was able to roll out of the way and get cover behind a car. By the time he was able to hold his gun, it was all over but the shouting.

After the doctors splinted his arm and gave him painkillers, Gibbs drove him home with orders not to come in for the next two days. Normally he'd have argued, but the Vicodin was beginning to work. He doesn't even remember how he ended up tucked into bed, a glass of water and two pills on his nightstand, although he's pretty sure he knows what happened.

That was Wednesday; today's Saturday and they're not on call, so his two days of sick leave have turned into a four-day weekend. He'd be enjoying it a lot more if he could sleep, or settle, or...something other than this restless inability to focus. One month of solid undercover and he feels more like Tony Dawes than Tony DiNozzo, which isn't good. It's becoming too easy to slip into an alternate persona, too comfortable to be someone other than himself. He knows why, but that doesn't make it any better.

As he's lying in bed, half-drowsing, he hears the sound of his door opening. His right arm's still splinted but he manages to grab his gun anyway, waiting to see who's there. And then Gibbs appears in his doorway and he drops it out of sheer surprise.

"Boss?" he says warily. "What are you doing here?"

Gibbs doesn't answer, just comes over to the bed and takes Tony's gun, putting it away in the nightstand. "How're you doing?" he asks.

Tony shrugs. "I'm fine. You know me--always looking for a chance to slack off." He manages a smile and pushes himself up to a sitting position.

"In front of other people, maybe. I know you better." Gibbs shrugs out of his damp jacket and hangs it on the hook on the back of Tony's door. "And I know you're not fine." He sits down on the edge of the bed. "What's going on, Tony?"

This is so unexpected that Tony can just blink at him for a moment, wondering if this is some kind of hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and Vicodin. But when he surreptitiously pinches himself, it hurts.

"Something happen when you were undercover?" Gibbs asks quietly. "We didn't catch most of it."

"Aside from the sprained wrist and the fractured arm? Nah. Just the usual trek through Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia--and I think we hit Delaware in there somewhere--in the company of a murderer, a thief--no, two thieves--and a smuggler. Just another job." Tony tries to manage a grin, but he's pretty sure it falls flat. "I'm fine, Boss. Honest."

"I don't buy it."

"You don't have to. I'm fine." Tony glares at him.

"Uh huh. How much sleep have you gotten?" Gibbs asks.

"Enough." Tony wishes he didn't sound so defensive, but truth be told if it wasn't for the drugs he's not sure he'd have slept at all. Every time he closes his eyes he sees them--Josephs, Kleinbeck, Blake, and Carmine. Four men he lived with, worked with, pretended to like and joke with and share stories about girls with, right before he led them to a setup and got them all arrested.

It could so easily have been him, and every time he's woken up in the past three days he's had to remind himself that he's not sleeping on a hotel bed, listening to Carmine snore and Blake pace and wonder what Josephs was hiding behind his flat brown eyes. He went to shower yesterday and was momentarily confused by his own bottles of shampoo and conditioner, rather than the hotel-size harsh stuff he's been using for a month.

One wrong choice so many years ago and they could have had five men to arrest, instead of four.

Gibbs looks at him for a long moment, not saying anything. "What's your name?" he asks finally. His voice is casual, off-handed, and Tony answers before he even thinks about it.

"Anthony Michael D--" And he has to freeze, because for a moment he was about to say Dawes and that's not who he is. It isn't.

He looks at Gibbs, uncertain what he'll see, and is more than a little amazed to see nothing but compassion in Gibbs' eyes. "Yeah," Gibbs says quietly. "That's what I thought."

"It's just habit," Tony says with an offhand shrug. "Call yourself Dawes for a month and..."

"Tony." Gibbs rests a hand on his shoulder, and that's as unexpected as Gibbs being there in the first place. "I used to work undercover myself. I know. You weren't Dawes for long but you were him for long enough."

"It's just the Vicodin."

"Vicodin doesn't make you think you're someone else. You've worked undercover before, Tony. You know how it goes." Gibbs' thumb brushes against the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

"I'll be fine." Tony resists the urge to rub his cheek against Gibbs' hand. He has no idea where that came from; Tony Dawes was a loner, stand-offish, and Tony DiNozzo...has no idea how he feels about casual physical contact right now.

"This is who you are," Gibbs says, gesturing at the room with his free hand. "Tony DiNozzo. NCIS agent. Pain in the ass." The last is said with a slight smile and Tony snorts. "You're not Tony Dawes."

"I know that," Tony says a bit more forcefully than perhaps he should. "I know," he repeats quietly.

Gibbs' hand tightens on his shoulder. "How's your arm?" he asks.

"It's fine. I'll have the splint on for another week, maybe."

"Don't rush it. I need you healed more than I need you in the field."

He knows it's stupid, but he can't keep from smiling a little at the words "I need you" coming from Gibbs. "Always nice to know you want me on the team," he says lightly.

For a moment, he thinks he's going to get smacked upside the head. Something flashes in Gibbs' eyes, but he's got no idea what. And then Gibbs' hand slides down his arm before pulling back and Tony shivers reflexively.

"Tony," Gibbs says, almost like he's stating something. "You're not him."

"I know that!" Tony glares at Gibbs. "You can stop *saying* it now, you know."

"Not until you believe me."

"I'm not him, okay? I'm not Tony Dawes. I'm Tony DiNozzo. Are you satisfied?"

Gibbs just looks at him evenly.

"What are you, my fucking therapist?" Tony demands, punching the bed with his left hand. "He's me. I'm him. Whatever is going on in your twisted little psychological world--I know who I am, Gibbs, okay? I know my name."

"Your name isn't what I'm concerned about." Gibbs looks at him, holding his gaze. "It wasn't easy, this time. I know it wasn't. Do you need to talk to someone?"

"Gibbs. I'm. Fine."

"Liar."

And Tony has just enough time to not process that before Gibbs leans forward and kisses him, soft and gentle and warm. "You have no fucking clue who you are right now," Gibbs whispers against his mouth, his breath warm and coffee-scented. "You don't know."

"And you do?" Tony manages, a bit more shakily than he'd like.

Gibbs grins. "I know everything. Haven't you learned that by now?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "So fill me in, because I'm feeling a little clueless as to why you kissed me."

"Because it's who you are." Gibbs kisses him again, a whisper of lips against his own. "It's what you want."

"Which one of me?" Tony counters. He feels shaky and off-balance and wonders when he took his last dose of Vicodin, because this can't be real.

"This one." Gibbs taps his forehead. "You're mine, Tony. Don't even try to tell me you don't want this."

"And you're doing this...why? Because you think I'm having trouble remembering who I am?" He doesn't have to try to put anger in his voice; it's already there.

"No." Gibbs pulls back a little. He looks down briefly and when he meets Tony's eyes again there's a hint of something uncertain there, something Tony's never seen before. "I saw you..." Gibbs stops, shakes his head. "You're a good undercover agent, Tony. One of the best. And I saw you become Dawes. I saw you that entire month, when you slipped deeper and deeper into being him until I couldn't tell where you left off and he began." Gibbs sighs, rubs a hand over his face. "I won't let that happen to you, Tony. Not if I can help it."

"So you kissed me to remind me I was Tony DiNozzo?" He looks at Gibbs skeptically. "I don't buy it."

To give him credit, Gibbs looks a little sheepish. "No," he admits. "No, that was for..." He stops, shakes his head. "Any number of reasons. But I meant what I said, Tony. You're mine. And I take care of my own."

"I'm not a kid," Tony snaps. "I don't need taking care of." He doesn't know where all this anger is coming from but suddenly it's too much to stay still and he slides out of bed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't need a damn pity fuck from anyone, especially not you."

"I don't do pity fucks." Gibbs just *looks* at him and Tony has to fight back the urge to punch him. God, what is *wrong* with him?

He runs a hand through his hair again, cursing when the splint pulls a couple of strands out of his head. "I'm fine, Gibbs. Go work on the boat or something, I'll see you at the office on Monday."

Two steps to the end of the bed, pivot, two steps to the head of the bed. He has no idea why he's pacing.

"You're not fine." Gibbs stands as well, circling around the bed to him.

He's too close, too intense, too *there*. Tony glares at him, unwilling to move back and unable to move forward. "Go home," he says tightly. "Just...go home, Gibbs. Leave me alone."

"No."

Tony doesn't even realize he's trying to punch Gibbs until Gibbs grabs his wrist and pulls him around, twisting his good arm behind his back. Gibbs' other arm is locked firmly around Tony's waist, holding him in place. "Still gonna tell me you're fine?" he asks quietly.

"Let me *go*!" Tony pulls against Gibbs' hold and only succeeds in almost dislocating his shoulder.

"This isn't you," Gibbs says, softly but intently. "This isn't who you are. Dawes had the hair-trigger temper, not you. Not you, Tony."

He yanks at Gibbs' hold on him again but just ends up panting for breath when Gibbs' arm tightens. "Don't--" Tony forces himself to stop struggling, although it's an effort. "Don't tell me who I am," he grits out.

"Someone needs to, and you don't have a fucking clue yourself," Gibbs says in a low voice.

"How the fuck do you know?"

"You gonna tell me I'm wrong?"

"Leave me *alone*!" It sounds incredibly plaintive and he winces, hearing his own voice.

The grip on his arm relaxes a little, not enough to let him go but enough that he's no longer worried about losing circulation. "I can't," Gibbs admits, so quietly Tony barely hears him. "I can't."

"Why not?" Great. Now he's gone from whiny to ready to cry. What the fuck is *wrong* with him?

Gibbs' lips ghost over his throat and he shudders. "I can't watch you self-destruct," Gibbs tells him. "It's been one job after another, Tony. You've pulled four undercover assignments in the last seven months and every time, you come out a little more ragged around the edges, a little less whole. I can't--I won't watch you fall to pieces. Not on my watch."

"Gibbs--" He's shivering now and he has no idea why. "Gibbs, I--I can't--I don't know--"

"Tony," Gibbs murmurs against his skin. "My Tony."

"Is that all I am?" Tony manages. "Is that--"

"No. Not by any means." He hears the humor in Gibbs' voice and relaxes a little. "But it's a start."

Gibbs lets him go, running a hand up his arm and squeezing his shoulder. "Is this who you want to be?" Gibbs asks.

Not 'is that who you are', but 'is this who you want to be'. Tony's not so confused that he doesn't note the distinction. And put like that..."Yeah," he whispers. "It is."

Warm lips touch his throat again. Gibbs' tongue flicks out over his skin, tasting him; he shivers and lets his head fall back against Gibbs' shoulder. He feels Gibbs' hands slide up under his shirt and obediently raises his arms so Gibbs can peel it off him. "Look at me," Gibbs says, and he turns around, meeting Gibbs' eyes.

He doesn't understand what he sees there. But Gibbs raises a hand to his face, brushes back his hair before drawing him down into a kiss, and he decides he doesn't care.

The underlying taste of Gibbs is laced with coffee--or maybe that *is* the way Gibbs always tastes. His mouth is warm, his hands on Tony's face gentle and firm all at once.

Tony shivers, once, and lets himself fall.

****

The rain's still falling outside, the hiss of water combining with the rattle of branches. Gibbs' chest is warm under Tony's cheek, his fingers soothing as they stroke through Tony's hair. Tony sighs a little in sheer contentment; he can't remember the last time he felt this sated, this safe.

Gibbs chuckles softly. "If you were a cat, you'd be purring," he comments.

"Had a girlfriend who purred once. Was kinda cute." Tony brushes a kiss over Gibbs' skin. "You, um, gonna stay for a bit?"

"I thought I might," Gibbs admits, his hand slowing to rest on the back of Tony's neck. "Don't have anywhere to be until Monday, after all."

Tony bites back the flush of pleasure. "Okay," he says as casually as he can mention. "That's fine."

Gibbs makes a short non-committal sound, running his fingers through Tony's hair again.

They lie in silence, listening to the rain.