Two Wolves - 9/19

[xanthefic]

Tony kneels astride Gibbs’s back and gently places his oiled hands on Gibbs’s shoulders. The fingers of his broken hand are covered in a now grubby bandage, but he can use the palm of the hand well enough.

The oil smells of something herbal – and not a particularly nice herb, either – but it’s all he’s got to work with, so he’s going to make the best of it.

Gibbs’s shoulders are as hard as iron. The muscles have been over-worked for months, and that, combined with the stress of the place, has created a solid knot across Gibbs’s back.

Tony gently soothes his fingers across the surface of the skin, gliding back and forth.

At first, Gibbs is stiff and resistant, but Tony expected that. He knows it will take him some time to just give in and go with it. Tony suspects that Gibbs isn’t the kind of man who has ever received a massage for the simple pleasure of it, and he wants to give him that. He wants to take Gibbs out of this nightmare world, even if only for a short time, and make him float.

Tony loves trailing his fingers over Gibbs’s skin, sinking in more firmly wherever he finds a knot, and gently easing it out. There’s something incredibly satisfying about making a man as intense and focused as Gibbs zone out.

It takes a little while, but Gibbs slowly starts to relax. Tony notices that if he presses too hard then Gibbs’s muscles remain rigid, but if he’s patient, persistent, and gentle, they gradually start to soften.

Tony finds one persistent knot and rubs away at it gently for a long time until Gibbs gives a little grunt, and Tony feels something pop and release.

“You got any qualifications for this, DiNozzo?” Gibbs demands lazily.

Tony laughs. “Only dozens of satisfied customers in the bedroom, Boss,” he replies flippantly. Gibbs’s shoulders tense immediately, and Tony can actually feel the rage boiling up inside him. What the hell is that about?

It takes him several minutes to soothe Gibbs’s muscles back to the relaxed state they were in before, but Tony wasn’t lying about his lovers. One of the things he’s always enjoyed most about sex is the sensuality of the act.

He learned how to give good massages in college, with a fuck buddy who was team quarterback and always had muscles that felt like solid brick. Then there was the girlfriend in Peoria, who just loved having gently heated oil trailed over her back and buttocks and rubbed in. Tony learned to massage out of the sheer sensual joy of touch, and he’s damn good at it, one handed or not.

Tony moves up to Gibbs’s scalp and concentrates his attention on that, easing away the tension with firm sweeps of his fingertips. Gibbs’s hair has been cropped close to his head, only silver-grey stubble covering the smooth, bare skin, and Tony loves the sensation of that closely cropped hair under his hands. He massages Gibbs’s scalp for several long minutes, before moving further down.

Gibbs’s body is marked with a network of scars, old and new, telling the story of a long life, lived hard. Tony finds the top of a recent long whip scar and gently maps it from shoulder to hip. When he finishes with that one, he finds another and traces it back up again, with a feather light touch.

Beneath him, Gibbs relaxes even more, his body sinking into the mattress. Tony circles a dark, crescent-shaped scar on Gibbs’s shoulder. It’s recent; maybe an injury he got in the pit.

“Bite. Third Fight Night,” Gibbs mumbles into his pillow, as if reading his mind. “Bastard sank his teeth right in.”

Tony gently soothes his fingers into the scar, acknowledging it, and then moves on.

He finds an old, white, scar on Gibbs’s side, just beneath his ribs. He lingers there for a few seconds, examining the jagged edges.

“Stabbed. On a case. Russia,” Gibbs mutters. “Stupid. Shoulda seen it coming.”

Tony glides his fingers up a little way and dips them into an old bullet wound on Gibbs’s shoulder. He knows how this one happened.

“Ari,” Gibbs growls, stiffening.

“Yeah, I know. I was there.”

Tony trails his fingers over it, soothing it, and Gibbs slowly relaxes again. Tony isn’t sure if Gibbs will be comfortable with his ass being caressed, so he skips that and goes lower. He finds a tiny, puckered scar on Gibbs’s thigh and recognizes it as another bullet wound.

“Colombia. Black ops,” Gibbs says quietly. “Got a fever with that one. Nearly died.”

Tony slides down Gibbs’s legs and finds a twisted scar on the back of his knee that twines all the way around to the front. This one is old. Very old. He kneads it gently with his fingers, and this time Gibbs says nothing, but his muscles tighten. This scar still clearly hurts; not physically – it’s too old for that – but it marks a wound that goes far deeper than flesh.

Tony spends awhile easing away at it, knowing that Gibbs still gets stiffness in the knee. Gibbs has always walked with a slight limp, and now he’s up close Tony can see why. It’s a nasty scar; this must have been a terrible injury once, a long time ago.

He doesn’t ask for an explanation; he just works at it with careful swirls of his fingertips, taking his time, soothing the slightly twisted muscle under the skin.

He’s so lost in the task that he’s almost taken by surprise when Gibbs suddenly gives a deep, exhausted sigh, and his body relaxes almost visibly beneath him. It’s as if something inside him has surrendered, making his body completely loose and pliant.

Tony feels as if he’s been given permission, and now, as his fingers trail upwards again, he’s more daring. He places his hands gently on Gibbs’s taut buttocks and leaves them there for a second, motionless, to see if Gibbs objects. When no objection is forthcoming, he moves his hands across the globes of flesh, circling gently. Gibbs’s ass is perfectly round, the skin pale and firm beneath his fingertips. Tony works it for several minutes, allowing his fingers to soothe and caress, but nothing more.

Gibbs now looks as relaxed as Tony’s ever seen him. His face is angled to one side, his mouth is slightly open, and his breathing is deep and even.

Tony has a sudden vivid mental image of Gibbs as an old grey wolf, strong, wily, and powerful, muscles rippling under the surface of his fur. Right now, Tony has the wolf eating out of his hand, dozing lazily under his fingertips, but he doesn’t think for a second that the wolf has been tamed. It’s still there, just beneath the surface, biding its time.

Tony smiles and continues trailing his fingers over Gibbs’s now thoroughly oiled skin, pouring a decade’s unspoken devotion into the task. Years of unrequited love are in his fingertips as he gives himself up to it completely.

Gibbs might be a difficult, ornery bastard, but he’s always been the only man Tony ever loved, and he wants to offer all that love to him now, without asking for anything in return. He imbues every caress with a loving tenderness, but there is nothing sexual about his devotions. He wants only to give, not take. He works hard for a very long time, smoothing, gentling and swirling, losing himself completely in his task.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when his aching fingers finally come to a halt of their own accord. Gibbs looks boneless and completely at rest beneath him. Relaxation has softened his features, making him look more like a cub than a grizzled old wolf.

Tony lies down beside him and pulls Gibbs into his arms. Gibbs comes without a murmur, and Tony holds him close, enjoying the warmth of his oiled skin seeping into him.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he whispers in the dark.

Gibbs moves his head. “Mmm, whassat?” he mutters, clearly half asleep.

Tony smiles and holds him tight. “Never mind. I think I just did.”

~*~

Gibbs wakes up the following morning feeling well-rested for the first time in five months. He’s never slept through the entire night before. This place is too noisy, with the sounds of the fighters in other stalls fucking or arguing, and the sound of the guard in the hallway patrolling up and down, or, sometimes, the sound of Ellis’s radio blaring out all night long.

None of that seemed to matter last night, and he slept the night through without waking once.

“You missed your calling, DiNozzo,” he says, rolling his shoulders experimentally and finding them loose and relaxed. “Should have been a massage therapist instead of an NCIS agent.”

Tony gazes at him for a long moment from narrowed eyes – and then he grins. “You’re welcome, Boss. And next time a simple ‘thank you’ will do.”

Gibbs gives a grunt of laughter, but mainly he’s just pleased that there’s going to be a next time.

It’s the day before the fight, and, as usual, tensions are running high. Gibbs puts in his best performance of the week in training, and Frank is happy with him.

“You’re the best you’ve ever been,” Frank says approvingly as he tapes his knuckles for a practice fight in the ring. “Like a sleek fighting machine. My pit bull terrier. I’m proud of ya, Leroy. You’re the best fighter I’ve ever trained, and I’ll retire a happy man when you bring home the title.”

“There’s a title?” Gibbs raises an eyebrow.

“Figure of speech.” Frank shrugs. “But you’ve made me a hell of a lot of money, Leroy. I did good with you.”

“You ever feel bad about that?” Gibbs asks. “I’m not here by choice, Frank.”

Frank laughs. “Oh, Leroy, nobody could fight like you do in the pit and not want to be there. It’s your home, lad.” He pats Gibbs’s arm, still chuckling away to himself, and Gibbs remembers how Tony said something very similar to him last night.

“The competition only gets tougher from here on in,” Frank tells him. “But I think you’ll relish that, Leroy. You won’t lose. It’s not in you to lose. I’ve trained a few fighters in my time, but you’re the only one I’ve met who really gets it. You understand what it means to let go in the pit, to fight with your head, and your heart, and your entire soul, and to give it everything you have.”

Gibbs thinks about how it feels when he’s standing in the holding pen on the edge of the pit just before a fight, the scent of sawdust in his nostrils and the anger rising up inside, ready to be unleashed. He can feel the sense of exhilaration and anticipation, and he knows that Tony and Frank are both right; a part of him does love it out there.

“What will happen to Tony?” he asks. “He’s not fighting tomorrow.”

“Then he’ll stay behind.” Frank shrugs. “That’s what usually happens with the injured lads. You’ve been here long enough to know that, Leroy.”

Gibbs doesn’t like the idea of Tony being out of his sight. Who knows what might happen when he’s not here? It’s not as if he can protect Tony even when they are together, but at least he doesn’t have to fret about what’s happening to him. Frank doesn’t have the power to bring Tony along with them to the fight. That’s down to Scott, and Gibbs doubts he’ll even see his owner before the fight, let alone get a chance to ask him for a favour.

“Someone stole something from me yesterday, Leroy,” Frank says, giving him a searching look.

“That so?”

“Yeah, someone stole that little bottle of my special oil, right out of my pocket. Who d’you think did that?”

“No idea.” Gibbs gazes at him blankly.

Frank leans in close and sniffs his skin. “I think that boy of yours is looking out for you, Leroy, same as you’re looking out for him.”

Gibbs shrugs, keeping his face deliberately expressionless.

Frank gives a little grunt. “I could call Ellis over, have your stall searched – stealing earns an automatic whipping, Leroy.”

“I know. But like you said, Frank, I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been, and you get to take all the credit for that.” Gibbs gives him a conspiratorial little grin.

Frank’s beady dark eyes gleam with amusement. “Just as long as the cold-hearted killer in you doesn’t go all soft and mushy over that boy, because we need our wolfman hard and hungry in the pit.”

“Soft and mushy? Me?” Gibbs raises an eyebrow.

Frank laughs out loud. “Oh – and tell Tony he doesn’t have to steal oil to make things go nice and easy when you fuck him. Tanner will hand out lube if you ask nicely.”

Gibbs doesn’t get a chance to correct Frank’s misunderstanding of why Tony’s stole the oil because at that moment a scuffle breaks out on the other side of the room. Greg and Matt, usually the best of friends, are snarling at each other and trading blows.

Ellis strides over there, pulling his whip out of his belt as he walks. His usual tactic for breaking up a brawl is to whip all the fighters involved until they stop. It’s brutal but effective. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Tony jumps between the fighting men. Gibbs pulls away from where Frank is taping his knuckles and runs over there, Frank hard on his heels.

Tony is trying to get between the two men and break up the fight, but Gibbs can see he’s just going to get caught in the crossfire when Ellis starts throwing that whip around. He grabs Frank’s arm.

“If Tony gets whipped, I won’t be happy,” he growls.

Frank makes a sucking sound through his teeth, giving Gibbs an angry look, but he steps up all the same. He goes over to Ellis and grabs his wrist just as he’s about to bring the whip down on the fighting men.

It buys them a little time. Gibbs manages to haul Matt off Greg, while Tony wrestles Greg away to one side, and the scuffle is over. Looking back over his shoulder, Gibbs sees Ellis shooting Tony a vicious glare, and he’s suddenly aware that in his efforts to keep Tony safe he might just have painted a very big target on his back.

~*~

Tony wraps an arm around Greg’s shoulder and forces him away into one corner.

“What the hell was that about, buddy?” he asks, crouching in front of the angrily trembling man. “You and Matt are friends – you share a stall.” And they’re fuck-buddies too – everyone knows that. Tony’s heard them, night after night – Greg isn’t exactly quiet during sex.

“He’s a fucking bastard! I want to fucking kill him!” Greg growls, wrapping his arms around his body and rocking to and fro.

“No you don’t, buddy,” Tony says quietly.

Greg begins to calm down, taking several deep breaths. He looks up and meets Tony’s eye, still rocking slightly. “It’s Fight Night tomorrow, and everyone knows Matt is one of the weaker fighters. I was just trying to get him to train harder, so he’ll be stronger, but he’s a lazy shit, and the trainers don’t care because he’s never gonna win them any money.”

“Well, that’s Matt’s look out,” Tony tells him. “You can’t make him train harder if he doesn’t want to.”

“But I want him to.” Greg’s mood breaks, and he slumps down pathetically. “Supposing he loses, Tony? Supposing he doesn’t come back? What the hell will I do then?”

Tony understands that in this hothouse environment these men come to rely on the friendships they’ve made with each other. They might have been pushed together by circumstances, but they’ll cling to anyone who can help them get through this nightmare. Only Gibbs seems immune and has chosen to navigate these dark waters alone. But then only Gibbs is strong enough mentally to do that. Everyone else is more…human.

“You can’t think like that, Greg,” Tony tells him. “It’s out of your hands. If it happens it happens. You’ve got to concentrate on winning your own fight. That’s the only thing that IS in your hands.”

He talks to Greg for a long time, telling him jokes, discussing movies, and gradually Greg’s dark mood subsides. Eventually he gets up. “Thanks, Tony. I’m…gonna just…” He walks off in Matt’s direction, and a few minutes later Tony seems them hugging each other, foreheads pressed together. He has no idea how these men handle the stress of the sudden, enforced separations that losing a fight inflicts on them, but he hopes these two don’t have to, and that they both win their fights.

Sam Hurrell comes over to him. “Shit, this place messes with your head,” Tony says to him with a sigh, still watching Matt and Greg.

“It’s Fight Night tomorrow. It always gets tense the day before.” Hurrell sits down beside him. “How’s it going with Gibbs? You getting anywhere?”

Tony shrugs. “One step forward, two steps back, but I’m getting there. I think.”

“Is he going to help with an escape?” Hurrell wraps his arms around his knees.

“No.” Tony shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Sam. It’s like he’s given up.”

“Or he enjoys the pit too much to try.”

Tony looks over at where Gibbs is sparring with Frank. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think maybe there’s something else going on too.”

“But he won’t tell you?”

“Not yet, no. It’s been five months, Sam. He trusts me, but he’s always been close-mouthed at the best of times, and these are definitely not the best of times. He’s struggling with something – I know that much.”

“I feel that too,” Hurrell says. “It’s like there’s something big going on inside him, and he doesn’t know which way it’ll end up going. I call it his two wolves.”

“Two wolves?” Tony raises an eyebrow.

“There’s a good one and a bad one, a light one and a dark one, both fighting inside him. Question is, which one’ll win?”

“The light wolf,” Tony says, without hesitation.

“You have that much faith in him?”

“I’ve known him a long time, and I know that dark wolf well. I’ve seen it, and in all honesty it gives him his edge and it’s what makes him so good at his job. He’s always been able to control it though – the light wolf always makes sure of that.”

“Even here? With all the drugs, and the training, and the beatings, and the pit? Seems to me this place just feeds the dark wolf constantly, and the light one doesn’t even get scraps.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Tony smiles at him, remembering the previous night. “The light wolf is the underdog in this fight, yes, but it’s getting fed. I’m seeing to that.”

Hasn’t that always been his job where Gibbs is concerned? Back at NCIS, he always saw his job role as relieving the tension and teasing a smile out of Gibbs to keep the team’s mood from getting too intense. This particular battle has been playing out for a very long time, and Tony thinks Gibbs needs both wolves in equal measure. He’s seen the light wolf too, as well as the dark. He’s seen Gibbs rescue those in need, look after small children with infinite care and patience, and get justice even when it costs him dear. The light wolf is equally as strong as the dark one; Tony just needs to remind him of that.

“Look, Tony, I wanted to talk to you…about Jan,” Hurrell says, a flush rising to his cheeks. “See, if I lose tomorrow then I won’t be coming back here, and I won’t have a chance to ask you again.”

“You won’t lose tomorrow, Sam,” Tony says firmly.

“I might. I did a terrible thing last week, Tony. I…I lost it. After Steve was killed, I went a bit crazy, and I beat up on that guy in the pit so bad that I don’t think he survived. He came back in the truck with us, but I never saw him again after that. I think he was too badly hurt, and they shot him.”

“They didn’t shoot him, Sam. I saw him yesterday; he’s in one of the stalls.” Tony hesitates, but he figures Hurrell would rather know the truth than be lied to, however kind the lie. “He’s not doing too good, but he’s still alive.”

“Shit.” Hurrell buries his face in his hands. “I’ve never lost it like that in the pit before. I can’t channel it and control it like Gibbs. I’ve never given into it like that. That poor bastard; none of this was his fault. He just got caught in the fallout.”

“It’s not your fault either, Sam.”

“Yes, it is.” Hurrell looks him full on, squaring his shoulders. “It is, Tony. I let myself down out there. And…I guess…this is my own struggle and my own two wolves.” He gives a wry little smile. “I love Jan, Tony, but I’ve always known I’m weaker than her. She’s one hell of a strong woman – to be honest, I’ve always wondered what she saw in me.”

“She loves you, Sam,” Tony says gently.

“I know. But even back when we were first married, I wondered what this amazing woman was doing with me. I know myself, Tony. I know my own weaknesses. Jan’s like Gibbs – I recognized that in him the minute I first met him, and that’s why he pisses me off so much, I think. They both have this sense of themselves, this certainty. Whatever happens to them, no matter how much they go through, they never lose that. And I’m not like that.”

He rests his chin on his hands and looks across the gym sadly.

“Most of us aren’t, Sam.” Tony sighs. “Jan and Gibbs – they’re the special ones. There aren’t many like that out there. I saw it in her too. She never gave up on you; she’s been fighting tooth and nail to find you.”

“And meanwhile, I’m sleeping with random guys because I can’t face being alone at night. I want to be held, Tony, even if it’s only for a short time, and by some guy I barely know, because it makes me feel a bit less lonely.”

“Look, I’m hardly anyone’s idea of a relationship counsellor with my fucked up track record, but Jan loves you for who you are, Sam. She knows you’re doing whatever you can just to get by, so you can go home to her. She’d be glad you’re doing that because it means that one day she’ll get you back.”

“Maybe.” Hurrell sounds unconvinced.

“No maybe about it.” Tony gives Hurrell’s shoulder a firm pat. “Jan’s a pragmatist – like Gibbs. If sleeping with the guys in here keeps you sane and helps you survive, then she won’t judge you for it.”

Hurrell gives a slow, thoughtful nod. “We tried for kids for years,” he says quietly, staring off into space. “She miscarried so many times, but it never broke her. I think it broke me a little, but it never broke her, despite all she went through. We gave up a couple of years ago – it was just too painful – but Jan being Jan, she made the best of it and went out and bought some puppies. Those dogs are like her kids now.”

He turns to look at Tony. “Tell me about her, Tony. Tell me everything. How she looked, what she was wearing. How is she holding up? What did she say about me? And how are the dogs? I want to hear it all, even if it hurts. I don’t want to go out into that pit tomorrow knowing I didn’t ask you because I was too much of a coward.”

Tony puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, and then he tells Hurrell every single thing he can remember about his wife.

Later that night he leans in close, rests his chin on Gibbs’s shoulder, and reaches down towards his cock without asking, for the first time. Gibbs isn’t even hard, but his cock springs to life under Tony’s fingers. He takes his time with it, giving the best damn hand job he can, and soon Gibbs is panting, his skin damp with sweat as he thrusts into Tony’s hand.

“What the hell was that about?” Gibbs asks when he’s done.

“Fight Night,” Tony replies. “You’re going into the pit tomorrow, Gibbs. Who knows what’ll happen?”

“I do.” Gibbs turns over to look at him, his eyes gleaming fiercely. “I’ll fight someone, win, and come back again. That’s what’ll happen, Tony. That’s what always happens.”

“Are you sure you’ll win?”

“Yes.” It’s said in a firm, flat tone. “I’ll win.”

“Because you refuse to lose?”

“Yes.”

“Is it really that simple?”

“No, it’s damn well hard, but it is what will happen.”

Tony’s known Gibbs for ten years now, and he has no reason to doubt that Gibbs is right. He’d definitely never bet against him.

All the same, the tension in the air around them is electric. Along the hallway he can hear Greg and Matt fucking like there’s no tomorrow. And someone else is sobbing into his pillow in another stall; he thinks it might be Sam, but maybe it’s Stuart. It’s hard to tell. How does anyone stand this kind of tension, week in, week out? It’s a living hell, and only the strongest survive.

Tony puts his hand on Gibbs’s hip and nestles in, wanting to be as close to the man as possible, because who knows what tomorrow will bring?

~*~

Fight Night. They call it that because it’s always dark when they’re made to fight out there in the pit, even though in the artificial environment of the stable, it’s day to them.

Gibbs wakes up with the usual pre-fight jitters in his belly. He can handle them. He’s fought in wars and taken down suspects in his job. He’s used to handling his own adrenaline. Most of the other fighters don’t have that kind of experience and it affects them much more.

It’s the usual jittery atmosphere as they are herded along to the showers. Tony is talking to him, cracking jokes, and Gibbs tries to tune him out. He needs to get into his fighting headspace, but it’s harder than usual. He feels more relaxed, his shoulders loose and open, and, thanks to Tony, he’s got to know these guys in the showers with him. He knows their names and the jobs they used to do. He’s seen a glimpse of their hopes and fears, and Christ, he even knows their favourite pizza toppings. It’s hard not to care about their fate in the pit today. It’s hard to block out their anxiety and their nerves and get into the headspace he needs to be in for fighting.

He’s also worried about Tony. Which guard will stay behind to keep an eye on Tony and the other fighter – the injured one Tony saw yesterday? If it’s McGuire, it’ll be okay. But if it’s Ellis…Gibbs doesn’t trust Ellis. The man has a vicious, bullying streak, and there’s no love lost between him and Gibbs.

Gibbs can still remember how it felt to be chained up while Ellis whipped him until he bled – and enjoyed it. Ellis doesn’t like him because of his slow, insolent responses to every order they give him, and he’s frustrated because he doesn’t get to whip him anymore, either, now that he’s so successful in the pit. Ellis wouldn’t last five minutes in the pit with him, and he knows it. That’s why he wants to assert his superiority over Gibbs all the time, to prove that he’s the better, stronger, harder man, even though they both know it isn’t true.

After breakfast, they’re herded into the big, hangar-sized room where the truck is waiting for them.

“Good luck,” Tony whispers in his ear as McGuire attaches the travelling chains to his wrists and ankles. Then he’s shoved into the truck and chained in place. He can see Tony standing out there, through the open back door of the truck, while the other fighters are chained up around him.

Then only Tony is left. The guards who are accompanying them to Fight Night jump into the back of the truck…and Ellis isn’t among them. Gibbs cranes his head, and his heart sinks as he sees Ellis standing beside Tony with a scowl on his face, clearly annoyed to be missing the excitement of Fight Night.

The door is swung shut, and the last Gibbs sees of Tony is him winking and making a thumbs up sign at him with his good hand while Ellis shoves him away with the butt of his gun.

Gibbs closes his eyes and tries to block out his anxiety. He will come back. There is absolutely no question about that. He just hopes that while he’s gone Ellis doesn’t do anything to hurt Tony because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens.

The drive to the venue isn’t as long this week. They get there early, in time to see some of Walid’s workmen as they finish setting up the bleachers, temporary toilets, vending areas, and all the other paraphernalia that goes with Fight Night.

It’s raining, but that’s not important; Fight Night has never been cancelled, no matter what the weather.

They’re herded into the usual holding pen, and Gibbs puts his head back and catches the rainwater in his mouth like a child. It’s the only time he gets to be outside, to breathe fresh air and feel the wind on his face, and he relishes it, even if it is pouring with rain.

The crowd starts to arrive. Some come in chauffeured limousines while others show up on the backs of Harleys. Gibbs wonders how Walid found these people and what kind of an underground communication network must exist to spread the word of where the fights will be held each week. They are often at different venues, but always on a big patch of open ground. He suspects the grounds are private – belonging to Walid and some of the other wealthy players who own stables and field fighters. Maybe they take it in turns to be the host for the night’s entertainment.

One thing Gibbs does know is that the fights are popular; the bleachers are always packed. These people love this cruel sport and show up week after week to enjoy the obscene spectacle of kidnapped men fighting for their lives out in the pit.

Gibbs tries to get into his pre-fight headspace, but every time he closes his eyes he finds himself wondering what’s happening to Tony back at the stable. He’s never known Ellis to show any interest in the fighters sexually, but the man does love his whip, and he has Tony’s life in his hands right now.

“Damn it!” Gibbs opens his eyes, unable to concentrate.

“Problem?” Hurrell asks, coming over to sit beside him.

“Tony. You think he’s okay?”

Hurrell looks surprised by the question. “He’s an NCIS agent. I’m a Marine. You’re a Marine *and* an NCIS agent. He’s as okay as you or me.”

“So not very,” Gibbs grunts.

“None of us is safe. You know that. We all live on a knife’s edge. This time last week Steve was alive, and I never saw his death coming.”

“Not helping,” Gibbs grinds out.

“Sorry. Tony will be fine. He looks like the kind of man who has nine lives.”

“Yeah.” Gibbs nods, remembering dozens of dangerous situations that Tony somehow emerged from unscathed. “Hell, he once had the plague, and there was just a fifteen per cent chance of survival, but he made it.”

“There you go then. And if anyone can talk his way out of a difficult situation, it’s him.” Hurrell grins. “Bet it’s been fun having him around at NCIS all these years.”

Gibbs has a sudden flash of a dozen different memories at once, all jumbled up and out of sequence; Tony laughing, pouting, and dancing around in the squad room; Tony lying on a hospital bed, covered in sweat, coughing up his guts; Tony making that little squeaking sound he likes to make when Gibbs slaps the back of his head; Tony standing on his desk, addressing the entire room, being an idiot; Tony with a beaten up face, still making jokes despite that; Tony slapping a pair of handcuffs on him when they first met; Tony behind bars; Tony bringing him his favourite USMC sweatshirt after Mike died; Tony hugging him after his return from Mexico; Tony doing movie star impressions at various crime scenes; Tony eating steak off a combat knife in front of the fire in his living room….

“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “I guess it has.”

His belly tightens again. He doesn’t like this. He’s never gone through a Fight Night with anyone but himself to worry about before.

A massive limousine draws up nearby, and a man in an expensively tailored suit gets out. He’s wearing sunglasses, even though it’s the middle of the night, and Gibbs realises that it’s Prince Walid.

Walid walks over to the holding pens, a lackey accompanying him to hold an umbrella over his head. He stops by their pen and peers inside; his gaze falls on Gibbs, and he smiles.

“Get him out. I want to talk to him,” he says to McGuire.

McGuire hesitates because he’s one of Scott’s guards, and these are Scott’s fighters, but everyone knows Walid runs this whole operation, so he’s clearly not sure what to do.

Walid gives him a politely threatening smile, and McGuire gives in and opens the holding pen. Gibbs is hauled out and shoved over to stand in front of Walid. It’s the closest they’ve ever been to each other, and Walid gives Gibbs a slow, searching look, up and down. Gibbs copies him insolently, studying Walid as openly as he’s being studied.

Walid is every inch the bastard that Tony described to him. Every single thing about him is expensive, from his exquisitely tailored suit, to his watch, and his white shoes with black laces. He’s got some black and white theme going on, with a black shirt and a white tie, and his hair looks freshly blow-dried, not one single strand out of place.

“Wolfman – we meet at last,” Walid says smoothly. “I must congratulate your trainer. You’re looking in excellent condition.”

“So are you. Who do I need to congratulate for that?” Gibbs flips back.

Walid gives a little laugh that doesn’t sound in the least amused. “Ah, I heard you were a man of few words, but it appears that you have a sense of humour. How interesting.”

Walid reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a gold-plated whisky flask, and hands it to him. “Would you like a drink, Wolfman?”

McGuire shifts nervously, and Walid waves a hand in the air. “Oh, please! As if I’d stoop to drugging the fighter of a rival competitor – even if this particular fighter is the main threat to my own champion winning the tournament.”

He smiles at Gibbs, and Gibbs’s gut rings out all kinds of warning bells. This man is as dangerous as a deadly snake, but Gibbs is sure that he hasn’t put poison in the flask. Walid takes this competition extremely seriously, and he would never be caught cheating in such an obvious way. The flask is safe.

Gibbs takes it and swills back a mouthful of the finest, smoothest bourbon. He glances at the flask in surprise.

“Ah, yes, I know your tastes. I have taken the trouble to find out everything there is to know about you, Jethro.”

Gibbs stiffens; Scott has never called him that. Like everyone else, he assumed Gibbs went by his first name, not his second. It would appear that Walid *has* done his research.

“I should thank you. Last Fight Night was our most exciting to date. People have been talking about it all week.” Walid inclines his head. “I am expecting a particularly big turnout this evening as a result. You’ve become the star attraction, Wolfman!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs can see Scott’s gleaming white limo pulling up some distance away.

“And that’s good for business,” Walid continues. “It doesn’t matter whose stable you belong to, as long as you entertain us in the pit – and you do, Wolfman.”

“Yeah, it’s my main aim, every time I step out there. Entertaining you.” Gibbs injects as much withering sarcasm as he can into every single word.

Walid laughs. “Ah, now I understand what Tony sees in you! I did wonder. Such a stern-faced, angry-looking man…I asked myself – why would Tony DiNozzo risk everything for his boss the way he did?”

“And I asked myself – why would you let Tony DiNozzo end up in Scott’s stable with me, knowing that we’re both federal agents? Surely having us together and outside your control makes us dangerous?”

Walid shrugs. “That’s the game. It’s how it’s played. The loser goes to the winner’s stable. I made those rules, so I cannot be seen to break them.”

“You made me fight twice last week – that isn’t in the rules, either,” Gibbs points out.

Walid shakes his head. “Actually, there is nothing in the rules about that. Sometimes fighters have been required to fight more than once – in our early years, when we did not have as many fighters as we do now, it was common for a fighter to go into the pit two or three times a night. As long as the fighter’s owner is in agreement, then it is acceptable. There are little areas where we may be flexible – such as allowing you to watch Mac fighting last week – but in the fundamentals of how the game is played, then no. We must all stick to the rules. You beat Tony in the pit, so he became Scott’s property.”

“Hell of a risk.”

Walid shrugs. “I like taking risks. It was a gamble, yes, but one I relished!”

That doesn’t surprise Gibbs; most of the people involved in this tournament seem to have a gambling problem.

“I didn’t know what would happen when I put Tony in the pit with you; that’s what made it so exciting.” Walid smiles. “It could have thrown you – or you could have decided to lose the fight, rather than subject him to rape. But you didn’t. You’re a tougher opponent than I expected, Jethro, and that pleases me. I get easily bored. It made the game more interesting to me.”

Gibbs glaces over to see Scott getting out of his car, wearing his usual crumpled cream suit and black lariat tie. He straightens up, looks over, and frowns when he sees Walid talking to Gibbs. He starts striding towards them.

“Having established that you are a worthy opponent, I have been wondering what your next move will be,” Walid says.

“My move?” Gibbs glares at him. What the hell kind of move can he make when these people control his entire life?

“Oh yes. I’m sure you have one. Maybe Tony has inspired you. As you said, you are both federal agents. You’ve been his boss at NCIS for ten years; maybe you’ve cooked up some plan together.”

Gibbs gives a quick, furtive look to see if Scott is close enough to have heard that, but he’s still some distance away.

Walid laughs. “My, you are looking anxious, Jethro! Is that because you’ve deceived your owner? Is it possible that poor Mr Scott doesn’t know who Tony really is? Does he believe that his name is Tony DiNardo and not DiNozzo, and that you never met him before last Fight Night?” Walid asks, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “I have my spies everywhere, you see, Jethro.”

He removes his sunglasses, and Gibbs finds himself looking into a pair of cold, dark eyes. Walid leans in close and speaks directly into his ear.

“I expect you thought that if he knew the truth, Mr Scott might keep you and Tony apart, or keep a special eye on you both,” Walid murmurs accurately. “You’re probably right. I always make sure I know every single thing about the fighters in my stable, but Mr Scott’s research is not nearly as thorough as my own. He has no idea who Tony really is, does he?”

Walid draws back, his cold eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You should consider your next move, Jethro, because I know what mine will be,” he says softly. Then, in a louder voice: “Enjoy yourself in the pit, Wolfman; I look forward to watching you entertain us all again tonight!” He turns, replacing his sunglasses as he goes, and greets Scott. “James! My dear friend! I was looking for you.”

“Looks like you found Leroy instead,” Scott says, looking confused.

“I was just wishing him well in the pit. He’s such a fantastic competitor, a great ambassador for our little tournament. Now, I’ve been thinking, James.” He puts an arm around Scott’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come and sit with me tonight, hmm? Now you’re a major player, and the owner of one of the main contenders, I think you should have the recognition you deserve.”

Scott beams, his entire body quivering with pride.

“I would be delighted, your Highness. Oh, really, this is wonderful, such an honour…goodness me…!”

“Not at all, not at all.” Walid glances back over his shoulder at Gibbs. “It will give us time for a little chat, my dear James. You see, there is something very particular that I want to tell you.”

Gibbs watches them go, his stomach twisting into knots. He has no doubt that Walid will tell Scott that they lied to him. What he doesn’t know is how Scott will respond to that knowledge.

Tony is on his own and vulnerable back at the stable. Ellis might not have a cell phone, but Gibbs is sure Scott has a way of getting a message to the stable. All it would take is for Scott to give the order, and when Gibbs gets back he could find Tony lying in his stall with a bullet hole in his head.

~*~
End of Part Nine
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Part Ten