Two Wolves - 16/19

[xanthefic]

Two Wolves
By Xanthe
Chapter Six: The Strength of the Wolf…

He dreams he’s in a cage. Every so often, his captors push a stick through the bars to taunt him, making him angry. He prowls around the tiny cage, becoming more and more frustrated by his captivity. He snarls at his captors and bites on his own paws in distress, making them bleed.

Sometimes they put a chain around his neck and drag him out. They wrap a muzzle around his snout so he can’t bite them, and they beat him until he’s good and angry. Then they remove the muzzle, throw him into a pit, and make him fight.

When he’s done they hurl him back into the cage, and the whole cycle starts all over again.

He wakes up howling. Someone puts a hand on his head and strokes him gently, and he hears a familiar voice whispering something in his ear. He doesn’t know what it’s saying but the sound of the voice calms him, and he sleeps again.

This time Gibbs dreams that they beat him so hard with the stick that a piece of it breaks off and gets lodged in his paw. He tries to bite it out, but that just pushes it in deeper. When they throw him out into the pit, he’s sore and limping.

They send a man out into the pit to fight him, and Gibbs prowls towards him, snarling, wanting to tear into his flesh with his teeth. He wants to hurt someone else as badly as he’s hurting, but when he gets close, the man rolls over and smiles at him.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says. “It’s Tony.”

Gibbs doesn’t know what to do next. Nobody has ever smiled at him in the pit before. Tony sits up and holds out his hand. Gibbs limps closer, warily, and Tony reaches out and gently touches his fur, stroking his head. It feels good. He wants to be angry, but instead he stretches out and lets Tony pet him. Then Tony touches his injured paw with careful fingers.

“This will hurt, but afterwards you’ll feel better,” he says softly.

Tony takes hold of the splintered stick and tugs it out of his paw. Gibbs howls, but the pain only lasts a few seconds. Then it fades, and he does feel better. He licks Tony’s hand, and Tony pulls him close and holds him, kissing his fur.

Gibbs rolls over and does something he’s never done before; he allows Tony to touch his belly. Tony strokes softly, cautiously, clearly aware of the great honour he’s being offered. It feels so good that eventually Gibbs falls into a deep, contented sleep.

When he wakes up, he’s not in the cage anymore. He’s lying on something soft, and it takes him a few moments to realize that was a dream; it felt so real. He lies there with his eyes closed, trying to figure out where he is. His body aches, and his head hurts; it feels like someone is drilling a hole through his skull from the inside out.

Slowly, Gibbs opens his eyes and blinks a few times. He’s in a hospital room. The drapes are closed, but he can see daylight around the edges. Even that small degree of light hurts, and he turns his head away with a growl of pain.

“Hey…you’re awake.” Tony’s face looms into view. “Want some water?”

He gives a tiny nod, because anything more than that hurts even worse. Tony puts a glass of water to his lips, and he takes a few sips and then turns his face away.

“Real glass,” he mutters.

Tony holds up the glass of water and nods. “Yeah. Not plastic. Couldn’t stand another plastic cup. You’re in the hospital, Jethro.”

Gibbs squints, wishing it didn’t hurt to keep his eyes open. “How long?”

“A week. You were bleeding into your brain. They had to operate and keep you sedated until the swelling went down, but you’re going to be fine.”

A week? The events of that last Fight Night feel like they happened just a few hours ago. Tony is sitting beside the bed. He looks tired and there are yellowing bruises on his jaw.

“You okay?” Gibbs rasps.

“Me? Yeah. Just…things were hairy for a while. Wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

“And am I?”

“You want the damage? You were badly beat up, your left eye might never be the same again, your ribs are cracked, you had a sub-dural hematoma, and you’ll get headaches for a while.”

“There any good news?” Gibbs squints at him.

“Yeah – they tested for STDs, and you’re clear,” Tony says quietly.

In view of the amount of unprotected sex he’s had in the pit over the past few months, that’s a miracle. Then he remembers that Tanner ran blood tests on every newcomer, so maybe anyone with an STD was screened out before they were thrown into the pit.

“Me too. Clear I mean. Although that’s not a surprise as I only slept with you,” Tony adds.

Gibbs looks at the crumpled blanket and pillow on the armchair in the corner of the room.

“You been sleeping here?”

“Yeah. No worse than those thin mattresses in the stable.” Tony shrugs.

“Vance…”

“He yelled at me a bit. Said I was running out of leave time, and to get my ass back to NCIS. But I told him I still had my leave because I was on an NCIS undercover op, even if he did only sanction it after the event. So hah!” Tony grins. “After the few weeks I’ve had, he really doesn’t scare me anymore.”

“Anymore? He used to?” Gibbs raises an eyebrow and then wishes he hadn’t.

Tony laughs out loud. “Well, I don’t like alpha dogs who try to tell me what to do. They remind me of my dad. Except you, obviously.” He gently strokes Gibbs’s hand with one of his fingers, and Gibbs moves his hand out of the way. He’s not even sure why, just that he doesn’t want to be touched. Tony’s eyes flash with anxiety. “Talking of fathers, I’ve spoken to Jack a few times,” he says quickly, in a clear distraction from the awkward moment.

Gibbs grimaces. Much as he loves Jack, he can’t face him right now.

“He knew you were missing, but I might have implied you were working an undercover op.” It’s Tony’s turn to grimace. “Sorry, Gibbs – but he’s an old man, and I had no leads on where you were. I didn’t want him worrying himself to death.”

“That’s fine, Tony.” He thinks he’d have probably done the same himself, and he’s relieved Tony spared Jack months of worry.

“He knows you’re in the hospital, but I said you needed some time. You’ll have to give him a call when you’re up to it – he wants to hear from you, and I can’t brush him off forever. He’s already suspicious. But I didn’t know what you’d want to tell him – or how much you’d want him to know.”

The last thing Gibbs wants is a hospital visit from Jack, so he’s glad Tony headed that one off at the pass. The last time his father visited him in the hospital was after he was injured in Kuwait, and the time before that was after his mom died. Neither of those visits went well, and he doesn’t want a repetition of either of them. His relationship with his father is much improved these days, but all the same, he doesn’t want to handle the memories that Jack sitting by his hospital bed will inevitably bring up.

Gibbs glances around the room and sees a laptop on a table with some messy piles of paper beside it.

“You set up office in here?”

“Yup!” Tony grins. “Fornell needs my input, and McGee skypes me every few hours.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Never mind. Vance said I have to have a psych eval before I can officially go back to work, and that’s another reason not to hurry.” Tony pauses, biting on his lip.

“I’m not seeing a shrink,” Gibbs says immediately, guessing where this is going.

“Look, I hear you, I’m not happy about it, either.” Tony leans forward. “But you’re gonna have to suck it up if you want your job back, Gibbs. You’ve been gone six months.” He pauses again and then sighs. “Look, they know what happened to us. They’ve seen footage from the cell phones they took from the people in the crowd, and you were on some of that footage. They *know*, Gibbs.”

He doesn’t want to think about that, either. For so long it’s been his own private hell. He can’t stand the thought of other people looking in on it and judging him for the choices he made.

“How the hell can they *know*? They weren’t there.”

Tony nods and leans back again. “They know enough. They’re listening to depositions from all the fighters and spectators and putting together a case. Fornell will want to interview you – he’s running lead on this.”

The idea of talking to his old friend Fornell about any of this makes him feel nauseous. He must have gone pale, because Tony gets up, grabs the waste basket, and shoves it in front of his face just as he hurls. He’s got nothing to vomit up, but he spits out some yellow bile from the pit of his stomach.

The act exhausts him, and he leans back on his pillows. Tony hands him the water again, and he gulps down enough to take the foul taste away.

“Oh look! Fingers!” Tony says, in another clear attempt at distraction. He holds up the hand with the broken fingers and wiggles them around and then winces. “Ouch. They’re stiff and still need some work. But they’re mended. Almost. Kind of. Getting there.”

“And your back?”

Tony shrugs. “It’s fine. The docs have taken a look at it, but there’s not much they can do. It’s healing, but I’ll have permanent scars like you said.”

Gibbs gazes at him, knowing it’s worse than Tony just said. How damaged are they, physically, mentally, and emotionally? The scars go far deeper than their bodies. He feels tired just thinking about that; it’s not a complication he can handle right now.

At that point the door opens, and a man in a hospital uniform enters. Gibbs feels a sense of unease, thinking immediately of Tanner. He’s not feeling kindly disposed to the medical profession in general right now.

“You’re awake, Agent Gibbs! That’s excellent! Agent DiNozzo will be relieved. He’s barely left your bedside for the past week.”

“That so, DiNozzo?” Gibbs glances at Tony, who shrugs.

“Ducky brought me in some clothes and stuff. He’s the only one I allowed to visit. Abby, Ziva and McGee wanted to, but I knew you wouldn’t want them seeing you this way.”

Gibbs grunts. Tony, as always, knows him far too well.

The nurse gives a bright smile. “Well, you’re looking much better. I’m just going to check…” He leans across to the IV line, and Gibbs reaches out and grasps his wrist firmly, squeezing down hard.

Tony stands up. “I told you before, no medical treatment that he hasn’t approved – or me if he’s unconscious. Understand? You run every single thing past either him or me first.”

The nurse gasps out his agreement, and only then does Gibbs release his wrist. The nurse rubs it, gazing at him anxiously. “Well, it’s clear you still have your motor skills. I expect you have a bad headache; I’ll go get you some ibuprofen.”

“Don’t. I don’t want any,” Gibbs growls.

“But you…”

“What did I just say?” Tony says firmly. “He doesn’t want the drugs. He’ll let you know if he changes his mind.”

The nurse gives a wide-eyed nod and scuttles from the room.

“Damn it. I think we freaked him out. None of this is his fault; I’ll go charm him later, buy him a coffee,” Tony says with a sigh. “I made sure they told me every damn drug they were pumping into you while you were out of it, and I checked each one with Abby first. It turns out I’m listed as your next of kin.” He shrugs, gazing at Gibbs intently. “Who knew?”

Gibbs remembers putting Tony down as his next of kin years ago, and he also knows that Tony lists him as his. Tony is the only one he trusts to make the right decisions if he’s unable to make them himself.

“You sure about the pain meds though?” Tony asks.

Gibbs doesn’t reply. He’s too exhausted. He closes his eyes and falls asleep again.

When he wakes up it must be some time later because it’s dark outside, and Tony is talking softly into a headset as he works at his laptop.

He finishes up and turns, then smiles as he sees that Gibbs is awake.

“I got you food. Looks like shit, but they say it’s all you can have right now.”

He helps Gibbs to sit up and then puts a tray in front of him. It does look like shit, but Gibbs eats it anyway. He feels much better afterwards. Tony takes the tray away and then drags the armchair over to the bed and sits on it, putting his feet up on the side of the bed.

“What’s happening?” Gibbs asks quietly. “Did they catch everyone? Did Hurrell make it? Is he okay?”

“Sam’s fine. He did a fantastic job, Boss! He got all the fighters free and neutralised the stable owners and their armed guards, so there wasn’t any bloodshed when our guys showed up. He’s been a great help to McGee and Fornell, pointing out all the bad guys. That took a long time. We arrested a lot of people that night.”

“Walid?” Gibbs asks. “The bastard told me he had diplomatic immunity.”

“Yeah, he bragged about that a lot. But it seems that someone,” he stresses the word thoughtfully, “sent some footage of the fights from Scott’s phone to Walid’s eldest brother.” Tony gives a little shrug. “Seems big bro wasn’t impressed by Walid’s little freak-fest, especially what happened after each fight.” Tony arches his back, wincing slightly, and Gibbs can see he’s finding it hard to get comfortable.

“His brother going to make life hard for him back home?”

“Oh, it’s better than that. Big bro said Walid had dishonoured the family, and he disowned him. He also rescinded his diplomatic privileges just as Walid was getting on a plane to fly home. Shame.” Tony breaks into a shit-eating grin. “Damn it, Jethro, did you really think I’d let that bastard walk?”

Gibbs manages a tight smile. “Taught you well.”

“Yup! You did! He’ll face justice, Jethro – they all will, thanks to you.”

Justice. It’s that itch he always wants scratched. So why can’t he feel that usual sense of satisfaction right now? In fact, he can’t feel anything at all, except a deep sense of emptiness.

“Oh, and here’s something you might find interesting.” Tony takes his feet off the bed and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It seems that our friend Mac wasn’t a prisoner like we were. I thought it was weird he wasn’t in chains when I first met him, but I forgot about that with everything that happened after.”

Gibbs frowns. “I don’t get it. He was made to fight in the pits, just like us.”

“Nope. He wasn’t.” Tony shakes his head. “It seems that Mac was a huge aficionado of the fights. He watched them from the beginning and after a few years he decided that being a spectator wasn’t enough; he wanted to take part. So he approached Walid and offered to fight for him.”

“What?” Gibbs gives Tony an incredulous look.

“Yup. Seems nuts to me too, but Mac loved the whole thing – the atmosphere, the crowd, the fighting…and the fucking. I guess it’s no weirder than McGee and his online gaming thing.” Tony rolls his eyes. “Only in this case there was nothing virtual about the fighting; he got to experience the real deal. He also loved the fame – I know it’s insane, but having that reputation out there, being loved by the crowd and all the chanting and adulation he got from them – he just lapped that up. He craved it. You saw how he milked it for all it was worth.”

“Yeah. I saw.” In a strange way, Gibbs can even understand it. He never gave a crap about being popular, or the adoration of the crowd, but the adrenaline high of fighting in the pit week after week was definitely addictive. Even though he hated it, he knows that some part of him found it intensely satisfying. “Walid agreed to that?”

“Yup. You know Walid and his mind games – he turned it into a wager to amuse himself. They had a deal; at the end of the season, if Mac won he got to stay on in Walid’s organization as his chief trainer with the big pay check that goes with the job. If he lost, he became the property of his new owner just like any other fighter. Mac had to live in Walid’s stable during fight season and do what Walid said, but he had a lot more freedom than most of the fighters.”

“Figures.” There was always something off about the way Mac seemed to be enjoying it so much; it seems obvious now.

“And, uh…I might have suggested to Fornell that Walid and Mac share a cell.” Tony gives another shit-eating grin. “I thought Walid might like to know what it was like for his fighters to be locked up in a cell all night with the fireman. I doubt Walid has been getting much sleep; Mac’s got an eye for the pretty boys, and Walid’s a good-looking guy.”

“Maybe I taught you too well,” Gibbs says musingly.

Tony laughs out loud, and for a moment Gibbs feels that same sense of ease they had with each other back in the stall. Tony is cut from the same cloth as himself. He has the same sense of natural justice but without the anger and personal baggage. They think the same way, and they share the same fundamental values and way of looking at the world. It’s always been a bond between them.

Then the moment passes and reality comes crushing back in. They aren’t in that stall in Scott’s stable anymore. Everything is different now.

“What about Scott?” Gibbs asks.

“Under arrest, along with Frank, Tanner, McGuire…even Pete. Ellis is too although he’s in the prison hospital right now.”

Gibbs frowns. “He resist arrest?”

“Uh…no. He kind of ran into someone’s fist and took a bit of a beating.” Tony gives a little grimace. “He’s got a broken nose and a broken jaw.”

Gibbs actually manages a grunt of laughter at that. “He shoulda been more careful who he called a pussy boy, huh, Tony?”

Tony gives him a knowing grin, confirming Gibbs’s suspicion about how Ellis got his injuries. Not that he had any doubt.

"SecNav's been arrested too," Tony continues. "The FBI is running an investigation into corruption at the highest level. Not just SecNav, but all the people Walid was bribing and blackmailing - federal agents, LEOs, judges...Walid's tentacles spread far and wide. The FBI seized a huge amount of material from his office - turns out Walid was a meticulous record-keeper, so there are files on everything and everyone. The FBI is going to have some fun going through it all."

"Fornell must have his hands full with all this."

Tony shakes his head. "Fornell is just running the investigation into the fights - there's enough work there alone to keep him busy for a year or two. He had to hand over Walid's files to another team. Hell, I think the FBI is going to need to take on a few new agents to handle it all."

"So the FBI's gonna take all the credit for busting this?"

"Don't they always?" Tony rolls his eyes. “I’ve written up and signed a deposition stating that I saw Ellis kill Rajul. I’m guessing Fornell will want you to do the same about him killing Ben and Brian,” Tony says quietly. “When you’re ready to talk to him.”

“I killed Brian.” Gibbs closes his eyes, feeling that tiredness sweep through him again.

“But Ellis coerced you…”

“Shut up, Tony. I want to sleep.”

This time, he dreams he’s being chased. Tony is beside him, running with him, but he’s slowing him down, putting them both in danger. Their pursuers are gaining on them, their dogs barking excitedly as they close in. Gibbs decides to turn away from Tony, so that their pursuers will have to split up to pursue them.

“Stop! Wait!” Tony calls, scrambling after him, but they will be faster alone and stand more chance of survival.

It buys them more time, but his breath is coming in heaving gasps, and he’s so tired. He can’t keep running forever. When he realizes it’s impossible to outrun his pursuers, he hides under a bush. If he’s very quiet, and very still, they won’t find him here. He needs to be alone right now, to lick his wounds and heal.

He wakes up to find a woman in the room, talking quietly to Tony. She looks up and smiles at him.

“Agent Gibbs, I’m Doctor Sheldon. I’m glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. When can I go home?”

She smiles. “Soon. First, I want to talk to you about some of the symptoms you can expect. Agent DiNozzo tells me you’re a man who likes to hear it straight, so I’m going to do just that.” She comes over to stand beside the bed. “We did a full blood work up on you when you were first admitted, and you had a cocktail of different drugs in your system. I’ve got a full list here – you can look into them in your own time and feel free to ask me questions if you have any.”

She places a piece of paper on the nightstand.

“There were so many substances in your system that you’re going to feel a difference initially, now that they’re gone. Luckily, you were sedated through the worst of the withdrawal, but you are going to notice a difference in your moods and energy levels.”

“Fine. When can I go home?” he repeats.

She gives a little laugh, combined with a shake of her head. “In addition, you did suffer a severe head injury. As a result of both that and the drug withdrawal, you might experience headaches, sweating, shaking, irritability, mood swings and cravings. There might also be hallucinations – or very vivid dreams – and erectile dysfunction.” She pats his hand apologetically, and he moves it away. He wishes people would stop trying to touch him. He doesn’t like being in here with the bright lights and all the people coming and going.

“I’ll be fine.”

“We can give you some medication to help alleviate some of the symptoms, but Agent DiNozzo tells me you’re unlikely to take it.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Just tell me when I can get the hell out of here.”

“I’ll do some tests this afternoon. If they’re all okay, and as long as there’s someone at home to check on you, then you should be well enough to go home in a couple of days.”

“I can do the checking,” Tony says.

“Fine,” Gibbs snaps. “Do whatever the hell tests you want so I can go home.”

She nods and walks over to the door. “I said irritability was one of the symptoms,” he hears her murmur to Tony on her way out.

“Oh no, he’s always like this.” Tony grins, but he isn’t close enough to head-slap, and Gibbs isn’t in the mood in any case.

He just has to get out of here. He needs to go home, back to his own house, shut the door behind him, and be alone so that he can heal properly, by himself.

~*~

Ducky arrives a couple of days later, bearing the clothes Tony asked him to bring from Gibbs’s house. Tony meets him out by the vending machine in the hallway.

“How is he?” Ducky asks, gazing at Tony earnestly from behind his spectacles as he hands him the bag with the clothes.

Tony shrugs. “He’s, you know, Gibbs.”

“Being gruff with everyone, complaining about the food, and demanding to be released at the earliest opportunity?” Ducky smiles.

“Yup.” Tony grins, rubbing his healing fingers absently.

“A good deal happened while you were away, I think,” Ducky says, in his usual perceptive way.

“You could say that.” Tony gives a wry grunt. “It’s like it was its own little world, Ducky. Like we were living in a bubble. Now we’re back in the real world again, and…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“And you are wondering whether any part of what existed in that bubble can also exist here, in your normal lives?” Ducky asks softly.

Tony looks up to find that Ducky’s eyes are gentle and kind. “I have seen the way you’ve been with him since your return, Anthony,” he says, patting Tony’s arm. “I believe that while you were being held captive, he gave you some indication that your feelings for him were reciprocated. And yet now you are free, you wonder if…”

“If it was the drugs, the captivity, the confined space – being shoved together alone all those nights. See, Ducky, for just a while, I got a glimpse of the real Leroy Jethro Gibbs. The one he doesn’t show to anyone – and I mean anyone. I bet Shannon was the last person who got to see him. He talked – I mean, really talked. We both did. And I thought I knew where I stood. But now it’s like someone pressed a reset button, and he’s old Gibbs again, and I haven’t a clue where we go from here.”

“Hang on in there, Anthony.” Ducky squeezes his arm gently. “You’ve both been through a terrible ordeal. There will be a phase of adjustment.”

“Maybe. Just…I have this feeling he wants everything to go back to how it was before.”

“It’s his life. He must have been dreaming of returning to it for a very long time.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t in it before – not the way I want to be anyway. So, where do I slot into it now?”

Ducky smiles. “He is, as we both know, an infinitely stubborn man who often doesn’t know what’s good for him. I think, Anthony, you will need to be as stubborn as he is and very patient too. Give him time to figure it out. I think he will, eventually. I have known Jethro a great many years, and one thing I have never known him to be is a fool.”

Tony manages a wry smile at that. “Okay, Ducky. I’ll wait the old wolf out.”

“Wolf?” Ducky raises an eyebrow.

“Just…kind of an in-joke.” Tony smiles.

He returns to Gibbs’s room to find Gibbs emerging from the bathroom, freshly shaved. He’s walking slowly, like every single part of his body aches, but he’s looking much better now.

His face is still covered with bruises and his left eye is badly bloodshot. His knuckles are grazed, and he has a new scar on his forehead. He looks like a battered old dog that’s been in one too many fights but lived to tell the tale.

“Hair’s growing back!” Tony reaches out to touch the silver stubble on Gibbs’s scalp, and Gibbs jerks his head away impatiently. “Here.” Tony hands him the bag of clothes and then goes over to pack up his laptop.

When he turns around again, Gibbs is dressed in a pair of jeans and a navy blue polo shirt – and looking down at himself with a frown. “I thought you said Ducky brought me stuff from home?” He glances up irritably. The jeans are too big around the waist and the polo shirt too small across the chest.

Tony sighs. “You changed shape, Gibbs. Six months on the James Scott diet and exercise plan will do that to a person.”

Gibbs gives him a glare and fastens his belt tight around his waist with an annoyed yank of his fingers, clearly pissed off by the all too visible signs of how much he’s changed.

He refuses to be pushed to the entrance of the hospital in a wheelchair, to nobody’s surprise, so Tony walks him down there slowly.

“Parking garage is this way,” Tony says as they emerge into the late fall sunshine, and then he’s aware Gibbs isn’t with him, and he turns and looks back.

Gibbs is standing just outside the entrance to the hospital looking up at the sky overhead, and Tony can see him almost visibly drinking in the rays of the sun.

Tony goes back over to him. “Been six months, Tony,” Gibbs rasps, his voice barely audible, “Six months since I last felt the sun on my skin.”

Tony stands there, watching, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Gibbs endured six months of captivity; the only time he saw the outside world was when he was about to be thrown into the pit to fight for his life. He only got to feel the wind in his hair and breathe fresh air for one night a week, and then he was thrown back inside, shut away from daylight. Tony has tasted a few weeks of what that was like, but to endure six months of it?

No wonder Gibbs is standing there like a new-born foal, soaking up the sun’s rays and relishing the feel of it on his skin. Ducky’s right; Gibbs needs a phase of adjustment, and Tony intends to give him that, but he’s also prepared to fight for what they had back in Scott’s stable.

And Gibbs might find that he isn’t the only one who fights to win.

~*~

People, streets, houses…it all looks so strange after months of artificial lighting and the interior of Scott’s stable. Gibbs gazes out of the car window, feeling tired after the walk down from his hospital room.

His physical weakness irritates him, just as the change in his appearance irritates him. He wants everything back to normal, so he can put this behind him and get on with his life again.

They drive down a familiar street, past familiar houses, and pull up outside his house. It’s his sanctuary, where he can hole up, hide out, and lick his wounds before facing the world again.

He walks slowly up to the door, Tony by his side, opens it, and then turns. Tony pauses on the doorstep, a surprised look in his eyes.

“Problem, Boss?”

“Yeah. I don’t want you coming in.” He can see the hurt and concern in Tony’s eyes, but he ignores it. “You can go home now, Tony.”

“Doctor says you need someone checking on you,” Tony replies stubbornly.

“So check on me. Call, get Ducky to call, whatever. But I want to be alone.”

Tony is gazing at him thoughtfully, but he makes no move to go.

“Look, DiNozzo, I’ve been locked up with a bunch of guys for six months. I had no say over anything that happened to me, and no place that was mine. Now I do. And I want to be alone in it. Got that?”

Tony nods, and Gibbs nods back and shuts the door in his face…only to find it doesn’t close. He looks down to see Tony’s boot stuck in the way.

“I get it. Really, I do. And you can do the whole Garbo routine and have some time alone, Jethro, but don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, and don’t think I’ll let you do it forever.”

“And what the hell is it I’m doing?” Gibbs raises an eyebrow.

“Going lone wolf. It’s all you know, I get that – it’s what you always do, and you’re reverting to type, as usual.”

“That so, DiNozzo?”

“Yeah, and that was fine back before I sucked your dick, and you sucked mine, and we both found we liked it. Now things are different. So you can have your time, but don’t think I won’t come flush you out eventually if you take too damn long.”

Gibbs gazes at Tony stonily, and Tony gazes back at him just as stonily, and Gibbs has a sudden realization that the cobra isn’t the most dangerous opponent a wolf can face.

Tony removes his boot from the door. “Like you once said to me, Jethro: if anyone can ever get in your face and make you do something you don’t want to do, it’s me. Remember that.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks back to the car. Gibbs watches him go. They’ve spent so much time together these past few weeks and experienced so much, condensed into that short space of time, that it feels strange to suddenly be alone.

He closes the door and walks slowly, stiffly, into his house. It’s all exactly as he left it, except cleaner. There’s no dust, so he’s guessing someone came here and cleaned it while he was gone; probably Abby.

He opens the fridge and finds it stocked with fresh food and several cans of Caf-Pow. Definitely Abby.

He walks from room to room, just rediscovering his home. He loves this place; he lived here with Shannon and Kelly, and a part of his soul resides here with their memories. Occasionally he’s heard Kelly laughing, or Shannon running up the stairs calling his name. Sometimes, when he’s sitting at the table, if he looks up quickly he can catch a glimpse of Kelly playing hopscotch in the hallway.

He opens the door to the basement and walks slowly down the stairs, hanging on to the handrail. This room has always been his refuge, where he can shut the door and lick his wounds until he feels restored enough to face the world again.

There is no boat here. There hasn’t been a boat here for a long time. He’s been working on other projects for the past couple of years; mending chairs, making toys, carving a picture frame, and a mirror, and decorations for Mike’s coffin. It was close, intricate work that made him concentrate on something other than his job. It freed up his mind, blocked out his problems, and gave him the kind of peace he never found anywhere else…at least, not until he danced in a small, windowless room with Tony a few weeks ago.

He needs this sanctuary now. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and walks unsteadily over to his workbench. He finds a bottle of Jack there, presumably also a gift from Abby. He opens it, pours some into a mason jar, and drinks it down in two fiery gulps.

Then he limps over to the big table in the centre of the room. It’s strange; he’s been hiding his limp all these months because it revealed a weakness he couldn’t afford to show, but now the old injury from his childhood hurts so much that he can barely walk on it.

His knee gives way, and he stumbles and falls down onto the floor. The smell of sawdust is suddenly in his nostrils, and he is immediately back in the pit again. The memory is so sudden, so vivid, and so visceral that it takes him by surprise, and he leans over and heaves up the contents of his stomach onto the floor. The bourbon comes up, scalding his throat as he spits it out onto the sawdust on the floor, and then his last hospital meal, a dull brown spew. He lies there on the floor, panting, and his stomach cramps again, forcing him to heave some more.

When he’s done, he lies back in the sawdust, gazes up at the ceiling overhead, and laughs. Of all the things they’ve taken from him, the ability to enjoy the peace and sanctuary of his own basement is the one thing he never expected.

~*~

His apartment is just as he left it. There’s no sign of forced entry; Walid’s men must have picked the lock on his door very carefully. They also took their camera and the remains of the drug-laced pizza with them. They cleaned up after themselves meticulously, leaving no clues behind, just like when they abducted Gibbs and Sam and all the others.

His colleagues have also tidied up; the place has been dusted for prints, and Abby has clearly restored everything to a level of neatness it never possessed before. The kitchen chairs are arranged tidily around the table, and the washing up appears to have been done.

He calls Ducky and tells him to check on Gibbs at regular intervals. Maybe Gibbs is right; they’ve been together almost 24/7 for weeks. Maybe they need a break from each other. It’s definitely nice to be home, back in his own space again.

A glance into the fridge reveals some fresh food, even a bowl of salad with a little post-it note on it with a skull and crossbones in the corner, bearing the message, in Abby’s scrawled handwriting: “Eat this, Tony. It’s good for you!”

“Yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen, Abs. I’ve been eating healthily for weeks, and in that time I’ve broken all the fingers on one hand, been slapped across the face more times than I can count, and whipped until I passed out. I now associate healthy food with pain and who can blame me?” He removes the salad from the fridge and throws it in the garbage.

He decides he’s too tired to eat, and he goes into the bedroom, toes off his sneakers, throws himself face down on the bed, and falls asleep almost immediately.

He wakes up with a start when his alarm goes off thirteen hours later. He raises his head and glares at it. It’s weird to think of the stupid thing going off every day while he wasn’t even here to be woken by it.

Today is a workday, and he might as well go in and face that particular hurdle. It has to happen at some point.

He walks into the bathroom and slowly removes the sweatpants and tee shirt he slept in last night. His back aches, but it’s been aching almost constantly since the whipping. He’s been putting this off, but he decides this is another hurdle he has to face at some point.

He thinks about it for a moment, psyching himself up into it, and then he turns and takes a look at his back in the bathroom mirror.

The scars are similar to the ones Gibbs bears on his back, so he knew what to expect, but it’s still a shock to see them on his own skin. He was whipped longer and harder than Gibbs, and the scarring is more extensive as a result. His scars are also fresher and therefore darker than those Gibbs bears, standing out in livid contrast to his pale flesh, and the skin feels knotted and tight; that’s what’s causing all the aching.

He remembers his wrists being bound in rope and hauled over his head, so he was barely standing on tiptoe. He remembers the agony of that first stroke and how holding onto Gibbs’s gaze was all that saw him through it. He remembers how it felt when the blood started flowing down his back.

He turns on the shower and gets under the hot water, knowing that the memory of what happened that day will be as impossible to forget as the scars on his back.

The warm water floods over him, soothing him, and he knows he’d do it all again. That whipping was a turning point, and it was worth enduring it to save not only Gibbs but also Sam, Greg, Matt, and all the other poor bastards trapped in that nightmare. If only he could have saved Steve, Rajul, and the others who died too. He knows he did a good thing, but right now that’s no help.

When Gibbs was whipped, there was nobody to hold his gaze, or touch his hand in the darkness after. There was nobody to talk to him in the night and distract him from the pain. When Gibbs was thrown into the pit there was nobody to make a deal for him, so he didn’t have to fight. And when Gibbs tried to escape, there was nobody to tell him that he was right to try, and that what happened after wasn’t his fault.

Gibbs had five months alone in that nightmare before Tony arrived. He might be Gibbs, he might be a lone wolf who prefers to slink off and lick his wounds alone, but he has to be hurting all the same. If he refuses to let anyone help him, if he shuts out the world and thinks he can push it down and carry on like it never happened, then Tony fears for what that will do to him.

After all he’s been through, and all he’s suffered, Gibbs deserves to have someone put their arms around him and hold him; someone who knows, and cares, and loves him. And Tony wants to do that. He wants to be there for Gibbs, the way Gibbs was there for him throughout that whipping, keeping him strong through the pain and making it clear he’s not going through it alone.

Tony puts his head back and if there are hot tears running down his face he pretends not to notice as they mingle with the hot water.

When he’s done, he gets out of the shower, dries himself, and then slowly returns to his bedroom. He opens up his closet and dresses in a dark grey suit, white shirt, and plain black tie. It’s his work uniform, his Armani armour, just another one of those masks he wears so well, and nobody who sees him will guess what lies beneath, written on his skin and seared into his soul.

Then he smiles at himself in the mirror, the big, bright, happy, Tony smile, and only when he’s satisfied that his disguise is in place, does he go to work.

~*~

The elevator pings, and Gibbs prowls out of the doors and into a room with metal tables laid out in rows. There’s a man working at the end table, talking to himself as he looks down on the dead body in front of him. He’s young, with thick dark hair, wearing a pair of glasses that he occasionally pushes up his nose in an earnest way.

Gibbs prowls close, walking silently on all four paws. The young man looks up and then backs away, a scared expression in his eyes; Gibbs can smell his fear from several feet away.

“A…Agent Gibbs…is that you?”

“Who the hell do you think it is, Palmer?” he barks.

“But…it can’t be you,” Palmer whispers, still backing away from him.

“Why not?” He paces closer, tail swishing angrily.

“Uh…well…because I just weighed your heart,” Palmer says, pointing at the corpse. Gibbs turns and finds himself looking down on his own dead body lying on the table, his chest cut open and his heart missing.

He wakes up with a start, wondering where he is and why his head hurts so much.

He’s lying on a bed. His bed. In his bedroom. In his house. There’s an empty bottle of Jack on the nightstand, which explains the headache. He’s missing something though. He fumbles around on the mattress, patting it, wondering what the hell it is he’s missing. He just knows that something isn’t there that should be.

Tony.

He’s looking for Tony. Where the hell is he?

“Tony!” he mumbles, patting more frantically. Then he remembers; he sent Tony away. He stops patting the empty expanse of mattress beside him and falls back on his pillow. “Stupid damn bed.” It feels too big and open. Too exposed.

He falls off the side of the bed, grabs the mattress, and tugs it onto the floor. Then he hauls it out into the hallway and crams it into the bathroom. It’s a tight fit in the small room, and one side of it squashes up against the tub, but it’ll have to do. He goes back to his bedroom for a pillow and blanket and takes them back to the bathroom.

He’s still wearing the clothes that don’t fit. He doesn’t like how they feel against his skin, all hot and scratchy, as if they don’t belong there. He strips them off and throws them into a heap by the toilet. Then he lies down on the mattress on the floor, pulls the blanket over his head, and falls asleep again.

~*~
End of Part Sixteen
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Part Seventeen