“Everything can change in a heartbeat.” -Unknown
***
It was supposed to be a routine bag-and-tag. They were just going to Petty Officer Chris White’s (the murder victim) house to collect evidence for the lab. Ducky already had the body, all they were going to do was canvass, set up a perimeter, bag and tag, et cetera, et cetera. There was not supposed to be a shoot-out in the hallway.
And yet, there was.
“Get down!” Ziva shouted, firing her gun in the direction of the assailants. (Her face was bloody. Flying shrapnel drew a pretty red line down her cheek.) McGee hurled himself to the side, wide-eyed, plump face ashen. His hands shook, but his gun was steady.
Gibbs shot from behind an overturned table that once held flowers and pamphlets and stationary, (Petty Officer White’s apartment complex was very, very nice) the wood and steel dented and splintered under the force of the bullets, but he didn’t notice the splinters buried in his stomach, his chest. (Later that night, he would, and he’d slowly pull them out of his skin, admiring the way they shone, all sticky crimson with blood.)
Tony (the fool, the proud, brave, heroic fool) ducked behind a doorway,
sticking his head out to fire at intervals.
The hallway was a mess of broken wood, shattered glass, and bullets that sang as they crossed paths, weaving a deadly song that throbbed and pumped in the team’s blood. The attacker(s, Gibbs was sure that there were two, at least) also ducking, weaving, hiding, had a large gun and a small gun, and the bullets flattened the reinforced steel on Gibbs’ table and punched through the glass door windows. McGee was bleeding now, from his shoulder, and his face was pale with pain. Tony was also bleeding, a gash on his forehead, but he seemed to neither notice nor care.
The LEOs, where were the damn LEOs? (Late, as usual, outside grabbing coffee at the nearest Starbucks, chatting about the gruesome murder, too late, too relaxed.) The four NCIS agents were taking a beating, pinned down, unable to get a clear shot at their foes, (and one of them was going to get badly, badly hurt, Gibbs knew it) and they desperately needed help, but no one was rushing to their aid.
Gibbs caught a flash of motion; an attacker, face masked, and he raised his gun, but Tony beat him to it. With fierce accuracy, the younger agent fired his gun, and the attacker, dressed in black (mourning colors, how fitting) went down, crimson painting the wall behind him.
“Did I get him?” Tony shouted, stepping out of his doorway. The blood on his face was drying, forming a mask. “Got him!”
Slowly, Ziva and McGee came out of their cover, Ziva scanning with quick dark eyes and Tim still clutching his gun, fingers white, a shard of glass in his shoulder. No more gunshots rang out; Tony had killed the attacker, the fight was over, they were safe, only minor injuries all around.
“Damn.” Gibbs muttered, looking around. He was still jangling with adrenaline, with fear for his people. But the attacker was still, unmoving. Tony’s bullet had killed him, and that was okay with Gibbs.
Tony was grinning, ear to ear, a regular Chesire cat, despite his bloody face and his throbbing heart. He had disposed of the threat, but his gut still churned a warning and his heart was babumpababumpa in his rib cage. He was shaking. Only Gibbs noticed.
“That was unexpected.” Ziva panted, touching her cheek.
“Tell me about it, Zee-vah.” Tony gasped, too-bright eyes glittering. Blood was oozing from his chest, too, and the tell-tale piece of glass glittered like his eyes. “I mean, what the hell was that about?”
Gibbs straightened. (He didn’t feel the splinters, not yet.) “Outside.” He ordered. “Now.”
Tony grinned again, showing all his teeth. “I’ll stay, Boss, process the scene.”
“No, DiNozzo.” Gibbs’ gut was a tense, coiled knot, and he felt as though something very very very bad was going to happen.
The senior field agent sighed gustily, rolled his green green eyes, (so bright, like little green stars) and smiled. He was seriously worrying Gibbs; he was trembling, and his blood surged in his veins, visibly pulsing in his pale neck. “Okay, Boss.”
And then, in the space of a heartbeat, three thunderous peals rent the air, boomboomboom, and Gibbs was on the ground, old Corps training taking over, and his hand was a mess of shards and blood, and Ziva yelled and Tim went sideways, and Tony….
Tony simply was not there.
“Tony!” Gibbs roared, rolling to his feet, dazed, confused, his hand bleeding and his eyes searching. A flash of motion caught his eye"a black-clad man fleeing, large shotgun tucked against his shoulder--
“Tony!”
The name died in his throat. Lying on the floor, spread-eagled, was Tony DiNozzo. The bullet was in the wall directly behind where Tony had been standing. Arterial spray coated the walls, the glass, the table.
And Tony was on the floor, a hole in his heart, his grin frozen on his face. In a heartbeat, Gibbs felt himself come apart, and he looked into the green green eyes, already frosting over, something inside him cried out.
No.
Not DiNozzo.
Not Tony. Please, God, not Tony.
Tony, get up! Get up, DiNozzo, that’s not funny!
“Tony?”
There was no answer. (There never was, really. Never ever, and damn, this was a dream, a nightmare, that’s it, Tony wasn’t dead, like Kate, like Shannon, like Kelly, like Jenny. Nope. He was alive, and Gibbs was only dreaming.)
He took three steps (one for each bullet) and his hand gushed blood, and then he collapsed next to Tony’s body, and the LEOs (the damn late LEOs, reeking of guilt and coffee) arrived to carry him out. He heard Ziva crying, and McGee moan in quiet agony. He was aware of his heart beating, and the fire in his hands, and his chest. (He felt the splinters, now.) He was aware of the still-warm hand that he was clutching. He was holding on to Tony DiNozzo, trying to keep him from slipping away, trying to make him remember the promise he’d made in Bethesda, five years ago, dying of pneumatic plague, and the LEOs were shouting in his ears.
“Let go, sir, there’s nothing you can do for him now.” One of them, a big burly fellow, gray in his hair and beard, pulled at Gibbs. “He’s gone, sir, he’s gone.”
No. Gibbs growled, in the back of his mind. No, you can’t take him from me! Tony, get up! You promised. I haven’t given you permission to die!
He hadn’t fought this hard since Shannon, since Kelly, and his hand tightened on Tony’s. The LEO pulled again, trying not to injure the man further, but getting desperate; Gibbs was bleeding freely from his hand, his chest, his lips.
His stomach hurt, too, but that was different, and his mouth tasted like ashes. Tony’s hand was cooling.
Finally, the bigger officer, with a mighty pull, separated Gibbs and his agent, and the rift shook the former Marine to his core. Kate’s death, Jenny’s death, both had been bad, both had hurt to hell, but this, this was worse, this was beyond hell. (This was Shannon, was Kelly, and Gibbs was helpless to stop it.) Tony had been with him for almost a decade. Tony was Tony; he always shook off his injuries.
Tony was a rock. He held things together while everyone else fell apart. He was on Gibbs’ six, always, and now…. And now he was gone.
In a heartbeat, Gibbs watched as the center of his team, the rock, the man who kept things together when Gibbs himself could not, fell away.
He watched it fall and he howled.
Story Notes:
First multi-chapter NCIS story; please comment and offer con crit? I want to do this right!
Author's Chapter Notes:
How do you deal with the death of a teammate, the five stages of grief, an increasing caseload, and the possibility that you might be going crazy? As it turns out, you don't; it deals with you, and the only thing you can do is hold on.
Chapter End Notes:
First multi-chapter NCIS story; please comment and offer con crit? I want to do this right!