“Fornell?”
Tobias Fornell gazed blearily at Tony. “Di… Di… It’s DiNutso!” he crowed happily. “No, not DiNutso — DiNotzo. Gotta be nice to you for once. Not nice to you, am I, DiNotzo? Remind me too much of my lost boys — s’why I’m so mean to you. Don’t want to like you, ‘case... well, just in case. You’re a good kid, though. Told Jethro that once.” Fornell rose unsteadily as he was speaking and threw an arm around Tony’s shoulders, leaning heavily on his damaged arm. Tony bit back a gasp of pain, and shifted Fornell to his other side — not an easy task, given how drunk the man was. “Lost boys, eh, Fornell? Why do I get the feeling we’re not talking Corey Haim and Corey Feldman here?”
“You know this mook, Tony?” Sam asked, helping to support Fornell’s weight as he started to slide towards the floor, not quite passed out but well on his way.
“Yeah, I know him, Sam,” Tony sighed. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns…” he muttered, tightening his hold on Fornell. As much as he’d like to just help Sam get the FBI agent into a cab and send him on his way, Fornell was much too drunk for him to feel comfortable doing that. And there was something about his mood, something in his voice when he said “my lost boys” that touched something inside of Tony. Fornell was hurting, and Tony couldn’t just abandon him — he knew a thing or two about hurting himself. Coming to a quick decision, Tony hoisted the FBI agent up. “Sam, can you help me get him into a cab? I’ll make sure he gets home okay.” Sam looked at him doubtfully, but helped him haul Fornell to the front door and get him into a cab.
“Hey,” Sam said, just before he closed the cab door, “don’t forget, you still owe me the rest of today’s story.”
Tony smiled. “You got it, Sam. Maybe tomorrow when I bring him back for his car keys we can break open that Barolo.” Mercifully Fornell was relatively quiet during the twenty-minute ride back to Tony’s apartment, falling asleep part way there with his head lolling against the window. The photo he had been clutching in almost a death grip fluttered gently to the floor of the cab, and Tony leaned over and picked it up. He stared at the inscription on the back for a moment — “Nicky’s first big bust! Nick, Toby, Paul, May 15, 1993” — before turning the photo over to look at it. It had obviously been taken at a bar or restaurant, as the three men in the picture were toasting the camera with drinks. Tony thought Fornell looked a lot younger in the photo than now, and a lot happier. He sighed and put the put the picture in his suit pocket where it would be safe.
The cab pulled up in front of Tony's apartment and the driver turned back to face Tony. “Do you need some help getting him upstairs, sir?”
Looking at the now semi-conscious Fornell, Tony nodded. “Yeah, if you wouldn't mind.” Once they'd gotten Fornell into Tony's apartment and dumped him in the guest bedroom Tony paid the driver, including a hefty tip. After the cabbie left, Tony went back into the guest room. Fornell was splayed out on his back, snoring lightly.
“What am I going to do with you, Toby?” Tony asked quietly. With a sudden flash of insight he realised why Fornell disliked him using that name so much. Obviously Fornell's “lost boys” had called him that and, given Fornell’s drunken confession at Ellington’s, Tony’s use of it brought back memories Fornell would just as soon forget. Making his way over to the bed, Tony removed the FBI agent’s clothes — the jacket and shirt giving him quite a challenge with his injured arm — leaving him in pants, undershirt and socks. Once he was done Fornell curled up on his side, hugging one of the pillows and murmuring something Tony couldn't make out. “Sleep well, Tobias,” he murmured, taking a quilt from the end of the bed and spreading it over the sleeping FBI agent. Tony was exhausted from the day, but before heading off to his own room he made sure that the garbage can was beside the bed and he placed a couple of bottles of water and a bottle of Aspirin on the bedside table. The last thing he did before going to bed himself was to place Fornell's picture against the lamp on the table. “Watch over him, boys,” he said softly, turning the light out and closing the guest room door behind him.
---
When Fornell awoke the next morning he was totally disoriented - the last thing he remembered was drinking at some bar he’d found near the National Mall. The clock on the bedside table told him it was after 10 a.m. Groaning as the pain in his head made itself known, he grabbed the one of the bottles of water and the Aspirin and swallowed three pills in rapid succession, draining the entire bottle of water in almost one go. Once his thirst was slaked, he looked around the room, trying to figure out where he was. All that told him was that he probably wasn’t in a hotel — not many hotel rooms boasted handmade quilts on beds with mahogany headboards, at least not many he could afford to stay in. The room he was in was small but tastefully decorated in shades of green and blue. A matching mahogany bookcase and dresser completed the furniture in the room, and the walls had a couple of framed black and white photographs on them. Fornell examined the signature on one of them and was surprised to find it was an Ansel Adams. He didn’t know much about photography, or art for that matter, but he did know that Ansel Adams-signed original prints did not come cheap.
He realised he was stalling, nervous about leaving the room and finding out where he was — and who he had gone home with — and quickly dressed, choosing to stuff the tie in his pocket instead of putting it on. Seeing the picture of Nick and Paul on the night table, he gently placed it in his inside coat suit pocket. It appeared to him that whomever had brought him home had placed the picture so he would see it when he woke up, almost as if it was watching over him. That thought made him a bit more confident about facing whatever lay ahead.
Tentatively he opened the bedroom door and looked out into the room beyond, which was obviously a living room. A high-def TV set sat against one wall in an entertainment unit overflowing with DVDs. A comfortable-looking couch and matching recliner were positioned in front of it. The rest of the room was decorated in creams and browns with furniture that complemented the room perfectly and spoke of good taste and not a little bit of money. Unfortunately it still gave Fornell no clue as to whose home he was in.
The sounds of soft jazz came from another room and Fornell headed towards it, anxious to find out who his mysterious benefactor was. Stepping into the kitchen, his jaw dropped as he saw Tony sitting at the kitchen table reading a paper and drinking coffee. The younger man got up as he came in and smiled slightly, going to the refrigerator and taking out a pitcher filled with a vile-looking green substance. “Here,” he said quietly, pouring Fornell a glass, “drink this. It’ll help your head and your stomach.”
Fornell stared at the glass in Tony’s outstretched hand suspiciously. “What is it?” he asked.
Tony grinned. “The DiNozzo Defibrillator. Been in the family for six generations. Drink it, Fornell. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better afterwards.”
Fornell glared at Tony before taking the glass and draining it, grimacing at the taste. He was surprised to find that he did, indeed, feel a bit better. “Tastes like crap, DiNotzo. What's in it?”
Tony's smile got even wider. “It's a family secret, Tobias. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” His smile faded slightly as he changed the subject. “I know your stomach's probably still not up to food, but d'you want some coffee?”
Fornell frowned, not used to a solicitous Tony DiNozzo. Tony saw this and his smile disappeared completely as he sighed. “Look, Fornell, I know we're not friends — hell, most of the time we're barely even civil to each other. That said, I respect you a lot, although if you ever repeat that I'll deny it completely. I’ve been where you are,” he said, thinking of Kate and how he had dealt with her death, “so I couldn’t, in good conscience, leave you there. ‘Sides, despite all his bluster to the contrary, Gibbs likes you,” he continued, trying to lighten the mood. “If I hadn’t helped you he probably would have headslapped me into next week.”
Fornell snorted at that. “Cup of coffee sounds good, DiNotzo,” he said, accepting the olive branch. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that Tony knew how he took his coffee, he thought, as he watched Tony add just the right amount of cream and sugar. Fornell knew that, despite his frat-boy antics, the NCIS agent was incredibly observant and had a good memory. During one the first cases he and Jethro had worked together after Tony had joined NCIS Fornell had taken great delight in making Tony fetch endless amounts coffee for the two of them. Smiling at the memory Fornell took a cautious sip from the cup Tony handed him, his face breaking into a smile at the full, rich taste of the coffee. “Glad to see you don’t share your boss’ taste in what he calls coffee. This is good stuff.”
“It’s a Costa Rican blend I really like. There’s this little coffee place just off the National Mall that carries it. Actually,” Tony said, figuring it was a good way of segueing into the night before, “it’s only a couple of blocks from Ellington’s. I could show you where when I take you back to pick up your car.”
“Is that where I was last night? I can call a cab. I don’t want to put you out any more than I already have,” Fornell said, glancing away. He still had no real memories of what had happened last night, but he knew it probably wasn’t good.
“We’ll be taking a cab anyway, unless you want to grab the Metro,” Tony said wryly. “My car’s still at the Navy Yard. And you’re not putting me out, Fornell. Was planning on heading back there for lunch anyway and hitting the Museum of American History afterwards.” Tony grinned at Fornell’s incredulous expression. “Hey, they’ve got a new exhibit of classic movie memorabilia I’ve been dying to see. Y’know, the snow globe from Citizen Kane, Sam’s piano from Casablanca, that sort of thing. Anyway, I’m going to grab a quick run before we go. I’ve got spare kit if you want to work off some of that alcohol, or if you want a shower or something that’s fine, too.”
“A run sounds good. It’ll clear my head, should settle my stomach too.”
Tony nodded and gestured for Fornell to follow him to his bedroom. As Tony pulled together running kit for him, Fornell looked around the room, not bothering to hide his curiosity. Tony’s bedroom was decorated in soft shades of green, reminding Fornell of a forest in the mist. The furniture was made of oak — at least Fornell thought it was oak — with intricately carved pictures and scenes on them. On one wall were several pictures of movie and television stars, each one autographed personally to Tony.
“If you’ve finished scoping out the place, give these a try for size,” Tony said dryly, handing Fornell a stack of clothes and a pair of running shoes. Fornell took one look at the sweatshirt on the top of the pile and baulked.
“Not just no, DiNotzo, but hell no,” he said, tossing the NCIS sweatshirt back at him.
Tony laughed. “Well, it’s either an NCIS one or one of my old OSU ones, and they’re pretty tattered,” he said, smiling. “Your choice.”
Fornell snorted. “Some choice. I guess the OSU sweatshirt is the lesser of two evils — I’ll wear one of those,” he said, a trace of a smile in his voice. He knew how proud Tony was of his alma mater, and the younger man didn’t disappoint him as he leapt to his school’s defense.
“Hey, you should be proud to sport an Ohio State shirt. They’re one of the top athletic schools in the nation,” Tony said indignantly, going over to the dresser and pulling out an OSU sweatshirt.
“Pretty good theatre program too, eh DiNotzo?” Fornell said, all traces of humour gone from his voice. Tony spun around, his jaw dropping as he stared at the FBI agent.
“How the hell…?”
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