xxxxx

The sink is covered in blood.

At least, that’s what he thinks at first. It’s not until he takes those two dizzying breathless steps forward, feels the room go distant, feels his hands go cold, that he realizes it’s water and only the faintest tinge, barely enough blood to color the water, a trick of the light. Lipstick, maybe, or if it is blood, not so much to be dangerous. And it’s probably lipstick, anyway, or some kind of makeup (his mind running through the shades, the right names -- carnal scarlet desire scandalous rich ripe heavy sin -- all of which have crossed his mind at one crime scene or another), because this is a bathroom and it’s much more likely that someone (she) would apply makeup here than that someone would be murdered (the knife drawn razorwire sharp against throat and artery: this is more intimate than sex).

He braces himself against the wall, cool tile against his fingers, and wonders why he thought this would be a good idea. It was a successful investigation, just like any other. There’s no reason that it should be any different. No reason that he shouldn’t enjoy it, shouldn’t be out there right now, his hand pressed to the slick heat of her body, hot and sweet and alive. Now’s probably a better time than most, really, because aren’t near-death experiences meant to make people feel more like living? Put them more in touch with what it means to be breathing, laughing, heartbeat pounding? He should know, considering how many times he’s tried it. He could probably do lectures. How to avoid death of the sudden, unplanned variety. How to avoid death, all together.

Instead, he just feels sort of sick. It’s all out of control, wild and scary and too, too real, and right now he’s not finding it fun at all. He’s off his game, lost whatever the hell it is he usually has, charisma, probably somewhere in the woods near the cabin or maybe on the dusty road from here to there, or maybe in the front seat of the car, when he pulled the trigger and blood spattered his hair. Felt like acid rain, he thinks. Not that he’s ever felt acid rain, but if he had, the way it’d seemed to sink in, to burn in, eat away at everything --

He reaches for his cell phone. Seems to take forever to dial, forever for him to answer.

"Gibbs." Sounds tired. Can’t blame him, really.

"Boss? You got a --" (year forever the rest of your life, that’s how long it’s gonna take to fix him).

"Do I have a what, Tony? You okay?" Undoubtedly remembering previous phone calls, the slow, sick fall that didn’t really end until he woke up staring at a corpse and a nearly-dead guy.

"Yeah . . . I just . . . didn’t wanna drive and figured Kate’d probably kill me, so . . ."

"I’ll kill you, too," he says, but it’s infinitely more friendly. Even though he sounds like he really means it. "Where are you?"

And he gives him the name, closes the phone, and doesn’t look at the blood in the sink, the body in the ceiling, the bloody knife smeared with his own fingerprints. Feels something twist in his stomach, glass sliding in his hand, slow-motion burn down his throat. He’s glad, he thinks, that he has friends. Because he has the feeling that it’s gonna be a hell of a morning after. As long as he doesn’t talk, he’ll be fine. If he can just keep his mouth shut and not talk about the blood and how it feels to kill somebody you actually like, as opposed to somebody you’re trained to hate, and how he actually believed him, actually thought that it would be okay, though not really ‘cause he’s not that stupid.

He knows that the good guys don’t always win. Sometimes, he even knows that he’s a good guy.

And then he’s outside, cool wind chilling the sweat on his forehead, tearing through the too-thin fabric of his shirt. How could he have forgotten that it is winter? Common sense and identity have abandoned him, somewhere in the tension, the strange adrenaline high of being somebody else.

And somewhere in the dazzling reflection of glittering neon lights, the hot press of bodies, claustrophobia, this seemed like a good idea.

Now, as he stands on the street corner, leans against a lamppost, closes his eyes against the dizzying starlight, he’s not so sure. But he hears the car slow down, opens his eyes -- it is the car, it’s the right color -- and tries to smile as it comes to a stop none too slowly next to the curb. He reaches for the door, feels the handle slipping through his fingers. He gets it on the second try, slides inside, buckles the seatbelt. The filtered streetlight blurs rays of light like a halo, an aura. Radiant. He tries to say thank you, tries to say he’ll pay him back, I owe you one, but the words don’t come.

He doesn’t cry. This much, at least, he knows.

And then, though he tries not to, he sleeps. He doesn’t think he will, but he does. Drifts off, the headlights of oncoming cars barely piercing the veil of dreams, light slumber, whirling shadows.

He mumbles protest when the car stops, though he’s not sure what he’s arguing against. He surfaces from dreams to a bruised sky, heavy with the needle-pricks of stars, and hears himself as if from far away. He hears what he’s saying and some part of himself stops the flow of words, incomprehensible and utterly meaningless, in any other light. At any other time. In a few hours, when this has passed and he’s avoiding eye contact, wearing shades and dry-swallowing aspirin.

The car door unlocks, opens. He knows that he didn’t touch it, and then Gibbs’ sigh is louder than the chattering wind, the ghost-laughter. "Come on, Tony," he says. "You’re not sleeping in my car." Something about the way he says it is confusing. Would it be okay if it were any other car? Or is it the idea of sleeping in a car, itself? Tony’s not sure. He shudders, considers the idea of standing, tries to apologize, laugh it off, get the hell out.

It occurs to him, as he tries to focus on the unsteady watercolor landscape that’s become his world, that this is Gibbs’ way of apologizing. That he actually feels guilty for what happened. Feels, in some way, responsible. Tony tries to tell him that it’s not necessary, it’s a hazard of the job, he’s practically got a degree in Not Deadness anyway, but what happens is that none of these end up being said and the world goes almost grey for a moment, and Gibbs’ arm is strong underneath his, around his waist, and he thinks that this is more than just teamwork, more than just partnership. They’re bonded by something else, share something more than job title and paycheck-issuer. Intangible, just out of reach. This is why he called, why he didn’t just hail a cab and go back to his own quiet apartment, his own things, the gentle pounding of water against the windows --

It’s raining. When did that happen?

He focuses on the things he can name, the things he can sense (the normal non-dangerous safe real things). The line of concrete against his shoes as he stumbles forward, the dimness of the rooms, lights off, like an array of mirrors, a labyrinth, as Gibbs opens the front door. The near-complete silence. Solitude. His shirt is wet; raindrops slide down the back of his neck. "I really liked him," he says.

"I know," Gibbs says. "That’s what you said."

"No, I mean . . ." And he doesn’t really know what he means, after all. He doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be anywhere, really. He’s too familiar with this desperation and this knowledge, and he doesn’t want to be.

"Go to sleep, Dinozzo."

"Yeah," he says. "Okay, boss." He’s conscious of the cotton weave beneath his head, the sawdust that permeates the air, the atmosphere. Everything. He folds his hands, fingers splayed, over his chest as if to ward off nightmares.

There is breathing, nearby. He lets it lull him to sleep.

Later, again, he wakes in the cool blue silence of an unfamiliar room that he recognizes instantly. He doesn’t remember taking off his shoes. He doesn’t remember a lot of things. The long way from here to there and back. Everything that is not now, that is not here.

There is moonlight on the bed, moonlight on the floor and all around, and warmth lingers on his body. He clings to it, savors the heat. His pillow -- the pillow -- is wet, as though with sweat, or tears he did not mean to shed. Blood and fire, gunmetal and ash, are a long way off and this, he thinks, is what he wanted. The slow sensuous heaviness of his body, the heartbeat so close by, and warmth, the slowing of time.

All of the things that were never his. All of the things he cannot have. All of the things that he’s not quite sure are real, that he’s not quite sure he believes in.

The warmth is fading, quickly fading. Burned out and lost, imaginary. A door closes, far away. They will not speak of this, later, Gibbs out of kindness (respect sympathy or maybe pity, and he’s not sure what scares him most), and he might say thank you, as he waits on the front porch for the cab to arrive.

He might say thank you, but he will not say why. He will not define it. This. Transcending words; qualifying it would be death.

He closes his eyes. Here is all he needs.

He closes his eyes, and he does not listen to anything beyond.

xxxxx

End