For Kaleecat
I'm a wiseass- at least, I act like I am. I'm not, not really.
Usually, it's the only way I can stop people from getting into my head and I find it works like a charm: just pretend you're an empty headed, sexist pig with a juvenile sense of humour and no one looks any further.
Only… what people don't see is that I'm also just a man. I may not always say it, and I sure as hell don't act it, but there are times when cases affect me so badly that I feel off kilter for weeks after. This is one of those. God, we haven't even solved the damn thing and already I feel the frantic urge to talk to someone. I've been in plenty of situations where my life has been in danger but I've never felt the slightest compulsion to unburden myself on my colleagues.
Usually, I get drunk. Very drunk. It's a coping mechanism- when I can actually afford it, that is. Sometimes, I go down to the bathrooms near the basement because no one ever uses them and I throw up. God forbid Gibbs ever finds out; maybe he already knows, I couldn't say.
Just seeing that body on Ducky's table brought everything back. I've tried so hard to forget who I am and where I come from. My past is just that- past. All people really know about me after nearly two and a half years is that I've never stayed in the same job for long, and I was disowned and disinherited. Not too bad, really. It's more than any of my other colleagues ever knew.
Tonight, out of sheer desperation, I drove to Gibbs' place and stood outside his front door in the freezing cold for an hour before I drove back home. It might have been the stupidest thing I've ever done. I still don't know why I did that- not only did I promise myself that I would never tell a soul about the secret I carry, but it isn't like I can expect anyone to save me from myself.
No one's going to save Tony DiNozzo. Ever.
I'm not as reckless as I used to be, well- not by much. I still put myself on the block, but in my line of work, it's sort of expected. I can't say that I don't go looking for attention, because I do. Women, teasing Kate, baiting probie, even Gibbs' frequent (and sometimes unwarranted) head slaps… you name it. I never got much attention as a child; in fact, my parents tended to ignore me whenever I was in the room. One thing I do know is that I'm not a suicide risk anymore. That changed after the first month or so working with Gibbs. Don't get me wrong, I've thought of it at times, but that's as far as it went. The last time I took an overdose, I was thirteen and it was my birthday. My father came to the hospital- but only to ask me why I didn't manage to do it properly. I think the doctors failed to tell him that I had been in a coma for three days.
God, this case is awful. Gibbs came out of MTAC yesterday with the grimmest expression I've ever seen on his face to tell us that the son of a petty officer Charles Linden was found dead, and that his father was the prime suspect. It's been at least three months since my equilibrium has been this unbalanced.
You see… the body on that table could have been me.
I was six when my father hit me for the first time.
I can still remember what I did- I dropped a glass of milk on the floor. My dad walked into the kitchen, saw what I did, and hit me so hard I broke a chair. A three hundred dollar chair, I might add. When I finally stopped seeing stars, the house was empty. Apparently, my parents had sent the housekeeper home and went out for dinner.
That was the first of many such incidents. The first time I was in a fight, he threw me down a flight of stairs. The first- and second, and third- times I was suspended, I was in bed for two weeks.
No one ever suspected what was happening. Our housekeeper nursed me, but never said anything. Ok sure, she could only speak Italian but I knew her job was more important to her than the son of the very wealthy man she relied on to pay her regularly. It's not like I blamed her. Even at ten, I knew what it meant to be working for the DiNozzo family: you were either the soul of discretion or you were fired and couldn't get another job anywhere else. A part of me is glad that the only thing Domenic DiNozzo left me with was my surname. I can make my own legacies now- if I ever settle down.
Right. Like that's ever going to happen.
The abuse continued for years. Eventually I ran away from home and joined the police force. I was seventeen at the time. For the first time in my life, I could eat what I wanted, sleep when I wanted, and go out if I wanted to without the fear of my father looming over my shoulder. Kate has always complained about the amount of junk food I eat and the fact that almost nothing remotely healthy ends up in my system, but if she knew that I eat so much junk is because I never had the chance to, she might change her tune. Nah. Saint Kate would never give up making sure that I "eat right". I don't mind, though. She's like the mother I never had. Not, mind you, that I would ever tell her that.
I know Ducky has seen the marks. After all, he is my doctor. I would never go to another doctor- I trust him implicitly. He's never questioned me, not once, even though I know he's been on the verge of it. The closest he's come to confronting me was when he told me that if I ever needed to talk I knew where to find him.
I've had the urge to take him up on his offer at least a dozen times since he made it but I never have. Like I said, I promised.
I was buried once, for four days. It's funny; most people would think your whole life flashes before your eyes, but it didn't happen to me. I remembered the moments that were most important to me- my first day at NCIS, getting my first birthday present from Abby (which is still hidden in the back of my closet- what she thinks I'm going to do with a big purple vibrator I do not know) I remember thinking of Gibbs, of Kate, of McGee, and wishing that I could see them one more time. They're like a family to me, the only family I have. It's pathetic isn't it? When your colleagues are better than your own family. But it's God's own truth- I've never considered the people who brought me into this world family. Gibbs, for example, has done more for me than my own father did. He really cares about whether or not I live or die, and he's the ultimate example of how to live with honour. He's the most honourable man I know. When he pulled me out of that coffin all I wanted was to be held, and somehow, he knew it. I hate admitting that I'm weak, particularly to Gibbs, but all he did was hold me and told me everything was going to be ok. I believed him. It was hard not to. He's always had my six.
Gibbs is the one man whose expectations I've always tried to live up to. When I was shot, he told me I was like a son to him, someone he trusted with his life. Working with Gibbs gave me the chance to prove I was someone, that I was worth it. Gibbs never acts like I'm wasting his time- at least, not always. I think my flirting drives him nuts, though. I know that Gibbs wouldn't judge me if I did confide in him, but I can't bring myself to. I don't want him to see that I'm weak. My father always said that, that I was weak, feeble minded, and I've always been afraid that it's true, that I really am weak. That's the main reason I've never told anyone, because then it will be true- in my eyes and theirs.
I don't believe it. I'm actually crying. For the first time in twenty odd years, I'm crying. I never noticed it until now. Reliving your childhood will do that to you, I guess. I'm not crying just for the child I was, but more for the man I am today. I don't think anyone will ever know how lonely I am, how sad I am sometimes, how I put on a cheerful smile and a "don't give a damn" attitude, but I do. Give a damn, that is. It's only for the sake of my team that I hide my fears. It really would kill me if they thought I was weak. I would probably end up eating my gun.
I somehow get the strength to get up off the floor and get to my feet with the intention of washing my face when the sound of a key in the lock gets my attention. I reach instinctively for my gun and curse my stupidity when I remember I left it on my bed. Gibbs would kick my ass into next week if he knew about this.
The only trouble is, its Gibbs who walks into my apartment, and I come to the realisation that he's gotten a key. From where? How? Only Gibbs knows.
He closes the door, walks over to me, and takes a good, long look at my tearstained face before pulling me into his arms. It's too much for my fragile state of mind and I break down, sobbing like a child. Gibbs lowers me to the floor, still cradling me in his arms, trying to soothe me with nonsense words.
He knows. Maybe Ducky told him, maybe he figured it out for himself, and maybe I inadvertently gave it away. I don't know and I don't care. He's here. That's all that matters. He's here, I'm crying, and he's not leaving.
Hmm. I'll never tell him this, but he's done it again.
See, I was wrong.
He's just saved Tony DiNozzo.
Story Notes:
This fic completes the Tony Dinozzo "mini series" so to speak. although each fic i've written up to now is a stand alone read, the order i wrote them in is this: Drowning, Frantic, I didn't know, Buried, and Saving Tony DiNozzo. Anyone interested can read them in this order.
Author's Chapter Notes:
No one's going to save Tony Dinozzo. Ever.
Chapter End Notes:
This fic completes the Tony Dinozzo "mini series" so to speak. although each fic i've written up to now is a stand alone read, the order i wrote them in is this: Drowning, Frantic, I didn't know, Buried, and Saving Tony DiNozzo. Anyone interested can read them in this order.