Work Text:
Fathers
Tony didn’t miss his father - not really.
It was just that some days, like today, he wondered what it would be like to have a real one. A father who loved him, and cared for him and worried that he wouldn’t eat properly. Or that he would bleed to death.
He saw them sometimes - in parks or in restaurants: fathers who seemed to care, and he marveled at the thought. In Baltimore he’d once seen a dad jump in front of a bullet to protect his little girl. Tony’s dad had forgotten him at the Maui Hilton in Hawaii. He silently laughed at the memory and tiny red bubbles formed at the corner of his mouth.
He knew it wasn’t right, his father beating him; of course it wasn’t right. But somehow, he couldn’t picture his childhood without it. It was part of his upbringing, part of him. Who would he be without the scars on his back and his soul?
He didn’t see himself as a victim, God no. His childhood had had its good moments too. He’d had all the things a kid could want, right? Other kids had had worse, right? Right?
Just… days like today, as he suddenly found himself lying flat on his back on a concrete floor with blood trickling down his chest, he couldn’t help but wonder. What would a real father do if he saw him like this? Would he cry? Take his son’s hand and gently tell him that everything would be all right? Tony could only imagine.
He had broken his leg once, in a football game in college. He still remembered the blinding pain and the terror that followed the thought that he may never play the game again. He clearly remembered his friends hurrying to his side to try to comfort him. He bitterly remembered the 13-13 tie. He could still picture the warm, reassuring smile on the pretty paramedic’s lips. However, he couldn’t seem to recall his father even showing up at the hospital or calling him to see how he was doing.
He shrugged at that now. He’d had worse pain than a broken leg since then.
He just wondered sometimes.
His clouded mind wandered to places he would rather it had not. To the time he had found his mother covered in blood in the bathtub, and the time his father had really lost it and nearly drowned him in the pool, and other god-awful memories he had rather stay where he'd had them carefully stowed.
The coppery taste in his mouth made him nauseous and he shivered slightly. He started to slip away, the pain making it impossible to breathe. The lights dimmed and he felt somehow relieved. Maybe he would finally meet his mother again, and this time he would demand some answers.
“DiNozzo! Keep your goddamned eyes open, you hear me?!”
He barely recognized Gibbs’ worried tones, but somehow it kept him from slipping. He wasn’t able to respond to the voice that kept asking him if he was awake, if he’d been shot anywhere else, if he knew where he was. He just felt himself being shifted slightly and then someone pressing down hard on his wound. Someone speaking soft words in his ear and brushing his sweaty hair from his eyes.
He smiled; a ghost of a smile formed on his lips. He wondered no longer.