Work Text:
“You’re not Gibbs, Tony.”
“Gibbs wouldn’t have—”
“If Gibbs were here—”
It was the soundtrack to his every decision, right or wrong—even for the simplest of things like reorganizing the ambulance. That had been a hard one since Kate had been the one to come up with the system, but she’d thought it too much like an organizational exercise and less from a crime scene functionality standpoint. At least Tony could find stuff now and had seen McGee and Ziva do the same at various crime scenes, even though they’d never openly admit it.
Snide comments aside, there was the sidelong looks from everyone and their brother at the Navy Yard, a fair mix of amusement and pity. The sniggers. The way the other units went eerily silent as he passed.
Tony knew there was a bet on how long it’d be before Balboa was assigned Supervisory Lead of the MCRT—he was most superior agent after all, and Tony was well aware (read that: being reminded at every turn by everyone he’d ever pissed off over the years) that if Gibbs hadn’t sort-of appointed Tony as new lead, the job would have been offered to Balboa first.
Tony had proved the naysayers wrong five years ago, when there had been a similar pool on how long he’d last under Gibbs; he wasn’t so sure about now.
Gibbs, in his hasty and untimely departure, had left so much unfinished paperwork that everyone suddenly needed ASAP that Tony staying until the wee hours of the morning, long after everyone else had gone home, was hardly putting a dent in it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home for longer than a couple hours at a time—just enough to catch forty on the couch, change and head back into the office.
There was no longer such a thing as days off, as he worked to get McGee up to speed as his new SFA; Ziva to take the FLETC and other miscellaneous onboarding courses she’d been putting off since the day she arrived; and changing pretty much everything about Lee, his lawyer probie who could barely fire her weapon without flinching, let alone have it hit a target. She deserved her shot on the team, but maybe just not when he was dealing with so much already… Someone a little more street smart would be a real game-changer getting his new team up to snuff while not letting Gibbs' case closure rate slip one percentage point…
And still, all he heard was, “You’re not Gibbs.”
“You’re not Gibbs.”
“You’re. Not. Gibbs.”
I know I’m not Gibbs, he wanted to shout at them, but at least I didn’t leave!
It didn’t matter that he was trying, probably harder than anyone else who would have been brought in would have. Trying to keep everyone together while trying to implement change for everything he’d hated about the… let’s go with, former administration… but it didn’t seem to count for anything to the people who mattered most.
Maybe it would be better for Balboa to take over, he thought ruefully. His lack of history with the team might win him more favors than… whatever Tony was doing that everyone else so despised: existing probably.
He felt his hands begin to tremble and suddenly, the massive bullpen was getting very, very small. He held back a flinch as the skylights cranked up in intensity and felt a drop of sweat ran down his collar.
He knew what was coming—had to get far away from here before it did.
Tony stood abruptly, startling Ziva and McGee who had been lecturing him about something Gibbs would have done... like he hadn’t known. He had worked with Gibbs for five years—two years longer than either of them!!—most of that spent a two-man team. And still that just didn't seem to matter.
“I need coffee.” Jamming his now shaking hands into his pockets, Tony brushed past them and Lee, sweet awkward Lee, who was hovering awkwardly in the background.
“Tony—” Male voice. Palmer or Ducky. Or maybe another agent on their way to ask how Tony thought he deserved these shoes: the shoes he’d wanted, but not like this. After five years and an impeccable record, he’d hoped they’d learned enough to know he wanted to earn his stripes properly, not have them given to him because there was no better option. Guess not.
Tony ignored the distraction, fighting to keep his breathing and steps even. He needed to be seen strolling casually to the elevator on his way for his… fourth? Fifth?... coffee, not sprinting away for some much-needed air like a head case.
Thankfully there was no one on the elevator so he slouched against the wall, the cool metal in sharp contrast to the heat of his forehead.
He got off on the fourth floor, turned into the maintenance stairwell, clawing at his tie as he mounted the final flight of stairs. His clumsy fingers fumbled with the first two buttons, finally pulling them out of their holes.
It didn’t help.
He crashed into the grab bar of the door leading to the roof. Which swung open easily. And promptly dumped him onto his hands and knees.
His vision was tunneling, his chest heaving. He couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t. breathe.
Blue lights.
Scarred lungs.
Click. On. Click. Off.
Bye-bye germs.
Needles.
Tests.
Kate.
Kate.
Kate.
Kate.
Kate.
Kate.
Tony fought hard to pull in a breath, but his scarred lungs refused. He knew he was in danger of passing out but his body didn’t seem to care, continuing to do this hitching/bucking/not breathing thing with increasing intensity.
Before, there would have been a hand on his back, thumping, patting, circling, knowing whatever he needed before Tony could find the air to ask.
Now, nothing.
That hand had left. Left D.C. Left the team. Left him.
“You’ll do.”
That was it? After five years? Before everyone else got a hero’s goodbye?
As if not breathing wasn’t enough, Tony was keenly aware of moisture wetting the corners of his eyes.
Maybe it was time to move on.
On to a place that respected him for who he was. Not whose footsteps he walked in.
If only he could catch a breath first.
He startled as a warm hand rested on his back but was too strung out to do anything else. It was rubbing big circles, just like he needed it to. A blurry face was low in front of his, telling him he was okay and that he was here to help (calmly. Not yelling at him), that he was okay (again), that he was on the roof at NCIS, the slow circles never stopping.
In the slivers of consciousness he was managing, Tony was beyond furious his first thought was that he hoped it was Gibbs.
Gibbs was gone. Gibbs had left.
He was all alone.
“We’re going to breathe now.”
Unlikely. At this point, Tony was pretty sure his plague-scarred lungs were on a crash course to passing out.
“Together.”
Definitely not.
“Inhale. It’s a beautiful day out here.”
Not from where he was sitting/kneeling/dying, surely.
“Exhale. It's much better than the office.”
That bar wasn’t even a tripping hazard.
“Inhale. Wish I could be out here more. Before—exhale—it gets cold again.”
The circles weren’t stopping. Calm, soothing… relaxing.
“Inhale. Can you talk back to me yet?”
Tony tried. The words lodged in his throat. But he did feel the sun on his face, so that was good. Natural Vitamin D, much-needed color to his unusually pasty skin and all that.
“Exhale. Okay, don’t worry. We’ll get there. Inhale.”
It went on and on like that, until Tony felt the gravel digging into his palms, heard the construction crew one block over, was keenly aware of the heady smell of the Potomac.
When he was able, he turned his head to see who had sat with him, and almost spiraled right back down when he recognized the autopsy gremlin.
He didn’t know what to say as Jimmy maneuvered him into a sitting position, scooting him back slightly so he was resting between the HVAC and a chimney. So Tony said nothing and just kept focusing on pulling air in and out of his aching lungs.
Sitting just close enough to keep him seated but not far enough that Tony couldn’t blow by him in a sprint, Jimmy kept blathering on and on about the weather, his weekend plans, Ducky's latest stories. He’d stopped rubbing Tony’s back, but still had hold of one of his hands, rubbing the same, slow, steady circles with his thumb against the back of it. He didn't once comment on how assuredly cold and clammy, let alone shaky, it was.
Tony was equal parts touched and horrified. There was no way around him turning in his resignation now. Palmer wouldn’t do it intentionally but he was about the least secretive human in the Yard. It was only a matter of time before something adjacent to this would slip out, and Ziva or Abby or whoever else intimidated Palmer on that given day would force him to reveal the rest. Tony really didn’t need that as leverage against him right now, what with his team hardly listening to him as is.
Damn, he was going to prove O’Grady right by handing in his two weeks.
“Why?” he found himself asking, the soft croak slipping out unbidden.
The circles never stopped.
“You looked like you needed a friend.”
Tony was 100% sure that was not what he’d looked like, not at all. He’d be lucky if Ziva and McGee hadn’t picked up on anything, given how poorly he was sure his exit had been. But then again, they’d actually have to care to notice.
He was probably safe.
Tony tried to stutter to his feet but Palmer kept his grip, his other hand pushing down against Tony’s shoulders. “Just sit for another minute. You’re still looking kind of pale.”
Before Tony could find the energy to object, Palmer dug into his pocket and pulled out a packet of fruit snacks. “Wanna share? I’d give you the whole thing but I have to keep my blood sugar up.”
Right, diabetic.
“Yours,” Tony managed, his chest feeling like he’d run a marathon. The space between his ribs protested every breath, his eyes hurt, his skin felt too tight. He felt all wrong, a Frankenstein misassembled after the… after his…
Palmer tore the pack open with his teeth, still rubbing slow, steady circles with his thumb, and flipped Tony’s hand over just in time to have him catch them.
“There’s twelve so you can have five,” Palmer said apologetically.
“I don’t—”
“It’ll help. Trust me.”
“Palmer—”
“Please don’t make me call, Ducky. I don’t want to because I know you don’t want me to, but I will if I have to because it’s more important to me that you’re okay, okay?”
Tony blinked at him. “Why?”
“Gibbs wouldn’t want this.”
Gibbs.
Right.
Bastard.
Tony shifted his hand so he clumsily funnel the fruit snacks back into Palmer’s then made a sharp, circling motion with his hand, loosed Palmer’s grip, and heaved himself to his feet.
You’re not Gibbs.
You’re not Gibbs.
You’re. Not. Gibbs.
Gibbs didn’t have panic attacks on the roof.
Gibbs didn’t need help from the autopsy gremlin.
Gibbs didn’t—
Palmer was in front of him again, slamming the door to the roof closed and crossing his arms over his chest.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“They never do.”
Palmer’s face fractured.
“Move, Palmer,” Tony growled in his best Gibbs-impression—dammit. There just wasn’t any escaping his bo—former boss.
Palmer swallowed hard but dug in his heels. “No.”
“I have to get back to work.”
“Not until you have a fruit snack.” That statement had never sounded less menacing than it did at that moment. Yet Palmer recovered quickly, cleared his throat then held out his hand. “Take your five.”
“Then can I get back to work?”
“After you drink some water.” Palmer tipped his head at Tony’s outfit. “And maybe fix your tie.”
As if on cue, his palms and knees began to sting. Tony looked down to see his suit was caked in dust, the knees rubbed raw.
Shit.
He had another one in the filing cabinet, but he’d have to go back into the bullpen to get it. He didn’t want to go back to the bullpen. He didn’t want see his team/not team. He didn’t want Abby to burst into tears when he, not Gibbs, walked in for an update. He didn’t want to be starting a serious and likely lengthy undercover op for the Director, because as much fun as they usually were, he wasn’t feeling very hopeful about someone moving mountains to save him if things went sour.
His bed, shades drawn, head pinned between two pillows to shut out the world, feeling, seeing, hearing nothing at all was sounding pretty darn good right now.
He just needed one, single, solitary break.
One.
Half a break, really—he wasn’t picky—and the rest would fall into place.
Palmer’s hand drifted back into his field of vision. “Fruit snacks,” he squeaked. “Now.”
Unfortunately, Tony DiNozzo rarely got what he wanted. He pulled in a breath, picked up his designated five fruit snacks, and threw them back like pills.
He had to go be in charge, be impenetrable, pretend like he wasn’t falling apart on the inside.
“Chewing would have been better,” Palmer mumbled. “Reawaken your senses and ground you and all that.”
He knew the kid meant well, but whatever energy Tony had gathered to make his escape was quickly beginning to wane. “Can I go now?” he asked shortly.
“Tony, I can help—”
“Haven’t you done enough already?”
Tony winced at the sharp bite to his tone, a quick “Sorry” bubbling out of his mouth as Palmer recoiled.
“You’re right,” Palmer said. “I shouldn’t have followed you up here.” He turned sideways, popping a fruit snack in his mouth as he gestured toward the door. “Sorry, Agent DiNozzo.”
He looked so crestfallen, Tony knew he couldn’t leave. Everything else in his life might be broken but this was one thing he could fix.
He let out a long sigh, rubbed his still trembling hand down his sweaty face, letting it rest against his nose.
“I don’t suppose you could go to the filing cabinet in the bullpen,” he said without removing his hand. “Third drawer from the bottom has an extra suit. There’s a towel and toothbrush in my—in McGee’s desk: second drawer from the bottom.”
Even without looking, he could feel Palmer perk up. “Yeah, Agent DiNozzo! I can do that.”
“Tony.”
“...What?”
“Tony. Since you’re going to help me, you can call me Tony.”
“Okay, Tony. Meet you…” Jimmy paused. “HR wing bathrooms? That’ll get you out of the bullpen.”
Tony shook his head then let his hand fall to his side where he felt it continue to shake minutely. “Locker rooms.”
Palmer nodded solemnly. “Meet you there in ten.”
It ended up taking him twelve and a half, not that Tony was counting, painfully aware of every second he wasn’t in the bullpen living up to everyone else’s expectations, but the extra time had allowed him to push his hair back into some semblance of order, pinch some color into his cheeks, force his hands to stop shaking, and to pick the gravel out of the palms. He could hear Ducky’s voice in the back of his head going on about infections and cleansing the area especially for someone with his history—too bad. A wash with soap and water was about all they were going to get.
Palmer didn’t ask to come in, didn’t offer any additional help. Just knocked from the hallway and informed Tony his things were out there.
And if after he had gone and Tony had unlocked the door, he’d spotted a coffee—so sickly sweet Tony almost couldn't drink it, but words couldn't describe how much he appreciated someone not assuming he drank his coffee, which he could barely stomach on a good day, black and bitter like Gibbs did—and a chocolate bar Palmer had to have spent his own money getting from the vending machine, Tony was forced to reconsider that maybe Gibbs hadn’t left him entirely alone after all.