Conclusion
I never thought my life would turn out like this...never in any of my wildest dreams nor in my most outlandish fantasies...and I'd certainly never given one notion of spending my remaining personal, downtime days in this particular manner. Oh, I've given a lot of consideration over the years to how my last moments on Earth would be played out, believe me, but for some reason I always expected I'd end up sailing away into the proverbial setting sun, captaining my own vessel, sitting with one hand resting comfortably on the tiller arm of the craft I constructed by my own sweat, while the wind and the salt spray and the dying day's light peppered me square in my grinning, smugly-satisfied, and completely solitary face. I was going to ride the waves and travel wherever the tides and the currents and the weather took me, never considering or caring or worrying about another living soul and answering to no one but me.
Boy, did I ever get it all wrong.
Instead, I'm now sitting behind the wheel of a recently purchased SUV, watching as the darkening clouds overhead gather and grow thick and threatening, and try to decide if they're going to open up and dump a shit-load of rain on the city today or are merely hanging around in an attempt to make my day a tad more depressing. It wouldn't take much, that's for sure, and I really have to fight hard to keep all my concerns and insecurities and carefully-hidden anxiety under tight wraps, especially now.
I don't feel this way often, thank God, but even if I did I would have to keep those unwanted emotions tucked somewhere out of sight, away from the seemingly all-knowing eyes and the unwanted but gentle probbing inquiries. And God knows I wouldn't do anything intentionally to upset or confuse and I would gladly give my left nut than know I'd caused anymore pain or discord for the one person who means more to me than life itself.
My eyes automatically drop away from the dark, ominous sky and track back to the slow moving, solitary figure stepping carefully and respectfully past the rows and rows of gray and aging headstones. His own head is bent slightly downward and his shoulders are drooping and I just know if I could see his face from this angle, the tracks of hot tears would already be evident, sliding over the smooth, unblemished skin, running down the soft planes of his cheeks, momentarily clinging to the edge of his quivering chin before loosing their tenuous grip and falling unheeded to the grass below. They are his secret, silent tears and I think he'd be mortified if he ever found out I was aware of them but, hell, I'd have to be legally blind not to notice the red-rimmed eyes and the tight, hard set of his mouth each time he returns from one of these brief, difficult visits. And as tough as they are for him to endure and as much as I wish he'd abandon these heartbreaking outings, I know it's all a part of what he considers his penance for what happened to everyone almost seven months ago.
Penance. There's no other word for me to describe what he continues to do, not in my eyes, but he just doesn't seem to see it that way.
He truly believes he needs to atone, somehow, for his part in what happened and, so far, I've been unable to convince him otherwise. He resists my arguments, gets annoyed and agitated when I press the issue, and has just recently even begun to quietly suggest it may be time for him to venture out and find his own path in the world again.
Yeah, like *that* would ever happen. It would have to be over my dead body, literally. He needs me and, God help me, I need him, and I'm never going to let either of us be driven apart because of some stupid misunderstanding or misplaced emotions...if I can help it.
I only hope I can continue to stay strong enough to allow him the space he craves, when all I really want to do is wrap him up tight and hold him as close as I can, for as long as I can. But our time is running out...
He's reached the appropriate gravesite now, I can tell, and just like it was all part of some grand master plan, a light, misting rain begins to fall, settling gently on his uncovered head and unprotected shoulders in soft, silent droplets. Shit. He doesn't need to be out in weather like this, doesn't even have an umbrella or a raincoat to divert the moisture, but he'd be so pissed at me if I intruded in on what he considers his solitary responsibility to the dead and he would only end up reminding me, for about the thousandth time, that I'm not his boss anymore.
Crap, I may no longer be his boss but I sure as hell have a deep, vested interest in his continued well-being. I fought too hard and too long to keep him safe...to keep him in my life...and I'm not going to let anything or anyone interfere with our lives, especially now, when our relationship is just beginning to settle back into that comfortable place we'd been heading, all those long, miserable months ago.
I don't want to think about that time in our lives but there's just no way to avoid it now. Fuck, just look where I am at the moment: I'm parked in a cemetary, with Tony standing at the foot of Fornell's grave, and the memories just come flooding back, drowning me with suffocating, unwelcome images, covering me with thick, uninvited visions, and filling my senses with heavy, viscous, painful emotions. I huff out a loud, angry sigh and quickly avert my gaze, not wanting to see when he reaches out to reverently touch the headstone...because he invariably always does...and the sight of his light, respectful contact with that cold, unfeeling piece of granite always sends a sharp, biting pain to the middle of my chest, like the blade of one of Ziva David's knives has been slipped in to jab at the beating, bleeding organ within.
It's true: I'm still jealous of a fucking dead man. How pathetic is that?
"Christ," I mumble into the silence of the closed-up vehicle and, unable to help myself, let my gaze swing back to watch, like Tony is some kind of damn magnet and I'm made of nothing more than pure iron. I can't help myself. He's a constant pull against my senses, drawing me in and keeping me close, and I try not to think of how...unhealthy...that really sounds, even to my own ears.
Crap.
I sigh again and shake my head, debating on whether I should activate the wipers to clear the thin mist from the windshield so I can continue my observation unobstructed and then pause, just as my fingers brush against the knob. I have to stop this...I have to cease suffocating him with my hovering and my continual jealousy and my unmerited, unwanted, and certainly completely unnecessary over- protectiveness. He's a man, a grown man, and quite capable of making his own decisions. It's the fact he *still* resembles a youth just barely out of his teens that keeps me from remembering that one, small detail...
...and the fact he's been dependent on me, or another member of our tight, little circle of friends, since leaving that situation in Texas all those months ago. He's needed our aid and support to assure his continued survival in this cold and, unfortunately, very cruel world, especially when things turned out for him as they did. He may be a man, with all the knowledge and baggage and accumulated crap any normal thirty-six year old has but, physically, he was stuck with a younger and terribly damaged body.
Shit, I don't want to go there right now and I try with all my might to think of something, anything, else but I just can't. I don't want to focus on everything Emilio Martinez did that caused him to end up in this condition. I don't. The very thought of what Tony suffered and endured at that madman's hands, and continues to bear each and every day, just makes me want to puke...and then crack a few heads wide open.
It was bad enough he'd had months of his life taken and just ripped away but it killed me when I found out he actually remembered most of what had happened to him during it all. His time in Idaho was, thankfully, a bit fuzzy but he could recall with vivid clarity his brief stay with Victoria Sebastian and her personal chef, Millie, in south-eastern Utah. He could tell me all about his escape and eventual meeting with Ziva and of their trek into New Mexico and it was during that discussion I found out he'd put two and two together and figured out the connection between Ziva and Ari Haswari.
I should have known better than attempting to keep that little gem of information from him but, at the time, I'd known how close Tony was to Caitlin Todd and was really unsure of how'd he react to the news of having Ari's sister working by his side, each and every day. As usual, I should have never doubted. There's just something in Tony that allows him to accept what's tossed his way and deal with it the best way he can.
I wish I could be more like him, especially when he spoke of his short but intense relationship with Tobias Fornell, while traveling from New Mexico to Texas. He'd been honest about everything, letting me know he'd been fairly doped up most of the time, but confessed he'd been glad to have the comfort and care...and the intimacy. He'd asked for my forgiveness and, as loathe as I was at first to give it to him, I eventually understood his need for a kind, gentle touch. Martinez had hurt him so bad, had tried to strip away his humanity, and Fornell had been there to help patch him back together again. Who was I to condemn either of them?
But there were some things Tony can't recall and these bother him continually. He has flashes of events, images of strange faces, but they aren't like the wispy remains of some pleasant dream. No, these are empty, aching feelings of experiencing a hard and terrifying nightmare...and of waking up to find it all had been very real. There are times, still, when I can catch him staring off at some unknown point, his face twisted in concentration, eyes dull and turned inward, and I know he's trying his best to grab a hold of and identify some fleeting image. I hate when he does it but I can understand.
I push those thoughts away and my mind lurches, as it always does when I think of our eventual return to DC and to what we encounted when we got home. We'd quickly learned the government was prepared to offer Tony two avenues of recompense and, frankly, neither of them held any appeal. I was shocked and angered, as I'm sure Tony was, and so fucking mad I almost lost it during a brief but very informative meeting with the Vice President, late one night in Tony's well-guarded isolation room at Bethesda.
Disguised as a social call, we immediately discovered the true reason for the visit: Tony was *not* going to be allowed to pick up where he left off, which we all knew was impossible with his appearance and, more importantly, his tenuous physical condition, but neither was he going to be given his identity back. We were told it would raise too many questions and would cause unnecessary investigations into some very secretive and delicate research work being done, not just by our government but by many of our allies around the world.
The message, terribly camouflaged with a slick, oily facade of unconvincing compassion, had been delivered loud and clear: continue staying under the government's watchful, diligent care, within the protected walls of some remote, highly secure government facility, and allow a specialized unit of highly trained and extremely knowledgable government scientists to 'see to his well-being'...or... just disappear from existence.
It had been obvious the Vice President had expected Tony to meekly comply, to willingly volunteer to the horrendous plan for the remainder of his life, to humbly allow himself to be locked away from the rest of the world, and to be prodded and poked like some pet lab rat, all in the guise of doing his 'duty' for the good of his country. There had been words offered about how he'd be 'the vital key' in providing answers needed in the study of human longevity and how Tony just couldn't walk away from what both the President and Vice-President considered his obligation to mankind.
Christ. His obligation to mankind. Just how fucking warped was that?
The Vice President had even reminded Tony that, as far as all the legal documents showed, he was already dead and gone, ashes scattered into the wind, and if we attempted to contact the press or find someone we thought could help Tony recover a part of himself, the government would be forced to take matters into their own hands. There'd been a threat delivered then, subtly hinted, and I'd gotten the distinct impression Tony's ass would have been locked away from me forever if either of us even made a whisper of a suggestion of his 'resurrection' to anyone.
We were shocked, as was Walter Pennington, who'd been ordered by the Commander-in-Chief to attend the private meeting with the VP and offer his own support of the Administration's cause, and I'd actually thought the SecNav was going to bust a blood vessel in his reddened, apoplectic forehead. He was enraged by the President's offer and obviously embarrasssed to be associated with what had been decided without his knowledge but he'd remained silent in his anger and that, in my eyes, had cost him my respect.
I knew Tony wouldn't trade surviving one madman's obsession for that of another's and, God damn it, I would fight to my last, dying breath to make sure no one ever used him as a guinea pig again, no matter how important the government felt he was to some asinine research. So, with his decision quickly made, and with a brief but succinct expletive from Tony for the Vice-President to tell the President to 'just go fuck himself', we embarked on the next stage of this journey called life.
Anthony Michael DiNozzo was now legally dead and gone...for his own safety.
Right. I snort at the thought and reach to lower the window on my side just a bit, needing a little fresh air in the suddenly too-close confines of the vehicle. My eyes unerringly search through the blearing, watery transparency that's keeping me separated and dry from the elements and I can barely see his wavering image through the glass now. Before I can stop the motion, I've twisted to knob end of the wand extending from the side of the steering column and turned on the wiper blades, immediately relaxing as his hunched form comes back into focus.
Crap...just look at him...
His still-growing hair, even pulled back and tied securely at the nape of his neck with a scrap of thin, brown leather, is beginning to dampen, a few fine strands escaping and sticking in long tendrils to one side of his lowered face. I know I just can't let him continue to stand out there in that damp mist, with no protection, but I also know how much this time means to him, especially since it may be a very long time before we'll be back this way again...if we come at all.
Yeah, we're leaving the DC area and all the memories as far behind as we can. Finally.
A small surge of relief blossoms inside my chest at the thought of finally getting Tony away from here and away from the constant reminders of what he no longer has but I'm also secure enough to realize I'm really thinking of myself, too. We should have done this months ago, as soon as we returned from Texas, just should have packed our bags and escaped as soon as we could, and made our own way in the world...together.
Instead, I made a grave mistake. I thought I could handle everything all by myself, thought I could give Tony everything he needed, and thought we'd just be able to pick up where we'd left off, all those many months ago.
I was a damned fool...and my foolishness nearly cost me the one thing I refuse to give up: Tony.
I growl softly in frustration, looking at Tony by Fornell's gravesite, watching as he absently swipes the cuff of one shirt sleeve quickly across his eyes and nose, turning slightly away in a move to keep me from noticing. He does things like that more often now: a swift averting of his face or a slight moving from my line of sight, trying to keep me from seeing his emotions...or his pain.
Shit. I wonder why I ever thought I could, somehow, make everything right when, obviously, everything was so very wrong. In all honesty, I know what was driving me forward: it was pride, pure and simple. Nothing more than my own stubborn, selfish pride.
Getting back into the swing of DC had been fairly easy for me. I still had my job and my position and, even though there was a new Director to contend with, I could just slide right back into the work. Yeah, there'd been reams of paperwork and meetings to attend and special conferences my whole team had to endure as part of the investigation and debriefing sessions but it was all part of the governmental machine I'd been privy to for so long that it wasn't all that difficult to reacquaint myself with it.
I still had my home, my unfinished boat, and my bank account. My clothes were still hanging in the closet of my bedroom, my bills had been automatically deducted from my checking account, and the lone container of milk that'd been close to expiring before I left was still resting on the top shelf of the refrigerator, exactly in the same spot, stinking up the entire unit so badly I'd actually thought the stench would never leave.
But Tony...God, Tony had absolutely nothing left, not a nickel to his name. Hell, he didn't even have his name anymore. The person he'd been all those months ago was gone from the face of the Earth and this new, younger version just didn't have a place. He'd spoken of just this type of thing occuring to him, back when we'd finally found him in Idaho, and the rememberance of that poignant conversation brought a sharp ache to my gut as I thought of how right he'd been.
To make matters even worse, if that was possible, since becoming an 'unknown' there was no insurance to cover any of the medical expenses for his questionable and still-fragile health. Oh, the government had given him a few days in Bethesda for free but after the debacle with the Vice President, they'd basically tossed him out on his skinny, little ass.
So, he moved in and stayed with me, which was perfectly fine and just as I wanted it, and Ducky began to make daily housecalls, once each morning before heading to work and one immediately afterwards. He never was willing to give up, prescribing antibiotics and medicines I gladly paid for out of my own pocket or bringing vitamins and supplements he thought would help in some small way. I refused to acknowledge where some of the more expensive medications came from and, for once in my life, the 'don't ask, don't tell' credo took on new meaning.
Ducky also taught me how to recognize and handle the seizures that, thankfully, have almost disappeared and how to look for further signs of his declining health. It's been a long and torturous road, at times, but we've somehow managed to stay pretty much on course...with the help of our friends.
Even Roberta Wainwright, who'd never fully accepted my relationship with Tony, offered her own brand of support, sending suggestions and any bit of imformation she could garner concerning anti-aging theories and present studies occuring around the world. She continued to stay in touch, even after she'd been unexpectedly and very suspiciously transferred to a Naval hospital far in the Pacific Rim, emailing her findings straight to Ducky at the NCIS morgue...until his retirement.
Yeah, Doctor Donald Mallard retired with a gracious flourish of good manners that belied how disillusioned he'd, too, become after learning of the asinine offer from the Administration concerning Tony's future and of Roberta Wainwright's mysterious transfer. It was a huge shock to many but I'd kind of figured it was going to happen. Tony's condition...and Fornell's death...hit him pretty hard and, after his confession to me that night at D's lodge, his heart just didn't seem to be in his work any longer. His joy was all but gone. He began talking of wasting too much time with the dead and not enough with the living and I could tell he was just plain tired. He looked worn and, for the very frist time since I'd known him, he'd even began to look old. Gone were the dramatically delivered and highly convoluted tales, gone was the wicked sense of humor and the bitingly acerbic tingue, and I found myself, for the first time in my life, mourning for a friend who was still very much alive.
Tim McGee proved to be an invaluable asset through everything, scouring the Internet, chatting with others, tracking down and amassing a long list of researchers in the feild of Gerontology and Anti-Aging/Longevity who, in turn, pointed him in a variety of different directions. He used most of his free time to contact potential allies in our struggle and to simply offer his continued and much-appreciated support, never once asking for anything in return. I was humbled, frankly, by his devotion and doggedness to our cause and, when we'd finally had to break the news that we just had to let go of that part of the fight, I'd actually seen tears form in his kind eyes before he could successfully avert his gaze. Tony had stepped close, draping an arm around the taller figure, and softened the blow by quietly announcing the 'Elf Lord' was just going to have to learn to accept defeat a bit more gracefully and now could return his attention to rescuing damsels in distress...or whatever the hell elf lords did nowadays. His lightly worded remark had lightened the mood, for a moment, but it only took us all a split second to see how close McGee had become to Tony when he swept the slighter body into a rough embrace and allowed his tears to flow.
Tim McGee seems much changed by the whole ordeal, as anyone would rightly be, but I can't say I like the changes much. He's stayed a NCIS agent, though the fresh-faced and sweetly innocent young man of yesterday has, now, completely disappeared.
Ziva David returned to her own country shortly after we all got back from Texas. I think she was concerned about her past association with Jen Shepard and felt none of us would ever be able to truly trust her again. Maybe she was right.
I do know she and Tony had an opportunity to sit down together and have a discussion about Ari and Cait but he's never offered to tell me what exactly was said...and I don't feel I have the right to ask. That was between them and I respect his privacy.
Abby has changed, too, and I think, besides Tony, it's her transformation that hurts me the most. She stuck with us, also, lending her support and the use of her extremely intelligent mind...and that of her equally intelligent friends. She'd even used the sanctity of her lab, closing out the rest of the world, and tapped in on the resources at her disposal. Oh, she made sure her work was complete before turning her attention toward finding a cure for Tony and she never once was called on the carpet for putting in all the extra hours but even she began to show definate signs of stress.
Tony had finally reamed her good, during one of her frequent visits, and had sworn he'd just put a gun to his own head if she didn't stop what she was doing. His declaraction had scared her, and me as well, but she took his words to heart and did what he asked, content to leave the lab each day at the appropriate time and to stop by to share a meal or watch TV or, more importantly, just to talk. Their bond grew even tighter and I know he told her things he'd never share with me, things about Martinez and the testing, things he tried so hard to put behind him. I think the talks helped him do just that but I wish he'd been able to share his secrets with me.
Anyway, when he'd told her of our decision to stop chasing after a cure and of our agreement to take the time we had left to enjoy the life, she'd bawled like a baby, soaking the front of his shirt with her tears and leaving mascara smears everywhere. I didn't know what to think when I came in that evening and saw them curled up together on the couch but knew from the look in Tony's expressive eyes that everything would be all right.
Later that night, as we sat around and tried to coax Tony into eating a bit more pizza, Abby had shocked us both by informing us of her own decision to move back to Texas to be with D. Yep, that's right...D. I almost choked on my mouthful of pepperoni and cheese and crust and was grateful when she'd shoved a handful of napkins my way, listening as she explaned how she and D had connected during our stay at his lodge and that they'd talked almost every night since. He wanted her there and, with Ducky retiring and Tony and I deciding our own course of action, she just felt the time was right.
It's funny...seems like everyone around me was making all the right decisions and I was just plugging along.
Looking back, I realize I should have tendered my notice at the same time as Ducky did, should have just backed away from what was there, and embarked on a new life with Tony. It would have been the smartest thng to do, the wisest course of action but, at the time, the taste for revenge was coating my tongue with a thick, cloying, souriness that kept me from sampling the sweetness of life. I wanted to strike back at those who'd done this to my team, to all those responsible for playing their own twisted part in the lies and deceptions, and, most of all, I wanted to kill Emilio Martinez.
Gazing out the blurring windshield and studying Tony's slightly hunched form, it's almost hard for me to remember what that crazy sonofabitch looked like. Unlike Ari Haswari's image, which was seemingly burned into my very soul, Emilio Martinez's appearance is hazy, ghost-like, a thing only to be seen in nightmares or some dark, secret alleyway. Haswari was my demon...Martinez belongs to Tony.
Oh, yeah, Martinez was finally apprehended by the authorities...and then promptly deported back to his beloved Brazil to stand trial for his 'alleged' crimes against humanity. It was just another blow to my belief in and respect for the current Administration and his advisors but what I felt was nothing compared to what Tony experienced. The night terrors returned with a vengeance and, for a while, he became sullen and nervous and Ducky feared, on top of everything else his regressed body was experiencing, he'd end up with severe ulcers.
In a countermeasure undertaken to assuage his trepidation, and to try and alleviate some of Ducky's concerns, I upped my home security. Okay, hell...I invested in some home security because I never had any to begin with in the first place. For someone who would always leave the front door unlocked, I now possessed a system with alarms and codes and cameras and I felt more like a condemned prisoner there than a secure inhabitant. To add insult to injury, Tony's nightmares had just continued...right up to the moment he was finally able to confront his father.
Christ, if I'd been worried about his failing health or his tenuous safety before, it was nothing compared to what I felt for him as we prepared to meet with Michael DiNozzo. All sorts of strange scenarios had played out in my mind and I tried, really tried, to talk him out of going. Why Tony persisted on seeing that sorry excuse for a human being, I'll never know, but he did and I was with him for that little conversation as well.
We'd visited the Federal facility where DiNozzo was being held for his involvement in the horrendous murder of Jen Shepard after Walter Pennington had stuck his neck out and pulled a few strings for me. The SecNav tried to do his best to make amends and would actually call several times to check on Tony but, for me, it was a little too late to put his name back on my dance card. The damage had been done and life for everyone had just gone on as usual...except for Tony.
Anyway, Michael DiNozzo had ignored the recommendations from his phalanx of high-powered attorneys and agreed to meet with me and my 'associate'. I don't really know why he agreed, unless it was to simply gloat in my face. He knew both Carlo Sabatini and Salvatore Amato had been captured trying to sneak in to kill his son, knew Tony had been a part of my team, and he knew he'd probably manage, with his accumulated wealth, cut his time behind bars in half...at least.
What he didn't know at the time was that the 'associate' accompanying me that day was none other than Tony. Shit, I wish I'd had a camera.
The look on DiNozzo's face as his eyes swept past me to finally settle on the regressed version of his son had been priceless. The green eyes, so much like Tony's, had grown huge with shock and then, just as quickly, had skittered away. I'd stayed a few steps back and just watched, content to let the silence grow between them. It was a confrontation that spoke volumes about this strange father/son relationship.
When Tony'd finally stepped forward and moved to sit across the table from his father, the older man had shifted his gaze to idly study his fingernails with a carefree nonchalance that made my teeth ache. When he started to flick imaginary bits of lint from his pristine inmate's shirt, I thought I'd scream but Tony beat me to it, his own voice soft and calm.
"Why?" Was all he asked, his confusion leaking out just a bit.
DiNozzo had stopped his ridiculous grooming and turned his cool gaze on the young man, eyes hard and cool. When he spoke, his own voice was silky with unconcern.
"Why not?"
It was enough and Tony had immediately pushed away from the table, walking straight and proud to the doorway. We didn't speak as we traveled through the echoing hallways and past the watchful guards, nor as we stepped back out into the bright sunlight, but I could tell he wasn't well. We'd made it almost back to the vehicle when I'd seen him begin to shake.
"Tony?" I'd called quietly...and grabbed a hold of his arm just as he began to fall down.
As seizures go, it hadn't been much to talk about but after I'd gently eased him onto his side and took all the necessary precautions to ensure he wouldn't bite his tongue or bang his head on the asphalt, I'd immediately called Ducky to let him know what had happened. I'd whispered assurances to Tony, lightly touching his arm, his face, his leg, letting him feel my presence even though he couldn't respond. When it had finally subsided, I'd carefully scooped his body off the hard ground and bundled him safely into the back seat, knowing he'd sleep all the way home...and probably through Ducky's cautious examination.
I'd been so angry at Michael DiNozzo that day I'd even fleetingly thought about arranging for him to have an 'accident' while behind bars but I'd forcably pushed those thoughts away and focused on the problem at hand: getting Tony safely home.
I raise my eyes and see my little 'problem' is still standing out in the light rain, totally oblivious to the weather and the passage of time. I twist my wrist and check my watch and feel a small surge of anger when I realize we've been here for the better part of fifteen minutes...and he's been out there for about fourteen of them. Hard-headed, obstinate, little shit...
Almost as if he can hear the beginnings of my silent, inflammatory remarks, Tony's head rises slightly and swivels back in my direction. The gaze he sends my way is like a laser and, even from this distance, I can tell he just *knows* I'm not happy about the current situation and his continued vigil by Fornell's grave. Does it make a difference? Does he start heading back toward the shelter of the vehicle?
Hell, no.
Instead, he shoves his fists deeply into the front pockets of his faded jeans and just turns his back to me completely, isolating himself even more. Fuck. This day just gets better and better by the moment.
I let my head drop back against the elevated padding of the seat and close my eyes, forcing myself to ignore the sound of the light rain tapping against the roof of the SUV. I'll know when he's ready to leave, he'll wander back...and he'll be quiet and moody and introspective for hours. I've learned by now just to leave him alone and not push, even though the first thing I know I'll be tempted to do is rag at him over remaining out in the rain without protection. Hell, he knows how precarious his health is but he simply refuses to 'play a slave' to it's unrelenting demands, resolutely ignoring aches and pains, and heedlessly disregarding suggestions both Ducky and I toss his way, determined to fight the battle against his body alone and the best way he can: with single-minded fortitude and the power of positive thinking.
How many times have I heard him say, 'I'm fine, Jethro', or, 'It only hurts if I let it'? How many?
"Too damn many," I hiss into the silence and let my head roll to the left, away from Tony's position. Unbelievably, I begin to feel the sharp prick of hot, unwanted tears behind my lids. I know what his prognosis is, I'm aware of how much time we still might have together, and I swallow hard against the terrible, unwelcome impression that leads me to believe he continues to do stunts like this just to shorten his time.
I cringe at the thought but I can't deny what I feel. Do I think Tony has considered ending his own life? Yes.
Shuddering involuntarily as my mind flashes back to the night I'd accused him of trying to commit a slow suicide, I lift a hand to lightly touch my mouth, remembering the feel of Tony's fist against my flesh. He'd managed to split the skin from that one, well-placed pop. He'd screamed at me that night, telling me he didn't have to explain himself to me or to Ducky or to anyone and that he could live his damn life, what there was left of it, any way he wanted.
He'd almost managed to make it to the front door before I'd caught up and wrestled him to the floor in a pile of tangled arms and legs, his green eyes flashing dangerously and his vicious mouth spitting venomous, hurtful, spiteful words. I'd used my greater weight to merely hold him down, not wanting to injure, but he'd been *so* furious with me...and the whole fucking world...that his resisitance went on and on until I'd begun to worry he'd trigger another seizure. He'd fought me for all his worth, using teeth and nails when the conventional methods failed, and it broke my heart when I'd realized he wasn't really striking out at me or my accusation but against the situation of his life in general.
It had gone on way too long and, in my desperation to calm him, I'd reacted on instinct and grabbed his face in both of my hands, stilling his movement, and just covering his malicious-spouting mouth with mine, silencing the poisonous torrent of words and sounds, and forcing him into submission. It had been a very long time since I'd touched him any way remotely sexual in nature and I knew my move surprised the shit out of him because, honestly, I'd surprised myself as well.
I squirm on the seat of the SUV and open my eyes just a bit, barely noticing the small trickles of moisture beading up and tracking lazily down my partially-opened window. Instead, I can clearly see, in my mind's eye, the foyer of my home, can feel his struggling, outraged body beneath mine, can taste his anger and astonishment in my mouth...and a new surge of unwanted lust shocks through my body. Blindly, I reach out and grasp the steering wheel with both hands, gripping tightly, vividly recalling the sensations of that night.
At the first touch of my mouth to his, Tony had responded just as I had expected: he froze in a moment of pure shock and then, just as quickly, flew into a new rage, fighting harder and telling me to stop and to get the fuck off him. I'd ignored his demands and just kept at it, forcing his head to stillness, recapturing his lips each time he'd work free, attacking the best way I'd known, slowly battering against his resistance and showing him just how futile it was to deny the inevitable.
The ironic thing about the whole situation was he'd actually been trying for several months to convince me to be intimate with him again. I'd embarrassingly discussed the possiblity with Ducky, to get his opinion concerning Tony's stamina, and had been told it would be better to forget about that side of our relationship. Tony had never known, of course, of my talk with Ducky, so he'd stepped up his assault and pulled out all his tricks, going as far as lounging around naked whenever he could get away with it and even openly masturbating in front of me. It had been sheer hell to walk away from those open invitations and my resolve wavered many times...until I remembered Ducky's warnings. Any erection I'd developed had immediately disappeared, withering away in seconds...and every time I turned away from his advances, no matter how sweet or how seductive they were, my rejection only amplified his solitude.
Christ, we wasted so much precious time...time Tony just didn't have...because of my own fears. It had almost been too late.
I force my grip on the steering wheel to relax and flex my aching fingers but I keep my mind focused on that all-important night, concentrating on the memory, replaying the images, enjoying the resurgence of lust...and of heartfelt affection. It had all started so violently but had ended up being so damn good.
Keeping Tony flat on the hard floor and pressing my body tight against his, I'd continued the oral assault, pinning his wrists and jamming a leg between his thighs, ignoring his muffled cry of alarm and outrage. He'd squirmed and shook and fought and, when he could manage to tear his lips away from mine, he'd screamed and shouted and begged me not to do this to him...not like this...not after I'd continually turned him away and all but shut him out. His body had twisted and turned and bucked against mine and I'd known he was just wearing himself out. But if Tony is anything, it's persisitent.
Even after the physical struggles weakened, he'd continued to whisper and rant but I just kept at it, softening my kisses, licking at his lips, sucking the tender, bruising flesh into my mouth, worrying the sensitive skin at his neck and throat. His moans of protest had begun to shift, to alter, and it wasn't long before he was actively returning the kisses, seeking the connection, his arms snaking up and holding instead of pushing away or trying to escape. His whispers and pleas became moans and sighs and greedy little enticements of delight began to emerge. I'd been content to let some warm, gentle intimacy begin flowing between us but that's not what Tony had wanted...not by a long shot.
His fingers had begun to dig into my back, pulling me closer, grasping handfuls of my shirt in an attempt to bring our bodies nearer. He'd begun, also, to writhe and undulate under me, slim legs spreading wide to welcome me into his heated embrace and then wrapping seductively and closing over the backs of my knees, cradling me even tighter. Yeah, I could have gotten out of this encirclement, if I'd really wanted to, but once I 'd gotten a real taste of him again, all hot and needful and so...alive...all resistance fled, right out the window.
He'd responded to me like a live wire, arching and twisting and sending sharp, hot jolts of pure pleasure to every nerve ending in my body. I could feel him in my scalp, crawling between the individual hairs, tormenting me relentlessly...and on the soles of my feet, like an unreachable itch that continually distracts. God, he'd been *everywhere*.
He'd nipped back at my mouth playfully, only to follow with a wet, nasty swipe of his flattened tongue, like he was trying to lap the sex right out through my pores, and I was instantly reminded of the true the nature of the beast. Tony's body was still very youthful-looking and hindered by the unwanted alteration but it held all the desires and the mentality of a fully grown man...a man who'd been denied too long, a man demanding satisfaction, a man who wanted no one but me.
Christ, I'm hard as slab of concrete just remembering it now.
He'd forced his lips from mine and latched on to one of my ears, nipping at the lobe and working that talented tongue among the whorls and folds, driving me to the brink of distraction, whispering coarse, dirty instructions all the while. I'd surged roughly against our completely covered dicks, rubbing hard, bringing a harsh cry of need that seared a path straight to my soul, and I'd pushed downward, batting away his hands, carelessly shoving up his T-shirt, and latching on to the soft, hot skin of his belly.
"Fuck me," he'd taunted, the words lost somewhere over my head as his hips butted up against my chin. "Come *on*!"
I'd clearly smelled his arousal, sharp and powerful, and I'd wanted to do just that. I'd wanted to fuck him, I'd wanted to bury myself into his hot, tight ass, and I'd wanted to make him scream out his need. Instead, I'd dropped my face lower and mouthed at the hard ridge of his cock and he'd yelped, hands scrabbling at my head, trying to dislodge me, clever fingers catching in my hair and on one, painfully twisted ear.
I'd jerked at his distracting hands, forcing them away, and growled sharply at his actions but he continued to reach toward me in his continued quest for connection. I wasn't about to let him get a hold of me again, so I quickly thumbed open the button, tugged the zipper down, and released his flesh from the restricted confines on the jeans.
I'd gotten a very surprising reaction. Instead of sighing out his relief and urging me on with that wickedly descriptive vocabulary, Tony had immediately arched away and begun to fight me again, trying to drag his trapped lower body out from under mine.
"No!" He'd all but yelled, eyes growing wild and angry. "No, God damn it! I want you to *fuck* me!"
I don't know how he knew what I'd planned on doing, especially since I hadn't decided until the moment I saw his beautifully aroused cock, but somehow he sensed I was just going to suck him off...and leave it at that. He'd guessed right. As much as I wanted and, by God, needed to have him, I knew that would come a bit later, after I'd taken this desperate edge away from his tightly-strung body.
I'd wrestled him back down, holding those flailing hands in a secure grip, closed my ears to his heated, angry, betrayed voice, and taken him swiftly into my mouth. His resultant cry had sent a band of fine shivers coursing through my body and his taste...ah, God, his taste was just as I remembered.
I'd worked him hard and fast and used everything I could to get him where he needed to be. My lips, my tongue, even my teeth, traveled up one side and down the other...and then I'd sucked hard, tormenting and aggravating the sensitive bundle of nerves just below the head, worrying the fold of skin until he was gasping and pushing up into my mouth. I'd thrown an arm across his hips, effectively hindering the motion, and he'd howled out his frustration again, head slamming back against the floor and chest rising and falling like he was on the verge of death.
Death. The word came back to haunt me even in the middle of celebrating life and I'd closed my eyes tightly against a hot rush of threatening tears. There'd been no place for death that night.
He'd been getting closer by the moment, slight twists and turns of his slick, hot, cock within my mouth alerting me to event but it wasn't until I'd tasted the bitter release of his pre-come that I'd upped my efforts and just swallowed him down, sucking even harder, my cheeks hollowing and flexing in the effort. I'd scraped at the underside with my bottom teeth and felt him tense, his breath ceasing and holding for several seconds...and then he was coming, in long, hard, intense pulses that filled my mouth and dribbled from the corners before I could swallow.
I'd kept him in my mouth and continued to suck gently, pulling each and every last bit of his orgasm from his body, making him quiver and quake and shake from the overload of sensation but I didn't release him. He tried to push me away, tried to get me to move, but I'd held fast and put my tongue to better use, renewing my stroking and licking and sending him into a paradox of painful pleasure. I don't recall how long I kept at it but, when I'd finally pulled away, his eyes had been awash in tears and his face was a visage of contentment and peace.
I'd fairly clumsily pulled myself back into my original position over his reclining form and studied his face carefully. When he'd finally turned those green eyes my way, there had been no doubt in my mind what was held in his heart.
"I'm sorry," was all he'd whispered and, when I'd offered him an honest smile of forgiveness, I'd known we'd finally found our path together again.
The door on the passenger side suddenly opens and I straighten in the seat, blinking stupidly in Tony's direction as he moves to sit and close the door, ignoring the water that drips everywhere in the interior of the SUV. He's pretty soaked now and I have to bite my tongue from spouting something sharp and, instead, say something totally obvious.
"You're dripping water everywhere."
The look he shoots my way says it all: I'm a moron. But when he speaks, his voice is soft and gentle.
"Thank you for telling me."
I growl at his tone and reach quickly toward the back seat, stretching as best as I can, and snag at my gym bag resting on the bench behind me. I rifle around a bit and pull out a slightly-used towel and toss it Tony's way, glancing out of the corner of my eye to make sure he's actually using it. When I see he's bringing it up to blot against his hair, smiling shyly at me all the while, I reach out to turn the key in the ignition, ready to take us far away from here.
Before I can complete the motion, Tony has reached out and placed his cool fingers over mine, stopping the action. I turn my head and look into his eyes and...oh, God, he's staring at me *that* way again. I swallow and remain still, waiting until he decides to break the silence.
Instead of speaking, he pulls my hand away from the ignition and brings our joined fingers toward his mouth, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to one of my knuckles. There's nothing sensual about the gesture to me at all but my stomach does a slow, twisting flop just the same.
"You know I love you, don't you?"
His quiet question catches me totally unprepared and my breath catches in my throat and all I want to do is cry out my anger and my frustration and my resentment for all the injustices he's suffered in his short lifetime. We don't have much time left now, Ducky says it could be just a couple of months, six at the most, but Tony has repeatedly scoffed at those estimates, saying he's never felt better and he plans to live to be a grumpy, old man...like me. He's smiling sweetly now, like he knows what I'm thinking, and I have to smile right back.
I give his fingers a small squeeze and finally work up the courage to answer his question. "Sure...just like I love you."
And there's an ironic truth to that statement, he knows it and I know it, but it's the absolute truth. We'd die for each other and, even though we both know it's now impossible, Tony is prepared to live for me...even if it's only two months or six months or however long he can stand it. He loves me that much and I...well, let's just say when his time finally ends, I don't think there will be much reason to go on either.
I release his hand and start the ignition, waiting just long enough until Tony has secured his shoulder harness and is ready to go. We've got a lot to do before we can leave home today but I think we can beat the traffic out of the city if we time it just right. After all, it's important we start today, to take the first steps in our new life.
Besides, who knows what this new journey may bring?
FIN
Author's Chapter Notes:
This journey finally ends.
Chapter End Notes:
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