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Tony awoke with a groan, every fiber of his being vehemently protesting his suddenly very painful existence as his eyes cracked open to see early morning sunlight filling whatever room he had crashed in this time. His memory was doing him no favors, refusing to dredge up an explanation for his current predicament.


He lay sprawled across a bed, that much he knew, but there was something under him, tangled with various parts of him, that was most definitely not a mattress. He shifted, and whatever it was shifted, too. He couldn’t yet tell if the motion was independent of his own or not.


Tony slid his tongue over his teeth, searching for the telltale taste of stale alcohol that would indicate some sort of bender the previous evening to explain his current situation, but there was nothing beyond his typical morning breath. His head didn’t have that fuzzy feeling that came with prescription painkillers, so that was out, too.


His body was more vigorously painful than usual, which, in Tony’s wide and vast experience, indicated an injury of some kind. He dutifully followed that thought down a path leading to a treasure-trove of recent experiences that helped flesh out the bare bones of his memory.


Finally, many seconds past what was healthy for a seasoned federal agent who wanted to continue in the land of the living, Tony remembered where he was.


Well, this is awkward.


The not-mattress beneath him was none other than Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and the fact that Tony wasn’t immediately freaking out and updating his résumé in his head was a testament to his progress over the past several days. He was concerned, of course, but it was more logistical than anything. Tony was, all in all, surprisingly calm and philosophical about the whole thing. We’ve both held each other while the other cried like a baby, so I suppose we’ve reached the emotional version of “one of us brushing our teeth in the bathroom while the other uses the toilet three feet away” part of this strange relationship.


With that thought, Tony decided to risk an attempt to stand up. His various injuries were not thanking him for his less than prudent sleeping position. Apparently he had fallen asleep still half-fallen across his Boss, and at no point in the night had either man moved very much. Tony felt like he’d been hit by a truck, but, as this wasn’t his first rodeo, he was fairly confident that he could make it to his feet without falling.


At least, I can if I can get this limpet off of me.


Gibbs’ grip was strong, even in his sleep, and Tony wasn’t sure that he could extract himself without waking the older man. Based on Gibbs’ scream-infused awakening from his nightmare and the breakdown that followed, Tony wasn’t really surprised. Gibbs had displayed more emotion in a wider variety in the past two weeks than Tony had seen from him in the nine years he’d known him; there had to be some sort of fallout from that.


With a grunt that escaped despite his best efforts to keep quiet, Tony began the tricky task of extracting himself from his Boss’s hold. He wiggled and slithered with finesse and skill, and slowly, quietly, he made his way off the bed, eyes glued to Gibbs’ face to check for signs that the older man was disturbed by his movements.


Gibbs slept on, curling into himself a bit as Tony’s weight lifted.


With a sigh, Tony made his way out of Gibbs’ room to the bathroom down the hall. He leaned against the wall for support as he relieved himself, his aching, still-healing body not yet ready to forgive him for sleeping in such a ridiculous position all night. Needs attended, he washed his hands and brushed his teeth to remove the fuzzy taste of morning breath. Smacking his lips, he slowly made his way downstairs to find coffee.


As soon as he had a pot brewing and wafting the scent of coffee through the air, he found his solitude suddenly broken by the near-silent presence of a not-really-awake Gibbs. The older man made a beeline for the coffee, hands moving of their own volition to fill a mug before he brought it to his lips and drank deeply, emptying it in one go before immediately refilling it.


How does Gibbs do that? I would have burned every square inch of my mouth and throat if I tried it. And how does he know it’s here for the taking? His sense of smell must have been calibrated around coffee; the man can detect the barest hint of it a mile away.


The image of Gibbs getting caught in a box-and-stick trap with a cup of fresh coffee as bait popped suddenly into Tony’s mind, and, caught off guard by the mental picture, he started laughing into his own mug of coffee.


Gibbs lifted his head from contemplating his second cup of the morning to stare at Tony, and it was obvious that his Boss wasn’t firing on all cylinders yet. The older man did that shoulder-roll/neck jerk motion that indicated he was trying to process the information in front of him, which only made Tony laugh harder.


That brought out a bit of a glare from his Boss. The man obviously didn’t know what was so funny, but he clearly suspected that he was the target of Tony’s mirth. And he was. Oh, how he was!


~***N*C*I*S***~


Gibbs scowled at his Senior Field Agent, his half-awake brain unable to determine exactly what was so funny but certain that he was the target of his friend’s good humor. Truthfully, he wasn’t nearly as annoyed as his expression might portray, but old habits died hard.


To be honest, Gibbs wasn’t much of a morning person. That little tidbit would come as a surprise to many people, but it was true. Gibbs was a coffee person. Give him enough java and he could power through just about anything, even a rain-soaked crime scene replete with fresh bodies at 0400 after two hours of sleep. Remove coffee from the equation, however, and Gibbs entire mental state shifted into some weird hybrid of monster come to life and addict in withdrawal.


It wasn’t pretty. Not pretty at all.


It wasn’t that Gibbs couldn’t function without coffee. He simply didn’t want to. He liked coffee - the smell, the taste, the warmth, everything about it. Rule 23 existed for a reason, and people violated it at their own risk.


And Tony was laughing at him and his coffee, of this Gibbs was sure. Possibly even mocking. Gibbs growled into his cup at the thought of anyone daring to scoff at, or even worse, actually come between him and his coffee. His trigger finger twitched at the mere thought of it.


From the corner of his eye, Gibbs saw Tony shift nervously on his feet as his chuckles died away, and the barest twitch of a smile died a premature death on his lips at the sight. I still got it, he thought as he gave a mental sigh of contentment and took another sip.


~***N*C*I*S***~


The sudden knock on the front door interrupted what could have proven to be a dangerous moment, and Tony practically ran out of the room as he rushed to answer the door, grateful for a chance to escape the tension in the kitchen.


To Tony’s surprise, he found Tobias Fornell on the other side of the door, his right hand raised to knock again, his left holding a briefcase.


“Fornell, what are you doing knocking on Gibbs’ door at 6:30 in the morning?”


“Well, DiNotzo, I’m sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, but I wanted to talk to Gibbs.”


“Yeah, I understand that, Toby, but why are you knocking ? You know he doesn’t lock his front door.” Tony gestured for Fornell to enter with a wave of his hand, and he shut the door behind the FBI agent as he made his way inside.


The agent in question glared at Tony for what the younger man could only assume was his somewhat flippant use of Toby , but, used as he was to Gibbs’ potent glare, Fornell’s gaze simply rolled off him, leaving him unfazed. He just grinned his most annoying grin and nodded. Fornell, knowing when he was beat, turned away and made his way to the kitchen.


Though Tony had yet to admit it to anyone, he actually liked Tobias Fornell. He had long ago forgiven him for arresting him for murder - twice! Tony certainly understood what it was like to be handed a crappy assignment and be expected to spin it into gold for the brass. He knew that, at least in the first instance, the FBI agent had not pressed nearly as hard as he could have. Had the formidable man actually applied himself fully, he could have buried Tony beneath the jail before Gibbs or anyone else could do a thing to save him, but he hadn’t out of respect for Gibbs, even though he didn’t seem to like Tony much at the time. That had obviously changed at some point because he had offered Tony a job after Gibbs ran off to Mexico.


The second time, well, Tony knew that the man had been under intense pressure to wrap up the disaster that was La Grenouille in a nice neat bow for the higher ups who simply wanted to sweep the whole mess under the rug, and Tony was a convenient scapegoat with an apparent eyewitness against him. Tony didn’t think for a moment that Fornell had really believed that he had killed Benoit. Either way, that mess was over and Tony had once again been vindicated.


“Ah, Jethro, mind if I have some coffee?” Fornell didn’t wait for an answer before helping himself to a mug and pouring himself a steaming cup, finishing off the pot. He ignored Gibbs’ glare as he dug around for some sugar to make the strong brew more palatable before finding Tony’s stash and doctoring his cup to his liking. He drank down half the cup in one go, Gibbs-style. One addict, two addict, red addict, blue addict.


“That’s better. Morning, Gibbs. Sleep well? Nice bedhead, by the way.”


“Tobias.” Gibbs didn’t yell, glare, or put any particular inflection in his voice, but Tony instinctively heard the threat of danger anyway, and apparently Fornell did, too, because he swiftly changed the subject.


“I’ve got some news for you, Jethro. Can we speak in private?”


Tony looked on as the two men locked eyes and engaged in a silent conversation. He suddenly felt a pang of appreciation for his teammates’ consternation at he and Gibbs’ ability to have entire discussions without speaking. It was weird to see it from the outside.


Gibbs and Fornell reached some sort of agreement, and Gibbs tipped his head towards the basement door before pushing off the counter and making his way down the steps, Fornell on his heels. The slam of the basement door behind the two men told Tony in no uncertain terms that he was not welcome to join them.


Tony frowned at the closed door before shrugging and making his way to the fridge. If he couldn’t listen in, he could at least make breakfast. He was famished.


~***N*C*I*S***~


Gibbs leaned against his workbench and gazed longingly at his bottle of bourbon as he wondered if the grief he would catch from Fornell would be worth pouring himself a drink this early in the morning. Gibbs didn’t normally imbibe before dinner - he wasn’t an alcoholic, after all - but his gut was tightening uncomfortably in warning at what was to come. He thought a drink might help make whatever Fornell had to say more bearable.


“I did what you asked and did some digging. Not sure to make of what I found, though.”


And there it was. All thoughts of bourbon fled Gibbs’ mind as his hands tightened on the workbench. He had called Tobias a few days ago to ask the bemused man a favor. The two men were long past the point of keeping score of who owed whom what. The combination of professional trust and long-standing if somewhat oddball friendship meant that they had each others’ back, no questions asked. It would all even out in the end.


He wanted information on four very important people: Senior, Donovan, Max, and Jake. Tobias could be discreet when he wanted to be, and he was removed enough from the situation that, should his snooping be discovered, it would not be immediately traced back to Gibbs. Of course, anybody who had any kind of insider knowledge would know that the two men were friends, but any extra layer of protection was worth taking. Besides, this kept the rest of the team out of it.


Gibbs knew he was treading on thin ice, risking Tony’s secrets, but it had to be done. He knew he could trust Tobias; keeping his curiosity at bay was a much harder proposition but not impossible. He’d throw the man a bone if he had to, but his functional mute abilities were usually stronger than his friend’s need to know. Usually.


“Whatchya got, Tobias?”


The other man wasted no time in opening his briefcase, pulling out four file folders, and spreading them out on the workbench, each neatly labeled: Anthony D. DiNozzo, Sr., Donovan M. Cunningham III, Maximus G. Winchester, and Jacob W. McCallister.


“It took me a while to track down those three with only first names and a school, but based on what little you’ve told me, this is them. I gotta tell ya, Gibbs, it’s interesting reading, especially with Senior in the mix. Mind telling me what’s going on?”


Gibbs’ glare was all the answer he was willing to give, and the two men stood opposite one another, each attempting to stare the other down. Fornell broke first, raising his hands in surrender.


“Okay, okay, I get it. Need to know, yadda yadda. I expect a bottle of scotch for this, and none of that bottom shelf crap. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure DiNotzo’s caught up in it somehow. You’ve certainly got your hands full with that one. Let me know if you need help. Anyway, duty calls. Don’t worry, I’ll show myself out.”


Tobias made his way up the stairs with a wave, muttering about secretive NCIS agents under his breath the whole way. Gibbs heard his footsteps above him as he crossed the living room, heard the sound of muted voices exchanging goodbyes or possibly parting blows before the front door closed and silence settled around him.


Gibbs stared at the folders in front of him for a few moments before reaching over and grabbing one, flipping it open as he settled onto his shop stool.


Time to get to work.

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