Part 1

'Where's Gibbs?'

Coming back from the break room, a bottle of water in one hand and an ice pack in the other, DiNozzo paused and let his gaze drift around the darkened bullpen. McGee, fast becoming a permanent fixture around the place, had appropriated the desk to his left, but otherwise the area was deserted. Not a problem, except that Tony was never entirely at ease when Gibbs was not around: one, because it meant the man was likely to creep up on him, which more often than not resulted in a head slap – not that he was doing anything to merit one at that moment – and two, because after the day they had today, Tony needed the reassurance of his connection to the man.

McGee's hands faltered nervously above the keyboard. 'Ahhm.. I'm not sure. Think he mentioned something about clearing out Agent Pacci's desk?' With a shrug, he went back to his typing, pecking at a few keys before pausing again, throwing Tony a puzzled frown. 'Is Agent Gibbs always - like this?'

'This?' Tony pushed up onto his toes and smiled as he spotted the familiar grey head bending over the far desk. With Gibbs close by he found that he could finally relax, yet at the same time he felt a stab of guilt that he had been left to carry out such a maudlin task alone.

'Focussed,' explained McGee.

'Focussed?'

'Well, shouldn't Agent Pacci's supervisor be dealing with that? I mean, he wasn't on Gibbs' team. It's not like he was –'

Tony understood then: McGee wasn't one of them. Like Kate, who had identified Chris as 'the agent who sits behind me', he didn't know. 'Pacci was more than just an agent, McGee,' he explained, unusually gentle. 'He was our friend.'

A good friend, he acknowledged, one whose life had been brought to an abrupt end on the floor of an elevator, shot through the neck and his belly ripped open. If Tony closed his eyes he could still see it, still smell the coppery tang of blood and the foetid stench of lacerated bowel. He knew the image would remain with him, to be played out on the movie screen in his head for a long time to come. To his shame, after the first glimpse of Pacci's body he had actually been grateful when Gibbs had sent him upstairs with Kate to check out the murder scene. It was always different when it was someone you knew. Very different.

And if it had that effect on him, what the hell must it be doing to Gibbs?

The coffee in the cup on Gibbs' desk was still reasonably hot, even if it was a long way short of the scalding liquid the older man preferred. He was convinced that Gibbs either had an asbestos lining to his mouth, or constant exposure to boiling liquid had burned away his nerve endings.

Treading carefully, because anything more energetic sent a burst of excruciating pain through his battered skull, he carried the cup over to where Gibbs had installed himself at the deceased agent's desk, pausing at the corner of Kate's workstation, out of arm's reach.

'Boss?'

Three years of watching Gibb's six had taught him how the Marine responded to unexpected interruptions when he was so deeply engrossed in something and so he was prepared for the reaction, the sharp turn of Gibbs' head and narrowing of the blue eyes, and the way his hand twitched instinctually to his hip for his weapon. It was a Marine thing, a throwback to all those long nights under fire, never knowing who or what was trying to sneak up on you. He wondered how many times one of his wives had tried to wake him, only to find herself staring down the business end of a Sig.

'What, DiNozzo?'

Tony stepped forward, not quite smiling, and casually placed the cup on the desk within easy reach of Gibbs' hand. 'Coffee's getting cold.'

The severe scrutiny lasted a heartbeat longer - even though Gibbs must have known that the day had long passed when Tony could be intimidated by that particular expression - but the harshness of it only served to make the small smile of gratitude that followed even more welcome.

'Thanks.' He claimed the cup, downing a long swallow, the instant approval rumbling up from his chest making Tony laugh. He was always amazed at how Gibbs could make something as simple as the drinking of coffee sound like a religious experience. The devil in him almost wanted to ask which Gibbs enjoyed more - coffee or sex - but one crack on the head was enough for one day, and it wasn't really important anyway because he had a pretty good idea what the answer would be. Relaxing slightly, he contented himself with leaning against the edge of the cubicle, indulging in his favourite pastime of 'Gibbs-watching'.

There was a cardboard box beside him and Gibbs was systematically working his way through each drawer of Pacci's desk, taking out any personal possessions and checking them over before packing them away. It was something he had seen Gibbs do before, though never with such intense concentration.

'You got much more to do?' Tony asked, winning a chill look for his trouble.

'Why? You got a hot date, DiNozzo?'

Tony winced at the memory of Gibbs asking him almost the same question, in almost the same angry tone, just a few days ago. Just after they returned from the crime scene. Once again, as he had then, he shook his head, ashamed to appear so shallow in Gibbs' eyes.

'No date, boss. Just ... worried about you.' There, for once he had admitted his concern, and the world hadn't stopped spinning, and the sky had not fallen down.

'Why?'

'Because you've been driving yourself into the ground over this case - and I'm not saying that's a bad thing: we both wanted to get whoever killed Chris, but we've done that. Chris can rest easy. You should go home, boss.'

'And do what?'

'Work on your boat... Get drunk... Whatever.'

'I need to finish this.' The anger had left Gibbs' voice now, leaving behind only sadness barely held in check. 'I - want to finish it.'

'I know, but - it'll still be here in the morning. Go home, Gibbs.'

A tiny chuckle, an indulgent smile. 'You trying to get rid of me, DiNozzo?'

'Not exactly.' Tony met the smile with one of his own. 'But Chris was a friend: we cared about him and he cared about us. Tomorrow there'll be another case to investigate, and the last thing he'd want would be for something to happen to either of us because we... were too...' He paused, reacting to a flicker of – something in the blue eyes. 'Sorry, boss. Didn't mean to imply...'

The words faded into silence under the intensity of Gibbs' gaze and Tony wondered if he had finally overstepped the boundary between supervisor and subordinate. The fact that they had both been friends with Pacci did not necessarily mean that they were friends with each other. Hell, most of the time Tony wasn't even sure that Gibbs liked him. Tolerated him, maybe, and recognised he had certain - talents - when it came to investigation, but friendship?

'Don't apologise, Tony.' The whisper of a sigh. 'You're right.' The admission was softly spoken but it brought with it a visible change as Gibbs relaxed back into the chair, scrubbing his hands over a face that seemed to Tony to have aged five years in the last few days.

'Then... go home,' he pressed.

'I will. Soon as I'm done here.' He indicated the box.

Knowing he was not going to win this round, Tony shook his head and turned away, not wanting Gibbs to see his growing anger. Why couldn't the man take care of himself? Why did he always have to go that one extra yard? He would kill himself one day or, worse, drop his guard and let someone else do it for him.

'I expected there to be more.' Gibbs' voice drew Tony's attention back to the box. There was a small collection of reference books inside, an assortment of personal pens, a coffee cup, a desk calendar made from brightly coloured wooden blocks and a small plastic bag containing a shoe cleaning kit. The few photographs that had personalised the cubicle lay on top, most of them images of places rather than people. Chris had never been much of a 'people person', but in the last year, since the death of his partner, he had devoted all of his time and energy to the job, filling in the spaces between active cases by going back over unsolved crimes. Looking for closure, Abby had once said.

'Is that it?' Tony asked.

'Almost. Not much for six years, is it?'

Gibbs reached down and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside were notebooks of various sizes, some old maps made obsolete by the advent of GPS, and some empty file folders. The maps went into the trash, the folders would go back into central stores, while the notebooks were placed with a leather-bound journal which, Tony knew, Gibbs would go through in private. Beneath them all lay an envelope, sealed, and with a name in Pacci's familiar block lettering written across the front.

'Who's it addressed to?' Tony asked, biting back the guilty hope that it would not be him. Once, when he was working in Philadelphia, one of his co-workers had bequeathed him the task of going through his effects. Unfortunately, the man had not only had a wife and several siblings, but a whole string of girlfriends, all of whom had taken it into their heads to blame Tony for the mess when the various permutations of their lives had been uncovered.

'Me' Gibbs whispered, then he paused and Tony heard him clear his throat and swallow hard before he was able to continue, his voice ragged now. 'Say's it's only to be .. opened in the event of his...' He fell silent, shaking his head, unable to finish.

In all their time together, Tony had never heard such anguish in his voice and he wanted so badly to respond to it, to make some small gesture that would let Gibbs know that he understood, shared his sorrow, but he found that he couldn't move. Whatever he did at that moment would be too much for Gibbs, too little for himself.

'Why me?' Blue eyes fixed on green in mute appeal, and Tony felt the shock go right through him as he registered the glint of moisture resting just above the line of the long lower lashes. At that moment it would have been so easy for him to throw caution to the wind, take Gibbs into his arms and hold him until the pain went away. But the security cameras ran twenty-four-seven, and the rest of the team were just a few feet away, and if word ever got out then the damage to Gibbs' reputation would be - irreparable.

After all, Marines don't cry.

But, Tony could at least offer the man some privacy as he struggled to regain his composure, and so he shifted forward and to the right and leaned back against the screen, effectively blocking Gibbs from both the cameras and the view from the bullpen. The movement was executed so quickly and casually that even the most intent observer would hardly notice, but his gaze did not falter, locked onto the watery blue orbs, offering the silent support he knew was all Gibbs could accept.

'I guess... he knew he could trust you. Whatever is in there, he'd want to make sure it got to the right person and he'd know you would do that for him. As a friend. The way you would for me...' A shrug, a hastily added: 'For any of us...'

'Yeah.' A crooked smile, a real, warm smile that came from the soul. 'Yeah, I would.' He ducked his head, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets to eradicate the evidence of his moment of weakness. When he looked up again, Tony was relieved to see a spark of the old Gibbs shining through.

'Thanks, Tony,' he said, and Tony had to laugh then because Jethro Gibbs rarely thanked anyone for their help. But laughing revived his headache and the laughter turned into a moan of discomfort.

'Sounds like you should listen to your own advice, DiNozzo,' Gibbs observed. 'How's the head?'

A shrug: 'I've had worse,' Tony confessed, and it was true. There were times when it felt as if not a week went by without him getting hit over the head at least once, and that was discounting the head slaps Gibbs delivered on an almost daily basis.

Gibbs' eyes smiled at him, suddenly a softer blue than usual, as they responded with a silent 'I know', but aloud he only asked 'What did the doc say?'

'The usual - mild concussion. Told me to watch for the symptoms, get plenty of rest, yadda-yadda...'

'You gonna listen to him this time?'

'Do I ever?' Tony scrubbed a hand across his face, as the emotional backwash started to creep over him at last. Sometimes, he decided, it was better to just go down, stay down and let the world roll over you. 'I'll go home, soon as the little guy in my head stops with the jack hammer.'

'They give you anything for the pain?'

'Vicodin,' he answered bleakly.

Gibbs made a little 'huffing' sound, not quite a laugh. 'Which you hate,' he said knowingly.

'Which I hate,' Tony agreed. Hated the feeling of not quite being in touch with reality that the drug produced, the sluggish, fuzzy sensation and the constant nausea that went with it. Hated the way it screwed up his system, too, if he took more than a couple of doses. Most times it was easier all round just to work through the pain.

Gibbs was watching him closely, as if he was waiting for Tony to do or say something more. Tony bore it a moment longer, until it started to become - he guessed the best way to describe it was mildly embarrassing, although even that did not really hit the mark. Being subjected to such intense scrutiny made him feel like something under the microscope in Abby's lab. Coupled to that, there was an odd smile playing tag with Gibbs' lips, almost as if he knew something, some big secret that a part of him wanted to share. After a moment he nodded, as if he had come to a decision, and then jerked his head towards the bullpen.

'Go sit down, DiNozzo, before you fall down. Soon as I'm done here I'll take you home.'

The prospect of being bounced around by Gibbs' 'point and shoot' style of driving did not really appeal to Tony, given his current condition. He'd been hit over the head with a bottle: no big deal. He was okay. He could still drive...

'Ah...That's okay, boss. I'll be -' Tony began, but Gibbs' gruff 'Not making a suggestion, Tony...' efficiently deleted the rest of his protest. Gibbs would be driving him home tonight - end of story.

Resigned to the inevitable, Tony pushed himself to his feet 'Thanks, boss,' he murmured, belatedly realising that the gratitude was genuine. An extra half-hour in Gibbs' company, in the confined space of Gibb's car, would more than make up for the discomfort of the journey. 'I'll go... close my eyes for a few minutes...'

He turned and had taken only a couple of steps away from Pacci's desk, when he heard Gibbs call his name again, so softly this time that it barely reached beyond the shadowed workstation.

'Yeah boss?'

Without looking up from the open notebook in his hand, Gibbs said: 'My desk... right side... bottom drawer.'

Tony frowned. 'What am I looking for?'

'Grunt candy,' was the curt reply. 'Take whatever you need.'

Gibbs did look up then, and what Tony saw in those eyes stole his breath away. He had always known that Gibbs cared - he cared about all of his team, so there was nothing new in that, and Tony knew that he was no more special in the boss' eyes than any of the others. Or at least, he thought that was how things were. But this? This was different in so many ways. What he saw in Gibbs' eyes at that moment went way beyond the kind of platonic caring that a supervisor was expected to feel for his subordinate, for layered over the sympathy he saw... need..; appended to the indulgent affection, he saw ...desire; and behind the concern, he saw.... hope.

Something inside him began spinning wildly, out of control, and he started to take a step forward, hand lifting towards Gibbs - who in that same moment turned away, back to the mournful task of dismantling Pacci's life. Had he been mistaken? Was the stress of the day playing tricks with his imagination, making him see what he so desperately wanted to see, and not the reality?

He let his hand fall, whispering his thanks as he headed back to the bullpen. Whatever he had seen was gone now, but had it been an unconscious slip, or a deliberate tease? He quickly dismissed the latter, not wanting to believe that Gibbs would ever be that intentionally cruel, but what did that leave?

The confusion was making his headache worse and he went in search of the offered 'grunt candy' - marine-speak for over-the-counter pain medication. He had just located the bottle when he became aware of Kate standing beside the desk, watching him.

'If Gibbs catches you going through his things...' she cautioned, peering over his shoulder to see what he had taken. 'Aspirin?'

'Yeah. For the pain in my ass,' he sniped, fixing her with a look that would leave her in no doubt who he considered the cause of that 'pain'.

'DiNozzo...' There was a note of warning hidden in the softness of Gibbs' voice. Kate looked around, surprised , and Tony found himself fighting to control a grin. Point to him.

'Sorry, boss,' he called, poking out his tongue at her.

'Gibbs?' She moved away, to her own desk, peeking over the partition. 'I - didn't know you were there.'

'Apparently not,' Gibbs observed dryly.

Tony went back to his cubicle, chomping on a handful of the pills. The water he had brought from the break room was no longer icy cold, but it was good enough to wash down the medication. It would hold him until Gibbs got him home, where he could take a long, hot shower and fall into bed, try to forget the day.

Resting his crossed arms on the desk, he lay his head down, placed the ice pack gingerly over the lump on his skull and closed his eyes. He could hear Kate talking to Gibbs over the top of her cubicle, stupidly asking why he was going through Pacci's notebooks, one-by-one, and he could hear the strain in Gibbs' response that he did not want Chris' family getting any nasty shocks. Not that Pacci had much family to claim him. His father had been lost in Vietnam before Chris was even born. He was still listed as MIA, but Chris had stopped believing in that a long time ago. He had a mother somewhere, still alive as far as Tony knew, although Chris had not spoken to her in over ten years. Profoundly religious, she had damned him to hell when he had admitted to her that he was gay and had cut him out of her life forever, at which point Chris had retreated so far back into the closet that he would probably have stayed celibate for the rest of his life, had it not been for a young paramedic named Mathew Weir. Three years later, just as Tony was making the move from Baltimore PD to NCIS, Chris and Matt had set up home together in a small apartment in Silver Springs, remaining there in happily unwedded bliss for ten months - until a drunk driver with a switchblade had taken Matt away from him. Now there was just an uncle, his father's brother, living in Idaho. He was flying in on Monday to oversee the funeral arrangements: Tony hoped he would be willing to go along with Pacci's wish to be buried with his lover.

He sighed: at least Chris and Matt had been able to make a life together, to acknowledge their feelings for each other, if only for a few months. Tony doubted he would ever have that. Chris and Matt had faced their own share of prejudice and abuse, but they had been able to live their lives openly. As a civilian Tony might be accorded the same freedom under the law, but the only man with whom he was interested in one day sharing his life was one hundred percent Marine Corps. However Gibbs might feel about him, the possibility of any kind of physical relationship between them was a non-starter. However he might feel, he would never put his own career, or Tony's, at risk. Not that Gibbs would ever be interested. Three failed marriages and an ill-concealed appetite for women with red hair made it obvious which team his boss played for. The only good thing was that Gibbs had never displayed any hang-ups about what other guys did: the way he had supported Chris and Matt had always proved that.

His back was starting to ache so he sat up, in time to see Gibbs walking back to his desk, the box in his hands. A shiver of anticipation spread across his skin at the realisation that in a few more minutes Gibbs would be ready to leave. Maybe he should suggest ordering dinner on the way and persuade Gibbs to join him. It was the least he could do in return for the ride and the pain pills. And it was early yet: it would be good to spend some time together away from the office, even if it was for no other reason than sharing pizza, a beer and some good memories of a lost friend.

And then Kate had to go and ruin it all.

Abby had come up from her lab and was talking to McGee. Tony wasn't really paying much attention to their conversation, more interested at that moment in watching Gibbs. He was still wearing the black suit and white shirt that he had put on for Pacci's memorial service, and Tony could not help thinking it was a good look on him. Okay, so the suit wasn't top of the range, but it was still a good cut and the dark fabric teamed with the silver hair and blue eyes was - a stunning combination. In fact looking back, Tony recalled how hot he had thought the boss looked when he had arrived at the stakeout that morning.

As if sensing Tony's eyes on him, Gibbs slanted his own in the younger man's direction, a flick of a brow silently asking if he was okay - a question Tony answered with the slightest inclination of his head. That was all that was needed, the empathy between them never stronger. At times he found it frightening how well Gibbs could 'read' him, how easily they could communicate without saying a word.

It was a skill he wished the others would take time to cultivate - not least Abby and McGee, who were jabbering away about the case. He had almost succeeded in tuning them out when he caught the reference to the movie 'Crying Game', and his heart sank. He knew that particular movie, and he had wondered how long it would take them to get around to that aspect of the case. Sure, Amanda Reed had fooled him - fooled all of them - but his revulsion had little to do with sexual identity. Reed, or Voss, or whatever he chose to call himself, had butchered Chris Pacci, and it was the memory of what he had seen in the elevator, the knowledge of what had been done to his friend that had freaked him out.

He asked Abby to change the subject and she, bless her, had suggested another movie, smiling when Tony told her that one was okay. 'Victor/Victoria' was actually a movie he quite liked, although that was more for the humour of Robert Preston's 'aging queen with a head cold' than Julie Andrews performance.

Gibbs was busy sealing the box, rummaging in his desk for a reel of duck tape. Just another couple of minutes and Tony would be able to escape. He leaned his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes again, trying to imagine the evening they might have if Gibbs would accept the offer of dinner. There was a little Italian place, not far from his apartment, that did wonderful take-out, and there was a bottle of wine already chilled in the fridge. Pizza was okay for everyday, but he figured they could both use a little pampering. Some of the others were holding a wake for Pacci, but he didn't really feel up to that and, from the strain on Gibbs' face, he wasn't either. A good meal - would candles be too much? - and a bottle of wine, a little piano music playing softly in the background, just to set the mood. When the wine began to mellow them he would offer Gibbs the use of his couch and go to bed, looking forward to the morning and the chance to share breakfast. Tomorrow was Saturday and, with no cases pending, they would have the day to...

'Speaking of way beyond hinkey, Tony...'

The daydream shattered under the sharpness of Kate's voice. He had tuned out their conversation, cut himself off from it, so he was not quite sure of what was coming. Still, it was only Kate. They had been sparring like siblings on an almost daily basis for a year now and she would know he could give as good as he got. Better to get it over with now so they could all forget about it and move on.

Sitting back, he met her gaze and issued the challenge. 'Okay, Kate, give it to me. I can take it.' He grinned at her, but it was the smile that he used when interrogating suspects, not the one he reserved for the people that mattered. The brittle, wolfish grin that turned cold before it could reach his eyes.

She leaned in, her hands flat on his desk, her face close enough to his that he could smell the sweet fruity aroma of the soft drink she had consumed earlier. From the corner of his eye, Tony could see Gibbs pause and turn to watch them, his gaze concerned. But there was no need for him to worry, Tony could handle it...

'What was it like... ' A pause for effect – he had to admit she was good at this. He almost missed the sudden change in her demeanour, the barely perceptible narrowing of her eyes, the way the pupils expanded as she scented her prey, and suddenly things were not as straightforward as they had been. Then she blindsided him, and his world collapsed. '...tonguing a guy....'

He had expected it to be something to do with the case, some jibe about his intelligence and how had he not realised that the 'she' he was lusting after was really a 'he'. What he had not anticipated was the wave of pure revulsion that crashed through him at the memory of what Voss had done to his friend. Killing Pacci was bad enough, but what Voss had done afterwards, the sheer callousness of the act, left him feeling sick to his stomach. He would never, ever, forget what he had seen in that elevator and he could only hope and pray that Ducky was right, that Chris had been dead by the time his body was ripped apart. It didn't bother him that the 'woman' he had kissed was a guy, he had kissed guys before – hell, he had even kissed a transvestite, although to be fair that had happened during one of the wilder frat parties back in the day. He had no hang-ups about the gender of his date: but he did have problems when that 'date' turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer. If Kate had caught him 'tonguing a guy', as she termed it, in a bar then he would have taken anything she chose to hand out by way of humiliation, but not like this. Pacci was a friend – as Abby said, he was family – and he deserved better.

Suddenly it all became too much for him. He saw Gibbs take a step towards him but a quick shake of his head stopped him in his tracks. He would deal this in his own way – and that way was to get as far away from Caitlin Todd as he could.

'Forget it,' he told her in a voice that was devoid of all emotion. 'I can't take it.'

With that he snagged his coat and backpack, heading to the elevator before anyone could stop him. No word in her direction, no backwards glance, just get the hell out before he said or did something he would regret.

The last thing he heard, as the elevator doors slid shut, was Gibbs' voice lifting in anger.