Archive of Our Own

"What's up, Boss?" Tony asked as Gibbs stormed down the stairs into the bullpen and forcefully threw his empty coffee cup into the closest trash can. As a guide, Tony was unusually perceptive of Gibbs' moods, but he didn't need his empathic skills to know that the other agent was furious: even McGee would be able to figure it out from the storm cloud on his face.

"FBI's worming in on our case," he growled, slamming down into his desk chair.

Tony glanced at his phone, but he had no new messages. "Fornell wasn't at the scene this morning; when did he decide to stick his nose in?"

"Not Fornell," Gibbs said curtly.

Internally, Tony suppressed a sigh. Gibbs was frustrating enough to deal with when Fornell tried to poach their cases, since they were at least friends. His mood devolved by an order of magnitude when the FBI sent someone else, however. And from the direction he had come from, it was clear that Gibbs had already tried to appeal to Madam Director and been overruled. That was a whole other situation that infuriated Gibbs, and which could only amplify his anger at the FBI. Tony was not looking forward to dealing with Gibbs in that kind of compounded bad mood all day. It would be bad enough if McGee or Kate were in a mood, but Gibbs was a special case.

Tony had known before he came to NCIS that Gibbs was a dormant sentinel — it wasn't something that could be hidden from a guide; especially a high order guide like himself. It had only taken a little discrete digging — something that Tony would have done anyways before accepting a job offer — to figure out why. Gibbs never mentioned the loss of his wife and daughter, and Tony had no intention of ever bringing it up, but the fact that his dormancy was from grief over being a bond widow, rather than some kind of psychopathy, meant that Tony no longer had reservations about taking the job.

He had honestly expected Gibbs to be the one to object to working with an active guide, but he had drunkenly confessed just before Kate's arrival that Tony didn't rub him the wrong way like most guides. After a bit of research, and talking to the local Alphas, AJ and Harm, Tony came to the conclusion that Gibbs was probably referring to Tony's natural tendency to keep himself very tightly shielded.

Most guides let a little of their aura hover outside of their shields, to make it easier to do basic reading or projection without having to thin their shields at all. It wasn't enough for any but the most sensitive mundanes to get more than a fleeting impression of, but more than enough for a dormant sentinel to pick up on. Tony, however, preferred to keep everything locked down tight, even if it meant he took an extra second to access his abilities. DiNozzos didn't show weaknesses like emotions, after all. And if that choice also made things easier on Gibbs, then Tony didn't regret it in the slightest.

It also explained why Gibbs tended to surround himself with mundanes — Tony was the only guide or sentinel to work on or with the MCRT. If Gerald had been a full guide, instead of a latent one, there might have been problems, but Gibbs' dormancy meant that he couldn't sense latents anymore.

Another byproduct of Tony's tight shielding — and the main reason he had maintained them that way — was that he read as a middle or low order guide until he opened his shields. Since those were far more common that high order guides, it ensured that Tony could continue to go undercover in most instances.

Knowing that Gibbs cared so little for working with guides, Tony considered it a point of pride that his undercover and investigative talents had been strong enough to overcome that stigma. Unlike most federal agencies and the military, who actively courted high order sentinels and guides, Gibbs had picked Tony despite his empathic abilities, not because of them.

The only downside to their relationship was Gibbs's emotional projection. There weren't exactly a lot of studies performed on bond widows, scarce as they were, so Tony wasn't sure if it was related or not. But regardless of the reason, Gibbs projected his emotions fairly strongly.

It was part of the reason that Tony could read Gibbs so well, while mundanes found themselves stymied by his typical poker face. There were also the minute body language tells, and the experience living in each other's pockets that gave them insight into what the other was thinking, but the emotional projection certainly helped Tony pick up on those things at the start. For the most part only guides would pick up Gibbs' emotions, and only high order ones could do it reliably, but his projection could also come in handy in interrogation.

Tony had fine tuned the ability to give Gibbs's projections a little amplification, until they were being broadcast on mundane channels. It was a great effect when they were playing bad cop, good cop: the suspect knew instinctively exactly how pissed off Gibbs was, yet Tony was still able to project his own good — or more usually, annoying or bored — emotions on his own wavelengths.

But the flip side of that parlor trick was that, when Gibbs was beyond mad and into pissed off territory, Tony felt it like an itch under his skin all day. A day dealing with non-Fornell Fibbies was a recipe for Tony to spend the day frustratingly buffeted by Gibbs's emotions. The last time it had been this bad was the Marine recruiter case, and Tony had been ready to kiss Abby for putting Kate undercover in the same room as Gibbs, instead of himself. Tony had made sure to play up his annoyance, but he was honestly relieved to be playing electrician instead of marinating in Gibbs's upset.

"What do the Bureau boys want with our case?" Tony asked. They had rolled out early this morning for what appeared to be a fairly standard murder of a Petty Officer. His girlfriend was a junkie, and he was a former gangbanger, so they weren't exactly hurting for suspects. Tony might have suspected some kind of gang task force, but Kate had already talked to the NCIS one, and there weren't any active turf wars that might make this murder part of a bigger picture.

"It's the BAU," Gibbs replied shortly, viciously tapping on his keyboard.

Tony whistled, eyebrows raising. That was unexpected.

"BAU?" McGee parroted.

"Profilers, Probie," Tony explained. "Means they think our Petty Officer was the victim of a serial killer."

"Oh," he said quietly, returning to his computer screen.

Tony did the same, quickly looking for other cases in the database that matched what little they had. There hadn't been any strange trinkets or unusual knots or any of the other things that you tended to think of as being the signature of a serial killer, but that didn't always mean anything. It could be a pattern of date, or location, or so on — the kind of thing that wouldn't be apparent at their crime scene, but which would make their case fit into the BAU's established pattern.

"How is this going to work, logistically?" Kate asked. With her experience with the Secret Service, she was used to the minutia of logistics and coordinating efforts.

"They're setting up in one of the empty conference rooms down the hall," Gibbs explained. "Something about needing to coordinate with their technical analyst. Two others are heading to the scene, which means that's where you and I are heading, McGee." Of course Gibbs would insist on supervising the Fibbies at the crime scene; Tony barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Kate, you'll take care of the interview with the girlfriend, along with one of theirs. Don't let him take over, though; this is still our case," Gibbs continued.

"And me, Boss?" Tony asked lightly.

"Coordinate here," Gibbs replied shortly. "You'll probably have to explain what the hell a Petty Officer is while you're at it," he added in a grumble, then yanked open his drawer to pull out his gun and badge.

"You got it," Tony agreed with a large grin. From Kate's expression as she and McGee followed suit, he could tell she didn't understand the subtext of his orders. That was fine; Tony had understood every unspoken word.

The Fibbies were coming to NCIS, which meant they were coming into Gibbs' home. Tony's primary duties would be to 'coordinate' with — aka defend — Abby and Ducky. Gibbs was going to focus on the crime scene and the investigation, in other words, the victim. Tony would play host, fill in whatever blanks the Fibbies had about the differences between a military and civilian victim, clear military channels as needed, and quietly protect the weaker members of their pack. In Gibbs's world, Tony had the most important job, and it said a lot about how much he was trusted to handle it.

Though Ari was dead — Tony had locked him inside his worst nightmare long enough for Gibbs to put a bullet in his head — none of them had forgotten his first foray into NCIS, nor his second salvo, and how close they had come to losing Abby on that case.

If Tony hadn't become a shaman after coding while fighting the plague, if Blair hadn't taught him how to connect to other shamans, if shaman Adanna hadn't taught him how to overcome psionic shielding and shred an opponent's mind, if Tony hadn't picked up aura reading so readily so that he could pinpoint dangerous intentions at a distance… if, if, if. Ifs had almost cost them Ducky, Gerald, Kate, Abby, and McGee.

No, Tony didn't blame Gibbs for his caution at all. And he would be damned if he let anything happen now to the family that he had worked so hard to protect.

About twenty minutes after Gibbs and the others left, Security called up to tell Tony that their BAU guests had arrived. "I'll be right down," he promised.

Taking the stairs was faster, and Tony hit the lobby in no time. The BAU had sent two agents and someone that Tony assumed was an analyst, based on the impracticality of her busting down doors in that skirt and heels. The two bulging equipment bags at her feet supported that impression. She had curly blonde hair, brightly patterned clothes, and an exuberant smile. She was also a bonded guide.

"I see you rate two bodyguards," Tony said, giving her a coy smile and holding out his hand, ignoring the two agents for the moment. When she offered her own with a giggle, he kissed the back of her knuckles instead of shaking. That made the closer agent — a well muscled black man who was also a bonded sentinel — growl warningly. Clearly she was his guide, and Tony had no doubt that if he had been a sentinel instead of a guide he'd have earned himself grave bodily harm for that move.

"Guide Penelope Garcia," she said, tone bubbly, "FBI Technical Analyst. And I can tell that you're going to be trouble." Neither of them seemed to have picked up on the fact that Tony was using his touch empathy to get a read on her — something that even guides had to be looking for, since he used a very complicated layered shield effect to hide it.

Penelope's reading made Tony think of a pastel Abby, and confirmed his initial impression that she wasn't a combatant. She radiated sunshine to his sight; something that was rare among people who worked day in and day out on their kind of cases. Even Abby's light was dimmed somewhat from the horrors that she had seen. Tony was skilled enough to know that Penelope's brightness wasn't naivete; she had to have some major emotional and mental fortitude to keep the job from getting her down.

She also had impressive shielding, for a mid order guide, though she chose not to keep herself very closed off. Penelope's emotions radiated from her easily, though she wasn't projecting them. It was a balancing act between being honestly open with her feelings and broadcasting them, and she walked that tightrope gracefully.

"I'll only be in trouble if I get caught," Tony told her with a wink as he released her hand. Not wanting to give the game away, Tony leered at the two agents who were flanking Penelope. "Now, Sunshine, where did you find such delightful bodyguards and where can I get some?"

Penelope chuckled, her voice turning sultry. "Oh, I like you. We should steal you away from NCIS so I can play with you every day."

"Baby Girl!" her sentinel protested, though his emotional tone was threaded with amusement.

"Oh hush, Hot Chocolate," she said, gently slapping his arm. "You know I'd always share. This is SSA Sentinel Derek Morgan, by the way," she added for Tony's benefit.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Tony held his hand out, and then proceeded to kiss Morgan's hand as well when he fell for the move. His flash impression was of a fierce, protective shell around a humorous and loving center. His steel core had been reforged, meaning it had been broken long ago, but the traces of the break were all but gone.

As Morgan yanked his hand back with a put upon sigh, Penelope giggled. Tony gave her another wink. "You know, I wouldn't protest working with the FBI so much if the agent they usually sent looked anything like you three," he said saucily.

"I think your math's a little off, there," the second agent said. He was about Gibbs' age, but still looked fit and handsome. "SSA David Rossi," he held out his hand with a resigned smile.

Never one to shy away from a challenge, Tony kissed his hand too, murmuring in Italian "Non c'è assolutamente niente di sbagliato nel mio calcolo, Bello." He got an impression of intelligence and success, tempered by regret, and the taste of fine wine on the back of his tongue. Rossi had never been broken, but dealt with the horrors of their work in his own way.

"Oh my," Penelope fanned herself. "You are too yummy for words when you talk that way, my hunk of burning guide. What did you say?"

Tony quirked one eyebrow at Rossi, wondering if he spoke Italian — it was a gamble, based on his last name — and wasn't disappointed. "He said there was absolutely nothing wrong with his math," Rossi explained. A hint of attraction and happiness threaded through his emotional tone.

"You forgot the part where I called you handsome, Bello," Tony added. "Now, I believe I'm supposed to show you a place to set up camp for as long as you choose to grace our halls?"

"Do you always talk like that?" Morgan complained, even as he picked up one of Penelope's equipment bags.

"Are you objecting to the fact that I flirted, or that I didn't give you a nickname, Mio Angelo?" Tony tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the elevators. DiNozzos were always charming, whether in the boardroom or at a crime scene. In his case, the more distracted they were by Tony's flirtatious attitude, the less they would pay attention to his guide or investigative abilities. If Tony did need to bust some heads, they'd never see it coming.

Penelope laughed while Rossi snorted "He called you his angel, Derek," he translated as they fell into step behind Tony.

"I think I'm disappointed that my nickname isn't in that sinful Italian," Penelope pouted.

"Sorry, Tesoro, but Sunshine just doesn't roll off the tongue in Italian," Tony said apologetically. "'Luce del Sole' just doesn't have the same mellifluous ring to it."

"Oh I definitely want to keep you," Penelope sighed as they got into the elevator. Tony caught a glimpse of her sentinel's face as they entered, but though he looked disgruntled, he was feeling amused, not homicidal.

"You can't keep him if you don't know his name," Morgan pointed out.

Tony chuckled. It had taken them long enough. "I'm afraid my manners were overpowered by the vision of you three delicious treats," he explained. "I'm Guide Tony DiNozzo, Very Special NCIS Agent and your liaison for the duration."

"I admit I don't have much experience working with guides," Rossi said conversationally. "Are all of them so flirtatious like you two, or is Reid a better example of the species?"

Tony raised an eyebrow in silent question.

"Reid is another profiler, and pro tem field guide for our leader, Sentinel Agent Hotchner," Morgan explained quickly. "The kid's a complete nerd."

Tony tapped his jaw, pretending to think about it. "In my experience, guides tend to come in four flavors: flirtatious, innocently adorable, sensible organized genius, and quietly lethal. Every so often you'll get someone who combines two, like the adorably flirtatious Sunshine, here. If this Reid doesn't fit into any of those boxes, then he might be an anomaly, or a heretofore uncatalogued variant." Tony had long since perfected his own salacious mask to hide his quietly lethal interior. Even Blair took several sessions to figure out what his core embodied, and had only figured it out after seeing his spirit animal.

The other three seemed to consider his generalizations for a moment before Penelope smirked. "I can't say you're wrong, actually. Almost every guide I've met fits into one or two of those boxes. I'd say Reid is closest to sensible genius, except he isn't always organized."

"Or all that sensible," Morgan muttered, though his emotional tone was fond.

"Perhaps a little-known subspecies," Tony said sagely as the elevator arrived at their floor. He led the trio past the bullpen and into the conference room right in the middle of the hall. From there, if they left, he'd have a good chance of spying them before they reached the elevators at either end of the floor. "I'm afraid it's dreadfully boring and federal," he said, wrinkling his nose, "but feel free to consider this room your home away from home for however long we have together."

"It'll do just fine," Morgan said, still acting disgruntled. As soon as he deposited Penelope's bag on the table, she opened it and began pulling out cables and small electronic devices.

"How many more of you absolute dishes are we expecting?" Tony asked, deciding to prop up the wall just inside the door.

Rossi snorted, but didn't hide his grin. "Hotch and Reid are going to check out the scene, Prentiss is meeting your agent to talk to the girlfriend, and JJ is probably going to be a day or two late," he reeled off.

Tony didn't question where JJ was — though he was definitely going to find out later — and instead just smirked lasciviously. "Oh, it'll be a little cozy, but I think we'll all fit in here. And are you two here just to guard Sunshine from us big bad NCIS agents, or do you need… something else from me?"

Morgan looked like he very much wanted to say the former, but suddenly his eyes widened and he shook his head, a small smile breaking out on his face. "Man, you are good," he murmured. "I didn't even notice you playing us until just now."

Tony fluttered his eyelashes and dropped his voice to a husky drawl, maintaining his facade. Rule number one of going undercover: don't break character even if you think you've been caught. "Oh, I haven't even begun to play with you yet, Mio Angelo."

Unfortunately, Morgan had completely caught on, and he didn't even blink at the deliberate sex appeal Tony was broadcasting. "That might have worked on an unbonded sentinel, DiNozzo, but you're not my type," he said smugly, tapping his temple to indicate his bond shielding.

"Too bad; he's totally my type," Penelope said dreamily, pausing midway through her computer cabling.

Tony winked at her, but Morgan just rolled his eyes. "I get it, man. You're here guarding someone else from the big bad FBI agents; get us so distracted by you and our own reactions and we'll end up completely missing the obvious. We wouldn't know if we were coming or going until the rest of your team got back and took over. We wouldn't know what we had missed until it was too late."

Rossi's expression said he understood what Morgan was talking about, while Penelope continued to radiate amusement with all of them. She didn't get it, but she didn't need to; she wasn't the dangerous one Tony was targeting. Neither of the agents with her had set off his senses — either guide or investigative — but it never hurt to be cautious. Especially when Gibbs was going to be looking for an excuse to let his anger loose.

Tony pulled out his phone and punched in the number for Forensics. As soon as Abby answered with a gleeful shout of his name that you didn't need to be a sentinel to pick up, he told her, "Come say hello to your new playmate, 305." Having given her the room number, he hung up, Gibbs-style.

"Is that new playmate for me or for the boys?" Penelope asked saucily.

Grinning, Tony relaxed slightly. "She's all yours, Sunshine. I suspect your bodyguards will want to actually do their own jobs."

"We're supposed to talk to your ME and get a look at the body," Rossi said suddenly.

"I know, Bello," Tony said with a smug grin, leaving the 'why do you think I was distracting you?' unsaid. He also dialed back the flirting, though he didn't do away with it completely. Morgan had already broken the spell anyway, so there was no need to keep pretending. It had been fun while it lasted, though; Morgan was sharp and intelligent, for a Fibbie. And for a sentinel: usually they were completely snookered by Tony's guide aura, even if they weren't generally attracted to men. If Penelope's shielding through their bond was as impressive as her attitude, it might explain his edge.

"Games aside, the offer's still open to all three of you," Tony had to add, cranking up his charm again for a moment. "I wasn't lying about my genuine appreciation for your team's… assets."

Rossi blushed slightly, while Penelope gave him a pink-cheeked grin. Morgan just smirked back at him. "Penelope was right about you: you're trouble, DiNozzo."

"Only when he wants to be," a new voice said as Abby opened the door. She had to have run all the way upstairs from Forensics to get here so quickly. Or, more likely, she had been spying on them through the security feeds and then waiting at Tony's desk for his call. "I take it you've decided it's safe to let me play with the Fibbies?" she teased Tony with a wide smile.

He shrugged, still leaning against the wall by the door. Before he could reply, however, there was a squeal from across the room. "Abby!"

"Garcia!" Abby shot over to give the blonde a hug. "I didn't know they were sending your team!"

"I thought I'd be working with an agent McGee!" Penelope replied, greeting her just as eagerly.

"Oh, Timmy is a geek, but he's also a field agent, so he's out right now with Gibbs and Kate," Abby explained quickly. "I'm perfectly capable of setting up a LAN group and botnet in his absence."

"Wait, Agent McGee is Timmy?" Penelope asked with a laugh. "Your Timmy? The one who wouldn't get a tattoo?"

"I still can't believe you believed Probie when he agreed to that," Tony interrupted. "Everyone knows that fear of intense pain is more powerful than the promise of getting laid, especially for a wimp like McGee."

Abby stomped her platformed boot. "Tim isn't a wimp, Tony."

"He squealed every time I yanked the superglued keys off his fingers," Tony pointed out.

"Which proves you shouldn't be supergluing him to his keyboard in the first place," Abby shot back.

"Which proves he should have better situational awareness," Tony shot back, appearing to ignore the company: better they think McGee was harmless than a threat. "Especially the third time. There's no masking the scent, and the little puddles of glue are obvious if you bother to look."

"Okay, that's true," Abby agreed thoughtfully. "But he isn't the only wimp around here. You were moaning over a bump the other day."

"It was a pretty bad bruise, thank you very much, and of course I was," Tony agreed easily. "Did you see the way Balboa's new probie blushed every time I 'accidentally' nudged it and groaned? He's this close to jumping my bones now."

"Well that's different," Rossi said conversationally.

"What is, Bello?" Tony asked, immediately switching back from playfully snarky to flirtatious. "I promise you're much more appetizing than Greg the Probie. I had no idea what was awaiting me until you three walked into my life."

Abby groaned, ruining the effect slightly, and started tugging on one of the computer cables.

Rossi shook his head. "You really can turn it on and off on a dime, can't you? I wasn't totally convinced by the act before, but Morgan was right; that's impressive."

Tony grinned and doffed an imaginary cap. "If you think my flirting is impressive, Bello, just you wait until you try my artichoke and truffle risotto or my cedro and honey vinaigrette."

To his delight, Rossi groaned at the thought. Clearly, he appreciated good, sexy, Italian food. "I'm more tempted to take you up on that than on the sex," he warned.

"Why choose?" Tony suggested. "They always say that wining and dining is the way to an Italian's bed."

"I thought they said wining and dining was the way to an Italian's heart," Abby teased. She and Tony had developed a sibling-like relationship, the kind where she critiqued his flirting style and played the wingwoman, rather than take him seriously. She knew exactly how to feed him a perfect set up like that without even seeming to.

Tony smirked. "I like my version better: it's more accurate in my experience."

"I don't even know what to do with you," Abby threw her hands up in the air in mock exasperation. "Why don't you three go bother Ducky while Garcia and I get everything set up in here."

Morgan glanced at Penelope, who gave him a fond smile and a shooing motion with her hand. "I'll be fine: Abby and I go way back."

"If it makes you feel any better, Mio Angelo, that fact is the reason I'm so willing to obey Abby's suggestion," Tony said with a taunting smirk. Morgan had already pointed out that Tony was stonewalling them to protect his people. It logically followed that he was going to be wary about leaving Abby alone with one of them, even if it was the mostly harmless, non-agent guide. His show of faith in Penelope should provoke a similar show of faith on Morgan's part.

With a sigh, Morgan caved. "Alright Baby Girl, have fun playing with your friend," he said fondly.

"Yeah, have fun playing with your friend, Abbs," Tony said in an entirely different tone. His comment sparked laughter from both women, which had been his goal. The fond head shakes from Rossi and Morgan were just icing on the cake.

With everyone in a good mood, Tony pushed himself off the wall and opened the door, spreading his arm in invitation. "I believe you wanted to meet our ME?" he asked. He wasn't flirting as heavily, but he didn't feel the need to be as cold and snarky as he was with Fornell. These two hadn't been upset to learn he was toying with them, and seemed as protective of their own as Gibbs and Tony were. His gut said they were good people.

"We did, actually," Rossi said, giving Morgan a friendly tug on the arm to get him moving.

As Tony led them to the elevators, he glanced at the bullpen, despite knowing that the rest of the team was still out doing their jobs. No one was in the bullpen, and nothing appeared out of order, so Tony relaxed slightly. Sentinels got all the press for their 'protect the tribe' instinct, to the point that even most sentinels didn't realize that guides had the same thing. It was usually more subtle, and took a less aggressively violent stance than the stereotypical sentinel's, but guides were just as likely to feel the imperative.

From what Tony had learned, guides were more likely to manifest the protection imperative as preemptive control issues, aggressive mother henning, and fierce loyalty to their individual tribe or pack. When it came to guides in the law enforcement community, just doing their job tended to satisfy the urge, though they got extremely protective of their patch.

They weren't the kind to pull out a sword and start wailing on threats, like sentinels in the movies, but they were definitely the kind to quietly plot your demise for a scathing put down of someone they cared for three months ago. In other words, Abby would have made a brilliant guide if she hadn't been born mundane.

Gibbs, of course, just took it for granted that Tony would be as fiercely protective of their team as he was, because in his sentinel mind, everyone should be so prioritized. That Tony met his expectations was more a product of the kind of guide Tony was, and his history in law enforcement, and several DiNozzo dos and don'ts, than any general truism. The sheer number of partners and agents that Gibbs had gone through over the years backed that up.

Just like learning all of Gibbs' unwritten rules, or how to navigate on an aircraft carrier, or how to shoot to a Marine standard, being protective of the group was just one more thing Gibbs required of every agent he accepted onto his team. Tony's particular flair for it was the reason he was trusted as much as he was, and the reason he had been promoted to Senior Field Agent.

If the combination of his natural tendencies and Gibbs's influence meant that Tony did things like checking the empty bullpen for signs of tampering every time he passed, well, a terrorist in a body bag and a deadly plague in an envelope kind of proved his point. All was still quiet, so Tony continued escorting his guests without a pause; they likely wouldn't have even realized that he'd done a sweep at all.

The elevators were aligned perfectly, and they reached Autopsy quickly. Tony swept in with a cheerful greeting. "Ducky, Gremlin, allow me to introduce our FBI playmates for the day; Agents Sentinel Derek Morgan and David Rossi."

"Ah, the profilers from the Behavioral Analysis Unit!" Ducky greeted them warmly. "I must say, I have been very intrigued by what you do. I'm just finishing up my degree in Forensic Psychology, you see, and we've studied several of your case files…"

Tony unobtrusively perched on Ducky's desk as the ME went off about some paper he had read. The best part of this was that Ducky wasn't doing it intentionally, — something Morgan would be able to ferret out from his smell — but Ducky was going to distract and derail the duo as effectively as Tony had, just by being himself.

While Tony watched, Palmer puttered around, restocking the equipment for the van, and generally giving off "don't mind me" vibes. Palmer was new — Gerald's replacement — and Tony was still keeping an eye on him. He had no ill intent towards the team — the opposite, in fact — and didn't ping any of Tony's senses. He was about as safe a replacement as was possible to get, but he would stay firmly on Tony's probationary list for at least another six months. It wasn't personal; it was just precautionary.

It took nearly an hour for Rossi and Morgan to get the information about the body out of Ducky, and in the meantime Tony had learned that Rossi was an author of true crime stories and textbooks. Now that it was brought to his attention, Tony could recall reading some excerpts under that name during his own criminal justice studies, but that Rossi had supposedly been retired, so Tony hadn't immediately made the connection.

Morgan's past as a cop in his hometown Chicago — "I met a lovely young singer from there once..." — and Rossi's three divorces — "Not unlike our own Jethro, I'm afraid" — had both been uncovered by that time. Additionally, the information that JJ was late coming back from a week off because her flight had been canceled by bad weather was revealed, explaining their earlier references to her being delayed, and a dozen other tidbits about the BAU team. Tony filed all of it away in his mental appraisal of the team, all while hiding behind a bored facade while he played with his phone.

And if his phone had an app designed by Abby, after the incident in Autopsy, that allowed Tony to check the internal surveillance feeds of her labs, the bullpen, and the conference rooms — where she and Penelope continued to get along swimmingly — well, no one else needed to know. Finally, Rossi gently broke into Ducky's rambling recital of a charming young girl in Calcutta — who somehow reminded him of the dead Petty Officer's girlfriend, but Tony had tuned out exactly how — to ask about the body.

Tony's snort seemed to bring everyone back to their reason for being there, and he made a point of checking his watch. "An hour and twenty eight minutes. Not bad, Ducky," Tony said. "Might as well show them the body now."

"Of course, Anthony," Ducky said with a hint of reproach. "You or Mister Palmer could have reminded me earlier. Contrary to popular belief I do have other cases to handle besides your and Jethro's, and I do need to reclaim the use of my facilities at some point." Because of course Ducky would blame his own wandering mouth on Tony.

"Sorry, Duck," Tony said with false contrition. Morgan had to have been keeping a sentinally close eye on him, because he shuddered imperceptibly at the contrast between Tony's words and his actual feelings. Or, more accurately, his scent. But that was fine; Tony had spent his life being blamed for things that weren't his fault, and in the grand scheme of things it didn't really matter. What mattered was that Ducky had bought them over an hour more for Gibbs to finish up and return, without Tony needing to lift a finger.

"Yes, well," Ducky picked up the file that Palmer had helpfully laid out about twenty minutes earlier and handed it to Morgan, who was closest. "As you can see, the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the chest…"

Thanks to the various delays, Tony had just finished escorting Morgan and Rossi back to the conference room right about the same time that he felt Gibbs' presence return to the bullpen. Before Tony could make an excuse to leave the room and check in with him, the door opened. McGee entered, saying, "The rest of your team should be in here. I know—"

Whatever else he was going to say was lost to Tony as he was swamped by the sudden presence of sentinel. It took everything he had to lock his knees and keep his hands in his pockets as his empathic senses went haywire. Tony's shields felt like they were fritzing in and out, the way the radio did when you went through mountainous curves. It had happened before, when he was dying from the plague, but becoming a shaman had made his shields rock solid. Right now, everything in him was screaming match, singing perfection, demanding he speak and acknowledge the awesome presence of "Sentinel."

Suddenly Tony was buffered by the warm, heavy air of a summer afternoon full of freshly cut grass and the hum of insects. A moment later, another layer was added, composed of the smell of old books and the quiet murmur of indecipherable, soothing words. The combined buffers were enough for Tony to wrench his shields back into order, and he drew in a shaky gasp.

Opening his eyes — unsure when he'd closed them — Tony found that he'd been pushed into one of the chairs. Penelope was leaning over him, one warm hand wrapped around his wrist. A thin, wiry man with curly hair had his cool, nimble fingers locked around Tony's second wrist. Sunshine and Bookish: Tony should have realized.

As his vision continued to clear, Tony realized that Abby, McGee, and Rossi were standing back, looking at him with varying degrees of worry. Morgan was standing between Tony and another agent — the sentinel — with his hands on his hips. His body language was easy, not confrontational, and Tony hazarded a guess that he had been helping the sentinel to rein in his own senses, just as Penelope and the new guide had done for Tony. Clearly, this was the pro tem pair that had been mentioned, the Hotch — Agent Hotchner — and Reid who were meeting Gibbs at the scene.

And just Tony's luck, Hotchner — Mister tall, dark, and handsome — appeared to be his sentinel. Tony had been an online guide for nearly a decade, and had functioned without a sentinel just fine for all that time. Sure, sentinels could feel like a warm, fuzzy hug when they brushed against your empathic senses, but he had never felt the intense drive to find his own that other guides talked about.

Blair had been the one to clarify everything, actually. It turned out that shamans, unlike regular guides, only had one true, perfect, match. They also rarely found their sentinel before completing the transition to full shaman, because, to no one's surprise, sentinels tended to react badly to their guides almost — or actually — dying in the process. Because of that, they had to function at a high level before ever meeting their sentinel, and were also resistant to being caught up in the emotional rush of fuzzy sentinel hormones, at the risk of forming a partial, incompatible, bond with the wrong one.

The bottom line of all that was that Tony rarely felt like he needed a sentinel, and didn't particularly expect to ever find his. Instead, he flirted and dated as though he wasn't a guide, but kept from forming emotional attachments to his lovers, just in case. Which all contributed to the fact that Tony was entirely blindsided when the man who was apparently his sentinel strolled into the room feeling like comfort and adrenaline and the rush of playing amazing music and safety and need.

With no little effort, Tony finally finished slamming his shields back into their proper order. Even if this Hotchner was his sentinel, Gibbs would kill Tony if he ran off in the middle of a case to bond — especially a case he had to share with the FBI. Gently, Tony tugged his hands back, pulling his wrists away from Penelope and the other guide — Reid, he corrected himself. They were hesitant, but when his shields didn't falter, they both quickly stepped back.

"Agent Hotchner?" Tony asked politely. There was no need for outrageous flirting this time. Not with his sentinel.

"No," Hotchner whispered, eyes wide. "No no no…" Tony barely heard it, mostly only caught it because he was focused on the sentinel's lips, but the words slammed into him like a two hundred and fifty pound linebacker wearing a navy and yellow number fifty seven once had. And just like then, the slam was followed a few seconds later by a snap and a rush of searing pain.

With the kind of distant clarity that hit in moments like these, Tony's internal self smirked at the irony. He'd been rejected by people who were supposed to love him his entire life — his mom, Senior, Wendy, Danny… — why should his sentinel be any different?

"Hotch," Morgan growled.

"I—" Hotchner cut himself off with a shake of his head.

Tony did what he always did when he was hurt; he shoved the pain down deep inside himself, behind his innermost shields that protected him, — not from the emotions of others, but from his own — and locked it down tightly. It wouldn't hold for long, but it would do in a pinch.

His external shields hadn't faltered in the slightest; after his earlier suckerpunch he was holding them with iron control. There could be dozens of reasons for Hotchner's reaction, and Tony wouldn't assume the worst until he had to. And he most certainly wouldn't project his feelings to the whole damn world. DiNozzos were stronger than that.

"Can I speak to you outside, agent?" Tony asked in his blandest, most polite tone. It was the one that Abby and Gibbs knew was about to be followed by some kind of trick, but that probie was still often fooled by.

Hotchner shook his head, looking torn.

"I'm not going to jump your bones in the middle of the bullpen," Tony whispered savagely beneath his breath, low enough that only the two sentinels could have heard him. "I just need to speak with you for a moment," Tony continued at a normal volume.

Something in his tone or scent profile must have convinced Hotchner — that or the glare that Morgan was sending him, because he nodded curtly.

Tony gestured at the door far less grandly than he had earlier with Morgan and Rossi. "After you."

Hotchner preceded him from the room, and Tony quickly closed the door behind himself, then crooked a finger at the sentinel to follow. A few steps later they were at the next conference room — one of the smaller ones — and Tony poked his head inside. It was empty, so he pushed the door open fully and stalked in. Taking up a position on the farthest side of the room, Tony watched with growing irritation as Hotchner warily eyed the room, hovering in the doorway.

"I didn't think you'd want other people — including the sentinels in the bullpen — overhearing this," Tony barely kept himself from snapping. "These rooms are soundproofed to a sentinel standard because we often handle sensitive information. I didn't bring you here to jump you, and you're free to stay on your side of the table."

Hotchner's shoulders hunched, as he clearly heard the rebuke that Tony hadn't bothered to keep out of his tone. "I apologize; I'm usually much more— I wasn't expecting this," he said.

Tony ratcheted down his irritation as best as he was able. It didn't help that his usual reaction to pain was to joke or get mad. He was well aware that this wasn't the best time for jokes, but he also didn't want to get into a shouting match with his sentinel. "I admit it isn't where I thought this case was going to lead either," Tony offered as a compromise.

That made the corner of Hotchner's mouth twitch, and Tony counted it as a win.

"So I have to ask, now that the shock is settling, is this just about the case? Because I understand the need to wait until it's over. Contrary to the usual perception of NCIS agents around the Bureau, we're trained just as well as your lot." The anger was creeping back in, and Tony ruthlessly suppressed it. He was not going to start this relationship with a fight!

"No," Hotchner shook his head as that word cut through Tony again like a bullet. "It isn't— I— I'm married. We've got a son. I didn't— I didn't expect to…"

"You only recently came online," Tony surmised.

Hotchner nodded, still refusing to meet Tony's gaze. "Almost six months ago, now. It was a bad case…"

"Not uncommon," Tony offered, deliberately avoiding doing the math that would tell him that Hotchner had come online just after Tony had survived the plague, becoming a shaman. Blair would probably find it some kind of fascinating data point and further proof of their perfect compatibility. Tony didn't have that luxury.

"It's a pretty classic scenario for law enforcement, actually," Tony continued blithely. "Bad case, firefight, adrenaline pumping, miraculous escape, conflict or turmoil… Basically half of our cases are a recipe for yanking sentinels and guides online."

For some reason, that didn't reassure Hotchner. "Haley didn't… didn't take it well. She's— we're trying to make it work. We have a son," he repeated quietly.

And that was the crux of it, Tony realized. As long as this Haley was fighting against him being a sentinel, as long as she was keeping him on tenterhooks about the state of their relationship, as long as their son was caught in the middle, Hotchner would never be confident enough in his sentinel side to form a bond. He might even try to suppress his sentinel side so hard to appease her that he went dormant; it was a documented phenomenon.

The presence of Tony, waiting in the wings, would make things worse. Haley might see his presence as a reason to give up, but she might also see him as competition, and a reason to fight harder to keep Hotchner. Either way, it was going to be a long, messy, painful process, and Tony might end up coming out of it no better off than he was now. Worse, he might actually begin to imprint on Hotchner, forming a nascent bond, and then have it all be ripped away if Hotchner picked her.

Blair had warned Tony of the precarious position shamans found themselves in. They had greater, more powerful, gifts to protect the tribe, but that came at a greater personal cost to themselves. And one of those costs was sentinel rejection.

While a normal guide — even a high order one — could survive sentinel rejection about as well as one could survive a bad break up coupled with a vicious stomach flu, the same wasn't true for shamans. Because they only had one perfect match, they only had one chance at bonding. Sentinel rejection had a documented one hundred percent fatality rate in shamans. It was some kind of ironic, if you thought about the way that shamans came online in the first place, but that kind of thought wasn't exactly helpful right now.

It wasn't widely publicized, because very little about shamans was, but Blair had told Tony the truth. If Hotchner picked Haley, either right this second or a year from now, Tony would die of, essentially, a broken heart. Like Padme in the fucking Star Wars prequels, because of course the movie of his life was a shitty prequel instead of a swashbuckling — "I love you" "I know" — classic.

Blair had been adamant that Tony needed to fight for his sentinel — for his life. And on paper, he wasn't wrong. But Tony had spent his life being forced on people who wanted nothing to do with him, and they hadn't been shy in making sure that he knew it. Tony wasn't going to force himself on Hotchner, where he clearly wasn't needed or wanted. He refused to put himself through that kind of constant, exhausting wear, or live with the knowledge that, even when he was happy, a little voice in the back of his head would always be ready to remind him that he was a problem, a burden.

Not again.

"Look, I understand," Tony found himself saying. "This kind of thing sucks for people who weren't expecting it." Although, to be matched to a shaman, Hotchner had to be high order; he should have known that he was more likely than a low order latent to flip online. Especially since he worked in a high stakes, dangerous, environment that was basically ingrained with the 'protect the tribe' imperative.

Honestly, Hotchner was either supremely ignorant of sentinel and guide lore or willfully oblivious for this to have blindsided him. Tony was probably better off without that kind of person in his life.

"If it helps your wife at all, you're clearly high order, which means you have very few possible matches," he continued, forcing his voice to stay light. "With me out of the picture, it's likely that she won't have to worry about you finding another compatible guide to run away with, if that's her problem." Which, in a twisted way of thinking, wasn't even a lie. Only one perfect match, and all that.

Something conflicted passed across Hotchner's face, and Tony ruthlessly suppressed the faint glimmer of hope that surged within himself. DiNozzos weren't stupid. They knew which way the wind was blowing, and it was blowing Hotchner back towards his wife and kid. "I'm not… I don't not want to…" he trailed off uncertainly.

Tony sighed. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had to give the guy a break. "Look, I'm getting the impression that someone hasn't done right by you, in terms of explaining shit properly when you came online. Do you mind if I say something bluntly that you need to know, but might not want to hear?" he asked.

Hotchner nodded sharply once, bracing himself.

"You basically have two choices, Hotchner," Tony said. "And that's not me talking because I want you or something; that's basic biology. You've come online as a sentinel, for reasons beyond all of our pay grades. So you need to make a choice."

"Do you live as a sentinel, — embrace it, look for a guide, hone your abilities, still be the best dad you can be, but understand that the trade off is to lose Haley as your wife — or do you say 'no, I want the blue pill' and give up being a sentinel? Refuse to look for guide matches, ignore your senses, keep rejecting that part of yourself until it eventually goes dormant."

"You have to have sensed that Gibbs was dormant when you met him today; you know that it's a thing that happens. Maybe that fixes things with your wife, and maybe it doesn't, but at that point it's on her, as you've literally given up something that people would kill for, and all for her. You've had six months of this limbo, Hotchner; now make. a. choice."

Tony folded his arms across his chest — he refused to hope that Hotchner would pick him — and watched as the emotions roiled within him like a storm. Even before the man opened his mouth, Tony knew what the answer would be; he could see it plainly in his empathic landscape. "I love her. I have to try," Hotchner whispered.

"Then that's your choice," Tony said, ignoring what it cost him to make every word come out flat and emotionless. "Go home tonight and tell her that you met a guide who was a match for you, and that you gave him up for her. Tell her that you want to make things work with her, even if that means fighting against this inherent part of yourself, because to you she's worth it."

"Don't make it sound like you blame her; make it clear that that's just how much you're willing to sacrifice for your love. Maybe it'll work, and maybe it won't, but literally no one can accuse you of not giving it your all. And maybe you will go dormant, if you want it enough, and she won't have to worry about it any more."

Hotchner nodded sharply, resolve filling him. Tony had no idea if it would work or not, and he hoped that Haley appreciated what Hotchner was giving up for her. But regardless, the choice was Hotchner's, and he had made it. Tony wasn't a part of their life, and he never would be. And he would just have to live with that.

Well, not exactly…

"Anyway, I just wanted to check where your head was at before either of us made a mistake or misunderstood something," Tony found himself saying calmly. "I promise I'm not going to try to jump you and change your mind while you're here for the case. You can go back to doing whatever you need to do on it." He waved one hand in a shooing motion.

Hotchner took half a step before halting. "I don't— are you… are you alright?"

Shoring up his shields and ruthlessly suppressing bitterness that it took until now for Hotchner to even consider what this was doing to Tony, he offered a wan smile. "I'll be fine. A pint of ice cream and a few bad movies are guaranteed to fix all ails." Not all ails — not even close — but that information wasn't Hotchner's to have. He had made his choice, and he didn't get to know what it was doing to Tony. DiNozzos don't let people see them cry.

"If you're sure…" Hotchner looked torn, so Tony sent him an emotional nudge by lightly projecting calm and assurance at him. As new and likely untrained as he was, — which, seriously, someone at the FBI was clearly sitting down on the job — Hotchner was almost certain not to be able to detect how false the emotions were. There was literally nothing he could do for Tony, though, so there was no point in worrying him.

Tony did make a mental note to email Fornell about how someone at the FBI was majorly slacking in teaching their new sentinels what the hell was going on. Hotchner never should have gone six months in this kind of limbo unless he was deliberately dragging it out and making things worse for himself in some strange kind of masochistic punishment.

Finally, Hotchner left the room, and Tony allowed himself five minutes to sink down into the closest chair. The reality of his situation had started hitting him in waves, and Tony was determined not to let them affect his job. The last thing Tony needed right now was for Gibbs to figure out what had happened.

Neatening his posture, Tony dropped into a meditative state. He hated meditating, because Tony was almost incapable of sitting still, but he had mastered it nonetheless. He just made up for it by being more active the rest of the time. Now, Tony looked inward, instead of to the spirit plane as he usually did. He didn't want to run into any other shamans, either.

In his own mindscape, which was patterned after a number of heist movies, but most prominently Ocean's 11 — the new one — involved a series of secret doors, bank vaults, tripwires, and security feeds. It was the kind of thing that a kid imagined after watching a bank robbery and Indiana Jones on the same day while playing the game of Clue. Which was almost exactly how Tony had come up with the idea, if one added in the painkillers from his shattered knee and depression about his future.

Most importantly, however, it allowed Tony to compartmentalize to an extreme degree — something that Blair had been baffled and impressed by when he had finally been allowed inside to help Tony train his shaman gifts. They had theorized that his mindscape was what allowed Tony to conceal his emotions and motivations so well, which was what allowed him to become an undercover specialist despite being a guide. In practice, Tony had even been able to fool high order sentinels and guides, though the highest ones — primes like Blair and Jim — could tell that he was faking. They couldn't tell what specifically he was concealing, though, so Tony counted it as a win.

Today, that talent was going to serve him once again. In the deepest vault, down the impenetrable shaft and surrounded by motion sensors, Tony shoved all of his pain, fear, despair, and desire not to die. In went the heartbreak for what could have been, followed by the physical pain of rejection as his mind literally began to shut down his organs.

It was amazing the kinds of things psionic energy was capable of, he thought wryly, even as he viciously repressed the feeling of being shot in the heart by a "no" shaped bullet minutes earlier. In went the dull ache in his gut, the tingling in his toes, the ringing in his ears, the bands of steel around his chest that made him take shallow breaths and try not to flash back to a room with blue lights.

Anything that would make Gibbs even slightly suspicious, basically. All of it was packed into a small treasure chest, slipped beneath the hidden panel, and covered with a heavy mound of gold bars. Because you had to have gold bars in a secret vault, even if they didn't serve an emotional purpose. Tony had an aesthetic to maintain, after all.

Tony then got into the mental elevator and rode it up to the top floor before opening the hatch and climbing onto the roof. It only took a moment for him to conjure the mental equivalent of a cement mixer, and he shoved all of his anger, frustration, and a bit of feigned hopelessness — the kind someone would expect to find in the mind of a guide who was still looking for the right sentinel — into it before churning a few times. Then Tony tipped it over, filling in the elevator shaft behind him with a sludgy morass of negative emotions.

A bit of C4 to send the elevator itself plummeting down to the bottom of the shaft in a ball of fire, and Tony's decoy was set. Anyone who got through his top layer emotions would be able to see down into a pit of seething frustration, with no way to access it, and no way to figure out that it, in itself, was a cover. Emerging into the antechamber via the secret bookcase passage — reminiscent of Young Frankenstein — Tony found an unexpected sight.

He probably should have predicted a visit from his spirit animal, what with everything that had happened, but Tony was used to him staying on the spirit plane. He wasn't sure what it said about his inner self that Tony's spirit animal tended to avoid him — and he'd never gotten up the courage to risk asking Blair — but Tony suspected it was nothing good. "Hello Blitz," he greeted his zone-tailed hawk.

Tony had been slightly surprised to have such a powerful predator for a familiar, until he did a little research. High order guides often had predators, but at the time Tony hadn't really cared about his ranking. What did strike him was the way the zone-tailed hawk specifically mimicked the turkey vulture — a scavenger — in order to get close enough to blitz attack its unsuspecting prey. Unlike the far more common example of a harmless snake mimicking the colors of a deadly one to avoid being eaten, they were one of the few kinds of animals who pretended to be harmless in order to sneak up on prey.

Tony had never felt so exposed in his life when he read that, as though Blitz was revealing something he had tried so hard to perfect in his life. DiNozzos were charming, not manipulative; they were lovers, not fighters; they were honeyed words, not hidden weapons. It was just like Tony had joked with Penelope what seemed like days ago: he was the flirtatious kind of guide, not the quietly lethal kind.

Looked at it that way, it made sense that Blitz rarely appeared outside of the spirit plane. If people saw that Tony had such a vicious predator for a spirit animal, they might start to ask questions about him. If they thought about exactly what species of hawk Blitz was, they might see through Tony's own walls.

Right now, Blitz was looking at Tony as though none of those walls existed. Despite all the emotional manipulating and covering that Tony had done, of course Blitz would know exactly what was about to happen. "I'm sorry," Tony murmured, reaching out to run his fingers down Blitz's head and back. "But I'm not going to fight for something that probably won't even happen. I'd rather go out with a clean break today than a miserable and painful year from now."

A half-remembered lesson from his senior year high school English class slipped through Tony's mind. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper. "You know me; I'd rather go out on the bang than on the whimper, Blitz."

Blitz twisted his head and gently nipped Tony's fingers with his beak, not breaking the skin. It was reassurance and acceptance, and Tony almost sighed in relief. Of course Blitz understood, — he was a manifestation of Tony's own soul, as Blair always liked to say — he was probably the kind to appreciate a bang over a whimper too.

"I'll see you tonight," Tony promised, then went back to his work. Blitz, to his surprise, hopped up onto his shoulder, claws digging into his shirt but not his skin. It wasn't something that the hawk did often, but Tony appreciated the offer of comfort and strength right now.

Closing and locking the secret passage, Tony pulled several books off the shelves and laid them open around the room. Here was his humor, there was his determination to solve the case. His curiosity, playfulness, seriousness, eagerness for the hunt, and drive to see the bad guys caught, all littered the floor. If anyone managed to get through his shields, they'd encounter this eclectic mix, just like the kind of jumble they'd find in most people.

Save for moments of extremes, like the bliss or orgasm, or white hot fury, or the sorrow of intense grief, most people felt a mix of things at any given moment. Where most guides went wrong when trying to lay a false emotional trail was in picking one emotion to project. Tony always worked in multitudes and layers. If anyone got through his shields, they'd find a convincing mix of feelings here; if they were suspicious enough to press further, they'd find another mix in the emotions that Tony was apparently trying to push down and ignore. Give them what they expect, and they won't realize that you're hiding something else entirely.

Setting all of his automated defenses, Tony passed out of his mad scientist style library, through another vault door, up the stairs, out of the bunker, and into the empty, defensible space nestled right within his shields. Here, he opened the last two books, depositing his flirtatiousness and his cunning, which he would need on this case. Then, releasing Blitz to fly free, Tony closed his eyes and opened them in the NCIS conference room.

His shields were rock solid, and a mid-strength probe would show the exact same thing as his surface thoughts. No one would suspect a thing unless they somehow managed to perform a high order scan. And Tony's acting mask would be fucking perfect for the rest of the day. By the end of the day, his team and those FBI agents would be questioning their own sanity, and if they had actually witnessed what they remembered. DiNozzos didn't cry, didn't have emotional breakdowns at work, and definitely didn't show their weaknesses in front of strangers.

Wiping his face, and finding no trace of tears that would have given the game up, Tony rose, straightened his cuffs, and headed back towards the door. He was going to see this case through, and then he was going to have his meltdown in private, where no one else could see.

As he strode out of the conference room, Tony saw Gibbs and Kate at their desks, typing away. McGee was still missing, and Tony's emotions were locked down so tightly that even the realization that his probie's training would now fall to Kate got barely more than an interested hmm. "I take it McGoo's on babysitting duty?" Tony asked brightly as he slipped behind his desk.

Kate snorted without looking up from her computer — putting out a BOLO, if Tony's upside down reading of the forms on her desk was accurate — while Gibbs gave Tony a once over before replying. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the Marine grumbled, "He's finishing up the computer network thing. You finished up with Hotchner?"

"Yep," Tony assured him blithely. "Just a momentary blip — you know how it is — but we're able to put it aside to finish the case." It was risky, reminding Gibbs of his own bond, but Tony was feeling confident. Gibbs didn't know that Tony was a shaman — though he might have guessed — and either way was unlikely to know the lore about their one true bond mate and the consequences of rejection.

Gibbs's scowl deepened for a moment, but then his expression lightened as he caught Tony's gaze. "Let me know if he gives you any grief; I'd love to have an excuse to knock a few heads together."

Tony's laugh didn't even sound brittle to his own ears, though he made a mental note to write something down for Gibbs later. The last thing Tony needed was to have Gibbs go off on Hotchner for something that was beyond his control. Well, not beyond his control, exactly, but… it was… complicated. Suffice to say that the last thing Tony needed was for Gibbs to go to war with the FBI without Tony there to watch his back anymore.

"I'll let you have what's left if it gets that bad," Tony agreed, subtly calling dibs on the head knocking. Hopefully that would stall out some of the tension that had clearly built up after his little slip earlier.

Tony glanced down at his desk, and found the summary of the interview with the girlfriend, filled out in Kate's neat handwriting. Pulling his chair forward, Tony started to read it to catch up on what he missed, realizing there was something else he needed to take care of. With any luck, he'd be able to slip in a little paperwork today — he tended to keep on top of it for the most part — so Kate wouldn't flounder quite so badly when she became the SFA next week.

Tony had worked some very long days in his time — especially since joining NCIS. 36 to 48 hour days with a power nap weren't the norm, but they also weren't exactly rare. By 1600 this day, Tony felt like he had been up for 72 hours straight. He'd managed to finish the SFA paperwork before lunch, but had been too queasy to eat the Ruben that Probie had brought him. Waving away the team's concern, Tony had done his best to focus on the case. The last thing he wanted to do was leave Gibbs hanging with an unsolved case, but as the day went on, Tony was afraid he would have no choice.

By mid afternoon he'd had to hide a trip to the bathroom to puke, and he knew he would be useless if they got into a firefight or foot chase. Kate had started asking if he was okay in a worried voice around three, and Tony had finally caved and told her he thought he was coming down with something. Tony had put a few minutes' thought into his phrasing so that it didn't read as a lie to the many sentinels (and infamous Gibbs gut) hanging around. If you considered death a thing you could come down with, which, for all intents and purposes, was possible for shamans, then his statement was accurate.

It had been enough to convince Kate, at least, as she volunteered to go talk to the victim's CO with the Fibbies in his place. Abby had also clearly been appraised, as she bounced into the bullpen shortly after with a mug of stomach-soothing tea. It helped slightly — though Tony couldn't rule out the placebo effect — and he took the opportunity to give her a comforting hug. He wouldn't be able to say goodbyes without causing a scene, so he'd take what he could sneak.

Gibbs, returning from the scene of the FBI's last victim, had taken one look at Tony and sent him down to Ducky. Tony allowed Ducky to take his temperature — high — and force another mug of tea on him, while lying through his teeth about his symptoms. Food poisoning explained the sudden onset of symptoms, and could really only be cured with rest, so that's what he implied. And then he could honestly say that's what Ducky had diagnosed him with.

Though he felt bad about lying to his friends, Tony didn't really have much choice, so he sucked it up and tried to appreciate this last chance to have Ducky fuss over him or Palmer shakily hand him a too-full tea mug.

As the clock ticked closer to 1700, Tony ran through the mental checklist he had composed. The SFA paperwork was ready for Kate, he'd slipped a few dirty magazines into the probie's files for him to find later, Ducky, Abby, and Palmer had gotten to fuss over him… all that was left was Gibbs.

Unfortunately, Gibbs was going to take Tony's death personally — especially coming in the middle of a case — but there was nothing he could do to fix it. Tony had already lost most of the feeling below his waist, and it was becoming more difficult to hide how hard it was to breathe.

Tony's one big break was that the killer had a cool down time of three weeks, meaning that this wasn't the kind of case where Gibbs would insist on pulling an all-nighter to finish. The Fibbies began packing up at five, and Tony hoped that Gibbs would give up soon. It would be a point of pride for him that the NCIS crew stayed later than the BAU team, but even he had to know that there was no point in posturing much later than that.

In that respect, Tony's apparent illness actually worked in his favor. At 1730, Gibbs closed the file on his desk. "Go home and rest, people," he said, then looked directly at Tony. "Especially you."

"Yes Boss," Tony agreed easily.

Kate and McGee quickly shut down their own stations for the night, with Tony and Gibbs only a few minutes behind them. Tony had known that Gibbs would be keeping an eye on him until he got out to his car — 'leave no man behind' also applied to people too sick to get themselves home — so he set his plan in motion.

When they got downstairs, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. "Hey Mike," Tony greeted the evening security guard. "Who's on the overnight shift today?"

"Logan," Mike replied automatically, before doing a double take when he saw Tony. "You okay, man?"

"I've been better," Tony joked, quickly writing Logan's name on the envelope. "Make sure Logan gets that as soon as he starts, alright?"

"Sure, man," Mike took it and propped it against the monitor. "Go get some rest."

"I will," Tony agreed. When he turned away from the desk, he found Gibbs watching him silently. "He's taking care of something for me," Tony answered the unspoken question.

Gibbs nodded, accepting that, and then unobtrusively shadowed Tony to his car.

There was a moment, as he dug his keys out of his pocket, when Tony wondered if he was doing the right thing. It would take seconds to change the course of his evening. One quiet sentence and he could get Gibbs to accompany him back to his apartment, or beg a spot on Gibbs's couch. One word and he wouldn't have to spend his last few hours alone.

DiNozzos don't show fear or weakness.

Tony clenched his fist around his keys until the dull pain broke through the numbness that had settled in his limbs. It would only take one word, but he couldn't do it. Instead, Tony opened his car door and tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat of the Mustang. "Goodnight, Boss. And thanks!" he called over his shoulder.

Tonight, Gibbs would think that Tony was thanking him for making sure he didn't faceplant in the parking lot. Tomorrow… hopefully by tomorrow he'd realize that Tony was thanking him for so much more.

"Take care of yourself, DiNozzo," Gibbs said gruffly.

"You too, Boss," Tony replied with a smile. It wasn't as bright and flashy as his usual ones, but it would have to do. Tony turned away and bit his lip to keep from saying anything more. Take care of Abby and everyone else, Boss. Don't be too hard on Kate and the probie. Don't go all Ahab again without me here to watch your back.

Tony tasted blood on his tongue as he yanked the Mustang door closed behind him. He'd said it all in the letter; he didn't need to say it now.

He managed to start the Mustang and do a credible job of driving home, though Tony barely noticed the streets passing. He was stumbling by the time he hit the elevator in his building, as the numbness in his feet made them hard to control. It took several minutes fumbling with the keys to get into his apartment, and Tony barely remembered not to throw the deadbolt and chain. He didn't want Gibbs to have to break the door down in the morning.

As Tony stumbled past his piano, he briefly wished that he could play it one last time. His fingers twitched against the side of his leg as he paused, considering it. Tony looked down at his hands and found them trembling, clawed against the pain. He could never get them to form the proper shapes that had been drilled into his head so many years ago. Even if he could, the shakes were so bad that the music would sound horrible.

With a sigh of regret, Tony continued his trek to his bedroom. It took longer than he would have liked, but he finally managed to change into his comfortable OSU sweats. While he had the closet open, Tony typed in the code to his safe. The many tries it took to get his shaking fingers to hit the right sequence confirmed that he couldn't have played anything. That wasn't how he wanted to remember his skill right now. Once the safe was open, where Gibbs could easily access the contents, Tony gratefully tumbled into bed.

It took a few tries, as his vision was starting to go dark around the edges, but he managed to pull up his classical music playlist on his ipod, and the lilting piano music filled his room. It was getting harder to hear over the blood rushing in his ears, and Tony turned the speaker up. Then Tony pulled up the covers, though he couldn't feel the warmth they provided, and let his eyes close.

His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, and his breathing was reduced to shallow pants, but Tony ignored all that. With his eyes closed, he slipped into his meditative trance, and then into his inner space. Blitz was waiting for him, and immediately perched on Tony's shoulder. His mental projection wasn't numb or trembling, but Tony still felt like he was moving through molasses as he made his way to the rich leather wingback chair. It was a Bond Villain classic, and Tony sank into it. Then he closed his eyes and raised one hand to pat Blitz.

He might be leaving Gibbs in the middle of a case, but he'd done everything he could. He'd made it home without anyone seeing his weakness. And despite his earlier desire to call out to Gibbs, Tony wasn't alone, here in the end. Blitz gently preened Tony's hair with his beak, his body warm against Tony's ear.

Smiling faintly, Tony stopped fighting.