Archive of Our Own

Gibbs pulled into the Navy Yard much more aggressively than he usually did. He'd struggled to sleep last night, despite eating a nice rich steak and following it with a few bourbon chasers. Even working on his boat — which usually soothed him — left him unsettled.

Because of his sleepless night, Gibbs was arriving at work an hour earlier than usual, intending to get started on the case. Tony had made an off hand comment yesterday — before he started looking like death warmed over — about how the serial killer knew how to avoid the traffic cameras, and Gibbs thought he should follow up on it.

In a moment of bourbon-promoted introspection around 0100, Gibbs had decided that he was probably feeling unsettled by the FBI team. Gibbs had made a point to avoid working with active guides and sentinels after he went dormant, and the BAU team was full of them — including the missing member, Jareau, who was due in later today.

It was hard to be completely accurate about such things, but going dormant hadn't just turned Gibbs back into a latent or a mundane. He didn't have a sentinel's enhanced physical senses, nor their enhanced strength, but his reflexes were still above average, and the tribal imperative and the warning of danger were still there, just muted. He called it his gut, but Gibbs knew it was the last vestiges of his sentinel side.

Tony's presence had always comforted that damaged side of Gibbs, but yesterday it seemed like they were both on edge. Tony usually handled the sentinels and guides they encountered on cases, so it must have been something about the BAU bunch in particular that had set him off.

Or, perhaps whatever he'd come down with wasn't simple food poisoning, but rather something that made his guide senses go a little haywire. Gibbs was tempted to blame that on the visiting sentinels and guides too, but even he knew that was unfair.

Still, Gibbs was looking forward to closing this case as quickly as possible and getting that team out of his building. Then, maybe, things would go back to normal for both Tony and himself. Gibbs slammed the door of his Charger closed, eliciting a satisfying bang, and stomped up to the NCIS building. He'd take a quick look at the file before going out to get more coffee.

"Oh, Agent Gibbs!" one of the security guards called his name as he entered. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence, but it rarely boded well for Gibbs' blood pressure, so he didn't bother to mask his general frustration when he crossed over to the desk.

"Yeah?"

"Agent DiNozzo left this for you, Agent Gibbs," the guard said, holding up an envelope.

Instantly, Gibbs' memory flashed back to the night before, when Tony had left a similar envelope… Gibbs's gaze shot to the guard's ID badge. Logan DePaul. Unbidden, Tony's words from the night before sprung into Gibbs's mind. "He's taking care of something for me."

Gibbs took the envelope and saw his name written in Tony's handwriting on the front. Clearly Tony had left this for him, but why the run around? Why not just give it to him last night? The unsettled feeling that had been plaguing Gibbs all night now churned in his gut. Inside was a letter, neatly typed. Gibbs turned away from the guard, hiding his face, as he quickly read it.

Hey Gibbs,

I know this is a cardinal sin in your mind, and ordinarily I'd agree with you, but I'm afraid that neither one of us has a choice. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ditch you in the middle of a case. I know I'm breaking rule 28, but there's nothing that you could do to help me right now. I'm not sure if rule 18 applies to dying, but I'm going to go with it.

And yeah, that might not have been the best way to come out and say it, but you know me, boss; when have I ever done things the normal way? I know you hate talking to guides, but you'll need to call Blair Sandburg to get the specifics. He's in the contact list on my personal cell, and he can tell you what's up. It might be unfair of me to put that on his shoulders, but fuck it, I'm going to. I wish I didn't have to put you through this again, though you might not appreciate the comparison, but that's out of both of our hands.

This won't make sense until you talk to Blair, but I need you to promise me to obey rule 11. The job's done for me, and no one can change that. There's another person involved, but it isn't his fault. I'm asking, as a special favor to me, that you don't tell him that I'm gone, or anything that Blair tells you. Rule 4. I know that's cryptic, and I know you hate cryptic, but I can't come up with anything better right now. I'm not exactly at my best.

In fact, I'd rather if you didn't say anything to the entire FBI team. Tell them I got dragged undercover or something, or that I'm working another case, I don't know. Just… leave them out of it. They aren't family, like the team is; this isn't their business.

If I made it home last night, I should have opened my safe for you. All my legal junk's in there, as well as some letters I wrote for everyone after the plague thing. Always be prepared, and all that. I trust you to distribute them.

I prepped all the SFA paperwork as far in advance as I could, so Kate should have a little time to get her bearings. Please go easy on her, Boss. Thank Ducky, Palmer, and Abby for their kindness today — yesterday, now, I guess — and tell them I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye. I know I'm apologizing a lot, and I know that's making your teeth grind, but I can't let them go on without hearing it. Don't scare the probie too badly without me there to buffer him; we've only just moved past the stutter.

As for you, don't go all Ahab without me there to watch your six. Thanks for taking a chance on me, guide and all, and thanks for letting me serve with you. It's been an honor, Boss.

—Tony

When Gibbs finished reading, he realized he was already back in his car. Dropping the letter on the seat — and knowing it was too late, but not caring — he gunned it out of the Navy Yard. Gibbs had never driven so quickly in his life, and all the while the remains of his inner sentinel was screaming not again.

Gibbs pulled into one of the empty parking spaces at Tony's apartment, heedless of whoever it belonged to. Tony's Mustang was there, so he had made it home. Gibbs skipped the elevator and ran up to the third floor. When he reached Tony's apartment, he found the door unlocked. Mustering his will, Gibbs didn't hesitate, and opened it.

Tony's keys and wallet were on the hall table, his shoes toed off by the door instead of neatly placed in the rack. His work backpack had been dropped in the middle of the living room, but nothing else was out of place. Quiet piano music filled the space, coming from further inside the apartment.

Dreading what he was going to find, Gibbs forced himself to walk down the hallway and open the closed bedroom door. The first thing he saw was the open doors of the closet, and the safe mounted to the floor. The small part of Gibbs's mind that was still functioning absently noticed that Tony had indeed managed to leave it open for him, and that there was a pile of envelopes on top of a stack of folders inside. Gibbs continued to sweep the room, forcing himself away from the banal closet and towards the one thing he hadn't wanted to see.

Looking at it made it real, and Gibbs had never before shied away from looking at what everyone else dreaded. If this had been a crime scene — technically it still might be — then he would have already swept the room for danger before focusing on small clues like the safe. Of course, if this had been a crime scene, Tony would have been at his side, covering his six, instead of lying on the bed.

He was too still, Gibbs realized; Tony literally never sat still, always drumming his fingers or tapping his toes or looking everywhere with clever, darting eyes. Right now, Tony was perfectly still, tucked in his bed with the blanket pulled up to his chin like a child. His eyes were closed, and he had a faint smile.

One foot at a time, Gibbs forced himself forward to check for a pulse. There was no point — he could already tell — but he did it anyway. Walked through the motions as though this was just another crime scene, just another case.

Nothing. Tony was cold and stiff with rigor. Tony had always run hot. Like the fidgeting, it was yet another thing that just wasn't right.

Hell, nothing was right. Tony was dead — Gibbs steeled himself not to react to that thought — Tony was dead and that wasn't right. He had been fine the day before yesterday, then sick, and now dead, in less than 24 hours. That wasn't right.

Gibbs might not be a part of the sentinel and guide community anymore, but he knew who Blair Sandburg was. And if Tony said that Blair had the answers, then this was a guide thing. He was dead because of some guide nonsense. Gibbs didn't know everything about guides, but he knew more than he cared to about being a bond widow.

Tony had known, somehow, but had never mentioned Shanon or Kelly. It was there in the way he glanced at Gibbs out of the corner of his eye whenever they had a young girl victim, or whenever a guide was killed. Little glances that said that Tony was checking to make sure Gibbs was okay, without coming out and mentioning the worst day of Gibbs's life. He had never told Tony how much he appreciated his care and his discretion; never thought he wouldn't have time.

But Tony had already known, hadn't he? Gibbs glanced down at the letter, which he hadn't realized he'd picked back up upon exiting the Charger. I wish I didn't have to put you through this again, though you might not appreciate the comparison, but that's out of both of our hands.

Once again, Tony had been right. He may not have been Gibbs's guide in the traditional sense, but they had been partners of a different sort. And despite never formalizing anything, he had been Gibbs's guide. He had been a steady presence when Gibbs was overwhelmed by the job. Tony had acted as a buffer between Gibbs and other sentinels and guides, and even regular mundane people who annoyed him. He was the one who took care of the team when they needed emotional support that Gibbs couldn't provide.

He'd overheard Abby and Kate talking once, right before he walked into the lab and made them both jump. They'd compared him and Tony to Dad and Mom; one would tell you to buck up and then go take care of the problem while the other would bring you a snack and listen to your woes. The idea had amused Gibbs at the time, but he'd never shared it with Tony; too afraid of his reaction.

Now it was too late, but it turns out that Tony had known anyway. Tony might not think it was fair to compare himself to Shannon, but he had been the most important part of Gibbs's life since her death. Even his ex-wives — pale shadows of what he'd had with Shannon — didn't top Tony. They might not have been bonded, but they were a team. And now, Gibbs was left behind again.

I wish I didn't have to put you through this again… but that's out of both of our hands.

Tony hadn't wanted to leave him any more than Shannon had, but the result was the same. And, Gibbs realized, the parallels might run deeper than that. Glancing around, Gibbs saw Tony's phone on the bedside table, lying next to the charger.

Tony had told him to call Blair, and that's what Gibbs was going to do.

Gibbs sat on Tony's couch and stared blankly at his walls of DVDs. He'd managed to call Kate — hadn't given her any explanation, but told her to hand the case and the Fibbies off to Balboa — but the next step — calling Ducky — was eluding him.

Sandburg had explained everything, and part of Gibbs was proud of Tony for managing to hide the fact that he was a shaman for so long, even from him. But part of him wondered if Tony had done that in part because of him, because of how much he disliked working with guides, and then Gibbs felt guilty again.

Of course, there was plenty of guilt to go around.

It hadn't taken long for Gibbs to do the math: there was only one unbonded sentinel on the BAU team. Clearly, that had been Tony's match — his one perfect match, according to Sandburg — and he'd rejected Tony. Part of Gibbs wanted to hate Hotchner for that, but Tony had anticipated him. It was all spelled out in that damned letter. There's another person involved, but it isn't his fault.

Sandburg had told Gibbs what he'd told Tony; a shaman could die if their sentinel rejected them, so if it came to that then they had to fight for their life. Clearly, Tony had fought and lost. Gibbs snorted at the thought. No, Tony hadn't fought. Tony had heard the sentinel's story and decided that the fight wasn't worth it for some reason. Had decided that whatever Hotchner had going on in his head was worth more than Tony's own life. Tony didn't even want Hotchner to know that he had died.

Rule 4 indeed. Gibbs and Sandburg had been entrusted with Tony's secret, and they were determined to keep it. To Gibbs's surprise, Sandburg had said he was flying out to DC today. He'd said that he wanted to get to the bottom of this situation. When Gibbs read to him that part of Tony's letter — he had to, to get Sandburg to open up in the first place — he'd been insistent on coming. Whatever Hotchner had going on, it was a big enough deal that Tony had died for it, and Sandburg wanted to figure out what in the hell was happening. Gibbs couldn't blame him for that: he wanted to know just as badly.

Tony had also clearly told Sandburg about Gibbs, or perhaps his reputation had preceded him all the way across the country. Hell, maybe a shaman could hear that kind of thing over the phone. But Sandburg had made a point to say that when it came to the end, nothing could save a shaman in rejection crisis. Not the love of family, not a familial or platonic bond with other guides and sentinels, not even a forced bond with a different sentinel. There was literally nothing Gibbs or the others could have done, even if he had somehow become undormant. Somehow, that didn't make Gibbs feel any less like he had failed Tony.

Absently, Gibbs wondered if Fornell might know what the deal was with his fellow Fibbie. All the alphabet agencies were full of gossip: someone had to know something that would make the final pieces click into place for Gibbs. But, like Ducky, Gibbs couldn't bring himself to make the call. Calling Sandburg had been investigatory; he needed questions answered. Telling Kate to get rid of the Fibbies had been a practicality.

Calling the others… telling them the truth… that was something he couldn't do just yet. That would make it all real, as Gibbs was flooded with their grief. Telling them would mean that Gibbs had to take on Tony's role as the emotional support of their little family. If even one of them looked at him with tears in their eyes and asked "why?", Gibbs knew his own walls were going to break down and sweep him away in everything he had kept bottled up for over a decade.

He couldn't do it.

Gibbs wasn't sure how much time passed, but suddenly the door to Tony's apartment was opening. He should have gotten into a defensive stance; should have at least looked to see who it was, but Gibbs couldn't get his body to move. It took everything he had to keep staring at his phone, willing himself to make the calls he knew he needed to make.

"Easy there Marine," said a gruff voice he wasn't expecting. Gibbs's head shot up and he took in the sight of Admiral Chegwidden and Commander Rabb in the doorway. He stared at them, unable to comprehend why JAG was here, at Tony's place.

"Sorry, Gunny," Rabb said, and a moment later Gibbs felt an empathic buffer slip around him.

Logic, anger, frustration, grief, sorrow… everything came crashing back down on Gibbs. Then, just as quickly, it evaporated against the new shields, leaving cold logic in its wake. Harm and Chegwidden weren't here for JAG, they were here because they had become the local Alphas a few years back, shortly after the case where Harm was framed. "I didn't ask for your damn buffer," Gibbs growled.

Annoyingly, Rabb just smirked the same way Tony would have done. Except Tony had never used his empathic gifts on Gibbs so tangibly. "I know; that's why I apologized first," he said smugly. "But even if you didn't ask for it, you needed it."

Before Gibbs could growl at him again, Chegwidden held up a hand. "Blair Sandburg called us. Unfortunately, we're as in the dark as you two as to what Hotchner's deal is. We knew that DiNozzo was a shaman, because he was forced to let Harm know — it's a territory thing — but we didn't know about the risks. Blair said that they weren't well publicized for a reason, but that DiNozzo knew what he was doing."

"He did," Gibbs confirmed softly. If nothing else, he was sure that Tony had known exactly what he was doing when he had walked away yesterday.

Chegwidden had crossed all the way to the couch, while Rabb disappeared down the hall. "Blair said he left— ah, do you mind?"

Quickly running through the letter in his mind, Gibbs couldn't think of anything he would need to keep private from the Alpha sentinel, so he handed over Tony's letter, which was still clutched in his hand.

It didn't take long for Chegwidden to read it, and then he sighed and let it drop back onto the couch. Then, to Gibbs's surprise, the Admiral sat down on the coffee table right in front of him.

Gibbs looked up, meeting his gaze, and realized he was looking — not at a sentinel, or at an Admiral — but at a SEAL. "DiNozzo made his choice, Gunny. Just because we didn't see the grenade coming doesn't mean he didn't. DiNozzo choose to fall on that grenade for someone else and now, like any man in war, you have to go on without him and get the job done."

"We're not at war," Gibbs grumbled, because he couldn't disagree with anything else that Chegwidden had said.

The SEAL smiled sadly. "Maybe not, but that doesn't change what DiNozzo did. Now it's up to you to carry out his last wish back home. I know you know what that means, Marine."

And Gibbs did know. Tony wanted the truth kept secret from Hotchner, and Gibbs knew well enough to guess at the reason for that. Tony had chosen not to fight for his sentinel, and letting Hotchner know of his sacrifice could destroy the man, undoing whatever Tony had intended. Just like a Marine in battle who promised to carry a letter back home for his buddy, to tell his mom that it was over quickly, to tell his dad that he hadn't been in pain, Gibbs had a job to do. He had a letter from Tony, and he had instructions to follow. Take care of the team, don't let Hotchner know what happened, don't let Tony's sacrifice be in vain.

Something must have shown on his face, or hell, in his scent, because Chegwidden reached out and clapped Gibbs on the shoulder. "For what it's worth, he was a damned good agent," Chegwidden said.

"He was," Gibbs agreed quietly. "A damned good friend, too. And he… he was a damned good guide." Not the guide that Gibbs had ever wanted after Shannon, but exactly the kind of guide he had needed, without even realizing it.

"That he was," Rabb agreed from behind him, having returned from the bedroom. "And the tribe takes care of our own."

"You focus on your team, Gunny, and let us handle how to spin this without revealing anything that shouldn't come out," Chegwidden said. "We'll deal with your lovely Director, too," which was yet another thing to be grateful for. Jenny had never handled being told that she couldn't know something, and the last thing Gibbs needed right now was her poking her nose into Tony's business. "You've carried him this far: now let us watch Tony's six for you, Jethro."

It went against every one of Gibbs's instincts to hand Tony over to someone else, but he hadn't been doing Tony any good, sitting on his couch, paralyzed in the act of calling for help. Tony was trusting him to take care of the team, and if that meant letting someone else — Tony's tribe — take care of him, that's what Gibbs would have to find a way to do.

I need you to promise me to obey rule 11. The job's done for me, and no one can change that.

Tony had asked him to walk away when the case was done, and Chegwidden and Rabb were telling Gibbs that the case was done. Time for him to do what Tony asked and walk away. "Okay," he said quietly. "I trust you to take care of him, and Hotchner, and all the rest."

Chegwidden clapped him on the shoulder again. "We won't let either of you down, Jethro," he said.

"I know," Gibbs smirked slightly, knowing Tony would approve. "Cause you wouldn't want to have a pissed off Marine on your tails."

Their laughter might have been quiet, and choked off quickly, but it was a fitting tribute for the man who had prided himself on being able to bring levity to even the toughest cases. And someday, Gibbs knew, he'd be able to look back on this moment, and that thought, and laugh. Even if right now it was all he could do to keep from crying.

But Marines didn't cry.