Chapter Text
Day One
It always hits him when he least expects.
That feeling Tony DiNozzo has been trying to ignore for weeks—or has it really been going on months now? That yearning, deep down into his bones, that undeniable wanderlust he barely manages to suppress each day.
When he isn’t paying attention, it sneaks up to dig its claws ever deeper.
It comes for him, day after day, when the people he knows are too close, his world too routine. His life is becoming far, far too predictable.
He wants to—no, he needs—to run. And yet, for some reason, he doesn’t remember how.
Even though he’s distracting himself with work and women and movies, all he really does is buy himself time. If he keeps his mind busy, he can ignore the feeling for another day. Maybe two. Perhaps he’ll make it another week if the team’s case is bad enough.
Maybe what he really wants is just an excuse. Something, anything to let him justify packing up every single one of his earthly belongings before taking off like Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride.
There was always something to send him running from his job or his life. When Tony left Peoria, his superior officer asked him to rewrite his report on a traffic stop. Tony did as he was asked before leaving in the middle of the night. He ditched Philadelphia when the lines between he and his partner started to blur into something more than professional. Baltimore, that was a dirty partner and when Internal Affairs started to eye him too, he bolted. At the time, Tony planned to head for California, but Jethro Gibbs happened to be in the right place at the right time.
After his first day at NCIS, Tony thought it could potentially be his permanent home. Just like all the others, it’s slowly becoming a place he can’t leave fast enough.
Though, as much as he hates to admit, things are more complicated now. He got sloppy. He got involved. He built a life. He has his first direct reports, Tim McGee and Ziva David, that he took under his wing. He has coworkers he cares about.
He has responsibilities.
In any other place, he would’ve left without leaving a forwarding address by now.
His excuse comes when he doesn’t even want to run, when he’s too tired to even contemplate how he’ll pack up his apartment or how he'll move his piano. He isn’t even particularly thinking about cutting and running when it happens.
The team is fresh off an all-nighter that came after back-to-back grisly cases. Tony is already starting to forget what his apartment looks like. He hasn’t been home in nearly a week. Late last night, they caught a stroke of bad luck when Tim connected their current murder case with a series of unsolved ones at Camp LeJeune. It was enough for Director Shepard to call for reinforcements. So, the team from LeJeune came flying in to help find the person murdering their Marines. Apparently, their killer decided to relocate to the nation's capitol.
Right now, the team is long, long past the point where Gibbs should’ve sent everyone home for a shower and some sleep. Of course, he took it personally that Shepard called for back-up. In Gibbs’ mind, Tony and the team should’ve solved their current case and the ones from LeJeune without even reading the other case files.
With how Gibbs stormed out earlier, Tony is fully expecting yet another all-nighter.
I don’t know we’ll get any work done…
At his desk, Tony props his head on his hand. His eyes are at half-mast, barely reviewing the words on the screen. He should be reviewing documents—what was I reading again? Oh yeah, these are service logs for the murdered Marines—to try and connect the victims. No matter how hard he tries, the words keep blurring together in front of his eyes.
From the looks of it, the rest of his team isn’t faring much better. Tim McGee is dozing, hands propped on his keyboard and body splayed out in his chair. Not long after Gibbs left, Ziva David curled up under her own desk. The only sign of her is the combat boots sticking out from beneath it. If it weren’t for her raucous snores, Tony might have passed out too.
The team from LeJeune has been running circles around them. When Tony talked to their senior agent—a drop dead gorgeous redhead named Mallory—she said they’d caught some shuteye on the plane. By now, Tony has been awake for almost forty-eight hours. Not that he’s counting.
In their current state, they’re slow and unsuccessful. Ineffective, Tony would say. Useless is the word Gibbs probably would use.
Suddenly, Gibbs swoops back into the bullpen. Since he’s double-fisting coffee cups that means Tony shouldn’t expect to see his apartment until next weekend. At the earliest.
“Somebody tell me something,” Gibbs barks.
Jumping as though he was electrocuted, Tony scrabbles for the plasma remote. It shoots off his desk like an escaped suspect. He dives after it, straight to the floor.
Across the bullpen, Ziva wakes with a start. A loud thwack echoes when her leg hits her desk on her way up. She slinks to her chair, hair wild and bags under her eyes. She clasps her hands in front of her, trying to look as though she’s been there the whole time.
Even the commotion doesn’t wake Tim.
Tony comes up from underneath his desk, plasma remote held triumphantly over his head. He cringes at the sight of Gibbs stopping in front of Tim’s desk. Gibbs looms like silver-haired, sawdust and coffee-crusted monster. When Tim still doesn’t move, Gibbs places both his coffee cups at the edge of Tim’s desk. He lifts Tim’s keyboard before slamming it back down. The noise echoes through the bullpen like a gunshot.
Tony winces as if he was punched. Even Ziva jumps.
Tim nearly leaps out of his skin. He flails around, reaching for his keyboard. On his way, he catches the side of a coffee cup. The liquid sloshes all over him and the floor. He flinches violently, lips twisting together. His hands scrabble for his leg. Tim grits his teeth, a pained gasp escapes from his mouth. His huge, exhausted eyes flit between the overturned cup and his coffee-soaked clothes.
Tony presses his hand over his mouth because Gibbs only drinks his coffee at one of two temperatures: molten lava or surface of the sun. Hopefully, Gibbs took a long, long walk before he came back to work. Otherwise, Tim probably just burned the hell out of his leg.
Tim sputters at the mess.
“McGee,” Gibbs snaps.
“Boss…” Tim sputters again. “I…I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
Gibbs puts his hands at his sides. “What do you have, McGee?”
Tim’s eyes drop to his leg. To his monitor. Back again. He presses his lips together before clenching his teeth harder.
“I’m on it,” he says.
After looking at his pants, Tim reaches into the lower drawers of his desk for his go-bag. As soon as he pulls it out, Gibbs snatches it away. Tony and Ziva share a shocked look.
What the hell are you doing, Boss?
“When you find the connection between the victims, McGee,” Gibbs growls.
Tim stares at him, poleaxed. Gibbs is already on the move.
Tony stands up. “Boss.”
His voice comes like a warning. Gibbs might not be a stranger to steamrolling boundaries, but to Tony, taking away Tim’s go-bag is a step too far.
Gibbs wheels around. “You got something, DiNozzo?”
When Tony shakes his head, Gibbs stares him down. Tony dips his chin toward the bag in Gibbs’ hands before tilting his head in Tim’s direction. The unspoken message should be clear between these two men who hold entire conversations through shoulder slouches and raised eyebrows.
To his credit, Tim is trying not to appear as though the humiliation bothers him. He tucks straight back into his work, eyes locked on his computer screen and fingers flying over the keyboard. His entire face has gone bright red.
Tony clears his throat again. Thrusts his head even harder in Tim’s direction.
Come on, Boss. Give back Probie's clothes.
Gibbs narrows his eyes at Tony.
Ziva is the only one crazy enough to speak. “I have received an e-mail from the LeJeune team. They suspect the victims were chosen at random by our killer.”
Gibbs jostles his other coffee cup at her. “There’s a connection. Find it.”
“I will try, Gibbs,” she says quietly.
When Gibbs nods at her, she smiles tightly before returning to her computer. Ziva might’ve taken a nap like the rest of them, but it seems as though she won’t catch any heat for it. Tim will be the one who got burned while Tony’s about to take the hit for his team.
“Boss,” Tony says, more forceful this time.
Gibbs stands up straighter. “Got something, DiNozzo?”
“Not yet.”
Gibbs turns away as if to say, We’re done here.
“Come on, Boss. Poor Probie over there looks like a drowned rat.” Tony puffs out his chest before sing-songing in his best Mae West impression: “’You should get out of those wet clothes and into a dry martini.’”
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if Gibbs had just ignored him. Or if Gibbs had said anything in response to Tony’s humorous attempts to diffuse the situation.
Instead, Gibbs releases an agitated huff.
At that moment, the desire for Tony to burn it all the ground hits. His yearning to run creates a void, wide and so deep, Tony doubt it’ll ever be full.
Tony stands to his full height. Watches the smug satisfaction on Ziva’s face and the utter humiliation creeping across Tim’s.
Moving behind his desk, Gibbs tucks Tim’s go-bag into his filing cabinet. Tim’s extra clothing turned from a necessity into a reward for a job well. Gibbs locks eyes with Tony as if challenging him to escalate the situation. Tony stands his ground.
Suddenly, a deafening roar fills Tony’s ears. His heart slams against his sternum.
He leans forward, hands flat against his desk. “You know what, Gibbs. I quit.”
Gibbs recoils because if anything, he likely didn’t expect that. And in a way, neither did Tony. On any normal day, they would've had glares at each other. Tim would've found what they needed and Gibbs would return the go-bag. No harm, all the fouls. Except, today wasn't a normal day. Tony knew the feeling would win eventually, but he didn’t think it would be here and now. In the middle of a serial killer case after a bunch of all-nighters because of Tim McGee.
When Gibbs’ gaze locks on Tony’s, there’s something indescribable in them. Shock, maybe, or some fear thrown in for good measure. He searches Tony’s face as if trying to determine whether the senior agent could be serious.
Across the bullpen, Tim scrambles to his feet. On the right leg of his khaki pants is a huge, dark stain where the coffee spilled. Tim stares at Tony with rapt admiration as though he never imagined Tony would quit his job to stand up for him. As if he’s finally understanding that they choose to be here and they don’t have to be if they don’t want to.
Gibbs skewers Tim with a glare. “You got something to add, McGee?”
“Me too,” Tim squeaks. “I think…I think I do too.”
Releasing another agitated huff, Gibbs collects Tim’s bag from the filing cabinet. He stalks across the bullpen to dump it, unceremoniously, at the junior agent’s feet.
“Be back in six hours,” Gibbs announces.
Without wanting to be involved, Ziva bolts out of the bullpen. Tim climbs to his feet, his face clouded with confusion as though he might be dreaming. He stares at his bag, but he doesn’t pick it up because he seems to think he might be punished again.
Gibbs clears his throat.
“Tim,” Tony advises. “Go see Ducky.”
At the use of his first name, Tim looks up. His hand reaches for the wet spot on his thigh, and he shudders when he grazes it. Gibbs glares him down until Tim snatches his bag from the floor. With his shoulder hunched, he slinks to the elevator. He doesn’t look back for the entire time that Tony watches him go.
As soon as they’re alone, Gibbs returns to his desk and grabs a case file. When he notices Tony hasn’t moved, Gibbs makes a face.
“You got what you wanted, Tony.” He gestures out of the bullpen. “Go home.”
Tony shakes his head.
Gibbs huffs. “Not this again.”
“I mean it, Gibbs.” Tony sets his jaw. “I quit and I’m pretty sure McGee just did too.”
Another huff, long and low, comes from Gibbs. He stares hard at the case file as though it’s responsible for everything wrong in his life.
Inside Tony, the innate desire to run slowly recedes like an ocean’s tide. His escape might not be happening right now, but he’ll do what he needs soon enough. There are too many strings to cut before he does, too many knots left to untangle.
Gibbs’ expression borders on irritated. “Tony…”
“Not this time, Gibbs. Consider this my two-week notice.”