Semper Fi - O Come, All Ye Faithful

by firechild

Rated T

Disclaimer: I own the original characters (well, after a fashion, anyway) and about half a bottle of rolaids. I do not own the NCIS canon characters or the guests from another fandom, nor do I own an Auburn (and would not want to pay the insurance on one)...

A/N: This is the epilogue for Semper Fi; remember, the writer very rarely promises to lay everything out right from the start, nor does he/she promise to do precisely what everyone wants. And yes, there is a 'guest' fandom mentioned--see if you can spot it. ;)

-----

12-24-24 19:14pm

He hated this office.

He hated this job.

Even after all this time, he couldn't believe that he'd been relegated to this hole, chained to the most un-ergonomic ergonomic chair known to man, and expected to be a happy little desk jockey. He'd never been much of a salesman, and he'd counted on that to keep him in the lower ranks, where he belonged, so precisely how he'd wound up here for the 'interim,' or who had been stupid enough to stick the problem child here, he didn't know. What he did know was that he now spent his days buried in paper--requisition forms, budget proposals, expense reports, petty disputes, employee grievances, equipment inventories, transfer files, file transfers, memos from the stuffed shirts--he'd been working here for years now, but it was only since his reassignment to this glorified closet, supposedly a step up from his floor job, that he fully appreciated how tough his former boss had had to be to have kept her sanity. Granted, she'd actually wanted to be a pencil pusher, having worked her way up from the rank-in-file specifically to nail down this job and hold it for over a decade, but still, this upper-middle-management business was so dull that the only thing that actually saw any kind of action these days was his old Mighty Mouse stapler. And either he needed to get his eyes checked for boredom blindness, or he'd just initialled a retirement request from said stapler.

Thinking about his trusty little tool had him flexing his right hand. Despite his previous jobs, including working at a hospital in Hawaii and a small film lab in California (not to mention a brief but memorable stint as a school security guard in Arizona,) he was still a Northern boy, he still preferred the cold, but it made his hands ache. Reflexively doing the exercises he'd learned in therapy seventeen years ago, he eyed the six requests for transfers into his department, and shook his head with a wry snort; he'd have to do some research on those. While he was glad to see that his department was still considered a hotspot, with more quality candidates than open seats, he'd learned long ago that the number of words on a resume was not directly proportional to the level of performance the applicant could bring to the job. His people certainly weren't vaunted for their bad coffee and spectacular morning breath; they had reached--and kept--their 'crew of the line' status by consistently providing what he thought of as killer customer service, and they did it through personal dedication and some serious teamwork. His job was to continue to challenge them to be better individually and as a shift, not to implode their dynamic by adding the wrong representatives. Besides, he felt pretty good about the mix of people he had at the moment, even knowing that his latest addition was causing some ripples, and since it had only been two weeks and he wasn't going to regret bringing the man in, he would have to sit on his hands and trust his team to adjust to the current situation.

Ah, well, the transfer issues could wait until after Christmas. He filed the requests and locked the drawer, then glanced at his desk again to ensure that he hadn't left out anything that could get him sued. As he really was beginning to loathe the sight of white paper, his eyes slipped from the open folder full of requisition forms for earth-shatteringly critical items like paper clips and coffee filters, and his gaze brushed fondly over the small, motley collection of mismatched photo frames that he'd insisted on bringing with him (maybe the only good thing about him being stuck in here was that at least here there was room for his pictures--his desk on the floor was too small for more than an outdated computer, an ancient phone, and a rolodex that he only pretended to use--all of his personal items stayed in a drawer.)

He smiled unconsciously to himself as he saw the photo of Logan and Max with little Ranza and Liam, and then the portrait of himself pretending to pour red wine on Jenny's Italian-designer wedding gown while Ziva wrapped her hands around his neck from behind, and there was Ducky with the dark green Auburn he'd been given for Christmas in '09, and then Abby with her twins in matching tartan skirts with a Scottish castle behind them, and then a small candid, which Gibbs had pretended not to know about, of the old Marine getting his nose nibbled by the only woman who'd ever kept him for more than ten years--Reveille had been little more than a pup then, but it had taken Gibbs months to earn the abused dog's trust, and moments like the one captured in the photograph had been too precious to resist. He had a few other shots in various places around his apartment, but his pictures from Gibbs's last wedding hadn't come out, and in any case, this one was still his favorite, not that he'd ever been stupid enough to admit that to the older man. He did still feel the urge to breathe, after all.

And he saw, resting at the feet of his photos, a single, long-standard envelope. It wasn't stamped or postmarked or even addressed; the only marking on it was his name in small, black capital letters dashed off by a neat but impatient hand that had needed no address, had just known that this would find him. He'd received it by courier just a few hours ago, and knew that it contained no letter, no note of any kind--only a set of keys. Hitching one hip onto the corner of the desk, he brushed the tips of two fingers gingerly over the mound that the keys made in the paper. He should have known; he should have expected this. Maybe, in a way, he had. He needed no explanation, as the sender had trusted.

Trusted him.

As he had trusted, and had never regretted that trust. They had been faithful. to themselves and to each other, for so long, as they'd gained and lost so many pieces of themselves. They'd gone separate directions, they'd turned to different lives and different paths, but they'd always trusted each other to be there, to be ready to catch, to hold together, to hold up.

And he would honor that trust now, he would be faithful now and for as long as he drew breath.

He could do no less.

He fingered the mound again, silent, as another little piece of himself broke away. He knew better than to try to hold onto it; instead, he braced himself to release it in a moment of acceptance.

But the moment didn't come. What did come was music--someone had signalled the start of the obligatory shop Christmas party by programming the floor PA system to pipe in a techno version of "Happy Holiday."

There would be calls to make, people who deserved to know. He glanced at the phone on his desk, but his fingers were already easing into his holster for his cell, the private cell that he still carried purely because he felt that he was allowed his idiosyncracies. Time zones didn't matter--the very few people who did matter at the moment wouldn't care what time he called. Even so, he couldn't help flicking a glance at the calendar on the wall as the holiday music wafted relentlessly into the air around him. He really should reprimand his subordinates for pirating company equipment to misuse the emergency address system this way, but he figured that if they had to deal with their newest team member without any sympathy or overt intervention from him, then he could overlook the traditional misdemeanor. Again.

He might be a supervisor in this place, but a stuffed shirt, he was not.

He was, however, a little chagrined at his relief when his decision about whom to call first got put on the back burner by a knock on his office doors; he was a little surprised that someone had managed to get up the stairs and through the vacant office next to his without him hearing them. He was even more surprised when the person who stuck her head into the room at his summons turned out to be Janet--she habitually wore heavy pumps that made about as much of a racket as Two-Step Night at the cowboy bar near his apartment. He'd told her several times to change her footwear--how she managed with as much as she was on her feet in this job, he would never know--but as she wasn't violating the department dress code, he would just have to wait until she figured out for herself that heels were a bad idea around here. He shook his head; he'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he'd tuned out Kozlowski's approach, and he was going to have to be more careful about that. He'd promised himself a long time ago that no one who hadn't worked with him before that explosive Christmas would ever be allowed to sneak up on him. He'd done a lot of different things since then, but this being a desk jockey was killing his edge.

"What is it, Janet?"

The young woman looked a little concerned, though whether it was his head-shaking or the fact that he hadn't changed into what she felt were appropriate party clothes (judging from the fact that she looked like Vera Ellen getting ready to wow Danny Kaye, he wasn't bothered too much about his lack of tails,) he didn't know. He hoped she wasn't actually planning on doing a number--he could just see having to report that young Miss Kozlowski had hurt herself, not doing her job, but at a holiday party. The paperwork alone would take longer than the detective's exam he'd taken... more years ago than he wanted to remember.

He really hated paperwork. He'd rather eat those paperclips he had to requisition. He'd rather eat lead... not that anyone was likely to be shooting at him here.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you'd want to know that the hospital called--Midshipman Vance has regained consciousness, and he's insisting on speaking with you, though he refuses to say why."

He stood up, every nerve ending in his body going on alert. "For me specifically, or for the AIC?"

She looked confused by the question. "For you, sir--apparently, he knows your name."

He moved swiftly, rounding the desk and bending to retrieve his badge and gun from their drawer and straightening in one fluid move; as he donned the items, he tried to stem the rush of excitement--he had faith in Travers, wouldn't have left him in charge of the team if he didn't, and he knew that the younger man needed the experience, but it felt good to be moving again, to be quite literally back under the gun. It felt good just to be back.

"Sir, surely you're not going to go yourself--according to regulations, you can't..." She trailed off, blinking at his speed as he brushed past her and crossed the outer office in long strides, his trenchcoat over his arm; he bit back the urge to laugh, and had to remind himself that she'd never seen him in action, that she'd come on board just two months ago, three months after he'd been kicked upstairs 'temporarily,' and as she'd meshed reasonably with Travers and Ahmed, he'd forced himself to keep sitting on his hands and let his pups manage their cases and their conflicts with little direct involvement from him. He'd tracked every move, every call, every decision they'd made, he'd never actually left them entirely adrift--MTAC was going to be good for something if he still had to sign the monthly bills for a theater full of equipment designed for a job that was now done in some hurricane bunker somewhere in Florida--but still...

He placated himself with a dry chuckle as she scrambled down the stairs in his wake. "Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that part of the reg manual, Kozlowski--bosses around here have a way of reinterpreting the heck out of it." He could hear her sputtering, reminding him more than a little of Agent Lee, but to her credit, she chose to keep any further comments to herself. That was why he'd chosen her for this post--she wasn't afraid to learn, and she was about to learn a whole lot about Interim Director Anthony DiNozzo... make that Supervisory Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.

"Gear up, kids; the figgy pudding's gonna have to wait. We've got a sailor to interview and a case to solve." He lost no time rounding his desk and grabbing the minicorder that he kept in the side drawer with all of Gibbs's medals (and four civilian commendations of his own.) He didn't have to look up to get the stunned and disappointed looks on two of his pups' faces and the relieved expressions of the third pup and the other partiers. "Music too loud for your refined Federal ears? I said, let's go." By the time he raised his head, he was pleased to see all three scrambling for their kits. "Ahmed, tell Ingram to meet us at Mercy Hospital--she's earned some field time."

If Ahmed, who was obviously discomfitted to be surrounded by Christmas revelers (Travers had, no doubt, conned him into attending the party,) had any reservations about DiNozzo whisking them away now, Tony would eat his shoe. "Yes, sir!" The young agent had the fastest dialing fingers Tony'd ever seen, and he was obviously happy to be tagging his eager young colleague, who'd recently helped to rescue him from an unbalanced former Marine with a vendetta against NCIS.

"Sir, shouldn't I, um, change?" Kozlowski's cheeks were flaming as she indicated her gown.

He didn't even spare her a glance, having already noted that both boys were in Dockers and sweaters. "Have you got a change here?"

"No, sir."

"Then throw a coat over it--it's cold out there." He turned and approached her, dropping his voice. "Always keep at least two changes here. And realistic shoes. You never know what you'll end up on, or what might end up on you." He saw her swallow and nod once, stowing her embarrassment and accepting the lesson.

He turned again to pull on his suit coat and barely heard her, "On me, sir?"

Tony smirked to himself, remembering, as he tugged on his trenchcoat. "Crime is rarely clean, Janet; it's usually messy, and sometimes it just outright stinks." He reached up to adjust his collar.

"Yep, what'd I tell ya--lots of baths."

Tony froze. It wasn't the voice... Collar forgotten in his hands, he turned, eyes wide.

She stood about as high as his adam's apple, her long liquid-black hair kissed with caramel here and there and echoing her deep brown eyes with their amber flecks and tinge of violet around the irises. The color in her eyes was answered by the black of her worn leather jacket open over the dark purple of her semi-formal gown, which hugged curves that should have sent him blithering. Her warm toffee skin glowed, and her (natural) nails looked elegant as she rested her hands on her hips and let her black purse dangle from one wrist. Even her purple boots screamed, "Wo-man!" But there was just something...

"And whose Christmas angel are you?"

She chuckled. "I knew it--same old Mr. Nose!"

His heart sprang into his throat. "Marie?"

She smiled, that same sweet smile that would light up deep space, and he wasn't aware of letting go of his collar, wasn't aware of moving, but suddenly, he was holding out his hands to her. She glanced down at them, and just as it occured to him that she hadn't seen them since that night and he shouldn't force her to see the scars, she met his eyes again, hers suspiciously misty but steady, and slipped her hands into his.

He laughed a little through the moisture in his own eyes. "Your hands are freezing! What is it with your family and not wearing gloves?"

She gave a self-conscious shrug and deliberately snuggled her hands more securely into his, for the warmth, for the connection, for something in her eyes that he couldn't name. "I don't know--we just don't think about stuff like that. Oh, that reminds me..." She released him to delve into her purse. "Ross wanted to deliver this in person, but he's been out of the country for the last several years, so even though he's back now, he asked me to do it because he doesn't want to take a chance of missing out again." She pulled out a slender clear plastic box that contained a pair of leather gloves.

His breath caught in his throat and wrapped around his heart. He knew those gloves.

"I knew you'd know what to do with them." He looked back up at her, and her eyes told him that, whether by his reaction or by some other way, she knew.

He gently took the box from her. "I'll make sure that they get to the right place. How is Ross, by the way? And I thought I told him not to leave you alone."

She looked just a little impish. "Oh, don't worry, I won't be alone for long. He's meeting me at the Christmas service at our old church tonight." She leaned in conspiratorially. "He doesn't know that I came early. He told me that I should just wait till after New Year's and run it by after class, but I just had to see if you'd be here. I couldn't be this close and not try to see you, especially not on Christmas Eve." She winked at him; he knew that his team, and most of the rest of the teams, were watching them and wondering, but right now, he really didn't care.

"Run it by? After class? Marie, are you back?"

She shook her head. "Not like that--see, Ross is meeting me at church and he'll be escorting me to my cousin's house for Christmas, and then next week he's going to escort me to Quantico." Seeing his confusion, she elaborated. "I graduated early from college, and I've been accepted to an experimental training class. I'm going in to the FBI."

Pride warred with apprehension. "Oh, Marie, I'm proud that you got through college, but this isn't the kind of life I wanted for you."

She smiled fondly. "I know. But I can handle it. I really am a big girl now, and this is the right thing to do. Ross is only coming because it's tradition, he always used to take me to everything, and because we haven't seen much of each other since he started getting posted overseas." Tony raised an eyebrow at that, and Marie's smile turned proud. "He's a United States Marine. He enlisted after he got his associate's degree."

"That's... that's great, sweetheart. What's his specialization?"

She gave him a knowing look. "Criminology. Evidently, you and our Mr. Gibbs made quite an impression on both of us."

"Yeah... Gibbs has always been pretty good at, heh, making an impression."

"Speaking of..." She rose up on her toes and scanned the office. "I don't suppose he's around; I'd love to say hi."

"He's..." Tony missed a beat, "retired. But he'll love that you came by, and he'd growl at you about the gloves, too."

Her smile was distinctly melancholy now; she hadn't missed his hesitation. "Well, then, I guess I'll just have to trust you to make sure that his gift gets to the right place, too. And don't worry, I didn't forget you. I could never forget you."

He had the impression that she was using another rummage through her bag to buy time to collect herself, and that was fine with him. "You didn't need to get us anything, baby--seeing you is definitely still enough."

"Well, that's sweet, but..." She produced some cards and a small, thickly wrapped parcel. "That's for him," her voice caught as she handed Tony the parcel, "and these are for you." He examined the package curiously, feeling its heft, and shot her a quirked eyebrow. "A peephole. Sort of an inside joke." He gave a half-smile and nodded, understanding the symbolism, then turned his attention to the small cards in his other hand. "My card--at least, for now. I don't know if they give you cards after you earn your badge or what, but I do know that I owe you one. Two, actually."

He nodded as he read the card she'd indicated, then looked at the other one. "An invitation...?"

"It's my projected graduation date. I know that if I make it through training, I'll have earned my shield through my own dedication, but no matter how much I might respect my instructors, that badge won't really feel like mine until you pin it on me." She grew suddenly unsure. "That is, if you... I mean, you don't have to... I--"

She trailed off when he rested a finger over her lips. He met her eyes and knew that he'd never forget this night. "I would be beyond honored. You can count on me."

A tear finally managed to escape her expressive eye and made a break for her chin, followed by another on the other side; he brushed them away in turn with a gentle trigger finger, and she smiled again. "You NCIS agents--always so faithful. You just keep saving me. This makes four times, you know."

He was totally baffled. "Four times? Baby, I haven't..."

This time it was her finger stilling his lips. "Yes, you have. You see, you saved me that night, and then, on Christmas Eve, you helped heal something in my brother, something that he knows would have killed him; and if anything had happened to him, if he'd destroyed himself, especially because of me, I would have died with him. And now, here you are, saving me again, saving me from never feeling like a real agent. So, you see, you're just always saving me, so now it's time for me to get out there and make it worth all your work."

There was mischievous humor in her eyes and her tone, but he wasn't laughing. "It was always worth it, Marie. And you said four; that was three." Anyone could hear the challenge, and the command, in his low tone--it wasn't about how many times he'd supposedly saved her, it was about how she'd come to need saving and why she'd tried to gloss it over.

She had the good grace to look chagrined, knowing she'd been caught, but she'd obviously hoped not to have to fess up. She looked at him, searching for an out, and met solid stone; she shivered a little, grateful that at least she wasn't about to have to admit to having done something stupid--she was sure that that wouldn't have been at all comfortable.

"Marie." The low rumble carried a warning like distant thunder, and though she'd read of such things in novels, for the first time she thought that she could actually see a storm brewing in his eyes. She shivered again, and sighed.

"My freshman year of college, I was living in the dorm, and one day my roommate was out at a club meeting and I was holed up with her computer and my notes. There was a knock at the door, and I thought that if I ignored it, the person would think we were both out and would go away. Well, he didn't, and after a minute, he started talking, asking me to open the door and let him use the phone; I asked who it was, and he said he was in my math class and had really come because he wanted to ask me out. He sounded so nice, but there were so many people in my math class, and I thought I knew who he was and that he'd seemed really nice, but I just wasn't sure, so I didn't open the door. I told him that I was sick and that I wasn't going to let him catch what I had. He sounded worried and said that he was pre-med and that he'd take care of me, he'd been nursing his sister for years; he sounded so sincere, but I just couldn't relax. He tried the knob, but we had double locks on our doors, and I always used both of them, and after one try, he gave up. He told me he'd be back to check on me. I just couldn't shake this weird feeling, so I called a buddy of mine who worked campus security between classes, and he said he'd keep an eye open. The guy didn't come back, and I skipped the next couple of days and called to tell my roommate to stay with friends. Two days after he came to my door, he was caught digging behind an old storage shed near the field house. My buddy, who'd kept an ear to the ground after my call, connected him to me and to a couple of reports of girls being followed." She sucked in a breath. "Turns out, he was a serial rapist; one of his marks off-campus had gone sour and he'd killed her and stuffed her in that shed to hide her, and he was caught digging a grave for her. He was accelerating, he'd gone a week without a hit and was having a hard time restraining himself to keep from arousing suspicion. He was pre-med, but he'd been experimenting with easy targets on campus. I don't know why he gave up on me so easily, but I do know what usually happens when a serial escalates to murder. I know what almost happened to me." She hugged herself just a little with the memory. "I wanted to be a nice girl, I maybe even wanted to go on a date. I didn't open that door because of you, because I could hear you in my head, making me promise. That's four."

His heart ached and his blood boiled, but he settled for gathering her in his arms. He held her tightly, protectively, and she let him, finding her comfortable little nook in his shoulder as if it had been seventeen hours rather than seventeen years since she'd been in his embrace. "Oh, Bit," he moaned into her hair. Then he found her ear and said, low and slow and clear, "Now you listen to me, young lady. I didn't save you that day; you saved yourself. You listened to your instinct; you're alive because of your own choices. You were being the best you you could be, and that's pretty darn impressive. Don't you ever stop listening to that instinct, you hear me?" She nodded, and he shook his head. "Nope, not gonna cut it. You know how this works--I need to hear you say it, I need to hear you promise."

She pulled back a little to look up at him. "I will always listen to my gut; I promise, Mr. Nose." She drew herself a little straighter. "Agent DiNozzo."

He shook his head. "That's Special Agent Mr. Nose to you, young lady." He grinned proudly and leaned in a little. "Or how about just Tony?"

"Oh, I'm sure my supervisory agents would just love that." She rolled her eyes wryly, and they laughed. She backed up a step, and they joined hands again, the cards and the gift for their mutual friend warming between them. "It was good to see you. I'm glad I took the chance and came by." She glanced up at the clock on the wall and winced a little. "Well, it never fails; I'm gonna be late for church again. I won't be very far away now--maybe you'd let me take you to lunch sometime, catch up? Of course, we might have to wait till I'm actually getting paid..."

"Nope. Not gonna happen." He watched her face fall, and then he grinned. "But I might take you to lunch one day, treat you to something that doesn't include microwave noodles and little foil packets."

She beamed at him and squeezed his hands before reluctantly pulling away. "Sounds good to me. Once again, I've got to bounce--seems I'm always running out on you, doesn't it? Merry Christmas!"

He waved. "Merry Christmas, Bit--take care of you!" He watched her go and knew that she'd be okay, especially when she discovered that he'd slipped his own gloves into her coat pocket when he'd hugged her.

The mood around him was strangely subdued, no one else in the room having a clue what had just happened, as he turned back to his team. "Sorry for the delay, kids; let's go. We've still got a case to solve. Let's try to give someone a better Christmas than they expect." He carefully laid the gifts in the drawer with the medals, then plucked the gloves out again, changing his mind. "Go on over to the hospital, grab Ingram, and wait for me at the ICU. Dr. Palmer should be finishing the Harriman autopsy right about now; I think I'll drop down there and see what he's got." He didn't miss the grimaces his pups exchanged at the mention of the new ME, or the look of surprise on Travers's face.

"Autopsy? He's been working all this evening?"

Somebody snorted and muttered something about "probably having a nice little seance with the Seaman--wonder if he really expects any of them to talk back."

Tony slammed his desk drawer. Let them think that he was ticked off; he wasn't far from it. "That's right. He's been working. That's what Dr. Palmer does--he works so that you all can snicker behind your hands like eight-year-olds. He does what he does, and he's the best at what he does, and if this is a problem and I have to get rid of someone, he's last on my list." He eyed them, inwardly satisfied at their startled and chagrined looks. "And just for the record, yes, they do talk back to him--funny thing, how the dead have more important things to say than most of you on a given day." He let himself savor their winces for just a second before turning on his heel with the gloves in hand. "What are you waiting for? Get to work." He pointed himself toward the internal lift and didn't turn around to make sure that his three pups were heading for the public elevator; they were good kids, if in desperate need of a good Gibbs-smack now and then.

He'd have to wait until after Christmas to make those calls--no sense in doing it now--but there was one old friend who was about to get a bittersweet surprise from another old friend. The gloves were a small but real weight in his pocket, a reminder of the past and of how things tended to come full-circle. Tony couldn't do anything about those who weren't here, about the pieces of their lives that had gone on before, but one piece had come home, and Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo intended to honor that.

-----