Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bar was quiet in the way only expensive places managed—low jazz murmuring from hidden speakers, conversation hushed and urbane, laughter like the clink of ice in a crystal glass. Tony sat at the polished walnut counter, his tailored suit dark navy with the subtlest pinstripe, tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd chosen this look rather than arrived in it after a long day.

His fingers rested lightly on a glass of Oban 18, the single malt catching golden light from the lamp beside him. The scotch was excellent, smooth as silk and warm as memory. He took a sip and let it linger, watching it coat the sides of the glass like amber velvet.

Kate would never believe this was his idea of a good time.

She’d pigeonholed him months ago—frat boy, meathead, overgrown teenager who flirted with anything in heels and drank whatever beer came in a plastic cup. She’d be stunned to see him here, in a place where the cufflinks mattered more than the wallet, where half the patrons had lobbyists on speed dial and personal tailors who flew in from Milan.

He liked it that way.

Let them all think they had him figured out. Let Kate and McGee laugh in the bullpen, making cheap jokes about “Tony locking lips with a she-he.” McGee was awkward, uncertain—Tony gave him a pass most days. Kate though... her mockery hit a little too sharp, a little too rehearsed. Like she needed him to be that joke.

They didn’t understand. Of course they didn’t.

The kiss hadn’t bothered him because Amanda Reed had been assigned male at birth. It hadn’t bothered him because she’d transitioned, or wore heels better than Kate, or had eyes that could pin a man to the wall. It had bothered him because she’d killed Chris Pacci—someone Tony had liked, admired even, and he’d felt it in his gut when he realized what she’d done. The kiss had been necessary. A tactical decision. A piece of the job.

And still, he’d felt dirty afterward—not because of her gender or presentation, but because he'd shared an intimate moment with the woman who brutally murdered his friend. The homophobia and transphobia on top of it all was so difficult not to react to.

That part they’d never understand. Not in the way he did. Not when hiding had become a habit. Not when Anthony DiNozzo—pansexual, private school educated, society’s lost son—was just as real as the wisecracking federal agent with the movie quotes and gleaming badge.

He tipped back the last of the scotch and let it settle. His gaze wandered idly around the room. Pearls, cashmere, old money and older secrets. The kind of place where nothing truly scandalous ever happened, but plenty simmered just beneath the surface.

That was when he saw him.

Salt-and-pepper hair, tailored charcoal suit, classic Italian leather shoes. The man moved like a wolf among deer—confident, unhurried, completely at home in his skin. He settled into a seat a few stools down and ordered the same top-shelf scotch that Tony had. Not flashy. Just certain.

Tony’s eyes lingered a moment too long—and were met. Sharp brown eyes met his, and Tony felt a flicker in his chest, something old and unpracticed. Recognition without familiarity. Like a tune you haven’t heard in years but still know the words to.

The man raised his glass in a silent toast. Tony responded in kind.

“Well,” the man said, voice smooth and resonant, “either you’re trying very hard not to be noticed, or you’re hoping someone will.”

Tony grinned. “Why not both?”

“Why not, indeed.” The man shifted slightly toward him. “David Rossi.”

Tony let the name settle. There was something familiar about it. Not just the way he carried himself, but the name itself. Somewhere in the background—books, maybe? He filed it away.

“Anthony,” he replied, “but I go by Tony. When I’m working.”

“And when you’re not?”

Tony shrugged, the smile on his lips playing with the line between challenge and charm. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Rossi laughed quietly. “And here I thought the only thing interesting about tonight would be the scotch.”

Tony shifted one stool closer.

“Oh, I know good taste when I see it.”

They didn’t rush it. That was the difference between this and every casual pass Tony fielded at bars he didn’t even like being in. They talked—about the liquor, about classic films, about the kind of books that surprised you with their honesty. They let the conversation breathe, let the air between them warm.

Eventually, there was a pause. A loaded, perfect silence.

Rossi’s voice dropped low. “I was just thinking how much of a shame it would be to leave this conversation unfinished.”

Tony met his eyes, steady. “We could keep talking. Somewhere quieter.”

“Somewhere with better seating.”

Tony let the smile grow, slow and certain. “Lead the way.”

It was clear without needing to state it that both men were angling for more from their evening together. At the same time, they had learned the art of subtlety, of discretion.

Outside, the night was velvet dark and scented faintly with cut grass and distant rain. They walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, both of them careful not to close the distance too fast—but not afraid to.

They stopped by Rossi’s car. Close now.

For a moment, they hovered there, caught in the pull of it, the edge of something about to break open. It would’ve been so easy to lean in. To kiss him.

Instead, Rossi’s voice was warm, just above a whisper.

“Follow me.”

Tony nodded. His voice was equally low, but electric. “Just try and lose me.”

The door clicked shut behind them, the soft sound swallowed by the stillness of the house. Tony had barely registered the grandeur of the space—clean lines, rich wood floors, art that whispered wealth without shouting it—when the mood shifted enticingly.

Rossi didn’t waste time. One hand braced flat against the door beside Tony’s head, the other found his waist with quiet certainty. Their mouths met like they’d been waiting for this all night, maybe longer—like some part of them already knew how the other would taste.

The kiss was slow, but it smoldered . It wasn’t tentative. It was deliberate. Bristled lips moved with unhurried purpose, grazing, pressing, teasing. Tony inhaled sharply through his nose as Rossi’s hand slid up his chest, fingers tracing the edge of his lapel before curling loosely at his collar. A pause, then pressure—pulling him closer.

Tony’s back met the door with a muted thud. He didn’t mind. He leaned into it, body arching gently into David’s, mouth parting with a quiet sigh. Their tongues brushed, soft and exploratory, and he felt himself hum low in his throat, the vibration answering the burn already simmering in his gut.

No rush. No pretending.

They stayed there like that for several long, perfect moments—mouths locked in slow, reverent motion, hips shifting in a careful rhythm, learning the press of bodies through layers of fabric. Tony let one hand drift up to cup the back of David’s neck, fingertips skimming the short hair there, grounding them both.

Eventually, Rossi pulled back just far enough to whisper against his lips.

“Come with me.”

Tony nodded, breath catching when their hands joined—David’s grip strong and steady, thumb brushing across his knuckles like a promise. He followed willingly through the quiet house, every few steps interrupted by another kiss, another touch, another excuse to linger.

Ties were loosened. Jackets shed. Shoes abandoned with quiet thuds on the hardwood.

In the hallway, Tony’s fingers slipped beneath the open collar of David’s shirt, nails scraping gently across his chest. David responded with a low, appreciative sound that sent heat pooling low in Tony’s belly.

The teasing touches turned reverent—light brushes over ribs, slow slides of fingertips along belt loops, fingers tracing the line of a jaw or the edge of a wrist. Everything was deliberate. Unrushed. Devotional.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Tony’s breath was shallow, his smile lazy and wanting.

David stopped just inside the threshold, turning to face him fully. “Anthony.”

The way he said it—full of weight and meaning, not a single syllable wasted—sent a ripple through Tony’s chest. He closed the distance with aching slowness, hands drifting to David’s shirtfront, undoing the buttons one by one. David returned the favor, fingers ghosting over skin as it was revealed.

When they were finally bare, Tony took a step back toward the bed.

He didn’t just lie down. He presented himself—stretched out across the cool sheets, arms open, legs long, back arched just enough to show the confident line of his body. His head tilted toward the pillow, lips curved in a sultry, challenging smile.

David swore under his breath. “ Madonna santa… ”

Tony laughed, deep and husky, his voice sliding into smooth Italian. “ Ti piace quello che vedi? ”

David’s eyes darkened, lips twitching. “ Come se ci fosse un dubbio. ”

Then he was moving again—predatory, hungry, but still composed. Always composed. He climbed onto the bed with the grace of a man who had nothing to prove and every intention of proving it anyway.

As their bodies met again, heat blooming skin to skin, Tony thought— This. This is mine. Not the mask. Not the banter. Not the deflection.

Just this . Wanting and being wanted, no apologies. No lies.

And he surrendered to it completely.

The sheets were cool beneath them, but the heat between their bodies more than made up for it. David hovered over Tony, gaze raking slowly across his bare chest, the curve of his waist, the long, confident stretch of muscle beneath skin.

Tony’s eyes never wavered. They were dark with want, yes—but also something deeper. Something steady. He reached up, fingers curling behind David’s neck, guiding him down for another kiss. It was open-mouthed and lingering, their tongues brushing lazily as their bodies aligned, hips cradling each other naturally.

David’s weight over him felt good—solid, anchoring. He let his knees fall apart in invitation, groaning as David’s body settled into the cradle of his thighs. There was nothing rushed about it. Every touch felt like something being learned, then confirmed, then claimed.

Lube slicked David’s fingers, and he worked Tony open with patient care, drawing low gasps and murmured curses from the younger man’s throat. Tony’s legs curled around David’s hips as he pressed in, slow and deliberate, pausing when he was fully sheathed to let Tony adjust.

Their foreheads touched, breath shared in shallow pants as they began to move—grinding, rocking, undulating. Tony moaned into David’s mouth, his hands clenched around broad shoulders, back arching in slow rhythm as the pleasure built, wave after wave.

David thrust deep, again and again, each stroke measured but powerful, his name occasionally spilling from Tony’s lips in reverent gasps. They held each other close, skin damp with sweat, chests brushing in sync with every shift of their bodies.

When David came, it was with a groan against Tony’s throat, his hips jerking one final time before stilling. He stayed like that, breathing heavily, before he slowly and carefully withdrew, removing the condom and setting it aside, his movements gentle.

Tony was flushed, eyes half-lidded, still hard, chest rising and falling rapidly.

David pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, then trailed down his stomach, deliberate and smooth. His hand wrapped around the base of Tony’s cock, holding him still as he took him into his mouth.

Tony swore sharply—head falling back, one hand tangling in David’s hair, the other gripping the sheets. David didn’t rush. He bobbed his head slowly, expertly, using tongue and lips and pressure to push Tony higher. He swallowed him deeper, throat flexing, until Tony cried out softly, thighs trembling as he came, hips lifting into the warmth of David’s mouth.

David swallowed every drop, then kissed his way back up Tony’s body. Tony welcomed him with open arms, pulling him in close, still catching his breath.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t have to.

David’s hand settled at the small of Tony’s back, thumb tracing soft circles along smooth skin. Tony buried his face against David’s shoulder and tangled one leg around his, dragging a foot lazily against the hair on David’s calf, grounding himself.

They lay like that for a long time—two men entirely at ease, wrapped in each other with no need to perform, no urge to retreat into armor.

Tony murmured something soft in Italian, lips against David’s throat. David replied in kind, pulling him just a little closer. They fell asleep like that, unselfconscious, comfortable in their own skin and each other’s arms.

The first time David stirred, it was only partially. He felt fingers—long, warm—sifting gently through his hair, trailing down to the curve of his jaw. Then soft lips pressed to his forehead, light as breath.

He meant to open his eyes, to say something, to reach for the warmth still lingering beside him, but he was weighted in the haze of sleep. The voice came next—low and affectionate, barely a whisper.

“Shhh, go back to sleep. Work called, but it’s very early. You deserve more rest. Thank you… for everything.”

David hummed, something low in his throat, a half-asleep protest or gratitude, he wasn’t sure. But the voice and the hand and the heat beside him faded all the same.

He slipped under again.

The second time he woke, the light was already bold through the curtains—muted but insistent, pouring golden across his sheets. The air in the room was cooler now, and the space beside him was cold.

David blinked and exhaled slowly, then sat up.

The sheets fell to his waist, his chest bare and dotted with faint traces of the night before—scratches, smudged fingerprints of memory. His limbs ached in that satisfying, well-used way, and for a moment he just sat, eyes unfocused, letting the silence settle around him like a familiar coat.

Then he stood, unabashed in his nakedness, and padded across the room to the bathroom, still half-lost in thought.

He hadn’t planned on bringing anyone home last night. Hell, he rarely even went out with the intention of finding company anymore. A few one-off flings during book tours, maybe. He didn’t kid himself about those. Fans who thought sleeping with the author of Into the Light was somehow thrilling. Some of them were beautiful. Some of them were interesting. But they all faded fast—and usually left him with a sour aftertaste, like he’d overindulged in something too sweet and too hollow.

Last night had been different.

Anthony had been different.

He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water roll over his back and shoulders, chasing away the sleep from his muscles.

It hadn’t been the sex—though, Jesus, the sex had been phenomenal . It had been the pacing of it. The quiet confidence. The way Anthony had offered himself not with desperation or arrogance but something almost sacred. How he moved with intention, responded with humor, spoke perfect Italian with a flirtatious lilt that made David feel like he was twenty years younger and somehow sharper for it.

There’d been more in that night than bodies moving together.

He reached for the soap, lathering absently, mind turning over that thought again and again.

Anthony.

That’s all he had. Just a first name and a memory that was already starting to feel like something fragile and personal.

David froze slightly under the spray.

He hadn’t given a number.

No last name.

Nothing.

He cursed quietly and leaned against the shower tile, letting the water pour over his face, down his neck.

Rossi wasn’t a romantic—not in the starry-eyed sense. But he was older now. Wiser. And there weren’t many nights like that left where two people met and fit , even for a moment, even without knowing why.

And now… Anthony was gone.

The sheets had cooled. The house had returned to its quiet rhythm. And David Rossi, who’d never believed in fate, was left wondering if maybe—just maybe—he’d been given something rare… and let it walk out the door before he thought to ask it to stay.

Chapter Text

Tony had always been careful.

A different bar every time. Vary the nights, the neighborhoods, the cover stories if anyone asked too many questions. Never return to the same place too often, and never go back hoping for a familiar face.

So when he stepped into the warm amber glow of the bar in Fairfax— that bar—he told himself it was just a fluke.

Just happened to be in the neighborhood. Just wanted the Oban again. Just liked the vibe.

He wasn’t ashamed of who he was, or who he liked. Wasn’t even scared, exactly, of what would happen if he was outed. It was just… easier this way. He’d never had a good enough reason, anything—or anyone—who were worth the risk and hassle that came with being out as anything but straight in his line of work.

He was there early, arguably too early to start drinking, and instead settled onto the bench at the baby grand set up unobtrusively in the corner of the room, long fingers drifting lightly over the keys. The bar was still half-empty. Quiet. Safe.

Tony started with something simple—Debussy, maybe, though it bled quickly into a jazz improvisation, his fingers moving with instinct more than intention. Music had always been one of the few places he didn’t feel like he was performing for someone else. And tonight, he needed it.

Because this last case… this one had carved too close to the bone.

The Napolitano Crime Family. Italian-American Mafia, corruption, dozens of murdered bodies from over as many years, a dead FBI agent, and—of course—a leak inside the Bureau.

It had all brought Philly back like a punch to the throat.

The Macaluso Family. His first deep undercover experience, and one he had essentially stumbled into by mistake. One detail had led to another, one connection to another… and then, somehow, he’d been under for over a year.

It hadn’t been planned. It hadn’t even been believed in . His lieutenant had laughed when Tony suggested trying to infiltrate, then given him a reluctant green light with the full expectation he’d be pulled within a week.

Eighteen months later, Tony had come back with the keys to the whole damn kingdom and the weight of a second life behind his eyes.

He’d lost track of how many times he’d almost lost himself.

And now? Now he was doing it again. Buried in lies. Pretending he was fine while his insides twisted. Laughing off Kate’s pointed jabs and McGee’s eager questions like they didn’t dig deeper every time. Like he wasn’t carrying ghosts in every pocket of his expensive suit.

Tony played harder, letting the emotion bleed into the chords. His shoulders rose and fell in rhythm, jaw tight, eyes half-closed.

He forced his mind to shift to other topics, but wasn’t sure that what he landed on was any less chaotic.

It had taken him two weeks to remember why Rossi’s name had tugged at something in his memory. He hadn’t put it together the night they met—just another well-dressed, handsome man with old eyes and a voice like fine liquor. But later, in his own bed, half-awake with nothing but memories of bare skin and tangled sheets, it had come back to him:

David Rossi. Retired from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. One of the founding minds behind modern profiling.

Tony had read all of Rossi’s books, part of his regular efforts to keep his skills sharp for the field. His work on behavioral profiling had offered valuable insight to Tony’s own undercover work, and he had liberally applied the knowledge at NCIS.

If they met again— when , if he was honest with himself—he’d tell the truth. Better that than let it come up unexpectedly and no doubt at the worst moment, turn into something Rossi might mistake for false admiration or worse, manipulation.

Tony let the final notes of the melody die off, a long exhale in musical form.

And then, before he could lift his hands from the keys, something appeared on the polished black lid of the baby grand: a crystal tumbler, amber liquid catching the light.

Tony looked up.

David Rossi stood there, looking just as he had the last time—sharp suit, open collar, that unreadable gaze that saw everything . There was a small smile tugging at his mouth, but it didn’t quite mask the curiosity, the spark of recognition.

“Thought I’d be the only one who haunted this place,” Rossi said, voice low, warm.

Tony smiled softly, fingers still idling on the keys. “I could say the same.”

Rossi gestured to the piano. “Didn’t realize you played.”

Tony shrugged, resting his forearms on the frame as he looked up at him. “Only when I’m thinking too much.”

“Must be having a hell of a day.”

Tony met his gaze fully now, no smirk, no deflection. “Yeah. A week, really.”

Rossi tilted his head slightly, studying him.

Tony reached for the glass, swirling it once before taking a slow sip. Oban. Of course.

He looked back up. “I realized something after that night. Recognized you. Your books have been helpful with my undercover work.” Tony was deliberate with his words. Direct, unapologetic, freely offering insight into his own life in the same breath as a sort of trade.

David blinked, surprised—not caught off guard, exactly, but surprised all the same.

“I wanted to be upfront about it,” Tony went on, “because it isn’t why I am attracted to you. I didn’t want to leave room to wonder.”

Rossi’s smile deepened, something approving behind his eyes.

“That’s good to know,” he admitted, “and I appreciate you telling me.”

Tony nodded, letting the moment settle. 

David gestured toward the empty seat beside him at the piano. “Mind if I sit?”

Tony’s smile widened just a little. “Be my guest.”

And as Rossi sat, close enough for their shoulders to brush, Tony shifted back toward the keys, beginning something new—something soft, something made of hope.

This time, he wasn’t playing to lose himself.

He was playing to be found.

Tony drained the last sip of scotch from his glass, the warmth spreading through his chest doing very little to soothe the ache still lingering just beneath his ribs. He had played three more songs—jazz standards, variations that dipped into minor chords and kept him focused, distracted. And though Rossi had stayed beside him, relaxed and attentive, Tony couldn't shake the feeling that he was stalling.

This wasn’t what Rossi came here for. Hell, it wasn’t even what he had come here for.

He didn’t want to lose the moment.

“Wanna get out of here?” Tony asked quietly, voice low as he looked sideways at David.

Rossi smiled—not surprised, not smug, just pleased . “I thought you’d never ask.”

Tony once again drove behind Rossi back to his estate. The moment the front door of Rossi’s home clicked shut behind them, Tony turned and kissed him, not waiting for Dave to initiate things this time.

It was hungry, needy—his hands fisted in the front of Rossi’s shirt, mouth greedy against his. He wasn’t playing suave anymore, wasn’t trying to seduce so much as cling , like if he kissed him deeply enough he could burn out whatever shadows were still crawling under his skin from the week before.

Rossi kissed him back immediately, thoroughly—but after a few moments, he slowed the rhythm, his hands cupping Tony’s face, steadying him. Then, gently, he pulled back.

Tony opened his eyes, breathing hard, already half-forming an apology.

But Rossi was smiling.

“I heard you’ve had a hell of a week,” he said softly, brushing his thumb across Tony’s cheekbone. “How about you prove your Italian cooking is half as good as your Italian grammar?”

Tony blinked, caught off guard. “Are you… challenging me to a cook-off?”

Rossi grinned. “I’m saying I’ve got a kitchen, a bottle of Chianti, and a deep skepticism that you know your way around a sauce pan.”

Tony laughed, the sound rough and surprised. “Is that right?”

“Only one way to prove me wrong.”

They moved together easily in Rossi’s kitchen, sleeves rolled, jackets tossed over barstools. Soft music played from hidden speakers, mingling with the low bubbling of water, the slicing of vegetables, the uncorking of wine.

Rossi handed Tony a glass and leaned against the counter. “You’re full of surprises. Piano. Italian. To say nothing of your talents of a more carnal nature.”

Tony smirked as he sprinkled salt into the pot. “You forgot football, basketball, and I make a mean Bolognese.”

“College ball?” Rossi guessed, watching him work.

Tony raised his brows. “Good guess. Ohio state, two-sport athlete.”

Rossi shrugged. “You’ve got Buckeye written all over you.”

Tony grinned. “You a college ball guy?”

“Baseball,” Rossi admitted. “Cubs. Long-suffering loyalty.”

Tony mock-winced. “Oof. That’s a rough one.”

“I’m used to heartbreak,” Rossi said with a wink, then added, “Three divorces will do that to you.”

Tony chuckled. “Damn. That’s almost impressive.”

“Right? If I get married again, the government’s going to start taxing me under ‘poor judgment.’”

Tony laughed again, easing into the rhythm of the conversation as garlic hit the hot oil and the air turned rich with promise. He handed Rossi a knife and a pile of fresh herbs to chop. 

Bit by bit they showed more about themselves, their backgrounds. Tony decided not to think too hard about how similar Rossi and Gibbs were (three-times-divorced marines with a somehow endearing sort of arrogance).

Eventually, he let Rossi coax him into talking about his most recent case. No confidential details, just that they had been interacting with an Italian-American crime family, and it had dredged up complicated memories.

“You ever cook with anyone from your mafia past?”

Rossi arched a brow, amused. “You did your homework.”

Tony shook his head. “No homework. Just… Long Island. The way you carry yourself. And the fact that you didn’t blink when I said ‘mob.’”

Rossi’s face shifted subtly—less guarded, more thoughtful. “I had a friend,” he said. “Queens crew. Grew up together. I was already in law enforcement when he started getting in deep. We both tried to pretend the other didn’t know.”

“What happened?”

“I walked away,” Rossi said, dicing efficiently. “Didn’t talk to him again for over twenty years. Last I heard, he went down in a RICO case. I never looked into it.”

Tony was quiet for a long moment, stirring the sauce.

“I was deep under in Philly,” he said finally. “Macaluso family. Started with a murder case, ended with me getting fake-fired and buried so deep I forgot how to come up for air.”

Rossi’s hands stilled, knife resting on the cutting board.

“I was supposed to just talk to a guy. Get some intel. No one thought I’d make it two weeks. I lasted eighteen months. Got close. Too close.”

“You would have been young,” Rossi said gently.

Tony met his eyes. “I was loyal . They called me ‘cugino.’ I ate with them. Bled with them. I watched one of them hold his kid’s christening and then go out that night and kill a guy for disrespecting the boss. I still… I still liked him.”

Rossi didn’t look away. “Of course you did. People in the life—they’re not all monsters. They’re family. That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Tony’s throat tightened. “Sometimes I thought about letting them keep me.”

Rossi moved closer, reaching out to lay a warm hand over Tony’s where it rested on the countertop. “But you left ,” he said. “That’s the point. You walked away.”

Tony swallowed. “Yeah. But some days, I don’t feel like I really came back.”

Rossi’s thumb brushed along his knuckles. “Coming back’s not a moment, Tony. It’s a process.”

They stood there in the warm kitchen, sauce simmering behind them, the scent of tomatoes and garlic wrapping around them like a blanket.

Tony let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

Rossi smiled. “Anytime.”

They went back to cooking then, shoulder to shoulder, hands moving with practiced ease. 

Dinner lingered long past the plates being cleared. The music was soft, the wine mellowed to a comforting hum in Tony’s limbs. They sat close on the couch, legs brushing, talking about nothing and everything—bad cases, worse bosses, favorite movies, worst breakups. The kind of talk that left you exposed in small ways, like peeling back layers without even realizing it.

It wasn’t until the silence stretched again, this time comfortably, that Rossi shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully.

“I’ve been thinking about getting you back in my bedroom since the moment you kissed me,” he said, voice low, direct. “But I want you to know… tonight’s already been worth it. If we stop here, I’ll still sleep happy.”

Tony blinked at him—surprised, touched, and maybe a little undone by the gentleness in it. It wasn’t the kind of thing people said to him . Not Tony DiNozzo , who was used to being wanted for how easy he made things look, not for who he was when he wasn't trying to entertain.

Somehow, that permission—that lack of pressure—unraveled the last knot in his chest.

“Yeah,” Tony murmured, smiling as he reached for him. “But I don’t want to stop.”

The kiss was slow, deep, intentional. A soft hum rose in Rossi’s throat as Tony slid a hand up to cup the back of his neck, thumbs brushing the edge of gray-streaked hair. Their bodies leaned together again, heat flaring.

They stood together, fingers linked, and made their way to the bedroom.

Tony turned to kiss him again just inside the door, instinctively starting to back toward the bed—but Rossi stopped him with a firm hand at his chest.

“Not this time,” David said, his voice warm and unreadable.

Tony stilled, brows raising slightly. Rossi smiled, stepped in closer, and kissed him again—slower this time, more searching.

“I want to be the one underneath you tonight,” he said against Tony’s lips.

Tony's breath hitched. Not at the offer—he’d topped before, gladly—but at the clarity of it, and the sheer trust behind those words.

But as their bodies came together again, Tony felt it—so subtle he almost missed it. A flicker of hesitation in the way David’s hand shifted on his shoulder, a faint tightness in the line of his jaw.

Tony immediately softened the kiss, pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“You okay?” he asked gently. “We can stop. Or slow down. Or just… make out on top of the covers and call it a night.”

Rossi’s expression wavered—just for a second—but then he nodded. “I’m okay,” he said. “Just… haven’t done this in a while. A long while.”

“How long?” Tony asked, not prying, just present.

“Over a decade.”

Tony exhaled slowly, touched by the honesty.

“But I want this,” Rossi added, his voice quieter now. “With you.”

Tony felt the words settle deep in his chest. “Then you’ll have it,” he said softly. “I’m going to make it so good for you, Tesoro .”

Clothes came off slowly, each layer revealed like a gift, not a rush. Tony kissed every new inch of skin he uncovered—shoulders, chest, the crease of a hip, the soft dip just beneath Rossi’s ribs.

The heat between them built gradually, rich and deep, without urgency. When Tony guided them onto the bed, he kept one hand in constant contact—on a thigh, a hand, a shoulder—something grounding, reassuring.

And when he finally moved between Rossi’s legs, guiding them into a new rhythm neither had shared in a long time, it was with reverence, with care, and with awe.

Rossi’s hands gripped the sheets, then Tony’s shoulders, then tangled in his hair as Tony leaned forward to kiss him deeply, slow thrusts mirroring the press of their mouths. Tony whispered encouragement between gasps, murmuring praises in both English and Italian. Rossi responded in kind, voice ragged, body open, surrendering to the almost overwhelming pleasure of being truly seen and wanted .

And when they came—Tony first, trembling against the weight of emotion, and Rossi not long after, shuddering through a release that left him nearly boneless—it felt less like climax and more like communion.

Later, they lay tangled in each other again, the room still thick with the scent of sex and sweat and warmth. Tony traced lazy patterns on Rossi’s chest while David’s fingers ghosted over Tony’s strong shoulders and arms, their touch light but constant.

“Still okay?” Tony murmured.

Rossi nodded, eyes closed, a rare look of peace on his face. “More than.”

Tony smiled into his shoulder, nose sliding along the length of Dave’s throat before pressing a soft kiss there.

For a few moments, neither spoke.

Then David murmured, voice gravel-thick, “You’re a good man, Tony.”

Tony stilled—his heart stuttered in his chest—but he didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke. He just leaned in closer and let himself believe it, even just for the night.

Chapter Text

The last of the students finally peeled away, their murmured goodbyes and grateful thank-yous trailing off down the corridor. David Rossi remained behind for a moment, his hands resting on the edge of the lectern, watching the door slowly drift shut on its heavy hinge.

The guest lecture at the University of Maryland had gone well—better than most, in fact. The course was a sharp one, upper-level criminology students who asked good questions, stayed engaged, didn’t fall asleep halfway through his story about the Baltimore Strangler. A few had even challenged him, thoughtfully, on behavioral classification standards. That had been fun .

Then came the usual suspects. The ones who waited just long enough to not seem obvious—eyes accentuated by liberally applied makeup, lips covered in enough gloss to catch the light; undergrads with visibly unread copies of his books clutched in their manicured hands, waiting to have it signed. Waiting, if they were honest, to see if they could get him to ask them for coffee. Or something more.

It had once been flattering. Amusing. Hell, he had occasionally indulged in the offers.

But that part of him had quieted in recent months.

David was not a man who fooled easily. He’d lived through war, three marriages, the bureau’s worst cases, and too many self-inflicted wounds to count. He knew the difference between lust and longing. And he knew that what had started between him and Tony DiNozzo was never meant to be more than a fling. A few good nights with someone who understood what the job could do to you. Who made him laugh. Who knew how to use his hands, his mouth, his voice in ways that still echoed through David’s skin when he was alone in bed.

But it hadn’t stopped there.

They didn’t date. That would’ve been absurd. David wasn’t looking for anything serious. He hardly believed himself capable of it after three failed marriages. Tony had never said what he was looking for, but David assumed the answer was similar.

And yet…

They had started texting more and more. Not just about sex, either. Tony had strong opinions about movies and sandwiches and Italian wines. He’d once sent a ten-message rant about how Goodfellas was a better film than The Godfather , and David had called him an uncultured child. They bickered good-naturedly about inconsequential things—hardly more than excuses to keep their conversations going.

They talked about the job , too. Carefully. Sparingly. In the margins.

There had been a night last month when Tony had shown up unexpectedly and simply dragged David off to bed without a word, not that he was complaining. It was clear that Tony was still riding an adrenaline high from whatever his most recent case had been. He had barely given David time to stretch him before the younger man was sinking himself down onto Dave’s cock and riding him hard, head thrown back with abandon and looking like some sort of Roman god. Rossi had jerked him off, hard and fast, and when Tony fell over the edge first, Rossi had pushed him over onto his elbows and knees and taken him from behind with long, sure strokes, holding on to his own release until they were able to come together. Tony had fallen asleep mid-sentence after the adrenaline crash, and David had tucked the blanket around them both, wide awake himself, but content to lay there and hold the sleeping man in his arms.

They had no labels, had made no promises. But it had become something . A rhythm. A space he looked forward to.

A space he’d come to crave.

David exhaled and finally pulled out his phone, thumb tapping reflexively over the screen. No new messages. It wasn’t a surprise, but it was a disappointment.

He hadn’t heard from Tony in four days.

That wasn’t unheard of—cases got messy. But even during busy stretches, Tony usually sent at least a teasing flirt, or some half-assed taunt about Rossi’s age or taste in suits. Something.

David had even sent him a photo from today’s lecture hall—tauntingly joking about the Terrapins at UMD converting him, and that Tony had lost his chance to turn Rossi into an Ohio State fan. He figured Tony wouldn’t be able to stop himself from defending his precious Buckeyes, especially with UMD’s recent inclusion in the Big Ten. But still, nothing.

With a sigh, he navigated to his messages again, as if staring at the empty thread would conjure a reply.

And then his gaze shifted to the call log. His chest went still.

Two missed calls. Two voicemails.

Tony had never called him before. Not once. Not in all the months of knowing each other. And now he a voicemail from the morning that he had somehow missed, and another that had to have come in during his evening lecture.

The sinking weight in David’s gut dropped like a stone.

Rossi sat down on the nearest bench outside the lecture hall, phone still in hand, the quiet hum of the campus around him growing distant.

He closed his eyes, bracing himself—and pressed play.

Rossi didn’t even remember half the drive back to D.C.

The voicemails kept replaying in his mind on a loop—the tremble in Tony’s voice during the first message, barely held together. The way his words spilled out in fragments: undercover again… didn’t know he was a serial killer… blood everywhere… I really liked him…

And then, lower, more broken: I don’t want to be alone right now.

That had been enough to put Rossi on the move. He almost didn’t bother stopping by his hotel for the rest of his things. He didn’t even change out of the blazer he’d worn to lecture. He called in a favor—not a small one—to quietly track down Tony’s apartment address through federal back channels. No questions asked. No questions answered .

And then, back in his car and speeding towards DC, he listened to the second voicemail.

That one had made David ache .

It was only twenty seconds long, but it stripped away every defense Tony had tried to hold.

The bravado was back, but thinner, more brittle than usual. “Hey—so, yeah. That last message was probably just a sleep-deprived spiral. Case stress, you know? Shouldn’t’ve called. Sorry to bother you, man.”

He ended it with a quiet laugh that was so fake it grated on Rossi’s ears.

Tony thought he’d overstepped. That Rossi’s silence meant rejection. That his vulnerability was a burden.

That killed David.

Because the truth was, when he heard that first voicemail—when he heard the pain Tony was barely keeping in check, when he realized that the man who never leaned on anyone had chosen him to reach out to—it hadn’t made him pull away.

It made him want to run to him .

By the time he reached Tony’s apartment building, Rossi’s jaw was set with grim determination. He didn’t even have a plan for what he’d say. He just knew one thing: he needed to show up .

He buzzed. Waited.

No answer.

He buzzed again.

Finally, there was the faint sound of the door clicking open downstairs, and Rossi didn’t wait. He took the stairs two at a time.

The apartment door cracked open just as he reached it.

Tony stood there in sweatpants and a rumpled hoodie, barefoot, blinking in stunned disbelief. His hair was a mess. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

But what hit Rossi the hardest was the expression on his face. Not fear, not grief. Bewilderment. Like he couldn’t understand why someone would actually come .

David stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Tony—no hesitation, no expectation—just presence . Tony went rigid at first, as if his body had forgotten what comfort felt like.

And then, slowly, Tony slumped into him.

All the tension bled out of his shoulders, his head dropping onto Rossi’s shoulder, arms rising to hold on. None of the usual lust between them, no practiced grace, just clinging onto him.

“Thank you,” Tony whispered, so quietly David almost missed it.

Rossi kissed the top of his head, lips lingering for a moment against soft, tousled hair.

“Anytime,” he murmured back. And he meant it.

Tony didn’t stir when David slipped out early that morning, which was just as well. The younger man had been dead on his feet the night before, grief and guilt gnawing at the edges of his strength until it finally gave out and he’d collapsed, tucked into Rossi’s arms like a wave crashing over shore.

He deserved the sleep.

David returned twenty minutes later with a brown paper bag full of pastries from a French bakery tucked down the street and two large cups of coffee that didn’t taste like burnt cardboard. He let himself back into the apartment quietly, setting the bag on the small kitchen table before curiosity got the better of him.

Tony’s apartment was… unassuming.

Not impersonal, but carefully neutral. The space of a man who never quite let himself settle too deeply into one place. Clean, a little cluttered, with walls that bore a few movie posters (classic Bond, Butch Cassidy , The Sting ) and framed team photos of college sports teams from his days at OSU.

The DVD collection was the first thing that pulled Rossi in. Massive , bordering on obsessive. Stacked shelves and careful organization—films spanning genres and eras, from silent noir to modern thrillers to surprisingly tender romantic comedies. Next to a Kubrick box set sat When Harry Met Sally , and directly underneath Die Hard was Ratatouille .

Rossi smirked. That tracks.

The bookshelves were far sparser by comparison. Mostly work-related material: forensics, criminology, field manuals, and a modest but complete shelf of true crime—his own books included.

He chuckled softly when he spotted the battered spine of Motive and Method bristling with sticky tabs.

But it was the bottom shelf that caught his eye. More hidden. Less for display.

Textbooks. Academic journals. A few slim volumes labeled Dissertation Prep and Quantitative Methodology in Criminal Justice. One oversized three-ring binder caught Rossi’s attention—stuffed full, the pockets holding a mess of loose pages and hand-scribbled notes.

He pulled it out, thumbing through with a mixture of fascination and… something else. Pride, maybe. Tony had never said anything about this.

The sound of a throat clearing behind him made him glance up, guilty as a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Tony stood there in a faded tee and flannel pajama pants, hair tousled in every direction, and holding one of the coffee to-go cups that Rossi had procured that morning.

Rossi gave a sheepish shrug. “I come bearing pastries with my snooping,” he said, flashing a crooked grin. “Forgive me?”

Tony arched a brow, but his lips twitched. “You bribed me with good coffee, so I’ll allow it.”

Rossi held up the binder. “You hiding a double life as an academic over here?”

Tony shifted his weight, suddenly less smug and more self-conscious. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah. I guess. I’m in a doctoral program. George Mason. Criminal Justice.”

Rossi blinked, pleasantly surprised. “Seriously?”

“Final semester before I get the embedded Master’s. Thesis is due in six weeks.” He hesitated. “And my dissertation’s already been approved. Kind of.”

That eyebrow went up again. “Kind of?”

Tony ducked his head slightly, opening a lower cabinet and pulling out a neat folder. “Here. Don’t laugh.”

Rossi took the folder, flipping it open as Tony continued, voice hesitant but proud beneath the nerves.

“The dissertation’s called From Behavioral Signatures to Social Engineering: Synthesizing Criminal Profiling and Undercover Techniques for Complex Investigations. It’s… dense.”

“Dense is good,” Rossi murmured, already scanning the overview. His brow lifted. “That’s ambitious as hell.”

“I figured I should write about something I actually know.” Tony crossed his arms loosely, leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter.

Rossi flipped a few more pages, but then looked up. “You had to submit a separate thesis for the Master’s?”

“Yeah.” Tony reached past him and grabbed another binder, smaller this time. “It’s a working draft. Basically done, but needs some polish, probably.” The cover page was unassuming, simply stating The Informant's Mind: Applying Criminal Profiling to Enhance Undercover Communication with Criminal Informants , by Anthony DiNozzo. Then below that, ‘Presented to the Faculty at George Mason University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Science in Criminal Justice.’

Rossi took it with a kind of reverence, settling onto Tony’s couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. He opened the binder and began reading.

Tony stood there for a beat, watching him.

The older man looked… at home . Legs crossed, reading glasses pulled from his pocket and now perched low on his nose as he pored over Tony’s words like they mattered.

And that—more than anything—hit Tony hard in the chest.

No jokes. No surprise that he was in a PhD program. Just genuine interest. Respect.

Tony found himself half-smiling, padding over to the table to grab a pastry from himself, and one for Dave. He brought them back to the couch and curled into the opposite side, just watching Rossi read.

Tony was bone-tired by the time he reached his apartment door, the weight of the Jeffrey White case still pressing against his shoulders like wet concrete. He hadn’t expected to finish the day early, but after submitting his report and barely holding it together during the debrief, Gibbs had given him a long look, a grunt, and a terse: “Go home, DiNozzo.”

So he had.

What he hadn’t expected—what made him freeze halfway through turning his key—was the rich, savory smell of garlic, tomato, and herbs wafting through the door.

He blinked, then shoved the door open the rest of the way.

The sight that greeted him might’ve actually short-circuited his brain.

David Rossi stood at his stove, wearing Tony’s apron (the one that said Trust Me, I’m Italian ), brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred something that was definitely chicken cacciatore .

Tony just… stared.

Rossi turned at the sound of the door, and his entire face lit up. “Hey,” he said, easy and warm. “You’re back early.”

Tony blinked. His coat was still on. His keys still in hand. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I’m still here,” Rossi said, like it was obvious. “I figured you’d be gone a few more hours, maybe longer. I went out for groceries.”

Tony’s eyes flicked to the counter. Fresh pasta, rolled out and dusted with flour. Not boxed spaghetti. Homemade pasta.

“I—uh.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t know… you’d stay.”

David just shook his head and set down the wooden spoon. “You left me with a thesis draft and no pasta in the house. I was clearly needed.”

Tony chuckled, and the sound surprised him. It had been days since he laughed like that—genuine, unguarded, soft around the edges.

He dropped his bag by the door and let himself be guided to the couch, where he flopped down with a groan. “You didn’t have to stay,” he couldn’t help but reiterate.

Rossi returned with a steaming cup of fresh coffee and set it carefully in front of him.

“I didn’t want you to come back to an empty place,” Rossi said. “Not tonight.”

Tony stared at him, throat thick. Then his gaze fell to the table and the open binder there.

“You read it?”

“I read all of it.” Rossi sat on the arm of the couch and nodded toward the binder. “Made a few notes. Nothing major. Just suggestions.”

Tony flipped through a few pages, scanning the underlined passages, the handwritten comments. Expand this—good insight. Fascinating correlation—consider citing case data. Loved this line. Keep it.

“I hope that’s okay,” Rossi added. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No,” Tony said quickly, shaking his head. “You didn’t. I just…”

His words trailed away. He just looked at the markings, the hours of care someone had poured into helping him—not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

It was almost too much.

“You okay?” Rossi asked, voice softer now.

“I’m just…” Tony gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t even know what to say. No one’s ever… invested in me like this before.”

Rossi’s smile was small but sincere. “Then it’s about time someone did.” He kept watching Tony, expression unreadable for a long moment. “You said you didn’t want to be alone.”

Tony’s fingers curled around the edge of the page. His heart was hammering now, the question he’d been circling for weeks suddenly right on the tip of his tongue.

“What… are we doing, David?”

That got Rossi’s attention. He turned fully, giving Tony his full focus.

“I mean,” Tony continued, running a hand through his hair, “You’ve been here all day. You showed up when I needed someone, no questions asked. You’ve cooked for me, helped with my thesis, and I’m starting to feel like I’m waiting for your name to pop up on my phone more than anyone else’s. So… what is this?”

Rossi was quiet for a long beat. He sat down fully on the couch, turning to face him with total focus.

“I’ve been with you, and only you, since the first night.”

Tony’s mouth parted slightly, startled.

“I assumed you weren’t looking for anything more than casual,” Rossi continued, shrugging. “You’re younger, busier, better looking, and probably not interested in dealing with an old profiler with three divorces under his belt. I didn’t want to push for more and risk losing out on what you were willing to give me.”

Tony let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sigh all in one. “I figured you weren’t interested in anything else. You’ve got the big career, the big house, the freedom of retirement. I’m just the guy people want for a few fun nights before they realize I can’t stop quoting Back to the Future or talking about football or ducking out on dates because I’ve been called in to crime scenes.”

Rossi looked at him for a long beat.

“You’re also the guy who built a thesis out of field experience and behavioral theory,” he said. “The guy who helps catch serial killers. The guy who matches my Italian roots and can make me laugh and then critically examine my perception of the world from one sentence to the next. That’s all a part of you, too.”

Tony looked down at the coffee in his hands, unable to meet David’s eyes after all of that. In the end, he blurted out, “I’ve only been seeing you, too.” He glanced up, almost shyly, and was couldn’t stop his body from reacting at the heat that now shone in Rossi’s eyes. It was tempting to respond to that heat, but this was too important a conversation to leave unfinished.

“You know… if this is the part where you say we should just take it one day at a time, I’m okay with that.”

David smiled gently. “I was going to suggest dinner first, then renegotiating the terms of our casual situationship.”

Tony grinned. “Renegotiating, huh?”

“I bought wine.”

Tony stood, and without another word, closed the space between them, pressing his lips to David’s in a kiss that tasted like home.

Chapter Text

Rossi hated leaving.

It wasn’t the content of his trip—although flying to San Francisco for a last-minute interview with a serial rapist-turned-killer wasn’t exactly his idea of a relaxing weekend. It wasn’t even the red-eye flight or the bureaucratic tap-dance he’d had to do to navigate the egos of the prison staff, local law enforcement, and the serial killer himself just to get access. 

No, it was the fact that Tony was still hurting—and Rossi had to watch him square his shoulders and act like he wasn’t.

Tony had brushed it off when he told Rossi what happened. He’d even tried to make it sound funny.

“Thief crashed my car,” he’d said with a wry grin, like it was a punchline. “Apparently, it wasn’t towed so much as stolen, and used in high speed police chase that ended with a big ol’ ‘boom’ into a semi.”

Rossi had blinked. “ Your car? The classic Mustang?”

Tony had nodded, grin tighter now. “Yeah. She’s toast. Not even scrap left.” He’d laughed again, but his eyes had looked like a kicked dog’s.

Rossi had expected the team—these coworkers Tony always defended, even when they grated on him—to rally around him. Or at the very least, offer some sympathy. He himself had spent more than one afternoon keeping Tony company while he lovingly cared for his 1966 Ford Mustang GT Fastback, and listening to Tony rattle off all the specs and movie appearance of cars like ‘his baby.’

But Tony hadn’t gotten any of the support he needed from his team. Instead, he got:

“Aw, poor baby had to take the bus to work.”

“That’s what happens when you choose a car that is practically a flashing billboard for perps.”

“Hey, silver lining—we finally get a break from your endless Mustang monologues.”

And that— that —had infuriated Rossi.

He didn’t say anything at the time. He just watched the way Tony ducked his head, smiled like it didn’t matter, and made some crack about not getting his deposit back.

But that night, Rossi had poured himself a whiskey and paced his kitchen, muttering under his breath about Gibbs and team loyalty and what the hell happened to watching each other’s backs.

When he, Max Ryan, and Jason Gideon had been tearing around the country in the early days of the BAU—before they had federal structure, funding, or anyone’s damn blessing—they had been reckless. Arrogant. Stupid, sometimes.

But they showed up for each other.

When Gideon’s marriage fell apart, Max brought him dinner every night for a month. When Rossi caught shrapnel in his shoulder on an assist with a serial bomber, Jason hadn’t left his side until the nurse kicked him out. They had ribbed each other mercilessly—but never when it mattered.

Watching Tony get blindsided by his team’s callousness felt like someone was shaking Rossi’s old loyalty loose again, knocking it against something raw and deeply personal.

He wanted to throttle Gibbs.

Instead, he’d stood behind Tony in the kitchen that morning, resting his hands lightly on his shoulders while Tony stirred eggs. He leaned in close and murmured, “You didn’t deserve that.”

Tony didn’t ask what he meant. Just shrugged one shoulder and said, “It’s just a car.”

And Rossi had replied, softly but firmly, “They should’ve had your back.”

Now, as the plane lifted off the runway, David watched the lights of the city blur beneath them and rubbed the ache growing behind his ribs.

He hated leaving. Not because he didn’t trust Tony to survive it, but because Tony shouldn’t have to do it alone .

Rossi’s phone had been silent for three days.

No teasing texts. No “you alive over there?” calls. At first, Dave told himself it was normal: Tony could be deep in casework, off-grid on some stakeout, using every spare moment to grab some sleep amid Gibbs’ impossible schedule. Rossi scrolled through their chat history—movie quotes, football banter, snippets of brainstorming and feedback related to Tony’s doctorate work—and tried not to imagine the worst.

By the fourth morning, he was pacing his hotel room, every muscle coiled, ready to cut his trip early and track Tony down in person just to get eyes on him and soothe the panicked knot in his gut. Then his cell rang. Caller ID: Bethesda Naval Hospital.

Rossi’s heart lodged in his throat. He answered on the first ring.

“Sergeant Major David Rossi?” The nurse’s voice was clipped, professional. “You’re listed as Mr. Anthony DiNozzo’s emergency contact. He’s been admitted. You should come… immediately.”

Those words spun through him like a speeding train derailment. Emergency contact? Tony had never said a word about this. They’d been officially exclusive for five months now, unofficially for a few more than that, but they hadn’t even landed on a label for what they were to each other.

None of that mattered now, though. He was already throwing things into his suitcase, frantically making plans to get back to DC as quickly as he could.

“I’m on my way. What can you tell me?”

“Where is he?” Rossi demanded as he strode into the corridor outside the isolation ward, coat still half-buttoned, eyes blazing.

The older man standing stiffly near the nurse’s station turned at the sound of the voice. Gibbs’ mouth tightened the moment he saw the stranger marching in like he owned the place.

“Can I help you?” Gibbs asked, tone clipped.

“David Rossi. I got a call—Anthony DiNozzo’s emergency contact. I want to see him.” His words came fast, no-nonsense, and with the kind of command Gibbs didn’t usually tolerate from anyone but himself.

Gibbs’ frown deepened. “I’m his team leader. You’re—what, his lawyer?”

“I’m his partner,” Rossi said plainly.

Something in Gibbs’ expression faltered for the briefest second. Then he squared his shoulders. “Funny, he never mentioned you.”

Rossi stepped closer. “Doesn’t mean I don’t exist.”

“And I don’t recall seeing your name on any NCIS contact forms.”

Rossi pulled out his ID, flipping it open with an irritated flick of the wrist. “I don’t report to NCIS. I report to myself. And Tony listed me as his emergency contact. If that bruises your ego, I suggest you take it up with him after he survives this.”

“He’s my agent,” Gibbs shot back, voice low and dangerous. “My responsibility. I’ve had his six since day one.”

“And yet somehow you didn’t know he’s been in a relationship for six months?” Rossi raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t even know he’d changed his emergency contact? That doesn’t sound like having his six, Gunny.”

Gibbs bristled. “Watch it.”

“No. You watch it,” Rossi said, stepping in until they were nearly chest to chest. “Marine Sergeant Major David Rossi. Retired. So unless you want to pick a fight you can’t win, Gunnery Sergeant , I suggest you stop posturing and let me do what I came here to do: take care of the man I love.”

Gibbs rocked back slightly at that, eyes narrowing. The rank landed first. The relationship second. Man he loves. Rossi refused to allow his own surprise at the words to show on his face.

Gibbs opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “He’s… with you ?”

“Yes. Me,” Rossi said flatly. “And from what I’m gathering, he didn’t tell you because he didn’t think you’d take it well.”

Gibbs looked like he’d been slapped and was trying not to show it. The silence between them stretched, charged and brittle.

“I just want him to be okay,” Gibbs said finally, and for the first time his voice had something raw in it.

“Then let me do my part,” Rossi said, quieter now, but no less firm. “Starting with getting real answers from his doctors. You want to help him? Get out of my way.”

This time, Gibbs didn’t argue. He stepped aside, confusion and worry written all over his face.

And David Rossi walked past him without looking back.

Inside the isolation room, the young agent lay pale and fever-ridden, IV lines threading into his arms, a mask sealing around his nose and mouth. A ventilator hissed softly at his side. Next to the bed, a harried pulmonologist and an infectious-disease specialist flipped through charts.

David Rossi stood outside the window, staring in, shoulders back, every ounce of calm authority switched on. He presented his ID to the doctor speaking to him. “Sergeant Major Rossi. I want a full briefing: diagnosis, treatment plan, containment procedures. Now.”

Dr. Brad Pitt (and wouldn’t Tony just get a kick out of that ) met him with professional reserve. “Agent DiNozzo is fighting an antibiotic-resistant strain of pneumonic plague. We’ve started him on a combination of second-line antimicrobials, but progress is slow. His vitals are stable for the moment, but—”

“But could go either way,” Rossi finished. “I want daily updates. I want his chart, his blood gases, every antibiotic level measured and adjusted. I want the best available care.” He turned to the pulmonologist. “And I want him off that ventilator as soon as safely possible.”

The doctor studied him, noting his military bearing and his meticulous questions.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

A few days later, finally allowed to be at Tony’s bedside, David watched the monitors tick in and out. Nurses came and went; machines hummed. Tony’s breathing slowed into a steady rhythm under sedation.

Rossi closed his eyes, fingers still entwined with Tony’s. He murmured into the quiet:

“Hang in there, amore . You’re not alone.”

By the time they got Tony inside the house, Rossi had gone full Italian mother hen.

Blankets? Check. Thermometer? Check. Freshly laundered sheets, humidifier, and enough electrolyte drinks to hydrate a college football team? Triple check. Tony barely made it to the couch before a throw blanket was tugged over him and Rossi was hovering with soup he’d somehow prepped before they’d even left the hospital.

“You’re fussing,” Tony said, voice still gravelly from the plague, a teasing lilt tucked behind his words.

Rossi ignored him, adjusting the blanket more snugly. “You were on a ventilator , Anthony. Forgive me for wanting to make sure your lungs don’t stage a mutiny again.”

“I walked from the car,” Tony replied with a tired smile. “That should earn me a merit badge.”

“You shuffled from the car,” Rossi corrected. “Like a ninety-year-old with two bad knees and a vendetta against stairs.”

Tony snorted, then winced and immediately reached for his chest. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. It still hurts.”

“You think that’s funny? Wait until I start reading aloud from your dissertation draft in a dramatic voice.” Rossi arched an eyebrow. “You’ll be begging for mercy.”

Tony managed a faint chuckle, then let his head fall back against the couch cushions, utterly spent. “Dave…”

That quiet tone was all it took. Rossi’s whole demeanor shifted—less barking, more gentle. He knelt down, resting one hand on Tony’s knee.

“You need to rest,” Rossi said softly. “Let’s get you upstairs. Bed’s better for you than this couch.”

Tony shook his head. “Don’t want to move again. Already climbed Everest to get from the car to here.”

Rossi opened his mouth like he was going to argue again, then sighed in surrender. “Fine. Couch it is. But I’m not leaving you down here alone.”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Rossi agreed, already toeing off his shoes. “I’m laying with you. Happy?”

Tony’s answer was a sleepy smile and a little scoot toward the back cushions to make space.

Once settled under the blanket together, Rossi’s hand came up, fingertips brushing gently along Tony’s jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. The touch was featherlight, reverent. Tony blinked at him, lashes low.

“I almost lost you,” Rossi murmured.

Tony swallowed. “I know.”

“I’ve been scared before,” Rossi went on, eyes searching Tony’s face like he was still memorizing it. “Hell, I’ve seen more death than I care to count. But watching you hooked up to those machines, hearing those doctors talk about resistant strains and organ failure like they weren’t saying your name—it nearly broke me.”

Tony’s breath hitched. “You got me through it.”

Rossi stilled, brow furrowing slightly.

“You did,” Tony said again. “Your voice. Your visits. Knowing you were there. It made it easier to fight. I didn’t want to let go… I didn’t want to miss any time with you.”

A moment passed, thick with quiet emotion.

Tony exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean to surprise you with the emergency contact thing. I know I should have talked to you about it first, I shouldn’t have...”

Rossi’s hand moved to cup the side of Tony’s face. “I was surprised,” he admitted. “But never upset. It gave me access. Gave me answers. It gave me you . I’ll never stop being grateful for that.”

Tony leaned into the touch, blinking up at him, gaze drowsy but steady. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on changing it.”

Rossi smiled faintly, then leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Tony’s temple. “Good,” he echoed.

He hesitated then, and Tony felt it in the tension of the hand still resting lightly on his chest.

“What?” Tony asked.

Rossi met his eyes. “I love you, Anthony.”

The words fell soft, simple. No ceremony. Just truth.

Tony stared at him for a long second. His heart clenched—his chest hurt from more than just the remnants of the illness. Then he gave a breathy laugh that was almost a sigh.

“I love you too, Dave.”

And that was it. No dramatics. No over-the-top declarations.

Just two men who’d almost lost each other, finding comfort in the warmth of a shared blanket and the steadiness of each other’s hands.

Tony hadn’t even made it through his first full day back on duty when David Rossi’s phone rang. It was Gibbs, still the only one on the team to know about him and Tony. He was as brusque with his words as usual. 

“There was a bomb—NCIS—Tony—he’s okay, he’s okay —”

He said just a bit more after that, but Rossi was already moving, one shoe on, the other still in his hand, keys clutched tight between his fingers like a weapon.

Tony was sitting in the passenger seat of an NCIS sedan when Rossi found him. There was blood on his temple from flying debris and a deep, wracking cough he couldn’t quite suppress, but his eyes lit up with tired relief when they landed on Dave.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, before Rossi could even say a word. “Just... surprised. And a little crispy around the edges.”

Rossi crouched down beside him, hands hovering without touching—so many instincts screaming to check, to fuss, to fix —but he held back.

“You went back to work early, went out in the field , and nearly got blown up by a car bomb,” Rossi said, voice low and tight. “Do I get to call that idiotic now, or do I wait until you’re not coughing up soot?”

Tony gave a weak chuckle, then winced. “In hindsight... No, I can’t even tell you honestly I wish I had stuck to desk duty. If I had, the bomb would have caught at least McGee, maybe Kate as well.”

“I would have fought you going back to work harder if I had known you would be a bomb target,” Rossi muttered, rising slowly and sliding into the seat beside him when the agent monitoring Tony nodded his permission. “Jesus, Tony. You haven’t even finished a full recovery cycle yet. Your immune system’s running on fumes.”

“I had to be there, Dave.” Tony’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Even without the bomb, Kate’s still looking at me like I might disappear after being with me in isolation, and McGee can hardly meet my eyes. I just— I needed to show them I was fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Rossi said gently, fingers brushing lightly across the bandage at Tony’s brow. “But you’re here. And I’m taking you home. ”

They barely had a night to recover from the chaos of the explosion before the next blow landed.

Kate Todd died on the rooftop.

One shot. Instant. Brutal. Out of nowhere.

By the time Rossi got the call from Ducky, Tony was at least safe and out of the field again. A sniper, Ducky explained. A terrorist targeting their team—David was sure that meant Ari Haswari, but said nothing, as he would never risk getting Tony in trouble for the limited things he shared with Dave about his work. One second she had been standing beside Tony, and the next, her body was bleeding out across Gibbs’ boots.

Rossi got to NCIS in record time, but nothing in his decades of service had prepared him for the sight of Tony standing in the corridor outside autopsy, still in the blood-spattered suit he’d been wearing on the roof.

“Tony—” he started.

“She was standing right there ,” Tony whispered, hollow. “We’d just been bickering. I don’t even remember who was winning. I looked away for half a second… I could feel her blood spray my face—”

Rossi didn’t say a word. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the younger man, pulling him in with quiet certainty.

Tony clung back, fingers twisted in the back of Rossi’s jacket like a lifeline.

“She wasn’t the perfect partner, but she was mine,” Tony said into his shoulder. “She gave me hell, but she was finally starting to respect me. We were building something. She didn’t deserve to…”

“I know,” Rossi murmured. “I know, caro. ”

They stood like that for what felt like hours.

He helped Tony walk away from autopsy. Helped him clean up. And then he let him walk back to the bullpen to find Kate’s killer with the rest of his team.

Rossi knew his partner had barely even begun to grieve.

Late in the night, after they had finally taken down Ari, when the house was dark and quiet, Rossi found him curled on the far end of the couch, silent, eyes unfocused. He crossed the room without a word and sat beside him, their shoulders brushing.

“I should’ve taken the hit,” Tony said eventually. “I was taller. One step to the side and I could have shielded her.”

“Don’t do that,” Rossi said quietly.

“I keep thinking—if I’d just—”

“ Don’t. ” Rossi reached out, gently cupping Tony’s cheek, turning him to face him. “You didn’t pull that trigger. And you didn’t put her in the line of fire. You just survived . That isn’t something to feel guilty for.”

Tony closed his eyes, jaw clenched, breath shaky. “I just… I keep losing people. One by one.”

“You haven’t lost me,” Rossi whispered. “You’re not alone.”

It wasn’t a magic cure. It didn’t stop the pain or the nightmares. But it did help Tony finally sleep. So did Rossi, curled up at his side.

Chapter Text

Rossi knew something was wrong the moment he walked into Tony’s apartment. Tony was home early—hours early—and not in the good, curled-on-the-couch-waiting-with-popcorn kind of way. He was pacing, hands flying in frustrated gestures, tie already discarded and sleeves rolled up like he was one frayed nerve away from combusting.

“She’s Mossad, Dave. Foreign intelligence. She hasn’t had a day at FLETC, zero investigative experience, no federal credentials, no legal clearance, and she’s sitting at Kate’s desk. ”

Rossi’s jaw clenched. “And you’re staying?”

Tony blinked. “What?”

“I said, you’re staying?” Rossi’s tone sharpened, all the more cutting because of the fear wrapped beneath it. “After nearly dying, after getting blown up , after losing Kate—you’re telling me they drop an unvetted Mossad officer into your unit, your team , and your plan is to stick around ?”

“I work there, Dave!” Tony snapped. “It’s not like I just punch out when it gets weird!”

“You nearly died , Tony!”

“I know that!” The shout startled even Tony himself. “But I didn’t die. And I’m not going to abandon ship because someone upstairs is making reckless calls.”

Rossi’s hands fisted at his sides. “So you’re trusting that Gibbs has this under control? Gibbs, who didn’t even notice you were in a relationship for six months? Gibbs, who didn’t tell you this woman was coming, didn’t vet her, and is now playing house with a Mossad insertion like she’s the damn replacement part?”

Tony recoiled, chest heaving. “You think I’m too stupid to see something’s wrong?”

Rossi froze. “No. That’s not—”

“Because that’s what it sounds like,” Tony said, voice quieter now but far more dangerous. “You barged in here, guns blazing, demanding I quit like I’m some rookie you have to protect from himself.”

“Tony…” Rossi stepped forward, jaw tight. “I’m scared. Dios , I am scared . I’ve almost lost you too many times, and now they’ve let a foreign operative with zero oversight onto your team and everyone’s acting like it’s fine.”

Tony’s eyes dropped. His anger hadn’t vanished, but the fire behind it had turned inward. “You could’ve said that instead of treating me like a liability.”

Silence fell between them like a drawn curtain.

Eventually, Rossi exhaled and sat heavily at the edge of the couch. “You’re right. I came in too hot. I didn’t ask the right questions. I just reacted.”

Tony let the quiet hang a moment longer, then finally moved to sit next to him. “I’m sorry too. You didn’t deserve all of that.”

Rossi gave him a small, tired smile. “Tell me what you’re thinking. No shouting, no demands. Just... us.”

Tony nodded slowly. “She’s dangerous. I know it. Maybe not in the knife-in-the-back way—although… But one way or another, something’s not right. Ari was her brother. She says that he went rogue. That he turned on her. But there’s no way Gibbs fired that kill shot.”

Rossi’s brows raised. “You’re sure?”

“I saw the ballistics report, and I damn well know that basement. It was a clean through-and-through, wrong angle for Gibbs. Ziva was there. And she was Ari’s handler. She knew everything about us before we ever met her.”

Tony pushed a folder across the table. It was a plain manila one, not an official file from work, but like what Tony used for his school work. Flipping it open, he saw newspaper clips from years ago about a murder and subsequent car crash. His breath caught when he saw the names of the victims: Shannon Gibbs and her daughter Kelly, eight years old.

“She worked him,” Tony said flatly. “Used Gibbs’ weakness against him. She cast herself as the poor trapped daughter trying to get away from her controlling, powerful daddy, and willing to sacrifice even her own brother to protect Gibbs. And if I had to guess? She killed Ari because Mossad told her to—because Ari went rogue and was a liability, not because she grew a conscience.”

Rossi whistled low. “And yet she’s sitting at a desk next to yours.”

“Yup.”

“You reported it?”

Tony laughed humorlessly. “To who? Madam Director? The assignment was her idea. And Gibbs shuts me down every time I so much as raise an eyebrow about it.”

Rossi looked at the file again, fingers tapping against the manila edge. “You planning on staying?” He asked again, softer this time.

Tony hesitated. “Yeah. I hate this, but I can’t walk away. I’ve got too much loyalty here. To the job. To the people who wear the uniform. And even to McGee and Gibbs and any other agent who may end up in the field with what amounts to an assassin playing detective. If I bail, who’s going to watch Ziva from the inside?”

That gave Rossi pause. He studied Tony, really studied him. “You don’t just want out of this alive,” he said slowly. “You want to fix it.”

Tony nodded. “I don’t know how yet. But someone has to.”

Rossi reached across the table and laid a hand over Tony’s. “Then we do it together.”

Tony blinked. “We?”

“I’ll dig,” Rossi said. “I’ll call in favors, reach out to international contacts—quietly. We’ll build something airtight. And you keep everything. Track every interaction. Every assignment. Every strange look or slip of the tongue. Keep it old-school if you have to. Little black ledger, mafia-style.”

Tony grinned at that, despite himself. “I guess I can finally put some of those skills Don Macaluso taught me to work. Can’t say I ever anticipated that.”

“Good.” Rossi squeezed his hand. “We play the long game. And when the time comes, we make sure the people who need to know can’t ignore it.”

Tony looked down at their hands, then back up to Rossi’s face. “You’re really in this?”

Rossi smirked. “I’ve been in since the night you interrupted my quiet evening with a fine scotch and made yourself impossible to walk away from.”

Tony’s laugh was small but genuine. “Doesn’t sound like the smoothest seduction tactic when you put it that way.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Tony leaned back in his chair, a glint of steel returning to his eyes. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

The third-floor library in Rossi’s sprawling estate didn’t look like a war room.

Sunlight spilled across Persian rugs, gleamed on dark oak shelves lined with leather-bound volumes and framed commendations from a dozen lives Rossi had lived before this one. But the heavy lock on the door, the safe hidden behind a false panel, and the detailed files spread across a massive antique desk said otherwise.

Tony stood at the window, holding a mug of fresh espresso in one hand and tapping a red pen against his thigh with the other. “Ziva’s Mossad file is mostly redacted. But what little isn’t reads like a cautionary tale.”

Rossi, sitting at the desk in a worn leather chair that might as well have been a throne, flipped open another folder. “You can tell a lot about a person by what’s missing. The gaps in her history—they’re too clean. That’s deliberate.”

They fell into silence, both men sharp-eyed and thoughtful, surrounded by a half-dozen printed dossiers and Rossi’s laptop open to a secure connection.

“She’s dangerous,” Tony finally said. “The training, the manipulation, the ability to get close. If she ever figures out I’m looking into her—”

“She won’t,” Rossi cut in, voice firm. “Because we’re not giving her a reason to.”

Tony nodded slowly, but his jaw tightened. He stared into his espresso like it might offer some kind of reassurance. “Still. If she’s Eli’s cleanup girl—if he sent her here to erase Ari’s failures, to gain leverage through Gibbs—then I have to consider what happens if I start to disrupt the grand plan.”

Rossi closed the folder in front of him.

“Tony.”

Something in his tone made Tony turn.

“You should move in with me.”

Tony blinked. “What?”

“Move in.” Rossi stood now, walking around the desk. His expression was calm but intent. “I don’t just mean crash here when the situation gets tense. I mean officially. Permanently.”

Tony set his mug down. “Dave, if this is about—”

“I know what you’re going to say.” Rossi stopped just in front of him, hand lifting to rest lightly on Tony’s shoulder. “You think this is about security. And yeah, that’s part of it. I don’t like the idea of you being alone in your apartment while a trained Mossad operative with questionable orders works beside you every day.”

Tony looked away, but Rossi didn’t let him shut down.

“But that’s not why I’m asking.” Rossi’s voice softened. “When you stayed here after the plague… I got used to waking up with you in my bed. Talking over coffee. Arguing in this ridiculous library. I loved it, Tony. And I don’t want to go back to a house that feels empty when you’re not in it.”

Tony exhaled slowly, caught off guard. “You don’t have to say that just because you’re worried I’ll get murdered in my sleep.”

“I’m not saying it because I’m scared,” Rossi said. “I’m saying it because I love you.”

Tony’s eyes snapped back to his.

“I know we’ve said it before,” Rossi continued, thumb brushing lightly over Tony’s shoulder. “But I want you to hear it now. In this context. Not just when someone’s dying. Not just in bed. I love you. And I want to build a life with you—even if part of that means running covert investigations in my library.”

Tony swallowed hard. “It’s been a year.”

Rossi smiled faintly. “One hell of a year.”

“I’ve never…” Tony hesitated. “Not even with Wendy, not even standing at the alter, before I realized she wasn’t going to show… I’ve never felt anything close to this. Never wanted something this real.”

“So say yes,” Rossi said gently.

Tony stared at him for a long moment. And then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. I’ll move in.”

Rossi was watching him closely, eyes dark and steady. He didn’t need to say another word. He simply reached for Tony, fingers curling gently into his shirt, and Tony leaned in without hesitation.

Their kiss was slow and reverent, nothing rushed. Just two men—two stubborn, guarded, battle-hardened men—taking their time to feel. To be. Tony’s hands slid into Rossi’s hair, anchoring himself there as their mouths moved together, breaths warm and mingled. When they finally pulled apart, Rossi rested his forehead to Tony’s and whispered, “Let me show you. Let me make you feel how much I love you.”

Tony’s breath caught, but he nodded. “Yeah. Please.”

Rossi’s hands moved with intention, unfastening buttons, undoing zippers, tugging clothing away until there was nothing between them but heat and need. He didn’t rush. He mapped Tony’s body with his mouth and hands like it was sacred ground he already knew by heart, but still longed to rediscover.

Rossi sank to his knees with a look of intent that made Tony’s breath catch. There was nothing submissive in the gesture—only reverence and quiet command. When he leaned in and took Tony’s cock fully, to the base, Tony’s knees nearly buckled.

“ Dios… Dave—” Tony’s voice cracked into Italian, a stream of swearing falling from his lips as Rossi held him there, deep, unmoving, mouth and throat wrapped around him with aching precision. The pressure. The control. The sheer heat of it. It was overwhelming.

When Rossi finally began to move, it was slow at first—controlled swirls of tongue and gentle suction that made Tony’s entire body tremble. Tony’s hands hovered at his sides, fingers twitching, holding back the urge to move, to thrust.

Rossi felt it—the restraint—and pulled back just far enough to tilt his head up and meet Tony’s eyes. There was something wickedly calm in his gaze as he reached for Tony’s hands and tangled them deliberately in his own hair. Then, without another word, he dropped his hands to his sides. Waiting.

Offering.

Tony stared down at him, chest heaving. Then, tentatively, he shifted forward. Rossi didn't flinch. Encouraged, Tony began to move—a slow thrust first, then deeper, more confident, his fingers tightening in Rossi’s dark hair. The older man let him take control, mouth open and welcoming, devoted and relentless.

Tony’s head fell back as he groaned aloud, his Italian once more slipping out in desperate, broken fragments. He pulled the hair harder, encouraged by the sounds of approval from his partner and relishing in the way they vibrated around his own cock as he fucked into Rossi’s mouth with abandon. 

When release finally overtook him, he gasped Rossi’s name, and Rossi—still kneeling, still holding on—swallowed around him with a deep, low sound of his own.

It wasn’t just the pleasure. It was the trust. The giving. The knowing that this— this —was more than sex. It was love, raw and powerful and wordless.

The moment lingered, thick with intimacy and promise.

Rossi rose slowly, brushing his knuckles along Tony’s jaw as he pulled him close again, kissing him like a man starved, allowing Tony to taste himself in his partner's mouth. And then he turned Tony gently, bracing him over the desk. Tony shivered, overwhelmed, exposed—and completely safe.

“Still with me?” Rossi asked, voice low.

Tony glanced back, eyes dark and full of want. “More than ever.”

There were few words after that.

When Rossi entered him, there was a rawness to it that neither of them tried to hide. Dave had quietly offered to retrieve a condom, but Tony had declined without hesitation. So for the first time, they were connected with no barrier between them. No hesitation. It was a choice they both felt in their bones—a mark of trust deeper than anything spoken aloud.

They moved together in a rhythm born of instinct, need, and something far more tender. Rossi’s hands held Tony with care, guiding him through every rising wave. When Tony came again—trembling, gasping, untouched—it felt like surrender. Like belonging.

And when Rossi followed, burying himself deep with a shuddering breath, it felt like home.

Afterward, they didn’t speak. They rested together against the worn wood of the desk, Rossi panting breaths against the sweat-slick skin between Tony’s shoulder blades, both their bodies spent and entangled.

Rossi finally broke the silence, his voice rough. “I meant what I said, you know. I want you here. In my house. In my life. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Tony’s hand grasped around behind him until he found Dave’s, and then their fingers tightened together. “I’m here. I’m all in.”

Outside the library window, dusk had begun to settle—but in that room, in that moment, nothing felt dark at all.

Chapter Text

Ziva David had joined the MCRT in October.

From day one, Tony had known something was off—both in the overt ways that trigger alarms, and in the slow, insidious way a house settles wrong on its foundation. Minute shifts. Hairline cracks. Things you could easily overlook unless you were looking for the signs, and then the evidence painted an alarming picture.

Despite Tony and Dave’s worst fears, nothing truly dangerous happened for several months. Sure, there were procedural shortcuts and boundary-skimming tactics. She didn’t follow the chain of evidence protocols. She definitely didn’t respect the chain of command. She broke rules while interrogating suspects. She logged evidence late or not at all. Tony documented it. He warned Gibbs. Complained to Shepherd. Fought back in the only ways he could from beneath the unspoken weight of Gibbs’ silence and the agency’s collective suspension of disbelief.

But nothing changed.

More than once, David had sat through rants from Tony who was equal parts furious and devastated at the perps sure to walk free on technicalities when their cases went to trial. He was mitigating as much damage as he could, but he was only one man.

He tracked everything .

And on top of Ziva’s procedural errors, there were the manipulations within the team.

Tim seemed charmed by her attention—grateful to be needed, to be consulted like he had the answers. Abby saw a girl who just wanted friendship, a second chance, maybe even a found family. Ducky was flattered by her eagerness to listen to his stories and share afternoon tea. And Gibbs? He saw a damaged soul in need of protecting, as if she were Kelly’s legacy instead of Kate’s replacement.

Ziva gave everyone what they needed. Except Tony.

With Tony, she danced a razor’s edge. Flirtation with just enough poison behind it to make him feel foolish for wanting anything at all. Backhanded compliments. Undermining jokes. Whispered remarks said just low enough that no one else would hear them—and just sharp enough to catch on his ribs.

Some days, Tony felt sure that in any other circumstances, he would be unraveling in plain sight. Instead, he had Dave.

Dave, he forced him to process his grief over Kate in a healthy manner. Dave, who made Ziva’s flirting undesirable and who stopped her jabs at his insecurities from causing lasting damage.

Then came January. The coldest it had been in years. No amount of preparation in the form of thermal underclothes was going to protect his lungs when trapped in a steel-walled tomb of a shipping container at the docks.

He’d barely registered Ziva moving past him—hadn’t even finished telling her to wait—before the report of a gunshot split the air, deafening in the echo chamber.

Pain bloomed on his arm. A red stripe burned beneath his shirt as he hit the floor, gritting his teeth and cursing as metal bit into his back.

Ziva’s voice, breathless and oddly high, filtered into his ears: she was sorry, she had panicked, it was just a scratch.

He hadn’t trusted himself to respond.

David Rossi arrived at the hospital just half an hour after Tony had called him from the parking lot of NCIS, explaining that he had been released for the day, but needed to get an injury looked at. Dave strode inside with his jacket dusted with snow, his expression unreadable. He stayed quiet through the exam, hovering in the corner of the room until the attending left and they were finally alone.

Tony was propped up on the hospital bed, shirtless, stitched, bruised, and pissed. He didn’t look at Rossi right away.

“She said it was a scratch,” Tony muttered. “Doc gave me eleven stitches. Said it was a lucky break, just shallow enough to miss anything important.”

David crossed to the bed and sat on the edge. “She said it was an accident?”

Tony gave a hollow laugh. “She opened fire in a dark, sealed shipping container with only her teammate inside with her. Said she panicked .”

“And you’re not buying it.”

Tony looked at him then. “Mossad doesn’t train agents who panic in tight quarters. Hell, I’ve seen her stay calm under more pressure than that.”

“So what do you think?”

Tony blew out a harsh breath. “I think she’s probably under a lot of pressure. I think her attempts to manipulate me are not panning out how she imagined. I think it was a half-hearted attempt at best, but that in a moment of impulse, she decided to see if chance could eliminate a hurdle in her plans.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an accusation you throw lightly.”

“No,” Tony agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the beeping of machines the only sound between them.

“She didn’t include me in the team dinner,” Tony added, more softly. “The night before. Tim, Abby, Ducky, even Gibbs. Everyone was there but me. I didn’t care at the time. I figured—petty. High school antics.”

He exhaled.

“But maybe it was more than that.”

David studied him for a long moment. “And now?”

“Now?” Tony gave a crooked smile. “Now I’m glad I trusted my instincts months ago. Glad I’m not caught in her web as well, even if I still don’t have anything to bring her down with.”

There was a long pause.

David reached over and laid a hand gently on Tony’s bicep, just above the new gash on his arm. Steady. Warm.

“ Yet . We’ll have enough to bury her some day. And in the meantime, you know that you did trust your instincts,” he said. “You’ve been raising the alarm to anyone who will listen, and even those who won’t. Documenting her mistakes. You didn’t ignore the signs that everyone else did.”

Tony blinked, throat tight. “Doesn’t really matter when I’m the one bleeding.”

“It matters, because you’re still standing.”

Tony let the words sink in, let them settle something that had been churning and shifting in his chest since the container. The pain was manageable. The betrayal, less so.

But Rossi was there. He always was . Not expecting Tony to smile or crack a joke. Not brushing it off. Not acting like it was just another work hazard.

Just there .

Tony leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. David’s hand was resting on his thigh. His thumb moved once—barely a brush, but grounding.

“We’ll get her, Tony.”

He could only nod, and pray Rossi was right.

It had started as a tentative conversation while they lay curled together in bed after another long night, trading thoughts in that strange half-light between honesty and exhaustion.

“Where’s your line, Anthony?” Rossi had asked. “When do you walk?”

The truth was, Tony hadn’t known. Not then. Not yet. But he was getting more open to the idea that he may never be able to remove the threat that was Ziva David from NCIS, and if that were the case, he had to extricate himself at some point.

Then in May, everything changed again.

The bomb shattered more than physical structure on the ship. It tore through the illusion of permanence—of stability. Gibbs had taken the brunt of it. In the days that followed, Tony paced the hospital halls like a ghost, waiting to hear if the man who had spent years shaping him—for better or worse—was going to emerge from his coma.

When Gibbs did wake, it was with too many holes in his memories. Not just the team, or their cases. Not only the long, weathered history of gruff orders and gut instincts. He had lost them —his wife, his daughter—all over again. This time, with an audience of strangers.

And Tony? Tony had no choice but to step up.

With Gibbs struggling, Abby too emotional to focus, McGee hesitant, and Ziva unpredictable, the weight of command settled on Tony’s shoulders.

Then Gibbs retired, ran off to Mexico, and suddenly Tony was leading a team he didn’t even want.

He didn’t leave. He couldn’t. Not while everything still felt so fragile, like it would collapse the moment he turned his back.

Director Shepherd had started circling around him even before the dust had cleared.

It was subtle at first. Request to call her by her first name. Gently “redirected” discipline. The first time Tony wrote up Ziva for insubordination after she broke contact on a surveillance op, the paperwork vanished from the system overnight.

The next morning, Jenny handed him coffee and offered a quiet, almost maternal smile. “You’re doing a good job, Tony. Don’t be too hard on the team.”

He’d been too stunned to respond.

It became a pattern.

Every time Tony held his ground—called out Ziva or McGee, set a clear boundary— Jenny stepped in and softened the blow. And then, without missing a beat, she’d lean into the other side of the game: calling him into her office to share a drink after hours, acting like they were colleagues, equals, friends.

Tony had played a lot of roles in his life. But he’d never enjoyed being gaslit.

The mask almost cracked the night she brought up the undercover op.

La Grenouille’s daughter.

She phrased it carefully. A unique opportunity. A chance to use his skills for a good cause. She wanted him close to Jeanne Benoit, and she wasn’t subtle about what that entailed.

Once again, Tony was immensely grateful to have David at his back. Without the other man, he could too easily imagine a scenario where the isolation and need for validation would have seen him ignoring all the red flags of what was a sketchy, shoddily designed undercover assignment at best, and unsanctioned vigilante justice at worst. Tony managed to avoid the assignment, but not without gaining the Director's ire.

He went home and told David everything .

“She wants me to seduce the daughter of an arms dealer,” Tony said flatly, throwing his keys onto Rossi’s kitchen counter. “For ‘intelligence purposes.’ No task force, no real handler. Just… me.”

Rossi didn’t even pretend to be surprised. He was already opening a bottle of wine, expression stony.

“I’ve seen worse proposals,” David said mildly, “but never from someone who was supposed to be your boss, the boss.”

Tony leaned against the island, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “She’s not thinking clearly. She’s obsessed. I swear, she’s making this personal. And I think…” He hesitated. “I think she’s not just chasing La Grenouille. I think she’s trying to punish him.”

David met his gaze. “For something in the past.”

“Yeah.”

Rossi poured two glasses and passed one over. “Then we find out what.”

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” Tony asked.

“No,” David said simply. “I think you’ve been playing defense so long, you don’t know what it feels like to trust your gut anymore.”

Tony exhaled. “I was thinking that exact thing earlier. But it sounds better when you say it.”

“Most things do.”

Tony smirked. “Cocky.”

David grinned. “Accurate.”

When Gibbs returned to NCIS, memory shot through with holes and temper frayed to the edge, Tony hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe a speech. A handshake. A thank-you, even.

What he got was his personal items dumped unceremoniously in a pile on his old desk, and his name erased from the lead of the MCRT on the org chart overnight.

No discussion. No acknowledgment. Just… reinstatement , as if nothing had happened.

It stung more than Tony liked to admit. But even then, the sting was almost… dull.

Because somewhere between the lie of Ari’s death, the shipping container, the coma, and the long unraveling of faith, Tony had stopped seeing Gibbs as his compass. He wasn’t lost anymore. And he sure as hell wasn’t waiting to be found.

“I’ve got a compass of my own,” he’d told Rossi one night, brushing his knuckles against Dave’s cheek. “And he knows how to cook.”

Dave had smirked and kissed him breathless.

The promotion offer to Rota came next, gift-wrapped in condescension and tied with a bow of bureaucratic bullshit.

Jenny smiled as she pitched it— You’ve done so well, Tony, such growth, I think you’d be a perfect fit overseas —but her eyes gave her away. This wasn’t a reward. It was an exile.

She wanted him gone. Away from the team. Away from the Director’s office. Away from Jeanne Benoit.

Tony had smiled back just as sweetly and said he’d consider it. He hadn’t.

“If I believed you were only staying because of me, I’d offer to go with you,” Dave had said one night, after they’d finished dinner and sat curled together in the den. “I know you’re staying because someone has to hold the damn line, but I want you to know I’d follow you. That you’re worth that.”

Tony had nodded, squeezing his hand instead of trying to talk around the lump in his throat.

“At least I’m not even pretending it’s about loyalty.”

Rossi looked at him with something equal parts pride and sadness. “That’s growth, DiNozzo.”

The "Deep Six" debacle pushed things into absurdity.

Tony had flipped through the pages of McGee’s novel late one night in bed, alternating between amusement and fury as he realized just how thin the disguises were.

“Agents Tibbs and Tommy,” Rossi read aloud over his shoulder, incredulous. “Are you kidding me?”

“Apparently not,” Tony muttered.

It wasn’t just that he was in the book. It was that the whole damn team was there. And while McGee might’ve thought it was cute to fictionalize their lives, and turn them into grotesque caricatures of themselves, he hadn’t even bothered to change the important things: Cases. NCIS procedures. McGee had mined it all for fiction.

Dave had been furious on his behalf. “You want my advice?” he said, returning to the bed with two small glasses of scotch, despite their typical efforts to keep alcohol out of the bedroom. “Sue him. Copyright violation, breach of contract with NCIS, hell, emotional damages. And I’ve got the perfect lawyer.”

Tony had laughed, tired and hollow. “You’ve got a lawyer for this kind of thing just lying around?”

“No,” Dave said. “But I know a guy who doesn’t lose.”

The knock came just as Tony was hanging up the phone. He was barefoot, dressed down in threadbare track pants and a faded Ohio State T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. He padded toward the front door of Rossi’s house without thinking—still half lost in his thoughts about McGee and the minefield of publishing ethics—and opened it with casual familiarity.

The man on the other side of the door didn’t do casual.

He was all sharp edges and steel restraint. Immaculate suit, dark eyes, posture so crisp it looked painful. His gaze flicked over Tony in a fast, tactical sweep—reading him, assessing him, discarding him all in the span of a breath. It wasn’t unkind, just… efficient.

“David Rossi?” the man asked, like he already knew the answer but was testing Tony anyway.

Tony blinked. “Uh… Dave!” He called over his shoulder. “You’ve got company!”

Footsteps echoed behind him, and a moment later Rossi appeared, towel still slung around his neck from a shower he’d probably cut short. His expression warmed immediately.

“Hotch.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “ This is your lawyer?”

The man extended a hand, expression softening by about half a percent. “Aaron Hotchner. I’m his friend. I haven’t practiced in years—I’m with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit now.”

Tony accepted the handshake slowly, gaze still flickering between the two men. “Right. That makes more sense. I guess.”

Hotch’s brow quirked faintly, clearly still curious about Tony’s presence at the house—but Rossi was already stepping in.

“You want to come in,” Dave said. It wasn’t a question. “We’ve got good scotch and crushing opinions about your tie.”

Hotch snorted faintly and followed them into the foyer.

As they stepped inside, Rossi clapped a hand lightly to Tony’s lower back—a small, absent gesture, intimate and easy—and gestured toward the kitchen.

“Hotch, this is my partner, Tony.”

Tony blinked.

Hotch blinked .

Then Hotch looked at Rossi again—searching, unreadable—before returning his attention to Tony. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted honestly.

Rossi smirked. “You were always a terrible profiler when it came to me.”

There was a pause. Hotch’s lips twitched—subtly, but the gesture was there. “I’m happy for you,” he said, and Tony could tell he meant it. “Seriously.”

“Thanks,” Tony said, a little stunned by the lack of awkwardness.

Hotch looked around Rossi’s living room like he was scanning for an exit route but hadn’t found it yet. “I wish I were here for social reasons,” he said after a moment, tone sobering. “Jason Gideon’s gone off the grid. Left his badge, his credentials, even a note—if you can call it that. He’s not answering calls. He’s not coming back.”

Tony watched Rossi’s features still. Not shocked. But... hurt , in the way only long histories can hurt.

Hotch didn’t push.

Instead, he said simply, “The team needs you, Dave.”

Rossi lifted a brow. “I’m not a practicing federal agent these days,” he said simply, twisting Hotch’s own words around and tossing them back at the younger man.

Hotch didn’t flinch. “You weren’t a practicing profiler the day you walked into the Hoover building for the first time, either.”

Dave huffed out a breath. “Touché.”

Tony slipped away to the kitchen, quietly grabbing three glasses and the nicer bottle of scotch. He poured, set them on the coffee table, and wordlessly passed them out.

“Thanks,” Hotch said quietly. “And sorry for barging in like this.”

Tony waved it off, but his eyes were still flicking toward Rossi.

He could see it now—the way Dave was leaning forward, the tilt of his head, the tension in his hands. He wanted this. The BAU. The challenge. The pull of unfinished business. Of people who knew what he’d built and who were asking him to come home.

Tony let it sit. Until Hotch asked quietly to use the bathroom and disappeared down the hall.

Then Tony crossed the room and leaned in, resting a hand lightly on Dave’s knee.

“You want this,” he said softly. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Rossi met his eyes. Steady. Guilty. A little raw.

“I wasn’t planning to—”

“I’m not asking for explanations,” Tony cut in. “I just need to know if it’s going to hurt you more to say yes.”

Silence stretched between them for a breath, two.

“No,” Dave said at last. “It won’t hurt more. It’ll likely hurt less.”

Tony nodded and offered a faint smile. “Then go. Do it. Be the guy they need right now.”

Dave reached up and gently brushed his knuckles across Tony’s jaw. “I wasn’t expecting you either, you know.”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah. I’m the wild card.”

Hotch returned a few moments later. Rossi didn’t miss a beat.

“I’ll come back,” he said, sitting straighter, the decision made. “Not full-time. Not forever. But I’ll help you steady the ship.”

Hotch let out a slow exhale. “Thank you.”

“But,” Rossi added smoothly, “I want something in return.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow.

“When Tony’s ready to sue the ever-loving hell out of a junior agent who used their cases and his likeness in a thinly veiled bestseller,” Rossi said, swirling his glass, “I want you to represent him.”

Hotch blinked again. “I just told you I’m not practicing.”

“You said you haven’t practiced in years ,” Rossi corrected. “You’re still licensed. You’ll still be terrifying in court. And that excuse didn’t stop you from dragging me out of retirement and back to the FBI.

Hotch didn’t answer. Rossi just smiled. “Exactly.”

Aaron turned to study Tony now, visibly slotting in the new information to his first impression of the man. “You’re part of the Bureau?” 

“NCIS.”

Hotch nodded, then sighed, but he didn’t argue. He turned back to Rossi “Fine. If he wants it, I’ll do it.”

Tony raised his glass in salute. “I feel safer already.”

Rossi clinked his glass against Tony’s and then Hotch’s.

“To old friends, new fights, and knowing when to say yes.”

Chapter Text

Rossi never liked waiting games—never had the patience for them, even less so now that he had something real to lose.

Rejoining the FBI had been its own kind of battlefield. He hadn’t expected it to be easy—building trust with a younger team after years of being a name etched into old Bureau legends. Reid, Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau—they were good people. Smart. Capable. But Rossi had spent too many years chasing monsters alone to know instinctively how to lean on others. He was learning, slowly. Letting the walls come down, even as he helped them build their own.

Tony had been patient with him through the process, even when their schedules turned them into ships passing in the night. They burned weekends like lifelines—cooking together, falling asleep on the couch (or sacrificing sleep entirely for more carnal activities), reviewing profiles and reports shoulder to shoulder in their upstairs library. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.

They thought they might be getting close to finding someone to dump their investigation on, and then getting Tony the hell out of NCIS to avoid the fallout. Naturally, that’s when the body of René Benoit—La Grenouille—surfaced. With that, everything was wrenched off course once more.

Tony hadn’t been surprised. Angry, yes. Disappointed. But not surprised. He’d told Dave, over a late-night glass of whiskey, that he didn’t think Jenny Shepherd had ever truly stepped back from her vendettas—not when it came to the Benoit family. What had surprised Tony was the cover-up. The way the investigation had so conveniently, so neatly , swept her involvement aside.

Worse still was Gibbs. The man Tony had followed into fire time and again—his mentor, his CO in all but name—Tony was sure the man had known . And that he had buried it.

Tony sat on bed the bed he shared with Rossi, quiet and bone-weary, eyes hollowed out by betrayal.

“I spent years making excuses for him,” he’d told Dave. “Convincing myself that he was hard on me because he gave a damn. That there was some deeper lesson under all that silence and barked orders. But this… this is different.”

Rossi had known then that things were about to shift again. That the plan they’d been slowly, carefully building against Ziva David would have to be stretched wider.

And then Jenny was gone—cut down in a blaze of bullets she’d all but orchestrated herself, terminal diagnosis left to rot under the desert sun. There had been no goodbyes. No reckoning.

Tony didn’t cry. He rarely did. But that night, curled on the couch beside Dave, his fingers had locked tightly around Rossi’s, and he’d whispered, “She could’ve lived. She just… didn’t want to.”

It was Vance’s appointment that finally set the wheels spinning in Rossi’s gut. He watched Tony’s hopeful caution crash into cold reality when the new Director refused to even entertain quiet concerns about Ziva David’s placement on the team. Tony was too smart to completely show his hand, but he had told Rossi he was going to test the waters, see if the Director could be an ally, could be their way of finally shedding light on the many issues they had uncovered.

Instead, Tony came home late that night, barely keeping himself together. Dave had barely risen from his desk before Tony was pacing the office, frantic energy bleeding from every movement.

“They’re shipping me off,” Tony bit out. “Tomorrow. No time to prepare. No reconsideration. Just—‘you’re being reassigned to the USS Ronald Reagan, Agent DiNozzo, report to Norfolk at oh-eight-hundred.’ Like I’m a damn package being sent overseas.”

Rossi’s stomach sank. “How long?”

Tony met his eyes, jaw clenched. “Indefinite.”

It was an exile. Silencing. Burying the problem.

“You think this is Ziva?”

“I don’t believe she has the sort of sway to call shots like that, but I think it’s about covering for Ziva, and I think it’s protecting Vance, and I think it’s Gibbs going quiet because somewhere deep down, he knows it’s wrong and he’s doing it anyway.”

Rossi crossed the room in three long strides and pulled Tony into his arms. “You’re not going through this alone.”

Tony let himself fold into him, forehead against Dave’s shoulder, voice ragged. “Feels like it.”

“You’re coming back to me,” Rossi murmured. “This isn’t over. We’ve worked too hard, seen too much. I’ll keep digging from this end, and when you get back—because you will get back—we finish this. Together.”

Tony’s fingers clenched in the back of Dave’s shirt, his breath unsteady against Rossi’s collarbone.

“I want to read the team in,” Rossi said quietly. “Hotch, Emily, Derek, Spencer, even JJ and Penelope—they’re not NCIS, they won’t be caught in Vance’s line of fire. And I trust them. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it mattered.”

Tony was silent for a long beat. Then, hoarse, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. They’ve got their own clearances, and they’ve had my six since the day I walked back into the Hoover building. We need eyes and ears that aren’t on the Navy’s payroll.”

Tony leaned back just enough to look up at him, visibly torn, but slowly nodded. “Okay. Yeah. If something happens while I’m gone… I want someone to know the truth.”

Rossi cupped his cheek. “They’ll know. And so will you, every damn day, that I’ve got you—no matter what uniform, badge, or ocean tries to get between us.”

Tony swallowed hard. “Come find me when this is over?”

“I won’t have to,” Rossi said. “You’ll find your way home.”

It was the first time the entire BAU team had gathered at David Rossi’s house.

Hotch had been there before—both before and after Tony became a part of Dave’s life. But the rest of the team had never crossed the threshold.

“I still can’t believe we’re in Rossi’s actual mansion,” Garcia whispered dramatically to Spencer as they stepped through the entryway, craning her neck to take in the chandelier, the carved banisters, and the rich gleam of dark wood everywhere. “Tell me this place has a name. Like Villa Justice or The Brooding Citadel. ”

Spencer barely smothered a grin. “Pretty sure it’s just called ‘Rossi’s house.’”

Emily snorted. “I fully expected him to live in an apartment with four espresso machines and no furniture.”

“Surprise,” Rossi said dryly from the hall. “I can cook and own furniture.”

To their collective astonishment, it turned out to be true. The kitchen smelled like garlic, tomatoes, and something buttery and herb-laced simmering on the stove. The table was already laid out with antipasto platters, wine, and linen napkins folded with surprising care.

“This is amazing,” JJ murmured as she accepted a glass of red from Rossi, who just shrugged like it was nothing.

“Figured it was time I proved I’m not a complete curmudgeon,” he said teasingly. Then, more softly, “I thought I’d feed the people I trust with my life. Is that so strange?”

The warmth in his tone gave everyone pause. This wasn’t just a meal—it was a gesture. A bridge. Maybe even a quiet kind of peace offering from a man who had so long protected his solitude like a fortress.

Hotch met his eyes and nodded once. Rossi inclined his head in return.

By the time they reached dessert—espresso-soaked tiramisu and freshly brewed Italian roast—the banter had mellowed into an easy comfort.

Derek clinked his glass with Garcia’s, giving her a smug grin. “Pay up. I told you he was too Italian not to be a decent cook.”

“ Gourmet cook,” she corrected, licking a bit of mascarpone off her spoon. “I expected wine. I expected an attempt at bruschetta. I did not expect actual risotto and handmade pasta like he was auditioning for Top Chef.”

“Still think he secretly has a wife in the basement,” Emily added, raising her brows over her wine glass.

“No wife,” Rossi said, smirking as he leaned forward to refill her glass. “But I do have some things to share.”

He waited just long enough to get their attention.

“For most of my career, I was a solo act. Even when we started the BAU, it was just me, Max, and Jason kicking down doors with egos bigger than our budgets. I wasn’t built for teamwork. But you—” he gestured toward them with his wine glass, “you’ve changed that. You’ve earned my trust. And I don’t say that lightly.”

Aaron gave him a small smile. Derek nodded, more serious now. JJ leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

“So what’s the real reason you gathered your ducklings?” Emily asked, gently nudging them past the emotional moment. “I’m assuming it wasn’t just to woo us with panna cotta and wine.”

Rossi gave a half-smile. “There’s someone important in my life,” Rossi said. “We’ve been seeing each other for two and a half years. His name’s Anthony. Tony DiNozzo. He’s a Senior Field Agent at NCIS. Stubborn, too clever for his own good, flirts like it’s oxygen, but underneath it all—he’s a damn good investigator. Sharp. Loyal. And he has a bone-deep sense of justice. It’s what drew me to him. That, and the way he quotes movies at me until I cave and smile.”

He looked down for a second, emotions sharper than expected. “I love him. And right now, he’s in danger.”

There was a moment of silence, not uncomfortable, just… registering.

Then Garcia squeaked softly, “Oh. Ohh.”

Derek gave her a little nudge, grinning. “Collect yourself, woman.”

“I’m fine , I’m just—this is my composed face. I’m internally squealing,” she whispered behind her hand. It was the extent of reactions to Rossi essentially outing himself to his entire team. Most of the team were more interested in learning about the threat to this man who meant so much to one of their own.

Spencer tilted his head. “Is that the person who texted you ‘We’re out of parmesan again, guess I’ll just die’ during the last case?”

Rossi snorted out a laugh. “Yes, that was definitely him.”

“You sound well matched,” Hotch said with a faint smirk. Rossi matched the look.

He let the smile fade as he launched into the story. He told them everything. About NCIS. About the former Director, Jenny Shepherd. About Ziva David’s suspicious placement, and the quiet exile of Tony to an Agent Afloat position right when they were closing in on evidence of corruption.

By the time he was done, the warmth in the room had been replaced by a charged silence.

“That’s a hell of a conspiracy,” Derek said, arms folded, eyes sharp. “And you two have been digging on your own this whole time?”

“We’ve kept it quiet,” Rossi said. “We’ve got a lot on Ziva. Were ready to take Shepherd down before she orchestrated her own death. Growing files on Gibbs and now Vance.” He paused to meet each of their eyes, wanting to really convey the magnitude of the situation. “We’re pretty sure we’ll be taking down SecNav when we make our move.”

“The two of you have evidence of corruption from the Secretary of the Navy?” Hotch asked incredulously.

Emily set down her wineglass and looked straight at Rossi. “So what’s the plan?”

“You’re looking at it,” he said. “I’m asking you all to help me. Quietly. Carefully. I can’t do this alone, but I’ll also understand completely if you don’t want to get yourselves caught up in this.”

“We’re in,” JJ said immediately. “No question.”

Spencer nodded. “If you give me the evidence you and Tony have gathered so far, I can begin cross-referencing with interagency archives. Discrepancies might help narrow our angles.”

Derek cracked his knuckles. “I’ve got friends at the NSA and Homeland. I’ll put out some feelers.”

“I know a guy at Interpol who owes me,” Emily said. “Ziva’s family’s been on watchlists for years.”

Rossi looked around the room, heart full in a way he hadn’t expected.

No one had made a big deal of him being in a relationship with a man. No jokes, no awkward silences. Just solidarity. Loyalty. The kind of camaraderie he’d spent a lifetime trying to earn—and finally had.

His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“Thank you.”

Penelope reached over and squeezed his hand. “We love you too, sir. Now let’s go save your movie-quoting mystery man.”

Eight months. It had been eight long, grueling months before Tony finally came home.

Four months aboard the USS Ronald Reagan . Four more on the USS Seahawk . Eight months of half-coded emails and fleeting, patchy phone calls when signal allowed. They’d only managed to see each other three times—each time orchestrated by Rossi taking leave and flying himself out to whatever foreign port Tony’s ship happened to dock in for more than 48 hours. The reunions had been fleeting, intense, aching. And always, too short.

The investigation had exploded in the months since Tony had been forcibly deployed. The BAU had been a godsend.

Morgan and Garcia had uncovered the smoking gun: Operation Frankenstein —a black-budget CIA project to recruit and reprogram active-duty Navy servicemen into performing covert assassinations under military cover. The program had remained buried under layers of clearance and false leads, but it was real. And horrifying. These were young men trained to kill and dissociate, then put back into the field and the public as if nothing had happened.

Even more disturbing: the project had been born from Vance’s early academic theories, and spear-headed by the Secretary of the Navy, Phillip Davenport.

Except Vance wasn’t Leon Vance at all, but rather Tyler Keith Owens.

That alone had nearly broken Rossi’s composure when he and Prentiss uncovered it. The Director of NCIS wasn't even who he claimed to be. Years ago, the real Leon Vance and Tyler Owens had orchestrated a bizarre identity swap—Leon taking “Teek”’s place in the military while Tyler took on Leon’s name and pursued a university education. Whether it had started as desperation or long-term planning didn’t matter; it was still a felony. And now, that lie had propelled a fabricated identity into one of the highest positions in federal law enforcement.

And behind it all—threaded through every piece of it—was Eli David.

The Mossad director’s fingerprints were everywhere. From NIS files to CIA records. According to the evidence Garcia dug up, David had been assigned to Vance decades ago, flagged by Israeli intelligence as a promising U.S. asset. Mossad had played a long game, embedding operatives, manipulating from the shadows.

And Tony had been exiled for daring to pull the thread.

But now—now he was finally coming home.

Rossi stood at the docks, arms crossed and heart hammering behind the zipper of his jacket. Around him, families clustered with signs, officers snapped photos of their returning sailors, and cheers broke out as gangways lowered.

Rossi didn’t have a sign. Just a scalding cup of coffee in one hand, and a cheeseburger in the other, because let it never be said he didn’t know his partner’s needs.

He scanned each face that descended the ramp, too far to read clearly, but searching anyway. He couldn’t stop the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw.

Eight months. Three visits. Hundreds of text messages. Dozens of nights spent staring at an empty bed.

And now, finally— finally —the man he loved was coming back.

Back to his arms.
Back to their home.
Back to the war room in the library.
Back to the fight they still had to finish.

Rossi spotted him then—tanner, leaner, hair shorter than when he’d left—but unmistakably Tony. Their eyes met across the crowd, and for a second, everything else disappeared.

Rossi didn’t wait. He moved through the crowd like gravity pulled him forward. And when Tony’s feet hit land, Rossi wrapped him in a hug that neither of them had any intention of letting go of soon.

“Welcome home,” Rossi murmured into his hair. 

Tony sagged against him. “God, I missed you.”

Rossi pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “You ready?”

“For what?” Tony asked softly.

Rossi’s eyes gleamed. “To take them all down.”

Tony’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but it was real.

“Hell yes.”

Chapter Text

Things were moving fast in the weeks since Tony came home.

The moment he was finally back on solid ground—back in Rossi’s arms, in their shared bed, in a space that felt like his —it was as if something inside him fully exhaled for the first time in months. But there wasn’t much time to rest. Their investigation was entering its final stages. The BAU was all in, and so was Tony.

What Tony hadn’t expected—what hit him hardest—was the way Dave’s team was all in with Tony .

It started with dinner. The real kind of dinner. Not debriefs around a case board or pizza slices on the fly. No, this was Hotch uncorking a bottle of wine at Rossi’s table, JJ laughing as she reached over to ruffle Garcia’s hair, Reid absently explaining three different types of pasta origins to a surprisingly patient Morgan.

And in the midst of it all: Tony.

He had expected suspicion, maybe a bit of territorialism. He was the interloper, after all—an outsider from a different alphabet agency, parachuting into their world and asking for backup on a case most people would call career suicide.

Instead, they made room for him like he had always been there.

Rossi had been right. These people didn’t just work together. They were family.

And somehow, impossibly, it was like they had been holding a Tony-shaped space open all along. And faster than he could have imagined, Tony found himself spending time building friendships with each of them, entirely separate from working the case.

With Morgan, it was easiest.

Tony had offered a casual challenge on the court, and the next thing he knew, he was at a rec gym downtown, caught in a high-speed blur of trash talk, elbows, and brutal layups that left both men breathless, soaked in sweat, and grinning like idiots.

They didn’t talk much afterward. Just sat side by side on the bench, water bottles in hand, letting the adrenaline drain in comfortable silence. No need for deep confessions or heavy words—just the shared knowledge of having pushed each other, tested limits, respected boundaries without ever saying so.

But as they walked out into the cooling dusk, Morgan bumped a shoulder lightly against Tony’s and said, “Rossi’s been better since you came back.”

Tony turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.

Morgan just grinned, easy and knowing. “You seem to run hot. Gets people moving.”

Tony snorted. “Is that a compliment or a fire warning?”

Morgan laughed. “Little of both.” Then, with a knowing grin, he added, “You seem to be getting better, too.”

Tony just smirked and said, “I’m always better when I’m winning.”

With Reid, it felt like falling headfirst into the world’s most caffeinated thesis committee.

Tony had barely mentioned his dissertation before Reid was pulling peer-reviewed studies from his messenger bag like a magician revealing endless scarves, rattling off citation dates and authors with impossible precision. Within minutes, he was asking questions so incisive Tony ended up rethinking two of his core arguments before they’d even ordered coffee. It was maddening. It was exhilarating.

They met twice more at a quiet café between NCIS and the Hoover building, tucked away from foot traffic and judgment. Each time, they lost hours to rapid-fire debate—Reid prodding, pushing, occasionally praising, all with the intensity of someone who didn’t know how to do anything halfway.

“You’re blending behavioral signature theory with the real-time manipulation strategies of long-term undercover assets,” Reid said one evening, tapping the side of Tony’s spiral notebook with the end of a pen. “This could redefine inter-agency collaboration protocols if you frame it right. It’s actually brilliant.”

Tony blinked, caught off guard by the earnestness. “I thought I was just trying to explain how not to get murdered while pretending to like a guy who has murdered.”

Reid smiled, head tilting like he’d just heard poetry. “Same thing.”

Tony laughed, shook his head, and took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee.

He’d never really thought of himself as the kind of person someone like Reid would want to talk to—really talk to, not just in passing or for laughs. But here he was.

And to his surprise, he wasn’t just keeping pace with Reid—he was listening, exchanging expertise, even challenging him.

Tony ducked his head a little, hiding a smile behind his coffee cup. He wasn’t sure he’d ever admit it out loud, but this? This friendship was a delightful surprise.

With JJ, it was easier than Tony expected.

She had that practiced ease of someone who knew how to command a room with a single look. She had the smooth confidence of a public face, the kind of person who could brief a press corps without breaking a sweat. But beneath the polished exterior was a wicked sense of humor and a quiet, unwavering warmth that snuck up on him in the best way.

They talked on a park bench one afternoon while waiting for Rossi and Hotch to finish a meeting. JJ asked about his early years on the force—Peoria, Philly, Baltimore—about what it was like navigating precinct politics, bad partners, and worse brass. She asked about his time undercover, how he built personas and let them blur just enough to be convincing without losing himself completely.

She didn’t push, but she didn’t shy away from harder questions either—like what it was like jumping from local law enforcement to NCIS, or how he managed being quietly queer in places like college locker rooms, squad rooms, and federal field offices.

Tony found himself answering with more honesty than he expected. JJ didn’t blink at any of it. Just listened with that quiet steadiness of someone who understood how heavy the truth could be, and how long you sometimes had to hold it before it felt safe to put down.

At the end of one conversation, she gave him a sideways glance and said, “You make Rossi so much less grumpy. Whatever you're doing, don’t stop.”

Tony laughed and teasingly told her he’d promise nothing.

With Garcia, he didn’t stand a chance.

The tech goddess declared him her “Italian Stallion” before he even finished his second sentence, and within the hour, his wrist was wrapped in a hand-woven friendship bracelet that he absolutely, unequivocally had no intention of ever taking off. 

Faster than he could process, he found himself curled into the corner of her office couch, munching popcorn and sipping something fizzy and questionably pink, while watching her hack into Mossad’s encrypted back channels with terrifying grace and a disturbingly cheerful smile.

“This is for justice, joy, and the continued protection of your fine, fine posterior,” she announced, fingers flying across the keyboard like a one-woman orchestra. “Also, because Ziva David gives off the worst ‘Mean Girl’ energy, and I don’t like her vibe.”

Tony blinked. “I think I love you.”

She blew him a kiss without looking up. “Get in line, DiNozzo. I’m emotionally high-maintenance and in high demand.”

He grinned into his drink, the tension in his chest easing more than he’d expected. Being around Garcia made everything else feel better—softer, brighter, unapologetically weird. And for once, he didn’t feel like he had to perform to be let in. She’d made space for him without asking for anything in return.

He was going to keep that bracelet forever.

With Prentiss, it started with sarcasm and wariness in equal measure.

They circled each other at first—two people fluent in masks, both too sharp to fall for surface-level charm. But beneath the dry wit and perfectly arched brows, Emily saw more than Tony was used to letting people notice. And she didn’t flinch from any of it.

They bonded over late nights and early reports, quiet conversations in the kitchen while the rest of the team argued logistics. She asked once—carefully—about what it was like growing up in the shadow of a powerful, emotionally distant father. Tony had just blinked and handed her the whiskey bottle.

In return, she shared stories about diplomatic postings and living with a political angle behind every relationship. About learning to smile in five languages while never quite belonging anywhere. They both knew what it meant to be loyal to people who didn’t always deserve it—and to finally draw the line, even when it hurt.

“You ever get tired of being the one who adjusts?” she asked once, tossing a paperclip into the trash from across the room.

Tony leaned back in his chair, watching her with a half-smile. “Only when no one notices.”

She met his eyes and said, without drama, “I notice.”

And just like that, he stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

With Emily, he could breathe with the armor still on—and somehow, that counted as trust.

With Hotch, it was more complicated.

He didn’t do easy warmth. He didn’t tease or chatter or fill silences just to make them comfortable. But what he did —Tony respected more. He listened. He observed. He weighed people carefully, like he was taking their measure not just for now, but for every storm that might come.

Trust from Aaron Hotchner wasn’t given—it was earned.

After a late briefing one night, with the rest of the team packing up and laughter trailing toward the front door, Hotch lingered behind. He stepped up beside Tony without preamble, his voice quiet but firm.

“Rossi’s a hard man to reach,” he said. “But he lets you in. That says something.”

Tony nodded, the weight of that observation hitting more deeply than he’d expected. “He lets you in, too.”

There was a pause, then the barest curve of Hotch’s mouth— almost a smile. “He chooses his people well.”

Tony didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there beside him in the calm after the meeting, letting the words settle. 

It was approval. And from someone who didn’t waste words—or second chances—that meant everything.

They were in this now, all of them. Not just to take down corruption at NCIS, but because it had become personal. Because Tony was now theirs . And they were just as determined as Rossi to make sure that this time, Tony didn’t have to walk away with scars and nothing to show for it.

Shortly after returning from his time afloat, Tony stood in the middle of Rossi’s kitchen, not moving, not speaking. Just staring at the folder in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.

Rossi watched him from across the island, the silence between them stretching long and taut.

Finally, Tony spoke. “It was Franks. He used NIS resources. Found Hernandez, tracked him down, and then put a sniper rifle in Gibbs’ hands.” His voice was flat, too flat. “Let him pull the trigger. Or made sure he would.”

Rossi didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Tony set the file down carefully. Like it might explode. “I don’t know if he went into it knowing he would kill the guy, not until he was already up there. Maybe he really thought he’d just... I don’t know. Bring him in.” He sighed, clearly not believing the words he was saying. “But Gibbs doesn’t do half-measures.”

He ran a hand through his hair and laughed, but it was hollow. “Jesus, Dave. He killed a man in cold blood. Executed him. A guy who never saw it coming.”

Rossi walked over slowly, deliberately. Letting the silence stay where words would have just scraped the wound raw.

“But it was him ,” Tony whispered, voice cracking. “Pedro Hernandez. The bastard who murdered his wife and daughter. Who got away with it. And Gibbs… I saw him after the explosion, when he had to learn they were dead all over again. Saw him hurting , you know? It destroyed him.”

He blinked hard, jaw tightening. “And I—on some level I get it . I get why he wanted him dead. And I hate that I do, because it still doesn’t change the fact that it wasn’t an excuse .”

Rossi reached out, his fingers brushing gently over Tony’s forearm. Grounding him.

“You can understand someone and still know they were wrong,” he said quietly. “You can even love someone and still hold them accountable.”

Tony nodded slowly, staring down. “I know. I know. It’s just…” He blew out a sharp breath. “This guy taught me everything. He built me, Dave. And I didn’t even see what was rotting underneath.”

“You’re not responsible for what he did before you met him.”

Tony swallowed. “But I’m responsible now. For what I do with this.” He glanced back at the file. “We’re nearly there. The research, the evidence, the timeline—it’s all but locked. Just a few final steps.”

“You don’t have to do anything more tonight.”

Tony looked up at him.

“You don’t have to be brave tonight,” Rossi said. “You’ve already done the work. And when you’re ready, we’ll finish it. All of us together.”

Tony hesitated—then finally, finally let go of the tension in his body. He leaned into Dave, letting his head rest on the older man’s shoulder.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

“I know.” Rossi brushed a kiss against Tony’s hair. “Come to bed.”

The bedroom was quiet, dim except for the soft gold glow of a single lamp on the dresser. Tony stood at the foot of the bed, stripped down to just his undershirt and boxers, his shoulders tight, his jaw locked. He hadn’t spoken since they left the kitchen. Couldn’t shut off his thoughts from how close they were to blowing everything wide open.

Rossi approached slowly, like you would a wounded animal, hands loose at his sides. “You don’t have to be strong for me, Tony,” he said softly.

Tony didn’t look at him, just stared down at his hands.

Rossi stepped close and gently took Tony’s face in both hands, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You’ve carried this whole thing,” he whispered. “I’ve watched you bend under it, refuse to break. You’ve done everything right. But I think… I think you need someone else to hold you up now.”

Tony’s throat bobbed, his eyes glassy but dry. “I don’t know how.”

“I can show you,” Rossi murmured. “Just let go.”

He led Tony to the bed like a slow dance, finished undressing him with unhurried care. When Tony hesitated, Rossi touched his chin again. “Let me take the lead tonight. No decisions. No control. Just feel.”

Tony gave a shaky nod.

With practiced gentleness, Rossi secured Tony’s wrists to the headboard using a pair of silk ties. Nothing strong enough to truly restrain Tony if he didn’t want to be, but the point wasn’t to physically force control away from the younger man, but to help him willingly give it up. Each knot was a wordless promise: I’ve got you. You’re safe. You don’t have to carry it anymore.

He took his time, tracing fingertips down Tony’s arms, across his chest, over the lines of tension that lived in his body like old ghosts. He kissed each place that made Tony gasp, whispered to the younger man in Italian—sweet promises, grounding commands, reverent words.

When Tony was arching up, eyes closed, lips parted in soundless want, Rossi still didn’t rush. He teased, coaxed, guided Tony right to the edge—and kept him there.

Rossi took his time prepping him, sliding one finger at a time into the heat of Tony’s body, wringing every bit of pleasure he could from the man without tipping him over into climax, stretching him so thoroughly that when Rossi finally slid his own achingly hard cock inside, it was with a single slow, steady thrust.

And when Tony finally broke, it wasn’t just pleasure that came out of him—it was grief. Relief. Fear. All of it tangled together in one raw, beautiful release. His entire body trembled, and Rossi held him through it, whispering love and pride and I'm here, I'm here, I'm here as Tony sagged into the bed, boneless and breathless.

When Rossie untied Tony, he pulled his younger lover into his arms, laying them sideways on the bed, foreheads pressed together.

“You’re not alone in this,” Rossi whispered.

“I know,” Tony whispered back, eyes fluttering shut. “Not anymore.”

In the end, the choice of when exactly to come clean with all they had uncovered was taken out of their hands. Knowing Tony’s luck as he did, Rossi felt he really ought to have seen that coming. 

When the team landed, returning from their most recent case, Rossi had booted his phone back up to check as usual. His heart had nearly stopped at the single missed call and voicemail from Bethesda Naval Hospital. He didn’t know how many times he could keep doing this.

The nurse behind the counter at Bethesda barely looked up when Rossi approached. He was keeping a tight lid on his anger, but was visibly grim, coiled tension in every line of his body. Beside him, Hotch matched his pace, quiet and intense, his badge already in hand.

“We’re looking for Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo,” Rossi said, voice clipped.

She typed, paused, squinted at the screen. “Agent DiNozzo checked out this morning. AMA.”

Rossi blinked. “Against medical advice?”

The nurse nodded, distracted, as she turned the monitor slightly toward herself. “Looks like it was about seven hours ago. There’s a signed discharge form on file—”

“Let me see it,” Rossi said, already pulling out his credentials.

Hotch stepped in smoothly. “I’m his attorney of record, and this is his designated emergency contact. You’re authorized to share.”

The nurse hesitated, then pulled up the document and turned the monitor toward them.

Rossi stared.

It was Tony’s name at the bottom. 

“This doesn’t make sense,” Rossi muttered. “He wouldn’t mess around with his health like this, especially not without letting me know what was going on.”

Hotch leaned in closer, eyes narrowing. “Look at this,” he said quietly, pointing to a narrow space in the margin between two paragraphs.

Rossi bent forward, frowning—until the scribbled note came into focus. Tiny, slanted, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.

Rivkin. Self-defense. Israel. Flight.

He went still. His blood turned to ice.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed.

They exchanged a look—nothing else needed to be said. The implication was clear. The signature may be Tony’s, but he wasn’t the one making decisions.

“Let’s go,” Rossi said hoarsely.

“Where?” Hotch asked, already turning to follow.

“To get our team.”

There was no fury like a man protecting the person he loved. And no force in the world quite like the BAU when one of their own was in danger. And Tony was theirs.

The room was stark—stone walls, metal table bolted to the floor, the quiet hum of surveillance just out of reach. The fluorescent light above Tony buzzed faintly, flickering in a way that dug into the edges of his patience.

He sat with his right arm immobilized in a sling, his lower lip split and tacky with drying blood. A dark bruise was blooming along his temple, half-shadowed beneath the too-harsh light, and every breath pulled tight against the deep cut under his ribs—a souvenir from his unplanned crash through Ziva’s coffee table.

He shifted slightly, trying to take pressure off the worst of the damage. The chair scraped softly beneath him. His jaw clenched to keep the grimace from slipping free.

Across from him sat Mossad Director Eli David—composed, expression bored, gaze predatory. His posture was relaxed. His eyes were not.

“You look unwell, Agent DiNozzo.”

Tony met his gaze evenly. “You should see the other guy.”

David tilted his head just slightly, as if considering something. “Yes,” he said mildly. “A shame. Rivkin was valuable.”

Tony didn’t flinch, but his knuckles tightened on the edge of the table. “So was the agent he murdered in cold blood.”

“Tragedy happens, sometimes, in the pursuit of knowledge.”

Tony gave him a slow blink. “You sound like your daughter.”

Eli’s expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed was pointed.

Tony leaned back as best he could, pain flaring hot in his ribs. He swallowed it down.

He hadn’t even meant to be there. That’s what kept looping in his mind.

They had been looking into SecNav’s mess—one last sweep through the loose threads before another internal inquiry got shut down. Garcia had been tracing burner phone activity tied to the estate, trying to figure out who the hell was monitoring the home of the Secretary of the Navy.

When they’d traced a call from a now-dead agent’s phone to a DC apartment, Tony had gone to follow up alone. Routine. In and out.

He hadn't known the apartment belonged to Ziva.

Hadn't expected Rivkin. Certainly hadn’t meant to confront him—not like that. Tony had done the only thing he could in the circumstances, and attempted to arrest the man.

Tony remembered the shift in his stance, the cold familiarity of a man already at war. Remembered trying again— pleading —to take him in peacefully.

And then the sudden blur of violence. Fists, furniture, shattering glass. Pain. Rage. Instinct. And finally, two gun shots.

When it ended, the gun was in Tony’s hands, and Rivkin hadn’t gotten back up.

Vance hadn’t believed Tony’s claims of self-defense. Hadn’t waited for the evidence, or the forensics (though admittedly, that had become more complicated after Ziva’s apartment had been blown up ). Vance had looked down at Tony in his hospital bed, bruised and wired to monitors, and told him coldly that Mossad wanted answers.

So here he was. Dragged to Tel Aviv straight out of Bethesda, barely able to stand upright without swaying, stuffed into a suit despite the broken radius in his right arm that had barely been set. Eli David waiting like a vulture who smelled blood and had already begun to circle.

Gibbs had come. That was something. Maybe. But when the plane landed, Gibbs hadn’t stopped them from hauling Tony away like a suspect.

“You believe your actions were justified,” Eli said now, calmly. “That killing a Mossad officer is an acceptable course of action.”

“I believe Rivkin made that choice when he went for his weapon,” Tony said flatly. “I gave him every chance.”

“Did you?” Eli asked, like it was rhetorical. “Or did you resent what he had with my daughter?”

Tony’s laugh was low and bitter. “No offense, Director, but I’m no more attracted to your daughter than she is to me.”

A flicker of something complicated passed through Eli’s eyes before it was gone.

“And yet, here you are. Alone. In Israel. No countryman demanding justice on your behalf.”

Tony tilted his head, but didn’t respond out loud. NCIS didn’t appear to have his six, but he had other people watching his back now. He would have faith.

Eli sat back slowly, posture relaxed, smoothing a wrinkle from his suit jacket.

“You may not enjoy the consequences of your actions, Agent DiNozzo.”

Tony smiled grimly. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”

Chapter Text

“You claim to be loyal to your country,” Eli said, voice sharp with contempt, “but your actions against her allies say otherwise.”

Tony swallowed the bile that had crept up the back of his throat. “You don’t get to talk to me about loyalty,” he rasped. “Not when your operatives are killing American agents on U.S. soil.”

Eli leaned forward slightly, his eyes hard. “Watch your tone, Agent DiNozzo. You are in my house now.”

Tony didn’t reply. Couldn’t—not with how the room was spinning every time he blinked. He must have been in this room for hours now. Any pain medication the hospital had given him had long since worn off, but he kept his chin up, breathing carefully through his nose, willing himself to stay upright just a little longer. He had gotten more out of Eli David than either expected, and it showed in the other man’s bitter anger.

Try as he might to maintain his composure, however, Tony was reaching his limits. He was dehydrated, running on nothing but adrenaline and anger, but he’d held the line. Could only hope he would be able to keep holding it as long as necessary. Until the cavalry came.

And then it happened. The door burst open.

The echoing clang of impact against concrete cut through the tension like a blade, and Eli stood abruptly, eyes flashing toward the disruption. “What—”

The room filled all at once.

First came the Israeli Prime Minister, flanked by three suited guards with earpieces and hard eyes.

Then U.S. Secretary of State Elizabeth McCord, her posture sharp and composed, followed by a younger man scribbling notes at her side.

And behind them—blessedly—Aaron Hotchner and David Rossi, moving like twin storms, dark suits cutting through the cluttered tension with cool, practiced command.

Tony blinked, dizzy from more than just his injuries. His heart lurched in his chest at the sight of Dave’s eyes landing on him—wide, alarmed, furious and relieved all at once.

Eli straightened, nostrils flaring. “What is the meaning of this—”

Hotch raised a hand, and remarkably the room fell still.

“This interrogation is over,” he said, tone cold enough to freeze steel. “Effective immediately.”

Eli’s mouth opened, but McCord beat him to it.

“You are detaining an American citizen— injured —under false pretenses and without diplomatic coordination,” she said, voice like ice beneath velvet. “You’ll explain yourself. To me. Now.”

The room spun again, and Tony squeezed his eyes shut against the white-hot pulse behind them. He didn’t know what miracles had been pulled to make this happen—but he didn’t care. They were here.

Rossi was here .

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Tony let himself breathe.

Eli David opened his mouth again, but Hotch didn’t flinch.

“You’ve lost control of the room, Director,” Aaron said evenly. “And you’re going to listen very carefully.”

The Prime Minister stepped further inside, crossing behind Eli with deliberate weight in every step. “Enough posturing. I suggest we all hear what the Americans have uncovered.”

Eli turned, his jaw set, but he obeyed. He took his seat again, though his glare never left Tony.

Tony sat still, muscles locked against the tremor in his side, but he felt Rossi’s hand brush his shoulder as he passed, lingering just long enough to say: I’m here.

Hotch took the center of the room.

“Yesterday,” he began, “Special Agent DiNozzo left a message for his partner before being removed from Bethesda Naval Hospital against medical advice.” His eyes flicked to Eli. “We confirmed that the order was executed by NCIS Director Leon Vance and sanctioned by SecNav Phillip Davenport.”

“That message,” Rossi added, stepping beside him now, “led to a full mobilization of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“DiNozzo is NCIS, not FBI,” Eli snarled out, but Hotch didn’t do more than raise an eyebrow at him.

“When I say partner, I refer to life partner—David Rossi has been in a relationship with Tony for three years, and as such he, and more recently our team, have supported Tony in a covert investigation to expose corruption at the highest levels of NCIS and at a direct risk to national security and the safety of enlisted Navy and Marine personnel.”

Tony could feel all eyes in the room on him.

“Our technical analyst, Garcia,” Hotch continued, “began compiling what Agent DiNozzo had been building alone—evidence of an internal conspiracy buried under years of closed cases, manipulated personnel files, and deliberate misinformation.”

“Evidence,” Rossi said flatly, “that’s already been shared with both the U.S. Secretaries of State and Defense, and selectively with the Israeli government.”

Eli scoffed. “This is theater.”

McCord’s deputy held up a flash drive, slipping it into the interrogation room’s console without ceremony. “No, Director. This is evidence.”

The screen blinked to life. What followed was merciless and irrefutable.

Ziva David – documented unauthorized access of restricted U.S. intelligence materials, which were later disclosed to Mossad.

Jenny Shepherd – encrypted messages sent to third-party accounts connected to La Grenouille’s operations, followed by time-stamped data tying her to his assassination.

Ari Haswari’s death – falsified reports authored by Gibbs, altered trajectory analysis, and photographic inconsistencies. A hidden Mossad memo confirming that Ziva was ordered by her father to take the kill shot both to eliminate a stain on Mossad and protect their secrets, and as an offering to gain NCIS’s trust.

Leon Vance – alias documentation, forged military service records, and an early intelligence file from Mossad’s own system cataloging his grooming as an asset.

SecNav Davenport – greenlit black projects connected to Mossad, including unsanctioned surveillance and the use of U.S. agents as assets in foreign intelligence operations.

“The rest is too classified to share,” Rossi added, the irony of that not lost on anyone in the room. “Most of it was buried. Deep. But Tony’s just that good.”

Tony didn’t speak. Couldn’t, really. He just stared at the screen as years of ignored complaints, dismissed security concerns, and grueling investigation were validated in front of a room full of power brokers.

“And the most recent piece,” Hotch said, voice low and final, “was a coup plot against Mossad itself, uncovered because DiNozzo is meticulous at what he does.”

“Ilan Bodnar,” Rossi picked up seamlessly. “Mossad Deputy Director. His plan was to take over Mossad and place himself in a position to covertly instigate conflict between Israel and Iran.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then the Prime Minister spoke again, voice like a crack of thunder: “Bodnar seeks to provoke conflict with Iran. An internal power grab disguised as nationalism. And you—” she turned to Eli, “—were either too arrogant or too complicit to see it.”

Eli looked visibly shaken for the first time. But he was a professional, and he said nothing.

Tony let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The truth wasn’t a weapon anymore. It was a shield. And it had finally been raised.

He turned his head slightly toward Hotch, voice rough but steady. “Was the emergency channel active?”

Hotch met his eyes and nodded once. “Garcia got everything. Audio, video, timestamps. Including the feed from inside this room.”

Tony gave a slow, grim nod and shifted carefully in his seat. His ribs protested, but he kept the pain locked down behind the calm he'd perfected over years of being underestimated. With measured fingers, he reached up to the snap on the corner of his sling and pulled gently.

A tiny lens glinted in the light.

He placed the micro camera flat on the table between them, the quiet clack louder than Eli’s forced breathing.

Tony looked across the table, his voice steady, his eyes tired but clear. “I thought you’d all appreciate having the full context.”

McCord leaned forward, but didn’t interrupt, letting him speak.

Tony cleared his throat once. “That camera recorded the moment I was dragged out of my hospital bed— AMA —by my own agency, and later handed over to Mossad. Recorded my injuries at the time, my state of disorientation, and Vance's refusal to let me consult a lawyer.”

Eli opened his mouth, but McCord shot him a look that froze him in place.

“It recorded your interrogation,” Tony continued, gaze never wavering from Eli’s. “Every question. Every threat,” he managed a cocky smirk, because the prick deserved the extra needling. “Every confession.”

Rossi stepped forward slightly, arms crossed but face unreadable. Tony didn’t look at him. He couldn’t—not yet.

“It caught Ziva,” he went on, “when she tracked me down earlier. Cornered me. Slammed me to the ground while I was still concussed and bleeding, and pointed a loaded weapon at my face. She told me—verbatim—that I should have died instead of Rivkin.”

A low, horrified murmur rippled through the room. Even the Israeli Prime Minister’s mouth drew into a thin, pale line.

Tony’s voice never rose, but there was steel in it now. “You’ll find in the recording that dear Director David can become downright chatty when irritated enough. He admitted, on camera, that he ordered Rivkin to seduce Ziva to ensure her loyalty to Mossad. That he sent Rivkin into the U.S. without informing his counterparts. That Rivkin was instructed to pose as a rogue agent if caught.”

Hotch spoke next, voice measured. “All of which corroborates what we have in our files.”

Tony finally allowed himself a breath. The ache in his side flared, but he rode the pain out. It was nothing compared to the vindication in the silence that followed. 

He looked to McCord, and then to the Prime Minister. “So now you’ve got the full story. The lies. The setups. The threats. The assault.”

“And the body count,” Rossi added softly.

The Prime Minister turned to her guards and gave a quiet nod. Two of them moved toward Eli David, who seemed to have finally acknowledged that the power in the room had shifted.

“You will come with us,” one of the guards said in Hebrew. “The Prime Minister has questions.”

Eli made a half-hearted protest, but did not otherwise resist. He was already on his feet, surrounded, his veneer cracking.

Tony watched him go without satisfaction. Only exhaustion.

The door had barely closed behind Eli David when Rossi turned on his heel, his face a blend of anger, panic, and exhaustion.

“Ziva did what? ” he asked, voice low, vibrating with restrained fury.

Tony shifted, already regretting saying anything. His side was on fire. “She ambushed me,” he said, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up to Dave. “Cornered me in a moment alone. I thought she’d just… yell. Throw blame.”

“Garcia told us she cornered you,” Rossi said, his voice still low, but his jaw clenched tight. “She didn’t say la cagna pulled a gun.”

Hotch stood just behind Rossi, arms folded across his chest like iron reinforcement. His face was carved from marble, unreadable—but lethal.

“What happened exactly?” Hotch asked.

Tony closed his eyes, just for a second. Then, carefully, “She said I killed Rivkin out of jealousy. That I was threatened by him. That I wanted her.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. Rossi, however, let out a snort, and despite the gravity of the moment, he and Tony exchanged a brief look of amusement at that.

“I told her,” Tony continued, “if she needed to hit someone, go ahead—take a swing. Thought it would diffuse things. That maybe she'd burn out the anger. I was wrong.”

He opened his eyes again. “She slammed me down. Right onto the pavement. Between the sling and the concussion, I wasn’t able to put up much of a fight. Held me there with a knee to my chest. Held the gun on me. I… I think she considered it, for a moment, but she pulled back in the end.”

The room went still. The only sound was the quiet hum of the overhead light. Rossi’s hands were curled into fists. This time his snarled Italian was far more insulting.

Hotch nodded once, tight. “And the weapon?”

“She pulled her NCSI sidearm. Stared me down. Safety off. Finger just outside the trigger guard.” Tony tried for a wry smile, failed. “Not exactly in the Mossad training manual, I’d wager.”

Rossi stepped in, placed a hand gently—carefully—on the uninjured shoulder. “You’re safe now,” he said quietly. “You did everything right.”

Tony’s knees nearly buckled with the weight of it all. Rossi was there instantly, slipping an arm gently under his good one.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of this place.”

Hotch hovered nearby, scanning exits and corners like he expected Mossad to launch a last-minute ambush. His watchfulness was grounding.

As they passed through the doorway, Tony’s breath hitched—and stopped.

There, behind the observation glass, stood Morgan and Prentiss, grim in their FBI windbreakers.

Between them—hands cuffed behind their backs—stood Leon Vance and Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

Vance was a statue, still and unreadable. His gaze flicked toward Tony, and for a second, there was something—maybe remorse, maybe just resignation.

But it was Gibbs who made Tony’s chest clench.

Gibbs looked like he’d been hollowed out. Confused. Pained. Angry—but not at Tony. At himself. At the situation. At how it had all spun so far beyond the rules he’d once sworn by.

Their eyes met. And held.

Tony couldn’t do it. He looked away. He leaned into Rossi, body trembling from exhaustion and from the sheer, terrible weight of weight of it all.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered.

The jet hummed softly around them, a low, constant sound that blended with the muted clink of ice in glasses and the hush of expensive leather against fabric. In the private cabin toward the back, shielded from where Vance and Gibbs sat uncuffed but surrounded by the rest of the team, Tony sat quietly with his fingers curled tightly—openly—around Rossi’s.

No secrets. No masks.

The pressure of Dave’s hand grounding him was more real than the plush seat beneath him, more immediate than the burn in his ribs or the split in his lip. The adrenaline was entirely gone now, leaving exhaustion in its wake like a tide pulling back from a storm-ravaged shore. At least he had been given pain meds.

He barely registered the door sliding open until Elizabeth McCord stepped inside.

The Secretary of State was composed as ever, but her eyes softened when she saw him. She didn’t look at the bruises or the bandages. She looked him in the eye—like he mattered, like he was more than the wreckage he’d walked through.

“Agent DiNozzo,” she said warmly. “I wanted to speak with you personally.”

Tony nodded once. “Ma’am.”

She glanced to Rossi, who gave a small, respectful incline of his head, and then turned her focus fully to Tony.

“SecNav Davenport has been taken into custody. His private files are being reviewed by a joint task force, and the Secretary of Defense has ordered a full independent investigation into both NCIS leadership and the intelligence alliances compromised under his tenure.”

Tony blinked slowly. He should’ve felt something more—relief, vindication. But everything inside him felt distant, like he was watching from outside his own body.

McCord took a small step closer, her voice kind. “You’re going to receive a presidential commendation, Tony. That’s already been authorized. And there are discussions about a full intelligence review panel to assess internal corruption in federal law enforcement.”

“I didn’t do it for a medal,” Tony said quietly.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why you deserve it.”

She paused, then continued gently. “You operated under immense pressure. Years of surveillance, covert investigations, confronting and carrying truths that could have cost you your career, or worse. You were essentially operating undercover the entire time, and that alone would be a toll none could ask of you lightly.”

Tony’s fingers tightened slightly on Dave’s.

McCord’s expression softened further. “You served your country, Agent DiNozzo. Not because someone ordered you to, but because it was the right thing to do. And your country is grateful”

Tony gave a small, tired nod. “Thank you.”

She smiled kindly. “You’re running on empty. I understand. I’ll leave you two alone.”

She turned to go, pausing just before stepping out. “There will be justice. You did right, Agent DiNozzo.”

And then she was gone.

The cabin door slid closed behind her with another soft click. Tony didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared forward, his gaze distant, the ache in his body settling heavier now that the fight was over. Then he felt Rossi shift beside him, the warmth of an arm sliding gently around his shoulders, pulling him close without asking.

“It’s over,” Dave murmured. “We’re going home.”

Epilogue:

The auditorium thundered with applause as Tony DiNozzo crossed the stage in his crimson doctoral regalia, the velvet stripes on his sleeves catching the light. He held his head high, jaw tight with emotion, and the slight hitch in his breath wasn’t from nerves—it was awe. Not just at the moment, but at the journey that had brought him here.

The Dean placed the hood over Tony’s shoulders with practiced precision. In that moment, surrounded by pomp and applause and flashing cameras, Tony didn’t feel like the sarcastic ex-cop, the field agent with too many scars. He felt… whole. Real . Like the man David Rossi always swore he could be.

The cheers from one particular corner of the auditorium were especially loud, slightly chaotic, and utterly unmistakable.

The BAU.

Hotch stood, clapping with the smallest but proudest of smiles. JJ wiped her eyes with subtle grace. Garcia waved a glitter-drenched sign that read “Dr. DiNozzo!” , and beside her, Morgan shook his head and laughed as he shouted, “Let’s go, Tony!”

Prentiss whooped loud enough to startle an usher. Reid was sitting between Rossi and Garcia, clapping enthusiastically, even though he’d leaned over twice already to correct the program’s Latin.

And in the row behind them sat a few loud, grinning guys from Ohio State who had found each as young jocks in a fraternity, and grown into men together, staying friends ever since. They started up a brief but loud and obnoxious chant of, “TONY D!” Tony huffed out a laugh, just thankful they hadn’t gone with Sex Machine , the nickname he would never live down.

He grinned, wide and genuine, as several of his friends raised up phones to snap pictures of him on his big day. Tony spared a moment of thought to be grateful that he was out of the sling and his visible wounds had healed in the five weeks since his brief ‘visit’ to Tel Aviv. 

When the ceremony ended, Tony stepped into the sea of joyful chaos that awaited him. The moment his foot hit the main floor again, JJ was already hugging him, whispering, “I’m so proud of you.”

Garcia clutched him dramatically next. “My beautiful, bullet-dodging, brain-powered boy! You are incredible !”

Hotch clasped his hand in a firm, wordless handshake that spoke volumes—respect, admiration, acknowledgment. The kind of recognition Tony had once feared he’d never earn.

He kept laughing, flushed and overwhelmed and happy. He hugged Reid, bumped fists with Morgan, who muttered, “Told you you were more than what they saw,” and gave Prentiss a kiss on the cheek.

He would be forever grateful that Dave’s team had welcomed him unreservedly into their family. Tony didn’t know what was coming next for him. He was still employed with NCIS, letting them pay out the entirety of his medical leave at the very least. But he had already written up a resignation letter just in case, and he knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if anything was out of line when he returned to the office on Monday. He knew he would have options if it came to it—the FBI were sniffing around (‘courting’ him, actually, if Rossi was to be believed), Morrow in Homeland had called Tony personally to thank him for his service to NCIS and simultaneously make a job pitch, and then there was the cryptic invitation to meet and speak with the White House Chief of Staff about a ‘special project.’ McGee had also been served last week, and Tony’s lawsuit against him for Deep Six was now officially underway.

But all of that was tomorrow-Tony’s problem. Today, he wanted to bask in an accomplishment he had been working towards since before he met Rossi, and in being surrounded with and celebrated by their friends and family.

Then—something shifted. Tony turned again—

—and Rossi was no longer standing with the others. He was kneeling.

Right there, in the middle of the auditorium’s post-ceremony crowd, with students in gowns and proud families still clapping and calling out names around them, David Rossi was down on one knee. He was looking up at Tony with steady, sure eyes, and holding out a small, velvet box.

Gasps rippled through their group. Garcia squeaked. Reid looked stunned. Even Hotch’s eyebrows lifted.

Rossi’s voice was low and rich, but it carried. “Anthony DiNozzo—Doctor of Criminal Justice, proud son of Long Island and prouder Buckeye, pain in my ass and love of my life…”

Tony was frozen, wide-eyed, breath caught in his throat.

Rossi smiled up at him, eyes shining. “You have walked through hell with humor, heart, and integrity. You’ve made me laugh, challenged how I see the world, and shown me what it looks like to stand up when no one else will. You make me proud every damn day.”

The box opened. Inside was a platinum band—sleek, simple, elegant.

“I don’t ever want my life to go back to what it was before you became a part of it. So.” Rossi took a breath. “Will you marry me?”

For a second, all Tony could do was stare—at the man who had been his anchor and his fiercest champion. Then, with his cap slipping sideways and the doctoral hood slightly askew, Tony nodded furiously.

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking but clear. “Yes. Of course I will.”

Rossi stood, and Tony launched into his arms as the BAU erupted into cheers and applause all over again.

And in that moment—amid celebration, laughter, and the bright chaos of a life he’d fought to build—Tony DiNozzo knew with absolute certainty: No matter what happened next, he was finally where he belonged.