Chapter Text
In dire need of coffee, Tony makes a sharp detour to his favourite cafe. It is a rare day where he has gone on foot—his car being at the dealer for repairs. He doesn’t mind, however, soaking in the sun like some sun-starved lizard. The bustling of D.C. never bores, and he relishes in watching people go about their days. A street musician plays a jazzy song, earning him a couple of dollars for his effort.
Making a quick sidestep to avoid a collision of a delivery man carrying a big box, the agent sadly isn’t quick enough to avoid a collision with a fellow pedestrian. He instinctively makes a grab to steady the person, but he overreaches and loses his balance. With a loud grunt, the stranger and him fall onto the pavement in a tangle of limbs. A briefcase goes flying, and a formerly filled cup of coffee spills all over the stranger’s fancy suit.
‘Sorry!’ Tony shouts, grimacing as the man winces at the hot drink soaking his blouse. ‘God! I’m so sorry, are you alright?’ He moves to untangle his legs. As he helps the man upright, he can’t help but notice the fancy suit that costs about as much as his own, which is to say more than the average federal agent’s salary allows for.
‘I know a great dry-cleaning place’, he continues, ignoring how the man waves his offer away as he suddenly notices just how handsome the stranger is. Guessing some sort of southern European roots—Italian for sure and Sicilian if he’d wager—Tony wonders where he has seen the man before. It makes him trail off, as he ponders: ‘Have we met?’
The man gives him a questioning look. ‘Not that I know off. I would’ve remembered such a well-dressed Fed.’ He allows himself to be helped upright, looking with tightly pressed lips to the mess of coffee-soaked papers that fell out of his briefcase. ‘Honestly, the fault was as much mine as yours. I didn’t really look where I was going.’ Then he holds out his hand: ‘Michael Corleone, Secretary of Veteran Affairs.’
Tony freezes for a second at the name, recognition flashing in his eyes, yet elegantly plays it off. ‘Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS. You can call me Tony, though.’ He puts up his most charming smile, expertly ignoring his inner self screaming in panic. They release their hands, and Tony finds that he isn’t done talking to the man—even though he really should.
‘Allow me to at least buy you a replacement drink.’ His face contorts into an apologetic grimace again. Then his eyes fall on the man’s stance. ‘You said Veteran Affairs. I can’t help noticing the way you’re holding yourself. Are you a vet?’
Michael looks somewhat impressed. ‘You are very observant, agent. I am indeed. Served for four years before an injury took me out, then decided to serve my country in a different way.’ There is a lot unsaid in that statement, and although Tony can hazard a few guesses from his own personal experiences, that’s too personal an endeavour for now.
He bends down to help Michael gather the fallen documents. Around them, people continue walking as usual, grumbling a bit at how they’re partially blocking the sidewalk. Tony finds it surprisingly easy to talk to the senator, which is a very dangerous thing. Yet the man intrigues him—having a complexity to him that Tony has never been able to resist.
‘I know just the quaintest cafe run by the most lovely family. Honestly, they’re so sweet to each other it’s almost disgusting.’ He guffaws a laugh, but from the inside he feels a bit scared at how easily he was to spill something deeply personal. There is a measure of chemistry between them that is all too tempting to pursue.
He playfully narrows his eyes at Michael, saying: ‘If I’m allowed to make a bold assumption, you seem like the type of man who only through bitter necessity gave in to coffee-on-the-go and would just thrive on a lovingly brewed caffè con panna .’
That has Michael’s lips quirk upwards in a hint of a smile. ‘And you are just the person for the job?’
Having arrived at the cafe, Tony makes a motion simulating the answer of him to just wait and see. Entering through the jingling door, the two men get in line. As they wait, Michael straightens his clothing. It is a small mercy that the man chose dark colours, which makes the stain not as obvious as it could have been.
The line is slow-going, but their easy banter makes the agent glad for it. He knows this is the Mother of All Bad Decisions. That he should stay far away from anyone with links to the mob, especially after the FUBAR his undercover op turned into. Yet, he never learnt how to stop taking the highest-risk chances. It’s what makes him such an effective operative.
Though an operative that might not make it till retirement.
Tony is about to make an ill-advised quip when all his instincts start to scream at him. He doesn’t know what tipped him off, exactly. Though retrospectively from the tensing of Michael’s shoulders, he knows the man felt it too.
With an order that doesn’t accept refusal for everyone to get down, he tackles Michael before the first shot is even fired. Covering the Secretary with his body, he urges the man to crawl further into the shop. Panicked screaming surrounds them, but Tony tunes it out. The glass of the counter rains over them, probably leaving the both of them with cuts that they can’t feel over the sheer adrenaline running through their veins.
Tony grunts as a civilian in full blown panic steps on his back. The woman scream gets abruptly cut off and he hears Michael mutter a silent prayer for the woman’s soul. There is a lifeless thud as her body falls behind them.
The shooting is relentless, yet somehow, miraculously, Tony manages to get Michael behind the metal part of the counter—safely out of range of the bullets. He folds himself around the man, who obediently makes his job as easy as possible by making himself as small as possible.
Underneath Tony’s heaving chest, he feels the man’s arms twitch for a gun he doesn’t carry. The agent can sympathise, for although he is carrying, without knowing where the perpetrators are and with the number of panicking civilians around, there’s no way for him to get a clear shot.
Finally, the shooting putters out. It felt like a lifetime, though he knows in truth it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. His mind is in full damage control mode. There is a squeal of tires as the gunmen flee the scene, yet Tony remains covering Michael. This was a hit if he ever saw one, but he cannot ascertain whether it was meant for him or the Secretary.
Being near the White House as they are, it doesn’t take long for the police to arrive. Curiously enough, he hears a voice he wasn’t expecting: ‘DiNozzo! Why am I not surprised to see you got yourself into quite a pickle?’
It is agent Fornell.
Tony huffs in wry amusement. ‘Didn’t expect to see your face today either, or so quickly too.’ He abruptly pulls himself together. ‘Is the perimeter secure? For although my Secret Service impression is no doubt on par with Mike Banning, I’m sure Secretary Corleone would appreciate getting back up.’
Now recognising the man Tony’s been covering, Fornell shouts out several commands. When the all clear has been given, Tony eases off. He immediately starts to pat Michael down, searching for hidden injuries and frowning when amongst the shallow cuts and grazes he sees a large piece of glass lodged in the man’s upper arm.
The two men look each other in the eyes, before Michael’s gaze glances over to where Tony’s was. With a muttered curse, he immediately diverts his gaze. There’s a grimace on his face when he says: ‘Shouldn’t have done that.’
Tony carefully grabs his arm to assess the damage properly, while conveying to Fornell that they’ll need to make a stop at a hospital. His brows furrow in worry as he sees Michael blanch and gag. ‘One day I will get you that proper cup of caffè con panna . Personally brewed by yours truly.’
His words earn him a twitch of a smile as Michael appreciates his attempt to divert his attention. ‘Felt that glass graze the bone. Been a hot minute since I last was hurt,’ he shrugs, wincing immediately afterwards, ‘benefit of a stuffy office job.’ There are more sirens approaching and Tony hopes that’ll be the ambulances.
Fornell appears at Tony’s back, looking the Secretary over with an assessing gaze. Michael turns his attention over, while Tony grabs his knife from his ankle holster to cut away the fabric around the wound with an apologetic expression that says that his suit is well and truly ruined now. ‘I have given my men orders to retrieve your children from school, Secretary Corleone. Until we can ascertain that this wasn’t an assassination attempt, I am afraid we will have to put you in a safehouse.’
‘Yeah, I already deduced that much.’ His eyes flicker over to Tony, who gives him a reassuring smile. Glancing back over Tony’s shoulder to Fornell, Michael says: ‘I will need to call my family personally to tell them that I’m alright. For all Sonny matured, he’s… still quite passionate.’ There is a lot unsaid in that statement. His lips are slightly pursed, but there is no need for him to say anything more.
All of them know that the FBI keeps a tight tap on the Corleone family. Michael’s father being a mob boss is the worst kept secret in Washington. And yet. Yet he worked himself up on the political ladder, keeping careful distance to his family’s criminal side.
Tony respects that.
Two paramedics are let through the ring of FBI agents that have taken position around the three of them. One stops to talk with agent Fornell, while a woman kneels down beside Michael. She critically inspects the shard, confirming Tony’s assessment that he’ll need to be taken to the hospital.
With practised hands she wraps a bandage around it, keeping it where it is before grabbing a sling to immobilise the whole arm. Her movements are controlled as she takes Michael’s other wrist to check his pulse, clucking at what she hears. Tony is worried—for all the other man’s air of the situation not affecting him, the colour has leached from his face, and he looks like he’s waning fast.
‘Shock’, the paramedic diagnoses.
Michael looks disbelieving. Almost insulted and about to protest until Tony distracts him by gently placing a hand on his leg. He knows that Michael won’t accept any placating words. He’s been there himself. His father instilled the lesson with harsh slaps and harsher words until it became ingrained in him.
‘Even badass ex-soldiers don’t do well with glass grinding against their literal bones.’ The woman looks unimpressed at him for reminding her patient just what his injury is, and Michael shudders. This only aggravates the injury further, making him gag again.
Mercifully, he keeps everything inside.
Deeming him fit for travel, the paramedic and Tony help him to the ambulance. Her colleague goes out ahead, taking the driver’s seat as the trio goes into the back. Fornell gives Tony a telling look, and the agent nods—his facial expression turning serious: they will get an escort, but from now on Tony will be leading Michael’s security team and he has every intention of making sure the man’s safe.
The sirens still blaring, Fornell shuts the doors and they’re off. But they haven’t even turned the corner before Michael is half-frantically looking through his pockets, cursing loudly. Tony asks him what’s wrong, before dully realising that the man must’ve lost his phone in the chaos of the attack.
He reaches into his own pockets, glad for his phone to still be present, and hands it over. ‘I’m sure someone will pick your phone up, Secretary Corleone.’ Using a more formal address is intentional with strangers listening in to their conversation.
‘Yeah, just not handing it back.’ Michael seems resigned at that fact. He’s wrapped up in a blanket, drinking something from a little satchel. It might’ve looked endearing wouldn’t it have been for the beeping of the heart monitor and the setting of an ambulance.
The paramedic is monitoring his vitals, but Michael pays her no mind. ‘I’m sure the Feds will be horridly disappointed by what they’ll find.’ It’s a last attempt at some levity before he starts to fiddle with the phone to type in a phone number one-handed. Yet he manages, and he puts the device to his ear.
Tony and the paramedic try to give him a sense of privacy, but that is difficult in a space that’s about five square metres maximum. Michael doesn’t turn it into a long conversation, however, clearly aware of the two people with him. He reassures the person on the other side that he will be alright and shall get in touch when he can.
Michael returns the phone to him with an exhausted slump in his shoulders. Tony nods as he accepts it, brushing his hand against Michael’s for less than a second.
It is enough. For despite only having known each other for a scarce half hour, they have recognised kindred souls into each other. Knowledge neither would be able to explain, yet both are curious to uncover.