donutsweeper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
donutsweeper) wrote2008-04-15 10:19 pm
donutsweeper) wrote2008-04-15 10:19 pm
Tony's Masks
Title: Tony's Masks
Pairing/Rating/Warning: NCIS fandom, no pairings or warnings, rated G
Word Count: 300
Summary: Masks are what we make of them
Author's Note: Written for thencisdrabble100 challenge: crush
Pairing/Rating/Warning: NCIS fandom, no pairings or warnings, rated G
Word Count: 300
Summary: Masks are what we make of them
Author's Note: Written for the
ncisdrabble100 challenge: crushTony knew that he could do his job best if he hid who he really was behind a mask, and only let those around him see what he wanted them to see. Each mask displayed a different trait, another side of him to present to the world. One was that of the competent second in command that adeptly smoothed the ruffled feathers that Gibbs perpetually left in his wake. Another was the hopeless playboy who had a date with a different girl every night, and always had an entertaining story to tell about it the next morning. Then there was the jokester, relieving the team’s tension before it could rise to a point where an explosion became imminent. Another was the flirt, who put witnesses at ease and got them talking. The muscle who could take down a fleeing suspect in seconds flat. And let’s not forget the dutiful agent who came in at two in the morning so all the paperwork would still get done and submitted in time, no matter how much the slacker goofed off during the day.
Which mask was he supposed to be wearing now? That of the second in command or the slacker? What time was it? Was he supposed to be the flirt or the agent? Who was nearby? What did they need to see? If he wasn’t the jokester, the muscle, then who was he? Could he wear two masks at once if he had to? What about three?
There were days when it seemed like all he was doing was juggling his masks, swapping one for another in some sort of endless dance. The weight of carrying them, of wearing them, seemed more than he could bear sometimes. And he knew, one of these days, he would be crushed beneath it.
Which mask was he supposed to be wearing now? That of the second in command or the slacker? What time was it? Was he supposed to be the flirt or the agent? Who was nearby? What did they need to see? If he wasn’t the jokester, the muscle, then who was he? Could he wear two masks at once if he had to? What about three?
There were days when it seemed like all he was doing was juggling his masks, swapping one for another in some sort of endless dance. The weight of carrying them, of wearing them, seemed more than he could bear sometimes. And he knew, one of these days, he would be crushed beneath it.
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