Title: Wash Away my Sins
Genre: Gen
Characters: Tony
Prompt: fanfic100 51 water
Word count: 357
Spoilers: For 7.01
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own, not being paid, I'm Aussie and so is my spelling.
A/N: Written for the occasion of the lovely tweeter's birthday, one of my longest friends on LJ. Happy birthday, sweetie. Prompted from something my family wondered about at the end of 7.01. Betaed by the wonderful zubeneschamali. Maybe my NCIS muse will get back into gear this season, feels like it's been too long since I've written NCIS.
Summary: "On the sands of life sorrow treads heavily, and leaves a print time cannot wash away."--Henry Neele
Tony bowed his head under the spray, letting the water pour over him like a benediction, washing away the pain, the vengeance that had felt like a knife in his side ever since he'd heard that Ziva was dead. The vengeance that hadn't abated when he'd finally found out she was still alive, that had just mounted and mounted and mounted until he'd never wanted another human being dead more in his entire life. One life, not hundreds.
The water was tinged brown, running down his body to the floor, pooling around his feet, before waving its last to him in one final gurgle down the drain. He tilted his head back, opened his mouth, let the salty-dirty-warm water taste his tongue, skirt his teeth and caress his lips, overflowing down his chin and sliding down his neck like silk. He was Niagara Falls, water falling down down down.
Every swipe of the soap dulled another memory. Tim lying on the floor, Ziva ready to die. It flowed down and off him, gone forever...but the imprint remained, like mould feeding off the residual moisture.
The water turned cold and for a moment he relished it. Cold, not heat, not dirt and dust and thirst. He turned his face up, closed his eyes and opened his mouth, swallowed down the cold, drinking until he could drink no more.
When his body started to shiver he reached out and turned the water off, closed his eyes and listened to the drip drip drip he made. The towel was like being wrapped in a cotton ball, soothing against his sand-blasted and sore skin, warm but not dirty-dusty-hot.
Falling into his bed was like coming home. Softness and give, support and comfort. It was all over, Ziva was alive and home, his team was back together. He'd finally be able to sleep.
Darkness fell, the witching hour came and went, the sun climbed above the horizon and Tony was still awake.
The thing about that particular type of mould is that it grows best in the dark and is only banished by light and time.
--FIN--