Mistakes
If you don't make mistakes, you don't make anything.
-Proverb
I am in so much trouble. It is this thought that now plagues me on a daily basis. I am in a lot of trouble, and no one—not even Gibbs—can get me out of it this time.
I didn't realize at first, how screwed I was. No one ever does, after all. I was working in my lab one night. It was just like any other night, for the most part. My music was blasting at just the volume I like, my babies were all humming and whirring as they processed evidence of some kind or another, and I was less than a quarter of the way through a fresh, icy-cold Caf-Pow. There was nothing out of the ordinary, except maybe a new addition to the janitorial staff who (if his killer dance moves were any indication) liked Plastic Death as much as I did.
It happened quickly, and simply. I was maybe just a little too engrossed in a file, and spun around maybe a little too quickly at the sound of one of my machines calling to me. I hadn't heard a sound, and had no real reason to expect that Gibbs would be here already. Still, I ran smack into someone. My ankle turned under me—something that hadn't happened in months—and I started to fall. How humiliating.
I'd barely had time to think those words, when a set of hands snaked around my waist and pulled me flush against the intruder's body. It was at this point that I finally began to process what had happened. It finally clicked in my mind whose scent I was smelling—mostly the combination of clean laundry and the day's sweat. It was not a bad smell or anything—just one that I didn't often encounter. Tony smelled like expensive cologne, McGee smelled like his aftershave, and Gibbs smelled like strong black coffee, occasionally accompanied by the light notes of sawdust.
"Are you alright?" Her words were concerned, and colored by thicker-than-normal traces of her accent. That happened, late at night: as she got tired, her accent grew more and more noticeable. I took a moment to gather myself, replacing the file on the desk behind me, moving away slightly to smooth out my top and tug at my skirt to make sure the hem was covering all that needed to be covered. Only then did I venture a glance at her.
That was my first mistake.
She had at some point in the night, pulled her hair back into a half-hearted ponytail: most likely to keep it out of her face as she leaned over paperwork at her desk. Her makeup—what little she wore—was smudged and created an unintentional smokey look around her eyes that made it difficult to look away. She, however, was staring at me quite intently: probably trying to ascertain whether to call someone.
"I'm fine!" I answered overly-enthusiastically and definitely just a little too late. "I didn't hear you come down! You must be taking lessons from Gibbs."
"The elevator is broken," came her reply. She was now looking at me very strangely, and I didn't blame her one bit. "Are you sure you are feeling well?"
No, Ma'am. In fact, I was quite sure that I was definitely not feeling well. The trouble I was in, you see, was entirely her doing. Her, with her smudged makeup and her pretty accent and her eyes and her hair and her damn smile. I nod—less than convincingly, I'm sure—and turn away from her to click my mouse a few times. Behind me I hear her muttering under her breath, and her hand lands on my cup of delicious caffeine. I grab her wrist before it can go very far away from me.
"What do you think you're doing?" I don't turn around, don't release her. This was mistake number two.
"You and Gibbs," she mumbled. "You both drink too much caffeine. It is not healthy for you."
"Drop it," I warn. The tendons in her wrist move beneath her skin, trying to break free of my touch. Her skin is soft, warm...entirely inappropriate for a Mossad agent. I brush my thumb along the underside of her wrist—it's smooth and I know without looking that it's paler than any skin from an Israeli desert has any right to be. She frees herself from my hand and hovers somewhere behind me, for many long moments. I could almost convince myself that she'd walked back up the stairs to Tony and her desk—except for the fact that I can still sense her behind me.
Before I know what is happening, she's grabbed my Caf-Pow again and is halfway out the door. I start to follow but realize that, despite my usual proficiency in my "ridiculous" boots, they are just slowing me down tonight. I wrench my feet free of my boots and tear off after her.
I catch her on a landing on the staircase, but, to be honest, I think she did it on purpose. If she really wanted to keep away from me, she could do it, no problem. She spins to face me, hands and Caf-Pow behind her back.
"You're feeling really brave tonight, aren't you, Officer David?" I advance on her, though probably not very threateningly. She is not breathing hard at all, but it's been a little while since I've run full force up two flights of stairs.
She smirks in response and takes about half a step backwards. "I am always brave, Abby."
This is true, but I'm distracted by the way her mouth forms the shape of my name. It sounds so much more intimate than usual, and the briefest flicker of some sort of pleasure makes its way across her face. I recognize it because it is the same pleasure I feel when I say her name. I blink a few times, and then realize with a jolt that I'm not looking down at her as sharply as usual. We are very nearly the same height when I'm without shoes, which places my mouth that much closer to hers. It is almost enough to make me want to give up the boots altogether.
She raises her chin at me. I'm sure that, to anyone else, it'd just be a defiant gesture—some sort of challenging gesture begging me to try to retrieve my beverage, but the lights on the landing are just a little too dim and I'm standing too close to her and she smells like clean clothes and woman, and the air is thick with everything that I've never said, and so I make my third mistake. I kiss her.
I am taking my life into my hands—or maybe, more appropriately, delivering it into her hands. I have no right to be kissing her: I've never noticed any hint that she feels anything for me like I feel for her. But still I press my lips against hers, drag my teeth across her lower lip. After a moment, her lips part and she accepts the kiss, sending my heart thumping against my breastbone, my ribcage, like a wild bird suddenly caged.
I dimly register a sound—plastic on cement—but then her hands (chilled by the cup she'd been holding) are on my face and mine end up on her waist. About ten seconds later, something cold and wet is soaking through my socks, between my toes, and I jerk back. She immediately lowers her eyes to the red puddle in which we are both standing. It's my turn, now, to step backwards. Once. Twice. Then I'm running back down the stairs to my lab and leaving wet caffeinated footprints in my wake.