Don't shoot the writer...
Brevity
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow.
...Macbeth, Act V, Sc. V
(No one needs to tell him that his hand is shaking)
Tony's not so disconnected from reality that he's unaware of the involuntary movement. His father's favorite adage, appearance is everything, is a fine way to manipulate business deals and snag an attractive woman. But it has no special relevance at the moment. The light rain picks up where rational thought leaves off, droplets slowly absorbed by his clothes. Appearance is nothing. Let them see his ruin.
Biblical flooding couldn't uproot him from the spot, though God's found another method of destroying the world. The knee that presses painfully into cracked cement dampens as a puddle begins to form. But he can't shift to relieve the pressure on his joints, even with the hurried hands trying to relocate him.
Let me stay...
(No one needs to tell him that he can't fix this)
When the shivering erupts, there's more to blame than the drizzle. As if his body is trying to counterbalance the stillness of hers. She's not impressed with his pleading.
Ziva's fingers curl loose and limp in his hand, the measure of his grasp too tight, distorting her flesh. She makes no complaint. He can't help thinking that the rain must hurt her eyes, moisture tumbling into the brown landscape without the natural shield of blinking.
Let me pray...
(No one needs to tell him that her blood is running)
Hemoglobin, a protein that will not respectfully dodge designer fabric, isn't concerned that the blood it paints red is stamping expensive gray trousers in burgundy black. It's already done its job and Ziva would scold him for not doing his. But others can canvas, question, gather. Others can watch the stranger roughly compressing her chest.
Tony had done the same while spilling apologies for the pain it caused her. She'd responded in agony but had held on under his touch, had breathed the air he'd given her. But the chore of sustaining the gift had exhausted what little she could spare for the endeavor.
Let me sleep...
(No one needs to tell him that her lungs fall silent)
With all the control of a falling brick, she'd landed at a dreadful angle. But Ducky will be kind in rearranging her limbs, respectful when he cuts into her. Slices her open. Peels her back. And Tony's only aware that he's hyperventilating when her face blurs into watercolor. The medic steps away from empty eyes that stare into the storm.
A rigid hand on his shoulder is Gibbs' assurance that payment for this deed will not be tendered from Tony's soul. Not your fault, nothing you could do, she's in a better place, she knew you cared. Dire words that condemn in their soothing backstroke. Later someone will pay and for all his caution, speculation brings a suspension's blessing. But it doesn't bring her back.
Let me go...
(No one needs to tell him that he taints her memory)
Ziva says it with an impatience that reprimands his mourning. Whether the voice originates from her specter or the liquor, he can't tell. Doesn't care to define it. Doesn't care to obey it. Doesn't care.
She'd covered the back, textbook positioning not enough to protect her. Bullets aren't swayed by reason, trajectory and velocity not rooted in emotional context. Her time, the slim justification that lets the others sleep. But Hallmark logic couldn't wash the blood from his pants. They hang in the closet, proof that she'd once lived and evidence of his failure.
Let me...
(No one needs to tell him that her face was angelic)
That and darkness are the only things that exist before his eyes. A face in repose, mortally slack and strangely tight. A funeral face. Toppling to the floor, inebriated on the fumes of grief, he'll claim he's sitting Shiva. Seven days aren't enough so he carries the practice into weeks and more, falling low to the ground and ripping his future apart with guilty fingers. He's as lifeless as she is.
Dedication to the dead, a ritual that has trailed him since childhood. Gradually the faces dull but a tactile man always remembers the feel of finality. Night after night her skin turns cold in his grasp and his hands have yet to stop shaking.
...
Apparently Zaedah's on a killing spree because the wicked muse is trying to turn this into a series...