Author's Note: With the season finale so close at hand, I've decided to go back and visit the beginning. And I'm running on empty, trying to graduate, trying to hide from my impending economics final. I'm set to walk in a week, but currently, I'm more excited about the NCIS finale. Geeky? Yeah. And how many of you guys are students like myself, shirking from studying? I'm curious; let me know. Oh, and for those of you who've read my stuff before, knowing that I'm working hard on "Déjà Vu," it's just being a little high maintenance right now. Anyway, here's a one-shot immediately following the conclusion of "Reunion," this season's second episode. Hope you enjoy!
Rain
Tonight, Tony was more interested in holding the glass in his hand, feeling the cold condensation slide down his wrist and through his fingers, than he was in actually consuming the alcohol contained therein. Because the glass was something concrete, something unmoving, unchanging, and completely stable. Not like everything else in his life.
The longest summer of his life just kept on stretching out endlessly before him. Well, it wasn't just a summer. More like an era, really, and it could be traced back more than a year. But enough. He had to be coming out of it, right? A couple days ago, Ducky had said something about there being a light at the end of every tunnel. Wasn't there a light?
How long had it been since they'd rescued Ziva from hell, anyway?
That's when things had begun to improve. Popular NCIS gossip had it that the MCRT's recent jaunt to Somalia had been a rescue mission, kept carefully under wraps. Six people knew the truth; the truth being that it was a quest for vendetta, kept carefully under wraps. Of those six people, two had considered it to be a suicide mission. Because, honestly, who survived getting kidnapped by terrorists?
Tim knew his probability of death increased exponentially, doing this crazy thing. He just hoped that it would pay off, that their goal would be met before fate sought them out. He followed Tony into the desert not just because the older man had unilaterally volunteered them, but because Tony also looked upon their task as a suicide mission. Except, Tim knew, DiNozzo was actually half-hoping to die. Right until a gaunt figure had been dragged into the holding room and a sack ripped off her head. McGee, eyes closed, practically heard the fire kindling in DiNozzo's soul, and hadn't had to ask who the new captive was.
At that moment, the senior agent's sole focus flipped one hundred and eighty degrees. The new goal: To stay alive long enough to not get dead. It sure beat the previous Stay alive just long enough to kill the bad guy.
That goal was what rendered Tony's next words ironic and highly hypocritical.
So what are you doing out here, some kind of monastic experience? Doing penance? Get over yourself.
DiNozzo seemed to take his own advice. They never called it that, but, essentially, the non-rescue-rescue mission was Tony's idea of penance, cleverly disguised as revenge; his chosen method of rectifying his mistakes, both real and imagined. He would have done just about anything, but Gibbs, and incidentally Ziva too, kept him from self-destructing.
So here they all were, safe in D.C. Trying to recover.
The last two weeks had been spent in wondering what in the world was going to happen next. Then Ziva showed up at the office, trying to regain precious threads of normalcy in her shattered world, and blindsided him with an apology. Of sorts. But coming from her, it was monumental. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the soft brush of her lips against his taut cheek.
She'd definitely changed, and so had he.
The triple homicide case was closed, and to no one's real surprise, Ziva re-instated. It had been a long, wearying day, made about an hour longer every time forced conversation hit a lull or his eyes caught hers over their computer screens. The team dynamic was still very, very screwed up.
Tony swirled his glass but still did not drink. The amber fluid lightened as it mixed with water from the melting ice. He stood at the large window affording a view of the quaint street below his apartment. Clouds completely shrouded the moon, and the yellow glow emanating from streetlights made visible the air, thick with late-summer haze. Thunder rolled distantly and rain began to tap the window-panes. Tony's gaze flickered to something moving on the street corner. Squinting and leaning forward so that his head was pressed against the glass, he was able to make out the figure of a woman standing in the halo of dim light thrown over the pavement. Once or twice, she stepped off the curb as if to cross the street, but quickly retracted, as if changing her mind. The drizzle of rain steadied and intensified. But Tony somehow managed to discern her movements through the downpour. Her arms hung limply at her sides, fists clenching and unclenching. Slowly, she tilted her face to the open sky. Her frame shook; laughter or tears? She reached to the back of her head and pulled at a hair-band, shaking her tresses. And then she just stood there, her hair a mess around her shoulders, letting the rain roll from her skin.
Tony's breath caught in his throat. He turned away from the window and let the curtains fall back in place. He had the distinct feeling that what he'd just witnessed was something deeply private. He had no right to intrude. But he envied her, the mysterious rain-girl. She looked as though an enormous weight was being lifted from her small shoulders, just by the simple cleansing of the water. Tony wondered briefly, if he went outside now, and stood next to her, would he find the same release? Would the trauma of the last few months just wash away?
No, with his luck, Tony thought, he'd just catch pneumonia and die.
He stayed inside, reluctantly and regretfully. Again he stared at the glass still in his hand. This time, he downed the contents in one gulp, and the poison burned as it coated his throat. He was hoping that maybe the alcohol would do for him what the rain was doing for the girl. He'd tried this technique before; it still wasn't working. He kept drinking anyway.
Had he remained sober, Tony might have realized the glaring difference between his half-bottle of brandy and rain-girl's midnight tryst. The brandy wasn't a means of escape. It was a means of suppression. It didn't accomplish anything. And neither did the falling rain. Not really. But standing out in it was an action that veered off the beaten path, it was letting go. The brandy? Tried and tested, and proven ineffectual. It was the easy way out, and as Tony dropped off to sleep, he envied the girl her courage.
XOXOX
Her clothing melded to her skin and water trickled coolly down her spine. She parted her lips and felt something build from deep within her. It manifested in the form of a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a cry, and continued for several moments. Gasping, she shook her hair from its restriction. It swirled and began to curl around her shoulders.
She stood there, rooted, and stepped out of her normal reserve. She clung to the newly re-awakened belief that there was an Almighty hand guiding the world, shaping the stars, orchestrating things so much larger than herself, and still loving her unconditionally.
The rain washed over her upturned face until her salty tears were no longer distinguishable from the other droplets. They fell away. And Ziva David knew she'd be alright.