The Pinball Machine
Disclaimer: Don't own NCIS. Don't own a pinball machine. Wish I did though.
Rating: K+. Just in case.
Timeline: Moments of Season two, early season three and maybe a couple of eps from season four.
Spoilers: None. Except for Jeanne. But you don't need to know all the stuff surrounding her and Tony. All you need to know is that they're together for a period of time.
A/N: Probably my first 'official' post-Twilight story. Implied Tate and Jeanne/Tony, but not much. A little OOC, but not much. Also a little angsty. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
He remembered that day like it was yesterday.
At first it struck him as odd, her inviting him over to her apartment after work. They never had that sort of relationship; the sort where they 'hung out' outside of their job. She was always so closed off about her personal life, whereas his was all he talked about. They didn't have a great deal in common, besides work. There was undoubtedly a 'connection' between them, an unspoken chemistry; a tension that went unresolved and they never talked about. Sure, they flirted and argued, but when push came to shove they were partners first. The rest didn't matter.
So when she invited him to his place after work on a rainy Monday night, he didn't know what to expect. He wasn't used to being nervous around women, but Caitlin Todd brought out that side in him. She was dangerous to him. She was rule number 12 and everything he could never have and wasn't sure he wanted. But the desire was there, and a certain 'what if' element that never went forgotten.
She unlocked her front door, leading him into her apartment. It was small and nicely decorated, with dark mahogany furniture, deep reds and earthy tones.
It smelt like Kate.
He let his eyes wander over her photos and paintings; small knick-knacks, each with their own different story that Tony would never know. An item out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.
A 1970s pinball machine.
He laughed and gave her a quizzical look, to which she met with an unabashed (and very cute) shrug of the shoulders.
She won it in an online antique store raffle; she would go on to explain over wine that evening. She needed his help to move it, as the delivery guy had unhelpfully dumped it in the middle of her living room.
He asked her why she didn't just sell it; surely it was worth at least a couple of grand, being more than likely a collector's item.
It had a certain charm, the old pinball machine. With a 'Charlie's Angels' theme and cheery music, it was more than just an arcade game. Restored to its former glory, the machine to Kate was more about what it represented.
A different time. A happier time. Where murder and rape was something that happened in the slums and where terrorism wasn't an everyday fear.
It represented innocence.
He helped her move it into her second bedroom-turned study. They christened it by taking turns trying to beat each others high score, switching effortlessly between their usual banter and their newfound companionship.
At 1am, he called it quits, his reflexes slightly impaired as result of the wine.
Giddy from the alcohol and her high score, she insisted he stay the night. On her couch, of course.
The next day, at work, they didn't mention what had happened the night before, save him humming the pinball machine tune every now and then.
Instead of being annoyed, she'd laugh. The night before had been an important step for the two of them, they knew that. They saw it as the beginning of something beautiful, and were determined not to lose that perspective; that feeling.
But the next week, Tony got the plague.
And a month later Kate was shot dead.
The moment was lost; the feeling gone.
And the pinball machine forgotten.
In the months to follow Kate's death, he pushed that moment out of his mind, eager to forget. Remembering only brought pain, so he threw himself into his work. He'd rather feel numb than feel anything at all.
One day, quite unexpectedly, Kate's brother called him out of the blue, requesting his help. Kate's stuff had been placed in storage, a materialistic reminder and the family's last thread of hope (what hope?), and he wanted Tony to help him sort through it.
Kate didn't have a lot of friends, her brother explained on the way to the storage facilities. Her job was her life. You guys were all she ever talked about.
He found it strange that Kate would talk about him. He wondered that if he was close to his family whether he would talk about her.
He realised he never really knew that much about her.
They reached the complex and the two men walked solemnly through the maze of containers until they reached Kate's.
14534D.
It contained mostly furniture and clothes. Most of what he associated with her, photos, books, and jewellery had already been distributed among family member. All that remained was furniture and appliances.
And the pinball machine.
With her brother's permission, he took the pinball machine back to his place. He placed it in the corner of his living room and stared at it for a good hour, before plugging it in. The familiar cheery music brought tears to his eyes, so he turned it off. Feeling quite ridiculous, he turned it back on, taking in the familiar lights.
He glanced at the high score.
Kate's high score.
He broke down crying.
From time to time, he played pinball. He never beat her score; but then again, he didn't really want to. It was a reminder of both what could have been and her.
Jeanne always asked him about the pinball machine. She found it weird how he hardly ever played it, but he kept it in meticulous condition. He refused to sell the machine, even after her less than subtle suggestions that she knew someone that could get a great price for it. Most of the time, he refused to look at it when she was around, refused to talk about it. On one particularly romantic night, he refused to have sex with her on it.
She didn't understand. He knew she could never understand. Even if he told her the truth, she would only press the issue further.
Why's it so important to you, she would snap. Why are you willing to fight to keep this machine when half the time it seems you won't even fight to save this relationship?
It was about what it represented, he'd explain, over and over again throughout the course of their relationship. How it represented a different time. A happier time. Where murder and rape was something that happened in the slums and where terrorism wasn't an everyday fear.
It represented innocence.
It represented Kate.
When he looked at the game, with its 70's all-girl action heroes (maybe that's why Kate was so attached to it), all he saw was a maybe. He saw Kate. He saw them getting married, buying a house, saw them having kids, growing old together. He saw love, in its purist, most untouchable form.
He didn't see, however, his ten year old son beating Kate's high score. Or his sixteen year old daughter's friends breaking it during an unsupervised and out of control party. He couldn't imagine a day where he would carelessly shove the machine in his basement, to be covered in dust and forgotten.
But life, just like high scores, must move forward. A pinball machine was never made to hold as much hope as he put into it. In his mind it was a cheery object with depressing connotations.
It was never made to hold the memory of the dead woman he loved. It was what it was, a machine, even with all it represented.
But for now, Tony was content with staring at the high score. Content in cherishing it the way he would have cherished Kate, given the chance.
He would never forget what the machine represented.
Different times.
Happier times.
Innocence.
Hope.
And Kate. Always Kate.
End.