Author: Revanche
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Would be wonderful.
Spoilers: Actually, I don't think there're any at all . . .
xxxxx
Outside, the sun beats down across an ocean of sand. He shifts his pack, feeling the straps cut through the rough dull fabric. He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the glare, sees a glint of light in the distance, and his radio crackles. A dog barks and a child shrieks with laughter, and he comes awake to the repetitive warning alarm of a delivery truck in reverse and the flashing of the digital clock across the room. 12:00. 12:00. 12:00. He looks down at his watch. 12:01. Close enough. A throw pillow's digging into his back and he reaches behind himself, tosses it aside. Wonders where it'll end up. The attic, probably, or maybe out in some landfill. He doubts she'll come back for it.
He drags a hand across his face, feels a pounding in his temples. Sleeping in the sun, he thinks disgustedly. He's so goddamned tired of sleeping in the sun. Recalls the salty taste of his own sweat, pouring down his face. The constant afternoon light, buildings jutting and sharp and their shadows geometric, solid edges. Gunfire, of course. The strange silence afterward, struggling to read lips.
When he dreams, sometimes it's about this. Memories like these, harsh and vivid, real as though they happened yesterday. As though these events, these emotions, are more important and more real than the mundane, daily routines which he forgets more often than not. As though life and death are more important than remembering to defrost the pot roast.
Which, actually, explains a lot. Like why he's here and she's not, and why he's sleeping on the couch. It's habit, not necessity, at least as of the day before yesterday.
There's a hole in the coffee table, like a cigarette was left burning there. It probably was, he thinks, and it's a good thing that the house didn't burn down in his absence. He stretches out and drags the day-old newspaper over the mark. Out of sight, out of mind. Mostly he just doesn't feel like going furniture shopping or attempting to putty-and-varnish the hole out of existence.
When the art of survival is a daily exercise, certain previously irrelevant things become more valuable. Or rather, quality becomes important. There's no point in watching a sunrise obscured by city smog, so he doesn't. One can buy good coffee just down the street, so he does. It's not trivial. Sacrifices have to be made. If this isn't understood . . .
Well, this is what happens.
He doesn't look at himself in the mirror anymore. He doesn't need to. He's familiar with all of the identifying marks, scars, birthmarks, tattoo, and the others, well, they wouldn't make much of a difference, anyway. Look at something long enough, see it every day, and the nuances are no longer obvious.
The house is too damned quiet. The kids have gone inside. Sunlight spreads from the wall to the ceiling. He can see the dust floating through the air. He wonders if he should get a dog.
The phone's unplugged, cord torn from the jack. His cell's somewhere upstairs. He should do something. Ennui kills. Go to the store, buy some nails or a new clamp or, hell, buy a box of cereal. Get out of the house. Go. Do something.
He doesn't.
She had a killer swing, he remembers. Won more than one trophy with that club. And it isn't that he misses her, but that he thinks maybe he should.
He doesn't want to think about that.
He stands, swings his feet onto the floor and stretches. Opens the front door and squints against the blinding light. Walks down the driveway, opens the mailbox. Three pieces. He doesn't look at the return addresses. Goes back inside, drops back onto the couch, and flips through them. Electric bill. Supermarket flyer.
Pale blue envelope, greeting-card-sized.
He tears the envelope open, frowns at the flimsy sound of shredding paper. He slides the contents out. Floral design. Anonymous. It occurs to him that maybe he should have had the envelope checked. Wouldn't that be great, taken out by a birthday card?
He opens the card, looks at the inside. Reads the scrawled words and tosses it aside. It slides across the coffee table, hits the newspaper and skids to a stop. He squints. He can see the price tag from here. Dollar-fifty. He wishes she hadn't bothered.
He twists around, closes the curtains behind him. The sunlight disappears and he closes his eyes. Hears her come towards him and of course she isn't real. "For Christ's sake, where have you been -- waiting all day -- you don't even bother to call."
Just another day, he thinks. Just another day.
One down.
More to go.
He thinks he's going to work more weekends.
xxxxx
End