Author's Note: Here's a story that I thought up after an improvisation assignment in theater, of all things. I'm hoping that it ends up a little differently than the regular Tiva stuff you see on this site. I've been an NCIS buff since I was twelve, though I've only recently begun writing fan-fics for it. I'm juggling a couple at once, so I apologize in advance for any delays in updates. Give me a shout-out and let me know what you think, and offer suggestions for improvement! Hope you enjoy!
Déjà Vu
Chapter 1
"I love domestic life," Special Agent DiNozzo proclaimed gustily to no one as he took the last of many crime scene photos. "So quiet, so mundane. And yet, so totally unpredictable." Tony stepped back and regarded the profound meaning of his words, obviously impressed with himself. "I bet this guy didn't expect to end up dead today."
He leaned over and zoomed the camera in on four holes in a dead man's back; through-and-through bullets taken in the chest and stomach.
"This reminds me of something," he muttered, familiar chills rolling down his spine. "More than one 'something'," he amended, shaking his head. "But not a movie."
Tony busied himself, needlessly, scrutinizing the body, capturing every possible angle in photograph. He focused only on the images of this body, trying to rid those of Jenny Sheppard and Michael Rivkin from the foreground of his thoughts. It was the same way with every body they found like this: a cheek pressed roughly against the ground, lying on the stomach, blood pooling underneath. Tony couldn't help remembering, even though all he'd been trying to do was forget, and forget everything—especially his own involvement.
Though wrapped up in his own troubled ruminations, Tony could still hear the unmistakable screech of tires as a vehicle came to an abrupt halt in front of the house. The absence of bickering told him everything he needed to know about the person who was, even now, presenting their credentials, ducking under the crime scene tape, and rounding the corner of the house, entering the backyard. DiNozzo listened to the footfalls, his every sense attuned to their owner.
Appropriately, it was the only person in the world who might understand his aversion to this particular crime scene.
Looking through the camera's viewfinder, Tony turned his already-divided attention away from the corpse and whirled around, snapping a picture as he about-faced. His mouth turned up in a grin.
"Well good morning Agent Dah-veed!" He greeted his partner loudly, placing emphasis on each syllable, a smirk in his voice. "You are laaate." He hit the shutter button again, just for the juvenile pleasure of seeing her wince and shy away from the blinding flash. Ziva glared daggers.
"Good morning, Tony," she replied sourly, ignoring his last comment. Looking for any excuse to escape him, Ziva stepped around Tony and surveyed the dead Marine lying in the grass. She took into account the surroundings, casting a glance over the serene neighborhood.
"Such a violent murder to be committed on base," she murmured. "Who is he?"
"Gunnery Sergeant…" Tony's voice trailed off when he couldn't read the name he'd scribbled in his notepad. He squinted, performing the trombone maneuver to see if it would help sharpen his distorted scrawl. "Uhhh, Gunnery Sergeant…"
"Thompson," Ziva supplied at length.
"How do you know?" Tony asked, chagrined. "You just got here."
"Have you paid any attention to what you've been doing?" The irritated note in her voice clearly indicated that she didn't think he had. She crouched over the body, pointing to the easily visible dog-tag which had twisted around and was lying just under the man's chin.
"Huh." Tony frowned, printing clearly this time in his notebook the information that would be needed back in the bullpen to run a search for the man's records. He picked up the camera hanging from his neck and photographed the tag, just in case he'd missed it in one of his earlier shots.
"Thank you, Zee-vaahh," he said glibly, flashing a cheesy grin. She looked at him blackly, absolutely no trace of humor in her expression. Perversely, Tony thought it one of her most becoming. "Gee," he began flippantly, foolishly underestimating the extent of her mood, "I sure hope your day is as bright as your smile!"
The camera flashed again.
A moment of disorientation followed a blur of quick movement. Tony wondered dazedly why his back was making full contact with the ground, and why he couldn't breathe. The question answered itself when he registered Ziva's face hovering a breath away from his own, and the muzzle of her service weapon nestled cozily against his sternum.
"Sorry." He grunted. Her eyes narrowed into slits.
"You will be," Ziva growled threateningly. Her voice was low in her throat. "I am not in the mood for your antics, Tony, and this," she swung her arm toward the corpse, "is not how I wanted to start my day."
Tony swallowed nervously, acutely aware of the loaded gun on his chest, and the irate Israeli pressing herself against him. He was also aware of the way her jaw tightened when she had looked at the body.
"You know," he began huskily, "the last time you had me in this position—do you remember the last time you had me in this position? It was in Tel Aviv," Tony rambled uneasily, "Actually—now that I think about it—it was kinda hot, even though you were trying to kill me, and I—"
"No, Tony, I was not trying to kill you in Tel Aviv, but I might kill you now if you do not stop with the pictures. Stop it!" Ziva hissed menacingly, grabbing his face, forcing him to look in her no-nonsense eyes. She jerked her hand, forcibly re-directing his gaze to fall on the dead Marine. "Or else I will personally see to it that you end up like him. Understood?"
"Heard you loud and clear," Tony rasped. He flinched under Ziva's death-glare. "Sorry."
"You two about done?"
Their heads snapped toward Gibbs, who had seemingly materialized behind them. Ziva straightened immediately, holstering her gun.
"I think so," she answered drily, shooting one more look at Tony. She didn't help him up.
A flicker of amusement passed over Gibbs's face before he addressed his senior field agent. "DiNozzo, what have you got?"
"Dead Marine. Gunnery Sergeant Thompson." Tony rolled over and pushed up from the ground. He ambled around the body, recounting details of the as-yet-brief investigation. "Shot four times; twice in the chest, twice in the stomach. We bagged and tagged the slugs, twenty-two cals."
"Any witnesses?"
"McGee's casing all the neighbors."
Gibbs nodded. "Ducky?" The Where is? was understood.
"He might be a while," Ziva said wryly. "I saw the van in traffic on my way over here. Palmer was driving, and Ducky was giving directions. They'll be at least another half hour."
Gibbs said nothing, but took a sip of his coffee and turned away.
"Boss?" Tony queried, following after him.
"Gonna go see what the neighbors had to say."
"Nothing," McGee informed as the trio reached the front of the house. "We got nothing, Boss."
"Nothing?"
"Well, um," McGee shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "Mrs. Channing next door did say that she heard some yelling and screeching tires around midnight, but, uh, she also said that there have been several domestic disturbances at the Thompsons' in the last two years, so she really didn't think anything of it."
"Nobody heard any gunshots? There were four."
"No, Boss. The shooter must have used a silencer."
"You said domestic disturbance," Ziva pointed out. "Where's Thompson's wife?"
Three pairs of eyes turned to McGee for an answer. He didn't have one.
"Good job, McGoogle," Tony smirked mockingly. He sobered when Gibbs fixed him with a reproving look. The corner of Ziva's mouth twitched in a tiny smile.
The leader's sharp eyes scanned and evaluated everything around him as his mind engaged in finding the best plan of attack. "DiNozzo," he spoke after draining the last of his coffee. "I want you and Ziva to go back to NCIS and give the slugs to Abby. Find everything there is to find out about Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. McGee and I'll wait here for Ducky."
"Got it, Boss."
Tony peeled off his latex gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of his windbreaker as he and Ziva ducked under the crime scene tape and made their way to her car. He eyed it with a bit of trepidation, wondering just how safe a small thing like that really was.
"Here," Ziva said, tossing him the keys. "I do not want to drive."
"Wow!" Tony exclaimed in real surprise, fumbling the catch in his momentary stupor. "Are you sick or somethin'?"
Ziva glowered at him as they climbed in to her car. Tony was awkwardly shoved up against the steering wheel until he adjusted the seat to accommodate his height. He started the engine, and the radio blared to life. Ziva jumped so violently that she hit her head on the car's ceiling and swore as she frantically hit almost every button on the dash in an effort to turn it off.
"Hateful car!" The radio had not been on when she'd pulled up to the crime scene.
"Whoa, there!" Tony looked over and saw that Ziva had her elbow on the windowsill, leaning her head on her hand. "Maybe you are sick." Real concern crept into his eyes.
"It is only a headache," Ziva responded irritably.
"You don't get headaches."
"Well, I have one now, Tony. Can we just leave?"
"Yes m'am," he muttered. He put the car into gear and tapped the gas. It shot down the street.
"Geez, David! What did you do to this thing?"
Ziva managed to laugh.