A/N: Kit is taking a four day vacation without her laptop. Good news though, she is bringing back lots of bunnies and lots of ideas and may even write some out in her notebook to type up and post. Because Kit loves you all. Kit doesn't know why she's referring to herself in third person. Anyway, keep the peace and much love, Kit . . . . . This takes place somewhere in the future and is probably a tad AU.
DISCLAIMER: Kit owns nothing.
"AD INFINITUM"
It does not take her long to find him, somehow innately knowing where he'll be. And she shouldn't bother announcing herself, the swish of the doors opening offers enough of a preamble, but she cannot help calling out quietly, "Diego."
"Lydia."
It isn't really an invitation, but she steps forward toward him, and though the acerbic odor of antiseptic overtakes her senses and aggravates her migraine, she keeps on. He's standing at the far wall, the rows of steel drawers shining ominously in the dim overhead lighting. Silver doors gape wide and he's flanked by two slabs and she knows very well who is sleeping atop those twin metal surfaces.
Taking a deep breath, she dares to meet the frozen countenance of the woman she's admired since her probie days.
Her eyes are closed, the lids stained lavender, and she honestly could be merely sleeping, with her dark curls framing her face in an almost carefree manner. And if it wasn't for the literal graveness of the situation, Lydia thinks she would have looked young, more youthful, innocent even . . . . . Once golden skin is no longer quite so radiant having achieved the ghostly pallor of a corpse and, of course, there is the fatal bullet wound, shamefully off-centered, just above her left brow.
Even in death Ziva David is beautiful. . . .
She saw him earlier, before the autopsy, but long after his body grew cold. The rust-colored tarnish that was caked on his skin has been scrubbed clean, though the scrapes and cuts peppered across his face are still there, wounds wide open, the blood long stilled. No scabs, no stitches, just thin lines from sharp glass. Crisp white linen covers a pulverized chest, a splintered ribcage that held little hope for survival. His lips are split and do not smile and that makes her sad, empty. His eyes have been closed so there is no staring at lifeless green orbs and that is a relief.
She doubts DiNozzo ever saw this coming.
Death? Most definitely.
But never like this.
"They each have a tattoo, on their left ring fingers. I never noticed," Diego's voice shatters her careful scrutiny of the bodies, draws her back into feeling. She leans down, squinting where her partner indicates on the Israeli's hand and sure enough, there is a tiny, black symbol etched into her skin.
"They're identical," she says, straightening up, meeting bright grey eyes.
"Rota," he replies, walking slowly over to the desk in the corner. She follows, mildly curious, and realizing what he seeks, accepts the empty tumbler he offers her. "Thank god for Palmer," he states with a shrug, pouring three fingers of what smells suspiciously like bourbon into her glass.
She wants to say something about federal agencies and alcohol and instead knocks back the shot in one fluid movement. The whiskey is strong and goes down burning, scalding her throat and setting fire to her belly, but it is welcome, the pain. "Rota," she repeats his earlier remark, indicating his need to expand on the subject.
"Rota," he agrees, nodding, pensive. "It's where it had to of happened. The two of them, in another world. She's the one, Lyd, the one he talks about. His 'amante.'"
Lydia sighs, perching on the edge of the desk, blue eyes staring across the room where their superiors lay. "Paris," she counters softly and when he looks up at her, brows raised, imploring, she explains softly, "She told me once. About Paris. A single case and the best night of her life, she said. She and her partner . . . . Tony and Ziva have been partners for years, I never thought, though, Paris . . . . "
They fall silent, peering into their respective glasses, wondering as pieces drift into place.
"They both talked of Spain, you know."
She lifts her face to look at him, blinks owlishly. Nods. He continues, "Both mentioned ops in Spain. Rota, Madrid. I never put two and two together."
"Me neither," she murmurs, casting another glance across autopsy.
"There was this woman he talked about, these wild missions they worked. She was exotic and beautiful and he would just get this far away look. He loved her. Never did say what happened to her, just kinda smiled when someone would ask. Like it was a private joke."
"They were private people."
"He took a bullet a couple years ago, through and through to the shoulder. I drove him home, he was high off the morphine –man never could handle painkillers. I waited while he was in the bathroom, in case he fell, I guess, and there was this photo on the dresser. The woman in it, I don't know. She was pretty, I could tell, but I couldn't see her face. The lights weren't on and the picture was black and white. I asked and he told me that he couldn't live without her. His 'amante.' It must have been Ziva."
Lydia hums in agreement, pulling her lower lip into her mouth, chewing. After a moment of contemplation, she sighs, "It was inevitable."
"They died alone." His voice has taken on a more somber tone with remorse floating around in the admission.
She offers him a small smile, places a hand on his arm. "Jimmy brought me her T.O.D. She died about four o'clock yesterday afternoon. . . . They died within the same hour, D. They didn't die alone."
"You think he knew? That she was dead, I mean. We didn't find out until six, he couldn't have possibly known."
She slides off the desk, tugs down the hem of her blouse. "I don't know. Maybe he had his famous gut feeling that something was wrong. You have to remember though, Tony was the one hit by the drunk. He didn't pull a Romeo."
Diego nods, looking somewhere just beyond her shoulder. "Maybe fate had mercy."
"Maybe . . . . Diego?" She lingers at the door, regarding him softly with hesitant eyes.
He sets the tumblers back in the drawer, returns the bourbon to the shelf with a dull thunk. "Yeah?"
"The symbols? Mean 'infinity.'"
And it's oddly comforting.
A/N: So?