Hi again :)
My other story's sort of been put on hold, so I'm gonna do a few of these songfics. As you probably guessed, they're all about Tiva, whether angsty or happy or three years into the future... anways, I'll post a youtube link to each song on my bio, as well who it's by on here, and I BEG you to listen to the song, 'cos it makes a big difference, whether or not it's your taste.
1) Keane - Atlantic
Shuffle songs.
Almost Special Agent – scratch that, Agent Afloat – Tony DiNozzo's worst enemy, second to the scum that put it on full blast in the next cabin just to piss him off.
I hope all my days
Will be lit by your face
He thought of Ziva. Deep down, far beyond where the Probie could probe or even past where Ziva could torture him to tell, he'd wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
I hope all the years
Will hold tight our promises
He'd just assumed it. It was a natural thing, he took it for granted. It was as if he just sort of….knew that they'd end up together. He didn't question it; he didn't try to break off from it; because he didn't want to ruin fate. That's what it was.
I don't wanna be old and sleep alone
The bed creaked as he turned over on it. He couldn't image being with anyone else. He tried not to imagine her being with anyone else, and he tried not to think of the times when she had, because that would send him spiralling into jealousy and turn him into an asshole, like a replay of what had happened last time.
An empty house is not a home
That's what this goddamn ship was. Everywhere he turned he saw dark and bare and damp, everywhere he went seemed cold and unfriendly. Maybe it was okay for the sods who had lived on the ship all their miserable lives, but the thought that he'd be stuck in this shell of an abode for his entire working life made him squirm.
He'd been to her place once before, and it had felt like home. The kind of place where everything's slightly shabby and you feel comfortable as soon as you walk in. 007 would flash onto the flat screen TV that he'd nagged her to buy ever since he'd found out she didn't have one, and they'd slump onto the famous no-springs sofa with her D.C.-wide famous chicken curry, and talk about anything from whether McGee was gay to what had happened In Paris, and drop subtle hints about how, one day, it would be so romantic to go to Paris with your loved one.
I don't wanna be old and feel afraid
He hadn't thought about what would happen if she didn't come back, but now he thought about it, it was the most likely outlook. She was in the hands of Mossad and her father, who from what he'd heard, didn't give a flying ass if one of their agents got killed. Mossad suicide mission stories were tiptoed around in the bullpen, but during some tedious-tastic paperwork session there was sometimes nothing else to talk about, and McGee had an awful habit of bringing up Tony's worst nightmares without thinking about it.
I don't wanna be old and sleep alone
An empty house is not a home
I don't wanna be old and feel afraid
The bullpen spun in his mind and billions upon billions of innuendo-soaked conversations played on it as he cursed the British music industry for making their products so emotional.
His thoughts replayed themselves over and over and the realisation that this was probably how the next five or six years of his life was going to run came to him like a smack in the face, along with the fact that the call for food just rang.
"Need anything in there, Floatsie?"
And if I need anything at all
Yeah, he needed something. He needed her.
I need a place that's hidden in the deep
He wanted to be away from these idiots, he wanted to be back in D.C, in a living room that smelt of food and people and real pot pourri. He wanted to be somewhere where no one bothered him; no one could try to get revenge for him firing them; no one could frame him. And if they tried, he would have La Bonita and her awesome ninja skills.
Where lonely angels sing you to your sleep
He'd heard her sing once. At the end of some awful murder case, Gibbs had sent McGee and him home early, and he'd been walking back into the bullpen to get his forgotten phone. She'd looked beautiful in the orange light of the sun setting over the Navy Yard, and he remembered his breath catching as her hair shimmered back at him like an invite.
She was still working, and since, in her knowledge, no one else was in hearing distance, she had turned on iTunes and started singing – well, maybe 3 months at sea with whoever-it-was's music taste next to him had corrupted his memory of it – but he remembered it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.
He hadn't gone back for his phone, because it seemed like a mortal sin to interrupt her.
Though all the world is broken
I need a place where I can make my bed
A lovers' lap where I can lay my head
He'd stayed at her place once.
Abby's birthday party was more than an invitation to get drunk, and after his partner had driven him back to her own place, it was evident that he wasn't able to drive. So he'd stayed put. She didn't have a guest bedroom, and if you slept on her couch you were asking for a bad back the next morning, so he'd slept in her bed. With her.
She didn't snore then. Sure, he could see the hand that stayed slid under her pillow holding the ever-present SIG, but she slept calmly, and when he was still trying to get to sleep at 0300hrs, and when he was watching her breathing and looking at her face in the moonlight, his mind kid him that this was how he lived, and he couldn't help feeling that this was his perfect world. Everything was calm, no Gibbs, no Vance, no one bugging him.
Just the two of them.
His phone suddenly buzzed, and, sighing, he didn't bother to look at the display.
"Special Age–Sorry, Agent Afloat–," he almost spat the words, "Anthony DiNozzo speaking"
He heard breathing, and then the phone went dead.
He shut the phone, and didn't look at the caller I.D.
Cause now the room is spinning…
Hope you enjoyed!
Lottie x