Disclaimer: I claim no ownership. I sure would love to use the ad revenue for tuition though.
[Epic Length] Author's Note: I'm back and I come with a new story. Yes, I know, I should be updating the sixty billion (err...two?) stories I've already posted. I was inspired after helping a friend edit her neurology paper and I couldn't let the plot bunny go. So, here I am.
And yes, I've been working on "Rhapsody In You" and should be updating that soon. Thanks to all of you who have been supporting that story.
Explanation About Lightening vs. Lightning in the Title: Someone was kind enough to point out a potential title fail. Normally I'd rush to rectify such an egregious orthographical error however, for once, there was a method to my madness—I promise!
Years ago, the phrase "it is lightening" (as in 'thundering and lightening') was contracted to it is light'ning, which eventually became further shortened to "it is lightning." In contemporary English, the word lightning stands on its own as a noun (did you see that lightning?) and a verb (it looks as if it's going to start lightning). In the context of electrical storms, lightening would be considered a misspelling of lightning. However, I was using the archaic spelling (lightening) as a play on words, the 'ha-ha' lying in notion of illuminating (lightening: to brighten) an aspect of one of the character's past. A 'what's done in the dark soon comes to light' sort of deal.
Last, but certainly not least: the title comes from Snow Patrol's "The Lightning Strike".
And I'm out...
The Lightening Strike
Chapter One: Red, White, So Blue
If I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?
-Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol, Eyes Open
Ziva slipped into her dark apartment carrying take out from Tony's favorite French brasserie.
The fearless leader sent his team in search of rest and provisions, making it perfectly clear he expected them back bright and early, ready to continue the search for the wife of an aviator that had gone missing.
It had been nearly twenty-four hours and the case was already frosting over due to few leads, fewer hits on the missing person's report and even less forensic evidence.
Ziva shook her head. They were going to find the woman.
It was not as though they were incapable of doing so.
They had found her, after all.
The memories of her unpleasant summer billowed toward her and she flipped on the lamp beside the door, hoping the light would wash them away.
"Why do you always have to spring for those super bright light bulbs?" her partner asked from the sofa.
Ziva gasped, more out of agitation than fright. "Luckily for you I did not drop the food. Otherwise you would owe me a couple hundred dollars."
"Wow, you went all out," he bristled, pushing his arms above his head and stretching his muscular body to its full length. At the same time, he brought his feet up to the coffee table in front of him. "Oh and by the way, when one gets oneself captured in the desert by Somali extremists in order to save the life of another, heroic acts such as those tend to square ones debts."
She rolled her eyes. "I said thank you."
He smirked. "I haven't washed my cheek since." Stretching a bit more, he gave the air a melodramatic sniff. "Is that food I smell? Really, really good food?"
She held up the brown paper bag and gave it a little jiggle, her eyes dancing with mischief.
"Yay!" he clapped his hands and placed his feet on the floor, much to Ziva's relief. "And what took you so long?"
She crossed the room and stepped into the tiny crevice she called a kitchen. "I am not Waiters on Wheels, Tony. Besides, it is Friday evening, there was a—wait a minute, why am I explaining myself?—get off my couch, shut up and pretend to be grateful."
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Simmer down now. Oh, by the way, you were out of beer so I took the liberty of alleviating that problem."
She shook her head as she went off in search of silverware. "I do not believe you."
"I've got the receipt."
"I was not referring to the beer, you idiot."
"Hey! No need for the attitude."
She emerged from the kitchen and performed a cursory search of her living room. Everything seemed to be as she left it. The mail on her desk was still a jumbled mess, as were the magazines on the coffee table. Anthony DiNozzo may have been a male version of a yenta, but he was a skilled one. He wouldn't leave symptoms of his investigation.
She folded her arms and leaned against a nearby wall, watching him suspiciously. "How did you get in here, anyway?"
"With my key."
She slit her eyes. "I never gave you a key."
"Oh, sure you did," he nonchalantly insisted.
"Please do not make me—coerce—you into telling me the truth."
"Okay, so maybe I removed the spare you keep in your desk for emergencies," at her death glare, he added: "For safe keeping of course."
She flung herself in his direction, growling all the way. "You son of a…I thought I lost it."
He grinned. "I could've found it for you. Seeing as I had it and all."
"You are enjoying this?"
"Oh, yeah," he nodded with a fulfilled smirk. He tilted his head. "Anybody ever tell you you're beautiful when you're angry. Kinda like Salma Hayek in From Dusk till Dawn sans the monstrous snake…"
Ziva fought the urge to stab him with the fork she'd been carrying. "You will return that key at once."
" 'You will return that key at once' " he mocked. "Come on, Zee, it's a sign of trust."
"I do not recall you giving me a key to your place."
"You also don't recall giving me this one."
"That is because I did not—"
"Did my Spidey Senses just detect the use of a contraction?" he clapped his hands, interrupting her. "Elisions are the cornerstone of American English, Zee-Vah."
"What is so special about the omission of a sound or syllable when speaking?"
"You can't argue with the wheels of Americanization. Let it bathe you in its glory."
Sometimes, she didn't know why she bothered.
After another round of bantering, they settled down to eat.
"Is that duck confit roulade?"
"Over apple purée."
Tony's eyes lit up. "Brasserie Beck?"
Ziva chuckled. "Is there anything else?"
He took several bites and released a satisfied sigh. "Sometimes, Ziva, I really do love you."
She smiled.
It had started after their trip to Paris. She'd been careful not to give whatever had blossomed between them a name, for defining "it" would create consequences and constraints she was unable to deal with.
They alternated between her apartment and his. He warmed the left side of her bed at her place. Her snoring forced to him take refuge on his couch when she visited his. She put up with his movie nights. She'd even come to admire Quentin Tarantino, now citing Pulp Fiction and the Kill Bill series as some her favorite flicks. On the rare occurrence that they had a morning off, they jogged together.
She didn't know where "this" was going and for once in her life, she didn't mind.
Dinner progressed. The current case came up. Ziva also suggested returning her key was in his best interest. After all, she really knew her way around a knife so removing a certain organ would be a fairly easy task.
The look on his face resided on the boarder of disgusted and afraid as he retrieved the key from his pocket. He wordlessly set it on the table.
They ate in silence after that. After stuffing the dishes in the dishwasher, they relaxed on the couch, each nursing a beer. Much to Tony's dismay, Ziva found herself enjoying Matt Damon and The Bourne Identity.
"I wonder what it would be like..."
He not so subtly stifled a yawn. He yelped when her fist collided with his arm. Rolling his eyes, he waved and fanned out his hand. "By all means, do continue."
"Thank you," she smirked. "I wonder what it would be like to be a blank canvas—no memory. No context for emotion, nothing. Sure, you still have your executive functions, but what would it be like to close yourself off instead of opening yourself up, letting people in with their declarations of faith and duty only to make you vulnerable," she paused and after a long pull of beer, she looked over and held his eyes. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to forget everything?"
He didn't want to insult her with platitudes and clichés. Instead, he sat his beer on the table and pulled her to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She slid down and eased her head into his lap, her hair blanketing his legs. They remained in silence as the soft nimbus of the streetlights trickled through the living room window and licked their faces.
The morning Tony was shot had been rather uneventful, all things considered.
Gibbs had called, gruffly ordering them to a crime scene.
Ziva and Tony arrived in separate cars, with Tony stopping to grab Gibbs' coffee along the way.
As usual, when he arrived, Tony roasted McGee, grinning as he egged Sir Probe-A-Lot for details about his recent date.
Palmer had gotten Ducky lost. The medical examiner complained as his blissfully naïve assistant fended him off with his standard "wrong turn" excuse.
Gibbs and Ducky hovered over the lance corporal who had been stabbed to death in the front seat his car. The Ford's smashed window had allowed the previous night's snowstorm in, which in turn, had littered the young man's dark hair with tear shaped icicles. Ducky smiled, the scene igniting a memory of a time when he was the Dr. Jekyll to Gibbs' hide. Naturally Gibbs severed the trip down memory lane with a stare.
The persistent, wonted routine lingered over the snow-blanketed interstate a few miles from NCIS' headquarters.
No one predicted it, not even Gibbs' perpetually perceptive gut.
The shot was loud and seemed to echo through the thick group and thicker stew of voices. The sound bounced off the cars and into the ears of Anthony DiNozzo's most dear. It silenced the voices and drew out guns and later, shouts.
Ziva David was sprawled by the side of the road, the gravel now covered in icicles and blood—Tony's blood. Her partner's head was in her lap and she slowly brought her head up, her mouth open and her eyes haunted. "He's bleeding!"
Crouched on a rooftop, the young man remained hidden beside a brick barrier.
The hate barreled up his veins and oozed from his trigger finger.
When it was over, he hugged his rifle close, like a security blanket.
The snow started up again. Everything was meshed together in a gray mosaic: the snow and his target and the extraordinary hate.
The young man dissembled his rifle and gently tucked it into its case. With a whimsical smile, he slowly stood and backed away, grateful that Anthony DiNozzo had finally gotten what he deserved.