AN: This came to me after reading something by Sequitur. No infringement is intended. And, on that note, I do not own NCIS. I really wish I did. Enjoy. TMS
Story: Tapping
Spoilers: Twilight
Summary: Nights are no longer Tony's thing.
The rhythmic tapping of the water dripping from the faucet is the only thing keeping him from going postal. Drop. Drop. Drop. It's almost like a lullaby, better than counting sheep. But he can't close his eyes. Because then he won't be able to control what he sees. And he is always in control, he has to be. If he loses control, he'll crash and burn. And then he won't be able to catch the bastard who brought all this on. He can't sleep. He won't sleep. Not when the things that greet him in dreamland are the same that greet him in his waking hours. Only, in his dreams, he has to watch them over and over again, like a sick, twisted movie stuck on loop.
He glances at the clock. It's been five minutes since he last looked. There's silence now. Silence is bad. Silence begets thoughts. And he doesn't want thoughts. Not when they all tell him the same thing. He waits for the faucet to start dripping again. A minute passes. Two minutes. Three minutes. Damn faucet has truly stopped! He sits up, aware that in three and a half hours he needs to be back at work. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands. He's going to shower now. Again.
It won't be enough.
It will never be enough.
His cheeks could be rubbed down to the bone and still, it would not be enough. He sees himself slowly turning in to Lady MacBeth. It's a fitting analogy, one that he knows because he saw the movie version in high school. Except that instead of his hands being covered in blood, it's his face. And he's not a puppet in one of Shakespeare's grand metaphors. Somehow his hands have turned on the water without him needing to find the light. This should not be surprising. With the hours he keeps – what with the job, the drinking, the girls, the job – he's spent many a night fumbling around his apartment to do the mundane tasks a person does when he arrives home. But it he marvels at his ability to do it. It is something she will never be able to do again. He shakes his head to clear it, no more thoughts, and steps into the shower.
The she in question is waiting for him when he lies back down on the object that he had once referred to as his sanctuary. Before, he would have loved to have her in it. Now, it is all he can do to keep her out. He closes his eyes for just a second. He will not sleep, he tells himself, only close his eyes and banish any semblance of a thought. He is dozing before he can put up a fight.
"What took you so long, Tony? I thought I was going to have to deal with Gibbs by myself!" She is livid, her hair shaking as she throws her words at him.
"Relax, Kate, I was only gone for a minute." He doesn't need this from her today. The new server at the coffee stand just outside the Navy Yard was of the female persuasion. And had a beautiful… apron. All he had gone to do was get the boss a cup. She just happened to have given him her number in the process.
"Only if your measurement of time is different than the Navy's, DiNozzo." A voice growls from across the bullpen.
"Ah, boss, I got you coffee!"
"Did ya now, DiNozzo?"
"Yeah, hot, just the way you like it."
"Just the way you like it, Tony" Kate shoots at him.
"Kate, so unnecessary…" He says to her, grinning slightly.
"You want unnecessary, I'll give you unnecessary. Unnecessary is me having to put up with you touching all of my crap. Unnecessary is me having to take another bullet for Gibbs! Unnecessary is me dying, while you two just stand there like a couple of probies, fresh of out FLETC." She yells. Blood is running down her face now.
"Kate, Kate, STAY WITH ME KATE!" She falls back into a chair, he wants to help her, but his feet feel glued to the floor. "Kate, come on, don't die on us Kate! I'm trying to help you. KATE!"
But they're not at the Navy Yard now. They're on top of a warehouse. And she's not sitting in a chair. She's fallen behind him, a bullet through her head and her hair in the middle of a pool of blood.
"KA—"
"TE!" He feels his heart beating, threatening to cut off his oxygen supply as it blocks his throat and squishes his lungs. He throws himself off of his bed, reaching for the gun he keeps underneath his pillow. This is why he does not sleep. He can't sleep. If he sleeps, he'll see this. Only the next time, she might be in his bed. The might be making love and he'll touch the back of her head, only to find that it no longer exists. Or maybe they'll be out for a run at the park and she'll collapse on the path. He'll keep jogging, unaware that he has left his partner behind, to die. It doesn't matter the situation. Every dream ends the same: she dies, it's his fault. That's the way the situation has played out in reality. Only, in reality, he can't just open his eyes and shake it off. He has to live with this for the rest of his life.
Drop. Drop. Drop. The flow has started again, aided by his seventh shower of the night. He focuses on the sound, letting it force the thoughts from his brain. This time it's not a lullaby, it's a reminder. It tells him that he can't go back to sleep. It's reminding him that he only has a couple more hours until he can pretend to be himself and get to the office, and not have to worry about what will happen if he shuts his eyes. The rhythmic tapping of the water dripping from the faucet is the only thing keeping him from going postal.
AN: Please review! I would love to know what people think.