Pray for me, because the semester has officially begun.
Also, not sure if this is my favorite work, but at least it's something. I needed to get something out and written.
jae
"Tony, can you fight?"
The words are familiar to him, and another lifetime temporarily flashes through his mind.
Through the haze, he sees Ziva's beaten and tired form hunched across from him. His vision swims, trying to focus on her blazing eyes that bore into him. There's nothing but determination in them, ferocious and relentless, and he realizes that she intends to get them out of this, or go down fighting until the end.
She's straining against the ropes that bind her, leaning forward to speak barely above a decibel.
His head swirls again, and he blinks against the blackening vision that's threaten to overtake him for the last two days. He tries to lick moisture back in his lips, tasting blood, sand, and dust; unescapable in this desert air, this pocket of hell that's found its way on earth.
He thinks he sees tears leak from her eyes, but in the blink of an eye they've vanished. He doesn't know if he imagines it, or if this air absorbs them before they can fall.
Concentrating his attention, he jerks his head; tries to take a heavy breath, despite the sharp pain in his ribs.
She takes it as a nod, and straightens in her chair. Breathes deeply. Once, then twice.
"Okay." She whispers.
"Boss, they've been off grid for two days -"
"We wait one more."
McGee looks between the Director, then back to Gibbs; his eyes never leaving the satellite view of his partner's last known coordinates. They blink back at him, unchanging and taunting.
Vance's eyes narrow infinitesimally at the back of Gibbs head, but his voice comes out softer than expected.
"Is that really a gamble you're willing to make?"
Gibbs holds silent, his gaze unwavering. But his knuckles grow whiter, clutched around his coffee that's long since grown cold.
"You've been quiet."
She tenses slightly in his arms, and he runs a reassuring hand over her hip. His touch encounters no barriers, and his palm travels over the soft, bare skin, until he's curled his arm over her stomach.
A smooth leg slips between his as she rolls over, and he hums against her hair.
Even in the dark, she manages to overwhelm him and surround him.
"It's okay to be afraid." He murmurs into the night, his touch now grazing up and down her spine. "You haven't been on a mission like this since -"
"I am not afraid," She breathes against his chest, her head tucked into his neck. Her lips brush against his skin, and the touch is sweet and pleasant.
"I will have you."
He's long since lost track of the number of cuts and bruises that cover her body now.
Every blow they land on her, he'd take tenfold willingly in return, if only it meant she'd be untouched.
He doesn't understand how she can look at him with the concern and pain she does every time it's his turn under their hands.
He doesn't deserve it, because he isn't able to save her this time, or spare her the pain.
He earns the broken rib when she finally breaks, her cry ripping through the room.
He topples forward, throwing his weight into their captor; barreling into him, still tied to his chair.
They crash to the floor, and though Ziva's got a bruise blooming across her cheek, her cries fall silent, and it's worth the pain that overwhelms him as the kick to his ribcage causes him to blackout temporarily.
Besides, the soothing hand she's running through his hair as he finally wakes is all he needs to block out the pain.
Three days in, and that's when they hear the sounds of low flying engines; feel the rumble of what could be aid they desperately need.
Or a threat they have no chance in evading.
Their first mistake was capturing them, together.
Their second was underestimating how very lethal Ziva David could be.
He never sees her swipe the knife.
And their captor don't ever see it as with a fluid, flick of her wrist, it finds its home in his back.
It takes them longer to free themselves from their chairs than it does to take down their captor.
He thinks their partnership is entwined with this kind of irony.
"How'd you get your wrists free?"
HIs voice comes out a little slurred, and if she's worried, she does well at hiding it.
It's something she's long mastered.
"Once I had his knife, it was easy."
Her reply raises more questions than it answers, but he's barely hanging onto consciousness. For now, he lets it go.
Besides, it's the first smile he's seen in days; brilliant, bright, and a sight he welcomes in this little hell on earth they've fallen into.
The roar of gunfire and engines grow louder as they breach the compound.
Ziva's supporting half his weight, with her arm tucked around him and his feet dragging slightly over dirt and dust, but he tightens his arm around her hip, and tries to pretend they're supporting each other.
Her shirt rides up her stomach as she jostles him against her side, exposing more bruises and scars; some new, and some that he knows to be much older.
He finds more strength for every step, putting one foot determinedly before the other, and vows that if they walk free of here, he'll chase the pain of those marks from her memory.
Their trepidation grows as they make their way out, but when it's Gibbs himself that appears in front of the exit, his shadow a silhouette against the blazing sun outside, relief immediately floods their bodies, and laughter escapes them at the welcomed sight.
"I've seen this movie too many damn times." He mutters under his breath, and she shifts her body under his, helping him stand taller.
She flashes him a smile out of the corner of her good eye, and he grins in kind.
She insists he's treated first, once Gibbs rallies them to the convoy and they crawl inside next to a very relieved, and very anxious Probie.
They're driven back to their base, and she waits by the door of the tent with watchful eyes and careful gaze as the medical staff go to work on the myriad of abrasions and the dark purple that shadows his ribcage.
When they turn to assess her, however, she balks from their reaching hands and searching gazes. Tony sees the tension shoot through her spine, the demons enter her eyes, and orders them away.
While she's been able to keep the memories at bay, now that they're safe, the situation is far too familiar, hits too close to home, and he sees that summer threatening to overwhelm her now.
"Come here," he murmurs soft and gentle, the tone he reserves for those nightmares, these types of demons. He beckons from where he sits atop the cot, and holds out his arms; she comes willingly to him then.
Her eyes don't leave his face.
She looks at him as if he's home.
She allows him to lift her shirt over her head, and as his eyes travel her frame, he leans forward, brushing his lips across every mark the mars her body.
She doesn't freeze against him; if anything, melts against his touch. When he rises slowly to stand before her, she keeps one hand pressed to the back of his neck, while the other travels to hover over his bandaged torso.
They breathe silently against each other for several minutes, fighting exhaustion and residual dehydration.
His hands don't leave her bare back as hers move between them, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head in kind. Her gaze lingers on the bandage, but she refrains from touching the tender area.
Instead, her eyes roll up forlornly to meet his.
"That was a very stupid thing you did." She attempts to keep her voice stern, but he hears the silent thank you.
He smirks down at her, bringing his hand up to trace his thumb over the purple shadow of her cheek.
"We got out of there, didn't we?"
She leans against his palm, closing her eyes against his touch.
"We would have gotten out." She murmurs.
"We always get each other out."
He smiles at that, while she presses her lips against his hand.
No matter what, they would always get the other out.
They each would do whatever it took. And he believes her words, because he feels the same for her, too.
After all,
for her,
there's nothing in this world he wouldn't do.