A/N: After the Second Season Finale (Ep. 24, Sleeping with the Enemy), I just had to get this down as an alternate ending. Oh, and if you haven't seen it, SPOILER ALERT. But, really, why haven't you? Go on, watch, I'll wait. This story is canon-compliant up to the end of the Finale, so it is in different universe than "SNAFU." The first scene is a close approximation to the bomb detonation scene in that episode, but not to the letter, so don't sue me! (Leave that to CBS).
Speaking of which:
Disclaimer: CBS, the producers, and other Powers That Be own NCIS:NO and the characters, I just obsess over them. I own nothing and make no money.
Chapter One
As NCIS Agent Sonja Percy sifted through a multi-colored burrito of wires that connected to the bomb's cellular detonator, time seemed to go in a perverse sped up slow motion. It didn't help that everyone kept yelling at her. If she didn't find it in time, they would either blow up - along with one of the city's main bridges and half of downtown New Orleans. It was that or the Coast Guard agents would take them out. Either way, she and Senior Agent Dwayne Pride would likely end up as the main course for some Mississippi catfish.
Agent Chris LaSalle's steady voice came over the radio, "Sonja, get off the boat. Yer outta time!"
Pride, at the helm, maintained a cool tone despite the imminent danger, "Sonja, it's over. It's time to go. Now! Sonja, get out of here now!"
She heard her disembodied voice say, "Stop talking!" This was not a time for multi-tasking.
To herself, she repeated the mantra, "I'll get it, I'll get it, I'll get it," like the little tugboat bomb defuser that could.
She opened the door of a small drawer and found the control module.
"OK, just a second," she muttered as she detached the detonator clip. Then, nothing... a anti-climatic, climax that produced a collective sigh of relief all over New Orleans. Except, of course for a certain Homeland Security mole who would soon meet his maker at the hands of Agent Meredith Brody. But, Sonja wouldn't find that out for a few hours.
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The next night, Percy sat in her car a few blocks from the office, trying to adjust after a surreal encounter with LaSalle.
They were cleaning up after the case, literally and figuratively. The day before she short-circuited Mr. Tick-tick-tick, one of the terrorists had riddled the office with an AK47. Since the entire incident ultimately included the deaths of two Naval officers, a discredited three-star general, and the shooting of a corrupt federal agent, not to mention some gray area investigating on their part - the cleanup and the paperwork on the bomb that didn't go boom were twin nightmares.
Chris had come in and told her the team was on a two-week administrative leave as the powers that be in Washington reviewed their work. Given her week, that was all she needed to grab her satchel and get the hell out of Dodge. She made it halfway to the door when he called out demanding to talk about her brush with death. After a quick back and forth, she turned to leave again, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a close embrace declaring that he cared for her. Sonja closed her eyes and squeezed back hard. It felt so natural being in his arms, she almost lost track of the situation. When they released, their faces remained close, but frozen in a kind of suspended animation. Was he making a move to kiss her or was it wishful thinking? Without a clear signal, neither of them were able to cross the line.
So she called him an ass.
Sonja couldn't get out of there soon enough. She could feel his eyes follow her as she left. She got in her car quickly, as if being chased by the devil, and almost cut-off a VW as she pulled out. Looking in her rear-view mirror, she half-expected to see Chris's truck behind her, watching her Prius bumper with its headlights.
After driving a few blocks, she looked down to see her hands shaking. She pulled into the nearest lot and put her head in her hands. It had been a long time since she felt such rage.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him - He had questioned her emotions after her near-death experience just as she had a few weeks earlier, when he narrowly escaped being shot. He also royally pissed her off when he tried to take her place on the rigged tugboat, even though she was more qualified for the job.
There was no room for chivalry in their world; man or woman, young or old, everyone had to do their part as their skills demanded. She was no delicate flower! Who the fuck was he to make her look and feel weak. She slammed her fist on the steering wheel imagining that it was LaSalle's stupid smirking face. If she only had him here, she would crack his head on the hard ground again and again and again.
She was rolling deep in rage when a lot attendant knocked on her window: "Hey, lady are you shopping here or not?"
She nearly jumped two feet. Her hand remained in tremor mode as she rolled down the window. "Huh?"
"This lot is for customers only. You gotta go in the store or vamoose," he said with patented New Orleans charm.
Sonja looked where she was. Fate had brought her to a CVS, one that she knew carried her favorite beer. Well, who was she to question?
"I'm going in," she said, hopping out of the car and locking it up with a chirp on her key ring.
For the second time in a half-hour, Sonja could feel someone watching her backside intently. If it were under any other circumstances, she would be flattered.
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After purchasing her beer, dry roasted macadamias, and a pint of ancient Soy Dream covered with three inches of frost, Sonja got in her car with the full intention of heading home, when it suddenly struck her - there was somewhere else she needed to go.
Passing through downtown, she saw them looming ahead of her - the twin bridges that made up the Crescent City Connection. It was after hours, and the commuter traffic had thinned out. She had driven over these spans hundreds of times, but this was the first time she really noticed the beauty of its architecture, an intricate web of steel and rivets.
She parked as far to the right as she could, lit some flares, and placed them around the car. A tall railing surrounded the bridge's edge to prevent jumpers. Still, she sat down with her nuts and beer, dangled her legs through adjacent slats, and looked out over the river.
This was the bridge that would have been blown up if she had failed.
The decorative lights stretched across the top reminded her of Christmas. Their bright reflections played on the water exposing the river's slow, but persistent current. A feeling of calm came over her. She felt possessive of the bridge; she was its caretaker. It was as if she had fulfilled some cosmic duty to protect and defend it and the city she loved. She closed her eyes and listened to the water and the traffic and the creaking metal. She strained to hear the bridge say, "Thank you, Sonja, you done good."
Instead she heard: "If you jump, I'm not going in there after you!" It was a southern drawl she knew too well.
