AN: Author is very, very nervous. I apologize beforehand for any mistakes. My first longer story - hope you like.
Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters belong to NCIS and its creators.
Chapter 1
"Just tell me your name."
He was drunk enough to find playing along entertaining.
"Let's say...Grant. Red Grant. ". He cracked a smile, but his eyes remained cold and distant.
"You cast yourself as the villain. Interesting." The man leaned back on his chair, shifting his gaze upon the empty glass on the table.
"I'm not buying you a drink, Dr. Phil."
"Didn't think you had any to share."
"So I had a bad week, sue me. Wait, scratch that. Bad month. Although, if you really think about it, it's more like the whole year. Really, a regular Barfly routine. 1987 classic, Mickey Rourke..."
"Faye Dunaway."
"You know movies."
"I know enough."
"Well, to tell you the truth, I lied a little." A wide grin overpowered his features.
"You have the attention span of a five year old."
"So I've been told."
"I thought we could have a serious conversation."
He chuckled. "You want serious, you came to the wrong place."
For the first time, he took his eyes off the glass he was playing with, studying the man in front of him. White, mid-forties, short hair cropped amateurishly in a buzz cut, tiny scar on his left cheek. Average height, average weight, from what he could tell. He smiled to himself, realising what countless sketches and witness descriptions had done to him. This one looked familiar, though.
"I am exactly where I want to be."
"Really? You dream of spending your Friday evenings in bars, drinking yourself into a long, dreamless sleep?"
"No, I dream of spending them with you."
"You kinky bastard. I don't swing that way."
"Always use humour as a shield?"
"Right, right. My suit of armour and all that. Deflection, I believe they call it. Spare me the psychobabble. I'm not in the mood. And if you don't like it, you're welcome to leave."
"We both know I can't do that."
"Aww, I knew it. You met me and now you can't imagine your life without me. Happens to everyone. Like a piercing. Once the skin grows back...you come to love it." He burst into laughter, memories of pigtails, black lipstick and a warm smile coming to mind.
The man looked fairly amused, trying to discern between the usual charade and the effects of the single malt scotch. He couldn't decide if he had changed or remained more himself than ever, even underneath the cheeky exterior.
"And yet you're alone."
The comment had hit a weak spot, making the younger man cringe, but years of undercover work showed their true value, keeping any kind of emotional response off his features.
"I have you, don't I? " he beamed.
"Should I feel flattered?"
"Of course. I don't share my booze-induced self-loathing sessions with just anyone." He gave him a quick wink before signalling the bartender for a refill.
"I thought you were too narcissistic for that."
"We already entered the criticism phase of our relationship, darling? How disappointing. Hate to break it to you, but you don't know me well enough."
"I know you better than you think."
"Is that so?" he stated absently, now leering shamelessly at the waitress who had brought him his drink, her long legs and short skirt waking up senses he thought he had dulled with alcohol. He wished for nothing more than to bury memories and demons in yet another meaningless night soon forgotten. She welcomed the attention, leaning over dangerously close while emptying the table in one swift, provocative move. He held her gaze, and shifted closer, whispering something in her ear. Giggling, she gave him a suggestive look to the big clock on the wall and sauntered away, fully aware of his eyes burning with desire.
The man watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and disgust. He was right. It was the same shallow man. Indifferent, arrogant and uncaring. He forced himself to keep the anger at bay.
"Yes, Agent Dinozzo, I do." That earned a surprised look, but his conversation partner remained unfazed.
"That's Very Special Agent to you." He was now studying the stranger more carefully, brought back to reality by the sudden fragment of honesty in the light-hearted banter.
" You keep proving my point."
"Are you saying that I'm predictable? That would really hurt my feelings."
"Why are you here?"
"Well, it would be rude to leave you talking to yourself."
"I don't know, I do love a good one-sided conversation."
"And the sound of your own voice."
"No, that's you."
"True. But you have to admit, it's pretty sexy." The young agent laughed, enjoying himself, despite the familiar voice in his head that kept nagging him. Something about a Rule 39, about coincidences, about not believing what you were told. But he tuned it out. After so much time spent just going through the motions, there was finally something different. Exciting. He wasn't sure if he cared enough to try to guess the outcome.
"Are there more layers to you?"
"Hey, it's the vodka. And the scotch. I'm not this puffy usually."
"You know what I meant."
"I do. But that doesn't mean I have to answer."
"You can't keep avoiding your mistakes forever."
"What makes you think I make mistakes? I am a highly trained federal agent, after all. My expertise in the field is quite unparalleled, if I do say so myself."
"You're a broken man." He stated simply, ignoring the self-congratulatory rant.
"Oh, really? What was your first indication?" The answer dripped with sarcasm and bitterness.
"Well, for one, you're three sheets to the wind."
"It's not a school night, Mom.". The last word was drawn out in a childish voice." Still could take you." He mused, his eyes eager for a challenge. The man across the table, although older, seemed fit and muscular, and his cold stare told the agent more than any bar brawl ever would.
"I'd like to see you try." he replied, bemused. "Still haven't told me what you're searching for in such a ...dingy establishment."
"Absolution." The rebuttal came quick, unexpected. It was almost a crack in his defence. He could see the price of the admission on his face. Pain filled his eyes for a short moment, the cloak dropped, the silly grin disappeared. But, just as fast, it all fell back into place.
"For what?"
"You're not my priest."
"Talking about it helps."
"Not my psychologist, either. Not that I have one. A psychologist, that is. Or a priest. Wait, there must be a joke somewhere in there. " He snickered, intoxication in full effect. "And, seriously? That is pretty much the worst line ever. Hope you don't do this for a living. You would increase the suicide rate all on your cheerful own."
He didn't know what he said. All he knew was that, all of a sudden, he was staring back in icy brown eyes, too close for his liking. Then, a similar image passed through his mind, in a blur of screams, stuttered apologies and heartbreaking sobs.
"You don't remember me."
The noise suddenly stopped. The loud argument of a couple two tables over, the ominous clink of glasses, the victorious shouts of football aficionados, they all seemed to hit a brick wall towering over the two men. Although he accepted it was beyond the realm of his possibilities, Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo could swear that he heard the familiar click of a gun releasing its safety pin. He looked over and smiled.
"And you didn't even let me finish my drink."
