So, while it is not quite my "50th" story ever, this marks my 50th story posted to FFN. I remember the days I used to only scroll through, devouring any fic I could find and constantly checking on the many talented authors here I've followed for years now; some that still linger, while others who have long since retired from the NCIS universe.
I remember being amazed at how an author could have posted even ten brilliant stories, let alone 50, and I could never imagine coming with so many stories myself to tell.
But that's the beautiful thing about the NCIS I love, and why we all are here and still linger. There are so many stories left to tell.
And in light of this, I'm reminded I don't say this nearly enough. Thank you to those that write, to those that read, to those that leave reviews or hit that follow or favorite button - I see your notifications, and I am forever grateful for finding this little corner of our universe. Long live T and Z.
The nights that follow her return, in the moments that follow her awakening in fresh panic and her breath coming in short, shallow heaves, she remembers the feeling of living outside her own body. A summer of captivity is a blur to her shaken mind, and though hours spent in agony are no longer distinguishable from one another, it is only because this was the only way to cope. She was molded this way. Trained for this fate.
Captivity is best spent existing outside your mind, your head, your body.
In the moments that follow the hammer of a heartbeat returning to normal, of breathing evening out, of eyes adjusting to the too-consuming darkness of a bedroom she wills herself to remember isn't a small and dirty cell, she recalls the memories and voices she willed herself to latch onto when the desert became its most suffocating. There were many shadows of people she'd known, voices of lost loved ones. But there was only one face that made it through the darkness.
He proved he'd find her anywhere.
The colors of autumn are too overwhelming for eyes still recovering from a summer filled with brown and grey. The stark red of the thousands of changing leaves that inhabit the nation's capital is as equally unsettling.
When she returns from captivity, she's reminded abruptly of a world that continued living while she was slowly fading.
But red is the one color that hasn't left her side since she'd left the desert. The heat of angry hands, the sound of screams and blast, the smell of his breath and the drink she's so detested by it's kept her from visiting her raven-haired friend. It's the color behind her eyelids in the midst of whirling helicopters and gunshots and the feel of burlap being ripped from her head.
In his company, she finds reprieve. He allows her to feel without feeling, see without seeing, sleep without dreaming. She comes to crave his pressence and his touch with an intensity all their years of partnership hadn't even seen. It is the first, real relief she experiences. When he's around, he keeps the demons at bay, and slowly but surely, she begins to see the world in all its glorious color again.
Their leave from the Navy Yard one evening takes them to the edge of the Anacostia. His chuckle brings a questioning frown to her face, and she's awarded with a slow, adoring smile as he reaches to pluck a leave from her curls, red, orange and yellow.
The smile is a reminder of what allowed her to survive hell and all its demons.
Recovery is a hard-won battle. And what they don't tell you about recovery is that it doesn't really feel like healing at all. The battle you endured through is but the preface of the war you will face. But it's a road he refuses her to travel alone.
She's not quite recovered, but she becomes more alive with the passing of every day. On the days she feels she makes no progress, all she has to do is look into his eyes, because the pride and love there is the proof she needs that the light at the end of this tunnel draws near.
While not fully recovered (because, let's face it, is there such a thing?) She's functional. and there in lies the problem that makes itself known and begins to take precedent. It means she is feeling again, and this is dangerous, indeed.
Dangerous because it makes her want. And she aches with it.
Her desire for him is a thirst she believes but doesn't dare hope he still craves. But indulging either of their thirst would be giving him a taste, and she does not dare to poison him. It's the kind that would make him thirst for more, never satiated to the brink of insanity. Not yet, she tells herself.
It's a reminder that an impending decision looms near. And it's that hope that allows her to indulge in a future where, someday, they'll get their time. They'll get their chance.
Soon, mornings begin to dawn without the demons sleeping beside her. Nights come to pass without Somalia tucking her into bed. When this happens, she becomes more aware of the life swirling around her.
It's then she realizes her partner is waiting.
She doesn't know this man, this Tony. Her partner has never been a man that waits for what he wants, a pattern found in the array of men that litter the path of her life; all leading a trail straight to her father. But unlike all of these men, Tony's patience sets him apart.
It's a patience derived from love.
She doesn't expect his caution, but she realizes that this patience and caution is because she's damaged. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth for all of the ten seconds it takes to give in to lips that so easily yields to hers. She is overwhelmed by the thoroughness of which he consumes her, because she is so very broken but he yearns to complete her and he fills those missing pieces with parts of him. Losing her, only to have her returned, forges his love, his strength, his patience to love her the way he needs to – the way he could not have before. It is in this she realizes for the first time in her life she is meant to be loved, and it is he who is the first to make her feel worthy of that love.
He is the first, and he will be the last.
Years from now, nightmares are replaced with dreams filled of him. No longer does she remember the captivity; she remembers the rescue and her salvation. She no longer lives a life moment to moment. Her days are filled with satiating a thirst for him. The poison no longer runs through her, but it left her weak. They work together to quench their fill, but she's not sure she ever wants to reach hers. She never imagined being addicted to the feeling of dependence, of utter surrender she grants him.
She lives now for him. His touch, his affection, his love. She lives for his gentle hands and his searching lips. He maps a chart across her body, etching kisses where others left scars. He swears when he is through with her, no part of her will be uncharted. What began as lust as fast and consuming as a typhoon to a sailing ship turned to love as slow and consuming as one sinking. And she realizes this is exactly what is happening to her soul. A slow, consuming sinking of one soul into another. The loss of her broke him, but her resurection forges their fate.
She's no longer a captive to the desert. But she is a captive of this love.
And she has no intention of being rescued from him.