A/N: Okay so it feels like I haven't written an author's note in forever! So . . . . What's up? How goes it? Life in the world of Kit has been clicking right along to a rather brisk clip (i.e. I have been a very busy bumble-bee) Between now and when I last posted several minor milestones have occured: I took my ACT, attended Homecoming (so much fun -and spirit week? Let's just say my class' float won and when we had to dress up as a character on Wednsday? I totally went as an NCIS Special Agent. Let's just, I am so getting a hat made.) and, perhaps on the more exciting end of the spectrum, NCIS SEASON 8 PREMIRE! I was satisfied, needless to say, but I totally called the end. Just saying. Anyway, CBS will not be receiving any unhappy letters of complaint. And the second episode with the interns? I liked it a lot. So, yeah, this year is looking good . . . . . I decided to continue this because 1.) I had several requests asking for such and 2.) I just couldn't leave it alone. This installment, however, deals with the more literal interpetation of the no_safety_pin challenge on LiveJournal. Enjoy, keep the peace and much love, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: On Sept. 21st, when I opened my lunch, I had a note written on my napkin. It read: "14 hours and counting. Go Team Gibbs!" Best Mom ever? I think so. :^)

By noon it's apparent they aren't talking save for the few, terse words exchanged out of utter vitality for continued functioning of the team.

DiNozzo's arrival this morning was uncharacteristically early and his outward façade was firmly in place, the old nothing's-wrong mask carefully secured and unwavering. Impeccable charcoal suit, pressed shirt, straight tie, a picture of total togetherness. Except for the large, dark bruise staining his left cheekbone and the slight swelling underneath his eye; the shallow scrape at his temple.

But it isn't the injury that gave him away, it's his eyes. Anxious, guilty, agitated eyes that have spent the better half of the morning avoiding the smoldering hostility that emanates off of Ziva.

Evidently World War III broke out last night and the treaty has yet to be signed before the casualties begin to rise.

For two people who can't normally go half an hour without looking across the bullpen to make eye contact, they've studiously kept their respective gazes diverted to anywhere but the other. The quiet is oppressive, proving to be more counterproductive than conductive to the investigation because, while the lack of banter-filled distractions is in the theory a good thing, the silent no-man's land between the desks has everyone walking on eggshells. Strategic maneuvering on both parties' behalves has enabled the two to avoid being within the same vicinity for the majority of the morning, but Gibbs' patience is wearing thin for this petty childishness.

He doesn't want to get involved, has no desire to play mediator. But if Tony's got an ugly bruise, then they've really gotten into it, their verbal sparring mutating into violence, and frankly, the caseload just can't allow for Ziva to kill DiNozzo.

With a sigh, Gibbs stands, grabbing his half-empty Styrofoam cup and heading for the elevator.

Maybe when he returns some of the ice will have melted.

It starts with a dead petty officer. A dead petty officer and a crazed weapons expert who is quite skilled at evading the law.

The tipoff should have been the tipoff.

The case has taken the better half a week and it's been twenty-five hours since DiNozzo's spoken to Ziva and it all comes down to this.

There are no take-backs . . . .

They set up outside Hartman's residence on a sleepy street in a Georgetown suburb after the neighbor called, reporting gunshots, and, upon further investigation, a body that suspiciously looked like the fugitive himself.

NCIS is notified and immediately dispatched.

Or do-overs . . . .

Gibbs is near the back of the truck, grumbling about the gloves being moved again as Ducky and Palmer are either engaged in an intelligent conversation or an intense debate. McGee, having ridden in the backseat with a smoldering Ziva, had flown from the Charger before the vehicle even came to a complete stop. DiNozzo spent the entire commute glaring at his partner in the rearview mirror, carrying the tension all the way from the Navy Yard to the quiet neighborhood they now find themselves in.

In some cruel twist of fate, however, the two belligerents have miraculously found themselves within ten feet of each other, Tony stomping ahead of Ziva as she stalks behind him, scowling. McGee shakes his head, stepping underneath the awning of the wrap-around-porch, as he tosses a final glance back at his teammates. They should be over it by tomorrow, he decides, extending his hand and knocking, twice on the door. The only answer he receives is a phone ringing on the other side.

And hindsight is 20/20 . . . .

She had a feeling the day Tali died, an odd churning in her stomach, a tingling at the back of her neck. And when the bomb detonated on her in Cairo back in '01, she scarcely had time to react to the unsettling warning before it was searing pain and lights out.

The same feeling has crept over her now and she nearly wastes too much time acknowledging the foreshadow of devastation to do anything about it. With a strangled cry of, "Down!" she's already half-way into tackling Tony to the ground before all hell breaks loose.

You can't find the damn rewind . . . .

She hits him with all the mighty force that one-hundred twenty-seven pounds can muster, pressing him to the concrete path with a bone-jarring thud. He feels the knee of his pants tear on the gravel before the pain hits because, of course, it had to be his bad knee. And he doesn't know what it is that possesses him –and probably never will- but he's got Ziva flipped over, pinned beneath his body before he even realizes he's moved to shield her.

The sound of the explosion is deafening, the roar of heat and the crack of splintering wood as the house just crumbles. There's silence as the dust settles and shards of something, rock, wood, metal, he doesn't really care, rains down from above, softly like snow flurries, falling on him and around him.

Only when Ziva curses him does he think to move off of her and she's already on her feet and halfway to the porch while he still sits there, trying to get his breath back.

Suddenly, he springs up, yelling, "McGee!" when he realizes what the hell just happened.

Forget the instant replay . . . .

He's on his back, having been half-carried, half-dragged by Gibbs and Palmer to the lawn and away from the smoldering remains of the Hartman residence. His skin is deathly pale and his eyelids purplish and crimson is leaking from his nose and ears and lips. There're splinters and debris and his foot is twisted at a funny angle as Palmer administers CPR and Ducky begins cataloging his injuries. Gibbs is crouching near his head, telling McGee that he has absolutely no one's permission to die. Sirens begin to wail in the distance and they're so close, but so far, and neighbors are coming out of their homes and babies are crying and hysteria begins to set in.

Ziva is a few feet away, snapping orders into Gibbs' phone, Hebrew sneaking into her words. And Tony can see her trembling slightly, but admires the unwavering strength her voice commands. Gibbs barks at him to secure the scene, call the bomb squad, keep order.

Because you cannot live in tomorrow anymore than you can live in yesterday.