Chapter Two
Reckless

Ziva closes her car door at precisely 0854, securing it after a spectacular arrival in the lower level garage of NCIS Headquarters. She had come down the ramp a good forty miles beyond any sane limit for maneuvering in the garage and headed toward the brick wall at a suicidal pace. At the last second she gave the wheel a brutal twist that spun the car a hundred eighty degrees, the still driving tires shrieking in protest as they fought the cement. She brought the careening vehicle to a heart wrenching stop two-thirds of an inch from the wall.

Exhilaration surging through her, Ziva is ready for the day. Crossing the garage toward the elevator, she leans into the Iris Scanner and a blue beam of light plays over her eye. It reads, in impressively rapid and accurate detail, the pattern of blood vessels supporting the retina of that eye and the elevator door slides open.

Tim McGee is on the other side.

Ziva smiles; feeling that her already exuberant day picking up. "Good morning, Tim." Her smile is well past lascivious. In the past weeks since the cataclysmic end of the case at the Hotel Maritz, they have developed an interesting and intense relationship.

The taller man blocking her path wears her favorite tan sports jacket over brown slacks. The elbows of the jacket are patched with oval patches, something she knows is quite unnecessary on the immaculate jacket but which suits him and his 'aspired' profession. He is, in his spare time, a writer of mystery and the jacket, like the brown tie and the unlit pipe he frequently uses, are affectations he uses to get in the mood.

Now she sees in his eyes that he is in the mood for more than typing, though a 'femme fatale' will still be a most useful character.

x

"Ziva," he greets her casually.

"Did you know I was coming now?"

"Ziva, the entire building knows you're here." He takes a step back, allowing her to join him in the car. The doors slide shut behind her.

"Sorry, I like to be facing forward, makes it easier to get out."

"You could just back into a space," he points out, trying his best to sound reasonable.

"I did back in," she smirks.

"Ziva..." He sighs, knowing he's not going to win but he tries anyway, "I've asked you a hundred times to be more careful." The car starts to rise.

"I was careful. I did not even touch the wall."

Exasperated, he slaps the 'Emergency Stop' button, the car jerking to a halt, the lighting dimming as the main lights go off and the emergency lights under the hand rails come on. "That's it, I'm busting you for reckless driving." He grabs her shoulders before she can react, spins her toward the silver wall and presses her against it. "Hands against the wall," he commands, his hand on her back pinning her as with the other he begins a thorough and intimate inspection of her body. Lightly dressed in black tee shirt and skirt for the August heat, there's not much to interfere with his search.

"Hey–" She does not 'protest' very strongly.

"You have the right to remain silent," he says, his hands searching her body, exploring her with familiar intimacy through her clothes, now using both hands, coming up in front and finding her firm breasts unencumbered by a bra, stroking and caressing her through the shirt, "though I know you won't."

"You are right." She tries to turn to him, but he holds her in place, right hand pulling at her shirt, tugging it free from her skirt while his left firmly searches the curves of her derrière. His right hand reaches in and up the front of her shirt, finding her defenseless.

x

She's surprised by his uncommon forcefulness, so unlike his usual manner that she feels an intense surge of excitement flare through her body, making her need him more fervently than ever.

"You have the right to appeal - though I'll settle for begging." He reaches under her skirt and her response, whatever it would have been, is lost in a hot gasping groan. He raises her skirt from behind, high enough to grip the waistband of her panties and yank them down while his right hand cups her breast, his fingers teasing her already hard nipple to greater sensitivity as she cries out, unable to muffle her response.

"You have the right to a strip search, and to submit to a body cavity probe." His hand slips between her thighs, past her lowered panties that are stretched over her upper thighs, finding her already warm, moist and ready for him. "You have the right–"

She breaks away from his grip, turns about sharply. "Shut up!" she demands, fastens her lips on his, drives him back against the side wall hard enough to shake the elevator as she presses her heated, disheveled body to his, feeling the cool chill on her bare bottom an instant before his hands cover her, warming her again. She yanks his jacket down his back, tries to restrain herself from ripping all the buttons off his shirt.

She will if they interfere.

xxx

At slightly after nine Abigail Sciuto enters through the sliding door beside the basement elevator into the Morgue, giving a cheery wave to her friends. "Hey, guys!" she greets them with a fifty megawatt smile.

"Ah, my little lotus blossom," Ducky greets her even more expansively, "you're just in time." He takes due and appropriate note of her attire. Under her long white lab coat, which reaches down to her knees, she wears a flame red tee shirt rather than her more usual black, the 'V' of which dips daringly between breasts, but displaying only a discreet hint of her charms. Adhered to it are multicolored reflective letters in the shapes of burning flames, inviting onlookers to 'Light my Fire!' Her skirt is black, knee length and festooned with dozens of safety pins. From each one of them hangs a different silver charm. "That is a fetching outfit."

"Thanks, Ducky." She smiles, grateful for his appreciative praise. She sees the look in Jimmy Palmer's eyes, but frankly she more appreciates Ducky's tribute. She never felt threatened by the man's more mature attention, where Palmer's … well, lately she is never quite sure exactly what the younger man is thinking, only that it makes her not want to be alone in the same room with him - or does it? She's not entirely sure - but she might be willing to risk it.

"For what am I 'just in time'?"

Whatever the older man had been about to regale her with departs with a look into her eyes, which are only slightly more tired than the rest of her. He'd already picked up on her false enthusiasm, her attempt to make her low batteries sound fully charged at their normal dynamo level. "When was the last time you went to bed?"

She grins. "Is that an offer?"

"If you are very fortunate, my dear," he promises, making her grin widen. But it is a grin still heavy with exhaustion. "So tell me, why do you look like you are burning the candle at both ends and are making a game go at the middle?"

"I didn't get any sleep last night," she admits.

He shakes his head reprovingly. "Really, Abby, I know young people such as yourself and Mr. Palmer here are graced with seemingly boundless energy, but going out to clubs until past dawn…"

"Oh, I didn't go to a club last night. That was the night before." She smiles sheepishly, admitting; "And the night before that." She catches Palmer's look and knows she's trapped. "And the night before that…."

"Abby."

"But last night I stayed home, I swear. I even went to bed early."

"Bed?" Jimmy asks broadly, referring to the silver deluxe size coffin that graces her bedroom.

"Don't start," she admonishes. It had been over a month since she had used an actual bed. Well, at least had slept in one.

x

"I heard from Dawn this morning," she announces; more to cut off any more speculation that she can't outrightly lie about. "She called me this morning before I came in. Actually," she admits, "she called me at 1:00, which is why I'm so tired."

"How is Miss Caldwell?" Ducky asks. He doesn't express his thoughts about the need for a several-hours-long late night call, he understands it all too well. It has been only three weeks since the traumatic events in Clarkson Lakes, Virginia, but he knows they were such as the young woman would not put behind her for a very long time.

"She says she's okay. She's seeing a Therapist; three times a week for now. After the first of the month she'll go down to one or two. School starts just after Labor Day, you know."

"I do indeed." The young woman, four years Abby's junior, has taught kindergarten in Jefferson Parish, Louisiana for the past two years. "How is she managing?"

"Well, her family's behind her; that's a big help. But she still has nightmares, and is hesitant around people, and …. Well, actually she's not around people. It's … it's gonna take time."

"Indeed it will," he commiserates. There is nothing surprising in the young woman's plight. Actually, there is one relief he is glad of but would never voice. Though her rape had been horrific, Dawn Caldwell had not wound up on his table as Lt. Christine Martinka had, nor is she still in the hospital, recovering with Dorothy Higgins.

But the scars she carries from her attack, and from having killed her attacker to prevent him from murdering a young child, are not physical. Therefore they will last a long time and will not be easily excised.

x

"We're planning on her coming up for Labor Day weekend," Abby announces more brightly.

"Oh, good. I'd very much like to meet her." In the chaos of those horrible days, they had not encountered one another. He has only Abby's stories.

Gibbs and Director Jenny Shepherd had assisted as well as they could, in emphasizing that Caldwell's firing upon her attacker was to save an innocent child's life, but that had only shielded her from legal torments, not those of conscience.

Abby feels that meeting the older man will do her friend a world of good. "I'll bring her down for–" She stops suddenly, looking about. Autopsy is not the best place to bring someone trying to recover from trauma such as the young kindergarten teacher had experienced.

"Maybe we might meet for dinner," he suggests.

"That would be better," she decides. Taking her out to dinner with Ducky Mallard is just what the young woman needs. "It's a date."

"I shall look forward to it eagerly."

xxx

Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs glances up from his work when the last two of his Field Agents arrive and head for their desks. His eyes slide to the clock on the wall. 9:19. "You're late."

"Sorry, Boss," McGee says, sitting down at his desk and turning on his computer. He doesn't meet his friend's eyes, thinking he's taking a big enough chance as it is. "Got held up in traffic."

"Yes," Ziva puts in. "There was a … stoppage just before I got here." She sits down a bit more gingerly, also keeping her eyes from Gibbs'. She had managed to keep to the strict truth, but neither does she dare to press her luck further.

"McGee, get down to Abby's lab. She called, she's having some problem with her computer that she can't solve."

"What sort of problem?" If anyone is as skilled as he is, it is Abby Sciuto. For her to call for help means it is not just a major problem, but a stupendous one. He mentally puts most of his morning plans on hold - this could take hours.

"How would I know? Her 'whoziwhatzis' isn't linking up with her 'thingamajig'."

'Why do I ask?' Tim thinks. "Right, boss. I'll get right on her thingamajig." He heads for the elevator.

"Now if I'd have said that," DiNozzo complains, "I'd get a rap in the back of my head."

"You still will if that Jurgins report isn't on my desk in the next half hour."

"On it, boss," he assures him, attacking his keyboard.

xx

Abby returns to her Lab, sitting down on a stool and reaches for a slide, but her eyes are so sore she can't focus properly. Perhaps if she closes them for just five minutes….

She isn't even granted as many seconds as the glass doors across the room slid open and Tim McGee strides in, carrying several folders. "Abs?"

"Right here, Tim," she acknowledges, getting off the stool and facing him, wondering what he is bringing her. She tries to mask her feelings on seeing him. He hasn't been in the lab in nearly a month, at least not alone. Every time they encountered each other, it had been elsewhere in the building, and she understands his reluctance.

The last time they had been alone together down here she had made a total fool of herself. Torn by feelings she could no longer endure, she had proclaimed deep, undying love and need for him, and he had done his very best to 'let her down easily'; in the process gently shredding her heart to mulch.

There could no longer be a relationship between them. There had been, but it is over. And to her eternal pain it had been she who had ended it. He had moved on, moved on to others, moved on to Ziva! Now all she felt is the heartache of what might have been.

But she vows to fight the pain, even as it tears her heart, to put on a game face and pretend she's not aching inside. "What can I do to you?" she quips with a lightness that hides - barely - her humiliation and fracturing heart.

He looks at her, having just set the folders on the table, having caught her word and seeking a way to answer. "Abby–"

"Tim, can we just make a deal?" She asks quickly, trying to head him off before her discomfort grows intolerable. "Can we just forget I ever made an ass of myself? I should have kept my mouth sh–"

"Abby, don't say anything more. Let's just forget it ever happened."

She steps up to him, hugging him gratefully. "I'd love t–" She's silenced by his lips pressed to hers, his arms tightening about her.

x

Astonished by his kiss, Abby doesn't try to fight him. Taken along by his suddenly passionate embrace, she gives over, clings to him and returns his fervent kiss with all the fire she can muster. His passion thrills her with the promise of everything she'd longed for over months, a delight she had resolved herself to surrender. When she feels his tongue at her lips she opens willingly, tries to communicate with her moans of delight that she will open herself to him in every way. All he has to do is ask!

He does far more than ask. He pushes her inches away to get his hands between their bodies, grasps the deep 'V' of her flame red tee shirt in a strong grip and pulls hard. She gasps in disbelief, the material shreds loudly as he tears it in half, shoves it and her lab coat down and off her arms, bares her to the cool air and his scalding touch. His hands barely touch her breasts before she throws herself to him, not hesitating a moment, going with the passions she's dreamed of arousing in him.

She clings to him, her hands seeking his heating body, her lips again locked to his, ignited to a conflagration. She feels boiling moisture grow in her even with the sensations in her full breasts pressed to his chest. She starts to tear at him, returns violence for violence, as willing to rip his clothes as he was hers.

Their tongues duel sensuously as she tears at the barriers between them. Buttons fly as his shirt rips even more loudly than hers had and she forces the interfering material out of the way. His hands cover her breasts and she gasps with pleasure that flares through her trembling body.

She tries to climb his body, wraps one leg around his hips, presses herself closer to him, feels him hard against her.

Suddenly, as quickly as she manages to get the last of his tee shirt out of her way, ripping it in half off his body, he has her up off her feet. His hands clutch her bottom as he carries her across the room. She clings to him, wraps her legs tightly around his hips to hold herself in place, feeling him move enticingly against her as he walks.

He carries her to the day bed against the far wall, eases her down upon it. But there is no ease in his motion as he lays her down upon her back, reaches under her raised skirt and grabs the thin strap of her black thong at her right hip in both hands. He pulls hard until it breaks with a loud snap.

x

"Abby?" she hears his voice, but it's different. Not as urgent. Too calm. She feels his hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her. "Abby?"

Suddenly he is gone from her, no longer filling her, but he's shaking her and she's face down on a hard table, not with her head back on a comfortable pillow. "Abby, wake up."

x

She looks up, picks her head up off the table, wants to sob in frustration as she looks up at Tim McGee. She focuses her still bleary eyes on him, sees he's wearing a sports jacket and tie, not the clothing which isn't laying in a shredded pile on the floor.

She looks at him, the dream resolving into what it really was. She feels heat fill her face, shamed by her blush, the moist heat between her legs an accusation against her.

"You okay, Abs?"

"What are you doing here?" she asks, unwilling to surrender the reality she'd longed for to the reality she has to admit.

"You called about a problem with your computer," he reminds her. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, McGee," she says sharply, stands up and turns away. The moisture in her soaked thong continues to torment her, and she's utterly ashamed, too frustrated to face him. "It was just a dream. Just a stupid dream."

Tim doesn't understand her fire but decides it's best not to ask.

xx

Gibbs snatches up his phone before the second ring, identifies himself with his usual brevity. The conversation is short. Putting the phone down, he pulls open the right hand drawer of his desk while announcing in a sharp voice: "Gear up, people. Petty Officer found dead in his apartment." He pulls out his gun and shield, as well as the keys to the blue and white Investigation van, tossing these across the room to DiNozzo. "Ziva, get McGee down to the garage." He's already on his way to the elevator, which he would impatiently hold, before the others are out from behind their desks.

"You're moving a bit carefully this morning, Ziva," Tony observes speculatively, noting the way the woman steps out even as she opens her cell phone, pressing the speed dial.

"Tim, meet us in the garage." She closes the phone and looks up at Tony, calling on all of her Mossad training to keep a blank expression. "I had a particularly strenuous workout this morning," she tells him, pulling on the light summer weight black NCIS jacket that had been draped over the back of her chair.

"Feeling stiff?"

"Not me," she retorts with a smirk.