I apologize for not getting this up sooner. I ran into some major writer's block, and then school started up again, and I just never got around to writing this. However, I felt guilty about it so I spent my evening working, and this is what I've produced. I like it. I think there might be one more chapter after this, maybe two if I get enough reviews.
Disclaimer - (n) a mean word used to lower drastically the self-esteem of overly-obsessive aspiring authors.
The rain pours down so rapidly, and in such large quantities, that there is not even a suitable metaphorical description for it. It as if all the air has simply turned to water, and gravity has suddenly kicked in. It's hard to tell where one raindrop ends and another begins.
A car roars by, sending a tidal wave of dirty, gritty water flying. The loose gravel in the water makes tiny pings as it hits the body of our car, parked on the shoulder of the road.
"Is everything alright?" I ask finally, turning to look at the man in the driver's seat beside me.
He taps his fingers against the steering wheel and blows air out of his mouth. "I don't know."
The constant drumming of rain on the windows is accompanied by the squeak of windshield wipers, working at top speed, yet making not an inch of progress. I keep my eyes on the foggy windshield as I probe cautiously, trying not to be overly-intrusive.
If something is bothering him, he needs to talk about it. I am not sure I'm the person to talk to, but I'm here, so I do what I can.
"What's wrong?"
There is no answer. He taps a little more violently on the dashboard and shakes his head. Starting to feel alarmed, I rerun the evening in my head, wondering if I've done something wrong. Perhaps he is just upset by the lack of progress in the case?
"Look, Tony, I get that you're frustrated," I say as gently as I can. "I'm tired of this whole thing, too. But we definitely made progress in our roles today, even Vance said so-"
"It's not that," he says finally, keeping his face turned away from me. A flash of lightning brings a sudden burst of light into the darkness, and I catch a glimpse of his reflection in the car window. He looks like he's in pain.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, wondering how he could have been injured. No one approached us.
He shakes his head. "No. I'm just-"
He leaves the sentence hanging as another jagged finger of lightning reaches down to claw at the earth.
"If there's something going on," I say finally, deciding that honesty is the best policy in this case, "then you need to tell me about it, Tony. We need to be focused, and-
"I kept flashing back," he interrupts suddenly, eyes fixed on the raindrop-studded window. His fingers keep a steady beat on the steering wheel.
I'm taken aback. When he doesn't say anything further, I have no choice but to press for more before his defenses go back up. "How so?"
He shrugs one shoulder, keeps his face averted, and takes a shuddery breath before answering. "I don't know how much you know about my last case, but-"
"I talked to Ziva about it briefly," I admit. He nods shortly.
"How much did she tell you?"
"Only that you argued and she went for a run."
He takes another shuddery breath. "I never should have let her go on her own, but I was angry and-"
"She doesn't blame you," I say softly when he breaks off abruptly again.
"That's what makes it worse," he declares violently, angrily. "She didn't come back, so I went after her, and I was so, so angry about it. And then I found her-"
Another crash of thunder masks a violent intake of breath that verges on a sob. However, when he turns to look at me, Tony's eyes are fiery and dry.
"I can't stop thinking about it. Every time I close my eyes I can see her, bleeding out in the woods, and I think I'm going insane."
And I don't know what to do. This man I barely know is pouring a truckload full of guilt out to me, and all I can do is sit there. It seems to be all he needs.
As thunder resounds overhead, Tony turns the car back on. "She doesn't hate me, but I hate myself," he says quietly, pulling the car onto the road in a crunching of loose gravel.
We sit for a couple of minutes in silence. The only sound is the pounding of rain on the car, puctuated by violent crashes of thunder that I can feel in my chest.
"Have you talked to her about it?" I surprise myself by asking.
A car rushes by, through a puddle, and water slaps against our window, streaking the glass with dirty water and loose pebbles.
"We're not . . . very good at that," he says slowly.
I find myself impatient. "Well how do expect to improve if you never practice?" I demand. "Tony, you're letting this eat away at you, and now it's affecting your work. You need to-"
"I can't." He says it flatly, angrily. "You don't understand. We were fighting, because-"
He breaks off again, shakes his head, and sighs. Thunder booms, and the car seems to quiver with the force of the noise.
"Because?" I prompt gently.
"We were . . . pretending to be a married couple," he says flatly. "Sharing an apartment, pretending to everyone that we were in love . . ."
It hits me, and I suddenly feel like maybe I'm starting to understand.
"You fell in love."
He shakes his head. "No," he says, "I fell in love."
I remember my talk with Ziva, remember the exchange in the locker room, and I think that maybe Tony's missing something.
"Does she know?" I question.
He shakes his head. "No. I'm not an idiot. Elle, we've been working together for years, and-"
"And good relationships are built on long-term friendships," I say, feeling vaguely like I'm parroting one of those Health and Wellness magazines.
He smirks. "I don't know if you could call what we have a 'friendship.'"
I sigh and decide to be blunt. "Look," I say, "the whole reason I asked to talk to Ziva was because people don't think I work as well with you as she does. You know why? Because in and out of the office, you guys have something special. It's called chemistry, okay?"
Tony just looks at me, so I continue.
"And I don't know what you saw in that locker room," I say, starting to feel like I'm on a roll, "but I saw two people absolutely concerned for each other, who could tell something was wrong even without talking about it. And if that's not chemistry, then-"
Tony interrupts finally, looking angry for the first time. "You know what I saw in that locker room?" he demands in a tight, angry voice. "You know what I saw? I saw a swastika frickin' carved into my partner's stomach, okay? And I'm sorry if I'm not fulfilling your idealistic fairytale ending, but I can't live with myself right now, and the last thing I need to do is screw Ziva's life up anymore by-"
"By giving her the happy ending you both want?" I ask quietly. Thunder rolls directly overhead, but it's drowned out by the sudden silence in the car.
Finally, as the rain courses down, Tony turns the car back on, pulling off the shoulder with a little more force than is actually necessary. In a flash of lightning, I catch a glimpse of his silhouette, jaw clenched and eyes hard.
"She doesn't blame you," I whisper, looking out my window. Thunder crashes overhead.
"She doesn't hate me," he responds harshly, "but I hate myself."
And I can't seem to think of anything further to say because, really, there isn't a suitable response. So we drive back to NCIS in silence as, outside, the rain pours down.
Hurray! Writer's block is over! What doth thou thinketh, oh readers of mine?
