Happy New Year everyone! Wow, my first post for 2012… hopefully I'll be a bit more productive this year. Y'know I can remember 2011 like it was only yesterday (yes… ha ha, I know very bad joke.)
Here is the latest chapter as promised. Oh also, as a side note, until it was pointed out to me by Megamom2 I wasn't aware that the US didn't seem to have Kettles or Cordless Jugs to boil water in? My apologies for any confusion – the short explanation is, a cordless jug in Oz is a kettle that comes free from an electric base that gives the tea/coffee making individual more freedom.
Anyway… on with the story – and thanks for the reviews and comments! ~ Ozzyols
oXoXoXo
Tony had said his good nights to Gibbs and did a half-hearted tidy of his kitchen and living room before sloping off to bed. Falling prone on the deluxe memory foam topper Tony sighed deeply before rolling over onto his back, letting his right arm drape across his eyes.
Fighting momentarily with his bedding, determined that he wasn't going to need to get back to his feet to resolve the situation, Tony let out a huff as he finally managed to manoeuvre his six foot two form under his sheets and duvet. Slipping his watch from his wrist and dropping it on the nightstand next to his cell phone, Tony pawed the switch on his bedside lamp.
As usually happened, the darkness was suddenly all consuming as that moment occurred where the human eye tries valiantly to adapt to the lack of light effectively blinding someone until their 'night-vision', if you could call it that, became active. Lying there in the dark feeling his eyes adjust to the limited light, Tony's brain started its never ceasing game of cat and mouse with his memories. Geez can't even wait until I'm asleep he thought bitterly. Over active imagination, mouth running away before brain gets in gear, would do better if he closed his mouth and opened his ears; all expressions Tony was intimately familiar with having heard them more than once over the years. Normally quips like that would roll of him like water off a ducks back, but this time. Tony groaned and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. This time all those little comments were just niggling away at him.
"This is stupid!" he muttered finally, kicking off the covers and swinging his legs out of the bed. His head was suddenly thumping like Harold Hill had his seventy-six trombones playing in his brainpan. Dragging himself into his bathroom, Tony popped the blister pack on two extra strength Tylenol and tossed them into his mouth. Turning the faucet on he bent down and scooped several handfuls of water in as a chaser to the pills. Drugs taken, Tony clambered back into his bed and rolled over on his side, his left arm tucked up under his pillow, the right one resting gentle on top. Over two decades in Law Enforcement of one variety or another and personal demons that could make a masochist blanch meant that Tony rarely saw a completely peaceful nights slumber. Tonight he really hoped he would be given a break. Closing his eyes Tony sent a silent thought out into the universe for a quiet nights sleep.
It was a shame that the universe appeared to only have its message service available for requests.
They started innocuously enough… for Tony's dreams anyway. Faces, pale and lifeless, not scary, just present. Faces he recognised from his past, faces of people he barely remembered the names of. Occasionally a ghostly form would warp into view like something from the start of the X-files, and inevitably it would be someone he did recognise; Paula, Kate, even Roy Sanders the unfortunate navy lieutenant that Ziva had been so fond of… and of course… his mother… But tonight they were different. Tonight instead of just wafting past him like mist on a winter's lake, tonight they stood in front of him, index finger planted firmly against their lips shushing him at every turn.
A sea of incorporeal forms parted before him leaving an inky black corridor that drew him deeper into the landscape of his memories.
He was standing in a heavily decorated, almost oppressive room, the dark burr panelling on the walls glossy with age and wood oils, the rug beneath his feet rich in colour and cost. A voice called his name. Turning dream Tony saw the figure of an austere woman crowding into towards him, her mousey brown hair pulled severely back into a bun at the nape of her neck, her large oversized tortoiseshell rimmed glasses elongating her already pinched features. Tony felt his mind lurch. Mrs Bowditch, his first tutor.
"Children should be seen and not heard" she snapped, the high-pitched whine of her voice grating on Tony's nerves.
"He never learns does he?" a familiar, mocking voice purred from the corner of the room.
"Ziva?" Tony turned his eyes away from his teacher towards the sound.
The lovely agent peeled herself away from the wall and walked towards Tony carrying an item that he had only ever seen in action once when he's been a cop in Philly and they'd raided a Madam's Dungeon.
"He's not the fastest chip in the processor." McGee leered as he stepped forward to match his teammates stance.
"Tim?" Tony heard his voice break.
"Eyes front Cadet! Did I give you permission to speak worm?" a new voice bellowed. A meaty fist grabbed Tony's lower jaw and swung in back towards the front where he found himself eyeball to eyeball with the jet-black moustache of the drill instructor that had made his life hell at Rhode Island Military Academy.
Frantically looking around, Tony saw more familiar figures of his past peeling away from the walls and advancing on him until he knew he was surrounded in his hellish dream.
"If Tony closed his mouth and opened his ears, he would do much better a school," the voice of his fifth grade teacher resonated.
"You have just proved my point Mr DiNozzo, as Abraham Lincoln said… 'Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt.'" Tony's face burned with shame at the memory of an ill-conceived answer he had provided years before in his English Lit course at OSU.
The faces and voices of condemnation slammed into him like merciless waves against a small boat. Tony felt himself start to shake uncontrollably as they advanced on him. Tony raised his hands to fend them off only to feel their vice like grip snap around his wrists dragging them back down to his sides and him towards the ground.
Looming over him, malice and cruelty glowing in their eyes, was dream forms of Ziva and McGee and the horrible looking leather and plastic contraption.
"No…" he started to say as his assailants held him down. "No… please… No…." Ziva straddled over his now struggling supine form pushing a large red ball that looked vaguely like a clowns nose towards his face. Steely hands gripped the sides of his head while McGee knelt beside him and began to pry open Tony's jaw. "No… nooo…" Tony moaned between clenched teeth.
"It is for your own good Tony." Ziva murmured. "Don't fight it."
The insidious looking object moved closer and closer towards him. "No, please, no…. I won't say anything… no…" Inexplicably, though he was pinned to the ground, Tony felt a sharp slap to the back of his head. Blinking and staring up at Ziva, he saw another face come into view.
"DiNozzo, put a sock in it will ya!" Gibbs snapped, the sting of the words more powerful than the slap he'd received.
Spent and defeated, Tony stopped fighting, giving in to his panic. "Shutting up Boss," he said finally as the phantom Ziva stuffed the red plastic ball of the gag into his mouth...
Tony gasped for air and threw himself out of his bed landing with a heavy crash on his bedroom floor. Instinctively he reached for his mouth ready to yank out anything in it, only to find nothing there. Panting, Tony raised himself to his hands and knees, trying to fight the wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him. Chest heaving, Tony struggled to return his breath to a normal rhythm. He'd had some extreme dreams in his past, but that was a first.
Moments later, finally satisfied that his chest wasn't going to explode, or that the pizza wasn't about to present a return performance, Tony pulled himself up off the floor and went in search of a glass of water. The greenish-white of the digital display of his DVD player caught his attention, 0521, nearly time for him to get up anyway.
Flicking the switch in the kitchen and hissing as the glare from the light hit his eyes, Tony squinted and fumbled open the refrigerator door and plucked out a bottle of water and twisted off the cap.
Gibbs was expecting him in the office by seven. Just enough time to get in some roadwork and shower and get to the office. Pushing thoughts of the disturbing dream he'd had to the back of his mind, Tony slipped on his running gear and headed out.
The morning was bright and clear but cold. Rugged up in an outfit of grey sweats and a navy blue beanie that he'd once jokingly referred to as coming from Rocky Balboa collection, Tony started pounding the pavement heading towards the tidal basin. As his run settled into the easy ground eating lope that usually accompanied his morning runs pushing the memories of that disturbing dream further to the back of his mind, inevitably the band struck up inside his head and treated him to a one man version of Bill Conti's iconic score. Tony grinned as he felt his gait lengthen.
He'd once bet his squad mates in Philly that he could cover the run up the Fine Arts Museum in less steps than Sylvester Stallone had in the first Rocky. He'd reasoned that Stallone was only a mere five nine while he was a good six two and that extra five inches made his stride wider. As usual there had been much teasing about DiNozzo being 'all mouth and no trousers' so Tony had offered them a bet. If he won, each person who bet against him had to do all his paperwork for a week. If he lost he had to do theirs for a week.
The date was set and the tape had been watched… it had been general consensus that Stallone had done it in, charitably, 30 steps. If DiNozzo did it in anything less than that he was the winner.
Tony grinned at the memory. If he'd had been honest it wasn't a fair fight. Since his first day posted to Philly Tony had included those stairs in his daily run and knew he could do them comfortably in twenty five steps, okay so he wouldn't like to make the bet now, but back then – over a decade ago, he was only two and a bit years out of OSU with a phys-ed degree and he'd won the bet with ease. Tony winnings had seen him not doing paperwork for the next two months.
As Tony relived the glorious look of stunned amazement on his workmates faces that day, ahead of him, in the real world, the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson memorial were coming into view. Slowing as he approached his halfway point, Tony spotted a local coffee vendor he occasionally stopped at. Jogging up past the cart he heard his name being called.
"Eh Tony! No coffee today?" Vince, the proprietor, called.
"Sorry Vince, tight run today." Tony called back, or at least that what he attempted to do.
Lack of discomfort in his throat when he'd been abruptly woken earlier had Tony believing that Ducky had been right and a day of rest was all his voice needed. Of course he hadn't had the opportunity to test that theory until now. He knew he was talking, and sure it didn't hurt to talk, but what was coming out sounded muted in his own ears.
"What was that man?" Vince said, cupping his hand to his ear.
Tony slowed his jog to a walk coming to rest at the cart.
"I said, I'll have to take a raincheck on the coffee."
"Whoa dude, you lost your volume control or somfin?" Vince whistled at Tony's less than impressive vocals.
"Seems that way." Tony arched his chin up and rubbed his neck. Everything felt fine, it didn't hurt like it had the day before to speak, so why the sotto voce all of a sudden?
"Sure you don't want somfin?" Vince asked priming his machine with a blast of air from the milk steamer.
Tony sighed. He'd made good time on the outbound leg and now had broken stride, a coffee to go and an even pace back wouldn't kill him. If anything it would give him a chance to work out the kinks in his chords.
"Sure why not." He fished into his trouser pocket for an ever-present five-dollar bill kept just for these types of occasions.
"Seriously man, that sounds whacked!" Vince laughed as he pulled together Tony's standard order.
"You should try it from this end." Tony scratched his eyebrow. If the director decided to have a game of Chinese whispers today, he'd be a shoe in!
"Here ya go." Vince grinned as he handed the insulated cup over. Tony reached to hand him the bill, but the young vendor waved him off. "Oh the house. Just promise me you'll stop on the way home and pick up some lozenges, cause ya kinda freakin' me out with that voice." He tilted his head to the side. "Kinda like Don Corleone without the gravel"
Tony snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You makin' me an offer I can't refuse?" he wheezed in his best Brando impersonation. Say… that didn't sound too bad!
Vince rolled his eyes and waved his hand at the Agent. "Go on… get outta here DiNozzo before you say somfin' we both regret!"
Tony flashed Vince a perfect DiNozzo disarmer of a smile as he walked away. Once out of sight of the cart, the smile vanished as Tony started talking to himself between sips to figure out exactly what was going on. He tried everything, shouting, singing, quoting agency regs, but after two streets, several odd looks, and one person crossing to the other side to deliberately avoid an apparently unbalanced man, Tony realised that nothing he seemed to do could raise his voice by more than a few decibels.
It was a perfect time then for a small knot of fear to lodge itself in the pit of Tony's stomach.
What if it wasn't inflammation from overuse?
During the interrogation their chemical cook Johansson had tried to get Tony off balance by hypothesising the possibility that fertiliser could atrophy vocal chords. Brilliant! Just the thought I need in my head right now! Good one dumbass! Tony admonished himself as he headed back to his apartment. What if he's right? that annoying little voice in the back of his head chimed in. You could be seriously up the creek if your voice is MIA. Tony gritted his teeth and kept walking trying not to think about the possibilities and the chance that Johansson was right. But if he is…
"Oh that does it!" Tony muttered.
Tossing the half finished coffee in the nearest trash can Tony broke into a hard run heedless of the potential injuries that not warming up could do… it was foolish to think he could outrun his own mind, but at least this way, it had something else to focus on.
Sweaty, sore and out of breath, Tony staggered up the steps of his apartment, the gruelling almost-sprint he had put himself through on the way back had done the job. The thoughts of vocal disaster had been pushed to the back of his mind and rational thought had taken over. His lack of volume was just a side effect! Ducky had been certain that there was no serious damage to his throat, and if worst came to worst, he would just check in with base doctor and get a second opinion.
Breathing heavily though his teeth as he reached his door, his side twinging from a not unexpected stitch, Tony pondered the idea of flopping on his couch and catching another couple of hours sleep except the idea of Gibbs busting his door down and hauling his ass into work wasn't high on his list of priorities.
Tossing his apartment key on the table, Tony headed for the bathroom and a brand new day.