If there's a logic to this fic, it has not introduced itself to me...
Just Add Fuel
2
"Where's Abby?"
Despite the assurance of scientists that this is actually an ordered universe, it's possible for a normal human to discover that the chaos theory applies solely to his existence. In this case, the solid form of Agent DiNozzo has been rendered an apparition. Like a sauce left on the fire too long, he's become a scalded reduction. Which might explain why he's scouring the room for a companion. Ziva is not serving that role, her nose nearly pushing through the computer screen as if one can escape into cyberspace by physically merging with the monitor. The director's office door tries to hold in the sounds of an argument, Vance and Gibbs playing dominant mountain ram over protocol gone slightly swervy. And McGee refuses to supply Tony's need for a target by simply not being here.
The bullpen features two people, one attacking financial records like the reports are personally offensive while the other ponders how to incinerate a stack of mug shots with a coffee-bleary gaze.
So far, not so much as a smolder.
His gut has already marked the perp with a shiny red arrow. A certain black-booted, pigtailed vision had agreed with his assessment. Might have even hugged him for it. Few things compare to hearing 'you're right' in adoring tones. And so he calls down to the lab once more, hears the buzz of a line unanswered. There's an epic huff before he repeats;
"Where's Abby?"
This new ghostly existence persists in the blatant ignorance of his partner. That she hasn't nudged her mouse in the last three minutes tells him it's not an engrossment in the data that keeps her from responding.
"Are we not talking?" Tony finally asks, braving the minefield. "I thought that was yesterday."
"Yesterday we were not touching."
Some days it's possible for Ziva to be kind, as long as one's definition of some equals never. He remains behind his desk because a crucial part of conversation is shielding. "And why was that again?"
"Because your hand traveled improperly."
Truth is occasionally dirtier than imagination. "I saved that horse!"
"You were the one who fed it the apple."
Truth also likes long walks, umbrella drinks and treading on his dignity. "Since when do horses choke on apples?"
Now the mouse moves, but only because she slams it. "We were warned that the animal was elderly."
"So I should've automatically assumed it had no teeth? I'll start my first business venture in the under-served field of equine dentures." The phone jumps into his hand, an appendage still tacky from repeated sanitization. In his defense, performing a smash-and-grab version of bobbing for apples was a better option than the Kiss of Life. "It helped solve the case, you'll recall."
"What we know and what we can prove are separated by the work some of us are not doing."
"I work better when I'm praised," he mutters as the lab continues to defy his calls. Rising, Tony notes the barren halls and decides to seek company elsewhere. "So where's Abby?"
"Undertaking an autopsy."
He's already walking toward the hallway, his feet managing three steps before her verbal slip became his physical trip. For all the corrections he's made to Ziva's English, there should be an honorary degree on his wall.
"I hope that's her location and not her vocation. And where's Probie?"
"I can speak the language, you know. She's doing an autopsy. And McGee said something about numbering pigeons..." The thought trails in the wake of proving his point.
Counting his chickens, which is the phrase his mind supplies, makes no additional sense. Which must show on his face.
With a careless hand she waves Tony's stare away. "Something to do with mathematics and birds. I wasn't listening."
Sad, wretched story of his life.
The autopsy is a rather messy affair, it turns out. It's not the gore of slopped blood, but a tangle of laughably fluffy innards. The prosector is awash in corporeal contents, which to Tony's judgment is fairly endearing. Abby's goggles catch the overhead light as she lifts a crucial organ to the sky, scrutinizing it. Meanwhile, nondescript intestinal bits are carried by staunch gravity to the floor, the relocation initiated by her weaving elbow. Were this any other dissection, he'd be vomiting. Instead he grabs a loose sterile glove, scoops up the fallen particle where it perches on her platform boot and returns it to the table.
"Making my case for me, Miss Scuito?"
"No, I don't think Gibbs is interested in your excuses, Tony." Her bright lips are licked as the forceps dive back into the body. "Oh, you mean the case-case."
"Probably?" He hedges. Abby-speak can be a difficult trail to hike. "What did you mean?"
"Nothing." The head shake is too firm, sending pigtails into orbit. Tony frowns. If she starts rambling, there's trouble. "Anyway, I pulled some interesting fibers off this poor ragged beast. I mean, this thing's like a Halloween mecca of playground abuse. All tangly and disintegraty. I mean, it's like a Tim Burton prop. Check out the hair..."
"Gibbs knows." It would have been a question if Tony wasn't already making calculations about how fast he can run.
The damaged doll is pushed aside, Abby's eyes doing the Disney sympathy thing, which is two levels more potent than the Precious Moments gaze. He hates this look. It's what the audience gives Bambi's mother before...
"Sorry, Tony. But the 'separate car' thing only works when you arrive at different times."
Okay, so smart people occasionally wash their brains down the drain during those water-preserving showers. The floor is vastly more intriguing than people realize, hence his sudden, consuming interest in its composition. Honestly, it's like admitting a misdeed to one's little sister, though he's not sure if its her intuitive sense or her possible disappointment that bothers him more.
"How bad is it?"
"You were doing good right up until you were both late Tuesday. Again. Asking Gibbs not to notice a pattern is like assuming the Pope would ignore a forked tail."
What he shouldn't say is, "Does no one care about the planet?"
Because what she says is, "And later I expect details on what that means. But right now I'm proving your killer took our dead toddler by examining her doll. Which, you'll notice, is still in four hundred pieces and Gibbs wants a fiber analysis yesterday and he's so gonna kill you two and it's only fun when I get to watch. The killing, I mean, not the caring about Terra Firma."
"Do you breathe?" This is his way of saying thank you, though for what he's not sure.
And with her eyes freshly returned to the disassembled tot toy, Abby gestures toward the door. "Go stop crime. And also plan the funeral."
Death by vicious head slap. "Weep mightily for me?"
"Gnashing of teeth and inappropriate knee highs are assured."
The walk back to the bullpen is accompanied by a spaghetti western soundtrack in his head. A long journey to the short rope of the gallows. The financial records that held Ziva's hand all morning have been replaced by a rummage through her backpack. She's pulling things out, laying them neatly on the desktop and digging trenches of worry around her mouth.
"Perhaps I left it..." And then she piles everything back in only to remove them again as though a reenactment of an OCD scavenger hunt will alter the outcome. A fractional glance is spared to her partner. "My hair tie has been tractor beamed into the vortex, or whatever the nerd terminology is."
Tony shakes hands with resignation, accepts its business card and promises to call again soon.
"Here." The quested black scrunchie is yanked from a side pocket of his own pack. Looking both ways before handing it over, Tony realizes the futility of the effort. They're as good as busted anyway.
Even as Ziva stuffs the tie into the corner of her mouth, fingers prepping her hair for confinement, she unleashes a third hand to aim the detection gun at him. "Gibbs knows?"
Slumping at his desk, Tony opts for fatalism. "I want no less than Armani for my burial suit."
"Perhaps the death sentence will be commuted if we just confess." Creating a ponytail so tight as to immobilize her forehead, Ziva shrugs. "I'm just saying..."
"Which is what people say when they have no actual defense," Tony reminds her.
The director's door opens, a silver-haired steam engine barrels out and both agents are on their feet, anticipating an order or a condemnation.
"With me," the boss barks.
In a rustle of fabric and panic their backpacks are gathered, guns holstered and glances exchanged. Each set of eyes announces the same thing; I won't break if you won't. There will be an elevator ride, a car ride and possibly a ride to the E.R. if either cracks. Confined spaces make fabulous interrogation rooms.
Confession, she says. But sometimes the smallest fire needs no added fuel to burn bystanders to cinders.