Author's Note: My...the reviews are coming from every which way these days...I love it! I'm really glad people see a lot of the "gray" areas...that not everybody is perfect or set to a certain standard. I do my best to keep it as well-rounded as I can (with a main, yet not so in your face focus on Gibbs and Ziva-after all, these are the two main characters after all)...just so it can appeal to many types of fans. Then again like two of my good friends have said in previous years...write to find an audience rather than write for an audience-and I'm so into that very line.
I hope everybody continues to enjoy the fic. I know I say that a whole lot, but it took a very long time to get to where we are now in the fic...On some days I thought it'd never get here (especially with the Hiatus I took in-between because of real life events and what not), but I'm glad to be here-aren't you guys?
It's tough...there's a lot of love for these characters and clearly a lot of hate for these characters. It's what's to expected, but I hope that in the end...there'll be qualities left in all characters that will serve as a reason to redeem themselves. What do ya'll say about that? ... Hopefully that happens, LMAO-knowing me and when I get in the mood to write...there's seriously NO telling what'll happen!
Stay tuned and have a great read. Later Days!-Geek
Chapter 27: Living for the Night
The thick summer air prevents any form of air circulation; it cuts any passing of wind completely off. Even with her skin feeling sticky she continues to walk along the sidewalk as she closes in on her fifth lap. Staying in shape is the least bit on her mind; her activity only a prevention from sitting down on a bench and letting the moist air consume her.
The quietness of the outdoors at such an hour serve as a soothing ambience to the hundreds of thoughts rushing through her mind; each hitting a wall inside her mind and bouncing back into the ring to go another round.
Her situation is so unlike herself. The pity gremlins are washing ashore and invading her. She feels the prickle of tears ready to spill, but the feeling vanishes as soon as her anger flares up in tiny spurts.
Her life is a mess.
Her relationships damaged.
Her misery in complete control.
The bottle of scotch falls on its side as his fingers try to find the television remote. Old Chinese food cartons with food still left inside are rotting on every empty space his coffee table can provide. Empty shot glasses litter the small circular rug under the table; dried saliva and sweat stick to the glasses causing a sickening smell to fill the air inside his apartment.
DVDs are laying, scratched, on the top of his television; their proper cases thrown around the room as if they are not of any use to him anymore. The lamps on the end-tables of his lumpy couch are stable, but their bulbs of blown; a replacement for them hardly a thought in his mind.
He likes the darkness.
The lack of artificial light or direct sunlight bring him comfort as he staggers into his bathroom to relieve himself. As he finishes, he feels the crave of more liquor, causing him to attack the bathroom sick with such violent motions the water sprays at him in every direction. Shaking the water from his hands, he steps on top of the hand-towel that is now laying helpless on his darkened bathroom floor and rushes into his kitchen.
Inside the cabinet to the right of his stove is where he keeps his collection. Pulling out the barely eaten cereal boxes, he stacks them sloppily on top of the counter at his waste, causing a handful of the boxes to crash to the floor. Pushing his arm further inside the cabinet, he grabs the brand new bottle of scotch he had hoped to save for a special occasion.
"He never has a reason to drain a bottle of bourbon, why should I?" Tony asks himself aloud.
Gritting his teeth from the anger that flares unexpectedly these days, he unscrews the cap and takes a chug straight from the bottle. The liquid burns his throat slightly, but it is something he has unfortunately grown attached to. He feels his stomach twist, but soon it fades and soon more of his sweet pleasure rushes into the pit of his stomach.
Turning around, he leans his hip against the counter, gripping the bottle as if it were a tall glass of refreshing orange juice. Closing his eyes, he claims more of the heavy liquid; leaving it in his mouth and swishing it around before finally consuming it properly.
As his eyes begin to open, he catches sight of his weapon and badge lying next to each other on the small table by his apartment door. Swallowing his sickness, he holds the bottle to his lips, wanting to attach his mouth to it until it becomes hollow with emptiness-but he can't seem to do it.
With his fingers interlaced and resting behind his head, he listens to the tiny creatures that try to find their way through the darkness. Their sounds are entering his bedroom through his open window, but their existence comforts him as he does not feel the terror of being alone.
He needs a visitor. Someone to occupy his small apartment until he is able to cope with his problems-his nightmares.
He inhales, looking to the side of him and sees the card of the psychiatrist that has the power to help several agents along with their troubles. Exhaling, he looks away; feeling uncomfortable with the idea.
He thinks of Tony; even with the newfound respect for each other, he can feel the pressure of his torment and his childish antics, causing his feeling to be heart.
He thinks of Ziva; her encouragement will be only half, as the other half would try him for whatever strength within himself he is unable to get a hold of, causing himself to feel weaker.
He thinks of Abby; her nurturing will be welcomed and needed in some sort of selfish way, but the rationalism will get the better of him, causing him to feel angry.
He thinks of Gibbs; his attempt at embracing a form of outside help will flutter into the regions of disapproval on how he can not adjust himself with self-help, causing him to feel useless.
He thinks of Ducky; his empowering wisdom and his complete understanding will support him, causing him to find the comfort that he finds himself needing.
Unlinking his fingers, he props himself up in bed and reaches for the cordless phone and the card. After a few rings, Ducky's greets his late night caller with a cheerfulness that can not be erased.
"Ducky, it's McGee."
"Ah, Timothy-what seems to be the reason you are calling at such an ungodly hour?" McGee pauses after hearing the question.
"...I need your help, Ducky."
He can hear the footsteps outside his door and a burst of annoyance washes over his face within seconds. It is her, back again to do some more damage to his already tormented mind and body.
Her red hair appears freshly cut; her nails professionally done and business-like. The perfect outfit to go with her claws and her fangs; two things he seldom likes to remember.
"It's good to see you, Jethro."
He accepts her good words, but he can not find the strength to give her any of his own at the very moment.
She understands his position, but the reality of the situation makes her push her feet forward as determination grows in her mind.
"I understand that this matter is easier handled by those which are unbiased, but this is also a matter that needs to be handled professionally and properly." She watches him close his eyes as if he is not paying her any attention. "The image of NCIS lies on every decision you do or do not make, Gibbs."
He smirks at the mention of his last name, but he chooses to continue listening with his eyes closed.
"One of our own murdered the Director of Mossad." She waits for a few more moments until the quietness begins to bother her on a higher level. "Damn it, Gibbs-Answer me!"
His eyes slowly open; her outburst expected as soon as she made herself visible.
"What do you want me to say, Jen?" He waits for her to give him an answer, but she can not seem to find one at the very moment. "DiNozzo got caught in the crossfire. It's unfortunate…but he did what he was trained to do."
"Your Agents are trained to interrogate civilians, not kill them."
"Director David was not your average civilian."
"That's besides the point!" Her yell is piercing; driving straight into his ears and rattling his brain a little.
"It's not a matter of what is more esthetically pleasing to you, Jen-we're talking about three former Mossads' caught in a crossfire with one of our own-"
"You aren't being fair, Gibbs. Ziva was on Tony's side."
"Was she?" His question is powerful, yet simple. "None of us know what happened in that warehouse. We've all been told the story like it's some sort of folklore. That's it-nothing more. We don't know what happened!"
"Don't be so stupid, Jethro." She hisses, his attitude making her stomach twist. "Despite all the damages, it is petty for you to assume that Ziva set up the game play-that she wanted to cross you by using one of your Agents to kill her own father."
"It's not petty." He mutters.
Crossing her arms, she centers in on his face from the foot of his bed.
"Tryin' to seduce me, Jen?"
Her eyes turn to stone as her cheeks flush. He is not reading her mind, instead he is trying to push her over the edge.
"All these years I tried to understand why it had been so difficult for you to forgive me for what I didn't allow so many years ago." Her words interest him, so he listens closely as she opens her mouth to continue. "I walked away from the relationship we had because I had chosen to focus on my career rather than being the woman you woke up next to every morning."
"Make your point, Jen." His annoyance sprouts up like a wildfire.
"There isn't a reason why, Jethro. I never needed to understand why, that assignment belonged to you!" She uncrosses her arms, but never leaves the position she is in. "…and the same can be said for this."
He wants to tell her she is wrong, but he begins to feel the aches in his body returning quickly; an indication that he needs some sort of painkiller. Staying quiet, he tries to avoid breaking into a sweat.
"It's unfortunate you are acting just as stupidly as you did years ago, but I suppose every person has their faults." She smirks coldly at him.
"Damn it Jen, put a lid on it!"
She can sense his discomfort, but she knows that he is not in any type of danger.
"The first time Ziva left, she was in a dark place; the second time Ziva left, she was in no position to provide details-"
"You don't know the half of it!"
"…and neither do you." Her eyes soften against her will. "…you know all of it, Jethro…"
His eyes open with a wideness she has hardly seen before.
"Do something about it."
"Ya know Jen, maybe I just can't fucking be bothered with doing something about it." The coldness in his tone even makes him shiver slightly, but he continues anyway. "…just…just get the hell out!"
"Jet-"
"I SAID GET OUT!" He reaches for his call bell, ready to press it rapidly if she does not listen to his orders. "I SAID OUT! DAMN IT JEN, GET OUT!"
His rage puts her off entirely causing her to spin around on her heels and flee his hospital room.
Laying back against his pillows, he clears his throat and tries to understand what had just taken place and why. Shaking his head slightly, he sees a nurse enter; the look on her face indicating she had heard his outburst. Sheepishly he nods at her and inwardly sighs in relief as he notices what is on the tray she is carrying.
"Hurt much?" She asks as easily as she can.
"…yeah…" He says quietly as he watches her prep the needle for injection.
"This'll knock you right out until sometime tomorrow morning."
"Hit me with your best shot." He rasps lowly; his grin forced and lifeless.