just because the last page of our story got ripped out doesn’t mean it’s the end, we just have to find it
We’ve come a long way
You know i hope and i pray
That you believe me
When i say this love will never fade away
She’s afraid of touching him.
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.
“McGee, where the hell are we going?”
Tony’s breath heaves in their ears; over static and the sound of her own, heavy panting. Behind them, metal doors fly open and resound across the warehouse rooftop. Picking up speed, Ziva bursts past Tony as they fly around several shipping containers and hears her partner groan from behind her.
“We are running out of rooftop, Tim.” She shouts, looking quickly over her shoulder to see their three tails gaining on them. One of the men reaches for his waist, and her own hand drops to the loaded weapon at her side.
Furious typing echoes in their ears as they weave between crates. “I’m trying,” Tim says panicked, just as the first shot cracks across the rooftop and echoes loudly from around them.
Ziva twists while Tony flies past her; taking aim and shooting three consecutive rounds, then turning around once again to catch up with her partner. She smirks as she hears one of them cry out and their gun clatter to the ground, his body following a second later.
More gunfire rings out from behind them. As Ziva falls into step beside Tony, he reaches for her free hand and grabs her, pulling her with him behind a storage shed.
They stumble, falling on top of one another, and there’s a second there with hands and breaths mingle dangerously together. But the sound of gunfire grows louder, and Ziva quickly untangles herself from Tony, using her hands on his shoulders to push herself up. Tony’s hands guide her off him and he heaves himself off the ground, straightening up behind Ziva. She fires off rounds while ducking around the corner, but she can’t look for too long and he watches her frustration quickly build.
“I do not have a clear shot.” She grits out, throwing her back against the wall as another storm of bullets hail from behind their cover. McGee’s rushed voice fills their ears.
“Guys, it says you’re right on top of it.”
The partners whip their heads toward each other, then scan their eyes around the rooftop. Nodding toward Ziva, Tony takes a step out into the open area of the rooftop, and Ziva gives him a hard nod in return, throwing herself around the corner to fire off more shots to cover him.
“There’s nothing here, Tim.” Tony growls in their ears. Ziva keeps an eye on his back out of the corner of her eye; keeping the other eye on their pursuers.
“How far off the ground are we?” Ziva’s voice takes on a slightly panicked edge, and that catches Tony’s attention. He turns around and sees Ziva hold up her weapon, discharging an empty cartridge.
Tony steps toward a raised concrete wall that blocks an unobtrusive skylight. His voice is hard in her ear.
“I’m not Jason Bourne-ing it again. That was the deal last time: no more jumping.”
Ziva aims at one of the men’s shoulder, hissing a curse of irritation when the bullet lodges in a crate behind him instead.
“Who is Jason Bourne?”
McGee’s typing doesn’t pause. “The protagonist from a series of novels that were adapted into a–”
“Jesus, Ziva.” Tony groans, cutting him off. “I lent you the movie two years ago. Watch it already.”
Ziva opens her mouth to speak, but then Tony’s yell startles her.
“Ziva, look out!”
She turns around just in time to see one of the men lunging toward her. She narrowly misses his outstretched arm, and his hand curls around empty air as she drops low to sweep her leg under his.
Tony’s half-way toward her when the thug falls. She kicks the fallen gun out from his reach, causing it to skid along the rooftop toward Tony’s feet. She runs toward him, and he grabs the gun before turning with her toward the edge of the rooftop.
“Guys, what’s happening?” McGee’s voice fills their ears, but anything he says next is drowned out by the return of more gunfire. Tony reaches for her to roughly shove her body in front of his, and in the next seconds that follow her brain registers the following things:
The gunfire, a soft sound of surprise from Tony, the blurred color of red, and Tony’s weight pulling her as he stumbles backward.
Her feet leave the ground, and the sudden rush of gravity pulses through her body before everything fades to black.
3.11; The Rashomon Job / 4.17; The Radio Job
Toast after toast - a Tiva drabble
The first time he hands her a drink they’re sitting on her couch, the night after Gibbs has left.
He has showed up at her door with a six pack in his hand and a lost expression on his face, and they are sitting side to side, at a loss for words.
It doesn’t really help him that she makes a bittersweet toast to the new leader.
The second time happens at a run-down motel in the middle of nowhere in California. She finds him in his room, sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, holding a bottle of tequila.
She sits down quietly beside him and he just passes her the bottle, because damn, she looks like she needs it too. She takes it and raises it the slightest bit, in a silent homage to the friend they just lost.
The third time they’re sitting in the bullpen, in a pretend not-date that involves a classic pirate movie and a lot of things left unsaid.
He hands her a soft drink in a big Styrofoam cup, and he’s brought back to his very first date with his very first crush in his early teenage.
After all, they’ve been through so much together during the last year, that it feels inevitably like a first.
The fourth time they’re finally in a fancy place, but ironically enough this is just another mission.
He hands her a glass of Martini when he sees how the tension is eating her up alive. He wants to keep her grounded, but it’s not with liquor that he intends to pursue that goal. With his free hand, he brushes her shoulder and back lightly, and his pointless toast “to Berlin” is uttered just to make her hear his voice, so that all the things he’s said at the hotel an hour earlier can resonate in her ears. I’m here, we’re a team, we’re gonna get him.
Stay with me.
The fifth time, he hands her a glass of champagne at McGee’s and Delilah’s wedding, and this is the closest they’ve ever come to an actual date.
The look they share over the toast to the newlyweds holds so much more than just the joy for their friend’s happiness.
The sixth time is on that same night.
When she hands him a beer while they’re sitting on his couch, he feels like they’ve come full circle, so he grabs the bottle neck with one hand and her hand with the other, and as soon as the bottle stands safely on the coffee table, his cool fingers find their way to her cheek and his lips to hers.
The seventh time happens on their first actual date. He hands her a glass of red wine, and the tips of his fingers tingle when they meet hers on the edge of the glass.
He’s reminded of a certain Styrofoam cup, and the memory makes him realize that with her, it always feels like a first.
The eight time he hands her a glass of Italian straw wine, at the end of a fancy dinner at the Italian restaurant. As she raises the glass for the toast, he can’t help being proud of himself, because that ring looks really good on her.
The ninth time they’re sitting on their bathroom floor, possibly the least romantic and most inappropriate place to make a toast, but when he hands her a glass of water after she’s done with throwing up, her smile is not just grateful. They do have something to celebrate, after all.
The tenth time and many others following closely, he hands her a bottle of a home-made sort of Gatorade that he prepared for her, to help her through the labor.
At each passage, he can’t tell who’s hand is shaking more.
In the following years, he loses count. She hands him a cup of coffee every morning, and he hands her a mug of tea every night, not to mention tons of glasses of milk and juice that they hand to their little one.
He loves how such a simple gesture can enshrine so much love in itself.