Fic: From the Bottle
Title: From the Bottle.
Rating: PG
Fandom: NCIS.
Pairing: Tony/Ziva.
Warning: Character Death
Summary: Sometimes it takes the bottom of the bottle to reveal the truth.
AN/Disclaimer: Not beta'd, don't own.
The apartment was dark and silent when Tony walked in. He had not been expecting anything different, but he was still somewhat uncomfortable with the fact. It had been two months since the call, why could he not just let it go? Tony dumped his backpack by the door and walked into the kitchen to begin his nightly routine.
First on the agenda was the bottle of scotch in the cabinet. Fresh-he had finished the last one yesterday night. The weight of the bottle was comfortable in his hand. Later maybe Tony would reflect on how much Gibbs’ taste in alcohol had rubbed off on him, but not now. The second thing he grabbed was the remote for his stereo, abandoned on the counter next to the sink full of dirty dishes. Pressing play, Tony took his bottle of sorrows and walked slowly into the living room. He settled down on the couch with a sigh. Grimly, Tony opened the bottle and took a swig.
Light jazz twirled softly around the apartment as Tony took drag after drag of the scotch. He did not think of anything, just the burn of the alcohol, the shiver it shot up his spine. He thought of the weight in his hand and the way it was becoming less and less. The lights were low; he needed to replace bulbs that had long since burned out. That was rather how he felt, burned out.
It did not take as long as it usually did; he was only about a quarter of the way through the bottle. Tony felt lightheaded-maybe he really should have eaten earlier-and the living room felt warm. He almost laughed when he thought how “living room” was really not the right term. “Dead room” seemed more suitable. He took another sip from the bottle when the smell of lavender tickled his nose.
“You are going to destroy your liver if you keep drinking this much every night,” a warm voice that had always reminded Tony of coffee said behind him. A wry smile formed on his face but Tony did not turn around. As the woman walked around the couch and sat in the chair across from him Tony took yet another pull of the scotch.
“But we have such interesting conversations. You would miss me if I stopped drinking.” He said, ignoring the fact that his voice sounded like shit. Kind of like how his head felt. The woman frowned but did not comment. Tony looked over at her sadly. She was beautiful-like always-and her eyes shone with wisdom beyond her years. Her hair was down; Tony always liked it best that way. It was easy to run his hand through it, easy to twirl around a finger absentmindedly.
How are things?” she asked after a moment. Tony shrugged and took a gulp from his bottle. Halfway empty. She always asked him that.
They’re ok. They all tiptoe around me, except for Gibbs, but you know how he is,” Tony replied. He focused on the glass in his hands. It was smooth and warm now, he had been holding it for a while. The woman leaned forward and reached for Tony, hesitated, and pulled her hand back. Tony sighed and took brought the bottle up to his lips.
“I wish you were here,” he whispered sadly, taking a long drag. The woman nodded.
“Me too, Tony, but you have to pull yourself together, you cannot live like this.” Her eyes begged him to give in, to move on.
“I-I can’t.”
“Tony-”
“You’re dead, Ziva.”
Tony looked at the Israeli woman, he could see the trickle of blood slipping from her temple, and he knew that her hair hid the bullet hole that had ended her life. Ziva looked at him heartbrokenly. In death she had become more readable.
“Yes, Tony,” Ziva replied softly. They watched each other for a while, neither talking. The only movement from the scotch bottle in Tony’s hands as he fiddled with it. He did not drink from it, he did not want anymore.
When the clock chimed one in the morning Tony stirred. He stood up clumsily and started the trek to the bedroom. Ziva followed gracefully, carefully. The bedroom was a mess, like the rest of the apartment. Ziva had been the cleaner of the two. The woman watched as Tony pulled off his socks slowly, watched as he stiffly undressed himself and crawled into bed. She watched as he settled in, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. She watched as Tony closed his eyes and sighed: the image of a beautiful breakdown.
“Stay,” Tony whispered brokenly. Ziva’s chin trembled as she nodded.
“I will stay, until you fall asleep.” She whispered before starting to hum.
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika
tumbalalaika, shpiel balalaika
tumbalalaika - freylach zol zayn.
A young lad is thinking, thinking all night
Would it be wrong, he asks, or maybe right,
Should he declare his love, dare he choose,
And would she accept, or will she refuse?
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika,
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika
tumbalalaika, play Balalaika,
tumbalalaika - let us be merry.
Rating: PG
Fandom: NCIS.
Pairing: Tony/Ziva.
Warning: Character Death
Summary: Sometimes it takes the bottom of the bottle to reveal the truth.
AN/Disclaimer: Not beta'd, don't own.
The apartment was dark and silent when Tony walked in. He had not been expecting anything different, but he was still somewhat uncomfortable with the fact. It had been two months since the call, why could he not just let it go? Tony dumped his backpack by the door and walked into the kitchen to begin his nightly routine.
First on the agenda was the bottle of scotch in the cabinet. Fresh-he had finished the last one yesterday night. The weight of the bottle was comfortable in his hand. Later maybe Tony would reflect on how much Gibbs’ taste in alcohol had rubbed off on him, but not now. The second thing he grabbed was the remote for his stereo, abandoned on the counter next to the sink full of dirty dishes. Pressing play, Tony took his bottle of sorrows and walked slowly into the living room. He settled down on the couch with a sigh. Grimly, Tony opened the bottle and took a swig.
Light jazz twirled softly around the apartment as Tony took drag after drag of the scotch. He did not think of anything, just the burn of the alcohol, the shiver it shot up his spine. He thought of the weight in his hand and the way it was becoming less and less. The lights were low; he needed to replace bulbs that had long since burned out. That was rather how he felt, burned out.
It did not take as long as it usually did; he was only about a quarter of the way through the bottle. Tony felt lightheaded-maybe he really should have eaten earlier-and the living room felt warm. He almost laughed when he thought how “living room” was really not the right term. “Dead room” seemed more suitable. He took another sip from the bottle when the smell of lavender tickled his nose.
“You are going to destroy your liver if you keep drinking this much every night,” a warm voice that had always reminded Tony of coffee said behind him. A wry smile formed on his face but Tony did not turn around. As the woman walked around the couch and sat in the chair across from him Tony took yet another pull of the scotch.
“But we have such interesting conversations. You would miss me if I stopped drinking.” He said, ignoring the fact that his voice sounded like shit. Kind of like how his head felt. The woman frowned but did not comment. Tony looked over at her sadly. She was beautiful-like always-and her eyes shone with wisdom beyond her years. Her hair was down; Tony always liked it best that way. It was easy to run his hand through it, easy to twirl around a finger absentmindedly.
How are things?” she asked after a moment. Tony shrugged and took a gulp from his bottle. Halfway empty. She always asked him that.
They’re ok. They all tiptoe around me, except for Gibbs, but you know how he is,” Tony replied. He focused on the glass in his hands. It was smooth and warm now, he had been holding it for a while. The woman leaned forward and reached for Tony, hesitated, and pulled her hand back. Tony sighed and took brought the bottle up to his lips.
“I wish you were here,” he whispered sadly, taking a long drag. The woman nodded.
“Me too, Tony, but you have to pull yourself together, you cannot live like this.” Her eyes begged him to give in, to move on.
“I-I can’t.”
“Tony-”
“You’re dead, Ziva.”
Tony looked at the Israeli woman, he could see the trickle of blood slipping from her temple, and he knew that her hair hid the bullet hole that had ended her life. Ziva looked at him heartbrokenly. In death she had become more readable.
“Yes, Tony,” Ziva replied softly. They watched each other for a while, neither talking. The only movement from the scotch bottle in Tony’s hands as he fiddled with it. He did not drink from it, he did not want anymore.
When the clock chimed one in the morning Tony stirred. He stood up clumsily and started the trek to the bedroom. Ziva followed gracefully, carefully. The bedroom was a mess, like the rest of the apartment. Ziva had been the cleaner of the two. The woman watched as Tony pulled off his socks slowly, watched as he stiffly undressed himself and crawled into bed. She watched as he settled in, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. She watched as Tony closed his eyes and sighed: the image of a beautiful breakdown.
“Stay,” Tony whispered brokenly. Ziva’s chin trembled as she nodded.
“I will stay, until you fall asleep.” She whispered before starting to hum.
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika
tumbalalaika, shpiel balalaika
tumbalalaika - freylach zol zayn.
A young lad is thinking, thinking all night
Would it be wrong, he asks, or maybe right,
Should he declare his love, dare he choose,
And would she accept, or will she refuse?
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika,
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika
tumbalalaika, play Balalaika,
tumbalalaika - let us be merry.