the water's cold but still warmer than your skin
Title: The Water's Cold but still Warmer than your Skin
Author: dramatic_sigh
Fandom: NCIS
Character/Pairing: Tony DiNozzo, Tony/Kate hinted at
Words: 665
Summary: Time doesn't heal all wounds. (He blames himself.)
A/N: My first NCIS fic in a long time. I was watching Bones and gosh, the Booth/Brennan bickering makes me nostalgic for season one and two NCIS and this was what resulted. My first fandom, my first ship. I never did get over Kate's death either. Title from Daphne Loves Derby's 'You Versus the Sea'.
Yes I swear bravery and strength go with her name
I tried to help you but the closer I got, the further you walked away.
It reaches a point where every woman with brown hair and brown eyes looks like her. Years after her death (it still pains to say) he’ll catch a glimpse of a woman who resembles her so much it hurts to breathe.
Doesn’t matter if he’s dating someone new or flirting with Ziva; what haunts his thoughts is that woman from the past, the ‘if’ that went unnoticed. The should’ve, could’ve, would’ve that was just too damn late.
Photos hidden in childhood lunch boxes besides keepsakes of his past remind him that she lived, that she existed and for two whole years, she was all he thought about.
(Want to know the truth? Time doesn’t heal all wounds; doesn’t make the heart hurt less and the guilt never goes away.)
Jokes with the departmental shrink that don’t reach his eyes, a bright red pass on his psych evaluation and everything’s peachy.
Night falls and all he can see is her face and it’s crystal clear that everything’s not.
(He never thought he’d miss her this much.)
---
There’s a small cemetery just outside of town where she was buried.
Hero the press declared her. The beautiful Secret Service turned Special Agent, the all-American girl next door with the stunning features and bright smile shot, down on a roof top by a terrorist working for them.
He blames them. He blames Fornell and the FBI and Gibbs for not killing the son-of-a-bitch when he had the chance.
(He blames himself too.)
Partners, they were. He’d lived the life, seen the movies, knew how in the life and death scenarios they were supposed to come up strong with life because they were strong.
(They were supposed to win, Tony and Kate. Deifiers of odds; they’d beat explosions and kidnappings. Hell, they beat the plague. But this -
Standing on a rooftop, congratulations that came too early, the bickering that never left and he can still feel the blood on his face, still see her limp, lifeless body as her breath was stolen by the bullet…
- this wasn’t supposed to happen.)
Fate’s a tricky thing.
---
Want to know a secret?
(Of course you do.)
He kissed her once. Even if she were alive, she’d never admit it and he’s hazy on the details, so sometimes he’s not sure it actually happened. But he remembers spiked eggnog and mistletoe and that red dress. The way she giggled in the doorway and grabbed his shoulder for support as he lowered his face to hers and she didn’t slap him, kick him or push him away.
Instead she nervously licked her lips and smiled, the chaste kiss becoming a slow, lingering one.
Merry Christmas, she whispered, his arm still around her waist, reaching forward to tuck a stray lock behind her ear.
Merry Christmas.
(Monday it was whispered panicking, rule number twelve running through their minds, neither wanting to admit out loud what had happened, the implications (wrath of Gibbs) all too clear. Pretend was the word of the day, pretend it had never happened, pretend they had felt nothing, pretend it was just a dream, a memory, a thought from long ago.)
He’s sick of pretending.
---
It’s the night time that gets to him.
From the streetlight shadows to the late night clatters and cries that jolt him from his sleep; it’s then he feels her presence.
(Watching over him, haunting him; he doesn’t know the difference anymore.)
Alone, with his movies, the glow of the TV set blocks out his thoughts and fears and Kate, Kate, Kate running through his mind.
(Then again, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he lets them scream out for the world to hear, to see, to know that he knew her and he cared for her and he maybe, might’ve, most definitely loved her.)
Here’s to her, he toasts to the sky, dark and unsympathetic. Here’s to the memory of a girl he never actually had.
(Here’s to Kate. Here’s to Kate.)
Author: dramatic_sigh
Fandom: NCIS
Character/Pairing: Tony DiNozzo, Tony/Kate hinted at
Words: 665
Summary: Time doesn't heal all wounds. (He blames himself.)
A/N: My first NCIS fic in a long time. I was watching Bones and gosh, the Booth/Brennan bickering makes me nostalgic for season one and two NCIS and this was what resulted. My first fandom, my first ship. I never did get over Kate's death either. Title from Daphne Loves Derby's 'You Versus the Sea'.
Yes I swear bravery and strength go with her name
I tried to help you but the closer I got, the further you walked away.
It reaches a point where every woman with brown hair and brown eyes looks like her. Years after her death (it still pains to say) he’ll catch a glimpse of a woman who resembles her so much it hurts to breathe.
Doesn’t matter if he’s dating someone new or flirting with Ziva; what haunts his thoughts is that woman from the past, the ‘if’ that went unnoticed. The should’ve, could’ve, would’ve that was just too damn late.
Photos hidden in childhood lunch boxes besides keepsakes of his past remind him that she lived, that she existed and for two whole years, she was all he thought about.
(Want to know the truth? Time doesn’t heal all wounds; doesn’t make the heart hurt less and the guilt never goes away.)
Jokes with the departmental shrink that don’t reach his eyes, a bright red pass on his psych evaluation and everything’s peachy.
Night falls and all he can see is her face and it’s crystal clear that everything’s not.
(He never thought he’d miss her this much.)
---
There’s a small cemetery just outside of town where she was buried.
Hero the press declared her. The beautiful Secret Service turned Special Agent, the all-American girl next door with the stunning features and bright smile shot, down on a roof top by a terrorist working for them.
He blames them. He blames Fornell and the FBI and Gibbs for not killing the son-of-a-bitch when he had the chance.
(He blames himself too.)
Partners, they were. He’d lived the life, seen the movies, knew how in the life and death scenarios they were supposed to come up strong with life because they were strong.
(They were supposed to win, Tony and Kate. Deifiers of odds; they’d beat explosions and kidnappings. Hell, they beat the plague. But this -
Standing on a rooftop, congratulations that came too early, the bickering that never left and he can still feel the blood on his face, still see her limp, lifeless body as her breath was stolen by the bullet…
- this wasn’t supposed to happen.)
Fate’s a tricky thing.
---
Want to know a secret?
(Of course you do.)
He kissed her once. Even if she were alive, she’d never admit it and he’s hazy on the details, so sometimes he’s not sure it actually happened. But he remembers spiked eggnog and mistletoe and that red dress. The way she giggled in the doorway and grabbed his shoulder for support as he lowered his face to hers and she didn’t slap him, kick him or push him away.
Instead she nervously licked her lips and smiled, the chaste kiss becoming a slow, lingering one.
Merry Christmas, she whispered, his arm still around her waist, reaching forward to tuck a stray lock behind her ear.
Merry Christmas.
(Monday it was whispered panicking, rule number twelve running through their minds, neither wanting to admit out loud what had happened, the implications (wrath of Gibbs) all too clear. Pretend was the word of the day, pretend it had never happened, pretend they had felt nothing, pretend it was just a dream, a memory, a thought from long ago.)
He’s sick of pretending.
---
It’s the night time that gets to him.
From the streetlight shadows to the late night clatters and cries that jolt him from his sleep; it’s then he feels her presence.
(Watching over him, haunting him; he doesn’t know the difference anymore.)
Alone, with his movies, the glow of the TV set blocks out his thoughts and fears and Kate, Kate, Kate running through his mind.
(Then again, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he lets them scream out for the world to hear, to see, to know that he knew her and he cared for her and he maybe, might’ve, most definitely loved her.)
Here’s to her, he toasts to the sky, dark and unsympathetic. Here’s to the memory of a girl he never actually had.
(Here’s to Kate. Here’s to Kate.)