fic: before there's hell to pay
Sep. 28th, 2010 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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ncisficathonTitle: Before There's Hell To Pay
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anr
Written for:vamp926
Prompt: Tony/Ziva, late night tv viewing, hurt/comfort, one getting hurt or shot.
Archive: Do not archive. Please ask.
Genre: Het
Pairings: Tony/Ziva
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Word Count: 1,342
Summary: This is going to hurt.
Spoilers: Rule Fifty-One (7x24)
* * * * *
Before There's Hell To Pay byanr
* * * * *
Vance sends them to Mexico in January.
"We've received reports that the Reynosa drug cartel -- assisted by at least one NCIS agent -- is mobilising near the border," he says. "All we need is confirmation of the meet."
He estimates three days and, "identification of the agent -- or agents -- is not essential at this time."
Seventeen hours in, Ziva turns off their cameras and tells Tony to drive.
*
They leave their rental in the city, heading out in a stolen truck that's probably only ever had a passing acquaintance with a suspension system. He's still driving.
"We should go home," he says, not for the first time. "This isn't part of our assignment."
She pretends to be asleep.
"Vance said this wasn't essential." The word tastes sour in his mouth.
Her forefinger rubs the edge of the trigger guard on her SIG.
The truck bounces over a rut, his head cracking against the window. He hits the steering with the base of his palm. "Fuck."
Quietly, she says, "I know what we are doing."
He knows she does. "Yeah, yeah."
*
They end up in Tecolutla, close enough to Mexico City to appease Ziva, far enough away for him to breathe a little easier. Despite her assurances, he isn't convinced her contact will magically make everything better.
"Information is not magic, Tony," she says. "It is a necessity."
"So's common sense. There's rules about this."
"We would be able to mix in better in the City."
"We can blend in here just fine."
They're a month or so past the Christmas rush, and the hotel is almost empty, but he plays the hapless tourist anyway. He pays cash for one room and hands over extra for it to be near a stairwell.
"The little missus just hates them boxy lifts," he drawls, draping a heavy arm around her shoulders, grinning, "dontcha wifey?"
Her smile promises revenge.
*
He works out later that she probably waited only long enough for him to shut the bathroom door before bolting.
The truck key is gone from his pocket, probably lifted during their lobby performance; he doesn't try to follow her.
When he realises she's taken most of the ammunition, however, his foot connects with the TV before he can stop himself.
*
For every hour that she's gone his imagination kicks further and further into overdrive. She's been kidnapped. Kidnapped or tortured. Tortured or killed. Killed or dismembered. Already her thumb is on its way to the Yard, postage due. Her whole hand, maybe? (Abby is going to kill him for this, he knows. Initially because they took this little side mission without informing her, then for ending up dead and in pieces in Ducky's morgue. Stupid, stupid, stupid.)
She slips back into the room after midnight, putting up enough resistance when he grabs her and pins her to the wall for his autopilot to kick in. He ends up with one arm across her collarbone and his thigh between hers, lifting her up just enough for her balance to be screwed to all hell.
"Are you alive?" he asks a heartbeat or two later when he realises it's actually her and not somebody else. "Are you whole?"
She stares at him wide-eyed, a tired confusion creasing her features. "Am I what?"
He pulls his SIG away from her temple and feels her drop her own weapon from where it was pressed into his side.
"Are you hurt?"
Her gaze flicks briefly to the left. "I got it," she says.
Fuck.
*
She sits on the edge of the bed and peels away her jacket, a grimace pursing her mouth as the wound on her arm is bared. It's a substantial cut, longer than it is deeper -- thank god -- but still probably bad enough to scar. He grabs two of the little vodka bottles from the minibar and strips one of the pillows of its case.
"We weren't wrong," she says, her right hand wrapped tight around the grip of her gun. "We weren't."
Hip hip fucking hooray. "Hold still. This is going to hurt," he mutters.
(He's not just talking about his first aid techniques.)
*
He doesn't believe it.
Not even with the photos and transcripts and tape Ziva got from her contact.
Not even with what he saw, a day and change ago, with his own two fucking twenty-twenty eyes.
He can't believe it.
*
"She's wrong."
They're sitting on the floor, their backs against the end of the bed, papers and photos littering their feet. "Who?"
"Your contact."
Leaning forward, she starts to tidy everything into a neat pile. He doesn't help.
"So are we. And all of this. You know there has to be an explanation."
"Like?"
"Undercover. He's on assignment too? Or it's a mistake -- a wrong time, wrong place, oops-I-got-on-the-wrong-boat thing. You know who he is -- this isn't true." He's not going to believe this. Not this. Not a lie.
She leans back again, her shoulder against his. He fumbles his hand into the space between them and finds her hand, tangling his fingers with hers. She grips back just as hard.
*
"What happened to the television?"
The glass is still whole but badly cracked. He hasn't tried turning it on to see if the picture's any good, but he doubts he'll be seeing his room deposit again regardless. "I like this show better."
*
They lie on their sides on the bed, facing each other. Her hand is still in his.
What are we going to do? he thinks. What can we do? "Gibbs --" he starts. He can't even contemplate what Abby's reaction would be. (Will be? Shit.)
She nods. "I know."
He closes his eyes, counts to five, opens them again. "Tomorrow I want to go see the Tecolutla Monster," he says. "I want to not remember this thirty years from now."
She tightens her hold on his hand until it hurts. "Okay."
*
She cries a little when she thinks he's finally asleep.
*
They're standing in front of a Monster painting that looks more like a giant slug than a whale -- one witness' description, apparently -- when he asks, "are these the originals? Did your contact have other copies?"
She looks away. "Probably."
Damn. He stares at the painting. "Doesn't matter," he decides.
*
Halfway back to the border, he pulls the truck over and builds a tiny campfire in the dirt.
She watches as he burns the photos, and the transcripts, and the tape, the plastic melting into the ground and throwing up green flames. The smell is horrible and makes his eyes water.
Neither of them say a word.
*
When they get back to the border, their rental is nowhere to be found, the cameras they'd left in the trunk probably already circulating the black market.
He's not surprised by the theft and, after a moment, he realises she isn't either. (The fact that they left the keys in the rental probably has a lot to do with that.)
*
Vance is waiting for them when they reach the Yard. "Well?" he asks.
"Nothing," Tony lies. "Three days of sun and tumbleweeds and crap all else."
Ziva lies, "we waited but nobody ever showed."
They're given an abridged riot act for losing the car and equipment on the last day, reminded again to keep their mouths shut about the trip, and -- nothing. Vance kicks them back downstairs.
*
McGee arrives with a bounce in his step. "I don't know what we did to deserve a long weekend off but, not complaining! What did you two get up to?"
At his computer, Tony says, "frat party."
Ziva picks up her phone and says, "shopping."
Gibbs walks past, coffee and Caf-Pow! in hand, the back of his neck raw and sunburnt.
(They pretend not to notice.)
* * * * *
The End.
Author:
anrWritten for:
vamp926Prompt: Tony/Ziva, late night tv viewing, hurt/comfort, one getting hurt or shot.
Archive: Do not archive. Please ask.
Genre: Het
Pairings: Tony/Ziva
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Word Count: 1,342
Summary: This is going to hurt.
Spoilers: Rule Fifty-One (7x24)
* * * * *
Before There's Hell To Pay by
anr* * * * *
Vance sends them to Mexico in January.
"We've received reports that the Reynosa drug cartel -- assisted by at least one NCIS agent -- is mobilising near the border," he says. "All we need is confirmation of the meet."
He estimates three days and, "identification of the agent -- or agents -- is not essential at this time."
Seventeen hours in, Ziva turns off their cameras and tells Tony to drive.
*
They leave their rental in the city, heading out in a stolen truck that's probably only ever had a passing acquaintance with a suspension system. He's still driving.
"We should go home," he says, not for the first time. "This isn't part of our assignment."
She pretends to be asleep.
"Vance said this wasn't essential." The word tastes sour in his mouth.
Her forefinger rubs the edge of the trigger guard on her SIG.
The truck bounces over a rut, his head cracking against the window. He hits the steering with the base of his palm. "Fuck."
Quietly, she says, "I know what we are doing."
He knows she does. "Yeah, yeah."
*
They end up in Tecolutla, close enough to Mexico City to appease Ziva, far enough away for him to breathe a little easier. Despite her assurances, he isn't convinced her contact will magically make everything better.
"Information is not magic, Tony," she says. "It is a necessity."
"So's common sense. There's rules about this."
"We would be able to mix in better in the City."
"We can blend in here just fine."
They're a month or so past the Christmas rush, and the hotel is almost empty, but he plays the hapless tourist anyway. He pays cash for one room and hands over extra for it to be near a stairwell.
"The little missus just hates them boxy lifts," he drawls, draping a heavy arm around her shoulders, grinning, "dontcha wifey?"
Her smile promises revenge.
*
He works out later that she probably waited only long enough for him to shut the bathroom door before bolting.
The truck key is gone from his pocket, probably lifted during their lobby performance; he doesn't try to follow her.
When he realises she's taken most of the ammunition, however, his foot connects with the TV before he can stop himself.
*
For every hour that she's gone his imagination kicks further and further into overdrive. She's been kidnapped. Kidnapped or tortured. Tortured or killed. Killed or dismembered. Already her thumb is on its way to the Yard, postage due. Her whole hand, maybe? (Abby is going to kill him for this, he knows. Initially because they took this little side mission without informing her, then for ending up dead and in pieces in Ducky's morgue. Stupid, stupid, stupid.)
She slips back into the room after midnight, putting up enough resistance when he grabs her and pins her to the wall for his autopilot to kick in. He ends up with one arm across her collarbone and his thigh between hers, lifting her up just enough for her balance to be screwed to all hell.
"Are you alive?" he asks a heartbeat or two later when he realises it's actually her and not somebody else. "Are you whole?"
She stares at him wide-eyed, a tired confusion creasing her features. "Am I what?"
He pulls his SIG away from her temple and feels her drop her own weapon from where it was pressed into his side.
"Are you hurt?"
Her gaze flicks briefly to the left. "I got it," she says.
Fuck.
*
She sits on the edge of the bed and peels away her jacket, a grimace pursing her mouth as the wound on her arm is bared. It's a substantial cut, longer than it is deeper -- thank god -- but still probably bad enough to scar. He grabs two of the little vodka bottles from the minibar and strips one of the pillows of its case.
"We weren't wrong," she says, her right hand wrapped tight around the grip of her gun. "We weren't."
Hip hip fucking hooray. "Hold still. This is going to hurt," he mutters.
(He's not just talking about his first aid techniques.)
*
He doesn't believe it.
Not even with the photos and transcripts and tape Ziva got from her contact.
Not even with what he saw, a day and change ago, with his own two fucking twenty-twenty eyes.
He can't believe it.
*
"She's wrong."
They're sitting on the floor, their backs against the end of the bed, papers and photos littering their feet. "Who?"
"Your contact."
Leaning forward, she starts to tidy everything into a neat pile. He doesn't help.
"So are we. And all of this. You know there has to be an explanation."
"Like?"
"Undercover. He's on assignment too? Or it's a mistake -- a wrong time, wrong place, oops-I-got-on-the-wrong-boat thing. You know who he is -- this isn't true." He's not going to believe this. Not this. Not a lie.
She leans back again, her shoulder against his. He fumbles his hand into the space between them and finds her hand, tangling his fingers with hers. She grips back just as hard.
*
"What happened to the television?"
The glass is still whole but badly cracked. He hasn't tried turning it on to see if the picture's any good, but he doubts he'll be seeing his room deposit again regardless. "I like this show better."
*
They lie on their sides on the bed, facing each other. Her hand is still in his.
What are we going to do? he thinks. What can we do? "Gibbs --" he starts. He can't even contemplate what Abby's reaction would be. (Will be? Shit.)
She nods. "I know."
He closes his eyes, counts to five, opens them again. "Tomorrow I want to go see the Tecolutla Monster," he says. "I want to not remember this thirty years from now."
She tightens her hold on his hand until it hurts. "Okay."
*
She cries a little when she thinks he's finally asleep.
*
They're standing in front of a Monster painting that looks more like a giant slug than a whale -- one witness' description, apparently -- when he asks, "are these the originals? Did your contact have other copies?"
She looks away. "Probably."
Damn. He stares at the painting. "Doesn't matter," he decides.
*
Halfway back to the border, he pulls the truck over and builds a tiny campfire in the dirt.
She watches as he burns the photos, and the transcripts, and the tape, the plastic melting into the ground and throwing up green flames. The smell is horrible and makes his eyes water.
Neither of them say a word.
*
When they get back to the border, their rental is nowhere to be found, the cameras they'd left in the trunk probably already circulating the black market.
He's not surprised by the theft and, after a moment, he realises she isn't either. (The fact that they left the keys in the rental probably has a lot to do with that.)
*
Vance is waiting for them when they reach the Yard. "Well?" he asks.
"Nothing," Tony lies. "Three days of sun and tumbleweeds and crap all else."
Ziva lies, "we waited but nobody ever showed."
They're given an abridged riot act for losing the car and equipment on the last day, reminded again to keep their mouths shut about the trip, and -- nothing. Vance kicks them back downstairs.
*
McGee arrives with a bounce in his step. "I don't know what we did to deserve a long weekend off but, not complaining! What did you two get up to?"
At his computer, Tony says, "frat party."
Ziva picks up her phone and says, "shopping."
Gibbs walks past, coffee and Caf-Pow! in hand, the back of his neck raw and sunburnt.
(They pretend not to notice.)
* * * * *
The End.
