Fic: "Precious Things", for the NCIS Ficathon
Title: Precious Things
Author: The Green Sheep
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: None. (Well, Gibbs/DiNozzo, but in Extra-Squinty-Vision.)
Rating: PG-13
SPOILERS: Takes place after Twilight.
Summary: The quote itself is probably the best summary this story can have.
Author's Notes: I stole the title from Tori Amos. Since I wrote the entire story listening to that song, it seemed only fair. You might want to try reading it the same way; here's a YSI link to the MP3, in case.
Ficathon Quote:
Everything is worth what its purchaser will pay for it.
- Publius Syrus
When they find him, it’s a night out of every movie Tony’s ever seen. Dank and dark and frightening, two good guys running fast and one bad guy running faster, guns drawn and a storm brewing overhead. The few colored pieces of junk that stand out among the trash littering the alley look out of place, and register with him more than the ones he has to jump over as he goes.
The chase lasts five corners and less than three minutes, but in Tony’s head it melts into slow motion and stretches, three minutes, three hours, three hundred nights spent running down leads instead of going home to sleep. It’s been ten months, and Tony still finds himself rubbing his face as if the skin was getting itchy from flecks of drying blood.
He pushes himself to go faster, skids around the fifth corner.
His right hand flies up in an automatic reflex when he sees the light glinting off Ari’s eye and gun, both pointed straight and steady at him even as he runs half-backwards. He doesn’t look afraid at all.
Their five shots go off in a counterpoint rhythm, echo off the walls, die into the first crash of thunder.
Tony feels the bullet tearing through his arm as the only point of heat in the cold and damp around him. Flesh wound, he thinks, and keeps going, and is surprised when his feet don’t quite finish the turn and slam his shoulder into the opposite wall.
His gun slips away, clatters to the ground, the sound too thin and flat against his ears, even after close gunfire. He leans his back against the dirty brickwork and stares at the building Ari’s disappeared behind. He brings his right hand up to his injured arm, and the warm flood startles him, makes him look down and reflect that arterial bleeding wouldn’t really be much prettier in black and white. He clamps his hand around the wound as hard as he can, but his fingers are shaking, and blood is still trickling through them a couple of seconds later, when Gibbs comes running in the way he did, sees him sliding down to sit against the wall, raises his gun to cover the back of the alley as he makes a beeline for his side.
Tony shakes his head, nods in the direction Ari took. “He went left, he’s only got a few seconds on us, you-“
Gibbs moves his gun to his left hand and uses the right to move aside Tony’s, replacing his weakening grip with an iron one. He keeps scanning the street, gun pointed, until a motorcycle screeches to life half a block away and then the noise of the engine fades into the distance.
Tony stares at him, feeling number than the blood loss probably accounts for. His protest is murmured, one step up from background noise. “Gibbs, he’s getting away.”
Gibbs puts his gun on the ground, reaches awkwardly for his cell phone with his left hand, fumbles it open, dials 911. Only after he’s placed the call, in an eerily calm tone, and slipped the phone back into the wrong pocket, he meets Tony’s eyes.
They stare at each other for a few moments. Gibbs looks tired and hollow, and Tony wants to reach out and touch him, but his arm feels too light and too heavy at the same time. “Sorry, boss.”
Gibbs frowns a bit at that; his eyes cast around and refocus, and he shakes his head slightly, bemused. “For what, getting shot?”
“He got away,” Tony says.
“And you got shot, DiNozzo.”
“He got away,” Tony repeats, putting all his energy into it, trying to explain.
“I don’t care!” Gibbs spits out loudly, and then he looks like he caught even himself by surprise. He watches Tony a bit more, looking less and less lost by the second. He places his free hand on Tony’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “It’s all right,” he breathes out. “It’s all right, Tony.” His hand slides down along Tony’s chest, coming to rest lightly along its center, with his fingertips in the hollow of his collarbone.
The rain has started falling, and it smells cleaner than Tony expected. He relaxes, anchored between the wall and Gibbs' hands, slumping down a little more. His bloodied palm comes to rest flat just below Gibbs’ on his chest, and he can feel his heart start to run a little slower.
-----
With thanks to blueraccoon, for obvious reasons, and to my sister, who makes me laugh with nonsensical things and seems to have no fear whatsoever of my craptastic writing skills.
Author: The Green Sheep
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: None. (Well, Gibbs/DiNozzo, but in Extra-Squinty-Vision.)
Rating: PG-13
SPOILERS: Takes place after Twilight.
Summary: The quote itself is probably the best summary this story can have.
Author's Notes: I stole the title from Tori Amos. Since I wrote the entire story listening to that song, it seemed only fair. You might want to try reading it the same way; here's a YSI link to the MP3, in case.
Ficathon Quote:
Everything is worth what its purchaser will pay for it.
- Publius Syrus
When they find him, it’s a night out of every movie Tony’s ever seen. Dank and dark and frightening, two good guys running fast and one bad guy running faster, guns drawn and a storm brewing overhead. The few colored pieces of junk that stand out among the trash littering the alley look out of place, and register with him more than the ones he has to jump over as he goes.
The chase lasts five corners and less than three minutes, but in Tony’s head it melts into slow motion and stretches, three minutes, three hours, three hundred nights spent running down leads instead of going home to sleep. It’s been ten months, and Tony still finds himself rubbing his face as if the skin was getting itchy from flecks of drying blood.
He pushes himself to go faster, skids around the fifth corner.
His right hand flies up in an automatic reflex when he sees the light glinting off Ari’s eye and gun, both pointed straight and steady at him even as he runs half-backwards. He doesn’t look afraid at all.
Their five shots go off in a counterpoint rhythm, echo off the walls, die into the first crash of thunder.
Tony feels the bullet tearing through his arm as the only point of heat in the cold and damp around him. Flesh wound, he thinks, and keeps going, and is surprised when his feet don’t quite finish the turn and slam his shoulder into the opposite wall.
His gun slips away, clatters to the ground, the sound too thin and flat against his ears, even after close gunfire. He leans his back against the dirty brickwork and stares at the building Ari’s disappeared behind. He brings his right hand up to his injured arm, and the warm flood startles him, makes him look down and reflect that arterial bleeding wouldn’t really be much prettier in black and white. He clamps his hand around the wound as hard as he can, but his fingers are shaking, and blood is still trickling through them a couple of seconds later, when Gibbs comes running in the way he did, sees him sliding down to sit against the wall, raises his gun to cover the back of the alley as he makes a beeline for his side.
Tony shakes his head, nods in the direction Ari took. “He went left, he’s only got a few seconds on us, you-“
Gibbs moves his gun to his left hand and uses the right to move aside Tony’s, replacing his weakening grip with an iron one. He keeps scanning the street, gun pointed, until a motorcycle screeches to life half a block away and then the noise of the engine fades into the distance.
Tony stares at him, feeling number than the blood loss probably accounts for. His protest is murmured, one step up from background noise. “Gibbs, he’s getting away.”
Gibbs puts his gun on the ground, reaches awkwardly for his cell phone with his left hand, fumbles it open, dials 911. Only after he’s placed the call, in an eerily calm tone, and slipped the phone back into the wrong pocket, he meets Tony’s eyes.
They stare at each other for a few moments. Gibbs looks tired and hollow, and Tony wants to reach out and touch him, but his arm feels too light and too heavy at the same time. “Sorry, boss.”
Gibbs frowns a bit at that; his eyes cast around and refocus, and he shakes his head slightly, bemused. “For what, getting shot?”
“He got away,” Tony says.
“And you got shot, DiNozzo.”
“He got away,” Tony repeats, putting all his energy into it, trying to explain.
“I don’t care!” Gibbs spits out loudly, and then he looks like he caught even himself by surprise. He watches Tony a bit more, looking less and less lost by the second. He places his free hand on Tony’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “It’s all right,” he breathes out. “It’s all right, Tony.” His hand slides down along Tony’s chest, coming to rest lightly along its center, with his fingertips in the hollow of his collarbone.
The rain has started falling, and it smells cleaner than Tony expected. He relaxes, anchored between the wall and Gibbs' hands, slumping down a little more. His bloodied palm comes to rest flat just below Gibbs’ on his chest, and he can feel his heart start to run a little slower.
-----
With thanks to blueraccoon, for obvious reasons, and to my sister, who makes me laugh with nonsensical things and seems to have no fear whatsoever of my craptastic writing skills.