and we're falling apart
And We're Falling Apart
The gun's still warm but her hands are ice cold. (An innocent man died in DC today.)
NCIS. Kate Todd & Tony DiNozzo.
813. pg. Post- Heart Break.
[For Ellen inspirera , who remembers the golden days of the Tate fandom and that it was glorious.]
The ringing in her ears won’t fade. The gun’s still warm, but her hands are cold; ice cold. (She’s frozen in time.)
Ducky smiles sadly; Gibbs doesn’t smile at all. The others make no acknowledgement and she starts to wonder if this is what it’s become; if death is so commonplace that it doesn’t even deserve a mention.
Suicide by cop, Gibbs’ bark rings in her ears, get over it and she can’t, despite her best intentions.
An innocent man died in DC today.
The ringing won’t fade. She’s ice cold.
(She knew it was going to be a bad day.)
The Secret Service taught her how to shoot.
(To kill, echoes in her mind. Villains and bad guys; you’re the heroes of this scenario. She never doubted it, never questioned it, because there were hundreds of her and only one of them and she never, not once during her time in the Service, thought she’d be the one at the end holding the smoking gun for the world to see and judge accordingly. Protect and serve. National heroes.)
She was certain. Years of Catholic school and nuns looking over her shoulder; suicide is for the guilty, they repeat (God’s love has made them hardened). Suicide is for the guilty.
(An innocent boys cries - he was just a kid, a god damn messed up kid - the trigger is light between her fingers. He falls like he weighs nothing; her gun weighs everything and he’s dead.)
He’s dead by her gun. She adds that to the growing weight on her conscience. Judgement is nigh.
Her apartment is too quiet. Her thoughts are too loud. Photos on mantles depicting happier times; she doesn’t feel like that Kate Todd anymore. She doesn’t know what she feels like.
There’s nothing on TV but infomercials and news. She hates both. She slips on her jacket and locks her front door behind her.
“What are you doing here, Kate?”
“Blockbuster was shut,” she answers simply, because she doesn’t know what drove her to Anthony DiNozzo’s door at one in the morning.
“At this time? Obviously.” He’s annoyed/amused and she’s embarrassed; recovering quickly.
“I came to borrow a movie.”
“Okayyy.” She thinks he should know best to leave the subject well enough alone. He doesn’t (she’s not surprised.)
“What are you really doing here?”
Kate sighs and looks at her hands, at the floor, at anything but him and she holds her breath until the tears are kept well at bay.
“You have your movies and Gibb’s has his boat and since I can’t take up a new hobby at one am…” she’s grasping at straws, trying to find an explanation, but failing. “my apartment’s too quiet.”
(It explains it all.)
They settle on Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She’s seen enough action for one day and doesn’t feel like laughing. Doesn’t feel like crying either. So they choose something safe.
He’s mouthing the words next to her. The distance between them is acceptable; popcorn in between.
“I killed a man today,” she says suddenly, his head shooting up. Behind him Holly cries hysterically. Kate’s tone is emotionless (she’s done enough acting today.)
“It wasn’t-”
“No, Tony. Don’t try to shift the blame or make a joke to make me feel better. I shot an innocent man today. My gun, my call. I killed him.”
Silence falls on the pair; Holly and Fred embrace and she doesn’t cry.
(Hand atop hers; she doesn’t even flinch. She lets out a ragged breath.)
She wants him to tell her it gets easier. That the pain; the emptiness; the guilt she feels will fade until she feels it no more. She wants him to tell her that the invisible blood on her hands will wash off and her heart will feel lighter and everything will return to its normal volume. She wants him to tell her “it will be alright”. And everything will be better in the morning.
“If it makes you feel any better - ” (here comes her answers) “I struck out with Paula Cassidy today.”
(Or not.)
“I told you not to joke.” She rolls her eyes.
“Not joking, merely stating a fact. The fact being that my day was pretty shitty too.”
(There’s a smirk, followed by a laugh and before she can stop herself she’s laughing so hard she’s crying.)
“Well, can you really blame her?”
He chuckles and shrugs, flashing her a grin.
“I guess not.”
(She looks him in the eye. It will be alright. She nods, he nods and she thinks she might believe him.)
The credits roll and their hands are still entwined.
Roman Holiday sits on her desk with a hastily scribbled note; in case it’s too quiet.
He’s teasing McGee across the room; their eyes meet - matching acknowledged smiles.
(Her hands are warm and she breathes a sigh of relief.)
The gun's still warm but her hands are ice cold. (An innocent man died in DC today.)
NCIS. Kate Todd & Tony DiNozzo.
813. pg. Post- Heart Break.
[For Ellen inspirera , who remembers the golden days of the Tate fandom and that it was glorious.]
The ringing in her ears won’t fade. The gun’s still warm, but her hands are cold; ice cold. (She’s frozen in time.)
Ducky smiles sadly; Gibbs doesn’t smile at all. The others make no acknowledgement and she starts to wonder if this is what it’s become; if death is so commonplace that it doesn’t even deserve a mention.
Suicide by cop, Gibbs’ bark rings in her ears, get over it and she can’t, despite her best intentions.
An innocent man died in DC today.
The ringing won’t fade. She’s ice cold.
(She knew it was going to be a bad day.)
The Secret Service taught her how to shoot.
(To kill, echoes in her mind. Villains and bad guys; you’re the heroes of this scenario. She never doubted it, never questioned it, because there were hundreds of her and only one of them and she never, not once during her time in the Service, thought she’d be the one at the end holding the smoking gun for the world to see and judge accordingly. Protect and serve. National heroes.)
She was certain. Years of Catholic school and nuns looking over her shoulder; suicide is for the guilty, they repeat (God’s love has made them hardened). Suicide is for the guilty.
(An innocent boys cries - he was just a kid, a god damn messed up kid - the trigger is light between her fingers. He falls like he weighs nothing; her gun weighs everything and he’s dead.)
He’s dead by her gun. She adds that to the growing weight on her conscience. Judgement is nigh.
Her apartment is too quiet. Her thoughts are too loud. Photos on mantles depicting happier times; she doesn’t feel like that Kate Todd anymore. She doesn’t know what she feels like.
There’s nothing on TV but infomercials and news. She hates both. She slips on her jacket and locks her front door behind her.
“What are you doing here, Kate?”
“Blockbuster was shut,” she answers simply, because she doesn’t know what drove her to Anthony DiNozzo’s door at one in the morning.
“At this time? Obviously.” He’s annoyed/amused and she’s embarrassed; recovering quickly.
“I came to borrow a movie.”
“Okayyy.” She thinks he should know best to leave the subject well enough alone. He doesn’t (she’s not surprised.)
“What are you really doing here?”
Kate sighs and looks at her hands, at the floor, at anything but him and she holds her breath until the tears are kept well at bay.
“You have your movies and Gibb’s has his boat and since I can’t take up a new hobby at one am…” she’s grasping at straws, trying to find an explanation, but failing. “my apartment’s too quiet.”
(It explains it all.)
They settle on Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She’s seen enough action for one day and doesn’t feel like laughing. Doesn’t feel like crying either. So they choose something safe.
He’s mouthing the words next to her. The distance between them is acceptable; popcorn in between.
“I killed a man today,” she says suddenly, his head shooting up. Behind him Holly cries hysterically. Kate’s tone is emotionless (she’s done enough acting today.)
“It wasn’t-”
“No, Tony. Don’t try to shift the blame or make a joke to make me feel better. I shot an innocent man today. My gun, my call. I killed him.”
Silence falls on the pair; Holly and Fred embrace and she doesn’t cry.
(Hand atop hers; she doesn’t even flinch. She lets out a ragged breath.)
She wants him to tell her it gets easier. That the pain; the emptiness; the guilt she feels will fade until she feels it no more. She wants him to tell her that the invisible blood on her hands will wash off and her heart will feel lighter and everything will return to its normal volume. She wants him to tell her “it will be alright”. And everything will be better in the morning.
“If it makes you feel any better - ” (here comes her answers) “I struck out with Paula Cassidy today.”
(Or not.)
“I told you not to joke.” She rolls her eyes.
“Not joking, merely stating a fact. The fact being that my day was pretty shitty too.”
(There’s a smirk, followed by a laugh and before she can stop herself she’s laughing so hard she’s crying.)
“Well, can you really blame her?”
He chuckles and shrugs, flashing her a grin.
“I guess not.”
(She looks him in the eye. It will be alright. She nods, he nods and she thinks she might believe him.)
The credits roll and their hands are still entwined.
Roman Holiday sits on her desk with a hastily scribbled note; in case it’s too quiet.
He’s teasing McGee across the room; their eyes meet - matching acknowledged smiles.
(Her hands are warm and she breathes a sigh of relief.)