changing stations

there were five stations on the rabbit-eared television, he remembers. five choices comprising the whole of rainy day entertainment. the large knobs required two hands to complete each change of interest.

invariably, his selection would become overrun with static at a pivotal plot moment.

yelling was not an improver of reception. patience was a venture wasted on the cranky mechanism. he'd tried prayer once but disliked the ashen aftertaste when it availed nothing.

a quad of sporadically fulfilling options that ignored his requests for cooperation.

ziva's something like that.

in broadest terms it was his first sports car, the sleek exterior hiding an engine that operated under the principle that he should walk more often. the vehicle added to his jock reputation even as it left him stranded.

occasionally the passengers didn't mind. as it turned out, his quickness couldn't be clocked on a speedometer.

changing fluids and kicking tires did little to alter the stubborn nature of a car meant to give only the theoretical impression of all that its obstinate motor couldn't achieve in practice. the thrill of the drive nearly made up for the high maintenance relationship.

a thing of beauty ultimately disinterested in elevating itself into his esteem and yet no less beloved for it.

ziva's exhilarating like that.

she'd been the stereotypical feisty redhead, energized by all the wrong things. a loose reputation and the right hook of a man twice her size, she'd skittered on long legs into his life. only for a moment, which had been enough.

enough to leave a scar and make hers the first life he had taken.

warnings had been voiced, consequences detailed and a plea for reason offered on the snowy night. in the end, a junkie brandishing a gun proved no sort of martyr for the silent community. but her face had been so pretty on its way to meet concrete.

an exquisite fighter ruled not by authority but her own defiant, terminally crumpled sense of self.

ziva's cagey like that.

the banner of undercover forgives a host of sins, none more than playing to the assignment. as long as the target is brought down, few worry if the officer is brought low. it had been a difficult role, its measure lasting well past the expiration of the character.

the genuine product was sold by his counterfeit smile. he hadn't meant to get hooked.

apparently his considerable charms, known to induce trances in vulnerable females, were slightly more transparent to the hardened criminal. for evidence of the powder's efficacy, there was only one nose they wished to see whitened. justice was served with a mirrored line.

the incidental sample would slide into a habit that followed him to two precincts, invading his dreams and stealing his peace.

ziva's addictive like that.

it's not until he is surrounded by the medley of borrowed family that he sees it. he's known them longer than anyone who hadn't shared a frat keg with him. friends are a commodity he's frequently traded in for a shiny new set.

but it's hard to leave when this assortment has learned his tells.

once he could barely list the people who truly knew him. now he'd need extra fingers to number those who would die for him. disconcerting, the closeness that skims the ledge of dependence. and when the armor becomes too heavy, she waits to relieve him of it.

there's only static in this loneliness, the station he's been tuned into. their hands combine to change the channel.

ziva's perfect like that.