Hi there. (:
So this took me about a week to write, I kept coming back to it every now and then. But I think I've got it now, so I figured I should post it.
I basically wanted to write Tony as he is- a movie buff- but add in parts of him and Ziva. And I guess this is the result.

Please let me know what you think, it's always encouraging.

Disclaimer: You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you end up quoting Sean Connery films that you've never even seen.

Listening to: Sky, by Joshua Radin (It's a weirdly Tiva song)

She talks in a calm voice, never too quick or too slow; too quiet or too loud. She is the epitome of a collected being.

She tells him of the horrors forced upon her, not just through various summers- one in particular crops up often- but of her childhood and scares and everything she's kept inside.
When she uses her hands to emphasize a point, or scrunches her nose in remembrance, or rubs the back of her neck in distant contemplation, he realizes that if this were a movie, it would be part of a montage. There'd be soft music that cuts off the speech, and the scene would be brief, sandwiched between others, that blur into white hazes at the start and finish.

He thinks it would be better, because he must endure the whole package.

00000

She runs across the ground, her gun drawn as her feet pound the concrete. She's not flustered or stressed; not panicked or in a false state of calm. She is the definition of professionalism.

She ducks to the floor at one point, saving herself from the live fire flying over her head, and he gets a glimpse of her past; of her Mossad upbringing.
When she ducks behind a large crate, the world slows down; he realizes that if this were a movie, it would be in an action sequence. There'd be fast music, with thudding beats and subtle noises littering the soundtrack, and the camera shot and angle would keep changing, flashing between each view.

He thinks it would be better, because he's certain something will go wrong.

00000

She falls to the ground, sticky red liquid seeping from her side. She's not scared or worried; not regretful or grief-stricken. She is the epitome of calm.

She lands on the concrete with a thud, her hand clutching at the wound as a tear runs down her face. Sighing deeply, she locks eyes with him and attempts to speak. But he shoots everyone else and rushes to her side, applying the necessary pressure whilst everything tells him to panic.
When she whispers a confession of love, he realizes that, if this were a movie, the music would be quiet, with violins playing a remorseful melody. The camera would be in soft-focus, slowly zooming in on the tragic moment, then panning out as the EMTs rush in, either a moment just in time, or one too late.

He thinks it would be better, because it's too close-a call.

00000

She lies there, wired up and covered in bandages, an IV drip-drip-dripping by her side. She does not stir or move; does not awaken despite his pleas. She is the definition of sleep.

Her heart monitor beeps steadily, and the tears run down his cheeks in perfect sync with it. He clutches at her hand, kissing her knuckles and begging her to wake up.
When her eyes roll underneath those honey-colored lids of hers, his stomach flips, because it's a start. And he realizes that, were this a movie, the music would have just turned to a quiet triumphant movement, bells ringing whilst strings creak out a verse. The rain which would have been incessantly pouring, would just have stopped, and the harsh lighting would have shifted into a softened glow.

He thinks it would be better, because it's still raining and the light's still glaring.

00000

She wakes up, coughing with narrowed eyes that attempt to adjust to the sunlight. She's not incredibly confused or panicked, more intrigued as the cogs whir in her brain. She's the epitome of inquiry.

She turns her head to look at him, a small smile on her face, and he knows he'll never let her out of his sight again.
When she clears her throat to speak and he shushes her with a single finger to her oh-so-soft lips, he realizes that, were this a movie, all other sounds would be blocked out with an impossible focus on themselves, and a gentle melody would reverberate through the hum. Sun would stream through the windows and create a lens flare over the pink-tinged-scene, and he'd confess his undying love, returning hers.

He thinks it would be better, because it's dull outside and she falls back to sleep, before the words even form in his mind.

00000

She sits next to him, the sun dancing over her face, her fingers playing with her shirt, and he knows the material is sitting over the bandage she doesn't really need anymore. She's not irritated or annoyed; not wishful or hoping. She's the definition of recovery.

He knows you wouldn't spare a second glance at her if you walked past the two of them right now, and he finds that rather comforting. Her recuperation was speedy by all standards, and now- only two days after her release- she's more or less fine, with only a bandage and a bruised ego to show for it.
And when she looks at him, with eyes he can read and lips holding a breath, he knows what she's going to say. Then he realizes, were this a movie, the park would not be quiet, but would have birds tweeting and children laughing, reverberating through the simple music. Leaves would be falling from the trees, framing the two of them and glinting in the light. And she'd say thank you, then kiss him, and they'd live happily ever after.

He thinks it would be better. Because the park is quiet and the trees are actually bare, and she only nods her thanks before returning her gaze to the ground.

00000

She lies in his arms, regression and thoughts etched on her face. Her fears and worries, she tells him them all. And he sees she must have forgotten what she said as she lay on the cold, cold ground. He's not saddened or troubled; not haunted or tormented, and he wonders if she should be. She's the epitome of memory.

The confession slips out of her lips again, but he lays it aside for now; it's her and only her and they say what's done is done.
Who is they, anyhow?
Her eyes begin to glisten and he feels a lump rise in his own throat, at just the mere thought of her crying. But she holds it together and drifts off in his arms, snoring lightly and nestling in his grip.
And he realizes that, were this a movie, moonlight would be streaming in through the window; reflecting off their faces to fit the amount of darkness. The music would be quiet- a lullaby of sorts, with gentle piano chords littering the score.

And he thinks it would be better, because it's pitch black and there's a howling wind that takes away from it all.

00000

She leans forward and brushes her lips against his with a delicate movement. And his breath is completely taken away as she pulls back, looking into his eyes.
Collected.
Professional.
Calm.
Sleepy.
Inquiring.
Recovered.
Memory.

Then, he returns those three little words with a smile, and leans in once more to kiss her again. And he realizes that, if this were a movie, it would be the final scene, with softened edges and triumphant, slushy music.

And it wouldn't be better.

Because nothing can be better.

Review?
-Tapes. x