Ra' 08/29/2013

This, I'm sad to say, is the last chapter of Chofesh, Cherut, Rachachim (which I translate to Freedom and Mercy), and I, for one, am very sad to see it go. Writing has always been a hard process for me, but this story, with my roommate Aimee's help again, flowed amazingly.

I really hope you enjoy, and thank each and every one of you for the fantastic reviews. Word of warning, though, this is not PG- rated. If you get squeamish easily, I recommend skipping right to the epilogue, as I'm bumping this chapter up to M.

I sincerely hope you like it, and PLEASE review, this is the first story like this I've ever done!

(~~~~)

Tony would like to preface this by stepping into another tongue, another language. Ziva's, to be exact, but who's really surprised at that?

Ra'. It's a word Tony learned from Ziva awhile ago. Evil.

Well, they gotta tell you something.

You can hear that, can't you?

No, Tony doesn't mean that rather ominous tick-tick-tick (and the clock was her idea. Sit down, Tony knows that may shock you). He means his heart, and don't pretend you don't notice how hard it's beating. Come on, at this time, Tony is sure you realize how insipid (learned the word from Buffy) he is. Not really worth being on Gibbs' team. The old guy's gut had to have a flaw at some point.

And as Shayla closes the door to their apartment, Tony is unable to read her eyes for something, anything that may tell him what the hell she was planning on doing to his friends.

He swallows the Arkansas-sized lump in his throat, but the words just don't want to come out. Luckily, they don't seem necessary as Shayla shoves him into a chair, and tosses the knife aside and into the wall. Easily accessible later, but for who? Tony does not like the way it's looking like this is going to end.

She pats his head like a small child and crouches in front of him.

"Tony," she soothes. "Why so scared?" (Oh, how Tony wishes he could have made a Dark Knight reference. He will tell no lies, it still haunts him to this day).

"What…are you going to do?" Something to be said for directness, he guesses.

And….really? Do you have to hear the rest of this story? Hasn't he told you enough?

Fine. But he warned you.

Her hand starts to trail a path Tony used to love. Now he can only tense (bad choice of words). She, however, looks plenty satisfied. His breath comes in short little gasps, and her smile grows. She leans a little closer to whisper in his ear, and god, Tony is set to die of humiliation.

"If I let you get up," she breathes, "will you run?"

And hell yes, if he could, Tony would run. Her breath into his ear is nearly sending him into seizures, and not in the good way. He would run and hide, move to Newfoundland and live under an assumed name. Fly to Mexico and have everyone call him Juan Gabriel (he could probably pull off a Spanish accent). Live on a fishing freighter.

Anything, really, but because he's a fuck-up, he has too many depending on him to get them out of this situation. Which is why he finds himself shaking his head and awkwardly pushing stray hairs away from her face.

"No," and it's the single hardest word he has ever forced from his lips. He barely recognizes his own voice, but it doesn't matter now. He doesn't matter now.

And as Shayla smiles, takes his hand and yanks him towards his – her bedroom, Tony is actively not thinking.

(~~~~)

Oh come on, did you really think Tony would leave that part of the story in? Sickos.

He really couldn't if he wanted to. The shrink calls it selective memory loss. Protecting himself by not letting traumatic memories touch him. Tony says that's bullshit. The whole fucking experience was a traumatic memory, and he just can't help but remember it with shocking clarity.

Anyhow. Getting back to what he does remember.

Shayla looked all mussed after…that, but no calmer. Tony finds himself back in the chair. He feels the cracks in the wood, oddly happy when a splinter presses into his finger. Oddly alive. Which, you would think, wouldn't be as big of a change as it is.

Annnnddd, another wind up to a Grey's Anatomy-esque speech, only with no dramatic pauses or inspirational music. Tony wonders idly what it would be like had someone added those in, but Shayla's hand comes down hard on his cheek, forcing him back to the present.

"Yes." He blurts out. It seemed, in retrospect, a fairly safe thing to say, as he watched the knife glint out of the corner of his eye.

And damn, wouldn't that have been simple? Unfortunately, simple was not currently a word that was willing to make an appearance in his life, because her hand comes down on him again, and she grabs the knife out of the wall.

"Tony, Tony, Tony," she sighs. The knife comes and begins to swirl light patterns in his forearm. Blood pools quickly, but Tony grinds his teeth and still forces himself to look at her.

"When will you learn? My God, to think I actually held out hope for you, for us."

The knife stills, and Tony is briefly glad, until he suddenly has it at his neck, backed by 120 pounds of psychopath.

"I didn't want to hurt you, you know. Or your friends. But I needed to see you, I needed to give you a chance to make it right with me. I'm willing to forgive, Tony. It can be like this just never happened. But," and on this particular but, the knife comes loose and clatters to the floor. Shayla drags him to the kitchen and presses him into the counter, and Tony barely notices his bleeding arm's protest.

"Now it's too late," she continues. "They have to die. Now, don't think it means we can't be together, but you honestly didn't think that girl (she spits out the word as if it's poisonous) could ever be a part of our lives? No, I prefer my man to be focused on me."

Her face twists into a sad little smirk, and she shoves him across the bare kitchen.

"Sad that it had to be your fault, though. Not surprising, but sad. Poor, weak little Tony is going to kill his friends."

Her eyes light up, and they suddenly don't look like the same eyes that they once did. Tony no longer sees light and warmth and family. Just a gray expanse, already empty and bare.

Catalysts, he supposes.

"Do you think it'll be slow? I mean," she glances at her watch. "The closet's tiny. I'd guess they have about ten minutes left. Nurses' training."

She laughs as if that was some absurdly funny joke, and Tony can feel his blood pounding in his veins. Dead. Gone. As in no longer living. Ziva and Ducky were suffocating, and it was his fault. Ten minutes. Dead.

Bloody! Gasping for air….you could have left it at that….you killed him.

Oh god, he was killing them. Shayla laughs and advances toward him in a way that probably used to be threatening but Tony doesn't see it, doesn't see anything, anymore. She's coming at him with blood in her eyes, and it's now, it's now.

And he had no choice, he swears he had no choice. Oh God, she was going to kill him. More importantly, she was going to kill Ziva and Ducky, because she must have had some weapons stashed somewhere right? He had no gun, he was useless as it was, but his friends were going to die. They were going to die and it was his fault.

And now Shayla was advancing on him and it couldn't be him, he couldn't be the reason they died. Please, please stop looking at him like that! He had no choice.

Which is why in a split second, Tony dashed at her, and then Shayla was pinned against the wall, and Tony's arms had moved of their own volition and were now clasped around her throat.

Here's something you may not know about strangling someone: you're in a kind of trance, because you have to look at them. Have to see them look at you, look at you with the eyes you once regarded as your salvation, and take in the look of absolute shock as the light drains, painfully slowly, from them.

And he remembers, he remembers so fucking clearly that this had to be how it ended. Her nails were digging into his hands.

Fuck-up.

Her mouth was open and small gasps and moans were coming from it.

Pathetic coward.

Her legs flailed wildly, trying desperately hard to kick at him, but his hands could only gain strength, sources unknown.

Useless prick.

And then, all at once, it was over. The hands drooped limply, no sounds came, and legs hung on a no longer functional body.

Murderer.

And Tony is sure he dropped first.

(~~~~)

It was tiny flashes. Flashes of his life. Past, present and future. Oh, he's well aware of how hinky it sounds. But he somehow found himself able to pull himself back to the real world.

Not completely, of course. But he felt himself yank open the door of the closet. He remembers a soft body fall into his arms, and gentle brown eyes gaze at him.

She knew.

He remembered Gibbs' soft hand on his shoulder, McProbie's stunned, wide eyes, and Ducky's rough breathing.

And then, strangely enough, a lullaby. Through the murk, he saw tiny brown eyes. Ziva's brown eyes. Soft, freshly kissed skin. Beds and cradles and backyards and homes, something his place had never been.

And one last movie quote, because he's Tony, and his dying words will be "I've seen this movie."

That night I had a dream. I dreamt I was as light as the ether- a floating spirit visiting things to come. The shades and shadows of the people in my life rassled their way their way into my slumber. But still I hadn't dreamt nothing about me and Ed until the end. And this was cloudier 'cause it was years, years away. But I saw an old couple being visited by their children, and all their grandchildren too. The old couple weren't screwed up. And neither were their kids or their grandkids. And I don't know. You tell me. This whole dream, was it wishful thinking? Was I just fleeing reality like I know I'm liable to do? But me and Ed, we can be good too. And it seemed real. It seemed like us and it seemed like, well, our home. If not Arizona, then a land not too far away. Where all parents are strong and wise and capable and all children are happy and beloved. I don't know. Maybe it was Utah.

(NCIS. END TRANSMISSION)

EPILOGUE:

You may have noticed Tony being a little less than friendly. May have let a few little barbs slip by. May have felt a little insulted but let it slide. So Tony supposes you feel you've earned the rest of the story, like a bratty child at bedtime (see? You just let it slide again). Tony's only response to that would be to ask if you've learned nothing from this whole ordeal. He could tell you, he knows. Tony could, if he wanted to, tell you everything.

Yep, Tony could tell you what happened next. He's sure you'd like to know, you've made it this far. Yeah, he could shove over on his court-mandated therapist's office and let you listen in.

Tony, theoretically, could tell you about finding a new place, free of fear. He could tell you about taking Ziva back to Paris, never seeing the sights but making every moment count (sappy shit, but she was always enough of a sight for him).

He could tell you about family – don't let anyone ever tell you it's not the most important thing in the world. Tony's family is broken, opposite and completely perfect.

He could tell you about ringing bells and bare feet and how when Ziva laughed, he couldn't hear anything else. He could tell you about late nights, early mornings, lots of movies in between, and the smell of soft baby skin.

Tony could tell you, and maybe you've earned it. Tony thinks you've earned your stripes.

But that, my dear friends, is another story.

That's it, folks. This is among my two favourite fanfics that I've ever written, and the reviews I've gotten on it have been absolutely fantastic. I know I'm going to regret doing this :P but you know how the end is kind of open-ended? I've tentatively started writing a sequel in Ziva's point of view. You can find it on my profile but be warned, it's unfinished.