Featured Characters: Anthony DiNozzo
Warnings and/or Spoilers: None
Author's Note: I wasn't real certain about posting this piece. However the Lovely Lady Heather asked me if I EVER planned on posting it because she like it so here it is. Please be aware that this is a one shot. At this time I have absolutely no intention to do a follow up. That being said, if you want to play in my sandbox I have no issues with that as long as you talk to me first. The thing about addiction is that is all starts the same.
The thing about addiction is that is all starts the same. One common factor that all addicts will tell you. One. Thing. It transcends race, sex, religion, age, even sexual orientation. It doesn't matter your belief system. All addicts will tell you the same story. One. Thing.
One time starts it all. Then, one more won't hurt. Maybe another. Then another. Suddenly its one right after another and one day you look up and think, "Where the hell am I?" and "How the hell did I get here?" And you're left struggling to reconcile where you are and how you got there with where you should be. And God help you, you don't want to go back. Back to that place where you were… before. Before this addiction took you over. Before you teetered on the fine line of want and need. Before you looked for ways to sneak it in with out anyone the wiser.
God forbid anyone actually knows you crave this thing. What would they say? What would they do? But you don't want to be outed. Not yet. This is yours and you don't want to share. So what if you've had it for years. You've been on a first name basis and been so terribly intimate with this need and desire that you just can't help yourself. And you'll be damned if you let anyone "help" you. You don't need their brand of help. And besides you're way past an intervention now. If you lose it you'll die. Fact. You lost it before and barely survived. You know in your heart that you will die if you lose it again.
But your drug of choice is not a chemical that you put into your body. No your drug is a chemical that comes from inside your body. Those dastardly little things called hormones and pheromones. Just the sight of her, smell of her, a word, hell even a thought and you come running like a well-trained dog. Every time you hear that Siren's song, see her name, smell her perfume, hear her voice. You know how it will end when they find out. And yet, all the potential consequences be damned. Lose your job, you can get another. Lose your friends, well no doubt it will hurt a while and you will beat the shit out of yourself for not confessing sooner, or just getting the hell out of Dodge, but you can make more friends as evidenced from the past. Lose her, your life is over. You can't stay away. She looks so good covered in blood. It's your favorite thing she wears and the scent drives you crazy. You'll go down in a blaze of glory side by side, hand in hand.
And so you look at your drug of choice. With her unprepossessing air, her next door neighbor looks, and her lilting somewhat faded Southern accent you would never mistake her for what she is. Even her name screams dainty and feminine and all together fragile. And so every day you thank whatever God or force was behind Daisy Paisley being seated next to you in freshman orientation on your first day of college. You orbit around each other for months before you finally collide. Destiny.
Everybody knows the star football player gets the head cheerleader. Everybody knows the cheerleader gets the hero. Everybody. Knows. But how do you get to be that hero you might ask. You are out with some random girl when you see another guy on the team, Dwight, a prick really, slap his date upside the head and knock her down. She stands up, shirt torn, bloody nose running down her face, leaves in her hair. Your eyes meet and in that moment it's over. Everything leaps into focus and you clearly see that you are meant to be. And he just beat your girl. You push what's-her-name away and tend to what's yours. What else is there to do? She's yours. You have to defend her honor.
You walk over to him as calmly as can be and break his neck. The snap is loud in the silence and the girl you started the evening with opens her mouth to scream.. briefly. Your angel has pushed her into the drainage ditch, her head bounces against the concrete, the crack is loud. And Daisy looks good with the blood on her face and in her hair. And she's all yours.
She is crying into your chest when the cops show up. Amateurs. They don't even separate you when you they take your statements. So you talk over the top of each other about what happened. You were late to meet her, heard her scream, and came running. She had come upon Dwight, saw what he was doing to that poor, poor girl, and he attacked Daisy, that was when you came and saw him beating your angel. You grab him and throw him down, he doesn't get up. End of story. The police 'investigate'. They discover that the poor dead girl was sneaking out with him and telling everyone it was you because her family was set against him. They discovered it because you led them down that path step by step. Like calves to slaughter. Everything works out because everyone loves you. Everyone loves Daisy. Even the people who hate jocks and rah-rah girls. The fact that you're quietly dating doesn't surprise anyone. You're just so nice. Upstanding members of the community. Active do gooders. Case closed.
Because, really? Who ever heard of preppy little sparkly cheerleaders, voted Most Likely To Succeed and Miss Congeniality, becoming a spy. A hit man. A murderer. Your little assassin. For hire. By the highest bidder. Usually the CIA, sometimes the NSA, sometimes a foreign government, and sometimes even Joe Public if the motive is right. And she is really very good. And so are you, at your chosen line of work. Because sometimes you work together and the rush afterward is so intense that the sex goes on for days and days.
And who would suspect you? A career law enforcement officer who may be a little bendy with the rules but only for good. Never evil. After all, you've sworn to uphold the law and protect the public from evil doers. A Federal Agent. Which works out really, when you think about it because who better to control her? To direct her. To put that gun in her hands and point her to those who deserve to die, or knife or poison or no other weapon at all, just her tiny little hands. Hands that are capable of so much mayhem. Knowing that because you send her, she will go. When she calls, you run. And when you call she will come. And come, and come, and come again. Until the day you don't call and she comes looking for you.
And isn't she surprised when she finds you in jail arrested for suspicion of murder, which you know you didn't commit and she knows it too. But she looks at you with those expressive wide eyes, the hurt plain in them. She knows that you will never forsake her. You say "I didn't do it." And she says, "I know."
Third time is supposed to be the charm after all and Sacks has a sneer on his face that says he's a little too much happy about the turn of events and may have had a hand in setting you up for this one. He actually might have gotten away with it if they hadn't fucked up.
Because this is her latest masterpiece. The utter lack of good breeding shown when Sacks asked Daisy out it to dinner was compounded more so when she heard him say that you should have taken Ziva up on her off then you wouldn't be in this predicament. Because suddenly everything clicks for Daisy and what happens then is such a clusterfuck for them and you just hang back watching her in action.
The anonymous tip made to the FBI field office in Alaska tells of seeing two Federal agents kill a man. The stack of evidence uncovered is a mile long and leads back to Israel and the Taliban and starts right here in good old Washington DC. The sneering FBI agent and his Mossad spy whore of a girlfriend killed a string of people just to get you out of NCIS. And why did they do this someone might ask? Based upon the mastermind of a conniving vicious bitch who was just trying to reel in your CO and have carte blanch with an armed Federal agency. Terrorism. Murder. Spying. Treason. And ain't that a bitch folks. You don't hit on the cheerleader in front of the hero it's just rude. But even more so, you don't ever, EVER, hint to the cheerleader that someone else is interested in her hero.
The thing about addiction is that is all starts the same.