Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright is intended.
'We should not help people search for an abstract meaning of life. Everyone has his own specific vocation or mission in life to carry out a concrete assignment that demands fulfillment. The person cannot be replaced, nor can his life be repeated. Thus, everyone's task is as unique as his specific opportunity to implement it.'- Victor Frankl
This is not a new experience for me, nor is it unexpected, for I live and work in a sector of society that focuses mainly on the evils Man inflicts upon others: murder, rape, extortion, kidnapping, terrorism. The list can go on and on but the idea behind them is all the same: violence. Violence against men, violence against women, and, in the worse case scenarios I'm forced to face, violence against children. Those situations are almost intolerable to everyone involved because, usually, it signifies the end...or death...of innocence and, in this day and age, innocence is a fairly rare and extremely valuable commodity to even find, much less lose.
Kids nowadays are exposed to so much crap through the saturation of the media and are presented with a wide myriad of things inanely labeled as 'entertainment', things their young, immature minds just aren't prepared to handle or process fully. They are unable to clearly see when the fine, thin line between reality and fantasy begins to blur and merge and they can become so confused they honestly don't understand the true consequences of many of their own actions. They strike out against each other during play, using harsh words or cutting phrases heard in lyrics broadcast over the radio or scathingly performed on MTV to taunt or insult their playmates. They mimic the slams and punches seen while viewing those asinine, professionally staged, wrestling programs or those equally idiotic Saturday morning cartoons, where animated foes deliver powerful but bloodless strikes against each other. They even imitate the actions observed in digitally enhanced action movies or equally violent video games, pretending to attack or maim or, sometimes, even to kill their enemies, striving to fulfill their destiny by overcoming some imaginary evil presented solely for their enjoyment. They know so much about the mechanics of violence and, yet, not nearly enough of the final consequences.
And that horribly thin line between fantasy and reality becomes even more obscure if there's no responsible adult present to guide and direct and teach the child right from wrong, to show the true and accurate conclusion of what real violence often leaves behind in its wake: the blood and the pain and the physical tatters, the tears and the anguish and the emotional turmoil, and the finality of causing harm so great that life, sometimes, is forever taken away, never to be returned again. There is no 'reset' or 'replay' in real life and it only takes a moment, a split second of unsupervised action, to shift from carefree childhood illusions into the harsh realm of undeniable truth.
Coming upon the small group of young children apparently playing their own, mutated brand of hide and seek is, at first, just a minor, distracting irritant but, as my team and I draw closer, we all understand the potential danger of the situation. This motley group of boys and girls should be spending their afternoon at some lushly grassed, community playground with slides and swings and monkey bars to help tone and strengthen their youthful muscles and limbs, not diving and scurrying behind stinking dumpsters or mangled cardboard boxes or discarded, dilapidated furniture, where unsavory characters sometimes meet to exchange stolen information or, more likely, conduct illegal 'business' transactions. It's almost impossible to look at the surprised, suspicious expressions on the half-hidden adolescent faces and not think immediately of a pack of young, hungry, urban rats, skittering away from any unknown intrusion or unfamiliar interruption and to wonder what they may have, in their innocence, seen of our errant petty officer or his disc of stolen information.
It's enough to make all of us momentarily pause until we catch a glimpse of what some of the kids hold in their hands: weapons.
Now, I've seen some pretty realistic-looking, fake guns in my life, plastic replicas that could pass as true weapons just by looks alone and have, in the past, added my voice to others in Law Enforcement condemning toy makers who continue to market those fabrications for children to entertain themselves with, but I'd never seen one as authentic-looking as the model the young boy is waving in Officer Ziva David's direction: semi-automatic, faux, hard-chromed muzzle with shortened barrel and slide, and a mat-black grip cradled in hands really meant only for a strong, steady hold of a Marine. I'd recognize a Beretta 92 anywhere and at just about any distance. It's the weapon of choice of the United States Armed Forces and very familiar in my own hand. That it's now being held unsteadily by a boy no older than seven or eight should have been enough of a clue to the unusual weight of the toy; a light-weight, painted piece of plastic shouldn't take two hands to control, even for one so young as this child. But we're hard pressed for time, hot on the trail of a petty officer suspected of funneling arms information to a radical group of West Virginia survivalists, and don't have time to focus on some pretend fantasy of a group of little kids playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can in an alley behind a row of low-rent apartments buildings.
As we step completely into the alleyway and get our first, real glimpse of the boy's fake Beretta, we all hesitate, except for Officer David. As soon as she sees the gun in his dirty, grimy hands, her own weapon is out and she's set in her stance, eyes and gun fixed solely on the youth, ready to take her kill-shot. I don't doubt for one moment she'll actually pull the trigger if she thinks the danger to us is genuine. With all her experience, growing up in a country that's known war and bloodshed and turmoil for centuries, where children are often used to deliver terrible, violent messages, she can look at anyone and everyone and see a threat, a potential enemy, capable of killing her or those she values. even the youngest of children. Even *this* child.
"Ziva!" I'd bark out a quiet reprimand, knowing she'll listen to me while still keeping her focus centered on the boy. "It's just a damn toy. Leave him alone and get back to the search."
As if to confirm my statement and reassure the dark-haired woman of my accuracy, the boy lowers the barrel of his remarkable-looking toy and inadvertently pulls the trigger, sending a clear, concentrated stream of water spewing from a small opening in the tip to splash and collect on the nasty, oily pavement near his feet, his wide, surprised eyes filling slowly with obvious relief. So, *that's* why the gun appeared so heavy...a fucking water pistol. I want to laugh at his grateful expression but quickly control the sound when I hear a short, huffed chuckle just to my right.
"That-a-way to scare the natives, Ziva," Tony DiNozzo chides softly, letting his hand fall casually away from the sidearm at his waist and taking a small step closer to the still-tense woman, easing slowly into the mix. "I think we should all just be lucky he didn't decide to pee in his pants instead."
I watch her cast a final, wary gaze at the shocked boy, her dark eyes flashing with some inner glint, and can almost hear her snarl of warning. She may be ready to obey my order but I can tell she doesn?t like it one damn bit, toy or no toy.
I cast one, last, long look at the kid in question, his small, gaped-tooth mouth and wide eyes still round with a mixture of awe and fear, and resume my own hunt, anxious to find the disk our petty officer had supposedly been seen hiding somewhere among the rubble and trash that fills this piss-fouled alley. I nod toward DiNozzo and know he'll diffuse the situation with the kids, even though he usually complains about how he just doesn't get along too well with them. I know better, as does everyone else on the team: DiNozzo speaks the same language as any adolescent I've ever seen, from junk food to movies to music. So, if anyone can send this unwanted band of urchins on to a different location without ruffling any more feathers than we already have, it would be him.
As I turn toward a nearby dumpster, dimly aware of the quiet dialogue beginning between my Senior Field Agent and the nearest handful of children, a harsh, sharp popping noise erupts from an area directly to my rear and slightly up, and it immediately catches my full attention. I know that sound intimately.
Whirling back around, crouching slightly to offer a smaller target, and drawing my weapon in one, smooth motion, I can only watch in shock and disbelief as DiNozzo takes a short, stumbling step away from the closest child, the little boy's horror-filled face and stained, gray t-shirt now suddenly painted obscenely with a fresh, red spray of bright, hot, arterial blood. I force my eyes away from the ghastly scene, ignore the small boy's high, terrified shriek of horror, and look up, catching sight of our elusive petty officer on one of the aging balconies a few stories above our position, his own weapon now swinging around to draw a fix on Tim McGee's location.
Without hesitation, I squeeze off a couple of rounds, as does Officer David, and watch as our suspect jerks spastically, staggers drunkenly, and finally goes down in a graceless flop, the upper half of his body draping precariously over the rusted, chipped metal railing, like some unwanted piece of soggy, wet laundry. I keep my eyes fixed on him for only a few seconds, waiting to see if there's any other movement from his position, and then hustle toward my downed agent's side, knowing instantly it's bad, extremely bad.
"DiNozzo!" I all but yell, dropping to my knees beside his gasping, jerking body, watching as he helplessly tries to stem the flow of blood pumping rhythmically from the gaping wound at the side of his neck, his slick, red fingers slipping and failing to contain the force of the rapidly draining fluid. I knock his clumsy, clutching hands away and dive right in, wrestling a moment in our combined desperation, working my own fingers over the ugly, bleeding breach and applying pressure, willing the dark, crimson flow to diminish.
"Boss?" DiNozzo raggedly chokes out, trying not to fight my efforts, and I flinch as I feel a small spurt of warm, fresh blood hit the side of my cheek. His reddened hands come up and fist in the front of my shirt, his dripping, clenching fingers digging in and holding tight, eyes growing a bit wild with a sick, terrible understanding of the situation. "Ah, fuck...Gibbs..."
"Just hang on, Tony," I try to soothe and reassure, easily seeing the mounting terror in the anxious, green depths. There's already so much blood...and more appearing despite my best attempts...but I'm determined to keep as much control over the situation as I can. "McGee!" I yell hoarsely. "Call 9-1-1!"
"Already done, Boss," McGee is suddenly there, almost breathless, kneeling in the quickly spreading pool around DiNozzo's head and shoulders, and completely ignoring the precarious condition of his own pristine clothing. His clean, pale hands hover and flutter uselessly over his colleague's body, wanting to offer his assistance but not knowing what to do or even where to begin.
In all honesty, there is nothing to do. DiNozzo is dying, right here before our very eyes, in this dirty, dank, garbage-filled alley. Christ.
DiNozzo gaze skips haltingly away from mine, looks up into the younger man's equally terrified eyes, and reaches out with one, blood-stained hand, snagging hold of the nearest sleeve and pulling tight. "You...watch Gibbs' six..."
"Fuck you, Tony!" McGee all but hisses down into the ashen face of his fallen colleague, shaking his head in open denial, knowing the unspoken implication immediately. I've never heard him curse for any reason but, somehow, it seems okay right now, almost appropriate. "I'm not going to do anything! *You* can watch it yourself again when..."
"Tim..." Even with his waning strength, DiNozzo pulls angrily at the fabric within his grasp, dimming eyes flashing brightly for a moment, abruptly stopping McGee's heated flow of words. "You...have to...promise me...please."
I can clearly see McGee is fighting the unwanted rise of his own emotions, holding tight and trying to stay calm, but his lower lip begins to tremble and his eyes suddenly fill with angry, heartbreaking tears. My agents have formed bonds during the short years they've worked together but, no matter how upset or irritated they can be with each other over words bantered so carelessly around at headquarters, there's an honest, obvious affection between them no one outside our group is supposed to see.
"O-okay, Tony," McGee finally nods reluctantly, sniffing quietly and clearing his throat, forcing his tears back. He takes a short, ragged breath and sighs in resignation. "I'll do it." His voice trembles only slightly and I find I'm extremely proud of him. "I promise."
DiNozzo offers a small, grateful smile. His trembling hand immediately slips away from McGee's arm, moving slowly back again to its original position on my shirt, taking its rightful place close to my heart. "Thanks...Probie."
"Is he dying?" Comes a fairly high-pitched question from somewhere to the left. "Cool."
The almost gleeful-sounding inquiry and unbelievable, heartless, follow-up declaration makes my gut clench hard. I unwillingly shift my gaze away from DiNozzo's fading eyes toward the source of the sound, my anger and shock at the words pulling me away from where I need to be focused. It's a boy, a young boy, and the interested, almost joyful look on his face as he stares down at my wounded agent turns my stomach and unleashes my fury. Before I can even begin move an inch or open my mouth to express my rage, McGee is up and herding the little asshole quickly away, taking him roughly by the arm, and steering him brusquely back against a wall far from this place, giving us the privacy we deserve...the privacy DiNozzo deserves.
"Gibbs? Jethro?" DiNozzo's getting pretty breathless and his raspy, weakened voice draws me immediately back. I can instantly see a difference in his demeanor and the sight sends a sharp, cold spike of terror straight to my soul. God, this just can't be happening. Not now. He isn't fighting any more, a calm, almost peaceful expression gracing his youthful face, his once-bright eyes dimming at an alarming rate.
"I'm here, Tony." I increase the grip on the ghastly wound and bear down even harder but the blood is still seeping out between my grasping, useless fingers too rapidly and the red pool under his shoulders is widening steadily. At this rate, he's going to bleed out before any help arrives. Hovering over his body, I hunker in close, intimately bringing our faces within inches, determined to keep him from slipping any further away, and willing him to stay. "You're going to be okay, you hear? Just stay with me."
I want to make him believe me, to buy into my simple lie, but I can tell it's just not going to happen. He knows, without a doubt, he knows. DiNozzo offers me a small, feeble smile and feebly tugs me even closer, our bodies falling into line, pulling until my lips brush slightly against his. I try not to flinch at their coldness, at the touch of death that hovers so close, 's leaving me and there's nothing I can do to stop the inevitable.
"Gibbssss..." His voice is so weak now. I don't believe he can possibly get any paler than he is at this very moment.
I tear my eyes away from his ghostly complexion and look wildly around, yelling at anyone, everyone, within hearing distance. "Where're the fucking paramedics?!!"
No one answers but, I think, somewhere far away in the distance I can just make out the sounds of approaching sirens. I'm flooded with a wave of pure relief and look back, freezing at what I see.
Eyes partially open, lids hovering, DiNozzo is staring just to the right, his gaze locked intently on something, something that, when I turn to look, I can't see. There's nothing there but an ugly, graffiti-marred, brick wall covered in foul, spray-painted words and ridiculous, senseless symbols, so I quickly look back, hoping he'll focus once more on me instead. But he's wearing that shit-eating, half-smirking expression that always signifies some sly, secret bit of information.
"You're here?" He whispers weakly, glazed eyes still fixed intently on the damn wall.
"Of course I'm here," I answer thickly, trying to recapture his attention and fight the swelling tightness in my constricting throat, unable to do anything more than watch him drift further away by the second. "I'll always be here but you have to hang on, you hear me?"
He sighs quietly and smiles slightly again, his eyes softening with real affection now. "I...I've missed you..."
Missed me? I'm really confused by this comment but just chalk it up to the shock and the terrible blood loss. I can hear the ambulance clearly now and know they'll be here soon. If DiNozzo can just hold on?
"Now?" His voice is almost non-existent at this point and I have to strain to hear the rest of his words. "But...Cait..."
*Cait*? Oh, dear God, no. *No*.
I instantly whirl back toward the wall, eyes flashing over the rough, nasty surface, expecting to see the ghastly, ghostly apparition of my former-agent leaning casually against the bricks but there's nothing there, not for my eyes anyway. I turn back to DiNozzo.
"Shhh," I try to soothe and recapture his attention, ignoring how sluggishly the blood is now streaming from between my pressed fingers.
"What?" DiNozzo suddenly frowns, trying to shake his head in denial, and I have to struggle to keep my aching hand locked over his wound.
"Tony, lie still," I urge but he's still looking at the damn wall and, unbelievably, there are now tears forming in his eyes, blurring the beautiful, verdant color like rain collecting on a new oak leaf.
"No, Cait..." he pleads softly, almost like a child, and my heart breaks at the sight and the sound. "Not...yet..."
Heart surging into my throat, I hastily press my cheek to his and whisper fervently into his ear, ignoring the cool touch of his flesh against my warm skin and the barely audible gasp of his remaining breath. "Shhh, it's okay. Whatever it is, you don't have to do it. Okay? Just stay with me. Just stay with me, Tony."
I want to keep him here but I just don't know how. Maybe if I hold him a bit tighter to my chest, let his body feel my heart beating or let him feel my breath across his face, maybe he'll sense how much I want, how much I need, for him to stay.
"Gbbsssss?"
My name is nothing more than a long, soft slur of consonants, a whispered slide of a sound that makes my chest ache and my own eyes fill with bitter, hopeless tears. I squeeze my lids tightly together and hurriedly blink the moisture away, pulling back just enough to gaze comfortably into DiNozzo?' waxen face again. I have to watch, to bear witness to what's getting ready to happen.
"I'm here, Tony," I assure as calmly as I can, gently soothing a hand over the top of his head, flinching as my fingers leave wet, unwanted, trails of red coursing through his soft hair, and watching what's left of the light in his eyes fade even more. "I'm here."
There's a tiny, brief lift at one corner of his soft, sweet mouth and the glazed, green gaze tracks slowly back toward my position, following the familiar sound of my voice but never really settling completely on my face. I think he must be blind now...or he's simply seeing things not strictly of this reality anymore, like the spirit of Caitlin Todd. And, thank God, if he's seeing a better place than this dirty, stinking, garbage-filled alley, I'm glad.
"Love...you..." he somehow manages to sigh, using his last bit of air.
And, then, he's gone, like a candle flame snuffed suddenly by a sudden, unexpected breeze.
I release a hard, harsh gasp of breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding within my aching chest and quickly take his slack body tightly into my embrace, wrapping his still-warm torso within my arms and pulling him up off the cold, dirty concrete, tucking his face into the protection of my neck, whispering and praying he can, somehow, still hear me. "I love you, too...I love you, too."
But he's gone and I know he can't hear me but I just don't seem to care. I want him to know as he begind this new journey what he means to me, even in death. So, I say it again...and again once more, whispered into the shell on one of his ears, pressed reverently into the cooling flesh of his forehead, blessed upon the softness of his now-lax mouth.
There's a bit of soft crying and sporadic, wet sniffling from the small knot of kids still pressed together by McGee and David, the true horror of an actual death, with all its blood and pain and gasping, final, heart-wrenching breaths, now part of their youthful life experiences. I don't know if Tony's demise will make a difference to any of them now, if his passing will impact enough to keep them from following in the footsteps of countless others, or if, somehow, this brief, harsh, *real* taste of violence will turn just one of them away from a life of crime. Those are things I just can't know. That I can hear the muted sounds of shock and grief from several of them gives me a little spark of hope that, somehow, their love affair with violence will end now?today.
Just to the rear of the alley, a small flock of pigeons takes flight, momentarily startling us all, the sudden sound of their rapidly beating wings shocking and demanding our undivided attention. As I tilt my head back and watch them lift skyward, I notice two of the birds separate from the rest, their solitary path taking them higher into the crystal blue of the afternoon sky and further away from those of their original group. They fly in tandem, together, strong wings beating in sync, the sun catching the white tips of their soft, pale feathers, and all I can think of is Tony and Cait...
...and, even in the depths of my sorrow and loss, somehow, this thought brings me a measure of peace.
END
Story Notes:
My thanks, again, to BC...a real 'bella beta'. I hesitated in posting this fic after the terrible events at Virginia Tech yesterday but decided to go ahead. We never understand why events like this happen but, at the same time, our children continue to be inundated with violence. Let's connect the dots.
Author's Chapter Notes:
His purpose in life, it seemed, was not what was ever expected.
Chapter End Notes:
My thanks, again, to BC...a real 'bella beta'. I hesitated in posting this fic after the terrible events at Virginia Tech yesterday but decided to go ahead. We never understand why events like this happen but, at the same time, our children continue to be inundated with violence. Let's connect the dots.