Author: Revanche
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.
Rating: T
Spoilers: None. I think.
Life and death in D.C., or, Tony waits for a killer.
Heat slams him in the face when he turns back to the crowd and he swears that if the skinny blonde at the end of the counter laughs one more time -- that shrill, glass-shattering shriek aching like a spinal tap -- he's going to snap and shoot her right there. They're dancing, the crowd, bodies shifting and writhing in front of him. Leather, low-cut jeans and bare skin, and he wonders how many of them would die -- humiliation or shock, maybe both, not to mention the too-real possibilities -- if they knew that one of the guys they've been playing with for the past hour was a real-life serial killer. Flesh and blood, that hand cupping a back, sliding underneath silk and satin, muscle and bone used to wrapping around slender ankles, delicate necks. Out there in the crowd. Cat and mouse, really, and Tony's just waiting for him to make his move. Choose his target. His prey. Tonight's entre and dessert, enough to keep him going for another month, when he chooses the next one. Beautiful women, military wives and daughters, and he treats them like toys, right up until he gets out the knives. Broken glass, edged with the blood of his previous victims, and he writes their names in neat cursive on the wall above the bed. Graceful calligraphy, death cards. Kate says the way he curves his t's means that he's a gentleman, and the reporters have fallen in love with this. Gentleman Killer, top hands and chivalry and crimson streaks for smiles. A sort of Jack-the-Ripper vibe. Victoriana. He's heard that enrollment rates in the ballroom dancing classes have gone up.
Tony swallows, remembering the first scene, the dark spatters across the floor and the red smudges on his clean white latex gloves, and a pretty redhead brushes against him on her way to the bar. He turns his shudder into a smile and is rewarded with an appreciative grin as she turns away. He watches her go, wonders if she's going to be next. But that's why he's here. What he's here to stop. Six months, six dead women, and they've finally caught up with the Gentleman. He'll be here, tonight -- he is here, tonight -- and Tony just has to find him. Wait for him. Spin a web, wait for him to come too close, brush against the edges.
It's just that with each passing minute, the web grows more complex. Grows, spirals. Too many variables, possibilities, consequences, and no way to know. Separate reality from glamor, fiction from truth.
He glances at his watch. Two hours and the Gentleman still hasn't shown. Two hours of crowd-scanning, watching the exits, and listening to Gibbs and Kate bark directions into what sounds like a cheap science-project radio, tinny distant signals like a poorly tuned radio, all of the songs sounding the same. It's giving him a killer headache.
(No pun intended.)
He reaches for his glass of water, ice long since melted, and takes a long draw. The music's pounding, a furious manic pulse, and he swears the temperature's risen thirty degrees since he came in. The light rolls like dark honey across the room and he feels sick, wonders how much longer it'll be. Six months and he's not going to blow this chance, not going to pull out because he feels dizzy. After all, Gibbs didn't say anything, and if Gibbs doesn't object, then, well, it's gotta be okay. Compliant with regs. In line. Six months and he's not going to let another woman die just because he's feeling hot.
(And he knows it's bad 'cause he doesn't find that funny in the slightest.)
Of course, the constant buzzing in his ears isn't helping, and he struggles against the urge to rip the bug out of his ear and start searching the crowd by hand, subtlety be damned. July in D.C. and it's gotta be over a hundred degrees in here because he can fucking see the heat waves shimmering off of the dancers and his glass is soaked with condensation, nearly slipping out of his hand. He's not sure if he's pale or sunburnt, but the others don't seem to mind, to notice, maybe because all they've got to worry about is having a good time, whereas he's got to deal with murderers and lives and God damn it, what will it take for her to shut up?
"Yeah," he murmurs in response, trusting that he sounds like he's having a good time, like he's actually enjoying this. Like he's really grateful for the chance to be in here, doing his best to keep his balance, not get lost in the crowd and keep an eye out for their latest psychopath. "Enjoying the view." Thinks wistfully of entering the office a really long time ago, early morning and he was already hating the heat, relishing the promise of air conditioning and the chance to sit down.
He looks again at the crowd, blinks something -- sweat, water, anything but rain -- out of his eyes and narrows his eyes. Watches the gestures, the body language, courtly and formal and too many nuances for this. Out of place.
"I think I've got him." Speaking quietly, trying not to draw any attention. He sets his glass down, begins his slow, predatory stalk across the floor, hampered slightly by the twisting bodies, the jarring bassline, the throbbing in his head. Watches the man put his hand around the woman's shoulder, notes the gold signet ring glinting in the dim light, considers the witness descriptions and the aura of not-just-fun radiating from the man. Serious intent. More than a game, a mark or a trophy or a way to pass the time. Yeah, it's him. The Gentleman in cargos and a leather jacket and not looking at all like the time-traveling psychopath on the front page.
"I'm going for him," Tony says.
"Be careful," Kate says, all animosity forgotten. Gibbs remains silent. The girl, skin glowing with a sweat-sheen, braids swinging around her shoulders, frowns at the Gentleman, shakes her head. Tony watches him tighten his grip on her arm and quickens his pace, moving faster as the girl's eyes widen. Pain, fear, it doesn't matter. That's their guy and he's not going to take another one. Tony's close enough to hear their conversation, to know that the girl's name is Michelle and that all the guy really wants is to take her back to his place for a good time, and then the killer looks up and meets his eyes, and in one of those weird, total-silence moments, everyone in the club freezes and there's absolutely nowhere for Tony to hide.
(Shot to hell.)
The killer grins, pivots, runs. Shoves Michelle at Tony, one hundred and twenty pounds of girl and hair catching him square in the ribs. Bad enough on a normal day, but his equilibrium's already fucked, and by the time he catches his balance, makes sure Michelle's okay, the Gentleman's already sprinting for the back door and everybody else is going back to real life, dancing or drinking or whatever they were doing, because for all they know, Tony just caught somebody trying to pick up his girlfriend and they're not gonna get involved in that.
"He's on the move," Tony says. "On the move. Back exit."
"We're on the way," Gibbs says as Tony pushes through the crowd, ignores the stares, muttered epithets. Asshole, son of a bitch, and he can feel the veins pounding in his skull, threading through his eyelids. The exit sign glows nightmare red in the dim light and he aims for it, concentrates on going forward. A few more minutes and then this'll be over and he can sit down, can sleep, can slam the bastard into the wall, cuff him and kick him for good measure. But the door's a thousand miles away and he's starting to wonder if he's ever gonna get there. Social Distortion raw-edged and bleeding feedback through trashed speakers and he thinks that if he makes it through this, he's going to take the fucking rest of the week off.
But he clears the crowd, smashes through the exit door as it's swinging closed, and stands at the back of the building, looking for the Gentleman. Night air, rich and black and blisteringly hot, chokes him, presses against his face, and where the hell did the Gentleman go?
Footsteps on the fire escape overhead and he looks back. Where are Kate and Gibbs? But he can't wait, can't let this guy get away. He closes his eyes in a split-second of something like prayer.
(Hail Mary jesus god don't let me screw up now.)
Reaches over and hauls himself up, feeling his shirt dampening, pressing against him as it comes into contact with sweat and skin. He grips metal, tastes blood and then he's on the escape, sprinting up the stairs, past closed doors and barred windows. Up and up and up, and in the middle of this heat wave and the metal railing's burning into his hands, but he finally reaches the roof and there's nowhere to go. His gun's out, ready, as he looks for movement. Gotta be up here. Nowhere else. Be easier if his vision would stay straight, though, if he could just see past these lens flares, windshield glares like Beltway traffic in the sun.
There, dark shape moving, slinking, stalking past the vent and he can hear the pounding music even up here, wafting through the ducts, out into the night. "NCIS," he shouts, wondering how long it will take for Gibbs, for Kate, for backup. For somebody to catch him if he falls, 'cause he's not sure how much longer he can stay on his feet. "Freeze!"
And of course the killer doesn't, because who does? There's nowhere to run, not up here, so he's coming straight at Tony, wild-eyed and dark-haired, and Tony can't look away from those eyes, except he has to, he has to, has to aim. The gun surges in his hand as somebody screams down below and sirens start up in the distance. Blue and red lights, flashing, sea and scarlet, and maybe Gibbs shouts, and blood's filling his nose, his mouth, rich and thick and metallic, red coating his vision. Inky and dark and the killer's crumpled at his feet, this monster, murderer, the Gentleman, and he's on his knees, choking, blood on his hands. His own, he finally realizes. His own blood, coating his throat, and Kate's horrified "Tony!" from somewhere just beyond his vision, and then, God, the night's dark and so much cooler, blessedly colder, than he'd thought.
xxxxx