It's a feeling

~ paint brush ~

Fleetwood Mac ~ Landslide

"And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills,

Till the landslide brought me down."

The calming sound of wood against a sand scraper vibrates around my garage. The gentle tunes of Fleetwood Mac played from the record player in the corner of the well organized garage. Usually sanding my boats calmed me, but my head was elsewhere. My hand movements were usually gentle and deliberate but now they were robotic, my mind only focusing on the task enough so that I don't mess up my progress.

I was in autopilot. The image of Mathew's body crumpling to the ground stuck on replay. Being a profiler had its perks but it wasn't fun constantly fighting between the logic and emotion of a situation. It was like I couldn't properly grieve my friends deaths. The emotional part of me wanted to go down the track of 'why me?' or 'why did he leave me alive?' but the logical part of my mind already knew the answers.

I didn't want the answers. No one truly does. I'd rather deal with the 'what if's' and 'if only's' than have the answers. I'd rather doubt than know that there was nothing I could do. I hate that feeling; hopelessness. I hate it yet I'm surrounded by it, constantly.

My mind barely registers the brisk knock on my front door. I stop half way through a stroke, my mind going through the different scenarios. It could be Ronnie getting back early, which would suck because all of our friends were just murdered 7 hours ago and I still haven't informed her. It could be the neighbors, news travels fast around here.

Another knock sounds and I let out a grumble, setting down the sander before turning and downing my alcohol. I calmly and quietly walk up out the garage door, noticing two figures on my newly painted front porch. I get a lot of shit done when I can't sleep. Clearing my throat, my face morphs into annoyance at the sight of the two feds that where now facing me.

"Gentlemen," I acknowledge, my face blank. Both men exchange looks, the older one taking the lead. He walks down the steps, his strides confident until the stop about a foot in front of me.

Silver haired dude holds out his hand, a warm smile on his face, "Leroy Jethro Gibbs," he introduces, making me squint my eyes in annoyance.

Looking between the two men in front of me, I roll my eyes turning around, "Well Leroy," I start, motioning them to follow with a lazy hand above my head, "If your interrogation tactic is to not announce you are a federal agent until I ask, it's not going to work," I comment, pushing open my garage door.

Both men silently follow me, "This isn't an interrogation," the other man comments, causing me to stop in my tracks and turn around, my eyebrows raised in question. He sends me a boyish smile, his hand gingerly popping out, "Very Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo," he says, winking. I keep my straight face and squeeze his very special agent hand a bit to hard before letting go. He grunts in pain causing Agent Gibbs to eye him weirdly.

"Well, if your unofficial interrogation tactic isn't to not announce you are a federal agents until I ask then I'd appreciate an explanation for your unexplained and spontaneous visit."

"Is that a boat?"

"Yes."

"Boss she builds boats."

"I can see that."

"He builds boats," Agent Dinozzo states, pointing to the silver haired gentleman.

I nod, "Great, than he can make himself useful." I say, annoyance clear in my voice, "We can waste each others time," I toss Leroy my sander and point to the spot I left off at. He says nothing and gets straight to work.

I grab the paint off my desk, popping the lid off with my pocket knife. Subconsciously noting the twitch of Agent Dinozzo's hand as he reaches for his gun, I go to the other boat in my garage, my paint brush still above my ear. I never keep the boats I make, a clear sign of my ever growing commitment issues, but I do name them.

I bite my lip in concentration, carefully and roughly painting the name I want, "What happened last night?" Leroy's voice draws me out of my thoughts. I glance up momentarily, shaking my head.

"I'm sure you know, you wouldn't be here if you didn't." I mumble, slowly dragging my paint brush until the curve of the letter stands out more prominent.

The man sighs, "You are a suspect." he simply states.

I shrug, "I am the only one who wasn't killed, I would be disappointed in this towns law enforcement if I wasn't a suspect."

"I listened to your 911 call."

I briefly pause, my brush freezing half way through a letter, "Ya well, you are supposed to go through the evidence."

"It sounded scripted."

"It was."

"Why?"

"Because when I killer wants to be in control, they have to be to the last detail. If that means writing me a script and holding a gun to my head well I read it, then so be it."

"Does that mean you saw the killers face."

"No, I just drew a random picture of a guy and hung it on my wall to shoot for the hell of it."

The sound of sanding stops but I don't acknowledge it, "You make copies of this?"

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

"Well I was going to take it to NCIS today but from the looks of it, they came to me."

This catches Dinosey's attention, "How do you know NCIS is involved in this?"

Shrugging again, I elegantly end the string of cursive letters by lifting my brush from the polished wood, "Marine Sergeant, Navy instructor, Captain, two civilians gunned down on a Military base, they'd be stupid if they weren't involved. Although since there is one dead civilian I'm sure the FBI is trying to mussel in."

The both exchange looks, "You know an awful lot about law enforcement,"

I shrug, "I'd hope so, it is my job." I mumble, taking a step back from my boat.

I could practically feel the confusion coming from them. Rolling my eyes, I finally smile at them, "Agent Arabella Tavia, MI5." I introduce myself, ignoring the shock on both of their faces.

My eyes trail back down to my boat, my smile dropping at the sight of the name I wrote.

Mathew.

Letting out a small breath, I motion for them to enter the house through the door on the other side of the garage. I follow them out, flicking the lights off, my hazel eyes glued to the name on the boat and then exactly where the boat would be behind the door as I shut it.