Over My Head

Over My Head

(Disclaimer: I do not own neither NCIS as much as I wish I did. The picture is actually from "Her Minor Thing". I do, however, own Aly.

Author's Note:

Okay people, here's one of those evil little plot bunnies that pops into your head at 1:13 AM. Tell me if it's too insane, but remember, it is AU.

Many thanks, as always, to Ashley, my writing partner and all-around idea checker and expander, also, a very good friend. Enjoy, and remember, REVIEWS are LOVE!)

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PROLOGUE

Tony DiNozzo looked just as he always had: sly, sweet smile, classic good looks, a twinkle behind those silver blue-green eyes that'll drive any hot blooded woman (and even some men) up the nearest wall.

"You hair's blonde." That's the first thing that he said to me after I spotted him.

"Has been for two years. And that's about to change."

"I like you better au natural. Brunette. Matches your eyes better."

"Thanks for noticing." In my opinion, there wasn't enough disdain in my voice. I was trying to muster more as he interrupted me.

"Dying it back?"

"Finally." I slid into the backseat of the cab. He followed.

"Hey sweetcheeks," The cabbie asked, "Where to?"

"The Waldorf...I'll double the fare if you make it there in under twenty."

The cabbie pulled out, looking again in his rearview mirror. "Hey, you're that girl, ain't cha? That writer chick?"

"Yep, that would be me. That writer chick."

"My wife reads your stuff. Eats it all right up, that crap about the mediums and the seeing the dead and all that stuff."

"It's not crap." Tony spat at him.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that your wife enjoys my novels, sir." I say through a sigh. Great. Another unitelligent New York cabbie bashing my work.

"Still think it's pretty out there." The cabbie continued. "Like that last one? Girl's fiance dies and then his ghost helps her solve his murder?"

"Well, technically," I interject, "It wasn't a murder. He was killed by a French arms dealer during an undercover mission."

"Still sounds like murder to me, lady."

"Well technically it wasn't."

We pulled to a stop at a red light. "You're awful technical for a writer. Ain't you all supposed to be all artsy-fartsy and creative and stuff like that?"

Tony raised his eyebrows. I mirrored him with a smirk. "That," He said, "Doesn't sound like fiction to me."

"Well, of course it is," I answered sweetly, "You never helped me find your killer."