Chapter 10: Tides of Interruption
The steam hung thick and sweet with salt, wrapping them in a private cocoon. Obi-Wan’s hand, rough-skinned from decades of lightsaber grips, traced a slow path down Brittany’s damp arm, his thumb brushing the delicate line where human skin seamlessly met the iridescent indigo scales of her tail. Her head rested against his shoulder, the frantic pulse at her throat finally slowing to match his own measured rhythm. Her tail flicked lazily beneath the surface, sending shimmering ripples across the dark water, the only sound besides their shared breath and the distant, weary hum of the estate’s struggling power grid.
"Feels less like standing naked in a blizzard now," she murmured, her voice rough but soft, echoing slightly off the wet stone. She shifted, scales brushing his leg, cool and smooth. "More like... stepping into sunlight after a decade in a cave. Terrifyingly bright. Warm." She tilted her head to look at him, her eyes, the color of storm-washed slate, searching his. The profound exhaustion from Yavanna’s cleansing still shadowed her face, but beneath it, a fragile serenity shimmered. "Still figuring out where the edges of me are."
He pressed a kiss to her damp temple, breathing in the scent of sea spray and ozone still clinging to her hair. "Take your time," he murmured, his lips brushing her skin. "I’ll be the guardrail."
A low, contented hum vibrated in her chest, a sound he hadn't heard before, primal and resonant. She lifted her hand from the water, tracing the line of his jaw, water droplets tracing paths down his neck. "A Jedi Master moonlighting as a railing. The Council would be scandalized." A faint, genuine smile touched her lips.
"Scandal seems to follow us like a mynock to a power cable," Obi-Wan countered dryly, capturing her hand and bringing her knuckles to his lips. He felt the faint ridge of an old scar there, a relic from a past as violent and fragmented as his own. "Besides," he added, his voice dropping, roughening, "guarding this is a privilege." His gaze held hers, the intensity in his blue eyes stripping away any jest.
He leaned in, the steam swirling between them. Her breath hitched, anticipation tightening the air. His lips were a breath away from hers when the silence shattered.
BRRRZZZZT. BRRRZZZZT.
The sound was jarring, mechanical, violently out of place in the aquatic sanctuary. Her battered, water-resistant comm phone, discarded on the teak bench near the door, lit up like a distress beacon. Tobias Fornell’s name glared from the screen in harsh white letters, casting frantic, jumping shadows in the steam.
Obi-Wan froze, a low growl rumbling in his chest, a sound more feral than Jedi-like. His grip on Brittany tightened possessively. "Let it ring," he breathed against the sensitive skin of her throat, his lips grazing her collarbone. "They can wait."
But Brittany was already pulling back, the moment ruptured. Her eyes, wide and alert seconds before, snapped towards the vibrating device. Not with annoyance, but with the razor-sharp focus of an agent assessing an incoming threat. Her gills, previously relaxed slits along her ribs, flared open slightly, a physiological response to rising stress he’d seen before. She strained, not with her ears, but with something deeper, older – the sea’s daughter listening to vibrations carried through water and stone.
Fornell’s voice, tinny and urgent, crackled through the speakerphone she hadn't consciously activated. "...kid? Brittany? You copy? We're coming in! Perimeter's a mess, main gate's hanging off, got thermal sigs near the house but no hostiles visible. Tony's got the spare key. You better not be bleeding out in a bathtub again!"
The casual reference to past peril, the sheer normalcy of Tony DiNozzo having access to her inner sanctum amidst cosmic fallout and Vala interventions, slammed them both back into harsh reality. Brittany’s serenity vanished, replaced by the steely pragmatism of Major Vance. Her tail gave one powerful, involuntary thump against the side of the bath, sending a small wave sloshing over the edge.
"Fornell!" she snapped, her voice slicing through the steam, all business. "Copy. Situation contained. Negative on hostiles. Stand down the tac team." She paused, eyes flicking to Obi-Wan, a silent apology flashing in them before hardening again. "Give me… ninety seconds. Do not let DiNozzo touch my lockpicks." Her gills snapped shut.
"Ninety seconds? Kid, what're you—" Fornell’s protest was cut off as she stabbed the disconnect button with a wet finger.
The sudden silence was thick, charged. The intimate warmth of moments ago had evaporated, replaced by the clammy chill of intrusion and the frantic scramble for control. Obi-Wan watched, a mixture of frustration and reluctant understanding warring within him, as Brittany transformed before his eyes. The vulnerable woman, the mythical creature basking in newfound peace, was shoved ruthlessly aside. The NCIS Special Agent, the Marine, slammed back into the driver's seat.
With a fluid surge, she propelled herself towards the steps at the shallow end of the bath. As she rose, water streaming off her in sheets, the magnificent indigo tail shimmered, the scales seeming to dissolve, retracting, melting back into human form. It wasn’t instantaneous magic; he saw the strain in her shoulders, the ripple of effort across her back as bone and muscle reconfigured with unnerving speed. One moment, scales caught the flickering light; the next, long, powerful human legs, still glistening wet, found purchase on the stone steps.
She didn't pause. She snatched a thick, dark robe from a hook, wrapping it tightly around herself, cinching the belt like armor. Water darkened the fabric instantly. Her movements were economical, precise, driven by ingrained protocol. "Generator's failing," she stated, her voice clipped, already scanning the room beyond the door. "Lights flicker, it cuts comms intermittently. They'll assume that if I don't answer again." She raked wet hair back from her face, revealing eyes that were now sharp, assessing, the exhaustion buried under layers of operational readiness. "Tony will use that key."
Obi-Wan was already moving, hauling himself out of the water, the sudden cool air biting his skin. He grabbed a towel, drying hastily. "DiNozzo possesses a particular talent for poor timing," he remarked, his voice tight but controlled. He pulled on his tunic, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably. The easy intimacy felt like a dream rapidly receding.
"His only talent," Brittany muttered, shoving her feet into waiting rubber-soled boots by the door, not bothering to dry them. She moved towards the heavy oak door, hand hovering over the ancient-looking iron lock. "Right. Play it cool. Generator blew during the… seismic event. We were checking structural damage. That’s all." She glanced back at him, a flicker of the earlier vulnerability surfacing briefly. "Obi-Wan..."
He reached her in two strides, catching her arm just as she touched the lock. He pulled her close, ignoring the damp robe, ignoring the urgency vibrating through the stone from the approaching agents. He cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. The frantic agent’s mask slipped for a heartbeat, revealing the woman underneath – scared, newly unmoored, clinging to the lifeline he’d just become.
"However you are," he said, his voice low and fierce, echoing his vow in the salt pit. "Marine, Mermaid, or Major Vance facing DiNozzo’s inevitable commentary. I’m here." He pressed a hard, quick kiss to her lips – a promise, an anchor.
She leaned into it for a bare second, a desperate press of lips that stole his breath, then pulled back, her mask firmly back in place, though her eyes remained locked on his. "Hold that thought," she breathed, a ghost of her earlier wryness returning. "This won't take long. Probably."
She turned the heavy lock mechanism. Clunk. With a deep breath, she pulled the door open.
The hallway beyond was dim, shadows dancing wildly as the backup lights overhead flickered erratically. The hum of the generator stuttered, dipped, then surged again with a protesting whine. Downstairs, the distinct sound of the heavy front door scraping open echoed up the grand staircase, followed by Tony DiNozzo’s voice, loud and carrying even through the groaning house.
"Told you, Fornell! Key worked like a charm. Place is a disaster zone. Smells like something died in a lightning storm. Vance? Lulu? You decent? Don't make me regret this spare key!"
Brittany stepped out into the flickering gloom of the hallway, pulling her robe tighter. Obi-Wan followed, feeling the shift in the air, the intrusion of the mundane world into their fragile sanctuary. The warmth of the bath clung to his skin, but the chill of the hallway, and the impending chaos embodied by Tony DiNozzo’s voice, was already seeping in. The respite was over. The next battle, albeit a bureaucratic and annoyingly familiar one, was knocking at the door. He squared his shoulders, the Jedi Master ready to face the storm of NCIS protocol and DiNozzo’s inevitable innuendo, standing beside the woman he loved, who was currently radiating an aura that promised dire consequences for anyone mentioning the words 'bathtub' or 'steam'. The generator gave another violent hiccup, plunging the hallway into near darkness before staggering back to life. Perfect timing.
The generator's final cough plunged the hallway into near-total blackness, swallowing DiNozzo's echoing voice for a split second. Britt’s hand shot out in the dark, finding Obi-Wan’s forearm, not for comfort, but to anchor him, stop him stumbling. Her grip was iron. The lights flickered back on, weaker now, casting long, shuddering shadows that made the grand staircase look like a gaping maw. Dust motes danced in the sickly yellow beams.
"Structural assessment," she murmured, her voice low and tight. "Remember." Her eyes, flat and professional, met his for a heartbeat before snapping towards the top of the stairs. The robe clung, damp and heavy, hiding the tremors he’d felt moments before. Only the sharp angles of her jaw, the way she held herself – coiled, ready – betrayed the storm beneath the surface.
Tony DiNozzo’s head appeared first, cautiously peeking over the banister. "Whoa, Vance, power's dumber than McGee trying salsa dancing. You okay up here? Place smells like a transformer barfed ozone." His gaze swept past her, landing on Obi-Wan. A trademark DiNozzo smirk started to form. "And who's the... damp knight?"
"Agent DiNozzo," Britt’s voice cut through, cold and sharp as a scalpel. "This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. A consultant. Regarding the… seismic anomalies." She didn’t move, blocking the narrow landing like a sentinel. "Status report?"
DiNozzo took the last few steps, Fornell’s heavier tread following right behind. The Senior Field Agent looked rumpled, his tie askew, eyes scanning Britt with an intensity that went beyond professional concern. He looked old, suddenly, the lines on his face deeper in the bad light. He took in her wet hair, the damp robe, Obi-Wan standing slightly behind her, hair plastered dark against his temples. His jaw tightened.
"Perimeter's secure, Major," DiNozzo reported, though his eyes kept darting to Obi-Wan’s unfamiliar attire. "No hostiles. Just a whole lotta broken fancy landscaping and one very busted front gate. Looks like a meteor hit it. Or Godzilla had a tantrum. Thermal showed two signatures near the house. Yours and... his." He gestured vaguely at Obi-Wan.
"Generator blew during the initial tremor," Britt stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We were checking the west wing supports. Massive crack near the conservatory." She didn’t flinch under Fornell’s silent scrutiny. "Obi-Wan was assisting."
"Assisting," Fornell repeated, the word flat. His eyes, sharp and weary, finally locked onto Britt’s. He didn’t ask about the tremor. He didn’t ask about Obi-Wan. He took a step closer, ignoring DiNozzo’s confused glance. The stale tang of cigar smoke clung faintly to his coat, mixed with the sharp scent of ozone. "Kid. Look at me."
Britt met his gaze, her expression unreadable, the NCIS mask flawless. But Obi-Wan saw the infinitesimal tightening around her eyes, the way her knuckles whitened where she gripped the robe. Fornell saw it too. His weathered face softened, just for an instant. He reached out, not touching her, but his hand hovered near her arm, a gesture halted mid-motion. The air crackled, thick with unspoken history and paternal worry that cut through the official bullshit.
"Don't 'structural assessment' me, Brittany," Fornell said, his voice low, rough with an emotion that wasn't anger. It was fear. A deep, ingrained fear he usually buried under sarcasm and bourbon. "I saw the satellite feed before it went dark. That wasn't a tremor. That was a warzone. And you were ground zero. Again." He dropped his hand, shoving it into his coat pocket. "Are you hurt? Really?"
SHE FINDS FORNELL standing there, not as her superior, not as NCIS, but as the gruff, terrified surrogate father who’d dragged her out of darker holes than DiNozzo could ever imagine. The mask didn't crack, but something shifted in her posture. The rigid tension bled out, just a fraction. She didn't lie. Not to him. Not about this.
"Yavanna… handled it," she said quietly, the name unfamiliar to both agents but carrying weight in the stillness. Her eyes flickered, the storm-grey revealing a sliver of the profound exhaustion beneath. "Purged the wounds. Even the... deep ones." Her gaze held Fornell’s, acknowledging the unsaid – the wounds that weren't physical, the scars from Erebor and battles fought long before NCIS. "I'm standing. Breathing."
Fornell stared at her, his expression a battlefield of relief, residual terror, and the deep understanding of how much that simple statement cost her. He gave a single, curt nod, the tension in his own shoulders easing slightly. "Good." He glanced at Obi-Wan, his gaze lingering on the Jedi’s calm presence beside her. "He part of the… handling?"
Britt didn't hesitate. "He helped." The simple words carried more weight than an hour of explanation. Obi-Wan felt Fornell’s assessment like a physical touch – wary, protective, but ultimately accepting her judgment, for now.
DiNozzo shifted, uncomfortable with the emotional current he couldn’t quite navigate. "Right. Okay. So, super-consultant handles seismic wounds. Got it. Meanwhile, back on planet Earth, we've got D.C. breathing down our necks about unauthorized energy signatures and possible alien tech." He pulled out his phone, squinting at the faint screen. "Gibbs is gonna have kittens wrapped in barbed wire. We need statements. Like, yesterday."
The generator whined, the lights dimming perilously low. In the deepening gloom, Britt’s expression hardened, the agent snapping back into focus. "Then let's not keep Gibbs waiting," she said, her voice regaining its usual clipped precision. She turned, the damp robe swirling around her legs as she moved towards the stairs, radiating an authority that brooked no argument. "Obi-Wan, with me. DiNozzo, secure the comms hub. Fornell…" She paused, looking back at him, a flicker of the earlier understanding passing between them. "Make the coffee strong. This is going to be a long debrief." She descended the stairs, not waiting to see if they followed, the weak lights catching the determined set of her shoulders as she walked straight into the bureaucratic storm, Obi-Wan a silent shadow at her side. The house groaned around them, echoing the turmoil they’d left behind in the steam, and the far greater turmoil still to come.
The house groaned around them, echoing the turmoil they’d left behind in the steam, and the far greater turmoil still to come. Britt hit the bottom step, the worn wood creaking under her boot, and strode straight for the cavernous living room where a bank of flickering monitors cast jagged shadows. The air tasted metallic, thick with ozone and the sour tang of stressed electronics. Behind her, DiNozzo muttered something about structural assessments smelling suspiciously like wet Jedi, earning a sharp elbow from Fornell.
Obi-Wan followed, his senses stretched taut. He felt the thrum of the dying generator vibrating through the soles of his boots, a counterpoint to the frantic energy radiating from DiNozzo and the simmering concern rolling off Fornell in waves. Dust motes danced in the stuttering light, catching on the intricate carvings of the grand piano, now scarred by falling plaster. "Gibbs," DiNozzo was practically vibrating beside him, phone held aloft like a talisman against the failing power, "is gonna be PISSED. Like, 'head-slap heard round the world' pissed. We got energy signatures off the charts, a crater where your fancy gate used to be, and zero intel. He wants boots on, Vance. Like, yesterday."
Britt spun on her heel, the damp robe swirling. The weak light carved deep hollows under her cheekbones, highlighting the stark determination in her storm-grey eyes. She didn’t look at DiNozzo; her gaze pinned Fornell, who stood near the cold fireplace, arms crossed, radiating weary pragmatism. "Gibbs," she stated, her voice cutting through the generator's whine with chilling clarity, "can cool his jets. I already handled it."
DiNozzo blinked. "Handled it? Britt, there's a starship-sized hole in your front yard! How do you 'handle' that before coffee?"
"By picking up the phone," Britt said, her tone flat, absolute. She took a step closer to Fornell, ignoring DiNozzo’s sputtering. "Tobias. I called the Oval. Thirty minutes ago. Gave the President a full sitrep." The words landed like stones in the tense room. "He has the full picture. The event, the… origin of our visitors, the threat neutralization. Mahal made sure of that." A flicker of something ancient and terrifying passed through her eyes, gone as fast as it came – a silent callback to the dwarf king’s cataclysmic fury shaking the very mountains. "My clearance trumps NCIS jurisdiction on this. Explicitly. The President is deferring to my operational control here, on my property."
Fornell didn’t move, but Obi-Wan felt the shift in the older agent – a release of coiled tension, replaced by a profound, weary resignation. He uncrossed his arms slowly, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. He didn’t question her access; he’d seen the impossible shadows that followed this kid for years. "Operational control," he echoed, his voice gravelly. "Meaning what, exactly? We just stand here admiring the new landscaping?"
"Meaning," Britt said, turning her attention fully to DiNozzo now, her gaze sharp enough to puncture Kevlar, "you will inform Gibbs that NCIS is not taking point. Not here. You are observers." She emphasized the word. "You will not touch evidence. You will not interrogate my consultant." She nodded fractionally towards Obi-Wan. "You will assist in securing the perimeter against any external curiosity, media or otherwise, using standard NCIS protocols for hazardous material containment. Cite Presidential Directive Alpha-Seven-Tango. Gibbs knows it." She paused, the generator groaning as if protesting the orders. "Make it clear, Tony. No authority. This is my sandbox. The President handed me the shovel."
DiNozzo stared, his mouth slightly open, phone forgotten in his hand. The directive code seemed to resonate, something deep and serious cutting through his usual flippancy. "Alpha-Seven-Tango? That's the 'aliens landed on the White House lawn' protocol? Seriously?" He looked from Britt’s impassive face to Fornell’s silent confirmation etched in the deep lines around his eyes. "Okay. Okay. Wow. Gibbs is gonna spontaneously combust." He started jabbing at his phone, muttering, "Head-slap incoming... gonna need a bigger aspirin..."
Fornell moved then, stepping close to Britt. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a solid wall of worn leather and cigar smoke. "Kid," he murmured, low enough that only she and Obi-Wan, with his enhanced hearing, could catch it over the generator's death rattle. His eyes scanned her face, searching for cracks beneath the steel. "The President's blessing is one thing. But that... thing that happened... Yavanna's touch or not. You sure you're holding the shovel steady?"
The lights flickered violently, plunging the room into near darkness for three heartbeats before staggering back to a dim, sickly yellow. In that oscillating gloom, Britt’s mask slipped for a microsecond. Obi-Wan saw the echo of deep, magical scarring purged by the Vala, the bone-deep weariness, the sheer weight of worlds colliding on her lawn. Then it was gone, sealed behind the Major’s unwavering gaze. She met Fornell’s concern head-on. "I have help holding it up," she said, her voice barely a whisper meant only for him and the Jedi at her side. She glanced at Obi-Wan, a silent acknowledgment passing between them – a lifeline grasped in the salt pit.
The generator gave one final, shuddering gasp. The lights died completely this time. Absolute darkness swallowed the grand room, thick and suffocating. Somewhere in the black, DiNozzo yelped, fumbling with his phone. Britt didn't flinch. Obi-Wan felt her move beside him, her hand finding his arm again in the pitch black, not for guidance, but connection. A silent signal. He felt her draw a slow, steadying breath in the oppressive dark, the only sound now the frantic tapping of DiNozzo’s thumbs on glass and the frantic pounding of rain starting to lash against the tall, broken windows. The next move was theirs, hidden by the storm and the dark.