A/N: Hey, NCIS fandom. I know, I know, it's been a while. But my muse has been thoroughly distracted by school and the show has been slowly killing my faith in Tony and Ziva of late. But I'm back now, which is the important part.
This is written in second-person, and the subject being spoken at is Ziva. I know, that sounds weird, but it'll make sense when you read it.
The timeline for this…I mean, it's supposed to be late S9, but I don't reference Jimmy's wedding or the terrorist plot or the season finale (which I haven't seen yet). This story deals more with my observations and frustrations with the current handling of the Tony/Ziva relationship story. We are going to pretend the finale did not happen.
This got very long and unruly and I'm really bad at cutting stuff. But I hope you guys like it anyway – and please remember to review when you're done!
Storm
By: Zayz
Spring has been unseasonably warm this year.
The air is heavy, uncomfortably dense; the sun beats down too brilliantly; the grass is too green, the sky a vivid, unreal blue. This is the hottest it's been in the spring since you came to America six years ago. Wearing the thick NCIS gear at crime scenes only makes it worse. Sweat beads around your hairline, shines all down your arms, acts like glue between your skin and your clothes.
Tony, of course, complains liberally about the weather. The sun, the humidity, the sweat. Especially the sweat. McGee, too, gets this pained expression on his face when told to leave the safety of NCIS's air conditioning. And yeah, the air conditioning is definitely nice, but in a weird way, you don't mind the heat. Heat is something you usually work fine with. You grew up in the Middle East after all.
Everyday this week, Tony looks at the window and proclaims that it will rain today, finally relieve D.C. from this literal hell. His weather predictions are elaborate, bolstered by superstition. He's always wrong, but he still predicts rain the next day, undeterred. "Today for sure," he keeps saying, wagging his finger at you and McGee.
McGee says Tony is crazy – it hasn't rained yet and it probably won't for quite a while – but you're with Tony on this one.
This isn't just summer heat. It's that special kind of heat that envelops you, makes you feel tight and itchy and agitated, makes the fine little hairs on the back of your neck all damp and sticky.
It's the kind of heat that precedes a storm. A big one. You glance at the window, at the thick white clouds floating serenely overhead. It'll be here any day now. You can just feel it. And looking at Tony across the bull-pen, his brows furrowed, his mouth hanging open languidly as he squints at his computer screen, you can tell he feels it too.
This case is the worst kind of case. A stake-out is required – in the car. McGee immediately decides that Abby needs help in the lab and that he is exempt from the exercise. Gibbs points at you and Tony and orders you to handle it. You groan internally; Tony groans externally.
The stake-out will take all day. When the two of you get into the sedan and head to the stake-out location, the woman on the radio announces that there will be record-breaking high temperatures today. Tony decides to run the air conditioner full blast. You tell him it's a waste of fuel. He counters that it's necessary if you don't want to melt. He swats your hand away when you try to turn the air conditioner down.
It turns out, though, that the argument isn't even necessary; within a few minutes, the air conditioner slows down, puffs out the last few clouds of cool air, and promptly dies. Within another minute, the temperature spikes. Tony sighs, rolls up his sleeves, and unbuttons the top three buttons on his shirt.
This is going to be a long day.
After roasting in the sun all day, the suspect still hasn't shown and Gibbs is getting impatient. He and McGee take watch the next morning. You and Tony are in the office, working on the digital and paper trails. Even with the air conditioning, it's hot in the building. You feel a sleepy, volatile snake coiling and uncoiling in your stomach. Your hair is tiresome and frizzy and impossible. Tony's eyebrows are bunched in a perpetual frown. His shirt buttons are open again. You can see the dampness in his hair even from here.
Gibbs and McGee still aren't back by the time you and Tony decide to leave for the night. He points up at the wispy clouds, half-heartedly predicts rain tonight.
Of course, he is wrong. Those are not rain clouds. But you choose not to point it out.
The relentless heat persists the next day, an oppressive physical weight in the air. It's been a week now, a week with temperatures into the nineties, humidity in the eighties, and not a drop of rain to speak of. The once-vivid grass is beginning to fade a little. The residents of D.C. wilt like the city's flowers, starved of sustenance under the obstinate sun.
Gibbs and McGee had no luck with the morning's stake-out, so you and Tony are back on the job for the afternoon. In the car with no air conditioning.
Tony pulls an ugly face, but leads the way out to the car garage, swinging the keys around a little, relishing the sound of the clinking metal.
You would have been willing to waste all the available fuel in the world today, if the air conditioner worked. That's how hot it is after two hours in the car outside, trapped in that tiny space with DiNozzo. You have opened the windows, but the air is almost completely still. There is no helpful breeze, no relief. Just the two of you, sitting together, staring at this spot, waiting.
You attempt a little conversation to begin with, but it fizzles out quickly. Talking is a lot of effort with such a dry mouth. You take turns buying cold drinks, but you devoured them almost at once and there seemed to be little point in wasting money on more. Around three, Tony goes across the street and picks up sandwiches. Pastrami for him, turkey for you. He remembered to take out the tomatoes for yours.
This stake-out is hopeless. It isn't going to help the case. But until McGee and Abby pull a miracle, it's the only lead you have, so you are stuck here, bored and sweltering, waiting indefinitely. Tony keeps sighing; he's feeling it too. He keeps wiping his forehead. You make a mental note to pick up towels from NCIS for the both of them, for the inevitable second shift of this stake-out.
With the general lack of talking, just taking turns with the binoculars, sipping at lukewarm water and trying to resist the urge to take refuge inside a cool building nearby, there's not much you can do but let your mind wander. It's funny to think about, but the past few months have been so stressful at NCIS – the hours have been so long, the cases so intense – that you haven't really had time to sit back like this, think about things. You give Tony the binoculars and lay your head back, the headrest material hot against your sweaty neck, and you stare at the ceiling, allowing the sunny sleepiness to relax you a little.
This is the most alone time you've spent with Tony in a long time too, you realize. Yeah, sure, you go out into the field a lot together, but the drives are often short and you're always exchanging case notes, totally focused. And yeah, you did go with him to Naples and Cartagena recently, but you had company both times – Chaplain Castro in Cartagena, Burley in Naples – which made it feel like just another team business assignment, rather than a snatch of alone time with your partner.
This year has been another rough one for the two of you. You both made some disastrous relationship errors – you with Ray, him with EJ – and the cases have been intense. You went to Afghanistan a few months ago. You love your job, love it with every fiber of your being, but it takes its toll on you sometimes. You work long hours. You are surrounded by death.
You glance at Tony, who is still halfway through his sandwich. Maybe it's the product of the hot weather, but you feel a rush of sentimental affection flood through you at the sight of him. He's a goofball – you know it – he knows it – but he's your goofball. You do (dare you say it) love him. You fan your sticky neck with your hand, futilely attempting to tempt a breeze to waft over you, and something sweet and sad and prickly comes loose inside your chest. Tony gobbles up a particularly big chunk of pastrami, even though it's too hot to eat with that kind of enthusiasm, and you can only watch, trying to understand what it is you're feeling.
But it's too hot to think. It's too hot to do anything. It's shameful, really, how this weather is starting to get to you. You grew up in Israel. This weather is like winter in Israel – or maybe autumn. In any case, you should be used to this. But you're not. The heat is getting to you anyway. You try to fan your neck again, and ignore the sounds of Tony exuberantly finishing up his lunch.
By the evening, the two of you troop back to NCIS with nothing to report. Gibbs is less than pleased. He is frustrated enough – or maybe overheated enough – to tell the team to go home, get rest, and be back early tomorrow for a fresh attempt at the case. "We need answers," he tells you, Tony and McGee, as though you don't already know. Tony and McGee nod intelligently; you say nothing, just pack your things and focus on getting home, getting out of your clothes and into something loose, comfortable.
There is something about this weather. This heat is unnatural; it can't go on like this. Something needs to break. Something needs to change. The storm Tony has been so optimistically predicting is refusing to show its face – but it will. It must.
Gibbs decides to give the stake-out one more try. The case is at a stalemate; admittedly, there is little else he can ask you to do right now. So Tony and McGee play rock-paper-scissors, McGee wins, and the two men pull rank on you, tell you to go with Tony for the morning. Again. You try arguing with McGee, but he scampers off before you can threaten his life. Tony grins. You roll your eyes, perhaps a little too dramatically. This time, you request the keys.
Back in the car with the broken air conditioning, Tony gives you the binoculars for a while and reclines his seat back. You yawn, your head already woolly under the fierce morning sun, and Tony remarks, "I hate stake-outs."
"Me too," you say, yawning again. "There is no point to this."
"I just hate the waiting," says Tony. "The anticipation. Like, you're sitting around here, supposed to be on your toes for some exciting break in the case. You don't know when it's going to happen. But if it takes too long, you get bored and then you miss your shot when the breakthrough actually happens."
"You must remain vigilant," you say. "That is the whole point."
"Yeah, except when you don't expect anything to happen, it's hard to convince yourself to be vigilant," he says. "Why wait for something that may never come?"
"You have your orders," you snap.
But the heat makes him as philosophical as it makes you cranky. He pushes the seat back and stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.
"There's nothing worse than being ordered to wait for nothing," he says.
"Something may come."
"But it may not mean anything if it comes too late." He sighs in such a way that you turn to stare curiously at him, eyes narrowed slightly as you try to figure this out, this mood. But he offers you no clues – just keeps staring at the ceiling, lost in his own world. No movie references, no jokes, no whistled songs. Just his silence.
He's sweating hard and it's not even eleven o'clock in the morning yet. He seems exhausted already. Technically, it's his turn with the binoculars, but you decide to take five extra minutes for him. Let him stew. You shrug out of your jacket so that you're in just your thin t-shirt, which is sticking to you like it's been glued to your skin, and you keep watch, as vigilant as he is bored.
That afternoon, it hits record high temperatures. There is a heat advisory in Washington D.C. Everybody is told to stay indoors if possible. It's finally beginning to get cloudy, giving some credibility to the weathermen who keep hastily promising storms, but for the most part, the clouds remain white and fluffy and overbearing. The humidity only makes it worse. Yesterday, it was in the eighties; now, it's inching into the nineties. The weathermen say this is proof of the storm approaching. But there doesn't seem to be an end in sight for all the stickiness.
And you and Tony are still stuck in the damn car, waiting in your spot for a suspect to show for a drop-off.
Abby pulled one of her standard miracles and Gibbs calls you now to tell you that the guy should be coming some time tonight. He says to stay there, something will happen soon. He is sending backup teams too. He reminds you to stay vigilant. Then he hangs up and it's just you and Tony again.
You repeat Gibbs's message. Tony nods, then leans back in his seat. It's your turn again with the binoculars. Tony says he's keeping watch from the windows, but you think it's just an excuse for him to lie down and take a nap with his eyes open. The humidity is making your hair frizz, your clothes even stickier. Your t-shirt is almost like a sodden second skin now. Tony, too, had to take off his suit jacket and unbutton most of his shirt and pull off his socks. He now wants to take off his entire shirt, but isn't sure what will happen if the suspect comes out or Gibbs somehow drives by and catches him. He isn't sure if he will get in trouble for taking off his shirt. He babbles on about pros and cons and what the NCIS indecent exposure policy might be as you keep watch.
At first, it's kind of nice as background noise; there is little you hate as much as awkward silence on a stake-out. But then it just gets annoying. It's too hot outside. Your patience is limited.
He's still going on about the shirt. He is wondering whether or not he should take the risk. He really, really wants to take his shirt off. It's hot out after all. But he's beginning to grate on your nerves now, so you snap carelessly, "Lose a few pounds and then we'll talk."
Even as the words come off your lips, you know you sound mean. That was a mean thing to say. Tony isn't fat. But you're all hot and tense and he can be so juvenile at the best of times. And anyway, this is just how you two are – playful, snarky – and he knows you aren't being serious.
He goes quiet, stares determinedly out the window. It's nice for a few seconds, but then you realize that you kind of miss his stupid babbling. You look up and find that he is wearing a masterful poker face with the ghost of a smirk, but you know him well enough to glance up, correctly interpret his tight jaw and his glassy eyes and that little crease between his eyebrows, and realize instantly that you said something wrong.
It perplexes you. You've said far worse before, and he took it with a laugh and a shake of his head, even said something nasty back a few times. But here he is, serenely observing the location even though you can see him sweating profusely, and he is offended.
"What's wrong?" you demand, running a hand through your damp, frizzy hair.
"Did you say something?" He gives you an icy, innocent poker face.
"Do not play games with me, Tony," you warn him. "What is going on? Why are you acting strange?"
"Strange? How am I acting strange?"
He would sound so convincingly cavalier right now, if you didn't know him well. He's never been as good a liar as he wants to be when he's around you.
"Are you angry with me?"
"Now why would I be angry with you, Ziva David?" he asks, smiling politely.
"All I meant was, if you don't have a six-pack, don't take off your shirt," you snap. "It was a joke. We both know you don't have a six-pack."
He remains aloof, scratching his head and turning away, looking back out the window, under the pretense of scoping out the stake-out scene. But his ears have gone pink; he's embarrassed. It appears you have crossed a line. Feeling embarrassed now yourself, you keep watching him, though, frowning slightly as you take in the sight of him, his ankles crossed, head back, eyes trained straight out his window. The binoculars sit forgotten in your lap.
"Tony, I did not mean to offend you," you say.
He pauses for a moment. Then—
"Yeah, you did," he says. His tone is hard, tough like overcooked steak.
"I did not," you say testily.
"You did," he repeats. He takes the binoculars from your lap and looks through them at the building across the street.
"I was teasing," you say. "Relax."
He chooses not to say anything. You find this so unbelievably childish; your temper spikes, hot as the air outside threatening to choke you, and you snap, "You don't have to take everything so seriously, Tony. I didn't mean it. I apologize if I hurt your feelings. I am sorry."
"Okay," he says, albeit unwillingly.
"You are being a child about this," you point out, drawing in a deep breath and searching the glove compartment for a hair elastic.
"Yeah. I seem to be good at that," he says, rolling his eyes.
"What is wrong with you today?" You find a rubber band; you tie your hair up and frown at him.
"Look, I just don't want to be the butt of all your jokes, all right?" he snaps. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"I never said you did."
"Good, because I didn't."
"Why are you acting like this?" You wrinkle your nose in confusion.
"Because maybe I want you to actually take me seriously once in a while." He moves the binoculars long enough to give you a look that stops you cold, makes you hesitate.
For as long as you've known him, Tony has always been an easygoing, snarky personality. He doesn't seem to believe in personal boundaries; he has gone through your mail too many times to count; he keeps up a witty, sometimes sharp banter with you, returns your insults with a twinkle in his eye; he has history, context with you. He has always made it okay to tease him about sometimes-personal things. Your relationship has definitely been strained before, but he's never been seriously hurt by something as small as this. You can't understand his reaction.
But it matters to him. He's got that telltale blush spreading by his cheekbones; his ears are a little bit red. He goes back to the binoculars. You bite your lip.
"I do take you seriously."
"No, you don't," he says without hesitation.
"What do you want me to do, exactly, Tony?" you ask half-genuinely, half-irritably, trying to fan yourself with your hand.
He doesn't answer, simply continues to stare at the street through the binoculars, refusing to meet your eyes.
"You are a very capable agent, Tony, we both know that," you remind him. "And you look fine. Really."
He still doesn't say anything. His silence is getting frustrating.
"You are being childish," you repeat. "This is petty."
"Well, I'm not the one who hasn't let this go yet," he says with a delicate shrug, putting the binoculars down at last and fixing you with a faux-innocent, challenging stare.
"I'm also not the one who perpetually acts like a fourteen-year-old, flirting with every skirt over the age of eighteen while getting jealous of any man I smile at!"
His eyes narrow, but not with their usual playfulness. His whole face goes blotchy red; you're not sure if it's because of the heat, or because he's seriously annoyed right now, all tense jaw and tight hands and shallow breathing.
"That's not fair," he says quietly.
And he's right, it's not. He's actually been really good lately – his flirting has been minimal – he's more productive than annoying these days. But there's something about this moment, this claustrophobic car and all this heat, that brings out the worst in you.
"It's true!"
"I don't care who you flirt with."
"You might want to tell Agent Burley that," you retort. "He has a hole in the back of his head from the look you kept giving him every time he opened his mouth to speak to me!"
"Yeah, because it's all about you in my head, isn't it," he scoffs.
"I can only call it the way I see it."
"You see it wrong."
"Then how should I see it?"
"As wrong. You aren't my type, sweetheart."
For a second, you are actually speechless. The heat rises in your cheeks. There is an iron bruise throbbing on your buzzing heart. You can't explain what exactly it is that put the bruise there – the look on his face
"That's good to know," is all you can think to say. "Because you aren't my type either."
It's beginning to dawn on him how bad that hurt; his eyes soften a little. He opens his mouth, searches for words. "That…came out wrong."
"Then what did you mean?" you shoot back.
"I mean that you're my partner and I care about you and I've got your six, always, when we're on the job," he says. "But beyond that…I mean, come on. You know."
You do know. Both of you go redder at these things you know, these unspoken things that are now gushing out of you and clogging up the car and sticking to the air, sticking in your throats.
You both know very well that the history that binds you, makes you feel so safe and comfortable around him, is also what will stick a wedge between you that will always drive you apart.
Because when you get all the way down to it, to the core of your relationship, you and Tony know very well that the ghost of Michael Rivkin continues to haunt you to this day.
It's not something you ever talk about. In fact, you only talked about it once, and that was the time when he was steely and you were wild; when he found in himself a cool-headed maturity and you lost control completely, put a gun to his face in a fit of emotion. But it's there, still there. On this hot spring afternoon, three years after the incident, it comes out almost by accident, completely unexpectedly, in near complete silence, and all your organs turn into lead.
You can feel his eyes on you. He can see it on your face, what you're thinking about. You told him yourself; you're a terrible liar when the stakes are high, when it's your heart on the line, when it's you and him and it matters and it hurts like this does. You can see it in his eyes, that he knows. He won't stop staring at you. This is the longest and the deepest he has stared at you in years and years, which makes all of this even harder.
It's too hot today, too hot for these feelings, for this conversation, for that look of his, this strong empathetic one that cuts down to something murky and slippery inside your soul. Some of that old anger and pain bubbles in your gut, acidic and inconvenient. You try to swallow it down, but your throat is too thick, too dry. The impulse to change the subject is strong, but somehow, you know better than to listen to it.
Like with everything about the two of you, you're not sure what changed, exactly, or when and why it did, but all of a sudden, everything has changed. This is uncharted territory. But words formulate somewhere deepest within you and crawl cautiously up your throat.
"Do you ever think," you ask, tearing your eyes away from his and staring at your lap, "that we just…missed our time?"
He sighs heavily, considering that. You can still feel his eyes on you, but you're not quite ready to meet them. The seconds trudge by, thick and silent and excruciatingly slow.
Then—
"I don't know," he says. "Maybe we did."
You take a few seconds to absorb the implications of this remark. The silence is stricken, awkward – tragic in a way. You look up and he looks away, out the window, towards the sky. It's gotten cloudy now, a lot less sun. You can only see his profile, but even from that, you see obvious grief. You feel yourself melting like candlewax in a roaring flame, softening down to nothing.
You want to reach out, put your hand to his shoulder, feel him jump, but somehow you can't quite muster the courage to touch him. You can see every detail of his wet hair, the sweat beading around his face; you can intimately feel the heat emanating off of him, hear his deep, careful breaths.
"I don't want us to be like this."
"Then what do you want us to be like?"
He dares to look away from the window, look you straight on. It's brave, the way he holds your gaze. You can feel him wanting to look away again. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
"Am I really not your type?" The words come out soft, but truthful, deadly serious.
He goes a little pink. Hesitates a moment, seeming to weigh his options. Finally: "No."
Your stomach knots uncomfortably, your chest tight. You try to decide what this means, how to answer him – except then he says, "But…rules are rules."
You blink, startled, somehow insulted. He's embarrassed and pink, but it's to his credit that his eyes never leave yours. Your tight chest now feels light and unreal, like you skipped a step coming down the stairs. Part of you can't even believe you're even having this conversation.
You sigh, a long exhale that draws out every bit of fluttering tension in your body and releases it to the claustrophobic air space of the car. You just feel overheated and exhausted all of a sudden.
"I'm tired of pretending," you say.
"So then what do you want, Ziva? Really?" His voice is barely above a murmur.
What do you want? What a question. But both of you are surprised to find an answer already on your lips.
"I want…something real."
"And you think I'm the best candidate for that?"
"I…don't know."
He has never looked as old and scared and worn-out as he does now, staring at you, struggling to decide how to answer that. The air is still and silent and suffocating in here. He runs a weary hand through his hair, buying time. You wait.
He says, "I don't want to screw this – us – up."
You feel your face go flaming red. He's already kind of wincing, as though preparing for you to react badly, as though he knew from the moment he spoke that maybe this weren't exactly the right thing to say. But then, how would he know the right thing to say? How would you? You have both spent six years not knowing the right thing to say, ducking this conversation over and over and over again until it just leaked out of you. Neither of you has ever known what to say.
So you say, "Forget it," and take the binoculars and stare at the target spot without seeing anything.
You always do this. The two of you get so close, so horribly close, always dancing on the bring of Something, yet never actually daring to leap over the precipice. You're too scared. Of being vulnerable. Being anything more complicated than you already are.
After a few long minutes, he says, "I'm sorry." The words flutter from his mouth to your ears like peace offerings.
But they aren't enough. You say, "Isn't there a rule about apologizing too?"
That shuts him up good and proper.
The two of you finish up the watch without saying another word.
You're not really sure how the two of you survive the rest of the evening. But miraculously – or perhaps inevitably – you do. You robotically report the lack of incident to Gibbs, watch as he storms off, drags McGee with him to do a night watch, and then you pack your stuff and leave without saying good-bye to Tony. And he does the same without saying good-bye to you.
Thankfully, your air conditioner works, unlike the sedan today, so you drive home in a refreshingly cool environment. Away from the heat, the glare of the sun, you try to put your mind at ease and find that you can't.
Yet, strangely, you aren't thinking about your conversation with Tony in the car, per se. No, your brain has dredged up an old, old memory from the first time you went under cover with Tony. When you were the married assassins, in the hotel room. You remember how it felt to kiss him, all those years ago undercover, when you felt electricity shock your bones when he touched you.
And you wonder, what would it have been like, if you could do what you did undercover every night for real? If the mission had fallen away and you had given into the animal attraction, the lust, and let him go all the way inside of you, claim a piece of you, mumble your name into your hair so that the hidden cameras in the room wouldn't know?
How would that have played out? Would he have guiltily evaded your gaze the next day when he saw you at work? Or would he have wanted to do it again?
You feel yourself get all hot and shivery thinking about it, even with the air conditioner on. You can't help it. He had such a soft mouth. He wasn't as handsy as you were expecting; there was something rough and raw and tender in the way he held you, something that aroused you, made you warm and restless.
You don't usually let yourself come here, to this place, where possibility sparkles, dangerous and alluring, over your head. But there's something about tonight. And now you're asking yourself that horrible, horrible question – what if?
What if things were different? What if you slept with him that summer when Gibbs retired, when Tony was team leader and he used to collapse on your couch a few times a week? When he brought take-out for two and sat in your living room, ran his hand through his hair and rambled about what was going through his mind as you just listened, let him vent?
What if you did it later – if you did it when you went to Paris with him, and there was just that one room, with the one bed, which he gallantly and chastely shared with you? What if you'd done it that night when he watched that pirate movie with you after work over popcorn and soda? What then?
Was there ever a right time to do this? It feels like there should have been. It feels like there was a time and a place when it could have worked between you. Because now, it feels like it can't. It feels stale, like you waited too long and you missed your time and suddenly you miss him.
You miss your electricity. When everything you did kind of turned him on a little. When everything he did kind of turned you on a little too. When everything was sexual and thrilling, rather than merely comfortable.
You do love this. You do love comfortable. You do love feeling safe with him. But being safe and settled has never really become you. You weren't built for the quiet working life. You were built for risk. And this kind of risk? It's the most dangerous one you know of. Bodies can take damage. They can heal. But hearts rarely ever do.
What if you did it now?
Rules are rules, as Tony said, but you've never been that good with rules. And in your heart of hearts, driving home tonight alone, you might as well admit to yourself that you were kind of hoping he would want to break this one with you. Even and especially because you know you shouldn't.
Later that night, it finally rains.
It starts just after you get back to your apartment, and you just think, about time. But you also can't help but remember that today is the first day in a week that Tony didn't predict rain and tonight is the night it came.
You sit around in the living room in an old tank-top and sweatpants over the evening news and a cup of tea. You're thinking about taking an early night – Gibbs is probably going to want you back at the stake-out early in the morning – when, at around eleven o'clock, you hear a knock at the door.
For a moment, you are surprised, confused. But when you think about it for a second, there's really only one person it could be.
With a heavy sigh, you get up from your couch and open your door. As expected, there is Tony, wearing old jeans and his favorite college sweatshirt, breathing hard, soaking wet. His hair is plastered to his head; there is water dripping from his nose; his eyes look slightly wild. You both stare at each other as you simply stand at the door, trying to comprehend the fact that he is here tonight, drenched and unguarded in front of you. Contrary to popular belief, you don't do this kind of thing very often.
He is so wet, dripping water all over the floor. He probably got the whole building wet. You give him another once-over, then silently move aside, let him in, close the door behind him. Gratefully, he steps over the threshold and buries his face in his hands.
You disappear down the darkened hallway to grab a spare towel. When you return, he's just standing there, waiting awkwardly for you. You hand him the towel and he dries off his face, his hair. He smells like wet leaves and ocean water and car leather. You wait as he collects himself, your arms folded.
When he resurfaces from the towel, you ask the obvious question: "What are you doing here?"
He crunches up the towel in his hands, tense. But like in the car, he keeps his eyes on you. It's a bit eerie how he does that, how he's not being evasive like he can be sometimes, like you can be sometimes. You're glad he's keeping eye contact. It makes it easier for you to keep it too.
"You told me you don't want us to be like this. And…and I guess I wanted you to know that I didn't want us to be like this either."
Silence. You bite your lip.
"Then…what should we be like?"
"Like you said. I want something real." With you.
For a second, you literally can't breathe right. "What about rules? Screwing us up?"
A grin flickers at the corners of his mouth. "We're already screwed up."
You sigh, cross your arms, your shoulders curled inward, saying nothing. His hair is still shiny, dripping a little despite the towel treatment. He leans against the wall, and you step back and lean against the opposite one. The wall is cold against your thin tank-top. This is so surreal – him, being here, saying these things, and you, being here, needing to respond – that no words make themselves available.
And he can sense that in you. He always seems to sense these things in you – when you're scared, or tense, or furious, or content, or confused. Maybe some of Gibbs's gut has rubbed off on him. Or maybe he just knows you too well by now. It's been six years after all.
He says, "We should…talk about this."
"I don't know what to say."
He takes a heavy breath. "Me either."
You lean your head against the wall. The air is so thick. You wait a moment, then ask him, "Do you want a drink?"
"Yeah. Please. Strongest you've got."
You walk over to the kitchen. He follows a safe distance behind you, and sits at the table as you pull out a bottle of gin. You pour a glass for each of you and settle into a chair so that you're sitting across from him, as far as you can be while sharing the table.
He raises his glass to you, and takes a generous gulp. You don't touch yours, not yet, just watch him drink his and try to understand what he's doing here.
He leans back in the chair and crosses his legs, traces the lip of the glass with his index finger. Clearly buying time. Then he turns his attention back to you and he says, "Ziva, I don't know what we're doing here."
"Neither do I."
"Today, in the car—"
"I didn't mean to offend you."
"I know. And…and I didn't mean to imply anything about you."
Now you take a gulp of gin. It burns savagely, satisfyingly, on the way down.
"Tony…" You pause, bite your lip. "I know it was awkward in the car, but we don't have to talk about it."
He doesn't believe you. You can feel that truth screaming at you from his body language, from his silence. But you had to try. You had to give him an out. You would have understood if he had taken it. It probably would have made this easier for you. He didn't, and it's a good thing, but you take another gulp of gin anyway. Your glass is almost empty.
He searches for words. And then he finds them, and before they slip away, before his brain deems them too dangerous, he says, "It's been a tough year. You know, with Ray, and…and everything."
The shock registers like a horrified ripple in your expression. "I don't want to talk about Ray," you tell him quickly.
"Look, I don't know. It's just…it's been a tough year, and it feels like something we should talk about."
"Why?"
He shrugs, this time averting his gaze. "I don't know."
"What happened to us?" you ask him.
He sighs heavily. "Wish I knew."
You rub your eyes, suddenly feeling fragile, overwhelmed. And then the words come. "Tony, what do you think is going to happen to us?"
"What do you mean?"
"What are we doing here? I have worked at NCIS for six years. I turned thirty this year. You have been working for Gibbs for, what is it, ten years now? And McGee, he's been here for at least eight. Are we ever going to…to leave here? Get another job somewhere? Get married? Have kids?"
He looks alarmed at the thought, but also uncomfortable, guilty, embarrassed. "I…don't know."
"Neither do I," you say. "But…I want an endgame. I want something real. I want…a future. It has been a difficult year, yes, but all years are difficult years. And…and I want to know about our future. Because we are in each other's lives, and I no longer know what means."
He runs his hand through his hair again. He finishes off his gin, his thoughts racing.
"I want us to be in each other's lives, Ziva," he says quietly.
"But…but when this team disbands, as it inevitably must, I don't think I want the occasional chatty email or a Christmas card every year," you tell him.
"It won't be like that," he says.
"How do you know?"
"Just do." He takes a breath. "We will be in each other's lives. I promise you that."
"How? How do you want me in your life?"
Your stare is true this time, a perfect arrow straight to his heart, where it lodges and makes him bleed. You can see the blood flow spreading as his eyes soften, as the tension tightens around his mouth, as something about him unfolds, blossoms, before your eyes and changes him in some way, and changes you, and makes the whole room contract.
But even as that happens, you see a sadness in him, and you go cold inside.
"Ziva, this is complicated…"
"Does it have to be?"
A crinkle appears between his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"Does it have to be complicated?" you ask him.
"No," he says. "But it is."
"It shouldn't be."
His eyes flick towards your hand, as though he longs to touch it, hold it, squeeze it tight. But you don't offer it and he doesn't reach for it; you both stay where you are and he says, "Ziva, rules are rules. And we…I mean, I don't know what we are. I don't know what this is. I just…don't."
"You are my partner," you say.
"Do you want me to be more than that?"
And there it is, that's the question. That's the question you have asked each other for six years in the form of glances across the room, the touch of your shoulders, the subtext in what you say, the way he literally went to hell and back for you, the way you gravitate towards him without knowing how or why except that you do and there's no other way it should be.
You look at this man and there is no explanation, no decent series of words you can string together to decently convey what is churning inside of you – in the English language, or in any of the other languages you know. He has those classic American frat boy features, yet deepest inside of him you sense this sweet, sad, earnest core that that strikes you like a well-aimed bullet but slips away like water through your open fingers when you try to capture it.
And just like that, you look at him and he looks at you and you know. You never had to say anything.
The answer is yes. It's always, always yes.
Your insides are bubbling, like they are being grilled on a flame that could eat them alive. Suddenly, there is not enough oxygen in the room. You lean in, then stand up so you can lean in closer. He does the same, stands up, and you both make a move to cross around the table to each other, but you end up staying where you are and leaning in farther, almost close enough to touch. You can count every eyelash, every shade of brown in those eyes of his. You grip the table for support. The room is so uncomfortably silent and still; there is not a sound in the world tonight; the universe shrinks down to just this tiny space between you.
And God, you are both so tired right now, tired down to every bone, every cell in your bodies. Tired after work, tired of this, the game, the questions, the evasions, everything.
People aren't meant to prolong tension indefinitely, with no endgame in mind. People aren't meant to let each other go when all their instinct tells them is to move closer.
There are a thousand reasons not to do this right now. The late hour; the awkwardness; the expectations of everyone you know; the elephant of your history, which has still managed to squeeze into this airless pocket of space, and breathes all over you with increasing urgency. But those reasons dim, fade away, and become nothing more than wallpaper. Something stronger than both of you builds, and builds, and finally takes control of you both.
It isn't clear who, exactly, closes that final distance between you. But, together, you close it.
The first flash of lightning strikes as your two lips settle into his two lips, and you surrender.
A rumble of thunder, and you hear that bestial grunt deep in his throat, as he pulls you in and your hands disappear into his hair and you press your thin tank-top against his heavy wet sweatshirt.
Rain beats against the window with ever-increasing urgency, and you stumble towards your bedroom, collapse on the mattress with you on top, settle into him as the bedframe groans and you groan.
Another rumble of thunder, and the clothes are coming off, your shaking fingers relieve him of his jeans, his hands yank the tank-top off your head.
There's no time for foreplay, there's no time at all, because it falls away and the storm falls away and the world falls away, and you could be floating in space right now, in a giant chasm untethered by gravity or logic or reason, and all there is, is him, and you, and this, and now, now.
A gentle thud, a grunt – another flash of lightning – and a burst of white sweetness explodes behind your eyelids.
Technically, time slips by, but you are satiated and hot and restless and cold and wild and happy and full of awe. Time doesn't really mean much, not in the traditional way.
He is lost in your neck, his teeth on your ear, your hands still in his hair. You can feel his heartbeat, faint yet unmistakable, against your skin.
The chaos rages on – the thunder, the rain, the lightning. But you just lay here, with him, feeling him on you and in you and all over you, and you listen to the storm.
In a few hours, life will beckon you both back into its cruel clutches. You will have to figure out what this means when you go to work and have to pretend none of this ever happened. You will have to make some decisions – hard ones. You know this, in some dim, lonely, practical corner of your brain. You can feel it tugging on your consciousness. But it doesn't matter, not yet.
Because you know the storm is here. It can't be stopped. The world will just have to run for cover.
A/N: And there you have it. There's the story. I'm so proud of myself for finishing it because I honestly didn't know if that would happen. But it did. So. Let's be happy.
Please leave a review on the way out – likes, dislikes, everything. The button is so cool now. Click it. Go on, do it.