Last Christmas
By L. M. Boulevardes
Prologue:
Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior
I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask.
I do not know, but I sense that it happens and I am tortured.
Catullus 85, translated by L. M. Boulevardes
He never told anyone.
He should have; if anyone had given the situation back to him with different names he would in an instant have said that he should have acted, told. But he was himself in the situation with his own name, so he didn't tell anyone. Even when it was over, he was silent, never saying a word. Just sitting at his desk, thoughts in his head. He was a little surprised that no one suspected anything.
But maybe he shouldn't have been. He was a decent actor; crack a joke, throw in a movie reference, flash that famous DiNozzo smile and everything was taken at face value. Tony, playboy. Tony, who picked up women as fast as the average man blinked. He supposed that they didn't suspect because why would they? But sometimes (and only, only sometimes) he felt just a little bad and wondered just a little bit why they didn't notice. But they he would remind himself that it was all in the past and there was no reason to dwell on bad memories.
Sometimes, sometimes he thought maybe, just maybe, they had something. When McGee would concernedly, tentatively, ask if he wanted to get out for a weekend, or at least get a drink. Sometimes Gibbs would ask in that awkward way of his if everything was okay. And Abby was more frequent with hugs and pitying looks, while Ducky silently treated injuries Tony insisted were from work or exercise.
But what he was never quite able to shake was the one time he caught Ziva looking at him, horror in her dark dark eyes. Right before Christmas. It was too cold for any sane person to be out, but he had gone running, too scared to be in the house with Her. And when he stood in the office changing his clothes, he didn't know she was there because what sane person got to the office that early? So he took off his shirt and heard her gasp and tried to fight the urge to hide the array of dark and faded bruises all over his stomach.
She flew from her desk over to him, carefully splaying her fingers over his skin (God, but she was warm!) and studying the injuries with frightened eyes.
"I do not understand . . . what –"
"Kickboxing class." Then he pulled away and stared her down until she realized that unacceptable as the answer was it was all she was getting. Because he wasn't about to tell her about fear and Hurricane Katrina and her fire poker and how he couldn't, just couldn't touch her she was so tiny and small. Another lie for poor Ziva.
And Christmas came, and he woke up in the ER one night to tears and kisses and promises and cuts and bruises everywhere. Oh my god I'm so sorry Tony I'll never ever do this again you have to believe me oh my god I'm so sorry look at you baby I promise this won't happen again I promise baby please . . .
She left once for the coffee machine and he took off even though wires and beeping machines screamed and hurt. He mailed all her things to her apartment, thanking his lucky stars that they hadn't officially moved in together yet and sold the unit. And then he moved. And then he changed his phone number. And unlisted everything. And Never Told Anyone. Because really, why should he? Everything healed. It all came out in the wash.
But then it didn't.
