Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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You Had Me At Hello
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I dream with open eyes
Nightmares haunt my days
Visions blur my nights
(Yet- Switchfoot)
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It was the first time that they admitted it: That there was something there, between them. More than friendship, more than trust, more than simple attraction. To call it love would have been the easy thing to do, but it was bigger than that and far more complicated. It was something they never said out loud, never openly acknowledged, even though it was there, in their every move, in every glance at each other, in every stolen touch they shared.
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Sometimes Tony couldn't sleep. Recently, this sometimes was every night. He dragged himself home, his limbs heavy and his head throbbing, though Gibbs' head slaps weren't the reason for that. His flat seemed cold and uncomfortable and he wanted to turn around an leave, but he didn't know where he could go. Gibbs' door was always open, but his boss had ghosts of his own.
So instead of running, Tony closed the door, tossed his one hundred dollar tie onto the floor and went to bed without turning any lights on. But no matter how tired he was, sleep was an elusive creature and wouldn't come to him. He was left to lie in his bed, alone and tired, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't find comfort in his movies anymore, or the company of college girls; he switched the first off after ten minutes and ignored the second until he paid for his drink and left alone.
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Sometimes he couldn't decide which were worse, his nights or his days. The nights scared him. There was nothing to occupy his mind with and his thoughts circled around themselves until they collapsed like a house of cards and he fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by nightmares filled with unspeakable things. But he could fight through that, the fear and the weariness. The days, however, outright terrified him. When he was faced with another death, another senseless murder and the feeling that life was passing him by. When he found himself sitting at his desk and fear gripped him tightly, so tightly that he had to gasp for air and mask it as a cough.
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When he had become a cop he had sworn that it wouldn't get to him. It wouldn't pull him down, it wouldn't make him partial to alcohol, it wouldn't make him end up alone on his fiftieth birthday because he was working long hours.
In the end, Tony had to admit that it had gotten to him.
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He was young when he died, not even thirty. He had just returned from a long tour to Iraq, had went right home from the airport to shower and put on his good suit: He wanted to propose to his long-time girlfriend. He had even bought flowers and the ring, that he had bought two days before his departure, was safe in his pocket.
He returned from war to be driven over by a drunken truck driver, who didn't even realize that there was blood on his windshield for two miles.
Tony stood over the body of the young man, taking in his unblinking eyes and brown hair. His midnight blue suit was crumpled, ripped, bloody and dirty. His red tie didn't even have a single wrinkle. It was the tie, really, that did it. It was the same one Tony had, the one he had just worn yesterday. It had been a misty day, he felt like wearing something colorful. Now he regretted it, because it connected him to the dead man. To this dead, young, brave soldier, who had died alone.
He left the crime scene without another word, the gazes of his colleagues and friends burning into his back. But he couldn't turn around and face them.
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Gibbs cornered him as soon as they were back at the office. The look he gave him was warmer than Tony had expected.
'What's wrong, DiNozzo?' he asked, but his voice suggested that he already knew. He was Gibbs, of course he knew.
'Sorry, boss, won't happen again,' he gave back without meeting the ice-blue eyes that were still trained at him.
'That's not an answer.'
'It's all that I have right now,' he said and left. Actually walked out on Leroy Jethro Gibbs. And Gibbs let. That's when Tony realized that something must be wrong.
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She found him not much later, standing in the men's room, looking at his pale reflection in the mirror, wondering if he'd always looked this way. He had locked the door, but he should have known that it wouldn't keep her away; she could probably pick a lock with her fingernails.
She stood beside him, looking at his reflection as well. Her warmth was seeping through his jacket and he could smell her rose shampoo.
'I am sorry, Tony.'
Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn't this.
'What?' he asked, shaking his head to clear it from the haze that had infested it.
'I am - sorry.'
'I don't understand.' His eyes sought out hers in the mirror. 'What ever for?'
'For making you this sad and this scared.'
'Ziva, you -' Tony wanted to stop her, but she shushed him.
'Please, let me finish. I might not find the courage to do so again.' Tony grit his teeth, but nodded nonetheless. Without him realizing it his hand had found its way to hers and was holding on tightly.
'I am scared myself. So very scared sometimes that I can't breath. But you are always there and you make it better without even knowing. And I just make you miserable, because I can't - I have been trying to run away from you so long, but you just keep following me. I am tired of running and I don't want to be scared anymore or see you in pain, because I am more scared of that than admitting that … that I need you.'
He broke down and so did she.
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He had been sitting at the table for only two minutes and already his wine glass was half-empty and his paper napkin in shreds. The white pieces laying there on the red tablecloth looked like ugly snowflakes. The waiter has asked him if he might want a new one twice already. He had declined twice, trying to find something new to occupy his nervous mind with.
He felt like a hormonal teenage boy on his first date. Tony grinned. It was his first date. Not his first date ever, but the first date in a very long time that mattered. That meant something.
Tony looked up sharply when someone came to stand next to the table. And she looked so beautiful. His breathing hitched as he took in her loose hair, the light on her skin and the sparkle in her eyes. She wore - he couldn't even remember what she had worn, but it hadn't mattered. She had looked gorgeous.
Ziva's hand trailed the corner of the table and she smiled down at the still speechless man.
'Hello,' she said gently.
'Hello.'
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He orders the food in Italian and she laughs at the jokes he cracks. He pays for dinner and their drinks and they leave together. It's the first night that the things he sees don't scare him.
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A/N: I don't really know about his; didn't re-read it so if you find any typos, sorry.