Tiny droplets of water dappled the window pane and slid down the glass in little rivers. She had always like the rain; whenever it rained she liked to think that the world was being cleansed. The harsh, unforgiving world would be made new during the storms. Everything would smell fresh, and life would seem to open up the possibility of starting over.
After all that had happened, she deemed it impossible for her to start over. It was, after all, the small things that got you in the end.
The small things, as she had begun to call them, were always noticed by Ziva. Even when she was under pressure, or distressed, she could spot the small things from a mile away.
Right now, she was distressed, so her mind wandered and her eyes assessed, taking in the small details. The walls of the safe house were painted a pale yellow, the paint job clearly old, for the paint was peeling slightly in the corners. The meager decor did nothing to lighten the mood; drab paintings of what looked like pears riding one-eyed giraffes lined the walls, their value close to nothing. The carpet beneath her bare toes was maroon and unsettlingly squishy, and the hard wooden chair which she sat upon pressed against her aching buttock, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. But what stood out the most was the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room; it seemed to keep time with the pitter-patter of the rain drops on the roof and the beat of her heart.
The heart that didn't even belong to her. It had always belonged to him.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
She listened to the sound intently.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
It seemed to be taunting her, as though to say, see? This is how long you have been living without him.
She turned her gaze back toward the window, trying to ignore the ticking of the clock. But it was no use. She watched the rain drops glide, her solemn brown eyes drooping with fatigue. Blinking her thick lashes, she rested her chin on the window ledge.
Oh, the things she would do for a fresh start of her own.
...
Have you ever felt like your thoughts and feelings don't belong to you? Like they are swirling around your head in a jumbled mess, making no sense what-so-ever. Almost like you are watching a movie of your own life, but not realizing that it's you on the screen.
That seemed to be Ziva's life.
Each week passed like clockwork. Monday morning she filed into work, head cloudy with sleep, and large yawns filling the air. She'd get assigned a new case, some sort of petty officer that overdosed on methamphetamines, or a marine that decided to kill for hire. Tony would throw in a few movie references and she'd go through the week, plot twists presenting themselves at the least convinient moments. If she and the rest of the team were lucky, the case would be over by Thursday night at the earliest.
Endless cases. Endless names. Endless death.
This week's case had started out normal; a navy chaplain and his wife had been hit by a car outside the Adam's House hotel. It didn't seem as though there was much to investigate. The driver of the car showed no signs of malicious intent, and had no connection to the chaplain or his wife. Everything seemed to be wrapping up, but then the inevitable happened: a plot twist. It first presented itself on Wednesday mid-morning; Tony had been drinking his morning cup of coffee, stirring in the multiple packets of sugar he usually added in. McGee was typing hurriedly on his computer, and Ziva was sitting at her desk, checking on what McGee called "chatter". That's when she found out about a heist about to take place later in the month that involved the chaplain and his wife.
Naturally, Tony and Ziva were paired once again. Tony only gave his consent because he couldn't help but notice the jealous look on McGee's face. Ziva, on the other hand, wished she could decline, for she was not looking forward to spending a whole three weeks with Tony in a small hotel room pretending to be in love. Sharing the same bed? Out of the question. But she would do it. It was part of her job.
"So, Ziva," Tony chuckled softly. "You'll finally get a taste of what it's like to love someone like me."
She didn't reply. She decided some things were better left unsaid.
...
"This is Chaplain Mark Wharamby's file?" Tony asked, opening the manilla folder and scanning the documents inside.
"This is Gianna Wharamby, Chaplain Wharamby's wife," Ziva said. It was more of a statement than a question.
"Not really much to go on is there?" Tony said, frowning. Ziva was dissapointed too and a bit worried. The file did not give enough information for her to be safely taking the place of the chaplian's wife. She knew close to nothing about her. This made Ziva unsure of herself, but she snapped herself out of her worried daze and accepted the file without complaint.
Tony and Ziva entered the hotel Saturday morning, dressed in fancy clothes, which seemed appropriate considering how rich the couple was when McGee had opened their bank accounts. Of course, they didn't have their guns, and to tell the truth, Ziva felt a little exposed without it.
They checked into the penthouse, a little extravagant for Ziva's taste. But hey, she wasn't paying for it. The penthouse was beautiful to say the least. It had mahogany tables and furniture, with a crimson bedspread, golden curtains and a complimentary fruit basket that sat like a cornucopia atop the coffee table. Okay, maybe staying in a hotel room wouldn't be so horrible.
"Mark, honey," Ziva gave a light laugh for emphasis, "could you unpack the suitcases while I call the concierge for a dinner reservation?"
"Of course sweet cheeks," Tony answered, eyes lighting up when he called her by her special nickname. She half wanted to reprimand him for using a nickname that could possibly blow their cover if anyone close to the Wharambys heard him. But at the same time, she glowed on the inside, feeling special and giddy, trying really hard not to give away that she was feeling this. She hardly ever felt it. There were fleeting moments where she had this feeling, and they were always when she was with Tony.
She walked over to the phone which sat on the nightstand next to the bed. She touched the smooth handle of the receiver and place it to her ear, a loud beep extending through the phone. She paused, suddenly realizing that she had no idea what or who to call. If they were to change locations, they had to notify NCIS; it was protocol. But neither Tony nor Ziva were bugged yet, so there was no way to contact Gibbs.
After a moment's hesitation, she placed the receiver back on the stand and turned to leave. Just as she turned her back, the phone sprung to life, emitting a loud ring that caused her to jump.
Tony looked over his shoulder, a smirk on his face that was betrayed by the look of curiosity that was quickly spreading.
Who is it? His eyes seemed to ask her, and she took a stab at answering back with her eyes. I don't know.
She shrugged. In all truth, it could be anyone; the concierge, our contacts for the heist. There was only one way to know for sure. Answer it.
Hiding her uncertainty, she picked up the phone delicately, trying to decide how to answer it. Did Gianna Wharamby have a signiture greeting? A certain tone of voice that she only used when speaking over the phone?
Pushing these questions to the back of her mind, she said, "Hello?"
"Gianna?" The voice on the other end called, sounding familiar. Gibbs.
"Eric, how are you?" Ziva said, playing along to the cover Gibbs was trying to build incase they were being recorded. She felt more relaxed now that she knew who it was that was calling her, and words seemed to flow easier.
"Wonderful thanks," Gibbs said chortling. She half wanted to laugh; Gibbs, chortling? This was not his style at all. Jenny must be somewhere in the vicinity.
"How did you get this number?" She asked, hoping to soon understand exactly what it was that Gibbs was calling for.
"I heard from your sister that you and Mark were going to be in town staying at the Adam's House hotel and I just had to call." He explained, sounding positively enthused. "And Veronica and I have decided to invite you for dinner at the Roof-Top Steak House down the street from your hotel. Would you care to join us?"
There. That was why he was calling. He was covertly telling them where to go.
"We would love to," Ziva said, glancing up at Tony who had just arrived at her side, obviously confused.
"Great, see you then," Gibbs chortled again, and Ziva couldn't help but smile. They hung up, and Ziva filled Tony in on tonight's plans. He rubbed his hands together, obviously itching to get started.
Things seemed to be slightly turning up. Ziva had forgotten how much the team had her back, and now, with those worring thoughts behind her, she had room to truly be excited.
Hi, my name is Kaylee and I will be writing this fanfic. I love NCIS and I will try to make this as close to the show as possible. :) The description was really terrible because I only had a certain amount of characters, so thanks for sticking with me. I'll update soon.
-Kaylee 3