My muse reared its ugly head after seeing That Promo a couple days ago, and this is the result.
Honestly, I could easily turn this into a multi-chapter, but it's going to be AU after Tuesday, anyway, so I decided I wanted it to be over and done with before then.
Good luck on Tuesday, by the way.
Enjoy!
After he returns from Israel, Tony struggles with a desperate yearning unlike anything his heart has ever known. He puts off washing the clothes he wore in Ziva's presence because he wants to keep her scent on them. His bed feels cold and lonely after the thirteen nights he spent curled up next to Ziva in hers; every morning, he awakens to find himself clutching a pillow. A poor substitute.
Work is no better. Tony does a double take every time he looks across the aisle and sees one of the temporary replacements Vance keeps forcing upon the team. For eight years, she has been the one sitting in that chair and typing on that keyboard and slamming down that phone. It is a surreal sight, someone else going through these motions (well, except for the slamming- that was all Ziva) at her desk. He hates it.
He wants her back.
Damn her loyalty, though, because she refuses to put the people she cares about in danger, and that's why she's hiding out in Israel when she should be here with him.
At nine p.m. every Wednesday night, his time, they video chat. This is the extent of his contact with her- she must stay off the grid as much as possible- and it is the only thing he looks forward to. No matter what troubles have plagued him that day, they all fade away as soon as he hears her voice.
It is mid-November, the day after her birthday and exactly five weeks since he kissed her goodbye (for the time being), when he sits down on his couch for their weekly meeting and is greeted with a somber expression rather than her usual smile.
"What's wrong?" he asks, heart dropping into his stomach. She's been compromised. "Do they know where you are?"
Ziva shakes her head. Relief floods through his body, but is short-lived, because she is pale and her eyes are bloodshot and even if she isn't in immediate danger, something is definitely not right.
Tony leans toward the computer. "Ziva. What is it?"
She exhales heavily and runs a hand over her forehead. Then she lifts her eyes to meet his, and even though the gaze is coming from thousands of miles away, he feels it as if she were right in front of him.
"Tony," she says softly, "I'm… I'm pregnant."
The room spins and he feels light-headed, dizzy, like he might faint right here and now. She is still talking, but he is unable to comprehend her words.
Except for one.
Pregnant.
When he finds his voice, he croaks out, "Ziva… we used condoms. The whole time. Every night."
She sighs again and shrugs. "Condoms are not always successful. And besides, there was that one night… remember? It broke."
Tony squeezes his eyes shut, squeezes so hard it hurts. "Oh, fuck," he mutters. "Fuck."
She's a target, and she's pregnant, and the baby is his, and he's finding out over the internet, and this is so different from how he imagined he might start a family with her someday that it makes him want to cry.
"Tony, look at me," she calls.
He does.
Ziva has the fingertips of one hand pressed to her computer screen. Tony does the same to his and tries to imagine that he can feel the softness and warmth of her skin. "It will be okay," she whispers. "I will be okay."
"I'm coming to you," he says.
"No," she replies firmly. "You cannot."
"Zi-"
"You coming here and putting yourself in danger will not help anybody," she interrupts. "Stay where you are. I will keep you updated. Okay?"
Even though she sounds confident in her ability to handle this on her own, tears still brim her eyes. Tony wishes with everything he has that he could wipe them away. "I love you," he whispers. "I'm gonna get you home."
Ziva offers a watery smile. "Please."
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Gibbs is not happy.
Tony can see it written on his face. Seriously, DiNozzo? You couldn't keep it in your pants?
But all he says out loud is, "Alright. We've got work to do, then."
It is this work, this task of saving the woman he loves- and, now, their child- that he throws himself into. He runs searches pertaining to that alongside the ones that go along with whatever murder case the team is currently working. He brings Abby and McGee every piece of evidence, no matter how small, that they might be able to garner information from. More than once, he falls asleep in front of his coffee table, head lolling onto the files spread out in front of him.
And on Wednesdays, as before, he talks to Ziva.
She is still lying low in a small village, still obscuring most of her face with a scarf whenever she ventures outside. Her access to healthcare is very limited. That makes him nervous as all hell, but she insists that she is fine.
(Of course she is. When has she ever claimed to be anything other than fine?)
In January, at his request, she stands up, turns sideways, and lifts her shirt. Tony's breath catches in his throat. The baby bump was not noticeable through her clothes, but now, bared, it is unmistakable.
Ziva lets him look for several seconds before she pulls her shirt back down and sits. "I know you are worried because I have not been able to go to the doctor," she says, "but I have enlisted the help of numerous websites, and everything seems to be going the way it should."
She sounds cheery enough, but he still hates the thought of her sitting in that hut, alone and pregnant and in danger, without any assistance. He feels a familiar pang in his gut when he thinks about the fact that he's the one who should be there for her. And he's not.
"Is there anyone in the village you can go to if something does go wrong?"
"We are quite removed from any medical institutions- I chose this place for its isolation, as you know- but there are a couple of midwives here, yes. I have already spoken to them about helping me deliver when the time comes."
"If you're still there," Tony adds quickly.
Ziva tilts her head. "Yes. If I am still here."
The investigation is going nowhere, though, and they both are much too aware of it. She is already four months along. Unless they pick up the pace, there's no way Tony will be present for the birth of his child.
"Can you feel it moving yet?" he asks.
Her answering nod sends a pang through his gut.
"Just a bit. As if it is wriggling around, trying to get comfortable." A ghost of a smile appears on her lips. "Tony, perhaps it is selfish of me… this child is being born into horrible circumstances… but I am grateful this happened, because I no longer feel as lonely as I did when you first left."
He nods and swallows. Hard. "Hang in there, sweet cheeks."
"We already are," she says.
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On the third Wednesday in May, he is more pumped than he has been in months, because this is, really, the first day he will have anything good to report to Ziva. Earlier in the week, McGee had worked his computer genius magic and gotten the names of a brother-sister duo who are in the business of arms dealing- and also behind the plan to annihilate Ziva. All they need to do is track them down, and then this will all be over.
But Ziva never logs on.
He panics, of course. By now, she is heavily pregnant; if someone were to attack the little hut in which she resides, she would have trouble defending herself. All he and the others have done is identify the threat. There is a definite possibility that their discovery has come too late.
Gibbs talks him out of taking the next available flight to Israel. Instead, he spends all night and the next day wide awake, pacing, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, unable to concentrate on anything long enough to be productive.
Then, at a little past four, an unexpected ding sounds from his desk computer.
Tony swivels toward it and accepts the video call.
And there she is.
"Ziva," he breathes, only vaguely aware of the fact that McGee and Gibbs and their new agent, Bishop, are all staring at him. "Thank God."
"I am so sorry I missed you last night," she says. "I was a little… preoccupied."
Before he can digest her words, she is lifting a tiny bundle into her arms and tilting them so that he can see the sleeping baby's face.
His sleeping baby. With pouting lips and red cheeks and long eyelashes and a tiny nose.
"Isn't it early?" is the first thing out of his mouth when he finally regains the ability to speak.
"A couple of weeks, yes. Not early enough to be too worrisome."
"When?" he breathes.
"My water broke the night before last. She is, ah… approximately sixteen hours old."
He cannot stop staring at the creature they created together- by accident, yes, but also out of pure love. It takes a moment for Ziva's chosen pronoun to register. "She? She's a she?"
Ziva beams. "Yes. Hi, Gibbs!"
Tony is momentarily confused, then realizes that Gibbs has come to stand behind him. He shifts his chair to the left so his boss can better see the screen.
"She's beautiful, Ziver," Gibbs says. "Congrats. You too, DiNozzo. Bishop, McGee. MTAC."
With that, Gibbs is gone, and the other two agents scramble to follow him, leaving Tony alone in the bullpen He scoots as close to the computer monitor as he can possibly get, and his heart swells at the sight of Ziva cradling the baby closer. "Listen. I've got news, too. We've got names."
She jerks her head up. "Names?"
"Yeah. We're closing in." Tony grins. "I might get to meet that munchkin
sooner than we thought."
Over the next few minutes, he catches her up on the case's developments and fills her in on what the team's next move will be. His eyes keep drifting to his daughter as he speaks. She is beautiful and perfect and he absolutely cannot wait to hold her.
And he cannot wait to hold Ziva again, either. To kiss her and embrace her and apologize profusely for not being there to get her through the birth.
Not that she really needed him, anyway. There has never been any doubt that Ziva David can hold her own.
(But, with any luck, she won't have to for much longer.)
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It is July 10, and, for the second time in two weeks, Tony is on an airplane bound for the Middle East.
The first plane was a military jet headed for Pakistan, and he was accompanied by Gibbs and McGee as they embarked on a (successful) mission to take out Amir and Naomi Yusaf.
Now, he is traveling alone, sandwiched uncomfortably between the window and a three-hundred-pound man, and bound for Tel Aviv.
He will be returning home with two more passengers in tow.
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The flight home leaves in an hour, so all he has with him is a carry-on bag; there is no luggage to fetch from the baggage claim. As he heads for the gate, he is unable to hear anything but the pounding of his own heart. He is simultaneously excited and terrified. His stomach is in knots.
And then he sees her.
Them.
Everything else melts away.
Only unadulterated joy remains.
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Ziva stays where she is, clutching the baby to her chest, a grin splitting her face in half. Tony can barely feel the ground beneath his feet as he walks up to her. She immediately slips her free arm around his waist, and their foreheads come to rest against each other.
A tear falls down her cheek.
One of his own escapes, as well.
"You are here," she murmurs.
"So are you," Tony replies.
She laughs breathlessly.
Their lips meet in a kiss, slow and sweet and full of promise. The promise that this is it. This is them.
And that's how it's going to be from now on.
When they pull apart, Ziva holds their daughter out to him. "She is very anxious to meet her daddy," she murmurs.
Tony takes Hanna into his arms, handling her like he would fine china, and marvels at her for a long moment. She is awake; her eyes, big and brown, bore into him.
Overcome with emotion, he kisses her forehead. "I've been anxious to meet you, too, sweetheart," he murmurs.
Pressure against his shoulder causes him to glance to his right. Ziva is pressing her cheek into his jacket sleeve, a smile lighting up her face. Tony moves Hanna into the crook of his elbow and supports her body with the same hand so that he can wrap the other arm around Ziva.
They have been through hell and back, but they have persevered. It has only made them stronger.
Now, their lives begin.
Tony kisses Ziva one more time before uttering the words they have both been longing to hear.
"Let's go home."