She wears a thick winter coat in the spring, and clutches a carrier bag to her stomach. She conceals her secrets, and she tries to settle her nerves.
The journey from the elevator to his door seems endless, and she wonders for a moment if she is lost. If she's on the wrong floor, if she's forgotten the number of his apartment, if he's moved buildings, suburbs, cities. Any number of situations that could foil the elaborate plan she has created in her head arise and she suddenly starts to regret the decision to come here. Each step becomes smaller, slower, until eventually she comes to a complete stop. She is not sure whether it is by chance or by her own design that the door she has stopped in front of is the one she had been searching for.
She hopes he is here, she hopes he is alone, and she hopes most of all that he'll open the door to her in a way that she has never really reciprocated, and in a way that she does not really deserve. She hopes she has not missed her chance.
Holding her breath, she presses her ear to the door, listening for voices. She only hears the voices of two yammering men, neither of whom are Tony, and both of whom sound suspiciously like the football commentators on the sports channel.
Ziva brings one hand to her belly, feeling the delicate curve that has formed there. "Are you ready?" she asks the unborn child. Her question is left, as expected, without an answer. And that's okay. At least her child is honest.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three knocks – each more hesitant than the last. God, she hates how scared she is. She can face bombs, terrorists, insane criminals, machinegun-fire, but she cannot face him.
No. She can. She has no choice.
"It's open," he calls from inside. He's allowing her, albeit unknowingly, to walk in of her own accord, which robs him of the ability to slam the door in her face, a small piece of knowledge that makes her very happy.
She fastens a hand around the doorknob and twists, pushing the door open slowly but surely. The first she sees of him is the back of his head as he lounges on the sofa and her heart leaps into her throat. He gets up without looking in her direction and brushes the creases and crumbs from his pants. Then he turns around. Then he sees her.
He's sandy-haired and well-shaven as always, though his clothing is rumpled in a way that says it's been a long day. His green eyes study her carefully, trying to ascertain if this is a hallucination or vision or some other other-worldly phenomenon, and they flick to the open beer on the coffee table, as if to enquire whether he shouldn't have started drinking it.
"Hello, Tony," she says, gripping the carrier back until she is white-knuckled. What else can she say?
She watches him try to figure out what's happening as his face conveys fifty emotions at once. He goes from surprised to confusion to frustration in about ten seconds, and justifiably so. He settles on something between hurt and relief and just shakes his head at her.
"What are you doing here?"
And that's a perfectly logical question in the scheme of things, except she can't give him an answer just like that. So instead she holds out the bag. "I brought you Chinese."
His head falls curiously to the side. "You came all the way from Israel to bring me Chinese?"
"My flight had a layover in Beijing." It's a joke – they both know it's from the Chinese takeout a few blocks over. He doesn't respond, though. He doesn't laugh, or even smile. He's just blank. Blank in a way that she's never known Anthony DiNozzo to be. She swallows and decides to try again. "H-how are you?"
"You'd know if you'd called," he answers, and walks in the direction of the kitchen. She is unsure if she is supposed to follow, but she does.
"I know, I'm – "
"You're what, Ziva? You're sorry? You're sorry that the last six months have been total hell?" He knows he's being an asshole but he can't seem to stop himself. All this has remained locked tightly inside of him all this time and he's never been able to get it out. "You're sorry that I was the one that had to tell everyone else the bad news? You're sorry that you didn't even try to reach out to us? Never returned my calls?"
He's close to her now, and she feels so small underneath him. His voice is not loud, and he is by no means bellowing at her, but somehow, that makes it so much worse. She knows he'd never hurt her, not even out of anger (even though the same cannot exactly be said for her), but she is reluctant to touch him now.
She does it anyway, reaching out to place her palm flat on his chest. The muscles in his throat seem to tighten as he swallows hard at the touch.
"Yes," she replies steadily. "I am sorry. And I don't care if that makes me weak, I don't care." She closes her eyes and breathes in deep, frustrated with herself. "I just want us to be okay."
That strikes a chord, for suddenly she swears she can see a stray tear in his eye.
"It was selfish and it was wrong and I know that now. If you could just let me in …"
"Why did you really come here, Ziva?" He won't look at her. He stares at the floor, and she can't bear it.
She cups his cheeks with both her hands and suddenly she is taken back to that warm day in the grove, surrounded by the greenest leaves and a wind that whispered to her in a different way. It carried with it a gentle caress, but it also carried a hint of ambiguity, and the faint promise of hope, though arguably it did not deliver.
"Tony, look at me," she pleads, and his gaze meets her own.
"Why did you come here?" he repeats, slightly louder than the first time.
"I know I don't deserve it, and I know that I hurt you, but I came here because …" Her hands slide into his hair and she closes her eyes, "because I need you."
Hurt as he is, he cannot help but bring his hands to her face when she kisses him. Hurt as he is, he can't fool himself into thinking that her lips on his own are all he's wanted in the universe for far too long. And when she pulls away, it's still all he wants and all he ever will.
He feels her fingers find his, and she begins to guide his hands along her body, down the soft skin of her neck, over her collarbone and breasts, past her ribcage to the gentle swell of her womb. His face his so close and she squeezes her eyes shut tight, waiting for a reaction.
She hears the intake of air, the adding of two and two inside his head, and her heart thumps against his, for she may have just changed her life.
As if on cue, the baby kicks against its father's hand.
"You're …" he starts, sounding breathless. She nods frantically. "Is … is it?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Definitely."
Her bluntness might be scary, and she knows this, but it's all she can manage. Taking another deep breath, she tries for an explanation.
"It was a surprise, and when I found out, I wasn't sure if I was going to keep it. But then I had my first ultrasound and I saw its little body and its little head, and I just … I loved that tiny person so much, Tony. You do not have to do anything, or even say anything. I only thought that maybe, you know, maybe you could love it too. I would do anything to make sure this baby has its father."
He is understandably silent for a moment, but his hand does not leave her belly, not for a moment. After forever, he begins to speak. Not to her, but to the bump.
"Hi," he says, tears forming in his eyes again. "Hi there. It's your … your dad." A smile spreads over his face, and she laughs lovingly, running her fingers gently through his hair. "I know I'm a little late. But I'm here now. Your mom came and found me, and I'm so, so glad that she did."
Tony looks at her again, his hand still on her stomach. He feels another kick and Ziva laughs again, through her tears. "I think the baby likes you."
"Good, 'cause it's stuck with me. That is, if you're staying."
She kisses him again, and he pushes the winter coat from her shoulders. Fingers on cloth becomes fingers on flesh, and the hard surface of the kitchen counter becomes the soft sheets of his new queen-sized bed. His anger becomes forgiveness, and his emptiness at last is full again.