Summary: Tony's thoughts on Ziva, Paris and the whole "soul mates" issue.
Disclaimer:NCIS and Tiva (unfortunately) not mine.
Spoilers: Maybe episode 7x13: Jet Lag. Bits of references from other episodes here and there.
This is my first fanfic, so please review. Er, constructively. And kindly, if you can.
Soul Mates
Tony sighed, put down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. It had been a long day. He and Ziva had just returned from Paris that very day, bringing with them the key witness to a fraud case. The witness had been handed over to the prosecuting attorneys and now he and Ziva were stuck doing paperwork on the trip. It was tedious work, and Tony much preferred the occupation of observing his partner instead.
Ziva was still writing busily, her head bent inches from her desk. The light from her table lamp cast a perfect golden halo upon her dark hair. The words that the witness had said suddenly flashed through his mind, "You guys say you don't get along but you make a great team." Tony had tried to brush it off on the plane, but the words came back to him now and he realized with increasing dread that Nora had been right – they did make a great team, on and off the job.
But Tony did not want to accept that. In truth, he'd known for a while now his true feelings towards Ziva. His shock and horror and barely-contained grief when he had thought she was dead, his overwhelming relief when he had managed to bring her back to NCIS alive and safe. It had been so overwhelming that he had wanted to shout a prayer up to the Heavens. But of course, because he was Tony Dinozzo, and Dinozzos did not share feelings, he had not shouted up to the Heavens, nor had he told her how much he had wanted to take her in his arms and cover her in kisses from the sheer joy that she was there, tangible and in his presence, again. He had simply put aside the thought and acted like Dinozzos always did until she'd thanked him and kissed him on his cheek – that had been so sudden and so unexpected that it had practically burnt a hole in his heart, but he knew not whether it was from grief or from joy.
And now he would swear that he could sometimes still feel the gentle pressure of her warm lips on his face. His heart skipped a beat each time they even so much as exchanged eye contact, and whenever she stood too close or accidentally brushed against him his heart stopped beating so abruptly that he thought he might one day get a heart attack and die. And then they had gone to Paris and shared a room and spent a night in the same bed – and nothing had happened, but he had spent the entire night watching her sleep, trying hard not to stare too much because he knew that her killer instincts would then have kicked in and she would have put a bullet in his head before he could even say "headslap".
He still remembered the time when she had asked him if he believed in soul mates. At that time, he had made some stupid joke which he couldn't even remember now, and had pretended not to understand her question, but in truth he had heard her loud and clear. And he'd been a little bit in love with her even then, but it had angered him that she had had to ask the question. In the first place there was Jeanne Benoit, who was beautiful and funny and intelligent, and with whom he had fallen so deeply in love that he forgot Ziva even existed while he was with her. And he had wrecked the relationship and then she had left. He had still been nursing his wounds when Ziva had asked him that question, and the part of him that hurt the worst had made him suddenly want to hit her.
Yet the part of him that had healed had wanted to tell her that no, he did not believe in soul mates. How could he? He had witnessed the destruction of so many relationships; not just his and Jeanne Benoit's, but Gibb's, his father's and so many of his friends'. He did not believe that relationships were made to last, let alone that there was such a thing in the world as soul mates. And the resolution of the case that they had handled that very day had proven him right: the two people whom, if he were ever to believe in soul mates, he would have thought were made for each other were torn apart, sadly and unwillingly, but irrevocably.
But now as he watched her and she looked up, furrowing her brow at him in her characteristic manner before looking down again and continuing with her work, he wondered if he could have been wrong. He still did not think that he was, but if there really were such things as soul mates, then he would have sold his soul just to make her his. Because to watch her leave him again, to watch her end up with yet another Michael Rivkin, was just too hard to contemplate. And maybe he would not mind so much if she ended up with someone who would take good care of her and make her happy, but he could never possibly bear to see her get hurt so badly again.
And yet…he could and would do nothing about it. Deep in his heart, buried under all his movie quotes and silliness, was a raging fear that he would be the one to hurt her worst. He had been the one who did countless times; when he had rejected her during his time with Jeanne, when he had mocked her falling in love with a dead man walking while she tried to help him forget Jeanne, and finally when he had killed Michael Rivkin. Every time he thought of that, it struck him cold how quickly her camaraderie had turned into murderous hate, and how he had so broken her heart that she would stay behind to work for her father just so she wouldn't have to see him anymore. At the end of the day, it didn't matter how much he loved her; he would never again give himself the chance to break her more than she already was.
Thus he kept up his act as the class clown, behaving like he always had before Jeanne Benoit and Michael Rivkin and hoping she would not see right through him like she always did. It was very easy to do; after all, he had always done it. It was easy, that is, until they went to Paris. As he sat up most of the night watching Ziva sleep by the moonlight, he knew it'd be the undoing of him if he weren't careful. The next morning he acted normally and pretended like he hadn't spent half the night up in a lovesick haze, but he spent most of the flight sneaking peeks at Ziva whenever he wasn't watching the witness. He fancied that he could see the outline of her sleeping form, feel the touch of her hand, catch a whiff of her long hair – until he came out of the reverie to find Nora smirking at him. After that he kept his thoughts strictly on business.
Tony came out of his reverie for the second time that day. He stretched and leaned forward. Ziva looked up from her work to find him still staring at her. "What?" she asked, slightly impatiently.
Tony shrugged. "I'm going home," he said, "aren't you done?"
"No," Ziva replied shortly, and promptly continued to write furiously.
"Right. Proceed, then," said Tony, as he picked up his backpack and headed toward the elevators. He glanced back at Ziva before he entered, her solitary figure in the bullpen still bent over the desk and scribbling furiously. Oh, there were so many things that she would never know.