note: I'm a little lost. I have to continue through life without Ziva David and it's far harder than I'd ever anticipated. But maybe I can just live in AU fics and baby drabbles for the next however many years. Which is why, apparently, I've written this. It started on... Saturday, as I saw a gorgeous sight on a long car journey, and from there it just spiralled into this... thing. It's long and a little painful and all chopped up, but I don't mind it, and I've been told it's okay, so here I go with the posting.
This goes AU from 11x02; the episode that aired last night does not factor in at all. Mainly because I haven't watched it but also because I finished writing this yesterday evening so I physically couldn't write it in then. This is neither necessarily what I consider to be something that would have happened if possible, nor something I particularly hope would happen, since it's not all fun and games. As usual, it's just what my brain spat out. Enjoy, and feel free to review.
disclaimer: pain. a lot of pain.
A thanks. To you all. And to Ziva David.
She feels an emptiness settle within her as she drives back to the house. It's not a welcoming feeling like she'd perhaps hoped- instead, it's hollow, and painful, and she can't quite believe how quickly it's taken her to miss him.
Her suitcase is packed in a half hour; the crumpled bed sheets haunt her much like the memories do and she can't bear to stay any longer, not without him beside her too. She books a flight to South America for three days time, checks into a hotel, and waits.
He takes a couple of days off when he returns, and he half-wonders if he should've filed for bereavement leave. He sits, and cries, and dials her number over and over just praying she'll pick up. It goes straight to voicemail, every time.
When he steps into the office for the first time in months, his breath catches in his throat, because her desk is empty and dusty and he knows it'll haunt him, continually.
He clears off the dust and moves two days later.
There's a thin layer of sweat coating her as she peels herself out of bed, heart still racing. She can hardly breathe for a crippling fear that rushes over her in waves and she just knows something's happened. Her phone is in her hand in a second and the number's dialing before she remembers she's supposed to have left it all behind. But it was never going to be that easy.
She relishes the sound of his voice as he tells her he can't pick up right now, and hangs up after the tone. She gets a new phone the next day, but the worry over him doesn't cease for months.
The first raid he's on after she leaves, he takes a bullet to the gut. There's blood everywhere and it swipes over McGee's cheeks as the Probie tries to keep it together.
He loses consciousness within minutes, and he can't even hear the sirens as it all goes dark.
When he wakes, it's been four days, and nobody dares voice the fact they're all thinking. If he'd had his partner to back him up, everything would've been fine.
In England, she sits at the side of a road in the middle of nowhere and looks to the sky. The clouds are a pale orange that fade to midnight blue and when she tilts her head right back she can see the stars. Each perfect little speck on the faded horizon.
There's only a small amount of solace in the idea that Tony will lay eyes on these same stars in just a few hours time.
She wonders, for the first time in a few hours, if he misses her.
The day he's cleared to drive again, he gets behind the wheel and can't stop, despite the dull ache in his stomach. Bullets tend to do that.
He ends up sat by a park, and watches the people go by until the sun disappears behind a dull, cool cloud. He looks from the stars above to the one hanging by a chain that's tangled round his palm and he wonders if she thinks about him, sometimes. For some reason, the pained red imprint in his skin is a comfort.
Christmas is different in London. It's all bustling tourists wrapped up excessively warm; people dashing about for last-minute gifts to buy as they all pretend they enjoy the lack of feeling in their toes. She heads out in the early morning in her new, thick, winter coat, and listens to the satisfying crunch of frost beneath her boots. When the streets begin to crowd, she buys another pack of instant hot chocolate from a corner shop, and heads back to her rented apartment.
She sits on the couch and watches Love, Actually whilst the steam from her drink warms her. It's a slightly content, satisfied feeling, but it's all so different to what she's used to. Her hand reaches to her neck out of reflex, but when no cool chain is found there, she can't help but think about Tony; about everyone. She closes her eyes, blocks out Colin Firth's dreadful Portuguese, and hopes.
On Christmas Eve he sits on his couch and watches the minutes tick by. Her necklace stares at him from where it sits, on his coffee table, and he wonders just how the hell everything's managed to change since he fastened it round her neck all those years ago. It was Christmas then, too.
The digits switch to four zeros and he sends a silent wish and a prayer to her, wherever she is. He doesn't know if he's ever missed anyone more.
She makes it to the Big Apple on December 30th. It was a sudden decision, but her lease was almost up and it was always something of a dream of hers to make it to Times Square. Now, that dream's increased. Or maybe it's just that she hopes Tony will watch, as he always claimed to, and maybe he'd see her, somewhere in the crowd.
When the countdown ends and everyone screams, she looks round her with a grin that promptly falters. Someone to her left is weeping and staring at the ring in front of their face; the couple to her right are locked in a tight embrace that looks almost painful.
She squeezes through the mass of people and rushes back to her hotel. She'd never realized before just how lonely happiness can make you feel.
New Years passes much the same as Christmas. He would be spending it with the team, since they're all at Abby's this year, but his arm nearly got broken by an angry midshipman two days ago because someone didn't have his back again, and he's not feeling the love right now.
The ball must drop in New York but he's fast asleep on his couch with a sling round his shoulder when it happens.
She circles the date on the calendar with a sniff. Half a year already and it's still hard each and every day. Her temporary boss from her temporary job has just permanently fired her and she knows it's time to move on and move places yet again. But the tug at her heart wins over and she spends one more day in her crowded one-bed place before leaving with tears just dried upon her face.
April marks the six-month mark, and he takes the day off. He spends it sitting around and feeling numb and doing just about nothing, until he pulls out his Casablanca DVD and wonders why he's shaking.
A few unashamed tears slip down his cheeks as the credits roll, and it's then that he knows he will never be over her. He grabs a beer, digs out some more movies, and lets the tired ache of love wash over him.
She can't help herself. She's missed it so many times she just can't resist the part of her that says it's a great idea.
Although she does knock, she's almost relieved when he doesn't answer. It's easier to leave, that way. She picks the lock and memories come flooding back from a past she's attempting to leave behind, but she presses on, walking steadily through his living room to the kitchen, where she places a simple card on the counter.
Her footsteps falter at his bedroom door as she returns, and she so wishes to push it open, lie down, and will it all away. She wants to wrap herself in sheets that smell like him and wait until his arms follow. But she doesn't.
As she locks the door again, she thinks yet again that leaving it all behind was the worst idea she's ever had.
It strikes him when summer rolls around, that he never seems to have pleasant birthdays. Summers just don't work out for him. And so to prevent injury, one day in early July, he does nothing; says nothing. He goes to work as usual and heads to the bar with Abby and McGee afterward. They merely celebrate another case closed and decidedly avoid any happy birthday songs and he heads home at 9pm.
A lone card is sitting on the kitchen counter when he enters. The hairs on the back of his neck rise in a telltale way, and his heart races all of a sudden and he just knows. Beneath the all-too-cheery printed greeting is a single letter, and he sinks to the floor with a choked sob as he lays eyes on it.
She's not here anymore, and he knows it, but he can still feel her in the air a little and it's the closest he's felt to whole in nearly a year. He spends the final hours of his birthday tracing his forefinger over and over the 'Z'.
She doesn't know why she does it. Hope, maybe. Or something else.
The house brings back tens of memories, all in full-force, but as she walks through the dusty rooms only one thing stands out. Atop the small double bed, lie sheets still crumpled from acts a year old. She can hardly process the feeling running through her as she tears them off, screaming and cursing aloud.
She replaces them with neat, folded linen that doesn't still seem to hold his scent. It's better that way.
The heat hits him the moment he steps out onto the tarmac. It's October but the sun is still scorching and when he looks to the horizon he thinks he sees it dance in the warmth. The drive to Be'er Sheva only takes an hour but it seems to drag on; the moment the engine stops he tumbles out the door and tries to stop his hands from shaking.
The door to the house is propped open, and his stomach lurches. He heads to the Orange Grove.
She must be getting rusty, she thinks. He must only be ten feet behind her when he steps on a branch and the sharp crack gets her attention. She spins round, and there he stands, eyes filled with tears as he looks at her, stunned. She supposes she must look the same way.
"I was supposed to be doing this alone."
Her voice is shaky even to her own ears.
"Then why are you here?"
There's an opportunity to quote from times gone by, but she says nothing, much like he did last time. Because this time, he has a point.
"I discovered I could not."
The side of his mouth quirks into a half-smile and that's all it takes for her to run and close the distance between them.
It's been a year since he last held her. Since she forced a laugh and a smile and he kissed her as if it were the final time. Since life without each other began and everything promptly fell apart.
It's been a year. But this time, they're not letting go.