Eh, I don't like it that much, probably because I wrote it over the length of several days so it feels a little disjointed in my mind. What do you guys think?
Disclaimer - Please, hammer, don't hurt me!
In a world where circumstances shift as rapidly as tropical weather, where forces clash as frequently and violently as an over-zealous cymbal-player in fifth-grade music class, it has always been important to have a firm grip on reality.
This has been drilled into Ziva's head since she was a child and it is something she has never questioned.
Much has changed. Loyalties have been shifted and tables have been turned. Boundaries have been crossed and walls have been built, but through it all, Ziva has been certain of a few things.
One is of herself.
Surety in oneself goes light-years beyond the self-help exercises that boost confidence and improve complexion. In Ziva's world, it is a matter of life or death.
She has been taught that a split second can change the course of millennia to come. Sometimes the difference between survival and a fast track to eternal damnation is measured in no more than heartbeats.
Hesitation can mean death just as easily as can a bullet or a knife.
Hesitate, and your enemy will not, her father always used to say.
And while she has essentially erased her father from her life, there is a truth in this that is undeniable, regardless of how she feels about it. She cannot afford to hesitate while she questions her judgment; therefore, if she is sure of nothing else, she must know her own mind.
This has been a bit of a problem as of late, and one that Ziva is determined to fix.
Things have never been simple - not in her lifetime, anyway - but this week has brought the phrase 'it's complicated' to an entirely new level of truth.
...
It started in the elevator.
Ziva supposes she should have known better, in retrospect. Something about the blue light and hollow silence of the stalled elevator seems to act as an effective battering ram to her defenses . . . or perhaps it's the look in his eyes.
Regardless, when Tony reaches over and slams the emergency brake, she is not surprised. She was only seconds away from hitting the button herself.
He fixes her with eyes that look colorless in the blue glow. For a moment there is utter silence, like he has effectively paused time for a moment while they regroup.
Ziva welcomes the time-out. Up until now, there has been little time for rational thought between late night phone calls and hospital visits, and there has been not a second to spare for her to deal with frivolous things like emotions.
She is weary. Exhausted. And she keeps flashing back to the last time she and Tony were in the elevator together like this.
She told him then that she wasn't sure how much longer she could take this.
She's still not sure, but right now it is she who needs to step up and be strong, because while Franks was Gibbs' Gibbs, Gibbs is Tony's . . . Gibbs.
The broken look in her partner's eyes is almost more than she can bear, but she swallows hard and accesses her inner-Mossad officer, which she has not truly been able to banish, try as she might. A poker face, or at least a look of relative calmness, is in order.
"This has been . . . hard," she says slowly, keeping her eyes on Tony's own to emphasize that he has her undivided attention.
He breaths out hard and looks up at the ceiling. "No kidding."
"And . . . I want you to know that . . . " - she searches for the words, wondering what she even means in the first place - "I am here for you, like you were for me."
Tony finally takes his gaze off the ceiling and meets her eyes. Perhaps it is just the lighting, but his eyes are suspiciously shiny. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
"You had my back," Ziva continues, feeling uncomfortable. She can't seem to stop her mouth from moving. "It is my turn to have yours."
She reaches out and squeezes his hand, more to reassure herself than anything else, to ensure that he has not somehow turned to stone. His stare is glassy, but at least he's making eye contact. That's something.
He jumps when her skin touches his, but his eyes regain a bit of focus. She almost cries in relief when he returns her grip fiercely.
"He's going to be okay, right?" His words are little more than a whisper, but in the hollow blue darkness the words seem to resound through her head, making her heart pound. His other hand comes up to grip her shoulder. "Right?"
She takes a second to swallow and study her boots, which are surprisingly scuffed considering that she only bought them last week. "Of course," she answers unconvincingly.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, like a broken attempt at disgust, and starts to turn away, shaking his head and reaching for the elevator switch.
In that moment she is terrified, because his eyes are empty and his hands are cold, and she thinks that the condition might become permanent if she doesn't do something.
So she does.
She wraps her arms around his big, solid torso and buries her face in his chest, breathing in the smell of him. "I hope so," she answers honestly, and his chest contracts slightly as he exhales audibly.
Slowly his arms come up to encircle her, sliding up her arms to grip her shoulders, press into her back, tangle in her ponytail. He buries his face in her hair.
"I mean," Tony says finally, his words a bare murmur, his breath warm on her scalp, "he's Gibbs. Gibbs goes out with a bang. He doesn't get gunned down by a random intruder. Right?"
She hums in the back of her throat, a soothing coo of a noise, because there are no words to answer his question. It wasn't really a question at all.
Tony keeps talking, and she keeps gripping him, forcibly keeping him grounded with every last muscle in her thin arms. Finally he lets out a shuddery breath that ripples a few of her loose curls and rattles in his chest.
"You know- I mean- Thanks," he sighs.
Ziva lifts her head to look at his face, and is surprised to find it just inches from her own. "You are welcome," she whispers, feeling mildly stunned by the strange grey color of his irises.
She doesn't know who moves first, but out of nowhere they are kissing violently, desperately, with closed eyes that drip obstinate tears like a leaky roof.
It's a long time before the elevator is set back in motion.
...
Two days later, she wakes to the ringing of the phone, a shrill noise that cuts through the turbulence of her unconscious mind. She has taken to keeping the handset beside her bed since that day in the elevator, because she cannot shake the worry, cannot get the picture of those empty grey eyes out of her mind.
"David."
"Ziva!" Abby has not sounded this happy in days, which can only lead Ziva to one conclusion. Well, two, actually.
Either Abby has gotten herself drunk on caffeine, or Gibbs has awoken from his medically-induced slumber.
Apparently it is a combination of the two, because Abby chirps out the good news at the speed of one of those annoying singing chipmunks on fast-forward. She sits with mindless relief, not really thinking or listening so much as letting the verbal happiness wash over her eardrums and stimulate her sleepy brain.
Finally, the beep of a phone cuts in, alerting Ziva to another call, this one on her cell phone. Grateful for an excuse to cut the bubbly monologue short, she cuts in as tactfully as possible.
"-Abby, I am getting another call. I will-"
"Okay! Byeeeeeee!"
Ziva listens to the dial tone for a minute, then picks up her cell. "David."
"Hey. It's me."
She sits up a bit straighter and wakes up a bit more, trying to analyze her partner's state of mind through his three-word greeting.
"Have you heard-"
"Yeah."
A silence ensues, broken only by the quiet hush of Tony breathing. She closes her eyes and listens, letting herself breathe deeply for a moment.
"Are you okay?" she asks finally, climbing out of bed before he can even answer and searching for the pants she discarded last night.
". . . Yeah."
She doubts it. Monosyllabic answers are more Gibbs' style than Tony's, after all. "Would you like me to come over?" she asks gently.
He laughs a little. "I'm actually outside your building right now."
She is so relieved by the little hint of a laugh that she can't bring herself to be annoyed. "Come up. I was awake," Ziva lies calmly, "I will make tea."
She does turn on the water, but they never drink it, because the second he is through the door, they are kissing, and he leaves only five minutes later.
She is left alone on the couch with a kettle full of boiling water and a mind full of confusion.
...
Gibbs slowly gets better.
Abby crashes eventually, after sustaining a caffeine high of almost four days straight, which is a new record.
McGee is there to catch the dark-haired scientist when she crashes.
And Tony and Ziva continue their 'thing.'
This 'thing' consists of sideways glances and weighted words, casual touches that last a smidge too long, phone conversations with barely a single word exchanged, and kissing.
It never progresses any further. When the day is rough, when Gibbs is zonked on drugs, when Abby makes an off-hand remark in that way she does, when a case hits him hard, she learns to leave her door unlocked and her mind open.
He comes, he kisses her, he leaves.
And she can only wonder what he thinks this 'thing' actually is.
She herself is at a loss.
...
It is weeks later, when Gibbs is back to his normal self and terrorizing the friendly physical therapy nurses with his bark and his biting eyes, and Tony has begun to adjust, that Ziva truly begins to struggle to define their 'thing.'
At first it was comfort for a broken man. She provided him with a shoulder while he was busy being everyone else's.
But now she is beginning to fear, both that he will come, and that he won't.
She fears the empty loneliness in her gut as she waits on the couch late into the night, but even more, Ziva fears the almost painful burst of joy she experiences when she hears a key in the lock.
He doesn't leave, and she is fearfully glad.
...
She ventures to ask one night as they sit on the couch with one movie or another playing and his arms gripping her fiercely.
What had started as five minute make-out sessions have turned into hour-long cuddle fests, complete with a movie and a glass of wine.
The kisses are less desperate now, spaced out between heartbeats and movie scenes, but his grip never loosens. He holds onto her like he is a drowning man and she is a life preserver.
She turns to him as, onscreen, Barbra Streisand and Ryan O'Neall proceed to total a hotel room, and asks, "What are we doing?"
His arm stiffens, and she immediately regrets her words. "I- I mean-" She desperately tries to back-track, but Tony has already drawn back thoughtfully.
"What do you think we're doing?" he asks, brow furrowing like he's giving this some serious thought.
"I . . . do not know." Ziva answers honestly, but she immediately wishes she'd answered differently. She tries again. Feeling like a blushing school-girl, she continues shyly, "But I . . . do not see any reason for us to . . . stop doing whatever it is that we are doing."
Tony nods, smiling a bit, though his eyes are serious. He leans in and kisses her firmly. "Well, then, neither do I."
...
They fight constantly.
Not just the bickering banter that fed off sexual tension like a parasite, but full-blown silent feuds that effectively freeze the air of the bullpen and leave McGee feeling like the awkwardest third wheel of all time.
It has something to do, Ziva thinks, with the fact that they have not labeled their 'thing,' although they have agreed to continue it.
The nights he does not come by, she is incredibly lonely, pathetically so.
Without arms holding her fiercely she feels cold, and a part of her hates that feeling of dependence. What has happened to the Mossad officer who relied on no one but herself?
She wonders what he thinks of it all. Is she merely a dispensable security blanket, something to comfort him until something better comes along?
She cannot help but think back to that summer when Gibbs blew up and flew away to Mexico. He was there nearly every night that summer, until a pretty French doctor came along and replaced her.
She wonders if he thinks this is temporary.
She doesn't voice it, and he frustratingly does not develop ESP and puzzle out what is bothering her for himself. This is hardly fair to hold against the man, but that doesn't stop her from doing it.
And so emotions rage, screaming at each other, and glaring at each other, and ignoring each other until McGee looks ready to tear his hair out.
...
It ends in the elevator.
A trivial spiff over a couple of unfiled papers that escalated into a silent battle that could no longer be contained.
His face is stiff, his voice, his movements, as he motions her towards the sliding silver doors. "With me," he orders, and sounds eerily like Gibbs.
She stalks after him, taking her sweet time, showing that his preferences are hardly her top priority. By the time she arrives, his face could be carved out of stone.
The doors aren't even closed before he's pacing angrily and hissing venomously. She answers contemptuously and he whirls in fury.
She baits him easily, infuriating him further and further with a maddeningly calm malice, deliberately laying a foundation of hatred. A part of her is horrified by her actions, but Ziva can't seem to stop herself.
"Why the hell are we even doing this?" Tony demands suddenly, and it doesn't even shake Ziva's achingly calm exterior.
"I do not know."
His eyes are grey again, so violently so that it is almost enough to break through the demon that seems to have taken over her. Almost.
"Well it was one hell of a mistake," he snaps, "and not one I plan on making again."
"As if I would let you," she scoffs, even as her heart breaks. It is too late to show remorse now, now that he has effectively shattered her. She has her pride still, if nothing else, and she can take solace in that.
Tony slams the emergency brake so hard that they both jump, and the elevator grumbles to life as a little piece of Ziva dies.
...
She can't even bring herself to cry that night, nor can she sleep, so she lays on her back with her burning eyes on the ceiling. She would say that her heart aches, but she isn't sure she has one left at all.
Work is cold and stiff, like the gray-green eyes that meet hers only when absolutely forced.
There isn't even any anger there, only cold disinterest, and that hurts all the more. Had she meant so little to him?
She feigns detachment, does a fairly decent job, but inside she is crumbling. She wonders when she made such a rapid departure from reality.
The red-head across the office smiles at him and her teeth grind violently. The satisfaction is painful in its potency when the returning smile is lackluster, and she can't help but wonder what has happened to her.
She isn't supposed to be affected like this, is not supposed to lose control of her emotions so enormously. It's humiliating and bitterly painful, but she knows she deserves it, because of the evilness in her that said those awful things.
He deserves better than that, and the best she can do is walk away.
She had resigned herself to a life of broken pieces and bald facts at a young age, but now she has been shown a taste of something else, something sweeter, and going back is harder than expected.
...
It happens in the elevator, because it always does, really. The blue lights hum and the air echoes and she fights the urge to dry heave.
Tony looks at her like the world has fallen out from underneath his feet. "You want what?"
She takes a few deep breaths and tries to collect herself. "A team transfer. It is the only safe thing to do. I acted rashly today, and-"
His face takes on a look of utter panic. "You- What, are you- Ziva."
He says her name the way he used to, the way he did that first night in her apartment when she opened the door and he kissed and kissed her. It makes her shudder.
"Tony, please," she pleads, cursing herself for her weakness, "just let it go. Let me go."
His eyes just watch her, like he's silently begging her to do something, say something, but she doesn't know what he wants and she doesn't know what she wants, and so she buries her face in her hands and tries not to cry.
Movement beside her, then a leg brushes up against hers as Tony crouches beside her. "Get up," he directs harshly.
She musters enough energy to shoot him a scornful look. He glares back. "Up!"
Finally, he grabs her by the hands and roughly yanks her to her feet. He doesn't let go of her hands, and he doesn't stop scowling. "Why the hell would you transfer teams?"
She sighs and tries to be rational. "Tony, obviously we cannot work together anymore. You deserve someone who can have your back, and" - she swallows, ignoring the ache in her chest that goes beyond physical pain - "I am not that person, so-"
"The hell you aren't," he snarls, squeezing her hands hard. "And who's going to have your back, Ziva, huh?"
Ziva just looks at him. "That is not important. I did not act rationally today, and-"
"You saved my life!"
She shakes her head. "I endangered it in the first place by running back into the building."
"It was my decision to follow," Tony counters stubbornly. "I ran after you, because I'm supposed to have your back like you had mine."
"It is the only realistic option," she tries feebly. Her resolve is crumbling under the intense green-grey of his eyes.
"Screw reality," he snaps. "Ziva, I-"
She closes her eyes and steps away. "Please," she pleads pitifully, "don't-"
Tony does not take pity. "Don't what? Tell you that I love you? Because I do, Ziva, and that's not going to change by sending you away, okay?"
She tries to breathe, but she thinks her chest has frozen. Her mind won't process. "It is not . . . realistic," she chokes out. "We have work, and-"
Now it is his turn to fall silent, and she flounders on, trying to voice her emotions. The problem is that she doesn't know what she feels right now.
"You're not transferring teams," he says stubbornly, setting his jaw like he means business.
She finds in that moment that she has not completely lost her backbone in those murky depths of despair where she has recently taken to wallowing, and lets her own chin jut defiantly. In that moment she hates him as fiercely as she loves him.
"As the leader of the team," she answers, "it is your responsibility to-"
"This isn't about my responsibilities as team leader!" Tony fumes. "This about me having your back, Ziva!"
"Maybe I want to transfer," she suggests defiantly, crossing her arms and standing a little straighter.
She has always been a fighter, and she vows that she will not stop now. If only she could figure out what it is that she is resisting so valiantly.
Tony shakes his head impatiently, firmly gripping her shoulders and giving her a little shake as well. "You don't want that."
"Really?" She raises an eyebrow, steps back. He follows, violating personal space as casually as they used to, before things got complicated. "And how would you know, when you have barely even spoken to me-"
"What did you want me to say?" he demands. "That I love you? That I'm sorry? What the hell do you think I'm doing now?"
"I think you are trying to salvage something that is beyond repair," she says calmly, even as the words dig ruts in her heart. "I think it is time that we face the facts, Tony. We are too-"
He just shakes his head. "I think you've forgotten who you're talking about. This is me, Ziva. Me and you. And since when have we ever done anything by the books?"
She doesn't have an answer. Emotions have been waging a nuclear war within, and now what remains is so scarred and mutated that it is beyond recognition. She thinks she might be broken.
"I want you to look at me," Tony continues calmly, backing her into a corner where she has no means of escape, "right in the face, and tell me truthfully that you want out."
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, because lying has never come easy, not when Tony is concerned, then slams her foot into Tony's instep with every bit of force left in her body.
He jumps back, howling in protest and pain, and she smiles for the first time in a long time, not with malice, but with companionable mirth.
"No fair!" he wheezes, hopping up and down on one foot like a comical cartoon character. "Foul, foul!"
She leans back against the wall, crosses her arms, and waits for her partner to collect himself. The ball is in his court now.
When he finally stops moaning like a suffocating swine, he glares at her.
But it is not a glare of anger, nor of hatred, because there is a glint in his eyes that she has not seen for a long time, and a smile hidden in the lopsided quirk of his mouth that makes her heart pound and reminds her that she is alive after all.
When he kisses her, his eyes are as green as the sea.
Well? I'm unhappy-ish with it, but I thought I'd post it to prove that I'm not dead. Bonus points to anyone who can name the greatest movie of all time. which I briefly referenced. It's my favorite.
Review or the Great Squirrel in the Sky will smite you.