He's not surprised when they turn up on his porch. He is surprised that they turn up together.
It wasn't that they'd agreed to hang out, per se, but there had been that sullen look of weird solidarity they had going on the entire day that seemed to say, to Tony at least, we're in this together. And they were. Together. On his front porch. Half-smiles and half a box of pizza offered up.
"McGee got hungry in the car," says Ziva. McGee looks affronted, but guilty as all hell.
"Sure he did. McGobble." Tony hasn't decided whether or not he's going to let them in. The day was long and tiring, not to mention the fact that they conjured some kind of resignation pact that hasn't yet sunk in. He is unemployed. They are all unemployed. Gibbs is in police custody and his team is unemployed, eating pizza in the middle of the night. Tony figures that sort of thing takes some getting used to.
"You gonna let us in?" McGee looks antsy, like too much time standing still and doing nothing but thinking might make him change his mind about resignation.
Tony shrugs and is about to say something witty but then Ziva pushes past him and dumps the open pizza box on his couch. Okay then. McGee follows suit, shucking his jacket and settling into the armchair. Tony scowls at them both, in turn, and moves to mute the volume on his TV.
"So," says McGee.
"So," says Ziva.
Tony realizes just how much he's going to miss working with them day in, day out.
He keeps his voice emotionless, though. The last thing they need is to talk about feelings. "You talk to Abby?"
"Yeah," says McGee, "She's a wreck, obviously."
Tony feels bad, internally, like maybe resignation for Gibbs's sake had more effects on the inner workings of the team than he expected. Abby has lost not one, but four team members. He tells himself he'll call her tomorrow. He'll call her every day, of course. She's family.
"We could watch a movie?"
He feels rather than sees Ziva roll her eyes. "We could not." Her voice is flat, like maybe she wishes this godforsaken day would just end already.
"Fine." There is an awkward patch of silence in which Tony takes a slice of pizza to occupy himself. It is cold and greasy and too spicy for his liking, and he side-eyes them wondering who is the guilty culprit. David, no doubt, even her taste buds are Mossad-trained.
Their watches beep midnight in sudden unison. Neither of them moves, neither of them speaks, McGee in the armchair, Tony and Ziva on the couch, the only sound Tony's lazy chewing. McGee yawns. Ziva slips her shoes off and pulls her knees up to her chest. She rests her chin on them, turns her head to Tony and regards him as though he has all the answers in the world.
He carries on chewing.
She smiles at him like he has answered her questions, and leans back against the couch. He remembers Berlin, how she couldn't sleep unless he was beside her, he remembers a hundred different late-night stakeouts, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.
McGee yawns again. They could all use a decent night's sleep. He feels like he ought to say something, something smart or even comforting. He is the senior agent and it feels like a part of his duty to refocus his team right now, but then he catches himself because no, he isn't senior anything, and they aren't even his team. They are Timmy and Ziva and, somehow in the past few years, they have become the people he knows best in the entire world.
Even so, he doesn't feel right just sitting there. He needs to talk. He needs them to listen and to confirm that this is the right thing. He needs their assurance that, somehow, things might actually work out fine. "Listen…" He begins his big speech, eyes on the far wall of his apartment.
"Shhh," Ziva has a finger to her lips and points her head towards McGee, who is out cold in the armchair.
Bless, thinks Tony. He envies him. Sleep would be real good right now.
"You want a beer?" His voice is a whisper now, mindful of McGee.
Ziva shakes her head once, shifts her legs under her and curls up against the back of the couch. Tony is well aware of how easy it would be to move a little closer to her and, with any luck, she would shuffle into his arms. Easy as pie.
Easy yes, but far too soon. He tells himself they have a whole summer full of unemployed days stretching ahead of them in which, he is certain, there will be many more not-quite-team gatherings. He tells himself the very fact that she is here sitting beside him tonight, sleepy and calm, means that things will be okay, one day.
She looks at him and closes her eyes and he just knows she is thinking of Berlin.
"Tony," she begins, and he pauses. One of his many favorite things about Ziva is the fact that he can never predict what she is going to say. Even after all these years, she still takes him out at the knees.
"Tony, will it matter? If Gibbs is vindicated and all this just turns into a huge pile of paperwork, will it matter that we did this?" Oh.
"That we were prepared to go down with him?" She grunts her agreement. "Well, yeah. Of course it matters."
"That is family."
"Yeah."
It is easy to forget that this is the first family Ziva knows where loyalty isn't just another method of control. He smiles, even though she can't see him. Especially if she can't see him.
"Good," she says.
"It's the only thing that matters."
"It matters more than the truth?"
Tony thinks on this for a while. Gibbs is a good man, he knows it in his heart and in his gut, in the little segment of his brain he reserves for rules and heroics and doing the right thing. He knows it in the way he lifts his gun to protect a civilian way before his brain is even in gear. It is instinct. Gibbs taught him that.
"Yeah, it does. But the truth is, Gibbs is golden, and this mess is just plain wrong." He doesn't want to talk about this, not now. It is way too raw. He wants to sit in the dark and the quiet, listen to McGee's deep breaths, and watch Ziva slowly fall into sleep.
"Yes." She stretches a little and her toes curl. Tony gets an aching in his heart, the kind of aching he just cannot deal with today. It has been a long day of taking chances and looking at Ziva is one chance too many.
She reaches out her hand across the couch. He takes it and, too late, remembers the car accident. He gets a little flash of white-hot pain behind his eyes that he doesn't think will ever go away. He will always remember that split second of searing realization as he watched the car hurl towards them. His fingers curl over Ziva's. Her hands are worn and thin, just as he remembers them.
She still has her eyes closed. He marvels that she can look both tired and breath-taking at the same time.
"Who will bring our morning coffee now?" She doesn't cry. She can't cry, because she is Ziva David and tears are not her language.
Tony closes his eyes. "We'll take it in turns."
"And Caf-Pow for Abby, too?"
"Yes. Abby too."
"And we should get something for Ducky."
"What does Ducky drink? Does Ducky even drink?"
This earns him a light laugh. "Tea."
He tugs her hand. "Sure. Tomorrow."
"Yes, tomorrow."