A/N: It's 3am, I can barely keep my eyes open, I've fallen deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep into the rabbit hole of old NCIS feels. Mostly Tony. Mostly Tiva. I've been trying to write Marvel things, but I couldn't, so I thought I had writer's block, but I thought maybe I just needed to let out some Tony feels and FINALLY post something for the NCIS fandom. So this was born. At 3 in the morning. I regret nothing.
My Hebrew is only as good as Google at 2:30 in the morning, so if I spelled anything in that sentence wrong, please tell me so I can fix it.
Ziva stalked through the maze of stone hallways, her boots echoing ever-so-slightly against the floors. Water dripped in the shadows, rows of lone bulbs flickering on the ceilings providing the only feeble illumination. She clutched her gun, finger itching to pull the trigger on someone after one long month of countless dead-ends and endless searching.
One long, insufferably quiet month. No movie references. No babbling. Just Gibbs's clenched jaw. Abby's stubborn but waning optimism. McGee's growing despair. Her own heart, breaking so loudly she wondered how no one else could hear.
Then again, maybe it wasn't so unimaginable. She hid it easily enough, after all. Beneath insistence that they would find him, at first, because the alternative was unthinkable. Then hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks. And then it was numbness she was hiding behind, an unfeeling mask that earned scoldings from Abby and furtive looks from McGee and Palmer.
Gibbs and Ducky said nothing. Maybe, in all their years of wisdom, they knew. They knew that she went to the gym, throwing herself at punching bag after punching bag in an effort to prove to herself that she could still feel. They knew that she went home, opening up pictures of him on her phone, pictures where his cocky grin held him strong and proud, pictures where his laugh made his eyes sparkle enough to light up the world.
They knew that she went home every night to cry over those pictures. To clutch her phone close, as if that could bring him home. To caress them with a fingertip, as if he would feel her touch and be strengthened by it. To make fiercely whispered promises that she would find him and punish anyone who had dared laid a hand on him.
And here she was, sandwiched between Gibbs and McGee, with no one to shoot and no sign yet that Tony was even still being held there.
A door opened down the hall, the click of a lock and creak of the hinges echoing towards them. Ziva spun towards it, barely stopping herself from charging forward. Gibbs advanced, steely determination etched onto his face as he led the team down the hallway.
A voice came from the left, and Gibbs whipped around the corner. He fired twice, Ziva darting around just in time to see the body fall. There was an open door beside him, and Ziva glanced into the room.
And saw Tony. In person. For the first time in a month. On his knees, huddled against the wall, cuffed hands raised in a feeble attempt at self-defense from the man standing over him. Tony looked up at the gunshots, his face as bloody as his ragged clothes, one eye swollen shut. The other met Ziva's gaze, flooding with hope as it widened.
The man standing over him held a fistful of Tony's shirt in one hand, his other raised and slowly unclenching from a fist, knuckles covered in blood. Tony's blood. Gibbs, Ziva, and McGee all brought their guns up, fingers tightening on triggers. But suddenly, Ziva knew that would never be enough.
She let out a battlecry of raw rage and lunged forward. Terror shot through the man's expression and he fumbled for the gun at his hip, but Ziva was faster. She snatched it from him, throwing it aside, and slammed the man into the wall. He gasped, going limp as his head cracked against the wall, but Ziva kept going. She pinned him to the floor and punched, and punched, and punched. Until her own knuckles were bloody, until his own eye was swelling, until his own shirt was stained with his own blood.
"Ziva. Ziva!" Gibbs said, grabbing her shoulders. "Ziva, we've got him. Tony's safe. Tony's safe."
Chest heaving, Ziva looked around, gaze landing on Tony. His hands were free, the bloody rope discarded on the ground, and McGee's coat was draped around him. Tony huddled in McGee's arms, head hanging as he trembled, hands still held together as if he couldn't believe they were unbound. But, as she watched, adrenaline fading, he shifted, lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes.
And, somehow, he offered her a smile. Weak, nothing compared to his normal grins, but there, a spark shining through the grime on his face, through the shadows in his eyes.
"About damn time," he whispered.
"Ziva. Ziva!"
Ziva blinked, jolting back to the present, stone walls giving way to the bright white hospital waiting room. Tony stood in front of her, leaning to one side, holding his bag with the arm not in a sling. He was wearing his own clothes for the first time since the rescue, the hoodie and sweatpants hanging loosely around his too-thin frame.
"I'm ready," he said. "More than ready. So please, let's blow this popsicle stand."
"Of course," Ziva said, putting down the unread magazine and standing. She headed for her car, trying to be inconspicuous about slowing down as she noticed Tony struggling to keep up. They entered the parking lot, lit only by streetlamps beneath the night sky, and he shifted his bag to his shoulder, reaching for her hand.
"I don't suppose you'd mind driving like a sane person for once? I just- really hated bouncing over all of those potholes in the back of- of their van, which smelled weirdly like moldy cheese-"
"I will be careful," she interrupted the rambling attempt at a joke.
She kept hold of his hand until he got into the car, then did her best to, as he put it, drive like a sane person for once. Still, by the time they reached his place, he was pale and clutching at the door. He staggered out of the car, grabbing the nearest tree for support.
"You'd think I'd be used to that," he rasped.
Ziva patted his shoulder, letting her hand linger. "But it was better than usual, no?"
"I'll give you that," he allowed, resting another moment before going inside. "Home sweet home," he said, breathing in deeply. That ended in coughing and a wheezed "Ow."
"Easy," Ziva rebuked, rubbing his back.
"Excuse me for momentarily forgetting that breathing is a bad thing," he muttered, dropping the bag. Ziva stepped back, biting her lip, and he reached for her hand again. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just- I'm just-"
Ziva took his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I know, Tony."
He bit his lip, glancing at the door. "I don't- I don't suppose you would mind, ah, staying the night? Dad'll be back tomorrow, so I promise it's a one-time thing, but- but I don't wanna be alone."
Ziva smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "Of course I will stay. As long as you need."
Tony smiled shakily, squeezing back tightly. "Thanks," he whispered.
They split apart only to get ready for bed. She found one of his t-shirts, baggy and soft, to slip into, while he ditched his hoodie and sling. He sank onto his bed with a groan, pressing his hand into the mattress. "I missed this," he sighed. He opened his eyes, looking up at her. "I missed you."
Perched on the other side of the bed, she smiled despite the tears she could feel pricking at her eyes, and ran a hand through his hair. "I am glad you are home, too."
Tony softened into the touch, all of his tension finally fleeing his body for the first time in weeks. Ziva left her hand in his hair, lying down beside him, gently playing with the strands. He rested his hand on her arm, thumb moving idly back and forth.
"I'm the one terrified of falling asleep," he admitted quietly. "So why do you look like crap?"
Ziva propped herself up on her elbow, arching her eyebrows. "I am wearing only your shirt and my underwear, and you say I look like crap?"
"No, not that kind of crap," he amended hastily. "I mean your expression."
Ziva sank back down, returning her hand to his hair. "How do I look?"
He pulled her hand from his hair, returning the knuckle kiss. "You found me, Ziva. You avenged me."
She bit her lip, shook her head. "It was not enough. I should have found you sooner, or-"
"Hey!" he rebuked gently, entwining their fingers. "I'm here. Everyone who helped hold me is either dead or in jail. I'm safe, Ziva."
Ziva's eyes trailed over him, starting at the still-discolored eye, down the faded bruises still marking his skin, over the stitched surgery cuts, to the shadows where his ribs showed too blatantly. And finally back to his eyes, focused on her and trying to be brave, but still haunted.
"But you are not whole."
Tony's gaze fell. "No," he murmured. "And I… don't know if I ever will be. But it's better than being dead, right? Or still being to- still there."
Ziva leaned forward, kissing his forehead. He snuggled into her, face pressed against her neck, and she slipped her arms around him. He was trembling, she realized, as she gently started rubbing his back.
As if the embrace broke the dam, he started to cry, his tears warm against her neck, hands clutching at her shirt, the sounds of his broken mind rattling his broken body. And Ziva just held him, rubbing steadily, holding the world at bay.
"Aht lo leh-vahd," she whispered. And she just kept whispering it, repeating it like a mantra, over and over in that same protective, gentle tone, knowing her speaking her native tongue soothed him. "Aht lo leh-vahd."
She wasn't certain he knew the exact words, but that didn't matter. He understood the message, nodding through faltering breaths as he gradually calmed. She kept talking as his breaths eased, deepening into slumber.
"Aht lo leh-vahd, Tony," she promised. "Not while I am here."
"I know," he whispered. "I know."