Rating: K+
Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine. The show and the original characters belong to Don Bellisario, Gary Glasberg, and CBS. This was written strictly for fun, not for profit.
Summary: As partners, Tony and Ziva spend a lot of time together and think they know each other pretty well, but being close doesn't guarantee they see everything with clarity.
Isn't it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different…
C.S. Lewis
Clarity
"Hair?"
It was a moment before Ziva David switched her gaze from the report she was drafting on her computer screen to her partner. She had not missed much.
At his desk, Tony DiNozzo pantomimed a hair straightener with his hands pressed together near the top of his head. "You put it down, right?"
"No." She subconsciously ran slender fingers through the relaxed waves that cascaded past her shoulders. "Try again."
It was this morning's game, kicked off when the senior field agent moseyed out of the elevator—two minutes late from talking to the receptionist downstairs—and stopped cold at the entrance to the squad room.
From her desk, already settled and working, Ziva expelled an audible sigh. "What it is, Tony?"
"You're different," he stated, giving her the shifty eye. "What's different?"
She made a face. "Nothing."
But he took it as a personal challenge to prove her wrong, and now, ten minutes later, he had guessed everything from the color of her lipstick to the material of her shoes. It was getting very weird, in her opinion.
"But it is something with your hair." Tony rose to his feet, crossing the short distance from his desk to hers. "Had it cut?"
"No."
"Colored it?"
"Perhaps you need glasses, hm?" She kept him in her peripherals as he circled around behind her. "You are not seeing things clearly."
"Extensions?"
"For the last time, no." Palms on the edge of her desk, Ziva wheeled her chair straight backwards. His strangled yelp was proof that she'd trapped a DiNozzo. Swiveling in her seat brought visual confirmation, and she beamed a sly smile up at him. "Continue this nonsense and I will shoot off your kneecaps."
Caught between her file cabinet and chair, Tony chuckled, wagging a finger down at her. "I guess some things don't change."
"Hey, guys. What's up?" Timothy McGee's cheerful greeting announced his arrival in the squad room. When he caught sight of the power play taking place behind her desk, his steps slowed and his mouth quirked up in a smirk. "What'd Tony do now?"
"Nothing!"
"He is annoying me," she explained with an unapologetic shrug.
"Ah, figures. Hey," McGee said, pointing to her, "where's your necklace?"
Ziva bit down on her bottom lip to stop her delight from bursting forth; she could have kissed McGee. "Finally, a man who pays attention to detail!"
"What?!" Tony extracted himself from the uncomfortable position with a firm shove to the back of her chair. Dashing out in front of her desk, he leaned over the lamp to stare directly at her chest, or rather, at the bare patch of skin where her gold Star of David customarily dangled down from around her neck. "That's all?"
She swatted at his head as one would at an irritating flying insect. "I am having it polished before my ceremony. Good eye, McGee," she praised, with a wink at her teammate, who was now at his work station but still smirking.
"Why didn't I notice that?" Tony shuffled back to his desk in a perplexed fog.
Ziva regarded him with a tilt of her head, tapping the end of a pencil against her lips. "I think your problem is that you are too busy looking for something that is not there, and you miss what is right in front of your face."
The sandy-haired special agent plopped down in his seat with a heavy exhale. "Do I get points for at least noticing something was different?"
"Of course she's different, Tony," McGee chimed in. "She's going to become an American soon."
"Well, yeah, but that won't change anything." Tony continued speaking to the man on his right, but his hazel gaze never left hers, even as her eyes narrowed at him in a warning that proved unnecessary. "You can give her a new passport, a social security number. Pump her full of useless American history trivia. Heck, you can slap a bumper sticker of Old Glory on her forehead." His lips pursed in a flat, contemplative arrangement before he added, "She'll still be our Ziva."
And then he looked away and picked up the receiver of his phone, pinched it between his ear and shoulder, and got to work for the first time that morning.
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Of course, Tony could not let it go. The innocuous misstep brought on a sudden existential crisis; he was an investigator, after all, trained in the art of keen perception. What did he have if not his observational skills? For the next few days, at crime scenes, in the office, on the way to their cars at the end of the day—all he did was squint at things and rattle off their descriptions in horrifyingly precise detail.
As his partner, Ziva had a front row seat to his antics and was not immune to their infuriating side effects. But once the depression stage of his occupational disorder took over, she would have given anything, even half of her knife collection, to have the overanalyzing chatterbox returned to her.
"Nothing…," he mused one afternoon as they sat in the Charger, staking out a suspect, "should get past me."
While scanning her side of the street, Ziva rolled her eyes. "Enough with this, Tony. You are just hunting for compliments."
"It's fishing. But I see your point." A sigh. "Is it because I'm getting old?"
Her mouth popped opened, a retort dancing on her tongue, ready to be dispensed, when he lifted a hand up to her face.
"Don't answer that," he amended, snatching his hand to his chest after she playfully bit at the exposed palm.
They went back to their assignment of watching and waiting. A sultry spring breeze blew through the open car windows, reminding her that D.C., unlike Tel Aviv, did not normally get as warm as it had been that week. A rivulet of sweat was on a one-way journey from behind her ear and down her neck, on course for the crook of her shoulder. She swiped at it before it met its final destination.
Brown eyes glanced to the side. If Tony was melting in his tie and suit jacket, he wasn't letting on, which wasn't like him. He never passed up a chance to whine. Maybe if she did not mention it, he would remain quiet for the rest of the—
"It's you, I think."
Ziva's shoulders wilted at his voice, carrying his thoughts, unfiltered, to his mouth once again. Between the weather and the forced company, she was going to die in this car.
"Will you just stop?" The outburst had been percolating since this whole ordeal began, and it boiled over now, complete with emphatic hand gestures. "It was one time! It does not mean you are a bad investigator! You are perfectly fine! Get over it!"
"Take a chill pill, David." Tony eyed her with bewilderment, perhaps worried that she'd finally cracked. "I just meant that…you're my partner. I should know when something is different or off about you."
His eyes were doing that sad puppy-dog droop, and Ziva found herself releasing the remainder of her frustration on a long, loud exhale. They did spend an absurd amount of time with each other every day. Multiply that by five years, give or take a summer apart, and his conclusion was reasonable. But as close as they were, some things could still be blurry between them.
"Perhaps," she inserted into the suffocating heat in the car, "you are right."
The special agent tried to curb his piqued interest by angling away from her, but contrary to his current predicament, she had never struggled to read him like a favorite book, with some passages memorized by heart.
She smiled at his back, preparing to give him the compliment that he so desperately needed, but she never got the chance.
"Showtime." Tony nodded to their mark coming out of a shop across the street.
Simultaneously, they slipped back into the job, opened their respective car doors, and stepped out into the sweltering sunlight.
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After that, they were kept busy with the convoluted murder case of Commander Bell that involved, but was not limited to, Alejandro Rivera and his wily games, leaving no time to doubt their capabilities as investigators. As a testament to the strength of their partnership, though, their brief clash in the car did not prevent Tony from promising to be at her naturalization ceremony that Friday.
The end of the week crept closer, both too slowly and too quickly for Ziva. Then it was happening, the oath spilling out with no effort, sounding just as she'd practiced it. Surrounding her were her NCIS co-workers, except for two noticeable absences.
Gibbs showed up later, arriving last to the intimate party at her apartment, put on for her closest colleagues and friends in celebration of her citizenship. Instead of going into detail about why he missed the ceremony, he chose to deposit a kiss on her temple and break one of his own rules by whispering, "Sorry, Ziver."
She squeezed his hand. "You were already forgiven."
But Tony stayed gone, and as the hours of silence stretched on, Ziva grew more anxious. Beyond disappearing, it was not like him to drop out of total communication with her; sometimes he texted her pictures of what he was eating for breakfast or the socks he would be wearing that day. Something was definitely off.
"Have you heard anything from him?" Abby Sciuto, dolled up in a skull-and-crossbones party dress, clutched her champagne flute so tightly, Ziva was afraid it would shatter in her hands.
"I have texted and called, but no, nothing yet." Over the forensic specialist's shoulder, she spotted an opportunity. "I think I have a way to find out more."
Director Vance was mingling by the bowls of chips and salsa. "Congratulations again, Agent David," he extended when she approached. "It's quite the achievement."
There was no time for pleasantries.
"Where is he?"
Vance leveled his gaze at her. "Who are we talking about exactly?" His previous jovialness toward her was replaced with his business-as-usual tone.
She met his stare, and if this became a competition of will, she was certain they would be there all night.
"It's need-to-know," Vance said finally.
"I am his partner. I need to know. It is some secret assignment, yes?"
The Director sighed, gnawing on one of his customary toothpicks. "It doesn't work that way. But, I can appreciate the concern for your partner. And, since this is your night, I can assure you that Special Agent DiNozzo is not in any danger. But that's all you're getting from me. I mean it."
Ziva accepted the scrap of information as a horse might bristle at being offered a radish when it really wanted a carrot. However, in her varied and exotic experience, if one was hungry enough, they could convince themselves that anything tasted sweet, and this morsel was sustaining.
She went back to her hostess duties for what was actually a small gathering. Her team and her family were one in the same now. They were the people who helped her build this home for herself, each one with their own special place within the architecture of her second chance. If nothing else, her American citizenship was a new beginning, an opportunity to start fresh, allowing her to see things—what her life had become and what she still wanted—with a clarity she'd never before possessed.
And when she looked down the length of the table during dinner, the muted lights glinting off the wine glasses and silverware, a din of happy voices rising and falling with an easy, comfortable flow, she saw the singular break in the design; it was a seat unfilled, a voice missing from the chatter, one she heard more on a daily basis than all the rest combined; that irritated her sometimes, and sometimes entertained her; that she relied on to always be there, and that she realized now was essential to any life she chose to live.
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The familiar buzz of her smartphone substituted for her alarm clock the next morning. Burrowing out from under the covers, Ziva slapped a hand around the surface of the nightstand until she made contact with the device. Seeing that the text was from her misplaced teammate woke her up fast.
She supposed she had expected the message to entail something along the lines of him saying he was all right or on his way back to D.C. What she got was a photo of two coffees to-go and a small bakery bag with the caption Ready or not, and it had the opposite effect of reassuring her. She launched herself out of bed, because he was on his way and she did indeed want to be ready.
In fifteen minutes' time, Ziva managed to squeeze in a shower and throw on some casual clothes. She was fastening her damp hair into a high ponytail when the doorbell rang. A final check in the mirror over her bureau reflected back a fresh-faced version of herself, matching how she felt on that Saturday morning: at the same time authentic and brand new.
Ziva opened the door, revealing her partner who stood out in the hallway in an OSU basketball t-shirt with breakfast in-hand, as promised.
"Hey. Did I give you enough of a heads up?"
"Plenty," she replied on a shallow breath. "When did you get in?"
"A few hours ago. I came as soon as I could. You know, to put your mind at ease." A cheeky expression bloomed on his clean-shaven face. "Eight texts, three voicemails?"
Her eyes narrowed in on him like the tightening of a screw. "None of which you answered." He didn't appear to be informed of her interrogation of the Director, thankfully.
"I was a little busy," Tony confessed. "But you. You were worried about me, Agent David."
"At least I knew exactly what was amiss about you, Tony."
"Cheap shot," he countered, but smiled at her nevertheless. "Seriously though, sorry about yesterday, missing the ceremony and everything. That's why I thought we could do some celebrating of our own, my treat."
Normally, she might have been suspicious of such a sweet gesture, but fragrant wafts of the toasty hazelnut brew had already floated up from the coffee cups to greet and entice her. And, she was curious to know how he'd spent the past 36 hours. Ziva stepped aside to let him inside.
It was not lost on her that this would be the first time they did anything together at her apartment. When he'd stopped by on previous occasions, it was for work-related errands, and he loitered in the doorway until she was ready to leave. Now Tony followed her through the front room and into the kitchen, very much at home, she noticed.
"This is thoughtful of you."
"It's the least I could do." He took a seat where she indicated at the table. "In case you didn't already know, Vance can be a real killjoy."
She pulled two plates out of a cabinet over the counter. "Tell me about it."
So he did. Over flaky croissants and coffee made to each of their preferences—cream and sugar for him, just cream for her—the account of his assignment to observe and report on Rivera in Mexico unfolded. She realized he was leaving out details that he wasn't yet sure the whole team was allowed to know, but he made up for the gaps with exaggerated tales of death-defying taxi rides and a rant about the exchange rate of the peso that actually made sense.
When his story delivered him back to D.C., he turned the tables, demanding to know all that he'd missed out on while away. What she had to share was less exotic or eventful, revolving solely around the ceremony and party. Her recollection of McGee accidentally spilling wine on Ducky's shoes had the agent in stitches, his laughter making her laugh, too. It was effortless, the way they filled each other in on their individual adventures, never mind the brevity of their separation.
When their plates were bare save for a dusting of crumbs, the conversation came to a natural lull. Tony's eyes didn't stray from hers as he raised his coffee cup to his lips, finishing off the last drops. Her gaze flicked in and out of the unwavering intensity, fingertips fiddling with the lid of her cup, the remaining liquid now too lukewarm for her to drink. Then he leaned back in his chair, regarding her with a more critical eye.
"You seem different."
Her scoff was a stand-alone exclamation point on the page. She could have accused him of the same offense: why couldn't this side of him—candid, untroubled, humorous—show up at work more often?
Instead, Ziva rose to her feet. "Are you sure you want to go there again?" She took up her plate and made to pick up his, but he beat her to it, swiping it out from under her outstretched hand.
"You're more…" The thought hung unfinished as he traced her steps to the sink where he reached around her, his arm grazing hers in the process of setting the item into the basin. "Ugh, I can't put my finger on it."
They both stepped back, two arms' lengths of distance between them.
"Were you not the one who said I would still be me," she reminded him, "regardless of earning my American citizenship?"
A chuckle bubbled through the serious façade he'd been trying to perfect, and when it receded, a content expression settled in its place. "Touché."
Ziva furrowed her brow, confused. "Then I do not understand your point."
"All I'm saying," Tony elaborated, resting one hand on the countertop at his side and the other on his hip, "is that the Ziva I knew earlier this week would have drop-kicked me out of her apartment by now."
It was true that the objective of his visit was met, and yet he lingered—and she was allowing it. Perhaps something had changed, or rather, fallen into place.
"If you know me as well as you claim," she challenged, crossing her arms in front of her, "then you should have no trouble answering your own question."
One of his eyebrows arched in question. "Are you sure you want to go there again?"
The delicate shrug of her shoulders conveyed that she was willing to take the risk. She was certain he saw her better than he let on, and was intrigued to find out if he could prove it.
"Okay, here goes," Tony agreed. "Quick, finish this sentence: Needle in a…"
"Needle stack, yes?"
"So no change there. Moving on."
Ziva smirked. It was only fitting that this would start with one game and end with another.
Stepping towards her, Tony made a face she'd seen on him hundreds of times at crime scenes and scanned from the top of her head to the tips of her bare toes. "Well, you still look like Ziva," he reported after a thorough investigation.
"How is that exactly?"
"Ha! I know a landmine when I see one." At her glare, he winked to let her know he was kidding. "You know, good, very nice, as usual," he continued, his eyes sneaking another sweep of her lean frame. "I'm used to the cargo pants, but leggings work for me, too. Honestly, I think you should wear leggings to work more."
Her partner was close enough that she only had to fully extend her arm to drive a teasing punch into his left shoulder. Rather than a flinch or maybe some overwrought whimpering, Tony reacted by reaching out as her arm recoiled, grabbing her wrist before she could reclaim it herself. Their bodies jostled, ending closer together than they started, with nothing more than a few breaths keeping them apart.
"You certainly feel like Ziva, too." Tony held onto her but not so securely that she couldn't have pulled away. If she had chosen to. "Tough, Israeli femme fatale exterior…" He flipped her hand over, and with his forefinger, drew small circles on the flat palm. "But you have your softer, caring side…even if it can be a little intense, sometimes. It's who you are."
The tenderness with which he touched her skin, his gaze directed down, following the path of his own digit as it traced the webbing between her fingers, elicited a sudden prickle between her shoulder blades that echoed in her bones.
"Wouldn't recognize you any other way," Tony concluded.
This didn't feel like a game anymore. Ziva turned her head to the side, the streaks of late-morning sunlight streaming through the windows in the front room filling her line of sight. Tony still had temporary ownership of her hand, but it was the clearing of his throat that reacquired her attention. And then he came into view, framed by her kitchen, by her new existence, blending in with the surroundings until she couldn't discern the difference.
"Ziva, I—"
She kissed him. It was that easy. There had been almost no space to seal up between them; she'd leaned forward, pressing into him, and the rest was intuition. Doing what felt right. Good.
His initial frozen surprise thawed like an ice cube in the sun under the assurance of her ardent mouth. He tasted like butter and coffee, and she resisted the urge to run her tongue over his lips for a taste of their breakfast mingled with his natural flavor. The pressure his mouth returned—firm and confident—was more than satisfying for now.
It was Ziva who drew away first, heeding the sharp warning from her lungs for air. Not unexpectedly, Tony was the first to speak.
"Now that's definitely—" A hard swallow. "—new."
The special agent took his turn to initiate a kiss, just a quick peck, as if testing whether or not it could happen again. The positive result triggered a dazzling beam, his smile making her smile, too. His strong hands came to life, seizing her around the waist, doing all they could to keep her, and everything about the moment, exactly as it was.
They stood that way, his forehead lowering to hers, breathing as one. As his eyelids fluttered shut, her eyes remained open, and even as close as they were, she focused on him alone and her vision never blurred.
She placed a hand on his side, under his ribcage, and guided him to fit against her, so they would know, from then on, how they belonged together.
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On Monday morning, everything was fine—Ziva and McGee making small talk about their weekends and the weather (the heat spell finally broke) while going through their respective emails—until Tony entered the squad room. There was lightness in the senior field agent's step and he whistled a random happy tune as he tossed his gear by his desk before sliding into his chair behind it.
"Hello there, all," he greeted with a nod to each of his teammates. "Long time, no see."
"Welcome back, Tony," McGee acknowledged.
"Thanks, McGoo."
"Hey, you missed Ziva officially becoming one of us last week."
Tony flicked his attention onto his partner. "Right. Sorry about that. Anything I can do to make it up to you, Miss American Pie?"
As if she hadn't heard him, Ziva continued tapping at her keyboard. Then, slowly, her deep chocolate gaze rose from behind flared lashes, sending him a pointed message—You already have. His grin in response was meant for her, but it was too bright not to be noticed by the third investigator in the room.
Glancing back and forth from one friend to the other, McGee's face gradually contorted, transitioning from confusion to suspicion. "Wait a minute," he muttered. "What's going on? Something's… different."
"I don't know what you're seeing, Probie." Though Tony spoke to his co-worker, he looked nowhere but at her, the true difference humming softly, silently below the surface, visible to their eyes only. "She's still the same Ziva to me."
The end
A/N: I know we're all going through a lot right now with the news of Cote's departure, so I hope reading this story could offer a little brightness & make you smile. She'll always be our Ziva. Stay strong.