Title: Lies and Consequences
Series: DC
Characters: Tony/Ziva, Michael Rivkin
Ratings: PG
Notes/Warnings: AU - Major character death! What if Michael Rivkin had killed Tony in Ziva's apartment instead of the other way around?
Four shots. She knows something terrible has happened. She saw Tony's car parked outside as she pulled up to the curb. Why won't he leave well enough alone?
She bursts into the apartment, brandishing her own Sig, hands trembling more than they should for all her Mossad training.
This is personal. More personal than even Ziva David could ever have imagined.
Tony lies in a pool of blood, a shard of glass from her coffee table still gripped in his hand. His eyes are halfway open, but their gaze is empty. Beside him, Michael lies on his back, staring at the ceiling; a slight smile graces his lips. His breathing is slow and steady – the frightening calm of the Kidon Officer, who can take a life without blinking.
It takes a moment for the situation to register in Ziva's consciousness. She glances down at Rivkin's side, and then she sees it.
Tony's gun. In Michael's hand. What have you done, ahuvi?
A wave of nausea begins to rise up into her mouth, and she forces it back down, her mind racing. Should she lower her gun, or take Michael out while she has the chance? He glances up at her, and his smile broadens.
"Turns out, I was Pacino after all," he quips. "Here." He tosses the gun towards her feet.
"What?" She shakes her head incredulously, slowly lowering her own weapon. "Michael! My God..." She picks up Tony's gun, quickly pulls out her cell phone, and suddenly she's gripped with indecision. Who does she call first...9-1-1, or Gibbs? She doesn't have to check for a pulse; the Kidon kill, they do not maim. First responders will be of no help in this situation.
The decision is made. Gibbs. As she hits speed-dial 1, Michael stands up, with some difficulty; his right arm is limp at his side.
"I should be going." He stops in his tracks as Ziva aims her gun at his chest.
"No, Michael. That would not be wise."
He raises his hands mockingly, bemused by her reaction. "Come now, Ziva. You knew that sooner or later you would have to choose."
Her eyes narrow. His words have so many meanings. Mossad or NCIS? Israel or America? Lies or truth? But she knows he means none of those.
Michael or Tony?
She's wasted so much energy trying to convince Michael that Tony was just a co-worker. A friend. Nothing more.
Lies or truth, indeed.
But it wasn't really Michael she was lying to, was it? It was herself. For all that she was infuriated by Tony's incessant prying into her private life, part of her understood it was born of a genuine concern for her reputation and safety. He cared.
And now he is gone. And she has no-one. Because she no longer can stand the sight of the man standing in her living room; a man with whom she shared a bed not 24 hours ago.
How could she have got it so horribly wrong?
It is 07:00, and Ducky strides through the autopsy bay doors with a heavy heart. Yesterday, he and Jimmy had the unenviable task of performing Tony's autopsy. He thought about asking another ME to handle it – for about 10 seconds. Tony was one of their own, and he could not entrust this task to a stranger, no matter how difficult it might be.
Gibbs has been positively insufferable since arriving at Ziva's apartment that fateful night. The Director finally ordered him to take a few days' leave, so poinsonous was his behaviour to their workplace. Abby broke down in agonizing sobs when Ducky shared the news with her, and locked herself in her lab for 32 hours straight until Timothy finally talked her down. Strangely enough, it's Timothy who's been their strength and support these last few days. Tony would be proud of him, Ducky muses ruefully.
A silhouette sits in the darkness, the chair positioned in front of drawer 107.
The same drawer where he laid Caitlin, four years earlier. He rarely uses it...it's understood that this temporary crypt is reserved for...family.
"Ziva?"
"Ducky." Her voice is barely a whisper, with not a trace of her typical self-confidence.
"How long have you been here, my dear?" He hangs up his coat and hat, and turns to face her.
She doesn't respond. He approaches her cautiously, placing a gentle hand on her arm. She bites her lip, fighting for control, but a stubborn tear refuses to follow orders, sliding down her olive-toned cheek. Her face glistens in the half-light. Clearly, the war has been raging within her for some hours.
The silence is painful, but nothing he can say will bring comfort. Well, perhaps that's not quite true.
"A cup of tea, I think." He pats her arm, and heads out to fetch the pot and the kettle. Several minutes later he returns with a tray, on which are laid out tea and ginger snap cookies. Her gaze remains fixed on the cold steel drawer. Not one muscle twitches.
It's then that he notices the torn black ribbon tied around her left arm. He did not expect her to react this way to Tony's death. Neither, he suspects, did she.
He pours the tea and sets a cup, along with a couple of cookies, on the autopsy table behind her...this mitzvah is just about the only thing he can do, under the circumstances. Michael is in custody, but no doubt Eli David will fiddle things so that he goes home to Israel without so much as a slap on the wrist. When did you become such a cynic, Donald? When it comes right down to it, what good will it do if Rivkin is called to account? It won't bring Tony back.
And it won't dry Ziva's tears.
He leaves her to her silent vigil.