Originally this was posted right after 7.21, Obsession; unfortunately I got a bit overwhelmed with school and work, but now that I'm back, I've re-mastered it, and it's now a Post-Hereafter fic; in canon.

I hope you enjoy!

(tony/ziva) Chemistry of a Car Crash

Chapter 1

This was his fault; of course it was his fault.

Ziva was hurt, the kind of hurt that even she couldn't pretend wasn't real; the kind of hurt that left her bowed over in pain, feebly pushing Tony's hands away to try and preserve her last shred of decency, flirting with the lines of consciousness in the backseat of an illegally commandeered police car.

And for what?

It's always his God-damn fault.

For the better part of a year he'd treated her with cruel indifference, his whole life enraptured by Jeanne and his undercover OP; the one that sucked him in until he couldn't tell the difference between reality and fantasy; the one that had him lying to his friends, his partner, and his mentor. The one that almost got him killed. She'd stuck by him, the summer that Gibbs' decided to have a mental breakdown, providing him with the sense of stability he unknowingly needed, determined to remain his partner in every aspect of the word, whether or not it held true on paper. He knew he'd hurt her when he cancelled their movie nights without as much as a live phone call.

Voicemail, what an ingenious invention.

But in his defense, it'd been for the job; and Anthony DiNozzo was nothing if not committed.

And when he'd blown his cover, in turn losing not only a woman he thought he loved, but also the trust of his teammates, somehow he'd found a way to blame her. But maybe that was why he hadn't told her about the assignment in the first place; it wasn't that she couldn't be trusted, but he knew she'd have done everything in her power to keep him from blurring the lines, from getting so far deep into it, he'd inescapably end up hurt.

'That's because you're a good person,' she'd once said. Funny, he hadn't felt like a 'good anything' at the time.

When Jenny died, he'd holed up in his apartment, alone. Of course he'd known that she and Jenny had, years ago, built a friendship that far surpassed one of a Director and subsequent agent, but he'd been too busy wallowing in his own bottomless pool of self-pity, one that smelled too much like straight whiskey, to acknowledge her unremitting incoming calls, the Caller ID mocking him with every flash of her name. He'd like to think that if he'd known the true reason behind her persistence, if he'd only known that her father had secured her a seat on an earlier flight, one that would have her coasting over the Pacific by the time he woke the next day, he'd have answered.

Yes, he'd like to think that.

But he didn't know, so he didn't answer.

And she got on a plane, without a proper goodbye, without an apology, back to Tel Aviv, where she was un-tethered, free to find someone else; someone else who would seemingly put her first. Someone who would be there for her when the nightclub she canvassed was bombed, sending her to the hospital, hurt and, if the ZNN feed was any indication, terrified. Someone, who would eventually screw her over, throwing her world into yet another agonizing tailspin; and it would be the one that 'broke the camel's back,' so to speak.

Although she'd say donkey, or mule, or something equally off kilter.

But not all the blame could be placed on the traitorous, now departed, Michael Rivkin; just as it was unfair for her to endure all the responsibility. Yes, she'd been seduced by a world of false comfort and devotion, been unwilling to believe that those she loved, that those who were supposed to love her back, would betray her in such a way; that her own father, the man who had sent her to NCIS almost four years prior, had begun to question her loyalties.

He, her partner, the man who was supposed to have her back at all times, was also partly to blame, not to mention, jealous. Since that morning when she'd sat across from him, hurling Hebraic curses at an unknown flight coordinator in a resolute mission to return to her native country, he'd been consumed by the need to know; to know his name, know the importance he held in her life.

A woman who in three years hadn't taken as much as a sick day, was taking a week off of work to go on vacation. To see someone else, the man who rivaled for her affections.

Yeah, jealous was definitely the right word. And damn if she didn't call him on it.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, perhaps with exception of Eli David himself, he'd been right to question the motives of her newfound lover. Rivkin had used her, playing her like a worn out chess piece, an obvious expendable rook, in the eyes of Mossad.

Not in his eyes; never had she been expendable to him.

He'd saved her, and although it may not have been the initial objective of his mission, he'd never been happier to go off-script.

He'd saved her, and after three long, poignant months, she came home, to the states; to NCIS; to him.

He'd saved her, and eventually, they were okay.

He called her Probette, and she gave him blue teeth that left a stubborn hue in his mouth for days.

One day, a week or so before the Annual Secret Santa, she came to work wearing a necklace with a new Star of David pendant, and he noticed. And when she caught his gaze on the exposed skin in the scoop neck of her shirt, she smiled. A real, Ziva David smile.

And then there was Paris. Yeah, Paris had the clincher; no crazy, sweaty 'caught up in the moment' sex, no horrific nightmares that shook his very core; but there was a quiet little ninja, who in her sleep, settled herself against him, aligning her body along the full length of his own, pulling him into a deep, content slumber, and making his Ohio State T-shirt smell very Apple-y, if that was even a word. And it smelled that way for days after their return, until her scent was completely replaced by the smell of Axe and his aftershave. And only then did he wash it, still reluctantly.

And for months they stayed that way; he'd come in a few minutes earlier, and she'd stay a few minutes later. Every once in a while, he'd offer to walk her to her car, and surprisingly, she'd allow it.

There had been no doubt in his mind that she was a completely different person than the day he'd met her; she still had the big brown eyes, and the long flowing black tresses that begged him to reach out and twist a curl around his finger, but she had definitely softened; granted, three months in a terrorist camp in the African Desert wasn't the way he'd wished it would have happened, but she finally seemed human, tangible.

But actions spoke louder than words, and in true DiNozzo fashion, it wasn't long before his actions screamed expendable, betraying the possibly truest declaration he'd ever made…

"Couldn't live without you, I guess…"

One step forward, and three steps back…

More like fifty.

She hadn't seemed hurt by the mention of Brenda Bitner, the misguided barista who thought she'd snagged herself a committed boyfriend; it was Dana who had struck a nerve.

Dana Hutton.

And of all the people to give him a tongue lashing, it had to be Abby Sciuto, the forever loving, unbiased Goth forensic scientist; or so he thought. Almost a half hour he'd sat there, listening to her as she screamed, claiming he was an ass of un-measureable proportions, and that apparently, Major Mass Spec hadn't even seen the likes of him. And Major Mass Spec had seen some scummy particulates in its day.

Twenty minutes with an angry Abby, it was like years in his own personal hell, complete with a cute little minion in pig-tails, on the verge of tears as she begged him to 'fix it.'

Damn. The girl was spending way too much time with Gibbs.

But, Dana Hutton. He'd been fixated with her for days, and he couldn't figure out why. There was just something so alive, so beautiful, so familiar about her…he'd been nothing short of compelled to save her.

He'd assaulted a civilian, broken Rule # 10, and earned a heartbreaking look from Ziva as he spat out her last name like it was something vile; he regretted it the second it had left his lips, but apologizing would admit he'd gone too far, that he'd gotten too attached, again; and he hadn't won yet.

'Cause the good guys are supposed to win in the end…right?

But still, Dana Hutton couldn't be saved. He'd failed.

...

Over the next few years the pair would respectively find false hope in quickly burnt out romances, leaving each with yet another failed attempt at happiness.

Tony once thought he'd understood EJ, that was, until he learned of her connections to Sec Nav. And from experience, he knew, if one lie was brought to the surface, there were dozens still uncovered, each one a damning crack ready to dissemble the strongest of relationships.

And then she'd disappeared; she'd left him, in an alley way, shot, seemingly to die.

If he couldn't trust Erica Jane with his life, he damn sure wouldn't trust her with his heart.

And when EJ reemerged months later, in need of one last favor, when the job was done and she was safe, their departure didn't affect him with the intensity he expected. Instead it left him with the feeling she'd been a mere distraction from reality; a way to escape the truth that he'd yet again allowed another man, this time a certain CIA Agent with impressive clearance levels, to make Ziva smile.

The smile that used to be reserved solely for him.

But in the end, Ziva's relationship and almost-engagement to Ray had taken more than it had given. She'd been promised her dream: the husband, the kids, and the house with the white picket fence, but before she'd let herself dive feet first into her perfectly tailored, cookie cut American Dream, Ray had been exposed as the liar he'd become, and yet again she was left alone.

They were alone.

And then suddenly, they weren't.

Suddenly, they were sharing secrets. About Tony's mother. About Tali.

About the things that mattered.

Tony was the one to fend off Ziva's nightmares after her father's murder.

And Ziva had, in one night, dissolved Tony's sheer panic at the sight of children.

Not to say they no longer carried the pain of their pasts, but it was proving easier to overcome their collective so-called 'dysfunction', romantic and otherwise, together.

Not again.

This was not happening, AGAIN!

He did not drag her ass out of an African Desert so she could go and get hit by a car.

"Ziva, let me look at it," he pleaded pathetically. She was squirming, stretched out over his lap, pushing his hands away as he reached for the hem of her shirt. He'd wasted no time in stripping her of her official NCIS jacket and Kevlar vest, and she was choosing now to fight with him. Not surprisingly, even a run-down Ziva threatened to beat Tony in a battle of brawn.

But she was bleeding from somewhere…

"We're almost there, Tony. Maybe you should just wait, you know, let the doctors-"

"Just shut up and drive, McGee!"

And drive he did; going ninety miles an hour, on anything other than highway, was dangerous in itself, but the prickling sensations in the corners of his eyes made Tim blink incessantly, and his driving all the worse. He was giving Ziva's legacy as world's worst driver a run for its money. He laid in on the horn, shouting a string of expletives out the window at fellow drivers, quickly discovering how moot the sound of a police car siren had become.

"Damn it," Tony muttered. She'd stopped fighting, and as much as he needed to help her, she needed to stay awake.

Tony'd been in a foul mood all morning, having missed a mysterious phone call from Senior in the dead of night, and the realization that he was most likely in need of a clemency in the form of money, had thrown Tony's whole routine off. He'd taken too long in the shower, letting the hot spray work out the kinks in his shoulders as he thought about his expendable funds, and just how much he would be able to give Senior. He'd spilled his coffee on his dress shirt, not to mention the upholstery of his car, and consequently, he'd arrived seven minutes late to the bull pen; whilst no one else seemed to notice, it was enough to ruin Tony's day before it'd even begun.

Naturally, within mere minutes of his arrival, Tony felt Ziva's gaze; he tried focusing on the methodical sounds of McGee's typing, wondering what he was working on so proficiently when they hadn't been given a case, but her silent questions kept hitting him square in the face, and she was hard to ignore; so when Gibbs had descended from MTAC, sputtering out the details of their new case, he dodged her every advance between the Navy Yard and the crime scene, decidedly waiting until they could be alone before he would recruit her help in making sense of the cryptic message left on his voicemail.

The last thing he wanted was some crack from McGee about, well about anything.

There were some things only Ziva could fix.

But looking back over their interactions, or lack thereof, Tony could see how Ziva would've been put off. He'd pushed her so far after Eli's death, to open up to him, to confide in him; and while he had every intention to reciprocate, his ill-tempered disposition this morning could have easily been mistaken for an unwillingness to confide in her, when he'd done nothing short of beg her, just weeks ago, to trust him.

"Don't do this."

Because she wasn't alone.

Jesus. Now look where they were.

But he never should have let her go out there alone; what the hell were partners good for anyways?

Now all McGee had to do was grow a pair and step on the pedal; "Ziva?" he whined, fingertips forgetting their search, now fluttered over her face. Bruises had already started to flourish on her cheeks, around her eyes… "Jesus Christ, McGee, would you just drive the damn car?"