Disclaimer: You know the drill. They're not mine. Unfortunately. Or maybe it's a good thing. I might angst them out if they were mine.
Chapter 1
Broken
Tony awoke to an awful sense that something was not right.
Something was missing. Something important. His hand, almost unconsciously, reached out to the other side of the bed. It was empty.
Cold.
Memories suddenly rushed back and he swallowed the lump in his throat as hot tears pricked at the back of his eyelids.
Sighing softly, he rolled over and pushed back the covers, feeling the (by now, familiar) bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep seemed to cure. He slipped out of bed and into the dark hallway. The hard-wood floor seemed chillier than usual, and he shivered. As he stepped quietly into the doorway of the next room, he stood for a moment, listening. No slow creak came from the rocking chair in the corner, but he knew she was there, nonetheless.
"Ziva."
She stiffened, but didn't turn at his whisper or otherwise acknowledge him. The wind howled mournfully outside and a tree branch beat a savage pattern on the window, casting flickering, mocking shadows across the walls.
"Ziva, please." He hardly realized that he was begging, not that it would have mattered if he had. Desperation did that to him. "Please, Zi. Talk to me."
When no response was forthcoming, he made his way over to her corner and sank to his knees at her side. "Please, Ziva," he implored again. "I need you to talk to me. I need you to let me in. Please."
She turned to lock eyes with him and he caught his breath at the depth of pain there. Pain that mirrored his own, he knew, and yet went so much further. Pain that he didn't think he could possibly know the extent of, unless his pain at seeing her suffer was in any way comparable. Pain and anguish beyond what he had ever thought a human being could endure and not go insane with despair. Pain that rightly half belonged to him.
He wished he could take it all on, that he could shoulder all of their hurt, their sorrow. She shouldn't have to bear this.
And then she blinked and, like a switch being thrown, all the torment he had seen in her eyes was gone.
Instead they were blank, dull. Empty. As though she were staring straight through him.
And somehow that was infinitely worse.
"Ziva." He was still whispering, even though he felt more like screaming. "Ziva, please don't shut me out."
No answer.
"Ziva, please." His voice broke mid-plea. "I can't take it."
Her mouth twitched with the effort to hold back the emotions that were threatening to crash down on her, a breaking wave after a crescendo of grief, and a single tear tracked its way down her face. She reached up to brush the intrusion away, and he caught her hand.
She didn't feel as though she had the energy to struggle, nor did she really care to, as his other hand came up to gently thumb away the tear and stayed to cup her cheek. Trying to keep her breathing even, in and out, in and out, she leaned, ever so slightly, into his touch.
He clutched her hand to him tightly, wanting—needing—the tactile reassurance, as he began to rub slow circles around her cheekbone. The contact was having a soothing effect on them both, and after a while she closed her eyes, letting each stroke relax her. Never enough to fall asleep, though. For every time she drew near to that welcoming boundary, she would remember, and the pain would come rushing back, all at once and worse still, seeming to intensify in contrast to the blissful nothing that preceded it.
She let out a shuddering sigh that turned into a choked sob halfway through.
"Ziva," he whispered again, his hand stilling momentarily as he winced at the pure agony of the sound. "Ziva, I can't tell you that it's going to be ok. I honestly don't know that it is. Right now I can't imagine that anything could ever be ok again. But whatever happens, I'm going to be there for you. For us. I'm not going anywhere."
The sincerity rang in his words, as did his own pain, and she opened her eyes to see him gazing at her earnestly. And with such concern and such hope and such sorrow, all together, that she could hardly bear it.
And so she let go. She could no longer stop the flow of her tears as they coursed down her cheeks, the jerky sobs that wrenched out of her at each breath, the terrible emptiness that seemed to emanate from her very core.
All she could do was let go. And trust.
Trust him.
Trust him to catch her. To save her. To be there for her.
To get them through this.
He pulled her off the chair and into his lap in one swift move, holding her to his chest and murmuring soft, utterly useless phrases of comfort as she finally broke down and cried; his strong, unbreakable, confident, beautiful beyond words, ninja of a woman, sobbing in his arms.
His heart ached for her, leaving no room at all for thoughts of his own loss, as he wrapped his arms more securely around her. If it would've helped, if he'd had the ability, if he could have found a way to turn the earth back in its rotation, to erase this all, he would've done it in a heartbeat. As it was, he could only wish. Wish it all away, wish that they could be happy again, wish them back to before…
A/N: Any guesses as to what's going on? It's not spelled out, but there are a couple of hints for those particularly astute among you.