A/N: This is set in season eight, and it assumes (as I do) that Jackson Gibbs will be fine and Tony will return from Mexico unscathed. Again, this is not "TIVA" in the sappy puppies-and-sunshine way, but it will explore their very complicated relationship in detail. Strong warnings for language and very mature themes.
This should have been fun.
Tony was in bed with Ziva, but there was nothing romantic about it. In fact, there was enough space between them in the king bed to park a semi.
A few years ago, this might have been fun.
Ziva was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead—a thought that made Tony wince as he lay there on a Tuesday night, unable to sleep as he thought about the three dead Marine couples who had been killed in base housing at Quantico and tried not to think about the partner sleeping beside him.
A few more years ago, this had been fun.
But now, he was mostly thinking that it might be better to be sleeping with McGee right now. But with the probie's being a white male, he didn't even come close to fitting the profile of the Middle Eastern women who had been killed by someone who apparently took issue with Marines who married the "enemy." So Ziva it was.
At least she makes sense. But what the hell am I doing here?
Tony ran a hand through his newly sheared hair and winced, remembering the obvious glee in Abby's eyes at first seeing him sporting the military cut. Gibbs had been worse, an amused spark in his eyes as he had said, "Hell, DiNozzo. You almost look like a Marine." And speaking of McGee, why wasn't he lying here, trying not to touch Ziva? As much as Tony hated to admit it, the newly McSkinny probie was in much better shape than he was and looked the part more than Tony did. Tony didn't try to comfort himself with the fact that he was simply better undercover.
And why isn't Gibbs lying here instead of me?
Tony figured his boss would not only look the part, catch the killer, be able to sleep without touching Ziva, but also probably cure cancer while he was at it.
Ziva shifted in her sleep, making Tony freeze and hold his breath until she had settled again. He let out the breath slowly, choking on a gasp as her hand landed on his thigh. He could have stopped to wonder why he was acting like a teenager getting felt up for the first time, but he knew why lying in bed with this woman was so terrifying.
It had little to do with the fact that she was an assassin.
It had a whole lot to do with the fact that she was a woman who had been held captive by men who killed without qualms—and likely had no issues with committing "lesser" sins against a beautiful woman being held against her will.
Ziva had not shown a single sign of her trepidation at sleeping in a strange house in a strange bed with … well, Tony wasn't a stranger, but he was certainly a stranger to Ziva's bed. But Tony, as if he had needed a reminder of what Ziva had gone through in Africa, as if he didn't still sometimes look at her and see the deadness in her eyes when that bag had been removed from her head, had gotten the message loud and clear when Abby had grasped his hand just before they left her lab and said, "Be careful, Tony." Her usually cool green eyes had been full of sparks as she had gripped his wrist fiercely. "Inside the house, and out, okay?" Gibbs had been decidedly less cryptic, stopping the elevator between floors, staring straight ahead at their silvered reflections, and saying, "Ziva can handle herself in the field. But you're going to be living together until we catch this bastard. Watch her six or you might want to consider keeping that haircut."
Ziva shifted again, muttering an angry stream of words in a language Tony didn't recognize. Tony lay perfectly still, bow-string tense as her hand moved toward places he knew she would not want to be consciously touching.
"Ziva."
His soft call of her name only made the words flow faster and the hand inch higher—which sent a shiver down his spine even though he hated himself for it. He also hated the fact that he knew Gibbs and McGee were in a house down the street, listening to every word, every sound. The killer had been striking at night, first beating the husbands into submission and then making them watch while their wives were brutalized and murdered in front of their bloody faces.
This was their third night in the home and Tony had thought he would finally be able to sleep more than a few fitful moments at a time since they had spent the days introducing themselves to as many people as they could and being as conspicuous on base as possible. But the thought of someone getting past Gibbs—that right there should have told him how sleep-deprived he was—and killing Ziva while he watched helplessly still kept him up.
Tony thought back over their day, spent shopping at the commissary. To draw as much attention as possible, they decided to act like goofy lovesick teenagers and spent a good amount of time trying on random hats and sunglasses and making funny faces at each other. Tony tried not to think about the fact that it was the most fun he had had in a long time.
That is, until Ziva had squeezed his hand and pulled him into a hug, wrapping her slim arms around his waist and resting her head against his shoulder. He had looked down into sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile, and nearly thrown up when he saw Jeanne smiling back up at him. If Ziva had noticed his sudden nausea, she hadn't said anything.
Although it was more like when Ziva had noticed, she hadn't said anything.
Lying in bed with the woman now, Tony forcibly removed the memory of her standing in that store, wide-brimmed Kentucky-Derby-silliness-worthy hat perched upon dark curls, and stood on her tiptoes, planting a gentle kiss on his lips and saying loudly enough for several people nearby to turn, "I love you, baby."
And Tony had stood there like a bumbling teenager—or a rookie on his first undercover assignment—until Gibbs had spoken softly in his ear.
"You love her, too, Tony."
Tony had said the words, believably enough for an older woman to lay a hand on his arm, still wrapped around his partner, and say, "You two are just lovely."
That Tony had frozen up while Ziva played wild and carefree was something he did not want to examine too closely. And speaking of examinations, Ziva's hand had reached the point where most doctors would tell him to turn his head and cough. Thoughts of Dr. Jeanne Benoit added to his discomfort, and if asked later, he would blame panic and sleep deprivation for the less-than-brilliant idea to take his own life into his hands and take her wrist into those same hands.
As soon as he touched her soft, delicate flesh, Ziva let out a cry that was part anguished wail and part enraged howl. Tony knew McGee had night-vision eyes on them and he hoped like hell that he and Gibbs would stay put. Hopes of them turning off the equipment were futile, he knew, but still he wished they would so he could talk to Ziva without an audience.
It was a wish as much for her as for him.
But those problems were secondary to the much bigger issue he suddenly faced. Although Ziva wasn't big by any means, the Sig she had pressed into Tony's belly seemed larger than life. Or larger than his life anyway, if she happened to pull the trigger in her panic. He had always thought dying in bed with a beautiful woman would be a good way to go.
He was actively revising that theory as Ziva straddled him, the cold steel of her gun searing his bare skin as she shoved it into his gut.
The pressure and the wild fury in her eyes had him lying flat on his back again, this time in Israel as his broken arm throbbed and his heart cracked in half when she told him maybe she would have been happier had Rivkin killed him. Tony had had a lot of guns pointed at him—but never had the gun been held in the oh-so capable hands of an assassin who he had thought was his partner, his friend. And that had hurt a hell of a lot more than the expertly snapped bone in his arm or the barrel of the gun jammed into his belly, still bearing bruises from her dead lover's fists.
He shoved aside those memories and tried to concentrate on the gun currently pressed into his stomach.
"Ziva."
He breathed her name, hoping she would recognize that he wasn't a threat.
Hoping she never had and never would believe he was a threat.
She was still breathing hard, her eyes open but obviously not seeing him as she flicked the safety off the gun.
Tony's heart leapt up to his throat, half-choking his words with his terror. "Ziva, please."
The gun shoved harder into his belly for a fraction of a second before the pressure was gone—both of the barrel and her small body.
He took a moment to get his breathing under control before sitting up, his eyes searching the dark room for his partner. She was sitting, curled in the corner, her green silk nightgown catching the moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains chosen to let a peeping tom have all the access his twisted heart desired.
In that moment, Ziva had never looked more beautiful.
Until Tony saw the tears streaming down her face as she hugged herself, curling tightly against the wall.
Tony swallowed hard, having no idea what to do or say. Thinking that anything he said would give away her emotional state to the agents listening—if they didn't already know—he decided to go to her and touch her.
It was a bad decision.
As soon as his gentle hand landed on her shoulder, she was up, still caught in the terrors of her dreams, screaming into his shocked face as her small fists beat a furious tattoo into his chest.
"Get your fucking hands off me, you fucking pig. Do not touch me. Get off me, you sick piece of shit. I fucking hate you. Stop touching me. I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you."
The litany continued until she collapsed against him, exhausted by her pain and terror and fury. He wrapped strong arms around her, stroking her hair and whispering soothing nonsense into her ear. He felt her gasp as she started to give in to the sobs shaking her small frame with the force of an earthquake, but then she pulled away, suddenly screaming again.
She hurled furious words as she swung wildly at him with fists clenched so tight she drew blood both from his lip and her own palms where her nails dug into the flesh. The words wandered among the many languages she knew, and Tony didn't understand all of what she said.
But he also understood every word of it.
She was hurting—her pain obvious in any language.
And her suffering was making him ache in ways that had nothing to do with the physical assault he knew she would later feel guilty over.
He wished she wouldn't.
He knew she would.
So he simply held her, let her hit him, all the while wondering what else he should be doing.
