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Spoilers: Last Man Standing.
Summary: Ziva prepares to head back to the US.
The bathroom mirror fully illuminated the reason people had started giving Ziva funny looks halfway through her morning run. She reached behind her for the hand towel and held it over the cut on her forehead that had reopened…an hour ago? She turned away from the mirror and sat on the counter, maintaining pressure on the wound that was supposed to be healing. The last time she'd had a head wound it had healed in no time at all. Frustrated, she dropped the towel on the floor and stripped before stepping into the shower.
A short time later, she stood in the kitchen and swallowed two aspirin and a shot of tequila, realizing it was a bad combination after it was already too late. She checked the clock. 9AM. Although one pain killer was definitely more appropriate than the other given the hour, she poured herself another shot of tequila, regretting that she had no limes in her overstuffed refrigerator. The door creaked as she tugged it open. She hadn't even finished the food her relatives had brought her upon her arrival in Israel when the news of her minor injuries had sparked a fresh wave of foil-wrapped trays arriving at her door. She selected one of Aunt Nettie's cheese blintzes, setting it on a paper plate and kicking the door shut.
Balancing her shot glass, bottle and snack in one hand, she pushed a pile of books to the side to clear a space on her couch and propped her feet on a cardboard box. As she chewed slowly, she looked around the apartment at nothing in particular. There really wasn't anything to look at. The small space Moussad had hastily arranged had remained in nearly the same state since her things had been delivered. She had almost been ready to start looking for a place more to her liking after three months, but her undercover mission had saved her the trouble.
She took a deep breath and stared at the place where the television should have been, assuming the couch were a few feet to the left, the kitchen and hall were flipped around and the apartment were across a vast expanse of water. She reflected that the fact that she had left her television in Washington was probably for the best. There was never anything on. She had left most of the few DVDs she owned behind as well, the exceptions being… The case of the special 40th anniversary edition of The Sound of Music was visible on the countertop across the room, beside her laptop. She smiled, remembering the day she'd opened her desk and found it in the top drawer. She still wasn't sure what she'd done to deserve the gift. She gulped another shot of tequila.
Hearing Gibbs' voice had been nicer than she would have expected. She was dialing her voicemail to listen to a few saved messages when she decided that other voices were best left unheard. She would have to listen to Jen's frustrated complaint that she should take her phone with her when she ran so she wouldn't miss important calls from her boss telling her about a funeral that needed… Ziva shoved the old cell phone deep into the couch cushions and had another drink. She could delete Jen's message and just keep the other, but…it was a poor penance, as it was.
A soft knock sounded on the door as she was wincing through another shot. Rising unsteadily, she took a circuitous route to the door. She peered through the peephole, holding herself steady against the doorframe as her morning indulgence began to catch up with her. The bolt seemed stuck. After a moment's further observation, she confronted the man she had been working with for the past month. "Michael."
"I was almost expecting you to call me Officer Rivkin."
"Why would I do that?"
He scratched his ever-present stubble. "I just thought…may I come in?"
"Why not?" She heard the locks click as he closed the door behind himself. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
"If you have coffee…" His surprise as he looked around was quickly covered. "Is this why you never invited me over?"
"Hm?" The coffeemaker was in a box that said something in English like 'appliances' or 'kitchen' or… "Look for a box marked 'culinary torture devices'." She left off the fact that it was likely tear-stained, like everything Abby had bitterly offered to help pack.
"A…what?"
"Forget it." Ziva grabbed a light jacket off the back of a chair. "There is a coffee shop right around the corner if you would like to go."
"I didn't come here for coffee, Ziva."
"Oh." She dragged her fingertips across the soft fabric of his shirt as she walked back to the couch. "In that case, drink?"
He leaned over the back of the couch to take the bottle from her hand. "Did you drink this all this morning?"
She didn't bother to deny it. "So?"
"It is not even ten o'clock yet," he reprimanded, doing a poor impression of her father. Unconsciously, she hoped. She wasn't sure she could rally the coordination to hit Michael at the moment.
"It is not three in the morning in DC yet. I can drink for another…"
"I think you have had enough."
She turned awkwardly and settled her hands on his cheeks. "Did you come just to tell me that?" The flavor of his mouth as he kissed her back indicated that he had probably had his fill of coffee this morning.
A clunk and a gurgling sound preceded the end of the embrace. "I'm sorry."
She slowly allowed her eyes to open and saw Michael crouching on the floor, trying to mop up the spilled tequila from the bottle he'd dropped. "Don't do that."
"I did not mean to drop it."
"I meant don't clean it. I will handle it. Later."
She glanced at the clock as she awoke hours later, naked in her bed. To her surprise, Michael was still at her side. She rubbed her temples, willing the pain that wasn't just the world's fastest hangover away. When she opened her eyes again, he asked, "How do you feel?"
"All right." She rolled and pressed her body along his as she kissed him. She ran her hand down his toned stomach. "Feels like you could improve things a little."
The hand in her hair suddenly ceased movement. "Who is Tony?"
"What?"
"You mentioned his name on the phone earlier this week."
She let out the breath she was holding. "He is my partner at NCIS."
"You mean he was."
"Yes."
Michael looked at her critically, his dark eyes seeing more than she wanted. "So he was your partner?"
"Yes. That is what I said."
"Why do you whisper his name in your sleep?"
"I…you know I was drinking."
His hand on her hip suddenly felt heavier. "This was not the first time."
"So?"
"Were you and he intimate?"
She struggled for a moment with the question, quashing her first instinct to blurt out an answer. "What do you mean?"
"Is he the man from the pictures?"
"What pictures?"
"Never mind." Michael touched her forehead gently. "You are bleeding again."
"It is not…" He was out of bed and walking back from the bathroom before she could think of any reason to stop him. Strange that he knew where the Band-Aids were when she did not. She moaned softly as he applied the small dressing.
He kissed her just above the injury when he was finished. "You didn't answer my question."
"Which one?"
"I am just curious to know if you treat all your partners in the same manner."
"I've never slept with Tony."
"But you wanted to."
"What difference would it make?" She reached over him to answer the telephone. "Yes?"
"Ziva," her father intoned. "I hope I am not interrupting anything."
She glanced at Michael, who had climbed back into bed, under the covers. "Not at all. Do I have another assignment already?"
"Of sorts. Your flight to Washington leaves tomorrow morning. NCIS has requested their Moussad liaison back."
"That's…" She made a careful effort to modulate her enthusiasm. "I'll begin packing right away."
"From what I saw the last time I was in your apartment, it will not be much work."
"I…"
"Nettie is expecting you for dinner at seven. I will see you then. Shalom."
"Shalom, Abba."
Michael caught her wrist as she attempted to return the phone to its cradle. "You are leaving."
"Yes."
"You were never going to stay, were you?"
She looked at him long and hard. "What did you expect to happen?"
"Ziva, the way I feel with you…"
She cut him off abruptly, not liking the way he was going, "You'll get over it."
"You haven't gotten over your Tony," he countered, "and he isn't even interested in you."
The randomly flung arrow hit its target harder than he could have suspected. "What are you saying, Michael? Are you jealous? Jealous of a man I have never…"
"If you were with him, it would be no different than the way it is between us. Only you would feel as I do now." He stood slowly and began to dress. "I will leave you to your packing." She followed him silently into the hall, wrapped in the sheet. He turned as he reached for the doorknob. "I don't suppose I could convince you to stay."
"No." Before he could close the door, she said, "You were a good partner, Officer Rivkin."
"But not the one you would prefer. Goodbye, Ziva."
He closed the door before she could answer. She simply reversed the unpacking she had done when she'd arrived. It didn't take long, in spite of the amount of baggage.