Paris, Blue
Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or any of the real and fictional persons and movies listed below. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment only.
Soundtrack: "Best I Ever Had," Drake
...
Tony wanders and wonders as he looks for fragments of ghosts. Here, beneath Italian leather shoes, is familiar whispers of cobblestone streets surrounded by Gothic spires. There, above Tali's dark curls, is the sky, a cool, frost-tinged hemorrhage of red and gold— the sun, setting above in a haze of broken colors. Here and there were alleys, cafes, kitschy souvenir shops where she wandered, frequented, and loved.
Paris.
Ziva loved Paris.
He hadn't been here to since they were here, together, in what felt like a Lifetime Movie ago. Tali keeps the photographs of that trip in her bag, tucked safely between the little stuffed lion (Schmiel) from Senior and the little farting hippo from Abby (Schmiel Sr!); but Tony, Tony doesn't need any photos when he walks these same streets in his dreams (but in like, an Inception-looking way, at least not until the very end). Sometimes he wishes the top would stop spinning, if only so he didn't have to wonder ad infinitum about the what-ifs.
What if she never left (him behind)?
What if he went after her (and left the person he used to be behind)?
What if she came back (even though she wouldn't)?
What if they stayed together, like they were supposed to?
What if things worked out, like they were supposed to?
What if they were meant to be, supposed to be, one day will be (even though they won't ever be again?)
Tony knows he's just torturing himself and, by proxy, Tali, so he magic-Kodaks a smile on his face and tries to channel Gene Kelly. American in Paris and all. Tali is endlessly amused by Abba's antics as they dance from The Moulin Rouge to the Eiffel Tower, blisters be damned. The stroller isn't quite as easy to maneuver as an umbrella and it's definitely not singing in the rain as so much as letting the rivulets hide the occasional tear whenever they passed the smell of matzo balls and falafel (Ziva loved both), yet Tony thinks he's doing a good enough job when he tucks his little girl in at night and notices she's clutching stuffed animals and not a gun in her tiny, perfect fingers.
The ghosts come in fragments and pieces after Tali has fallen asleep.
He welcomes them.
Paris (guns and all) is their home, after all.