She appears on his doorstep at midnight, something not out of character for her but still unexpected. Granted, she has been somewhat quiet lately, almost pensive. He should have known something was wrong without her having to tell him. It is his job, after all, to know her better that she knows herself.
He opens the door and is greeted by a slightly disheveled Ziva in a rather nice-looking party dress. Her eyes are dry but they hold sorrow and pain. Sadly, it is a look that Tony has come to know quite well, especially after the events of the past summer.
"You okay, Ziva?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
She doesn't reply. She is well aware that his words are merely a formality- it is obvious that her response to such a question would be an unnecessary waste of breath.
When he steps aside to let her in, she hesitates. She is questioning her decision to be here in the first place; has the vodka clouded her mind? Her judgement?
She decides, to hell with it.
"Will you let me sleep here tonight?" she asks, trying her hardest to keep her heartbreak out of her eyes where he will surely see it.
"Depends," he replies.
"On what, Tony?" she questions, vaguely annoyed.
"If you tell me what's wrong. That's the price. The admittance fee. The rent. You agree to talk to me, and you can stay here as long as you want," Tony states, looking deep into her eyes and analyzing her soul. Ziva knows he's bluffing- he would never turn out into the night, regardless of what she did or did not tell him.
She doesn't call him out on it. Instead, she agrees, knowing that a part of her came here for a shoulder to cry on. She nods and Tony steps aside, holding the door open for her. After hanging up her coat, Tony ushers her to his room.
"Sorry, I'd offer you the guest room, but it's being used as a storage room for my assorted crap," he explains. It isn't necessary- Ziva knows what his guest room looks like- but it fulfills its purpose in abating the silence.
Ziva slips her high-heeled shoes off and lies down on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and waiting for Tony's unavoidable line of questioning.
Already dressed for the night, he sits down next to her on the bed and mimics her position. There is no talk of anyone sleeping on the couch; it had been decided in Paris that they were adult enough to share a bed.
"So are you going to tell me what happened?" He doesn't look at her, but instead remains lying on his back next to her, analyzing the cracks in his ceiling.
"I went to a bar."
"I assumed so. You're all dressed up. You look nice by the way."
Ziva's reply does not come right away. She takes a second to digest his words. The compliment means more tonight than ever. "Thank you, Tony." Her voice is soft and sorrowful.
"So why'd you go to a bar?" he presses.
"The last case, seeing Petty Officer Nichols and his wife being so happy together... It reminded me how much I miss that in my life."
"I was under the impression that you were happy, Ziva," Tony replies, somewhat hurt.
"I am. But I can not help but feel that something is missing. I miss being appreciated and loved in a... Romantic setting. It has been a while," Ziva admits. Tony flinches inwardly as Ziva alludes to Rivkin.
"So you went out tonight to what? Find your future husband? Love of your life?"
"Do not judge me. I was not looking for anything... Permanent, tonight. I mean perhaps... But no."
"A one night stand, then?" Tony prompts. When Ziva doesn't reply, he stops fighting the urge to look at her and rolls over. He is on his side, his head propped up by his hand.
She doesn't look at him. Her unfocused gaze remains fixated on the ceiling.
"I do not know what exactly I wanted. But I just wanted to feel appreciated, even if it was only for one night," she confesses.
"And you didn't have any luck?" he guesses, assuming the worst. To his surprise, she shakes her head ever so slightly.
"There was a man. He bought me a drink, we flirted. He seemed nice enough, good looking too. Said he was a professor."
"Ziva... Did he hurt you? Because I swear-" Tony begins, anger and red-hot rage appearing prematurely.
"No," she assures him.
"Then what?" Tony is slightly puzzled. He studies her face for any kind of clue, however, she is doing a good job of keeping her expression and gaze disconnected, distant, and empty.
"It was more what he did not do. I took him home. We got... Intimate. When I took off my dress, though..." she trails off, her eyes closing.
"Ziva?" Tony encourages, taking her hand in his. "What happened then?"
"I had forgotten about the scars. It has been almost a year now, and it's been difficult, but I managed to come to terms with what happened and the marks it left on my body. I barely notice their presence anymore." Her eyes are still squeezed tightly shut.
"Oh, Ziva..."
"He was disgusted, Tony." It is only then that her voice breaks and she opens her eyes, turning her head to the side and making eye contact with Tony. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. "He did not want to stick around after he saw that."
"Then he doesn't deserve you," is Tony's immediate answer.
Ziva doesn't know what to say to that. "Tony..."
"No. I'm serious. I don't ever want to see you doubting yourself and your beauty and worth. You are beautiful, scars and all. Anyone who can't see past them isn't worth your time."
"I have gotten over it, Tony. The memories still hurt sometimes and I still get nightmares occasionally, but I am moving on. However, I realized tonight that that does not mean it's over. I want to move on. I want someone to love me. What happened was... Not at all what I needed at all. It was a slap in the face," Ziva explains to him, searching his face for answers that he doesn't have.
"Ziva, the right guy isn't going to care about your scars. He'll accept them and love them because they are a part of you," Tony promises her. "If anything, it should help you narrow it down." His pathetic attempt at humor doesn't get through to her.
"That is not the point. I wasn't going out tonight to find the RIGHT GUY. I just wanted to see that I could still be loved, still be considered beautiful. Apparently that is not the case," she explains mournfully.
"I understand," he responds, "why you feel that way. I get why you're sad. What that guy did was a real bitch move and it sucks, really. But never for one second doubt that you are beautiful, okay? Most men would kill for a shot with you."
"Even you?" she asks, knowing the answer.
"Already have," he answers, giving her a lopsided smile. She frowns.
"That was tasteless."
"I'm sorry. You know I only killed Rivkin in self defense."
"Yes. I know." She smiles, looking back at the ceiling once more. "You are very good for my ego, Tony. Thank you."
"Hey, no problem. Glad to help."
Then he flicks off the light, and they fall asleep side by side once again.
A/N: It's late. I wrote this on my phone. It probably doesn't make sense and is riddled with mistakes, so I apologize, but if you even got to the author's note then you much to some degree have liked it enough to finish it. So drop a review on the way out? Thanks:) hope you liked it!