Rating: K+
Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine. The show and the original characters belong to Don Bellisario, Gary Glasberg, and CBS. The new characters, however, do belong to me. This was written strictly for fun, not for profit.
Summary: "Everything changed after that bullet lodged itself in my hip."An AU Tiva family story set six years post-S10.
"How dreadful...to be caught up in a game and have no idea of the rules."
Caroline Stevermer
Chapter 1/2
The baseball obeyed gravity and fell with a thwack into his palm, only to be immediately tossed again into the air above his head. Tony DiNozzo never slept well when his partner was in the field without him, and tonight was no exception. Even his go-to throw, catch, throw diversion was neither hypnotizing enough to help him fall asleep, nor absorbing enough to take his mind off…things.
Things like the woman who should have been on the other side of the bed he laid in now, and where she actually was in relation to him, which was nowhere close.
Things like the accident, as if the permanent stiffness in his right leg wasn't enough of a constant reminder.
And things like the rules. He'd been thinking about those for awhile, and they elbowed their way to the front of the line as he threw the ball up for the umpteenth time that night. In the breath between the next throw and catch, the screaming started.
Despite already being awake, Tony felt as if shocked out of a deep slumber. The paralysis was momentary. Without fully understanding how his bad leg allowed him to move so fast with no assistance from his cane, he was down the hall and in her bedroom within seconds of the first cries.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the dim glow of the nightlight, casting shadows of small, flailing limbs on the far wall. A lunge brought him to the bedside; quick reflexes saved him from a sock in the eye. He reached out, her tiny wrists fitting inside the loose rings of his linked forefingers and thumbs, and then held on as the arms continued to thrash.
"Hey, hey," he whispered over the staccato shrieks. "It's okay. It's just a bad dream."
More comforting words, murmured closer and closer to her ear as the passion drained from the wild appendages, brought about the intended effect. The screams quieted until only raspy whimpers were audible.
"There you go, sweetie." Seated on the edge of the bed, Tony rubbed wide circles into the postage stamp of her back. "Daddy's here. Nothing's going to happen to you."
"I want mama," the young girl sobbed.
"I know." His bedraggled sigh went unnoticed as his daughter began to cry anew. "Me, too."
He should have seen this coming. Hannah only had nightmares of this magnitude when her mother was away on business, so it stood to reason that one would strike during the latest assignment to take Ziva DiNozzo away from her family.
Tony hauled his bad leg up onto the bed and pulled the petite bundle to his side, cradling her under his arm. "It's okay to miss mama. But you know what?"
Curiosity acted as tourniquet, slowing the flow of tears dripping from her eyes. "What?"
"All you have to do is remember daddy's Rule #8."
Hannah craned her head up to look at him. Bouncy curls framed her heart-shaped face as her soft and rounded features contorted out of their usual symmetrical alignment to express deep confusion. "I don't knowwww," she moaned, using the last syllable to descend into a fresh sob.
When Tony told his wife about this incident later, he was definitely leaving out the part where he made their preschooler cry harder.
"Aw, Hannah Honey Bear," he coaxed while delivering a quick tickle to her side. The unexpected action caused a brief pause in her bawling, and each new attack from his fingers extended the tear-free moment. "Who's so sweet and sticky? That'd be Hannah Honey Bear. Oh yes, oh yes. Her tummy's full of…oh, what was it again? A tummy full of…funny jelly?"
"Yummy honey!" Hannah shouted as she giggled and flopped around the bed like a fish on dry land.
"Oh, that's it," Tony announced with feigned enlightenment and another tickle to her stomach. "Honey in this tummy right here, how could I forget?"
The girl shrieked in delight, but nevertheless ordered, "Daddy, stop, stop!" and rolled down the bed out of his reach.
"Okay, I'm stopping." Tony held up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. The fact that there was a little DiNozzo in the world still often astounded him; that he was sometimes pretty darn good at being her father was even more staggering, given his uninspiring role model in Senior.
Popping up onto her knees, Hannah sat back on her heels. Her face pinched in what he recognized as the child's version of an expression he'd seen on the faces of many women before her. In simple terms, it was exasperation.
"When's mama gonna be back?" she asked suspiciously. As if he was hiding Ziva in the closet.
Tony had learned from several painful experiences that young children, not unlike dogs, had absolutely no concept of elapsed time or what it meant in relation to them getting what they wanted. Telling the three-and-a-half-year-old that her mama would be back in a few days would be no more effective than if he answered her with "soon" or "never."
"It's like I told you, Hannah." Tony crooked a finger, beckoning her closer, waiting until she was within an arms-length to continue. "We've gotta trust Rule #8. And if you can't remember it…" He held out his hand, palm up, before she could protest again. "Tag me in. Go ahead."
Hannah slapped his hand, hard, and laughed at the humorous face she received from her father in response.
"Be careful with your 'ol dad." He shook out his wrist in exaggerated fashion to her further amusement. "Now, as I was saying, Rule #8 is 'Always come home.' Do you know what that means?"
From the lethargic shake of her head, he realized her attention was already waning—along with her eyelids.
"It means," he resumed hurriedly, "that no matter why they left in the first place, when someone you love leaves for awhile, like mama, they have to come back home when they're done being gone."
Hannah rubbed a tiny balled fist against her eye, signaling the blatant presence of sleepiness. He'd been hoping for more of a reaction to his speech, but he took what he could get, and accepted the little girl, who was fading faster than trace evidence in water, as she snuggled into his arms.
"Mama has to follow the rules whether she likes it or not," Tony whispered into the silky hair at the crown of her head. "So don't you worry, she's on her way home to us."
As Hannah's breathing evened out, her heartbeat steadying against his chest, it was hard to tell if his reassurance was more to the benefit of his daughter or himself.
/-/-/-/-/
When they picked out the Capitol Hill townhouse just before Hannah was born, the cement stairs leading up to the front door were a non-issue, and Tony made sure they stayed that way. Going down was easier than coming up, but each step had to be calculated on leverage and balance, a labored process that he disregarded for this early morning errand.
With the baby monitor attached to his belt, he speed down the steps, using both his cane and the railing to hurtle himself to the sidewalk. He had a few minutes, tops, before Hannah woke up. Usually she acted as alarm clock for her parents, but the nightmare had disrupted her beauty sleep, and it appeared she was catching up on the lost winks.
Tony had been putting the extra time to use by taking a shower longer than the duration of a sneeze and eating a civilized breakfast at the table when he realized his cell wasn't in its customary spot next to his wallet and keys on the kitchen counter.
Rule #3: 'Don't be unreachable.' The tenet came rushing up from his memory unbidden. After working under Leroy Jethro Gibbs for over a decade and a half, it was second nature to cite the rules that guided the team through times strange and unusual, and everything in between. Not that abiding by the rules counted for anything these days; Team Gibbs was gone, disbanded following Tony's accident one year earlier, and reassigned for the last time.
All the more reason, he rationalized while crossing the sidewalk to the BMW X1 parked at the curb, to continue compiling a set all his own. It had practically been a direct order from the Great White himself.
Standing in his boss' basement six years earlier, Tony broke the news that he and Ziva were more than co-workers. That it had happened gradually, and that it wasn't fleeting.
"We know we're breaking Rule #12," the sandy-haired special agent said with a weak shrug. "Some things can't be helped, I guess."
Tony would never forget the way Gibbs looked up from his current woodworking project. His expression was that of sly fatherly pride. "All men make their own rules, DiNozzo. What are you waiting for?"
If only Tony had known then that it would take another five years and being shot to officially begin his collection, culling takeaways from moments and experiences both personal and professional over the years and chiseling them down into bite-sized morsels of wisdom. If only he had—
"Excuse us, sir!" The chirpy voice shattered his reverie and alerted him to the fact that he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the path for the owner of the perky exclamation and a dozen of her fellow Lyrca-clad moms.
The historic neighborhood might have been known for its proximity to the political epicenter of the United States, but Tony hadn't stuttered when he nicknamed it Stroller City. Abundant (and growing irritable) proof was staring him in the face, their squadron of industrial-strength jogging strollers like a swarm that aptly fulfilled their MOTH acronym.
People in this area really lacked imagination. Moms on the Hill. The Hill Rag. It was overkill, in his opinion.
From within the recess of a stroller, a small hand emerged and waved at him. "Candy cane man," the child shouted, "over here!"
Tony acknowledged the loud request with a nod in the little boy's direction, chuckling the whole time. "You remember that, huh? From last Christmas? You know, this," he said, lifting his black cane in view of all the little kids, "as you can see, is not a candy cane."
The same child clapped his hands. "Yes, it is!"
Tony slacked his jaw, aghast. "No, it's not! It was red and white tape, you gotta believe me!"
Giggles like dominoes toppled into the under 5-year-old crowd that ate up his descent into theatrical begging and endless contortions of silly faces. He'd spent so much time avoiding children when all along they were his target audience.
Once the show was over, Tony gladly cleared the sidewalk and tipped his imaginary cap to the passing MOTHs and kiddos, and got back on task. His smartphone was on the passenger seat and, of course, he'd missed a call. He pressed a button to hear the message.
Pinching the phone between his shoulder and ear, he closed the car door behind him and turned back in the direction that he came. Then her voice filled his senses, and his stride slowed.
"…so perhaps you are still putting Hannah to sleep. Kiss her for me. Goodnight." Click. End of message.
The adjustment to Ziva's frequent and often extended absences from home was still a work in progress. He thought better of calling her back right away when the faint, unmistakable rustlings of Hannah waking up filtered out of the baby monitor. He wasn't sure what he would say to her anyway.
This whole secret investigative agent thing you've got going on, while gratifying to your career, is not working for your husband and daughter, so would you mind, you know, quitting?
Well, maybe he knew what he wanted to say, just with less chauvinistic overtones.
Tony slipped the cell into his pocket and placed his free hand on the railing, casting a glance over the flight of stairs, more daunting now than they were even five minutes earlier. He sighed, low and long.
Going up was harder than coming down.
/-/-/-/-/
Watching Hannah amble through the Navy Yard, the light-up features on the sides of her miniature sneakers minimized in the late morning sunlight, was truly a spectator sport. Waving, blowing kisses, smiling at everyone…her wanton affability was making Tony wonder if they were instilling enough stranger danger fear into her. He'd leave that to Ziva to remedy.
"Who's such a friendly girl?"
Hanna tilted her head in thought. "Who?"
"You, silly."
"Nooo," she said, stressing the word with her voice and her face, scrunched with anxiety. "I'm not Billy. I'm Hannah."
Tony sighed. Hannah inherited more than just her mother's dark, curly hair. "My mistake," he told her. "For what it's worth, you're a very pretty Billy."
Hand in hand, father and daughter walked at the same measured speed—her small stride matching his broken gait—up to the NCIS building, elongating the previously quick trip from the parking lot to the office by several minutes. Once it was his daily trek to work; now he was lucky to be summoned to his old stomping grounds once a month, and then it was only for some boring meeting.
Hannah tugged on his hand, her preferred way of ensuring she had his full attention. "Where are we going? Are we going to see mama?" she asked with growing excitement.
Tony was quick to correct her before the wrong idea could take root in her head; there would be no going back after that. "No, not yet. We're here to visit Uncle Timmy."
"Uncle Timmy, Uncle Timmy," Hannah sang and skipped forward, pulling on their joined hands. "Let's go, daddy, come on. I want to see Uncle Timmy, now!"
Tony leaned more weight from his right side onto his cane to keep his balance—and pace with her. "I'm coming…"
Eventually they made it up to headquarters, and once inside and through security, they took the elevator.
"I want to push the button," Hannah declared as they got into the silver contraption, stretching onto her toes and reaching with arms over her head for purchase on any and all buttons on the panel.
That was how they came to stop at four different levels before arriving at their intended destination.
"Hi there, cutie!" The blonde-haired secretary set a land speed record racing, in high heels, out from around her desk to welcome them. Or, rather, to welcome Hannah. Crouched down to eye level with the preschooler, she asked, "Do you remember me? I'm Meghan. You drew me a picture of a horsey the last time you were here."
Hannah nodded and giggled, her feet tapping out an excited rhythm on the carpet. Nevertheless, she hid herself behind Tony's leg, peeking around to smile at the nice woman.
"She's just acting shy," Tony explained. "Give her two minutes and she'll be your BFF again. If you happen to have a snack of grapes and cheese crackers for her, it'd be like, 'Daddy who'?"
"Aw, she's adorable." Meghan rose to full height, and in doing so, regained some of the professional demeanor that was cast aside at the sight of the cuddly little girl. "Do you have an appointment with the director, Mr. DiNozzo?"
"Nah. Just dropping in for a quick chat."
"He's free until lunch," Meghan informed. "I can watch her while you go in, if you'd like."
Tony smiled. "As long as it's okay with her."
Hannah had long since left the security of her father's leg for the fish tank against the far wall, her nose and chubby hands pressed up to the glass. "Hi, fishies! Hi! Daddy, there's an orange fishy! And a blue one! Swim over here, fishy!"
Tony knew for a fact that such a marvel could entertain her for a ridiculous amount of time, more than enough for him to sneak away unnoticed. Meghan walked over to join her, and the last image he saw as he passed through the inner doors to the director's office was the secretary pointing out more colorful fish to his enraptured daughter.
"Wow," Tony announced, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "If she's half as good with angry diplomats as she is with little kids, I'd tell you to marry that girl."
The leather chair behind the large wood desk swiveled around to reveal Timothy McGee. "Hannah's here? Where's Ashlyn?"
Tony shrugged. "Gave her the day off."
"Why aren't you at work?"
Another shrug. "Took the day off."
McGee squinted at him, lowering the case report file in his hands onto the desktop. "O…kay. Why didn't you bring her in here?"
"She's occupied. You don't mess with that, McChildless, unless you're asking for a full-on, melt your eardrums hissy fit." Tony used his good leg to take one step further into the spacious room. "Besides, she's probably conned Meghan into braiding her hair by now."
"Better her than you."
"Hey, these fingers have been known to work magic." For emphasis, Tony dramatically wiggled his digits.
"Try a miracle," McGee snarked.
"Don't mind if I do."
Shaking his head at his old friend, the director smoothed down his tie, matched perfectly to his crisp Oxford, pinstriped dress shirt and navy blue suit, and gestured to the open chairs in front of his desk. "Take a seat. What can I do for you, Tony?"
The former agent glanced, imperceptibly, down at his leg, its rigidness equal to the straight spine of the cane lined up beside the damaged limb. Last night, adrenaline had enabled him to make it the few feet into Hannah's room without the crutch. No such luck today.
Tony tottered in his typical abbreviated stride to one of the chairs and lowered himself down, propping his cane against the edge of the desk. "There's this film, Look Who's Talking. 1989 romantic comedy starring John Travolta and Kirstie Alley. The one where you hear the babies' thoughts?"
"I know the movie," McGee acknowledged. "Just not why you took the day off, sent your babysitter home, and brought Hannah down here with you to tell me about it."
Tony stretched out his legs, crossing the good one over the bad at the ankle. "There's a scene where Alley's character goes to her boss/baby daddy's office, and when he ticks her off, she smashes his fancy pottery," he paused to chuckle, "with a stroller, and rubs her son's dirty diaper on his…desk." Pointedly, he gazed at the polished surface of the desk separating them.
Worry lines creased McGee's forehead. "You're scaring me. More than usual."
Tony leaned forward in his seat, his eyebrows raised. "I would be scared if I were you."
"Are you telling me you're here to deface my desk?"
"Calm down before you wet yourself."
In that moment, it felt like they were on the same team again, back in the bullpen downstairs, pulling antics until Gibbs swept in to shut down the party with a proclamation of a dead petty officer and an order to grab their gear. But that reality was over, and in its place was one in which Tony wouldn't be able to leave the office of the youngest NCIS Director in the history of the agency without a little help from his cane.
"What I'm telling you is that Look Who's Talking was on HBO last night," Tony elaborated, dropping all humor from his tone, "and I started watching it after I got Hannah back to sleep from the nightmare she had about her mom never coming home."
Understanding dawned on McGee, smoothing the wrinkles of confusion on his face.
"And I promised her that Ziva will follow Rule #8."
"'Never take anything for granted,'" McGee recited.
Tony exhaled a cross between a grumble and a sigh. "My rules. I send you text updates when I add a new one—read them. It's 'Always come home.'"
The director sat forward, resting his clasped hands on the desk. "Look, I know the reassignments were hard on you, but it wasn't your fault."
"Everything changed after that bullet lodged itself in my hip."
"Maybe," McGee allowed. "But Vance was ready to retire anyway and you and I both know Gibbs was never the same after the investigation. The truth is a lot of people were resting on their laurels. The shake-up was necessary to ensure the office continued to run effectively and efficiently. Everyone is where they need to be now, including Ziva."
"According to you."
Nodding, the director replied, "Yes, according to me. You of all people know what she's capable of, and with her contacts, it was a no-brainer to have her lead up our D.C. special projects unit. She's invaluable in the field."
"And I wasn't anymore."
McGee pressed his lips together at the statement.
"Yeah, yeah." Tony waved off the pity he knew his former teammate was rehearsing in his mind.
"You do good work, too. The DoD hasn't launched any investigations into our cases or against our agents since you became the NCIS liaison." The hint of irony in the praise wasn't lost on the men in the room.
While only a trip across the Anacostia River from NCIS, his desk job at the Department of Defense felt a world away from his former career as a very special agent.
"I hate politics," Tony shuddered.
"And yet you have a knack for it." McGee stood up behind his desk. "Have you talked to Ziva about all of this?"
Tony lifted a shoulder to convey his nonchalance. "Never really been the right time..."
"'If you want something, go get it.'"
Perking at the phrase, the liaison sat forward in his seat. "Rule #2. You do read my texts, McSneaky."
McGee chuckled. "She's coming home, Tony. And when she does, talk to her." The director passed behind him on his way to the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to say hi to my honorary niece."
