A/N: Tag to Revenge, so quasi-spoilerish. This is Part I of my Season 10 finale trifecta (yes, they were published out of order; no, it is not necessary to read them in order) with Double Bind being Part II. Will have Part III up at the beginning of the week (and there's a surprise!). So, much love, keep the peace, until next time, Kit!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
REDEMPTION
"And I'll look after you . . . " Look After You, The Fray
He's supposed to be starting the necessary paperwork dealing with the aftermath of Bodner's "capture" only he can't seem to tear his gaze away from his partner's empty desk. The lamp isn't turned on, so her corner is in complete shadows, and it bothers him more than he cares to admit. McGee clears his throat and Tony starts, returning his attention to the blank form open before him, but he's having trouble focusing on the words, his mind too busy reliving the last four hours, from the moment he realized she was gone up until Bodner's body hit the ground and her bruised face peered down at them, dumbfounded. The relief he'd felt that it hadn't been her plummeting to her death before his eyes had been staggering; once again, they'd gotten lucky.
Ziva and Gibbs had disappeared to Vance's office, and, again, Tony is reminded that Eli David was not the only death avenged tonight.
"Hey, Boss," McGee says softly and Tony glances up to see Gibbs enter the bullpen and sit down heavily in his chair, slapping his computer monitor to life, the glow of the screen throwing his face into stark relief. And he looks so old, and so tired.
"Go home," he says. "Rest. Both of you. You did good."
"Is it over?" McGee asks quietly, not moving. And Tony doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Gibbs nods, once.
McGee gets up and begins shutting down his computer, and gathering up his things to go home. Tony remains seated, however, glancing around the quiet squadroom uncertainly.
"Uh, Boss?"
Gibbs grunts and looks over at him.
"What about Ziva?"
Gibbs stares at him for a moment, piercing blue gaze unfathomable as he appraises Tony briefly. Finally, he says, "She'll be down in a minute."
"She okay?" McGee asks, perceptive as usual. He'd been left alone with Tony for forty-something minutes and it was enough time to pick up on the anxiety that's rolling off him in waves.
"I am fine." And three pairs of eyes track her progress as she makes her way gingerly down the staircase. "I am just tired and wish to go home."
"I'll take you," Tony offers, and the look on his face suggests that he's surprised himself with the proposition.
Ziva opens her mouth, most likely to decline, to tell him, no, thank you, she'll drive herself –or, hell, jog- home. Gibbs, however, interrupts her without looking up. "Ziver. Let Tony do it, you're in no shape to drive yourself."
And the fight practically leeches out of her before their very eyes.
"Very well," she says in resignation, glancing over as Tony flicks off his desk lamp. He had confiscated her keys at the wharf, accusing her childishly of being a flight risk, and now he's jingling them absently in his hand.
"You ready?" he asks her softly, ignoring the fact that Gibbs and McGee are watching them.
Ziva just nods tiredly and turns for the elevator.
Tony inclines his head at Gibbs and McGee in turn, and then follows after her.
She doesn't speak until they're twenty minutes away from the Navy Yard and he's already resigned himself to the uncomfortably heavy silence.
"You are upset with me." And it isn't a question.
His knuckles go white on the steering wheel and he waits until the red light changes to green and the car starts moving again before he responds. "I'm a lot of things right now, Ziva."
She doesn't say anything, simply turns her head to look at the passenger side window. And he's suddenly angry and sad and scared and confused and relieved all at once. Somehow, he's able to keep his voice level:
"You killed a man tonight."
Her eyes flash over to him, but he keeps his trained on the road before them. "Tony, I-"
"Please, don't. Just . . . wait until we get to your place, okay?"
"Fine."
. . .
Her front door swings open to a dark apartment and his heart pangs in his chest because it seems so lonely, so desolate.
So much like his own empty apartment across town.
Ziva walks ahead of him, flicking on the kitchen lights as she goes. He closes the door and locks it, double checks that he's secured both deadbolts before he turns around to regard her. She's standing in the middle of her living room, watching him with dark, guarded eyes. The bullpen had been dimly lit, and the pale glow from the dashboard barely constituted adequate illumination. Now, though, with warm lamplight bathing them and their surroundings, he can see in just how bad of shape she's in: Cuts litter her face and his chest constricts tightly at the sight of the bruises marking her neck, imprints of some bastard's hands darkening slowly around her throat.
"I am going to take a shower," she says after a beat of awkward silence. And he just nods, eyes following her stiff movements as she disappears into her bedroom, shutting the door with a quite snick.
He's hit with a sudden need for a strong cup of coffee.
He ransacks her cupboards, searching for something, anything that'll lessen his craving and keep him occupied. The hiss of water starts in the other room as the shower comes to life and Tony finally locates Ziva's coffee stash in the back of her fridge. He selects the decaf, and starts the coffee maker, listening in relief as it begins to percolate.
By the time he pours himself a mug, the shower is still running, so he takes to wandering around her living room, perusing the books and magazines stacked neatly on her coffee table (National Parks of America, And the Mountains Echoed, Better Homes and Gardens, and Glamour) before moving over to the upright piano in the corner. He runs his fingers over the ivory keys, pressing down on one at random. A high G rings out brightly and then fades.
"Tony?" And then she's standing in her bedroom doorway, wrapped in a towel, water still glistening on her skin. There's a bruise crisscrossing her sternum from where the seat belt saved her life a couple days ago, and he should avert his eyes but he doesn't, instead just waits her out. She steps into her living room, holding out a tube of Bengay.
"I pulled a muscle in my shoulder," she explains quietly, color rising in her face as she stares at the carpet. "Do you mind?"
He's already crossed the room and wordlessly takes the tube from her, coaxing some of the medicine into his palm. She turns her back to him and lifts away her wet curls, exposing her neck and the smooth expanse of her shoulders. He traces the thin scar at the nape of her neck, the testament to that fateful summer years ago. His fingers run over the bumps of her vertebrae until he reaches the top of the towel, then fans his hands out to her shoulder blades. There's a mark that looks suspiciously like someone's boot print just below her left wing bone, but he decides not to ask her about it. Her breath catches when he finds the knotted muscle and he begins persuading it loose.
"How's your hand?" he asks when she steps away, securing her towel more tightly against her. He can see the bruises marking her knuckles purple and black as she clutches her modesty tightly, and he thinks she's got to be hurting –he's hurting just looking at her.
"It hurts," she tells him honestly, and then she turns and goes back into her room to get dressed, only she leaves the door wide open and, in a moment of foolish bravery –or just plain foolishness- he follows after her.
"So," he says uncertainly, perching himself on the edge of her unmade bed. "Why'd you do it?"
She emerges from her closet in a pair of yoga pants and a loose t-shirt that hangs off her frame and makes her look much too fragile. She stares at him, studying his eyes, trying to discern what it is, exactly, that he's asking her.
"Your knuckles," he says, nodding at the way her arms are folded across her chest, her hands cradled against her body gingerly. "You forget to wrap up before going at the heavy bag? Or did you somehow forget that you were in a pretty serious car accident that, you know, dislocated your shoulder?"
"I needed to clear my head," she says, glancing away from him to look out the window and into the night outside. Neither of them bothered to turn on a light in her bedroom and even though it's dark enough that he can only make out her silhouette, he's grateful. Because he doesn't think he can handle seeing the pain in her eyes again, even if he knows that it's already there.
"That's messed up," he tells her bluntly, and it is totally messed up –the two of them, really, as a pair, separate and apart, are messed up.
"I don't expect you to understand-" she starts, but he heads her off.
"Then explain it to me, Ziva. I . . . I want to understand."
She takes pause at the plaintive note in his voice, at the proverbial olive branch extended to her. With a sigh, she meets him halfway, her voice soft with her explanation.
"Before we went to Berlin, while I was tracking Bodner, he was always a step ahead of me, just a hair out of reach . . . My father taught him well and I . . . even though I should have anticipated Ilan's next steps, I didn't. I couldn't. I –I was too far removed from my training with Mossad, I had forgotten my instruction, I had lost my edge-"
"Ziva-"
"I was distracted, Tony!" she hisses, and he recoils, but she continues. "In Berlin, I should have known that Ilan would not be foolish enough to be caught collecting the diamonds himself. We wasted countless resources and man power –I put you in danger and for what? Ilan's guinea pig? And then, to add salt to the injury, either one of us could have been killed in that crash because I wasn't paying enough attention."
"You were punishing yourself, Ziva, for things that were out of your control and that's not healthy." He keeps his voice level, rational, and prays to whoever is listening that she hears him.
She doesn't say anything for a long time. Eventually, he hears her shuffle across the carpet toward the bed, feels the mattress dip down as she sits beside him, just out of reach. He can't decide if her heavy exhalation is one of self liberation or self condemnation.
"I did not mean to kill him," she whispers, so softly he barely hears her. "I –I only wanted to bring him in, to see the look on his face when he realized that he had lost, that the hatred he stood for could not win . . . I had mercy on him when I should not have; I lowered my defenses and he attacked me. I . . . it was instinct after that. He ran, I gave chase. We fought. He pinned me. And I –I pushed him off me and I killed him."
His fingers find hers in the darkness and he can practically smell the salt on skin as her voice catches on tears.
"He won, Tony. He killed my father and I killed him and the cycle goes on." And she's crying in earnest now, breathless at the sobs that are wrenched from her throat as she curls in on herself, gasping at the protests of her bruised ribs and battered body.
Tony shifts closer to her, pulling her against him, and she goes willingly, burying her face in his shoulder and griping the front of his shirt in her fist. And he just rubs her back lightly with the heel of his hand, not really exerting any pressure, just hoping the warmth of the motion is enough to soothe her. When she finally is reduced to hiccupping shudders, he untangles her from him and slides to the carpet, kneeling before her. He places his right hand on her knee and reaches his left up to carefully cradle her face, uttering a gentle, "Hey." And when he's absolutely certain he has her undivided attention, he speaks:
"Listen to me, Ziva. Bodner did not win. You're still here. You're still here, and I'm still here, and our . . . family is still here. Bodner didn't take that away. No one can take that away."
And she nods, and stifles another sob, and he brushes the tears away with his thumb. And somehow this is more intimate than the handful of shy kisses they shared in Berlin, lying together in a quiet hotel bed, thousands of miles from home, jet-lagged and sleep-muddled.
He climbs to his feet stiffly, his knees popping in protest, and helps her lay down on her bed. He pulls the rumpled sheets over her and presses a lingering kiss to her temple. And he's tempted to slide in behind her, to wrap his body around hers and keep her close and never let her go.
He falls asleep an hour later on her couch, wondering if they just took a major step forward or a major step back.
When he wakes up the following morning on her bed with her back curled against his, he'll decide to be cautiously optimistic.