For the third Friday in a row, Tony came straight home from work and sat in front of his TV, not paying attention, his eyes glazed over.
It was the third Friday since his team's discovery that Ziva had gone down with the Damocles.
Nothing really seemed to matter anymore.
Before, he had just assumed that someday, somehow, she would come back. When enough time had passed, he would call her or go to Tel Aviv, if he had to. He would convince her to return to NCIS, assure her that their relationship could be repaired.
Now, that was impossible.
Because she was dead.
The only drive he had felt recently was to take care of the person responsible for her death. Killing Saleem Ulman might bring him closure, or it might not. There was one way to find out.
If it didn't… Tony wasn't sure how he would proceed with his life.
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Ziva lay on the floor of her cell, breathing heavily. The sound of Saleem's retreating footsteps was a huge relief- as long as they didn't turn back around. She pressed her hand against the fresh wound in her side, felt the warm blood trickle over her fingers.
This is what you get, she told herself. For doing wrong by your team. For blaming Tony.
Deep down, beneath her guilt and regret and pain, she was somewhat glad to be where she was. That was her lone consolation: nothing was happening to her that she didn't deserve. So she was going to endure it until the day she finally died.
When she was gone, Tony would still be okay. Under the circumstances, that was really all she could hope for.
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The hood comes off, and she's under it. Alive. Breathing. His heart stops, and then begins to beat abnormally fast.
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The face across from her is one she never thought she would see again. It's dirty and shocked and, most importantly, it's here.
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And everything about the hopeless future, everything they had resigned themselves to… is different.
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