Thanks: Amilyn, girleffect
Disclaimer: No. Poor.
She tucks herself closer to him. "I did not think you would come."
But he did. "And here we are. Tony and Ziva in future tense."
My way of coping with MW's grand exit. And oh, the last three years. T/Z forever and always.
. . . .
It comes on a Tuesday. 0945.
A text.
I am in New York.
One line.
Prefix +972.
Israel.
Ziva.
He wants to crawl through the receiver, through the satellites, all the way into her arms.
His reply: What are you doing here?
Not here-here. Here-here is the bullpen, where he is and Ziva is not. He means in the US.
The reply: I am with Schmiel.
His stomach clenches.
Follow-up: I would love to see you.
He does not hesitate. Let me wrap up.
There is no response while he closes out, packs up, fishes his keys from his desk drawer. Not until he dashes for the elevator and Gibbs gives him the body-block.
His eyes are not hard, not soft. "DiNozzo."
"Ziva's in New York."
He nods. "Keep me-"
"Copy, Boss." And Tony is off again, running for his car, heading, for a split-second, to I-95.
He changes his mind. Union Station is two miles from the Navy Yard.
Tony will take the train.
There is a 1010 departure that will put him at Penn Station in a little over three hours. He buys a ticket and dashes, dashes to the platform.
The train is empty, save a boy scout troop and a clutch of elderly women in matching red jackets.
He finds a seat. Sits. Folds his hands.
He is going to her.
DC slides away, Baltimore, the tidal flats, Wilmington, Philly and Camden across the river. Jersey-Jersey-Jersey and then he is bounding off the train at Penn Station.
Tony has not been in New York in years. He has forgotten the rush, the thrust of the people. The subway walk-sprint.
Manhattan smells like diesel exhaust and old garbage.
He takes the A line uptown to 168th Street and walks the last blocks at a clip.
Texts her—
Her.
What floor?
Immediate response: 2.
He scans the directory board. Second Floor—Oncology.
His heart falls into his Italian leather shoes.
There is a central kiosk up there, a board with a list of names and room numbers. Pinchas is in room 2821, but a nurse taps his arm and points and there she is.
At the end of the hallway.
Staring, staring down at Fort Washington Avenue with her back to him.
Her hair is shorter, just past her shoulders, and she wears a grey sweater and black pants. Simple. Sophisticated. There is a coat folded over her arms.
She radiates sorrow.
"Ziva?"
She turns part-way. Her face is blank. "Tony."
He takes one step, then another. Awkward. He is going to trip over his stupid Italian leather shoes. "I came as quick as I could."
She nods, still not fully facing him. "Thank you."
He nods, too. "How is he?"
Ziva shrugs. "The second opinion is the same as the first. There is nothing they can do."
Schmiel is old, but this is just un-goddamned-fair. "I'm so sorry."
She shrugs again. "I do not know what I was expecting. They said in Israel that they could buy him time…why did I think it would be different here?"
He takes another step. "Because you had hope."
She rolls her eyes. "Asking him to travel all this way for nothing."
"Was it nothing when you sent me that text?"
She shakes her head. "No." She turns to look at him, then. Her eyes sweep up and down. Up and down again. "I did not expect you would come."
He is a little angry now. "I have stopped time to look for you twice. Circled the globe. New York is just a three-hour train ride. You should've thought about that, Sweet Cheeks."
The nickname takes them both aback. She looks at him, cocks her head. "I missed you."
His heart drops again, but it is different this time. "Me, too."
Tony's arms are out. Ziva steps into them and the world rights itself.
This is why he is here.
He kisses her head. She steps back and kisses his mouth. Steps back, but not away. "Schmiel would like to see you."
Tony's stomach quivers, but he acquiesces.
Room 2821. Schmiel is so tiny and shriveled in the bed. No IVs, no ports, no machines.
Dying people do not need fluids or medicine or vital signs.
Dying people make Tony very nervous.
"Hi," he offers.
Schmiel claps his dry, withery hands together. "Tony! A delight to see you."
A delight.
"I wish I could say the same," he fumbles. "Ziva told me—"
Schmiel nods, palms still pressed together. "My Ziva hopes where there is no hope."
She glares at him.
He smiles and winks. "Motek, will you fetch me some fresh cold water? I dislike lukewarm tap water. Especially lukewarm New York tap water."
Ziva picks up the half-empty pitcher. He knows that she knows he is kicking her out. "Would you like some tea, also?"
"No, but a few of those biscuits would be nice. The vanilla flavor."
Schmiel winks at Tony. Ziva's boots make soft sounds on the hallway tile. He sobers once she is gone. "Tony."
"Hi," he says again. He is awful and awkward.
Schmiel knows. He is kind. He is gentle, as though Tony is a boy. And to Schmiel, he likely is. "She will bury me within weeks. Do not let her do that alone."
Tony's response is automatic. He would never. "I won't."
"You will have to fly to Israel."
He nods, nods, nods. "I know. It's ok."
"I can pay for it."
He will not take a dying man's money. He will not take anyone's money. "No, I'll take care of it."
"She has lost everyone except for you. Please—as my last wish for her—do not let her do this alone."
"I won't," he promises.
Duty of love. Duty of pain.
"I'm so sorry, Schmiel."
"Why are you apologizing, Tony? Death is part of life. I'd hoped to have another year with my Ziva, but Hashem has said 'maspeek.' Enough. It is time to go. I have done all I can. I suppose she will have to be ready."
Ziva returns, pitcher in one hand, a small package of tea biscuits in the other. She gives them both a suspicious look. "You have been talking about me."
"Why do you think I sent you out?" Schmiel counters, and reaches for the austere-looking cookies. "Thank you, dear. Now why don't the two of you go have a nice late lunch? This old man would like to eat tea biscuits in peace."
Ziva looks at Tony with big, dark, questioning eyes. He nods. "All right."
"Are you sure?" she asks. Her voice is soft, slightly pleading.
"Go," Schmiel says firmly. "I will be here with my biscuits when you return."
She nods. Tony holds out his arm and she takes it, and then leads him to a diner on Amsterdam Avenue and orders him a reuben, her a salad. He eats with big bites. She nibbles, mostly pushes it around.
"We are flying back to Israel tomorrow."
He swallows the last bite. "What are you doing?"
Her brow creases. "Excuse me?"
"With your life, Zee-vah."
She plays with her food some more. "I have been working with Schmiel, especially since the diagnosis." There is an odd, dark confidence in her eyes when she looks up. "I am going to take over his project, researching and translating."
She really has left the killing behind. "Wow. Heady. Ziva of the Ivory Tower."
"I am enjoying it."
"What are you going to do?"
"He has already planned the burial and funeral. The Chevra Kadisha is on standby. I am not an immediate family member, so I am not required to sit shiva."
"And after?"
She shrugs, pushes her plate aside. Tony has never seen her fingernails so ragged.
"I will…I will finish his work and send it to the publisher. They are waiting."
Everyone is waiting.
"I will…I do not know. Perhaps I will find another project. Perhaps I will do something else."
"Have you been living like this?"
She blinks at him. Her face is blank again. "I have been splitting my time between my apartment in Tel Aviv and my family home in Be'er Sheva. Or had been, until Schmiel called."
"When was that?"
"Two weeks ago."
"I wish you'd called me," he admits, but he has no right.
Right?
She presses her lips together. "I could not…I cannot…believe I am about to lose another person. I know Schmiel is quite old, but I thought we had…"
"More time," he finishes for her.
"Yes."
She falls silent. He signals for the bill, but Ziva swipes it before he can. She puts down cash and stands up. "Can we walk?"
She has probably been sitting and waiting and waiting for days now. "Yeah. Let's grab a coffee, huh?"
She smiles her thanks. He buys her a latte and they walk West along 168th to Riverside Park. The trees are still bare, the Hudson flat and muddy-brown beneath the overcast sky.
They walk north. Ziva shivers and shrinks in her coat. "You think I would be used to death by now."
"I'd say this is pretty different than sniping people from a hillside over Riyadh."
They stop near a cluster of rocks. She holds her latte in both hands and watches the muddy river slide by. Ziva drops her gaze to the sidewalk. "I am angry at him."
"He's abandoning you. Not intentionally, but nonetheless."
She nods. "He made Israel home again."
She is already talking like he's dead.
"He gave me things to do and people to visit. He brought me books and tea biscuits. He made me leave my apartment. He gave me work. Good work. Fulfilling work."
He gives her a nudge. "You can still do that work."
"I can," she acknowledges. "But it will not be the same."
"Nothing will."
"He is a surrogate grandfather to me, Tony."
He knows. "Part of what makes grandparents so precious is the short time we have with them. I think the best thing you can do is continue your work." He stops and tosses his coffee cup. "Especially among people who love you."
Like me me me.
Ziva takes his hand, but does not look away from the brown, rolling river. "Can you stay tonight?"
"I'll stay as long as you need."
Her grip tightens, tightens. The earth shifts again, the street rumbles. A subway train slides beneath them, headed downtown.
"Thank you," she sighs.
They walk back to the hospital, but Schmiel is asleep among the biscuit crumbs. She tucks him in, brushes the crumbs away, and turns the lights low.
"Can we walk?" she asks again, and they head downtown on Broadway. Down and down to the 1 train stop on 137th. She leads him down the steps to the downtown platform and laces their fingers together. "I do not think I can move back here, Tony."
He wants to drop to the platform, curl in a ball, and die. Instead he exhales, holds her hand tightly, and tries to smile. "I know."
The train comes. They board, standing-room-only, and get off twenty-seven blocks south.
She has rented an apartment at 110th and Riverside Drive, nine floors up. It is clean but bland, with white walls and the biggest kitchen a Manhattan rental will afford.
Not that it matters. The refrigerator contains only bottled water, the pantry a single package of vanilla tea biscuits. "Monastic," he muses.
She shrugs. "I have spent most of my time at the hospital with Schmiel."
It's now or never. "He asked me to stick around."
Ziva swallows and will not look at him. "We are flying back to Israel—"
"I want to go with you."
She stares and stares.
He digs in his heels. The cheap carpet flattens under his stupid, stupid Italian leather shoes. "I promised you that you weren't alone. I know you remember that. I meant it. I want to keep meaning it."
Ziva gapes. She shifts. She starts, stops, starts, stops.
But she does not refuse.
The silence stretches, the two of them still in their coats, the traffic humming below.
"Your job," she says eventually. Weakly. "Gibbs."
"I'll work it out."
She nods.
More silence.
He feels heavy, sluggish, like the air is pressing him down where he stands. "I'll buy a plane ticket tonight. Think I can get on your flight?"
She pulls her cell phone from her coat pocket. "I can make some calls."
Ziva has connections, of course. That is who she is. What she does.
What she did.
She speaks clipped, urgent Hebrew into the telephone. He hands her his credit card and she—he guesses—reads off the numbers and hands up. "Itinerary and boarding pass are in your email." She stares at her blank phone. "There were so many times I wanted to call, Tony. But I always talked my myself out of it. You have a life. You have a career. You probably had a girlfriend. I convinced myself that I had no right. But when Schmiel's health took a downturn I could not stop myself. I was—I am afraid." Her words come faster, louder. "I am no stranger to loss, but this is different. This is…harder."
"You're watching him suffer."
She holds her hands out. "I have never felt helpless like this, Tony. I have never felt useless."
He sits in one of the hard dining chairs, hoping she will finally look at him. "You brought him halfway around the globe because you thought there was a chance. You hold onto hope for him. That is definitely not useless, Ziva."
"I have always accepted death as an inevitability," she said. She does not, will not look at him. "Why am I fighting so hard?"
Tony reaches out to brush his fingers against hers. "It's your first instinct, Ziva. Why would you stop?"
She weeps, free hand over her mouth.
He rises slowly, slowly, and takes her in his arms. Her brow is warm where it touches him through his shirt. "I know," he whispers. "I know. It's ok."
It is and it isn't.
Night falls slowly, as it does in early spring. The apartment darkens before the sky, corners and edges softening. He pictures family photos on the walls and tightens his grip on her.
At lo levad.
Eventually Ziva pulls away and wipes her eyes, sheds her coat, sighs. "Sorry."
He gives her a small smile. "Don't."
"I do not live by Gibbs' rules anymore." She turns on a table lamp.
Will he say that someday?
"You ever see anyone?"
Her eyebrows go up. "As in-?"
"Uh," he stumbles, feeling adolescent. "You know…see someone."
"No," she says quietly, and the corner of her mouth tips up in a rare, wry smile. "Unless you mean my therapist. I see her twice per week."
"It helps?"
She nods. "Yoga, too. I am learning to…slow down."
He surprises both of them with a chuckle. "So you sleep until five-fifteen now?"
Ziva breaks into a full smile for the first time. "Six."
He whistles. "Someone's getting lazy, huh?"
"Says the man approaching middle age."
He feigns injury. "Low blow, David."
She stops smiling. "For how long will you stay?"
Tony fumbles.
Forever.
"For as long as you'll have me."
Ziva studies him for a long, long moment. "Israel is not an easy place, Tony. There are terror attacks. There is unrest. The cost of living is high."
But the cost of living without her again is much, much higher.
"What are you proposing?" he jokes.
It falls flat.
Ziva looks at the floor and says nothing.
She still wears her coat. It is armor. It is keeping him out.
"I have missed you," she mutters. "I have missed you so much. And I did nothing about it, but you are standing here like I never asked you to leave."
You. Me. Here. Now.
"I wouldn't put the kybosh to your spiritual quest," he jokes, and again it crashes and burns at his feet. "I love you enough to let—"
I love you.
"I love you, too." She blurts it so fast he almost misses it. "And I was worried that you would not have me back. That would would be so angry at me."
"I couldn't," he interrupts. "I wouldn't. I know you needed to get away from all the killing, all the death and bad guys and rules and bureaucracy. I just wish that hadn't meant leaving me, too."
And now everything has been laid out.
Tony holds his breath.
Ziva nods, nods, nods. "Me, too." Her sudden shyness hurts him deep in his chest. "And if I asked for a second chance—as if I had the right—"
He lifts his arms, lifts the whole blank apartment. "I'm here."
"What if you come to regret it?"
He's getting frustrated. "What if the sky falls, Chicken Little?"
Her brow furrows. They study each other—or he studies her for a second; her eyes are darker, ringed with fatigue, her shoulders slumped, her throat twitching delicately above the collar of her sweater.
She scowls at him. "What does that mean, Tony?"
"I can't think about what if. I'm here. You're here. Schmiel is here. Let's…"
Let's what?
"Let me honor my promises. To you. To Schmiel."
Her lip trembles, but she holds back the tears. "Tony, you are the best man I have ever known."
He sits next to her, wraps an arm around her shoulders. She still wears her coat. "Wanna take this off?"
"I am fine."
The apartment is New-York-Overheated. "You cold?"
"Fine."
"Sick?"
She elbows him, but curls up tight to his side. "Jetlagged."
"Then go to bed."
"Come with me."
His pants are too damned tight. "You work fast, Sweet Cheeks."
"I do not want to sleep alone."
Down, boy. He pulls her up. "C'mon. Bedtime."
The peel off their clothes, slide beneath the blankets in the dark bedroom. It is the tail-end of rush hour. Cars still creep down 110th street. A few horns blare.
"Sha," Ziva shushes. "Do they never stop that?"
"Not really."
She mumbles something, eyes half-closed, and maybe it's not English.
Her sorrow takes up space between them.
Tony kisses her mouth. "Goodnight."
She blinks, half-smiles. "Laila tov."
. . . .