Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Title: Reunion
Summary: They told him she was dead. Episode tag to 16x13 "She." Tiva, but not happy.
Rating: Mild Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers up through Episode 16x13. No happy ending.
Author's Note: 2 chapters. Already finished. I hope to have the next one up shortly.
I'm still not sure how I feel about this one. Or that episode.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
The first time he sees her, he thinks she is a ghost. Her reflection in the coffee shop window in ethereal and otherworldly. She looks exactly as he remembers. Curly dark hair framing a beautiful face and cream skin unblemished by the years. Transfixed, he darts through the customers toward the entrance. He threads himself through the mash of bodies and limbs while muttering, "Excuse me" and "I'm so sorry." She begins to blend into the tableau of the city street behind her. He shoves someone aside. He trips over his own feet to get outside.
Outside to her.
"Tim?" The voice behind him is familiar.
He is nearly there. She holds his gaze, her eyes never wavering. They are the only two people left in the entire city. They are the last on the entire planet.
"Is there a Tim here?" That voice jerks him from his stupor.
He makes a mistake. He turns back to the counter where the barista holds out a plain white cup with Tim written in swoopy letters on the side. She shakes it at him. A bell for Pavlov's dog.
"Your coffee is ready, Tim." She sounds annoyed.
His chest grows tight. He didn't even realize he was holding his breath. He laughs nervously, mumbling an incoherent apology. He glances back to the window, thinking she'll still be there.
The view is nothing, but morning sun and empty sidewalk.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
The second time he sees her, he is on the way home from work. He is walking to the Metro station—Delilah takes the car most days—when he notices her on the opposite side of the street. She heads in the same direction, occasionally glancing at him. Her clothing is forgettable, a pair of jeans and black leather jacket that probably isn't warm enough to withstand the freezing air. Her hair is longer now, but it looks the same as the last time he saw her. A low, curly ponytail pulled to the nape of her neck. Her breath, like his, rises in billowing clouds. Nothing more than a ghost like her.
He wants to approach her, but he knows it will spook her. So, without even acknowledging her, he walks straight to the Metro. He watches her out of the corner of his eye. He takes the steps to the platform. She doesn't follow him.
He sleep-walks through the rest of the evening. Dinner with his family. Johnny stuffs a pea up his nose. Delilah flips out, but he doesn't flinch. Morgan opens the refrigerator and knocks over a gallon of milk. He kneels to clean it up while Delilah deals with Morgan. He reads the twins their bedtime stories and kisses them goodnight. Once they're fast asleep, Delilah looks at him curiously. She always could see right through him. He might as well be made of glass.
"Something is bothering you, Tim." It's a statement, not a question. "You seem distracted."
Half-smiling, he rubs her shoulder. "I'm fine, Dee. It's nothing."
She nods, unconvinced. Mercifully, she drops it for now.
His mind wanders through a time, a full decade away, when the team was just that. A team. Tony, him, and her. Before they were ripped apart by life and everything that comes with it. Back then, he had the luxury of being naïve. He never thought he'd ever be old enough to reminisce about the "good old days," but that's where he finds himself. Not that he can kid himself. Their days weren't all good. Most were, but there was a lot of bad in there too. Like the day she disappeared without a trace. And years later, the day someone from Mossad showed up with Tony's little girl and news that she was dead. Not long after, Tony left everything—and everyone—behind.
After all this, he never once considered she could still be alive.
That night, Delilah gently questions him. He placates her, smiles and lies. Sometimes, it is easier than dealing with the truth. He learned that after Paraguay. He learned a lot after Paraguay.
Giving up, she rests her head on his shoulder. Delilah slumbers peacefully, her breathing low and even. He carefully extricates himself from underneath her. She is so beautiful in the moonlight, her hair splayed against the pillow and face serene.
It is the middle of the night in Washington and just the crack of dawn in Paris. He calls the familiar number. It goes straight to voicemail. Sighing, he knows how crazy what he is about to say will sound. He leaves the voicemail anyway.
"Hey Tony. I think…" His chuckle is awkward and desperate. "I think Ziva might still be alive. I'm probably losing it—no, I definitely am— but I swear I saw her today. Call me back as soon as you get this."
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
The next morning, he calls out of work. Morgan is sick, he says, and Delilah can't stay home. He can tell Gibbs doesn't believe him, but it doesn't matter. He has never done such a thing before and probably never will again. Thankfully, Gibbs hangs up without asking a single question.
He doesn't know how to draw her out. He spends the morning on the street, walking between the coffee shop and the Metro stop and back again. He walks for miles and miles, but she doesn't show up again. He hadn't really expected her to. It was just his eyes playing tricks on him. That's what he gets after too many sleepless nights with the twins and running himself ragged at work.
Shortly after lunchtime, he heads to her hidey-hole. He spends most of the afternoon, looking at the bookcase brimming with journals. He can't bring himself to read the words. It's just enough that her thoughts are there, self-contained and hidden away. It is like she is still here. With him. He rummages through her desk, surprised to find an old photo of the team in a hidden panel. For a moment, he wanders to those late nights together. The quiet times when it was just him, her, and Tony. Years and years before life got so messy—Somalia, Paraguay, Israel, Tali and the twins.
The sunlight drifting through the window is slowly dying. The rays are growing more golden and fading quickly. It is getting harder and harder to notice the tiny nuances of her hidden world. He puts the picture back where he found it. He forces himself to leave. He doesn't turn on the light because no one needs to know he was here. These private moments with an old friend are just for him.
He takes the long way home. No one follows him.
He slowly accepts he will never know what happened over these past two days. He will never know whether she is still alive or he is slowly losing his mind. He steps off the elevator to his apartment floor.
Leaning against his apartment door, he catches a familiar figure. Tony's designer suit is wrinkled, his tie loosened and askew. Tony's hair is mussed. Dark bags stretch under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. At the sight of his friend, Tony is on his feet.
"What's going on, Tim?" He talks a mile a minute. "You call to tell me Ziva is still alive. Then, you pull a disappearing act. I called you a million times. What the hell is going on? Where is she?"
Tim checks his phone. It's on silent. He has 37 missed calls and 12 voicemails. All from Tony.
"I don't know," Tim says simply. "What are you doing here?"
Tony's eyebrows jump. "Did you really expect me to stay home after that news? I left Tali with my dad and caught the first flight I could. We just got back from Croatia this morning. I didn't even have time to pack." He takes a step forward. "Where is she? Where's Ziva?"
Tim shrugs. "I have no idea. She was following me yesterday. At least, I thought she was…"
"And?" Tony presses.
"She didn't show up today."
Shoulders slumping, Tony chews on his lip. He glances down the hallway and back again. Tim wishes he knew what to say, but he doubts words will assuage what Tony feels. Tim is still sleep-walking somewhere between the past and the present. He barely registers the fact that he hasn't seen Tony since Christmas. It feels like his friend never left, like it's just another day. It's one of the things he appreciates about their friendship. No matter how long they go without seeing each other, they always pick up exactly where they left off. Tony was the only one to treat him like normal after Paraguay.
They don't speak as Tim unlocks the front door. Tony follows Tim inside. When Tim flips the light on, he stops short on the wheelchair ramp. Tony bumps into him, gasping at the sight.
There is a ghost on Tim's couch.