A/N: Ah, now I remember what I was going to say at the end of the last chapter. As Ziva is a girl, I felt that I should include realistic fears and insecurities. She is so used to being an object, a weapon, and is now falling into the characteristic female phenomena of self consciousness, especially around Tony. I mean, who wouldn't be a bit self conscious around him? ;) Anyway, enjoy! xx
Days pass, and Jennifer and I are still preparing for our mission. Tim and Gibbs are monitoring the circumstances of the opposition very closely, with the help of Director Vance. As far as Tony and I are concerned, we are both taking classes at the local Cooperative Extension building. My partner is less than pleased. Learning how to 'muck out' stalls, take care of farm animals, and plant crops are tedious activities and we are both itching for the hands-on learning that we know we will not experience until the mission itself.
On a day free of classes, Jennifer and I had scheduled a lunch, meant to get to know each other better. I could tell that she was anxious to meet me and, much to my dismay, I was just as anxious to know her better.
Sitting at lunch and hearing Jennifer ramble on endlessly about Tony has grown annoying, but, fortunately for both Jennifer and me, my patience has not worn too thin.
"So, tell me," Jennifer murmurs, chewing a large piece of romaine, "How's Special Agent DiNozzo in the whole 'pop culture' scene?" I chuckle. "What?"
I consider this for a moment. "Well, he quotes movies almost all the time."
"Oh yeah? What kind of movies?" She takes a small sip of iced tea and stares at me, as though she is attempting to read me.
"Every kind of movie known to man, around the world." I chuckle and raise a spoonful of soup to my lips. "He is team Edward."
Jennifer's eyes flash in disbelief. "Twilight? Really? He's a Twiboy?" I nod and she bursts into laughter, a hearty belly-laugh that is somehow still beautiful. She draws stares from other customers in the restaurant, and a relatively attractive waiter walks by, slipping her a note. I feel inadequate, more than I had back in M-TAC. A random man had not even met her, and was already giving her his phone number. "That's horrible." Yeah, I agree ...
"Well, I am afraid that it is true." I pat my mouth with the corner of a napkin. Perhaps I should not bring up the note from the waiter, but it is something that really bothers me. To be successful in this mission, there must be a sense of honesty and to create that, there must be open communication. I take a breath and begin, "Jennifer ..."
"Yes, Ziva? Oh, do you want my breadstick? I'm trying to cut down on carbs ..." Jennifer nibbles on a dill pickle spear.
Shaking my head, I continue, "Jennifer, how do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"You get almost every guy to be attracted to you ... and you don't even try." I look down into my lap. "I know I am being silly and self-centered feeling this way, but it is something I have noticed since I met you."
"What did you notice, Ziva?"
I take a deep breath and fiddle with the stir-stick in my Bloody Mary. It is actually quite disgusting, but Jennifer had insisted I order one, so I had to. Not yet have I surpassed the half-way mark. "I noticed that there's something about you, something that makes me feel ... odd." I rarely talk about my feelings, and therefore I suppose that I sound ridiculous.
Jennifer takes a sip of her own Bloody Mary and nods. "'Odd.' That's rather vague, isn't it?"
"I rarely feel this way, especially not with women, so—" Realization plasters her face.
"Ziva, say no more. It's okay. I understand." I stare at her, shocked. She's even understanding, with no questions asked. I really can't match up to her.
"You … you do?"
"Of course, Ziva," she says, and then drops her voice. "It's okay that you're a lesbian. No one thinks any less of you. And I'm sure Tony would be more than happy to hear that."
"No!" I blurt, burying my face in my hands. "Trust me, I am not a lesbian. Not in the very least!"
Jennifer furrows her brow, perplexed. "Then what aren't you used to feeling?"
"Jealousy!" Closing my eyes for a moment, I think of my next plan of attack. Somehow I must prove that I am not a lesbian. "You're prettier than I am and have a better personality. It was almost too much to bear when I met you and then Tony decided that he finds you more attractive than he finds me, so I didn't know how to handle it at all."
"So you're jealous of me? Because of DiNozzo?" She lets out a lengthy peal of laughter while I stare at her incredulously. "DiNozzo, of all people," Jennifer murmurs as she calms down, and finishes off her drink.
"Why is that so difficult to believe?" I snap. Taking a bite of celery, I decide that even if Tony is in love with her, I do not care. Although I obviously would care, because …
"It's Tony, Ziva. Come on. I'm engaged." I blink twice, in an attempt to comprehend her words.
"To who?"
"Benjamen Sulley! The one Tony was talking to." The handsome man with the wide smile and hazel eyes. Oh. "If you had talked to me two years ago, I would have told you that the both of them were obnoxious, arrogant bastards and to not waste your time on either man. But then I fell in love." She smiles kindly.
"I'm sorry …"
"No, no, you don't need to be, it's okay," Jennifer pats my hand comfortingly. "After all, you're not the one who accused someone of being a lesbian who's madly in love with you." I chuckle and take another spoonful of soup. No, no I was not.
Jennifer and I barely get through the front doors before we are assaulted by DiNozzo and McGee. After throwing me my bag and casting Jennifer a disparaging look, the two men drag me out the door.
"What exactly is this all about?" I manage to huff before I am thrown into the van. I am answered with silence, although Tony and Tim slip in a meaningful exchange of looks. "Well? Answer me, or I will not go anywhere."
Tony looks at me disparagingly before stating, "You're actually going to stand there and pretend you don't know." He stands there, dumbfounded but bitter. "Just get in the car." He swings up into the SUV, tossing the keys to Tim. Something is definitely amiss.
I must weigh my words carefully before retorting. Have I done something? Said something? Wracking my brain for a few minutes, I come up short. Unless Eli has said something to Director Vance, something fatherly (which draws a bitter laugh from me, as it is so impossible), there is no reason for Tony to be angry.
"It would be easier to pretend if I actually knew what I had done." Crossing my arms, I stare at the back of his head. I am answered with silence. "Did I forget your coffee this morning?" This cannot be the problem, because I bought him an Iced Caramel and French Vanilla Cappuccino, with skim milk and no whipped topping. I have the receipt to prove it.
Silence.
I try again. "Your breakfast burrito was not cooked correctly?" He is a picky eater; if the cheese is not melted into the salsa, he refuses to eat it. And forget spinach in the egg …
Silence.
"I wore the wrong shirt?" I glance down; Tony had always seemed to compliment me when I wore green shirts, over other colours. In my haste this morning, I had not thought to wear green, but instead a plain white tunic with blue crystal beading.
He seems uninterested in my clothes, so, with my brow furrowed, I begin, "Tony, what did I—"
"You went to lunch with O'Ryan," he bluntly interrupts, heaving a deep sigh.
"—do?" My mouth hangs in a shocked 'O'. How this could make someone like DiNozzo so angry is beyond me. "You're angry … because I went to lunch with our new partner, for my upcoming undercover mission?" I murmur slowly, trying to find some sort of clue in the words. Tony nods tensely, a quick bow of the head, and drums his fingers on the armrest, toying with the button that opens or closes the window.
Tim slowly eases the SUV into a stop, and I look around to find we are in the middle of a parking lot, in the middle of nowhere. There is an abandoned supermarket to our left and crumbled asphalt to our right. McGee jumps out of the driver's side, circles the car, and opens my door. I hop out, a hot ray of sun shining directly into my eyes.
"Gibbs wants us to find evidence pertaining to Lance Corporal Jackson," he explains. Tony sits in the car, door closed, window down. "Apparently, he was—"
"Davíd was not at the meeting. She should read the notes herself; you can't always bail her out." The older man's eyes flick to me for a split second and then stare out at a dying tree at the other end of the lot. It is obvious he knows his biting comment was low.
"And what exactly are you 'bailing' me out of, hmm?" I ask. I know that I am provoking, but I would much rather get into a knock-down, drag-out argument with him than be greeted with the silent treatment I have been challenged with. I add, "What have I asked you to bail me out of, that is."
His eyes snap to mine, shining with hurt. He murmurs, "You've never asked me—us—for help. I've—we've—always offered, and we follow through. That's what partners do. We're a team." Tony tears his eyes from me, shaking his head.
Shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, Tim blurts, "Well, I'm going to go over by the tree, that way. Far away. Because that's where I should start. So … if you need me, just holler. Because I'm going to be by the tree, and that's kind of far away, and I might not hear you." When neither of us acknowledges him, he continues, "Actually, I won't hear you at all, because that's far, far away, and therefore …."
"Get to the point, Elf Lord," Tony snaps. His edge sends McGee scurrying off in the direction of the tree, his bag and toolbox banging against his leg. His haste would have made me laugh under normal circumstances, but today, I would rather focus on my issues with Tony.
When I am sure we cannot be heard, I say, "Come on, Tony. I can tell that you are upset over more than just my having lunch with Jennifer." He looks at me; if looks could kill—and I have seen a few in my day that just about have—I would be dead twenty times over.
He swings the door open and steps out of the car. We cross to each other, keeping three feet of distance between us, all the while never losing eye contact.
"After our conversation last night, I thought maybe you would have realized what today was." His voice is grave, so grave that for a moment, I am scared to ask what our conversation was about.
However, I shove aside my apprehension and square my shoulders. "What was today, Tony? We have had this lunch planned for weeks. It would have been rude to break it."
"Oh, so it would have been rude to cancel a lunch with a fleeting coworker, for your team-mate." I try to see past the anger in his eyes, but cannot. I take another step toward him.
"I am not following … it was just lunch. If you wanted to have lunch with me, you could have just said so. We had room for you at the table." I feel guilty for leaving him out until he grins bitterly and shakes his head.
"Oh, no, you see, I couldn't. I had other plans today. Plans far different than eating lunch. Although, we did have a small reception." The coldness of his smile is replaced with grief. I shake my head in confusion. We had not made plans last night, or at least, any that I can remember. And my memory of that evening was unblemished.
I had gone home from work around seven, after ordering Indian takeout from a restaurant near my new apartment. When I had arrived home, I had tossed my keys into the gold dish on an ornate side table in my foyer, and hung my jacket up on my coat-tree. I had considered grabbing a plate for my food, but figured that I could eat it just the same with a fork out of the box. I did, however, prepare myself a glass of Arak, and carried that and my box of curry noodles into my living room, setting both on the settee. I turned the television on and settled in, eating my supper and enjoying the latest Lifetime movie. Still thirsty, I poured myself a glass of peach wine for dessert, and then another. With a tolerance as high as mine, I had no qualms about drinking that much. Besides which, I had drank each glass slowly.
It was after those drinks that Tony had called me. He had experienced a pitfall. For months, he had done well in dealing with the grief caused by losing his father. However, he had also been drinking, and had looked at a book he had received from his father one Christmas. After breaking down and crying, and having my number on speed dial—for one reason or another, I still have not figured it out—he called me first.
We had talked for three and a half hours about the harsh realities of life, the pain caused by losing a loved one, and of taking advantage of things in life for our simple pleasure. He had cried, and so had I. And then …
It hits me like a brick wall. I can remember now. Today was the day they were scattering his father's ashes. And he had asked me to be there.
I had agreed.
"Oh, Tony …" I search his eyes, mine begging him to forgive me, though the words will not form. "I …"
"You forgot," he states flatly.
"It was unintentional. I would never have—"
"—Gone anyway?" he interrupts. "I know. I'm sorry I invited you to something only family should—" I jump back in.
"No, Tony, I would have been there. I would have cancelled with Jennifer. Yes, I forgot, but I had consumed several servings of alcohol, more than I should have, and today's event escaped my mind completely." I take another step toward him, and his shoulders tense. "I would have been there," I repeat. "I am so sorry that I was not." Placing a gentle hand on the side of his shoulder, I expect him to shrug it off. Instead, he just stands there, either out of fear or grief or exhaustion.
After a few moments of silence, during which I softly stroke his arm, he chokes out, "Would you really have?"
I nod. "I would not have missed it for anything."
Without even a peek over his shoulder to check that McGee is not looking, he swiftly pulls me into a hug. I am pressed against him, and instinctively wrap my arms around his neck. I hear him smell my hair, and hope that it still smells like guava and coconut. My face in his shoulder, I can smell his deodorant, a light ocean-y scent. Just the fact that I know something so personal makes me blush lightly, before he lets go.
"Grab the camera. I think Gibbs would be kinda mad if we didn't get anything." Tony winks at me and says under his breath, "Guava and coconut, Ziva? Getting a little exotic there, aren't we?" I blush furiously, embarrassed that he knows my shampoo. I nod tersely and retrieve the camera from the back of the SUV, looping the strap around my neck as I watch Tony walk off in the other direction, toward the deserted store. My brow creases as I attempt to turn the camera on.
I take a step away from the car but stop when I feel a crunch under my foot, and carefully lift it to look at what I stepped on. The sun glints off of it, like crystal. I bend down to pick it up and discover that it is a ring.
"DiNozzo, McGee…I've found something," I murmur into my walkie-talkie.
"Good work, Davíd," Tony states, and then grunts as he kicks open the door to the building. I only know this because I can still see him. "I've got something too. But I'll come to you. I may need backup here."
"Well, I am bagging it anyway; it could have something on it that will help Abby." I turn the ring over a few times in my palm and shrug. It is quite beautiful, a solitaire diamond set on a simple gold band. There is an inscription on the inside of the ring; Tiffany&Co. Well, then it was definitely expensive. I feel bad for the man who paid for it, just so it could get lost.
The sun again glints off of the stone and something else catches my eye. Upon closer inspection, I can see that it is not dirt, for it is too red; the soil surrounding the area obviously has a low clay content. No, this has a brown-red hue to it, similar to ...
"Blood," I whisper, not noticing my team-mates until McGee takes the ring from me. "It has blood on it."
"Does it? Weird. Because there's a man's wedding band over by the tree, tarnished, with a stain on it that looks a lot like this." He holds it up in the sun, making note of the splotches where stone meets gold. "You know, I think this is one carat...do you know how expensive this would have been?"
"I assumed so, as it is a Tiffany ring," I gloat, having found that before him. "I've always wanted a Tiffany&Co. ring, you know." For some reason, I cannot keep my desires to myself. What is wrong with me? I bow my head to hide my slowly developing blush.
McGee nods, stowing it in an evidence bag. "I think every girl does. My sister did, too." He hands the bag to Tony, who stows it in his pocket. Thank goodness for McGee, I think to myself. Wordlessly, we follow him toward the store.
"Now, can one of you shine your flashlight into that corner?" Tony gestures toward a far corner at the front of the store, and I swing my flashlight's beam toward it. "Thanks. Do you see those scratch marks?" Both McGee and I nod. "Good, I thought I wasn't crazy. What do they look like to you?"
The scratches run at random across the walls, chips of paint and stucco flaking off in several areas. "Knife marks," I suggest.
Two beats behind me, McGee chimes in, "Whip lashes?" Tony shakes his head.
"They're too scattered and irregular. To hit someone with a whip," he explains, "one has to calculate distance. This definitely wasn't planned."
I take a step toward the corner and crouch down to get a better look. Among the longer, deeper scratches are those that are shallower. They appear to be scrapes, from maybe something metal. Unless someone had been wearing a suit of armor, the only plausible explanation is…
"Chains," all three of us murmur at the same time. Without taking his eyes from the corner, scratch marks and all, Tony dials his cell phone, and we know he is calling Gibbs.