Chapter Two - Strokes
"Oh, and—no case."
Gibbs tripped the corner into the bullpen. "What?"
"No…case," Tony said again, slower. His eye twitched. "Yet. I'm sure we'll get the Bat Signal any minute now."
"Yeah." Gibbs found his desk, the chair.
"You okay, Boss?" McGee was probably the most perceptive of them all.
"I was just going to ask him that!" Except maybe for Bishop. She was young—strong eyes, still. Her desk was a revolving door. "Everything all right, Gibbs?"
He blinked. Tony blinked, too. Again. No—Morse code? No. Winking. What was this, a cop show?
"I'm fine, McGee. Bishop. Back to work." He stared hard at DiNozzo, tapping the corner of his own eye. Yeah, I got you.
Ziva hadn't wasted time. Soon as they'd made it far enough out of the wilderness for cell service, she'd dialed her old partner.
"Not who I'd confide in," Gibbs had warned.
But with Tony in her ear, she hadn't heard a word.
Twelve house later and Gibbs would be surprised if the cat stayed in the bag through lunch. No active case. No distractions. His agents stealing worried glances when they thought he wouldn't notice…
Marching orders delivered swiftly. Menial errands—Gibbs wouldn't deny it. Follow-up interviews, cold-case due-diligence. McGee was the last to leave.
"Not going to join us, Boss?"
"Nah. Go." Gibbs sent himself to the coffee cart instead, doubling his usual frequency.
Since when, Marine? The question zipped through his mind with the first sip of fresh brew. So long he'd sought it out. Took it on. No waiting for cases to come his way. He'd find them. He'd solve them. Some thought it was over. He was over, after Zakho. After Parson's investigation. After an explosion wiped his memory, he tried, but—
Ziva. She dragged him back. Pushed him away. Go. She kept her apartment, right there in the city. He'd let her off in front of the brown brick. She kept it, all that time...
Swoosh, his fourth empty circled the trash bin. He got the hell out of his head, and not a second too soon.
"Miss us, Boss?"
"Oh, sure," Gibbs played along.
They dropped their gear. Yawned. Stretched. McGee checked his phone messages. Tony gave a subtle wink.
Well, damn, DiNozzo. You held it in.
Bishop popped gummy bears at her desk. That desk. They should destroy it. "Still no case, Gibbs?"
The boys perked; she beat them to it. Dogs for bones.
Gibbs looked to one, to the next—beyond them, to the purpling horizon over the Anacostia. "All's quiet," he reported.
And so the wait grew.
...
The lights were on, inside and out. His house glowed like honey out of the dark. Her cherry-red convertible filled his space in the driveway. She kept that, too.
"The hell now," he groused, parking along the curb.
Ziva met him at the screen door, high on her toes. "I expected you home sooner."
"Careful—I might mistake you for an ex-wife."
She ignored him. "Tony said you are not on a case right now."
"Tony said, huh." He wove around her, hitting the switch for the porch lights. "Those stay off."
"I did not want you to think I was sulking again."
He didn't correct her.
From the fridge, he grabbed a beer. One. For himself. Ziva moved from the foyer, but stood, arms folded behind her. She would have made a good Marine.
"I thought you had your own apartment," Gibbs said, tossing the beer cap on the table.
"I do."
"Then why do I keep finding you in my house?"
Ziva gaped for a long second. "I deserved that," she conceded. "Although to my credit, I did try calling you earlier. You did not answer."
He'd let it go to voicemail.
Gibbs folded into the worn embrace of his chair. He crooked a finger at her, and she bounded forward. Eager as sin. "Ziva?"
"Yes, Gibbs?"
"Do I have to check that voicemail, or you gonna tell me what you want?"
That got a small wavering of her lips. Small. "It is that, um…" Ziva paused. She lowered to a corner of the coffee table; it didn't seem she had a sure leg to stand on. She started again, stopped.
"Spit it out," he gruffed, and her coal eyes widened.
"Yes, well. Tony thought it would be a good idea if I reunited with McGee and Abby in person tonight, and for it to be a surprise, and—" Her feeble laugh dissolved like salt in water. "Let's just say, it did not go well."
Gibbs balanced the bottle on his knee. He sighed, low and long. What had she expected? Two. Years.
"I had forgotten how emotional Abby can be. And loud."
"DiNozzo should've known better." I'm going to poke that winking eye right out of his—
"It is not Tony's fault." Her shoulders sloped, caving inward. Gibbs was reminded of Kelly's Raggedy-Ann, discarded off the bed.
"Hey." He stuffed the sweating bottle in her hand. "They'll get over it. Give 'em time."
Ziva chugged. Hiccupped. "Slicha."
Chuckling, Gibbs swiped up the clicker. Channels flipped, western to news to western, again.
Her nails scraped the glass, picking at the label. "You are not going to your cabin tonight?"
"Nope."
"I quite liked the…quiet there. I was hoping you could show me more with the woodworking, actually," she added, mood on the rise. "I was doing well, I think."
True to his word, he'd taught her a few things. Quick lessons in handling a carving knife, pressure, basic cuts, and she'd taken off, butchering up wood scraps with conviction belying the knotted stubs she produced. It'd occupied her for the weekend.
He never figured she'd want to keep at it.
"I don't go up on school nights." Why'd it sound like he was apologizing? Wasn't his job to take confessions in the dark and tuck old agents into bed and hold their damn hand through—
Ziva stood, finishing off his beer. She left him for the kitchen. Bumps and scrapes; the silverware drawer stuck. He'd get to it.
"Whenever you return to the cabin…" She appeared at his shoulder, offering out a chilled replacement. "I would like to go, too."
A brawl broke out in the canteen. Gibbs palmed the bottle. "Ah hell, David."
...
Wasn't long before news of Ziva's return spread—through the rest of the team, the Yard, the Beltway. Vance.
The Director wasn't one for presiding over the office. His presence on the top landing meant they were having a little chat. Gibbs took the stairs at a jog.
"Behold, he brings good tidings…and news of a particular agent's return, I hear."
"You run into DiNozzo in the parking lot this morning, Leon?"
Vance half-smiled around his toothpick. The habit hadn't reared its head in awhile. "That I did."
Strike two for his Senior Field Agent.
Gibbs rested his forearms over the railing. His knobby fingers laced. The knuckles cracked. "She's not an agent, you know."
"Yes, she made that clear when she turned in her badge to me. Which begs the question: why is she here now?"
His team was out, running mindless errands. Down in the empty bullpen, Ziva paced the cabin floor, orange flames licking her heels, prodding. "She's restless."
Vance mimicked the team leader's posture, twining his fingers. "I don't have to tell you about women, Gibbs. They change their minds constantly. If Ziva's here for a social call with your team, fine. If she wants back in the game—"
"Hasn't come up."
"What has, then?"
Gibbs came off the railing. "Look, Director, if she wanted a job, I'm sure she would've come to you. But she's not an agent," he repeated. "Not anymore."
"She is an asset, though," Vance countered, taking the wood from between his teeth. "And very well-connected in Europe and the Middle East. Keep me informed."
Gibbs glared. Growled. "Is that an order?"
"Why don't we leave it at 'trust your gut' and see where that gets us?"
Heel, turn. The staircase wheezed under Gibbs' galloping descent: nowhere, nowhere, nowhere.
...
The elevator stalled and the world went blue. Gibbs stepped back from the consult, arms loose at his sides.
"Cozy." Tony's laugh bounced off the walls. "You know, this gives me flashbacks to boarding school. I'm in Principal Brighton's office, again, for sneaking off campus. He was a stern guy, like you, and smelly, unlike you—"
"Make it right."
"What?"
Gibbs hadn't smacked him in, oh, some time. Hadn't he learned by now? "You know what."
"Ah, are we talking about Ziva? 'Cause see, we weren't yesterday. I get confused."
Smartass.
"You threw her in the ring last night, DiNozzo, without gloves."
Tony leaned back against the rail. Crossed arms locked away his humor. "I'll admit it didn't go great—"
"You can't keep your mouth shut, either."
"Ziva asked me to break the news, all right?"
Gibbs scoffed. "Okay."
"Besides," Tony continued, molars grinding. "We both know she's a big girl. She can fight her own—"
"She is." He caught the younger man's eyes. Neither blinked.
The knob in Tony's throat bobbed. He wheeled in the steel box, then back. Hands on his hips, then out. "I did what she wanted, Gibbs. I walked away. Moved on. I got a girlfr—" A short breath. "Sorry."
The air settled. Tony settled. They all had, since—
Gibbs' fingers jerked at his side.
Tony saw it, but guessed wrongly. "How many of your rules have I broken so far?"
Enough. None. "Up to you." Gibbs reached out, tapped the emergency switch. Gears shifted. The lights flicked to white. They rose.
Tony swayed, forefinger and thumb on his eyelids. "I'm just trying to help her. She tells me you are, too. 'He's helping me get back in my shoes.' Good 'ol Ziva." His laughter swelled: a shallow ringing from far away.
The silver doors—ding—parted. Gibbs beat him out.
"Wanna help her, DiNozzo? Make it right."
...
The cabin reeked bourbon and stale dreams, even a week after the damage. Gibbs propped the door ajar, airing it out. He had Ziva fetch the tools from inside, probie.
They worked out in the yard. She chose the porch, its sliver of shade. Summer clung in hot exhales. She sat, knees high. All that hair piled up, off her neck. He chose the rim of the clearing to set up the saw horses. Chose her block, too. Basswood. Soft. Easy to carve. Kid wood, and she knew it. Her instincts surpassed those strong, wiry hands.
"I do not understand." Chips flew off the block, off her knife. Her elbow was doing all the work. Wasting energy. Losing accuracy.
Wrist, not elbow. But he'd told her already. She had to remember.
"It's not an insult." Gibbs lined the hand-sander along the grain of a reclaimed 2x6. Shwoosh-swoop. There went the chipped, red paint. Shwoosh-swoop. The chinks and divots. "Gotta start somewhere."
"Perhaps it is you who does not understand, Gibbs. I have always been a…fast learner, yes?"
He didn't doubt it. He was there for her meteoric climb to investigator, and what had come of it? Gibbs paused in his sanding. Peered up at the cabin. At Ziva, peering back.
"That so? Then why aren't you using your wrist, like I taught you?"
Her spine snapped straight. "I am."
"Not to my eye."
Ziva adjusted her grip, calculated a stroke…the shaving shot wide. And he'd seen that look on her before. Bad training time. DiNozzo's antics. Her father.
Gibbs breathed out, easy, from his mouth. Black walnut peeked through dust on the 2x6. He tossed the sander, his protective goggles and gloves. Hustle brought him up to the porch.
"That thumb—" He stabbed at her non-carving hand. "—and the angle you take on the grain is your power. Don't rely on your arm. It's a rookie mistake."
"You said to use my wrist."
"Wrist is your compass. Thumbs on top of each other. No—" Gibbs lunged.
Ziva didn't flinch, but her eyes darkened. "I know how to hold a knife." Unsaid, I know how to use one, too.
He stepped back. Hands up. "Never said you didn't, Ziver."
"But you are acting as—"
"Hey," Gibbs barked, his voice amplified through the trees. "You're the one who wanted to learn."
"Yes, I did!" Ziva launched to her feet, stowing the carving knife in her glove—to his relief. She never took her blazing gaze from his face. "Perhaps I was wrong."
She shoved by him. Go? Gone.
...
Ziva didn't get far. Gibbs packed up the cabin double-time, and then leaned on the truck's horn. Thirty seconds of blaring brought her racing down a side trail. He was backing out of the clearing before she had the door completely shut.
They hit macadam, pointed east, in silence.
Gibbs gripped the wheel. Tensed, released. He'd expected…well, he didn't know. He'd been in fights with ex-wives, upper brass, even friends. All this fighting with someone he thought of as a—
"What?"
Angled away from him and over the engine's roar, her whispers had no chance. "I said," she squeaked, louder. "I will leave tonight."
"Leave for where?"
"I do not know, but away from D.C. If it is not too much of an imposition, I would ask that you—"
A sudden veer and the truck bump, bump, bumped onto the shoulder. They came to a full stop with a jerk.
Ziva pulled her hands from the dash, breathing heavy. "Is there a problem?"
"Yeah. You." He jammed it in park and whirled on her. "You come back here, no warning, throw everything off its head—"
"That is why I must go! Do you not see?" she demanded, face pinched up. "I have been gone too long. I was foolish to think I could return without further inflicting—"
"You were gone too long. I won't argue with you on that. But how is leaving again the answer?" Gibbs stayed firm as the words struck his former agent agape. "That first night at the cabin, Ziva, you told me you came back to make things right."
"I have tried," she clipped.
"I know." Gibbs risked setting his hand just above her wrist, and she didn't stop him. He met her stoic brown eyes. "It's not gonna to happen overnight. You want it? Fight. Hell, I've been fighting for you all week. Ask DiNozzo."
Her expression bordered on troubled. "You are not the first person to say that."
"No?"
"That you are fighting for me."
He nodded. "Did you believe them?"
"…I did."
"You believe me?"
Her chin quivered as her gaze fell, and she covered his hand with her own. It was an answer in itself. Curtailing anything further was the brrrinnngg of his cell phone. It startled them both, but it wasn't the surprise that spiked his pulse. What had he called his agents, dogs for bones?
Gibbs yanked the buzzing device out of his pocket, puzzling at the caller ID before flipping it open. "Abbs?" Rapid, high-pitched squeals spilled out of the receiver. In the torrent, he picked out one recurring request. He held the cell across the cab. "For you."
"She cannot want to talk to me, Gibbs."
"Wants to apologize for that dinner, I think." Atta boy, DiNozzo.
Ziva regarded the phone with wariness worthy of a bomb. One she couldn't defuse.
"Gotta start somewhere," he reminded, with a shrug. "I don't have anywhere else to be."
And he'd seen the look she gave him then, too. Light and gratitude. It came with something he'd waited to see again for two years.
Her smile.
