A/N: Just to say thank you for all the reviews so far. I had a little target for myself to reach 20 reviews – as I never had before – and I want to thank each and every one of you who helped me make it that far!
This part goes out, as the others do, to tigerlily25. A thank you can't ever be enough, honey. *huggles and contraband pizza* just for you.
*
Tony has always found Gibbs intimidating. His blue gaze is unwavering and it tracks Tony and Ziva's steps from the elevator to the bullpen without as much as a blink. Tony almost cracks a smile as he feels Ziva's small gloved hand slide into his and her fingers grasp tightly.
" DiNozzo," Gibbs greets in a neutral voice, nodding at the younger man in his heavy overcoat. Tony's fairly certain that Abby has read Gibbs the riot act on being pleasant, and he wonders why the young Goth isn't there to greet them. The room brims with agents hunched at computers, flicking through files and answering shrill, insistent phones.
Ziva holds her hand out and her chin up, unflinching despite her unease. " I am Ziva David."
Despite his years of experience as a detective, Tony can't read Gibbs. He wonders if anyone can. But something in the older man's face shifts at the mention of her name, and his gaze seems to intensify. " Miss David," he acknowledges, taking her hand briefly in his. " I knew your father."
Though Tony is aware of Ziva's history - tangled notions of family and Israeli duty - he's knows it's not something she would easily share, and realises Gibbs (and most likely Abby) has put effort into researching her before meeting her in person. He doesn't know whether to feel slightly violated, or cared for, in a strange way.
Though Tony can't read Gibbs, he can read Ziva, and he feels the recoil race through her body at the reference. It is smothered automatically, by training and something like desperation. Her back straightens unconsciously into military posture, her shoulders square. When she speaks, her accent sounds thicker than normal, and he misses the melody that usually laces her tone. " Many did."
Further uncomfortable conversation is halted by a pair of flying black pigtails and exuberant arms that wrap around Tony's neck and squeeze. " Tony!" Abby's voice is a combination of thrill and caffeine and a 5am start. " And Ziva!" she greets just as enthusiastically, her hug looser only by a fraction.
She drags the two of them down to her lab, Gibbs following closely behind as though concerned one of the pair might make a break for the stairs. In the clean, humming space the music thrums, and McGee hammers his fingers against a keyboard, seemingly desensitised to the volume and intent on his task.
" McGee, tell 'em what we've got," Abby requests, sliding into place next to him like the missing piece of the scientific puzzle. He looks at her with wide eyes and a hesitant mouth.
" Uh, Abby…"
When she speaks, her words race and chase and wind around each other. " We looked up Lock's records and it's not good. Citations for breaking and entering and harassment in Germany. He got passed from pillar to post – Iraq to London and DC - before an eventual dishonourable discharge for assault earlier this year."
" Abby…"
" Last known residence was with a buddy from his unit." With a flourish, she holds up a bright yellow post-it note, a grin on her face as she makes eye contact with Gibbs and holds it out to him like a prize, like an apple for a favourite teacher. " Address and phone number."
Tony feels relief well up within him, and almost sighs with gratitude until McGee's hand shoots out and snatches the post-it, crumpling it in his fist.
" McGee!" Abby whips around, punching him in the shoulder without a second thought. " What was that for?"
Finally taking his fingers from the keyboard, McGee studies the people in the room – from Gibbs' impatient frown to Ziva and Tony's nervous fingers interlocked - before his eyes finally land back on Abby. " I tried the number and got his buddy. He hasn't seen Lock for three days."
Looking around the room, the young agent levels gazes with Tony, who feels the bubble of relief burst in his chest, leaving his lungs tight and heaving.
" Lock's gone. He's disappeared."
*
Every day, when he returns to consciousness, he counts how long it takes for him to hear a sound from the opposite corner. Though his eyes are cloudy and his limbs muddled, he whispers the numbers into the open air.
" 206, 207, 208…"
There is moan, and overwhelming happiness breaks over him like a wave. He smacks one palm flat against the dirt and makes a breathy 'whoop!' that leaves him coughing and dazed. His skull rubs against the ground.
The moaning turns to weeping and he stretches out a hand in that direction, fingertips creeping along the dust. " I'm here," he assures the shadows and sounds. The crying continues.
The door opens.
Unable even to lift his head from the floor, he can barely struggle as rough hands yank him up onto unsteady feet. He stumbles, begins to fall forward and is only saved by a savage grip on his hair. He is thrown onto a chair, splintered and hard. One leg is shorter than the other and the seat rocks. One of his shoes is lost.
A bright light shines directly into his eyes.
" Whoa!" He tries to lift a hand to shield his vision, but thick ropes once again lash him to the chair. It seems like a pointless repetition; his muscles are so weak he doesn't think he could stand, let alone run, and this far off the floor the blood seems to run away from his skull. His eyes roll in his head.
A backhand across the cheek makes his bones crack and his mind sputter to life.
" What are you doing here?"
The voice is familiar, but foreign, and hidden somewhere between the shadows and the blinding light.
It's been so long now that he almost gives in. He licks his lips, barely moistening them with a sandpaper tongue, and hangs his head.
He opens his mouth to answer. Then he realises: he has no idea what he's doing here at all.
*
Ziva has been vomiting for three days straight when she finally gives in and lets the Company use her understudy for the day's performance. She shivers and shakes violently on the bathroom floor, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and orders Tony to leave. Ignoring her words, he kneels down, holding her hair back as she retches into the toilet, surreptitiously taking her temperature with his cool, dry palm.
" You're sick," he tells her, helping her up off the floor when her heaving finally abates.
Rinsing her mouth out with cool, fresh water, she spits into the sink. " I have noticed."
Despite her curt words, she doesn't argue or fight as he wraps his arm around her waist and helps her stumble towards her bed. Yoga pants have been eschewed and a worn, overlarge t-shirt sticks to trunk and limbs of her slender frame. Easing her down onto the bed, he scoops up her feet and tucks the blankets around her body, smoothing her hair back from her sweaty, hot cheeks. Her eyelids flutter closed as soon as her head finds the pillows.
Oliwia hovers in the doorway, jeans tucked into fluffy boots, jacket collar turned up against the chill and a paper sack of groceries in her skinny arms.
" I is having juice," she explains, holding up the carton. " And I is having…" The English word is lost somewhere between muttered Hebrew and Polish, and she holds up a box of Advil instead, one hip cocked and balancing the bag like a peasant farm girl with a milk pail and a pair thick gold braids.
Taking the groceries, Tony steps back, watching as the young girl takes his place kneeling by the side of the bed.
" Ziva?" The tiny blonde shucks off her coat, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and rests her hand against the older woman's flushed face. She waits until Ziva's eyes flutter open before speaking again. When she does, it is in a trickle of gentle Hebrew that Tony cannot pretend to understand. Her fingers brush over the blankets at Ziva's hips and she asks something that is clearly a question.
Feverish laughter is coupled by a swift shaking of the head. Ziva's hand snakes down her body and clutches at her stomach, as though nauseous again. She mumbles, " Lo, lo, lo." Her eyes are glassy.
Instead of waiting and watching for clues to a conversation he cannot understand, Tony goes to find a washcloth, running it under the tap and wringing it out until it is damp but cool. He hands it to Oliwia, sitting cross-legged on the floor, who places it against the skin of Ziva's burning neck. The moan she gets in reply is small, and pained, and thankful.
Blue-grey eyes turn to stare at him from a too-wise child's face. " She is being okay," Oliwia assures him, reaching out and patting his calf without awkwardness. Her other hand strokes through Ziva's hair, easing out tangles and separating curls. " Go you for working, she is being okay."
He nods, and closes the door on the two women. He knows he should go to work. Instead, he stands for a long time with his forehead pressed against the wood, listening to feverish sobs breaking like bubbles through the sound of soothing, lilting Hebrew lullabies.
It does not lull them at all.
*
In the first hour at work, he cannot stop thinking about her. He gets yelled at, phones ring, and a double hole-punch misses hitting him in the head by a matter of inches.
In his third hour of work, a suspect stumbles out from a closet in a supposedly clear room and swings a wrench, and this time he isn't as lucky. The force of the impact hits him like a freight train, and his knees smack the floor without even feeling the fall.
In the fourth hour of work he sits in the ER waiting room alone. Cloying air hangs, stifling and sterile, and makes his heart drum in his chest. Blood trickles down the back of his neck. His fingers dance on the keys of his cell, tracing out first Ziva's number – but he can't bear to wake her, she's sick, she needs to sleep – and then Abby's.
" Tony!" Her bright voice trills through the tinny speakers. " What's up?"
" I'm at the hospital."
She doesn't even reply before hanging up, and he knows he can count to the second how long it will take her to get there.
In the sixth hour of work a doctor shaves the back of his head. His vanity shudders. Abby's fingers lace through his and clench tight. " It'll grow back," she promises - needless but reassuring nonetheless - their hands resting jointly on her knee. The coarse wool of her miniskirt scratches his knuckles. At the sight of the needle she winces, burying her head in his shoulder, and he laughs. A much-tattooed Goth, afraid of needles. The irony is a killer.
After eight hours of his work day, Abby leads him out of the hospital, her arm firm and solid around his waist, holding him straight as he lightly sways. The painkillers have kicked in, and his mind feels clouded and fluffy.
" I'm driving you home," she tells him, her tone inviting no argument.
" My keys are at work."
Eight hours and thirteen minutes into his work day, he and Abby pull up outside the police station. She holds his arm tightly, steering him: a steadfast rudder on a boat sailing blindly into a storm. He wiggles his fingers in her face. " My fingers are finging."
Laughter bubbles up her throat, spilling out onto her ruby lips, and he is joining in, mirthful and giddy until he rounds the corner into the outer office and finds his boss standing, fisted hands on oxen hips, staring down at a small blonde, whose pale face is streaked with tears as she rambles in broken, panicked English.
Oliwia.
The confusion falls away from him in a split second as the drugs wear off. His feet are rock solid as he approaches her, grabbing her shoulders. He ignores Sportelli's reprimand, can't hear Abby's surprise. All his focus is on Oliwia's lips, on the words that fall like shards of broken glass and scatter in the space between them.
" I come home," she begins, nerves and guilt burbling, making her words lodge in her mouth, trip and tangle in her teeth and tongue. " Door no locked. No letter. No phone. No message. I no know."
" Oliwia," he shakes her roughly, dislodging her language, her meaning. At barely five feet she is a rag doll in his hands.
" Red on the floor." She can read his confusion, and grasps at his wrist, pointing at the veins running under his skin. " On the floor, on the bed. Red, red, red." She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, hard enough to drain the colour from her fragile skin when she pulls them away. " He come back."
" Oliwia!"
Her blue-grey eyes are storm clouds, and her tears fall like rain between petrol lashes. " Tony, I sorry. He come back. Ziva is gone."
