... Hello :P I realize that I haven't been here in, like, 7, 200 years, and I've to admit that it's completely my fault. This fic was never meant to be top priority and was only supposed to be updated when the mood struck ... and the mood never did. But lately I've been, ah, persuaded by someone to update, and so here I am! This chapter was written a long time ago, but I'm just publishing it now.
Setting: The day after Chapter 3 of this fic (where Ziva goes to Gibbs about her and Tony's first big fight as a couple).
Enjoy!
-Soph
Care
She had always loved the early morning sunlight.
Coming from a world of darkness, sunlight had been a breath of fresh air in the midst of chaos and spilt blood; it reminded her that the Earth still turned, the sun still rose, and every new morning was still a chance at living. The early hours of the day had always been her favourite time because everything would be quiet and serene and would let her believe, even just for a moment, that all was right with the world.
Today, though, the sunlight was too glaring. It streamed through the windows of her kitchen as she flipped pancakes on the stove; she squinted and tried not to mind the way it made her head throb and her eyes water.
She knew it wasn't really the sunlight. She knew it was really the man who was asleep in the other room, her bedroom, and who had hurt her very deeply the night before by calling her on her paranoia. Oh, she knew she was paranoid—her still-latched, still-bolted front door would be testament to that. But she had never intended for him to know the fact, and who was he to bring the topic out into the open?
Pancakes done, she tipped them onto a plate, adding maple syrup and a fork. She'd never thought of Tony as pancake sort of person—fried bacon had seemed like it'd be more of his thing—but she had come to learn that it was his favourite breakfast food, just like she had come to learn about a lot of his other favourites.
She knew that stepping into the bedroom was a mistake when he sniffed and opened his eyes, thus ending the pretence of sleep, before she had rearranged her features into the look of someone who'd not been crying just a few minutes before. He must've noticed, because the steel in his eyes softened just a smidge. She bent down to put his breakfast on the bedside table, and his hands gently caught her face before she could turn away; tears burnt the back of her eyelids when he pulled her down to capture her lips in a kiss.
"Thank you," he said when they broke apart, and she knew he meant her attempt to make up with him.
She nodded mutely and sat down hard on the floor, wondering if all their future fights would be resolved with breakfast and a kiss, or if they'd simply gotten lucky this time. "You didn't leave," she mentioned shakily, her eyes not quite daring to meet his.
"You said you'd be back."
"Still. I thought you would have gone back to your apartment and waited for the storm to … blow over, yes?"
She saw him shrug out of the corner of her eye, but he said nothing.
"Are you still angry with me?" she asked, unable to keep from knowing any longer.
"I could ask you the same question."
"I … do not have a simple answer for you."
"Maybe I don't have a simple answer for you, either."
"You are still angry with me," she confirmed, and it was a miracle her voice didn't break. She jerked her head at the pancakes. "Eat your breakfast, and—"
"Ziva." The slight sharp edge to his voice made her forget her sentence, and her eyes snapped up to his. "I just wanna know what the hell happened last night."
She opened and closed her mouth. "Eat your breakfast," was all she managed to choke out, and he slid down onto the floor beside her and cut off a tiny piece of the pancakes, holding the fork up to her lips.
"We're sharing this," he informed her, and she couldn't find in herself the will to argue.
xoxo
Breakfast finished, she found herself staring at the floor with one of her hands wrapped in his; neither of them had spoken a word during the entire meal, but she knew by the way his eyeballs were drilling holes into her skull that he was expecting her to explain her overreaction in the previous night.
It wasn't fair, really. This was her own home—she shouldn't have to explain herself.
But if it were about fairness, then she'd be in his arms now and he'd be reassuring her that he understood her without her having to say anything.
No, life was never fair.
So, she took a deep breath and began. "I know I do not need the latches … theoretically. But you know me, Tony; I like to play it safe when there is no real need to risk my life."
He stayed silent.
"Maybe I am … different … from others," she continued. "Most people do not carry guns and knives on the street. But I am not 'most people.' I am capable of protecting myself, but only because I take the necessary precautions. Those latches … are a precaution. They are how I protect myself."
Silence.
"If you are to call me paranoid, then there is nothing I can do about that. But if I go to bed without fastening those latches, I feel naked … as if I have gone out without my Sig or another weapon. I put all my weapons away when I get home, Tony. Even my gun, believe it or not. This is the place where I can relax and get a good night's sleep, and not have to worry if I miss something with what you call my 'ninja senses.' It is not a matter of whether I can protect myself; it's a matter of whether I need to. I do not want to have to stay constantly on guard even in my own home."
"Okay."
"'Okay'? That is all you are going to say?"
He must've heard the slightly panicky rise in her voice, because he gathered her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her hair. "How 'bout, 'But I'm here to protect you'?"
She laughed despite herself. "Tony, I do not want what we have to be interrupted by the sudden appearance of an intruder. It does not matter whether we can win the fight, in the case of home; it matters whether we can prevent it in the first place."
He sighed and tugged her closer. "Okay."
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Well, I still think you're a bit paranoid, but I get it."
She pushed against him. "If you still think I'm paranoid, then why don't you just go back to your apartment?"
"'Cause I don't want to go back." His answer made her still, her eyes widening as she gazed at him in incomprehension. He gently stroked her hair before leaning his forehead against hers. "I like it here, Ziva, because what we have is still here. And I'll try to remember the latches from now on. I'm sorry I forgot them the other night … I'm sorry I yelled at you when I should have asked you for an explanation first."
"I am sorry I did not tell you the truth earlier," she offered ruefully.
"Truce?"
"Truce," she agreed, even though she could hardly believe that things could be that easily solved.
He kept true to his word, though—even after a month, she still found the latches fastened every single night that he was over. And that, she finally understood, was what Gibbs had meant when he said that Tony cared.