Every time I try to fly
I fall without my wings
I feel so small
I guess I need you baby
And every time I see you in my dreams
I see your face, it's haunting me
I guess I need you baby
Scene Seven — Everytime
"Grab your gear."
McGee and Ziva exchanged tired looks. "Another one?" The former asked as they both stood up, grabbing their bags. Gibbs didn't answer.
A week had passed since the…incident with Ziva and the sleeping pills. Gibbs still had Ziva staying with him, though he was at least aiding her in not letting any of the others know about what had happened. No one else knew how damn far she had fallen.
Fortunately within a day of Ziva resuming living with Gibbs, a new distraction had presented itself in the form of a prostitute killed less than a block away from the Navy Yard. She wasn't the first; three prostitutes before her had been killed in much the same manner; the killer used them then he stabbed them in the stomach, leaving them to bleed out in an alleyway.
What made this one different was that a witness had seen the woman being picked up on a corner less than fifty feet from where she had been found. The person picking her up had been wearing a navy uniform.
The idea that the case might even be slightly related to the navy had been enough to call NCIS.
Since Team Gibbs had picked up the case, three more women had been killed. Gibbs walking into the bullpen saying "Grab your gear" was his way of announcing the fourth.
The ride to the scene was quiet, as it always was these days. McGee drove; so desperate he was for normalcy that he'd actually offered to let Ziva drive. She had refused.
"Ziva perimeter and help Ducky with the body, McGee photos, then interview."
The two nodded, quickly getting to work. Ducky and Palmer followed suit when they arrived. "Tragic," Ducky sighed as he examined the young woman on the ground, laying in a pool of her own blood.
"Same MO, Duck?"
"Single stab wound to the abdomen, obvious signs of sexual activity…it does not seem like much a stretch to say it's the same man, Jethro." Gibbs sighed, clearly frustrated, and yanked his hat off, running a hand through his hair. The fourth victim since they had picked up the case, and they were barely any closer than they had been when they had started.
"McGee pull footage from any security camera you can find and get it to Abby, see if we can find this girl can getting picked up." Not that this had yielded any results for them the first three times they had done it. Maybe the fourth time would be a charm.
"Got it boss."
"I have a footprint!" Ziva said suddenly, drawing Gibbs attention. He went over to her as she knelt down, taking a picture of the red-hued print on the ground. "Probably a common work-boot that ninety-nine percent of the men in the Navy wear," she mumbled as she measure the footprint before snapping another shot.
"Still more than we had before."
Ziva looked up, seeing another footprint less than a foot away from the one she had originally found. She stood up, snapping photos as she went. The footprints ended at the alleyway entrance; the killer had found a puddle to wash his boot off in. If she had to guess, she would say the man had been preparing to turn left, from the directionality the footprints seemed to take. She wasn't going to assume anything though.
It was a bit disheartening, working the crime-scene. Knowing they were no closer to finding the killer than they had been last time. Hoping this time would be different.
And Ziva hated that she almost liked it.
Ziva was never completely sure where the idea came from. Maybe it had been formulating on the edge of her mind since they had taken the case, waiting for the moment she could put it to use. It certainly wasn't something that just came to her out of nowhere. The idea had to be alive somewhere in her mind, even before she became consciously aware of it.
But when Abby said she had pulled a grainy image of a man in a Navy uniform talking to their victim, one word came to Ziva's mind: undercover.
She would have to be careful, of course. Gibbs would see right through her if she came straight out and suggested she go undercover. Not that there was anything to see through.
Really.
"The image is awful, I couldn't get his face. He's about six-foot-one, 'bout a hundred and eight pounds, probably…mid-thirties."
"Abby that's half the military."
"I'm aware."
Gibbs stared at the grainy picture on the screen. They had a tentative pattern of how the man moved; they just weren't sure how reliable it was.
"If we could predict where he's going to strike next…"
"We could stake out the place and catch the guy," McGee finished Ziva's thought, much to her relief.
"Let's see if we can figure out where he's going to strike next," Gibbs decided after a moment of serious thought. "Then we take it from there."
Gibbs kicked Ziva and McGee out at nine when he realized they weren't going to be getting any further on the case tonight. "Hey, what are you doing tonight?" McGee asked as he and Ziva stepped into the elevator.
"Going home, showering, probably catching up on some reading. Why?"
"Well, you know…I was just wondering if you wanted to do something, maybe get some drinks or food or something. My treat." Ziva winced a bit as she thought about her last encounter with alcohol, Gibbs' bourbon, and the awful hangover she'd woken up with the morning after.
"Thank you McGee, but I think I will pass. I am tired, I would really rather go home and relax. Some other time, perhaps."
McGee hesitated for a long time before taking the plunge. "Where are you staying, Ziva?" The confused look the Israeli gave him was very convincing, at least. "Abby goes to your apartment three or four times a week, you never open your door. Even you can't ignore Abby when she goes on for that long. So obviously you're not at your apartment. So where are you?"
"Good use of investigative skills, McGee. Did you ever stop to think maybe I am capable of ignoring Abby, though?"
"No one's capable of ignoring Abby."
The elevator dinged as it arrived at the ground floor and the doors slid open. "I am," Ziva said simply as she walked out, leaving McGee behind.
She hadn't been lying when she had told Gibbs that she hadn't been trying to kill herself. Overdosing on sleeping pills had been unbelievably painful the first time she had attempted it. It was not an experience she wanted to repeat.
It wasn't wrong to wonder how things would be different if it had been her that was shot, not Tony. It was valid. She had been the one the bullet was aiming for, after all. If Tony hadn't stupidly pushed her out of the way, she would have been the one the gunman shot. That was how it would have gone down — how it should have gone down.
So there was nothing wrong with wondering about what should have been.
However…there was probably something wrong with wishing it had been her instead.
Gibbs arrived home at midnight to find Ziva in his basement, mindlessly sanding his boat. "Couldn't find the bourbon?" He asked as he sat down.
"Did not look. I was just trying to stay awake. Besides, I hate bourbon."
"Didn't stop you from draining over half a bottle last week."
"I learned my lesson." She let her arm, still holding the sandpaper, fall to her side, though she didn't turn to face Gibbs as she spoke. "You know as well as I do that this could very well turn into an undercover mission."
"I'm very aware."
Ziva rocked back on her heels for a moment, gripping the sandpaper tightly. "You do not want to send me," she finally said. It wasn't a question. She knew she was right.
"Give me one good reason why I should."
"Because your only alternative if you do not want to send me is Abby. And I feel quite confident in saying you do not want to send her out on to the streets to act like a prostitute."
"Well that's a good assumption. Still not a good reason as to why I should send you."
"You have never had a problem with sending me undercover on cases like this before."
"I've never had to worry about you having a death wish before."
"I do not have a death wish!" Ziva shouted, whirling around to glare at Gibbs, who regarded her calmly. "You do not trust me?" She demanded when she realized he wasn't going to say anything.
"I trust you with my life Ziva."
"Then what is the problem?"
Gibbs sighed as he stood up, walking over to Ziva and wrapping his fingers around her wrist and gently forcing her to raise her arm. He used his other hand to unwrap her fingers from around the sandpaper she was tightly gripping; the paper had broken her skin, was now stained with blood. "I don't think I trust you with your own," he said simply, taking the sandpaper and throwing it away.
Ziva looked down at her hand, at the smears of blood. Her stomach turned as she momentarily flashed back to sitting in the hospital, waiting to hear about Tony, her hands painted red with his blood…
"Take care of your hand and go to bed. I need you and McGee well rested tomorrow." He let her arm fall gently back to her side and stepped away. "Go."
Ziva stared at him for a long time before she turned and went upstairs.
Cold, early morning air whipped past Ziva as she ran, cooling the sweat that made its way down her face. She ran a different route than she had the morning of Tony's funeral; what made her make that decision, she couldn't really figure out. But when she exited Gibbs' house after only a few hours of fitful sleep to go on her morning run, she went in the direction opposite of the one she had taken weeks earlier.
It had been just after four a.m. when she had left. Now it was almost six, Ziva wasn't sure how far she had run, and she had no clue when she had chosen a destination.
But when she came upon the cemetery, she realized she had been coming here all along.
Her lungs were burning, her legs screaming in protest as she walked through the cemetery. Despite the fact that she hadn't been here since the funeral, she still knew exactly where she was going. Her damned memory wouldn't allow her to forget any aspect of that day.
The sight of his name, the date of birth and death, carved into the granite stone brought to life the tears Ziva felt as if she spent ninety-nine percent of her time these days fighting back. Her fingers balled into fists, arousing pinpoints of pain when her nails accidentally dug into the cuts the sandpaper had caused the night before.
"Hello Tony," she mumbled, her voice thick. "I am…sorry I have not come to visit sooner. It has been a…hectic month. And I have…I will admit, I have been avoiding you. Do not feel bad though. It took me six months to bring myself to face Tali's grave. To this day I still have not gone to see Ari. I am not sure what that says about me…or you." Ziva pressed her lips together, dragging her hand quickly across her eyes. "You have…not missed much. It has been business as usual at NCIS, Vance tried to replace you, that…did not work out well. I am sure he will be looking in to bringing in another replacement soon. I promised Gibbs I would be on my best behavior for the next one. I would hate to break a promise to him. But I…I do not think I can handle another replacement. I took your desk, so at least I will not have to look at the wrong person sitting there, but I do not think I can work with another person. I keep thinking it will get better, I will wake up one morning and I will magically be back to normal. Gibbs says it does not work like that, but I…I wish it would." She swallowed hard, not bothering to wipe away the tears that had begun to fall. "I wish I could make this go away. I wish I could be like I was before. I wish…I wish I could stop loving you."
Her tired legs finally quit, giving out from beneath her and causing her to sink to the ground in front of the stone. The cold air whipped around her, causing her loose strands of hair to flutter to around in her line of vision, and turning cold the sweat that coated her face. She shivered involuntarily. "I…do not know how much longer I can live like this, Tony," she whispered, unable to make herself speak any louder. "I have never felt like this before. Not with Michael, not even with Roy…" She shook her head, resting a hand against the gravestone. "And I just do not know how much longer I can go on like this."
"Hey Ziva, it's McGee…again…um, I know this is like the eighth time I've called…maybe you can take a hint…we're kinda worried about you here, so just call me when you get this, if you don't mind or um…just come in. All right, bye."
McGee sighed as he hung up the phone. It was almost ten. And it wasn't like Ziva couldn't take care of herself, but jeez was she late…
Gibbs looked calmly around Ziva's apartment, surveying the destruction he had previously only heard stories about. Considering what he knew Ziva was capable of, he was surprised it wasn't worse.
He drove back to Tony's apartment, no longer expecting that he would find Ziva in any of these places. But he was out of options.
He finally arrived back at his own house to see that Ziva wasn't there — of course. But this time, neither was her car.
McGee's head snapped up as the elevator dinged, right as he was picking up his phone to call Ziva again. And there she was.
Thank God.
"Ziva!" McGee jumped up without really thinking, moving around his desk and making his way over to the woman. "Where have you been, I've been calling—"
"I know, I got your messages. And you called twelve times, by the way."
"Oh. Sorry." He rubbed the back of his head, blushing a bit as he surveyed his co-worker. Her hair was hanging around her face in loose, limp curls, damp from what McGee could only guess was a shower. "You're late. We were worried."
"I overslept, McGee. It happens." Ziva went to sit down, hoping that could be the end of the discussion. As if McGee would let it go that easily.
"Ziva it's almost ten-thirty."
"I was tired, obviously. Let it go. I have been late before."
"Last time you were this late you it was because you were on the run from the FBI, NCIS, and Mossad," McGee reminded Ziva evenly.
"And thank you so much for bringing up that memory. Clearly I am not on the run from any of those organizations, I am sitting at my desk trying to work. So I repeat: let it go."
McGee sighed as he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere. He surrendered, deciding to go down to Abby and let her know there was no longer a crisis. And leaving Ziva completely alone in the bullpen when Gibbs arrived; she could almost see the steam billowing out of the man's ears.
"Where the hell were you?" He demanded as he stormed into the bullpen. Ziva stood up, staying calm as she answered.
"I overslept."
"I looked for you at my house, your apartment, and DiNozzo's apartment. Whatever you were doing, I know you weren't sleeping at any of those places. So let's try again: where were you?"
She should have known her lame excuse wouldn't work. "Fine. I went for a run this morning, I could not sleep. I…ended up running to the cemetery where…where Tony is buried."
If Gibbs had been the kind of man to express emotion, his mouth would have been on the floor. "Ziva that's twelve miles from my house."
"I am very aware…now." Gibbs just shook his head. "By the time I arrived back at your house it was after nine and I was exhausted. I rested for a little while and then took a shower. I…probably should have answered when McGee called."
"Ya think?"
"I apologize for that. It was just easier to hurry and get ready than to worry about explaining myself over the phone."
Before Gibbs could say anything, his phone buzzed. He grabbed it quickly, putting it to his ear. "Yeah, Gibbs." He listened for a moment. "Be right down." He hung up again, sweeping his eyes over Ziva for a moment. "Abby's got something, let's go."
Ziva followed him to the elevator.
"…So we narrowed it down. We have three possible places where he might strike next."
Ziva and Gibbs looked at the blinking dots on the computer screen map in front of them. "I personally think this one is most likely," Abby said, moving the mouse around the area she was talking about. "It's near about three bars, in case the guy decides he wants to get drunk before he goes out and kills someone."
"Then that's where we're starting, isn't it?"
Ziva looked pointedly at Gibbs, who sighed heavily. "Abby how soon can you have a microphone installed in a hair clip?"
"Ten steps ahead of you," Abby said as she sprang into action. Gibbs turned to Ziva, nodding towards the door, and they headed out into the hall.
"I don't like this," Gibbs said as soon as they were out of earshot of McGee and Abby.
"I can tell," Ziva replied dryly. "Gibbs…you can trust me. I will not mess this up."
"That's not what I'm worried about, Ziver."
Ziva pressed her lips together, thinking about the best way to put what she was about to say. "It will be okay, Gibbs."
The man raised a hand, resting it for a moment on Ziva's shoulder. "You're not allowed to die, Ziva. Don't forget."
"Do not worry."
It wasn't really a lie, Ziva reasoned as she watched Gibbs walk away. It would be okay — it really would be.
It just so happened that Gibbs' perception of okay might just be different from Ziva's.
Author's Note: Now we're getting into the part of the story that I'm excited about. Hopefully you all are too. Review please! — Sam
