Only one more after this. Thank you all for your continued support of this story.
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There are cases that creep along, undulating and twisting, forcing you to question fate, karma, black cats and cracks in the sidewalk. They test your investigative abilities, your resolve as a member of the human race, and your endurance, and until they are closed, your focus becomes singular. The rest of your world simply goes on, a machine of the living. Decisions are made without you; choices are evaluated without your input. And when you are able to break away from that myopic life to rejoin the continuum of all the others, things have changed, and you accept those changes or you don't. Doesn't matter. You weren't there.
Takes away a lot of pressure.
What Tony would have given for this case to have been one of those.
Instead, within three hours of meeting Gibbs and McGee at the crime scene, they had a suspect, a voluntarily given confession, the murder weapon and corroborating witnesses. The local LEOs took the shooter, and Gibbs' team took the rest. Done.
Back at the Navy Yard, reports were written up, piquant comments were made, boxed dinners were eaten, and by six o'clock that night they had called it a day.
By ten, with half the lights dimmed to conserve energy, only a skeleton team was left, a few janitors, and Tony. The span of windows that opened to the DC sky beckoned him.
Plumes of smoke and steam billowed above silhouetted buildings, and the deepening sky was plum-colored and bruised with darkness. Ensconced within the quiet of the base, one could almost forget that a half million people went about the business of living out there.
Almost.
Every twenty minutes or so, Tony checked his phone to see if the news had changed- "Tomorrow morning. Perhaps 10-ish?" And then he'd check his watch to count down the remaining hours before he'd be forced to tell her.
The soft, white twinkle of building lights. Radio towers that blinked red. The ochre haze that hovered above the city. And the quiet. Contemplative.
Then there was that damn Shirelles' song looping in his head. He had always considered it a catchy little tune, one that he'd used on a few occasions to tease his dates. Coy pillow talk from the DiNozzo playbook. However, standing alone at the window thinking of nothing and no one but Ziva, the sadness of the lyrics, so sugar coated by its two-and-three-four rhythm and its violin glissandos, became unmasked. "But will my heart be broken when the night meets the morning sun? I'd like to know that your love is love I can be sure of. So tell me now, and I won't ask again-Will you still love me tomorrow?"
Janitors somehow know not to vacuum a room occupied by a man standing silently at a window. There are other rooms to be cleaned. He can't stay there all night, can he?
It was cowardice. Plain and simple cowardice. The rationale "keep her calm" continued to scratch against Tony's conscience. As if Ziva were some damsel, some fragile young thing who had to be protected. Bette Davis in "Dark Victories."
But, it wasn't 1939, and Ziva, of all people, did not need protecting.
The muffled boom of jet turbines, and the growl of diesel engines. Car tires on grooved pavement that hummed like Detroit Angels, all discordant with deviations in speed.
And where, when he did go to her in the morning, where would he take her? Her apartment? His? What had her mind conjured up when she spoke of home?
Ziva had asked how the case was going sometime during the early afternoon, and he had texted back "Slow. TTYL." It had been slow. And boring. And not the least bit time consuming, a commodity he had presently craved. Busy meant back burner; meant didn't have to think about it; meant let someone else make the decision; meant maybe we'll all go blithely on.
When she texted "Will I see you tonight?" around nine, he didn't lie to her-"Probably not." She knew how cases played out. He counted on that kind of plausible deniability.
What were his options? Tell her, and from there the reaction branched off. Either she'd laugh it off, embarrassed, or she'd strangle him with an IV tube. Don't tell her, and that too split. Everyday for the next thirty to forty years he'd pretend that a marriage had occurred. Sure, there was the problem of falsifying tax statements and address labels. And, of course, all the people around them would have to sign off on the complicity. Minor details. Or, he could let the truth come to her, as it surely would. How could that possibly go wrong?...
Either way, his happiness, his utter joy to be open and honest about his feelings for this woman were about to crumble. At his feet, there would be the ruins of what could have been. What should have been. What will never be, and he ached.
She would never forgive him for allowing this to continue. Never. Too full of pride, of past heartbreaks. She was damaged goods, and so was he, and maybe together they made a whole, but now?
At 1 AM, the janitor had given up on courtesy and compassion and had kindly asked Tony to step aside while he vacuumed, which he did. For a while. But the darkness compelled him.
And still the DC skyline twinkled and chuffed, and heavy clouds full of rain and ice began to descend upon the city. Now and then drops would tap the window panes, a crystal drumbeat, a lonesome cadence.
"Oh, Ziva," he whispered to the winds, "will you still love me tomorrow?"
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She was restless. He was exhausted. She sat on the edge of the daybed, her toes nervously tapping. He sat in the bedside chair, his woven hands cantilevered beyond him, elbows drilled into his knees.
"How long does this need to take?" she asked, rocketing to her feet.
"As long as it takes," he said.
"I have my discharge papers, my next appointment, my schedule of medication," she said, counting off on her fingers, "my cards, and my belongings."
"Don't forget your flowers."
"Yes. And my flowers," she stated, but quickly softened. "I love my flowers. Thank you again for the lisianthus, Tony. I do not remember ever telling you about lisianthus."
It was almost comical, he thought, how fate conspired to throw them together. The day before, while waiting for his murder suspect, Tony had conducted a quick Google search on Israeli flowers, and a DC florist was able to have a bouquet delivered within the hour. That he had haphazardly chosen the one flower in the perfect shade of purple that had grown around Ziva's childhood home was remarkable, in a Billy Wilder sort of way.
The flowers were meant to be a celebratory present in lieu of his actual presence. The damn card should have read "Glad you're going home! Sorry I can't be there with you! Gotta kinda have a little 'Me' time before my world falls apart. Love, Tony."
The clock had run out; it had to be now.
"Ziva," he said, and the abrupt tone of his voice surprised even him.
"Yes?"
"When I take you home-"
"Who's ready to go home?" her surgeon said, whisking into the room.
Score another point for fate...
An hour later, they were walking into her apartment, and Ziva was tired but beaming. She sauntered through her home with an armful of delicate purple flowers, looking for the right spot to place them, and Tony followed behind, her bag in his hand. She decided on the bedside table near the window where they could get as much sun as possible and where she would see them when she woke up.
"McGee and Abby will be here soon," Tony said.
"I look forward to that," she said, running the pads of her fingers over the supple petals. Tony dropped her belongings next to the bed and helped her take off her coat.
Ziva turned to thank him. It might have been her excitement at being home; it might have been her own fatigue, but how had she not seen the weight in his movements? How had she missed his haggard expression, his dark eyes and unshaven face? The case, she resolved, had been the culprit, but there was more. He was quiet and careful, which was not Tony, and so she grabbed his hand, and said, "I am home, Tony. It is over. Come, lay down with me."
He liked seeing his hand in hers. He liked the feel of it. So, he kept on looking at their union because if he looked up into her obsidian eyes, he'd find a reason to not tell her. If he looked at her, he'd go to her bed, form his body to hers, and if he did that, he'd fall into the trap that maybe this could all work out. So he watched their fingers blend together, moving effortlessly against the others.
"Not right now," he said. "Ziva, where am I in this room?"
Ziva's brow gathered, taken aback, and she laughed, "Of course, you are here. Where else would you be?"
It wasn't the answer he hoped she'd come to. He'd hoped she would have looked around and noticed that there was no evidence of his life in the room. No clothes, no shaving items, no pictures. In a late-night, desperate plan to continue the charade, Tony had thought about dressing the room. Sprinkle his belongings through the apartment so she'd walk into the makings of her own delusions, and not be shocked to immediately learn that she'd conjured it all up in her mind. At least, that's how he had rationalized his plans. For her benefit...
But, of course, his plans were as consequential to it all as their wedding vows had been.
So he wedged a falsified chuckle from his gullet-she'd expect that-and tried a different angle. "I'm trying to, ya know, help you acclimate yourself to the surroundings. It's been a while since you've been home."
"I have not forgotten our home, Tony, if that is what you mean."
"Our home," he whispered, brushing his thumb over her soft hand. "Do me a favor, a little trick I learned from Dr. Kate's Sister," Tony said.
Ziva eyed him sidelong for a moment, then said with a laugh, "You will not blame me if I think you have ulterior motives."
"No other motives than helping you feel more at home," he said, hardly able to bring any lightness into his voice. "Close your eyes."
"This does not bode well," she said, still chuckling. "Fine." The corner of her mouth tucked into a mischievous grin before she closed her eyes.
His gut churned at that, knowing that the next time she'd open her eyes, that smile would be gone, and he had no reason to believe he'd ever be graced by it again.
"I am ready," she said. "Now what?"
"I'm going to ask you some questions," he said. "Kind of like placing you at the scene of the crime. Without the crime, of course."
"I understand."
"Okay, where's the bathroom?" Ziva pointed to the left, and Tony said, "Good. Ready for a more difficult one?"
"Slap me."
"Hit me," he corrected. "How many drawers on the dresser?"
"Ooh, that is more difficult," she said, pursing her lips. Her fingers blindly pointed to each drawer, and she confidently announced, "Six."
Tony had to turn around to count them, but assured her she was correct. The longer he could keep this going, the longer he could hold her hand. Maybe he could hold her hand through the next ten years, if he had enough banal questions. It was worth a try. "Back to the easier questions. Who's the most handsome man in the room?"
"When did Gibbs get here?" Ziva teased, and Tony laughed. Just another thing he'd miss...
"Nice. Well played, there, Agent David," he said. "Yeah. Okay, so far you're two for three. Bonus round: What color are my eyes?"
She smiled at that, and said, "Green."
"Good," he said, and took a deep breath. There would not be ten years of her hand in his. Not ten days-he'd already had that, and the memory of those days made his next question all the worse. Here's where it all ends, he thought. "Where do I live?"
"You live in Adams Morgan."
A fist of a knot clenched in his throat. He nodded. He was glad her eyes were still closed. Didn't want her to see how he was eroding.
But she did open her eyes, wide and scared. She searched his narrowed, downcast eyes for clarity and found none. "You live in Adams Morgan."
Tony swallowed hard, and forced out, "That's right."
Bees exploding from a disturbed nest, memories and realities careened against each other, all tumbling around her mind. "You do not live here."
There was still time to stop this, to continue the fantasy. But, no. He shook his head, ordered himself to do the right thing-look at her when you're breaking her heart!-and said, "No, I don't live here. I never have."
She felt dizzy, sick, but still she locked eyes with him. "I don't understand."
It was too painful seeing her fear, so Tony averted his eyes. He sucked in a tight breath, where it lodged in this throat. He tried to speak, but what could he say? His lips moved; his eyes blinked. Air exploded from him, and he said, "You always told me my...sense of humor would be the end of me. That one day it'd bite me in the ass. Well, it did." Tony scrubbed a hand over his aching brow, bit down so hard on his emotions that his molars threatened to crack. "The morning of your accident, I drove you to the hospital. I was joking around, saying you were having our baby, that if it was a boy, we'd name him Anthony, and if it was a girl, we'd name her Antoinette. We were laughing about how the nursery would be decorated with old movie posters. We were laughing. Well, I laughed. You were...drifting. Next thing I knew, you were in a coma." He could see her searching through her memory for this, how the line of her mouth tightened, how her brow tented. "Two weeks later, you woke up."
"What are you talking about?" she implored.
For Tony, this was the worst of it-his own culpability. From the inside out, he was beginning to fall apart. No. He wouldn't do that. That was selfish. He'd been selfish long enough. So, he pressed back his shoulders, looked her straight in the eye, like a man should do, and hoped she wouldn't see through his facade, one that only thinly disguised his trembling soul. "Ziva, I think I put that in your head. The idea that we... I think that's my fault."
"So, this was..." she started as she pinched her eyes shut, "this-thinking we are...were married has been a mistake?"
"No," Tony told her, chafing at the word. Paralyzed by self-defensive stoicism, Tony did not move, but he would not let her abuse herself. "No, not a mistake. A dream."
"Words, Tony," Ziva said to him, pelting him with a look that said he should not play such games. Not now. "A mistake, a dream-either way, I have been living a lie." When he remained motionless, when his heavy eyes and contracting jaws told her the rest of the journey toward the truth would necessarily be up to her, Ziva turned from him. There needed to be space between them, to breathe, to think. She moved to her dresser, placed her hands on its wooden top and forced herself just to be calm, a Herculean effort, when she felt boneless, held up by a million tiny electrical shocks.
"I do not know what to believe," she said, inspecting her own reflection in the mirror, finding equal parts sorrow and humiliation. "It was so real to me."
"I know."
"There was no reason to question it. I..." she said, lost in the tidal force of verisimilitude. And then her focus found his in the mirror, and it tore at him how lost, how shattered she looked. Still, he held back from her, when all he wanted to do was fly to her side, soothe her, like he had for all those weeks. She beseeched him with her troubled eyes, saying, "What else do I not know?"
"Ask me anything."
Of all the questions swirling inside her mind, two seemed to cause the most pain, so she locked her tearful eyes on his, and asked, "Do I love you?"
Tony sealed shut his lips, muting a cry perched in his throat.
"Tony. Do I love you?" she asked again.
"I don't know," he whispered, because that had been his greatest fear, and he supposed he had been too afraid to ask. "I'd like to think you do, but I can't be sure."
"Do..." she began, but these were the hardest words. Her chin quaked, and he could scarcely breathe. When she finally spoke, it was not her voice. It was a voice he had never heard before-afraid and small. "Do you love me?"
"Oh, yeah," he told her, and found his carefully constructed yet timorous stoicism slipping. The sight of her wavered through tears he would not let fall. He would show her that much respect, at least. "Oh, yeah. Since the day I met you. Well, not that first day. Kate was dead and Ari was out to kill Gibbs, but soon. And every day since. Yeah, I love you, Ziva. Always will." Please hear that, he prayed, a silent, desperate plea.
She closed her eyes and tears streaked across her skin. "I feel so foolish."
"No, no," he said, unable to stand by any longer. He rushed to her, his arms cloaking her. He kissed hair, and he watched her in the mirror, to bear witness, as he knew he ought, to her suffering.
Her body shook with tears, and he held her tight, pressing his face to her warm neck, feeling her skin, her pulse.
And then he was tumbling back, holding his jaw. And she cocked back again. Tony threw out his hand to shield himself, but her fist screamed through the air, and then he was on his knee, and his head was swimming and dull, and she hit him again, and he tasted blood.
"Stop it," he tried to say.
"And you let me believe it!" he heard her scream somewhere above him.
"Stop it," he said again, scrambling to regain his bearings. The room pulsed, but he lifted himself. "Just stop it."
"Why? You do not wish to be hurt?" she cried, spitting and black with retribution. A bullet of a fist sliced through the air, grazing his head. "You do NOT get to choose! Just like I did not choose!" Again she flung her hand toward him, but it was caught in his steal grip.
"Stop it!" he demanded, ducking and capturing a second fist launched toward him. "Dammit, Ziva, stop!"
"Why?" she demanded, pinned down, seismic with fury and sorrow. "Why should I stop? Do you not deserve this pain?"
"Yes! Yes, I do!" he growled, bearing his blood-covered teeth. He contained her and forced her to listen to his words. "I deserve every bit of it, but you can't do this! You'll hurt yourself!"
"Now you care? Now you are concerned for me?" she bit back, wrestling to be released from his hold. "Where was that concern when I woke up thinking we were married?"
"I was right there!" he cried, throwing himself back from her, guarding himself from further attack. "I was! And we'll talk about it, I promise, but right now," he said, and breathed, hoping she'd do the same. "Right now, you have to calm down. You're still healing."
Her hand flew out, one finger pointing decisively at him. Flooded eyes lacerated him with their pain and frenzied acrimony. "Get. Out. Get out!"
"Ziva-"
"Now!" she screamed, clamping her head between her hands.
He ran from the room, hoping his absence would calm her. He stumbled into the kitchen and threw water on his face. Panting for air, he pressed a handful of paper towels to his split lip, to his bleeding nose. He washed out his mouth the best he could, and the basin ran pink with his blood.
And from her room, silence, which disquieted him further. Still shaking from the attack, but more so from the ruin of their lives-apart, together-Tony pressed against the wall and hoped she wouldn't hear his own tears. He slapped a hand to his eyes, bruised and just starting to swell.
"Ziva? Tony?"
Tony's hand fell to his side. "Great," he said, and he leaned over the sink once more, hiding his sorrow from them. He held the crimson-stained towel to his nose, and threw a handful of water on his lip.
"I hear the water," Tim's voice said. "I think they're in here." Rounding the corner into the small kitchen, their happy faces changed the moment Abby and Tim saw Tony. They stared at him, mouths agape, until their better senses kicked in.
"Oh, my god, Tony!" Abby said, making him stand up so she could assess his injuries.
"I'm fine," he said, though his head pounded and his stomach roiled.
"You told her," Tim said, taking in the lip that still dribbled blood, distended and raw, and the nose that continued to bleed. Tony's incredulity was all the conformation Tim needed, and so he scowled, not knowing who deserved his pity more. "Well, you need to sit down," he said, ushering Tony to a chair.
Abby ripped a dishtowel from the counter, a handful of ice from the freezer, and made a compress. She peeled Tony's hand from his face and replaced it with the ice pack. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it didn't help. "I'm gonna go check on Ziva," she told him.
"Good idea," he whispered.
Tim sat across from him, watching his friend, whose head slung back, one hand holding a towel to his nose, the other holding ice to his lip. "You wanna-"
"Not now, McGee," Tony said.
There was rustling in the bedroom, but neither men decided to check. Abby had a way with Ziva. She'd know what to say, or how to just look at her. Tim felt entirely inadequate in that department. What could he say to his friend, who sat adjacent to him, shaking his head, some inner monologue playing out within his mind?
"Tony," Tim said. He had to say something...
Tony sat up, pulled the towel from his nose and saw the bleeding had been stanched. He balled up the paper towel and threw it toward the garbage can. Handing the ice pack to Tim, Tony said, "Tell Abby thanks." He stood up with a groan, his eyes screwed shut.
"Ton, you should probably sit down," Tim said.
"I should probably get out of here," Tony said. He moved from the kitchen to the door, holding himself up along tables, backs of chairs, ledges. Once near the front door, he caught an image of himself in a framed photo of Ziva as a child. I'm sorry, Zi, he thought, touching his swollen lip.
A glint of gold drew his attention, and it felt like the final, defining blow. He reached up, unclasped the necklace he had been wearing for nearly a month, and pooled it on the top of her side table.
His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob. "Take care of her," he said without looking back at Tim.
"We will," McGee told his friend, watching the door close behind him.
