Not sure about this one. It kind of popped into my head, but I'm not sure I've adapted my idea the way I wanted. Oh well, you might like it.
The bar was quiet, only a few small voices echoed in his ears as he sipped on his third drink. It may have just been the acoustics, but it made the almost empty room seem hollow. A place that was so often full and vibrant was nothing but a sad void, with very little occupying it. Nothing but a few clusters of people, scattered and meaningless, only adding to the faint buzzing he'd been hearing in his head all day. If a place could be hand-picked to symbolise his mood, this would be it. He was alone, lost, and could only seem to focus on one of his scattered and painful thoughts at a time.
Except he didn't want to focus on anything.
He'd been like a ghost since the incident, pale and haunted. He was present, but not there. Gibbs new it straight away, of course, and it didn't take him long to give him a steely glare of concern—or maybe it was just pity—and leave him alone with his thoughts after some strong words. And that was fine. He knew how to put up with his boss' version of tough love, and always expected it after all these years. It was after his partner returned from processing the scene that it all became too much.
He didn't know what to expect from her. Ziva could offer support and comfort through soft looks of concern and the occasional calming touch, or she could just as easily use a more Gibbs-like method, effectively sitting him on his ass with stern words and a tone that dared him to argue. In this instance she'd had to try both methods, such was his state of mind. Her lack of success was probably as familiar as his dismissive responses. This wasn't the first time he'd hurt her through his self-punishment. And every time he hurt her, in any way and for any reason, it only made him hate himself that bit more.
But if he was a failure as an NCIS agent, he may as well be a failure at being a good partner, too.
She was probably out there looking for him all evening. Hell, he knew she was. He could feel it, and wasn't sure whether he was thankful for still having that ability or not. What was the point in having such a deep connection to Ziva when all he did was let her down, disappoint her, and make her witness his inability to save people and do his job? His duty. As a cop, he should have taken the bullet himself, he should have acted faster. And he tried to—of course he tried to—but trying wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to stop a child from dying in his mother's arms.
The kid was five years old. Five.
He felt his eyes burn again and shook his head. The drink in his hand offered nothing but numbness. It wouldn't turn back time. It wouldn't lift the weight of guilt from his chest. It wouldn't bring back little Josh Dawson, or bring any comfort or closure to his parents and infant sister. Hell, it wouldn't even make the temptation to hand in his badge go away. But it would make him feel numb. That was all he wanted right then.
He let out a heavy sigh when he picked up her scent, and didn't let himself look at her when she slipped onto the barstool next to him. Her face and eyes and hair always flooded his body with warm tingles of familiarity and affection. He didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve the to feel his stomach flip as he watched her, or to let himself get lost in the depths of the brown pupils he was sure were being aimed at the side of his face.
He didn't deserve her.
She was waiting for him to speak, but he had no words that he hadn't already said. He thought she was in the same position, but would she be here if that was the case?
''Why are you not answering your cell?''
He swallowed some more whiskey, and placed the glass down on the bar with a little more force than necessary. ''Probably because it's in my car,'' he answered in a tone he knew she didn't deserve. He felt the self-loathing kick up a notch.
He saw her nod slightly. ''And where is your car?''
''Navy Yard.''
She was trying her best to remain patient, he could tell, and he definitely heard a quiet sigh leave her mouth as she looked away. ''This is the sixth bar I have been to,'' she told him, a slight waver in her voice. ''I searched the NCIS gym, all your usual quiet spots along the river and in the park. I even went to Gibbs' basement.''
He tilted his head with a shrug of his lips. ''I can't fault your dedication.''
''And I cannot fault yours,'' she said honestly. ''You seem determined to shut me out.''
He scoffed with no trace of genuine humour. ''Well, I learned from the best.''
Her head span back to him, and a part of Tony cursed himself for hurting her again. She seemed to be forgiving, though. For now, at least. ''This isn't you, Tony,'' she said softly, her hand moving to cover his free one. ''This isn't how you deal with these things anymore.''
He finished his drink in one large gulp, and grinded his teeth. ''It's been a while since I let any five-year-old kids die. This is the only coping mechanism I know for that,'' he shot the briefest glance to their hands and back, still not daring to meet her eyes. ''If you don't like it, leave.''
A sharp frown burned the side of his cheek. ''I am too scared to leave you alone.''
''Why? You scared I'll go off and get someone else's son killed?''
Another sigh. ''I am worried what you will do to yourself,'' she said a bit more harshly, before poking the top of his hand to emphasise her insistence. ''And it was not your fault.''
He rolled his eyes at her persistent use of that line. ''You ever heard the phrase about broken records, Ziva?''
''Yes, I have,'' she bit out. ''And right now you are a broken record on the verge of shattering.''
He simply shook his head, another futile attempt at dismissal. She allowed him a few moments of blessed silence—well, mostly silence. That damned buzzing still wouldn't stop. He signalled to the bartender for another refill. In the corner of his eye, he noticed the slump in Ziva's shoulders. He gave brief consideration to the idea that she might finally be giving up, and was surprised when a rather large part of his brain protested strongly to it. It would be good for her own sanity, but not his, and maybe he wasn't quite ready to lose his mind, after all. Her certainly wasn't ready to lose her.
''Are you joining me for a drink?'' he asked her eventually. ''Or are you going to keep trying to convince me I'm not a screw up?''
Her gaze shifted to the side of his face again. ''I am not trying to convince you anything,'' she insisted. ''I'm trying to remind you.''
''Of what?''
Her hand came to rest over his again. ''Of who you are.''
He swallowed again. ''A screw up?''
''No,'' she said quickly, her patience getting thinner. ''You are a man who saved two lives today. A man who has saved countless more lives in his career, including mine. You saved a marine's wife and two-year-old daughter from suffering the same fate as Josh did. That madman would have killed them all, Tony.'' Her gaze was burning hotter than ever on his face. ''You cannot save everybody, but you still saved them.''
His throat grew far too tight, but he still wouldn't look at her eyes. Couldn't.
''They had to watch him die, Ziva,'' he all but whispered. ''Right in front of their eyes.''
She took a deep and shaky breath. ''And they will never be the same. But he was trying to protect his sister. He was brave and he was loving, and that is how they'll remember him.'' The bartender slid another glass of bourbon his way, but she intercepted it. ''They certainly won't blame you for his death every time they think about him.''
He knew she had a point, but he wasn't ready to stop hating himself yet. ''I could've been faster,'' he told her. ''You would've been faster.''
''No, I wouldn't.''
The weight on his chest increased in pressure. ''Maybe it's a sign. Maybe I'm done.''
Ziva knew what he was implying—big surprise there—and he could feel the panic radiating off her like a nuclear generator. He'd been thinking about it all day. Thinking, but not saying. And now he'd finally let the words out he almost regretted it. Because, honestly, he still wasn't sure if the temptation to resign was fabricated or not, and he knew that his partner would be more than against the idea. He could almost hear her swallow as she slid the glass of bourbon out of both their reaches.
''Tony,'' she said, her thin voice forcing him to close his eyes against her obvious hurt. ''You cannot mean that.''
''I don't know!'' He yelled, ignoring the way the whole bar seemed to go quiet and look at him for a second. He ran a frustrated had over his face. ''I don't know what I mean, Ziva,'' he continued far more quietly. ''I don't know what to do with myself right now. I thought I would just get drunk on my own, but I can't even pull that off.''
Her hand somehow ended up on his shoulder. ''Tony, look at me.''
He shook his head, his eyes growing dangerously wet. ''I couldn't save him.''
''Look at me,'' she repeated.
''I've let you all down. Again. I've let you down, and pushed you away, and hurt you.''
She reached up and forcibly turned his head her way. He couldn't fight it any more, he had no choice but to meet her eyes this time. And there it was, that tingly warmth, despite everything else going on it was still there. She could still cast him under her spell, even when he did nothing but alienate himself all day. Even when she must hate him. Even when he let her down again and again and again—
''I have told you all I can about this,'' she said in a much gentler voice than he expected. ''I have tried to get the message in to your head all day, but you will not listen.'' She took another deep breath, and he resisted the urge to reach over and brush her hair behind her ear. ''You have not let anyone down, Tony, and you certainly have never let me down.''
If this continued, he thought he would probably end up sobbing. ''I've treated you like crap.''
She narrowed her eyes. ''You think I don't know what you're going through?'' she asked rhetorically. ''You think I do not understand why you want to drink yourself into a stupid?''
''Stupor.''
''I prefer mine,'' she shot back. ''I know what you are going through. But, if you refuse to talk to me about it, then I will leave.''
The idea of Ziva throwing in the towel both surprised him and terrified him, so all he could do was frown down at her. She didn't seem to be finished, though. ''But first, I just want to tell you how proud I am of you.''
His frown only deepened. ''Proud?''
''Yes,'' she nodded with sincerity. ''I am so proud of you, Tony.'' Her finger was moved to his lips to shush him before he could argue. ''I am proud because, even after all these years, you still care this much. You still care enough to be devastated when you cannot save everyone.'' Her eyes were wet now, too, and he felt the tingly sensation grow even more. ''You put everything you have into ensuring people's safety, and for that, we are all lucky to have you.''
Her words hit home, but he still felt low. Really low. ''It's hard, Ziva,'' he murmured. ''There's this weight—this dark, heavy weight—and it's seems to get heavier and heavier.''
Their hands gripped each other and she shook them. ''Then let's carry the weight together,'' she suggested softly. ''Let me help you, Tony. You do not need a bourbon bottle when you have me.''
Her eyes were pleading, insistent, and now he wasn't sure whether his heart was squeezing from the pain or simply from love. Maybe both. It didn't really matter, anyway, because he knew she was right. He needed her, even if he didn't think he deserved her. He needed her, and he got even angrier at himself for not realising that earlier. Because, really, if their positions had been reversed, would he not expect her to let him help? Well, maybe he wouldn't expect it, but he would at least want it.
''I don't want you to go,'' he told her.
Confusion etched her features. ''Hm?''
''You said you'd leave,'' he reminded her. ''If I wouldn't talk to you.''
That seemed to jog her memory. ''I did.''
''Can you stay? I promise to try and talk.''
After searching his eyes for a few moments, she nodded. ''Okay.''
He felt his face melt, and this time he did reach over and brush a few loose strands of her hair away from her face. ''I'm sorry, Ziva.''
She held his gaze again, and after a few seconds she caught him by surprise by stretching up to kiss him on the cheek. The action, and the softness of her lingering lips, made his whole body feel warm from top to toe. When she pulled back, he could have sworn fresh tears were gathering in her eyes. He knew they wouldn't fall, though.
''There is nothing to be sorry for,'' she assured him.
He still begged to differ, but the weight was already starting to feel lighter.
Again, not too sure how good that was. Too much cheesiness? Sorry, I'm just in a weird mood today. Hope you liked it. (And I will happily admit that Ziva's 'proud' speech was heavily inspired by one in Scrubs, but I thought it could work. Cheers, lovely peops
