A/N: Let's say Season Three...
Tony sat in the dark blue Charger, waiting impatiently and watching—both for the dirtbag killer they were hoping would show up in his old neighborhood, and for Ziva. She had called to say she would be late and would meet him at the surveillance point. That was an hour ago.
His phone rang, and he cursed when he saw an NCIS squad room number instead of his partner's name.
"Ziva there yet?" came Gibbs' bark, sans greeting.
Tony winced at his angry tone. "Not yet, Boss."
It had better be a damned good excuse, Ziva, he thought. Like someone's dead. Or someone will be dead. "You really think French's gonna show up here?"
Gibbs made a little growly noise that told Tony he knew exactly what he was doing. But he said, "This was the place he lived the longest. He's got family here."
Tony snorted, spotting a figure in the distance but noting it was an old woman. "That'd be reason enough for me to run screaming in the opposite direction."
"Yeah, well, maybe French has an actual relationship with his family."
There was a short silence, and Gibbs kicked himself for taking out his frustration at Ziva on Tony. He knew the holidays were hard on his agent, having to hear all about everyone's plans with their families. And it being December 24 made it a bad time to toss out such a thoughtless, hurtful comment.
Gibbs was considering actually apologizing when Tony said, "Sucks to be him, then. Bet my Christmas gift list is a hell of a lot shorter. Speaking of which, thanks again, McGee, for the gloves. These are warm as hell. Must have been expensive, too. You didn't have to get me anything."
"Thank Mr. Gemcity," McGee said over the speakerphone with a smile.
"Either way," Tony said. "Thanks for giving them to me early. It's like 5 degrees out here."
"Are you two done?" Gibbs growled. Tony heard a slight crash and felt bad that McGee was stuck tracking cell phones while Gibbs went over financials on their suspect to try to guess his next move. Being trapped in the office with an angry, frustrated Gibbs was never fun—and Tony knew McGee had canceled holiday plans with his family. It's why Tony volunteered to freeze his ass off, hoping Gibbs would let McGee go for the night. So much for that brilliant plan.
"Done, Boss," Tony said, fighting a sigh.
"I'm coming down there," Gibbs said.
The unspoken "I don't want you facing this maniac alone" would have been kind of touching—except that Tony wasn't sure he wanted to face a furious Gibbs alone, either. He saw a figure jogging toward him and breathed that sigh—in relief—at Ziva's familiar green coat flapping in the freezing night.
"Boss?" he asked, hoping he hadn't hung up on him.
"What?"
"She's here," Tony said, hoping he was doing a good enough job masking his relief—both at seeing his partner and realizing he wouldn't have to face Gibbs, for a while anyway.
Ziva got in the car—along with about a gallon of some strong perfume that made Tony's stomach flip over.
"What the hell?" he cried, his eyes immediately watering as she slammed the door. He almost wished she had left it open because freezing to death was better than the overwhelming scent.
"I am sorry," she half-yelled, not sounding exactly contrite. "I spilled my stupid perfume this morning. A great way to start a day that ended with some idiot slamming into my car just outside my apartment. My parked car. The moron had the nerve to wish me a 'Merry Christmas' after giving me his information." She scoffed in disgust. "You stupid Americans and your insular thinking!"
"Don't you mean stupid Christians?" Tony ventured, coughing and trying not to gag on the smell.
She glared at him and he let it go. It was a fight he would not win. Besides, his eagle eyes picked out another figure about halfway down the dark alleyway. It was a male, and a glance to Tony's right told him Ziva had seen the man, too.
"That our guy?" he asked, squinting into the darkness. He wiped his eyes to get the water out of them.
She shook her head. "No. Too small, too old."
He glanced at her again.
"What?" she snapped, seeing the look.
"Nothing," he said. "Sorry."
She huffed out a breath and looked at him for a long moment. "Tony, I am sorry," she said finally, drawing his eyes to hers for a quick second before they went back to scanning the alleyway.
"It's no problem," he said.
She rolled her eyes even though they were both intently watching for their suspect. "You do not even know for what I was apologizing."
"Nice job not ending your sentence with a preposition," he commented. He smiled at her glare. "What? I figure I spend enough time correcting you that I should compliment you, too, when you get it right. But maybe I'm just another moron in the holiday spirit."
She studied his face, unsure if he was being serious or not. "That is what I am apologizing for."
"Oh, fail on that one," he murmured, not looking at her.
"Tony, I am serious," she said. "It is Christmas Eve, and while I do not celebrate, you probably had plans for tonight that did not involve killers and smelly, cranky partners. For that, I am sorry."
He didn't tell her he didn't have plans for tonight because he didn't want to further upset her—mostly because he felt bad about her car. He knew she loved the vehicle, even if she drove it as though trying to wreck the thing at every turn. "Don't worry about it, Ziva. I've got plenty of Christmas cheer for the both of us."
She eyed him, thinking it a testament to his undercover skills that she almost believed him and his happy tone. He glanced at her, reading her features to see if she had bought his plastic-as-a-fake-Santa sentiment. As his eyes came forward again, he winced at the sudden stab of pain in his left temple.
Shit.
"Are you all right?" she asked, watching the blood drain from his face. "Tony?"
He breathed through the searing pain that had popped up like a Whac-A-Mole and closed his eyes when it felt like someone tried to club the furry game-mole into submission. Big mistake, he thought, gagging on the cloying smell as he breathed deeply, as if trying to replace the pain with oxygen.
"Tony?" came Ziva's voice again, and he put a hand to his stomach, hoping he could force it back down out of his throat.
She sounded worried, and he forced himself to speak. "No better time to share a secret than the season of giving," he panted, dismayed at how hard it was to talk already. Migraines brought on by smells were often some of the worst, but he'd never had one spring up this quickly. He had also never sat in a freezing car with an angry Israeli and a bucket of perfume, though.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, an impossible shade of panic creeping into her tone.
"I get migraines," he admitted, sneaking a glance at her and nearly throwing up at the pain of opening his eyes even in the darkened car. She mostly looked confused. Goddammit. What the hell's the Hebrew word for "headache so intense I want to die"?
"Headache?" she asked, and he heard her confusion even though his eyes were mercifully closed again.
"Times twenty, with nausea, dizziness, shaking, sensitivity to light and sound," he rattled off, but the string of words left him gasping for breath. "Hurts so bad I want to shoot myself."
He reached down for the syringes he kept strapped to his ankle and flinched when she grabbed his arm in a death grip and gasped, "Tony, don't!"
He couldn't help it. He laughed when he realized she thought he was going for his backup weapon. It turned into coughing, though, which made his head feel like it was going to explode. He pulled the needle out slowly and showed it to Ziva.
"Oh," she said, watching him tear an alcohol wipe open with his teeth and uncap the syringe—all with his eyes closed. "You've had these for a long time," she said.
"Since I was a kid," he answered around the paper in his mouth.
She watched him pull up his shirt and inject himself, wincing when he didn't as the needle slipped into his skin. She plucked the needle from his shaking fingers, and he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment at showing this much weakness in front of her. He didn't have too much time to dwell on it, though, because the next wave of pain hit him hard. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood so he wouldn't moan in sheer agony.
"What can I do?" she whispered, obviously remembering his list of symptoms.
"Shhhhh," he groaned, but stopped himself. "Sorry. Call Gibbs? Can't leave you … here … alone," he panted, wishing desperately that he could curl up in the backseat—or on the freezing, filthy ground. He realized he would give anything not to be upright at the moment.
"Okay," she whispered, and he heard the door open, the soft click like a kick to the head.
"Where…?"
"Outside, so I don't hurt you by being loud," she said, still sounding wholly unnerved by his condition.
" 'S freezing, Ziva."
"Do not be silly. I can handle it."
He felt shame burn the tips of his ears in stubborn defiance of the cold coming through the open door. He allowed himself a quick moan as soon as she shut it, but then forced his eyes open to make sure she hadn't heard it.
And saw her taking off down the alley after their fleeing, murderous dirtbag.
Shit.
He shot out of the car, only to have to stop and lean against the icy-cold hood to steady himself. He allowed himself two deep breaths before he ran after her, pulling his cell as he staggered. He had to hold the phone an inch from his face and squint to hit the right speed dial, and by the time he managed that, he realized he had slumped against the dirty brick wall of the alley.
He forced himself to move, even if he had to keep a hand on the wall. His stomach was jumping like it was full of grasshoppers, and the dizziness threatened to take him down with every step, but he kept moving. French was a big guy and had shown he didn't mind taking lives so Tony forced his eyes half-open even though the pain was close to unbearable.
"Yeah, Gibbs," came a voice in his ear and he choked back a scream.
"Tony?" Gibbs' voice was a thousand times softer. "You okay?"
"Migraine. Ziva chasing French. Following her," he gasped, not caring that he sounded like English was his fifth language.
"Do not follow her," Gibbs barked, and Tony about passed out. He must have made some sort of pained noise because Gibbs lowered his voice and whispered, "Get back in the car and wait for us, DiNozzo. You're too vulnerable like this to be out in the cold chasing a murderer."
Tony didn't answer him. He was too busy dropping to his knees and puking into the icy alley. He felt his vision go black as he forced himself to his feet to start moving down the alley. He leaned heavily against the wall until it had passed and realized he'd left his phone on the ground. Too late to pick it up. Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Don't pass out.
He knew he was taking a chance going after Ziva, but the crime scene photos of French's dead wife were all he saw when he closed his eyes—which was often as he felt his way down the alley. Alana French's head had been caved in and they had found no blunt object at the scene. The thought of the big man slamming Ziva's dark curls into the pavement hard enough to do that kind of damage spurred him on even though he wanted to collapse, curl up and beg for the agony to end.
A shriek from an adjacent alley made him open his eyes for good and sprint the rest of the way toward the sound. Tears leaked from his burning eyes, and he wiped them away with a quick swipe just before drawing his weapon and sneaking a peek around the wall.
Shit.
Ziva was locked in a struggle with the huge man and Tony flinched, both at the vicious blow she delivered and his own pain. He slumped back against the wall for a second to compose himself, to try to quell the shaking in his hands. His Sig quivered as if afloat in a sea of jello and he cursed silently. He swallowed his rising nausea, took a deep breath, choked back a moan and stepped around the wall.
The bullet grazed his left side, just above his hipbone, and he dove for cover, but not before taking in the scene in the alley. French had Ziva held against his body like a human shield, her gun in his meaty hand.
"Go away!" French yelled, his voice insane. "Or I'll put a bullet in her pretty little head."
"No he will not," Ziva shouted, and rage tore through him as he heard her grunt in pain. "He would have done it already."
Tony's agonized brain sped through his options as he pulled another syringe from his ankle and jammed it into his belly, ignoring both the bloody gouge in his side and the alcohol wipes. Screw an infection. It's better than a bullet to the head. I know which one's more likely to kill me. He had no idea what overdosing on the medication would do to him, but he didn't care. He needed only to quell the shaking long enough to take a shot—to get Ziva safe.
He pulled in a shaky breath, barely registering the fire in his side where the bullet had taken out a chunk of flesh. Steady, calm, you can do this. He won't wait much longer. It's a miracle he's waited this long.
Tony swallowed hard, wiped the tears from his face with what were mercifully less tremulous hands and cast a prayer heavenward on this cold, starry Christmas Eve.
He stepped into the alley.
He locked eyes with Ziva.
He saw her nod slightly.
He saw French's arm extending.
He saw the weapon leveling squarely at his chest.
He pulled the trigger.
Tony and French hit the dirty pavement at about the same time: French with a neat hole in his forehead; Tony gasping and shaking, both in relief and pain.
His eyes tightly shut against the searing agony, Tony flinched when Ziva's cold hands started their frantic run over his body in search of a wound. " 'M okay," he murmured, sounding dazed and contented at the same time.
He flinched when her hands found the graze. "No, you are not," she whispered, pressing her hand over the bloody wound. "This is from the first time he shot at you," she said, sounding amazed and angry and … guilty?
"Mmmm, yeah," Tony said, fighting the blackness and hoping he hadn't killed himself with an overdose. Oh the irony. Nah, I'll be fine. Always am. "Not worried about that, though."
"What are you worried about?" she asked, knowing there were a lot of options, including a severe migraine and a gunshot wound. And Gibbs. He was always an option.
"I could have shot you," he said, his voice low and pained for a multitude of reasons.
"No, you would not have shot me," she said calmly, her hand still clamped over his bleeding side. "You would not have taken the shot. You would have found another way."
His eyes came open at that. He squinted up at her. "You trust me that much?"
She made a rude little noise, and he flinched. "You distrust yourself that much?"
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and smiled despite his pain. "Hey, Ziva?"
"Yes, Tony?"
"Merry Christmas."