Tony tries to stop fighting.
Whenever he sees Ziva in Angelina, he forces himself to keep his eyes on her rather than look away. He makes observations such as, "That's your momma's smile," and feels as if he's shared something with his daughter despite the fact that she has no comprehension of his words.
He searches for things in the apartment that hold some sort of reminder of Ziva, but since his coping strategy had initially been to get rid of every object attached to a memory, he doesn't find much. At work, he goes through her abandoned and now frequently avoided desk. Mostly there are files, pens, office supplies. In fact, the only personal belongings he finds are in a bottom drawer: hair clips, bobby pins, deodorant, a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Tony picks up the book and flips through it. A piece of paper falls from between the pages and drifts into his lap. When he turns it over, he is unprepared for what he sees: it is a picture of Ziva and Angelina, clearly taken during that first week. The good week. The newborn is sleeping in her mother's arms, and Ziva gazes at her with tired yet warm eyes.
Tony drops the photo like a hot potato. Her image invites a strange bout of déjà vu, because there were things that happened in this spot and at this same time of night, after the bullpen's lights have gone down and most other agents have left.
Well, then I am grateful to have someone in my life who is just as romantically dysfunctional as I am.
It was about a year later that the two of them began toeing the line between friends and more, and it was here that he finally took the step that sealed the deal. Heart pounding, palms sweating, he had crossed to her desk and quietly asked permission to kiss her.
She didn't verbally grant it. Just wrapped her arms around his neck and met him halfway.
If he hadn't suddenly decided to stop running from his feelings, he wouldn't be sitting in this chair right now, because she would be. And he'd be across from her, and they'd be nothing more than best friends, and everything would be fine.
The feelings flooding him are exactly what he previously spent so much time and energy squelching. He's tempted to do it again, but remembers what Ducky said and closes his eyes instead. Soon there is a burning sensation behind his lids. He rests his head on her desk and allows the saltwater to overflow.
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"And that is Robert Wagner. He's younger in this movie, but nowadays he looks just like your grandpa. It's kinda freaky."
Angelina stares at him, unmoved, an unwilling participant in this film lesson. Then she climbs over his lap ("Oof") and reaches for the teddy bear at his feet. He laughs at her plump hand flailing in the air before he has mercy on her and grabs the bear himself. She buries her face in its fur.
"Are you giving your bear a kiss?" Tony asks. She presses it to his cheek and makes a 'mwah' sound. "Oh, your bear's giving me a kiss. Thank you."
With a grin, she cuddles against him. His arms find their way around her tiny body and he thinks back to the other night, the night he pondered the fact that all this could have been avoided. Why hadn't it occurred to him that 'all this' includes Angelina?
"I love you," he tells her. "I'll never regret you."
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Angelina's first Christmas, at four months old, had been a drab non-affair. There was a tree and there were (unwrapped) presents, but by the 25th of December, Tony had long given up on getting Ziva into the holiday spirit. He spent that morning echoing her silence and tearing through the packaging of brand new toys.
Despite the hole in their family and in his heart, he is determined to make sure that this holiday is not a repeat of the last one. He holds no illusions of it being perfect, but at Thanksgiving with the team he asks, somewhat shyly, if the others would mind getting together at Christmas, too.
Of course, Abby jumps on that and starts making plans right there in Ducky's kitchen. Tony glances around, unsure if she is speaking for all of them. Each of his teammates nods, and he is relieved, then ashamed for doubting that they would want to be with him and Angelina that day.
The fear of being left behind is always lingering in the back of his mind now.
He gets another tree, this one not dissimilar to the puny sprout in the Charlie Brown Christmas special, and sets it up in the corner of his living room. It is decorated with lights and no ornaments; he threw those out with Ziva's things. Still, it adds a certain element of cheer to the room, and Angelina enjoys waving her hands in front of the illuminated bulbs. She also doesn't mind when he attempts to make sugar cookies, fails, calls Abby to ask for help, and ends up with six batches of perfect iced snowmen. After listening to Angelina say "'umm" while chomping on the cookies and eventually having to take them away from her ("Nooo!"), he suspects that he'll be paying for some filled cavities in the future.
"Give me one of those," Abby orders as he walks by with the plate, and when he holds it out, she grabs two. "I did good."
"I helped," he says.
"All you did was turn on the oven. Your kid was more helpful than you were."
Tony gapes in mock outrage. "What the hell did she do?"
"She handed me stuff! Well, not really the stuff I needed… still, she made a good effort." Abby gives a nod of finality, bites the head off of a snowman, and holds the body out to Angelina.
"No," Tony says, plucking it from her hand. "She's had too many already."
Pouting, Abby snatches her cookie back. "Come on, Dad. Since when do you care about sugar intake?"
"Since I'm the only one around to make sure she doesn't get sick."
Both of them lapse into a surprised silence at the words than have fallen from his mouth, but Tony refuses to let it drag on too long. "You can give her one-" He holds up a finger to emphasize his point. "One more bite. I don't want her on a sugar high at bedtime."
With a victorious grin and quite a bit of fanfare, Abby presses another bit of cookie into a grasping hand. Then she surveys the plate Tony has placed on the counter and the cookie sheets cluttering his kitchen table. "You've got enough to last until Christmas."
He collapses into a chair, suddenly realizing that he's been on his feet for four hours. "Hope so. I'm too exhausted to make any more."
"You didn't actually make any," Abby reminds him. She sits down as well and ruffles Angelina's hair. Tony looks away as the unwelcome image of Ziva being here with them forces itself into his mind. And then he recalls past Christmases that they'd shared as a couple, those that preceded Angelina. There were only two, and during the latter, he's figured out, she'd been pregnant. But they hadn't known that until a couple weeks later; on Christmas itself, he presented It's a Wonderful Life and she taught him how to play dreidel and it was a good day.
As if reading his mind, Abby sighs. "I miss Ziva."
He doesn't hesitate. "Me, too."
"What are you gonna tell Angelina when she's older? About her mom?"
Tony's original plan had been to never mention Ziva, to keep her memory locked away in an off-limits portion of his heart. Since he's taken Ducky's advice and allowed himself to feel again, though, he's begun to wonder if that's a good idea. Doesn't Angelina have the right to know about her mother- and why she's no longer here? "I really don't know."
Angelina taps his knee. He looks down and she says, "'Kee?"
"No more cookies." He chuckles. "But maybe I'll teach you dreidel."
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Christmas Day with the team is fun and distracting and much closer to what Tony hopes Angelina's future celebrations will look like. They don't have a real dinner; it's a strange conglomeration of rolls, popcorn, leftover Halloween candy ("Really, McGee?"), and, of course, the snowman cookies. By the time everybody goes home well into the evening, the floor of his apartment is covered in wrapping paper and empty paper plates, but he feels satisfied, like he's accomplished something.
It's not until Angelina is asleep and he has crawled into his cold bed that his mind drifts to Ziva. He wonders where she is tonight, what she did today. He wonders how often she thinks of them.
He wonders if she ever considers coming back.
After an indeterminable amount of time, he turns onto his other side and opens the top drawer of the bedside table. He can't see anything, but he fumbles in the dark until his fingers fold around the edge of the letter she left, the letter he hasn't looked at since they stopped searching for her.
He takes a moment to brace himself, then flips on a lamp and unfolds the crinkled paper. It is not sacred; every member of the team scoured it for clues on the day she disappeared. They have all read it over and over again. But as he scans the words now, he feels as if this is a private conversation he's having with her, as if she's foreseen his questions and has provided responses.
Why did you do this?
The two people I love the most do not deserve to be caught up in the things that haunt me.
What am I supposed to do without you?
Have a family, Tony, and be happy.
What if I never stop loving you?
There is no answer to that one.
He reaches the end, starts over, and now it is Gibbs' voice that he hears. Reread that and tell me she's selfish. Doesn't it say that she loves you and that baby?
A tear appears on the paper, causes the ink in an a to run, before he even realizes it has fallen. Tony puts the letter down and cranes his head back to stare at the ceiling.
"Damn it, Ziva," he sighs. "I don't regret you either."
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