Chapter Eleven

24 October, 2009

"A stiff apology is a second insult.
The injured party does not want to be compensated because he has been wronged;
he wants to be healed because he has been hurt."

G.K. Chesterton

"Hope is the dream of a soul awake."

French Proverb

Tony DiNozzo had never been so glad of a kitchen with an actual door on the hinge as he was when he stepped into Abby and McGee's kitchen and closed the door behind him. In a week it's going to be McGee and McGee's kitchen… the thought came at him out of nowhere. Weird. He set down the dirty dishes he'd carried in with him down on the counter. Ianto Jones Harkness was already sorting the silver in the dishwasher, spoons with spoons, forks with forks, knives with knives… the guy was more anal retentive than McGee.

"Well that was some breakfast," he said aloud, mostly trying to make conversation with the prim little Welshman. It sounded as if, in the bedroom, Abby had put on some very loud music. (Tony couldn't begin to guess what band it was, they all sounded pretty much the same to him, but he knew it was her pissed off music.)

"Quite, yes," the other agreed about breakfast having been rather 'interesting'. He'd slipped off his suit coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He gave over a menacing glower when Tony tried to start loading dishes into the washer.

"What? I'm just trying to help."

Ianto rolled his eyes. "You're supposed to scrape the food off into the bin first. Rinsing helps, too," he added.

"Oh. Right. I knew that," Tony fibbed; he presumed that by 'bin' the other meant trash, so he toed the little garbage can over towards them and began scraping the remains of breakfast into it. "What are you, anyway?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I just meant… you're in here doing dishes, when your… while Harkness is in the bedroom with Abby and Ziva…" he couldn't help the mental picture that that painted just by the way it sounded, even though he knew that nothing hinky was going on...still… suddenly he realized the young Welshman had figured out what he was thinking and felt his ears going red again.

Ianto just smirked. "Jack is more than capable of handling Abby and Ziva—and Timothy," he said in the sort of tone Tony would have expected his partner, not him.

Ianto chuckled at the American's expression. "I realize I may not look it, but how do you think I keep up with him if I'm not at least half as bad as he is?" he inquired. "Relax, I'm not going to start hitting on you," he assured him—Tony was looking quite apprehensive. It was amusing, really. He could see why Jack had so much fun flirting with him.

"Good. I don't go that way. I'm straight." Tony sounded entirely too defensive.

Ianto hid his smirk. "Nobody's perfect," he murmured half under his breath.

Tony just frowned. Then, "How do you do it, anyway?"

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

"I meant… him… doesn't it bother you the way he… you know…"

"What? That Jack will flirt with anything that moves? It used to bother me," he admitted. Once he had the silver rinsed, separated and loaded, he began stacking in the plates that his companion was doing a less than stellar job of scraping off. Tony, it seemed, was a bit like Jack in the kitchen. He refrained from commenting. But then he looked up at the other as a thought struck him. Tony didn't remind of him of Jack. He reminded him of Owen Harper. He smiled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Hey, you said you weren't going to start—"

The Welshman laughed, "I'm not trying to flirt with you, I promise." Any more than I ever would have flirted with Harper, thank you very much, he mused. "It suddenly occurred to me that you remind me of somebody I used to work with."

"Oh? Was he devastatingly handsome? Or just amazingly brilliant?"

Ianto snickered. "No, handsome and brilliant are Jack's job," he told him.

"Yeah, I guess he wouldn't like the competition, would he?"

"Not really, no. But to answer your question, it did used to bother me that Jack flirts the way he is. "Now I find it flattering."

"How's that?" Tony wanted to know.

"Think about it. He flirts with everything—and I do mean everything. What's more, he can usually get what he wants when he's serious about it. But it's me he goes home with."

"You don't worry about him cheating on you?" he asked, because seriously, if he'd been Tim or Ianto earlier when Abby hugged Jack like that, he would have been as jealous as Hell, especially after learning that Harkness had a kid, which could only mean he liked women, too. (Besides what else could 'he flirts with everything' mean?)

"Tony, if you can't trust the person you're with, there's absolutely no basis for any kind of a relationship, marriage or otherwise. It doesn't matter if you're a man or a woman, heterosexual, bisexual, or gay—or like Jack. Animal, vegetable or mineral, I'm not kidding," he answered the unspoken question in the other man's eyes. "The point is, there's no room for love—real love—unless there's friendship and trust first. I love Jack. I trust him. He trusts me."

Tony stopped what he was doing a moment, his mind flitting back to Jeanne Benoit. She'd trusted him. He'd lied to her, used her to get to her father. It had been part of an undercover operation, he was never supposed to get involved emotionally, he wasn't supposed to fall in love with her. But sometimes the heart had a mind of its own. She'd never forgiven him. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right about that," he admitted, even though he would rather not have.

The kitchen door creaked open. It was Tim's father. "We ah…we're going to head out. Would you tell Tim I'll call him later?"

"Of course, Sir. Do you need—?"

Mike waved aside his proffered assistance with a tight-lipped smile. "We can see ourselves out. Thank you—both of you. I ah… " his gaze seemed to rest longer on Ianto than Tony. "Sometimes weddings bring out a lot of strong emotions."

The Welshman nodded. "I'm sure Timothy and his mother will work things out."

"You're very gracious to say so," Mike offered up a last smile and made his exit.

"Think we oughta check on Abby?" Tony asked after he was gone.

"You're either braver than me, or more suicidal."

He blinked, then laughed. "Right. I think there were a few more dishes left on the table."

Ianto nodded again and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Abby flung herself into the bedroom and dove for her CD rack. Jack was in the room and then Tim by the time she had the disk she wanted into the player, the volume cranked up loud enough to really annoy the neighbours—not that that was her intent, she liked her neighbours, she just didn't want to have to think because if she started thinking, she would end up thinking really bad things. So instead, she ignored both Timmy and Jack and grabbed Bert, her stuffed hippo (the one that made the farting noises—noises that were by and large drowned out by the music blaring out of the stereo) and curled up on the bed with him hugged up close to her knees.

Jack turned down the music to a more reasonable volume and sat down on the edge of the bed near her.

"Go away," she told him. Predictably, he ignored her.

Tim sat down on the other side of her. "Abby, I—" he began, even though he didn't know what to say to her. But then Ziva was in the room and he turned to face her, instead. "Ziva I am sorry, I'm so sorry. I swear, my mother isn't normally like that, I don't know what's wrong with her—"

"I'll tell you what's wrong with her," said Abby, glaring at him, anger and hurt all mixed up together in her green eyes. "She hates me!" She looked at Jack. "She hates me," she repeated, as the tears trickled down her cheeks.

He didn't answer, he just leant in and laid his hands over hers.

Ziva opened her mouth, but did not seem to know what to say to Tim any more than Tim knew what to say to Abby. It didn't matter, Abby wasn't done talking:

"And what's with the 'Ziva I'm so sorry,'?" she demanded of her fiancé. She flashed an apologetic look to Ziva—the other seemed to understand. "What makes her think she can just come in here and talk to me like that—talk to Ziva like that?" Abby said anyway.

"Abbs—I—I don't know. I'm sorry, you know I'm sorry—"

"Why didn't you tell me she wanted your sister Sarah to stand up in the wedding, that she wanted her to be my maid of honour?"

"Because it's not her decision," he told her the truth. "I told her it was up to you."

"But how could you let her blindside me like that!"

"I—I didn't think—I'm sorry—"

"Perhaps Timothy's mother is correct," Ziva finally found her voice. "I know nothing of Catholic ceremony, perhaps it would be better if—"

"NO! Ziva, don't you dare back out on me!"

"Abby's right," said Jack, turning to face her without letting go of Abby's hands. "Anyway, what's to know? It's a wedding. Besides, you'll have Ianto by your side the whole time."

"Ziva, please—!" Abby leant towards her.

"I—"

"Pretty please? With sugar on top? Ziva…"

"All right," unable to bear the other woman's pleas any longer, she relented, although it was against her better judgement. "I just—I do not wish to cause a problem—" she looked helplessly at Tim.

"Trust me, Ziva," Abby turned her gaze towards Timothy as well; her expression was far less forgiving than the Israeli's. "You aren't the problem."

"How was I supposed to know she'd do something like this?" he gaped at her.

"You knew she wanted Sarah to be in the wedding," she reminded him. "You never told me. You should have, Timothy."

"I guess… you're right. I'm sorry, Abby. I'm really, really sorry. I didn't… it doesn't matter. You're right and I'm sorry." He swallowed, looking at her nervously, wondering if she was going to forgive him or hate him forever, call off the wedding… but then suddenly her arms were around his neck and Bert was being squeezed between them…

Ziva slipped out of the bedroom, gratefully that she could get to the guest room without having to go anywhere near the dining room. She was surprised when she heard soft footsteps behind her. "I am fine, Captain," she said without turning around.

"You know you can't let stuff like that get to you," he told her anyway.

"I am sure Timothy's mother did not mean it the way it sounded. And anyway, it is not as if I have never encountered prejudice before," she turned to face him. He was leaning up against the door frame, his hands in his trouser pockets. She doubted he was any stranger to prejudice, either.

"I remember being in Germany—with Ducky as a matter of fact," he smiled, just a little at the memory of the other man in his younger days… and realized that Ziva was frowning. "It was during the War," he told her.

"You are not old enough—"

He grinned. "Don't let my good looks fool you," he winked.

"You are a very strange man, Captain Harkness."

Jack just chuckled, "You should meet the Doctor." He sighed, then. "The sad part is that it never really gets any better. If it isn't other people—race, religion, whatever—its other races, other species. There's always going to be something for humanity to hate."

"Even after everything that has happened?" the aliens, the children…

"Yeah. Even after everything that's happened."

Her eyes narrowed a bit… but she let it go. Whoever or whatever he was, he certainly wasn't like anybody she had ever met before, but Tim and Abby trusted him. That was good enough for her, at least at the moment. "So what do we, do?" she wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer.

His smile surprised her. "We carry on."

"Even though it is hopeless?"

"Nothing is ever hopeless, Ms David, not as long as someone cares—just having one person love you is enough… it's enough to keep you warm, even when the rest of the world is cold and unforgiving."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

His smile deepened. Warmed. "I know it."