A/N: In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am posting this chapter and giving thanks to my readers, because I am grateful for the energy you inspire in me and for the things you say that make my day better. Thank you for sticking around.

Now, this is the kind of chapter where my insecure little writer-self is incredibly nervous about several things, among them characterization, level of angst and believability. But it's also the kind of chapter where my insecure little writer-self is shut in the closet with duct-tape for a little while so that the real writer lady in me can do what she damn well pleases, caring for nothing but the next word, the next thought. And, out of that tension and raw creative madness, you get what you get and I hope it works. That's all I can say.

ALSO: I was outlining some more last night and have decided that in the interest of having an ending that feels right and organic, this story will need to end at Chapter 30, which is currently entitled "Game Plan." Just in case you wanted to know.

So…enjoy.
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XXI. The L Word

She must rinse him
She must rinse him
She can't rinse him
She can't rinse him
She can't, she won't, she must rinse him
She can't, she won't, she must rinse him
She must rinse this all away
She can't hold him this way
She must rinse this all away
She can't love him this way

- Vanessa Carlton, "Rinse"

Going home without Ziva – something Tony has done every night of his life until very recently – is a different experience now that he knows what it's like to go home with her.

The ride back is strange when she is not in the seat beside him. He puts on the radio to drown out the silence but it's already been turned to the station she likes. He listens to it for a few minutes, thinking of her, before he gets to a red light and changes the station back to the one he likes to listen to on the way home from work. But it gives him less pleasure tonight than it usually does.

He picks up Burger King for dinner, ordering for one, and watches a bit of late night TV before going to bed. And, slipping within the still sheets, he realizes he hasn't had a proper night's sleep since he's been with Ziva, whether it's because they've gone out or watched movies or just had sex for hours and hours, oblivious to anything else.

And he realizes, now that he's alone, that he is actually kind of exhausted in every way he can think of.

So he shuts his brain off, shuts her out, and sleeps. It comes for him almost instantly, and he's out cold until the intrusion of the morning light.

At work the next morning, Tony struts into the office, more energetic than usual thanks to a good nine hours of sleep. As per his usual routine, he dumps his things on his desk, cracks a joke at McGee, and quotes Tommy Lee Jones. McGee, who is always there earlier than Tony, rolls his eyes and continues to reply to his e-mails. Tony, noticing this, shoots McGee an e-mail with another Tommy Lee Jones quote as the subject line. McGee receives the message and shoots Tony a look over his computer monitor, deleting it without bothering to look inside the message for the large picture of an orangutan leering at the camera.

In the midst of all this, Ziva saunters in, settles down at her desk and says, "Good morning, McGee."

"Good morning, Ziva." McGee's smile breaks like dawn, a stark contrast to what it had been when Tony was sending his Tommy Lee Jones e-mail.

And Ziva's smile is so the same, utterly charming and lovely to see. "How are you?" she asks.

"I'm great, thank you. And you?"

"Great as well." She now presses the power button on her computer and waits for it to warm up, leaning back in her office chair.

She looks pretty, particularly composed, today, because she was in her own apartment for the first time in what feels like a long time, able to choose her outfit at leisure, do her make-up and set her hair in a long, neat braid. And Tony notices this, notices how much more she looks like herself when left at a distance.

But he also notices that she hasn't said anything to him yet this morning.

So he takes initiative and tells her, "Good morning, Zee-vah."

She looks up at him, but there is no spark, no deep affection in her responding smile.

"Good morning, Tony," she says, almost in a purr. Then she's back to what she was doing, as if he hadn't spoken at all.

And, somewhat bewildered, Tony looks from Ziva to McGee and back, wondering what is wrong with the world today.

The rest of the day goes as it always goes, with a new case and a crime scene and evidence for Abby to analyze. There is a lot to be done, so Tony doesn't get as much of a chance to talk to Ziva; however, this works well for both of them, because she has nothing to say and he knows better than to force anything.

But by the evening, when they are dismissed from the office, and McGee walks out with his usual smile and wave good-bye, and Gibbs has mysteriously melted away to the director's office, he watches her typing something on her computer with anxiety gnawing at his stomach and he realizes that maybe it's time to start forcing things.

So he clears his throat – loudly, obnoxiously, so that he catches her attention and makes her look up – and says, "Hey, just wondering…do you want to go out to dinner tonight?"

There is something of a plea in the way he asks. He tries to hide it – tries to hide that he's actually quite tense and has been working up the nerve to say this all day – but she can tell and his effort softens her.

"All right," she says. "Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere," he says, relieved at her acquiescence. "Or we can do take-out. Whatever you want."

"Whatever you want," she corrects him. "You can decide and let me know."

"We could go to…Olive Garden," he offers.

"You and your Italian food," she says, rolling her eyes. He is ninety-five percent sure she is kidding, so he laughs.

"Well, you said I could choose," he reminds her.

"I did," she admits.

"So…I'll meet you there? Do you know where it is?"

"I do know where it is," she says. "And yes, I will meet you there."

"If you get there before me, get a table," he tells her.

"All right."

"All right," he repeats. "I'll see you, then."

She nods. "Yes."

And then she turns around without waiting for an answer, slinging her bag over her shoulder and walking towards the elevators without looking back.

Once seated at the restaurant some twenty minutes later…

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"You made it."

"I did."

"Have you been here before?"

"I have not."

"Well, the breadsticks are amazing."

"I will have to try one."

"And the salad. The salad is good too."

"What about the soup?"

"I've never had it."

"I see."

"…"

"Are we going to have an appetizer?"

"Dinner is always huge, so it depends on your appetite."

"Then I suppose we are not."

"I usually don't."

"Okay."

"…"

"…"

"The shrimp looks good."

"It does."

"Do you want to split it?"

"No. I think I will have the mushroom ravioli."

"Okay."

"…"

"…"

"Waiter?"

By the time dinner has been eaten and the bill is ready to be paid, Tony is quite tempted to bang his head repeatedly upon the tan wall to the left of him.

Asking Ziva to dinner tonight had been a gigantic mistake. She is lousy company, speaking in short, stilted phrases that ring of finality, leaving a lot of awkward silences on his part. And she knows exactly what she's doing, knows that the awkward silences bother him and that he will attempt to fill them, making the situation even more awkward.

Looking at her now, sucking delicately on her spoon, taking in the last stains of sauce on it, he is angry – truly angry with her – for the first time since they started going out.

Something must be done.

So he leaves the money in cash on the table – the card would take too long to process and he can't bear being here with her any longer – and they head outside. She says nothing, determinedly staring out in front of her, past him, away from him.

And, once they are out on the sidewalk in front of Olive Garden, their breath mist around their mouths in the cold, he stops her and asks, "What the hell was that about?"

Something a lot like satisfaction – grim as it is – ignites in the blackness of her irises, so exactly the color of the night sky. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean."

"You've been acting weird for two days now," Tony points out. "You want to talk about it? Maybe tell me what's going on?"

Bitterness wells in an unbearable torrent, churning in her, as she is forced to digest his heated sincerity: her composure melts, desperation mounts, and in a flash she is on him right here on the sidewalk, his shirt in her fist, pulling him and giving him a kiss, fierce and sloppy, her mouth hot and open against his.

When she lets go, he is breathless.

"What was that for?" he inquires.

"Wasn't it what you wanted?" Her intensity – and the implicit insult – sears, cuts through her words like a butcher-knife.

"No," he corrects her in a near hiss. "That isn't what I wanted."

"So what do you want?"

"I want exactly what I just asked you for two minutes ago," he clarifies, fighting hard not to shout her, or slap her, or provoke her more than intended. "I want to know what's going on, because we were fine two days ago and now we're not and I'm not really sure why."

The bitterness is back; she can taste it, acrid and thick on her tongue, like syrup.

"You don't understand," she half-mutters, half-moans, holding onto the thin streetlamp pole, her forehead on the cold metal.

"What? What don't I understand?" His voice is closer now.

She can't answer. She can't even look at him. Suddenly, she is so tired she can't bear it, and she's sorry, sorry she ever came with him to dinner, or made him breakfast, or had coffee with him that first night which feels like it happened years ago, or told him her password, or had sex with him, or watched movies with him, or shared anything with him.

She squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them, takes her face away from the streetlight and faces him head-on, because she'd rather die than let him know he has as much pull as he does on her.

And he's there, waiting for her to resurface, so that he can speak again.

"Do you really think you're the only one who could get hurt here, Ziva?" Tony asks her. "That you're the only one who doesn't know what they're doing?"

Her jaw is tight but the words come out anyway, hardened like weathered stones, hitting his ears one by one as they escape her lips.

"We are too far in now," she tells him. "I am done. Let's just…go back to being partners. Back to being whatever we were before this…mistake."

She expects him to be hurt, or upset, or maybe even filled with fury that would finally break. But he's none of these things. A rare mood has come over him – something as hard as her words, as hard as the black thing that sits in her chest and calls itself her heart, gives him a cold practicality she envies.

"We can't just be partners," Tony says. "We can't go backward. It doesn't work like that. I mean, crazy as it is, I…I l-word you."

In spite of herself and the context of this entire evening, she wrinkles her nose with confusion.

"What?"

And now, in spite of everything, he is disarmed as well.

"What do you mean, what?"

"You…l-word me?" Her hands go to her hips. "What is the l word?"

"Oh." At least he has the decency to blush. "Um…"

"Crazy as it is, you…what?" she prompts.

It's like a spotlight has inexplicably lit itself up over his head. He is the only thing in the world for her right now and she's waiting; the mood in which he'd had the courage to say the hardest thing has faltered but she's still waiting, he's still standing here, and there's still a weight over them that they need to relieve before they move on.

People move around them, some of them watching with bewilderment at this strange man and woman saying these personal things on an open sidewalk, but he has to speak and he has to do it now.

So he does. He swallows down all the reasons he has to shut his mouth and walk away and says as bravely as he ever has, "I love you."

She freezes.

She cannot believe he just said that out loud.

The cold has never been colder as it pervades the inside of her open mouth, the inside of her brain as she tries to formulate some response to the very scary thing he has just said to her. But words come and terrible as they are, she has to say them. And she does.

"I…love…you too," she says, so hesitantly, "and that's why it's better if we just…stop now. Before it gets even farther."

She is cruel. She knows she is cruel. She can feel every bit of his confusion and his hurt as she turns slowly on the spot and begins to walk away, because he is justified in feeling the victim.

But this is better for them. It is. And some day – maybe sooner, maybe later – he will come to realize that this, the hardest thing, was the right thing to do.

She will not change her mind, she resolves as the wind cuts her face and makes her eyes water. Enough with this. Enough with them. Gibbs was right – as he always is.

And Tony, Tony is wrong. They can't be lovers, but they can make their way back to being partners.

They have to. There is no choice in the matter.

A/N: So…that was pretty intense, huh?

But don't worry. Next chapter is appropriately named "Intervention" and this angsty arc will begin giving way to the sweeter one I promised you.

Hope you enjoyed that, then, and that you have a very happy Thanksgiving.

Cheers, & please leave a review on your way out!
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