Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 21
Tony DiNozzo had seen Ziva David cry before: a stray tear wiped away in a fit of frustration, the wet tracks down her cheeks that she hadn't bothered to hide before turning away from his gaze upon hearing Gibbs tell Amanda Lee that her sister wasn't going to be coming back. But this was different. This wasn't a frustrated Ziva, it wasn't a sympathetic Ziva, it was a truly broken Ziva, and for the first time, he saw just how accurate his previous announcement of her being screwed up was, and before he could stop himself, he found himself angrily hating everyone in her past who had contributed to her being this person.
Earlier, in the car, when he was baiting Ziva with the words that he knew she would attribute to his fatigue, he had never expected this to happen. He had fully expected her to clam up, just like she did every time, and for them to continue onto her father's penthouse in angry silence. From there, there were two possible endings to that scenario: either he would head up to the guestroom to fall into a troubled sleep while she went and cleaned a handgun or beat the hell out of some exercise equipment or fired a weapon or something equally violent, or they would end up together on that large bed for some anger-fueled sex that would not resolve anything and leave them both feeling slightly worse than they had before.
He hadn't seen Door Number Three until she swung it open, revealing the childhood that he knew on an intellectual level she must have had, but couldn't for the life of him imagine, and found himself sitting on a swing in the already-oppressive heat of the early morning, watching a dark-haired girl as she ran around the park under the watchful eye of her mother, who was also gently pushing a stroller containing a child of less than a year back and forth. He imagined the scene as it would have been some twenty-five years before, when that dark-haired girl was the daughter of a Mossad officer and his Russian-born wife. He wondered what had she been thinking about. Did she ever imagine that she would return there someday after entering a life of a espionage and state-sponsored assassinations, of tracking down terrorists and murderers alike, sitting on that swing and talking about playing in that courtyard with a man she had once professed to love when he had been sitting on a hard floor with a gunshot though his arm?
He had caught the change in her voice even before her words had abruptly skipped more than a decade to bring up a conversation that had happened less than twenty-four hours before, and knew that his actions in the next few minutes would determine the entire course of their relationship. He hadn't needed to think about it as he slid off his swing and crouched before her, his hand resting on her thigh, waiting for her to look at him and realize that there wasn't anything she couldn't trust him with. When she had finally turned her gaze to his, when he had seen exactly the depths of the pain in those dark eyes, he was hit with a sudden desire that would have been laughable if it hadn't been so true: he wanted to protect her, the trained assassin who had taken down a group of armed Marines in efforts to protect him, who had more than once knocked him flat on his ass in the gym, who wanted everyone to think that she was so damned unbreakable that they shouldn't bother trying to break her.
No, they shouldn't try to break her. She was already broken.
She was sobbing into his shoulder, the cotton of his gray OSU Basketball tee-shirt clenched in her fists at his back, and by some strange twist of fate, it was up to Anthony DiNozzo to try to make someone feel better. He held her close, his hand rubbing her back in a way that he hoped was comforting as he murmured words that even he didn't understand into her ear.
He didn't know how long they had stood there in the unrelenting sun of the playground before her sobs began to subside, her fists beginning to relax. Even after the tears had stopped, they remained unmoving, not unlike some strange statue placed there in the courtyard. "Tony," she finally murmured.
"Yeah?"
She pulled back just enough for him to see the depth of emotions in her dark eyes before she leaned in again, this time to kiss him gently. "Thank you," she said, her voice heavy with honesty when they parted.
"Ani ohev otach." The words tumbled out of his mouth, feeling unfamiliar and almost awkward as they did so. He had wanted to tell her that he loved her for a long time now, even before she had spoken those words to him, but every time, found himself unable to form the words. He had wanted to tell her at her laughter as they made love after they were released from the hospital; when she would look behind her, exasperated at being held up by his slowness as they rode their bikes; when she slipped him his Sig in the El Al lounge in New York; countless times as they laid in bed; sometimes for no reason at all. The longer he had gone without saying it, the more of a big deal he knew it would be when the words finally came out, and the more reluctant he became at saying them. He finally decided that he just had to say it, and he had to say it right. Speaking them in her native language, he hoped, would show her that he was serious about this, that he wanted to make sure there was absolutely nothing lost in translation. When he heard the giggling of the young girl not far away, he was afraid that he had completely butchered the pronunciation, but when he saw the light return to Ziva's eyes, when he saw the beginnings of a smile return to her features, he knew that he had gotten his point across.
"I love you, too," she replied in English before leaning in for another lingering kiss. This time, when they stood unmoving in the courtyard, neither was crying.
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Ziva tossed Tony the keys to the Maserati with a knowing smirk in her eyes as they left the courtyard. "Do not hurt the car," she admonished, "or my father will hurt you."
"I don't doubt that, Sweetcheeks," he replied, his breathing catching at the sound of the engine roaring to life. A thing of beauty… "I just doubt that I could manage to hurt it more than you could."
She grinned at that as he shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking spot faster than necessary, and soon he was dodging traffic through the streets of Tel Aviv as Ziva navigated, and he was actually able to gain some first-hand insight as to why she drove the way she did. But, hell, it was funin a 1960 Maserati 3500 GTs. It was amazing—in one morning, all of his teenaged fantasies had come true. He was driving The Car, he had The Beautiful Girlfriend in the passenger seat with a smile on her face and her hand on his thigh… He didn't have The Professional Basketball Career, though, but figured that would have been gone by thirty-seven anyway. In that moment, nothing could bother him. If Director David killed him as soon as he got back to the penthouse, he would die a happy man.
The ride back to the penthouse was far too brief for Tony—anything would have been too short—and he was soon swinging the Maserati into a parking space in the underground garage in a row of similarly-aged cars, all in the same pristine condition as the Maserati. He would have taken time to admire them, but Ziva was already heading for the private elevator that would take them back to her father's home. "How many of these does he have?" DiNozzo asked as he jogged a few steps to catch up.
"Maseratis?" she asked with a teasing glint in her eye. "Only the one."
"No, I mean classic sports cars," he said impatiently. He gave a longing look over his shoulder at the row of cars.
"Five," she replied, the elevator doors sliding closed. "But he cannot drive any of them anymore."
"Because of his illness?" he asked in a low tone. She looked amused at the question and shook her head.
"Because he is the director of Mossad," she explained. "Convertibles from the 1950's and 60's are not easy to secure."
"Oh." Talk about your bittersweet promotions; sure, you have power and prestige, but to not be allowed to drive the cars you love… He was still trying to figure out if it would be worth it to him as the elevator doors opened again.
"Officer David, Agent DiNozzo," Henri greeted them as they stepped into the foyer. "Welcome back. Would you like me to take your things upstairs?"
"No, thank you, Henri," Ziva replied. "We are going up anyway. I think we both need to get cleaned up. Fourteen hours on a Navy ship is too long."
Tony snorted. "Fourteen hours is nothing. Try four months."
She ignored the reference to his time as Agent Afloat and continued her conversation with Henri. "Can you inform my father that we have returned?"
"Very well, Officer David. I hope your trip was productive."
She paused on her ascent of the stairs and glanced down at Tony, a small smile on her face. "Yes, I think it was."
They were just stepping out of a very long shower when they heard a rapping at the door of the guestroom. "Officer David?" Henri's voice drifted through the wood-like material.
"In a minute, Henri," she replied, already digging through the drawers for something to change into. DiNozzo frowned; the butler was nothing if not observant. He wouldn't be interrupting them unless it was an emergency.
Sure enough, Henri persisted, if only through the thick door. "It is about Director David," he explained. Although his voice was as even as ever, DiNozzo thought he detected a sense of unease about the situation. Ziva stilled, clutching her towel closer to her body as she waited for Henri to elaborate. "He is in his study, mademoiselle, and he had collapsed to the floor. I can not get him up. Would you—." He stopped talking abruptly as Ziva burst through the door, still wearing only a towel, and sprinted down the stairs. Tony took a few seconds to throw on a pair of shorts before he followed, struggling to pull on a tee-shirt as he descended the narrow metal staircase.
He found Ziva kneeling on the floor of the study in front of a supine Director David, her towel somehow still in place. Not allowing himself to perseverate on the physics that allowed that—as he didn't know nearly enough physics to even begin to wonder how it was possible—he likewise crouched down. The director's dark eyes were half-open and not fixed on anything, his features completely slack. "I think he is having seizure," Ziva said grimly. DiNozzo frowned.
"A seizure?" he repeated. "I thought people shook and thrashed around—"
"Not all seizures," she snapped. Her hands were on either side of her father's face, holding his head in place. "He needs to be taken to the hospital."
Tony nodded and grabbed the phone on David's desk. He was about to hit the '9' to dial '911' when he remembered that they weren't in the States. "Is there some sort of Israeli number for 911?" he asked instead.
Ziva frowned and opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. "Give me the phone," she demanded. He did so and watched as she rose slightly to enter a series of numbers into the phone and frowned; it was much too long to be something for emergency services. He got no hints from the conversation, as he didn't know nearly enough Hebrew to follow the rapid words. Less than thirty seconds after being connected, she hung up, with further confirmed that she was calling some sort of private number instead of emergency services; he had never heard of a 911 operator who let someone go so quickly. "They are on their way," she informed him grimly, her eyes already back on her father.
"Ziva," Tony said gently. "Maybe you should go get dressed. I can watch him for a couple of minutes."
She frowned before glancing down at her towel-clad body, and he figured that in the excitement of the moment, she had forgotten that she had just gotten out of the shower. "Yes," she finally said with a nod. She rose from her kneeling position and left the study without another word. Tony frowned after her for until she rounded the corner and went out of view, then he returned his attention to the unconscious man on the floor in front of him.
He had no idea what to make of this newest development, but figured it wasn't going to be good.