Author's Note: Ziva's POV.
It was one of those days. One of those days where the humidity was almost palpable. Where you could feel the sweat bead on your upper lip, in the crook of your elbows and on the bottoms of your feet. Where it felt like you were breathing in more water than oxygen, drowning your lungs in the suffocating heat.
But there was a gray sky, and despite the barometric pressure crushing my skull, I feel myself smile slightly as I step outside Le Petit Café Près de la Tamise carrying a carafe of café au lait over to the table where a boisterous couple had just taken residence.
"Café au lait?" I ask once I've made it over to their table. They both nod and I fill their cups. I set down the coffee and the creamer and then pull out my pad of paper from my apron. I take their order and then push my way back inside, making sure to send one last glance at the bright gray sky above my head.
After spending much of my life in a desert in the Middle East, I'd come to very much appreciate days like this, even if they were excruciatingly humid, where I could escape from the unforgiving sun for a day. We had days like this in Washington D.C. a lot, but Tony always hated them, saying that if the sky was going to be gray, it might as well just rain too.
And just like that I feel the smile instantly fall from my lips. Suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion I just manage to drop off my customers' order at the kitchen before taking too the dank and quiet stairwell that led up to my apartment.
Everything reminded me of Tony. And I know people say that all the time when they are missing someone, but it really is true. A simple gray sky reminded me of Tony's whining for rain. Every time a customer ordered a croissant I'd find myself back in the break room at NCIS sharing a breakfast croissant with Tony. At lunch time when the business big-wigs would drop in for a quiche, wearing their suits and ties, I would for half a second think it was Tony walking through those doors, and not some French man I did not know.
It was the same with Tali. Every time I heard a child scream, or cry, or laugh, I'd whip my head around and stop whatever I was saying or doing, hearing only Tali's voice in my mind. My heart would sink whenever a child would call for their mère, and I would swear to myself that if I ever got to see my daughter again, I'd teach her French in addition to her English and Hebrew.
I would tell her in a million different languages how much I loved her and wanted the best for her. How badly I wanted to give her the innocence and childhood that was thoughtlessly stolen from me.
A shrill ringing pulls my back to the present, and I silently rise to my feet, although my head is screaming at me to sit back down and close my eyes. It's the bell that tells me the food is ready for me to bring out to the customers. I shuffle back into the kitchen, keeping my eyes cast downward to avoid the glaring and harsh fluorescent lights. I pick up my customers' food, my stomach rumbling from the smell of authentic French cuisine.
Then I wordlessly make my way back outside, the bell at the door causing my head to pound. I pause, then push forward, not wanting the food on my tray to grow cold. I give the couple a polite smile, even though their cheery voices send shockwaves up my spine. This headache was growing unbearable. I couldn't even enjoy the gray sky any longer.
"Ziva," Jean-Luc intercepts me on my way back to the door. "Prenez une pause," he says softly.
He must be able to tell that I'm fading as fast as I feel, because I immediately nod and use my last bit of energy to make it up the stairs to my mini apartment and drop onto the bed. This happened every once and a while, these headaches, and today it was only worse because of the humidity.
But the main cause was Tali and Tony. And the exhaustion of wondering if I would ever see them again and knowing there was nothing I could do to bring myself closer to them but wait. And hope.
But hope seemed so futile sometimes, when you'd spend day in and day out with no change. With the same four white walls, the same yellow awning flapping in the breeze just below your window, the same tiny glimpse of the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
I was eternally grateful to Jean-Luc for all that he had done for me in the past week. But yet I sometimes felt like I was in a prison. I hardly ever left the café, except to buy some fresh food from the market half a block away, in fear that when I was gone Tony and Tali would decide to show up. And then with our paths not crossing, I'd never see them again. So I stayed, and each day that took its toll on me.
It had been less than two weeks, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep this up.
Already I couldn't think.
So I close my eyes, and will for this headache to fade. But I can feel the light of the gray sky on the other side of my eyelids keeping me here and keeping me strong.