The Price of Honesty: Chapter 37
Ziva David was the first of the three waiting at what was left of the terrorist camp to notice the approaching jeep. "Cohen," she said, elbowing the Mossad operative in the chest—hard—to wake him up from where he had fallen asleep against the outer wall of the concrete building.
Instantly awake, he sprung to his feet before helping Ziva to hers, feigning ignorance of her grimace of pain as she straightened. They both stood ready as the vehicle approached, raising their weapons as it moved into firing range.
"It is Dunham and Avrum," Cohen said, lowering his weapon. Ziva nodded slightly and followed suit, her weapon falling to her side before she tucked it back away in her holster. She turned to Cunningham, who had remained seated during this.
"It is our colleagues," she informed him, earning a slight nod in response.
The NCIS agent and Mossad analyst barely had time to get out of the jeep when the thrum of the incoming helicopter was heard. "Your Agent DiNozzo is on his way," Cohen teased Ziva; she rolled her eyes in response. Her left hand dropped to bullet track in her side, and she knew she'd be hearing about that soon enough. She took a deep breath to help steel herself against grimacing in pain; there was no need to distract Tony when he had work to do. She'd tell him about the wound once she was sure that the camp was secure, even though it meant that she'd have to put up with his whining about the fact that she didn't tell him about her injuries right away. For someone who claimed to understand how dangerous her job was, Tony DiNozzo sure did complain a lot about those dangers.
"Cohen," Cunningham called out. "Help me up."
"You have a broken leg," Ziva reminded him, turning from the income helicopter to frown at him.
"Believe me, I know," he replied dryly. His eyes went up to the helicopter before falling back on the Mossad liaison officer. "She got shot and still helped pull a guy twice her size out of a Humvee. What kind of guy would I be if I let a broken leg keep me on my ass?"
"Wonderful," Cohen remarked wryly as he helped the pediatrician to his feet. "A bloody romantic."
"No," Cunningham replied with a grin. "A realist. She is a Marine."
"You do have a point."
The helicopter touched down a few hundred yards away from where they stood, the wind from the rotors blowing dust over them. Cunningham took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, trying to figure out if what he was doing was completely unrealistic or not. He hadn't even seen Kim in person in a year and a half—since Qatar during his second deployment—and the last time they had spoken over the phone—six months ago—he had been drinking and she had gotten so angry at him that she told him if he didn't have anything worthwhile to say, that there was no point in them talking to each other.
And yet, ever since he was taken from his San Diego apartment almost two weeks before, all he could think about was the fact that one or both of them was going to die without her knowing how he felt about her.
If she stopped at any point between the helicopter and him, he would know that she didn't feel the same way.
It wasn't hard to figure out which figure coming out of the helo was Tomblin—she was, by far, the shortest—and his eyes followed her as she approached their position with the rest of the team. At that distance, back-lit from the large headlight the helicopter had, all he could make out was her silhouette, but he knew that she could see him.
And she didn't stop.
Practically the next thing he knew, her hand was at the back of his neck, pulling his head down toward her, her lips on his and his right hand on her head behind her ear and over the hair that was too tightly braided for him to weave his fingers in it.
Thinking is highly overrated. It's all about action.
"Jeff," she said when they separated, her voice somewhere between elated and breathless. "God, Jeff, I can't believe you're here... and you're okay."
"Well, not quite a hundred percent," he joked in reply, knowing from the aching bruises that decorated his face that he was smiling like an idiot, but still couldn't do anything to stop. "I'm so sorry, Kim, for all of this. They told me that they had you, that they would kill you—"
"Stop," she ordered, giving a short laugh. "Nobody is going to be charging you with anything." He couldn't tell if it was the sand, or the lighting, or if she actually did have tears in her eyes, but they were definitely glistening with something. "Ever since all this happened…"
"Kim," he said, cutting her off. He was aware of how strange the situation was—he was standing on one leg, holding her with one arm, feeling the bulletproof NCIS vest she was wearing, and they were surrounding by Mossad operatives and NCIS agents and Navy corpsmen—but he didn't care. "I've had a lot of time over the last couple of weeks to do some thinking, more time than I ever wanted, and… Kim, I should have said this years ago, and maybe we would have figured out a way to make this work if I had, but I love you. I don't remember which of us came up with this idea that our careers were more important, or if it was both of us, or if a decision was ever made at all, but… this fucking sucks."
She laughed at that, her hands clutching his shirt, and he decided that she definitely did have tears in her eyes. "You've been thinking all that?" she asked, her head tilted to the side in her scrutiny of him. "Really? Because I barely think about you at all."
"You are so full of shit." He tugged at her braid, tilting her head up toward him for him to kiss her again.
"Those were the first words you ever said to me," she reminded him with a grin as they parted. "I do love you, Jeff. I think I was already falling in love with you when you got left at the metaphorical alter thousands of miles away."
His smile widened at that, but he didn't bother saying anything in response, knowing that he didn't have to. Instead, he just kissed her again before releasing her from his arm. "Go, Kimberley. You have a job to do. And I'm not going anywhere."
"Don't call me that," she said warningly before pulling him down for another kiss. She gave him a tight smile and turned away, pulling her Sig out of her holster. He followed her retreating figure until she disappeared into the shadows, and when he turned back toward the group of corpsmen waiting to assess his injuries, his eyes fell on Cohen.
"I was right the first time," the Mossad operative said with a sarcastic smile. "A bloody romantic."
"Hey," he replied, nodding in the direction Kim had gone. "Half-Asian girl with a gun. You can't tell me that's not hot."
---
Captain Kim Tomblin entered the CHU to a barrage of cheering and protein bars tossed in her direction. "What the hell?" she asked as one glanced off her shoulder.
"We have a new mission," 1stLt Gorsuch informed her. "Operation Fatten-Up Tomblin."
"Oh, go to hell," she shot back as she bent down to retrieve the bars—no use letting somewhat-edible food go to waste, after all.
"We're serious, actually," Captain Rodriguez chimed in. "Came down from battalion. If you slip under weight standards, they're shipping your ass home, and we'll have to pick up your slack."
"Your concern for my health is touching." Her eyes narrowed as she processed his words. "You saying the colonel told you motherfuckers to fatten me up without saying one goddamn word to me?" Her gaze went from one man to the next accusingly, stopping at a new member of their evening TV watching group, wearing a bright yellow Navy PT shirt and an expression of wide-eyed astonishment. That reaction got a smirk out of her; the United States Marine Corps wasn't for little girls, and she loved the looks on their faces when she proved she wasn't one. "Who's the fucking squid?"
"He's the new battalion surgeon," Rodriguez informed her. "And my new roomie. Just came in from Kuwait last night."
"Ooh," she said teasingly, making a show of her eyes grazing his body. "A doctor."
"Careful, Cunningham," Gorsuch joked. "Looks like Tomblin has her eye on you."
"You know what they say," Captain Anderson commented wryly from his position on Gorsuch's bunk. "There are two types of girls in the Corps: the dykes and the sluts. And Tomblin ain't batting for the other team."
She flipped him off, her mouth too full of protein bar at the second to respond. "Really, Anderson?" Tomblin asked dryly after swallowing the surprisingly tasty treat. "Sexually harassing the battalion provost? Can you be a bigger fucking idiot?"
"But you make it so goddamn easy," Anderson replied.
"I will kick your ass," she informed him, and this time, the doctor was fighting to keep from smirking. "What?" she asked, directing the word at him. "You don't think I can take him down?"
"Careful how you answer this one, Doc," Rodriguez warned. "Tomblin is one-oh-five pounds of solid, purebred devil dog muscle. She's so goddamn tough that bullets are afraid of her. They just bounce off, as if they hit a lead wall. When the Marines took over Abu Ghraib from those Army doggies who tried their damnedest to fuck it up, the al-Qaeda terrorists we had there just surrendered, because they didn't want to have to face Tomblin in the torture chamber."
"It's true," Tomblin said matter-of-factly as she crossed the CHU to take the one available seat, Rodriguez' MIT chair that she always rolled her eyes at and therefore they always saved for her when she was the last to arrive. She took another bite of the protein bar, chewing leisurely, waiting to speak again until she swallowed. "But what Rodriquez forgot is that I also eat recruits for breakfast and castrate guys for fun."
"You are so full of shit." The room got a little bit quieter at his words, waiting to see how she would respond. She slowly turned to him, her eyes narrowing. His eyebrows were raised challengingly, his lips barely upturned in a smirk, waiting for her to counter his words.
She allowed a smile to slowly tug at her lips before she offered her hand to shake. "I'm Kim."
"Jeff," he replied with a wide grin, those blue eyes sparkling. "It's nice to meet you."