"Paris is a place in which we can forget ourselves, reinvent, expunge the dead weight of our past." — Michael Simkin
The bed they're sharing is a large one, and though they went to sleep on opposite sides of it, the rising sun in the morning finds them curled together.
As always, Ziva wakes first; she realizes immediately that something feels… off. She takes quick stock of her body and realizes that her head is pillowed on Tony's chest; his arms are slung snugly around her back, and their legs are tangled together. She can feel his heartbeat under her cheek, slow and strong, and she finds herself rather unwilling to leave this spot of unexpected comfort. There's no reason it should be, but it feels… nice.
She realizes quite suddenly that this is the first time she's been held by someone—truly held, at peace and content—since her time in Somalia.
The thought makes her feel a little sick, horrible memories cheapening the moment, and she pulls away hastily, trying to be gentle and avoid waking Tony. Luckily, he's a fairly heavy sleeper, and she succeeds.
By the time Tony opens his eyes, Ziva is dressed and ready for the day, and he seems none the wiser about the way they spent the night. "Are you going to sleep all day, or would you like to see Paris?" Ziva teases.
"Leave me alone, woman, I was having a great dream. I was dreaming about this lady…" Ziva turns away so he won't see her expression. She thinks it's entirely possible that his dream stemmed from the scent of her hair or the feel of her skin as she slept against him.
"Hurry and get ready. We have things to do," she says instead of acknowledging what he said.
Ziva has a definite plan in mind for the bulk of the day, but Tony almost immediately steers her away from where she's leading him. "What are you doing?" she demands, surprised enough that she follows him for a moment automatically before realizing what she's doing and stopping.
"We're in Paris, Ziva. We can't just walk everywhere. That would be absurd!"
"We were going to ride on the Metro," she corrects him, an eyebrow raised quizzically, "but why do I imagine you have a different idea?"
He certainly does.
Twenty minutes later, they're climbing on the Vespa that Tony insisted on renting. "Are you certain that you know how to drive a scooter?" Ziva asks with a small amount of trepidation. She has little time to die in a Tony-induced accident today.
"Of course! It can't be that hard!"
"That does not reassure me. You understand, yes, that the rules of the road are different here than in Washington?"
"I'm not stupid, Ziva." Tony turns around to frown at her, but his eyes are alight with hidden laughter. "And honestly, are you really going to talk to me about road safety? How many times have I almost died with you behind the wheel?"
"I am an excellent driver!" Ziva insists indignantly, but she's speaking to the back of his head because he's already turned back around. "It is the other drivers who—AHHH!" She interrupts herself with a yell because Tony has—with zero warning—revved the engine and sent them speeding out onto the road.
"I thought you said you knew how to drive this thing!" Ziva yells over the sudden wind in her ears and Tony's triumphant, wordless shout.
"I do!"
He definitely does not.
Their first stop is one of Ziva's favorite Parisian cafes, Café de Flore in the Latin Quarter. As they are seated and start to look over the menu, Ziva briefly explains the restaurant's history. "This is a place that many tourists love, but that is for good reason. It is one of Paris' oldest cafes, and it has been frequented by some of the greatest creative minds of the twentieth century. Ernest Hemingway, Pablo Picasso, Robert Desnos, Raymond Queneau… the list goes on."
"And now we're here." Tony glances around; the morning light shining through the panes of glass bounces off the crisps white shirts of waiters as they bustle past. He's never felt so French; the atmosphere of the cafe demands the feeling.
"Yes, we are."
"What's good here?" Tony wants to know, his eyes excitedly scanning the simple black-and-white text of the menu.
"You must try the hot chocolate, if nothing else. I know your sweet mouth will appreciate it."
"Sweet tooth."
"Yes, that."
"Alright, I will."
What follows is a delicious culinary adventure through several types of pastries, all split between them until they can't eat another bite. They sit in sated silence for a few minutes after they finish their food and hot chocolate, bellies full and happy as they stare contentedly at crumbs dusting the green table top. "Damn. Parisians really know how to do pastries, don't they?" Tony says eventually, a vaguely dreamy expression on his face.
"They certainly do," Ziva agrees completely. "We have more things to see, however. Shall we?"
"We shall." Tony rises to his feet with a light groan, patting his stomach to emphasize its fullness before offering Ziva his hand in a surprisingly chivalrous move.
Ziva accepts, her heart skipping one tiny beat. (She reminds herself once again that he is her work partner, not a romantic interest—they've nearly been down this road enough times that she knows better than to imagine otherwise.)
After another mildly terrifying Vespa ride, Tony and Ziva burn off all the calories they just consumed by climbing to the top of the Arc de Triomphe. There, slightly out of breath, they get a birds' eye view of the timeless city and all its charms.
Observing the yellow-white walls of buildings that have seen centuries of history, neatly arranged down streets and boulevards lined with the fresh green of trees blooming for spring, Tony thinks quite suddenly that there's no one he would rather share this with. He glances at Ziva—she's looking away from him, down at the traffic circle that's too far below to hear its chaos. Her profile is as beautiful as the city he's falling in love with, and it occurs to him that he came very close to losing her not even half a year ago.
He's never been so glad for something not happening, and he'd go back to that desert and risk death or worse dozens of times more if it meant he could relive this moment with her again and again, here among the birds and the buttery sunlight and the city that stretches on forever.
He slides his hand into hers. Though she doesn't look at him or acknowledge the move, she threads her fingers through his.
Eventually, Ziva lifts her other hand to point. "The Eiffel Tower is that way, as you can see. I thought we would go there next. It is about two kilometers away."
"No."
Now, she does look at him. "No? Tony, a trip to Paris is not complete without visiting its most famous landmark."
"I know." He doesn't say more, though, and after a moment, Ziva dismisses whatever he isn't saying with a shrug.
"Alright. To the Musée d'Orsay, then?"
"To the Musée d'Orsay."
They spend close to two hours meandering through the d'Orsay, both particularly enjoying the Monet collection. There's something undeniably romantic about whispering to one another as they observe pastel water and floral scenes, feeling lost in the paintings and the history and the almost intangible sensation of being at home in this magnificent place.
The whole time, they're hand in hand, and neither mentions it.
Then they have lunch at Le Galliera. Tony makes Ziva giggle almost helplessly as he tries his damnedest to order for them both in terrible French; the waiter is less than impressed, but Tony more or less gets his point across.
Considering this is still technically a work trip, they shouldn't order a bottle of wine and then another one, but they do. A meal with wine is the greatest Parisian inevitability; it turns out to be one of the best meals either has had in ages.
Following lunch, they go to the last stop that Ziva has planned for the day, the Louvre.
Tony finds himself far more impressed with the delicate architecture of the Louvre than with its most famous inhabitant—the surprisingly small Mona Lisa—but he finds that he immensely enjoys other parts of the museum.
There are tourists everywhere, milling about the more well-known exhibits, and it's a good thing that Ziva dedicated their whole afternoon to exploring… it's an enormous building with too many exhibits to keep track of. At first, Ziva aims to show Tony the can't-miss art pieces: the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the Venus de Milo, Liberty Leading the People… but then their tour becomes aimless.
Much like their visit to the Musee d'Orsay, they find themselves just walking, enjoying the art and one another's company.
Then they stumble across the room that turns out to be Tony's favorite of all: the Napoleon exhibit.
Here, there are no tourists. They're alone with the art and the history, free to speak as loudly or quietly as they would like, or to not speak at all; the space feels almost like a church, old and sanctified and echoey and welcoming. Like a church, it brings on the urge for confession.
Tony coughs suddenly, twenty minutes into their Napoleon exploration, and the noise makes Ziva startle... something Tony has rarely if ever seen her do.
He hasn't spent this much time with her since Somalia, though.
"Are you alright?" he asks, uncharacteristically gentle.
"Yes, of course I am." Ziva turns to him in surprise. "Why do you ask?"
"You're jumpy. I've never seen you like this."
"You would be, too, if you spent every moment waiting for your nightmares to reappear," she answers, her honesty surprising both of them.
"Are you talking about—"
"What do you think I am talking about, Tony?"
That stops him short. He's often wondered what exactly happened to her in Africa, because she has never told him. He hates himself for wondering so much, though, for fearfully imagining, but he can't suppress the gut feeling that she needs to get at least some of it out before she loses herself to the memories… as much as he doesn't want to hear it.
"What happened over there, Ziva?"
"You do not want to know, and I do not want to say."
"That's not true," he argues softly, following her as she stalks away from him, deeper into the museum. "I think you want to talk about it. I think you need to."
"And when did you complete your psychology degree?" Ziva snaps, looking determinedly away from him; at least she has stopped walking.
"I don't know psychology, you're right, but I know you."
"Do you?" Ziva demands, turning suddenly to face him with fire in her eyes. "Do you know me? Does anyone? Can you possibly know what is left of me, Tony? Because I do not even know myself anymore!"
That breaks Tony's heart, and he swallows. "Yes. If there's one goddamn thing I'm sure of, it's that I know you, even if you aren't so sure."
"Think what you would like! You have never stopped forming your own opinions anyway, whether you had any information at all or not! Stop trying to get me to—"
"I'm just trying to look out for you! That's all! I know you went through hell, alright? I know that! I'm not demanding all the details, and I'm not asking out of morbid curiosity or whatever! I'm trying to keep you from collapsing in on yourself, Ziva!"
"Stop. Pushing." Her voice is at once quiet and deadly serious.
Not sure if it's the right thing to do, Tony does stop.
They reach an unspoken truce as they finish touring the museum, but neither is paying much attention to the exhibits anymore. Too worn out from both their active day and their suppressed emotions to search out a distant dinner spot, they decide to simply dine at one of the on-site restaurants, Le Café Marly.
They're both subdued throughout the meal, and it seems to Tony that Ziva is constantly on the verge of saying something. Every time she looks like she's about to speak, however, she bites her tongue and goes back to her plate.
Eventually, Tony cautiously decides to prompt her one more time—he doesn't want his head bitten off, but he can't let her stew like this without giving it another try. "Something on your mind?" he asks lightly.
"I…"
"Something about Somalia?" he hazards.
This time, rather than getting angry, Ziva just looks… tired. Sad. Maybe a little broken. "Yes."
"Something you need to get off your chest?"
"I… I can't, I..." The grief that wasn't strong enough to break through her anger earlier comes suddenly now, and Ziva ducks her head, staring at the fingers of her twisting and worrying hands in her lap as tears start to gather in her eyes. "I am fine," she insists, though Tony hasn't said anything, "and you should not have asked me in public."
"Oh, Ziva… I'm so sorry." Tony sounds exhausted, too, and pained. He's not apologizing for asking, Ziva's sure. He's hurting for her and what she went through, she knows, and though she loves him for it, it doesn't make her own pain any easier.
She's just going to have to feel this. She has been, little by little, but somehow it hurts more now, thinking of talking about it with someone who would go to the ends of the earth for her.
He lets her sit for a moment, tears falling silently to her lap from a curiously expressionless face, until he can't take it anymore. Then he reaches over and takes her hand. "Do you want to talk about it? Because you don't have to, but… no offense, Ziva, but I don't think you would have entertained this conversation at all if you didn't."
"No," she snaps, hating how congested her voice sounds, but then she relents. "I do not know. Maybe."
"Then let's maybe get out of here." Without looking at him, Ziva can hear the small smile in his voice.
He may be an ass, and he may be obnoxious, but he may also be the best friend she's ever had.
He signals for the waiter to bring their bill, and before long, they're headed out into the cool spring air. Ziva heads for Tony's stupid rented Vespa, assuming they're heading back to their hotel, but he doesn't follow her. She looks back questionably, glad her tears have dried up for now, but he's standing back, shaking his head. "It's our only real night in Paris," he reminds her. "Let's go see the sights."
"What have we been doing all day, if not seeing the sights?" Ziva wants to know. "Tony, I am tired."
Tony tilts his head to one side. "Come on, I know my badass ninja assassin partner has at least a little more in her, doesn't she? Humor me, Ziva."
He looks so earnest that she's tricked into nodding yes, intrigued as always by the occasional vulnerable side of him that sometimes makes its way out. "Alright—for a little while," she amends.
"That's the spirit! Come on, David. Let's go see the City of Lights by night."
She can't help but laugh when he drapes an arm ever-so-lightly around her shoulders. "You are in quite a mood tonight," she observes, walking willingly toward wherever he's headed.
"Yeah, well, somebody has to be, right?" he replies pragmatically, squeezing her shoulders.
For some inexplicable reason, the gesture warms her in a way her coat does not.
"Where are you dragging me?" She suspects she already knows, but him leading the way—and walking, no less, the Vespa still parked on a curb near the restaurant—is an unexpected change of pace.
"Really, Ziva, if you have to ask, you're not half as smart as I give you credit for. Where does any first time tourist in Paris go? Where did we not go already?"
"The Eiffel Tower?" Ziva surmises.
"The one and only," Tony agrees.
"It is not the only one," Ziva counters, just to be argumentative. She loves verbally sparring with him, even if she won't admit it, and the familiarity of the bickering is soothing.
"Where are there others?"
"Do not tell me you have never been to Las Vegas."
"I have, but—oh. You mean the tiny one."
Ziva laughs; it's a little stilted, but it's genuine. Tony now seems content to let her decide when or if she wants to talk about more serious things, and she appreciates it. "It is not quite as impressive, but the design is the same, I suppose."
"Well, you may not be easy to please, but I thought it was cool. Anyway, this is why I didn't want to see the Tower earlier. I hear it lights up at night and that's got to be the best way to see it, right?"
"Right," she agrees.
They fall into companionable silence, focusing on the long walk at hand. The sun has long since set, and the energy of the city has subtly changed in a way that few other cities ever do. They become anonymous, just another two Parisians strolling toward Saturday night plans, nameless and faceless among the city lights and the beautiful spring evening.
It's comforting.
Before Ziva is even aware of what she's doing, she starts to talk. To his credit, Tony doesn't say a single word; he just holds onto her and lets her talk.
There's little emotion in Ziva's voice as she describes being tortured. It's factual, like someone reading from a textbook; she has removed herself from her memories to the best of her ability. There's more feeling, however, as she speaks of losing hope, hope she barely had in the first place. She tells him about wanting to give up, about not being allowed to, about wishing for death and receiving rescue instead.
She talks until the Tower is in sight, and when she's done, she falls silent.
Tony's only response is to drop the longest, most heartfelt kiss to the top of her head. Ziva's glad; somehow, any response he could have uttered out loud would have felt… cheap.
Inexplicably, some of the horrible weight on her tired soul disappears.
They stay silent when they reach the Tower; even Ziva, who has seen this sight many times, is struck dumb by the lights as they sparkle across the entire magnificent structure. She feels small, insignificant, like her problems are small and insignificant, too.
The thought brings tears back to her eyes, and she's just about to voice the idea when Tony nudges her. "Listen," he murmurs.
She stops and does so, focusing in on a sound that her analytical mind had already tuned out as unimportant. It's the sound of a violin and a piano mixing sweetly together. Ten meters away, two street performers stand alone and ignored, softly playing Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor.
Now that she's paying attention to it, Ziva's a little mesmerized, and she's startled slightly when Tony takes her hand again. "Let's dance," he says, the little smile on his face so hopeful that she can't say no.
Tony uses her hand to draw her closer and rests his other hand on her waist, sighing slightly when her second hand lands on his shoulder. Neither says another word, but they start to rotate and move side to side to the haunting melody; their eyes are locked together, and Tony thinks it might be the most intimate moment he's ever shared with anyone.
He doesn't mind at all.
As the song progresses, their bodies get closer and closer together, and the brightness of the Tour's display illuminates their faces like candlelight. Somehow, Ziva finds her eyes fluttering shut and her head leaning down to rest on Tony's shoulder. Maybe it's an illusion, and maybe the pain will come back tomorrow, but here, and now… she feels at once light of soul and cherished of heart.
The last note of the song dies slowly away into the night air, but Tony and Ziva don't notice, continuing to sway.