You've got me in between

The devil and the deep blue sea

Arlen & Koehler [Between The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea]

The détente of the previous night was a false dawn. Tony's mood was fractious from the minute he arrived at the office. After the club fiasco, he had gone directly to Alice's apartment. Forgetting she might wish to know the reason his shirt was drenched in whisky. He explained as succinctly as he could – without too many details. Referring to an operation, though not the locale, and circumspect in his account of Ziva's predicament. Alice was supportive and understanding. Which should have been a good thing; being with her should have soothed the irritation. Tony realized his anxiety on discovery of Ziva's foolhardiness surpassed what would be deemed appropriate for a merely professional partner. Also the diffident, almost-revelatory-but-not-quite-significant-enough conversation with Ziva lurked in the recesses of his mind. And he was forced to actively block out the thoughts kindled by the physical closeness with her. Tony's failure to reconcile all those feelings with the fact he was someone's boyfriend meant sleep was elusive. Alice's response to his showing up, in the middle of the night, after a ballsed up day was impeccable; yet it supplied no comfort. The reaction of the thoughtful, concerned woman left him numb; as though a contact was missing in the circuit. The ramifications of that absence further highlighted his restlessness. Tony found himself sitting at his desk at 5:55 that morning. McGee's and, in particular, Ziva's teasing speculation as to the cause of his recent punctuality and lack of humor, grated.

The team's involvement in the FBI case took a backseat as another, more pressing issue arose. A Naval Officer had disappeared; one who had access and responsibility for mid-level classified data. The atmosphere had been churning all morning. An indistinct, inauspicious eddy swirling in the air - as if the Furies were fluttering over the Navy Yard.

"Nice job last night, by the way, Tony."

McGee finished transmitting what few facts were known, on the new investigation, to the plasma. Ziva began the day self-satisfied with her conduct during the joint op. Gibbs had remonstrated with her; though it hadn't been a full-scale scolding. The value of the intel. contained within the smartphone was unknown - time would tell - nevertheless, it was the only concrete lead obtained. Everyone was grateful for an end to the stake-out. Although the wasted time and effort were disheartening, the position had been clarified.

"There is a strategy for every opponent."

Tony recognized the conceit evident in Ziva's voice and was irked by it.

"Yeah, lucky for us that strategy took the form of a 9mm Glock; otherwise mountain man would probably be gnawing on my Radius, right about now."

It could have been one of his light-hearted comments. The sarcasm revealed otherwise. McGee sighed. Tony and Ziva started sparring the day they met; the conditions under which they met dictated that made sense. What didn't make sense was the discord had continued for five years – punctuated by moments of extraordinary affinity. McGee found it fascinating and perplexing. They worked so closely together, occasional disagreements between colleagues were to be expected. Healthy debate should be encouraged. Tony and Ziva did squabble and tease about cases, or other matters, just like everyone else. However, unlike everyone else, they also clashed in another, separate dimension. It was if they were positively and negatively charged particles in an electromagnetic field. Drawn to each other; generating an energy current which, at times, discharged like a solar flare if the field fluctuated. The signs suggested this was of those episodes.

"Here's a tip, Zee-vah; sometimes the guy in a room who looks like an oversized psycho, really is an oversized psycho." He dispensed the advice with mock patience as if she were incapable of grasping a difficult principle. "They're not all Werth, you know."

Damon Werth was something of an Achilles' heel for Tony. The former Marine kept drifting into and out of the picture; more specifically, drifting into Ziva's picture. Essentially, Tony thought the guy was OK – except when it came to Ziva. On paper it was a thoroughly predictable friendship - and in reality perfectly platonic. They had many experiences and interests in common. Both were former soldiers with excellent combat skills, both with a propensity for outbreaks of sudden, sometimes brutal, violence. Tony was plagued by a compulsive dislike of the bond Werth had formed with Ziva. He imagined their pillow talk revolved around the merits of cold drawn piano wire over the regular stuff for garroting people. Werth was much nearer to her in age.

"Over-confidence was O'Brien's weakness," Ziva was equally patronizing in her reply. "His error…."

"I could say the same god-damned thing about you." Tony interrupted disparagingly.

His critical attitude touched off Ziva's fuse. The fight which had been avoided last night flared into existence. McGee heartily wished he hadn't raised the topic of the stake-out. Her expression hardened, anger flashed in her eyes.

"I was not over-confident." fiercely refuting the accusation. "I had made a thorough assessment of the situation. The ratio of possible risk weighed against potential benefit was acceptable."

She didn't need his protection – not in the conventional sense anyway. Ziva was more than capable of mounting her own, extremely effective, defense. She could outshoot him; not by much with a handgun but, undeniably, she had the superior skill. The difference was the way Ziva handled a firearm, with an unthinking fluency as if it were an extension of herself – another part of her body. It was no contest with a rifle. Tony had acted as spotter for her once. And he had marveled as she stilled that vital energy usually so prevalent; exhibiting a dissociative patience. Of the many adjectives applicable Ziva, not one likely to feature on anyone's top ten. Absolute concentration yet absolutely relaxed; acquiring her target, awaiting the order and dispassionately making her kill. Like an angel balancing on a needle, bringing death. They were fairly matched when it came to knives. Ziva had the advantage of being able to view everyday items in terms of lethality; pens, paperclips and probably cotton balls. Tony harbored the belief he could possibly take her in a physical fight - if the circumstances were right. He was bigger, stronger and every bit as fit she was versus Ziva's adaptable, instinctual Ninja mode. In practical terms, she definitely didn't need a guardian.

"Acceptable to who?"

Tony was goaded by her self-righteous manner and refusal to admit the possibility of error. Ziva stalked over to the filing cabinet, next to Tony's desk. The sting of his mocking was exacerbated by the legitimacy of his charge. Last night she had ignored the qualms about over-stepping the limit of her instructions. More vexing; Tony's sense O'Brien would cause problems had proved annoyingly accurate. And she was aggrieved by Tony's unusual animosity. He may have instigated the confrontation; Ziva's contrary nature meant she would be there to finish it. She jerked open a drawer before turning to face him.

"A certain degree of built-in flexibility should be mandatory for any planned operation and…."

"You know, someone really should start a list of the allegedly smart yet totally fucking insane logic of one Ziva David."

Tony was supremely scornful as he cut her off again. The way he said her name should have been the omen presaging he was truly close to losing his temper.

This was why she needed his protection. The same clinical reasoning Ziva applied to her objectives, she applied to her safety. Tony knew it was more than ambition and dedication. She seemed to circumvent the natural instinct for self-preservation. Driven to accomplish whatever task she had been set. It wasn't that she didn't consider any dangers, she did. The risks or penalties were all factored into her evaluation and blithely disregarded. Subordinate to the priority of achievement. It was almost as if she thought of herself disposable somehow; an asset – a mindset which Tony found infinitely scary. He also suspected Ziva sought reassurance in such behavior. Using the thrill of success to safeguard against wounds to her psyche; wounds he could only guess at. So far she had been fortunate. Tony worried one day she would miscalculate or, maybe not even Ziva, maybe someone else would screw up – with appalling consequences. In contrast to most people, Tony knew exactly what his worst nightmare felt like; he had grieved for her once before.

"I came to no harm." The discoloration on her face, where O'Brien's hand had left its mark, illustrated the elasticity of this truth. Ziva tilted her head with a glacial, condescending smile. "Tony, what is your point? I do not understand why we are fighting."

She was right. It was a petty dispute of negligible importance. The sensible course of action would be tactical withdrawal before it escalated. Instead tired, troubled frustration ignited Tony's temper with a vengeance. He stood up, moving to within a hair's breadth of her.

"Why? Oh, I don't know." No longer attempting to keep the anger in check, his voice was bitingly sardonic. "How 'bout 'cause you're pathologically fixated on pushing that fucking self-destruct button of yours and I'm sick of dealing with the fall-out?" And he walked away.

The content, tone and volume of his comment caused a momentary, awkward, hush to fall over the industry of the office. All were aware of Tony's heroic 'resurrection' of Ziva and the events surrounding the rescue. It was a card he never played. One or two people scurried toward the bathrooms. If Tony and Ziva's conflict re-located, it might lead to inconveniently locked doors. Normal activity resumed. McGee hunched closer to his computer. Now this one had legs - it would go for days. The field hadn't just fluctuated, it had shifted. The last time stresses reached such a level of ferocity – open warfare in the squad room - he had wound up in the clutches of a Somali warlord.

Coming down the stairs, Gibbs overheard the argument and identified it as a continuation of tensions from the night before. Not for the first time, he speculated as to how long before the genie escaped the bottle – and smashed it to ensure no recapture. Gibbs knew the romance existed – he was just waiting to see when, and if, the truth would ever dawn on them. His rule was 'Never Date a Co-Worker'. The normal trials and tribulations of a relationship would place additional strain on working conditions hazardous enough. For Tony and Ziva, any strain on a working relationship, in a theoretical sense, was immaterial. They were, in essence, already a couple. Tony and Ziva cared for and criticized each other, fought for and with each other, helped and hurt each other. At this point, the professional partnership was in no jeopardy. It had survived – even thrived upon - the duration of one five-year-long date. The personal relationship was the area under extreme pressure. Mostly, in Gibbs' opinion, because Tony and Ziva were more adept at solving the puzzles of others, than they were at managing their own.