Everytime we say goodbye, I die a little

Everytime we say goodbye, I wonder why a little

Cole Porter [Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye]

No-one knew but Tony and Ziva had slept together once. On occasion, Ziva was inclined to question if Tony knew it – if he remembered. It happened in the aftermath of Jenny's death; the night before he left for the USS Ronald Reagan. The fun, flirty trip in California had abruptly transformed into a tense, tragic disaster. Even after the whole story emerged - Jenny's illness and retribution from Paris – Tony and Ziva were shell-shocked. Director Vance's decision to terminate her position as Mossad Liason Officer was the final piece completing a devastating picture.

Ziva was more than a little fuzzy on the details of that night. She had devised a scheme to remain in D.C. She liked America and although, officially, a Mossad operative, she increasingly thought of herself as one of Gibbs' team; an NCIS agent. Ziva was reluctant to surrender that sense and, even more reluctant to become ensnared in the labyrinthine workings of Mossad again. Director Shepard had been her friend, her contact. Vance was her father's friend. She knew her recall had been brokered between the two men; her wishes irrelevant. However, Ziva was optimistic that Eli could be persuaded into appointing her to the embassy delegation – not permanently back in Tel Aviv. And, deep down, below all the solid, sensible excuses was Tony. Ziva didn't want to go back to Israel because he would, eventually, return to D.C. and she intended to be there when he did.

He had arrived, late, with a bottle of Tequila. Ziva was worried about him; Tony blamed himself and didn't handle loss well. Ziva also knew Jenny was the second female agent, closely connected with their team, to be gunned down in three years. She remembered drinking Tequila and talking with him. She remembered standing at her front door. She didn't remember how they ended up in her bedroom. She definitely remembered the sex because there was a fervent yet oddly impersonal quality to it. As if they deliberately wanted to avoid any attachment; like they were trying to rid themselves of each other. And she remembered she heard the door close when she was in the kitchen. He had gone; no goodbye, no note, nothing.

He never called. On the rebound from nearly three years of whatever – even now she wouldn't know how to describe it - Ziva took dangerous missions and found solace in the arms of Michael Rivkin. Once reunited with Tony, back at NCIS, that night was never mentioned. He didn't offer any explanation for his behavior. Ziva shut down everything. She contained the bubbling, roiling feelings – dismissing the episode as a one off between two adults. She withdrew her trust and constructed a barrier; partitioning off the hurt. Rivkin took full advantage of her weakness and used her. When the new relationship emerged as an issue, Tony always, always insisted he wasn't jealous – merely doing his job. The more Tony tried to connect on the subject, the harder Ziva pulled away from him. It didn't matter Tony was entirely correct in his suspicions, nor that he had protected her.

"I did it for you, Zee-vah." The words didn't register at the time; all the hurt and disappointment blinding her. She rejoined Mossad completely. They didn't say goodbye on that occasion either. And he never called.

Ziva viewed the Somalia operation as atonement for Michael and her lapse in judgment. Her father, her own sense of duty demanded a result and she would pursue it to the bitter end. After four months of captivity and suffering and reflection – she wanted to die. And then he appeared in front of her – apparently in as much trouble as she was - a prisoner. The grin, the charm, the cavalier manner under pressure, and that look in his eyes; all materialized out of nowhere. Tony had come to rescue her; he had risked everything for her – again. Ziva didn't understand.

"So you pleased to see me?" The circumstances notwithstanding, she could have at least said yes. Even if she saved the truth - more than he would ever know – for another, less dire, moment.

Slowly, delicately, they'd started over.

"So what does matter?" Their working partnership provided the answer. She repressed the impulse to declare that he mattered - so very much.

Slowly the stiff, awkward exchanges eased. Slowly they rebuilt their relationship; interring the other, anonymous, bond. There was safety in hiding from the emotions. The closeness and empathy ascribed to the pinnacle of professionalism. Each missed opportunity or interrupted conversation compounded the difficulty of the subject for the next time. A conspiracy of mistakes against Ziva's desires and aspirations - it always went wrong. He was sent to Mexico and she to Miami – he didn't say goodbye then. And neither of them called.

Tony frequently wondered about the night before he joined the Supercarrier; wondered and regretted. He had gone to see Ziva; just being with her felt good and, that night, he'd craved the feeling. The specifics of what happened next were hazy. He knew they weren't completely sober and why. He knew one thing had led to another. He knew they hadn't even really bothered to undress and why. The weird thing was it hadn't been that memorable – he didn't know why. Tony guessed the Tequila possibly hadn't helped there. Aside from that, it was too detached, too neutral. They'd just fucked each other. As if they were both holding back; resisting any connection. It was unlike his customary hitch and ditch encounters – in those cases a lack of engagement was a highly desirable attribute. And he knew he'd left without saying anything and why.

Part of the reason was habit; he was Anthony DiNozzo and that's what he did. Part of the reason was he couldn't shake the sense they'd made some dreadful mistake. Even though, by the strictest interpretation of the rules, they hadn't transgressed. Ziva was no longer Liaison Officer to NCIS and Tony was consigned to Dante's lesser known circle of hell; Agent Afloat. However, the most salient – though purposely unclaimed - reason was the need for a clean, surgical break. The only way he could deal with separation from her. He didn't call. Because of the way he'd left and because talking to her would aggravate missing her. Perhaps arrogantly, he assumed she would still be his – once he figured out, exactly, what he meant by 'his'. They would pick up where they left off. There would be time to explain, tell her how he felt – once he figured that out too.

"You could have called." The perfect opening left orphaned without answer. So they didn't talk about it.

And then, gradually, Tony's life became unglued. Ziva was in love with someone else; someone who was causing her harm.

"Are you jealous?" Tony continuously, emphatically denied it. He had to; jealousy carried all kinds of significance he was unable to face. If he was jealous, then there was attachment. If there was attachment then he cared. And, if he cared, what was he prepared to do about it.

Although not his intention to kill him, Tony did derive a certain perverse satisfaction from having ended Rivkin. The smug, self-serving bastard was no great loss to the world; Rivkin had endangered his Ninja. A feat he managed to repeat from beyond the grave because she replaced him on the Somalia op. It was a fact which only served to magnify Tony's private sense of vindication over Rivkin's demise. Something Tony wouldn't ever- couldn't - admit to Ziva; to this day he was unsure of whether she loved Rivkin. However, guilt over the consequences of his actions still haunted him. The brilliance - for which she was so aptly named – was nearly extinguished by Saleem. And Tony had vowed not to wound her again. The chance to explain never presented itself. They didn't talk about it.

They had started over. In Paris, they shared a bed. Both pretended there was no additional awkwardness linked to previous events. Both behaved as if they had never done it before. The subject so sensitive neither referred to their portrayal as man and wife on an assignment. Both ensured they hugged their respective edges with almost fanatical zeal. Efforts rendered completely null and void; in the morning they awoke comfortably draped around each other. They didn't talk about that either.

"Like it was meant to be." He had flippantly dismissed her remark. Essentially declaring he didn't believe in the concept; instead of finding some way to inform her that his soul-mate sat opposite him every day. Their relationship could be defined by what they didn't say. An impermeable cloak of silence surrounding intentions and longing; as if not articulating the feelings meant Tony wouldn't have to wrestle with them. Only it didn't work like that. And past sins of omission stacked up to smother future ones.