I don't like this chapter all that much, but I feel awful about leaving you guys for so long. Enjoy, and please don't forget to review.
"I woke up early this morning around 4 A.M. with the moon shining bright as headlights on the interstate. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch some sleep, but thoughts of you and me kept keeping me awake." ~ Keith Urban; You'll Think Of Me
In the cool, grey light that preceded dawn, the persistent pounding of a tiny heel that served as an internal alarm clock roused Ziva from sleep. For a moment, she lay there in a quiet cocoon of solitude, the world still fuzzy and comprehension just beyond her grasp. She couldn't quite remember how she'd gotten there, how she'd managed to make it up the stairs and into bed without so much as a recollection of what had come previously. She was there, on the couch with him, flush against his body, basking in his warmth, enveloped in his arms, paying little attention to the flickering television in the background. She was with him and then…she was falling…and now she was here, alone save for the darkness and a strange, unshakable sensation of isolation and detachment. He was leaving today.
She rolled over, reached out to pull him close, hoping to salvage a few more minutes before they had to face the world. Her hand met nothing but the cool, smooth linen of a long abandoned pillow. She panicked, heart pounding, thoughts running a mile a minute through her frantically reeling mind. Gone…gone…how could he be…what time is it? Clock…clock…where is the damn clock? Seven. He is leaving at seven. I cannot have slept through it. He would have woken me…gone…damn clock…where is it? Where is he? He cannot simply be…Gone. That split second of gut wrenching, breathtaking, heart stopping panic, gone as quickly as it had come. She collapsed back onto the pillows and breathed a sigh of relief. 5:15 AM. Angry red letters branding their stoic faces into the grey half-light. They were her enemy most mornings, but today they gave her hope. She still had time.
A light was on in the kitchen, golden beams seeping through the crack underneath the door and pooling on the hardwood floor. A deep voice echoed within, softly singing a cheerful tune. Dishes scraped and a frying pan sizzled. Ziva opened the door. Tony, still clad in his plaid pajama bottoms, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, manned the stove in his "Kiss the Cook" apron, busy at work. Buttermilk pancakes with blueberries and chocolate chips: his Sunday special early on a Wednesday morning. She walked up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist.
"It smells delicious." He beamed, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and planted a kiss on her lips.
"Sweet cheeks," he squeezed her tighter by way of acknowledgement. She laid her head on his chest as he continued his culinary ministrations one-handed. "I was just about to wake you up. Hope you're hungry," he smiled all the more broadly as he dished the first batch of golden brown pancakes onto two plates, "because your order's up and there's plenty more where that came from."
She smiled cheekily and, plate in hand, extricated herself from his arms to make her way to the table. "I cannot wait."
A car horn sounded in the distance. Ziva tightened her grip around his waist, buried her face in his jacket, and fought the overwhelming urge to physically prevent him from walking out the door. He nuzzled her neck and pulled her closer by the small of her back, surrounding himself in the smell of her, the feel, trying to imprint one final memory of her on his conscience before... A sharp intake of breath. He held it, fighting back tears. For once, he could not be the emotional one. He had to be strong, steady, a rock for the both of them. The honk again.
Reluctantly, she let him go, her arms still draped loosely about him, and looked up. He stared down into her watery, red-rimmed eyes; she bit her lip and looked away. It broke his heart: after all these years, she was still too proud to cry. Her voice cracked. "Take care of yourself now."
A solemn smile. "Believe me, Ziva, it's not me I'm worried about. Gibbs. Tim. Abby. They're only ever a phone call away. Please, just…I…I…" He was lost, stumbling and fumbling for words. Goodbyes were her area of expertise, not his. And yet, as he struggled to pull himself together, she slowly fell apart. Her chest heaved a dry sob, carefully studying every crack in the cold stone beneath her feet, unable to meet his piercing green eyes. "I love you…I love you so much it kills me, and I'll miss you…both of you..." She instinctively placed a protective hand on her abdomen. He nearly smiled. "But…please, just…I…I'm so sorry, baby. So sorry. Please forgive me."
She glared up at him, her lower lip quivering. "Anthony DiNozzo, don't you dare apologize for doing your duty." She busied herself straightening the lapels of his jacket, dusting off his shoulders, fixing his hair, all the while pointedly avoiding his eyes. "Now go on. You are the best there is at what you do. Get out there and save the world, Mr. DiMarco." She paused to look up at him once more as an angry engine revved outside. "But, if I could ask a favor of you…please keep Tony safe for me. I…I love him very, very much and I…I do not think I could handle it if…just please bring him home again." A tear trickled down her cheek. He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, whipped away the tear with his thumb, and leaned in for a long, tender kiss. He pulled away slowly.
Bodies inches apart, so close their foreheads still touched, she stared down at the scuffed toes of his work boots. He took her hand in his own and lifted her chin until she met his gaze. "Don't you worry about a thing, love. I've seen this movie before. Everyone lives happily ever after." He kissed her one last time. His hand slipped away from hers. The door closed. He was gone.
A thick gold band, still warm to the touch, lay abandoned in the palm of her hand. Three words forever etched in thin gold letters: It was inevitable. Her knees buckled. She clutched the wall for support. The dams broke. Tears streamed down her face, her body wracked with sobs, chest heaving. She didn't know where to turn, what to do. She sank to the floor, clutching herself tightly, rocking back and forth as she was carried away on a wave of sorrow.
In the passenger seat of a Mustang five minutes down the road, he massaged the pale white circle on the third finger of his left hand, his jaw clenched and his cheeks slicked with tears. That night, she cried herself to sleep. He didn't sleep at all.