A/N:I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain.
OK, chapter eight – yes, we're still in February, it was a busy month in S8! I have no idea how those communication thingies work, so they did what I wanted.
This is mostly fluffy – I think.
And the usual for the background details….
"Love is space and time measured by the heart."
Marcel Proust
February 2011
"How long do think we'll all be on Gibbs' team?" McGee asked, slowly descending the metal stairs.
Tony flicked his flashlight around the gloomy, dank building. "Are you still worrying about the mind meld with Dr. Cranston?"
An anonymous eddy of uncertainty had begun swirling around the Navy Yard. Partly it was due to budget worries and cut-backs; the awful waiting-for-the-axe-to-fall concerns of people whose livelihoods and prospects were in doubt. Naturally, within the MCRT actual job security wasn't a problem – they were on Gibbs' team, they were the best. However, as when any organization undergoes major re-structuring, there was always the possibility of re-assignment. The agents could be pieces moved in the reallocation of resources; filling gaps created by the shedding of less expert personnel.
Moreover, Gibbs and Director Vance seemed to be involved in one of their periodic head-butting seasons. It had started with Gibbs' treatment of the 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' case and continued with the Psych. Evaluations. The former Marine wasn't happy with any hierarchical interference – especially when it wasn't necessary. His gut was alerted by the specific reference to the SecNav.'s interest and Vance's strained behavior these days. It could be lingering effects from the injuries sustained in November. Or it could be some other looming crisis.
"No." McGee shook his head. "I was just wondering. Ziva and I were talking about it last week."
McGee checked the schematic of the disused pump storage facility on his 'phone.
"And I'll bet Little Miss Practical told you to quit worrying." Tony grinned, waiting for McGee to find their bearings.
They'd investigated creepier and, definitely, far more dangerous places over the years. Nevertheless, Tony was content for the Junior Agent to navigate and lessen the chances of inadvertently arriving at a dead end or worse.
"Actually, Ziva asked me." McGee set off again, adding offhandedly. "Maybe she's thinking about the future."
Tony was surprised – and rattled - by the comment.
"How'd you mean?" – Trying to sound nonchalantly curious.
"Well, just….you know…." - Walking purposefully to the stairs, moving down another level. "She was texting Ray and she's…."
He became aware this probably wasn't a topic of conversation he should raise with Tony. McGee was exceedingly intelligent, observant and a good investigator. Yet his friends' relationship was beyond the comprehension of even his mighty intellect.
"Abby thinks it's getting serious." He opted for passing the blame onto their colleague.
"Jesus, I hope that was water." Tony pattered through a shallow puddle, wondering what Ziva might have told Abby which would lead her to such a conclusion.
"Why?" And fervently hoping it had merely been a slow day in the Lab.; that Abby was indulging in idle speculation.
McGee glanced at Tony, sympathetically.
"She's always in contact with Ray and all the trips…." He stopped, looked around and headed for a doorway. "It's been what…six times now?"
"Five." The correction and scoring tally were too quick and too accurate.
Tony shrugged carelessly, countering the effect with a typically facetious remark. "Long distance relationships are great. You hook up, have sex plus you don't have time to get tired of each other."
Tony heaved a rusted, creaky door open; peering into the next room.
"So you gonna ask that Maxine girl out on a date or what?" – Switching from the disturbing subject of Ziva and Ray.
"No." McGee's voice was determined but regretful.
"Why not?" Tony's easy self assurance was back in place.
"I've sworn off girls who are in trouble and seem interested in me." McGee explained glumly.
He shone his flashlight around, noting their location once more. Getting lost in the labyrinthine depths of the plant would be neither pleasant nor sit well with their boss.
"Face it, you were the plot coupon." Tony laughed, making fun of the younger man's affable naiveté. "Hitchcock's MacGuffin. Doesn't mean you should give up, McGuffin."
McGee was still smarting over having been fooled by a diplomat's daughter. Falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book; the fact she was also being used – by her boyfriend - didn't soothe his embarrassment. Especially since it meant he and Tony spent one night enjoying the hospitality of the F.B.I. and earned them a severe dressing down from an already tetchy Vance.
"Who said I'm giving up?" McGee protested defensively.
Tony walked ahead of him; the slow pace of the search was becoming boring. "The guy who's been working with you for the last seven years."
"I'm just being cautious, waiting a little while." He caught up with his co-worker. Maxine was a brilliant gamer, she was very attractive and McGee was very tempted.
"Well don't wait too long or you might miss out on all that geeky goodness." Tony leveled the light on McGee's face with an extraordinarily suggestive grin.
McGee stared at Tony, thinking. They were good friends – all of them – certainly more than simply members of the same unit. For many years McGee had witnessed Tony and Ziva conduct the personal version of a screwball comedy. Occasionally, the comedic element was replaced by dark drama or touching emotion. He didn't pretend to understand how the contradictory temperaments coalesced on such a fundamental level. He only knew they did.
"Have you ever thought about taking your own advice, Tony?" He appreciated the encouragement and wanted to return the favor.
"I mean about….not…er...not waiting….because you might...erhm." - Hesitant and wishing he'd formulated the idea thoroughly before beginning to speak. "….miss…You know, the girl might get away?"
"Course I haven't. I'm not stupid." – Casually ignoring the offered hint.
Not ungraciously; the aim of McGee's awkward, inexact statement was unnerving and levity was Tony's default setting in response. "Trust me; the ones that get away are the perfect fantasy – no chance to screw it up."
The conversation was abruptly interrupted when they nearly collided with the worse; Tony's flashlight illuminated a gruesome corpse. "This guy didn't get away and he's definitely no-one's fantasy."
"Always works in the movies." Grinning, Tony rolled onto his back. "I think Skynet just went self-aware."
He'd launched a last ditch stretch for Ziva's flashlight – dropped accidentally when the rigged booby trap was sprung. Pulling his fingers out of harm's way just before the huge, door groaned and clanged shut with swift, oppressive finality. They were imprisoned.
"McGee, is there a reset button you can hit?" - Carefully watching Ziva as he waited for the answer.
"This isn't a video game, Tony." The harassed Junior Agent snapped impatiently.
Ziva grabbed the hand Tony held out and hauled him to his feet. She was studying the door.
"That door's not moving." He'd noted the thickness whilst trying to retrieve the other light.
"I'm not kidding. So keep that fucking firearm holstered, Zee-vah." Tony was deliberately stern his command.
"Nothing short of an RPG's gonna move it." – Taking the sting out with a joke because she'd resisted; they weren't ducking a ricochet. "And I'm all out of RPGs."
Ziva took the remaining flashlight from his grasp.
"It is possible there is a release mechanism." - Directing the beam at the recess from which the door had emerged and trying to stick her fingertips into the tiny gap.
Tony leaned against a wall. "OK."
The space was a little more than twelve feet by fourteen feet in dimensions and about twelve feet in ceiling height; windowless and pitch black. It was extremely unlikely there would be any method for retracting the heavy seal from within. There was no point in setting a trap if one didn't want any intruders caught and the threat neutralized.
Ziva began running her hand along the surfaces. "Somewhere there may be a trigger."
"OK." He nodded; calm and relaxed.
In the dim, shadowy glow cast by the flashlight dancing, Tony could see the strain etched on Ziva's face. She didn't like being confined. She never had. A good asset always has an exit strategy – even if the plan alters due to changes in circumstances. And Ziva was an exceptional operative.
Additionally, containment was an anathema to the vital energy which emanated from her – both physical and mental. If required, for missions, Ziva could be remarkably still and restrained; although the intrinsic motion was perpetually bubbling beneath. Like sub-atomic particles; neutrinos moving faster than the speed of light. Constantly recalibrating, assessing situations – mounting and reinforcing defenses – on permanent guard.
Tony suspected the characteristic had been exacerbated by the Somali experience. Not having an escape route would be harder this time around than during the shipping container episode. He made no attempt to curtail her search or mention its fruitless nature. She needed to be able to get some of the anxiety out of her system.
Ziva crouched down to examine where the wall and floor met. "If we can find it, we can get out." – Glancing up at him and smiling.
"OK." Tony maintained the air of patient tolerance.
He watched her shuffle along, working a meticulous line all the way around the chamber before standing with a frustrated sigh. Then Ziva looked overhead and he could see the proposition forming in her mind. It would be impossible for her to reach by herself.
"No. That's not gonna happen." Tony shook his head firmly. "McGee, what's going on?" He tried raising MTAC on the comms. link.
"Little busy right now." Poor McGee was guiding Gibbs through the maze against the clock and with significantly more at stake than kudos in the game chat rooms.
Ziva started pacing the length of the room. She halted as a muffled bang sounded and they could hear McGee calling frantically for Gibbs.
"Oh shit…" There was an awful pause. Tony raised his eyes heavenward in relief when the boss growled his survival.
Ziva resumed her concentrated path and Tony reached out a hand, stopping her in mid stride.
"Hey, McGee'll find the 'open sesame' button." - Half teasing, half soothing reassurance.
"I know." Her steady voice belied the tension he could feel throbbing in her arm.
"We could be helping Gibbs if we were not…." Ziva waved the flashlight irritably around their cell. "In here."
She was hiding behind the veneer professionalism; which worked until distant - but distinct nonetheless - gunshots rang out in succession. Ziva held Tony's eyes and the apprehension was clearly visible. There was no way of knowing whether Gibbs was shooting an attacker or had come under fire. They were utterly useless in terms of the first option and, if there were armed assailants on the premises, Tony and Ziva would be next on the hit list. On the second option, their defensive capabilities were extremely limited – never a scenario which contributed to Ziva's relative inner peace.
"McGee?" This time Ziva contacted their colleague.
For another tortuous moment there was no answer, followed by a single gunshot.
McGee - slightly horrified and vastly happier - crackled into her ear. "Gibbs just killed the mainframe."
McGee's announcement was literal – Gibbs had emptied his gun into the machine. The tactic was beautifully simple, highly effective and perfectly 'Gibbsian' in execution – unfortunately, it also meant nothing wired into the system would function. McGee wouldn't be able to override the door control.
"That's great. Now get us out of here." Tony instructed completely unaware of the hitch.
"Uh, Tony, that's a bit complicated.…." McGee reluctantly began the explanation.
"Because Gibbs destroyed the computer, I can't do it from here." – Pausing before he delivered the bad news. "You're going to have to wait for the Fire Department."
"How long's that gonna take for Christ's Sake?" Tony's question was less than enthusiastic.
Worry about Ziva mixed into the unappealing idea of an indefinite spell in what was, basically, a dark cave.
McGee was fielding several crises at once with – for the most part – particular cool.
His normally even temper was struggling under that amount of pressure. "Look Tony, I'm doing my best. The NSA's here, Gibbs isn't back yet." He was annoyed. "The Pentagon's safe – temporarily - but they need my input."
"Ballpark?" Tony accepted the unavoidable delay.
"I don't know. Sit tight." McGee's gratitude was obvious. "Can you get a cell signal from in there?"
Ziva switched on her 'phone and tested. "No McGee." She relayed the findings, looking at her watch. "We will check in every thirty minutes."
This time Ziva was one step ahead of Tony, pulling out her communications device and flipping it off. "Battery life."
Tony nodded understanding and did likewise. She turned around, walking away a few paces; restless and edgy.
"Looks like we're stuck in the Panic Room for a while." Tony glanced at her speculatively. "You're not gonna go all freaky on me, are you?" His inquiry was light-hearted, though concerned.
"I do not go all freaky." – Sharply refuting the allegation. Ziva propped herself against the far wall, one arm folded across her stomach – as if to illustrate the denial. Now she was a portrait of caged agitation.
"Well that's a matter of opinion, Zee-vah. You do have your moments." He sat down at the opposite end, in a corner – stretching out his legs, crossing one over the other.
"And remember, it's just you and me, so if you feel anything please don't snap my neck." Tony mocked gently.
Ziva had retained possession of the flashlight, the bright glare created a huge contrast between lit and unlit. Tony was partially recessed in dark shadow and Ziva wasn't entirely visible because of the gleam. They couldn't quite see each other.
"It would depend on what I was feeling Tony." – Unable to help laughing as she made the retort.
Despite being visually obscured, they could read each other's expressions, moods. Tony knew sensible stoicism was establishing itself and settling Ziva's disposition. And Ziva knew Tony was quietly making fun of her attack reflex out of affection.
"Did you hear Melissa from Payroll poured soda over the new guy in Cyber Crimes?" Ziva moved toward the doorway. "In the Break Room."
The MCRT provided an ample supply of foliage for the gossip tree. However, they weren't impervious to the delights of enjoying the scandals and rumor surrounding others at the Navy Yard – whether true or false.
"I heard threw is more like it." Tony watched her scrutinizing the problem; entertained by the stubborn streak in action. "I'd love to know what he did to deserve the shower."
She glanced over her shoulder. "Abby did not know for sure." - Smiling with a little mischievous relish. "But apparently he has been sleeping with Melissa and a girl from his unit. I cannot remember her name."
"That'd do it." Tony grinned in appreciation, closing his eyes.
"Perhaps if we could find a way…." She swiveled around to face him.
"Zee-vah, let it go." Tony opened one eye, squinting against the light – a tinge of reprimand in the order. "Talk to McGee. See if he knows anything yet." It hadn't been half an hour but it would keep her attention occupied on the practical.
The conference with McGee was disheartening. The Fire Department was aware of their plight and working on a solution. Unfortunately, since no-one was in immediate jeopardy and the building was known to be set up with hazards, they were proceeding with an abundance of caution. A D.O.D. bomb squad had been summoned; all potential avenues were being explored. In short, Tony and Ziva weren't going anywhere, anytime soon.
"Think McGee'll ask Maxine out?" Tony was thinking of the discussion a couple of days earlier.
Ziva was pacing again. "No. He should." She sounded disapproving of their teammate's reticence. "I know she likes him. And I think he is interested in Maxine?"
"Oh yeah. He is." Tony replied confidently to the inquiring statement.
In the bobbing back and forth beam cast by the flashlight as Ziva played sentry, Tony noticed tendrils of foggy breath. Her hands were pulled up into her sleeves and the tone when she spoke was tight – as if she were trying to control her voice. He wasn't surprised. They were in the interior of an abandoned industrial structure, at night, in a concrete bunker. It was absolutely freezing.
"You cold?" - Casually posing the suggestion.
"No." Ziva's march paused as she emphatically rejected the charge.
Tony shook his head in disbelief; she wouldn't admit any weakness. "You should probably stop shivering then."
"Yes." – Slightly contrite, recognizing he'd known the answer before asking the question.
He grinned wickedly, beckoning for Ziva to join him. "So come over here and we'll see if we can generate a little body heat."
"I thought you did not wish anything snapped, Tony?" She tilted her head and a teasing smile twitched Ziva's mouth.
"I'm cold too." Tony appealed on the principle of shared comfort.
That was true and, more importantly, Ziva's real-time demonstration of Newton's First law would eventually drive him crazy. If he could persuade her to cease for a few minutes, Ziva's stress might ease – which would mean Tony's alert level could unwind. She sat down beside him, placing the flashlight on its end – like an up-lighter or rather odd candlestick.
Tony glanced at her. "Last time we were locked in someplace you cooked me Lasagne."
Remembering the shipping container; the fact he'd mockingly asked when she first realized her Daddy wasn't perfect. Ziva hadn't answered. It was the first time Tony had witnessed the wounds inflicted – only the merest hint – and how swiftly Ziva could withdraw behind the barricades. He concluded he would never have made the quip if he'd any grasp of her father's truly Machiavellian persona.
"And I almost killed you with a stray bullet." Ziva smiled at the reminder. It was so long ago, almost unfamiliar.
"It was worth it for the Lasagne." Tony shrugged helplessly as Ziva raised an eyebrow at the food fixation. "I'm gonna get hungry at some point."
"Then you should stop thinking about eating." She admonished playfully.
"It will only make it worse." Ziva bit her lip and glanced away. "I know."
"When I was held…." She paused whilst recalling a time which seemed as equally distant as the early days at NCIS. "I used to plan menus and cook in my head sometimes - for a distraction."
She smiled ruefully. "It sounds crazy, yes?"
He'd never pondered the reality that for months Ziva was probably permanently hungry and thirsty. An additional deprivation to that of freedom and a twisted extra on the pain and fear; he marveled at her resilience.
Tony cocked his head. "Not if it worked – that whole deal was fucking insane." – Gently earnest admiration in his comment; unthinkingly, Ziva huddled closer.
As a means for producing warmth between them, the current pose was somewhat ineffective – the side of one leg and shoulder were the only parts in contact. They sat in silence for several minutes. Tony wondered if Ziva would elaborate further on Somalia. She rarely spoke of the issue and he never pushed. Ziva had relegated much of the trauma to past history – inconsequential for the present or future.
Her musings centered upon their previous incarceration at the dockyard. They barely knew each other, which was a peculiar consideration. Her perceptions of Tony then were, for the most part, completely erroneous. And now she couldn't imagine life without him – a strangely disconcerting thought.
The latest update on the rescue was positive though frustrating; best summed up by 'we're working on it.' Ziva was fidgeting; drawing up her legs, then extending them or wriggling her butt and back against the wall. Tony unzipped his NCIS windcheater.
"What are you doing?" Ziva turned her head at the noise and movement.
"You can sit on this." – Leaning forward and starting to remove the jacket.
She smiled, acknowledging the gallantry. "And you will be even colder." – Clasping his arm in prevention.
Check-mate by mutual care – they stared at each other for a second. Ziva scrambled to her feet, tapping his leg with a foot, indicating Tony should uncross his legs.
"Jesus Zee-vah, warn me next time?" Tony complained jokingly as she thumped onto his lap - a little taken aback by the bold solution.
She perched across his legs, at a right angle – his back was against one wall, hers the other. The position achieved the required criteria; there was a respectable gap between bodies, they would be marginally warmer and Ziva was no longer sitting on the floor.
"Sorry." – A diffident apology.
It also encompassed the distinctly non-fraternal twin sensations of singularly comfortable mingled with a trace of something less solid, perhaps dangerous. That charge evident because Tony and Ziva kept their hands to themselves - rigidly imposing non-contact.
"Palmer and Breena are very involved." Ziva chose another burning topic from the Navy Yard Library of Scuttlebutt. "Abby thinks they might get engaged."
"Morticia and the Autopsy Gremlin? Maybe." Tony grinned. "I can see it now; embalming fluid, scrubs, lilies and major organs…..
"You are just being cynical." – Laughing at his depiction of the romantic proposal for a mortician and an apprentice pathologist. "I think it is sweet."
Tony leaned his head back. "If they do, she'll ask him. Doubt he's the backbone for it."
"Now you are being unfair." Ziva's remark was full of amused reproach.
"I'm serious." Wryly charming, Tony protested his innocence. "Asking a girl if she'll marry you takes a lot of nerve."
It was on the tip of Ziva's tongue to ask how he - of all people - would know, when the meaning became explicit. Obviously, Tony knew because he must have proposed to someone. She looked at him, stunned curiosity tearing through her mind.
"Yep." Tony's reply to the unasked query was full of keen self-satire.
Ziva didn't say anything for a few seconds, assimilating her unexpected discovery. The indelicate, all-consuming nonetheless, mystery was the identity of this woman. And whether she had accepted or rejected his suit.
"Jeanne?" Trying not to appear indecently intrusive, Ziva proffered the only candidate amongst Tony's plethora of girlfriends who could remotely fit the profile.
"Oh god no." Surprised by Ziva's link, his response was slightly appalled. "I mean….I can see why you'd think that."
Tony met her gaze. "It was serious….I cared about her, a lot." - Correcting the almost unfeeling dismissal.
"I thought I loved her…." He glanced off Ziva's look, staring into the darkness.
He was sifting through events he hadn't considered for years. "…but I didn't love Jeanne, not really anyway."
Tony gave her a resigned smile. "Although I guess at the time, I was pretty convincing."
Ziva had observed unhappily as the convoluted, ill-conceived operation unfolded. Jenny's vengeance sought via manipulating and meddling in the lives of others. Moreover, she'd seen its aftermath and Tony's hurt. Eventually he'd realized the painful feelings associated with Jeanne were more guilt-ridden than heartbroken. Although, initially, having become embroiled in his cover and lost focus, the distress was genuine.
"It felt real. Here." Ziva slipped her hand into his jacket, lightly placing it just over his heart.
"And that is what mattered." – Smiling sympathetically. "Michael did not love me."
"You don't know that." Tony reciprocated the sentiment.
Rivikin had harmed Ziva with his destructive betrayal. His comment was an attempt at mitigation.
"He was carrying out instructions, just like me." Conceptually it was an unavoidable analogy – although that inevitability made the resemblance no less distasteful from Tony's perspective.
Ironically, it was his willing ownership of culpability which was the crucial component separating the conduct of the two men.
"He was Mossad, acting for my father. He could have confided in me." Ziva dispassionately outlined her differential.
Tony had been deceiving the arms dealer's daughter – as Director Shephard's instrument. He hadn't deliberately shattered every aspect of her existence. Rivkin and her father had maliciously exploited Ziva's professional loyalties, her personal affections – regardless of any damage to Ziva. Blurring the picture and preying upon her connections until Ziva was left totally isolated with no-one to trust.
Instinctively, she couldn't permit Tony's claim that he was a duplicate. "That was not the case with Jeanne. And you did not place her in a compromising position."
"'Cause I can think of a lot more fun positions to put a woman in." A salacious grin flashed and disappeared. Ziva couldn't help her laugh.
"Jeanne didn't love me either. She didn't know me." – Shrugging and reverting to seriousness. "You were right, Zee-vah. I wasn't who she thought I was. Guess it took a while for me to figure that out."
"I did not love Michael." Ziva glanced at Tony.
"Thought you said you'd never know?" He cautiously tested the assertion.
"It did not make sense." She fixed her eyes on the flashlight. "When I….thought about him….it was not enough."
During her captivity, Ziva had analyzed the Rivkin disaster; categorizing all of the participants and assessing their behavior.
She had allowed love's silhouette - its insubstantial shadow - to control, cloud her judgment. "I was sad - not angry with him."
"He lied to me, used me." Ziva gave a small shrug, recalling the moment she recognized indifference. "And I should have been angry."
Tony frowned - she usually followed clinically rational lines. Her last statement was an apparent detour into the realm of the paralogical.
"Um, he was dead?" – Drily pointing out the seemingly flawed rationale. "And you were very angry with the guy who shot him."
"It is an emotion, anger, is it not?" - Smiling faintly at Tony's honest précis, her inquiry was rhetorical. "One cannot feel deeply if one does not care for someone."
The cool logic emerged. Ziva's impassioned ire had been directed toward her father and Tony. Her trust callously abused by the former and her vulnerabilities protected intuitively by the latter. Officer Rivkin's impact didn't register beyond the parameters of spiteful deception.
He shot her a searching look. "There's a fine line between love and hate?"
"Yes." Ziva nodded. "Except, you are my partner and so that is why…." – Hesitating and suddenly adding an amendment. "It meant we….Our conflict was work-related."
Ziva's theory was somewhat correct; parts of the same neural circuitry govern both emotional reactions. However she stumbled accidentally into hazardous territory. She had lashed out at Tony because he was too close – which was frightening. He had risked his career for Ziva and Tony was angry because she didn't comprehend his integrity - the blade of Occam's Razor glinted in their present exchange.
When faced with competing hypotheses, that are equal in other respects, selecting the one which makes fewest new assumptions is advisable. The simplest explanation will be, generally, the most plausible. The boiling tensions and furious arguments could have originated only from extremely deep feelings. That deduction must be grounded firmly in the motivation of co-workers; a subjective state objectively quantified for convenience.
"If it was not Jeanne, then to whom did you propose?" - Seizing the initial cause of the debate on the nature of love for a diversion.
"Wendy." Aware the name would be meaningless to Ziva, he continued. "It was years ago. I was a little older than you - in Baltimore. She's a teacher, or she was."
"And she said no?" Her remark was another manifestation of neutral reasoning; Tony was neither married, nor divorced.
"She said yes." – Grinning because she'd overlooked that possibility. "Aren't you shocked?" Tony mocked the suggestion he was husband material.
"It wasn't long before I signed on with Gibbs. Then she was in Baltimore, I was in D.C." More sober, candid in the admittance of failure. "I got irresponsible, fucked it up."
The conversation stalled for a few minutes. Ziva was contemplating a new facet of Tony's character. Imagining his younger incarnation; he had made plans for the future, counted on sharing his life with this woman – the absolute essence of commitment.
Tony's thoughts were of how strangely unreal the idea appeared after the passage of ten years. He hadn't cheated on Wendy. Nevertheless his neglect was partly the cause of their break-up. The distance between the cities was minimal yet he became immersed in the MCRT and they drifted apart.
"It cannot have been that simple." Ziva gravely challenged the total self-indictment.
Tony smiled, touched by her incredibly sweet faith in him. "I wasn't paying attention. She got lonely, met someone else." He paused, remembering the slow death of his engagement.
"An Accountant….better pay, better hours." – Inclining his head in philosophical relief over a lucky escape. "It wasn't gonna work."
Throughout the course of the discussion an alteration in the seating arrangement had occurred. Gradually, Ziva had shifted around until she was nestled into Tony, one hand tucked inside his jacket. Tony's arms had wrapped around Ziva, holding her against him. The air temperature certainly hadn't risen; the repositioning could be attributed to basic physical needs. Yet the most salient aspect was the fact Tony and Ziva were, essentially, cuddling. And neither were the slightest bit discomfited by the proximity.
"Guess that's something else I inherited from Dad." – Ruefully noting the DiNozzo curse concerning relationships.
Ziva looked up at him. "No, Tony. You did not end up in the Divorce Courts." She curled a little closer. "Or unhappy and disappointed, as did my parents."
"True." Tony's grip tightened reflexively, responding to the empathy and gratefully receiving absolution.
He cocked an eyebrow. "I'm still alive too. Remember that Petty Officer who'd offed three husbands before anyone noticed?"
"Yes." Ziva smiled. "The bodies were on a farm, the one with all the cows. You wanted to shoot them."
"No I didn't." Tony objected, slightly indignant. "I was gonna discharge my weapon to scare them away, preserve the crime scene."
"You wanted to shoot the brown one." Tony was a city boy – animals, the countryside were great as long as he didn't have to interact with them.
"It made you go all freaky." Ziva teased on his earlier definition of her mood.
"It kept staring at me." Grudgingly he abandoned any pretence. "Least I didn't put a suspect in a choke hold for standing too close to me." - Leveling his own joking accusation.
"He asked to touch my hair. It was creepy." Lingering revulsion tinged her voice which was replaced by laughter. "Do you remember that man with the Star Wars doll?"
"Collectible figurine." Tony corrected, grinning wickedly. "Don't knock it, Zee-vah. McElrond's probably got a whole army of Elf Lord action figures."
Although amused, Ziva defended their teammate vigorously. "McGee does not live in his mother's basement."
"Shit, speaking of McGee…." Tony winced, hastily contacting the Navy Yard.
Engrossed in the conversations - completely absorbed by talking – they'd lost track of time and forgotten the scheduled check-ins. "Maybe half an hour. Said we'll hear the noise outside."
The reminiscences and resurrections from the past served as a Hall of Mirrors for their joint experiences. Reflecting the partnership back toward each other; displaying the endurance of Tony and Ziva's entanglement – nearly six years. And the vast array of situations in which they had operated; perilous to frivolous and all points in between. Tony became conscious Ziva was still; not entirely. Nevertheless, the ever-present internal velocity was significantly lessened. The taut, humming energy settled into softness - almost relaxation.
Ziva noticed Tony was far more open, secure when speaking about his past and worries. The façade dropped; its successor was quiet sincerity – acknowledging mistakes. Cocooned in an artificial environment, the base pairs started forming in the double helix which had encircled them from the very beginning. The separate yet complementary strands spliced more intricately.
"Tony?" An edge of caution entered Ziva's tone.
"Uh-huh?" Whatever was coming next, Tony felt her tension level increase.
"Have you ever wondered….about…I was thinking….." Despite being fluent in numerous languages – including the language of love - Ziva became astonishingly inarticulate in both that and English. "Have you ever wondered about us?"
He shifted his head and looked down at her. "What about us?" - Too slow in connecting the change in her demeanor to the subject.
"If we had….if we had met and….." Ziva smile underlined the uncertainty revealed in her disjunctive speech. "What it would be like if….we did not work together….?"
Tony bit his bottom lip, studying her speculatively.
"You mean if you'd just been the assassin-chick-next-door?" He grinned, momentarily amused by the image. "Well, assuming I'd survived the introductions, I guess we'd be the same."
Ziva nodded pensively - although she remained silent.
"Why?" Tony was intrigued. His inquisitive temperament crushed the dim sense they were skating onto wafer thin ice.
"Do you think we would…." She hesitated, taking a small breath. "Would we be…."
"Friends?" Tony tentatively offered; suddenly as unsure as Ziva.
The atmosphere was filled with a marked, fragile expectancy. Their eyes locked.
"Yes. Friends." Ziva echoed his suggestion plaintively.
"We are friends, aren't we?" Tony prompted. His thoughts hovered agonizingly over her unknown goal. "What d'you mean? If we weren't on Gibbs' team we…"
"No." Ziva interrupted quickly, retreating. "I meant we are friends."
Friends; the word should imply a positive. It conjures feelings of warmth, affection and close bonds. Instead, in this context, it seemed as cold, barren and unfeeling as the dreary dungeon in which Tony and Ziva were enclosed. Both of them found the characterization of their relationship in terms of an amicable link, achingly hollow and unsatisfying. Only neither of them dared make a confession.
Outside thuds and shouting penetrated the walls. Reluctantly, Tony slid Ziva off his legs. "That's our St. Bernard. Let's hope they packed the brandy."
"So what did you do for over three hours?" McGee stopped in front of Tony's desk – en route to his appointed date with Maxine.
Tony leaned back in the chair. "Played strip poker." - Utterly deadpan in his delivery. "Zee-vah lost."
"Funny, Tony." McGee shook his head, exasperated, and headed for the elevator.
His suspicions were raised already by the lengthy radio blackout – Tony and Ziva should have been pestering him for updates. Now they'd given different, obviously false, accounts; just like the Paris booking mishap. On that occasion the discrepancy meant either they slept in the same bed or on the same sofa. McGee didn't like to visualize precisely what that might mean - primarily for brain-bleaching reasons. Furthermore, he'd decided the only chance against self-incrimination over his colleagues and Rule #12 would be a plausible deniability clause.
"Drink?" Tony stared across the squad room.
The pattern of 'don't-ever-call-it-a-date' dates had continued in the intervening weeks, becoming more frequent. To such an extent that Tony and Ziva had sub-consciously started keeping Thursday nights and Sunday mornings available. On week nights it was usually just a drink, sometimes dinner. At weekends they took turns in picking the entertainment. The most recent outing had been to the International Spy Museum – Tony's choice. An opportunity for gratuitous mocking plus Tony had insisted on buying Ziva a gimmicky lipstick pen because no female operative should be without such an item.
"No. Not tonight." Ziva picked up her bag, glancing at him quickly. "I have something which needs organizing."
The good-natured mood vanished abruptly. Tony swallowed. "He's back."
Ray was traveling home from Guam. Initially he requested Ziva use vacation days and meet up with him in San Diego for a long weekend on the West Coast. She declined and didn't intend flying down to Miami for a shorter break. After failing in his efforts at persuasion, Ray sent her a ticket and hotel reservation for Charleston – she had once expressed a desire to visit the stately Southern city. He floated the trip as a belated St. Valentine's Day gift – a romantic getaway. Although vexed by the autocratic decision – and a little perturbed by her reaction - Ziva agreed.
"Yes." Ziva was avoiding his gaze. "And I am away this weekend."
She smiled briefly and left. Ziva dismissed the oddly forlorn feeling that she wouldn't be spending the regular evening with Tony – banishing regret. It was ridiculous; she was preparing to visit her boyfriend whom she hadn't seen for several weeks.
Watching Ziva walk away, Tony concluded he needed to get laid – very badly. This time the sensation wasn't a vague feeling of loss. This time it hurt.
They had opted for friendship through cowardice. Like all compromises, the negotiated treaty left neither side contented. The mistake was in seeking sanctuary in the penumbra; the indistinct grey area which masked hopes and disguised fears. A Canadian philosopher once wrote darkness is to space what silence is to sound – the interval. Enveloped in the blanket of semi-darkness, in their temporary prison, Tony and Ziva had reached the interval.
I know Wendy was Tony's H.S. music teacher but I just couldn't bring myself to write that – it's simply too peculiar. No offence to anyone out there who married or whatever one of their school teachers!
Huge thanks for the reviews – always glad to know you're enjoying the story and aren't bored yet! Please post a comment if you have the time. What worked/didn't, likes/dislikes are really useful.
Thanks also for the alerts. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read.