Chapter 10 continued….
Previously…
"I don't really want to get into it Ziva," He said, sorting the play money as he put it away.
She gave him a teasing smile. "Come on, Tony. It will make you feel better, no?"
He sighed. "Do you really want to get into this Ziva?" His voice was serious.
"It's about Somalia, Rivken."
Her face fell.
...
Ziva felt heat flood through her body. "Why?"
"He blames me, ok?"
"Blames you for what?"
Head down, his eyes looked up, met Ziva's. "For everything that happened to you."
She spoke fiercely. "It had nothing to do with you, or Gibbs or McGee for that matter. It was my decision to stay in Tel Aviv. My decision to accept the mission. To finish it."
He looked so broken, right then, that Ziva thought he might cry. She reached across the table and took his hands in hers. "Do you understand me, Tony?"
He didn't, couldn't. Even though she was safe, sitting here with him now, she had come thatclose to dying. Had come thatclose to killing him.
He had killed Rivken.
Something had to be his fault.
He argued, his voice aggressive, forceful. "I started it Ziva. Killing Rivken led to every decision – each and every one – that brought you to Somalia."
"Tony. No." She hesitated, unsure as to how else to explain. She thought back to Somalia, the time she had to think, the hours and hours she conversed with Tony in her head, putting to rest…everything.
And now, she couldn't remember the words she had so carefully crafted. So with a deep breath, she spoke from the only place that suddenly, after all this time, seemed natural.
Her voice carried an openness, a vulnerability that Tony had not heard – not once, cross her lips.
"You were right to not trust Michael," She inhaled sharply – the name still sent a searing pain through her. "I, I was blind. I could not see that he was using me."
"But you were in love." Silence fell upon them for a moment, before Ziva spoke, repeating a simple rule leftover from her days with Mossad.
"And that is why you do not fall in love, Tony."
He grimaced. It is probably too late for that, my dear Ziva.
But how do you tell someone you love them? Like this.
"I was worried, about you. I wasn't thinking when I went there that night, when I started going at it with Rivken. I was only thinking about…"
"Shhh.." Ziva placed a finger on his lips. "You do not need to explain, Tony."
But he did. He needed to explain why he did what he did. Why the thought of her held in Somalia – the fact that one small, tiny action on his part may have led her there – was tearing him in half.
And he desperately needed her to understand the one thing, the three little words that for right now, were too dangerous to say.
"I should have called for backup. But I was mad, Ziva. I was mad that you were in love with him." And not with me.
She squeezed his hand in hers, running her thumb over the smooth, knuckled back. A soft joke escaped her lips, uncomfortable and unsure of how to take the underlying meaning that, as his partner, she could read as easily as Hebrew, French.
"So you were jealous." He loves me.
He shrugged, and Ziva again searched for the right words, the ones that like Tony's, would convey more than she knew how to say.
"I, too, am sorry. For doubting your actions, your reasons."
Silence fell between them, as they sat, hands clasped, unsure of where to go from there.
He wanted to ask her, he needed to know…. Do you forgive me for killing the man that you loved? Were you really, truly mad when you saw me in Somalia, sitting across from you in the cell?
Do you love me, too?
And then Ziva yawned.
"Why don't we get some sleep?" He suggested, pulling his hand from hers, snapping the lid shut on the Monopoly box.
And just like that, they reverted back from sharing and exposing themselves to Tony and Ziva, masters at emotional armor.
She laughed carefully, testing the waters with a little flirtatious banter. "We, huh? Where exactly do you think you are sleeping?"
"The couch." He answered simply.
She nodded, getting that something between them might have changed when she couldn't reciprocate Tony's masked confession, and headed toward the hall closet for pillows and a blanket.
"Oh, and David? I'm going to be waking you up every hour."
He winked at her deviously, in a typical sex-on-the-brain, Tony fashion. Her heart lifted. Some things, they can never change.
She flashed a flirtatious, come hither smile. "I'll be looking forward to it, Tony."
He gulped, fairly certain that at some point during the night, a gun in the face or punch to the chest would be greeting him.
….
It was around 1:30 a.m. when Tony crept into Ziva's room, waking her for the first time that night.
He stood for a moment, watching her sleep. "You don't look so tough," he lovingly whispered, watching the way her mouth parted slightly, the rise and fall of her chest underneath the crisp, cool sheets.
And then a snore escaped her and in response he tickled her ear. She sat up quickly, a gun pulled from under her pillow and pressed close to his face.
"Happy 1:30 a.m. to you, too, sweet cheeks." Tony dryly greeted as Ziva lowered the gun.
"You should know better, Tony."
Apparently, I should have known better for a lot of things.
But he simply replied, "Yea, I should."
Ziva saw the pain that flashed across his face. She thought their talk had done something to connect them, to make things right, but out of anyone, she should know, that such deep pain isn't erased instantly. That such a connection, no matter how strong, isn't activated overnight.
"Tony, stay." She moved over and patted the space beside her.
"Wait…what is this? Ex-Mossad Officer Ziva David is inviting me into her bed?"
She punched him. "Ow," Tony exclaimed, "What was that for?"
She smiled. "Get into bed, DiNozzo."
"Yes Ma'm," He crawled underneath the covers.
While she kept distance between them, she reached out a hand and began stroking his hair, the side of his face. He was good, very good, in fact, at masking his true feelings through flirting, jokes and movie references. And though Ziva wanted him to talk again, about Somalia or Rivken or anything, regardless of what it did to her, she quite simply, didn't know how to bring it up.
She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling how it spiked underneath her palm. She traced a finger along his lips, feeling the curves, the ridges, her eyes exploring his.
"Tony, what I said before, about none of this being your fault. I meant it."
He looked over at her and grasped the hand that had been stroking his face in his own.
"I know."
Their faces, pressed into pillows, were inches apart on the bed.
"Tony,"
"Yea, Z?"
"Thank you." And those two little words, right there, spoke volumes. Thank you for coming to get me, for risking your life. Thank you for being there for me after, for being patient and kind and tough and loving. And thank you, for being here now, for showing me your pain and letting me, for once, hold you up.
As those unspoken words exchanged between them, and Tony's eyes glistened with understanding, Ziva knew, without a doubt, that she loved him.
And once more that night she was able to speak from a place that for so long had been walled off, starved.
"Tony," Ziva's voice came softly, in a whisper, so that Tony had to lean even closer to hear. "When I saw you, that night in my apartment. In that darkened cell. I was…"
She stopped for a moment. Taking her time with the words. Feeling the weight of his hand in hers.
"Tony, I was worried, as well."
And that's when he knew. She loved him, too.
….
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