Disclaimer: I own nothing.
His Whiskey
Chapter 6
Michael awoke alone very early the next morning. He stumbled through his living room and into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and noticed with some astonishment that Ziva had managed to exit his condo while keeping the door locked from the inside. He shook his head in groggy amazement and headed into the bathroom to take a hot shower. As his mind began to warm up, Michael thought about Ziva.
He doubted that last night had meant anything to her, but he hoped that his assumption was true. She was undeniably the most intriguing woman he had ever met, and quite possibly the most beautiful he would ever have the pleasure of sharing his bed with, but his conscious had been screaming that she was too much for him and now he knew that it was right. He was a normal guy, used to the typical American fantasy of sorority girls and prom queens. And Ziva...
Michael thought about the life she must have lead up to this point, all the things she must have seen, and he knew that he had no claim to her. This wasn't just about her being an assassin, this was about everything she was and the experiences that had made her. He thought about how weak he must seem in her eyes, a man lamenting the disappearance of a girlfriend, when she had undoubtedly buried loved ones and not only seen, but lived the horrors of war. Ziva was stronger than he would ever be, and it wounded his pride.
He remembered the feeling of being needed, of Devon clutching his hand in a scary movie, of offering her his jacket, of him telling other men to back off or else. It could never be that way with Ziva. Michael stepped out of the steam feeling confident of his decision.
He was surprised when she showed up at his office that afternoon, and asked if he could take his lunch break with her.
"You left early," he said casually as they drove.
"Yes, I—wanted to freshen up at my place before work," she said hurriedly. Michael glanced over at her, seeing dark circles under her eyes. Her complexion was rather pallid and her curls were in various states of mutiny. Freshen up indeed. Deciding silence was best in this case Michael continued to follow her directions to what he assumed was a restaurant.
"Listen, Ziva," he started, deciding that he had to confront her before they went too far.
"Right here," she said, cutting him off. She had brought then to an abandoned building covered in police tape. Michael blinked in confusion.
"What's this about?" he asked her angrily.
"This is where I...confronted Hoffman," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. Ziva reached for the car door and stepped outside. Michael followed a few moments later, wondering why on earth she had brought him here.
When he entered he saw Ziva standing behind the crime scene tape, facing the back of the warehouse. She didn't turn when he came up behind her.
"You brought me here for a reason," he said, knowing that she wouldn't have brought him here on a whim.
"I need some answers," she replied, her gaze locked on a gate a few yards away. Michael ducked under the tape so that he could see her face. Her eyes were huge and unblinking.
"I though you said you wanted to put this behind you," he said recalling the way she had said it was best not to dwell on the necessity of killing. Ziva's phone rang loudly, cutting into the eerie stillness of the empty building. She silenced it without answering and started walking towards the gate she was staring at.
"I made a mistake," she admitted more to herself than to him. She kept walking.
"So what went wrong?" he asked. Clearly he had been wrong about her, she did need him for something. Maybe he could be the one to talk her through whatever was troubling her.
"I waited too long," she said darkly. "I should have moved faster." Michael could tell by her tone that Ziva was angry at herself. Her heeled shoes clicked loudly on the cement floor as she continued her path to the back of the building.
"Right about here,—there was nowhere left to go." He stayed a few paces behind, understanding that she had come here to relive the day she had taken down Hoffman. Michael could feel his blood run cold as Ziva described how he had held her at gunpoint against the metal bars of the gate. She had reacted more slowly than she would have liked, that was her big mistake. Hoffman's gun went off just fractions of an inch away from her head, the bullet grazing her temple.
Together they reenacted her ordeal, but something didn't make sense to him.
"I don't understand, why didn't you shoot him earlier?" he asked. She was a trained killer, how could she have allowed herself to be caught in such a compromising position?
"I was undercover, I didn't have my gun," she said, reaching down to her right hip to feel for her weapon. Michael watched as she contacted nothing but the fabric of her black jeans. Her eyes widened.
"Just like now," he said.