I can barely sit down before Abby rushes into the bullpen. "So, let me get this straight." She spins around and starts walking back toward the elevator to her lab. At the last second, she whips around and paces back toward us. After repeating this several times, she stops in the middle of the bullpen and looks from Tim, to Tony, to finally, me.
After a full minute and a half of staring, I murmur, "Yes, Abby?" Her eyes narrow. I know what she wants. Pulling both the bagged ring and the swab case from my jacket pocket, I smile. "Here they are. Go have fun."
"Yay!" Abby snatches the bags from my outstretched hands and prances off.
"Do you think she'll find anything?" McGee asks, typing furiously on his keyboard. "I mean, she's Abby. She always finds something. But, will she find anything relevant to our case?"
Tony nods. For a moment, I am dumbstruck by how the fluorescent light reflects off of his skin; how his strong jaw moves with each word he speaks, although I am not listening.
My eyes graze over his face. A fine layer of stubble has grown since this morning. The five o'clock shadow above his lip shimmers, the natural gold of his brown hair catching a bit of light. I find myself unabashedly staring at his lips, wondering how soft they are, wondering what it would be like to kiss them, for him to hold me and kiss me back.
I silently hope that the warmness I feel is not translating into blushing, and move my attention to his eyes. A few days ago, when his father died, his eyes had been a blue-ish charcoal. And now, they are crystalline cerulean, framed by long, brown lashes, glittering and beautiful. The endless list of emotions his eyes can display brings a different meaning to Anthony DiNozzo.
There was a time when I could not stand being in the same room with him, because I felt as though he was one-dimensional and arrogant. But now … Now I see that there is so much more to him. That he has the capacity to love.
I allow my eyes to drop to his hands. Long fingers, broad palm, well-kempt nails. Soft, smooth skin, without callouses. I know he plays guitar, but he has such a long thumb that maybe, someday, he should learn to play piano. I am lost for a moment in memories from our undercover mission, more than three years ago, and how right it felt for him to hold me, kiss me, caress my skin.
Even if it was just a mission. It was all fake, none of it real, none of it lasting. For him, anyway. Everything changed for me. Whenever I looked at him from the moment those short days and nights ended, I saw the tender, amazing man he portrayed as my new husband during that one, trivial mission.
When we had held hands, it had felt as though we should have never let go. As though we should have both relished in the feelings for a few more moments. As though we were meant to hold hands, for support, for affection, for love. For…
Sympathy.
And it is within this one moment that I realize that I have not asked him how he feels, how the morning has gone, how the service went. The guilt overwhelms me … How I can explain this to him is lost on me.
How I can explain my growing interest in my partner is a bigger concern. A-meyn. So be it. Jump in, do not look back. What did Ari always tell you? Be more adventurous. Hold back nothing …
I look up at his face one last time. Neither he nor Tim are talking, both focused on their work. I take a moment to work up my nerve and blurt, "Tony, may I talk to you for a moment? In ... er ... private?" He slowly raises his head to look at me, a small ounce of fear in his eyes. Tim makes to get up but I hold up a hand to stop him. "No, we can use the copy room." Both Tony and I stand and I lead him toward the small supply room.
After I close the door behind us, I turn to find him leaning against the copier and the wall behind it, edging his body as far as he can behind the machine so that there is more between us.
"So, what did I do this time?" Tony chuckles, more because he is nervous than because he is amused. "Hack into your computer? Go through your purse?" I squint at him, trying to understand why he thinks he is in trouble. "Shoot your beloved—"
"This is not about Michael!" I interrupt, before he can finish his sentence. "This is about you, and me, and my not being considerate of you today." If he is surprised, he is doing a very good job of disguising it.
After a moment of awkward silence, he murmurs, "But, Zeev, you didn't have to be. You forgot about the service; it's in the past, ya'know? No harm, no foul. It's perfectly—" Again, I cut in,
"Tony, how did it go this morning? What I missed, that is. I never asked and I feel horrible." Tony looks at me, his blue eyes revealing how much I really did miss. "I…well, that is why I brought you in here. I wanted to ask you." I cross the room and stand in front of him, less than a foot away, placing a gentle hand on the arm resting on the copier.
He stares at it, motionless. I cannot tell whether he is thinking of how to respond, or is uncomfortable with the close proximity I am to him. A pregnant pause. "It went okay."
"How was your cousin?"
"My cousin. Ah, yes, Clive's daughter. What was it, 'Annabelle'?" he snaps. "She was a weepy mess." Without meaning to, I softly stroke his arm, hoping to calm him. It seems to work, as he lowers his voice to say, "She came to see if she was in the will. Why she would be is beyond me, as dear Annabelle is from the other side of the family, but that's alright."
"And your aunt? I think her name was Barbara?" I inquire, itching to reach up and smooth the fly-away baby hairs on his forehead. I refrain.
Tony does not speak for several seconds before wrapping a strong arm around my waist, and then smirks. "You just wanted alone time with DiNozzo." My eyes widen, and I shake my head in confusion. "That's exactly what you wanted. I mean, you obviously care about the service you missed, but the real reason you brought me here was so that we could be alone." A deep chuckle rises from low within him as he pulls me closer.
As much as I want to push him away, I simply cannot. In a flash, I am pulled flush to his body, my head once more resting on his shoulder.
"You could have just said so, Zeev," he whispers into my ear. I arch backwards to look up at him, inches from his face. It would be so easy … our faces grow closer. His lips are just about to touch mine before the door swings open and a startled yell snaps us out of our romance.
Ducky.
"Ziva? And Tony? What is going on?" The older man smoothes his sateen tie and straightens his waistcoat. "Are you two…"
Panicking, I back away and throw out a laugh. Anything to change the course of this conversation. "No, no! Of course not, Ducky!" After forcing out another chuckle, I explain, "My undercover mission begins tomorrow, and I am married to David, and we have to find out how Staff Sergeant—"
"Lance Corporal," Tony corrects.
"—Lance Corporal Jackson was connected to the drug cartel out of Cuba."
Ducky raises an eyebrow, obviously not buying my excuse, and waves at us. "As long as Jethro doesn't find out, and it doesn't get in the way of your jobs as agents, I see no problem with you being together." He opens the copier and places a sheet face down on the screen. "However, it is not my place to give that permission. Keep it out of the building, and that also means no 'hanky-panky' in the copy room."
"Of course, Ducky," Tony murmurs, sliding his hand halfway in his pocket, his thumb hooked through his belt loop. "It won't happen again." He walks around the medical examiner and out of the room.
"Miss Davíd, do you love him?" Ducky asks, pressing several buttons on the machine's front, followed by a lengthy line of beeps. He throws his hands to the side and mutters, "Ridiculous contraption, anyway." Turning to me, his eyebrows raise again. "It isn't my place to give advice, as I have no idea what took place between Jethro and Jenny, but if you remember, it had its strong points and its weak ones. So, you need to consider this very carefully."
"Yes, Ducky. I will keep that in mind. Thank you for not alerting anyone." As I, too, walk behind him with the intention of leaving the room, he turns to me, with a big, contemplative smile on his face. "Ducky?"
"Did you know that President Obama met his wife while working under her in her law firm?" I nod and he continues, "Yes, I can see where that can cause some problems, but he obviously overcame them. Romance in the workplace sometimes makes things a little more interesting, don't you think?" Ducky turns his back on me and begins pressing buttons again. "You can see where that got him, anyhow, because he's now the leader of the Free Country, and a rather good one, at that. At least, he's trying to pay the bills, you know…" As he rambles on, I smile and leave the room. His words mean more than Rule Number Twelve ever could.
I make my way toward my desk, my eyes anywhere but on Tony. Gibbs sits at his own desk, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. An eyebrow raised, he nods at me.
"I am on my way to Abby's lab, to retrieve the rings. Would you like me to ask her about the other samples?" I ask, hands on my hips. McGee glances up at me and nods. Gibbs shoots him a stern look and the nod quickly turns into several shakes of his head. "Okay. I will be back shortly."
I step into the elevator, press the button for the basement, and wait patiently to arrive on Abby's floor. My attempts at keeping my relationship with Tony completely plutonic have failed, but I know that I need to curb my emotions. Or my hormones. Or whatever it is that is making me act out this way.
I know that I have never—never—treated a man like this before. Never have I gone out of my way to spend time with someone of the male population, nor have I ever gone after a coworker.
Rule Number Twelve. Never date a coworker. I have heard those seven words at least once a week for the past year and a half, and the most painful part of it is that I know for a fact that the feelings I have for Tony are mutual. Every time he looks at me, there is a connection. It is an obvious connection, too, because it brings confused looks from others in the office, especially McGee and Gibbs. Ducky and Abby tend to overlook our behavior.
Anthony DiNozzo has always been there for me, since the moment I became associated with NCIS. Even in my Mossad Liaison days, back when I was forced to execute Ari. The next was after our undercover mission as assassins, when I realized how I really felt about him. Everything fell into place. When Michael came into the picture … Our feelings became cloudy. The boundaries fell away. I no longer knew how to handle him. Or myself, for that matter. Hell, I still rarely have a firm grip on who I am or who I aim to be. And then … Somalia happened.
There I sat in my cell, bruised and beaten and ready to die. Wishing to die; to be dragged to my knees and shot. Every evening, I would be threatened, beaten, starved, sodomized, water-boarded, whatever it took for me to tell everything I knew about NCIS. Every night I would resist. The beatings became more severe. Everything became more severe, although some memories are foggier than others.
At first , I thought I would die. I just assumed that I was a risk that Saleem would not be able to have around for long. A few weeks in, when I was kept there in that dirt and cement block holding cell, very much alive, I did something very wrong, something that went against every fiber of my being.
I began to hope.
I hoped that someone would realize I was missing. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, my father would send reinforcements to the hut and save me. When this did not occur, I wondered if perhaps my father had told NCIS of my abduction and they were handling the situation. I began imagining Tony sitting at his desk, devising a plan, while Gibbs demanded that Abby and McGee try to locate me by satellite. Tony would be very worried, but would come and save me. He would be the hero. I could see it, there in my mind's eye, right there, almost so close that I could touch it. Feel it. Breathe it. And then I would be kicked in the stomach and my dreams would crumble.
I lost hope.
The one day that I actually thought would be my last, I was woken up at two in the afternoon, stomach rumbling and head aching from the previous night's torture session. A sack was wrenched over my head and tied loosely around my neck; my hands still tied behind me, I was yanked violently from the floor and dragged into the hall. I remember the words of one of Saleem's guards vividly…
"Scream. I dare you. Scream, fight back, your wish is our command. Anything you want, you can have. A dead woman's wish."
I braced myself for the worst as I was thrust into the room, thrown down onto a wooden chair, and faced with silence. Perhaps they were choosing the weapon with which to kill me. Perhaps they were preparing to have some fun with me as I died.
Suddenly, I was blinded by sun, as the sack was yanked from over my head. I thought it was a dream, I thought perhaps I had actually fallen asleep. Or that not eating for as long as I had, approximately one month, was causing me to hallucinate. Because, there before me, had sat Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. And on the floor beside us, Timothy McGee.
"Why are you here?" I had asked, concerned for his own well-being. He could have died. A rough beating is nothing if in the end, you know you will either be tortured or quickly put to death. But I was brought in to watch both of them be killed. To watch, unable to help, unable to save either of them, as their lifeblood ran out of them. To listen to the sickening, chilling laughs of my captors as they kick and stab and shoot my team. To wait for my turn to go.
"Just couldn't live without you, I guess." He was under the influence of sodium thiopental. The most commonly used "Truth Serum" in the world. Though his words seemed forced, I could tell he was telling the truth. They only sounded strained because he was trying so badly to not say them. For some reason, he thought I would resent them, plain on his face. Somewhere between his split lip, bleeding temple, and dirt-streaked face, he was just as scared of my hating him as I finally recognized I was of him dying.
The moment Gibbs shot Saleem, a weight should have been lifted from my chest. I should have felt better, happier, stronger, more lighthearted. Less scared. But I was just as terrified as I was before, and twice as guilty.
If Tony had been murdered, and Tim, as well, because of my own stupidity and inability to follow orders, it would have been entirely my fault… I would have been responsible for the slaying of two of my former teammates. Gibbs would have been all alone, again, and my trust with NCIS would have been shattered. And, I would be responsible for two murders, instead of my own.
I left Somalia with a sense of insecurity, guilt, and fear, but also with heavy feelings for Tony. He saved me. He alone is the reason I am still alive; he knew I was in danger, somehow, and he initiated a plan to save me. He fulfilled my dream and hope and he is the sole reason I came back to NCIS. I owe my life to that man.
And now, I owe my heart.
I exit the elevator and head toward Abby's lab. She must have something for me by now.
"Abby, have you found anything?" I murmur, walking around her table. But something is different, off. There is no music. No heavy, pounding, screeching guitars or pop-y techno. It is dead silent. "Abby?" My senses are on high alert now, as I creep around her computers toward her office space. I let out a breath as I round a corner and see her sitting at her desk, staring down at the rings. "Abby, what did you find?"
"They were attacked, Ziva!" she wails. "They were just sitting there, talking, newlyweds and all! And then someone, probably two people, pounced on them like a cat would on a mouse."
"Is the blood on the man's ring a match?" I inquire softly, placing a gentle hand on her back.
"To who?" Abby looks up at me in sheer confusion before she comprehends and blurts, "Oh! Lance Corporal Jackson? Kind of." She jumps up from the desk chair and skips out to her computer.
"Kind of? How do you 'kind of' match a blood sample?"
"Well, you see, the DNA is exactly the same." Abby clicks a few times on the mouse and a screen pops up. I personally do not know a thing about DNA, but I nod for her to continue. "Except…for this." She points at a small shaded area on the chart. "See? This is the only part that's different. This is Jackson's DNA to a T, besides the fact that they have one gene that's different."
Stunned by the evidence, I try to wrap my head around it. "What gene is that?"
"Our Lance Corporal has a dead sister."
A/N: Hello :). I feel as though perhaps I have to explain the mission a bit more thoroughly, but it will be completely outlined in the next chapter, so, no worries. However, here are the facts.
It will take place here:
They will spend much time here:
The family tree for Ziva and Tony is:
-Gibbs and Abby = Tony's father and father's girlfriend, Leroy and Babby.
-Ducky and Palmer = Uncle Roy and Cousin Adam
-McGee = Tony's brother, Tommy. [I do admit that I loved the idea from Last Man Standing when Tony was whining about his brother crashing his car over webcam with Gibbs. Made me giggle. So, I stole it.]
-Tony and Ziva = Ana Colette and David Melvin Stadelvard
Buck? Ooh, you will love Buck. [Hopefully, you are well aware of the art of Sarcasm.]