Tony's apartment is dark and stuffy and has the aura of being abandoned for a trip- which, in a way, it was, although there wasn't a whole lot of relaxation on this particular vacation. As soon as he has changed clothes and gotten Ziva settled on the couch, it becomes his mission to make his home seem occupied again. He turns on the air conditioner and starts a pot of coffee (just in case) and searches for something to eat. Ziva is supposed to be keeping her meals light, so in the end, he makes a plate of buttered toast and carries it into the living room for them to share.
"Can you reach if I put it right here?" he asks as he places it in the middle of the coffee table's edge.
"Yes," Ziva replies, taking a piece off the top of the pile and biting into it. Tony does the same and closes his eyes to savor the taste on his tongue. He has apparently forgotten to eat again.
Usually, he would have the TV on and turned to the news or SportsCenter. Living alone for so long has put him in the habit of producing noise, even if his companion is just the booming voice of Chris Berman. Tonight is different; tonight, he has an actual human being beside him, and even though they are sitting in comfortable silence, this is so much more comforting than any highlight reel.
After her third piece of toast, Ziva sinks back into the couch cushions. Tony glances over and, around a mouthful of food, asks, "You okay?"
"Yes. Just tired."
"Bedtime?"
"Not yet." She stares up at the ceiling and runs her fingers through her hair, which has mostly dried and is curling around her shoulders. A few seconds later, she turns to look at him. "Thank you for getting me out of the hospital, Tony. I am not… entirely sure what came over me."
He knows that she is referring to the breakdown she had after demanding to leave. For ten minutes he had soothed her and rocked her and tried valiantly to fight back tears of his own, but when her dam broke, so did his. "It's been a rough couple of days."
She nods her agreement, shifting her arm to a more comfortable position within its sling. "I have not seen Gibbs," she says quietly, and Tony's stomach clenches. "How is he?"
Even more pissed than usual, he thinks, and then tries to remind himself that they have all been pushed to extremes. They are more stressed. More tense. More on edge.
Being bombed tends to do that to a person.
"He's, you know, Gibbs. Just been doing his job, working with Vance on the Dearing stuff." Tony pauses. "Not sure what they're doing tonight."
Ziva rolls her lips together, her eyes fixating on a random point somewhere behind him. Then she sighs, a long, deep one, and pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "Where do we go from here?"
"I don't think anybody knows." His answer is honest, painfully so. He scoots closer to her and gently removes her hand from her face. Almost immediately, their fingers become entangled. "But we will."
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Another hour or so passes. Neither of them talk much until Ziva says that her shoulder is feeling sore. Tony fetches some of the painkillers the nurse sent home with her, which she swallows dry ("How did you do that?"), and then suggests that she get some sleep. There is not much fight left in her; she allows Tony to help her off the couch and hold her arm steady as they walk to his bedroom.
He watches carefully as she lowers herself onto the edge of his bed. Once he's satisfied that she is seated safely, he motions to her outfit, cheap shorts and a T-shirt the hospital supplied her with, and asks, "Are you comfortable in that?"
Ziva's eyebrows shoot up, and a small smirk plays on her lips. "Why, Tony? Are you going to help me change?"
"Um," he mumbles, feeling his cheeks flare up, which is stupid. This is a completely normal thing to say in the context of their everyday banter; there's no good reason it should embarrass him. Maybe it's the fact that she is actually on his bed or maybe it's because of the circumstances that put her there. Either way, he can't bring himself to take the bait. Instead, he shrugs and says, "If you need me to."
She seems to understand why he balks, because her face softens. "I am fine for now. Perhaps tomorrow we can run by my place and I can pack a bag."
"Yeah," Tony says, relieved. "Yeah, sure." He fluffs and rearranges pillows for Ziva to lay against, creating a sort of nook for her head and shoulder. "Alright. Here you go."
As she maneuvers herself into her corner of the bed, he catches sight of his cell phone on the dresser and suddenly remembers Gibbs. His boss doesn't know that Ziva was discharged and is with him, and the thought of telling him is kind of scary.
It has to be done, though, so Tony picks up his phone and types a quick message, then lets his finger hover over the 'send' button.
Ziva's wild eyes as she said, "I want out of here," flash through his mind.
He hits 'send'.
If Gibbs wants to get angry, so be it. He didn't see that look in her eyes.
"Okay," Tony says, slipping the phone into the pocket of his sweats. "Rest up. I'll be in the living room."
"Tony."
"Yeah?" He walks to the side of the bed, looking down at her.
Covers pulled up to her chin, hair spread out on the pillows around her, she stares up at him with all the innocence of a child. And then: "I do not want to be alone."
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It is past one a.m. Tony is exhausted, but he finds it hard to close his eyes when Ziva is sprawled beside him. She is on her back, chest rising and falling with every breath (and snore) she produces, and he is on his side, almost touching her. His head could so easily tip onto her good shoulder, and his arm could so easily drape over her waist, but he respects the thin layer of space between them.
While he watches her sleep, he thinks. He thinks about the past seven years of his life, from the day it was so irrevocably changed by a Mossad operative waltzing into the squad room to now.
He thinks about every time he almost lost her, every time it felt like a weight was pressing down on his chest, choking him, never to be lifted- and yet, here she is, here he is, here they are.
Two voices overlap in his head.
Couldn't live without you, I guess.
I cannot live without you, either.
And suddenly, the burning question for him is: Why are we trying to, then?
Virtual cookies if you know who Chris Berman is.
Thank you to everybody who has read this far! You guys rock!