(tony/ziva) Letters from the Sky
Chapter 2. Wicked Game
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you.
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you.
He was sure he'd forgotten something; if there was one thing Anthony DiNozzo Jr. was bad at, it was packing.
Toothbrush. Check.
Phone charger. Check.
Amex card. Check.
Sun screen. Check.
Because although DiNozzos tanned, he felt the Israeli sun might be a bit on the harsh side, even for his Italian skin.
Tony muddled through the contents of his top desk drawer, begrudgingly giving up hope, and shoving odds and ends into his oversized duffle bag.
Whatever he'd forgotten, he'd just have to buy when they landed.
With a heavy sigh, Tony sunk into his chair, locking both his top and bottom drawers in a preemptive strike against prying eyes. He refused to return a week or two from now, only to find that Abby had swiped his Mighty Mouse stapler again.
He just refused.
He looked around at the empty bullpen, the echoing sound of his hmmf bringing light to the eerie silence, broken only by the whirring sound of Tim's ever-running computer. Gibbs was in MTAC with Vance, undoubtedly being read in on whatever sand storm they were about to fly into, and McGee had yet to return from the basement. It never mattered whether Tim was taking a long weekend, or like today, traveling halfway around the world, his and Abby's goodbyes always took forever.
Tony's face twisted in sincere sympathy thinking about the poor Autopsy Gremlin; Palmer would undoubtedly be faced the brunt of Abby's worry induced tantrums while the team was away.
"You know," Gibbs swung passed his desk, startling Tony out of his day dream; or was it still considered a day dream at midnight? "Keep making that face, and it'll stick like that."
His lips twitched. "Right, boss."
Tony glanced at his watch. 12:19. If they left within the hour, they'd make it to Tel Aviv around noon, D.C. time.
And, boy, that time difference was going to suck; being seven hours ahead was going to mess with his sleep.
Or was it eight hours?
"DiNozzo?"
Tony's head shot up, his failed attempt at mental math all but forgotten. "Yeah, boss?"
"Where the hell is McGee?"
Tony climbed aboard the C-2 Greyhound, his least favorite of the Naval issued cargo planes, groaning in displeasure as he strapped himself in.
"What, Tony?" Tim smirked. "You thought we were flying first class?"
Tony threw him a hard glare. "No, McGee." He rubbed incessantly at his right ear with the pad of his index finger. "Gum. I forgot gum," he whined. "My ears are going to pop nonstop for twelve hours." He moved his jaw back and forth a few times until he heard it click, and he dropped his head as far back as the seat would allow.
He already didn't like the way this was going, and they hadn't even left yet.
Tony opened his eyes slowly, unaffected by the roaring engine behind him.
Gibbs may have had over fifty rules, but Tony only had one: Always be Prepared.
And he couldn't even remember gum.
"Heads up," McGee yelled as the plane jolted into motion, making its way down the runway. He underhandedly tossed something, a mauve blur that Tony caught with ease despite Tim's lack of hand-eye coordination. "I've got two more in my bag."
Tony looked at the cube in his hands and rolled his eyes.
Ice Breakers: Ice Cubes. Leave it to McGee to buy some economy 12 pack.
He made a mental note to snag McGee's Costco card as soon they got back; he was in desperate need of a new vacuum.
Tony nodded in appreciation, ignoring despite his distaste, the fact that McGee chewed Raspberry Sorbet flavored gum.
But beggars couldn't be choosers.
The cap popped open too easily, and a few cubes fell to the filthy floor of the plane. Tony shifted his eyes from Gibbs to McGee, making sure his blunder went unnoticed; he could almost feel the ghost of a head slap. Luckily, Tim was busy sifting through the case notes on his phone, and Gibbs' eyes were closed, his face relaxed, clearly already sleeping.
The man was a machine.
Tony chewed mindlessly on the fruity gum, mentally filing away a particularly funny jab with which he could taunt McGee later, when he could his hear his own joke clearly enough to appreciate it.
It was five hours before the throbbing in Tony's head dulled enough for him think straight, but even then, he could only muster enough energy for one thought. Actually, it had been the only, singular, wonderful thought he'd had since this afternoon.
Ziva.
He was going to see Ziva.
He was going to talk to Ziva.
And if he had one last lucky bone in his damn body, he would get close enough to touch her again.
He was going to say something that would make her laugh.
Or maybe something that would make her scrunch her nose in cute confusion.
Ziva.
He was going to get her to come back.
Tony let himself ponder the few ways they might finally be reacquainted.
Would she be waiting for them when the plane landed?
Or sitting behind her desk when they arrived at Mossad?
Knowing Ziva, she'd use her ninja stealth to her advantage and scare the crap out of him.
Whichever way panned out, in each of Tony's hypothetical situations, Ziva would give him one of her signature coy smiles, and her intense gaze would finally meet his again, if only briefly; and it would be enough.
Because God, her eyes.
He drifted into a fitful slumber, waking every half hour or so; but every time his eyes closed, he was barraged with the memories of their last night together.
The night before he'd been sent to sea.
The night before she'd been sent back to Israel.
The night he'd spent in her bed, finally touching her, finally tasting her, molding her body to his, as if they'd been made, solely to become one.
And then he'd left, only affording himself one last glance at her, tangled mercilessly in her sheets, her flawless olive skin in stark contrast to her bright white sheets. How she'd become so twisted, or how he'd gotten un-twisted without waking her, he'd never know.
He'd regretted leaving her the second his feet hit the pavement, slowly closing her front door behind him; floorboards were always squeakier and clicking locks were always louder when Tony was trying to escape, whether it be from a crime scene or the awkward morning after conversation he'd refused to allow cheapen their bout of reckless passion in the light of day.
But this was it; his one chance as Abby had so aptly informed him, to get his partner back, in any capacity she'd have him.
And he'd be damned if he wasn't about to take it.
...
"DiNozzo!"
Tony's eyes snapped open to find the back of the plane wide open; they'd landed, and Gibbs was standing above him, waiting.
"Coming, boss," he shouted; he removed his foam ear plugs and sleepily fumbled with the four way belt, cracking his back when he stood. Tony arched back, hoping to hear the blissful pop that would rid him of the discomfort, but alas, it never came. With a sigh, Tony grabbed his luggage and followed Gibbs onto the uneven tarmac.
With his feet firmly on Israeli ground, Tony squinted, looking around expectantly, but there was no welcoming party, and more importantly, no Ziva. Just a black SUV, idly waiting a few hundred yards away in what looked like the dead of night. By Tony's watch, it was only 8:30.
"Where to, boss?" McGee asked.
"Mossad."
A/N: So, it's been a while...
Please accept my preemptive 'thank you' for any follows/reviews etc. They are all appreciated far more than you know! :)
-Katie