Title: Picking up the Pieces and Filling in the Gaps
Author: ChelseaDaggerCinderella
Summary: Tony and Ziva spend the four months between 'Hiatus' and 'Shalom' strengthening their partnership…and their relationship, but Tony still winds up working undercover for the Director, and Ziva has demons of her own to deal with. Can they come together to make everything alright again?
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, although I'd like to. No infringement intended, Mr. Bellisario.
Author's Note:
M E Wofford – I appreciate the pre-praise on the Jeanne storyline, but alas, I could not bear to re-hash every Jeanne scene like I've done (or in your case, will do) with most of the Tiva scenes, so they are few and far between. Thank you for saying that though, because I was worried about the possible reaction to the pro-Jeanne thoughts of Tony's, but as you said—"it must be done." I think I've managed to capture the spirit of Tony's thoughts on the situation, though and I hope you all agree as well.
zivaNtony4eva – Thank you for that; it means that I've done my job correctly. ;)
Peacheh-Kate – Oh how I wish! I'd totally have Tony slapping her butt all over the office, but alas, they are a secret couple—much to my chagrin—and therefore must keep a low profile. However, I'll see if I can work in an ass-slap later on in our show…haha.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed—it's much appreciated.
As Ziva lay in Tony's arms that night, she couldn't help but to think about what they were doing—lying to their friends, their colleagues, and their boss. There was no way for this to end well—they either ended their relationship (something that wasn't exactly high on Ziva's to-do list at the moment) or they came out with it, which would inevitably land them in an extremely volatile situation.
They wouldn't be able to be on the same team—they couldn't be—especially with Tony as team leader now. If Gibbs were still the team leader then there was a slight chance that things would be different, but that obviously wasn't the case now. And her position as Mossad Liaison Officer was a tenuous one at that. Jenny was doing her a favor because she couldn't bear to be in Tel Aviv—a Mossad operative for her father—after what she'd learned—and done; not that Jenny knew the specifics…
She sighed heavily—a distressed sound that Tony picked up on immediately. "Well that doesn't sound good," he said, only half-joking. He'd surprised her—she didn't realize that he was awake. "Wanna share with the class?" he asked.
She sighed again. "I—I am worried."
He picked up her hand from his stomach and intertwined their fingers, his thumb running slowly over her knuckles. "About something in particular or just general quandaries about the fate of the human race?" She was silent. "Oh," he said, suddenly understanding. "That worried, huh?"
"How does this end well, Tony? Does it?"
"What?" he asked, sharply. "End or end well?"
"Either, I suppose."
"Nothing like cutting to the chase, Ziva," he said, a little annoyed.
"I did not—" she started, her temper flaring. She inhaled sharply, "I did not mean it like that, Tony. I do not wish for this to end, I am simply looking ahead."
"Well, what's wrong with staying in the here and now? I'm liking the here and now, Ziva—quite a lot actually."
She narrowed her eyes, her demeanor very Mossad-logic as opposed to a woman having a serious discussion with her—uh, paramour. "But that is not logical, Tony."
"GOD!" he groaned, and propped himself up, roughly. "You and the damn logic, Ziva! What the hell is the matter with just being, for once?"
"You are angry," she observed.
"Correction, I'm annoyed."
"I do not believe that to be any better, Tony, but regardless, I do not wish to fight." He was silent. "That was not my intention, Tony. I did not even begin this conversation, yes?"
"And yet we're having it," he noted, a little icily.
She sighed heavily and sat up, straightening her spine, and stared into his eyes point-blank. "We are currently undefined, Tony, and I am fine with that. I, myself do not require definition at this juncture. What I do require is a strategy—an understanding, if you will—that we are playing a dangerous game, Tony. We are essentially walking a tight-rope without a net, and that is not something I will allow myself to fall victim to without weighing all of my options."
"Our options, Ziva."
She waited a beat. "Yes," she agreed.
He swallowed hard. "Okay."
"Okay." They resumed their previous position, their bodies still tense, and, they both noted, as they drifted off into what was to be restless sleep, that that conversation had essentially served no useful purpose…
It had been a week since the disastrous conversation that had left the both of them awkward and tense for days. Tony had been working with the Director lately; briefings in MTAC and the what-not. They hadn't spent the night together since the fight (if it could even be classified as such), and time spent together in the office had been limited—to such a degree that Ziva wondered if Tony hadn't been doing it on purpose.
It was late one night—well after ten—when Tony entered the bullpen and took in McGee and Ziva's forms, each huddled over their own respective stack of paperwork. Tony felt himself give in to the urge he'd been trying to keep at bay all week. He'd missed Ziva, but he couldn't shake the awful feeling that came with their discussion. He crossed to his desk and sat down, placing his coffee cup on an old file as he went, feeling the burn of Ziva's eyes tracking him. "McGee," he barked, startling the Agent out of the trance of paperwork he'd been in.
"Yeah, boss?" he stood up.
"Go down to the lab; give Abby a hand cataloging before she's here past her wake up call."
"On it, boss." And he was gone.
"Subtle," Ziva commented dryly.
He shrugged. "Perk of being the boss." More silence. He hesitated before trying again. "I don't think that there's anything to necessarily apologize for."
She shook her head. "Nor do I."
He nodded but didn't smile, "Good—cuz I'm not gonna."
She straightened in her chair. "I am not expecting you to."
"Good."
"Good." She stood up and sauntered over to his desk, perching herself on the corner. He leaned back in his chair. "Then we are in agreement, yes? It was an unfortunate conversation."
"That accomplished nothing."
"Except to make us—uncomfortable."
"And grumpy," he added, offhandedly, looking to her quickly, noticing her fingering his letter opener absentmindedly.
"We will have to deal with this eventually, Tony." She looked almost pained having to say it.
"I know," he said softly, taking her free hand into his, like he had so many times before, entwining their fingers and rubbing her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. "But eventually isn't here yet." He placed a soft kiss to her knuckles.
"True," she said, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She put the letter opener down to run both of her hands through his hair, cocking her head to the side to study him. "As you say, for now, we can just be, yes?"
He shot her a cocky grin, "I'd like to think so, yes."
She dropped a quick kiss onto his lips and picked up the letter opener again, almost out of habit. "Okay then," she said, and spun to go back to her own desk when she felt Tony's hand on her arm.
He spun her around and brought her almost entirely into his arms. He grinned down at her again. "What is it with you and my letter opener, anyway? You're always heisting it, or coming over here to fiddle with it. You two involved in some way I should be privy to?" he asked, amused.
She arched her eyebrow at him and smiled, "It is excellent for throwing, Tony; the balance, the shape," she explained, trailing her fingertips over the arcs of the blade sensually. Tony's mouth went dry again, his breath momentarily knocked out of him. "—all perfect," she finished.
"Really?" he asked, grinning.
"Really," she confirmed with a wink, trailing her right hand through his hair, her left on still fingering the blade.
He ran his fingers through her hair as well, and brought her face close, whispering against her lips, "Well, I'll tell ya what. When I'm done with it—it's all yours." She laughed heartily as his lips captured hers.
"I enjoyed that picture," Ziva stated joyfully as the left the movie theatre.
Tony threw his left arm around her shoulder with a grin, "Ah, there's nothing like seeing it on the big screen."
"I did not know that older movies were still shown in American Movie theatres. Not to say that The Princess Bride is all that old in the grand scheme of things, but I thought the movie business to be all about the new release."
He sighed dramatically, "Alas the capitalistic money-making society of this day and age does tend to monopolize the large-screen industry here, but there are always the hold-outs—the scant few theatres that dare to shirk the stereotype of the now and take a trip back down memory lane with a classic tale of danger, mayhem, swordplay, and yes," he announced with a flurry of hands, spinning Ziva around with a twirl that she had not expected, "—true love." He winked and laughter started bubbling up out of her chest manically, a large smile gracing her features.
They started walking again, both shaking their heads, trying to clear away the huge grins they wore. Ziva sighed, "Only you, DiNozzo, only you…"
Tony swore to himself softly and hit the speed dial on his cell. Ziva was going to be pissed. She'd been cooking for hours as far as he knew and he'd been looking forward to tonight all week. But when duty calls, he thought to himself. Too bad I can't actually tell her that it's duty calling and not—well, best not to go there, he decided. He got her voicemail—small favors, he thought to himself. "Hey, it's me," he said, being careful to not give anything away in the middle of NCIS. "Listen I can't really explain right now—it's a little complicated—but I'm probably not going to make it tonight. I know you've been working hard and I appreciate it. To be honest, I'm kind of ticked myself; I wish I could come tonight, I really do. We'll have to try it again another time. I'll talk to you later." He paused, sighed, and shook his head pitifully, "Bye."
Tony was not at his desk. An errand, he had said, leaving suddenly and out of the blue. She picked up her phone, dialing Tony's cell. She hit his voicemail. "Hi, um, well, I thought you might want to try for dinner again tonight. I might even be talked into letting us watch something ridiculous." She laughed. "Let me know. Bye."
Ziva was not happy, she decided, as she sat in her kitchen, staring at the stovetop where a delicious stew sat simmering—for the past three hours. The meat is most likely disintegrated by now, she thought to herself wryly, as she took another sip of the Scotch in front of her, the ice in the glass clinking softly against the sides of the tumbler.
Tony was three hours late. He hadn't called, and he hadn't picked up when she called—and she had called; for all of hour one. She'd dial his cell phone and home phone alternatively every ten minutes, with a sporadic call to the office every now and again as well. She'd left two messages, and had even succumbed to sending him a text message. She'd gotten nothing.
That's when she'd started to worry, so she called McGee to see where he was, if something was up, or if he'd heard from Tony. "Just a feeling, McGee," she'd had to assure him when he asked why she was asking.
She'd paced her living room after that, for about ten minutes, trying to come up with either various explanations or solutions in her quest to find out what was happening with her partner—because at this point, that was how she was thinking. After all, she'd thought, what else could be keeping him besides work? And that's when it occurred to her that he wasn't able to tell her that. Was he under duress? That's when she's recognized the ball of panic sitting in her chest—and she didn't like it.
She was just about to stalk out the door, Sig in hand, and go storming the office and his apartment when she'd gotten a text message from Tony. A text message!
Sorry about dinner. Can't talk. Am ok. T
And so she'd been trying to calm herself by self-medicating because as much as he'd seemed to deserve it, she really didn't want to kill her partner—it just felt like it.
There was a knock on the door. It was soft, and if possible, it sounded…guilty. Ziva decided not to answer. He knocked again. "Ziva?" she heard him call. She still didn't move.
Tony banged his head against her front door. Damnit! He'd screwed up and he couldn't even blame it on anything else. Well, he could—but he couldn't; was forbidden actually. He shook his head, sadly. This was bad. Ziva was getting trampled on because of the La Grenouille case and he felt like an ass for doing it to her.
He turned around and leaned his back against Ziva's door waiting for her to open it and let him in. Well, hoping was more like it at this point. His head made a 'thumping' sound as it hit Ziva's door with a sense of futility. "Come on, Ziva, I know you're there—I can feel the fury from here."
Ziva stalked to her door prepared to let her rage loose upon him verbally. She reached for her doorknob and wrenched it open violently—and was promptly leveled by a flying DiNozzo as he fell backward into her apartment and onto her. She landed on her back with Tony right on top of her, the back of his head finding a resting place on her chest.
He chuckled bitterly, "Well, this about sums up the evening…"
"Ugh, Tony!" she groaned, shaking her head. "What am I going to do with you?" In response, he let his hand slide up her leg, deliciously. "Tony!" she scolded, but her voice has a suspicious purring to it.
He turned around, still covering her body with his own. He wiggled his eyebrows and shot her the Tony-grin that made her smile. "Come on, Zee-vah. You know you can't resist me…"
"Yes," she said, sarcastically, as she got up from the floor, leaving him there by himself. "It takes almost everything in me to resist the urges I have when I'm around you, Tony."
He got up too, and closed her door. "Well, then we're in agreement. I think we should capitalize on this development," he added, as he took her by surprise and swept her into his arms. "…in the bedroom," he directed.
"You are late, you had me worried, and you stood me up via text message, Tony!" she scolded, but she didn't make a move to remove herself from his embrace. "Do not think that showing up now with this smile is going to make me forget that I am less than pleased with you."
"Fair enough," he said seriously. "So what exactly will it take?"
She looked him in the eye. "Where were you?"
He inhaled sharply. "I had to do something—ran later than I'd assumed and I couldn't talk. I'm—"
"—lying!" she accused; now pulling out of his arms. "Why are you lying to me, Tony? And why do you think that I would not be able to tell?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, offended.
"Please; I know when you lie, Tony. It is plainly obvious to me."
"Oh really?"
"Yes, really; and do not think that I do not also know when you are attempting to divert my attention from the topic at hand. Where were you?"
"I can't tell you," he said, trying to go with some semblance of the truth.
"Because of work?" she asked, calmer now. He hesitated. "I'll take that as a 'yes,'" she said, and paused. "Fine. I understand not being able to divulge information, Tony, but do not think that it excuses the rudeness of your behavior." He just looked at her—hard—and she stared back with equal fervor.
"Okay," he said, giving her an inch.
She paused, and then she yielded. "Stew is on the stove."
He smiled and threw his arm around her, bringing his lips to her ear. "Thank you," he said, honestly. She just nodded.
"McGee," Tony barked, "Go pick up our witness and bring her in for a little conversation." After a glance to his right and only a moment's hesitation, he added, "Take Ziva with you."
Tony and Ziva locked eyes for a moment. They looked away at the same time—Tony to his computer, and Ziva towards her gear and then McGee. That was the most contact they'd had in a week. He'd stood her up three more times since the night she'd told him that it was inexcusable to be so crass. She understood confidentiality, but this was a whole new level of—rude.
They'd been fighting about it for the past week. After the fourth time he'd pulled his I can't tell you act she'd stopped inviting him over and he'd stopped asking. It was a silent agreement to not make plans, so he couldn't break them. All it did, however, was make them both crabby and even a little bitter—Ziva, for obvious reasons, and Tony, because the Director had just upped his assignment, and he knew without a doubt that he wouldn't and couldn't balance his duties as team-leader, his undercover assignments gathering intel on La Grenouille, and two girlfriends—both of which would have to be kept secret—without screwing up, going insane, or most likely, both. He no longer could afford to continue on with Ziva and that pissed him off—so he'd been avoiding her; and it sucked!
Ziva was trapped—again. She'd been having the same dream, well, night terror, for eight nights now; ever since they'd found a Marine (one that bore a striking resemblance to a much younger Ari) shot in the head—execution style. She seemed to be the only person who picked up on the similarity; after all, it was a much younger version of her brother to whom the Marine had the misfortune of resembling.
It had struck a chord in her though. She'd been hiding it well—at least she thought so—but each night she was trapped in a hazy realm over which she had no control. She'd see it happening over and over, see herself listening to her brother confess to the horrors he'd committed—and those he'd planned on committing in the future. She saw herself raising the gun, leveling it, and pulling the trigger; either that or she'd actually pull the trigger in her dream, and she couldn't stop it no matter how hard she might have tried.
Then her doppelganger would appear in the corner of the room, laughing at her evilly—taunting her. The apparition was a reflection of the ugliness she saw in herself and in her brother. She supposed there was still some part of her that could not reconcile ever having to execute her brother—no matter the sins he'd perpetrated, or the life she'd saved in the process.
So, each night since they'd caught the case she'd found herself trapped in the hazy world of recreation, where she could do nothing to stop herself from edging toward becoming the same type of cruel monster her brother had become.
She saw her doppelganger at the top of the stairs. She had her gun. She had evil eyes—murderer's eyes. She listened—and waited. "I want you to know I wish I hadn't had to shoot Caitlin." She does not react to that—not like the real Ziva had that day. "My father. You have the misfortune of reminding me of the bastard." Neither Ziva liked this information, but the doppelganger seemed to feed off of Ari's hate. "He never knew how much I hated him. I wish I could see his face when he realizes he created not a mole but a monster eager to strike at the heart of Mossad and Israel." The doppelganger was almost jubilant with this confession—as if it gave her permission to do the unthinkable.
And then her time was up. This was her cue—her signal. Now or never; she had to do it—it was her mission. "I've killed enough men in my life, Ari. It's going to be just sweet watching you die." On this day, at this time, it was her mission—to kill her brother. "Sorry to spoil your—" BANG! One shot—that's all it took; he wasn't expecting it. He wasn't expecting to die; he wasn't expecting his sister to betray him—to murder him. And then it replayed—over and over—from every perspective. The doppelganger taunted her and made her feel evil—and dirty. Traitorous. Wrong.
"It's going to be just sweet watching you die."
"Watching you die."
"Watching you die."
"You die."
"Die."
"Die."
"Die."
"Die."
"Die."
BANG!
"No!" Ziva shot up in bed, her Sig in her hand, aimed at an invisible enemy. She was breathing heavily, still in shock. She shook her head back and forth miserably, lowering her weapon slowly. "No," she mumbled, over and over, "no, no, no!"
Tony was bleary-eyed as he stepped into the elevator at the end of the week, wanting nothing more than to crash for twelve hours before starting all over again. He knew the likelihood of that happening was slim to none, but a guy could hope, right? He heard the ding of the elevator doors closing and rubbed his fingers over his eyes. When he looked up Ziva was right in front of him, obviously having slipped in at the last second.
He nodded. "Ziva."
She took her place next to him. "Tony."
Neither said or did anything more than that for a moment, and then they both went for the emergency stop at the same time. Their hands touched; marking the first contact they'd had since they started playing the denial game. They looked at each other sadly. She took pity on him, though, and said it first. "We knew this would happen, Tony."
"Only a matter of time, right?" Doesn't mean I have to like it, though. He tried to shrug it off; tried to keep his tone light—but it wasn't really working. He knew it had to happen—the circumstances were bad all around: she was a member of his team, and he was running a special op for the Director, which, Jenny had informed him, had just been upgraded to deep-undercover op with a blonde bonus.
So, yes, he knew it had to happen eventually, but that didn't mean he was happy about it. He cared about Ziva in many ways, and he was relatively sure that had the circumstances been different, they might have had something—special. Not that the time they'd shared hadn't already been special, but the little part of Tony's brain that occasionally thought about his romantic future whispered to him that this could've been something…real.
She sighed, and nodded her head. She didn't like it anymore than he did, but she knew it was probably for the best—at least for now. Her head had been playing tricks on her lately; her night terrors were slowly eating away at her and Tony could not be around for that—for many reasons, but most of all because she couldn't allow the blow to her pride; to her dignity. It was not within her to let someone see her like that.
It was bad enough that Gibbs had already seen her in a moment of weakness—she didn't see the need to add to that list.
So she would walk away from this with her head held high—no outward scars. That was too great a price to pay. They'd had a good time—time she would not soon forget, but time, she realized sadly, that she would have to let go of. They were partners, and he was her team leader—her boss.
She turned the elevator back on and it roared back to life, continuing its journey to the bottom floors. She snuck a peek at Tony without moving her head; he was watching her. She turned to face him. "The job comes first, yes?"
Truer words were never spoken, Tony thought sadly. If only she knew…
"Yeah," he sighed. He couldn't help it—he had to say something to her; something to ease this feeling of guilt and dread, perhaps even something that would only make sense after everything was said and done. The doors opened and Ziva walked out, stopping at Tony's voice behind her. It was strong and loud. "Cuz in the end, you'll know that it was the job all along." She nodded in agreement, not really thinking about what he'd said anymore than that. "Goodnight, Ziva," he said sadly.
Then Ziva did something that she'd never admit to anyone she had ever done. It was a symbolic gesture to Tony and it would last and exist only in this one moment. She turned around and smiled at him gently, "Goodnight, boss."
Tony let his head hit the wall of the elevator hard as he watched Ziva turn away from him—and walk away.
Alas, we have hit the end of our Tiva-licious four months and must now foray into the land of Season 4 without our delectable couple...as a couple. I know—sad, but true. Sigh. Anyway, as I said at the end of chapter two, the next chapter will be the start of Season 4 with a twist. Chapter 4 will be the first of a two-part series of my interpretation of "Shalom," followed by the rest of my version of Season 4 up until the point at which I start completely re-writing NCIS history.
Anyone want to guess at what point I start changing things? Think of it as incentive to review...I feed on them. ;)
To be continued...