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:

Okay, guys, these are actual author's notes this time. Lol. Something you all should be aware of before reading the newest installment of "Picking up the Pieces and Filling in the Gaps" is:

We have some flashbacks in this chapter and in the upcoming chapters as well. I write flashbacks in ITALICS, which is obvious, but just for clarification's sake, please take notice that when the text in not italicized I used italics for the characters' thoughts (something I'm sure you are all quite comfortable with by now). However, when I'm in flashback mode, everything except the characters' thoughts are in italics. I have complete confidence in you all, so I'm not too worried; I just wanted to put it out there in case.

Okay, that was it but stay tuned for a little bit more, um, mature chapter 14. I didn't go crazy or anything, but let's just say that those of you who were in TIVA-withdrawal should be very happy…kind of. Also, I may end up upping the rating as the chapters go on and we get some more intimate TIVA moments--just a warning.

Okay, enough cryptic messages and hints—on with the show!

Ziva sighed as she pulled up outside the familiar bar. She shut off the engine and leaned back in her seat, leaving the keys in the ignition, and letting her head hit the headrest with a small bounce.

'What the hell am I doing?' she asked herself for what had to have been the tenth time since she got the late-night call. She grunted and started the car, intent on leaving the lot, the bar, and the drunken fool waiting inside to his own devices. He is a big boy, Ziva—he got himself into this situation and he can get himself out of it.

But she froze with her hand on the gear shift. Her foot on the brake was the only thing keeping her in the lot and at the moment she was wavering in her convictions. Or you could be the bigger person and help your partner, Ziva, said a more reasonable voice inside her head.

"No," she said aloud, as she pulled out of the parking space at the far side of the gravel lot. "It is your bed, Tony, and God knows you know how to sleep in it…" But as she threw her right blinker on to turn out of the lot, she sighed again, shook her head in resignation, and circled back around to her original parking space. She shut the engine off once again, and resumed her earlier dismal position—slumped in the driver's seat of her car attempting to tamp down her overwhelmingly conflicting urges to both help and hurt the man who had both helped and hurt her.

Ziva glanced up at the flashing neon sign of the bar, wincing as she caught the glare it caused on her windshield, right next to the distorted image of the car's digital readout reminding her what an ungodly hour it was. She took off her seatbelt, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, allowing herself a moment to remember…and reflect.

"This is where we are going, Tony?" she asked him, the tiniest bit of disgust and disbelief evident in her voice.

"Don't sound too excited, Ziva," he replied, smiling, as he opened the door for her and helped her out of the car. He slammed it shut behind her and grasped her hand more firmly in his. "I know it doesn't look like much, but trust me—you'll love it. I promise," he said, winking and throwing her a 100-watt smile she couldn't resist.

From the outside, the bar didn't look like much—red brick façade faded by time and the weather with large stain glass windows and a heavy but ornately finished door. There were a few banners advertising specials, deals, and weekly gimmicks, as well as a two large signs—one, tall and yellow with removable black letters, and the other a blazing neon sign that read Donnie's Pub in large old English lettering.

She smiled crookedly, shook her head despite herself, and gave a little chuckle. "Well, if you promise…I suppose I'll just have to trust you."

"Milady," Tony said, offering his arm by way of escort.

She grasped his proffered arm at the elbow and bowed her head obligingly. They were both wearing broad smiles when they crossed the threshold into the bar, Tony holding the door open for Ziva ever-so-chivalrously.

The outside may have looked unremarkable, but once she was inside, Ziva began to understand the promise Tony had made her. Upon entering the pub Ziva assessed her surroundings, taking in the homey feeling it evoked. The bar itself was to the right of the door, spanning nearly the entire length of the establishment. It was a virtually flawless mahogany, stained a dark and rich brown that practically glistened in the glow of the old stone fireplace and hearth that blazed to the left of the door across the room.

As soon as Ziva stepped into the tavern she could feel the heat from the flickering flames wafting towards her, and when she looked above the bar, to the neatly lined glasses that hung upside down, she could see the flames flickering in reflection. The stone fireplace made up nearly half the left wall, and separated the bar and tables from the cozy, intimate, booths carved from the same rich mahogany as the bar. There were several small round tables—each with three chairs—all made from the same wood as the bar scattered around a beautiful billiard table right in the center of the main room.

From the doorway she could just make out the dart board that peeked out from the other room on the far wall—as well as the celebratory exclamations from the men gathered around it. Finally, in the center of the main room was a brilliant old lighting fixture with yellow glass that complimented the light from the fireplace in a most comforting manner. It felt safe—safe and warm. And Ziva couldn't help the tiny smile that began to tick her lips upwards. Tony smiled as well as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I think that's a solid 'I-told-you-so' if ever I saw one."

"I admit," Ziva said, smirking, "It does have…charm."

Tony chuckled, happy with himself.

"Well, will ye look at what the cat dragged in!" said a booming and seemingly Irish voice from behind the bar. "Who said ye could bring yer scraggly ass in here again, DiNozzo?"

Tony removed himself from Ziva's grasp and made his way towards the bar with a very fake swagger. "Oh, yeah? What's it to you, kid?" Ziva watched, curious, as Tony conversed with the man behind the bar in a teasing manner. The man in question was by no means a 'kid.' With white hair, wrinkles, and a pronounced limp, there was obviously more to the story than just the obvious.

"Gotta keep out the varmints, vermin, and like." Tony spun around in a circle rather quickly, making the man smile a little and nod. "Don't see a tail on ye yet, though. So I s'pose yer still good fer a drink, ye little punk." The man waited a moment and then smiled and swung his hand out towards Tony's in very manly handshake.

"How ya doin', Donnie?" Tony said, a full-fledged smile now gracing his face.

"Leg's a little sore but otherwise I can't complain." He barked out a laugh. "Well, I s'pose at my age I could, but it'd be ungentlemanly of me," he said, nodding in Ziva's direction.

Tony smiled and looked back at Ziva, holding out his hand for her. She sidled up next to him quite gracefully and smiled charmingly. "Donnie, I'd like you to meet someone very special. Ziva, this is Donnie Kidd—"

"—Owner and barmen of the fine establishment ya see in front er ya, milady," he said, interrupting Tony, taking Ziva's hand in his, and bringing it to his lips. "Pleasure," he said, inclining his head with a smile.

Ziva smiled brilliantly and did the same, "Charmed."

"Ziva, is it?" Donnie asked.

She nodded. "It is."

"Well, Ziva, humor an ol' man, won't ya, and tell me—what's such a fine lookin' woman as yerself doin' with a sorry sight like this one?" he asked, motioning with his head to indicate Tony.

Ziva smiled evilly and leaned in conspiratorially, "I ask myself that all the time, Donnie…"

"Ookaayy," Tony said, his voice an octave or two louder than usual. "Thank you, friends, for the kind words and encouragement. Gosh, with friends like these…" he said, trailing off with a humorous demeanor.

Ziva laughed and patted him on the stomach. "Pace yourself, Tony. You already have plenty of enemies."

Tony sighed dramatically and threw his arm around Ziva, bringing her into his side before smacking her on the butt with an audible 'thwack.' She startled. "Thanks ever-so-much, Sweetcheeks," he said grinning.

Donnie raised his eyebrows in contented surprise and Ziva turned to give him a death-glare that shut Tony right up. "Right, then," Tony said, his voice a little squeaky, "How about a couple of beers, Don?"

Donnie chuckled heartily and pulled two bottles from below the bar, wiping them off and popping them open. "Oh, Tony," he said amidst booming laughter—winking at Ziva as he passed them their beers—"That one there's a keeper!"

"So, how do you know Donnie?" Ziva asked a while later, as the two sat huddled together in a booth in the far corner, feeling the flames of the fire from both sides.

"After I transferred from Baltimore PD to NCIS, I used to come here to blow off steam after a hard day," he began, taking a pull from his beer. "I was getting to know the lay of the land, the people—"

"The women…" Ziva guessed, smirking, and taking a pull from her own bottle.

Tony ignored her. "Donnie used to be a Metro PD Detective before he got hurt—shot in the leg—"

"Hence the limp," she inferred, and he nodded.

"When they made him choose between riding a desk or retirement, he chose the life of a barman. He opened this place and it became a local watering hole for cop-types after their shifts."

"It is very beautiful in here," she said, looking around yet again.

"I told you…" he said, getting very close to her and dropping a kiss onto her lips.

"You did indeed." She smiled up at him. "I bow down to the master," she said dramatically.

"Well, thank you, milady," he said, with a gallant sweep of his hand, making her laugh. Then he sobered. "And thank you for coming with me—meeting Donnie," he said, inclining his head towards the bar's general direction.

She looked at him seriously, kissed him again, a little longer this time, and then looked him in the eyes, "Thank you for bringing me," she said honestly.

Ziva opened her eyes and looked out at the Donnie's Pub sign with a pang of regret and nostalgia—and loss. She sighed and shook her head. "Damnit, Tony," she said to no one in particular. Then before she could lose her nerve she pulled the keys from the ignition and heaved herself from the car, trekking with long and purposeful strides across the lot, gravel crunching beneath her boots.

When she got to the heavy wooden door she took a deep breath and attempted to center herself before gripping the large, smooth handle and pulling hard.

It smelled and felt just the same. The fire still flickered away in the hearth, catching the glasses above the bar; the clink of the balls on the billiard table were still so soft they were almost sensual; and Donnie was still there behind the bar, a rag tossed over his left shoulder as he poured shots to a couple of off-duty cops at the end of the bar.

She took a few steps forward and Donnie looked up, nodding to her in greeting and then back behind her towards a mass of what passes for human these days nearly passed out in a booth in the corner—their booth; their corner.

She could hear Donnie's uneven footsteps as he came up beside her. "Came in 'ere a little over an hour ago, long-faced and sullen—bit rude too if ye ask me. Downed four JDs quicker than I e're did see him before. When he ordered the fifth I thought it'd be best for someone ter come get 'im—lest I send 'im home in a cab." He paused a moment and put his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "Thought of ya, lass," he said, smiling. He shook his head as a look of confusion passed over his face. "Kept sayin' sometin' 'bout his car explodin'." He chuckled bitterly. "I have ter admit—I didn't quite understand that one!"

"Thank you, Donnie," she said, forcing the words out as calmly as possible. "I will take care of it."

She took a step towards him when she heard Donnie's voice behind her. "It's good ter see ya again, lass. I dare say ya owe me a game 'o darts in the near future…"

Ziva turned and gave the old man a warm smile, remembering for a moment, how it felt to feel so safe here with Donnie's gentle voice and personality, and…Tony. She walked back to Donnie and gave him a soft peck on the cheek. "I missed you as well, Donnie."

Donnie nodded and made his way back to his post behind the bar as Ziva made her way to the back corner booth. Tony wasn't passed out—that much was working towards her benefit right now. He was, however, very, very drunk. He kept staring into his drink, alternating between taking a tiny sip and swirling it around and around in the tumbler. His eyes were glassy and his movements were sluggish, and if her eyes were not deceiving her—his eyes were…red-rimmed. Oh, Tony, she thought, her heart breaking at the sight of him.

It took her twenty minutes, a lot of hand-holding, and more restraint in holding her tongue than she'd ever had to endure before, but she got him into her car. She rolled down the passenger window to get him some fresh air, but he was so out of it that his head just lolled out the window like a dog with its tongue stuck out. Ziva shook her head and sighed for what must have been the hundredth time that night. At least he can't say anything about my driving, she thought idly before giving a bitter chuckle.

She thought about how she was going to get him into his apartment for a few moments before she decided that she wouldn't be able to—there were just too many doors and too many floors to wrangle his ass manageably. She sighed, resigning herself to the fact that it would be easier to take him to her first floor duplex. Oh, no, not complicated at all, Ziva, she scolded herself—but there was no other logical choice. Not unless she wanted to dump him in the vestibule of his apartment building…and even she would not be so cruel and crass—no matter what crimes he was guilty of in her opinion.

He was in that not-wholly-passed-out-but-definitely-not-making-any-of-his-own-decisions-right-now stage of intoxication that allowed her to guide him with almost relative ease up her steps, into her apartment, and into the bathroom before he began to heave his guts up in her toilet. He had already removed his tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt by the time she'd found him at Donnie's. God only knows what he has done with them, however. She took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door before removing his shirt completely.

While he regurgitated the contents of his stomach in the bathroom, she took the shirt to the kitchen and began to scrub it out with a spot-stick and scrub-brush before hanging it on a hanger in the hall outside the bathroom. She put his jacket on another hanger and left it with the shirt before grabbing a set of towels from her linen closet—with two washcloths.

She returned to the bathroom, placed the towels on the hamper, and plucked up one of the washcloths to run under the cold water. She sat on the edge of the tub as Tony leaned against the vanity next to the toilet, clearly in pain and only at an intermission. Still, she gently patted his forehead down with the cool water before wiping his mouth and rinsing out the washcloth before repeating the process several more times as more and more alcohol was purged from his system.

Somewhere around the forty minute mark he seemed to regain some sense of self-awareness and looked at her as she finished wiping his face and mopping his brow. "Why are you doing this?" he asked seemingly baffled as to the source of her kindness.

She just looked at him for a moment and said, "Because." And she said it with such sincerity that he sniffled once, took a ragged breath, and nodded his understanding, concern, and thanks—all in one motion. And she nodded too. It was enough, for now; she'd help him tonight, and they'd work up to the conversation they each knew they'd have to have eventually. Just not tonight.

"Can you stand?" she asked, and he nodded, carefully getting to his feet with Ziva's assistance. "A shower is probably your best bet, Tony." She hesitated. "Can you…? Do you…?" She was stumped. Exactly how does one ask her ex-whatever if he requires assistance bathing himself?

He swayed on his feet a bit, but he understood. "Just…help with the shoes, okay?" he asked gently. She nodded and removed his shoes and socks, placing them in the hall before returning to turn on the shower, check the temperature, and close the curtain. She pointed to the towels on the hamper and he nodded his understanding before she made her way out the door. "Ziva?" he called to her, and she spun around towards him, a little hopeful despite her best attempts to tamp down any and all emotion. "Clothes?" he asked, his voice monotonous and betraying no emotion whatsoever—something over which Ziva envied him greatly.

"Yeah," she said, nodding, and making her way back towards her bedroom. She pulled open the bottom drawer and plucked out a pair of Tony's sweatpants that he'd left here and she'd never given back. She clutched them to her chest and sighed for a moment, thinking to herself that this was quite the situation. She normally only pulled these out when she was feeling particularly masochistic—it was strange to have an actual purpose for them now. She chose an old NCIS t-shirt of Tony's—one of many that he'd gifted her with for 'lounge-wear'—and a pair of socks that would fit him. I don't have any of his boxers anymore, she thought to herself with a little laugh. He did laundry so infrequently that she thought it cruel to not give those back. She folded it all neatly into a bundle, put a small bottle of aspirin and bottled water on top, and made her way back to the sounds of the shower spray in her bathroom. She opened the door a little bit, her intent to leave them on the vanity, but she forgot about the squeaky hinge and nearly jumped when it gave away her presence—no matter how benign it was. "They're on the vanity, Tony," she said quickly before high-tailing it back to safer ground.

Safer ground? she thought bitterly, as she slumped down on the couch, shaking her head miserably. There's no such thing anymore, she thought dismally before succumbing to the sleep that she so desperately needed.

The dream grabbed her faster than usual—most likely the stress of the past few days combined with her overwhelming exhaustion. She wasn't watching tonight; tonight she was doing.

Ziva waited at the top of the stairs, listening intently to the goings-on below. Her brother had arrived as Gibbs had expected—he was a traitor and a murderer. She felt a sudden cold invade her body and rush through her veins. She felt an overwhelming hate rage from a ball in her stomach and spread out until it felt as though she was consumed by it.

By evil.

All of a sudden she was watching the picture below her. She saw her brother and the evil look in his eyes—the crazy tone in his voice. "I want you to know I wish I hadn't had to shoot Caitlin…My father. You have the misfortune of reminding me of the bastard." The hate raged anew as it controlled her body against her will. "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."

She tried to resist—tried to stop it—but her fate was sealed. She felt tears fall on her cheeks as she raised her gun and leveled it at her brother. "Sorry to spoil your—" BANG! He wasn't expecting it…he never was—just like that day. He wasn't expecting his sister to betray him—to murder him.

"It's going to be just sweet watching you die."

"Watching you die."

"Watching you die."

"You die."

"Die."

"Die."

"Die."

"Die."

"Die."

BANG!

Ziva's eyes opened with a ragged exhalation of breath followed by a series of heavy breaths in and out. Her eyes looked around wildly, trying to figure out where she was and what she was doing there; what the day was and what time it was as well. She sat up slowly and took in the scene that was her living room. The clock on her wall said 4:12 am.

She brought a shaky hand to her forehead in an attempt to calm herself down. She took another look around and found that she'd been covered with a blanket and that her boots had been slid off and tossed on the ground. She looked to her left and saw that Tony was passed out next to her, snoring loudly and pretty much dead to the world. At least he's breathing, she thought mindlessly as she attempted to get her bearings.

Ziva straightened her boots and put them by her front door. Then she went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face and decided to hop into a quick shower as she was now covered in sweat from her nightmare. She brought Tony's jacket and shirt into the bathroom and hung them on the back of the door, along with the pants she plucked from the bathroom floor so they could benefit from the steam before hopping in and scrubbing every inch of her skin and then washing her hair thoroughly. When she was done, she threw her clothes in her hamper, wrapped herself in her robe and pulled her hair back in a ponytail.

As she made her way through the living room she saw that Tony had spread out on the couch and made himself more comfortable, though, there was no way he could actually be comfortable on that thing. Even her back was a little sore from sleeping on it for just a few hours.

She pulled on sweats and long sleeved knit shirt, pulled down the covers and slid in between the sheets, almost sighing in blissful comfort. But the moment her head hit the pillow she thought of Tony lying out on the couch, already suffering from his bender the night before and thought about offering him the other side of the bed. Then she thought better of it—what kind of message would that send? It could get uncomfortable…yes, better to leave things as they are. So she settled back into her warm, comfortable bed, and closed her eyes. He did take off my boots and cover me with a blanket. And I suppose it was nice of him to not just lie down in my bed…though one would call that common decency… She debated with herself for a moment or two, teetering between allowing him in the bed and keeping him at a safe and confusion-free distance before she came around to the sight of him so broken and sad in the bar tonight. She sighed, both in her head and out loud, and threw the covers back on her side as well as on—the other side—before trotting out to the living room.

His hair was tussled from the shower and the time spent on the couch. He looked like a little boy in the way his facial features softened while he slept, and it melted a tiny bit of Ziva's heart to see him like that again. Against her better judgment she reached out to run her fingers through his hair like she used to do so often…before. It was just like she remembered—soft, close enough to his scalp to be warm, and utterly Tony in the way it fell right back into place. But he smelled like her right now and not his own tangy-smelling shampoo. He used mine, she remembered.

He twitched a little in his sleep, her touch having jostled him a little. She smiled at the way his nose crinkled, relaxed, and then twitched before he fell back into a motionless slumber. She bent down to a crouch and laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking him just a little. "Tony…" He grunted a little so she shook him a little harder. "Tony," she said again, a little louder this time. He groaned again but didn't wake. Stubborn-ass, she thought to herself. I try to do him another favor and, of course, he makes it all the more difficult. Typical DiNozzo. "Tony!" she said a little more urgently.

"Ah!" Tony groaned, falling off the couch and shaking his head in an effort to gain some clarity. Big mistake. "Ohhhh," he groaned as he cradled his now aching head. "Well-done, DiNozzo," he said aloud to himself. "Ah…" When the room stopped spinning he looked up and around him to try to place what had woken him. Spotting Ziva hovering over his head sent Tony crashing back to earth…with his memory. "Ohhh," he moaned his voice croaking as the haziness lifted from his fuzzy brain. He closed his eyes tight and stretched out his mouth, which felt like it had been used to store cotton. "I don't want to go to school today, Mom," he said, his voice sounding as if his throat were made of sandpaper.

Ziva crossed her arms and tapped her foot in distaste, a most unhappy expression dancing across her features as she looked down at him. To Tony, looking up from the floor, Ziva was upside down…and very tall. That's not a good look, he thought, cautiously. "Are you finished?" she asked testily.

Tony swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am," he said, defeated and altogether too tired, sore, and achy to bother coming up with something cute or sophomoric.

"Alright, then," she said professionally. "The other half of the bed is yours if you want it." Then she nodded once, turned on her heel and disappeared inside her bedroom.

Tony only had one thought as he hauled himself up off the floor as gently as possible. I really don't deserve her…

You know the drill by now people. Let me hear you if you love TIVA!!!