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, just a friendly reminder that this chapter is a little bit more, um, mature than the others have been thus far. 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 should warn everyone that this chapter is a little Jeanne-heavy toward the end—so have your vomit bags ready.
Enjoy!
Tony climbed into bed gingerly, both for his own benefit as well as for Ziva's. She was on her right side facing away from him as he lay on his back with his hands behind his head, the feel of the bed utter heaven to his tortured body. He was still a little foggy as to the details of the evening--the how's and who's of the past six hours—but he was pretty sure he had the gist of it.
He'd left the office as soon as he could, grabbed a cab and directed the guy behind the wheel to Donnie's easily. He was in a foul mood when he arrived, that much he remembered, but the rest of his time spent there was lost in a haze of whiskey. He remembered something about Ziva maneuvering him into the car, and then he remembered puking…a lot. But his first real moment of lucidity was realizing that it was Ziva who was taking care of him when he couldn't even take care of himself. He honestly couldn't believe that after all he'd done—all the lies he'd told, secrets he'd kept and pain he'd inflicted—she'd come to collect his sorry ass in the middle of the night and then help him back on his feet.
But that's Ziva—surprising you just when you think you've got her all figured out…he thought to himself with a small smile and a tiny pang of regret. Ziva truly did amaze him sometimes.
He turned his head to the right to look at her, bringing his arms down from beneath his head, and turning slightly to the right to get a better look. Her breathing was very steady and equally spaced. Too perfectly spaced, he thought to himself wryly, also noticing that she wasn't snoring. "Faker," he accused quietly.
"Merely wishful thinking, Tony." She didn't move one inch, nor open her eyes. "I suggest that you follow my lead…and go to sleep."
He nodded, though she couldn't see it, and settled down on his right arm, mirroring the position of his bed partner out of old habit. He watched her for a few more moments before closing his eyes, very aware of the cavernous space between them—both literally and emotionally. "Thank you, Ziva," he said simply.
She opened her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to turn towards him, or lean back into him. "Goodnight, Tony," she said, and they both finally managed to drift off to sleep.
Tony was dreaming—no, better than dreaming, Tony was remembering.
Tony trailed his finger along the raised skin on Ziva's side in a slow sensual caress. Ziva wriggled a little and gave a small laugh. "What?" he chuckled with a big smile, not diverting his attention from the tiny scar.
Ziva smiled from her position on her stomach, her arms folded beneath her head, her eyes closed. "Your hands are cold."
Tony laughed again and allowed his cold fingers to drift down her side towards the small of her bare back. She squirmed again but didn't protest. Tony's fingers danced gently all over her back, twirling in small repetitive circles that were slowly but surely torturing Ziva. She let his name slip from her lips, her attention to admonish him but instead, it came out more of a moan. Tony grinned evilly before diverting his fingertips back up towards the original focus of his tactile investigation. "Hm," he muttered—his tone contemplative.
Ziva cracked one eye, playfully skeptical. "What does that 'hm' mean exactly?"
"Well," he began, tracing and retracing the mark, "I'm imagining the unbelievably numerous ways in which you might have received this rather fierce wound."
"Oh, I see," she said, playing along. "Yes, Tony, I see how your thinking so hard about something would trouble you…seeing as how you have such limited ability to contemplate more than one thing at a time. Deeply troubling indeed."
"Huh," he said, clucking his tongue. "All right then." He moved his very cold hands very far below the sheets, making Ziva jump in surprise.
"Tony!" she shrieked, wriggling in his strong grasp in an attempt to escape his frigid digits. She kicked her legs out, hoping to leverage herself out of his grasp, or at least get out from beneath him.
"Oh no you don't," he said, capturing her legs with his own, effectively trapping her beneath him. He gathered her wrists and held them above her head. His grip wasn't tight—he wasn't trying to keep her there against her will—so she didn't fight it. They'd both long ago learned to just give in to the other in such situations—as physical force used between the two could get very serious very quickly. So he pretended to hold her wrists there against her will and she pretended to fight his hold.
"Tony, let me go," she said semi-serious.
"I'm sorry, what did you say? I'm having trouble processing your request as thinking about more than one thing at a time isn't really a strong suit of mine," he said cheekily.
"Okay, I admit, that may have been a stretching of the truth. Now let me up!" She tugged against his hands but he didn't release them, so she stayed where she was. "Tony…" she admonished.
"A stretching of the truth, huh? I'm sorry, council, but that defense is not acceptable. I'm afraid I'm going to have to hold you in contempt, Officer David."
"Tony—" she started, but he cut her off, leaning his head down to her ear.
"That means there's gonna be a little punishment…," he whispered to her. Every thought Ziva had had only a moment before was suddenly wiped from her mind as her entire body shuttered in unexpected delight…and anticipation. As Tony moved her wrists to his left hand, he brought his right hand slowly down her side to her a much more tortuous place, effectively making her breaths hitch and her breathing ragged at best.
"Tony…" she moaned with almost no breath at all, which made her moan come out more like 'Toh-nee.'
Her eyes were closed, her mouth hanging open, her head thrown back in bliss. Tony grinned to himself. Now we'll see who can't do two things at once, he thought evilly. He brought his lips down to the spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and gently bit, enticing another moan of pleasure from her. His fingers danced beneath the sheets sending her into a spiral of nonsensical thought. Perfect, he thought.
"Ziva?" he asked, purposefully whispering to fuel her already heightened state. She made some non-committal noise in response. He made his way back up to her face and hovered right by her ear, pressing a feather-light kiss to her lobe in concert with a decisive move of the fingers of his busy right hand. She moaned again. "How did you get that scar, Ziva?"
"Whhhaaaat?" she moaned at an almost inaudible decibel.
"The scar," he said, kissing the bit of bare skin in question. He flicked a finger. "How did you get it?" Another flick, another moan.
"Tony…" she whispered.
"That's it, Ziva," he whispered. Flick. "Just tell me how it happened…" Flick. "…and you'll get my undivided attention," he said, emphasizing the point he was making by kissing the scar again in concert with another flick of his fingers.
"Tony…"
"Almost there, Ziva…"
She licked her lips as a look of determined concentration crossed her face. She was trying to put together any string of sounds that he'd understand—lost as she was in her haze of pleasure. "Went through a window…four…" she gulped and took a heaving breath, "…years ago."
He kissed her again and flicked another finger. "Tripped?" he asked, already pretty sure of the answer, but using any excuse to prolong the adventure.
She shook her head back and forth—really more of a thrashing than a shaking at this point—"Throwwwn."
"Ah ha," he said.
"Tony…" she breathed, her tone pleading. Tony grinned wide and with a final flourish of his hand he sent Ziva spiraling over the edge, practically screaming his name as her body quaked beneath his.
He kissed her lips hard, just shy of bruising. "One thing at a time my ass," he muttered.
She laughed evilly and moved quickly, kicking out her legs and flipping them so she sat atop him in the seat of power. She grabbed his ass and squeezed as they rolled. "And what a cute one it is too…" she said. She kissed him quickly and he caught site of a dangerous gleam in her irises as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. "My turn…my little hairy-butt."
"Oh, boy," he purred before her lips crashed down on his.
A little after eight in the morning, Ziva stirred from her sleep, not entirely rested but incapable of spending anymore time in that bed. As gently as possible she slipped from the between the sheets and grabbed her robe from where she'd thrown in the night before. She hung it on the back of the bathroom door and set the water to running while she set up the coffee maker in the kitchen and started it perking. She trotted back down the hall to the bathroom. Peeking in on Tony and hearing him snoring soundly, she ducked into the bathroom, shucked her clothes and hopped in the shower. She grabbed her loofah and lathered up with her body wash, relishing in the feel of the hot water and the solitude.
She'd had a restless night. Between the torqued-up tension of sleeping in the same bed as Tony and her apprehension and anxiety about her night terrors she just wasn't able to allow herself to relax enough to let sleep overtake her for any truly rejuvenating period of time.
She rinsed off, shut off the water, and wrapped herself in her thick robe before applying lotion to her arms and legs. She cracked her neck and stretched out a bit before exiting the bathroom to make herself a cup of coffee, stopping short when she found Tony already seated in her kitchen with his own mug ensconced in his hand. "Oh," she said, purposefully clutching the folds of her robe together to cover her surprise. She cleared her throat and turned towards the coffee maker. "Good morning," she said, pulling her mug down from the cabinet above her head and filling it.
"Morning," he said throatily, still recovering from his graphic but not unpleasant dreams.
She turned around to face him, leaning on the kitchen counter, her hands wrapped around the warmth of her coffee cup. "How are you feeling? Any better?"
"I've had better days," he said cryptically, taking a sip from his mug. "But then again, I've had worse days, too, so, it's probably six of one," he drawled.
"Six of one?" she asked hesitantly.
"Uh," he stammered, "A toss-up; ya know, six of one is half a dozen of another." He shook his head self-deprecatingly, wholly un-amused with the way in which he was falling all over himself. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head weakly. Get it together, DiNozzo; it was just a dream, man. Not like you haven't had those before!
"Not at all," Ziva said politely. "I am always looking for new American colloquialisms to massacre, am I not, Tony?" she said with a wink and a smile.
He laughed outright at that, grateful for the break in the tension. "Yeah," he agreed, smirking at her. "It's right on the honey," he said, intentionally screwing it up to poke fun at her.
She just shook her head, smiled, set her mug on the counter, and made her way back to her room to change. "I'll be back," she called.
"I'll be waiting," he replied cockily, taking another sip of coffee.
Ziva closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, composing herself. Get it together, David! She took a few deep breaths to collect herself and then set about making the bed, straightening the room, and pulling out clothes to change into.
She pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail and then thought better of it, braiding it so that it was shorter and a little bit cuter. Cuter?!?! Ugh! She was a little disgusted with herself but she kept on going about her routine. She applied a small amount of makeup, pulled on black cargo pants with a white long-sleeve knit top and slid on her more functional hiking boots, lacing them up quickly and securing them tightly. She spared one look over her shoulder towards the mirror, and nodded to herself in approval before strapping her Sig onto her hip along with her badge.
When she came out she found Tony dressed in his suit from the day before. The steam had helped some but he still looked as though he had slept in his clothes. At least the shirt didn't stain, she thought idly, glad she'd put in the time and effort to scrub it last night.
He put his arms out, indicating that he was up for inspection. "Not my best…" he said, trialing off.
"But not your worst, either," she added with a wink. He gave a dry laugh and nodded in agreement. "Come on, Tony, I'll drop you by your apartment so you can change, and then I'll drive us both—"
"—Crazy?" he interrupted cheekily, almost instantly regretting it.
"…to work," she clarified stiffly.
He laughed uncomfortably. "Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, huh?" She arched a dangerous eyebrow in response and he laughed awkwardly again, slapping his hands together nervously. "See what I did there? I mouthed off when you were being perfectly kind, generous, and civil, and then I compared you to a horse." His nervous laughter increased, and Ziva almost smiled it was so amusing…almost. "That was very juvenile of me and I apologize," he said, still grinning like an idiot. "See?" he said, smacking himself on the back of the head.
"Car," she said, pointing towards the door, her keys in hand.
"Right!" He hurried to open the door for her and then stepped aside to allow her to lock it. "Want me to drive?" he asked, a little too chipper and smiley for her right now. She just glared. "Right, of course," he said immediately. "No problemo, Zee-vah…" What the hell is the matter with me?! he thought to himself exasperated.
Gibbs closed the door to the conference room behind him as Tony took a seat in one of the cushioned, stiff backed chairs, leaned back, and entwined his fingers. The team leader turned around stiffly and threw a folder down on the table with a slap. "This gonna be a problem for you, DiNozzo?" he asked.
It was always hard to read Gibbs under normal circumstances, but when the seasoned NCIS Special Agent went around inquiring as to the well-being of others—especially when the people in question were his team members—it was always a little disarming. On one hand, of course, Tony was glad for his concern (in a proud, manly way, of course), but on the other hand he was a little worried. Besides being a tad unnerved by Gibbs's inquiry, he was bitter that he had allowed the situation to come about in the first place.
Why would I be all right, boss? I screwed up an undercover operation by becoming emotionally involved with my mark—a real testament to professionalism, after all. Add to that the fact that I'm relatively certain I've scarred Jeanne for life and that I may have seriously harmed my professional relationship with my partner by screwing up a personal relationship that we shouldn't have ever had in the first place…of course I'm NOT all right! Tony chuckled lightly and smiled wide. "Of course not, boss; 100% professionalism here," he said brightly.
Gibbs cocked an eyebrow and half-sighed as his bullshit meter registered a sky-high offense. He bent over the table, leaning into Tony as he would a suspect in interrogation, and flipped open the file he'd tossed there earlier. His index finger tapped slowly on the picture clipped in the corner opposite the photo of La Grenouille, drawing Tony's eyes to the smiling face of his one-time girlfriend. Gibbs was wearing his no-nonsense-it's-time-you-level-with-me face. "You wanna try that one again, DiNozzo?"
Tony slammed his desk drawer with an angry show of force, not caring when Ziva and McGee looked at him strangely. He was angry—at himself, at the director, and unbelievably, at Gibbs. Like so much of his life as of late, Tony was torn. One part of him thought that Gibbs was being ridiculous and that after everything Tony had done and accomplished over the years, Gibbs should at the very least give Tony the benefit of the doubt when it came to the elder agent's misgivings about Tony's partiality. One the other hand, though, Tony was having a rather familiar crisis of faith.
When it came to his confidence in his abilities, doubt was something that Tony knew a lot about. It had truly manifested when Gibbs quit all those months ago, and, Tony supposed, it had only grown and evolved since then. He knew what to do; he knew procedure; he knew how to get information; and how to chase down a lead. He could interrogate, investigate, and shoot. Being an agent was not the problem here, nor had it ever been the problem. No; Tony's problems stemmed from his self-doubt at being a leader—at being in charge or being the one that somebody else looked to. And that pretty much goes for relationships as well (see romantic history from puberty onward).
The truth was he had screwed up—numerous times. The truth was that he pursued a forbidden relationship with his partner and team-member while he was team leader; the truth was that he cared about her deeply and in many differing and complicated ways; the truth was that he let her get hurt so he could play spy-boy with the Director; the truth was that he agreed to the eyes-only assignment to prove to himself that he could be the guy others counted on and looked to; and the truth was that when the director instructed him to pursue Jeanne, he'd screwed up yet again—and fallen for her. So now he had a mountain of truths and absolutely no idea how to deal with them. And, of course, he now had Gibbs doubting his objectivity—and that made his blood boil.
All those times he worried and fretted about his own possible short-comings was one thing; but hearing Gibbs voice even a fraction of those insecurities was infuriating—and a little heart-breaking. So Tony left the conference room and took it out on his desk, actively ignoring the looks passing between his two teammates, and desperately avoiding Ziva's all-knowing eyes.
"Ziva, McGee," Gibbs announced, rounding the corner, his coffee in hand, and his face expressionless. "Grab your gear; Abby found a lead on our bomb-maker—may lead us to an ID on our mystery corpse."
Ziva jumped up obediently, settled her gun on her hip, and slung her backpack over her shoulder, sparing only the barest of glances towards Tony. McGee scooped up his Sig and bag, plucked the file folder from Gibbs's hand and looked expectantly at him as his eyes cut towards Tony—who sat quietly seething. "Go!" Gibbs barked at the duo.
Ziva and McGee flew into action, scooting out of the bullpen and scurrying towards the elevator quickly. The bell for the elevator rang out and McGee stepped on. Ziva hesitated and looked back to Tony who was typing angry strokes on his computer as he ignored Gibbs's presence entirely. "Ziva!" McGee called as the doors began to close. They both stuck out their hands to stop the doors and as Ziva slid into the elevator Tony looked up. Their eyes met for just a moment and his stare was icy and filled with pain. Ziva recognized it well.
She made a small movement to go to him when she hesitated and caught herself. It is not my place anymore…not nearly. And we are at work, she rationalized. It was only a moment's hesitation, but it was enough. Tony saw her face change as the emotions played on her face…before it disappeared behind the metal of the elevator doors completely.
As if things weren't bad enough, Gibbs relegated Tony to writing up his final incident report detailing the sequence of events from the time at which Tony left NCIS until he returned with the Benoit family after the explosion. Ziva and McGee out there working the field—trying to find a lead on the guy who tried to blow me sky-high and into itty-bitties—and I'm stuck in here reliving the entire damned ordeal in excruciating detail. If Gibbs weren't right there Tony would've started hitting, punching, slamming, and breaking things again; but of course, Gibbs was right there—that was the point. I may be an occasional screw-up, but I know when I'm being tested, he thought to himself bitterly, unsure as to what he objected to more—being tested like a guinea pig, or Gibbs infantilizing him by thinking that Tony wouldn't know what the hell was going on. He's testing my resolve—and I'm not breaking this time.
The bell to the elevator sounded and Ziva and McGee stepped out and strode into the squad room with grim faces. Ziva threw her things down next to her desk in a huff, upset that they hadn't found what they were looking for.
Tony narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw; keeping the many comments that came to the front of his mind locked up tight behind his grinding teeth and sealed lips.
McGee came to stand in front of Gibbs's desk. "Dead end, boss. When we got there the place was wiped clean. Ziva and I swept that place for over an hour and we couldn't even find a spec of dust let alone a print." Gibbs stood up abruptly.
"You're telling me there wasn't anything, McGee?" Gibbs asked, angry and incredulous.
McGee shook his head sadly. "Not a thing, boss."
Tony stood up to grab the pages of the freshly-printed report from the printer, stapling it together and sticking it in the proper file.
"We are back at square one, now, yes?" Ziva asked—a little dismal as she looked between the three men in front of her, wary of Tony's state of mind.
"Sounds like," Tony said softly as he slapped the report down on Gibbs's desk with a look that one who values his life should never send in the general direction of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. To Gibbs's credit, he ignored the look, shot one of his own towards Ziva, and motioned for McGee to follow him up to MTAC to brief the Director.
As soon as Gibbs was out of earshot Tony gave his desk a swift kick, spat a few obscenities, and shot Ziva a dirty look. "What?!?!" he growled.
Okay, Ziva thought, hearing the proverbial crack of the camel's back in her mind, I have had enough!
Ziva grabbed Tony by the sleeve and then the ear, dragging him against his will towards the elevator and shoving him in. She hit the button for Abby's lab and turned on him. "What is the matter with you, Tony?" she asked, in no mood to be toyed with.
He clenched his jaw together painfully. His teeth were gnawed together and he had this large grin on his face but it was not a pleasant one—it was horrible. It was the grin you put on your face when you want to curse the world for inflicting upon you the worst type of pain. Ziva knew the look well; it was an old friend.
He took in a ragged breath, his jaw still clenched. "I don't know," he said, finally, the words drawn out as if he were forcing them.
"Tony—" Ziva began, taking a step towards him; but she got no further.
"Damn it!" Tony roared. He spun and slammed his fist against the side of the elevator painfully. He pounded the wall one more time before Ziva hurriedly flipped the emergency halt switch in the elevator. The conveyance came to an abrupt halt just as Tony reared back to hit the wall again.
"Tony!" Ziva screamed, stopping him mid-movement. His shoulders slumped and his breathing quickened as he let what had just occurred wash over him. The dam had broken and the pain he'd been trying to overwrite and bury was very plain to see. Ziva was at a loss; she had no idea what to say to him right now. Anything I said right now would be…inappropriate. Would anything anyone said really help right now? Especially her? She didn't think she'd be able to make him feel better… and it was killing her.
He was slumped over at the waist, bracing himself against the wall of the elevator with both arms, and he looked…defeated. All she wanted to do at that moment was reach over and lay her palm against his back, her cheek against his back, and then slowly wrap her arms around his waist and hug him tightly. But she couldn't. Instead, there was a tense silence and Ziva could literally feel Tony's melancholy as she stood behind him.
"You ever lie to someone you love, Ziva?" he asked, his voice so sad that it broke Ziva's heart.
It was a loaded question to begin with because of their history—and their not-so-history. Do I tell him the truth? Will it do him any good? Will it do me any harm? "Yes," she said, nearly choking on the word as she spoke it.
He turned around slowly, leaned his back against the wall, and crossed his arms. "They ever forgive you?" he asked, his eyes drifting off into another world.
She laughed bitterly to herself inside her head. Her first answer was 'no'—she whole-heartedly believed that had Ari been able to tell her so, he would not have forgiven her. Of course you would ask me this, Tony—the one thing I cannot tell you…or anyone. "They never found out," she said. I killed him before he could.
"Mine found out."
Oh, Tony, she thought, wanting to say and do so many things. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, to say that she understood and that she was here; to tell him she knew how much he cared for Jeanne—and to yell at him for making such a grave error in judgment in falling for that girl. She wanted to scream at him for agreeing to do what he had and she wanted to beat him to a pulp for all the turmoil he'd put her through. You let me think you were dying, she wanted to yell at him. She wanted to do it all, but she couldn't—she just couldn't. So, she straightened her spine instead, and prepared herself to hear what she very much didn't want to hear—because she recognized his need to talk to someone about this. "You told her everything?" she asked.
"I did," he nodded, and slowly, he began to tell her what had happened once he'd finally made it up to see Jeanne.
Tony took a deep breath and opened the door to the conference room knowing that the conversation that awaited him on the other side was going to be by no means an easy one.
"Jeanne," he said softly.
She looked up from her perch by the window and ran to him, nearly knocking him down. "Oh, Tony, thank God," she said, her arms thrown around his neck. "They wouldn't tell me anything," she huffed. "No one will talk to me! Everyone I see just keeps saying to stay here. Here! Here where they won't tell me anything or answer any questions! I didn't know where you were, and they moved my father somewhere else and I didn't—"
"Hey," he said softly, untangling her arms and cradling her face gently. "It's okay, it'll be okay; you're safe now. Just take some deep breaths; it'll be okay."
"Tony, what is going on? Where did you go? I mean, God that was your car that blew up— your car. That could have been you; it should have been you." She was rambling now. "Everything that's happened today, and last night; the way you handled things…the gun. The gun—firing it the way you did, and now this!" She started hyperventilating a little and shaking her head.
Tony guided her to a chair and motioned for her to sit down. She went to speak but he stopped her. "Deep breath," he ordered, motioning for her to follow his advice by gesturing 'in-and-out' with his hands.
It took her a minute or two to start breathing normally again. When she had, she put her head between her knees, her hands hanging down as well. "It's like you're some other person all of a sudden; someone I don't know."
Tony swallowed. He looked at her but he didn't say anything. How do I even begin, he thought, finally deciding that silence was the best option. But to Jeanne, though, the silence spoke volumes.
She looked up suddenly and shook her head angrily, a look of pure rage marring her European features. "You are, aren't you? Aren't you! Someone else…" Once again, Tony remained silent, unable to even fathom how or what to tell her. Except of course that I'm the world's largest bastard, he thought bitterly.
"Who?" she asked angrily. He made a move to go to her but she pushed him away, batting at his hands. "Who are you?!?!"
Tony swallowed hard and apologized to her a thousand times in his head. "My name isn't Tony DiNardo," he said, feeling the two selves he'd been trying so hard to keep separate suddenly merge all at once. 'God, what have I done?' "…It's Anthony DiNozzo. I'm a Federal Agent," he explained.
She looked at him in horror, shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No," she kept whispering over and over. "No…no…NO!" She screamed at him, raging wildly and nailing him with a hateful stare. "Why? WHY? Tell me why!"
"I work here," he said, motioning to the building. "For the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."
"The Navy?" she asked, not comprehending. "This has all been a lie," she realized. "A lie!"
"No, Jeanne," he said adamantly, moving towards her once again. "Not everything—just some things," he finished weakly. She shied away from him again, wrenching herself from his grasp as if he'd burned her. 'Who am I kidding? Why would she believe me after everything I've done?' But he pressed on anyway. "Not the important things," he stressed futilely.
"Just tell me why!" she spat. "Why—what does—what do I have to do with the Navy? What am I supposed to have done? Why would you do this? Why me? Why?"
"It's not you," he explained. "You didn't do anything; it wasn't you that…" I was after, he finished silently—the grandeur of what he'd done slamming him full-force in the gut. Damnit!
She shook her head, angry, and in a blind panic. "Who? Who? Who, Tony? Who?" she hit him in the shoulder once, twice, three times. "Who!" She barreled into him in a rage and swung at him over and over again, demanding answers with each strike.
Technically he should've made a move to grab her wrists, to stop her attack, but he didn't. He swung his arms out and enveloped her, trapping her hands in between them—stopping her all the same, but not as harshly as the detached self-defensive move that he should've used as per his training. "Jeanne, don't do this, please." She sobbed into him manically, and he stroked her hair, even as she continued to resist him. "My father; it's my father, isn't it?" she sobbed. "Isn't it?"
"You should ask him," he said plainly, still trying to comfort her. 'I'll never be able to comfort her again…not after this; not ever.' He held her close for as long as he could. It was his last hurrah and he knew it. Sometimes he wondered why out of all the women he'd gone out with—and there had been many—why it had been this one who had made him feel so vulnerable and emotionally involved. Maybe it was because she was off-limits. If he knew in the end that there could be nothing, then he wasn't really falling and wasn't really committing. It was warped logic but it was all Tony had at that moment. "Ask him," he implored again as he planted a kiss to her head. "Just ask him," he pleaded. 'Because you'll never believe it if you hear it from me…not anymore. And not ever.'
And then he let her go and left her in the conference room. He took one final look at her before he closed the door and said a silent goodbye to the woman Tony DiNardo fell in love with before Special Agent Tony DiNozzo closed the door on her…and the man he'd pretended to be.
Okay, so I have good news and bad news…and then some more good news. The good news is that I have eight chapters after this written, and I'm currently working on the ninth. The bad news is that I start school again tomorrow, which means that I'm going to have a lot less time to write—much to all our collective chagrin. But, the good news is that as of my current position in chapter twenty-three (what I'm writing now) I have over 100.000 words, and a number of story-arcs left in the story's timeline, so although my progress in actual writing may slow down, there is a lot left to look forward to—on both our parts.
I'm ecstatic that you're all still reading, and I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter—you really helped to light a fire under me. Keep the reviews coming as they are most likely the only thing that can sway me from my homework and studies to writing the magnificent alternate lives of our favorite couple—Tony and Ziva.
Thanks for reading!