Eek. I know many of you hate me after last week's instalment. But, as WriterUnexpected so very well put it, "...It can't be a Tiva story without Tiva." So here we have some Tiva. Yes, it's still rather angsty, but hopefully you'll see it can get better. And I promise you it will. Then, if you don't like this, I've still got another two continuations to do. Just, sometimes, life isn't perfect. And Tony and Ziva certainly aren't.
Grovel over. By the way, thanks for the continuing reviews with this, you're all lovely, even if you hate me. I replied to most of last chapter's, I think. Ahem, enjoy.

Disclaimer: You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you buy a little toy Vespa, because that's what Tony and Ziva were riding in Paris.

Listening to: No Light, No Light, by Florence and the Machine.

The bed is cold when he wakes up, something he wishes he hadn't been half-expecting. The sheets are cool and crumpled beneath his palm as he stretches his arm out, but they seem to dissolve beneath his skin like sand and ashes.
She's gone.

He knows he should have waited, and shouldn't have done something as drastic so soon after they met (though, when he thinks about it, it's the longest he's ever waited), but he was kind of tired and he felt content, and he had thought it the most natural thing to do. She didn't agree, obviously. His chest tightens painfully and a lump forms in his throat, but he opens his eyes anyway, knowing that lying in bed will only make the situation worse. The room is far too bright for his liking, and he squints as if blinded. In actual fact, he just doesn't want to look at the room that holds such memories from the night before.
He stands, picking up his clothes from their scattered positions on his carpet, attempting to make his mind as blank as possible. But the curtains still hold her scent; the bed her image, and nothing makes him feel any better. So he dresses in silence, anger and remorse filling him up and up and up until he feels he may explodes. Yet he does nothing, just opens the bottle of single malt he keeps only for the most dreadful of occasions, downs a mouthful or two, and heads to work. As he drives, he pretends he can't still feel the ghost of her touch- hands that ran down his back, fingers that clutched at his hair-, because it's easier that way.

Or so he tells himself.

.

She wakes in her apartment, feeling so very empty. Her lips still feel as they did last night- as if his are still pressed against them, searing and burning and rather delightful. But of course, he is not beside her. He is in his own bed, in his own home, and without her. The emptiness only strengthens itself as she realizes the full impact of what she's done.
It wasn't wrong, of course it wasn't. It was right, so so right, she just didn't realize it. And she's messed it up.

Her quilt feels icy all of a sudden, and she throws it off her as if it will poison her skin if against it any longer. The cool air hits her but she revels in it- the air should be cold, sheets should be warm. Warm, like his would be. Warm, like his were, before she left. Warm, like so many other things that she simply can't bring herself to think of right now. Looking down at herself, she sees her crumpled clothes from yesterday and shudders in half horror, half amazement. Because they may be the clothes she hurriedly put on last night, as she ran from an unfamiliar bedroom, leaving behind a very familiar man, but they are also the clothes that had fallen to the floor last night, along with inhibitions- for a short while, anyway- and any other thoughts apart from him. Then, all of a sudden, it hurts too much.
She tears at the clothes, stumbling into the shower to rid herself of his touch. But he's still there- imprinted onto her much like before, skin on skin-, regardless of how hard she scrubs and exfoliates and washes. He's like a shadow. A gorgeous, haunting shadow, that won't leave her alone no matter how much she tries. She supposes she'll have to leave it at that. The water turns cold just before it cuts out altogether, and she's suddenly reminded of the icy sheets from earlier, flinching as her heart tugs forcefully. Then, before she leaves for work and wonders how on earth she'll get through this day, she has a shot or three of vodka, trying to ignore the fact that she can still feel him right by her side, because it's easier that way.

Or so she tells herself.

000000

She sits at her desk nervously, chewing her fingers and only half paying attention to the world around her. She thinks McGee has enquired as to her wellbeing once or twice, and she thinks she nodded in the affirmative, but she can't be sure.
Tony hasn't turned up yet, and she's extremely worried. Not for the sake of the two of them, though that is something she thinks will have to be addressed, but for his sake and his alone. If she's made him... refuse to come in to work, or drown his sorrows, or quit his job- though maybe it's slightly wishful thinking that he really cared enough about her to do something so drastic, and she does hope to hell it's not such a reason-, she'll never be able to forgive herself. And right now, swamped in guilt from sleeping with him and leaving him, she's got a lot of never-forgiving on her shoulders. She really doesn't need any more.

Gibbs strolls in, coffee in hand this time as opposed to sitting on his desk, and is about to sit down at his desk when he stops abruptly. Sending glares in the direction of the two empty spaces- huh, Emily hasn't turned up either; Ziva didn't notice- he opens his mouth to say something, but stops yet again. Now being more tuned-in to what's happening this morning, and not completely focused on Tony and his absence, Ziva leans forward in her chair and looks at Gibbs.
The man is studying a folder on his desk, brow furrowed and eyes squinting in either surprise or lack-of-vision. She can't tell what it is, only that there is a lengthy write-up on three pieces of paper, with a bold title at the top and quite a few capital letters. Shrugging internally, she leans back, spinning slightly on her seat, and takes a sip of her tea, zoning out once more.

"...DiNozzo?" Gibbs says, and she visibly snaps out of it, almost spilling her tea. The agent is staring at her confusedly, eyebrow quirked in question.

"Mm? Sorry, Gibbs?"
"I said, Where is DiNozzo?"

"I... do not know. Sorry."

Gibbs walks toward her now, squatting down to meet her eyeline with a knowing look.
"Well, then. Do you happen to know why the hell Finch quit?"

Ziva cocks her head slightly before realizing that Finch is Emily. Emily quit? Crap.
"I do not know that either... Gibbs." her voice is hesitant, because she thinks she may know but she can't be sure for definite. Gibbs shakes his head in disbelief, a smirk on his lips, and stands to his full height again.

"Rule number 12." he announces to the team-of-two, then sinks into his chair, pressing a few buttons on his keyboard as if he knows what they actually do.

Ziva knows of Rule Number 12. It is the rule she had heard of- not dating a co-worker, or something along those lines. However, she's not sure if her temporary boss is implying that Emily had been dating a co-worker, or that someone else had. She assumes it's the latter- in her short time on Gibbs' team, she has learnt that she has an odd ability to know everything. Strangely, it unnerves her.

.
.

When Tony trudges in, looking rather under-the-weather and most definitely avoiding her gaze, Gibbs yells at him, and she feels so very sorry. Sorry for her actions, sorry for making him late- she thinks she's the reason he's late-, sorry for everything she's ever done wrong. He looks like a living hell, he really does. His eyes aren't surrounded by bags and aren't red or watery, which doesn't surprise her because he really was sleeping heavily last night, but instead hold a steely quality that she only catches when he turns his head. His hair is messy, but not simply sticking up- merely swept in a sideways angle, as if he's been running his hand through it over and over again. His clothes are crisp as per usual, but he isn't wearing a tie and his collar flaps open, revealing the very top of his chest. She closes her eyes tight before more memories flood her senses, because she fell asleep on that chest last night.

She hears someone call her name, and peels her eyes open once more, turning alert. Gibbs hadn't caught her, luckily, only McGee, and she sends a nod in the latter's direction to assure him she's fine. The eldest agent repeats his words again, and Ziva tries not to groan.

"I said, David, there's a free desk. Move there. Now."
How very direct; how very Gibbs.

Gathering her things, she shuffles across the office and sits at Emily's old desk, staring intently at a blotch on the surface. She can't do this, not at this moment. She can't sit and try to work when she knows who is right in front of her, the whole time.
When did Tony DiNozzo start being involved in her every move?

But when she comes to think about it, she knows. In an airport, in a hard, red chair, a lifetime ago.
Despite all that's happened, she thinks it may have been the best time of her life.

000000

A phone rings minutes later- Gibbs' phone. They all look up as a reflex, but soon go back to what they were doing before. Well, most of them do. Not Tony.
No, he just shifts his gaze and looks at the woman sat at the desk in front of him. She looks remarkably collected, he thinks. Maybe it's commonplace for her- leaving in the morning without even a 'Goodbye'. But then, he realizes, that's what he has done for the majority of his life, bar Baltimore and Wendy and let's not even go there. All the times he left girl's apartments, or he made them leave his, he never even thought...
It hurts when you're on the other end of it, right?

He looks down again, but feels eyes on him not too soon after. She's looking at him. He really wishes she weren't, it's like rubbing salt into a wound. And he still can't get her taste off his tongue, and he still can't erase the memories that continually lie right before his eyes. God, it really hurts.
When it no longer feels like someone is drilling holes into his skull, he chances a look up. Maybe it's just his imagination, but when she reaches up and surreptitiously brushes something away by her eye, it looks remarkably like she's crying.
Maybe it hurts on both ends, too.

Better? Worse? Richer? Poorer? Sorry, Tiva's wedding discussion is stuck in my head right now.
-Kiera. x