A/N- I didn't give the official disclaimer before, so: yeah, I don't own the characters. Or the show. But you already knew that.
Thank you so much for the support and reviews! I hope this chapter lives up to expectations! :)
She's staring into a mug of chai tea when she hears the knock on the door, and she immediately knows who it is, although she isn't sure why. She places her mug in the sink and doesn't bother looking through the peephole before she opens the door. Sure enough, her partner stands before her, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is disheveled, like he has been pulling his hands through it in frustration. He meets her eyes and he doesn't speak.
He takes in the sight of her, wearing a tank top and yoga pants. Her sleeping clothes reveal a lot more skin than her work attire typically does, and she's been covering up more than usual since she's gotten home. In the dim light of the hallway, Tony could suddenly understand why.
On her left arm, a menacing scar travels from her elbow to the back of her shoulder. Her arms are colored with less pronounced pink lines that cross her skin in harsh jagged patterns. Tony also notices for the first time just how much weight she's lost—her legs are far skinnier than he remembers them. The way the yoga pants cling to her bony figure just can't be healthy; he swears he can see her ribs through the snug black camisole that hugs her slender frame.
Even though he's logically aware that the man who did this to her is dead, even though he watched Saleem's corpse bleed out before his eyes, Tony feels his entire body become tense with disgust and bitter hatred. His blood boils as he absorbs the sight of her scarred frail body.
She sees him staring at her, and when he meets her eyes she sees a combination of rage and slight embarrassment for gawking so openly. Her face softens at the sight of his anger, and she makes no move to cover her battle wounds.
"How did you find out where I live?" she asks, her voice still rough with sleep. She only finished moving in hours before, finally relocating from the Navy lodge that had served as her temporary shelter. Her doctor didn't want her lifting heavy boxes until he was convinced she regained a fraction of her strength. She wanted to explain to him that moving was not a big deal, since most of her belongings had been blown up several months ago. But that would have only warranted more questions, so she bit her tongue and followed his orders.
Her question confuses him—he shows up at her door at one in the morning and the first words out of her mouth ask how he found her new apartment number? He blinks. "It was on a sticky note on Gibbs' desk," he responds, and she nods. Gibbs knows all.
She looks into his eyes and sees emotions whirling close to the surface; for once, he makes no effort to conceal them. Clearly, their conversation had not ended in the men's room earlier that day.
She turns around and retreats back into her apartment, and the unspoken invitation for him to follow her hangs in the air between them. But he understands and he follows her inside, like she knew he would.
She navigates through the few boxes on the floor, making her way to the kitchen. She's about to throw an offer for a drink over her shoulder when he speaks.
"Do you trust me now?"
She freezes in place, thrown off by the question that came from nowhere, apparently not requiring a greeting or small talk. She turns to face him, and he can see her try to piece together what he just said.
"What?" she says, so quietly in comes out as a whisper. He takes a step closer to her, wanting to be able to see her face more clearly. His eyes pierce hers with an intensity she'd almost forgotten. Almost.
"You trusted Ari, and Michael," he says, quoting her words from earlier. He swallows. "You couldn't afford to trust me," he says, his voice cracking in the middle. His pain tears a hole through her chest, but he continues on, repeating his question and taking another step toward her.
"Do you trust me now?" he breathed.
Her eyes flit away, suddenly avoiding his. All of the words she'd wanted so desperately to say when she'd been sitting in that cell, they all clash and collide nonsensically inside her.
How can she make him believe that he'd crossed her mind every single day she was captive? How could she convey to him the raw emotion, the relief and paralyzing fear that gripped her stomach when the bag was removed from her head and her partner was sitting before her? He'd been so willing to fight, to die, even, to avenge her death, at a point in their friendship when she deserved it least...
How can she make him comprehend that for the first time in years, her heart caught a glimpse of the loyalty and gratitude and devotion that had been absent for as long as she'd lived?
Tony watches, fascinated, as all of these thoughts cross her mind—how she fights to find the words to express them and fails altogether. In her eyes, he reads the answer to the question he asked her. But she knows she has to say it out loud. She owes him at least that much.
Her voice is hoarse and gravelly but she presses the word out anyway. "Yes," she says quietly. "I trust you, Tony."
His chest rises and falls as he breathes a quiet sigh of relief, and the simple reflex makes her realize just how much damage they need to repair.
Her body is too physically and emotionally drained to be able to elaborate any farther. In the past twenty-four hours, they've both said the words "I'm sorry," and for right now, it is more than enough. The bags under his eyes tell her that he is equally exhausted.
She cocks her head at him, analyzing. "Stay the night," she says after a moment's pause. "It is late and you should not be driving."
He bites the inside of his cheek while he thinks. Three years ago—hell, maybe even a year ago—he would have made assumptions if those words came from her. He would have wagged his eyebrows suggestively and beamed at her, and she would have flirted back. She would have sauntered toward him seductively and invaded his personal space and he would have gone along with it, because those were the games that they played.
Now, her words hold no hidden meaning. Her voice is gritty from months of too much sand. The way she carries herself no longer reminds him of a warrior, but of a survivor. After she'd put an entire ocean between them, she is trying to let him back in.
He simply nods his head once, wordlessly accepting her offer. She looks at the couch and sighs at the sight of boxes piled high. Then, almost to herself, she shrugs.
"Come," she murmurs, then turns on her heel and leads the way to her bedroom.
Even though she'd just moved in, her room smelled like her—a sweet mix of her shampoo and perfume. There are several more boxes on the floor, but otherwise, the room looks barren. She really is starting over from scratch in every aspect, he thinks. With NCIS, with her belongings, with her trust.
They both climb into her bed and settle under the blankets. They wind up facing each other. Her arm supports her head under her pillow and she pulls the sheets up to her chin.
They just watch each other in silence for a long moment. The only sound is the gentle hush of their breathing.
Then, emotion overtakes him.
He'd spent months thinking that this woman—his beautiful partner, his friend—was gone forever. Then all at once, he found out that not only was she still alive, but that she was going to rejoin their team, rejoin their bizarre family. Rejoin him.
He wants so desperately to ensure she's real, and not a figment of his imagination. He needs to know she isn't a fabrication, like the wisps of memories he'd used to get himself through the long nights when he was scared he'd never see her again. He wants to erase her memories of torture and of pain, and replace them instead with recollections of simpler times—of movie nights during Gibbs's summer in Mexico, of their seemingly endless bantering, the pointless flirting and arguing that once filled the bullpen. He wants to take the pain from her, bear the weight himself so that she doesn't have to.
He wants to breach the canyon between them, close the space that had resulted from lies and pretense and self-imposed distance.
In the end, the urge to touch her wins out, and he reaches for her. Carefully, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close to him. He hears her sharp intake of breath and he freezes, thinking that he moved too quickly for a woman who just endured months of physical abuse.
But then she relaxes and molds herself to his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and bringing one hand to his chest. He swallows hard and fights to keep his emotions in check.
He mutters into her hair, "Is this okay?" With the arm she'd wrapped around his waist, she gives a gentle squeeze. "Yes," she replies into his neck, the word muffled but audible.
Tomorrow, they will return to their normal state of being. Or rather, they will try to regain whatever normal existed six months ago, before it all got screwed up. They will work to reestablish boundaries, they will go back to the tedious process of restoration. She has to fight to rejoin the agency, since Vance wasn't welcoming her back with open arms. She has to fight to recreate her life here in America.
Tomorrow, they will go back to acting like partners and coworkers, rather than lovers who fall asleep in each other's arms. But for tonight, it is the comfort and reassurance that is necessary, for him as much as it is for her.
For tonight, this is what they need; for tonight, normalcy doesn't matter.
xXxXx
He doesn't know how much time passes before her breathing becomes even and he knows sleep claimed her. He pulls back to look at her face and search for signs of nightmares, but her body is limp in his arms and the expression she wears is peaceful. With his pointer finger, he gently traces her cheekbone and the line of her jaw, trying to engrave her features into his mind.
In that moment, he becomes aware that he loves her. No, he is not in love with her. Who knows, that could come someday; for now, there is a lot of rebuilding to be done. He loves her as a person.
He loves her because she doesn't cover her bruises or scars near him, and she doesn't chastise him for staring.
He loves her because she was so worried about him when she realized just how caught up with Jeanne he became.
He loves her because she always has the courage to tell him the things he needs to hear most, rather than telling him what he wants her to say.
He loves her because she always listens to Ducky when he goes off on a tangent, paying attention to every last word as if it's the most important story she's heard all day.
He loves her because when everyone puts McGee down, she tries to give him a compliment and restore his ego, even if they both know she isn't being entirely genuine.
He loves her because she let Abby hug her when they walked into the bullpen for the first time after Somalia.
He loves her because.
He wants to tell her, but the state of their friendship is fragile. He's afraid to rock the boat. He doesn't want her to misinterpret his words; he doesn't want his meaning to be construed; he doesn't want her to push him away again. He cannot just say those three terrifying words out loud to Ziva David. It just couldn't happen. But he still needs her to know.
As thoughts tumble around in his mind and his eyelids begin to grow heavy with fatigue, he notices there is one photograph taped to her otherwise empty beige walls, just above her nightstand. He squints in the darkness and he can barely make out three small figures in the darkness. He shifts slightly, careful not to wake the woman in his arms, to get a closer look, and he recognizes the picture at once. It is Ziva, Ari, and Tali when they were young children.
He remembers seeing it in her previous apartment in a beautiful wooden picture frame. He remembers it being broken during his fight with Michael, although he isn't sure who broke it. She must not have gotten a replacement frame.
That's what gives him the idea.
He smiles into her curls and closes his eyes at last. He feels his body succumb to the forces of sleep, tightening his grip on Ziva's slender body as he drifts. And although he's too tired to be absolutely sure, he swears he feels her nestle her nose into the crook of his neck and sigh contentedly.