A/N: I'm on vacation, and the muse is particularly helpful at the moment, so you're getting spoiled with yet another chapter! Don't get used to it...LOL For those of you who are TIVA shippers...there's a little something special for ya (thought probably not what you're hoping for...*ducking*)
Warning: Spoilers through Season 7, especially Truth & Consequences
Disclaimer: Canon characters belong to DPB, CBS & Co. No copyright infringement intended.
Thursday, June 3, 2010 5:47 p.m.
The protection detail gathered in the conference room, Tony systematically assigning each member their appointed tasks. Another Major Case Response Team, led by Supervisory Special Agent Mark Granich, would join forces with Team Gibbs on a 12-hour on/off, mixed rotation. Ziva was uncomfortable being the centre of all this attention, and leaned against the wall at the back of the room, as McGee, Gibbs, and Granich conferred with Special Agents Don Travis, Devon Stewart and Karen Mitchinson. Also joining them was Special Agent Daria Levant, on loan from the Behavioral Sciences Unit.
A layout of Ziva's apartment was displayed on a large plasma screen at the head of the table. Ziva had staunchly refused to go to the safe house, insisting that their best bet to get Noreen Jessop to play her hand was to make it appear they'd underestimated her. Gibbs had put up a good fight, but in the end deferred to Tony, who'd taken Ziva's side. The SFA made the point that Louisa wanted closure on this whole episode as quickly as possible, and the longer they let Jessop sit in quiet anonymity, the more difficult it would be to smoke her out.
Earwigs were handed out, communication protocols determined, rotations and responsibilities assigned, and watches synchronized. One member of the on-duty team would be stationed in a vehicle parked down the street, and would take hourly check-ins from each of the other team members. One agent would be stationed outside Ziva's apartment door on the 4th floor; one at the back of the building, below her kitchen window; and one would be inside the apartment with her. Ideally, the first two agents would be able to take out Jessop before she ever got inside, if necessary calling on the one in the vehicle for backup.
The first rotation was to start at 19:00 this evening. McGee would be the point man in the vehicle, with Travis at the back of the building and Stewart at Ziva's door. Tony would be in the apartment. At 07:00 they would switch off. Levant would take the car, Gibbs would be inside, Granich outside the door and Mitchinson at the back.
Tony had resigned himself to the fact that his report for Gibbs wasn't going to get written any time soon. But then, if this thing played out the way he hoped it would, it would make for a nice little epilogue to that report, and he could tie it up with a nice big bow.
Of course, the whole thing was speculation. They had no proof that Jessop was even still in the country. But Vance's attempts to get Eli to cough up any information had been fruitless, with the Mossad Director denying she'd ever been in the United States in the first place. That had raised Gibbs' hackles, and Tony's too. They had concrete, physical evidence placing Jessop in Halpern's apartment, as well as video footage confirming her presence at the gun club. It was simply galling to think that Eli would lie to their faces when confronted with the facts. Unfortunately, it also lent credence to Gibbs' theory, so they were taking no chances.
At 18:20, Tony escorted Ziva to his car. McGee would drive Ziva's Mini back to her apartment, while Travis and Stewart took a Dodge Charger from the fleet. She sat pouting in the passenger seat of Tony's Mustang, without saying a word. Tony couldn't help comparing her demeanor with that of Louisa two days ago, gleefully soaking in the fun of riding in the sporty soft-top.
He tried to lighten the mood. "Cheer up, Ninja-chick, at least you get a few days off outta this."
She shot him a withering glare. "The sooner this is over with, the better. I do not like having my privacy invaded."
"Yeah? Well, I don't like having my personal plans disrupted either, sweet cheeks, so how about showing a little appreciation, huh?" he fired back, annoyed at her insensitivity to the sacrifices being made by those around her.
"I did not ask for this. Do not blame me for disrupting your 'personal plans', Tony," she seethed.
Tony rolled his eyes. "I can see it's gonna be a long night."
The continued the rest of the way in stony silence.
6:15 p.m.
Ducky and Jimmy Palmer were in the process of shutting down the autopsy bay for the night, when Abby appeared in their doorway, looking downcast and nervous. She was without her white lab coat, and had a large red plastic purse slung over her shoulder; obviously, she was on her way home as well.
"Abigail! What can I do for you at this late hour?" Ducky asked, hat in hand and trench slung over his arm.
"Ducky? I'm having one of those really awful premonitions... you know, like the one I had when Kate died...?"
The ME put his hat and coat back on the rack, and took Abby's hand. "Come now, my dear, Ziva is being protected by our very best. If anyone can ensure her safety, they can."
"But what if that evil bitch turns out to be just as good as Ziva?" Abby was wound up like a top. Jimmy wondered to himself how much of this was her natural personality, and how much the ten or so Caf-Pows she drank in a typical day. "You know, Ziva could take out all those guys. Together."
Jimmy blurted, "Well, then, wouldn't that mean that together, they could all take out Jessop?"
"Yes. Very insightful, Mr. Palmer," Ducky intoned. "I wouldn't worry yourself if I were you, Abby. Our colleague is in excellent hands." He patted her gently on the arm, retrieved his coat and hat once more, and turned off the lights. The two men gently led their worried friend to the elevator.
Abby knew it would do no good to continue her protest. But by her saucer-sized brown eyes and the way she clutched her purse, both Jimmy and Ducky knew the goth was not convinced. They also knew there was nothing they could say or do to make her feel better. But one thing Palmer did know – there was one thing even worse than worrying, and that was worrying and being alone.
"You hungry, Abby? I could sure go for a burger right now."
Bless you, Jimmy. "Yeah! That sounds great. Ducky, wanna come along?"
"Thank you for the invitation, but I have a previous engagement. I'll see you in the morning." He tipped his hat at the pair, and sauntered off towards his classic restored Morgan, lovingly parked in a corner spot of the garage, on an angle, to reduce the likelihood of sideswipes from other car doors.
Abby and Jimmy exchanged curious glances, both wondering who Ducky might be meeting for dinner this evening, and wishing they could be a fly on the wall to see how this elegant gentleman comported himself on a date (because both were absolutely certain that was what this was). By the time this evening was through, they'd have the ME's love life all figured out, and Palmer would have, at least temporarily, managed to take Abby's mind off her worries.
10:19 p.m.
A little over three hours into the first rotation, and already Tony was bored out of his skull. Minding Ziva was like guarding a pet rock – it didn't matter what he said or did, he got no response. He sat in the living room, perusing one of about six issues of Sports Illustrated that he'd brought with him for the night. He knew from previous visits to Ziva's apartment that her taste in reading material was very different from his.
He could hear the sound of cupboards slamming in the en suite bathroom, then running water. She was taking a shower. A week ago, the thought of being in Ziva's apartment, just feet away from her naked body under hot water jets, would have been almost too much for him. But now, he felt almost nothing. Almost. There was still a little twinge there, he had to admit. It was ironic... despite the fact that he'd been undercover with her more than once, posing as a couple, he'd always been too polite to actually look, when he could actually have gotten away with it.
But as much as he could admire a beautiful feminine form, what had his curiosity this evening was Ziva's scars.
There was nothing really noticeable when she was clothed, though he'd observed that she now avoided lower-cut blouses and seemed to prefer longer sleeves. But given the little bit that he knew about what she had endured in Somalia, he was certain the history of that experience was written all over her body. He wanted to read that history. He'd shared in it, after all – they all had. She wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for them... if it weren't for Gibbs.
And now, here they were again. History was repeating itself. Ziva in peril. The cavalry coming to the rescue. Ziva indifferent, resentful even. Did she have a death wish? Or was she really that egotistical that she thought she could take on another Mossad agent bent on killing her, without assistance?
They really didn't even know if Jessop would be acting alone, he thought to himself ruefully. They were taking a calculated risk. If she had accomplices, they might find themselves out-gunned, out-manned, or both.
"I think Magnum P.I. is on." The voice startled him, and he glanced over his shoulder, to see Ziva standing in a pale blue silk bathrobe, her long black tresses hanging damp and stringy about her face. She looked small and weak, but Tony knew well that was just an illusion.
"Thanks." They were the first civilized words the pair had exchanged since they left the Navy Yard. She disappeared into the bedroom, and that, Tony decided, was that. He picked up the remote, and started channel-surfing, coming upon a great Magnum episode involving Rick and the Mafia and the King Kamehameha Club. It brought back memories of his days in Baltimore, rubbing shoulders with the Macalusos, and he settled down happily to watch. He turned off the sound and activated the closed-captions, so he could continue listening for any unexpected noises.
"I am not ungrateful, you know." He wasn't expecting her to continue the conversation. She came over and sat beside him on the sofa, tucking one leg under her. Her robe lay partially open, suggestively, and he wondered if that was deliberate. He shut off the TV and slid sideways to face her. "I am simply used to taking care of myself."
"Like you did in Somalia." She bit her lip. "Ziva, I know Mossad trained you to be independent and self-sufficient. But that shouldn't be your default setting. That's something you fall back on when there's no other choice. You have teammates who care about what happens to you. People who are willing to risk their lives to protect you. If you keep shutting them out, at some point they might not be there when you really need them."
Her eyes were glassy, and he had her in that vulnerable place where she might actually be willing to talk. "I did not mean to shut you out." She sidled closer to him, and the bottom of her robe slid open a bit further, revealing a nasty, round scar on her upper thigh (in pretty much the same spot where Halpern's Mossad tattoo had been, Tony noted). He couldn't help himself – he reached out and gently touched it with his forefinger. She laid her hand on top of his, and pressed his palm against her thigh. He looked up at her in surprise, but didn't move his hand away.
"What did they do to you, Ziva?" he whispered.
"It is difficult..." she began. Their eyes met, and she saw nothing but compassion in his face. It gave her the strength to continue, and over the next hour, the words tumbled from her lips in a torrent. She'd held it all in for so long; it felt good to finally share those intimate details with the man she trusted more than any other (except, perhaps, Gibbs). He didn't interrupt. He sat quietly, hanging on her every word, wincing occasionally when a particularly cruel detail emerged. By the time it was over, she was lying with her head on his chest, sobbing into his shirt, thoroughly spent from the effort of dredging up the memories that, even now, haunted her dreams almost every night.
He could tell she was exhausted, and sliding off the sofa, he lifted her gently in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, pulling back the covers and tucking her in.
"Tony..."
He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. "Go to sleep, Ziva. I'll be right outside if you need anything."
"Tony..." She held out her arms to him, hooking her hand around his neck and pulling him close. "You will not share those things with anyone...?" she asked fearfully.
He shook his head. "Never. It stays between us. You needed to tell someone... I'm glad it was me." He kissed her forehead, turned off the bedside lamp, and padded back out to the living room.
"McGee, this is Tony, checking in. All clear."