Chapter 2: An Evening in Review.
Consenting adults do not accidentally have sex. It's a myth, this idea floating around that sometimes sex "just happens." No matter how intense things are getting, there's always a choice, there's always an opportunity to decide the consequences outweigh the benefits. Last night was no exception.
The knock at his door startles him. It's only 8:00 PM, but still- he doesn't usually have unexpected visitors. He sets the glass of water he just poured back onto the counter and glances down at his pajama pants and t-shirt with a shrug. If his guest cared about appearances, he should have called first.
Of course the person at the door is a she, not a he, and from the look of things, appearances are the last thing on her mind.
"What's wrong?" Because something has to be wrong. For Ziva to be here, in the dark, with no makeup, with her hair twisted into a bun, without the high heels that signal to everyone that she's just fine. His heart rate spikes as he prepares for the sky to fall.
But she smiles back at him, a normal Ziva smile. "Nothing is wrong."
He does a quick assessment- all of her parts are in place. There is no bleeding, and he sees no sign of tears that have been beaten into submission. She looks scrubbed down, exposed, but not hurt. Not angry either. He relaxes. "Then what are you doing here?"
She flinches at that, and he wishes that he'd injected a little humor into the question, but he's feeling scrubbed down too and just too tired to play at night the part he owns by day. She stammers, and he begins to revise his conclusion that everything is fine. At the last second her face brightens, and she holds up the dvd in her left hand. "I brought a movie. I thought you'd like to watch it together."
This is so not what they do anymore, but he's intrigued. He leans over to examine the box in her hand and fights a sigh. The title is written in a language of squiggles that he can only assume is Hindi. Bollywood? Seriously? Yes, he watches a lot of movies, but do his friends think that means he'll watch anything? His eyes return to hers, and his curiosity conquers his good taste as he holds the door open for her to pass. "Sure. Sounds great."
They settle at opposite ends of the couch. She watches the film. He watches her. He wonders if she has to read the subtitles, or if she speaks Hindi too. It wouldn't surprise him, but he does find it a little disappointing that even after all this time, there is so much of her about which he is still unsure.
One hundred and fifty minutes int the movie (this is one of his biggest complaints about Bollywood- a total lack of efficiency in storytelling), Ziva does something that changes everything. She burrows her feet underneath his legs, as if she's trying to get warm. Something in that simple gesture makes his chest clench, and he is certain that he loves her.
She must sense the shift in his mood, because for the first time all night, she turns her attention from the movie, to him. She touches her hair and face in that self-conscious way people do when they realize someone is staring. "What?"
There's a little more aggression than is strictly necessary in her question, and he chuckles as the Ziva he's used to makes an appearance. Still, she's waiting for an answer, and he forgets to think, so he tells her the truth. "I wish your hair was down."
Now he wants to kill himself. "I wish your hair was down?" What the fuck? He waits for the blow- physical or verbal- that she is bound to deliver, but she surprises him again. She reaches up and pulls out the tie that is holding her hair in place.
Whoa. Well, hell. Her curls tumble (yes, tumble) down her back, and there is no way he is not going to kiss her. She watches as he leans over her. She knows what's coming, and she doesn't back away. The first kiss is tentative, a test. He pulls back, gives her a chance to choose. He searches her face for a warning, but all he finds is relief.
Last night did not just happen, and he'd be damned if he'd let her turn it into a mistake. He smiles as he runs product through his hair. His reexamination of the previous night's events confirm that she started this and that he is now the wronged party. Tony tightens his tie, ready to go to work. Ready to refuse to let his partner off the hook.
oOo
I did this, I did this, I did this...the words circle through her head like a prayer. The office is still dark when she steps out of the elevator. She's beaten everyone, even Gibbs. Gibbs, who would somehow know and would be so disappointed in her. She groans and buries her head on her desk. How could she have allowed herself to behave like a person with loved ones to spare?
A mistake. Coming in here was a mistake. Her Thursday night ritual- a stop at the Indian shop in Adams Morgan to borrow a Hindi film like the ones she'd loved as a child- had turned on her. Most Thursdays, it is just her, Mrs. Kharel and stacks of sari fabric in the store. Tonight, though, she is not the only woman in D.C. craving the comfort of films from the past. There is another lady, slightly older than her, beautiful in an indigo hijab. Somali. She is without a doubt Somali, and that is fine...except...the incense. She smells like a particular kind of incense, and it is a smell Ziva knows too well.
The saris and the henna and the tabla music fade away, and she is in the desert, in the temporary shelter of a tent. She is hurt, bleeding, and sand is seeping into her open wounds. She is going to die. She is so ready. Salim enters, and she tenses. Trailing behind him is a Somali woman, young, in a grey hijab. Ziva recognizes the terror on the woman's face. Salim shouts at her in harsh Arabic, ordering her to treat Ziva's wounds. If she could talk, Ziva would remind him that they do not speak Arabic in Somalia. Surely, he must know that. Still the woman must understand, because she is leaning over her. The smell of incense is overpowering.
Ziva opens her eyes to the present. She is no longer in the store; she is leaning against the side of the cinderblock building. She is trembling violently, and she is facing a very concerned Mrs. Kharel. She forces a smile and accepts the dvd that is held out to her by the Somali woman. She nods at the women, hopes it convinces them that she is not insane. She turns on her heel, walks away.
By the time she makes it home, she is gasping for breath, caught in a full panic. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She had heard those words over and over from the NCIS psychologist in the months following her return. "Have you experienced any signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?" Her answer was always no, and it was the truth. So why now, nearly two years later? Did one flashback equal PTSD? Could PTSD mean that she would lose her job, and the only place she had?
She is going to faint. If she does not get control right now, she is going to faint.
She begins to scold herself in Hebrew. Smell is the most powerful sense. Her reaction was reasonable, if not desirable. It will not happen again. PTSD is only diagnosed when the symptoms regularly disrupt daily life. Her daily life is fine. The flashback was an anomaly. She is fine.
She is fine.
She scrubs her face, twists her hair back and puts on the most comfortable clothes she owns. She curls up on her couch, but her heart is still racing. She breathes deeply. She tenses and relaxes her muscles.
She cannot stay here alone. Not tonight.
She drives to Tony's townhouse. She remembers how to get there, even though it's been years. Her memory is excellent. She is calm by the time she parks. She is okay now; she could go back home.
But she doesn't want to. And tonight, she would just really like to simply get what she wants. So she goes to the door.
As she settles into the couch beside him, all she can think is that she has no memory of grabbing the dvd before she left the house. But all is well that ends well.
They do not finish the movie. They trade the couch for his bed, and they have sex that is quieter, nicer, somehow than she imagined it would be (of course she had imagined it). "I had no idea my hair was such a turn-on," she teases, and it is a test. Are they okay?
"I don't buy that for a second." He winks at her, and she loves him for him that.
Even after trips to the bathroom suck any romantic magic out of the scene, they are relaxed. There is no mention of any enumerated rules. They laugh. He wraps his arm around her, as if it is a forgone conclusion that she will stay.
And she loves him. And that cannot end well.
The panic is returning, so she scolds herself in Hebrew. It will be okay. She gave them an out, and surely that was her best chance to mitigate any possible loss.
The elevator dings, and she prepares herself to follow his lead.