I will travel, but not for a mission. Just for me.
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"Tony."
He scribbles his signature on the dotted line, then shuts the case file. "What?" he asks, reaching for another one.
Abby smacks his hand with a little more force than strictly necessary.
"Ow!" Tony withdraws his arm, cradling it to his chest. "Jeez. What the hell do you want?"
"McGee and I are going out for drinks," she says. "Wanna come?"
He glances at the paperwork strewn across his desk. While not appealing in the slightest, it somehow seems like a more desirable option than socializing with his teammates, who have taken to asking how are you? and are you doing okay? quite a bit lately. A mere month has passed since he returned from Israel. The answers he gives to these questions- fine, yes, thanks- are blatant lies.
Of course, the others see right through him.
"I need to finish this up, you guys," Tony says. "But thanks."
Abby opens her mouth to protest, but McGee cuts her off. "Gibbs told you those could wait until Monday," he says firmly.
"Well, I've got time now."
"Would you just stop moping and come get a damn drink with us?"
McGee's borderline harsh tone renders everyone speechless. Tony fixes his partner with a hard stare. In another surprise move, McGee does not back down. Abby looks back and forth between them, her eyes wide as saucers.
"Look," McGee says finally, more softly. "I know Ziva leaving affects you the most, 'cause you guys had the… whatever you want to call it. But it's been hard for all of us, too."
And maybe it means he's a selfish, narcissistic bastard (in all honestly, there are plenty of people in the world who would put that label on him) but this is something of a revelation to Tony. He has been so caught up in his own pain that he has barely noticed that of those around him.
But of course they're hurting. This team is a family, always has been. And they- not he, but they- have lost a member.
Tony gathers his files into a single stack, positions it in the center of his desk, and stands. "I'm coming."
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In the nearest bedroom, Ziva nudged Tony backwards until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. She bent over at the waist to keep kissing him; when she finally did pull back, he whined in protest. "Hey."
"Shh," she chastised softly. Her hands went to the hem of her sweater and then she was lifting it over her head, tossing it aside. He could not prevent his eyes from wandering all over her torso. He admired her taut abdominal muscles. He caressed her sides. Separating his knees, he tugged her closer so that she was standing between them, then looked into her flushed face. "You sure, Ziva?"
"Yes," she breathed, and that was all he needed. He kissed each of her breasts where they swelled above her bra. She threaded her fingers into his hair as he forged a path down her stomach and along the waistband of her pants. When he nibbled gently at her hip, she jerked.
"Okay?" he murmured. He slid his hands along the backs of her thighs. She gave a soft, affirmative hum in answer to his question, and he responded by unbuttoning her pants. Ziva eased them down slowly, revealing more olive skin inch by inch.
Then she stood before him in nothing but her undergarments, and damn it, she was even more beautiful than he remembered.
Tony couldn't stand it any longer. All pretenses of self-control flying out the window, he stood, drew her into his arms, crushed her against his chest. They fell back on the bed as their kisses turned passionate. Ziva's hands were everywhere at once, frantically disrobing him. He dug a hand into her hair and anchored his lips to her neck, her collarbone, her throat. It was not long before they were completely bared to each other, completely vulnerable.
Eight years, they had been partners. Eight years, they had been toeing the line. And it all came down to this.
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After spending a fortnight walking along and tanning on the beaches of Argentina, Ziva boards a flight to Stockholm, the first of several places she plans to visit in Europe. She probably would not bother going that far north if not for the fact that she has never been to Scandinavia. Not once. Her work with Mossad and NCIS sent her all over the world, but, coincidentally, never there.
For the first time, she is going to be introduced to a new country as a tourist rather than an operative.
The thought sends a shiver down her spine.
She eats her weight in meatballs and visits Royal National City Park and, although she is not terribly keen on heights, forces herself to go to the top of the Ericsson Globe. (She does not regret it.) She enjoys the Moderna Museet and Gamla Stan, but her favorite attraction is the Vasa. The ship and its history fascinate her- it sunk over three hundred years before it was recovered, yet it was still able to be restored, and it is beautiful.
Redemption from a troubled history, she thinks as she stares at it, and a lump rises in her throat.
From there, she heads south and then west. (Toward Washington, says a nagging voice in the back of her head, but she does her best to ignore it.) Russia, Latvia, the Ukraine. Romania. Hungary. Poland. She dares to go to Berlin, but quickly realizes that she has made a mistake. She checks into a hotel, telling the clerk that she will only be there for one night. In the morning, she will set off for Munich, leaving behind the reminders of the vendetta that nearly destroyed her.
These memories are not the ones that find Ziva as she is trying to fall asleep later. Instead, she is kept awake by thoughts of Tony. He was the one with her when she was here in the spring; if she is to be honest with herself, he was the only thing in the world keeping her sane at that time. She remembers resting her head on his shoulder while she napped, and how safe and protected his warmth made her feel, and how she nearly melted when he ran a hand over her hair. She remembers dancing with him, their chests brushing, his arm around her waist possessive yet gentle, the look in his eyes that made her heart skip a beat or three.
Suddenly, she misses him so much she can barely breathe. She lets out a strangled cry, then turns her face into the pillow.
Alone in a foreign city, the sole occupant of a queen sized bed, she sobs.
When she has regained her composure, she reaches for her cell phone. It is only a little after ten; in D.C., it is late afternoon. Tony is probably still at work.
For a long time, Ziva stares, her vision blurred, at the screen. Then, with a deep breath and a desperate prayer that he answers, she presses speed dial number one.
He answers on the second ring. "Ziva?" he asks eagerly.
She is so relieved to hear his voice that she bursts into tears once more.