Asante = thank you
Jambo = hello
I will make others smile. I will smile, too.
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"Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
Tony shakes out the leaflet that came with his brand new four poster queen-sized bed and scans it once again. Just like every other time, he doesn't comprehend a word of it. "Nope."
With a groan, McGee sets aside the slab of polished wood in his hand. "We've been sitting here for an hour, and we've gotten two screws in the right spots. Two. Why don't you just hire somebody to do this for you?"
"There's no reason to pay another few hundred dollars when I can do it myself."
"Yeah, except you can't."
The two men exchange long glares. Their moods are not exactly jovial at the moment; they have spent the day disassembling Tony's old bed, moving it out of the apartment, then bringing in the new one and its mattress. They are tired and hungry and have just about had it- with the furniture, and with each other.
"You know," McGee says finally, "you never did tell me what's up with the mad rush to get a bigger bed."
"Like I said-"
"Don't give me the line about the blowup doll again."
Tony sighs as he looks into the exhausted face of the man who sacrificed his day off to assist with this debacle. Neither of them would ever dare use the term, but McGee probably qualifies as his best friend. (Besides Ziva, of course. But she doesn't really count, since she is his everything else, too.) He starts with, "This has to stay between us."
McGee nods, looking mildly concerned.
As much as he fights it, Tony can't prevent a smile from escaping when he says, "Ziva's coming home."
"Wait- what?" His partner's jaw drops. "When?"
"Next month."
"How long have you known?"
Tony averts his gaze. "Since Christmas."
"Christmas?" A trace of hurt has entered McGee's voice. "Were you guys gonna tell us? I mean… does she even want to see the rest of us?"
"'Course she does, Tim." He taps his instruction manual against the palm of his other hand. "It's just… with the way she left, and the… the mess this whole thing became… she wants to make sure she handles it well."
McGee's sigh suggests that he is still unconvinced, but his nod is understanding. Silence falls over them until he breaks it. "So the bed… is for the two of you?"
He bites the inside of his cheek. This is the reason he spent the day making cracks about blowup dolls. It was so he wouldn't have to answer questions like this. "Yeah."
"You guys are serious?"
They have video chatted about once every two weeks while Ziva has been in Africa. With the date of her arrival at JFK rapidly approaching, they've been forced to discuss their relationship: its nature, where it's headed, how it's going to work. They have left no stone unturned, no conversation unfinished.
For the first time in their long, complicated history, they are on the same page.
"Yeah," Tony says. "We're serious."
McGee nods, expression dazed. Tony doesn't blame him- the news that two of your friends and coworkers are going to end an indefinite separation by shacking up can be a little hard to process. He has bowed his head and attempted to make sense of the directions again when McGee says, "When did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That you love her."
Startled, he looks up from Diagram 2A. He raises his eyebrows, but the younger man just waits expectantly for a response. "I don't know," he says with brutal honesty. "It's been so long now, I can't even remember what it was like to want someone else."
The skin of McGee's cheek pokes out as he sticks his tongue into it. "That's how I'm starting to feel about Delilah. Like… like she's it. Like nobody else would ever be enough, because I would just be comparing them to her. You know?"
"Oh, yeah." Tony laughs shortly. "I know."
"I went to a jewelry store last weekend to look at rings."
That, he wasn't expecting.
His jaw drops slightly. "You thinking of popping the question, McRomeo?"
"Yeah. Not tomorrow or anything, but… soon."
McGee is clearly trying not to betray too much emotion in his face, but he's failing miserably. Tony has never seen his teammate look anywhere near this excited, not even about new video games. To be honest, he's jealous that McGee and Delilah have been able to get their shit together a lot quicker than he and Ziva. The envy is a blip on the radar, though, compared to how happy he is for them.
"Congrats, probie," he says, completely sincere, and extends his hand for a shake- but, somehow, they end up hugging instead.
0000000000
The last little girl in line has received her midday cup of beans and rice and is hurrying off to join her friends. Heaving a tired sigh, Ziva readjusts the scarf on her head. "Eat first, or clean up?" she asks Naomi, the woman with whom she serves lunch every day.
Naomi stretches her arms above her head and looks around the crowded mess hall. It is much cleaner, safer, and sturdier than it was when their group first arrived here, but there is still work to be done before they depart. "Eat, I think."
"Agreed," Ziva says as her stomach growls.
She scoops out two helpings, grabs two wooden spoons, and follows Naomi to a corner of the room. The women settle into the dirt floor with their backs against the walls, cups propped on their knees.
"It still amazes me, even after two months, how grateful they are just to have this little bit of food," Naomi muses. "Every single day, it's asante, asante, asante, over and over. They are so enthusiastic, too; they are not simply being polite. You know?"
"I do," Ziva says. Her heart aches every day for the thin children whose meals were few and far between before she and the others arrived to restore the orphanage. The same thing is happening all over Kenya, all over the continent of Africa. It is a hard thing to witness- but, as Naomi said, the girls' resounding chorus of thanks is worth all of the grief.
They eat and chat about the group's agenda for the next couple of weeks, and then about their personal plans for afterward. Naomi, a self-declared nomad who cannot stand being tethered to one place for too long, congratulates Ziva on moving in with her boyfriend (an amusing choice of words, Ziva thinks- it makes her relationship with Tony sound a lot simpler than it is). Their portions of food are small; they finish quickly. As the two of them are heading back over to the preparation area, Ziva feels a small hand grab hers. She looks down to find Hasina, seven years old, to whom she has grown very attached.
"Jambo," she greets before asking in Swahili, "Are you finished eating?"
"Yes," Hasina says with a bashful smile, handing over her used cup and spoon. Then she stays where she is, shuffling from foot to foot. Ziva glances at Naomi, who waves her off and goes to begin cleaning up.
Once she is gone, Ziva crouches in front of Hasina. "What is wrong?" she asks quietly. She fears for what it might be. One of the orphanage's teachers told her in private that both of Hasina's parents died of malaria and she was being raised by an older sister until the sister's husband contracted AIDS and the two of them suddenly disappeared. No news is good news when it comes to Hasina.
"My teacher Femi says you are leaving soon."
Ziva exhales heavily, feels her shoulders sag with relief. "Yes, I am. Your teachers do not need our help anymore."
"I wish you could stay."
She sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth. "So do I," she says truthfully. As anxious as she is to return to Tony, she also wishes her time in this place, with Hasina and the other sweet children here, could last longer.
But she has already proven that she knows when it is time to let go.
"Do not worry, Hasina," she says soothingly, tapping the girl's nose. "Because we may be leaving, but we are leaving all this food, and all that paper, and all those pencils. You are not going to be hungry anymore. You will learn to read and write. It will be wonderful."
As always when the prospect of an education and a full belly are brought up, Hasina grins, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "It will, it will! I just wish that you were going to be here so I could show you, Miss Ziva."
She takes only one brief moment to consider before pulling a scrap of paper and a pen from the pocket of her cargo pants. "Here," she says, hastily scrawling out Tony's address, "is where I will be living. Once you have gotten very good at writing, you may write me a letter and have your teacher send it to me."
Hasina's jaw drops. "Really?"
"Of course." Ziva presses the paper into her palm and then closes her fingers over it. The white disappears beneath the dark mahogany of Hasina's skin. "Do not lose it."
"Oh, I won't," Hasina says, grinning. "And when I write to you, will you write me back?"
"I will," she promises, because she has also learned when to hold on just a little bit, in any way she can.