Tony wants to sit and cry. He wants to laugh and look out of a window and see a bright blue sky. No clouds. No grey. A steam train. A tree, dropped conkers and a picnic hamper. He wants to fuck. He smiles, because he already knows how he always fucks everything up. It is ingrained into his soul and sits so pretty next to the dirty smirk and the quick, cruel tongue. It. Is. What. He. Does. And oh, how he knows it.

Her broken, bleeding body is bruised into the backs of his eyelids. The image pulses, angry and red and gaping, every time he shuts out the world. Coffee and relief and hindsight will not save him now.

When you love someone, everything is different. Although Tony is arrogant, he is well aware that he knows very little about love. He used to think it was complex and intricate, a fine filigreed thing that swam, gloating, into view when you were old and regretful. Now he realises that it is young and transparent and has been staring, wide-eyed and expectant, into his face since the day he met her. And he missed it, and he knows it. He looked past it because he was frightened, and because he was proud, and because he was so very Tony.

And when he pulled the trigger, he was not thinking of himself, of his life or even of the one he was ending. He was thinking of the girl with the black, accusing eyes and the curly hair that seemed to smile and the thoughtful fingers that occasionally played with a necklace. The one that seemed so very powerful, and yet so fatally wounded. He was only thinking of her, and then he saw the hate in her eyes, and only then did he realise what he had done.

And then she was gone.

And then she was found.

But oh, what a transition. What a sickening transformation, a butterfly into a caterpillar, locked up tight in a blistering cocoon. When he was pretending to sleep, he would close his eyes and go over every inch of her violated body. He would always end up in one particular place, dark and sacred and utterly closed to him. And how he would despise the world for them, and for himself. For what Adam can do to Eve. For what man can take.

When he returns, Ziva looks tired and restful. Gibbs is gently stroking her cheek and she follows the moment of his fingers with her breath. It is intimate and Tony feels guilty for ruining one more thing. But then those wounded eyes catch hold of him, lock on like honey and they smile and shine through the grime. He has no choice but to enter, to go through with it.

To go through with it and pretend that he loved them, because otherwise they would hurt and another thing would be all

his

fault.

So he puts on his bright eyes and walks into the room. It is light and cool and the air tastes of Ziva in the most tenuous and beautiful of ways. Gibbs smiles gently. It jars him.

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo?" And the dry tone is back and Ziva smirks in triumph and Tony knows that, for once, it is not his fault, and things might just be fine.

"Brought you coffee, boss." He hands it over with an almost untraceable bow, and waits for it.

"What the hell do you call this, DiNozzo?"

"I call it a full fat latte with 4 sugars. Boss." And suddenly they are all laughing, and the room glows with it.

Later, after Gibbs has murmured something lovely into Ziva's ear, they are left alone. She watches him watch her for a minute, until he realises she is doing it. As he moves his eyes to the window, she begins to speak.

"Tony, I-"

"Sorry."

There is an awkward pause. Last night he fell asleep with her, wrapped tightly around her fragile form like a sleeping pea in a tender pod. Now, he cannot find words.

"Why are you apologising?"

"For looking at – for watching – it doesn't matter."

She does not dispute it, but instead gazes at him for the longest time with the quietest eyes. He is drawn to her, and, strangely, does not mind. He wants to be closer, to hold her and feel her proud and steady heart beat against his skin like the shyest and truest of kisses. He knows she is far better than he will ever be.

"Tony, what you did for me ... I don't know how you found me, how you could possibly have done so ... but I don't really care, if I'm honest. I only want to know why."

Her words slice through him a little, and he does not understand.

"Why? What do you mean, why? Why what?"

"Why would you come all that way to find someone who chose to ...leave? I don't want to say it, it's not true and it hurts every time, but I chose something else over NCIS. Over you. Now ... now, I wish I could take that back. But I can't." The words are forceful and sent straight to him on a beam through the air. "It is a big regret of mine, but there is absolutely nothing I can do now. But you ... you tried. And you ... did it. You succeeded. But why?"

It is like gazing into a vast black abyss. It is breathing and writhing far below him, but all Tony can see is empty, bleak and bleeding. There is a reason, but it might just kill him. So let's stick to the facts. For now.

"I was...calling you. All the time. Your cell. And you never answered. And I tried and tried, and Gibbs saw. He knew, and he understood. So one day, about 2 weeks after we came back from Hell Aviv – uh, sorry, Tel Aviv, it's just a stupid nickname, sorry, Abby, you know what she's like – anyway, he tried to videoconference Mossad, to ask Director David – I mean, sorry, your father – how you were, how you were coping, stuff like that. Only the Director – I mean, your father –" and here he breaks off and regards her with caged and wary eyes "seemed.... I don't know. Evasive. Gibbs asked to speak to you directly, and then he had to admit he wasn't entirely sure where you were. Then he broke off the video connection and Gibbs couldn't get hold of him again." He smirks, without humour, at the memory. "We could all hear him up there, banging and yelling away. He was screaming by the end. He sounded desperate. Frightened, almost, if that's physically possible for Gibbs." Chuckle. Glance up and meet those eyes, boy. They terrify you. They are pooled and spilling over with something you can't put a name to. just hold on. Breathe in and continue. Boy.

"And eventually he went to Vance, just barged right in there like he used to do all the time when Jen was new – even when she wasn't new, I suppose – and his voice started out quiet and calm like it always does and then suddenly he bellowed so loud – Jesus Christ, I never heard him yell like that before, Ducky heard it down in Autopsy and trailed on up with the gremlin-"

"Palmer. His name is Palmer. Jimmy. And he doesn't like being called the Autopsy gremlin." Something in her voice fractures, but does not break, and again, Tony is reminded of just how much he does wrong in life. But he hardens and glazes. "So, I suppose next you'll be asking me to stop calling Probie McGeek?" she softens and blossoms a little with this, and shakes a tender head.

"Anyway, he came out and just told me and Probie – Puh-ruh-ho-bee – to gear up, that we had a case. And I mean, would you want to ask Gibbs questions after you just heard him scream out a lung up there? Even you with your ninja training wouldn't want to face that, Zee-vah. Surely?" She laughs. He is making it an anecdote, because this. Is. What. He. Does.

"Well, so we geared up and in the van he directed McGee to Norfolk, said we were flying out to Somalia instantly, that Vance had already agreed and had organised a flight. And I was like Oh Em Gee-" she smiles, but something in her eyes makes Tony break a little. "And Gibbs started to explain that he'd had a bad feeling as soon as Director David started dodging the questions, and so he'd gone in to see Vance and it turns out Vance knew you were carrying on Rivkin's assignment –" another pause, and a sharp and unwelcome intake of breath. Ziva remains, unflinching and impassive, and he does not know what to do. So he keeps talking. "And that they'd lost track of you somewhere near Somalia or something, I'm a little hazy on the details and my high-school geography class, you'll have to excuse me, and that there was a danger you'd...fallen into the wrong hands, Ziva." His hands begin to tremble and she strokes them, gently. "Come on, Tony. Carry on. You have to finish the story, otherwise I'll not be able to sleep from thinking about it, wondering how it ends." A laugh. Soft and hopeful. Eyes raise, and they have seen so much bad. It pains her.

"And as soon as I heard, I started flipping out in the back of the van, smashing into things and generally behaving like I'd swallowed a bee or something. It happened to my dog once. I just felt so sick, so...guilty. I knew it was all my fault, and whatever you say – " his voice raises as she opens her mouth to protest, "whatever you say, it was my fault, at least part of it, and I, God, I just couldn't get it out of my head, what might be happening, what I'd...caused. From being such a stupid ... ass."

"Ass?" Her forehead wrinkles momentarily in confusion.

"Butt. Not...donkey. Although I guess the references are interchangeable, at least in this context. Whatever, and McGee was swearing really loudly at the wheel, I think to be honest that disturbed Gibbs more than my hysterical crashing about, he was going a bit crazy too, I think, and but anyway, he managed to get us to Norfolk and we got on the plane and Gibbs kept pacing and I still had no idea what he thought we were doing or where we were going or what we were gonna be able to do once we got there, how we were gonna find you when 'Somalia' was the most specific location we had, and even that wasn't definite, but when we landed we heard about a terrorist cell they'd gone in on just that morning, so Gibbs requisitioned a car and we drove down there, got stuck in. Turns out it was way more serious than anyone had realised. Just looked like an abandoned bunker at first, but then you went in and down and they'd actually carved out a hole for themselves, filled with all the usual terrorist crap. Maps and plans and scrawls of 'infidels' all over the walls. Good time, they must have had there." He breaks off and falters, his eyes dulling over as he recalls the sinking clammy dread he experienced, in the pit of his stomach and the back of his throat and the aching and tireless thud of his heart as he realised what he had done.

"And then – and then we killed some bad guys, I can't remember them, I don't know names – yet – and I sure as hell don't remember faces – and finally we got to you. Just a metal door in a stone wall and there was no sound inside, but I could feel you. And then – you were there, and I thought, I thought, oh, god, I thought you were ... and then Gibbs started CPR and checking you over and found a pulse and found you were breathing, not much, but enough, and we radioed for help and got you the hell out of there."

And that's how you save Ziva. The words were on his tongue but he bit them back, because her eyes were fresh and new and full of hope and a fleeting ad uncertain tendril of something he had not seen in a long time. When she speaks, her voice trembles and dips, but her hand over his is true and warm.

"Tony. Oh, Tony. I'm so sorry." Tears spring but remained unfallen. She suddenly seems so young, vulnerable and innocent and traumatised by the finer points of life that make it so imperfect. She cannot find the words. "I don't know – I don't know how I can ever, ever – I mean, I don't know." She looks at him with wide and helpless eyes, and it is all he can do to stop himself from kissing her.

"But I do." They break, both of them, right in the middle, split down to the roots and spring back together, incomplete and far from perfect, but full of an undying hope that underlies his gentle caress of her cheek, the wipe of a pad of a thumb as it smoothes away a tear, his steady breath on the back of her neck as he holds her, and the way her bruised lips open and falter for the words that will not come. And, at this moment, Tony knows. He knows that it might not come for days, weeks, months, years, it might not come till the last breath of a dying life, until her final word of forgiveness, and it might happen suddenly, quietly and unexpectedly, in the middle of a sentence or a movement, it might make her stop and be still. He knows that it will not come easily, or quickly, or without work and love and time. But he knows that one day, one day it will come. And they will be just fine.

Several things. Firstly – I'm not sure where exactly Gibbs et al fly from when they do go on merry little airborne jaunts, so I apologise if it's not Norfolk but it kind of made possible sense to me in my head and I did TRY to look, so yeah.

Secondly – FIDJOSPFKGOPSDJKFGIOPDJGIOPJFIOGN MY EXAMS ARE WELL AND TRULY OVER. Oh, how sweet those words are. I went majorly book shopping this afternoon as well, to celebrate, so I am on a massive high and that's why the chapter is so long (for me :D)

Thirdly – enjoy. Please. I beg you. And also, reviews make my day and I really feel I deserve them for the essays I wrote today :) Tell me, does anyone know (or care?) whether Sources 11 and 12 support the view given in Source 10 about the Hunter Committee? Similarly, is it really of vital importance whether Gandhi's work pre-1939 was of little significance to the progress of India independence (when so clearly it WAS crucially important)?? I ask you. No, is the answer. It is not.

But this is. And reviews make my day. So you do the math :) Enjoy.