Ziva stalked across the lobby and plunged through the front doors not, as Tony thought, in an attempt to get away from him, but in the hope of escaping before the tears welling in her eyes began to fall. She was determined not to let them see her cry. She might be about to lose everything that made her life livable, but she was damned if anyone would know how that made her feel.
When she reached her car she flung herself into the front seat and closed the door as quickly as she could. Only then did her control waver. Pressing her fists to her eyes she rested her head against the wheel, her body shaking with the silent sobs she refused to let fully escape.
With effort, Ziva finally managed to gain some semblance of control over her breathing. She couldn't forget her worries but she did manage to stuff them back into the recesses of her mind, at least temporarily. She knew they wouldn't stay there for long though and she started her car, heading for home with the plan of giving herself a hard workout. Maybe after a long run and some time on the heavy punching bag she had hanging in her spare room, she would be exhausted enough to truly forget.
Two hours later, Ziva finally had to admit defeat. She had run until her legs were shaking and when that didn't work, she attacked the heavy bag with her bare hands and feet, whirling and punching until her knuckles bled and her ankles were black and blue, but she still couldn't chase away her despair. It clung to her, in fact, she felt so filled with it that she imagined it oozing out to mix with her sweat, coating her with a sickly sheen of hopelessness.
She didn't understand it, punishing her body had always worked in the past. The scrapes and bloodstains on the heavy bag were a testament to how often she had used this technique to chase away her darkest thoughts. The therapist she was forced to see after Somalia had even said it was a relatively healthy way of coping. With her usual talent for not hearing anything she didn't like, Ziva had ignored the added caveat that it was healthy only if not taken to extremes and only if you did deal with your problems in the end. Besides, the therapist knew only half of it, Ziva had other ways of coping that she never mentioned.
Given that they lived with the terrorist threat as a constant backdrop to their lives, you might expect the Israelis to be a dour people, but that was not the case. Every city and town of any size had a bustling nightlife, clubs and bars where the younger generation went to drink and dance away their worries. Mossad officers were no exception. After a bad day at the scene of a bombing, when they lost a colleague, any time the job became just too much to take - that was when you would find them out on the town. And if the night ended in a stranger's bed, well, at least they got a few hours respite and reminded themselves they were lucky to still be alive. Most officers outgrew this stage, or married and had a spouse to console them. Even Ziva rarely let herself go crazy anymore but tonight she was really feeling the urge. She felt like a caged animal and needed something to ease her pain even if it was only for a single night. She would face tomorrow ... tomorrow.
Her mind made up, she strode into the bathroom and showered quickly. Still wrapped in only a towel, she rubbed some gel into her hair and left it to dry in tousled curls as she reached deep into her closet and came out with a dress that anyone at NCIS would be shocked to know that she owned. When she slid into it, the small scrap of deep red material resolved itself into a halter dress whose plunging neckline, high shirred waist and short skirt emphasized Ziva's athletic curves. Black fuck-me pumps completed the outfit and heavy mascara and a lip color Abby would have been proud of were the final touches.
After a quick look in the mirror, Ziva headed for the door, pausing only long enough to grab her cellphone off the hall table. It rang just as she reached for it. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was Tony calling. She hit the ignore button, wincing a bit when she saw that it was his third call. He meant well, but she just couldn't handle any more entanglements right now. She pushed the thought of the hurt she had seen on his face in the elevator out of her mind, stuck the phone in her purse, and left without a backward glance.
The bar she went to was not one of her usual haunts, the fact that the owner had taken nearly half the room and turned it into a dance floor, complete with strobing lights and pounding speakers, kept her away on any normal evening. But tonight was not normal and not only did she crave the nightclub-like action, the fact that she was not well known here was also a big draw. For the moment, she ignored the dance floor and headed for the bar, quickly signaling the bartender and ordering a martini.
"Here you go, one vodka martini. Just wave me down when you need another," he said when he delivered her drink.
"You can get me my second one right now," Ziva said.
"Don't you want to wait till you finish that one?"
Ziva picked up the glass and tossed back the stiff drink in no more than three swallows. "I am done, so get me another."
The bartender gave her a surprised look but acceded to her request and brought her another round. This time she drank more slowly, picking up the glass and swiveling in her chair so she could survey the room as she sipped her drink. She had already picked out two or three likely prospects when she heard her cell ring inside her purse. She pulled it out - Tony again. Without answering, she set the phone to vibrate only, stuck it back into her purse, slid off her stool and began to approach the well built guy that she had spotted earlier.