Chapter 5

Fireworks

(Ziva's POV)

After leaving the lab and getting an update at the evidence garage, I return to the bullpen to discover a note from Tony asking me to bring popcorn to the show in the interrogation room. I hurry, knowing that Gibbs and Allison Hart would provide some needed distraction from the seriousness of the day. By the time I run up with the freshly popped bag, the fireworks are over and Tony and I "earn" a trip to an empty warehouse.

The car ride is filled with our speculations over the tenuous yet charged relationship in which Gibbs and Allison find themselves. She is a clever woman, but how could he ever be anything but suspicious of her? Oh, I am one to pass judgment! Tony spouts out endless movie references of couples with parallel sexual tension issues. Meanwhile our own tension is just under the surface but thankfully ignored. Despite the easy conversation I feel as though there is something he wants to say but he is having that all too familiar debate with himself whether he should go there, meanwhile he continues regaling me with movie and "what if" scenarios. He wisely decides against forcing a confidence with me once again. For my part I smile and play along, despite the similar thoughts that plague me.

I have made a promise to Abby and although this is not the time, I do owe it to Tony to tell him the truth, all of it. He would never see it as me 'owing' any sort of justification or payment out of debt. He wants to know for a deeper reason than curiosity. I see it in his eyes, especially since Paris, but he's showing restraint in our conversations in fear of what? My reaction? Pushing me away? Leading me on? I have appreciated his forbearance but it is so tangible it has settled like a thick fog between us. Abby's words come back to me "he loves you, you know." Of course I know that he is insane enough to avenge my death, he has taken beatings to spare me pain, he has been gently giving me space, but is that for my comfort so I can approach him on my own terms, or is it so that I do not get the wrong idea? Would he not have gone to Africa to save Gibbs, or Abby, or McGee? I know he would have. Chivalry is far from dead in Tony's world.

The car stops, jolting my train of thought as our "what if" scenarios culminate in who would win in a knife fight. Tony looks over with the smile that I used to take as playful but it has matured into something more over the past year. He tries to keep it light, but I see the weight in his eyes despite the chipper façade.

We walk into the building after I reluctantly pick the lock. I try to calm my pulse as to not show the anxiety I feel walking into the dim enclosed room. I am not afraid but my body still seems to be repulsed by such darkness. The familiar panic subsides within seconds, but it always seems so much longer. I feel my body calm to match my expression. I have no intention of divulging any of my experiences from Somalia, especially in such a place, yet the conversation leads dangerously towards it. I try to tread lightly on the topic, giving him an insight into the maddening "logic" that had been twisted to justify the contempt and violence I endured, and he listens intently, as I do my best to avoid meeting his eyes by focusing on the cabinet in front of me.

"You never talk about it." I turn and he is standing too close. I nearly step back at the intensity I see in his eyes despite the shadows. It is killing him that he does not know the extent of my wounds, wounds for which he would gladly atone, if that would only lessen my suffering. He had released me from hell but he knows I'm not free. Not yet.

"What is there to talk about?" As I hear myself say the words I know this is a weak answer. I know there are volumes that are not being said, but I am emotionally empty after talking with Abby. I cannot focus on the work at hand if I go to that place. He has been careful with me and not pushed me and perhaps I have trespassed on his patience too long. Yet this is not the time, and I want to be in an environment that is controlled, on my terms, not baring my soul in another terrorists' lair, where a split-second of distraction could cost his life. No, I need to deflect.

"Come on, Ziva. . ." I see the hurt, I feel the desperation in his strained voice, but I cannot risk it. I morph my feelings into a warning not to become like Salim in any way, as though Tony could be capable of such senseless violence. I see bomb-making materials, a thankful anchor bringing us back to this reality, and Tony reluctantly follows my lead back to the case at hand. I know this discussion is not over, but he respectfully retreats once again and the ball is now in my field.