Finally he is able to choke back any judgment. He takes a deep breath, knowing, that right now, she just needed him to be a friend. She needed him to listen, and tell her that it would all be alright. He tosses aside his curiosities, and chokes back a joke, and some stupid questions. Words finally tumble from his lips.
"Ok."
"Ok? I just dropped a bomb, and all you can say, is ok?"
"I don't want to say the wrong thing."
"I need you to say something, other than ok."
"How do you feel about it?"
"You're really asking that? I feel terrible about it."
"Why?"
"He's our boss, for starters."
"And?"
"It never should have happened."
"It takes two."
"That isn't the point."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Tell me how stupid I was. Lecture me, on how he's my boss, and I completely blew everything that I've worked for the past five and a half years. Tell me that..."
"I'm not going to tell you that."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know the whole story. What happened?"
"Does it really matter what happened?"
"How did it happen?"
"Why does it matter? The what, and the how, aren't important. The important thing is that it did, and it never should have."
"Humor me."
April 8th,
She stops, at the bottom stair. She watches in silent, for several moments, as he sands. He doesn't turn around, he keeps sanding.
"If you're going to be down here you need to make yourself useful," he tells her.
"Do you want me to sand, or pour?" she asks.
He turns, to look at her. He smiles, "I think you should pour," he puts down his sandpaper. He goes over to the workbench, and finds them some glasses. He pours himself one, and then one for her. He hands one to her. She drinks it, without saying a word.
"Now are you going to talk?"
"About what?"
"I assume that there is something on your mind, for you to be here."
"How do I always manage to screw it up? Or do I just pick losers? I don't know, anymore."
He pours another round. They both drink, and he pours again.
"I can't answer that."
"Why not?"
"You're the one who has to answer that."
"I just want to have someone that I can trust, just once."
"What about your partner?"
"That's not what I meant. He's not..."
"Right," he nods, "because of the rules?"
"No," she shakes her head, "because I don't want to ruin that relationship, too."
"Ziva..."
"I just want..."
"What? What do you want?"
"Something simple."
"All I can offer, is another drink," he replies.
She nods, and allows him to pour her another.
Later she finds herself, wobbling towards the stairs. He starts after her. She nearly trips up the stairs.
"Whoa. Do you need some help?"
"No, I'm fine," she argues. He follows her up the stairs. She heads for the door.
"Ziva, I don't think you should go home."
"I can't stay here."
"I think that you should. You shouldn't be driving," he argues.
She opens the door. He closes it in front of her. She spins around, with her car keys in her hand. He takes them from her, and tosses them on the floor. She looks at him in contempt. He takes a step closer to her. He points to the living room.
"You can sleep on the couch. You can wait until the morning to go home."
"Gibbs..."
She takes a step closer. He stares her down, knowing that she hated taking orders. She had never been able to do it, without question. She wanted out of the situation, and he knew she was going to try to find a way out. He doesn't expect what happens next.
"No," she answers.
"Ziva, it's not a request."
She takes a step closer. She looks into his eyes. She can smell the booze on his breath, or maybe it was hers, at this point it was hard to tell. She didn't want to stay. She was tired of being told what to do. She makes an impulsive decision. There was only one way she knew to control a man. The fact that he wasn't just any man, didn't matter, right now. She kisses him.
She stops, and looks at her partner. She gauges the expression on his face. He touches the back of her hand.
"Go on," he insists.
She skips some scenes in her head. The x-rated scenes, that she didn't need to recount in detail, to her partner. Not that what was appropriate, or professional really mattered, anymore. She had thrown that all out the window.
April 9th-0426
Her eyes pop open. She looks at the clock, on the bedside stand next to her. She reads the time, and quickly realizes that she isn't looking at her clock. She takes a deep breath, and rolls over. She stares at her boss, asleep, in the bed next to her. She feels the panic set in. She slides out from under the covers. She quietly follows her trail of clothing down the stairs. She slips her shoes on, and grabs her keys off the floor. She slips out the front door, closing the door behind her.
She races to her car. She slides into the drivers seat, and turns on the engine. The radio blasts. She quickly turns it off, too hungover to deal with the noise. She puts the car into drive, and pulls on her seatbelt, as an afterthought. She races down the street, barely stopping at the stop sign. She races towards her apartment, wanting to get away from there, as fast as possible. The fifteen minute drive takes her four.