A/N: Here you go! Much love, keep the peace, always, Kit!
A/N2: Okay, so a hundred thousand thank yous to M E Wofford for catching my blunder: There is no Rule 58, my friends, I apologize for any confusion. I was thinking of Rule 51 and did not type accordingly. Again, I am so sorry for any confusion (and if you have no idea what I'm talking about, don't worry about it!) And once again, THANK YOU M E WOFFORD! Always, Kit!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine!
VI
When she wakes up the following morning, it is to an empty bed and an alarm clock proclaiming it to actually be afternoon. She is disoriented because this is not her room, or her sheets, and her gun is not beneath the pillow that isn't hers either. Her heart starts to hammer in her chest, but she notices the framed Casablanca poster on the far wall and begins to relax. Because she begins to remember yesterday, and the explosion, and the elevator, and Tony, and McGee, and Gibbs, and Ducky, and Ned Dorneget. And even though she's slept half the day away, she's still bone-weary exhausted. The skin around her eyes is tight from dried tears and her head is throbbing with a migraine, and she must be hungover with grief. Or from grief. Or whatever.
She slips out of bed because, though she has cried all night, she has retained enough water to warrant a need for the bathroom. As she washes her hands five minutes later, she can't help but stare at her reflection in mild disbelief: Her face is pale and there are dark shadows clinging to the skin beneath her lower lashes. Her eyes are bloodshot and uncomfortably dry; there is a fresh bruise blooming across her temple, beneath the butterfly stitch above her left eyebrow. She reaches up to touch it with her good hand and winces at the tenderness. She also notices then that there are more bruises staining both her arms and, upon lifting up the hem of her shirt and twisting around, her back. She sighs, stifling a yawn, and goes to find her partner who can't be faring much better than her.
Moments later and she finds herself standing in the middle of Tony's living room, sans Tony. And while her foray into the kitchen does not yield the man himself, she does locate a note in Tony's untidy scrawl left beside the coffee maker. She doesn't pick it up, instead leans forward to read it, squinting and tilting her head and cursing his lack of penmanship.
Ziva,
Had to take care of something. Coffee in pot, cereal next to fridge. Sorry not many options. You can stay as long as you want, I should be back by 2. I have my cell.
Tony
The domesticity of the note does strange things to her stomach and she wonders idly if he even gave it a second thought at the time. She's even more disturbed by the fact that she had been so out of it that he had been able to leave earlier without waking her.
And the fact that she fell asleep with him, but woke up alone is so cliché and so very fitting. And if she's being honest with herself, she's grateful that they didn't have to do that awkward morning after thing –even though there was no night before.
She steals a banana from the bowl on the counter and calls a cab; and had this been any other time, she would have rather walked, but she since has no idea how far her apartment is from Tony's she decides a taxi would be best. And, if she's really being honest with herself, she doesn't think her tired body can drag itself home.
...
She has just finished making a BLT when her phone trills from its spot on the counter. She doesn't bother glancing at the caller ID since it's probably Tony or Gibbs, and so she answers it briskly, banishing the exhaustion from her voice, "David."
"Hello?" And the honeyed female voice that filters over the line does not belong to either of her expected callers. "Ziva, it's me. Do you have a minute?"
Ziva nods, leaning up against the kitchen sink. "Of course, Breena. How are you?"
Breena heaves a sigh. "I've been better," she admits, "but I've also been worse. I'm just tired. And worried. What about you, though? How are you holding up?" And her tone is that of genuine concern and it gives Ziva a warm feeling in her chest that this woman she's only met a handful of times actually cares.
"I am . . . sore," she answers truthfully and her own honesty surprises her. "I have a headache and my wrist hurts, but I will survive."
Breena makes a noise of commiseration, "Yeah, I heard about your wrist. That sucks, by the way."
"Yes," Ziva agrees, a small smile tugging at her lips at such a blunt assertion. Because it truly does suck, but it could be worse. It could be way worse. "How is Ducky?" Please do not let me regret asking . . .
"He's sitting right next to me actually. He'd really like to talk to you, if you have time-"
And Ziva nearly knocks over her glass of tea with her elbow. "Yes!" she cries before hurriedly calming herself. "I mean, yes, I do. Please, let me talk to him."
"Okay," Breena says with a chuckle. "I'm passing the phone over."
Ziva waits, albeit impatiently, as the sounds of the phone being shuffled around crackle over the line. And she nearly starts to cry again, though this time out of relief, when a familiar brogue asks warmly, "Ziva, my dear, are you there?"
"Oh, Ducky!" And there are a few brave tears that escape before she can blink them away. "It is so good to hear your voice! How do you feel?"
"Ah, I will be fine, just needed a quick tune-up," he replies cheerily. "I hope you are faring well in light of recent events?"
She bits her lip, wondering how much he's been told. She settles on a vague, all encompassing, "We are still regrouping."
"Yes," he says thoughtfully, "Well, that is to be expected; after all, your world was definitely shaken up quite a bit."
She decides he doesn't know about McGee yet.
"We will get through it," she says in what she hopes is a convincing manner. "It will just take time."
"Time heals all wounds," Ducky adds and she can't help but smile because that is such a Ducky thing to say. "Oh bother, the nurse is coming –I'm not supposed to be on the phone, you know. She's already confiscated my cellular and I doubt Miss Slater would like to have hers impounded as well."
"I understand, Ducky," Ziva says with a smile. "I will talk with you again, okay?"
"Of course, my dear. And Ziva? Try not to worry too much. Everything will work out."
A hot, fat teardrop rolls down her cheek at his concern. "I will try not to worry too much so long as you try to stay out of trouble," she replies, proud that her voice is still steady.
"I am afraid I cannot make any promises . . ."
She can't help but laugh –and it feels good to. "Goodbye, Ducky," she says.
"Goodbye, my dear."
"And Ducky?"
"Hm?"
". . . We miss you."
"I miss you all as well, my dear Ziva."
"Shalom."
And the call disconnects and she is once again alone in her kitchen. But she feels lighter, somehow, as if a burden has been lifted from her chest.
...
When he calls her around eight thirty, she's already in bed with clean sheets and a heating pad for her aching muscles.
"Shalom," she greets, leaning back against her pillows and dog-earring the page in the novel she's reading.
"Hey," he returns, his tone light, though tired. "How ya doin'?"
"I am fine, thank you. How about you?"
His sigh crackles over the phone line. "Honestly? My back is killing me –I'm surprised you can't smell the Bengay." And she chuckles at his exaggeration while a pang of commiseration twists in her chest.
"I recommend a heating pad," she tells him.
"Yeah, well, I've got two."
"I spoke to Ducky," she says suddenly, and if her non sequitur throws him, he doesn't give any indication. "He sounded good."
"Good," he replies, his voice genuinely relieved. "You know Palmer and Breena didn't tie the knot, right?"
Her eyebrows encroach on her hairline as she repeats uncertainly, "Tie the knot . . .? Is that symbolic, like jumping over a broomstick?"
"What?" And now Tony sounds confused. "Tie the knot means get married. Palmer and Breena didn't get married."
"I did not know that –that they didn't get married." And she is sad for them, because they were both so happy and excited for their wedding . . .
". . . thinking when things blow over," Tony is saying, but she wasn't paying attention.
"I am sorry, Tony, you lost me."
"I said, Palmer's thinking that when things blow over, he and Breena will get married then," Tony explains patiently, and if he's upset at her for zoning off, she isn't able to tell. His voice takes on a different tone, a thoughtful tone, as he continues. "Palmer said that it was important for us to be there –he said it didn't feel right knowing we were missing."
A warm feeling curls up in her heart at the idea that Palmer wanted them there that badly –and she remembers, absently, that this is what family feels like. "So I take it you talked to Jimmy?" she asks, reaching over to turn out her bedside lamp.
"Yeah," Tony answers, and she can hear his mattress creak as he shifts around. "Hey, Ziva?"
"Mmhm?"
"They found Harper Dearing."
She stays silent.
"He's dead," Tony adds, and there's something in his voice that sounds a lot like disappointment.
She swallows around the lump wedged in her throat and finally manages a soft, "When?"
"Early this morning, just outside of Arlington. Bastard shot himself in the head." And Tony's voice is hollow sounding, suddenly, as if he's reciting lines from a script.
And Ziva can't help but think this is oddly anticlimactic.
"So it is over?" she asks, hating how her words sound so small in the darkness of her bedroom. Because it can't be over; of course it isn't. Because she has a broken wrist and McGee is facing possible brain damage, if not worse. Ducky has undergone a double bypass surgery on his heart, and while he sounded fine on the phone, she knows that it is a very serious deal. And then poor Abby must surely be on the verge of an emotional breakdown. And Tony, on the other in of the phone, is so very tired and hurting.
But as far as Harper Dearing goes, they're done.
"Yeah," he says quietly, his voice but a murmur in her ear. "It's over."
They do not speak for several minutes, instead just listen to the other's breathing over the phone as they process the news. There is no bad guy anymore; there's no revenge to be had. But then again, this is where revenge has gotten them, hasn't it? Evan Dearing was killed and his father went mad with grief, insistent in his goal to extract retribution on the organization he blamed for his son's death. And she was just caught in the crosshairs with the rest of the Navy Yard.
Still, though, Ziva David is no stranger to the concept of vengeance and she can't help but mourn the loss of a more satisfying closure.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks softly.
And she can hear Tony move around before he replies in a low voice, "Rule 51."
And, yes, she, too, is no stranger to the concept of being wrong, either.
Because it's not over; not when it's just begun.