A/N: *peers around corner checking for fire and pitchforks* Hi. So. Don't hate me? Please?
DISCLAIMER: *insert here*
Chapter XIV
The front door is, of course, unlocked, and she steps into his foyer certainly, placing her keys on a nearby table and shrugging her bag off her shoulder and onto the floor.
"Hello?" she calls out, listening intently for an answer that never comes. His truck is in the driveway and the garage door is up, but the man himself is not in the living room or the kitchen, and it doesn't sound as if he's upstairs either. She goes to the basement door and pushes it open, peering down into the dim space that does not yield the man she seeks.
Tamping down on the wave of worry that is lapping at the edge of her mind, she wanders back into the kitchen, where she happens to glance out the window. A grin pulls at her mouth at the sight of him in faded Levis and a worn t-shirt kneeling in the dirt beside what appears to be a small vegetable patch. And she doesn't know what is more endearing, the fact that her surely father figure has a green finger, or that he owns a straw sunhat with a wide brim.
She steps outside onto the wooden deck, blinking in the sunlight. There's a thump and she glances to her right, a smile tugging at her mouth as she spots a noble German shepherd sprawled in the shade of house. He lifts his graying muzzle and sniffs in her direction, his tail beating a steady greeting against the ground. She bends down to run her fingers through his fur, and he drops his head back down with a thud, releasing a mighty sigh. His dog-tags jingle as she ruffles his neck and she smirks at the skull-and-crossbones collar.
When she crosses the yard, she takes her time, wanting to look at the various plants and flowers on her way. There're tomato plants, and rose bushes, and a big, leafy green shrub with clusters of small white flowers blooming throughout it. Everything is lush and lively and he is man of many talents.
"You know," he says by way of greeting, once she's standing directly behind him, "you could get down here and help me." And he hasn't even looked up from what he's doing.
She smiles to herself, dropping to her knees gracefully, reaching forward and sinking her fingers into the cool soil before her. His hands work beside hers purposefully, dirt smeared across his skin all the way to his wrists, and he pulls another weed from the ground mercilessly, tossing it behind him. They work silently for a while, the only sounds that of a lawn mower several yards down and a pair of squirrels bickering in a nearby tree, before he finally says, "I was wondering when I'd see you."
"Oh?" she asks, her voice curious, yet detached, and there is something obviously on her mind.
"Yeah."
She pauses and turns to regard his profile, a smile flickering across her face. "You were not worrying about me, now, were you, Gibbs?" she asks lightheartedly.
He smirks. "You? Never. How's the arm?"
She shrugs, glancing down at her sling, wiggling her fingers unconsciously.
"It is better," she says honestly. "You have the dog, I see."
"Sparky? Yeah."
"I thought his name was Jethro?"
Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "Huh. I've just been calling him Sparky."
A companionable silence passes between them once more as they continue pulling weeds. Finally, Ziva pauses and says, "I have been doing a lot of thinking, lately; a lot of . . . soul searching, yes?" She glances over at him for confirmation.
He nods. "What'd ya find?"
"That I need to make a decision."
Another nod. "So why haven't you?" And there's no impatience in his voice, no irritation, no exasperation. She knows this is his way of helping, a gentle prodding to get her to think.
She chews her lower lip pensively, pausing to gather her thoughts. He doesn't press her, though, just continues pulling weeds, methodically, reassuringly. She sighs.
"I need to know," she says softly. "Do I owe you? After everything you have done for me, do I owe you?"
He pauses, leaning back on his heels. And she can feel his gaze on her, studying her, his emotions unreadable. "What are you getting at?" he finally asks.
She takes a breath, gathers her thoughts. Goes on. "For giving me a chance, after my betrayal to you; for rescuing me from that place. For giving me a job, helping me become a part of this country. You have done so much for me, Gibbs, and I need to know if I owe you –anything- for that."
"Ziva-"
"If you tell me to stay," she continues quietly, finally meeting his eyes, "I will."
He doesn't speak for several moments, then asks gently, "And if I told you to be happy?"
"Gibbs-"
"Ziver." She presses her lips together at the sound of his name for her; watches him with watering eyes. "All I want is you to be happy. You don't owe anyone anything -ever. All we ever wanted was you to be safe and happy."
She blinks, rapidly trying to clear her blurring vision. "Thank you, Gibbs," she murmurs, and he offers her a soft smile, climbing stiffly to his feet. He extends a hand down to her, and she grasps it, allows him to pull her up so she's standing beside him. And when he opens his arms to her, she goes willingly into the embrace, resting her head on his shoulder as he presses his lips to her temple.
And it's the kind of moment shared by a father and daughter.
. . .
It's only nine thirty and he's already falling asleep on his couch, the sounds of light-saber battles and a loudly breathing Sith lord providing adequate background noise to keep his wandering thoughts in check. When his cell phone first startles to life, he thinks it's part of the movie, but it isn't. And while he's tempted to ignore the call, curiosity –as well as a pesky sense of duty- gets the best of him and he reaches over and picks up the phone. A smile twitches at the edges of his mouth as all vestiges of sleep vanish when he reads Z. David on the caller ID because this has the potential to be all kinds of fun.
He presses the answer button and says in a bored voice, "Domino's Pizza, can I take your order?"
There is a pause, and he can practically hear her frowning before she says, slowly, uncertainly, "I am sorry, I have the wrong number." And she hangs up before he can come clean.
"Dammit," he mutters to himself, and he's about to hit redial when his phone rings again.
"DiNozzo."
He hears her heave a sigh of relief. "Are you home?" she asks and if this question is out of the ordinary to her, at least, she gives no indication. He, however, is suddenly wrestling with every implication of her calling him, and, yeah, he's probably blowing this way out of proportion, and, yeah, she probably is just calling to check in because he hasn't heard from her since the hospital three days ago, and-
"Tony," she says impatiently and he winces.
"Sorry. Uh, yeah, I'm home. Do you need-"
"I will be up in a minute."
"Oh. Okay." And he doesn't really know what to do about that. "I'll, uh, see you then."
His phone beeps as she disconnects the call.
There's a soft knock at his door four minutes later and he opens it, standing to the side as an invitation for her to come in. She brushes past him, sweeping into his living room and coming to a halt beside his coffee table.
Dark eyes are staring expectantly at him, only he doesn't know what she wants. He meets her gaze and offers her a careful smile and she seems to relax, marginally.
"Hello, Zee-vah," he says genially, drawing out the syllables in her name because he knows she's fond of it despite what she says to the contrary. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this evening?"
She tilts her head to the side and regards him for another brief second. "We need to talk," she says carefully, and his heart seizes up a bit, but when he opens his mouth to respond, she holds her hand up to quiet him. "But, I need you to hear me out first."
His pulse is suddenly racing beneath his t-shirt and trepidation shudders down his spine like ice water. He swallows and nods at her, perching himself on the armrest of his recliner, trying in vain to maintain his composure. He pantomimes zipping his lips and he thinks she understands the gesture because she doesn't question him.
"I talked to Director Vance on Saturday," she starts, and he would think this insignificant if she didn't avert her eyes. "We discussed my medical leave and he asked me to consider an . . . opportunity." She pauses, briefly, as if expecting him to interrupt, but he doesn't because, after all, she asked him not to. He stares at her imploringly, wondering if her opportunity is similar to the ones he wouldn't take. He doesn't really have time to consider the implications, however, because she's continuing. "There is a position in Foreign Affairs that I have been asked to consider. And yes, yes, I know it is a desk job, but I can use my language skills, and maybe even travel, and I think I might like that," and she's talking quickly now, her voice lower, as if she's trying to explain to him a secret of utmost importance while simultaneously begging him to understand. She lifts her face to meet his steady gaze, and hers is certain. "I would not be very far away," she tells him, lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. "Just on a different floor. I would still work for NCIS, and see you all every day." There is another pause as she scans his face for any indication of his thoughts. He doesn't know if she wants his approval or his condemnation; he doesn't know which one she needs.
"Ziva-" he starts, carefully, but she holds up her hand once more, and he shuts up.
"I know I signed up for this, Tony," she says patiently, and she's rehearsed this, surely. "I know that bombs and danger are a part of my job description, and I have accepted that. It is just . . . when Mike Franks died, I did not have time to really think, to really consider what life would be like if I just . . . didn't do this work anymore. I have always known the costs and I do not regret any of it, especially my work here. But the thing is, Tony, I don't want to do this anymore –I don't think I can. I have, ah, paid my dues; I have done my time. I like to think I made a difference . . . I mean, there is always another monster, yes, but there are less now, I think, than there would have been. I am . . . tired of the death and the destruction, I am tired of the loss. I am burning out, Tony, and I -I wish to accept Vance's offer. I have made the decision to leave the MCRT . . ." And she stops, her eyes oddly shiny in the dim light of his living room. She's standing there, right next to his coffee table, in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and barely any makeup, and it's all so very surreal.
She's waiting for him to say something, only he didn't get this part of the script, so he settles on a simple, "Okay."
She blinks at him. "Okay? That is all you have to say?" She almost sounds incredulous.
He shrugs, standing up. "Um, yes?"
"Why?"
He winces internally at the indignant tone of her voice as he makes his way over toward her. When they're practically standing toe to toe, he can see the hurt in her eyes at her perceived dismissal, and his palms come up to frame her face without permission from his brain. She watches him unflinchingly, however, and there's that, at least. He gives her a warm, reassuring smile.
"Because," he says quietly, studying her face. "It's okay because it's what you want. I've only ever wanted you to be happy, Ziva."
Something flickers across her eyes, and her brow furrows slightly.
"What?" he asks worriedly.
She bites her lower lip and suddenly smiles. "I know."
"Good," he says, releasing her, even though neither of them moves away.
"Tony?"
"Yes?"
"Do you remember what you asked me on Sunday?"
He nods slowly, not entirely sure where she's going with it, but more than willing to follow her.
"And do you remember what I said?"
"Yeah . . ."
She stares at him expectantly.
And then it all clicks into place.
This time when he smiles, it lights up his entire face: "Ziva David, are you free Thursday evening?"
And she grins up at him conspiringly. "Perhaps."