You know, for a one-shot, this is certainly starting to have a lot of chapters. I was enjoying meandering through Ziva's mind so much that I wrote another one like the last. This one is based right after 'Driven', when she gets home.
I wrote this whilst having a season four marathon, which always surprises me when people ask what my favourite season is and I reply with 'four'. I do not like Jeanne, I do not like the way Tony practically ignores Ziva, I do not like the way Ducky and Gibbs argue at the beginning and I do not particularly like the 'Frog' case – although I do not know why on that point. So I really do not know why I always automatically respond with season four as my favourite. I honestly do not know.
Maybe
Maybe it was not a woman he was seeing.
Maybe he was actually ill.
Dying.
Then why did he not tell her?
Because he did not want to hurt her.
Because he was her best friend and he was trying to protect her.
But she did not need to be protected.
And he knew that.
She ran it over in her mind again.
No woman. Dying. Protecting her.
But why did he not want her to help him?
Why did he not want her to know?
She did not want him to die without telling him about her feelings for him.
She did not want him to die without asking him about his feelings for her.
She did not want him to die.
She did not want him to die.
She stared at the screen of the laptop on her coffee table, the article on Yersinia pestis.
Maybe it was not Y. pestis.
Maybe it was something less harmful.
Maybe he was not dying.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It was all maybes these days.
Nothing was certain.
Maybe nothing would be again.
There was that word again.
Maybe.
Maybe Gibbs would leave again.
Maybe he would not.
Maybe Gibbs would tell them how he was planning on getting the boat out of his basement.
Maybe he would not.
Maybe Tony did have a disease.
Maybe he did not.
Maybe Tony was dying.
Maybe he was not.
Maybe Tony had feelings for her.
Maybe he did not.
Maybe he was seeing another woman.
Maybe he was not.
Maybe Abby would wear a normal outfit next week.
Maybe she would not.
Maybe McGee would throw his computer down the stairs.
Maybe he would not.
Maybe pigs would learn to fly tomorrow.
Maybe they would not.
She threw the empty wine glass across the room.
It shattered into a thousand pieces.
She stared at the shards, the light from the candles on the mantelpiece flickering off them at different angles to create a strangely mesmerising sight.
It reminded her of her shattering heart.
The sound of it breaking resonating within her head.
The sound of the knocking resonating within her head.
Wait.
Knocking.
Her head turned to the door.
She walked over.
Pulled the door open.
Stared at her neighbour.
Mrs Something-or-other.
Mrs Thingamabob.
Her name did not matter.
"…glass breaking. Was worried something was wrong."
"I am fine."
"Maybe we could…"
The door slammed.
She walked over to start picking the glass up.
Stopped.
It was beautiful.
It was beautiful the way the light danced.
She smiled.
Not a happy smile.
She had no happy left.
But it was a smile.
And it felt…alright.
Maybe even nice.
Maybe.
She blew the candles out.
Left the room in darkness.
Left the mess on the floor.
Left the mess for tomorrow.
And for now she slept.
Fully clothed.
But not feeling…bad.
Feeling better.
Maybe.