Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, favorited and followed.
This story is current to what's posted on AO3. Updates will be posted as the same time I post them on AO3 now.
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After a brutally long day down in Cybercrimes, Tim McGee finally heads home long after dark. When he was banished to the sub-basement, he thought the hours would be better, closer to the traditional nine to five. Instead, he ends up so engrossed in his work that he forgets to check the time, forgets to eat, forgets what he is supposed to be doing. All there is in Cyber-crimes is work.
Today, it was tearing down a firewall and breaking through encryption levels he hasn't come up against in years. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was a true white hat. He didn't remember it being quite as hard as it was today. It didn't used to be hard. He hates to admit that he might be losing his computer skills since he became a field agent.
Maybe all that time on Gibbs' team is turning me into a script kiddie.
Tim should be happy about breaking the encryptions, but his victory feels surprisingly hollow. A triumph in binary and written code only someone with a master's degree in computer forensics could understand. He could barely explain his findings to his current supervisor, let alone the attorney who will be prosecuting the case. If the attorney doesn't understand, he doubts a jury will comprehend it either.
All that work will end up being for nothing if the guy doesn't take a plea deal…
On the way back to his apartment, he grabs a bottle of wine and an order of Chicken Chow Mein from the closest Chinese food place. The food usually isn't any good, but he doesn't care tonight. He just wants to have a night of bad food, mediocre wine, and computer games.
With the way the case is going with Internal Affairs, it will all be coming to a head soon. Tim might as well try to find a moment's relaxation in the shitstorm that is currently his life.
Cut off from the team. Cut off from his life. The victim of an assault. The subject of an Internal Affairs investigation. Funny how much things can change in only a week.
Tim doesn't recognize his own life anymore.
After he parks his car, he heads through the parking lot towards his building. The night air is still warm, but there are the first tendrils of chill just underneath it. Soon, he'll have to wear more than just his sportscoat home from work. The parking lot lights are burning, but it's barely enough to see. Their weak, sulfuric glow casts barely enough light for him to weave his way through the parked cars.
Tim's phone rings. When he checks it, the caller ID reads with the number that Schuyler Harris gave him at their first meeting. Today's interview was stressful enough, an egregious and terrible one where Tim watched his life go down in flames by his own hand, by his own actions. He sure doesn't feel like dealing with the man until tomorrow. His phone trills with a voicemail.
He turns off his phone.
Tim heads inside the humid, musty air of his apartment building. The lock on the main door is still busted and of course, someone slid a rock inside the door to keep it open. One of his neighbors must be having yet another party. He kicks the rock away and closes the door as best he can. The latch doesn't catch, but at least it looks as though it might be locked.
The three floors of stairs leading to his walk-up leave him breathless. He unlocks his door and then, he slides into his apartment. As soon as he is inside, the hair on the back of his neck rises.
Something is wrong.
The light in his kitchen is already on. There's a steady thwack thwack coming from inside the kitchen. If he were someone like Tony, he could believe a woman might've stopped by to make him dinner. He never tells the women he dates where he lives and that's if even gets a date in the first place.
Tony gets laid and I have a hungry burglar.
Great.
As quietly as possible, he deposits his food and bottle of wine on the floor. Then, he eases the door closed behind him. He rolls onto the balls of his feet as he moves to the gun safe beside his computer. He unlocks it to reveal his personal weapon. A Sig Sauer, the same gun as his service weapon.
Tim holds it at the ready as he sneaks towards his kitchen. He is nearly on tip-toe now, moving as he would through an uncleared crime scene, to face his intruder. It isn't until he is nearly in the kitchen that he even thinks he should have called Gibbs or Tony.
Yeah right, like they would come help me…
Sliding into the wall beside his kitchen, he hazards a quick glance. Her back is facing him as she works through a pile of vegetables with a knife. He can't see her face, but he knows exactly who it is.
Without even thinking about it, he steps fully into the kitchen.
"Ziva?!" he gasps.
She shouldn't be in his apartment.
She. Is. In. His. Apartment.
Ziva David continues to work at the vegetables on Tim's counter. A head of lettuce, by the look of it. The thwack thwack thwack of the knife against the cutting board cuts straight through him. He has cleared enough crime scenes to know what a huge chef's knife like that could do to his body. Ziva has told enough stories for him to know what she can do to a body with a knife like that.
"What are you doing here?" Tim manages to get out.
Turning around, she appears nonplussed as though it's perfectly normal to break into someone's house and make a salad. On the counter behind her, there rests a pile of carefully portioned vegetables. She keeps the chef's knife in a loose grip, but Tim can't help staring at it. He didn't even know he had one.
Ziva smiles as though everything is still normal. As though they're just coworkers.
After everything, Tim doesn't move his weapon. Doesn't falter in his stance.
"What are you doing here?" Tim's voice is high and tight.
"I believe you are in need of company." Ziva keeps her tone level. "Since we are still friends, yes?"
"I think you should go," he says.
"It is regrettable you feel that way, McGee."
Before Tim can even blink, Ziva moves across his postage-stamp sized kitchen. So fast, that he can't even track her. He tries to move away, but she wrests the weapon from his hands with hardly any effort.
Suddenly, he is staring down the wrong end of his own weapon. He keeps his eyes locked on the barrel, his entire world tunneled to this moment. His heart hammers inside his chest, slamming into his sternum. His pulse pounds in his ears. All he can see is his own weapon, his own gun.
Is she going to murder me with my own weapon?
He holds out his hands. "Ziva…please."
"Give your phone to me, McGee," she says.
After he passes it to her, Ziva slides it into a kitchen drawer. She crowds into the kitchen, choking off his only escape route. He is desperately trying not to stare at the weapon.
"We shall share dinner together," she says flatly. "There are things we need to discuss."
Tim nods like a broken wind-up toy. "Y-y-yeah. Sure. That sounds great."
With a clipped nod, Ziva slides the weapon into the waistband of her cargos at the small of her back. Then, she returns to her task as if nothing even happened. She cuts the vegetables with careful precision and it's enough for Tim to contemplate if that's how she dismembers a body. He starts to slip out of the kitchen while she is preoccupied.
"You have a bowl, McGee." It's a statement, not a question.
"Yeah." Tim tries—and fails miserably—at sounding normal.
He grabs the only mixing bowl he owns out of the cabinet. As soon as he places it on the counter, she takes to assembling their salad.
Tim glances back towards his living room. His mind is racing with the thoughts of possibilities as to how this situation is about to play out. He could make a run for it, but she will just catch up with him later. Tim knows how Ziva does her job for Mossad. If she wants information, she'll get it through any means necessary. If he plays along, she might leave him alone. It might be his only chance to see tomorrow.
His eyes are locked on the living room, on that path to freedom. Ziva must notice because she clucks her tongue. When he glances over, she shakes her head. And just like that, Tim abandons his hope for escape. If he even manages to escape, she'll only catch up to him later. She knows where he lives. She knows where he works. There won't be any hiding. And later, it will be worse. So much worse.
Ziva puts down the knife after dissecting a carrot. His eyes slide toward that. When she catches him looking, she pushes the knife into a drawer. It closes with an ominous thud.
Just play along, Tim…
He plasters an overbright smile onto his face.
"I got a bottle of wine and Chinese food on the way home," he says as brightly as he can. "It might go nice with the salad. What do you think?"
Ziva half-smiles like a cat right before it bites a mouse's head off. "That would be acceptable."
Ziva keeps a watchful eye on him as he moves into the living room to grab the wine and Chinse food. His eyes land on the doorknob and his gut twists. Escape is so close. Ziva must have the same realization too because her soft footfalls approach behind him. If he does run, she would be on him in a flash. He can report this altercation later. He doesn't know what she'd do if he bolted, and he'd rather not find out.
She warned him once. She hasn't had to again.
So, he scoops up the bags full of wine and food. When he heads back to the kitchen, he keeps the same megawatt smile on his face. He feels a little untethered as though his head isn't fully connected to his body right now. All those motions he's going through, he isn't in control of his body.
He wishes he had someone to call like Tony or Gibbs. At this point, he doubts they would've bothered to come even if they knew he was in trouble.
No one knows Ziva is here.
He is completely and totally alone. Again.
This is even worse than when he was undercover because at least, he knew someone would be on their way. There he had hope, but now…it's such a strange thing, knowing he is completely cut off from help for the second time in a week. This time, he has no help of rescue.
I'm on my own…
His brittle smile grows so tight his face aches.
It's just another day at the office. It's just another day at the office. It's just…
Tim doesn't know how long Ziva stays, but it feels like a long time. They eat slowly with real utensils. Tim doesn't know if he should be offended because he could use them as a weapon if he wanted. Maybe Ziva thinks she could fend him off or maybe she believes he isn't stupid enough to try. And in the end, he isn't. At least he was right about the Chinese food, it sucks.
To pass the hours, Ziva talks about spending her suspension as the Israeli embassy. She tells Tim about inconsequential things. The staff, the food, the accommodation, where her father has recently vacationed and where she will too. Nothing of actual consequence like what she has been doing.
Tim barely tries to speak a word. The quieter he stays, the easier it is to believe they're just having dinner as friends like they used to. Well, she told him it was as friends, but it turned out to be whatever the hell this is shortly after they got back from Somalia.
"We should partake with the wine, McGee," Ziva says. It's an order, not an offer.
He knows her routine of how she handles herself while working with a target. Incapacitate, interrogate, neutralize if necessary. Tim hates how he knows this because she told him everything about her days as a Mossad wetwork operative. He may have used bits and pieces for his last novel. One involving an assassin hitting political targets in Washington.
There are far worse things than wine…
Somehow, Tim manages to unearth two wine glasses from the back of his cabinets. They're a relic from a long-dumped—who's he kidding? she dumped him—girlfriend. He washes the dust away before handing the glasses to Ziva.
She pours two glasses and hands him one. He sips it slowly while they're talking about their holiday plans, and the wine manages to chase away the edges of his panic. He doesn't know what time it is, but it must be getting late.
The wine goes straight to his head.
Tim ends up way drunker than he should be. The room is a little sideways, almost spinning but not quite. His head feels as though it's been stuffed full of cotton wool. He leans against his dining table, trying to keep himself from falling over, but that's even a little wobbly too. He just needs to hold on.
From her seat, Ziva wears a pleasant smile. Her expression makes Tim's skin crawl because she looks like Tony after he slathered Tim's keyboard in super glue.
Ziva asks Tim questions. Pumps him for information about what he said to Internal Affairs.
He doesn't lie because she'll see right through that. For all the years they worked together, they have a certain familiarity. In the field, it breeds trust, a knowing of how someone will react and engage. When being interrogated and handled, tells and lies become as transparent as glass. Tony and Gibbs, they could get away with this. But not Tim, never Tim.
In the end, he tells her everything.
Ziva must know about Tony's accusations because she doesn't react when Tim explains it. Doesn't even flinch. He wants to ask her about why she would turn off the listening device. He never even realized he didn't know why she would cut the line on Tony.
Once she is done, Ziva claps a hand on Tim's shoulder. He might be woozy, but he wants to shy away from her touch. Somehow, he manages to resist. She squeezes his shoulder to return him to the moment. The one where he is drunker than he should be and being questioned by a former Mossad wetwork operative turned federal agent…who may or may not still be an active Mossad operative. It sounds like a rejected plot for one of his novels.
When she leans to whisper in his ear, her breath is warm against his cheek. She smells like sandalwood and black tea and incense.
He wants to throw up.
"It is lucky I count you among my friends, McGee," she whispers.
He bristles before saying: "Oh yeah, why's that?"
"Because my enemies do not fare well." She stays silent until he meets her eyes. "You told Harris how you were the one to turn off the listening device?"
He nods carefully. "That's because I was."
"And this re-routing of the audio." He visibly wilts as she says: "This, you did not tell me about."
Tim remains silent as Ziva stares deeply into his eyes. If there is a correct answer here, he sure as hell doesn't know it. One wrong word and it's over. He'll be nothing more than a corpse. If he is lucky, someone might find his body.
"That I will overlook." She wrinkles her nose. "You have a certain fondness for Tony."
"He's my partner," Tim chokes out.
Ziva half-shrugs, but she ignores his comment. "I believe you told Harris that you kept a back-up copy of the program on your computer."
That's the moment he realizes that she listened into his interview with Harris. Tim doesn't know how because she was in the room. But she knows…
"Yeah, I did." He tries to play it off like it's no big deal.
With a clipped nod, she slips away from him. He breathes deeply, sagging against the table as soon as she is out of his personal space. The feeling of relief is short lived because she moves towards his computer desk. She gestures at the tower of his gaming rig.
"This is the computer, yes?" she asks.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Whatever she is about to do, he doesn't quite understand.
Ziva takes his silence as an answer. She pulls his computer tower out from under his desk until it's in the middle of the floor. Then, she kicks the side viciously, knocking it over. The side dents inward. Another vicious kick sends computer parts flying across his apartment.
Tim puts his hands up to shield his face. He releases a strangled cry that barely makes it out of his throat.
"Ziva," he gasps out.
She glances up from the carnage, terrifyingly calm. "It is not here?"
"That's my computer," he moans quietly.
Her smile turns malicious as she turns back to her task. She crushes the gaming rig that cost him more than a month's paycheck with shocking venom. Once the computer is nothing more than spare parts, she reaches into its corpse to retrieve the mangled hard drive. Then, she crosses the room to place it on the table in front of Tim. He stares at it, wide eyed, as though it's a still beating heart.
This is one of Ziva's specialties. Taking things apart piece by piece.
Wetwork.
Except this time, it was an electronic device. The next time she takes something apart, it will be Tim himself. That much is clear by the look in her eyes.
"It is just a computer," she says.
He shakes his head. "No, it was more than that."
She releases a strange laugh before she removes Tim's weapon from the small of her back. First, she slides out the magazine. When she places it on the table in front of Tim, he nearly leaps out of his skin. Then, she disassembles the barrel to remove the firing pin. She abandons the weapon, in pieces in front of him. His wide eyes are locked on, his shoulders heaving with each breath.
It is a warning, a threat.
She could take him apart just as easily.
As Ziva pockets the firing pin, Tim's eyes rake towards her.
He shouldn't be afraid of her. He shouldn't be frightened by her.
Ziva is part of his team. She is his –
"It is best you stay a friend, McGee," she says. "I have enough enemies."