One Week Earlier
"Am I pouring you a drink, or are you going to stand up there all day?" he asked, glancing from the corner of the basement to the top of the stairs, where a former assassin was standing, wiping her hands together, nervously. It was dark, as it always was, their silhouettes lit only by the small swinging bulb dangling in the centre of the room.
The familiar scent of sawdust tickled her nostrils, and for several seconds it was easy to forget the reason why she had made the six-thousand mile journey. For a fraction of a moment, she was just Ziva, visiting an old friend. Not Ziva who, after this conversation, was possibly going to drive half way across town and uproot her best friend's life with news so monumental, that it would change things forever.
"No drink," she replied, with a small shake of her head, not that he could see her. She took a step forward, the silver-haired man coming into view with a chisel in hand; her eyes flickering to the new boat he was beginning to build. I wonder what he will call this one...
She could have laughed at herself for thinking such thoughts in her current predicament. But, anything to take her mind off the nausea, she supposed.
"Well, I'm having one," he replied, throwing the chisel on the workbench. The tinkering of screws in a glass jar being poured onto the surface cut through the silence, followed by the pop of the bottle, and the glug of bourbon being decanted into the makeshift drinking vessel. "In or out."
Her boots slowly thumped against the wooden boards, stopping before the end of the stairs.
"You in trouble?" he asked, taking a swig of the honey-coloured liquid. I guess it depends what you mean by trouble, she thought. She bit her lip, staring at him. When she didn't respond, he sighed, and turned his head to look at her. "Ziver?"
"I do not know why I am here," she croaked out. Her voice was weak and dry, only exacerbated by the nervousness creeping over her body; like a swarm of ants prickling at her insides.
"Well, you spent twelve hours on a plane from Israel, so you must have a reason," he replied, dryly, taking another swig.
"I do," she nodded. "What I mean is, I do not know why I am here, in your basement."
"You're not in my basement, Ziva. You're hovering on the stairs."
Exhaling deeply, the sole of her shoe finally made contact with the cement. She wiped her sweaty, clammy palms against the denim of her jeans, pulling her coat tight around her, as a cool December chill whipped through the air. As she moved further into the room, she allowed her fingertips to trace the delicate oak beams of the boat that he had spent hours shaping and sanding; Gibbs' version of meditation, if there ever was one.
His eyes narrowed as he watched her. There was something different about her, of which he couldn't quite place. But, he knew that the woman standing before him, her eyes dancing across the decor of his basement in order to avoid whatever it is she was there to talk about, wasn't the Ziva who had left NCIS six months ago. No. The Ziva who had left had been determined to start over; to completely wipe the slate clean. If Gibbs was being honest, he never expected to see her again in his lifetime. So, what changed?
He bit his lip, his mind wandering to his Very Special Agent, who had been a shell of himself for the last three months. The special agent who he knew would come into work every morning, pretending he hadn't spent the previous evening staring absentmindedly at the television, while working his way through an entire bottle of cheap Merlot (because he was going through too many these days to bother spending much on a nice one). His special agent who had been far more irritable about everything, from finishing reports to visiting crime scenes; and who was particularly sensitive to anything relating to the brunette woman standing in front of Gibs, even if it was a simple, passing comment. If it was a compliment, the pain of missing her would be ever present on Tony's face as he thought of her, something which hadn't gone unnoticed to the members of the team. If it was anything else, within seconds his body would tense and his eyes would darken; a split-second switch into survival and protection mode. It was the reason nobody said her name anymore.
"Does he know you're here?"
She let out a small laugh. "No."
"But I assume he's the reason you've come all this way?" he gently prodded.
"Yes," she replied. It was not untrue. She was here because of him. After all, he had gotten them into this situation. Though, she supposed it took two to tip-tap... or whatever the phrase was. You don't stumble into a bedroom with somebody and make love to them accidentally, nor do you end up conceiving a child alone. Even if it was an unforeseen consequence of their momentary lapse in judgement (the unprotected sex, not the sex itself), this was entirely as much her fault as it was Tony's.
"You here to apologise?" he asked, his tone short and bitter. He knew he shouldn't have been so hard on her because it was evident she was struggling with... something. But,though he didn't know what had transpired between her and Tony when he had found her (because yes, he had eventually ended up telling Gibbs he had), he couldn't overlook the pain that it had caused him. The once joyful, playful class clown was now just a grey shadow of himself.
"Among other things," she said, her voice small.
"Ziva," Gibbs sighed, "I take it you're here because you want my help or advice. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."
She bit her lip, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I hurt him, Gibbs."
"Yeah," he replied, knowingly, "you did. The question is, how are you going to make it right?"
She shook her head. "I do not know if I can. I spent the entire journey thinking of what to say. But, I do not know if he will even open the door for me."
"He'll open it," he replied, a small smirk appearing on his face as he placed the bourbon back on the workbench, and picked up his chisel.
She scoffed. "How can you be so sure?"
"It's you, Ziva," Gibbs paused, the chisel hovering in his hand. "With him, the door might be closed for many people, but when it comes to you, it's always open."
She raised her eyebrow. "Are you speaking literally or metaphorically?"
"Both," Gibbs shrugged, lightly pressing the chisel to the wood to scrape away a layer. "Look, I don't know what happened between the two of you in Israel, but he's not himself. He hasn't been since he came back, and you don't have to be psychic to know it has something do with you."
"He asked me to come back to DC with him," she said, the admission surprising even herself. "He asked me to come back, and I said no."
"But you wanted to?" Gibbs asked.
She nodded. "He said that he did not care whether I was an agent or not, and I could have bagged groceries for all he cared. He just wanted me to come home with him."
"So, why didn't you?"
"I was afraid. I have never..." she paused. She was not about to admit it to Gibbs before she admitted it to Tony. "I have never felt this way before, so I did what I do best."
"You ran."
She shrugged. "If you consider staying, running, then yes."
Silence encompassed the two of them before Gibbs spoke. "He loves you."
"What?" she choked out, as if it came as a surprise to her. But, on some level, she knew. The way they had caressed each other so intimately in the farmhouse, with kisses so passionate it had made their heads spin, were the kind of acts only shared between two hearts so irrevocably in love with each other the way Tony and Ziva were.
"He won't admit it to anyone," Gibbs continued. "I don't even know if he's admitted it to himself. But he wouldn't have done half the things he has for you if he didn't."
"Like travelling halfway across the world to find me... twice?"
"if he loves something, he won't let it go without a fight."
I'm fighting for you, Ziva.
She swallowed, hard, her pulse thumping in her ears. She was tempted to pace back and forth; to walk circles around the boat until her feet were numb, but she found herself frozen – her boots superglued to the spot she was standing with anxiety.
"Tell him," Gibbs continued. "Whatever you feel... whatever you have to say to him. Say it."
"I do not know if I can," she replied.
"You've made it this far. What's the worst that could happen?"
We could be happy."I could lose him."
"You already lost him when you let him step on that plane alone, Ziva," he replied, slightly shaking his head. "He lost himself."
"What if he does not forgive me?"
Gibbs gave her a smirk. "Go," he said, softly. "Fix it."