Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean." -Ryunosuke Satoro

The first time they sleep together, it's easy. It makes sense. They've been undercover, faked being a couple, nearly died; how else could the day end?

They're back in the bullpen, wrapping up loose ends on the case. Ducky checks up on Tony's wounds, the team makes fun of Ziva's driving, and then desks empty out one by one.

Collectively, the group decides that Tony's to be driven home by McGee, which leaves Ziva feeling a little put out. Her driving isn't that bad, is it? She's an efficient driver, nothing less, nothing more. She thinks she could have Tony at his apartment and resting in his bed by the time the careful McGee could have the car out of the Naval yard, but her vote is outnumbered; apparently, Tony isn't the only one afraid of her vehicular skill set.

As she helps load her possibly mildly concussed coworker into the passenger seat of his car, however, she makes an impulsive decision. She finishes getting Tony in and climbs in the backseat. McGee, just about to start the ignition, turns around to look questioningly at her.

"You may be driving him, McGee, but I intend to see him home safely, as well," she tells him matter-of-factly.

The sound of her voice alerts Tony to her presence, too, and though he doesn't turn to look at her, he replies. "You going to tuck me in and nurse my wounds, David?" Ziva can hear the amusement in his voice. "Somehow, that seems out-of-character for our little team assassin… or are you one of those strict head nurse types? That might fit."

Ziva tilts her head to one side, a half-smile lifting one corner of her mouth. She catches Tony's eye in the rearview. "If you are into that, DiNozzo," she says, deliberately letting her voice slide down to a more sultry pitch. "It would not surprise me if you enjoy… taking orders." The suggestion in her voice is clear, though the teasing is, too.

"I'm still here, you guys," McGee mutters from the driver's seat as he maneuvers the car out of the parking lot. It makes Ziva laugh, and she leans forward between the two front seats, intending to tease the driver now.

"What about you, McGoo?" Tony quips, his mind evidently going in the same direction as Ziva's. "Are you the one giving orders, or the one taking them?"

McGee, annoyed, starts to answer, but Tony cuts him off. "Just kidding, probie. We all know there are no orders being given at all in your sad little social life!"

Ziva and Tony both chuckle, enjoying the scowl on McGee's face. He shakes his head at them, eyes still on the road, and navigates onto the freeway. For just a moment, the way they're ganging up on him reminds him of his early days with Tony and Kate, and that takes the slight sting out of his teammates' ridicule. "I'll have you know that any orders being given in my life are none of your business," he informs them, but he's smiling a little, too.

"Oh, but McCelibate, that nonanswer is all the answer I need. Thanks for confirming that I was right!" Tony launches off into a movie reference that goes over Ziva's head, and she lets herself zone out, looking out the window instead. Tim and Tony transition easily into a conversation that doesn't require her input.

It isn't long before they pull up to Tony's building, and Ziva waves off McGee's offer to help get Tony upstairs. "I am stronger than you anyway," she teases.

"That's probably true," McGee concedes with a snort, and after giving Tony his well wishes, he parks the car and goes down to the street to hail a cab.

Tony's a little unsteady on his feet, but he's able to walk of his own power with Ziva's help balancing, and with little difficulty, Ziva gets him inside and on the elevator. There, he seems to lose some steam, and he leans against the wall.

"How is your head, Tony?" Ziva asks him. On the surface, her voice holds nothing other than clinical interest. She sees no reason to let her underlying emotions show for now.

Tony's eyes have slid shut, and he cracks one to look at her. "Can't say this is the least my head has ever hurt, but I'll live." The eye shuts again.

"I am glad to hear it," Ziva answers, and as they're arriving at Tony's floor, she helps him out and to his door. He fumbles with his keys for a moment before she loses patience and takes them out of his hand, smoothly sliding the correct one into the lock on the first try. Ushering him inside in a manner that's firm but not ungentle, she deposits him on the couch.

Tony watches curiously from there as Ziva heads to his kitchen. She opens a few cabinets and his fridge, prompting him to smirk. "Nosy, aren't we? What are you looking for?"

"Something with more nutritional value than plain sucar," she answers promptly, and Tony doesn't have to speak Hebrew to know that she's insulting his diet.

Doubtful that she'll find much, Tony relaxes into the sofa back and leaves her to it. He starts taking off his shoes and jacket, and by the time he's done, she's standing in front of him with her arms crossed. "How do you survive on this nonsense that you eat?" she demands. "Have you ever purchased a vegetable?"

"No, what's that?" he answers facetiously. "Honestly, Ziva, I'm a big boy. I can feed myself. I'm home, I'm safe, and you can go now."

Ziva gives him a dirty look, ignores what he's said, and marches back to his kitchen. Annoyed, he doesn't try to stop her, but he does roll his eyes and watch to see what she'll do next. She goes through several of his drawers and after a moment, she seems to find what she's looking for. She has her back to him so he can't see what she has in hand, but it doesn't take long to figure it out once she pulls her phone out and dials a number. A moment later, she's talking into it. "Hello, I would like to place an order." A pause. "Yes, delivery, please." She gives Tony's address. "Two orders of chicken chow mein with extra vegetables."

Reluctantly amused, Tony waits until she finishes and returns to him to speak. "Did you miss the part where I said I could feed myself?" he asks, the hard tone of annoyance gone from his voice.

"No, I did not miss it, but I do not believe you know what you are saying." She taps her temple as if to remind him that he's a little concussed, and he shakes his head but smiles. "Come, Tony, you need rest." She lightly pushes on his shoulder, her gentleness surprising her partner, and coaxes him into a more reclined position. Next, she hands him the blanket resting on the back of the sofa and gives him the TV remote. "Rest," she repeats as an order, and he feels strangely compelled to follow it.

By the time the food arrives, he's starting to feel much better. There's an Ohio State basketball game playing and his team is doing well, he's finally able to relax with no bugs or surveillance cameras for the first time since the op, and his headache is beginning to recede.

Ziva is an unexpectedly competent caretaker, though he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. She's probably learned a lot about basic first aid in her Mossad training. Still, it feels nice to be taken care of by her in a way that he wasn't anticipating. She attends to him in a way that could almost be mistaken for impersonal if he didn't see the shadows that occasionally cross her features, and he realizes that she must feel a little guilty for the shape he's in.

The doorbell rings, signaling impending Chinese food, and as Ziva crosses the room to answer it, Tony stops her. "Ziva?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft. She looks back at him, her hand on the doorknob and a question on her face. "Thank you," he says, and gives her a small but genuine smile.

"It is nothing," she answers, but her answering smile is so warm that it stuns him and he's left to stare at her back thinking about it as she opens the door and pays the delivery boy.

"What?" she asks as she carries the food to where he's sitting.

Realizing he's still staring at her, Tony shakes his head. "Nothing," he insists, and he moves his feet out of the way as she nudges them so she can sit next to him.

After a few minutes of slightly awkward silence as they begin to eat, Ziva pipes up with a question about the game he's watching, and with that, all awkwardness dissipates. This is the first time they've spent much time together outside of work, and they're both a little surprised at how easy the conversational flow feels. It isn't long before empty food cartons are abandoned and they're fully focused on a lively debate about which "American" sport is the best one.

Ziva turns away from the TV and leans in to defend her point, only to find that Tony has done the same thing. All at once, they fall silent, and there's a beat or two were they both process the fact that their faces are suddenly mere inches apart.

Then, neither knowing who initiated it, they're kissing. It's too rough to be sweet, and there isn't much romance to it; Tony recognizes at once that Ziva wants a release of stress just as much as he does.

When the hard kiss starts to make his bruised mouth ache, Tony breaks it and moves his lips slightly more gently to Ziva's jaw. His hands fall, one to the opposite side of her neck and the other to her waist. She inhales sharply, involuntarily, and leans her head back to give him better access. "Tony," Ziva mumbles, her voice unsteady. "Should we… ah, should we do this?"

"Absolutely not," he answers into her skin immediately, moving his lips down to her throat. He feels her hands move to his chest, caressing for a moment before starting to unbutton his shirt. Her fingernails scrape his skin more than once, and it takes several moments for Tony to realize that she's doing it intentionally. The realization pulls a quiet growl from his throat, and in retaliation, he nips her collarbone.

She squeaks, making him laugh, and she shuts him up by pulling his mouth back to hers. They fight for dominance for a few minutes, the kisses growing more and more fierce, and he leans in, intending to end up on top of her. She stops, though, breaking the kiss and breathing hard; her hands land on his shoulders.

"Tony, stop," she commands. They're both a little disheveled and wide-eyed, and Tony thinks that she's never looked quite this attractive before. It's somewhat regrettable since she seems to be putting an end to whatever's happening between them, but he's allowed to appreciate the view, right?

Before he can get too disappointed, though, she starts climbing onto his lap. "What're you—"

She cuts him off. "You have just taken several blows to the head, Tony," she answers. "You cannot be on top, doing all of the work."

He grins and catches her up in a kiss again; curiously, his previously aching lips seem to feel just fine right now. As much as they can without moving away from one another, they start making quick work of removing each other's clothes. Ziva's shirt goes first, soon followed by Tony's. Tony finds himself far too entranced by the newly revealed skin of her chest to go straight to unhooking her bra, however, so Ziva spend several enjoyable minutes as the recipient of a thorough exploration. She starts to rock her hips without consciously making the choice to do so, and Tony groans deeply as she does.

"Ziva," he gasps. "Lose the pants."

She grins and stands up briefly to comply—she takes her own bra off as she does it—and watches as Tony shoves his pants and boxers down, too; he doesn't see any reason to push them down past his knees, feeling impatient. Then Ziva's back in his lap, legs on either side of his, delaying their joining for one crucial reason. "Condom?" she asks, hoping he has one handy. She thinks she has one somewhere, too, but she doesn't want to go digging for it.

Luckily, after struggling to pull his wallet out of his pants pocket without unseating Ziva, Tony is able to fish one out. He starts to put it on, but much like with his apartment keys, he finds the condom taken firmly out of his hands and being rolled on by the self-assured Israeli beauty in his lap.

She kisses him one more time—hard enough to bruise if he wasn't already bruised—and then lifts herself up to sink onto him with no ceremony. He learns very quickly as she starts to move that Ziva is quite the noise-maker, and he has a very brief thought about complaining neighbors before Ziva picks up her pace and thought leaves his head altogether. All he can focus on is keeping himself still so he doesn't mess up Ziva's rhythm, and handling her breasts in such a way that she gives him more of those delicious moans she keeps letting out.

Maybe it's the concussion. Maybe it's the fact that he hasn't slept with anyone in a week or two. Maybe it's even because he's been fantasizing idly about his partner ever since she started at NCIS or because she seems to know exactly the right way to move on top of him. Whatever it is, there's something that's moving him to the brink of orgasm with embarrassing speed.

"Ziva," he grunts, "I'm—" He can't even finish the thought, but she seems to understand.

Without stopping the movement of her hips, she leans in until her lips are right at his ear. Tony feels his stomach tighten as she ruggedly whispers "do it."

Maybe he does like taking commands or maybe it's just her, but he follows her order immediately. His hands roughly grip her hips, stilling her as he spills into the condom.

She waits until he's completely finished before lifting herself off of him, and for a long moment, he feels way too weak to move at all. By the time he can, Ziva's tossing him a box of tissues from his bathroom and closing the door behind her to clean up.

Tony gets himself cleaned up, too, and as he listens to the sound of running water from the bathroom, he starts to feel a little ashamed of himself. This is not who he is! He's a better lover than this, and unless every woman he's been with in the past few years has been faking, he can't remember the last time he slept with a woman and didn't bring her to at least one orgasm before getting there himself.

He's still feeling this way when Ziva emerges, looking completely comfortable with her state of complete nudity and making Tony speechless. He's put his own clothes back on in her absence, and now he's wishing he hadn't.

"You are nearly out of hand soap," is all she says as she starts to pull her clothing back on.

He nods dumbly, watching her, and she notices after a moment. "Have you never seen a woman dress, Tony?" she suggests, amused.

"Ziva, I'm sorry," he blurts in reply.

"Sorry for what?" she asks, finishing with the buttons on her top.

"You didn't…" You're a grown-ass man, Tony DiNozzo, he tells himself furiously. You can say the word orgasm. Somehow, though, right here and right now, he can't. He and Ziva may have just gotten to know one another on a more primal level than the level of intimacy they've shared previously, but his brain is hung up on the fact that she's still his coworker; he's sure that if he says a word like orgasm, Gibbs will somehow know and he'll give Tony a head slap that rivals the beating he's already gotten today.

"No, I did not," she agrees, taking pity on him as she watches his thoughts play across his face. "It does not happen every time."

"It should," Tony argues.

"Perhaps, but men are selfish lovers, yes?" It's a tease, not a jab, and when she grins at him, he can't help but grin back.

"Some of them probably are," he agrees, "but I'm usually not. That's why I'm such a coveted one-night stand." The typical DiNozzo bravado making its way into his voice makes Ziva laugh.

"You will just have to do better next time and prove it to me, then," she tells him with a wink, starting to clear away the empty Chinese food boxes.

"Next time…" Tony murmurs in reply, caught up quite suddenly in the possibilities.

Ziva, ignoring his musing, interrupts as she returns from the kitchen trash can. "We are even now," she informs him primly, sitting lightly on the sofa next to him.

"Even? Even for what?"

"You received a beating earlier for my sake, which was less than ideal for you. I did not orgasm, which happened for your sake and was less than ideal for me. So now we are even, yes?"

Tony can't help but laugh out loud at this logic, and Ziva secretly feels a little bit of pride at pulling that carefree expression back to his features after what they've gone through this week. "Worth it," he says, feeling absolutely fond. Ziva David is turning out to be an excellent partner.

She chuckles, too, but it only lasts a few seconds before the humor falls from her face. It becomes more neutral, hardened, and Tony instinctively knows that she's shutting out her emotions so she doesn't accidentally show them to him. "I am sorry," she says formally, "for what happened today, and I wish to thank you. You were brave and unselfish. That is what a good partner does, and I am glad that you are mine."

Tony smiles at her so genuinely that her guilt melts away—it couldn't be more clear that he doesn't blame her at all. It's a nicer, softer smile than the arrogant one that he often wears around her. "That's what partners do," he agrees, and what he's really saying is to think nothing of it.

"You know that I would take a bat for you, too?" Ziva asks.

Tony chuckles. "The expression you're looking for is go to bat, but you know what? This time, the Ziva-ism works better." He pats her on the shoulder. "I know. That's what partners do," he says again.

By the time she leaves his apartment for the night, having made sure that Tony's completely fine and doesn't need her help, they're both feeling much better.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The third time they sleep together, it's needy, rough, passionate. At what point does passion translate into emotion?

Ziva is knee deep in following up leads from the tip line when she sees Tony approaching in her peripheral vision. "Can I help you with something, Agent DiNozzo?" she asks, clicking on a new link and then making an annoyed chuffing noise when it immediately becomes clear that this particular tip is bogus.

"Do you know what time it is?" Tony answers. Ziva finally looks up at him, moderately annoyed with him for interrupting when she's already running behind on a task that's so mind-numbing.

"Eh, it is… 14:08," she answers after a quick look at the clock. "Why?"

There's an a smug look on his face that makes her want to Gibbs slap him. "Normal humans have to eat to sustain themselves, Officer David. I can't help but notice that you haven't gone to get lunch."

"I have not yet had the time, Tony," she answers, making a face and a little waving motion at him to strongly hint that he needs to go away.

"No time to find lunch, or no time to eat it?" he answers, disregarding her shooing.

"No time to find it. I can work while I eat, but I cannot work while I drive. You know that Gibbs will expect answers when he returns from MTAC, and so far I have nothing. Actually, it is hard to talk while I work, too, so how about you let me return to it?"

Tony chuckles, totally unaffected by her sour mood, and drops a bag onto her desk. "What is this?" she demands.

"Look and see," Tony says comfortably, sticking his hands in his pockets and waiting for her to open it.

Open it she does, and inside, she finds food… but it's not just any food. It's all food from home. She pulls out lafa bread, hummus, stuffed vine leaves, and a bottle of pomegranate juice. She looks up at Tony, gaping slightly. "Where did you get all of this?"

"I used the new GPS thing McGeek installed on my phone to find an Israeli restaurant that was on my way back from interviewing Ensign Talbot." He sounds casual, but Ziva can tell that he's pleased with how well his gesture is going over.

She can't help but smile widely at him, bad mood forgotten. "Thank you, Tony," she says sincerely.

He grins back and returns to his desk. Ziva digs in—it's quite good, and she makes a mental note to get the name of the restaurant for the next time she's feeling homesick. She gets back to work as she eats, and the task feels less menial than before.

When she reaches a natural stopping point, she stands up to stretch and go to the toilet, but before leaving the bullpen, she stops at Tony's desk. "Why did you buy me lunch?" she wants to know.

"Don't flatter yourself, Ziva. It wasn't just for you. Got food for boss 'n McGee, too." He tilts his head at her as he says it, though, and she gets what he's not saying—he may have bought food for the whole team, but the gesture is meant for her. It isn't unusual for her, McGee, Tony, and sometimes Gibbs to take turns buying lunch when things are leisurely enough in the office for one or more of them to make a dedicated food run, but Ziva knows that this time is a little different.

"Good, isn't it?" McGee adds while holding up a falafel wrap as proof, having been half-paying attention to his partners' conversation as he looks through financial records on his computer. It's enough to snap Ziva and Tony out of the little moment of intense eye contact that they're sharing, and Ziva makes her way to the women's toilets as she'd planned to do.

On her way back, though, McGee has stepped out for something and it's just her and Tony in their immediate area. She opens her mouth to speak, but he beats her to it. "Figured it was my turn to buy you a meal," he says in a low voice with a smile.

She wouldn't be able to stop herself from beaming back at him if she tried, and she's not about to. "If you are not careful, Tony, I might be tricked into thinking that you like me." She adds a wink for extra flair.

He laughs loudly and then covers his mouth, looking around to see if anyone can hear. Though it's true that there are no official rules against romantic relationships in the office and it's also true that the most important person—Gibbs—already knows, he doesn't exactly want to advertise what they're doing on their time off. "You didn't get that before when I was tugging your pigtails on the playground?"

"Oh, is that what that was about?"

"What what was about?" comes Gibbs' stern voice from above their heads, and they look up. He's standing at the railing outside of MTAC and giving them a hard look, telling them without words to keep their personal conversations out of the office.

How does he always know?

As the work day draws to a close, Tony watches as McGee departs and then Gibbs leaves. He's completing a report himself—he's never one to work on the weekends, if he can help it—and he's nearly finished.

He's just looking it over one last time when Ziva calls out to say good night, her bag slung over her shoulder. "Headed out?" he asks.

She nods.

"If you'll give me about two minutes, I'll walk out with you. I just want to get this report on Gibbs' desk so I don't have hell to pay come Monday."

"Sure," Ziva agrees and leans against the window to wait as he finishes.

Once he's done, he flips off his desk lamp and grabs his things, too, and then they walk to the elevator together. "So, Ziva, I was thinking."

"Were you?" she says with her eyebrows raised, revealing nothing but idle curiosity.

"I was," he confirms, hitting the button for the ground floor. "I was thinking that you and I should hit a bar tonight and… talk."

"Sounds ominous," Ziva observes, but she shrugs. "Alright. I did not otherwise have any solid plans for the evening anyway."

"Good," Tony replies. "Well, not good that you don't have a thrilling Friday night plan, but good that you're game to hang out with me." He rubs the back of his head, feeling ever-so-slightly wrongfooted. He isn't used to being uncertain around women.

"I will 'hang out' with you at least until I get a better offer," Ziva teases in reply as the elevator reaches their floor.

Tony pulls out his car keys, leading the way toward the parking lot and chuckling. "Well, assuming no cool plans crop up in the meantime, I'll meet you in a few minutes." He gives her the name and address of his favorite bar and they head to their separate cars.

Twenty minutes later, they're sitting in a little corner booth, having beat the Friday evening crowd by arriving prior to 7:00. They idly chat about the case they just wrapped up until they get their drinks, and then Tony leans back, draping an arm across the back of his seat and eyeing Ziva speculatively.

"So, David," he starts with a confidence that he doesn't really feel. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"Right now?" Ziva clearly knows what he's getting at, but if she didn't take the opportunity to annoy him at every opportunity, she just wouldn't be the partner he likes so much. "A high blood alcohol level."

"Ha ha," he says sarcastically. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?" she challenges. "If you want to know so badly, perhaps you should answer your own question first. What is it that you are looking for?"

Tony thinks that's a fair request, so he shrugs and starts with something he's been thinking about. "Well, we've had sex twice, and it's been…" He laughs, something suggestive in his tone. "I'd say it's been phenomenal."

Ziva wrinkles her nose and makes a so-so gesture in his direction and then giggles when he throws a napkin at her. He's never heard her laugh like that and he's struck by the urge to get her to do it again and again.

"You might disagree," he says, still smiling, "but I think it's been an enjoyable venture into… shall we say intraoffice relations?" She nods, not disagreeing this time. "I guess I was wondering if that was something you'd be interested in maybe doing again later. Maybe more than once."

"I could probably be persuaded," she admits, smirking.

He reaches across the table to flick her arm and she grabs and twists his hand out of reflex. "Ow!" he squeaks, and she lets his hand go with an apology. "Come on, Ziva, answer me seriously here."

She smiles again, shrugging. "Yes. I enjoyed it, and I would be very open to doing it again."

Tony nods, massaging his hand. "Okay, that's what I wanted to know. You're not really after a relationship, right?"

Ziva considers this for a moment and shakes her head. "No, I am not. I do not know how long Director Shepard will have me here, and there seems to be little point in trying to establish something permanent on a temporary foundation."

Tony hasn't even considered that, and he concedes to her point. The Mossad liaison position could exist forever or it could be ended tomorrow, so Ziva is wise to keep that in mind. "Right, okay. So you're open to sleeping with a certain Very Special Agent but you don't want a boyfriend. Next question—are you sleeping with anyone else right now?"

Ziva's face contorts into an angry expression and just as she's about to loudly assert that it's none of his business, he holds his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry, didn't ask that quite right. You don't really have to answer, and I'm not judging either way. I just mean… if you're not, we could…" he trails off, thinking. Ziva waits for him to finish his thought, annoyed. "Okay, let me put it this way," Tony finally says. "I haven't slept with anyone else since the first time you and I slept together a few weeks ago, and if you're open to the idea… we could agree that for now, we're only sleeping with each other. That way, we can get tested as soon as possible and we won't have to worry about STDs and the like."

"That is… surprisingly grown up of you, Tony," Ziva answers, sounding mildly impressed. "No, I have no immediate plans to sleep with anyone else, and your idea sounds agreeable."

Tony nods, pleased with the fact that she didn't shoot him, and leans forward again happily. "So we're agreeing to be… what, friends with benefits?"

"I do not know," Ziva retorts, back to her usual sassy disposition. "Are we really friends, Tony?"

"You wound me!" Tony cries, louder than he means to. Several heads turn around to look at him and it takes him a moment to notice that Ziva's giggling again—it's adorable.

"Wounding—now that sounds more like our relationship."

He laughs, too. "Partners with benefits?" he suggests. "Coworkers with benefits?"

"Ah, call it what you want to. I agree to it, whatever it might be."

"That's music to my ears, Ziva David." They grin at each other and it strikes Tony that they've developed some sort of kinship that goes deeper than sex. He finds himself awfully glad to have her in his life, something he rarely stops to think about when it comes to sexual partners.

"Tony, it appears that we have reached a spoon in the road."

"I think you mean a fork in the road."

"Whatever. My point is that we have options here—either we stay here and drink, or…" she lowers her voice and leans in to make sure they're not overheard. "We return to my apartment and celebrate our new partnership."

In answer, Tony knocks back the rest of his whiskey like it's a shot and stands up. Ziva laughs and takes a little more time to finish her drink, but soon, she's ready to go, too. Time to put their new agreement to the test.

In the end, they barely make it inside Ziva's apartment before engaging in behavior that is decidedly not public-friendly. They drive separately to her building, Tony following since this is the first time he's been. By the time he's found a visitor's space to park in, Ziva is standing impatiently by his door, waiting for him to get out. As soon as he does, she's shoving him into the side of his car and locking her lips on his.

For a dizzying moment, Tony gets lost in thinking about how hot it would be to be arrested by her.

Once he has his bearings, he has enough presence of mind to quickly flip the script and twist them around so she's the one being pressed against the car. He rolls his hips against her stomach as they kiss, letting her feel precisely what she's doing to him. Hearing her moans, however, he remembers that they're still in public, and he regretfully breaks the kiss and pulls away from her. He can just see the look on Gibbs' face if he had to come bail them out for public indecency.

Shoving that thought aside, Tony does slide his arm around Ziva's waist and pull her snugly to his side.

They stumble inside, both a little giddy, and as soon as the elevator doors close behind them, Ziva is jumping on him again. This time she's considerably handsier, reaching down to cup him through his jeans and murmuring her approval in his ear. Her lips attach to his neck and he just knows he's going to end up with a hickey. Hopefully it'll fade by Monday, but he can't bring himself to care right now.

One of his hands ends up tangled in her hair and the other feels up one of her breasts through her shirt. Then, unfortunately, the elevator doors are dinging open.

Ziva seems much more with it than he is right now, because she doesn't hesitate to grab his hand and tug him toward her apartment door. "Holy shit, Ziva, I can barely walk, give me a minute!" he mutters, but he follows with zero real complaints.

Somehow, Ziva gets her door open without dropping Tony's hand, and she pulls him inside with great haste. Then they're kissing again, shutting the door with their bodies as Ziva pushes Tony against a hard surface for the third time in less than ten minutes. This time it's Tony who reaches down below, though, and he unbuttons and unzips her pants. Shoving them down, he finds some very pretty underwear that he would guess are meant for this express purpose.

He wonders how it would feel for her if he rubbed her over the lace; as soon as he does, she bites his lower lip and digs her fingernails into his shoulder. He can't remember the last time something hurt so good.

Encouraged, he does it again and harder. He's immediately rewarded by the exquisite feeling of Ziva David groaning "fuck!" against his lips. Seeking retaliation, she goes for his belt buckle. She makes sure to make as much contact with his aching cock as possible as she rids him of every bit of clothing covering his lower half.

He has to break the kiss to breathe, and when he does, he's gasping. Ziva wraps her hot little hand around him and his head falls back against the door with a solid thunk—he feels completely incoherent, and he's absolutely at her mercy. That feeling only increases when she drops to her knees in front of him, and, pausing only to look up at him and make an innocent face, she pulls him into her mouth. "Ziva!" he gasps. He's not actually sure he can continue to stand for much longer; his knees are starting to feel rather weak.

His hands move of their own power to get lost in her curls. Holy shit, she's good at this!

He can't take it for very long, though, because the last thing he wants is to come in her mouth… well, that's not entirely true. He wants to come in her mouth and he wants to do it every day for the rest of forever until he dies, but he wants her to feel thoroughly fucked before that happens.

He pulls back lightly on her hair to get her attention and when she looks up, he reaches down to pull her gently away and to her feet. He leans down to whisper in her ear once she's at her full height. "I would verymuch like to shove you against this door and ravish you until all your neighbors hear you crying out my name," he breathes. "What d'you say?"

"What are you waiting for?" she challenges, raising an eyebrow, and in answer, he immediately whips both of them around to change their positions.

She starts to lift a leg up to wrap around behind him, but he stops her. "This is our third try," he tells her with a slightly strained voice. "I think that by now we can figure out how to be completely naked when we fuck."

Ziva lets out a throaty laugh and her hands move to the buttons of her shirt, but he gently brushes her hands away, wanting to do it himself. It doesn't take long to get it off and he's luckily very skilled at taking bras off, but that still leaves behind her delicious little panties. He drops to his knees, grinning up at her, and very slowly peels the offending garment down her legs. He's gratified to notice that they're soaked through, and he presses a few kisses to the insides of Ziva's thighs as he stands back up.

Ziva seems to want to return the favor because she doesn't let him unbutton his own shirt or pull his undershirt off. She does it with an almost predatory look on her face and he thinks she might be the sexiest woman he's ever met.

She offers up a condom and he wonders again where she was keeping it, but that's so unimportant right now as she rolls it onto him. He presses against her once more, hard, kissing her as he goes. Only then does he let her prop her leg around him so her heat is in the perfect place.

He positions himself and slides in to the sound of her little moans of encouragement; thrusting into her feels like the most natural thing in the world. Even through the condom, she feels so entirely warm and they slide together so smoothly that it's easy to imagine how slick she would feel on him if the condom wasn't there.

With every thrust, the door thuds on its hinges, and true to his word, Tony does his damnedest to get Ziva crying out his name. Luckily, she's a yeller by nature, and hearing "Tony" in her husky voice nearly has him coming undone then and there.

He's determined to last longer this time, though, embarrassed as he is by coming so quickly the first time, so he draws it out as much as he can. Ziva starts to make noises that sound almost like whimpers, though, and he isn't one to deny what she clearly wants.

Careful to keep them both balanced against the door, he changes his angle so that he's grinding against her clit as he thrusts. Three times in and out like that and Ziva breaks apart, a long, low moan sliding from her throat as she does. It sends Tony over the edge, too, and for the first time, they orgasm together.

Holy shit.

When they're both done, Tony drops his head to Ziva's shoulder for a moment, exhausted and utterly satisfied. She doesn't protest; in fact, she leans her head over until it's resting against his own. The intimacy of this moment should scare Tony, but it doesn't. He wants more instead.

He peels her away from the door and pulls her into a sweaty hug that's full of affection. She lets out a tired chuckle and hugs him back.

When he leaves for the evening, Tony steps out into the hall at the same time as an ornery-looking middle-aged woman from the apartment across the hall. He gives her a small, polite smile and nod along with a little wave, but it just deepens her frown.

"Tony, I presume?" she growls at him as they step onto the elevator together.

His answering smile is blinding.

Chapter Text

The fourth time they "sleep together", it's just sleeping, and there's something wonderful about that, too.

Despite playing it off as a joke, Tony is mildly offended that Ziva apparently had a full team dinner party—minus him. He spends more time stewing it over than he should while they're trapped in the shipping container, and he finds that his heart isn't really in the bickering that he's always doing with Ziva. He focuses on helping get them out without getting killed, but once that's through, he's a little preoccupied.

He's mollified by her offer to have him over for tonight's dinner, though, and he's genuinely interested in watching her cook. In his head, he tallies up the score—this will be the third meal provided by Ziva, whereas he has only provided one. Clearly, he needs to step it up.

He follows her home again; he can feel his face heat up slightly as he steps out of his car, remembering exactly what happened the last time he did that here.

Up in her apartment, he settles in comfortably where he can see her in the kitchen and watches as she pulls ingredients out of her fridge.

"What are you planning to make?" he asks curiously.

"Eggplant parmesan rollatini," she answers promptly.

"Eggplant? What is it with you and vegetables, David?"

She throws her head back and laughs. "You are the only one who seems to have a problem with them, Tony. They are good for you."

"Trying to make me eat healthier… what are you doing, making up for the fact that I wasn't properly mothered as a child?" he retorts sarcastically.

"I am merely trying to ensure that you do not die of scurvy, but if you were 'not properly mothered', that certainly explains a few things." He makes a face at her and she laughs again. "I do not think you would want me as your mother."

Tony shudders, remembering what they did the last time he was here, and shoves thoughts of his mother far away. "Right you are," he agrees. He watches as she pauses her prep work to pull out two glasses and offer him some wine. Accepting it with a smile, he goes to lean against the counter next to her.

"There was a spill," she offers up, apropos of nothing.

"A spill?" he repeats in confusion.

"Last night. Tim knocked over Abby's glass and got wine on the carpet."

Suddenly, Tony understands why she's sharing this. "Oh! That explains the—"

"—the carpet burns, yes. I was attempting to save the security deposit paid on my behalf."

Tony chuckles. "McClumsy nearly messed that one up for you, didn't he?"

"He came close to it." She glances up at him, smirking. "Earlier, when you were asking about my knees… I know you have an overactive imagination. Were you imagining things that made you jealous?"

"I admit to nothing," he says in a lofty voice. "Hey, did you see that? He just kissed her on the neck!" The quote from Cactus Flower serves as the shield he often likes to use while uncomfortable.

Ziva isn't quite ready to let it go, amused. "Did you think I hosted an orgy here last night? With McGee? Ducky? Gibbs?"

"Ew, Ziva!" he protests. "No, I didn't think anything. I was just wondering."

"Sure," she replies, smiling smugly.

He elbows her lightly, noting with satisfaction that the move throws her knife slightly off of its path and results in a wider than intended chunk of eggplant. "That piece will be yours," Ziva informs him.

"That's fine with me, as long as you don't poison it."

"If you believe that poison is the way I would murder you, Tony, you clearly have not learned enough about me." She holds up the knife threateningly to emphasize her point, but rather than making her ninja assassin Mossad face, she's wrinkling her nose.

Tony knows she could kill him with ease if she wanted to, but right now, he really can't take her seriously. Feeling the urge to antagonize her a little, he puts aside his wine glass and leans in her direction, leering. "I dunno. Poison is more of a woman's weapon, isn't it? And you, my dear, are a dainty little woman."

With almost impossible-seeming speed, Ziva twists Tony's arm behind his back and pushes him face down onto the counter, holding her knife at his throat with her other hand. "Dainty, did you say?" she asks conversationally.

"Jeez, Ziva, you could at least get in a little foreplay before you tie me up like this," Tony grunts against the counter top, and he sighs in relief when she lets him go. Shaking his head, he straightens up. "Okay, so as you so kindly demonstrated again, you're very strong, very deadly, and not dainty at all. Understood." His tone is sarcastic and annoyed, but Ziva thinks he doesn't look angry at all. In fact, he seems to be fighting off a smile.

She smirks and chucks him lightly under the chin. "Now you get it."

She then goes back to her cooking and he considers her for a moment. "How would you kill me, if you had to?"

"That depends," she answers as she works. "There are many variables. Why do I have to kill you? Are you my enemy? Do you have a hostage? Are you dying and I want to kill you humanely so you will no longer suffer? Are we here in my kitchen? Does anyone know that you are here? Do I need to make it look like an accident, or a suicide, or does it not matter? Do you—"

Tony cuts her off, laughing. "I have a feeling you could go on all night, so I'll just stop you right there. Let's say we're right here, right now. The whole team knows I'm here. I don't have any hostages or terminal illnesses or fatal wounds or anything, and you're killing me because…" He pauses to think about it and then grins in a self-congratulatory kind of way as if he's solved a complex puzzle. "You're killing me because I just insulted you by calling you dainty."

It works and Ziva chuckles. She sets her knife and cutting board aside and walks around him a few times, evaluating. "I think that if I killed you now, I would stage a kidnapping. That is the simplest way to make sure the team does not suspect me. I would probably use something I had close at hand as the weapon, but it would not be this knife because blood is very difficult to thoroughly clean off—this knife is part of a set, and I would either have to risk someone finding trace evidence of blood on it or discard it discreetly somewhere far away. Someone might notice I had a knife missing from the block." She pulls open the drawer in front of her and brings out a corkscrew.

"I might use something like this instead," she continues. "If I stabbed you with it here—" She taps it gently against his flank, right under his ribs on the right side. "—I would fatally wound your kidney and renal artery, but you would bleed internally and not all over my kitchen so long as I kept the corkscrew in. I would then discreetly contact someone who owes me a favor and ask them to hack into the building's security system to take out the hallway, elevator, and back entrance cameras. Then I could remove your body easily, barring any witnesses, and I could then move you to a location of my choosing. I would have to return to my apartment relatively quickly in order to fake signs of a struggle, and I would also probably have to incapacitate myself in some way. Injecting myself with a sedative would probably be the easiest method. That way, not only would I move suspicion away from myself, but I would also have the investigators searching for a kidnapping victim instead of a body."

"Remind me not to mess with you, Ziva," Tony replies, impressed, once she finishes. "You came up with all of that on the fly?"

"On the what?" Ziva asks, momentarily distracted.

"You know, on the fly—on the spot. Spur of the moment. Without prior planning."

"Oh. Well, not exactly. I have been trained to think like this. Even before I joined Mossad, I grew up in an unstable environment—life in the Middle East is not always simple." Her expression melts into an unhappy one.

He nods, understanding intuitively that it's not something she really wants to talk about at length just now. With that in mind, he deliberately moves the conversation in another direction. "It's kind of sexy," he remarks.

"What is?"

"You being all… murdery."

Ziva lets out a disbelieving laugh. "I do not believe you are entirely right in the head, Tony."

"That may be so, but come on. Assassin-in-leather Ziva? Dominatrix Ziva? I would pay good money to see that." He's teasing again, pulling her out of her head. He steps up behind her and nuzzles his nose into the side of her neck.

"Tony DiNozzo, that is not what I invited you here for tonight!" she protests, but he can see the secret smile on her face.

He kisses her neck very lightly, making her shudder, and steps away.

"Then cook away, Ziva David."

The next day is Tim's birthday, and after a relatively uneventful but long day of work, he, Abby, Ziva, and Tony gather in front of the NCIS building to get ready to leave. They're planning to go to a club—Tony's idea, though it didn't take much effort to convince the others.

Planning to drink and drink a lot, they leave their cars in NCIS employee parking and share a cab to a nearby club that's popular with Naval sailors. It's still early yet, so they park themselves at the bar and start working on the hangovers they're all certain to have tomorrow.

Several drinks later, Abby can't sit still on her barstool, moving in time with the music that's slowly increasing in volume the later it gets. Correctly deducing that she wants to dance, Ziva leans in to make sure her friend can hear. "Come on, Abby! We should go to the dance floor."

"Yes, we should!" Abby agrees enthusiastically. "D'you like to dance? We've never gone dancing together! We really should. Kate and I used to go to the spa together, but you and I need our own thing. It could be dancing."

Ziva is amused to find that tipsy Abby is even chattier than normal Abby, and she leads the forensic scientist toward the dance floor instead of answering, laughing.

Tim and Tony watch them go. "Not interested in dancing, McBirthday Boy?" Tony asks as they turn back to their drinks.

Tim smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "I need a few more drinks in me for that," he answers, holding up his still mostly-full glass.

"I can't say I'm ready to jump on out there, either," Tony replies.

"Really?" Tim retorts, looking doubtful. "You? This kind of dancing isn't much more than sex with clothes on, and as you love to remind us, that's something you do a lot of."

"Well, yes, but…" Tony lifts a hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of his head, regretting replying to Tim at all. "It makes me feel old these days." He glances back out to the dance floor, smiling slightly when he spots Ziva and Abby doing some kind of silly move and laughing at one another, ignoring everyone around them. "So many of the people dancing out there are—oh god, probably close to twenty years younger than me."

"Wouldn't think that would bother you, Tony." McGee is amused and he doesn't bother to hide it. "This is coming from the same guy who openly lusts after any woman with a pulse, and I've specifically heard you mention co-eds at least a dozen times. You may be older than they are, but you've never let that stop you before."

"Come off it, McGee. I'm not saying I couldn't pick up half the girls dancing out there, but… this wouldn't be the best place to do it." He winces slightly. "I'm not sure I can move like that for much longer."

Tim considers him for a moment and then laughs. "You know what? You're right. You are getting old."

"I didn't say I was getting old, McToddler! I said I felt old!" Tony growls. "DiNozzos don't get old. We're like really fine Italian wine."

"So you get more expensive and snooty the more you age?"

"Snooty? The word you're looking for is classy, McGee. I know it's not a term you're familiar with."

Tim snorts. "Sure, Tony. Whatever you say."

Tony raises his glass. "To fine Italian wine!"

"To annoying coworkers," Tim agrees, and they clink their glasses together.

He observes silently as Tony drains the rest of his glass and turns back in the direction of the dance floor; DiNozzo stares at the sweaty mass of people with an indecipherable look on his face. Tim can't help but notice that the whole time, his teammate's eyes are locked on the Mossad liaison officer.

Three more drinks later, Tony is certifiably buzzed, bordering on wasted, and he decides that it's finally time to dance. He'll almost certainly regret it tomorrow when his back aches and his head throbs, but for now… there's a certain captivating Middle Eastern ninja-warrior-assassin-agent beauty that he'd really like to move with.

He finishes his most recent glass and makes his way to the dance floor. Ziva is dancing alone with her eyes closed, her hips moving in the most tantalizing way. A few feet away, McGee and Abby are doing something that looks suspiciously like a waltz, and Tony's delighted to note that Abby is clearly leading. The two seem to be having a good time despite dancing in a style that doesn't fit the music, so he leaves them to it… he makes a note to tease McGee about it later, though, as he brushes past them to approach Ziva.

"Tony," he hears her say. Just as he gets to her, she opens her eyes and smiles at him, still dancing. "I wondered when you would get out here," she finishes loudly.

"How'd you know it was me?" He has to almost shout so she can hear him.

"I am always aware of my surroundings."

He comes closer and swallows hard as he sees Ziva's expression change—she looks almost hungry. That—alongside the alcohol he's consumed—gives him the confidence to put his hands on her hips just as he's wanted to all night. She doesn't protest.

The music transitions from a song with a fast beat to a song with a slower one and Tony and Ziva start to move. Their eyes stay locked together and their hips sway sensuously in time with the music. Neither of them can spare a thought to anyone else around them, not the least of whom is a certain Abby Sciuto who's watching with shrewd speculation.

After a time, Ziva's hand winds around to rest on the back of Tony's neck, pulling his head down toward hers, and though she intends to kiss him, she doesn't immediately do it. She's caught instead by the look on his face; there she sees conflict, part longing, part arousal, and part something less positive that she cannot identify. The last part frightens her slightly, though she can't say why. Pushing past her hesitation, she does kiss him, hard enough to hopefully knock them both out of the path of whatever dark cloud might be hovering above them.

It works and the mood slowly grows more pleasurable between them. Song after song, they dance closer and closer together and gravitate to a more secluded corner of the dance floor, away from most of the other dancers. Tony leans down and pulls Ziva's earlobe gently between his teeth before letting go and whispering "let's get out of here."

Ziva's been thinking the same thing, and she nods.

Tony grabs her hand and starts to lead her out of the club; they pass McGee and Abby on the dance floor, but Tony doesn't even notice in his newfound determined single-mindedness. Ziva does, though, and she waves and calls out "happy birthday, McGee!" as they go. They head out front, hop in a cab, and they're gone.

Back inside, McGee and Abby exchange glances, and he leans down to talk in her ear so he won't have to yell too much over the music. "Did Tony and Ziva just leave together?" he demands.

"I think so!" Abby shouts in agreement. "You know what that means!"

"Yeah, it means they're finally together."

"Maybe not. It means they're finally sleeping together."

Tony and Ziva stumble through the front door of Tony's apartment, laughing uproariously at something that probably isn't actually funny. They're equal parts drunk and silly tonight.

In following the normal getting-home process, Tony gets stuck in his jacket while taking it off and Ziva nearly falls flat on the floor trying to remove her shoe. They both end up sitting in the entryway, side-by-side.

"I am hungry," Ziva announces, poking Tony with the toes of her sock-clad foot.

"Sorry, Diva. I mean, Ziva. No vegetables here!" He giggles. "Diva Ziva!"

She nudges him again but it turns out to be more of a kick. "Hey!" he complains. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd be coming over or I would have bought some—some flaulicower or something. I mean cauliflower or something."

"I do not want yerakot. I want…" she trails off, thinking.

When the pause becomes too long, Tony pats her on the top of the head. "Very Special Agent Tony DiNozzo does not speak Hebrew, little Hebrew lady, so if you want something, you have to say it in English."

"Pizza," she decides, punctuating this announcement with a hiccup. "I want pizza. Do you have pizza?"

"I do have pizza!" Tony cries in great triumph and stands, nearly toppling back over in his drunken enthusiasm. "To the pizza freezer!" He helps Ziva up and they go to dig for frozen treats.

Half an hour later, they're settled into Tony's bed, sharing a plate piled haphazardly with pizza slices cut with Ziva's pocket knife. Tony, feeling wonderfully dizzy, is using the remote for his bedroom TV set to find a movie for them to watch. Ziva is hardly a movie buff, and it seems of vital importance to his alcohol-saturated brain to introduce her to some of the classics.

He keeps losing his train of thought in the middle of his searching, though, and he can't decide just what to show her. Ziva, impatient, tries to wrestle the remote away from him. Thanks to the pizza grease on her fingers, she doesn't succeed, and Tony holds the remote up above her head so she can't reach it anymore. "Just choose something!" she insists through a mouth full of cheese and bread, making Tony laugh.

"Patience you must have, my young padawan!" he explains in his best Yoda voice.

"Oh, I know that one! That is from… Star Trek, yes?"

"How dare you, David!? It's from Star Wars! Wars, not Trek! No jedi movies in Israel?"

"We has those, but I was not one to sit and watch films." She was busy doing other things as a young person—her Mossad training started very early.

"That's it," Tony declares. "We're watching it right now."

As it turns out, they do watch most of A New Hope, but it's hardly a serious and focused viewing. They spend most of the time making fun of one another, giggling, and finishing their pizza.

Tony falls asleep first, his arm resting comfortably around Ziva's shoulders. There's still half an hour left in the movie and Ziva makes it to the end credits, but she has long since stopped paying attention to the storyline. Instead, her unfocused musings keep drifting away from jedis and lightsabers and toward the warm feeling of Tony's breath on her hair. The weight of his arm across her upper back also features prominently in her thoughts, as does the way the scents of the liquor and pizza he's consumed mingle with his usual cologne. Ziva feels safe here, she realizes, and it feels very right to be in such close proximity to her friend and partner. She's too tipsy to dig too deeply into the feeling, but it leaves her dizzy and content—or at least the rum does.

When she joins Tony in sleep, it's with her head against his chest and her arm draped across his middle. Under the covers, their feet are tangled together. For once, what is shared between them is innocent, warm, and badly needed by both, even if they won't admit it.

Chapter Text

The twenty-sixth time they sleep together, it's meaningful and soft, comforting above all else. Sex comes second to friendship, and someone who's lost is found. Isn't it difficult to keep the lines from being blurred when sleeping with someone who means so much?

"Stand down," Tony tells the snipers, knowing in his gut that there's more to this bomb threat than meets the eye. The kid isn't going to blow anyone up. There's got to be a way to get him out of there safely, him and all of those other kids who just came to school this morning expecting the same high school drudgery they see Monday to Friday of every week. They don't deserve to die, and the boy with the bomb doesn't either.

He's just a kid who wants his mother, misguided as that may be in these particular circumstances.

Tony's turning to say something to Ziva when it happens.

They feel it before they hear it, a great shudder in the walls of the school as a nearby section of it is rent apart; the table under Tony's hands trembles. Immediately after, the noise processes, an impossibly loud roar that suddenly makes Tony's ears feel like they're imploding.

The worst thing, though, is the sense that comes right after physical touch and sound—the feeling of absolute certainty in the knowledge that everyone who was in that classroom is now dead. His ears ringing, Tony tears out of the room he's in and sprints down the hall; there are shouts that follow him, but he ignores them. His own personal safety in this moment couldn't matter less—the only thing that matters is getting to the classroom. Maybe if he gets there fast enough, the whole day will somehow prove to be some sick kind of joke.

Unfortunately, he finds exactly what he expected to find, and it horrifies him anyway.

Where a few minutes ago, there was a long hallway full of classes, now there's a blackened, smouldering hole in the building. There's sunlight sparkling down where there should only be fluorescent lighting, and the beauty of the light passing through thick smoke seems like a mockery of the hideousness that has just gone down.

Tony coughs in the smoke as he hurries toward the wreckage, searching for survivors that he knows he won't find. He smells the bodies before he sees them, and it makes him sick to his stomach as he counts them. Too many lives cut short because of his inability to give an order that might have saved them—one partial body belongs to the suicide bomber, there are five dead teen hostages, and there's one dead NCIS agent.

Gibbs.

Gibbs is dead—children are dead—and it's all his fault.

He can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't—

He wakes up with a start, his heart thudding painfully in his chest and his breath coming shallow and desperate. All his fault, all his fault.

Slowly he processes his surroundings—he's in his bed at home, it's going on three in the morning, and his hearing is just fine. He has no burns from shifting through wreckage and no damage from being close to the blast.

That's because the bomb never went off.

Once he remembers that, figuring out that the dream was just a dream, he attempts to calm himself. He focuses on slowing his heart rate and catching his breath, but he can't quite swing it. He knows on an intellectual level that the decisions that he made yesterday were proven in the end to be the right ones and that no one died, but he can't stop playing the what-ifs in the recesses of his mind.

He was fine before he went to bed, feeling confident and almost cocky about pulling off a high-pressure mission that felt nearly impossible when he was doing it, but it's becoming all too clear that the possibilities have shaken him more than he realized.

He can picture all of the bodies so clearly as if they're real memories and not darkly clever constructs of his stressed imagination, and with every blink, he sees them tattooed on the insides of his eyelids. Seven bodies, one two three four five six Gibbs. All those kids and Gibbs.

All his fault.

He can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't—

For half an hour, he tries to shove past the needless guilt, the belated fears of what could go wrong when in reality it didn't, and it doesn't work. He can't stop his mind from turning in circles, torturing him… burned bodies, destroyed high school, the anger and shock and grief of all the people who he would have failed if things had gone differently today, families of the kids as well as his own team. He feels sick, and he feels miserable, and there's only one thing that he can think of to do.

He flips his bedside table lamp on so he doesn't have to fumble around in the dark and then grabs his cell phone, selecting a button on speed dial before he can talk himself out of it.

Ziva David has never been one to sleep deeply—those who sleep deeply are those who will not survive until morning if an assassin comes in the night. She sleeps instead with a gun under her pillow and a readiness to leap up and defend herself if necessary.

As a consequence, her phone going off startles her awake as soon as it starts to ring. It takes her a few seconds to process the noise that woke her, and by the time it does, she's totally alert and sitting up with her gun pointed ahead of her.

Figuring out that it's just the phone and assuming it's Gibbs calling to tell her to meet the team at a new crime scene, she takes her cell from its resting place on the table next to her and glances at the caller ID. She was wrong—it's not Gibbs, it's Tony. She looks over at her alarm clock—maybe it's later than it feels, closer to normal operation hours?

3:29 AM.

She intuits that something isn't quite right and answers the phone with a bit of trepidation. "David."

There's no sound on the other end, and Ziva's worry grows. "Tony, are you there?" There's more silence, and just as she's starting to think she should wake McGee and Gibbs to rescue Tony from whatever situation that he's clearly trapped in, her teammate finally speaks.

"Ziva?"

Hearing her name in that tone is unsettling, and her worry doubles. "What is wrong, Tony? Are you hurt?"

For a long moment, he doesn't answer again. Then: "Did I wake you up?" Something in his voice is wrong. He sounds faint somehow, like he's having this conversation after a solid blow to the head. She listens to his breathing, too fast and not deep enough.

"Please tell me what is happening," she says softly instead of answering his question. "Are you okay!?"

"I'm okay, I'm—" his voice catches in his throat.

He can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't—

She waits another beat to make sure he isn't going to say anything more before throwing the covers off and climbing out of bed. She's going to go find him, wherever he is. "Just give me your location, yes?" She's using a gentle voice, trying not to spook him before she finds out what's wrong.

"I'm at home."

"Stay there, then. I will be there in fifteen minutes." She pulls on jeans and a sweater as she talks, discarding her pajamas. She doesn't foresee much more sleep happening for her tonight.

"No, Ziva," she hears Tony protest, and his voice sounds a little stronger. "I don't need you to come, I just need…" If she's not mistaken, that was a break in his voice. He's not physically hurt, she realizes suddenly. He's hurting emotionally.

She slowly sits back down on the side of her bed. "Please tell me what is wrong, Tony. I want to help."

Ten seconds of silence, fifteen. Twenty seconds.

Suddenly: "They all could have died yesterday and it would have all been on me. All of it!" He shouts the last three words with enough unexpected force to make Ziva jump.

"No one died yesterday, Tony." She keeps her voice calm and soothing.

"It doesn't matter if they didn't actually die! They almost did, they could have, and it would have been my decisions that killed them. Mine!"

"That is a cost of leadership, and you handled it well."

"Leadership," Tony scoffs. "I'm not the leader, Ziva, Gibbs is. And guess what? If that kid had set the bomb off, Gibbs would have been gone in a second."

Ziva's glad to hear the anger in Tony's voice and she doesn't mind it being directed at her. It's easier to hear and easier to deal with than the heartache she could first hear when Tony called. "Kody was not controlling the bomb," she reminds him. "He could not have set it off."

"We didn't know that when the snipers had eyes on him!"

"No, we did not. You had to make a decision based only on the information at hand and you trusted your gut. It is exactly what Gibbs would have done if the situation was reversed."

There's no answer, just the sound of Tony still breathing hard, and Ziva's chest aches with secondhand fear and guilt. She understands what he's going through. "Tony?" she prompts gently. "Please let me come to you."

"No," he snaps. "I don't want you here."

"Then come to me," she murmurs, easily able to disregard his belligerent tone. "You should not be alone right now."

He lets out an explosive sigh. "I don't need a babysitter, David!"

"I am not saying that you do. I am saying that you are my friend and I am worried about you." She sighs much more quietly than he just did. "Please."

He grumbles under his breath for a moment before snapping "fine!" and hanging up. Ziva smiles slightly to herself and heading to the kitchen to put on a pot of tea.

It doesn't take even fifteen minutes before Tony is rapping angrily on her door—he must have really sped to get here, and he isn't usually one to drive as quickly or aggressively as she does. She wordlessly opens the door to admit him. He's holding a lot of fury in his expression, but his eyes still look mournful, and Ziva pulls him into her arms without even shutting the door.

Tony stands stiffly for a moment before slowly relaxing into the hug. Eventually, he hugs her back and rests his chin on the top of his partner's head. "It's been a rough one, Ziva," he finally says.

"I know," Ziva replies simply, and she hugs him until he seems ready to let go. She closes the door and pads silently to the kitchen, knowing Tony will follow. She has two mugs of steaming tea ready to go and Tony accepts his with a grunt of thanks. Then they move to the sofa where they sit quietly for several minutes without speaking at all. The silence is broken only by the occasional sip and swallow.

"What is really bothering you?" Ziva asks once Tony seems ready to talk. She puts her tea aside—it's now empty—and lands her hand on his knee, squeezing comfortingly. "I know that it is not quite what you are saying it is."

"We had a clear shot at the kid." He's looking straight ahead, avoiding meeting her eye. "I know how things worked out, but I just keep thinking… what if things had been different? What if there were no outside forces at work on the bomber, it was just a kid who had every intention of blowing up his classmates? What if I knew that at the time?" He swallows hard and when he speaks again, his voice is unsteady. "I'm not sure I would have been able to tell the snipers to fire on him anyway. All of them would have died because I was too weak to do my fucking job!"

Ziva gives him a moment to calm himself once more before speaking. "So you are not worried about having risked an incorrect decision during the threat, yes? You are worried about a decision you might have made under different circumstances?"

Tony nods, his lips pressed together.

"Tony, look at me," Ziva orders softly.

When he doesn't, she gently reaches up with both hands and pulls his face around to look at hers. "Tony." He finally makes eye contact, and she gives him a small, sad smile. "You cannot focus on might-have-beens because they are gone now. All that is true is what actually happened. Besides, you would have done what you needed to do. I have every faith in that. You would not have let innocent people die because one boy was angry at the world."

"How do you know?" Tony demands, angry again. Rather than breaking her hold on him, he holds himself unnaturally still, his entire body tense.

"Because I know you." Without moving her hands, Ziva gently strokes his cheek with one of her thumbs. "You would have saved them, and what is more, you would have regretted for the rest of your life that a child had to die. That is because you are good, Tony. A good agent and a good man."

She feels his chin quivering slightly under her fingers, and her heart breaks for him. He's beating himself up so much over something so unnecessary, but she knows that isn't how it feels for him. Pulling his face down a little, she leans up to kiss his forehead. "It means something to take a life, Tony. It would be wrong to not hesitate if you are afforded the luxury of doing so. You did the right thing by stopping to consider."

"Oh, yeah?" he demands, his eyes blazing as he glares down at her once more. "Everyone knows you're some kind of hardened assassin, Ziva, so what do you feel when you kill someone?" She knows that despite his tone, he doesn't mean it maliciously—he's just... desperate. He wants answers and reassurance, and she'll do her best to give that to him.

"The circumstances under which I kill are often different, but in a situation like this… I would feel regret for the necessity of my actions, but I would not regret the action itself. Sometimes, we must hurt one to prevent the suffering of others. It is a necessary evil that we accept when we agree to protect the civilians and the innocents of the world." She thinks briefly of her sister and knows that it's worth protecting the innocents at any costs.

"He wasn't some—-some international arms dealer passing out tank blasters to oppressive regimes! He was just a boy! I bet you've never had to live with killing someone like that."

"Actually, I have." She's very quiet as she murmurs it. It isn't something she likes to think about, and it hasn't come to mind for a long time.

"A—a kid?"

"Yes." Ziva can see the ache in Tony's expression—he needs to know he's not a bad person, despite the fact that she's already told him. He needs proof. He needs to know that someone has lived through making decisions he's terrified of and has still come out the other side the same person they were before. She steels herself to answer because he deserves her honesty. "I cannot give you most of the details because of my oath to Mossad and the State of Israel, but I can tell you an approximation of what happened." It's her turn to look away uncomfortably, and she can feel his gaze burning holes into the side of her head. She takes a few deep breaths, calling the memories to mind. At least they might come to mean something if she can use them to help her hurting friend.

"I have been to regions that are less… less stable than America is. I would often be sent to places with great conflict, and I have seen my fair share of war. On one such mission, I was sent with a—with someone important to a strong government, and I was there for the protection of that person. Most of the mission had gone smoothly, but on the final day, we were in—a crowded city. I was not the only protection officer assigned to this person's trip, and we were conspicuous in walking down the street. The locals knew we were there. There was a flash of light reflected off metal and that was the only warning I got—there was a child leaping toward the person I was meant to protect, and she had a knife. I shot her from less than five feet away, Tony. She was dead before she landed on the ground. I later learned that she was only eleven years old. In that region, insurgents are often radicalized very young." Her voice is clinical, almost, emotion shut out not only so that Tony doesn't hear it but also so that she isn't forced to re-feel it. If she let herself slip into the trap of examining the effect of every death she's caused on her conscience, she would never come back from it. She'd be lost to the past, useless to anyone she can help now by being present in the life she's come to cherish.

Tony doesn't know what to say to that, and maybe there isn't a good response to it. He can feel his heartbeat finally beginning to soften and slow down, though, and he starts to realize her point. She's right… of course she is.

He's still holding his empty tea mug in his hand, and he sets it on the ground. It's his turn to pull her into a hug, full of gratitude. She melts into it. "Come to bed with me?" he asks softly. It doesn't matter that they're at her apartment instead of his—he knows by now that she won't mind his presumptuousness, not under these circumstances.

In answer, she tilts her head up and presses her lips to his with the lightest hint of pressure.

They shed their clothing before they climb into bed, but they snuggle under the covers for a long time without doing anything. Tony finds himself thinking about how nice it is to just be held, to not need any words because they've all been said already. He wonders who he's changing into—this softer, more emotional version of himself that called a friend tonight needing comfort rather than suffering through it, moody and alone.

After an indeterminable time, they decide silently and together that kissing is the right way forward, and they share a series of tender kisses that give evidence to the trust they've built between them. Tony lets Ziva keep him out of his head, and he's able to focus entirely on her soft lips, her hair brushing against him as it falls on the pillow underneath them, her warmth as she rests on his body.

It isn't Tony's usual style, but it means more to him than he ever could have predicted.

They join together slowly; it's still the middle of the night, they have nowhere to be, and they have all the time in the world. They take advantage of that, thoroughly pleasuring one another, and when they come, it's together.

Tony doesn't go home when they're done; he opts instead to fall asleep for the last few hours before his alarm in Ziva's bed. Her smell is all around him, enveloping him, protecting him from any bad thoughts that might try to make an appearance.

She falls asleep first and he watches her for a while. She looks entirely peaceful, though he knows her life has often been anything but, and he considers how difficult it must be for someone with her training and background to trust anyone the way he knows she trusts him. He also admires the courage and selflessness it must have taken for her to share the story she told him earlier, and then, out of the blue, it hits him.

Ziva is his best friend.

He's had some excellent friendships over the years, and there are several that he considers family. Somehow, though, Ziva has managed to wriggle past enough of his barriers to get closer to him than anyone else in his life—he can't be more glad that she has. He wonders if she thinks the same thing about him, but it doesn't matter even if she doesn't; she's firmly placed herself as one of the most important people in his life, either way. A quote from The Wizard of Oz pops into his head, and he whispers it to his sleeping partner: "I think I'll miss you most of all."

He can breathe again.

Chapter Text

The fifty-first time they sleep together, it's a delicious way to prove a point. There are two sides to every story, and two sides to every relationship.

It's difficult to say which NCIS employee is the most frustrated.

It might be Lee—this entire team and all of its members are constantly getting on her nerves, flaunting the rules and making her do things that feel ethically questionable. The lawyer in her winces at least ten times a day, and it doesn't help that they're all clearly very close, excluding her. Not that she really wants to be part of such an unprofessional group, but feeling constantly on the outside of their bubble exhausts her every day.

The most frustrated employee might be Tony—he likes being the center of attention and always has, but upon being asked to replace Gibbs, he's suddenly the center of attention again in ways he didn't necessarily anticipate… ways he doesn't necessarily like. It was certainly fun leading the team for the first few weeks when everyone was convinced that Gibbs would soon return, but as the weeks turned into a month and then longer, the glamor faded. The good thing is that he's gotten more confident in leading the team, and he knows they're producing good work. The bad thing is that… well, he's used to being a member of the team. He's used to being on the same level as McGee and Ziva, no matter how much he likes to hold his seniority over their heads. Now, things are different. He's responsible for them, and though that means little day-to-day, it weighs on him mentally.

The most frustrated employee might be Ziva—she's sick and tired of Tony DiNozzo. Since Gibbs left, her friend has changed, and she wants the old dynamic back. She still has the same relationship with McGee, but her relationship with Tony has shifted subtly and uncomfortably. She doesn't mind taking orders from him—in fact, they figured out long ago just how much she enjoys it under certain circumstances. What she doesn't enjoy is the way he treats her with kid gloves these days. He jokes less at her from across his desk. He picks McGee more often for fieldwork that has the potential of turning sour, though she knows she's a little more skilled than her friend is in things like that. Most frustrating of all, though, is the fact that Tony has turned her down every single time she's asked for sex since Gibbs left. Though it's driving her mad, she can't quite put her finger on why he's doing it. She catches him looking at her sometimes with barely disguised longing in his expression. He hasn't said a word to her about it and in fact, he's avoided one-on-one conversations unless they're strictly necessary for work.

The most frustrated employee might be Tim—he's a more-than-competent investigator, and it infuriates him that Tony and Ziva think so little of him as to assume he doesn't notice their increasingly obvious sexual frustration. He wants no part of whatever little dance they're doing, but as the third member of the team, he's stuck in the middle.

Ziva intentionally places McGee there one day when she can no longer take the frustration, both professionally and personally.

They're all packing up to leave for the evening, having finished what can reasonably be accomplished today. Knowing Tony cannot possibly ignore her if she asks in front of McGee, Ziva stands between her coworkers' desks and tries not to look as annoyed as she feels. "Tim, any plans for tonight?"

McGee gives her a strange look—it's a Tuesday, not exactly a typical night of excitement, but he answers her anyway. "Uh, not really. I'm just going home. I'll probably play a computer game or two, eat some dinner, and go to bed."

Ziva nods and turns to look at Tony, who's zipping up part of his backpack. "What about you, Tony?"

Tony looks up at her with an expression of mild discomfort on his face, clearly not overly thrilled with being asked. "Uh… yeah. I have to do that—that thing."

Tim has a lightbulb moment and realizes why Ziva is asking; will this help get whatever issue DiNozzo and David are having out in the open? Will they finally be able to address it so they can sleep together again and stop leaving the exasperated Tim in the middle of their sexual tension day in and day out? If there's any chance that it might fix things, he'll assist any way he can. "What thing, Tony?" he asks with a suspiciously pleasant smile on his face.

"Oh, you know, that…" Tony straightens up, looking back and forth between his team members and bearing strange resemblance to a cornered beast. "That work… thing?" He winces as he says it, because it's a terrible lie and he knows it.

"Seriously, Tony?" Ziva demands, dropping the idly curious act and crossing her arms. "What work thing? Are you forgetting that we work the same cases you do?"

"No, I just—" Tony looks helplessly at Ziva, and Tim sees this as his cue to leave. He slips past the other two, crossing his fingers for this to work. Down the stairs he goes—better not to risk possibly being on an elevator with those two.

"You just what?" Ziva's loud voice is attracting attention from the other employees still working in other sections of the bullpen, so Tony clears his throat and grabs Ziva by the upper arm. He swings his bag onto his back and frog-marches her to the elevator.

Once they're inside and the car is moving, he flips the switch for an emergency stop. He then turns to glare at Ziva as the lights dim and the car shudders to a halt. "What's on your mind, Ziva?" he asks, his voice tight. His posture and his question unintentionally mirror Gibbs' behavior, and that only reinforces for Tony why he's drawn the new boundaries where he did.

"I want to know why you have been avoiding me!"

"I haven't been avoiding you. I see you every single day at work," he reminds her, annoyed.

"You know exactly what I mean, so do not play stupid with me."

"You know what? No, I don't know what you mean. How about you enlighten me?" As they snap at one another, they get closer and closer together until they're in each other's faces.

"Fine, I will elaborate! I have not once seen you outside of the office since Gibbs left! We used to—get together at least once or twice every week, and now it has been two months with nothing."

"What can I say? I'm a busy guy." Her tone is making Tony feel defensive, and though he of course knows exactly what she's getting at, he isn't inclined to make this an easy conversation.

"With what? Your work things?" Ziva demands.

"Yes! Work things, life things, lots of things! I don't have to explain it to you because you don't own me, Ziva!"

Ziva recoils as if he has slapped her, and she gives him a look of deep anger. "I never said that I do," she tells him icily, her voice now much quieter and much more controlled.

Tony sighs and runs a hand roughly through his hair. "Look, that's not what I meant, okay? I'm sorry. Really."

Ziva relaxes slightly but Tony can tell that his comment stung. He's not sure what to say to fix this, but it's clear that he has to say something. "I've… been under a lot of pressure in the last several weeks," he says after some deliberation. "Things have changed a lot since Gibbs quit."

"I know that," Ziva replies. "I figured it out for myself when an entire month passed without you touching me once." She tries to keep the hurt out of her voice.

Tony winces. "Right. Again, sorry about that."

"You do not have to be sorry, Tony, but if you wish to end our… arrangement, I need you to tell me. I deserve to know when I am free to stop turning down advances from other men!" Her cheeks have a slight embarrassed flush, but her eyes flash with defiance, daring him to contradict her.

"Is that what you want?"

Ziva lets out a short, angry bark of laughter. "Do not patronize me, Tony. You stopped thinking about what I want a month ago."

Tony presses his lips together and crosses his arms. "That isn't fair," he tells her.

"Is it not? You have turned me down every single time I have tried to sleep with you for five weeks. To be clear, you do not have to be 'in the mood' at the drop of a hat whenever I want to have sex, and you can say no at any time, to anything. What you cannot do, though, is shut me out without a single word! I deserve better than that."

"You do," he agrees, nodding slowly.

"Why, then, are you doing this?"

She deserves the truth, as much as he doesn't want to tell her. "Because sleeping with you would be wrong, Ziva."

She misunderstands and the dark look on her face deepens. "You choose to follow Gibbs' preferences about team fraternization now that he is gone?"

"No, that's not it at all! It would be wrong because I'm responsible for you now. I'm in charge, you're my subordinate, and I don't want to abuse that power!"

Ziva was not expecting that answer, and it takes her a few moments to process it. "Really? That is what all of this has been about?"

Tony nods shortly.

"So you do still… want me?" Her voice is unusually insecure, bordering on shy.

"What?" It's Tony's turn to be surprised by an answer. "Are you crazy? Of course I still want you. God, I couldn't turn that off if I tried. I thought you knew that."

"It is hard to remain confident on something like that when you have not recently given me any sign of it."

He sighs once more. "I'm sorry again. Is it at least easier now that you understand?"

"Understand?" She frowns, annoyed again. "Does that mean you are going to keep doing it?"

"You heard me, Ziva! It would be an abuse of power—it would be an abuse of you."

"No, it would not." She laughs and it isn't a happy sound, frustrated with his inability to understand the flaws in his thinking. "I'm not some… some new hire straight out of college who has been coerced into sleeping with you because I am afraid that you will hurt my career prospects if I do not. We were on the same level before Gibbs left, yes? You are merely the one that makes the decisions now."

Tony still doesn't look convinced, and Ziva softens a little. While she does not need any protection from him, she has to appreciate that he's this concerned about forcing her to do something that she doesn't really want to do. She tries another tactic. "Practically, Tony, what power do you really have over me?" He starts to answer, but she cuts him off and answers herself. "You do not have the power to terminate my position. You do not have the power to determine the trajectory of my career. You do have the power to make me do tedious scut work that you yourself do not wish to complete, but fear of abusing your power has never stopped you from doing that to McGee."

That draws a small smile out of Tony, and Ziva smiles back, pressing her point a little further. "See? You are not being logical—so long as you still want me and I still want you, we will be just fine."

He laughs a little. "You make that sound awfully easy, David."

"That is because it is." She lays a hand on his upper arm and squeezes gently. "You know I am not some shrinking daisy who would let you abuse any power over me."

"The term you're looking for is shrinking violet, but… I do see your point."

Ziva's smile turns brighter and she slides her hand down his arm and into his own hand. "Good. Now the question is easy—your apartment tonight, or mine?"

"Sorry, can't, I have a work thing," he retorts, smirking, just to be an ass.

Ziva laughs. "Fine, then, no sex for you." She flips the emergency switch so the elevator will start moving again.

"Not so fast," Tony murmurs smoothly, stepping forward and letting go of her hand in order to pull her into his arms and nuzzle the back of her neck. "I might be able to rearrange my schedule a little."

The elevator reaches the ground floor and he lets go of her for the sake of keeping up professional appearances. As they move toward their respective cars, however, he says "my place" to her under his breath.

That evening finds them letting out all of their pent-up frustrations in Tony's bed. He's just happy to have sex with her again and has no plans to do anything particularly kinky tonight, but Ziva surprises him by pulling out her handcuffs and handing them to him with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. "You sure you want me to use these?" he asks her with raised eyebrows.

In answer, she lifts her hands above her head and rests them near the headboard, a clear invitation to cuff her to it. "Please," she says smoothly. Tony has to swallow hard so he can breathe again at the barrage of mental images that gives him, and he hastens to do as she's requested. He attaches her to the bed by her wrists and makes a big (joking) show of making sure they're secure. Then he engages in one of his favorite hobbies, kissing his way from her lips down her body to the sweet spot between her legs.

He's rather enjoying himself down there, and from the sound of it, she is, too. She loudly encourages him, egging him on, and it lulls him into a false sense of security. He's surprised, then, when he suddenly finds himself flipped down onto his stomach on the bed. The chain of Ziva's handcuffs is around his throat, and there's an astoundingly pretty Israeli on his back. "Did you do that with your thighs?" he squeaks, craning his head around to look at her. He's trying to work out not only how she got herself detached from the bed but also how she maneuvered him.

She laughs, triumphant. "Perhaps, but the how of it does not matter all that much. I did this to make a point, yes?"

"And what point would that be?"

She leans down to whisper in his ear. "That the balance of power can change very quickly, boss."

He shudders slightly, feeling further aroused. "Point taken, woman. Can you let me up now?"

She does, and shortly after, they make very good use of both the handcuffs and the bed that has been empty of Ziva for a month now.

It's three months later and in general, things are going great. Tony's really gotten into his groove with leading the team—Ziva and McGee are fantastic investigators, and even Probie Agent Lee is finding her footing. There are days when they group doesn't talk about Gibbs at all, though his absence is keenly felt most of the time.

Things are going great, that is, until the day that Tony gets back from Germany and Ziva doesn't come into work. He tells his team not to worry, that Ziva can take care of herself, and he does believe that… but he also believes that Ziva would let them know if she had a benign reason for not showing up. He thinks that at least she'd tell him, because they talk a lot these days. It only occurs to him later as a secondary consideration that she should let him know specifically because he's the team leader.

Besides calling her on his office phone and having his agents do the same, Tony texts Ziva twice, too. The first is early on, only an hour and a half after she should have come in, and it's teasing so he can have plausible deniability later. He knows she'll be angry with him if he implies at all that he has been worried about her because he thinks she can't handle herself.

Where r u? he types. McGee is getting annoying without u here to buffer.

There's no reply.

His second text is sent an hour later when everyone is starting to get really concerned. Tony starts thinking of calling area hospitals because it's so unlike Ziva to disappear without a word. Knowing he's getting a little ahead of himself, though, he pulls out his cell.

Please let us know ur ok. Worried here. Won't ask more questions if u don't want to talk, just tell me ur fine.

Several miles away, Ziva is too busy yelling at Michael Bashan to see the text come in.

"Did you or did you not sleep with him?" the man asks, looking entirely too shrewd for Ziva's liking.

"Who?" she answers, her voice soft with anger.

"Anthony DiNozzo, your new team leader." Michael's face says that he already knows.

The answer to Michael's question, of course, is yes, but Ziva is equal parts infuriated and suspicious of why the Mossad think that this could possibly be their business. Her private life is still her own, no matter who she works for. "Why do you ask that?"

"Starting three months ago, Ziva, he's been visiting your apartment at least one night a week."

Ziva snatches the folder Michael is holding and flips through photos clearly taken by someone who has been watching her for a long time. "My father has you spying on me?" she demands, tossing the file aside.

"I assumed that was the reason for your visit."

The absolute invasion of her privacy has Ziva seeing red, and for a minute, it has knocked the attack she witnessed right out of her brain. Now she's reminded of it and it demands her focus again, but she can't just let her father and Bashan's actions slide. She slams her hand down on the back of the sofa next to Michael's head and glares at him. "Who I do or do not sleep with is my business, Michael," she snarls. "Because I am not ashamed of it and because I know that this will get back to my father, I will tell you—yes, I have been sleeping with Tony DiNozzo. Yes, I will continue to do so. Yes, I will break your camera and your arm if I catch you spying on me from this point forward. Oh, and Officer Bashan?" He looks at her warily, and she smiles—it makes her look twice as deadly. "I am afraid you are slipping. It has been going on for far longer than three months."

Then she jumps back into demanding answers, feeling muted pleasure at having surprised Michael with her truthfulness. She isn't the same girl who her father could bend easily to his will for most of her life. Living alone in America and being adopted into her NCIS family has taught her that much, at least.

Later, when she calls Abby from Gibbs' house, she's starting to feel backed into a corner. Aware that she has not only pissed off her own embassy but also has the FBI—and, presumably, even her friends at NCIS—on the lookout for her, she feels more alone than she has in a long time.

"Gibbs?" Abby asks hopefully, picking up the phone.

Ziva hesitates for half a second before answering "Abby, it is Ziva."

"Ziva! Are you alright?"

"No, and don't say my name so loud." She feels exhausted, standing alone in an empty basement and having to worry about her friends finding out where she is.

"Sorry," Abby whispers. "Where are you?"

"At a safe place at the moment," Ziva assures the forensic scientist.

"The FBI was here and Tony was freaking out and the Director—"

"Abby, I need you to do a favor for me," Ziva interrupts.

"You name it."

"First, you cannot tell anyone I've spoken to you."

"Except Tony, right?"

Ziva swallows. "No. Not even Tony." That one hurts—she's become used to relying on Tony for many things, and this is one time that she would especially like to have him here, watching her back. "If I talk to him, he'll get in trouble with the FBI." She's well aware that she might be going down for this, but she won't bring her friends down with her. It's enough of a risk talking to Abby as it is.

Luckily, Abby doesn't question it. "What do you need?"

"A phone number," Ziva says after a pause. She quickly elaborates.

"Alright," Abby says, scribbling on a Post-It note. "I'll call you back at this number."

Within an hour, Ziva has Gibbs on the phone, and he agrees to fly back to Washington to see what he can do. Ziva's wildly grateful and she has never been so glad to have been assigned to work with NCIS. It doesn't matter how bleak and scary things look right now, because she has a family here.

Back at headquarters the next day, Tony gathers the cavalry. He knows Ziva is completely innocent, and he could not care less that he's risking losing his job or worse by defying direct orders and trusting her. She would do the same for him in a heartbeat, and now's the time to prove to her how much they all believe in her.

Finding out that Abby talked to Ziva already both annoys him and elates him, and he eagerly punches the number Abby gives him into his cell phone. It rings twice. "Well, there's no answer," he says impatiently. "Abby, are you sure that this—?" The call being picked up interrupts him. "Ziva."

Ziva's surprised to hear Tony's voice—it immediately makes her feel safer. There's more to worry about, though. "Tell Abby I'm going to kill her," she says dryly.

Tony sighs lightly. "We love you, too."

"I'm hanging up now," Ziva says. She's worried that someone will look into Tony's call history and see that they've spoken.

"No, you're not! You're going to tell me what the hell is going on here," Tony snaps in reply.

"Your phone could be tapped, Tony."

"Well, then, I'll come to you. I'm also trying to get ahold of Gibbs right now, but I'm not having any luck."

"Gibbs? Why didn't you say so?" She hands the phone over to her former boss.

"DiNozzo, you have ten seconds to tell me why I am not building a teak hot tub in Mexico." Gibbs pauses. "Nine…"

Ziva listens to the rest of the conversation with trepidation. It's only once the phone call ends that she realizes that Tony said he loved her. It was said in exasperation and annoyance and it was a "we" statement instead of an "I" statement, but… the thought warms her and steadies her all the same.

The feeling is increased when, while explaining the rest of the situation to Gibbs, Tony walks in. They bicker a little just like they always have, and Gibbs drinks Tony's coffee. "What's our plan?" the team leader asks.

Despite desperately wanting him here, Ziva has to put a stop to this. "Things are bad enough for NCIS as it is, Tony. You can't—"

"I don't remember asking your opinion, Officer David!" Tony interrupts loudly.

"You see?" Ziva says in exasperation to Gibbs, gesturing at Tony. "He has been completely insufferable since you left."

"Is that true, Tony?" Gibbs is clearly amused.

"When I need to be," Tony replies, but instead of talking to Gibbs, he's looking at Ziva as he says it. He would do a hell of a lot more than snap at her if it meant protecting her. It doesn't matter how much she wants to avoid getting him in trouble.

"Yeah? Hmm. Maybe you were the right man for the job." Tony tears his eyes away from Ziva's face to see that Gibbs is smiling. "Our plan is to find this guy before he gets out of the country."

They work on how exactly to accomplish that and they go off in separate directions to make it happen.

It's all progressing fine until the safe house blows. Tony hears about it from Sacks and his stomach drops to his feet, uncertain of whether his best friend and his mentor are alive or dead. That's it, he decides. He's going to Shepard and confessing to knowing where Ziva was earlier in the hopes that since there's little he can do, maybe Shepard has new ideas. Luckily, Ducky is there to give him a tough-love sort of pep talk, because his guilt level is off the charts. He should have been there with Ziva. It's his job to protect his people, because Gibbs left that responsibility behind months ago. Maybe if Tony had gone with her, she'd be fine instead of probably dead, killed in a fiery blast. He isn't certain that Gibbs is or was capable of protecting anyone. He's just explaining to Ducky why he's lost confidence when he hears Gibbs' voice behind him and his heart stops. Thrilled to see his former mentor and overjoyed to learn that both he and Ziva are alive and well, Tony is more than happy to accept Gibbs' keys and head off in search of the truck.

They use the dead guy from the safe house and the hits on McGee's BOLO to figure out where exactly Eschel is hiding, but just as Tony predicted, Ziva doesn't wait for them to go find the ex-Mossad. Tony's heart doesn't stop racing from the time Ziva hangs up on Gibbs to the time they burst into that hotel room and find her alive.

"Ziva, you okay?" McGee asks urgently.

"I'm okay, McGee," Ziva assures them quietly, staring down at the unconscious form of the Iranian operative and then over at Eschel's body.

"You should have waited," Gibbs tells her seriously. Feeling mildly shaky and a little sore from her recent fight, Ziva backs up to lean on the dresser rather than responding to that.

"Who's she?" Tony questions, gesturing to the woman on the ground.

"Iranian intelligence." Out of the corner of her eye, Ziva can see Tony and McGee's heads whipping up to stare at her. "They were behind it all."

"How do you plan on proving that?" Gibbs raises, his voice concerned.

There's a small smile on Ziva's bloody face. "I have been with NCIS for a year. I'm not just a killer anymore." She pulls up her shirt to reveal the recording unit she has taped to her stomach, and she unhooks it and tosses it to Tony. "I am an investigator." Tony looks up at her in surprise. "Now can I go home?" she requests.

Tony and Gibbs have something in common—neither could be more proud of her in this moment.

Chapter Text

"Oh, and Tony?"

Tony turns back to the director, one foot out of her office door. "Yes, ma'am?"

"This has to stay under wraps. It's classified. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that you can't tell anyone about it, not even Gibbs."

"Understood." Tony's voice is stiff, but he still gives Shepard a polite nod. Then, without waiting to be officially dismissed, he steps out and closes the door behind him. He leans against it for a moment, feeling tired, and only straightens up when he hears Cynthia, Jenny's assistant, clearing her throat. He'd forgotten that there's someone else in here, and he smiles awkwardly at the girl in question and heads out to the hall.

From his vantage point up by the railing, he can see the whole bullpen. He can see Gibbs directing McGee to pull something up on the big screen while Ziva gestures and speaks something that Tony can't hear but he's sure is insightful.

Ah, Ziva.

His new assignment will affect her, and it's killing him already. He thinks back on the meeting he's just left.

"Thanks for coming, Tony. Please, sit down." Director Shepard gives him a small smile and gestures to the chair across the desk from her own.

"Sure," he replies easily, and takes the offered seat. "What can I do for you, Director?"

Jenny evaluates him for a moment. "I have an assignment to offer you. You are free to turn it down, but you should know that you're my top man for the job."

Tony is surprised to hear this. "Me? Not Gibbs?"

Jenny suppresses a smile at the thought of Gibbs taking on this particular assignment, and she shakes her head. "No, not Gibbs. He's an excellent agent, but he… he wouldn't be right for this."

Tony nods thoughtfully. "Well, you've got my attention. What's the assignment?"

"Before I can read you in, I need to be very clear here. What we talk about does not leave this room, regardless of whether or not you're ready to accept the assignment."

"My lips are sealed," Tony assures his boss' boss, miming a lock being turned at the corner of his mouth.

This seems like a less-than-serious agreement to her terms, but Shepard nods anyway. "What can you tell me about La Grenouille?" she starts.

"Uh…" Tony has to think about it. "Not much, really. He's an arms dealer, right? French?"

"Yes. He's a major arms dealer, and he's caused this country a lot of grief during his active years. Actually, he's caused a lot of countries a lot of grief. We've tried to track him down and make him stand trial for his crimes, but he's slimy. Every time we think we have him nailed down, he slips out of our fingers again. He's been underground for a few years."

"And you know where he is now?" Tony guesses.

"Well, not exactly. I think I know how to draw him out, or at least how to learn some of his weaknesses."

"Oh, yeah?" Tony leans forward in his seat, interested.

"Yes." Jenny pauses one more time as if evaluating how he'll take what she's about to tell him. "And that's where you come in."

She pulls a file out of her desk drawer and from it, she brings out a photo of a young woman with lovely blue eyes. She passes it across the desk to Tony, who looks it over. "She's pretty," he remarks. "Who is she?"

"She's La Grenouille's daughter. Name's Jeanne Benoit."

"Jeaaaanne," Tony parrots, trying the name out. "Very French. Where exactly do I come in with this Jeanne woman?"

"I think she's our link to her father. From my intelligence, she's nothing like him, but they're relatively close. She lives here in Washington. She's a doctor."

Tony nods slowly. "She sounds great… but you're still not telling me what you want me to do."

Jenny smiles. "Have a little patience, DiNozzo. I'll get there." She leans forward to look at him squarely. "Are you dating anyone right now?"

Tony can see the wheels turning in the Director's head, but her question surprises him enough that it's momentarily pushed from his mind. "Um… dating anyone? Right now? Me?"

Jenny's face twitches as if she's trying not to laugh. "Yes, that's what I asked."

"Um." He feels a little shifty, but really, it's a fairly straightforward answer. He's not dating anyone. He's sleeping with Ziva, but they agreed months ago that they're not dating. Why, then, does he feel guilty answering Jenny? "No," he finishes finally. "I'm not."

"Good," decides Jenny firmly. "Then what I would like for you to do, Tony… is to get close to Jeanne Benoit. Gain her trust. See if she knows anything about her father's business. Keep track of her whereabouts, because even if she doesn't know anything, I can only assume her father will come to town to visit her eventually. We'll be there when that happens."

"You asked me about who I'm dating," Tony says slowly. "So when you say you want me to 'get close to her', you mean…" He trails off, waiting for Jenny to elaborate.

"You're a bright young man," she answers. "Use your imagination."

That's easy enough to do—it's very clear what Jenny's implying. She wants him to seduce this woman. While he's had a lot of success with women in his lifetime and the Tony of a year ago would have thoroughly enjoyed this particular challenge, the Tony of today thinks it feels a little… icky. What about the woman here? By Jenny's own admission, this Jeanne Benoit is innocent in the quest to get her father to pay for his crimes. Is it fair to get close to her and inevitably break her heart? He opens his mouth to ask Jenny about that when he thinks better of it and closes his mouth. She watches him patiently, waiting for him to make up his mind.

Another unwelcome thought pops into his head—what will Ziva think? She won't care, he tells himself. It's just sex between them. The issue, of course, is that he can't tell her about this, won't be able to explain that he's not distancing himself from her for selfish reasons.

"Well, what do you think?" Jenny interrupts gently after a few minutes of letting him deliberate. "Can you do it?"

"I… yes," he finds himself saying. "Yeah, I'll do it."

There's a large part of him that wonders why the hell he's saying yes, knowing he'll hurt some innocent woman… knowing he'll hurt Ziva. That's a big part of it, though, isn't it? He's afraid of how close he's gotten to Ziva, how much like a real relationship their friendship-with-benefits has become. Jenny's questions have forced him to think about it harder than he has yet—he's been avoiding it, intentionally or otherwise.

He's enough of a coward to want distance from it, so he says yes.

He goes about the rest of the workday a little subdued, but he does his best to enjoy it. He's certain that the conversation he needs to have with Ziva will change things, and he doesn't think it'll be for the best. He's already starting to regret saying yes to Jenny, but if the Director is asking for the task to be done, he knows it's something that has to be done. She's right, he's the guy to do it. Who else would—McGee? He's too soft-hearted and he'd never be able to go through with it. Gibbs? The idea is laughable. There are other NCIS agents, but Tony knows that Jenny trusts Gibbs' team above all others. It has to be him.

The day passes quickly, and if his team notices that something is amiss, they don't comment.

At the end of the day, he stops in front of Ziva's desk and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Can I come over tonight?" he asks softly.

She gives him a curious look because these days, they rarely ask so directly first, but she nods. "Of course."

He nods. "I'll be there around… mm, say eight or so?"

"That is alright with me." The welcoming little smile she gives him makes guilt churn in his gut, but he returns it convincingly enough.

"Right, see you then," he says and heads for the elevator, lost in thought. He knows that conversation was suspiciously and probably rudely short, but he can't help delaying the inevitable. He can't talk to her about this here, not with everyone around, and he wants things to stay the way they are for at least a few more hours.

He spends the time between getting home and leaving again working to tidy his already spotless apartment. He's just full of nervous energy, and he can't sit still. That should probably tell him something about what he's about to do, but he stubbornly shoves those thoughts aside until they're in a dusty corner of his mind and can be safely ignored.

Finally, it's time to head to Ziva's. He leaves his apartment with an anxious air, ready for this to be over with.

He's long since had a key to her apartment (and she has had one to his), but this evening, he doesn't use it. He knocks instead.

Ziva comes to the door dressed in pajamas. "Tony?" she asks in surprise. "Why did you not simply let yourself in?"

"Lost my key," he lies uncomfortably, and he passes her to come in.

"You would lose your legs if they were not attached," she observes mildly, following him further into the apartment.

"Head," he corrects, distracted. "You'd lose your head if it wasn't attached."

There's silence in reply to that, and after a moment, it's enough to shake him out of his preoccupation. He turns around to look at Ziva, who's watching him with some concern. "What?" he asks. They haven't even started the real conversation yet and she's already noticing the tension in his body and voice.

"Are you alright? You do not look entirely well."

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just…" he sighs. "We need to talk."

Ziva pauses and then nods, leading the way to the sofa. She sits on one end and rather than sitting next to her as he usually would, Tony settles himself on the opposite side. Ziva doesn't comment on that. Instead, she merely asks "what would you like to talk about?"

There's no easy way to do this, so Tony just jumps right in. "I think we should break off our—our agreement," he tells her quietly.

Ziva's expression goes blank, devoid of all emotion. He knows her so well by now, though, and he's well aware that Ziva has just given him a sure sign that she's feeling a lot. It's force of habit for her to shut down in the face of strong emotions. "I see." Her tone is professional, almost cold. "Why do you think that?"

"Because…" he's been thinking about this all day, trying to find the perfect excuse, the one Ziva won't be able to question but won't be hurt by, as well. Suddenly his mind is blank, though, and he stares at her, wide-eyed and mildly panicky.

"Because?" she prompts. She crosses her arms, something she does to protect herself, to make herself look stronger and angrier when she's feeling hurt. He's seen it before, caused it before, but this time is different.

A reason that works because it's true pops into his head, and he's relieved to have something to tell her. "Because it's starting to feel too much like a relationship."

He was not anticipating the flash of hurt that crosses Ziva's face, though. "I see," she repeats.

He can't help himself—he starts babbling to try to make this better, to try to make it easier. "We talked about this, you know? Who knows how long Shepard will want a Mossad in the office! Even if she keeps the position open for a long time, she might not keep you here! She could send you back to Israel and bring someone else in! This is all temporary."

"Send me back to Israel?" Ziva's expression turns hard, calculating. "What do you know that I do not?"

Oh, god, he's already messed this up, hasn't he? "Nothing," he hastens to explain. "That was just a what-if. I swear, you're not being sent back to Israel. Or if you are, I don't know about it. That's not to say it won't ever happen, because Jenny doesn't consult me on things like—I mean, Director Shepard doesn't talk to me about decisions before she makes him. That would be Gibbs, Gibbs would know." By sheer force of will, he makes himself shut up, and he stares helplessly at Ziva.

Her face has gotten angrier, though—somehow that's an emotion she never has trouble expressing. "Tony," she snaps. "Stop lying to me."

"Lying?" he repeats, his heart sinking. He'd been hoping that they were nearly to the end of this awful conversation.

"Yes. You wish to break down with me, but you are lying about why. Do you honestly believe I do not know your tells by now?"

"I think you mean break up—"

"Do not correct me right now if you value your life at all!" Ziva snarls, and Tony gulps. "Now tell me the truth!"

"I met someone!" he blurts. "I didn't want to hurt you by telling you, but that's what happened." Though he hasn't met the subject of his assignment yet, the basics of what he's said are true enough. This is why he's 'breaking up' with Ziva.

She takes a deep breath that doesn't seem to support her at all, or maybe that's him. His lungs do seem to be having trouble filling efficiently. There are several beats of painful silence; Ziva is trying to process what she's hearing, and Tony is trying not to feel like he's gone down a one-way path that'll tear his best friend's heart apart.

"Who is it?" Ziva ultimately asks. She's quiet again, and Tony can't help but think that her posture has changed—she's no longer crossing her arms as a show of anger. Now she's hugging herself.

"You… ah, you don't know her."

"When did you meet her?"

"It was a week or two ago." Better to keep this vague because the more he goes into detail, the more he will be lying.

"And you are just now telling me?" Her face grows angry again, but just for a moment. She's too exhausted to hold on to the rage that she would rather hide in. "Tony, have you been sleeping with her and with me at the same time!?"

"No! No, of course not. I wouldn't do that to you." He's awkwardly certain that they're both thinking the same thing—he'd do this to her, but not that. Where are his lines really drawn? "That's why I wanted to tell you now, before anything happened. Once I met her, I don't know, I… things changed. It just feels right. I didn't want to lead you on, but I need to pursue something with her. I think she could be the one." He's inventing wildly as he speaks, but the words are flowing easily… maybe because he could see them applying to Ziva herself, and that scares the hell out of him. This faceless woman he has to target seems a much smaller threat than his own feelings.

Ziva nods sharply, and much to Tony's horror, he can see her lower lip trembling. She isn't one to cry, especially not in front of someone else, and it kills him to know that he's the one who did this to her.

He can't take it anymore. He can't look at her pain without feeling some of his own, so he abruptly gets to his feet. Ziva doesn't move.

"That's all I wanted to talk about," he says uncomfortably. "I just wanted you to know that-"

"Get out," Ziva breathes as if she doesn't hear him at all.

"I-what?" He's thrown by the sudden change.

"I said GET OUT!"

He watches, wide-eyed, as her hand twitches towards the gun he knows she keeps under the couch cushion. She won't really shoot him, but the fact that he's pissed her off so badly that she feels she needs a gun in hand is not a good sign. He nods. "I'm sorry, Ziva," he says as he heads for the door.

He's got it open and he's nearly out when he hears Ziva murmur one last thing, almost to herself. "I could have fallen in love with you."

Overwhelmed, Tony slams the door shut behind him, leaving a lonely Ziva in his wake.

She stays still as a bird on her sofa for a long time after his departure, feeling a little numb. Early on in their arrangement, she'd wondered how she would feel if it ended, and she was always able to assure herself that she'd be fine. Maybe six months ago, she would have been, but now, this feels like a blow from which she cannot recover.

If it was just the end of their sexual relationship, that would be one thing… Tony is a wonderful lover and Ziva has really enjoyed getting to know that side of him, but at the end of the day, she could have great sex with a lot of people.

What's really upsetting her is that she knows they can't just keep their friendship and ditch the sex. Tony's right, it really has been like a long-term relationship. They spend three or four evenings together most weeks, often not having sex at all. They go see movies a lot (Tony's determined to bring her movie trivia knowledge up to a level that he deems minimally acceptable), they go out to eat, or they go to events. A couple of times, they've even done special, seasonal things like ice skating or going to the fair.

It leaves Ziva wondering how she spent her time before Tony.

She knows this is going to change things. Even if she can get past the jealousy that she already feels stirring at the thought of Tony so easily replacing her with a faceless woman, something has been broken or lost between them. She had not even known it, but she had trusted him with her heart, something she's entrusted to very few people.

The pain she's feeling now tells her that her emotions run deeper than she ever intended to let them. She has real feelings for Tony, and it's too late. She wonders if things might have been different if she'd told him back before he met the new woman.

She's been keeping track of things since the beginning, her analytical mind watching for patterns. They've slept together close to a hundred times now, and thinking back on those patterns, her new feelings are reinforced. When all of this first started and everything was new and exciting, they branched out more and allowed their animal sides to occasionally take over. Sex against her front door, sex on his kitchen counter, car sex, phone sex, every position and every place they could think of. Eventually, they settled into more of a routine, though, and though there was less variety, they were much more efficient at pleasuring one another in the ways that felt best. They got to know one another so well that often, words weren't required. Ziva thinks back on all of the times she would have to convince herself after sex that bordered on lovemaking that these weren't true romantic feelings making her heart race and her knees weak. These were hormones, or maybe normal non-committed friends-with-benefits thoughts and feelings, nothing really romantic about them.

She sees now just how delusional she has been. She's really been falling for Tony for months now.

Tony spends a lot of the evening driving aimlessly around. He leaves Washington and drives perilously quickly on shoddy Maryland backroads, feeling angry at the world and angry at himself.

Ziva's pain is something that he had anticipated, much as he had regretted that it was necessary to cause.

He had not anticipated his own.

Now, as he speeds down dusty dirt roads and has to swerve to avoid a deer, he realizes just how shortsighted he had been. How could this ever be painless for him? He has spent his whole life forming only meaningless and short-lived attachments to women since losing his mother—it's inadvisable to feel too much for women who will leave him eventually anyway. His MO has become leaving first, protecting his heart. One-night stands don't involve any pain, but breakups sure as hell do. He knows which method he prefers.

Somehow, though, he's messed it up this time. He's let himself get attached, let himself grow dependent on another person. Oh, it was lovely while it lasted—the last nine months or so that he has spent with Ziva have been some of the best of his life. Now, though? He wants to take it all back, if only to stop the pain in his chest.

Facing the loss of what he has enjoyed with her, it occurs to him why she accused him of lying… it's because he was. It has started to feel like a relationship, but the lie is that it bothers him. The truth is, it doesn't. He'd normally run from this sort of thing, and maybe that's what he's doing, but a part of him that's growing louder every minute tells him that it's time to stop running.

Making a decision, he pulls his car around in a u-turn and heads to Gibbs' house. He's driven so far that it takes him more than an hour to get there, but the time allows him to compose himself and gather his thoughts.

Like everyone else always does, he lets himself in, but he doesn't have to go all the way to the basement to find his boss. Gibbs is sitting on his sofa, drinking a beer and reading. He looks up at Tony's entrance. "Bit late, isn't it?" he says mildly by way of greeting.

Tony drops down on the couch next to Gibbs. "I suppose it is."

Tony deliberates for a moment and decides that he isn't quite ready to talk. He hops back up and goes to the fridge, helping himself to one of Gibbs' beers. Then he goes back to sit again, feeling slightly antsy. He can't stay there, so he stands up once more to pace. Half a dozen times, he opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again.

It doesn't take Gibbs long to get impatient. "Spit it out, DiNozzo," he says, sighing. "You didn't come here to burn a hole in my floor."

"Oh." Realizing that he has in fact been pacing the same five-foot stretch for several minutes now, Tony sheepishly sits down again and sips at the otherwise untouched beer in his hand. "I need some advice, boss."

"About what?"

"Uh… women, actually, sort of," Tony replies awkwardly, glancing over at Gibbs from the corner of his eye.

Gibbs laughs once. "Not sure I can help there. What d'you want me to say to you?"

"Well, it's not just about… women. It's also about work. Sort of."

Gibbs sighs and sets his beer aside. Rather than saying anything else, he simply clasps his hands together and gives Tony a look that tells him he'd better stop being vague and get to the point.

"There's this girl," he starts, and then looks at Gibbs and remembers that the older man knows what he and his partner get up to after work.

"Ziva," Gibbs correctly deciphers. It's not a question.

"Yes. Well, no. Sort of."

"DiNozzo…" Gibbs warns. Get to the point.

"Right, sorry, boss. Let me put it this way—there's someone that I've hurt. I'm having trouble reconciling my job with my… my personal feelings, my home life. How am I supposed to handle that?"

Gibbs shakes his head. "Hell if I know. I've never done it right." He makes a face and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Look, you've either got to compromise, or you've got to choose. It's pretty straightforward."

Tony groans, making a fist and bouncing it restlessly on his knee. "Compromise just won't work here."

"Then what's more important to you?"

"I don't know, boss." Both things concern his family, really. NCIS is the only real family he's ever had, and the Jeanne Benoit assignment is important to the future safety of his people. On the other hand, Ziva is perhaps the most important member of that same family.

"Figure that out and you'll know what to do," Gibbs suggests.

Tony wonders what Gibbs thinks he's talking about. Gibbs is aware that he and Ziva are sleeping together, so he probably knows who Tony's worries concern, but he doesn't know about the assignment from Jenny. He must suspect something, though, because he hasn't asked—it's possible that he knows Tony has already elaborated as much as he can.

Knowing that's all the answer he's going to get, Tony rises to stand for the last time and gulps down the still nearly-full beer. Still feeling conflicted, he nods at Gibbs and heads for the door. "Thanks, I think."

For the second time tonight, though, he's stopped before he can really leave. "DiNozzo."

"Yeah, boss?" He turns back around.

Gibbs is still sitting where Tony left him, looking speculative. "Sometimes, there's a little flexibility in what you're being asked to do. Be creative and figure out how to make it work. She'll forgive you because she loves you."

Tony nods uncertainly, confused and conflicted. "If you say so." He's sure that if Ziva ever loved him, she doesn't after tonight.

A tiny, crooked smile pops up on Gibbs' face. "I do." He would know—he's not sure what exactly Tony has been assigned and whether that assignment came from Jenny or higher up, but Gibbs, too, has certainly found himself in situations that uncomfortably blurred the lines between his professional life and his personal. He knows how Tony feels because… well, he's been there. "Go on, get out of here. You know where to find me if you need help."

"Right… thanks," Tony repeats, and heads out to his car. Despite not saying much and not knowing the details of Tony's situation, Gibbs has given his team member a lot to think about.

Chapter Text

Tim McGee peers over the top of his computer monitor as the elevator dings and its doors slide open. Almost immediately, he rolls his eyes and goes back to what he was doing. His coworkers are back, apparently.

If he'd missed the elevator ding, he would have still heard them. They're not exactly quiet.

"—and if you hadn't threatened to shoot him in the unmentionables, he wouldn't have elbowed me in the face!"

"Oh, lech tizdayyen! If you had not been holding him in such a stupid way, DiNozzo, he would not have been able to reach your nose!"

"A stupid way? How the hell was I supposed to hold him when he was a solid foot taller than me!?"

They reach their desks and slam their things down, glaring at one another. "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood..." Tim sings quietly and facetiously to himself, but it's not quiet enough.

"What did you say, Probie?" Tony demands, standing back up and looking murderous.

"Didn't say a thing, Tony," Tim replies tiredly. He's well over being the punching bag caught in the middle of an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

"No, no, don't censor yourself. You wouldn't be the first one with an attitude here," Tony snaps, glaring over at Ziva again momentarily. His expression says that he's deduced what she just said to him in Hebrew. "Do you have something to say?" The last is directed back at McGee.

Tim decides it's high time for a break. This has been going on for two weeks now; Tony and Ziva individually have both been incredibly irritable, but together, they're absolutely volatile. It's escalated, too—in the beginning, their fight consisted mostly of cold silence and passive aggressiveness, but they've managed to piss one another off so badly that rumor has it they're going to duel soon.

Something's got to give, and Tim doesn't want to be here to see it when it does. Standing up, stony-faced, he brushes past Tony without replying and heads out to get a coffee. He's starting to feel positively Gibbs-like, having to deal with these two.

In Tim's absence, silence falls in the bullpen; Tony and Ziva have nothing more to say to one another, so they both go about their work with only the occasional huff or glower thrown around.

The tension reaches a head a few days later. Gibbs, who's been out of town at a conference Jenny strongarmed him into going to, is due to return this afternoon. Tim has taken to hiding out in Abby's lab, because not only is she a lot friendlier than DiNozzo and David right now, but he can also do most of his work from her computer setup.

This unfortunately leaves no one to buffer the furious special agent and Mossad officer while they work. They're working a double homicide, tracking down their lead suspect, when the bickering starts again. "Ziva, I just said I got a hit on the BOLO," Tony says brusquely, "so I'm not sure why you're going on about finding his sister."

"Just because you have found his car does not mean you have found him! Stop acting so superior and let me follow my lead!"

"My lead is more pertinent—do you really want to let him get away and have to be the one to tell Gibbs?"

"Tell me what?" comes Gibbs' grumpy voice from behind them. They both turn around to see him looking distinctly cross. He isn't one to willingly attend conferences and had already been in a bad mood from being forced to spend a whole week at one, but coming back and finding his team far more ill-tempered than when he left is not improving his outlook.

They both flinch, but he's not done with them. "DiNozzo, David, with me. Now," he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

Both fuming, they follow him out of the bullpen. He leads them to the conference room and gestures them in. "Sit," he snaps, and they do, both privately feeling like they're on the wrong side of the interrogation table.

Gibbs puts his hands down on the table and leans in, clearly furious. "You—" pointing to Ziva— "told me that this wouldn't be a problem. And you—" pointing at Tony— "should have known better, too."

They each start to speak at the same time, but Gibbs cuts them off. "I don't want to hear it! You've messed up and you need to fix it. I'm giving you one hour. Then you either need to be able to work together again or you need to tell me which one of you is resigning from my team. Got it?"

Suitably chastised, they nod, and their boss leaves, the door snapping shut loudly behind him.

As soon as he's gone, though, they're back to glaring at one another. How do they bridge the gap that anger and hurt built between them?

"This would be unnecessary if you could simply be a professional," Ziva mutters, the first to look away.

"Me?" Tony replies, outraged. "Ziva, I'm not the one who gave my team member the cold shoulder for three freakin' days last week! Three days, and you would barely answer my case-related questions. How's that for professional?"

"That is exactly what professional means, Tony! I gave you professional courtesy and nothing more. It is not my fault if you expect more than that from me."

"And why shouldn't I expect more than that? I thought we were friends!"

"So did I," Ziva retorts, "until you dropped a bomb on me. It is fine—I do not need you as a friend, but do not demand friendliness from me when you do nothing to earn it!"

"You don't need me as a friend," Tony parrots under his breath, and then gets louder. "That's really nice, you know? The way you're phrasing it, you make it sound like I need you. That's clever, isn't it? Just turning this around on me so you don't have to pretend you have any emotions!"

Stung and trying not to show it, Ziva snorts. "That is rich, coming from you."

"And just what do you mean by that?"

"I heard you speaking to Agent Sacks, months ago. I know how you feel and I know you do not like to admit it out loud!"

"What? What did you hear?" He's surprised enough that he forgets to be angry for the time being.

Ziva frowns at him, remembering a very uncomfortable period in her time at NCIS. Quickly and succinctly, she sums up what she heard back then. It brings Tony's thoughts to a place he'd rather not have them go.

Sacks is getting on Tony's last nerve. It's not enough for this guy to accuse him of murder and remind him of it at every opportunity. No, he has to go full throttle in this bogus investigation into Ziva's alleged espionage and murders. Sacks clearly doesn't know Ziva at all, because if he did, he would know that she's the most loyal, protective person in the world. She wouldn't jeopardize her country's standing with the US for anything, but more than that, she wouldn't put her NCIS family under suspicion by behaving rashly. She certainly wouldn't commit such a heinous crime, murdering three people in broad daylight, and run away from it. She's too good for that, no matter what she's been trained by Mossad to do.

Tony has tried so hard to reach both Ziva and Gibbs after they learn about the explosion at the safe house, but both of their numbers are going to voicemail. He tries Gibbs, then Ziva, then Gibbs again, and Ziva one more time. When she still doesn't answer, he leaves her a quick voicemail. "Uh, Ziva? It's Tony. I heard there was an explosion, and… I can't get ahold of you guys. Please let me know you're not dead, okay? You and Gibbs. One of you give me a call. Don't worry, I'm still holding down the fort here, but we're all worried. Please call me ba—" He sees Sacks rounding the corner and abruptly closes his phone, shoving it in his pocket.

"Well? Any news?" he demands.

"We're still not sure what the hell happened, DiNozzo," Sacks replies, "or if she was even in there when the place blew up."

"Bodies?" Tony asks tightly.

"No, it was incinerated. We won't even be able to process the scene until at least tomorrow." He doesn't sound too sorry about the fact, Tony thinks bitterly. Wouldn't it be nice and neat for the FBI if their lead suspect committed suicide when faced with capture, tidily attaching herself to the crimes without a single interrogation for them to deal with?

"What makes you think she was there?" he says instead of saying what he's really thinking.

"A tip."

"From who?"

"Anonymous. My guess is probably somebody inside Mossad trying to make nice…" He's too smug for Tony's tastes, especially since he's wrong.

"Someone tying up loose ends," Tony corrects, angry.

"Well, for all we know, she blew up the place to cover her own tracks."

"Well, she was only looking for the guy who set her up."

"You mind telling me how you know that?"

"'Cause it's what I do," Tony replies. His voice is even again but resolute. "Oh, and Slacks? She's my best friend. I know what she's capable of, and it's not this."

The doors close on Sack's skeptical face and Tony is not sad to see him go. What he doesn't know is that his voicemail is still running in his pocket, giving Ziva quiet insight into his feelings.

Tony gapes at Ziva as she recalls the conversation. She probably isn't lying, because that's exactly how he remembers it going, but at the time, he had no idea that she could hear him. He's floored to realize it now. He tries to choke something out, to deny it maybe, but Ziva laughs in his face. "Do not try to tell me that you did not say that, because I heard you with my own ears. You are not nearly as smooth as you believe yourself to be!"

"I'm not denying it, but just 'cause I said it then doesn't mean it's true now!"

He's uncomfortably surprised when Ziva, rather than getting angrier at his statement, seems to deflate. "When did you lose so much regard for me?" she asks him, quiet, lowering her eyes to her hands in front of her.

It's clear to him that she's hurting, and for the first time in two weeks, he stops to really look at her. There's only so much he can see through a curtain of dark, curly hair, but what he sees crushes him. She has dark circles under her eyes, clear evidence of lack of sleep, and her posture is more defeated than he's ever seen her… causing feelings that he's been avoiding crash down on him.

"Oh, Ziva," he says softly, his tone matching hers. "I haven't. I'm so sorry, I really am."

"What are you sorry for?" Her voice breaks. She looks back up at him and brushes hair out of her face, and he's horrified to see two tiny tears traveling down her cheeks. She seems mortified for him to see it—she swipes angrily at her face with one of her sleeves, looking away again.

"For... for this. For hurting you. For not sticking around—that was my job to do. Have to look out for my best friend, you know." He gives her a little smile, hoping that he hasn't entirely blown it here.

Ziva nods and shrugs uncomfortably. "I needed a few days to process what you spoke to me about, but after… it would have been… helpful, I believe, to be treated the same. I was—I was distressed to think of losing your friendship, and…" Tony can see how difficult it is for her to get this out; it's probably hard just for her to be truthful about her emotions in the first place, even to herself.

"Hey—you won't lose my friendship. There's no way... And I'm sorry for treating you differently. I guess I was afraid of losing you, too. It wouldn't be the first time I lashed out because I was scared."

Ziva finally returns his small smile. "It probably did not help that I snapped at you all day until you got angry, too. I am sorry, as well. We have both been acting like children, yes?"

"Ha, I think we have." Tony sticks out a hand, offering it to be shaken. "Friends?"

Ziva takes his hand, but rather than shaking it, she just holds it for a moment and squeezes it affectionately. She can get past this—they can… and they will. "Best friends," she answers. She's speaking in a warmer tone Tony's heard her use in two weeks, and it makes him want to beam. He's missed her badly, as much as he hasn't wanted to let himself think about how much he needs her.

"Best friends," he agrees. He uses the hand he's holding to tug her into a hug, and something in him finally relaxes once he has her wrapped in his arms. They're them again, and everything's okay.

When they finally pull apart, they're both smiling mildly embarrassed smiles. "So, this—uh, this new girlfriend." Ziva pats Tony's arm, trying to let him know that she's okay to talk about it. "How are things with the two of you?"

Tony hesitates, not wanting to rock the boat, but Ziva seems genuinely interested. "Things are going well," he answers after a slight pause. "We've been on three dates now, one last week and two this week."

"I am glad to hear it," Ziva assures him. "What is her name?"

"Jean," Tony invents. He can't tell Ziva his subject's real name, but Jean is close enough to Jeanne that it'll be easy to remember.

"How did the two of you meet?"

This, too, he tries to keep close to the truth. "I met her at a coffee shop." It had actually been a coffee stand in front of the hospital where Jeanne works that Tony had made his mark. She'd been easy to spot, pink scrubs and a bright smile. He actually really likes her—she's cheerful and friendly. She's no Ziva David, but if he has to be spending time with someone, he's glad it's someone whose company he enjoys.

"Do you think I might someday meet her?"

Of course, the answer here is no. This assignment is classified, directly from the director, and allowing Ziva and Jeanne to meet would go against that. Tony can see what an effort Ziva is making to be supportive, though, and hell if he won't use a little white lie to make her see how much he appreciates it. "I would love nothing more," he says softly. "The whole meet-the-parents thing seems totally unnecessary, but meet the best friend? That's vital. She's got to get your approval."

Tony gets the outcome he was hoping for when Ziva laughs. She's got a less-than-ideal family like he does, so she gets it… not that Dr. Benoit will be meeting his father either, anyway.

He stands and stretches and then offers a hand to Ziva. "Should we go tell Gibbs that nobody's resigning today?"

Ziva rolls her eyes but accepts his hand. "Yes," she decides. "And we may need to apologize to McGee, too."

The next evening, Tony swirls the ice cubes in his drink with a tiny straw as he listens to Jeanne tell a story about a particularly absurd patient encounter she'd had in the ER. She's animated as she talks, her hands flying around for emphasis and her lips curling into conspiratorial little smiles when she gets to points in the story that she's sure will make him laugh. It's endearing, really, how earnest and happy she really is. She's someone he would have been into with no prompting under different circumstances.

As it is, though, he's having a little trouble focusing. His thoughts keep drifting to Ziva, wondering what she would think of the story Jeanne's telling.

The story is interrupted by Jeanne's pager, which beeps loudly. She groans and pulls it out to check it—it clearly isn't great news, whatever it is, because her face falls. "I'm sorry," she tells him preemptively.

"Let me guess—you have to go?" Tony postulates with a crooked smile.

"I do, but…" Jeanne pauses and then smiles back, almost as if she can't help it. "Well, I know it won't take long. They're having some trouble with pain control in one of my patients, and they need me to come in and change the orders."

"Pity to end the evening over something that—as you say—won't take long," Tony replies, tilting his head slightly to one side as he tries to figure out what she's up to. She's getting at something, he's sure.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" She passes her pager from hand to hand, looking down at its progress as she talks. "But I mean, we don't have to. If you didn't mind dropping by the hospital and waiting for me for a few minutes, Tony, we could continue our evening right after. I still can't drink since I'm on call, but barring any other emergencies, I'd be all yours for the rest of the night."

"Mm. Jeanne?"

She looks up, her expression hopeful.

"Let's go get that patient feeling better," he tells her with a grin, and she beams back. She really is lovely, which makes all of this feel that much harder.

The bar they're at is only a few blocks from the hospital, so Tony quickly knocks back the remainder of his drink—waste not, want not—and offers his arm to his date. She abandons her soda and they emerge into the winter chill.

He does what he knows is expected of him, slipping his arm around Jeanne to warm her up, and he flirts with her the whole walk. It's second nature and he doesn't have to think much about it, which is good because his heart isn't in it.

They walk in through the ER entrance, the closest set of doors to where they started, and Jeanne stops briefly with Tony near an empty row of waiting room seats. "You can just stay here," she tells him with a warm smile. "I won't be fifteen minutes, I promise. And I'll make it worth your while when I'm done."

"I like the sound of that," Tony says with a flirty grin. He leans in to kiss her lightly and then watches her walk toward a set of elevators, turning around to wink at him before disappearing into one of them.

He settles in to wait and the smile falls from his lips. Pulling his phone out, he starts a round of Snake to kill time.

He's on his sixth game, just getting close to beating his own record, when he catches sight of something familiar over the top of his cell phone. There's a curly-haired woman walking past with a grimace—he knows that hair and he knows that expression of displeasure.

"Ziva?" he calls in surprise.

She stops and turns to look at him, her own expression mirroring his own. "Tony?" she replies. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing." He notices a bloodied bandage on her hand and grows considerably more alarmed. "Are you okay!?"

She flushes and hides her hand quickly in her coat pocket. "It is nothing. I am fine."

"That doesn't look like nothing," Tony retorts darkly. "What happened?"

"Just an accident," she says, brushing him off again and making him feel frustrated.

"Ziva," he says sternly.

"What?" she snaps.

"What. Happened?"

She sighs, annoyed. "Fine, I will tell you, but you do not repeat this to anyone, are we clear?"

"Crystal. Now tell me, please."

Grimacing, Ziva finally lets him know what went down. "I was cooking tonight, making ratatouille. The recipe requires many small slices of several different vegetables, and I was slicing for a long time. I was not paying attention as I should have been. Instead, I was watching a film as I worked. There was a hopping fright that I was not expecting, and I did hop. My paring knife slipped and I sliced the base of my thumb instead of the zucchini I was trying to cut."

There's a lot that surprises Tony about the story he's just been told, and he can't immediately wrap his head around it. "You? You cut yourself? Ms. Ziva 'I-Could-Kill-You-Eighteen-Different-Ways-With-A-Paperclip' David cut herself in a cooking accident!?" Despite knowing that she's minorly injured, he can't help but laugh out loud at this piece of news.

"Shut up, Tony," Ziva utters darkly. "This is why I did not wish to tell you." There's an involuntary smile rising to her lips anyway, though, and she wrinkles her nose at him.

"That's just so… so human. Who knew?"

"Hush, Tony!" She's definitely laughing with him now. She elbows him hard enough to make him groan, but it doesn't stop him from smirking at her.

"What were you watching? Must've been something terrifying to scare the great Officer David."

"If you must know, I was watching Jaws."

"Aw, Jaws is a classic! I'm proud of you!" His tone is joking, but he's serious. He's been trying to get her into movies for nearly a year now, and it both surprises him and heartens him to know that she's continuing her movie education even though he's been a little absent from her life.

"I did otherwise enjoy the film," she admits, but she looks down at her bandage with distaste. "That is one moment I would not like to relive, however."

He takes her hand gently in his and unwraps it so he can see the damage underneath. He winces at the sight—it's a clean cut and it's not too long, but it's deep. It'll almost certainly need stitches. "Oof. You've really done some damage here, haven't you? I'll list this as just one more piece of evidence vouching for the fact that you're not someone I want to get on the bad side of."

Ziva snorts but allows him to keep examining her hand. "I do more damage when I am doing it on purpose, I promise," she assures him.

"I believe that." He starts to put the bandage back on, careful not to do it too tightly and hurt her. "By the way, it's called a jump scare. Didn't know they worked on you."

"They usually do not."

"I'm all done, Tony," comes a voice from behind them, and Tony looks up. "Who's your friend?"

Aw, crap. He'd forgotten all about Jeanne. Ziva glances at his face and then back at the pretty doctor, clearly drawing conclusions.

"Uh… well, this is—this is my best friend." He smiles awkwardly at Jeanne, but she's kind enough to let him off the hook.

"You must be Zena! I've heard all about you."

Ziva's eyes snap to Tony's, but she holds out her non-injured hand to shake. Jeanne takes it enthusiastically. "I am pleased to meet you," Ziva replies softly. "Tony assured me that I eventually would, but I did not expect it to be so soon." Without looking back at Tony, she continues on in a voice that Tony correctly interprets as one that's intended to tease him. "It is funny—he never told me how beautiful you are!"

"I'm sure I did, didn't I?" he interjects tensely. This was absolutely not supposed to happen, and he's not sure what to do now that it has.

"He never mentioned that about you, either!" Jeanne's guileless blue eyes assure the NCIS agents that she means what she's saying, and Ziva thinks it's good that Tony's new girlfriend is kind.

"Well, thank you." Ziva smiles widely.

It's then that Jeanne notices the way Ziva's other hand is wrapped, and she looks at it in concern. "Oh, no! You're not in the hospital tonight to meet me, I see. Do you mind if I take a look? I'm sure Tony's told you, but I'm a doctor here."

Ziva nods her assent, offering the injured hand, and looks at Tony with slightly narrowed eyes while Jeanne unwraps her for the second time this evening. He had not, in fact, mentioned that his new girlfriend is a doctor. Ziva's also mildly suspicious of the fact that she was just called Zena, but maybe Jean just has a faulty memory.

Tony doesn't say anything, but the face he's making tells Ziva to drop it. She trusts him enough to do so, at least for now. He pastes his usual charming smile on his face, and if Ziva didn't know him so well, she might be tricked into thinking he feels as carefree as he looks. "Ladies, it seems some introductions are in order. Girlfriend, meet my best friend. Best friend, meet my girlfriend." He tries to avoid names altogether, since he's told each girl an incorrect name for the other.

"Girlfriend?" Jeanne asks with a hidden smile, still looking down to examine Ziva's hand.

"Oh, um, I mean—" Tony backtracks.

"No, girlfriend works. It's just news to me," Jeanne shares.

"That's—um, that's good."

Ziva laughs, delighted at anything that makes Tony feel awkward. He's not one to fumble when it comes to women, so this is fun to watch… regardless of Ziva's current confusion.

"Well, the bad news is that this'll need stitching, but the good news it that I don't think it'll take more than five or six," Jeanne tells Ziva kindly, reverting back to professional interest except for a bright smile. "As long as you don't mind being treated in a hallway, I can go ahead and fix you up now, if you'd like. That way you don't have to sit here waiting your turn—it's busy in the ER tonight, looks like."

"Oh, that would be wonderful. Thank you," Ziva says with relief.

Jeanne lets go of Ziva's hand and leads her further into the hospital, leaving Tony to trail behind and quietly worry. Things aren't going according to plan at all.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Tony doesn't need to worry—at least not too much. Jeanne and Ziva get along fine, and by some stroke of luck, they mostly stay away from dangerous topics.

They discuss Jeanne's work at length; Ziva's fascinated by the process it takes to train a doctor, and she's brimming with questions for Tony's new girlfriend. Of course, being the fearless woman she is, Ziva goes through being stitched up with no problems. Jeanne mentions that she's impressed when Ziva doesn't even flinch.

The only hiccup in the conversation comes when Jeanne asks about Ziva's profession.

"Looks like this isn't your first time being stitched," Jeanne comments. "I suppose you run into danger every now and then in your line of work?"

"Yes, I tend to do so—more often than is really healthy for me, I believe." There's a smile on Ziva's face as she thinks about the sheer number of times she and Tony have nearly gotten killed together. It's been fun, in her opinion. "Of course, since I am a f—"

"A private investigator! Since she's a private investigator, she doesn't always see people at their best!" Tony interrupts loudly, aware that Ziva had been about to say that she's a federal agent for all intents and purposes. "Most people who attack her end up thinking better of it, though, because she's a better fighter than you'll ever see."

Ziva whips her head around to stare at Tony—luckily, Jeanne is focusing hard on the task at hand and isn't looking up to see. "Private investigator?" Ziva mouths silently. Tony just shakes his head in an I'll-tell-you-later gesture.

Five neat stitches and twenty minutes later, Ziva's hand is in much better shape. By the time they're done, Tony's tense but can feel relief around the corner. He pulls Jeanne down the hall a little to talk to her in relative private. This isn't a conversation he wants to have in front of Ziva at all.

"Hey," he says softly, brushing her hair behind her ear. He can feel his friend watching, which puts a little lump in his throat. He's so distracted by it that he nearly forgets to use the code name he's come up with for her. "I'm sorry for ruining date night here, but I should probably take Ziv—uh, Zena home and make sure she's alright. She doesn't have any roommates or anything to help her out. If nothing else, she might need a hand cleaning up her accident—get it? A hand?" He holds up his left hand—the same one Ziva's just had stitched—and wiggles his fingers.

Luckily for him, Jeanne laughs. "Very punny," she compliments. "Of course, I completely understand. I started the interruption anyway, and I had a good time—even after I got called to the hospital." She pats him consolingly on the chest.

"You're the best," he replies, kissing her on the cheek. "I had a good time, too."

Her face instantly brightens. "I think we should definitely try this again soon, then."

"I think you're absolutely right. Maybe Friday? You said you're not on call or working then, right?"

"You've got it. I'm surprised you remembered."

Tony taps his temple. "Attention to detail is one of my specialties. How else do you think I can torture a class full of freshmen with the finer points of Hitchcock?"

Jeanne giggles. "I'd like to see that myself someday."

"You will, I promise," Tony lies. "Anyway, thank you for stitching Zena up and for forgiving my abandonment. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sounds perfect." She leans in to kiss him lightly before heading back toward Ziva. "Zena, it was wonderful to meet you. Next time, let's do it with less blood, though, okay?"

Ziva laughs—Tony's not convinced she's really amused, but Jeanne seems to buy it. "That is fine by me." They shake hands, exchange goodbyes, and head in separate directions.

"So you think I need your help to get home?" Ziva asks casually as they make their way back to the hospital exit. Tony knows that there's something slightly dangerous lurking under the conversational tone in her voice, and he winces.

"No, I don't. I know you're completely self-sufficient, so don't bite my head off, okay?"

"Why, then, did you tell your girlfriend that I would not be able to manage alone?"

"Because I needed a chance to talk to you without her around," he answers as if it's obvious.

"Talk to me about what?" Ziva pushes in a hard tone—whatever dangerous thing was lurking hasn't disappeared yet.

"Not here. Later," he replies. They're passing a lot of people in the ER waiting room, and though none of them probably care to eavesdrop, Tony sure as hell isn't going to say anything that could bite him in the butt later anyway, not when there are witnesses.

Ziva grunts out her assent and they depart the hospital in silence. She passes her keys off to him with only a small show of reluctance—though she could get home on her own, much of one of her hands is still numb, and it probably would slow her reflexes. Better to let Tony do the driving just to be safe.

Once they're on their way, Tony reaches over and lightly pushes Ziva's shoulder. "Hey. Don't be mad at me, please."

"What makes you think that I am angry?"

"You're too quiet."

"You said we had to wait to speak—"

"I didn't mean you couldn't say anything! I just meant nothing sensitive."

"Hmph."

He can't help smiling a little. She may be genuinely angry with him—he's not yet sure, either way—but her frown is adorable. "Ziva."

"What?"

"Are you ready to talk now?"

"I suppose."

"Good. I hope you're ready to listen, too. I take it you noticed that I told her you're a PI?"

"Yes. You should be glad that I trusted you enough not to call you out on it at the time."

"I am, Ziva, believe me. Really. Thank you for that." Eyes still on the road, he feels for her uninjured hand, and after a moment, she lets him have it. He squeezes her fingers gently.

"The curry is still out on whether I regret going along with it or not, however."

"The jury's still out," Tony corrects, smirking, but he squeezes her hand one more time. "Anyway, you're probably wondering why I told her what I did. Thing is, she doesn't know I work for NCIS. She doesn't know I'm a federal agent at all."

"Why not?"

"Because… well, there are several reasons," he fabricates. Luckily, he had time to think about this while he was watching Jeanne repair Ziva's hand. "One of the big ones is that—she's innocent, you know? She's so… untouched by evil, I guess. I don't want to have to answer uncomfortable questions about whether I've ever had to kill anyone, that sort of thing. I don't want to color her perception of me so soon. For once in my life, I'd like something pure to be kept that way."

He chances a glance over at Ziva, only to see her determinedly looking out the window instead of at him. She's still letting him hold her hand, but hers is resting loosely in his. Her expression has something in it that he can't identify. "Is that reason enough to build your relationship on lies?" she finally asks quietly.

"By itself, probably not," he concedes. "But there's more. I don't want her to be in danger because of who I am and what I do. You've seen the kind of situations we end up in, obviously, and not just in our day-in-day-out fieldwork. People get mad at us and hold grudges. We get accused of murder sometimes, or hell, we might even occasionally be accused of murder and espionage!" This time it's her who squeezes his hand, and to his relief, the move is accompanied by a little laugh from her. "The less she knows about my life for now, the safer she'll be."

"Is that also why she believes that my name is Zena?"

"You've got it. I don't know if you've noticed, but Ziva isn't exactly a common name here. Have you ever tried Googling yourself?"

"No, I have not." He sees out of the corner of his eye that she's turned to look suspiciously at him. "Have you?"

"I have, actually," he says, unembarrassed. "And searching your name—even just your first name—comes up with dozens of articles about the bombing in Georgetown. I'm sure you remember just how much drama all that caused. The articles say what you were accused of, they say that you're a Mossad officer assigned to work with NCIS, and they talk about the evidence against you. Obviously, you were cleared of all those charges, but those articles aren't first-page-of-Google stuff."

"And you did not wish for Jean to read about me and figure out by extension that you, too, work at NCIS," Ziva concludes.

"Hole in one," he confirmed. As always, she's quick on the uptake.

"Why lie to her about me? Why not simply avoid talking about me at all?" Her tone is confused, which blows Tony's mind.

They're stopped at a red light, so he can look over at her—he does so, incredulously. "Because you're one of the most important people in my life. Because I spend half my free time with you and she'd think I was a hermit who stays home all the time if I had to pretend all of that never happened." He nudges her with their joined hands, making her smile. "Because I'm proud to have you as a friend, okay?"

She doesn't reply to that, but he can see her smile before he has to tear his eyes away to look back at the road. He's surprised her.

"Anyway," he finishes eventually. "I'm sorry for drawing you into my lies. I hope you'll forgive me for it." It occurs to him that for someone who very much so looks up to Gibbs, he does a lot of apologizing.

"There is nothing to forgive, Tony," she tells him.

He pulls up to her apartment building and puts the car in park. "What did you think of her?" Though he knows he shouldn't, he withdraws his hand from hers and drapes his arm around her shoulders. The two weeks he spent without her companionship still weigh on him, and having her close feels like such a luxury. He knows he's torturing himself, but at the moment, it doesn't matter.

"I thought she was obviously smart, and she seems very kind. That is good—you deserve more kindness in your life," she answers earnestly. It seems she really has forgiven him, and he's touched by her assessment.

He has to resist the urge to make a joke rather than a serious reply. "Thank you, Ziva." He hopes she knows how much he means that, regardless of how stilted he may sound.

They stay there a while longer without speaking, her head on his shoulder and his arm draped protectively over her back. Realizing that he's been idling in this space for fifteen minutes, though, Tony reluctantly decides that it's time to go. "Can we do something soon?"

"What do you want to do?" Her expression says that she's anticipating something fun, and Ziva is someone who deserves to have a hell of a lot more fun than she's been allowed to have for most of her life.

"I don't know." He smiles in the way that he only ever smiles for her, soft and genuinely happy, and it pulls a smile to her lips, too. "I just know that we haven't done anything outside of work in two weeks, and I've… missed this." It's always hard to talk seriously about his feelings, but it's a little easier with Ziva.

"I have, too. Perhaps it is time to go see another film?" she proposes.

"Oh, you always know the magic words, Ziva David," he teases, and she giggles. It's his favorite of all of her laughs, the one that makes her seem younger and more carefree.

"Tomorrow? You can take my car home tonight and pick me up in the morning," she suggests.

"It's a date." He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, but she doesn't seem bothered by them. "Right, see you then." He lets his arm fall away from her shoulders.

She starts to get out of the car, but then she hesitates and turns back around to look at him. "Hey, Tony?"

"Yeah?" he answers, that soft smile rising to his face again.

"I really hope she makes you happy. That is all that I want for you." She's soft, earnest.

Then she swiftly kisses his cheek, and she's gone.

He's left to drive home in a car that smells like Ziva, thinking about how he held her hand the whole way to her apartment and he never once questioned it.

When he swings by Ziva's in the morning to pick her up for work, she's waiting out front for him despite the chill. He notes that she looks particularly stunning today, her hair straightened and her sweater a fetching green color. She looks annoyed, though, as she opens the car door to get in.

"You are late, Tony!" she scolds in lieu of a greeting.

"Good morning to you, too," he replies in a petulant tone. When she gives him a dirty look, he laughs. "Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be waiting outside for me. Anyway, I'm late for a reason. Look!" He hands her a steaming cup of coffee from her favorite shop. "The line inside was longer than I expected, hence the extra five minutes you had to stand out in the cold. I hope this at least makes up for it a little?" He gives her a charming grin and she sighs loudly but gives in.

"I will forgive you this time," she says, starting to be reluctantly amused as the heater in the car thaws her fingers.

"This time? You mean we're going to do this again? I thought you didn't like me driving your car."

She laughs and sips at her coffee. "You are right, I do not! Thank you for reminding me. You always leave the seat too far back and the mirror too high."

Her tone is teasing, and something about this whole situation—casually sipping coffee as they carpool to work, goading one another, seeing Ziva laugh in that beautiful green sweater… it gives him a sudden clarity that he absolutely was not expecting.

He's in love with Ziva David.

The realization makes him choke on his coffee; luckily, they're still in the apartment building's parking lot and so he doesn't risk a car accident during an ill-time coughing fit. "Are you alright?" Ziva asks, thumping him on the back.

"Just—just swallowed wrong," he wheezes.

"You know, Tony, it sometimes surprises me that you have survived into adulthood," Ziva replies, smirking.

He's glad he has a good excuse not to look at her.

Luckily, the rest of the ride passes without incident and soon it's business as usual. Tony's distracted all day, thinking about his partner, but it turns out to be a relatively quiet day and he gets away with it.

It's both the easiest thing in the world and the most difficult to go out with Ziva that night and not feel like it's a date. They go to the movies and watch Borat, which ends up being both funny and relatable for Ziva; she's now been living in America for over a year, and as her friends like to remind her, she's sometimes still a little off on American customs and society.

After the movie, Ziva puts aside her affinity for vegetables for the evening as she and Tony shame-eat their way through a bag of Beltway Burgers.

When she drops Tony off at his own car so he can head home, he's still lost in thought. It's been a lovely evening, but he can't stop thinking about his newly-realized feelings for Ziva. He isn't one to fall in love—though their breakup (for lack of a better word) has proven exceptionally hard on both of them, he hadn't figured out exactly why it hurt so much. This is all new to him.

Unfortunately, the realization comes two weeks and one undercover assignment too late. He's up to his elbows in the task Jenny's assigned him, and he can't just abandon it, as much as he wants to.

What he really needs to do is figure out a solution; he doesn't even know where to start. He considers what Gibbs said about compromise, but it's hard to think critically right now. It's easier and more pleasant to think about the feel of Ziva's hand squeezing his, the look on her face as she roared with laughter at his despair when he dripped burger sauce down his expensive shirt, or the sound of her voice derisively saying "Tony" when he made a joke that wasn't to her taste. Now that he's acknowledging his feelings, he's shocked to realize just how naive he's been. He's been head over heels for her for a long time now. The sheer number of Ziva-related memories he has catalogued for further perusal is evidence of that.

With no answers springing to mind, he falls asleep thinking about her.

Despite his best efforts, he knows he comes across as slightly surly during his date with Jeanne on Friday night. His date-planning prowess has failed him this week, his brain otherwise occupied, so he takes Jeanne on almost the same date as he took Ziva a few days ago. They go see Borat—Jeanne doesn't find it quite as funny as Ziva did—and go out for a late dinner afterwards.

Normally an enthusiastic talker, Tony lets Jeanne carry most of the conversation as they transition from appetizers to entrees to desserts. He's sort of listening to what she's saying, but he's still startled when she suddenly changes the topic.

"What do you want out of life, Tony?" Her expression is curious, contemplative. She's asking for a reason.

"I—what?" he says, thrown.

"You know… what are your goals? Long-term?" Her big blue eyes rest, unblinking, on his face.

"I…" he pauses, hesitates. Though what he's feeling doesn't matter at all to his cover story and Tony DiNardo would probably have a straight answer, the urge to talk to someone about his recent realizations is nearly irresistible. He's never had much of a filter, and he's never been one to keep his thoughts to himself.

"What, is it that hard of a question?" Jeanne is smiling, but it's a confused expression, fumbling. He can tell that she regrets asking him.

"No, it's just… how do you know what you really want?" Cover or no cover, it's a question he'd really like answered. Figuring out his complicated feelings for Ziva hasn't exactly given him a clear idea of how to proceed or even what goal he would want to work toward.

Jeanne stops to consider this. "I've never really thought about it that way, I guess. When you look at your life fifteen years from now, what do you see? If you don't filter yourself, and you don't limit yourself, where do you want to be?"

"When you put it that way…" For a moment, he closes his eyes, trying to do what she suggested. "I see… well, most things are the same." Still working with Ziva, McGee, and Gibbs, still popping down to Abby's lab or Ducky's autopsy to check on things. "I like the way my life is now. It would be nice to not come home to an empty apartment, though, if I could do that without losing the rest of what makes my life so...so sweet. I see a home filled with—with life." He realizes that his words are true even as he speaks them, and it throws him for a loop yet again. When did he become this person who wants something so domestic? When did he decide that he's better off abandoning his eternal bachelor's ways, letting his lines and boundaries bend and soften until the shape that's left hardly resembles what was there before?

Oh, yeah. Since Ziva David crashed into his life.

"Who do you see in that not-empty home?" Jeanne wants to know.

Tony opens his eyes and looks at her, smiling and deliberately not answering.

"I see." The little smile still playing at Jeanne's lips still looks off somehow. She may not be sharing it, but something's bothering her.

"What's wrong?" he asks after a moment of dithering.

She doesn't lose the smile, but her eyes focus hard on his face.

"How long have you been in love with Zena?"

Chapter Text

"How long have you been in love with Zena?"

"Excuse me?" The question jars Tony, makes him panic. He looks away and then back at her; even as the thought occurs to him that he should hide his reaction, he knows it's too late.

"Come on, you heard me." Her smile has turned humorless. "You're completely transparent, Tony."

"In love with— I'm not—" he sputters.

"Are you lying to me, or are you lying to yourself?" she asks shrewdly.

That finally stops him, and given how recently he's come to the same conclusion himself, he's floored by her acuity. "Both of us, I guess," he finally answers, sheepish. Once again, this assignment is veering off in a direction that he didn't intend for it to travel in, and he's not sure how to proceed.

"Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm not going to hit you." Jeanne's smile turns sweeter again, amused. "I knew you were too good to be true." It's said without malice, but he still winces.

"I didn't mean to…" he trails off, uncertain of how to finish that sentence.

"You didn't mean to lead me on. I get it," she says with apparent sincerity.

Tony's surprised that she really doesn't seem angry with him at all. "Why are you so… calm about this?" he wonders aloud.

"Because I've been on your side of a rebound relationship before. I know how you've got to feel." She shrugs. She's not smiling anymore, but she's still looking at him with a compassionate expression.

"Rebound?" he echoes. "She and I… we've never…"

"Ah, you may have skipped having a formal relationship with her, but that doesn't mean you weren't emotionally attached to her. What changed?"

He looks at her suspiciously, frowning. "Thought you didn't work on the psych floor, Dr. Benoit," he jokes uncomfortably.

"I don't." Laughing lightly, she sits back in her seat, still studying him. "I do, however, know a troubled soul when I see one. You, Tony DiNardo, are in desperate need of someone to talk to."

Tony's struck again by just how likeably Jeanne comes across, and he regrets that he still can't tell her who he really is. She's choosing to be kind rather than allowing herself to be hurt, something he's not sure he's ever been able to do.

"You might be right," he admits after a minor war with himself.

"Alright, then, spill. Tell me what happened."

He deliberates for a moment—obviously, he can't tell her everything or even most things, but the basics are shareable, especially if he changes some details. Jeanne's wide-eyed, concerned expression is hard to say no to. "I… I met Zena around a year and a half ago. We didn't immediately get along, but I'll admit I found her… intriguing, even from the beginning. Attractive. She ended up being someone that was in my life for a lot longer than I thought she would be—I sort of figured we'd never meet again, after the first time.

"But over time, we got closer and started spending more time together. I know I've told you some of it—we do things together all the time. Every time I come across something I'd enjoy, my first thought is to tell Zena about it because everything that's fun to do is more fun to do together. After a while of that kind of thing happening more and more often, I started to realize that what I felt for her was stronger than what I've felt for anyone else I've ever met. That… well, it really scared me, so I ran.

"I told her that I wanted to stop doing what we were doing. I really hurt her that day, Jeanne, but I had some things I needed to work through and understand alone. We spent weeks fighting after that, and we have this—this mutual friend who got tired of it. The friend basically shoved us together in one room and told us that if we couldn't figure out how to forgive one another, he'd only be friends with one of us because he didn't want to be the middleman.

"For the sake of our friend, we talked it out and we admitted some things to one another. We were both hurt and angry, but we worked it out. That was recent, though, and what you just—uh, deduced…"

"You mean that you're in love with her?" Jeanne correctly guesses.

"Um, yes, that. That's something I've only just come to realize myself." He finishes his story awkwardly… this does somehow feel oddly like therapy, mostly because in most of his close relationships, they don't have this kind of conversation very often. He's vitally aware, then, of how much he's just spoken and revealed about himself, even if some of it's fabricated. It's weird, something he's not used to doing.

Jeanne nods, contemplating what he just told her. "So now that you know, what's stopping you from pursuing her? You obviously want to."

"I can't," he answers immediately. "It's more complicated than that."

"Complicated how?"

"There are a lot of factors to consider," he replies.

"Factors like what?" Jeanne pushes.

"Well, there's you," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"No, no, no, don't drag me into this." Yet again, she's laughing when she says it, but it's gentle, not mocking or angry. "I mentioned that I've had a rebound relationship before, but I've also been on the other side of it. It's not something I want to do again. You're a sweet guy, Tony, and I think you're wonderful, but it just isn't going to work while you're in love with someone else. Go ahead and leave me out of the equation." She pats him on the shoulder in a way that says 'no hard feelings' and he sighs.

Clearly, he's going to have to approach this assignment from another angle—the one he's been coming at it from is shot to hell. No use stressing about it just yet, though, because there's little he can do about it right now. He needs some time to strategize before he decides what to do next… and besides, he's probably gaining more of Jeanne's trust by being honest right now. "Okay," he agrees. "You were a consideration, but even if you're not, there are still other… barriers."

"Tell me about them."

"Well, Zena's and my mutual friend, for instance. He would be—" he laughs suddenly with a dark humor, imagining Gibbs' frustration if he and Ziva started hooking up again after they made him so mad the last time. "Ah, he'd be pissed, to put it lightly. He wouldn't like us trying something that could end badly, not after our last fight so nearly ruined things for our relationships with him."

"If he'd be that angry with you because you tried to be happy with your best friend, maybe he's not that good of a friend," Jeanne suggests.

"No," Tony disagrees quietly, thinking about everything Gibbs has done for him over the years. "He's as good a friend as I could ever have—he's a better friend than I deserve. He's a wonderful friend to Zena, too."

"Okay," Jeanne concedes, nodding. She flips her earlier point on its head with exactly as much conviction. "Then if he's as good as you say he is, he'll forgive you. He'll come around. Friends want friends to be happy." Tony flashes back to Ziva saying something very similar earlier in the week, and his cheek suddenly feels warm where she kissed it.

"The best ones do," he says to himself.

Jeanne nods in agreement. "Is that all? I've got to say, those hang-ups are not the biggest I've ever seen," she comments, teasing.

"No, that's not all," Tony replies in a pseudo-annoyed tone, but he smiles. "Those are just… some of them." There's the Benoit assignment, there's Gibbs, and then there's the biggest hurdle-Ziva herself. "Here's another one—I'm sure you heard from listening to Zena talk that she's not American. She's not a citizen here, and there's no telling how long she'll be in Washington. What's the point in starting a relationship with someone when they might move halfway across the world in a month or a year from now?"

"There's plenty of point," Jeanne counters. "You could always move with her if she left, or better yet, you could give her a reason to stay here."

Tony has a sinking feeling that he wouldn't be enough. Ziva's first priority is and probably always will be Mossad and Israel itself. She's sworn herself to protect them, and the only reason she arrived here in the first place was because of her duty—she was following orders. Luckily for Gibbs' whole team, those orders have kept her here, but that might not be true indefinitely. What would he expect her to do if her father ordered her home? Quit Mossad and stay with him? He can't see it happening, and he's not sure he could ever ask her to, no matter how much it would hurt to see her leave. She'd go crazy within a month sitting in Washington if she didn't have assignments to complete and the team to work with.

"Tony?" Jeanne prompts, and he realizes he's zoned out and has been staring into space for too long.

"Sorry," he responds, shaking himself. "I guess you're right. It's just… I don't know if I'd be enough to keep her here. That doesn't matter so much for now, though, because at the moment, she is here. The bigger issue—maybe the biggest one of all—is that I really hurt her, Jeanne. I don't think she believes in me anymore. She may still be my friend and she may still have my back, but I'd say there's a strong possibility that she won't trust me with her heart any time soon."

"Mm… that is a pickle," Jeanne agrees. Her face has a conspiratorial expression on it, though, at odds with what she's saying.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he demands.

"Because that would only be a problem if it were true."

"What do you mean?"

Jeanne smiles ruefully, shaking her head. "It's so easy to see what's going on unless you're in the middle of it, I guess," she speculates softly, almost to herself, and then shifts her focus back to Tony. "It was clear to me within a few minutes of meeting Zena how strongly you feel for her, right?"

He nods in confirmation, mildly suspicious of where she's going with this.

"Then it shouldn't surprise you that I could see the exact same thing about her. She loves you, Tony. It was obvious every time she looked at you. Her face just lit up when she was interacting with you—I don't even think she noticed that I was putting needles into her hand!"

"You know, you're not the first person to say that to me this week."

"No?" Jeanne smiles at him in an almost pitying way that should offend him but doesn't. "Then maybe now is the time you'll listen to it."

He laughs uncomfortably. "Even if you were right—and I'm not sure you are, mind—I'd say there's a good chance that Zena hasn't realized it herself."

"Well, you didn't realize you were in love with her until recently either, right?" she points out.

"Right, but you don't know Zena like I do."

"How about you enlighten me? What am I missing here? Because it seems to me like something she just needs a little nudge to figure out."

"Zena is… well, she's had a hard life. A really hard one. I don't even know most of the details because she doesn't like to talk about it, but she had a difficult time growing up and she's lost a lot of people. It's left her sort of… stunted, emotionally." He feels guilt bubbling in his gut at describing her that way, but he's not sure how else to say it. She does have trouble expressing her emotions, and he's not sure how often she lets herself feel anything at all.

"That's all the more reason to make her happy, Tony," Jeanne persists softly.

A small smile floats to Tony's lips. "I'd really like to, if she gives me the chance."

Somehow, Jeanne has given him the hope that despite odds that feel insurmountable right now, he'll be able to come up with some kind of solution to get through this and work it all out. He just has to find the right path.

An idea comes to him later that night. Like most of his good ideas, it comes in a stroke of movie-inspired brilliance.

Sunday evening, he's flipping movie channels on his tv, trying to decide what to watch. There's nothing that looks particularly appealing at the moment, much to his annoyance, so he leaves the tv in guide mode and goes to feed Kate and use the restroom. When he comes back, the guide has timed out, auto-selecting the channel he'd randomly stopped on. That movie is playing now.

It's not a film he would usually pick to watch—sort of a girly movie, in his opinion. It's the 1993 version of Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. Still, the scene happening on the screen catches his eye, and he settles in to watch it.

He saw a production of the play in high school a million years ago, but he's long since forgotten the plot. Watching it now, he gets surprisingly engrossed in the simple but engaging storyline of trying to make two people realize they're in love with one another.

That's when it hits him. Much as Beatrice and Benedick's friends trick them by making each believe that the other is in love, he can give Ziva a reason not to give up on him. He's even got a plan for what to do with Jeanne to salvage his assignment.

Plausible deniability is the key here, he's certain of it.

Mid-morning on Monday, Ziva is at her desk doing research for a cold case when her phone rings. Barely bothering to tear her eyes away from the computer, she picks it up and glances at the caller ID. Tony DiNozzo, it reads, confusing her. He was just at his desk a minute ago, and as far as she knows, they have no active cases that would require him to do fieldwork or even go down to talk to Abby or Ducky.

"David," she answers after a moment.

All she can hear on the other end is rustling. "Tony? Are you there?" Still nothing. She's about to give up and hang up, assuming it was an accidental call, when she finally hears his voice.

"Director! You wanted to see me?" Director? Well, that explains why he's not in the bullpen for now.

"I did. Sit down, Agent DiNozzo."

Ziva can hear Tony pulling back a chair and then more rustling. He's probably sitting now, and she should absolutely hang up. This definitely is an accidental call, not meant for Ziva's ears, but Tony's been acting so weird lately and maybe this will help Ziva to figure out why. Glancing around the bullpen guiltily to make sure that neither McGee nor Gibbs are paying her any attention, she presses the phone closer to her ear.

"Thanks for coming," Ziva hears the director's tinny voice say. The voices are a little distant, but it's possible to make them out.

"Of course. What can I do for you?" Tony replies.

"I'm looking for a status update. You've had this assignment for close to a month now, and I was hoping to hear that things are progressing."

Assignment? What assignment does Tony have that he hasn't mentioned to ZIva? Usually, they work the same cases, but as of now, Ziva is pretty sure they don't have any open investigations.

"I am making progress, Director," Tony replies cheerfully.

There's a pause after which Shepard speaks with mild annoyance. "Would you care to elaborate?"

Tony chuckles. "Gladly. Jeanne Benoit is a lovely girl and I'm getting to know her well, if you catch my drift." Ziva's eyebrows fly up, surprised that Tony would be that openly suggestive with the director.

"I can imagine," Shepard says dryly. "Have you learned anything about her father?"

"She's mentioned him, but that's about all I've got. No sign of Daddy Dearest visiting any time soon, but from the way she talks about him, I think you're right and they're close. He'll show up. Most of what I've learned we already know: he spends most of his time in Paris, he makes frequent "business trips" all around the world, and he put his little girl through medical school. I would really be surprised if Jeanne had any clue of what he's up to, though I don't know how she thinks the Frog got all of his money."

"Okay. Stay on her, DiNozzo. You're doing a good job and she's the best chance we have."

"Right. Thanks, Director. Anything else?"

"No, that's all. You're dismissed."

There's more rustling—Ziva thinks Tony is standing up and walking—and she assumes this means he's coming soon. She quickly hangs up the phone before Tony can figure out that his line was open for the entire short meeting; Ziva certainly doesn't want him to know that she heard the whole thing. Clearly, this is something that he's not supposed to tell her—she wonders if Gibbs even knows.

When Tony doesn't return to his desk for a few minutes, she discreetly starts to search on her computer for the key words she heard. Searching the name Jeanne Benoit in the NCIS database of cases doesn't come up with any hits. She tries frog and that doesn't work, either. She's about to try something else when a coffee cup appears right in front of her eyes, blocking her view of the computer. It startles her and she jumps lightly, cursing in Hebrew and closing out of her search tab. "Tony," she snaps, "are you in the habit of rudely sneaking up on people!?"

"Why yes, I am, and thank you for noticing. If you don't want the coffee, though, I'll give it to someone else."

Scowling, the accepts the coffee with a grunt of thanks.

"What were you up to, anyway?" Tony asks, continuing to stand there and annoy her so she can't search. "I saw you close something miiighty fast there, David. Were you watching—" he pauses for dramatic effect, wiggling his eyebrows— "naughty movies at work?"

In answer, she reaches up and flicks his nose, making him splutter and choke on his coffee. She laughs darkly and he gives her a dirty look, moving away without further comment. He then sets the offending drink on his desk and walks over to McGee's.

"Hey, Tim!" he says loudly.

"Yes, Tony?" Tim replies, looking up in vague exasperation. His coworker is always up to something, and McGee is positive that this interaction will not prove to be an exception.

"Can I talk to you?" Tony looks around to make sure there's no one watching and then leans in and lowers his voice. "I mean, in private."

"Sure, Tony," Tim says, yawning and standing up. He starts to head toward the elevator, home of the majority of covert or serious NCIS conversations, but Tony grabs him by the upper arm and steers him in another direction.

Behind them, Ziva is still sitting at her desk, debating with herself. She wants to follow and eavesdrop again—she's already listened in on one of Tony's conversations today, so what's the harm in listening to another? She'd love to get to the bottom of his back-and-forth, hot-and-cold behavior, if possible. She doesn't want him to be angry at her for listening, though, when they've only recently made up from their last explosive fight.

She's still feeling torn when they disappear around a corner and she makes the questionable decision to follow them. Taking care to walk and act normally in front of Gibbs, she breaks into a sneakier, quieter walk once she's out of his sight. She knows where Tony and Tim are going—the private little corner by the stairs. If she goes around the other side, she should be able to stand along the wall behind without them seeing her.

Sure enough, when she slides into place near the corner, her back pressed against the bright orange wall, she can hear low voices.

"Stop making jokes and just tell me whatever it is you want to tell me, Tony!" McGee is annoyed, obviously, and Ziva has to wonder what Tony's up to.

"Are you really in a hurry right now, McTimmy Tim Tim? This place is cold case central. I'm spicing up your day and you know it."

"I'm going back to my desk now," Tim says flatly, and there are a few steps before Tony speaks.

"Okay, okay, fine, there's no need to be hasty. I'll talk." Ziva smiles to herself, because Tony sounds like a suspect in the middle of interrogation.

"Go ahead and do that, then."

"Right. Taaaaalking. Talking. I can do that. I'm ready to do that." He's stalling for something, but Ziva can't figure out what it is.

"Do you want me to shoot you, Tony? Because I can, and I will."

"No, you won't! Okay, maybe you will. Put that back."

Ziva holds in her silent laughter. Long gone are the days when Tony could manipulate, trick, or haze Tim into doing whatever he wanted. Now they have a relationship that's closer to brothers, and knowing that Tony grew up without siblings, Ziva's glad to see him have that with someone… even if it means he and Tim spent all of their time annoying one another.

"Tony, what's your problem?"

"If you really want toknow that badly—"

"I don't," Tim mutters. "You're the one that dragged me over here to listen."

Tony continues on with the uppity air of someone who's determinedly ignoring someone else. "If you must know, I want to talk to you about women."

"Women? If this is another one of those beautiful moments where you want to give me sex advice, I'm out."

"What? No, McDon Juan, not everything is about you. I'm talking about myself and women."

"Tony, please tell me you didn't pull me away from my desk to tell me about more of your sexcapades."

"Would you just listen?" Tony's getting snappy, and Ziva grins again. He's easy to rile up, and she thinks McGee might be doing it on purpose to relieve the boredom of a cold case day.

"Fine. Shutting up."

"Finally. Now, what I am about to tell you is top secret. No telling anyone. Don't mention this to Shepard, make sure as hell to not mention this to Gibbs, and I will actually tear you a new one if you mention this to Ziva. Got it?"

"Got it," Tim affirms, sounding bored.

"Okay. So here's the thing. There's this one girl that I…" There's a pause. "I just can't get her out of my head, and I don't know what to do about it."

"Aren't you already dating her?" Tim sounds skeptical. "You've been coming in with your I-just-got-laid swagger again and I think I've heard the name Jean a few times."

"Jean? No, not her. This girl is much more important than Jean."

Ziva chances a glance around the corner at that; Tim has his back to her and Tony's looking serious, his arms crossed. She pulls back before he can see her. Last she heard, he was really enjoying getting to know Jean, so who's this 'more important' woman? A tiny voice in the back of her head reminds her that if he stopped sleeping with her to be with Jean because he thought Jean was 'the one' and then he broke up with the girl after a mere period of weeks, it doesn't say anything good about how little Ziva herself really means to him.

Tony's next words shock her, though.

"If it's not Jean, then who is it?" Tim asks.

"It's Ziva," Tony says with no hint of joking in his tone.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Tim replies with a groan. "This again? This office barely survived World War III the last time you two fought. Didn't that teach you a lesson?"

Ziva's heart races, and she strains her ears to make sure she's not missing anything that Tony says.

"It's not 'this again', Tim, because it's not the same thing. It isn't sex that I can't get out of my head."

"I do not want to think about you and Ziva sleeping together," Tim interrupts.

"I just said this isn't about sex, McGee, keep up," Tony snaps sarcastically.

"What's it about?"

"I really think I'm in love with her." The sardonic tone is immediately gone from his voice—he sounds almost somber instead.

Several seconds of silence meet this statement, and Ziva has stopped breathing.

"Really? You? In love? Who are you and what have you done with DiNozzo?"

"I'm serious, Tim. I've never felt this way about anybody."

"Tony…" Tim seems to hesitate. "Maybe you should be telling her this instead of me."

Afraid this means their conversation will shortly be over and that they'll be returning to their desks, Ziva hurries back to her own. It turns out to be several more minutes before they come back into her line of sight, but that's a good thing because she has time to compose herself.

Tim slips back into his desk chair with a significant look at Tony. Tony ignores it, heading right for the cup on his desk. "Damn, my coffee's cold. Wish you weren't such a chatterbox, McGoo."

"You're hilarious. Why didn't you pursue a career in comedy instead of law enforcement?" Tim replies flatly.

After that, silence returns to the bullpen, and Ziva gets back to trying to interpret the conversations she's heard today. Every few minutes, she allows herself to peek over at Tony, but he seems engrossed in something on his computer.

Ziva goes back to the NCIS case database and tries a few other things that don't work. Something is nagging at her, though, something she's missing. She goes over the things she heard Tony and Shepard say—the Frog, why does that sound so familiar?

Then it hits her—La Grenouille, the frog in French. That's why it's familiar, she knows his French epithet! He's a major European arms dealer, and now Ziva's sure that's who they were talking about. It sounds like Tony's secret assignment has something to do with him. She still can't find anything about this Jeanne woman in the database, though, so she goes to Google.

She types in Jeanne Benoit and her heart starts to race. The first result, attached to the webpage for Monroe University Hospital, is a photo of Tony's girlfriend Jean.

The pieces start to fall into place. Tony is "dating" Jeanne on assignment from Director Shepard, presumably getting close to her to learn of her father's whereabouts. Tony got this assignment around the same time he ended his arrangement with Ziva. Now he's regretting that, but he's still caught up in an assignment.

"Ha-matzav khara," she curses under her breath. Things have gotten a lot more complicated and this is going to make it a lot harder to move on.

Chapter Text

Abby Sciuto likes to get to work early. She loves her job and always has and that's part of why she prefers to be one of the first employees in the office, but part of it is also that she has her morning rituals. Morning is the perfect time to blast music, take inventory and re-order what she's running out of, convince Major Mass Spec that today isn't the day to sass her, update her computer… the list is endless, and she enjoys every minute of it.

This morning, though, she isn't the first one in the office. She isn't even the first one in her lab, which she discovers with a squeak when she turns on the lights to find someone sitting, cross-legged, in her office chair. "Ziva!" she cries, her hand flying to her racing heart. "You scared me! What are you doing here so early? Actually, what are you doing here at all? In the dark? In my chair?"

"Slow down, Abby," Ziva says, holding up a hand and laughing. "I came here because I wanted to talk to you."

"At…" Abby pauses to glance at her clock. "0610?"

"Well, I was up early anyway."

Abby slings her bag down on the floor and perches on the desk next to her friend. "Up early, or didn't sleep at all?" she clarifies intuitively.

"You are too clever," Ziva admits with a sigh. "I did not have much success in sleeping last night, it is true."

"Something bothering you?"

"No," Ziva answers immediately, mostly out of reflex. Then she shrugs uncomfortably, reminding herself that she came here to talk, not to clam up and avoid saying anything. She needs someone to talk to, and Abby is one of the most trustworthy people she knows. "Yes," she corrects herself a second later.

"Want to tell me about it?" Abby prods gently.

"I suppose that I do." She doesn't immediately elaborate, though, and Abby, knowing how Ziva operates, decides to take the pressure off.

"Come on." Abby hops up to return to the other part of her lab and starts flicking on machines, getting everything ready for the day. By doing this while she talks to Ziva, the other woman won't have to deal with the additional demand of having someone's eyes on her.

Ziva watches her work for a time before speaking up. "I… I learned something yesterday afternoon, and… I am not sure how to deal with this new information."

"What did you learn?" Abby prompts, booting up her computer with more care and attention than usual.

"I learned that To—that someone has… feelings for me." Her words are halting; it still feels very unnatural to voluntarily reveal personal information about herself, even to one of her closest friends in the world.

Abby makes sure her face is still hidden as she grins. She knows who that someone probably is, and the "feelings" in question are probably only a surprise to Ziva herself. "Why don't you know what to do with that?" she asks instead of pointing this out. "It's usually pretty straightforward, right? If you have feelings, too, you go for it, and if you don't, you gently let the other person down."

"I do not think that my feelings matter very much here at all, Abby," Ziva answers, and to Abby's horror and surprise, there's a break in her friend's voice.

"Oh, Ziva…" she murmurs, turning around and giving Ziva a hug. Ziva returns it, her face pressed into Abby's shoulder, and Abby realizes that this really must be bothering the Israeli, who is not usually physically affectionate. "Of course your feelings matter." She breaks the hug after a moment and takes her friend's hand, leading her out of the lab. "Come on, there shouldn't be anyone up in the breakroom yet. Let's sit down and I'll make some tea."

Up in the breakroom, she parks Ziva at a table and buzzes about with her electric kettle and teabags. A few minutes later, she has two steaming mugs settled on the table and she's sitting across from her friend. "Now," she starts softly. "Why don't you think your feelings matter?"

"Because there are bigger things going on here than T—than that someone and I," Ziva shares uncomfortably, staring into her tea.

"Okay, first of all," Abby starts, grinning despite her worry, "you don't have to keep saying 'someone' when I know you're talking about Tony." Ziva's eyes flash to meet hers, and Abby reaches over to gently pat her friend's hand. "Everyone here has known for a long time that you guys aren't just friends. I mean, not everyone, I'm sure some people haven't noticed, but your friends have. And by your friends, I mostly mean me and McGee and Gibbs and Ducky and Palmer and—"

"I get it," Ziva says, cutting her off with a watery little chuckle. "Okay, so Tony. There are things that are bigger than Tony and I."

"Like what?" Abby asks. "If you're talking about Gibbs, you know he'll get used to the idea eventually. He's just… protective of his team balance, you know? And he's worried about the two of you. He's concerned for your wellbeing and he doesn't want to see you hurt—either of you."

"It is not Gibbs that is the problem—well, not only Gibbs, anyway."

"Then what else is it?"

Ziva looks a little pained. "I am sorry, Abby, but I cannot tell you."

"What, is my security clearance not high enough?" Abby jokes. To her surprise, Ziva grimaces before schooling her expression. "That's it, isn't it?" Abby realizes. "This is case-related. And it's not a case I'm working."

Relieved that she doesn't have to explain or skirt the issue entirely, Ziva nods.

"Well, cases don't last forever," Abby says consolingly. "It'll be closed eventually, and then you guys can be happy together. I just know you will be, because anyone would see that you're a perfect couple! I mean it, you're totally built for each other. Like, mentally, not physically, though I know you guys probably like that bit, too, not that I'm prying into your sex life or anything—" Abby cuts herself off to breathe, making Ziva grin.

Her friend was absolutely the right person to come to, because though nothing has actually changed, Ziva is inexplicably starting to feel just a little bit better. "You would make an excellent cheerleader, Abby," she tells the scientist.

"I was an excellent cheerleader, but that's beside the point." She cocks her head to one side, considering Ziva. "You know what? You haven't told me how you feel. You've just said that it doesn't matter."

"I…" Ziva shrugs helplessly. "I care for him. I do not have the words for anything else."

Abby seems to understand this, because she doesn't push. "What words did he say?"

"He said he thinks he is in love with me." This, at least, is said in a completely steady, non-halting voice, because Ziva's been thinking about it nonstop since she heard it.

Abby beams and makes a noise that Ziva can only describe as a quiet squeal. "Ah! Of course he is! Who wouldn't be? You're wonderful."

Ziva's face heats up, and not for the first time, she thinks about how fortunate she is to have ended up here in this ragtag group that has become her family. "As are you, Abby," she says, feeling almost bashful. It's not something she often feels.

"How did he say it? Like, what were his exact words? And what did you say back? Where were you when you talked? Was it, like, totally romantic?"

"One question at a time, Abbs. And actually… he did not exactly say it to me. He was, um… he was saying it to McGee. I overheard the conversation over by the stairs in the bullpen yesterday." She's slightly embarrassed to admit that she was eavesdropping.

"Oh!" Abby squeaks, clapping her hands over her mouth. "It's a secret? Who does Tony even think he's kidding? Everyone's known for ages!"

From the look on Ziva's face, Abby amends her statement. "Well, almost everyone. I suppose it's news to you," she says sympathetically. Love is hard, no matter who you are.

Ziva nods, not sure what to say to that, but Abby doesn't need her to say anything. Lost in thought, they sit in companionable silence for a minute or two before Abby breaks it. "Drink your tea. I'll leave you here to think 'cause it seems like you need it, but you know where to find me if you want to talk again."

Ziva gives her a grateful smile. "Thank you, Abby."

"Any time," Abby replies sincerely. "Oh, and Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose any of us ever say it to you, but you know that Tony's not the only one who loves you around here, right?"

This time, it's Ziva who stands and initiates the hug, surprising Abby in the best way. "I know," Ziva murmurs, squeezing her friend's shoulders. It's awfully good to have a home again, she thinks.

Tony brings pizza to Jeanne's apartment a few days later. This is the second time they've gotten together since they had their serious talk, leading him to hope that he can get through this assignment after all. Though he's certain that Jenny implied seduction when she gave him the op, he's just as sure that forging a deep friendship with Jeanne will be just as effective, and it'll hopefully hurt her less in the end. He's really starting to care about her.

With that in mind, the aim is just to hang out tonight. He's convinced her to watch an Ohio State basketball game with him because that's what he does with most of his non-work buddies when they get together.

When he gets inside, she has beers and the tv waiting, and they settle onto her sofa to watch. Tony carefully nudges the conversation, first this way and then that, determined to get information that he can pass on to Jenny. The sooner this assignment is finished with, the better—for all involved.

An hour into the game, he gets a text from Ziva and, struck by sudden inspiration, he groans.

Jeanne catches on. "What's wrong?" she asks curiously.

"It's my dad," Tony lies. "He's so…" He trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb and working to look frustrated.

"He's so what?" Jeanne, clearly intrigued, shifts her body so that she's facing him rather than the tv.

"He's just… obnoxious. He wasn't a great dad when I was growing up, you know? Calling him an absentee parent would be putting it nicely. He was never around, and after my mom died… he just stopped caring about raising me. I was shipped off to boarding school during the year and sleepaway camps during the summer so he didn't have to deal with me."

Jeanne nods, sympathetic. "That must have been tough. What's he doing that's frustrating you now, though?"

"He's trying to make up for lost time, I guess. Right now, he's trying hard to get me to go visit him in New York. I'm not sure why he thinks I'd want to, and it's not like I even have the time! We're right in the middle of the semester." Part of this story is, of course, invented for Jeanne's sake, but his frustrations with his father couldn't be more real.

"Maybe you can visit him after the semester ends," Jeanne suggests lightly. "It might be too late to change how your childhood went, but you're both still alive and healthy. It's not too late to change how the future of your relationship goes."

"Spoken like someone who has a perfectly healthy relationship with both of her parents," Tony replies with a dark laugh.

"You could, too, if you could put aside your bitterness," she replies, a little stung by his tone.

"Why's it on me to forgive him?" Tony questions in annoyance. "Isn't it sort of the parent's job to do the legwork?"

"He is doing his job here, Tony," Jeanne insists. "He's reaching out. That puts the ball in your court, doesn't it? There isn't a whole lot else he could do. If he tried harder with it—like showing up in Washington to visit you, for example—then he'd push too much and end up pushing you away."

"Oh, yeah?" He looks at her seriously, finally getting to the root of why he'd started this conversation in the first place. "Why does it sound like you're speaking from firsthand experience?"

"Probably because I am," Jeanne says with a sigh.

"What happened?" Here's his chance to get information from her—he just has to do it gently.

"Believe it or not, my dad was pretty similar to yours when I was growing up. I mean, he didn't exactly ship me off, but my parents were divorced and my dad was never around. He took a lot of business trips and he'd bring me souvenirs, but it was a poor substitute for having him around, that's for sure."

Tony nods encouragingly, filing the souvenirs thing away for a future question.

Jeanne continues after a pause. "When I was a teenager, I got sick of it. I told him to stop bringing me things, stop paying for things. I told him I couldn't be bought. He didn't like that very much, but after a while, he started changing. He visited more often and spent more effort than money on the time we had together."

"The difference here is that you were still a kid when he figured out what he was doing wrong," Tony points out. "My dad hasn't bothered with me my whole life, so why start now?"

"I thought that when I was a teenager, too, but eventually I could see that he did love me, just in his own way. I'm sure your dad is the same."

Tony smiles humorlessly, letting that drop. He's just noticed something in Jeanne's apartment that'll help with his line of gentle questioning. "Those Russian nesting dolls," he says, gesturing to the little wooden doll set on her bookshelf. "Are they one of the souvenirs your dad brought you?"

She smiles, nostalgic. "Yeah. Funny how they mean a lot more to me now than they did back then. He used to make a lot of trips to Russia and he brought those to me after one of them. Ma chérie, look! The little girls in Russia like dolls just like you do, he told me. Did you forget to tell me that you're Russian, too?" Tony has to laugh at her imitation of her father's French accent, and she joins in. "I thought that was such a funny question—I couldn't have been more than six or seven at the time, and for years after that, I'd talk to him in this silly accent and try to pretend that I was just coming back from a trip to Russia, too."

"I know you're all grown up now," Tony says, nudging her, "but does your dad still bring you souvenirs from Russia?"

"Not so much anymore," Jeanne answers, "but he sometimes does from other places. He brought me that from Afghanistan last year—" she points to the rug that her coffee table is resting on— "and that from Korea over Christmas." This time, she points to a framed piece of painted hanji paper on the wall. Tony takes careful mental notes, because this will help point them in the direction of some of La Grenouille's recent travels. Hopefully, it'll also help them decipher where he's been active in the last few years.

"Does he visit you very often?"

Jeanne shrugs. "A few times a year. He's a busy man. Sometimes I go visit him in Paris, too, but he hasn't been there for more than a few days at a time in a while, I think."

"Any visits coming up soon?"

"Not that he's mentioned to me. Why, are you wanting to meet him?" she teases.

"I don't know… I'm not much for meeting families, you know?" he jokes. "Makes things seem really serious."

"Even families of people you're just friends with?" Her expression turns mischievous. "Have you met Zena's family?"

"God, no," he says before he can stop himself, venom in his voice.

"Okay, I was just making fun of you, but what made you you react like that?" Jeanne wants to know.

He hesitates. "You know how I mentioned that she's had a hard life and lost a lot of people?"

Jeanne nods, recalling the conversation.

"Well, most of her family is gone. Her dad's still around, back in her home country, but he's… he's the reason that a lot of stuff has gone wrong for her. He's an asshole." He says it with complete confidence, despite never having met Eli David in person. The man's reputation and the damage Tony knows Eli's done to Ziva are enough to color Tony's opinion forever.

"You feel strongly about him," Jeanne observes mildly.

"Damn straight, I do," Tony mutters. "Zena deserves better than the way he's treated her. She always has." Ziva hasn't told him much, but he can read her like a book. Every time her father comes up in conversation, her face hardens back into the emotionless warrior's mask. Tony doesn't have to know more than that to feel fiercely protective of his partner where Eli David is concerned.

"Then it's a good thing she has you now," Jeanne responds encouragingly. "Everyone deserves someone fighting in their corner."

Tony gives her a rare kind of smile, fierce and a little dangerous. Jeanne isn't sure what to make of it. "Oh, Zena has a lot of people fighting in her corner. She's hard to get close to, but once you really know her… she's uncommonly loyal, and she inspires the same loyalty in others. I think that if nothing else, her friends and I have helped her see just how much she doesn't deserve what her father has done." At least he hopes that's true.

Jeanne smiles a little sadly at that. "I hope that someday, someone shows you the same thing, Tony." She kisses his cheek and deliberately turns back to the basketball game on tv, closing the subject of fathers and dysfunctional families for now.

The end of the week comes swiftly.

Tony's about to head home for the evening after a brief meeting with Jenny when a hand shoots between the closing elevator doors, stopping them. He isn't surprised at all when he sees that it's Gibbs, and he silently moves to the side to make room, wondering what the older man wants to talk to him about.

Sure enough, Gibbs flips the emergency switch as soon as the car is moving, and Tony looks at him expectantly.

"What are you going over my head for, DiNozzo?" he demands, and Tony recognizes that he's angry about something.

"What do you mean?" he asks, frowning.

"You just came out of Shepard's office. That's the third time this month that you've met with her alone. Why?"

Tony should have realized that Gibbs would notice the meetings, though he's tried to have them when Gibbs is out of the office for one reason or another. Clearly, it's too late for that now. "Well, I…" He hesitates and it only seems to piss Gibbs off more.

"Today, DiNozzo!" he barks.

"I have an assignment!" Tony snaps in reply. Though Gibbs definitely isn't supposed to know about it, Tony can't see a way around telling him now. Though he still can't divulge any details, at least confirming the op seems to be an inevitability.

"She give you this assignment herself?"

"Yes."

Gibbs looks less than impressed. "You're on my team, DiNozzo, you got that?"

"Got it, boss."

"That means you take orders from me. You get your assignments from me."

Tony can't help but feel as if he's been caught in the middle of a pissing match between his boss and the director. "What do I say to her when she tells me she needs my help!?"

"You don't say anything. You come to me!" Gibbs insists.

Tony groans. "Why does it bother you so much?" The stress of the past month or two is catching up with him, and as much as he knows it's a bad idea to get angry with Gibbs, he's heading in that direction.

"Because you're my responsibility."

Suddenly, Tony understands what's happening, and he loses his ire, despite feeling like he's being unfairly punished right now. Gibbs isn't really mad at him—he's afraid. He's scared that Jenny is sending Tony on a dangerous assignment that he's completing with no backup. Gibbs is mad at the director, not his agent.

Tony sighs, accepting this, and nods, but Gibbs isn't done. "How am I supposed to protect you if you're taking on assignments I don't know about!?"

"You can't, boss," Tony replies quietly.

"You're damn right I can't, and that isn't how this works. Are we clear, DiNozzo?"

"Crystal. Won't happen again." Gibbs nods shortly, still looking thunderous. Tony purses his lips. "You know I still can't tell you about it, right? The director made that very explicit."

Gibbs searches his agent's face, distinctly unhappy. He can see how torn Tony feels, wanting to tell his boss about his assignment but sworn not to, and, dissatisfied, he accepts that this is all the information he'll receive today. "For now," he concedes darkly, and flips the elevator switch again.

Chapter Text

Several weeks later, Tony is starting to gain confidence in his ability to both pull off the Benoit assignment and to get Ziva back when he's finished with it. For once, everything is going really well—in fact, it's going shockingly well.

He's been able to get enough out of Jeanne that they're narrowing down their search for her father, and she's been a surprisingly good friend to him besides that. Tony thinks it won't be long before they've got La Grenouille; he looks forward to coming clean to Jeanne once he's allowed to tell her who he actually is. If he's right, it won't be more than a few weeks at the most. He's worried about how angry and betrayed Jeanne will feel, but he's definitely sick of lying to her.

As for Ziva, he can't be completely certain that she heard both conversations he tried to share with her, but one way or another, her behavior toward him has changed subtly. She's being more patient about his antics than she used to be, and if there's any bitterness left in her after the way he ended things, it seems to be dissipating rapidly. Virtually no days have passed recently without him either being in the company of her or Jeanne. It's been smooth sailing, and Tony's glad for it.

Best of all, though, Ziva hasn't objected to a single thing he's proposed to her.

This part of his plan is giving him great joy—he's decided to romance her without explicitly acting outside of normal, platonic behavior. This leaves him free to deny, if necessary, the possibility that anything is happening between them. It's a fine line to walk, but in his personal opinion, he's doing an excellent job. They've been on a number of non-date "dates", and Tony is genuinely having the time of his life. He's really been stepping it up in the planning department; he's surprised at how much he enjoys dating Ziva just to spend time with her. There's no conquest involved, which is a first for him.

He even finds that he likes date-like activities that he'd always considered too sappy or beneath him. When he and Ziva attend a bring-your-own-bottle painting class, they get totally competitive over who can paint the best winter forest scene. They both suck at it, but by the time the class is over, they've pissed off the instructors by splattering paint on each other and they've dissolved into helpless laughter. Ziva's messy painting is hanging proudly in Tony's apartment, and his equally awful snowy forest is on a prominent wall in her living room.

He challenges himself to outdo his previous dates. If she isn't yet certain of his feelings from what he tried to get her to overhear, he intends for her to figure it out by herself.

Fall is quickly marching toward winter for the D.C. residents, and this weekend, Tony plans to take Ziva apple picking. He's got it all planned out.

He starts dropping hints on Wednesday by leaving a hot mug of apple cider on her desk. She doesn't question it, merely thanking him and getting back to work. It does earn him a smile, though.

Thursday, he gift-wraps a fluffy scarf that he thinks she'll like and leaves it on her desk with no note. Though he hasn't signed his name to it, the look Ziva gives him tells him that she knows exactly who it's from. Hopefully it'll keep her warm in the chill that's promised to settle in on Saturday.

Friday, when he's sure she's not paying attention to him, he tosses her an apple.

He's vaguely disappointed but unsurprised when she catches it. "How do you do that?" he demands. "You weren't even looking up!"

She does look up then, grinning. "It is a ninja secret," she answers smugly, leaning on the nickname he's assigned to her.

"Yeah, well, ninja, someday I'm going to catch you off guard."

"Whatever childish belief gets you through the day, Tony," she teases, and tosses the apple back.

He catches it (unfortunately knowing that he couldn't have if he didn't plainly see it coming) and lobs it up in the air above his head a couple of times. "You don't want it?" he asks, amused.

"Was it actually intended for me, or was it merely the object you used to make an attempt on my life?"

"Well, it was for you, but since you're ungrateful…" Tony suddenly throws the apple at McGee, who does not see it in time to stop it.

"Hey!" Tim cries as it bounces lightly off his shoulder, making Tony laugh.

"You're welcome! Have a healthy snack there, McFruit."

Tim snatches it off the floor and throws it back harder than Tony threw it in the first place, forcing him to dodge it with a yelp.

"Why doesn't anyone want my presents today?" Tony pouts.

"Because your presence is more than enough trouble," McGee replies, snorting.

"Hey, boss! Want an apple?" Tony prepares to make a third throw across the bullpen, but he stops at the look on Gibbs' face.

"Don't you have work to do, DiNozzo?" Gibbs says shortly.

"Right. On it, boss," he quickly amends.

He does throw the apple back to Ziva one more time, though, and this time, she accepts it and puts an end to the throwing by taking a bite out of the fruit.

At the end of the day, Tony tosses her another one. "What is it with the apples?" Ziva asks, incredulous.

"Don't you get it?" he replies, grinning.

"Get what?"

"I'm dropping hints!"

Before they were so close, that would have annoyed her to no end, his penchant for deliberately holding out, but now, it just amuses her. "Hints that you are losing your dice?" she suggests, eyebrows raised.

"Marbles, Ziva, and no, that's not what I'm getting at."

"What, then?"

He picks up a third apple and takes a bite out of it. "We, Ziva David," he says, gesturing pointedly toward her with his own snack, "are going—wait for it!—apple picking!"

"Apple picking?" she parrots, looking confused. "What is that?"

"What do you mean, what is that?" he asks, surprised. "It's just what it sounds like. You go pick apples."

"How is that different from the way that you normally shop for food?" she wants to know. "Are you not picking the items you purchase?"

It takes him a minute to understand her puzzlement, and when he does, he laughs out loud. "Not picking like picking out, picking like pulling off of trees!"

Ziva looks like she still doesn't see the appeal. "But why?"

"Because it's fun!" Tony's a little exasperated.

Ziva can't keep it up anymore and snorts with laughter. "I know what apple picking is. We do it in Israel, too. You are just fun to wind up."

In retaliation, he throws yet another apple in her direction. Unfortunately, his aim is off and it sails over her head, narrowly missing a worker from HR who is innocently walking toward the elevator. "Sorry!" Tony calls awkwardly, ducking down so he can't be seen over the half-walls of the bullpen.

Ziva's laughter has doubled now and she saunters over to his desk. "How many apples do you have?"

Mildly sheepish, Tony opens his bottom right desk drawer; it's full of the fruit.

"I understand dropping hints, but why do you have so many?"

"I wasn't sure how many I'd have to throw before you figured it out," he says, finally laughing at himself, too.

"You could have thrown all of them and I still would not have made that connection," she replies, still snorting.

"Hey, I thought I was being creative!"

"I believe there was a slight flaw in your logic," she informs him. "You purchased a large number of apples in order to tell me that we were going apple picking. When we do, we will leave with another large quantity. What are you going to do with so many?"

That is something Tony hasn't considered. "Hmm. Good point. Maybe I'll leave these in the breakroom and hope people will eat them."

"I never thought I would see the day where you would be the one supplying the office with healthy foods, Tony DiNozzo." She pats his cheek in a condescending manner, so he sticks his tongue out at her. She lets out his favorite giggle and his stupid in-love heart just soars.

"People change and evolve all the time," he reminds her haughtily, but he grins right after. "Anyway, I already have a plan for the apples we pick."

"And what is that?"

"We're going to bake a pie!" The way he's beaming leaves no doubt as to his enthusiasm for this plan, and Ziva's happy to see it.

"When have you planned for all of this to happen?"

"Tomorrow."

She raises her eyebrows. "You are assuming that I have no plans?"

He looks stricken for a moment, but she takes pity on him almost immediately. "I do not, but next time you have big plans, you can still surprise me by asking me to set aside that day in advance. I would hate to disappoint you."

Tony nods. "Noted. So you'll go?"

"I would love to," she assures him with a smile, and they make plans to meet at her apartment before driving together the following afternoon.

The next day, Tony shows up exactly on time, knocking on Ziva's door and bouncing on his heels. She opens the door almost immediately—he hopes that means he's not the only one excited to spend time together today.

"That's a nice scarf," he comments with a grin.

She glances down at it dispassionately. "Oh, you mean this silly old thing I found in the back of my closet?"

"Now that you mention it, it does look a little raggedy. For a second, I confused it with a scarf that a really handsome coworker gave you this week…"

"You are right! I have mixed it up. McGee gives excellent gifts, does he not?"

She laughs at his put-out expression and he immediately drops it to laugh with her. He's in such a great mood that he can't imagine anything going wrong today.

They head out to his car, chatting about the most recent case they closed, and soon, they're on the road to Maryland. The last of the fall foliage is beautiful as it slowly dies away, and eventually, they lapse into a comfortable silence, Tony focusing on the road and Ziva focusing on the leaves. The seasons in Israel are not so distinct, and while consistently warmer temperatures are sometimes nice, the drawback is missing things like this.

Tony lets his thoughts drift to this non-relationship he has with his best friend right now—his thoughts have drifted to little else lately. He thinks about the fact that he hasn't slept with Ziva (or anyone) in roughly six weeks; that's a dry spell longer than any in recent memory. For once, though, it doesn't bother him at all. Sex is important to him, for sure, but for the first time, the person he's with matters more. He doesn't want to ruin this thing he's building with his partner, even if circumstances were different. Though Ziva hopefully knows about his assignment now and might be amenable to the idea of picking their friendship-with-benefits up again, that's not what he wants…

…and the fact that it isn't nearly gave him an identity crisis last week, the first time he thought about it.

At the time, he'd desperately wanted to talk to someone about it, but his options were limited. There were few who knew about his assignment, and that was the biggest barrier to his relationship.

Then it had hit him—he could talk to Jenny Shepard. There would be no reason for her to know that Tony was talking about Ziva, right? In fact, he could make her think he was talking about Jeanne. He thinks back on the conversation.

He hesitantly enters Director Shepard's office when Cynthia waves him back.

"Come on in," Shepard invites, giving him a small smile.

He walks in and leans against her conference table, crossing his arms and debating what to say.

"I take it this isn't a social call," she surmises.

"I need some advice."

"And you came to me?" she replies with something close to amusement, a smile playing at her lips.

"Well, it was either you or Gibbs, and his track record with women sucks, so…"

Jenny's definitely amused now, and she settles against her desk for the conversation. Clearing her throat, she motions that he should proceed.

Tony lets out a single laugh, uncertain of whether he can really talk about this sort of thing with his boss' boss, regardless of his motivation. "I'm finding, um…" Feeling awkward, he cracks his neck before continuing. "...myself in a particularly odd situation with… someone… special."

"Odd?" the director asks.

Tony uncrosses his arms, laughs again, and looks away. "Huh, odd, yeah, odd. Because, uh… we've been going out for, uh… over a month, and we… we haven't done something that I usually do… you know, a lot earlier than that."

"And may I ask what it is that's holding you back from doing what you usually do?"

Tony hasn't nervously chuckled so much for a while, but he's doing a lot of it in Shepard's office today. "Yeah," he breathes, almost to himself, before getting louder again. "Um… because of the particular importance of this person, I thought it would be a good idea to take things slowly—which is kind of a new concept for me. But at a certain point, things have to speed up, righ— right?" The last bit is said with a slight stutter. This is surprisingly difficult to talk about; he's rarely so uncertain.

"Are you attracted to her?" Jenny replies, giving him a look that's a little smug.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah," he says again. Another laugh. "I could make a meal." He's not sure he's ever been more attracted to someone, actually.

"Is she attracted to you?"

He tilts his head, smiling slightly, and nods.

"So what's the problem?" Jenny raises her eyebrows.

Tony's phone rings before he can answer, which is excellent because he doesn't really have an answer for the director. "DiNozzo," he says into the phone as he picks it up.

It's Ziva, calling about McGee's sister. Back to work he goes.

Looking at Ziva now, he can't believe he was ever worried about it. As long as he's not getting in his own way, overthinking and clinging to his old chauvinistic habits, everything with Ziva just feels… natural. Easy.

He's still thinking about it when he pulls into the orchard's parking lot, and he and Ziva step out into the chill.

"Glad you wore your scarf?" he asks her smugly, seeing her shiver.

She makes a face at him. "You do not have to be so… self-congratulatory about it."

He laughs at her. "Of course I do. I'm—"

"You're Tony DiNozzo, yes," she finishes wryly. She picks up a loose end of the scarf and runs it down his nose, which tickles and then makes him sneeze. "It was a good gift," she adds sincerely, half-smiling at his involuntary reaction to the fuzzy fabric. "Thank you for it."

"My pleasure, Ziva," he answers happily, and after only a second of hesitation, he lightly places his arm around her shoulders.

They grab baskets and head into the trees. Despite the cold, it's a beautiful day, and the apples are fresh and crisp. It doesn't take long to fill their baskets, and their picking gets progressively lazier until they're just walking.

Soon, they've wandered away from the other visitors and it feels like they're the only two for miles. Neither keeps track of time as they go; they don't notice the time passing, caught up in each other as they are, until it starts to get dark.

Ziva mostly stopped shivering once they began walking, but she starts back in earnest once the temperature begins to drop. "Silver bullets are for werewolves," Tony says conversationally, apropos of nothing. "Stakes through the heart are for vampires."

"So go the legends, yes," Ziva agrees, bemused.

"Ghostbusters are for ghosts." He gives her a side eye and she can smell a Tony tease coming from a mile away. "All you need to defeat a ninja, though, is cold, apparently."

She whacks him in the chest, less than amused, but it doesn't matter because he's already laughing at his own silly joke. "I come from a warmer climate," she reminds him.

"That you do, my little desert assassin." He wraps her up in a sudden hug, and, feelings aside, she's glad for it because he's delightfully warm. "Oh, you really are cold! I kind of thought you were being dramatic." This revelation comes from her chilly cheek pressing against his neck, making him shiver, too.

He pulls out of the hug and rubs his hands together vigorously until they're warm from friction. Then he places them on her cheeks. "How's that?" he asks with a smile.

For once, words have failed Ziva, because not only is Tony cradling her face, but because he's very close, as well.

When she doesn't answer, he falters and starts to pull away, but she grabs his forearms, stopping him. "It is better," she tells him. Her voice sounds weirdly croaky, so she clears her throat. "It feels nice. And warm."

"Oh, yeah?" He strokes her cheeks slowly and softly with his thumbs; his eyes study her face. Ziva feels… loved. She's felt it several times in the past few weeks and she's tried to convince herself that she's only interpreting things that way because of what she overheard, but it still feels real right now.

"Yes" is all she can think to say in reply, wishing he'd continue caressing her face indefinitely. It feels so intimate and so comfortable, not to mention warm.

After a minute, though, he pulls his hands away and Ziva tries not to feel disappointed. She doesn't have to for long, because he almost immediately joins one of his hands with hers. "We should head back," he says, seeming perfectly cheerful and annoyingly unaffected. Maybe it is just her… but the way he squeezes her hand as he catches her eye tells her that she's not completely imagining it.

They pay and leave the orchard, each clutching a big bag of apples, and head back to Ziva's apartment to turn the fruit into delicious, unhealthy pastry.

Tony's never actually baked a pie before, so he's excited to try. He's eaten a lot of them and feels like an expert, but Ziva still has to correct him on the proper way to execute several of the steps. She's a surprisingly gentle teacher, and things go smoothly until Tony decides that he's been way too adult today and needs to let his inner child out. "Hey, Ziva?" he says.

She looks up at him to answer and he throws a handful of flower at her, smiling evilly. She gives an un-Ziva-like squeak and immediately retaliates. Of course, he can't let that slide, so he sends more back in her direction. That provokes a full-out flour war, ending with a truce only when they both look like ghosts, dusted with powder from head to toe.

"You are such a child," Ziva informs Tony, as if she didn't fully participate in the fight herself. She pokes him in the chest with one finger.

"See, you look mad, but I can't take you seriously when every time you move to scold me, it looks like a little snowstorm," he says, chuckling. He likes bringing out her childish side, too, because he feels that growing up the way she did robbed her of a normal childhood. He considers it one of his personal missions to help bring it back to her, a little at a time.

"Ah, a snowstorm? That must mean I have overcome my weakness for cold, yes? Now I am an unstoppable ninja."

"Color me terrified!"

"I would say color me invincible, but it seems I have already been colored… white."

"Heh, oops!" Tony says with an innocent shrug.

Ziva shakes her head, laughing softly at him. He's impossible but she doesn't mind right now. "I should go clean this off before it gets everywhere. I will be right back." She heads off for the bathroom, leaving Tony to his own devices. He observes the pies, which are ready to go in the oven as soon as it's hot enough. To his unpracticed eye, something about them looks unfinished. What is it?

He isn't a huge baker, but once he has started a project, he likes to finish it as close to perfectly as possible—that's what's wrong with these! They're good but not perfect, functional but not decorated.

With that in mind, he starts carefully fluting the edges of their first pie, pretty sure that Ziva's going to be very impressed when she sees it. He's interrupted almost immediately by a knock on the door, though.

He sighs, annoyed, and goes to answer it. It's not his apartment, of course, but he's pretty sure that if Ziva was expecting someone, she would have told him. She hasn't, so he's assuming it's not someone important.

Of course, he's wrong in the worst way.

He swings the door open and finds himself staring into the barrel of a Glock. He freezes while the man wielding the gun cocks it and gives him a nasty smile. "Mr. DiNozzo?" he says smoothly in what seems to be a French accent. "I think you and I should take a walk."

Tony's life has really been coming together these last few weeks, and he isn't eager to have it end abruptly in Ziva's entryway… so, seeing few other options, he lets the gunman direct him out of the apartment.

Shit. There goes his lucky streak.

Chapter Text

Ziva stares contemplatively at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering how best to approach the flour situation. Tony really got it all over her, but she's consoled by the fact that he's equally covered.

She decides that there's no way that she can really get clean without a full shower, so she jumps in. She has half a thought to invite Tony to join her—that is, if what she thinks based on what she heard is right and his relationship is totally fake—but there probably isn't much that's sexy about scrubbing congealing flour out of one's crevices. Better pass on shared bathing this time.

It takes her a while to get all of the flour out of her hair, so it's nearly twenty minutes before she's out and drying off. She goes straight to her bedroom to find something cleaner to wear and decides after a moment to put on pajamas. She's unlikely to go anywhere else for the night, after all—she and Tony will likely order in and watch a movie when they finish baking. They seem to end all of their nights that way these days.

Once she's done, she ventures back out in search of her friend, hoping he's put the pies in the oven. He hasn't—they're still sitting on the kitchen counter, though the oven says it's already at the necessary temperature. Tony himself is nowhere in sight; she glances around and wonders if he went into the bathroom while she was in her bedroom. She pops the pies in the oven herself.

She's about to go to the couch to wait for Tony when she realizes that the front door is just slightly ajar. Instantly suspicious, she retrieves the gun she keeps hidden in her couch and, moving as quietly as possible, she approaches the door. She listens for movement in the hallway and hears nothing, so she pulls it open and goes out into the hall, gun pointed ahead of her.

There's no one in the hall and her neighbors' doors are closed as usual. Hoping she's just being paranoid but keeping her gun drawn in case she's not, she goes back into the apartment to see if Tony's in the bathroom as she first thought.

He's not.

It's entirely possible that he's gone down to the car to fetch something or he's stepped out momentarily to do something equally mundane, but her gut is telling her that something is wrong… and that's something she's learned to put a lot more stock in since she started on Gibbs' team. She hurries to the window and looks down. She can see her car and Tony's, too, and no one is anywhere near either of them.

Grabbing her cell phone, she dials Tony's number, and she's finally convinced that something has happened to him when it rings from her coffee table. Wherever he went, he didn't take his phone with him. She finds his wallet and keys sitting near the baking supplies on the counter, too, and she can't think of a single place he'd go without taking any of those belongings.

Ziva does the only thing she can think to do in this situation—she calls Gibbs.

He picks up after two rings. "Yeah, Ziver?"

"Gibbs, I think that something has happened to Tony," Ziva tells him immediately.

"Tell me everything," he says, and she can hear in his voice that he's taking her seriously without question. She appreciates it immensely.

"He was at my apartment this evening, and when I took a shower, he left. I found his phone and his wallet still inside, and his car and his keys are also here. The front door was left open. I do not believe he left of his own volition."

"How long has he been gone?"

"I went to shower perhaps a half hour ago. That is the last time I saw him."

"Did you hear anything?"

"No, but the shower was running for at least fifteen minutes and that might have masked many noises."

"Who knew he was there?"

"I do not know. I did not tell anyone, but Tony could have talked to any number of people. Also, we were at an orchard earlier in the day, so someone there could have seen us leave together. I do not believe that anyone followed us."

"Didn't see anything unusual before you went to shower?"

"No."

"Any signs of a struggle?"

"No."

"Okay. Stay there and stay alert. I'm on my way. Call McGee and fill him in, too. Tell him to go to the office. I'll be at your apartment in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you, Gibbs."

He hangs up and Ziva wastes no time in calling McGee. "Hey, Ziva," her coworker answers.

"McGee, we need you in the office. Tony is gone."

"Gone?" Tim instantly sounds much more alert and much less relaxed. "What happened?"

Ziva fills him in on what she just told Gibbs and she can hear him starting his car in the background by the time she's done. "Are you okay?" he asks her, worried.

"I am fine," she tells him shortly. She has to be, because for all they know, Tony's life could be hanging in the balance. She doesn't have time to allow her emotions to be felt.

"Are you sure? 'Cause I know you and Tony are—"

"I am fine," she insists, angry. She doesn't want to talk about it and they don't have any time to waste.

Tim pauses for a second, and when he speaks again, it's in the same patient, concerned tone he was using before. "Okay," he agrees. "Well, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to access your building's security system and look at the surveillance footage. We'll find out where Tony went and who he was with."

"Thank you, McGee."

"Of course. I'll call you and Gibbs as soon as I'm in."

"Okay."

"Ziva, he's going to be fine."

"I know."

McGee seems to want to say more, but he knows her well enough to know not to push. "Talk soon," he says after a moment, and Ziva hangs up.

She spends the minutes before Gibbs arrives searching her apartment for clues and hoping against hope that Tony will walk in the door with a reasonable explanation for his absence. Besides the complete lack of Tony, she can't find anything wrong. Everything is in its place. She notices something that she didn't notice earlier, though—there are little indentations running down one side of one of the pies that she just put in the oven… Tony was trying to flute the pies when whatever happened went down. Picturing him working on it pulls the tiniest shaky smile to her face and bolsters her. She'll find him—it's not a question of if. He'll be fine because he has to be.

He's her Tony.

When Gibbs shows up, she's stoic and calm again, waiting for him by the door. She lets him in without comment and he looks the room over with a practiced eye. "That his phone?" he asks, gesturing to the cell sitting on the coffee table.

"Yes," Ziva answers.

Gibbs pulls out the crime scene camera and takes a quick photo of it before donning a pair of gloves and picking it up to inspect it. It's still functional as normal and there's a notification for a missed call from Ziva. Gibbs goes through the recent calls and nothing flags as unusual. Giving Tony's wallet and keys the same treatment yields no new information.

Gibbs puts the phone back down and pulls out a jar of powder and a brush. These get tossed to Ziva. "Check for prints," Gibbs orders. "Focus on the door."

Happy to have something to do, Ziva immediately gets to work. She finds a number of prints on both the inside and the outside of the door and on both handles, but she has a sinking feeling that most of them will belong to her or Tony.

Gibbs takes measured strides to slowly check the perimeter of the room before going back to the window. "You said you can see his car?"

"Yes." Ziva joins him and points it out.

"Did you see anyone in the parking lot once you noticed he was gone?"

"No."

"Okay." He puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and speaks to her firmly. "I need you to sit down and breathe for a minute."

"Breathing will not help us find Tony, Gibbs!" Her voice has a frustrated tone that she hasn't used with him in a long time; he cannot expect her to sit herself out for this one.

"Ziva, you're no good to me and you're no good to Tony if you panic. You've barely blinked since I walked in and I need you at the top of your game."

Ziva bristles at this. She's a highly trained Mossad officer, able to withstand interrogation, torture, or worse, and she does not panic. Gibbs is right about needing her at her best, though, and she quickly reminds herself that he's coming from a place of sincerity. He's not going to cut her out of this investigation, but she needs to play by his rules and listen to him.

She nods once, curt, and sits down robotically. Gibbs seems satisfied enough by that. "I need to search the rest of the apartment. Do I have your permission?" He can't imagine her saying no and if it was anyone else, he wouldn't even ask, but she's important enough to him for him to place a high value on keeping her trust.

"Do what you must," she says immediately.

He nods back and then he's off. The apartment isn't large, only a one-bedroom, and Ziva's right in that nothing looks out of place. There's nothing broken or clearly moved, no windows damaged or opened. His gut tells him that Ziva's right on this, too—something definitely happened to Tony, but whatever is happening now, it's happening somewhere far away from this clean apartment.

Gibbs is inspecting the kitchen, observing the way it's liberally sprinkled with flour, when Ziva's phone rings. He strides to her side as she leaps up to answer it. "McGee?"

"Ziva, I got into the security videos for your apartment building," he answers immediately. "Did Gibbs get there already?"

She puts the phone on speaker so Gibbs can hear, too. "Yes, he is listening."

"Good. Boss, I found footage of Tony leaving, and Ziva's right—it wasn't by choice. He was walking on his own two feet, but it was with a gun trained on him."

"Who was pointing the gun at him?" Gibbs asks quickly.

"He kept his face turned away from most of the cameras, but he took Tony out the back exit to the building. There was an extra camera on that exit that it looks like he didn't know about, because I was able to get a clear photo of his face. The camera isn't state-of-the-art, but I've enhanced the image and I'm running it through facial recognition as we speak."

"Any hits?"

"No, not yet," Tim answers grimly.

"How did they leave the premises?"

"The guy got him in a van, boss. I'm trying to find a good angle of the license plate now."

"Was there another driver, or did the abductor drive away himself?" Ziva asks urgently.

"I can't tell from the parking lot cameras but I'm hoping there are more cameras nearby."

"Keep looking, McGee. Ziva and I are coming in. Call Abby and have her meet us there."

"Got it, boss."

Ziva hangs up the phone and heads toward the door to grab her keys.

"Ziver," Gibbs says, stopping her.

"Yes?"

"I know you want to hurry, but take thirty seconds to change first." He gives her a small, reassuring smile. "I'll meet you at the office." Then he goes and Ziva rushes to do as she was told. She hadn't even remembered that she was in her pajamas until Gibbs pointed it out; while she doesn't give a damn what she looks like when Tony's in danger, no one will take her seriously as an acting federal agent in her Star of David pjs. That could get in the way. This is not the day to have to assert her authority to everyone they come across, though she's usually happy to do so.

Before she leaves, she pulls the pies out of the oven. Though it solves nothing, she can't help wishing that this is all an awful dream and that Tony is still here with her. She knows he'd be excited to sample the desserts, and beyond the simple injustice of being abducted, it seems doubly unfair that he should be snatched at this inopportune moment. Tony is nothing if not dedicated to his favorite less-than-healthy foods.

Ziva gets to NCIS very quickly, even by her own standards, and she rushes up the stairs to find Gibbs standing behind McGee's desk, both of them looking intently at the computer screen. "Ziva," Gibbs says, noticing her. "C'mere."

She joins them and looks at the screen, too. It's showing a freeze-frame from the security footage outside of her building—Tony is walking a few feet ahead of a man who has his gun inches from the agent's back. Seeing the grimace on Tony's face sends a pang through Ziva that she wasn't anticipating, and she swallows hard. "Do you recognize this guy?" Gibbs asks her.

"No. I have never seen him," she answers, sure of herself but dejected.

"Still no hits from facial recognition?" Gibbs presses.

"No. Running it again," McGee assures them quickly.

Something that should have occurred to Ziva an hour ago occurs to her now. "Run his face through the Interpol database," she suggests in a hard voice, knowing they will be focused on the American databases with no reason to suspect an international criminal.

They both turn to look at her, trying to scrutinize her expression. Though what she has requested is not unreasonable, something in her tone says that she has a hunch. "Do it, McGee," Gibbs says after a pause, and he looks intently at Ziva. "What are you thinking?"

For a moment, Ziva is torn. This is part of the reason that Mossad officers are trained to keep their emotions tightly under wraps, because what is important for NCIS and what Ziva is feeling are two different things. What she should do is protect the secrecy of the mission that she wasn't supposed to know about in the first place. What she wants to do is immediately give up any and all information that could help save Tony's life, even if it means the mission is shot to hell. Her feelings are not rational here, but the thought of losing Tony when she could possibly do something about it is unthinkable.

"Call Director Shepard," she answers tightly instead of doing what either her duty or her emotions demand of her. She's confirming that she knows something is happening but she's not disloyally divulging the details of what that something is.

Gibbs' face twitches, and Ziva knows he's angry with her for clearly holding back. "Damn it, Ziva, what do you know?" he reiterates, louder and more forcefully.

"Call. Director. Shepard," she growls back, equally loud.

"There's no need to call me. I'm here. What's going on?" They all look up to see Shepard on the catwalk outside of her office.

"Someone has DiNozzo," Gibbs barks up at her. "Ziva seems to think it has something to do with you."

Jenny's eyes immediately flit to the Mossad officer's face. Before she can say anything, though, McGee interrupts.

"Boss, we've got a hit. Tony's kidnapper is Valentin Saunier, French national. He's wanted by Interpol for aggravated assault, smuggling, and…" He looks up to meet Ziva's eye and then looks away just as quickly, full of trepidation.

"And what, McGee?"

"...murder."

Ziva doesn't outwardly react to this, and Gibbs makes a split-second decision. "McGee—find me that license plate and put out a BOLO on the van. Ziva, with me. We're going to go have a talk with Director Shepard."

McGee doesn't even look up to acknowledge his orders: he just nods as he types furiously.

Following Gibbs up the stairs robotically, Ziva wishes that he'd given her a more productive job. She wants to be actively tracking Tony down, not sitting between an angry Gibbs and an angry Jenny as one demands that she say what she knows and the other becomes suspicious of her for knowing anything at all. She has to trust Gibbs, though, knowing that he cares what happens to Tony just as much as she does. He wouldn't have them marching up to the director's office if it was less than vital.

Shepard, knowing they're coming, opens her office door to let them in and shuts it behind them. No one bothers to sit down—this is much too urgent for pleasantries.

"DiNozzo was abducted by a French national," Gibbs barks at Shepard. "Why?"

"French?" Jenny must not have been able to hear them well from the catwalk or she would have known that from McGee's report. It clearly means something to her, though. "Who?"

"Guy called Valentin Saunier. Wanted by Interpol. Who is he, Shepard?" Gibbs' ability to be polite with his friend, boss, and former partner was lost when his best agent disappeared.

"I don't know," she answers, troubled, and the look on her face tells Gibbs and Ziva both that she's telling the truth. She's hiding something, though, and, knowing that time is of the essence and he might not quickly get something out of her, Gibbs turns to Ziva.

"Why did you tell me to call her?" he demands, jerking his head toward Jenny for emphasis.

Ziva still isn't sure what to say, painfully stretched between duty and love. With no time to think, she decides quickly that having Gibbs mad at her is just the price of saving Tony, and with that in mind, she crosses past him to whisper in Jenny's ear. "I believe the abductor may have something to do with La Grenouille," she breathes. Pulling back, she can see confirmation in Jenny's face and suspicion, too—plainly, the director was also thinking about the Frog in connection with today's events, and just as plainly, she wants to demand answers from Ziva on how she knows about that at all.

The director has an agent in danger, though, and that's what she chooses to focus on. She can deal with the Mossad officer later. "La Grenouille," she says out loud to both of them.

Gibb's head whips from staring hard at Ziva to giving Shepard the same treatment. He obviously recognizes the name. "You think he had a hand in this? Why?"

"Because Tony has been on an undercover assignment for the past six weeks to help me track him."

DiNozzo's secretiveness and his frequent meetings with the director suddenly make sense, and it's all Gibbs can do to focus on the case and not go off on Shepard. If they lose Tony, though. she's going to have hell to pay.

"It's possible that La Grenouille found out and sent someone after Tony," Shepard continues.

"Possible? How many people knew about this assignment that you sent him on alone?"

"None," Jenny answers coldly. She's had it with Gibbs' tone; he's acting like she personally handed Tony a death sentence. In reality, though the assignment has always had the potential to be dangerous, it's something Tony agreed to do. Frankly, it's a danger he accepted when he became an agent years ago.

"You sure about that?" Gibbs is talking to Jenny, but he gives Ziva a hard look, and she meets his eye, stony-faced.

"Tony was made very clear how important secrecy was to this mission, and I didn't tell anyone else," Jenny insists. The question of what Ziva knows and how she knows will have to wait.

"Tell me everything," Gibbs orders, and though Shepard is his boss and not his inferior, she follows immediately.

"La Grenouille's name is René Benoit. He has a French-American daughter in Washington named Jeanne Benoit. She's a doctor at Monroe. We've been trying to track La Grenouille for a long time, and he's slipped through our fingers every time we've gotten close. I sent Tony to get close to his daughter and gain her trust with the aim of learning about her father's whereabouts. He's been dating her for six weeks now and he's been feeding me information the whole time. We were getting close to nailing down the Frog's location—that must be how he found out about Tony."

"You are getting close? Where do you believe him to be?" Ziva interjects.

"We tracked his most recent travels to Afghanistan, moving weapons into war-torn areas to be sold to whoever would pay the most for them."

"Looks like he's in Washington now," Gibbs counters darkly.

Tony comes to slowly, wincing as unconsciousness fades away and his head starts to throb. He's slumped in an awkward and uncomfortable position, so he tries to straighten up—in doing so, he notices that his hands and ankles are bound to the chair underneath him. Forcing his eyes open with some difficulty, he flinches as light hits his eyes, and it takes them a moment to adjust and process what he's seeing.

He's sitting in what appears to be an empty warehouse, and as far as he can tell, he's alone at the moment. There's a bright light on a stand a few feet away, the light pointing directly at his face… not a good sign.

Also not a good sign is the fact that he isn't blindfolded. He can see everything around him and tries to take mental notes on it, but that's little help. It won't matter at all what he noticed if he doesn't make it out of here alive, and him being allowed to see bodes poorly for his lifespan as far as the captors' intentions go. The last thing he can remember before being knocked out is the sharp prick of a needle in his neck.

He strains his ears; while he can't hear any people, he can hear the gentle slapping of waves against waterlogged structural supports—he must be in a warehouse at the docks, and he wonders which ones.

Before he can think too far into it, though, he starts to hear footsteps, and they're quickly matched to a man striding slowly toward Tony, looking as if he has all the time in the world. Unfortunately, the man looks very familiar to Tony… not because they've met, but because Jenny showed him a number of photos of the man. It's René Benoit, also known as La Grenouille. It's Jeanne's father.

The older man stops in front of Tony with a pleasant smile on his face and Tony smiles blandly back. He'll be damned if he's going to allow this man any satisfaction beyond Tony's initial capture.

"Mr. DiNozzo," Benoit says softly, his French accent soft and sophisticated. "How nice of you to join me this evening."

"Oh, I assure you," Tony replies in the most sarcastic, falsely posh voice he can dredge up, "the pleasure is all mine, Mister…?" He trails off rather than finishing with a name. He isn't sure how much La Grenouille knows that he knows, so he'll keep his cards close for now and not play his hand too early.

"I do not know what name your director knows me as, but we are all friends here. Call me René," the man says smoothly.

"Right. René. If we're all friends here, you mind telling me why I'm duct-taped to a chair?" Tony asks pleasantly.

"I must take precautions, you understand." Benoit is still wearing the smile that makes Tony think of the British monarchs; it's the publicly benevolent smile of someone who is very used to being listened to by those with less power.

"Precautions against…?" Tony fishes.

"I'm sure it will not surprise you if I tell you that I know you're a federal agent, Mr. DiNozzo. I'm afraid it would be something of a mistake to allow you free use of your limbs—I wouldn't want you calling that delightful director of yours, after all."

"How do you know her?"

"Ah, Director Shepard and I go back a very long time," Benoit answers, chuckling indulgently. He reminds Tony a little of an eviller, more French version of Ducky.

"Back to the stone ages, I'm sure," Tony replies, smiling.

Surprised, Benoit laughs. "I can see why Jeanne likes you so much! A man with a sense of humor can be hard to find in this country."

Tony shrugs as much as he can in his bonds. "She's a smart girl."

"That she is," Benoit agrees. "Smart, yes, but innocent, too. She's sweet enough and naive enough not to recognize that she was being manipulated by you."

"I've been manipulating her?" Tony parrots, slightly stung despite himself. "That's funny. If you ask her what her dad does, she'll tell you he's a businessman."

"She would be correct."

"And what business does she think you run?"

"The details matter little, especially to you, Mr. DiNozzo."

"Why 'especially to me'?" Tony asks, only a little afraid to find out the answer.

"Because I'm afraid you've seen my daughter for the last time."

"What, are you going to kill me?" Tony guesses, his voice still full of bravado. It's not like that conclusion was a hard one to reach, even from the beginning.

"Me?" Benoit looks both surprised and mildly offended. "I am not a violent man."

"Sure you're not," Tony says snidely. "Non-violent people kidnap other people at gunpoint all the time?"

"I said that I am not violent. I cannot speak for the enthusiasm of my men. I simply requested that they bring you here to sit and talk with me."

"Great. That makes it all better. Thanks, René."

Benoit smiles in acknowledgment of the facetious praise. "Well, Mr. DiNozzo, how about you make yourself comfortable? I'll be back again to chat soon." He starts to turn to walk away, but Tony interrupts.

"What makes you think I'll tell you anything, now or later?"

Benoit turns back with a distinctly unpleasant smile on his face this time. "You're a smart man, Tony, are you not? I want you to think about where you were when my friends found you. You were at the residence of a charming young woman who—if my information is correct—is named Ziva David." Tony can feel the blood drain from his face and he hates the fact that he knows Benoit has noticed. "I understand that she's one of the Israeli Mossad. I'm sure she excels at hand-to-hand combat and the use of weaponry, but I have never known those skills to protect against a sniper's bullet through the skull."

With that, Benoit turns to leave again, calling out to Tony without turning back as he walks away. "Think on that, Mr. DiNozzo."

He probably makes some signal that Tony can't see, because Tony hears footsteps behind him. There must have been someone back there the whole time and Tony just couldn't turn in his chair enough to see them.

It's a different man from the one who pulled him from Ziva's apartment earlier, but this one looks just as formidable, especially with a nasty smile on his face. He makes a fist and strikes at Tony suddenly enough that the agent doesn't have time to wince before he's knocked unconscious.

His last thought as everything fades to black is a bone-aching fear for Ziva's life.

Chapter Text

Jenny is reluctant to admit defeat on the Jeanne Benoit assignment without solid proof that La Grenouille is behind Tony's abduction, but Gibbs rips her a new one when he hears that; though she clearly isn't happy, she lets it go and clears Gibbs to tell McGee what's going on.

Gibbs and the Mossad officer are about to go down to see if any progress has been made on tracking the van when Jenny stops Ziva. "We need to talk," she says shortly.

Gibbs hesitates at the door, not sure he wants to leave them alone. The director has an expression of badly-concealed anger and suspicion on her face; Gibbs feels the need to protect Ziva. Ziva shoots him a look, though, defiant, and that's what convinces him to go. Whatever beef she and Jenny have—and Gibbs can pretty easily guess what it is—Ziva wants to take care of it herself. He's never known her to back down from a fight, but he doesn't want her to do or say something she'll regret. He wouldn't put it past her to be stubborn enough to goad the director into cancelling the Mossad liaison officer position altogether.

There's little he can do about it right now if she won't let him intervene, though, and DiNozzo's abduction takes priority anyway. He departs reluctantly, leaving them to it.

The door swings shut and Shepard and Ziva stare at one another, faces hard. "You already knew about Jeanne Benoit," the director accuses; it's a statement, not a question. She's trusted Ziva for a long time, but either Ziva has been prying into something she shouldn't or Tony has been talking about things he shouldn't. Jenny intends to get to the bottom of whichever transgression has occurred. "How?"

Ziva knows her own position is on the line here. It takes all of her considerable courage and grit, then, to answer the question. "I learned about it recently." Her voice is emotionless, controlled. She's going to do her damnedest to keep Tony from falling under the hammer for this, even if it means losing her job.

"I didn't ask when, Officer David. I asked how."

"I heard the case being discussed."

"Where did you hear it?" La Grenouille has clearly heard about it, too. Either Ziva is working with the enemy—doubtful, for sure, but still a possibility—or the two have learned details of the operation independently of one another. Much like Gibbs, Jenny doesn't believe in coincidences, and this seems like a big one.

"I heard about it here."

"Here at NCIS?"

"Here in this office." Ziva was hoping to avoid saying that directly, but it seems that Jenny isn't going to let her slip out of it.

"You were not present in this office for any of the meetings I had with Tony about this. How did you hear?" Jenny's voice is getting harder and harder as they talk.

"I was eavesdropping." Ziva knows that saying it like this will put responsibility for her knowledge solidly on her shoulders, not on Tony's, because it makes it sound like she essentially had her ear to the door, intentionally listening in. While she did listen to a conversation she wasn't meant to be privy to, her only real crime is in not hanging up the phone once she knew the call wasn't for her. Admitting that will put Tony in hot water, though, and she cares too much about him and his career to let that happen. She has Mossad back in Israel to fall back on, but if Tony loses his job over the sharing of classified information, he'll experience great difficulty in finding another government position for the rest of his life.

"Why?" Jenny demands.

"I cannot tell you," Ziva answers resolutely.

Jenny doesn't answer for a moment, studying Ziva's expression. "You realize, don't you, that I could terminate your position here?"

"Yes, Director."

"I suggest you tell me the truth, then, Ziva," Shepard says sternly.

"I cannot," Ziva repeats.

Frustrated, Shepard curls her hands into fists and then relaxes them. Right now, the why of the matter not an important detail, and she chooses to let it go for now. "Fine. Then tell me if you've mentioned this to anyone else."

"I have not."

"How am I supposed to trust you on that?" Jenny snaps.

"That is up to you, Director Shepard."

Jenny sighs angrily. "Damn it, Ziva, I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here, but you're not helping yourself at all!"

Until now, the Ziva has resembled a soldier standing still and at attention, her back ramrod straight and her expression blank and serious. At Jenny's last words, though, something cracks her hard exterior and she seems frustrated, too, for the first time in this conversation. "Do you wish to find Tony, or would you rather stand here and question me about things that are not relevant to his rescue?" Can't Shepard see how much more Ziva cares for Tony's fate than her own!?

The director steps closer and lowers her voice. "I can't let this go until I'm sure you aren't a part of his disappearance in the first place."

Ziva has a sudden violent urge and has to fight it off. "Have you ever trusted me at all?" she asks with a quiet fury.

"You know I have, but you're hardly giving me any reason to trust you now!"

"If you have ever trusted me," Ziva snaps, "then let me help you find Tony. When that is finished, I will gladly sit across an interrogation table from you until you are satisfied, and I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary. I will not sit by idly while my partner is in danger, however, and you will not stop me."

The fire in Ziva's eyes is unmistakable—clearly, she cares very deeply for Tony DiNozzo, and that's enough to push out any niggling doubts about any association Ziva might have with La Grenouille. Shepard is still suspicious about why Ziva would listen in on an assignment briefing that had nothing to do with her, but Ziva's right in that there'll be time to discuss that later. For now, Jenny just has to remind herself that Ziva has saved her life before and has proven that she can be trusted.

"Fine," Jenny agrees after some deliberation. "You stay in line this time, though, or I'll go right past benching you and skip to having you arrested. We'll discuss your insubordination later. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Director," Ziva answers, none of the relief she's feeling showing on her face.

"Okay. You're dismissed for now. Go find DiNozzo, and bring him home." Sometimes, Jenny feels that accepting this job was a mistake, and this is one of those times.

"Wait, please. I have an idea, actually."

"And what is that?"

"I want to talk to Jeanne Benoit," Ziva says, determined.

"No. Absolutely not."

"She already knows me, and she trusts me," Ziva pushes.

"How does she know you!?" Jenny inquires, frustrated. This would all be much simpler if Ziva would simply tell the whole story up front.

"I met her several weeks ago." Seeing that Shepard seems to be rethinking not having Ziva thrown in an interrogation room at this exact moment, Ziva sighs and tells her an edited version of the hospital story. "I injured myself and went to her hospital for treatment, though I did not know at the time that she worked there. While in the emergency department, I came across her and Tony. It was clear that Tony knew me, so he told her we were friends. She insisted on stitching my hand up and we talked at length while she did so. Tony had the presence of mind not to tell Dr. Benoit that he or I work for NCIS, but she will surely have to find that out now."

Shepard still looks like she wants to protest, but Ziva presses her point. "She may know something about where Tony is being held. She is a kind person and I do not believe she has anything to do with this, but she may have more information than she realizes."

The director has to admit that Ziva has a point, so she sighs and gives in. "Okay," she agrees slowly. "But if you mess this up at all, Ziva, your future at NCIS is gone. Go get some good information… give me a reason to keep trusting you."

"I will not let you down, Director," Ziva agrees, determined.

Shepard motions her out, and Ziva heads down to the bullpen. She finds McGee still at his computer and Gibbs gearing up. "What did you find?" she asks urgently.

"I finally got a good read on the license plate from the van," McGee says, bringing her up to speed immediately. "It was reported stolen yesterday from a business in Alexandria. Boss is going to interview them now. I'm staying here to try to track where it went after leaving your apartment."

Ziva nods quickly. "I am going to talk to Jeanne Benoit."

Gibbs pauses at that, giving her a hard look. "You s—"

"I have cleared it with Director Shepard," she interrupts.

"Okay. Both of you, call me if you find something or learn something. If you hear from DiNozzo, trace it and call me for that, too."

Orders given, the three go off in their own directions.

Ziva has never given less regard to the speed limit than she does as she drives toward Jeanne's apartment in Georgetown; she's mildly surprised that she didn't have any police attempt to pull her over on the way. When she can't find a place to leave her car, she double parks without a second thought and heads inside.

She knocks on Jeanne's door and waits impatiently, disregarding the fact that it's getting pretty late and Jeanne may be in bed. After a minute or two, the door opens. "Zena?" Jeanne asks, surprised to see Tony's friend standing on her doorstep looking stressed.

"Jeanne." Ziva gives the other woman a small, harried smile. "Could I please come in? I need to talk to you."

"Uh, sure," Jeanne agrees, getting over her surprise enough to let Ziva in. Trying to be the gracious host despite her burning curiosity, she leads Ziva to the sofa and makes sure she doesn't need anything before sitting next to her. "What can I do for you?"

Ziva pulls her Mossad ID out of her pocket and hands it over with a sympathetic smile. She knows this isn't going to be a fun realization for the doctor.

"What is this?" Jeanne asks, looking confused.

"That is my governmental identification. I am a member of the Israeli intelligence agency known as Mossad."

"You—what?" Not only is Jeanne thrown off by this information in general, she's also not sure why it's suddenly being given to her.

"I am here on assignment from my government, working as a liaison for NCIS."

"And what's NCIS?"

"NCIS stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Service. We are essentially the police force covering your navy and marine corps."

Jeanne looks up, a growing suspicion that she doesn't want to acknowledge seeding itself in her gut. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think it will be the easiest part for you to hear out of everything I have to tell you about."

"What do you have to tell me?"

Rather than answering immediately, Ziva pulls out a second set of identification—DiNozzo's. "I have to tell you about your friend Tony."

Jeanne takes Tony's NCIS ID and the badge that Ziva also pulls out to pass over, and she gapes at them. The photo is Tony's face, for sure, but the name is wrong. Anthony DiNozzo, it reads. Not Tony DiNardo. "He… he told me his name is Tony DiNardo. He said he was a professor!"

"That is because he was told to tell you those things," Ziva clarifies softly.

"Told by who?"

"By someone he reports to at our agency."

"But why?" In addition to her confusion, Jeanne is starting to feel hurt.

Ziva gently takes back the IDs and badge back. "Because of your father."

"My… what?"

Ziva has been trying not to give the other woman too much at once, overwhelming her, but she can see now that doing this in pieces is just throwing Jeanne off more. "Your father. Did you know that he is under investigation for arms dealing by multiple governments and organizations worldwide?"

Jeanne sputters out a denial, but Ziva isn't done. "He has been accused of supplying explosives and guns to terrorist organizations and insurgents in the Middle East, Russia, and Central Africa, among others. He has been difficult to track down, and the more time he spends running his empire, the more innocent people die. Tony was assigned to you in the hopes that your father would come visit. When he did, we planned to take him into custody."

"No, you're wrong! I don't know who you're talking about, but it's not my father," Jeanne insists, standing up and backing away. Ziva stands, too, looking at Jeanne solemnly.

"It is your father that has been committing these crimes," Ziva assures her quietly. She pulls a photo of René Benoit out of the file she's holding under one arm, and she holds it up to the man's daughter. "I know it is difficult to believe and even harder to come to terms with."

"So why are you telling me this, Zena?" Jeanne demands incredulously. "If my dad is some big criminal, why would you tell his daughter anything!?"

"My name is Ziva, actually." She remains calm despite Jeanne's anger and disbelief. "I am telling you because circumstances have changed."

"What does that mean?" There's suddenly some fear injected into Jeanne's voice. "Has something happened? Is my dad okay?"

"Something has happened," Ziva confirms, "but not to your father. The one in danger now is Tony. We have reason to believe that your father has abducted him and now his life is in jeopardy. We need your help to rescue him."

That's a lot to take in, and Jeanne sits heavily back down on the couch, her head falling into her hands. Ziva waits as patiently as she can; she's just about to prompt the other woman when Jeanne's head pops back up. "Even if what you're saying is true, what could I possibly do about it!?"

Ziva sits back down, too, looking earnestly at the other woman. "Our most urgent question right now is where Tony is being held. Can you think of anywhere your father might possibly take someone? It would likely be somewhere with a measure of privacy, a place with little foot traffic."

Jeanne shakes her head, looking slightly dazed. "I don't know, I can't…" She rips a hand through her hair in frustration. "I can't think of anything. And I still think you're wrong. You and Tony lied about so much, what's to say you're not lying about this, too?"

"Think about it, please, Jeanne. Has your father ever acted suspiciously? Has he ever told you things that did not feel quite true? Have you ever noticed any inconsistencies?"

"No, of course not," Jeanne answers immediately, but then she pauses as her eyes fall to the same Afghan rug she pointed out to Tony recently. She'd asked her father what business he could possibly have in war-torn Afghanistan, and he'd laughed and said that business was far too boring to talk about with his daughter. She'd let the subject drop at the time, and now she wishes she hadn't. "Well, I mean, probably not."

Ziva sees the moment of doubt and presses her advantage. "I know that you are hurt and feel betrayed by Tony lying to you, but if there is any way you can see for your father to have done this, if you have ever cared about Tony… please. Believe me and know that I am only trying to help him because I care about him, too. Help us find him." Her sincerity is evident in every word, and Jeanne can't help but believe her this time, at least partially.

"Okay," she says after a pause. "I'll do what I can. I can't think of anywhere that my dad would take someone he's…" She trails off, unable to say the words "abducted" or "kidnapped".

"That is alright," Ziva says encouragingly. "Can you tell me where in the D.C. area that your father spends a large amount of time, or where he visits every time he is here?"

Jeanne racks her brain. "I mean… he visits me at the hospital and my apartment. We go out for meals to some of his favorite restaurants, and he usually stays at the Mandarin Oriental."

"Is there anywhere that he goes consistently without you? Anywhere he goes for business purposes?"

"Um… he takes a lot of trips to Baltimore. I think he does business at the port. He might have a warehouse there, if I remember right."

Ziva's eyes light up with a fierce kind of excitement—clearly, this is the kind of information she's been looking for. "Do you think that Tony might be… um, being held at that warehouse?" Jeanne ventures.

"It is a definite possibility. Do you know where it is?" There's a new urgency in Ziva's tone that wasn't there before.

Ziva shakes her head, helpless. "I'm not even sure that he does have a warehouse there. I've never been to it if he does, and I'm not sure why I'm remembering that there is one." Something is niggling at her memory, though. Maybe she overheard a conversation about it when she was younger.

"Have you ever been with your father on one of his Baltimore trips?"

"A few times, yeah."

"What area of Baltimore did you and your father stay in?"

Another dim shadow of a memory occurs to her. "He likes to stay in a luxury hotel near Broadway Pier, but once…" She pauses. "We went down to Dundalk, and I remember that at the time, I couldn't figure out why. It's not exactly the nicest area, right off the Patapsco River."

"That is part of the shipping district. Do you remember anything more specific than just the area?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry—I believe you may have just given me the lead that will help us find Tony."

Jeanne can't bring herself to smile; she's too angry, shocked, betrayed, and afraid for that. She puts a hand on Ziva's arm as the other woman stands, though, and reminds herself to be gracious. "I hope you find him. When you do, please tell him that I want to talk to him."

"I will," Ziva promises. "Thank you, Jeanne."

With no more time to spare for the way she's turned the other woman's world upside down, Ziva leaves. She's barely out the door before she has the phone to her ear, ringing through to Gibbs. "What do you got, Ziva?" he asks after a single ring.

"Warehouse in Dundalk on the outskirts of Baltimore."

"You got an address?"

"No. The general area was all Benoit could tell me, and even that was a guess."

"Yeah, but that's a big shipping district. That's good work, Ziver. Meet me back at NCIS."

"I am on my way. Did you learn anything from the owners of the stolen van?"

"No, dead end. They don't have working security cameras and they didn't know anything when I questioned them."

"Okay. Has McGee contacted you?"

"Not yet." Gibbs hangs up and Ziva starts her car, racing back to headquarters.

She beats Gibbs inside and finds a very frustrated Tim sitting right where she left him. "Were you able to track the van?" she asks.

"Well, I was tracking its earlier movements through town without too much trouble, but then I got a hit on the BOLO a few minutes ago. The van was found abandoned and wiped. I found another camera that I think shows two men and what might be Tony getting into another car, which I also ran the plates on. Also stolen, reported missing this afternoon—I tried tracking it, too, but I lost it once it got on the freeway. I put a new BOLO out on it but haven't gotten any hits yet."

"In which direction was it traveling when you lost it?"

"North on I-95."

"Okay. If I give you a specific neighborhood, what are the chances that you can pick it up again there?"

"Well, if you're right on the neighborhood and there's adequate surveillance and we get lucky… maybe."

"Try it," Gibbs interjects, and both McGee and Ziva look up. They've been concentrating so hard that neither noticed his arrival. "Look near Dundalk Marine Terminal."

They both watch anxiously over McGee's shoulder as he works. The way his fingers are flying across the keyboard, it's difficult to follow what he's doing, especially for the computer-illiterate Gibbs. There's no mistaking McGee's triumphant, disbelieving laugh when he finds something, though. "I got it! I don't see exactly where it stopped, but the car passed an ATM camera on Broening Highway a couple of hours ago."

Gibbs claps McGee on the shoulder. "Gear up!" He tells his agents. They waste no time in doing so. On the way out, Gibbs looks over McGee's new BOLO and puts a call in to Baltimore PD. He gives them a rundown of the case and finishes with a description of the car and explains where they last saw it. "Find that car, but wait for my instructions. No one storms that warehouse until I say so, you got it?"

Once they're in the car, they waste no time in flying toward Baltimore. Much like Ziva, Gibbs puts even his usual speed to shame. It's almost an hour's drive under normal circumstances, but they make it in just under forty minutes. When they're nearly there, Gibbs gets a call from Baltimore PD's chief saying that they found the car abandoned outside a warehouse, just as expected.

Upon arrival in the area, they quietly exit the car and don protective gear. They convene with Baltimore PD—Ziva hopes that they have enough manpower to get Tony out without anyone getting hurt.

"You all—" Gibbs gestures to the Baltimore officers— "follow us. That's our man in there. Our priority is to get him out safely by any means necessary, do you understand?" There are nods all around. "If it turns into a firefight, Ziva, I want you to get in there and protect Tony. You focus on getting him out, and the rest of us will have your six." Ziva and Gibbs exchange loaded looks—he's giving her this assignment primarily because he knows it's what she'll do anyway. She'll risk her own life to rescue DiNozzo, so Gibbs will make damned sure that she doesn't lose it.

The group discusses a few more tactical details and then they silently move in on the building, fanning out on Gibbs' orders. Some of the Baltimore guys take the other entrances; Gibbs, Ziva, and McGee file quietly through the main door with the other officers in tow.

There's a guard with a machine gun stationed near the front entrance, but he must be new because Ziva is able to neutralize him with a single well-placed gun butt to the head, and he falls almost noiselessly to the ground. Gibbs silently motions for one of the Baltimore cops to cuff him as the rest of the group moves on.

They have to take out one more guard along the way, but soon they get to a part of the warehouse that has quiet voices emanating from within. The faint words sound like French, and Gibbs gives Ziva a questioning look.

She holds up a hand for silence—as if anyone in their group is making a sound—so she can listen. "They are talking about Tony, I believe," she breathes to Gibbs. "They are certainly referencing a prisoner, at the very least. One voice is saying that the Frog should be back to talk to him again soon, and the other voice is saying—" Despite her worry and her urgency, she has to let out a noiseless laugh. "The other is saying thank God because the prisoner hasn't stopped talking since he woke up and they are getting tired of it." Sounds like Tony, for sure.

Gibbs doesn't share her amusement, but he nods. "Just the two voices that you can make out?"

Ziva nods, too. WIth silent permission from Gibbs, she steps forward toward the doorway to see if she can get a good visual on the room. Luckily, there's a small, grimy window, and she looks for as long as she thinks she can without being seen. She can see Tony duct-taped to a chair; she feels a sharp pain somewhere around her heart when she notices that he still has flour in his hair and in splotches on his face. He's wonderfully alive, though. Ziva tears her eyes away before any emotions can surface—now is certainly not the time.

Then she turns back to the others. They huddle in tightly to listen as she whispers. "There are five men in the room besides Tony, who is strapped to a chair near the left wall. Of the five, one is standing guard near this door, one is standing guard near a door on the opposite wall, two are in the far right corner talking, and one is standing behind Tony. They are all armed."

Gibbs immediately gives instructions based on what Ziva's told him; he trusts her enough to not feel like he, too, needs a firsthand visual on the room. "You two, get yourselves around to the other side of that far door. Take out anyone you have to on the way, but do not be seen or heard. We don't want them to know we're here. Come in from that side to back us up once you hear us storm the room." The two officers that he gestures to nod and silently peel away from the group. "McGee, you're with me—focus on the two in the corner. Ziva, you know your job. The rest of you, take out the guards. I have the guy behind DiNozzo." Gibbs waits until everyone agrees in nods before finishing. "On my mark…" He holds up three fingers, puts one down, puts down the second, and then finally puts down the last.

From there, it's a flurry of activity. Gibbs bursts through the door, shooting almost as soon as he enters; Ziva and McGee are hot on his heels. They immediately split off in different directions.

The element of surprise is on their side; the men inside are startled and Gibbs' team takes two of them down before they can react. They quickly start diving for cover and shooting back, though, and within seconds, there's a hail of bullets going in both directions.

Disregarding all of this, Ziva steals across the room to where Tony is; he looks alarmed and afraid to see her. Gun in one hand and knife in the other, she dives forward to start hacking at Tony's bonds. "Ziva, look out!" Tony cries, and she whips around to point her gun at an angry Frenchman who has just noticed her. Before she has time to fire her shot, though, the man goes down thanks to a bullet from McGee's gun. Ziva goes back to cutting Tony free, and as soon as she does, she's yanking him away. Tony stumbles in the direction she's pushing him in, stiff from being knocked out twice and bound in the same uncomfortable position for hours.

That's where they run into a problem, though. When Ziva looked into the room from the window, she couldn't see that what looked like a wall from her angle was actually a hidden hallway, and there's a gunman coming out of it now.

Ziva can see what's about to happen, but not in time to stop it. She's been urging Tony ahead of her, aiming to get him out safely, and now he's between her and the gunman. The man raises his gun to fire and without a thought spared for her own safety, Ziva leaps at Tony to knock him out of the way.

They tumble to the ground and she leaps up, gun still in hand. The battle is over, though. Gibbs shot the man that just tried to kill her and Tony, and all of the other criminals are on the floor, either dead or incapacitated. Ziva counts heads quickly—it looks as if everyone on their side is unharmed.

She turns to Tony to check him over as well. "Are you alright?" she asks urgently. "Did they hurt you?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Jesus, how did you find me? I thought I was a goner for sure. That was close."

"McGee did some Elf Lord magic," Ziva answers, aiming to make him smile—he does. "Jeanne Benoit helped, too."

"Jeanne?" He looks at her with an unconvincingly clueless face. "Who's that?"

"The game is up, Tony. Director Shepard told ev…" Ziva trails off, suddenly feeling woozy.

"Ziva?" Tony says in sudden alarm, his voice sounding very far away to Ziva. "Oh my god, I think she's about to pass out," he says to someone behind her.

Ziva's still standing, but she can't feel her feet. "Oh my god!" Tony says again, and this time, his voice is full of anguish. "She's bleeding—call an ambulance! I think she was hit." As he talks, he grabs her gently under the arms and lowers her to the floor; this is good because she would have made it there momentarily by herself in a much less pleasant manner had he not. "Stay with me, ninja. You're alright, I've got you."

She watches faintly as Tony accepts a wad of cloth from someone above her head—McGee, maybe?—and presses it firmly to her abdomen. Now she notices the blood he was talking about. Two more hands pull at her bulletproof vest until the velcro on it detaches and it comes free. "Why didn't her vest stop the bullet?" This time Ziva's sure it's McGee—she can recognize his worried voice.

"One in a million shot," Gibbs says gruffly, somewhere just out of sight. Ziva can't quite get her head to move to follow the conversation. She's feeling curiously weak all over. "When she jumped at Tony, she must have twisted in a way that exposed that part of her abdomen for a split second—just long enough for the bullet to hit."

"Boss, that's a lot of blood..." McGee sounds troubled.

"You think I don't know that, McGee? Tony, keep pressure on that wound. Strickland, where is that ambulance?"

"Should be less than five minutes away, sir," comes a voice Ziva doesn't recognize. Must be one of the Baltimore officers.

"Look at me, Ziver," Gibbs orders, leaning down to get closer to her face. With difficulty, she rolls her eyes up to do as told. "You didn't come all the way from Israel and become one of the best damn agents I've ever worked with just to die in a warehouse, you hear? You focus on keeping your heart beating and let us get the rest."

"Okay," she agrees drowsily.

Gibbs presses a long, surprisingly tender kiss to her forehead before standing up and barking more orders. She understands what he's doing by walking away—he's telling her he's not concerned that she's going to die, because if he was really worried, he'd be right here, seeing her out as she took her final leave of him. Some part of her recognizes that he may be trying to convince himself, too, though, unable to sit there and watch her die. Like Ziva, he's lost too many people and it may be just too painful to let him be present in losing another.

Maybe dying is making her perceptive, because she can feel McGee's hesitation, even though he's not saying anything and he's out of her line of sight. He's waffling over something, probably the same thing Gibbs is. "Hang in there, Ziva," he finally says before hurrying off to help their boss.

Now it's just her and Tony right here in this little bubble of fear and horror. Tony is being silent for once, and that scares her more than anything. He's got his thigh against her torso as he leans close to keep pressure on her bullet wound, and she can see that he's looking anywhere but at her face. "Tony…" she mumbles. Her voice is so weak that she can barely hear herself, and she clears her throat. "Tony, look at me."

He finally does then, and the agony in his expression almost makes her think he's been hit, too. Then she realizes with a surge of deep, overwhelming affection that this sweet man is hurting for her. Getting shot doesn't bring tears to her eyes, but seeing Tony's love so plainly written across his face does. She can't believe she ever doubted it.

"Does it hurt very much?" he asks her anxiously, noting her eyes filling.

She shakes her head slowly, feeling like she's moving through syrup. "It is not painful at all. I believe I am in shock." The words are hard to get out, but talking is clearing her head a little, keeping her just above the surface.

Something flashes across his face as she says that, too quickly for Ziva to decipher. He must be thinking the same thing that she is—shock can kill just as surely as a bullet can, and her body going into that state is a dangerous thing indeed.

Ziva is quite suddenly filled with certainty that she will not survive this. She's at peace with the notion; to be a Mossad is to hold in one's heart a willingness to die for something important, and Tony is no less important to her than Israel ever was. The knowledge that she loves him does not come suddenly but rather is gently unveiled, having been there all along without her noticing.

Maybe he can see her thoughts in her face, in her tears and the tiny, affectionate smile on her lips, because he starts to look a little panicky. "Ziva, don't—whatever light you're thinking of going toward, don't do it. Please don't. I can't lose you, I can't—" His voice breaks to the point that he can't get out another word. The edges of his features start to turn white as her vision fades, and she fights to hold onto it. She wants his face to be the last thing she sees.

If there was ever a time in her life to harness her emotions and speak them, it would be now, but it is so hard to concentrate. "Tony," she says instead, and the one word makes her cough.

He can't answer, fraught with premature grief. He just shakes his head, silently telling her no. No, don't go. No, don't leave me. No, don't die. Please don't die. Somewhere, sounding miles and miles away, the ambulance arrives; Ziva can hear it. It's too late, she knows. Just a few minutes too late.

It's now or never. "Tony, I…" For once, it's not her emotions, her training, or her fear stopping her from speaking. In a cruel twist of fate, it's simply a lack of blood supply to her brain that's keeping her from saying the words he needs to hear. She forces herself to focus, to think. Tony is the only thing in the world right now that matters, and he deserves to hear the words at least once before she dies. It takes a monumental effort, but she finally gets it out: "Ani ohevet ot'h'a," she murmurs.

She doesn't realize that in her brain's final moments of oxygen saturation, it has reverted to her native tongue. She doesn't realize that she's just said "I love you" to Tony in Hebrew instead of English. She doesn't realize that he understands her all the same, despite not being a Hebrew-speaker himself.

She also doesn't realize it when her heart stops.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day goes in flashes for Tony, blurry, dull numbness interspersed with short scenes of agonizingly sharp clarity.

He feels his heart break in an irreparable sort of way at Ziva's last words; he doesn't have to speak the language to know what she's saying to him and to understand instinctively how deeply she means it. He almost wishes she hadn't said it, though, because it feels like saying the words was the action that signed her death warrant. Watching the life leave her eyes, he feels the life leave his, too.

Then the paramedics from the ambulance are there. They pull him away, gently at first and then more roughly when we won't let go. They load Ziva onto a stretcher and get her out of the warehouse, into the ambulance; one starts CPR as soon as they separate her from Tony while the other gets vitals and calls a hospital. "Incoming GSW to the abdomen," he's saying urgently. "No pulse, no BP. She's lost a lot of blood. ETA 8 minutes. She's a federal agent shot during a hostage rescue." Tony has followed them outside, wordless and expressionless, and that's all he can hear before they close the doors and the ambulance tears away from the warehouse, sirens blaring.

He wants to go with them, wants to keep Ziva in his line of sight as if he can possibly protect her, but he can't move, can't speak.

The paramedic's words echo repeatedly in his ears, long after he can't hear the sirens anymore. "No pulse," the EMT had said.

No pulse.

No pulse.

All at once, his vacant emotions slam back into him, knock him to his knees, steal his breath away and then give it back with force. The scream that tears from his throat is inhuman, devoid of anything but raw, animal grief.

He doesn't stop until Gibbs, kneeling next to him, pulls him into a rough hug. It's part comfort, part straight jacket, because Gibbs can tell that Tony is absolutely losing it. The last time Gibbs heard a noise like that, it was his own yell as he shot Pedro Hernandez and had to really and truly accept his wife's and daughter's deaths.

A very sober McGee takes over the necessary crime scene duties, making sure they've covered everything that needs covering to tighten the case. There can be no screwups on this one, not when this case has resulted in the abduction of one agent and the potential death of another. Like Gibbs, Tim holds himself tightly together to get the job done. He'll fall apart later.

One of the Baltimore cops drives Tony to the hospital; he kindly does so with his sirens on, making sure the grieving agent can get there as soon as possible. Of course, it's a game of hurry up and wait. No one can tell Tony anything, even when he flashes his credentials—there's nothing to tell yet. Ziva has been rushed into emergency surgery, but it doesn't look good.

Everyone hopes desperately that the doctors can somehow bring the Israeli back, but no one says it out loud.

Tony sits in a chair in the waiting room for an indeterminable amount of time. People walk past him, talk to him, and he doesn't see them at all. He answers questions robotically, unaware of what he's saying. He's lost in thought, lost in memories.

Somewhere along the way, Ziva has decided that Tony needs to learn to cook. He's reluctant at best, but she insists that he's a grown man and should have the skills of one. It turns out that despite his unwillingness, he's relatively competent at it once he actually tries, and Ziva delights in teaching him new recipes. He can be fairly grumpy about it, but she catches him smiling often and knows it's just for show.

That's true until she tries to teach him some Israeli recipes. Falafels are an easy first, hard to mess up. They're doing fine up to the point where it's time to roll the chickpea meal into balls.

"Ziva!" Tony whines. "It's slimy!"

She elbows him, chuckling. "It is not slimy, it is simply moist. That is how it is supposed to be."

"No, it's slimy, I can't touch it." He looks so uncomfortable that she cracks up.

"You are such a child, Tony!"

"Am not!"

"Yes, you are!" The look on his face is still killing her and she just can't stop laughing. His expression is sort of reminiscent of the videos she's seen of babies trying lemons for the first time—horror, disgust, betrayal. He's really, genuinely grossed out by the chickpea meal, and it's so funny because he regularly runs headfirst into danger without any fear.

Feeling evil, Ziva catches his eye and pops some of the paste in her mouth, making Tony gag.

"What was that?"

Tony looks up to see a stranger in a waiting room chair a few down from his giving him a weird look, and he realizes that he was mumbling "slimy" under his breath.

He brushes the woman off with a vague apology and turns his body away, wishing that he had more privacy.

Tony doesn't know how long it is before Gibbs settles wordlessly down next to him, and he turns away again. He doesn't want Gibbs looking at him any more than he wants a stranger staring. He just wants Ziva back, and barring that, he wants to be left alone with his thoughts.

"Ziva, slow down!" he yelps, clutching onto his seatbelt and the passenger side door for dear life.

"We do not want to be late. You know Gibbs will be angry if we are!" she counters, swerving around someone who is merely going 15 miles over the speed limit. Tony thinks they may have a repeat performance of the first time he rode in a car with her, a traumatizing experience that ended with him throwing up on his own feet.

"We're gonna be really late if we're dead," he informs her waspishly, the sarcasm in his voice hindered by breathlessness as he watches his life flash before his eyes.

"Dead? You know, this kind of driving would save your life in Iraq," she informs him. It's terrifying how absolutely conversational she's being, talking casually as if they're not hurtling down the interstate at more than a hundred miles an hour.

"We're not in Iraq," he reminds her. This conversation is so reminiscent of that first time, too. He's not sure he'll survive this version.

"No," she agrees, "because you would have matured much more quickly if we were."

"Cute, Ziva."

If only he had known that day what he would give later down the road to get the chance to be nearly killed by her driving just one more time. He would have enjoyed it more if he'd known. There are a lot of things he did with Ziva that he would have thrown himself into with far more abandon.

At some point, Gibbs leaves for a few minutes and comes back with two coffees. He hands Tony one, who takes it unenthusiastically. "Drink it," Gibbs commands, the first words he's said since arriving at the hospital.

"Not thirsty," Tony mutters.

"I didn't ask if you were. DiNozzo, have you looked at the time? It's almost noon. You've been up since yesterday morning and you've been abducted, knocked out, interrogated, and shot at in that time. Unless you want to go home and sleep—"

"I'm not leaving," Tony growls.

"Then drink the coffee," Gibbs finishes severely.

Begrudgingly, Tony does.

"Are you ready? Shalom," Ziva says slowly.

"Shalom," Tony confidently repeats.

"Good! And that means…?"

"Hello, goodbye, or peace," Tony recites.

She's giving him informal Hebrew lessons as they wander through Target, ostensibly grocery shopping but really just killing time on a lazy Sunday afternoon. "Okay, here is another easy one. How do you say thank you?"

She's definitely said it to him before, and it only takes him a moment of thinking before he has an answer for her. "Toda?"

"Yes, that is it!" She beams at him, and it thrills him that something so simple is making her so happy. He considers for the first time how lonely it could get to have no one to speak your own language to, and he resolves to put real effort into these impromptu lessons. He knows she speaks many languages and has no difficulty communicating with her friends in English, but he also knows that it must not be the same. "Do you know how to say you are welcome?"

"No, I don't think so."

"You can say bevakascha or al lo davar." He tries those out and despite his best efforts, he butchers them both. It's worth it to hear her laugh, and she repeats them so he can try again. He does better the second time.

"Well, toda for teaching me, Ziva," he tells her.

"Al lo davar," she replies happily.

This time, Tony's musings are interrupted by a doctor in a white coat, and he and Gibbs get to their feet immediately. "You're the family of Ziva David?" the man asks them.

"Yes," Tony replies quickly, and Gibbs nods. They are her family, blood-related or not.

"I have news. Come with me, please." He leads them to a smaller, more private room that seems to be made for these discussions. When he gestures for them to sit, they do so; Tony's heart is thudding so hard he can hear his pulse in his ears.

He wants to ask, to prompt the doctor to share how Ziva is, but he's too afraid to say the words. Luckily, the doctor only waits 'til they're settled to speak. "I have good news and bad news," he begins. "Her heart stopped before she got here and the good news is that we were able to restart it. We were also able to successfully stop the bleeding in her abdomen and remove the bullet fragments, but we had to replace almost her entire blood volume." His expression turns sympathetic and he pauses briefly before giving them the bad news. "Unfortunately, she had no heartbeat for close to half an hour. There's a chance that if she wakes up at all, she'll have significant and irreversible brain damage. You need to prepare yourselves for that."

Tony's going to need some time to take that in, so he looks at Gibbs for help. His boss, recognizing that the younger man doesn't know what to say, stands up again and holds out a hand for the doctor to shake. "Thanks, doc," he says quietly. "Can we see her?"

"You'll be able to shortly. A nurse will come get you once you can go back." He gives Gibbs his pager number in case they have questions. Then, with a sympathetic smile, he leaves them alone.

Gibbs sits back down and claps a gentle hand to Tony's shoulder. "DiNozzo."

Tony looks up at Gibbs; everything about him says how lost he is right now, and Gibbs sighs. "DiNozzo. She's alive. Let's take this one step at a time. She's alive, and that's a win."

Tony swallows hard a few times, trying to find his voice. "Alive, maybe," he croaks finally, "but you heard the doctor. She's probably never going to be Ziva again. She might not even wake up!"

Gibbs purses his lips and points to the door the doctor just left through. "All that man knows is statistics. He doesn't know Ziva, and he doesn't know the future." He lightly shakes Tony's shoulder, urging him to listen. "Have faith in her. She's always had faith in you."

Tony laughs at that, and it's a dark, angry sound. "Her faith in me is what landed her in that hospital bed to begin with, boss! If it wasn't for me, she'd be having a normal Sunday, not laying in there by herself, fighting for her life!" His voice breaks a few times, but he gets through what he wants to say.

"She was doing her job, DiNozzo, just like you were! She was following my orders and you were following the director's. You want to blame someone? Blame the Frog. Blame Jenny Shepard. Hell, blame me. But this is not on you, and if you're taking an assignment this personally, you might as well hand over your badge and gun right now, because you're not fit to be an agent."

It's an empty threat and Tony knows it, but it does make him drop the subject for the moment. Gibbs seems to understand that Tony doesn't want to talk, and they sit in silence until a nurse comes to get them.

Ziva's in the ICU, hooked up to what seems like dozens of wires and tubes. They can hear her monitors beeping before they see her, a steady, rhythmic set of tones that sound too robotic, not human enough to be comforting. Tony knows those sounds represent the fact that she's alive for now, though, so he relishes them all the same.

It's hard to look at her, especially because she looks so… normal. Besides the bullet wound itself, she didn't sustain any injuries in Tony's rescue. Her face is unmarked, and like the old cliche, it really looks like she could be sleeping, not lost to a coma. Tony is uncomfortably reminded of seeing Kate in the morgue—she, too, looked like she was asleep on the slab once Ducky covered the hole in her forehead.

This isn't like Kate, though, Tony tells himself. Kate's death was instantaneous, certain, absolute. Ziva's situation is precarious, but Gibbs is right. They aren't completely without hope.

Tony settles in a folding chair on one side of Ziva's bed and Gibbs does the same on the other side. They don't talk.

Careful to avoid tweaking her IV, Tony slips his hand into Ziva's and squeezes it. Its warmth is comforting, but he aches to have her squeeze back. The love for her that he's had to keep contained for weeks swells again and, overcome, he leans over to kiss the hand he's holding. She's right here, but he misses her.

After a few hours, McGee rushes in. He stops short abruptly when he sees Tony and Gibbs sitting calmly. "How is she?" he asks softly, his eyes falling on Ziva's prostrate form.

"No change," Gibbs answers. "Finish everything that needed doing? Got the case all wrapped up?"

McGee nods, but he doesn't look entirely pleased. "Evidence was processed, bad guys were put in holding, scene was secured."

"But?" Gibbs says, correctly interpreting what McGee isn't saying.

"But we didn't get René Benoit. He wasn't on the premises."

"What?" Tony demands, speaking for the first time in hours.

"Tony…" McGee says, a half-formed apology in his voice.

"All that—all that—and we didn't get him?" He's floored, beyond angry.

"When did you last see him?"

"It was…" Frustrated, Tony hits one hand against Ziva's hospital bed. "I don't know. Didn't have a clock, you know?"

McGee nods and Tony knows he hasn't been helpful. Infuriating. He's caused Ziva's injury and he can't even give them any useful information to bring down the arms dealer that started all of this!

McGee seems to sense that Tony isn't ready to talk much more, because he focuses on arranging the flowers he's brought rather than trying to make conversation. Then he leaves and comes back with another folding chair, joining their silent vigil.

There are more visitors as the day passes on; Shepard stops by, as does Ducky and finally Palmer. Abby comes and stays a while—she's the only one to try to cheer Tony up. Everyone else knows better than to try to engage him. For once, he's absolutely silent, nothing to say. The room fills with bouquets and their scents start to give him a headache.

Toward the end of the day, Gibbs is the only one left besides Tony himself, and eventually, he stands to leave, too. "Don't you want to go home and get some sleep?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

Tony shakes his head.

"I could stay with her. She wouldn't be alone."

Tony still says no, and Gibbs nods, expecting this. "Call me if she wakes up, then," he says, and leaves Tony to it.

It's a long night. Tony dozes on and off against the side of Ziva's bed, but the nurse comes in often to make adjustments and take vitals and the beeping of the monitors is never ceasing. He has short, troubled dreams, most of them involving trying to chase a Mossad liaison officer who's always just out of sight. Every time he wakes and sees her lying still on the bed, he falls a little deeper into the depression that's had a hold on him since Ziva was shot.

In the morning, Gibbs comes back with coffee. "Go home, DiNozzo," he orders quietly.

"No." Tony's voice is rusty with disuse and he takes a big sip of the coffee he's been handed to clear his throat.

"It wasn't a request."

"I don't care. I'm not leaving."

"Tony…" Gibbs' use of his first name makes Tony really look at his boss and what he sees sobers him further, somehow; Gibbs is smiling slightly. "If she wakes up while you're gone, I'll tell her how badly you wanted to stay and she'll look forward to you coming back. If she doesn't, no harm done."

"I'm not leaving her."

Gibbs makes an exasperated face and draws out his handcuffs, holding them threateningly at his side. "Go home, DiNozzo!"

Tony laughs, bitter. "You going to shoot me if I don't?"

"No, but I might arrest you."

Gibbs won't and they both know it, but they both also know that Tony's doing no good for Ziva or for anyone while he remains sitting here, sleepless and emotional. He needs rest, he needs to recharge, and he needs distance from this terrible thing that has happened. "You'll call me if she wakes up?" he demands.

"You know I will."

Tony nods, still uncomfortable with the idea of leaving. "And you'll stay with her the whole time I'm gone?"

"Won't leave her side."

"What if we get a case?"

"There are other teams that can handle it. Shepard will understand. Go, Tony."

Tonycan't find another objection, so he looks down at Ziva one more time, getting ready to leave. He wants to say goodbye to her but isn't sure how to do so with an audience, so he merely leans down and kisses her forehead, walking out before he can change his mind.

It's a long drive home, but he uses the time to clear his head. Exhausted, he falls into bed without showering, despite the fact that he still has a dusting of flour in his hair. He tosses and turns for hours before finally falling into a fitful sleep. He gets in a good four hours before he wakes up and can't get back to it. Hopefully, Gibbs won't shoot him if he returns to the hospital.

Return he does; he showers first but doesn't take the time to shave.

Unfortunately, all is as he left it, and there's no change in Ziva's state. Gibbs looks perfectly content to sit indefinitely, but Tony wants some time alone with Ziva.

"You're back," Gibbs says wanly when Tony walks in. "You get some sleep?"

"Some." He still doesn't quite have it in him to smile, but he gives Gibbs a nod that he means to come across as reassuring. "Your turn now."

"You sure, DiNozzo? I can stay."

"I'm sure. Don't want you passing out on me, boss."

Gibbs seems to believe Tony, because he doesn't protest. He brushes Ziva's hair back from her face and murmurs "rest well, kid," before heading out.

Tony takes his old seat next to the bed and settles in. It occurs to him that maybe he should start thinking about eventualities that don't rely on Ziva waking up. He should make a plan that doesn't involve him sitting indefinitely, watching her sleep. He should, and he will… tomorrow.

They're somewhere in the late hours of Monday night—he doesn't care enough to check the clock. For tonight, he'll sit beside his love and will her to pull through this. Tomorrow, he'll start considering what happens if she doesn't.

Now, without an audience, he slowly starts to talk. He's sort of talking to Ziva, sort of talking to himself, sort of talking sequentially and sort of rambling on whatever topics come to mind. Before he gets in a groove, his words are superficial, but the more he goes on, the more natural it feels. Before long, he's confessing to everything he's done, said, or felt over the last few months. The dark quietness of the hospital room feels like a confessional.

He talks himself out eventually and finds himself feeling a little more at peace; it's not like him not to chatter and it feels good to tell Ziva what he's been thinking.

He's leaning down against the side of her bed again, wondering if he's likely to fall asleep again, when he hears a quiet, strangled noise. He sits up quickly and sees Ziva's face twitching. She looks uncomfortable and his hands flutter uselessly, wondering what he can do, before it hits him-she's uncomfortable. She's uncomfortable, which means she's awake!

Hurrying into the hall, he grabs a nurse and urges her to follow him inside. She's equally shocked to see her patient awake, and when it becomes clear what's bothering Ziva, she calls a doctor in to see if it's possible to remove the breathing tube.

Tony's ushered outside of the room, but he doesn't mind a bit, willing to do whatever it takes to help Ziva. It's more than an hour before he's allowed back in, but he watches through the window. The doctor takes the tube out, working slowly and carefully as Ziva gags. Then there's a long period of rapid neurological tests, working out just how much of a deficit the lack of oxygen left on Ziva's brain—Tony can only hear bits and pieces. It sounds to him, though, like there's little wrong, if anything. No disrespect to modern medicine, he thinks, but he'd like to conduct his own tests, so to speak.

Eventually, the doctor and two nurses emerge from the room and Tony is allowed back in. They warn him to be gentle with her and to have patience.

When he steps in, Ziva's still laying in the same position she was in while she was unconscious, but she's wearing a wonderfully annoyed expression on her face. It's so Ziva, so unlike the silent and passive woman who's laid in the bed for what feels like so long.

"How're you feeling?" Tony asks her hesitantly. Everything's been so intense for the past few days that he suddenly feels he doesn't know how to talk to her. He's still standing by the door, awkwardly posed with his hands in his pockets.

Ziva groans in answer. "I have been better," she tells him, her voice very hoarse, and he grins widely to hear it. "That is not a good thing," she informs him grumpily upon seeing his expression.

"It's not?" he asks, the wattage of his smile increasing rather than decreasing. "I'd say that's a damn good thing, Ziva David."

"Why?"

"Because it means you're alive."

Her irritated expression softens significantly at that, and she gives him a little smile. "Yes, I suppose that is a victory." She gives him a look he can't decipher. "Why are you standing all the way over there?"

"What? Oh, I guess I—"

"Come," she tells him, and he's happy to comply. He takes his seat next to her and after only a split second of debating with himself, he takes her hand.

"I'm so unbelievably glad you're awake," he shares softly, rubbing the backs of her fingers with his thumb. "No one was sure you ever would be again."

She feebly squeezes his fingers. "I suppose I am glad, as well."

"You suppose?"

She gestures weakly to her abdomen. "It must have hurt less when I was sleeping."

He gives her a look that says he means business and she doesn't understand it until he hits her nurse call button. "Hi, can we get some pain meds in here? Officer David isn't feeling so well."

"Tony," she protests, frowning, once the tinny voice of the nurse says she'll be in shortly. "I neither want nor need medication."

In answer, he pulls out his phone. "Hey, look at this thing McGee sent me while you were unconscious."

Not thinking, Ziva tries to sit up to see whatever he's showing her, and she cries out in pain when the move troubles her already sore abdomen. "That's what I thought," Tony says softly. For once, it's not gloating—he's genuinely worried that she'll let her pain get unbearable by not accepting the medicine when she needs it. "Why don't you want the drugs, Ziva?"

"Because I do not wish to feel incapacitated," she tells him shortly, looking away. "If I do not have a clear head, I cannot defend myself."

It's so typical Ziva that Tony can't help but laugh, and he feels his heart aching in the sweetest way.

"Do not laugh! I—"

"Ziva, I'm not laughing at you!" he protests. He somehow finds the courage to lean in and brush his hand lightly along her face. "I'm just…" He has to pause. "Ziva, I'm right here. You don't need to defend yourself—I'll do it."

She looks torn, but between what he cannot say. She nods, though, and when the nurse shows up a few minutes later with morphine, Ziva doesn't protest. It leaves her tired and woozy but less sore, and Tony takes up stroking her face again. She doesn't protest that, either.

After a few minutes, her eyes are heavy. She doesn't wish to sleep, so she catches his hand. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to apologize."

"For what?"

"I eavesdropped on you."

To her surprise, he laughs loudly at that. "What did you hear?"

She gives him a suspicious look but tells him anyway. "I heard you talking to Director Shepard about Jeanne Benoit."

"Oh, yeah?" He's still grinning—it doesn't make sense. He should be angry with her. "That all you hear?"

"...no."

"What else, then?" When she hesitates, he gently frees his hand from her grasp to go back to petting her face. "Come on, Ziva, no secrets among friends."

"You are going to make me fall asleep," she grumps, but doesn't stop his hand again.

"Ziva?" he prompts after a moment.

"Yes?"

"What else did you hear?"

"Oh. I, um, I heard…" Closing her eyes makes this easier, and morphine makes her want to talk. "I heard you talking to McGee. It was about me."

"And what did I say about you?" He's still calm, soft, touching her oh-so-gently, and she doesn't know what to make of it.

"You said you thought… you thought you might be in love with me."

"And you're sorry for hearing that?" he wants to know.

She cracks an eyelid to look at him. "I am sorry that I broke your trust and listened when I knew you were not talking to me."

"That's alright," he assures her. The smile is still on his face, but it's soft and tender now.

"You are not angry?"

"No."

"Did you mean what you said to McGee?"

"I did."

There's a pause while her medicine-slowed brain tries to figure through that one. "You do?"

He smiles down at her, and when she fully looks at him again, he's closer than she'd realized. "I do." There's a muted hope in her expression that makes it easy to find the courage to say the words he has owed her for a long time now. "I love you, Ziva." There's a time when this would have made him panic, the threat of imminent commitment hanging over his head like a guillotine… but if he'd had any lingering doubts before yesterday, they disappeared when he almost lost her.

Ziva struggles to force her tired hand up to touch his face, mimicking the soft movements he's still making against her cheek. There's a lot she wants to say, ranging from the sappy and romantic to the sarcastic and sassy, but what comes out of her mouth is neither. "Why are you not surprised at what I told you?"

He laughs at that and catches the hand on his face to kiss her palm. "Because, Ziva David, I'm more clever than you give me credit for. I'm not just a pretty face, you know, even though I'm obviously also a pretty face." He winks at her, and when she still seems a little confused, he shakes his head. "You've had a hard weekend and a lot of drugs today, so I guess I'll give you a pass on this one. I'm not surprised you overheard because that was my plan all along."

Ziva's brain flashes through Tony's behavior around that period. The call, the conversation with McGee, the way he had suddenly started taking her on "dates" again... "So when you called me from the director's office…"

"Yep, that was on purpose."

"Not a booty call?"

"Butt dial, Ziva, butt dial!" He can barely contain his laughter at that one, but this is too important to get off topic now. "And no, it was not. But I needed you to think it was."

"I got in trouble for that, you know," she tells him grimly.

"You—what?"

"When you were abducted, Director Shepard was very curious about how I knew you were on the Jeanne Benoit assignment after she had made it very clear that you were not to tell anyone about it. I implied that I listened at her office door to intentionally learn information about your classified mission."

"But why?"

"Because I did not want you to lose your job."

Exasperated but touched, the only real response he can come up with is to lean down and press a long, tender kiss to her cheek. "Ziva, I never would have asked you to do that," he murmurs against her skin, and then pulls back to look at her again. "I'm sorry you got in trouble. I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I know. What about your conversation with McGee?"

He shrugs a little. "I was already on the Benoit assignment and I had already realized that ending our arrangement, that… that hurting you… well, it was the wrong thing to do. Once I figured out how I really felt, it was too late to back out of the op, but I didn't want you to give up on me. I didn't want you to think I didn't have feelings for you."

"You did not wish for me to move on and date someone else, yes?" Ziva concludes.

"No, that's not what I—" he sighs. "That wasn't my motivation. It would have sucked if you'd started dating someone else, but I would have been happy for you."

"Now you must understand how it felt for me to watch you date Jeanne."

He nods unhappily. "Yeah, I get it. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I handled all of that really badly."

"Never mind that," she says, shaking her head. "You tricked me! If I was not feeling so weak and if I had my gun, I might shoot you for it."

That pulls a little laugh out of him, but her next words sober him right back up.

"If you had feelings for me, why did you accept an assignment that required you to date someone else?"

"Because I'm an idiot. Because I was afraid of how I felt about you. Because I don't know how to have a serious relationship and it scared me that I wanted to try. Take your pick."

Her face is unreadable. "Do you still wish to try?"

He nods, nervous.

She lets him stew for a moment before grinning. "That is good, because I love you, too, even if sometimes, you are an idiot."

He's never heard sweeter words.

"Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?"

He's still holding her hand to his cheek, so she pulls his face toward her. She isn't capable of much force at the moment, but he gets the idea, and he swiftly leans down to kiss her, gentle as could be.

Suddenly, getting kidnapped feels like maybe it was worth it, after all.

Chapter Text

After a week in the hospital, Ziva is fed up with being tied to a single room. She's had visitors every day and that has been wonderful—so has the fact that Tony has been a dedicated caretaker, barely leaving her side. It makes her feel valued and loved. She hates being poked and prodded all hours of the day and night, though, and being the center of attention from everyone is tiring. Not a fan of hospitals under normal circumstances, she has trouble sleeping and little appetite during this particular extended stay.

She tries to be patient, aware that she did go through something very serious. She consents to every test the doctors want to run until it becomes clear that despite the surgeon's pessimism, she has no lingering neurological issues from her brush with death. Her pain levels decrease every day, and after the first two days, she refuses analgesics altogether. She'd rather suffer a little and be at full mental capacity than be out of pain and mentally fuzzy.

To her surprise, Tony is an excessive worrier. He asks her several times every day how she's feeling, how much pain she's in, if she desires water or food, if her pillow is fluffed to satisfaction. Having always been fiercely independent, she finds this overbearing and annoying, but every time she gets close to snapping at him to get him to back off, she sees in his face the genuine ache to be able to do something for her. He harbors a lot of guilt over the shooting, she knows, despite the fact that it's not his fault at all. It seems he regards it as his personal mission to make her heal as fast as possible.

She tolerates it, because she loves him.

They've settled into a stage of new-relationship bliss. Despite knowing one another very well already, they still engage in the shy dance of figuring out how they fit together romantically. There's a hesitancy to the way they hold hands, kiss, or cuddle, especially when other people are around. There's something that feels sweetly innocent about it. Given what they've already shared, though, it also feels like several steps backwards.

On the eighth day, Ziva is undergoing her daily basic neurological function tests when she decides that she's had it.

"Touch your nose and then touch my finger," the doctor instructs, and she starts to do it before scoffing.

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"No. How many times are you going to conduct the same test? How many mornings must I sit here and touch your finger?"

"Ms. David, we need to ensure that—"

"That I have no neurological issues, yes, I know. So when do you start to believe what you are seeing?"

The doctor looks mildly uncomfortable with her question. "We'll keep you here as long as the head neurologist deems necessary," he finally answers.

"No, you will not," Ziva disagrees, surprising both herself and the doctor, "because I am leaving."

"You're—leaving?" As the incredulous neurologist frowns at her, Tony walks in carrying two disposable coffee cups.

Ignoring Tony's entrance for now, Ziva sticks to her guns. "Yes. I believe it is called an—an AMA form, yes? The form that you wish for me to sign in order to pass off responsibility for my health."

"You are within your rights to leave Against Medical Advice, yes," the doctor says stiffly.

"Excellent. I will ready my things to go, then. Please, go retrieve the proper form and I will sign it." She gestures impatiently to the door, and the doctor leaves without another word.

Tony, however, is another matter. "Whaaaat are you doing there, Ziva?" he asks hesitantly, speaking to her in a manner that clearly means he believes she's gone crazy.

"I am leaving this chara hospital." The venom in her voice gives evidence to the fact that this is something she's been building up to for a while.

"What makes this hospital so shit, hm?" Tony's voice is patient again, measured, and it sort of makes Ziva want to throw something at him. Her mild surprise at his correct translation of her Hebrew curse keeps her from doing so, however, and she reminds herself that none of this is Tony's fault.

"They refuse to accept that despite their expectations, I am quite well, thank you!" she snaps.

"Ziva, they're the experts here. I'm sure they're not keeping you around for their own amusement. If they say you need to stay, it's because you do."

"And what exactly are they doing here that I cannot do at home?" Ziva demands.

"Well, running tests, for starters, but—" Tony attempts to say before Ziva interrupts.

"Oh, do not even try that, Tony!" Her voice is harsher than she means it to be; pent up frustration and restlessness seem to be spewing out now, and there might not be any help for it. "I could do those tests in my sleep—you could, too! I am not receiving any medications, I am unnecessarily confined to a bed, and this IV saline makes me need to pee a dozen times a day, laazazel!"

Tony looks unimpressed, and he sets the coffee cups aside to cross his arms. When he doesn't say anything, she snorts angrily, crossing her arms, too. "You done?" he asks eventually, and she nods, frowning. "Good. Now it's your turn to listen. You are well within your rights to be frustrated—this has been rough on all of us, but especially on you. I'm all ears anytime you need to rant… but the second you start to put your health in danger because you're feeling stir-crazy, we're gonna have a problem."

"I am not putting myself in danger, Tony!" she insists.

"I didn't say you were. I just said not to."

Their voices are hard and they're glaring at one another, but after only a second, Tony turns away to grab one of the cups he brought in. He holds it out. "Drink your hot chocolate while it's warm, Ziva," he says roughly.

"Thanks," she growls, accepting it.

Then the absurdity of the argument hits both of them at the same time, and when their eyes next meet, they break into quiet laughter. Tony draws closer and after the slightest hesitation, he lays a tender hand on her cheek. "If you really, genuinely think you're alright to leave the hospital, I'll support you on that. Just remember that we—that I—almost lost you. Please don't make any rash decisions if you're not 100% sure, okay?"

Ziva smiles a little and puts her hand over his—there it is again, that sweet, calming sense of being cared about. "You are right, Tony. I really think I am okay, however."

"Good. You have no idea how glad I am to hear it." Ziva can see the vulnerability he's choosing to admit to her here, and it makes her awfully proud of his growth.

After putting aside her hot chocolate, she reaches up with both hands, gently grasping Tony's cheeks and pulling him toward her. She kisses him softly and he smiles into it. "I love you," she offers, still somewhat shy over saying the words out loud.

"I love you, too," Tony replies warmly. He kisses her again, and she's really starting to enjoy it when someone close by clears their throat. Tony and Ziva break apart to see that the doctor has returned, clipboard in hand.

"You have my form?" Ziva asks expectantly, unembarrassed.

"I want to emphasize that this is against medical advice, but yes, I have the form here if you want to go through with it," the doctor answers.

"Your opinion is noted, thank you," Ziva says coldly. Tony raises his eyebrows at this but doesn't comment—clearly, they need to get her out of here before she starts shooting people.

The doctor walks Ziva through the form, making her initial here and sign there. Then it's done, and Tony can feel Ziva's relief from several feet away.

The doctor shuffles the papers, making sure everything is in order. "I'll have a nurse come in with your discharge papers. Do you live alone?"

"Yes, I do," Ziva confirms.

"We recommend having someone stay with you for at least a few days."

"Thank you, but I believe that is unnecessary." Ziva's voice is arrogant, almost, completely confident in her infallibility.

"No, it's not," Tony argues quietly, wanting to roll his eyes but knowing better. "I'll stay with her—or she can stay with me. She won't be alone, trust me."

"Tony, I do not wish to disturb your—" Ziva starts, softer, but Tony interrupts. The doctor sees this as his cue to leave.

Tony focuses entirely on his partner. "You're not. I'm volunteering. And I've seen the way you look at me when I worry about you—I know you've noticed. Do you really think I would let you recover alone? What if something happened?"

"I am leaving the hospital because I feel I am up to an acceptable level of health. That does not mean I need you to continue to look after me—if it did, I would not leave here in the first place," she points out.

"Ziva." Tony stares at her, frowning. "Just for a second, could you listen? I'm not saying you're in bad shape, but just in case something happens, you're better off having me there. If you're not comfortable with it being me, I'm sure you could stay with McGee or Gibbs." His expression is neutral, but Ziva can see that she's caused him a tiny amount of hurt. He wants to take care of her.

"That is not what I am saying, Tony," she contradicts, contrite. "It is not you I have an issue with."

"No?"

"No. But I am aware that you have sacrificed this week to be at the hospital as much as you have." Like Tony, she often has a little trouble saying exactly what she feels, and she tries to imbue her voice with an inflection that shows gratitude. His sacrifices have not gone unappreciated, she's saying.

"What do you mean?"

"You have barely left my side, love." The pet name slips off her tongue naturally and her eyes flit away for a second in embarrassment as she realizes what she's just said. She sees Tony's affectionate half-smile, though, and feels safe and secure in her fledgling feelings. "You have not worked a single day in the past week."

To her surprise, Tony snorts—he looks partly amused and partly annoyed. At her questioning glance, he elaborates that noise into words. "That wasn't entirely by choice," he admits.

"How so?" she asks.

"I went into the office the morning after you woke up. I had this half-baked plan where if I worked crazy hard for half the day, I could leave early and spend most of the rest of the day in Baltimore with you. We still haven't caught La Grenouille and I wanted to get the bastard who put you in that hospital bed to begin with. I wasn't at my desk for fifteen minutes before Gibbs made me leave, though." He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, judging her expression. "You know he'd never admit it, but you scared him to death, Ziva. You're like a daughter to him. No matter how much I want La Grenouille, he told me my job is to protect you. They'll get the big bad arms dealer without me." He keeps his voice intentionally light, displaying the typical DiNozzo teasing because he knows it's expected of him.

There's a lot to unpack there, and Ziva blinks back an unexpected glaze of tears over her eyes. She's not sure which part of his story to address first, so she finally decides to work backwards. "You went along with that?" she asks, her voice a little wobbly.

Tony can hear it and it makes him feel almost unbearably tender for a long moment. He sits down lightly on the edge of her bed and reaches over to stroke her hair. "Wasn't easy to let the others take over, but… yeah, I did, at least for now. You're my priority. Revenge is a stupid motive for an investigator to have anyway, and I… I realized once Gibbs sent me away that all I wanted was to be at your side. Made it easier, ya know, to—" it's his turn to have an unsteady voice, and he swallows several times to clear it. "Made it easier to live with myself. Still not easy, but when I can see you all day everyday, remind myself that you're alive…" He doesn't finish the sentence.

Ziva struggles slightly to sit up, and Tony gives her gentle support until she's propped the way she'd like to be. "Tony, I want to be very, very clear here—what happened to me is not your fault. Please stop blaming yourself."

"You were rescuing me when you were shot, Ziva, remember that?" He sounds bitter, Ziva thinks, and he's avoiding her gaze.

"Yes, I was," she agrees evenly. "I was following Gibbs' orders, just as you were following Shepard's."

"That doesn't matter," he insist flatly.

"You are correct. It does not matter—just as it does not matter who we were rescuing. It is part of the job, Tony."

He just purses his lips instead of replying.

She catches his hand in hers, squeezing it. "If I cannot convince you of that, at least let me tell you this—I would do it again. I would do it ten times more if it meant keeping you safe. Why will you not let me protect you the way you wish to protect me?"

He doesn't squeeze back, but he doesn't pull away, either. "It's not like I can stop you," he says, a little dark humor in his voice. He'll give it up for now, but that doesn't mean his guilt has gone away.

"It is about time you learned that," she agrees, giving him a soft smile.

It inspires him to pull her into a gentle hug, careful not to irritate her injury while he tucks her face into the crook of his shoulder, his hand caressing the back of her head. "You're too good, you know that, Ziva David?"

She kisses his neck before sighing deeply and snuggling in. "Are you certain you wish to stay with me?" she clarifies rather than replying to Tony's question with the joke that is her first instinct.

"You couldn't stop me if you tried." He kisses the top of her head, making her smile.

"Okay," she finally says, giving in. "Do you wish for us to stay at my apartment, or would you prefer your own?"

"Wherever you'll be more comfortable. You're the one who's recovering."

"And you are the one who is being displaced if you stay with me," Ziva retorts.

"Mm, now that sounds like a preference, David," Tony points out smugly.

"No, that is not what I—"

"Can't take it back now!" he teases, and he beams at her as she pulls away to frown at him. "Your place it is."

"Only if you are sure you do not mind…"

"I don't." He sounds so sure of himself that she can't help but believe him. It's hard for her to relinquish control of anything, but letting him have this will be a good thing for their relationship, she can tell. He needs to know that despite her need for independence, she can compromise on things that are important—at least things that are important to him.

"Alright. Thank you, Tony." She curls back against his chest, sighing happily despite the slight pain the movement causes.

"Any time, Ziva."

As soon as they make it inside Ziva's apartment, Tony starts fussing over her again. He sets her up on the sofa, turns on a mindless sitcom for her to watch, and starts a pot of tea. Then he calls for takeout, and the whole thing reminds her strongly of the way she took care of them the night they first slept together. They've come such a long way, and the nostalgia brings with it a surge of affection. Tony's not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but she loves him more than she might have thought possible several years ago. Without question, her time in Washington has changed her.

When Tony returns with the tea, she coaxes him into settling behind her on the sofa so she can lean back against him, and she does so with a feeling of great contentment. "Tony?" she says softly.

"Mmhm?" He draws his arms around her, resting his hands on her abdomen and starting to draw little patterns with his fingers. It tickles, a surprisingly welcome sensation after days of nothing but pain in that area.

"I feel as if we have been here before," she tells him, letting out a breathy laugh.

"Mm, not quite. Different couch, and it was me with the concussion, not you." His voice is self-satisfied, completely confident that he knows what she's thinking about—and, of course, he's right.

"Yes, but this feels much the same, does it not?"

"Yeah… it does. Any chance tonight'll end the same way that night did?" he suggests seductively, nuzzling into the back of her neck.

She laughs louder this time. "It would have to be you doing all the work this time, Tony. I am still weak from spending a week in bed."

"Oh, I could arrange for you to spend another week in bed," Tony purrs, one of his hands sliding up to lightly cup her breast.

Ziva knows he's teasing and she is, too, but her body still responds. She lets her head fall back and relaxes more fully against him. "With you, that does not sound so bad," she admits. "It is too bad that will have to wait until I am a little more recovered."

"Your imagination still works, doesn't it?" Ziva can hear his grin, and she groans as he lightly pinches her nipple through her clothing.

"Tony DiNozzo, do not start something you cannot finish," she warns.

It's his turn to laugh, and he releases her breast, hugging her from behind instead. He adds a kiss to her cheek for good measure. "I'll finish what I started once you're feeling better, sweet cheeks," he promises, his voice full of affection.

She twists slightly to look at his face. "Sweet cheeks?" That's another throwback, for sure, and he chuckles at her expression.

"Bet you thought I didn't remember that name," he says, self-congratulatory and smirking.

"Maybe your memory is better than I thought, my little hairy butt," she agrees, amused.

He tilts his head in acknowledgment of the pet name she threw back at him, but then his expression turns more serious. "I try to remember everything when it comes to you," he says softly.

"Why?" she wants to know.

"Because my happiest memories are with you." His candor surprises her—she's used to joking Tony, but serious Tony is still rare enough to be unexpected.

She glances down at his lips and then back up to his eyes, and he easily understands the hint, leaning in to kiss her. She reciprocates, and they spend several extraordinarily pleasant moments that way. When they break apart for air, she finally answers him. "Many of mine are with you, as well," she assures him, quite serious.

He smiles, but there's something a little heavier than new love in his eyes. "Many, but not all," he concludes correctly, and she wonders just how much her expression is giving away. He seems to be guessing what she's not saying, knowing the fondest memories of her childhood with Tali and Ari have now become distinctly bittersweet, at once nostalgically happy and deeply painful.

"No, not all," she agrees soberly.

"I'll do my best to make sure all the ones from here on out are nothing short of blissful," he promises, and the clear sincerity behind the vow makes Ziva smile.

"Let us begin now, then," she replies, and kisses him again.

Director Shepard is leaving the office for the day when her phone beeps with an intercom call. She glances at it and goes back around the desk to answer it, seeing that it's her assistant's extension. "Yes, Cynthia?"

"You've got a call, Director. I said I'd check and see if you were available because I know you were about to leave—do you want to take it?"

"Depends," Shepard answers, sighing. There's a bathtub full of hot water and a romance novel calling her name after an interminably long day. "Who is it?"

"It's Eli David, sir. Director of Mossad."

Shepard glances at the clock, frowning. It's midnight in Tel Aviv, seven hours ahead of DC time. Why would Director David be calling so late? Sure it's not a social call, she sighs more heavily and answers her assistant. "Okay, put him through. Thanks, Cynthia."

Cynthia connects the calls, and after a moment, Shepard can hear the background noise change. "Good evening, Director. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Shalom, Ms. Shepard," David answers. He sounds rushed, but his voice is still even—hopefully there is not an international crisis to deal with tonight. "Please, for the sake of relations between our organizations… tell me the status of your investigation into René Benoit."

Shepard frowns and shifts the phone to her other ear, sinking back down into her desk chair. "Why?" she asks bluntly. That entire investigation is a thorn in her side and Benoit himself is doubly so.

"Because a Mossad officer was injured in the course of that investigation, and I would like to hear that something has come of it." On the surface, his voice is light, polite. Shepard recognizes it for the accusation that it is, though, and she remembers what she's been told of Director David's powers of manipulation. She certainly prefers dealing with Ziva, herself.

"Your daughter is recovering well," Shepard points out, her voice cool—she's wordlessly telling the Israeli man that she won't be bullied. "And I'm afraid that the details of the investigation are classified. It's need to know, unfortunately."

"When my officer is compromised, I do need to know," he contradicts, and Shepard marvels once more on his ability to intend threats while sounding no more than conversational.

"If I recall, Director David, you loaned that officer to us. While that does imply a certain amount of cooperation between our agencies and our countries, it doesn't automatically entitle you to be read in on everything she works on."

"Perhaps not," David says smoothly, "but if you wish to continue utilizing Officer David, it would be in your best interest to keep Mossad informed on the progress you are making in this case."

"Is this coming from the Director of Mossad or from Ziva's father?" Shepard questions shrewdly.

"One cannot be separated from the other."

That brings Shepard a flash of anger—as much as she and NCIS have benefitted from Ziva's presence, Eli David's particular brand of parenting has brought them harm before. Ari Haswari comes to mind, and Shepard wonders just how large a role Mossad played in Eli's children's formative years… and how much his fatherly influence didn't. "Is that so?" If Shepard sounds a little cold, she can't be blamed for it.

"Are you or are you not going to update me on the Benoit case?" David says instead of answering.

"I'm not."

"Then effective immediately, I am terminating the position of liaison officer from Mossad to NCIS. I expect my officer to be on a plane to Tel Aviv within 24 hours."

Before Shepard can argue or recant, the call ends and she's met with the dial tone. Shocked, she tries to call back and doesn't get through. There has to be more going on than simple fatherly—or directorly—concern. If concern was all it was, David would have called more than a week ago when Ziva was shot. No, now there has to be something deeper, especially given the time of day David called.

She also doesn't believe for a second that her simple refusal to share classified information is enough to make David threaten relations between NCIS and Mossad. He needs Ziva back for some other reason that he's not sharing—he's just using Shepard as his scapegoat for the move. As always, the man has clear ulterior motives.

For right now, though, there's nothing Shepard can do except comply with Eli David's wishes. She doesn't have the power to keep a foreign operative on American soil outside of an open investigation or an ongoing liaison position, and that has just ended.

It's time to send Ziva back to Israel.

Chapter Text

That evening, Tony holds Ziva until she falls asleep, stroking her back and wondering why he's been afraid of this kind of thing for so long. When she's really and truly out, he gently extricates himself from her embrace, ever-so-carefully rearranging her so she's still comfortable and won't wake back up when he leaves. She certainly needs her rest. He kisses her forehead on the way out, watching as it brings a tiny, quick smile to her sleeping face.

He settles onto the sofa back in the living room and turns on a movie—it has to be one on demand, because Ziva's film collection is nonexistent. He finds he's much better able to relax tonight now that she's in her own bed, safe and recovering.

He's interrupted, though, by a knock on the door later in the evening. It's not too late—half past nine or so—but it's still late enough for the knock to be odd, considering they're not expecting company.

He answers the door without checking who it is, though he should know better by now, and he's surprised to see the NCIS director standing out in the hall.

"Jenny—um, Director Shepard," he says awkwardly, his surprise coloring his tone.

"Agent DiNozzo." She's clearly just as surprised to see him, and they stare at one another uncomfortably for half a second before Tony remembers his manners.

"Would you like to come in?" he invites with a small smile.

"Yes, please," Shepard replies, and does so when he steps back to admit her. "Sorry, did I come to the wrong address? I could have sworn I was visiting Ziva David's apartment…"

Tony laughs a little and gestures around. There's a painting of the Haifa seaside on one wall and a Star of David magnet on the fridge—clearly Ziva's decorations rather than his own. "Nope, you've come to the right place. I'm taking care of her after her discharge from the hospital, at least for a few days."

"Where is she?"

"She's asleep."

The silence that falls is awkward again—obviously, Shepard is here to see Ziva, but just as obviously, Tony is reluctant to wake her. It puts them at a slight impasse; the feeling isn't helped by the resentment Shepard knows on some level that DiNozzo must feel toward her after the whole Jeanne Benoit fiasco.

Finally, Shepard breaks the silence when she can't stand it anymore. "I need to talk to Ziva."

Tony puts his hands in his pockets and shifts his position a little, putting himself firmly between the director and Ziva's bedroom door. "Like I said, she's sleeping. Not sure if you heard or not, but she was shot. She needs to recover."

The implication here is clear—he blames the director. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the time to cater to his grudge today, and she faces him without emotion, nodding. "I understand that, Tony, but I have to talk to her. Tonight. It's time sensitive."

"What's it about?" he asks softly—despite his neutral tone, the question is clearly a demand. He's protective of Ziva and isn't going to let her be bothered for just anything. She's not even cleared to go back to work yet!

"I'm sorry, but that's between her and I," Shepard says, matching Tony's tone.

"Whatever you must say to me can be said in front of Tony," Ziva insists quietly, slipping her hand into her partner's and startling both him and the director. She walks almost silently.

"Ziva!" Tony feels and sounds a little guilty. "We didn't mean to wake you up, I'm sorry."

"I am a light sleeper," she assures him, dismissing his concerns. "What do you wish to say, Director Shepard?"

Shepard looks between them, clearly evaluating whether or not she should speak in front of Tony. He shows no signs of moving, though, so Shepard sighs and gestures to the kitchen table. "This is a conversation that is probably best had while sitting," she suggests, and after exchanging glances, Tony and Ziva do so. Shepard does, too, and then she looks squarely at Ziva, no longer hesitating. "Ziva, your position at NCIS has been terminated, and you're to return to Israel within 24 hours." If she sounds regretful, it's because she is. They've all benefited from the Mossad officer's presence in Washington, and the operative will be sorely missed.

"What!?" Tony demands, instantly angry. "Why?"

Ziva's expression is stony, hard but neutral—and rather than telling Tony to back down or asking questions of her own, she merely waits for Shepard's answer.

Shepard shrugs, frowning. "I really couldn't say. It wasn't my decision—this is coming directly from Eli David."

Ziva's expression darkens and Tony looks down at her. "Has he talked to you at all?" he asks.

Ziva emits an angry sigh. "No, he has not." There's thunder in her tone. She believes this is an underhanded move and she's less than impressed with her father. Still, she can't disobey orders.

"He can't just do that, can he?" Tony is completely incredulous. "I mean, you have a life here! This is not just your job, we're your family!"

As much as that would warm Ziva's heart to hear under other circumstances, it's painful to hear now. "Be that as it may, he is my family as well, and more importantly, he is my superior. It is his right to change my orders as he sees fit; his job is the protection of Israel. Personal feelings can play no role."

"Oh, come on, Ziva, don't tell me you're just going along with this!" Tony cries, but he turns to Shepard without waiting for Ziva to answer. "Director, there's got to be something you can do. We need her and you know it!"

"My hands are tied, DiNozzo," Shepard assures him, but her tone makes it clear that she's no happier about this sudden change than he is. "He's in charge of his people, I'm in charge of mine. Unfortunately, Ziva is one of his."

"But what about—I don't know, international relations and all that?" Usually, Tony would know better than to talk to his boss' boss this way, but Ziva's wellbeing has long since surpassed NCIS in his priority lineup.

"International relations and all that is exactly why there's nothing I can do," Shepard answers sternly. "As much as I've appreciated Ziva's presence on Gibbs' team, I can't risk relations with Israel by arguing with the Director of Mossad!"

"But—"

"Enough, Tony!" Ziva snaps. She stands abruptly, moving toward the door. "Please accept my apologies, Director. I understand your position. Thank you for informing me of my father's wishes."

The dismissal is obvious, and not knowing what else to say to the distraught couple anyway, Shepard prepares to leave. Her conversation with Eli David had been just as abrupt and devoid of details, so there's little else to tell Ziva.

"Thank you for everything you've done for NCIS and for me personally, Ziva," Shepard says, more formally than she would normally speak to her Israeli friend. "I'll be sad to see you go."

"And I will be sad to leave," Ziva agrees softly, opening the door for the director.

"Good night and good luck," Shepard says as she leaves.

Ziva closes the door behind her and turns to lean against it, suddenly more exhausted than she'd been before her nap. She closes her eyes, too; she can feel Tony's gaze on her, and she can't bear to face his grief yet.

She's wrong, though—it's not grief Tony's feeling… or it's not grief yet, anyway. For lack of a better word, he's pissed.

There's silence for a few moments as he honest-to-God tries to give her space to process. He can't take it, though, and he grits his teeth. "You gonna say anything, Ziva?"

"What is there to say?" she asks calmly, opening her eyes to look at him. There's pain in her expression, but it's mixed with resignation.

"Say you'll talk to your father! Say you'll do something, I don't know. Say you're not going to leave."

Something in her expression melts and she steps toward him, but she stops short when he steps back, keeping the distance between them steady. She realizes quite suddenly that he's not just angry at the situation or at her father—he's angry with her. "Tony, what would you do if you were reassigned away from Gibbs' team?" she tries. "What if you were sent to a base in California, perhaps, or Europe? Alaska? Asia? I know that Washington is where you wish to be, but what if you were assigned as an agent afloat?"

He doesn't answer and his silence certainly strikes Ziva as ominous. He's not one prone to a lack of words, and he must be feeling quite strongly if he's decided he has no answer for her at all. "This is part of the job. I do not like it any more than you do, but I agreed to the terms long ago. There is no decision to make here, no argument that can change what must happen." She speaks earnestly, trying to make him understand. This isn't personal—she absolutely doesn't want to leave the team, and most of all, she doesn't want to leave him. She just understands better than he does that she doesn't have a choice.

His face contorts again, getting angrier. "What the hell, Ziva? You're the man's daughter! You can't call in a little favor or two?"

"No, I cannot." Despite herself, she feels a little anger burning in her chest, too. She thinks he should understand, but he doesn't—in fact, he couldn't be more wrong. She hesitates slightly but then decides that if he wants to blame her for this, he needs to know exactly why his accusations sting. "In fact, being Eli David's child is the most dangerous position in Mossad."

He starts to reply to this, but she cuts him off.

"Ari Haswari—do you remember him? Of course you do. He put your friend Kate Todd in the ground. You know, do you not, that he was my half-brother? You know, of course, that it is I who fired the gun that ended his life?" Her words are rapid fire and Tony can barely keep up; Ziva's Israeli accent gets stronger when she's emotional, and now he's really set her off. "What you may not know is that I was ordered to do so. I acted to save Gibbs' life, yes, but my father commanded me to take the shot! I was told to come here, take out Ari, and gain the trust of the Americans! I must be the most loyal of Mossad, Tony, so no, I do not have a choice now!"

Tony can't tell exactly what she's implying here—is she saying that her father would have someone take her out if she turned her back on him? Is she saying that it's her responsibility to make up for her brother's life choices, that her father has put that all on her? Or is she saying something else that he's missing entirely, lost as he so often feels in the subtle contours of Israeli secrets and webs of deception?

It hits him all of a sudden that it doesn't matter what exactly she means, because the meaning isn't what's important. What's important is the face value of what she's telling him—she will return to Israel because she must. If he loves her at all—and he does, more than he loves anything else in the world—he has to accept this, has to stop fighting her on it.

Making the decision to do so no matter what it costs him, he starts toward her, reaching for her. He moves slowly, giving her plenty of opportunities to move away if she doesn't want him close, but she doesn't, standing still and watching him warily. He stops being hesitant and grips her face to pull her into a fierce kiss that he makes gentle after only a moment. Then he pulls away, looking at her seriously—for the first time since Shepard's appearance, she looks troubled, and he continues to cradle her face.

"I don't want to lose you," he tells her quietly, letting his fear into his voice. Vulnerability is something he's been working on since realizing his feelings for her.

"You do not have to," she assures him quickly.

"Hmm… not 'you won't', just 'you don't have to'. What do you mean, Ziva?"

She gives him a smile that's only a little shaky. Tony can see that she's a little afraid, too, even if she's acting completely stoic. "It depends on how you feel about distance relationships," she answers.

He gives a humorless chuckle, but he starts stroking her face and it seems to soothe her. "We haven't even defined what we are here, where we see each other every day."

"Do we need to?" Ziva challenges.

Tony shakes his head and gives her a half-smile. "No. But what will we be when you're… what, four thousand miles away?"

"Fifty-eight hundred miles away, actually. But I am willing to bridge the distance if you are." Ziva leans into his unresisting hands until her lips meet his.

"Yeah? How would that look?" Tony wants to know when the kiss ends.

"It would not be easy," Ziva admits. "There is text, of course, and email. We could video chat—it is a seven hour time difference. And I imagine that planes will continue to exist in the future. We could take turns visiting. I have made the flight many times—it is a long trip but certainly doable."

Tony can't help but laugh. "Ah, all the balls and chains of being in a relationship without any of the sex!"

Ziva looks hurt and starts to pull away, but he pulls her back tighter, tugging her against his chest. "I'm joking, Ziva. Sounds like a lot of work, but I think we're up to the challenge. You sure about this?"

She looks up at him, smiling again. "I do not wish to lose you, either," she confesses.

"Well, I'm kind of irresistible," he jokes in reply.

"Tony—please be serious." Ziva hasn't lost her smile, though, and he knows she's more amused by his antics that she wants to be.

"I am." Tony presses a kiss to her forehead. "Let's do it. Let's try this whole long-distance thing."

"You really mean that?"

"I do."

Ziva beams at him, and he would agree to far less pleasant things than a relationship with her to bring that expression to her face as often as possible. She jumps up at him unexpectedly, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him exuberantly.

Laughing, Tony catches her and kisses her back. "Doesn't hurt to move like that?" he asks into her lips after a minute.

"Worth it," she assures him, kissing him again.

"Mm, Ziva?" he interrupts after a too-short period of delightful activity.

"Yes?"

"Remember what you said about starting things I can't finish? Yeah, you're headed in that direction yourself."

He looks down at her to see she's smirking. "Who says I cannot… finish?" she asks suggestively, running her fingers along the collar of his shirt.

"Ziva," he complains darkly, "you've just had a major operation. You've still got stitches in your abdomen—I should know, since I'm the one that promised the hospital I'd be checking to make sure they didn't get infected."

"You are capable of being gentle, are you not?"

Tony shakes his head at her in mild exasperation, suppressing a smile. "You really want to do this, huh?"

"It will be the last opportunity for some time, yes?"

"That's true," he agrees speculatively.

"You do not wish to do it, however," she concludes.

"Hey, I never said that. But I think I'm right to be a little concerned here."

Ziva kisses him once more, chastely this time. "Your concern is noted, and appreciated. I will not break, however."

Tony's rarely hard to convince when it comes to sex, but he has to try one more time. "You'll tell me if I hurt you?"

"You will not…" She backtracks, however, seeing the expression on his face. "But yes, I would tell you."

Tony stops arguing, leaning down to fit his lips back over hers. Ziva grins into it, triumphant, and wastes no time deepening the kiss. She's missed her sex life with Tony—they both have—but there's something different about it now that they've admitted how they feel, even if the mechanics are the same.

Ziva starts unbuttoning Tony's shirt and finishes in record time. When she moves her lips down to his throat, he groans and tangles a hand in her hair. "I'll—uh, oh, Ziva—mm, I'll let you take the, um, the lead here. Just in case." He's having an extraordinarily difficult time talking all of the sudden as she does something very interesting to the underside of his jaw with her tongue.

"Pleased to hold the rain," Ziva answers, sounding infuriatingly unaffected.

"Reins," Tony gasps—she's just nipped his collarbone and the sensation has gone straight to his crotch. "Like for a horse."

"Mm, a horse?" Ziva starts on her own top now that he's down to just an undershirt. "Does that mean that you wish to be ridden?"

With a breathless laugh, Tony knocks her hands away to finish pulling her shirt off himself. "If you insist."

"I do." Down to her bra, Ziva connects their lips again, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pushes lightly, walking him backwards til his knees hit the back of her sofa and he falls heavily onto it just as she lets him go.

Tony doesn't seem to mind having the breath knocked out of him and he looks up at her. It's incredible how sexy she looks to him in a simple cotton bra, pink pajama pants, and a gauze bandage on her upper abdomen. It's even sexier how—judging from her smirk—she knows exactly what she does to him.

"On a day of better health, I might treat you to a… dance, yes?" Ziva raises her eyebrows, making sure he's imagining exactly what she's suggesting.

"Ah, cruel to bring it up and not do it, Ziva," Tony comments, but it doesn't sound like a complaint. In fact, given the tenting happening in his pants, he's happy to let his imagination do the work.

"Just reminding you of what you might look forward to in a Skype call, Tony," she teases. She winks before turning around, bending over in a markedly lascivious manner as she pushes her pajama pants and underwear to the floor.

"Is this all lookie and no touchy, or are you going to come closer at some point?" Tony's voice sounds tighter again, making Ziva very smug.

Ziva stands back up, throwing her head back and laughing. "I know English is not my first language, but are you intentionally making innuendos right now? I am impressed that you have the brain power." With only the slightest wince that Tony tries not to worry over, Ziva kneels in front of him and helps him out of his pants and boxers, too. "To answer your question, I do intend to come. Whether it will be closer or not is up to you." She stays where she is on the ground but folds her arms across his bare legs and rests on them, smiling up at him pleasantly.

Tony groans loudly and drops his head to the sofa back. "You're killin' me, Smalls." Her breath is hitting deliciously in a place that's making him feel painfully aroused. Reaching forward, he grips her under the arms and tugs her toward him, making her laugh and assist him by climbing in his lap as he intends for her to do.

He immediately unhooks her bra and slides it down her arms, tossing it carelessly over her head to land somewhere on the floor behind her. Then he gawks at her chest appreciatively, his gaze intentionally lewd—she rolls her eyes, but he knows she enjoys it. "Now those—those breasts are doing great service to the American people. Those breasts don't belong highly covered in the Middle Eastern desert."

"Tel Aviv has many beaches, Tony," Ziva points out, but then she has to match his recent groan with one of her own as he gently tweaks both of her nipples without warning. "They may not—mm, they may not be highly covered in Israel for much of the time."

"I've really got to come visit, then," he says emphatically, dropping one of his hands and replacing it with his lips. Ziva lets out a little cry, her hands moving to grip the back of his head in encouragement.

"I am counting on it," she assures him. All of the attention on her breasts is making her ache down below, and she moves her hips restlessly. Tony nips softly, though, forcing all rational thought out of Ziva's head again. "Tony, please," she whines.

He breaks away from her nipple with a wet pop to murmur "your wish, my command," dropping a hand to feel around between her legs. It doesn't take long to get his bearings, and soon he's dipping first one finger and then two into her heat, his thumb rubbing circles around her clit.

She stops him more quickly than he'd like, though, grabbing his arm. "That is not how I wish to come this time, Tony," she says, her voice more serious than he expects it to be, and he pulls away from her breast.

"No, I suppose not," he agrees softly, withdrawing his hand, too. He has to half-smile when she makes an involuntary noise of disagreement, though.

He wipes his wet fingers on his undershirt before pulling it over his head; then he tangles both hands in her hair, pulling her down to rest her forehead on his. For several long beats, they stay that way, Ziva's hands coming to rest on Tony's chest. "I'm gonna miss you, David," he says gruffly.

"I will miss you, too, Tony, but I do not wish to be sad tonight." Despite Ziva's words, her expression is bittersweet, and she tilts her face down to kiss him. When they've both built up their desire again, pushing past the pain of impending separation, Ziva reaches down to grip him and sinks down slowly.

She starts to move but doesn't pick up her speed, and for once, Tony doesn't feel any need to rush her. This is what they need tonight, this sweet, torturous version of sex that's first and foremost a release of emotions. They keep kissing as they go, languorous and deep.

They barely increase in speed as they reach the end, and sensing what Ziva needs, Tony reaches down to lightly rub her clit again. He still goes over the edge first, but he pulls her with him almost immediately. Crying out into one another's lips, they do their best to draw out the sensations, to make the time count and to make it last.

Walking into the NCIS building the next morning is a somber affair. It's very clear that word of Ziva's impending exit has been spread around the office; Ziva received an email this morning from Shepard saying that a courtesy flight has been arranged for her. It departs Dulles at 1900 hours, less than twelve hours from now. She suspects that Shepard is also the one who told the team that Ziva is leaving. She sends a silent thank you up in the direction of Jenny's office, grateful that she doesn't have to break the news to her team. It's going to be hard enough just saying goodbye to everyone without having to see firsthand the emotional effects of her departure.

Silence falls in the bullpen as Ziva and Tony walk in, hand-in-hand… the rule against fraternization is clearly nonapplicable now that Ziva has stopped working at NCIS. Tony still drops her hand as they approach Gibbs' desk, though, because they both have things they need to say to him without distractions.

"Boss," Tony starts, "I was hoping to—"

"Take the day off, DiNozzo," Gibbs answers gruffly, not letting Tony finish. There's no need—he knows what Tony is asking for. "Do what you need to do."

"Right," Tony agrees with relief. "Thanks, boss." He would hate to get on Gibbs' bad side by ignoring orders if he wasn't given the day off, but there's no way in hell that he would spend Ziva's last stateside day anywhere other than right by her side. He's starting to miss her already and she hasn't even left yet.

Gibbs nods, but he's not looking at Tony anymore. He's looking at Ziva, whose face has settled back into the neutral mask she so often wears around anyone she's afraid to show her emotions to. "Ziver," he says. "My office. Now."

He stands up and heads to the elevator without waiting for an answer. Ziva exchanges glances with Tony—he grabs her hand to squeeze it once before gently shooing her after her former boss.

She slips between the elevator doors just as they're closing, and she says nothing as Gibbs engages the elevator in an emergency stop as per usual. He stares at her for a long moment without saying anything, and just when she's decided she's uncomfortable with the silence, he opens his mouth to speak. "You're leaving," he comments flatly.

She nods.

"You get a choice in that?"

She shakes her head.

"You alright with it?"

She starts to nod, but then without any warning at all, her eyes well up with tears. She won't let them fall, but she makes the decision to let Gibbs see how affected she really is. Now is a time for honesty, not for hiding. "I do not wish to leave my family," she admits, her voice breaking twice. She can't let Tony see how she feels about this, because she knows he's already hurting. Around Gibbs, though, she can let her guard down. He's like a father figure to her and she knows he'll take this secret with him to the grave if she asks him to.

He half smiles and draws her into a hug, tightly embracing her. "You're still family no matter how far you go, kid. Leaving doesn't make a lick o' difference."

She sniffles and relaxes into the embrace. "I know that," she assures him, her voice more wobbly than she would like for it to be.

"Do you?" Gibbs pulls back and gives her a searching look.

Again, she starts to answer affirmatively but something in her can't lie to him. "I wish to believe it, but faith is not my strongest virtue," she honestly says instead.

Gibbs' face hardens, and Ziva knows instinctively what he's thinking. He has her father in mind, thinking that she should not have a hard time believing that she's a loved and valued family member. "Time'll help you figure out that I mean it," he promises her quietly.

Ziva doesn't look reassured. "Time spent under my father's hand in Israel."

Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "I know I taught you better than that, Ziver. You won't be under anyone's thumb. You'll be doing what I expect of you every day when you're here—working, paying attention, strengthening your skills. When you come back, you'll be a stronger investigator than you are now."

"What do you mean when you say 'when I come back'?" Ziva demands, her expression suddenly shifting from morose to determined. Whatever Gibbs has up his sleeve, she wants to be a part of it.

At this, he laughs—it's a bittersweet sound because he's sad that she's leaving but he's so very proud of who she has become. "From the day we met, I have never known you to blindly follow orders. I can't imagine you're any different in Israel. You'll come back somehow, I'd bet you anything."

While Ziva's brief surge of hope leaves and makes her deflate a little, she feels a fierce kind of pride burning in her chest at this evidence of Gibbs' total faith in her. "I hope that you are right."

"Has my gut ever failed you?"

She smiles and shakes her head, feeling bolstered.

"Then listen to it now. We're not done with you yet, Ziva."

That brings tears to her eyes again, and she wonders about how much her hardened warrior exterior has softened. Here, having a compassionate and deeply feeling heart is an asset, but back in Israel… she'll need to re-learn how to guard her soul, and quickly. "I know you mean that now," she mumbles, "but what about when you find my replacement? I will be forgotten. Your team will be made complete by another agent—and that is what I want for you, all of you."

Gibbs shakes his head. Ziva is such a smart person and her insights never cease to impress him, but she can also be completely obtuse when it comes to emotional matters. "Doesn't matter who sits at that desk. Won't erase who you are and what you are to me."

They're still hugging—unusual for both of them to let an embrace last this long—and Ziva presses her face into his shoulder to hide her expression. "What am I to you?" she asks, needing clarification and reassurance.

"Come on, Ziva—if you can't figure that out, you're not half as smart as I gave you credit for being." Gibbs is just as uncomfortable with emotional displays as Ziva is, and he tries to steer her to the correct conclusion without having to make himself vulnerable at the same time.

Ziva finally looks up at him. "I need to hear you say it, Gibbs." It takes all of her courage to admit that to him.

Gibbs sees that and despite his personal hangups, he can't leave her hanging… not when he knows she already has one disappointment of a father. "Ziva," he concedes slowly, "you know who you are. You're part of my team." He sees her nod and look away, her face returning to its stony mask to hide her disappointment—he knows he isn't saying what she wants or needs to hear. His mind flashes to Kelly—she was his only biological child, but he's long since privately considered his team members to be his kids, too. Saying it out loud feels almost like an insult to Kelly's memory, though, almost like he's replacing her.

Ziva deserves both his honesty and his love, however, and he sends a silent apology to Kelly's ghost. "Ziva." He ever-so-gently pulls away and places his hand under her chin, pressing up until she tilts her face toward him and makes eye contact again. "You're my kid. My daughter." Gibbs can see some of the pain in Ziva's eyes fade away and he knows he's made the right decision regardless of the personal cost. "That's never going to change."

Ziva makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob and she hugs him again. She breathes out something that's difficult to make out… it sounds very close to "I love you."

Taking the chance that he heard her right, he kisses her hair and murmurs "I love you, too" right back. And he does. It will never matter to him what her past looks like—or what her future looks like, for that matter. She's his family—permanently.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day involves more goodbyes than Ziva has ever dealt with before. The hardest goodbyes are Gibbs and of course Tony, but she pushes herself to have a meaningful farewell with every one of her teammates… she has to continually remind herself that the slight discomfort and the stirrings of grief these interactions give her will be worth it in the long run. These aren't relationships that she's used to having, despite now having been at NCIS for more than two years. This isn't what Mossad was like—this isn't what she's going back to when she steps off the plane in Israel. There, team members have trust amongst themselves because they must, but family-like relationships… even when team members are related, it's never like this.

She leaves Gibbs in the elevator and steps off at Abby's lab. Walking in, she finds herself immediately buried underneath an emotional and very solid forensic scientist. "Oh, Ziva!" Abby cries, hugging Ziva more tightly than she can remember being held ever before. "I can't believe you're leaving—and with no warning!? What is Mossad thinking!? We have at least as much claim to you as they do. They should really—"

Ziva cuts her off, slightly overwhelmed as she so often feels around the well-meaning but loud scientist. "Abby! Abby, take a breath, please."

Abby hugs her more tightly for a moment before letting her go and looking at her unhappily. "I don't want to breathe! You're leaving us."

"I know." Ziva can't help smiling at her friend. "I must say, however, that if enthusiasm decided my fate, I believe I would never leave your lab. Mossad has nothing on your… on how emphatic you are." She and Tony never went to sleep last night, and exhaustion makes keeping command of the English language more difficult than usual.

She'll have to sleep on the plane tonight; she's certain that her father will expect her to hit the ground running tomorrow, and she can't afford to disappoint him. She knows that if he's recalling her to Tel Aviv, he must not trust her to remain so far away and stay loyal to him and to Israel.

"Well, what does decide your fate?" Abby asks, a little too shrewd. It pulls Ziva out of her head, and she laughs humorlessly.

"It is not a what, Abby, but rather a who. My father is the one who… who hands out assignments, yes?"

"Ah, yes… Eli David." Abby's expression makes it clear that Tony isn't the only one who holds a somewhat distasteful opinion of her father.

"That is his name, yes," Ziva confirms uncomfortably. One small upside to having to leave NCIS is that she will no longer need to feel as if she's walking a tightrope in between two very different worlds. If she has an issue with her father, it will once again be her problem and hers alone. Israeli law dictates what she can and cannot say to her friends at NCIS, and feeling torn between obligations is something she will not miss.

"You don't want to talk about him," Abby correctly concludes, smiling a little in sympathy.

"No, I do not," Ziva says gratefully.

"Okay. I won't talk about how he's a stupid, pig-headed, manipulative old—"

"Abby!" Ziva's not offended but she still cuts Abby off, laughing.

"Okay, okay." Abby's grinning, and she pulls Ziva over to her Bunsen burner. "Now, I didn't have much time to prepare, but…" Sitting on a cookie tin atop the burner are a number of people-shaped cookies… one for every major member of Gibbs' team.

"Oh, Abby…" Ziva's touched, and she beams at her friend.

"They're for your plane ride!" Abby shares. "You know, so you remember that we have your back before you go into the lion's den."

Abby's persistence truly amuses Ziva, and she gives the scientist another hug. "What is it that you think Mossad is like?" she wonders aloud when she pulls back.

"Oh, you know… assassins, ninjas, soulless killers, backstabbers, and one little cutie who could play any of those roles if she wanted to but wouldn't because she's too good for all that." This is accompanied by a little wink, making it very clear who the "little cutie" is.

"Ha! In truth, it is not all that different from what NCIS is. We, too, spend much of our time behind computer screens. That is where most problems are solved." Despite herself, though, Ziva appreciates Abby's assessment. It's true that she's changed much in her time in Washington… and Abby is making it clear that she trusts the person Ziva has become.

Abby finally gives up on maligning Mossad for the time being. "Then Gibbs would do terribly there," she says lightly instead.

"That he would," Ziva confirms with a small chuckle. Picturing him attempting to follow her father's orders… it's laughable indeed.

Abby starts packing up the cookies she made, taking extra care not to muss the icing that differentiates one from another. "He'd get himself in trouble there—not that he doesn't here, I guess, but I think the director gives him a long leash. And so did Morrow, you know, our old director. I mean, Gibbs barely answers to anyone!"

"He answers to his own conscience," Ziva points out.

"And we answer to it, too, don't we?"

"You do, and so does the rest of the team. As of today, though… I do not anymore." The little smile Ziva wears is sad despite her best efforts.

"Mm. Just promise me that no matter what your dad asks you to do, you'll at least follow your own conscience?" Abby looks concerned—and for good reason.

"I will do what I must, Abby, but… I promise that I will try." Ziva wishes she could do better than that.

Abby seems to understand, though. "Well, I believe in you."

"Thank you." Ziva glances at the clock and knows it's time to wrap up. Abby isn't the only person she needs to stop and see today and time is limited; the only flight available when Shepard went to book Ziva a seat was a commercial one, so she'll need to arrive at the airport several hours ahead of the flight and go through special security checks because of the weapons she's traveling with. "Abby, listen… I wanted to thank you. You have been a very loyal friend since I arrived, and… you have been a better friend than I expected or deserved."

Abby tackles Ziva in another bone-crushing hug. "Don't thank me, Ziva. This is what friends are supposed to be like. Remember that, okay?"

"I will certainly try." Ziva hugs Abby back just as tightly, feeling her eyes well up for the second time in an hour. "Goodbye, Abby."

"Bye, Ziva."

The next stop is to Ducky down in autopsy. When she arrives, he's bending over a body—a quick glance tells her that it's the body of a homicide victim whose death they've already solved… he must be preparing it for pickup, or maybe the body is already prepared and Ducky's using it to give Ziva an out on talking face-to-face if she doesn't wish to do so.

"Ah, Ziva. I've been expecting you. Come in, come in." Still looking down at the body, he smiles in welcome.

Ziva gently touches her hand to his upper back, encouraging him to look up at her. "I am okay, Ducky," she assures him gently. She deeply appreciates his sensitivity, though, and under most circumstances, she absolutely would be uncomfortable with the emotional displays she's participated in today. Ducky has always understood her.

"I must say I'm glad to hear it," Ducky says, looking up at her. "Are you prepared to return to your childhood home?"

"As prepared as I can be," she agrees.

"You're packed?"

"No, but someone from Mossad will have that arranged on my behalf. That is one upside to being part of an organization with such a far reach."

"Now that is an advantage! I find that the act of moving is in and of itself a deterrent to going anywhere because it's so much exhausting work."

"I could not agree more, Ducky." Ziva smiles at her older friend.

Ducky pauses and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You will be very missed, my dear girl," he promises softly. "Please don't be a stranger. Even Jethro might be encouraged to video chat with you if we tell him there's a navy admiral needing to talk to him in MTAC," he adds, teasing.

Ziva laughs. "I cannot speak for Gibbs, but I will try to be available enough to everyone here that you do not need to trick me into communicating."

"That's all we can really ask."

They smile at each other for another beat before Ziva leans in and presses a gentle, heartfelt kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Ducky. I will miss you, too."

"Farewell, Ziva. Perhaps it's nearly time for me to visit Israel again… I would, of course, need a local guide."

"I would appreciate that very much."

The last two office goodbyes are shorter and easier but not any less painful. First is Palmer, who physically runs into Ziva as she passes through the autopsy doors to get on the elevator.

"Oh, Ziva! I'm so sorry, I didn't even see you there," Jimmy apologizes, awkward but sincere as always.

"Kindly remove your head from the clouds, Mr. Palmer!" Ducky calls from behind them, and Palmer and Ziva look at each other and chuckle. They both move back out of the doorway, standing just in front of the elevator.

"Did I hear that you're leaving?" Jimmy asks.

"I am."

"Mm. I thought it was probably true, especially since I was the last one to hear it. That's usually how it works around here." The smile he gives her is so genuine that Ziva knows Palmer isn't frustrated with her in the least—his easygoing, earnest nature is something she very much so appreciates about him.

"Unfortunately, it is true. I depart for Israel tonight."

"You'll come back and visit, though, right?"

"You know, you are the first person to ask me that, Jimmy. Everyone else is just… sad. And yes, I certainly intend to do so—as often as I can," she promises.

"Just make sure to stop by autopsy when you do." Palmer smiles again and they share a hug.

These goodbyes are wearing on Ziva, forcing more emotion through her than she's used to feeling at one time. Still, she forces herself to continue.

She steps into the elevator after her goodbye to Palmer; just McGee left now. Luckily for her, though, he's waiting to get onto the elevator when she arrives back at the bullpen. "McGee, just the man I was looking for," she tells him with a grin, and she gestures that she's not getting out of the car and that he should step in.

When he does, they default to Gibbs' elevator stop method and look at each other. "Guess this is it, huh?" Tim asks.

"For now," Ziva agrees with a small shrug.

Tim nods and then looks at her with more speculation. "Are you and Tony going to do the whole long-distance thing?"

Ziva gives him a look. "Is that any business of yours, McGee?"

"No," Tim replies frankly, "and to be honest, I do not want any details. I just want to know exactly what level of insufferable Tony is going to be for the next… well, however long."

"That is… fair." Ziva meets McGee's eye again and they both laugh. "We are going to try continuing our relationship."

"Well, if there's ever been a couple more annoying or annoyingly suited for one another, it's you guys," Tim teases in answer. "If anyone can do it, you can."

He unexpectedly takes her hand and squeezes it; she feels a surge of affection for him. He's always been a steadfast and supportive friend. She squeezes back. "Thank you, Tim. And thank you for everything else, too."

He knows what she means and doesn't ask her to elaborate. "Hey, thank you, too. You've had my back since the day you got here. You know you're like a sister to me, right?"

Ziva nods. "And I consider you a brother, too." She initiates a hug, and like with Ducky, she feels the need to kiss his cheek, making him smile.

"Stay in touch, Ziva. I'm going to miss you."

"I will miss you, too. And I will come back—this is not goodbye forever." Every time she says something along those lines, it feels more true.

Tony insists on walking Ziva into the airport to say goodbye, even though she's told him several times today that it's unnecessary. There's something pained in his expression that stops her protests at some point, though, and she realizes that this isn't just for her. It's for him, too.

Tony parks his car and takes her hand as soon as they're out; they're silent as they head toward international departures.

They stop near the line for airport security and Ziva catches his eye. He can't come any further with her and they both know it. "Tony…" He looks at her expectantly, but it's all she can say. Her face crumples just a little, though, and he sighs heavily and pulls her into a hug like every other freaking person has done today. She's tired of being seen as emotionally needy, but not nearly as tired as she is of the fact that everyone who's seen the need to hug her today has been absolutely right.

This hug is different than the others, though. It isn't that she hasn't absolutely adored her parting embraces with her NCIS family, because she has. None of those people gently pressed on the back of her head to encourage her to dry her eyes on their shoulders; no one at the naval yard pressed their noses into her hair and breathed in a deep, shuddering breath, making her feel cradled and cherished and more than a little heartbroken. None of those people hugged her like Tony is hugging her now, and if she feels a tear or two drop onto the top of her head, she doesn't comment.

They stand there like that for a long time; neither can really say how long. "Oh, Ziva," Tony says eventually, pulling reluctantly out of the hug and searching her face. His own face is clear again, though his eyelashes still look suspiciously wet. "We're going to be fine, right?"

"Yes," she answers shortly, not trusting her own voice.

He gives a rugged chuckle, sounding like he's got something stuck in his throat. "I'm glad to hear it, because otherwise, I wouldn't let you on that plane."

The start of a bickering conversation feels at once familiar and foreign in this time of goodbyes, and Ziva's smiling response is more stable now. "You would not 'let me'? Does that mean you believe you could stop me?"

"Easily," Tony says, relief brightening his features as he sees some of her sadness melting away, too. "Now, anyone else? Yeah, they wouldn't stand a chance. Me, though… my advantage is that you wouldn't hurt me. You might want to, and your trigger finger might get close to blowing my head off, but you couldn't do it. You know why?"

"Why?" She's anticipating a joke and before he's even made one, she feels herself relax some. Of course they'll be fine, she thinks.

"Because you loooooove me," he sing-songs. "You just can't get enough of me! If you killed me, you'd regret it in fifteen seconds or less, guaranteed, and you're too smart to make impulse decisions like that."

She jokingly twitches her hand in the direction of her sidepiece—but she's careful not to be too terribly obvious about it. She's aware of airport security issues, particularly in this country. "I suppose you are right," she agrees in a pseudo-placating voice.

"I am?" Tony's mildly suspicious at her lack of an argument, leading Ziva to smell a victory.

"Yes. You are far too entertaining to kill…" Tony starts to preen, but Ziva has yet to finish her thought. "Because few are quite as obvious with their outright stupidity as you have a tendency to be."

"Hey!" Tony cries in mock offense, laughing. "Whatever, Ziva. I'll take what I can get." He hugs her tightly again, and this time, they're both smiling. "Well, I suppose this is your cue, isn't it?"

Ziva glances past Tony's head at the flight board, and she nods, sighing. "Yes. I know it will take some time to get through security, so I probably should begin…" She trails off, looking at him a little helplessly.

"Unless you just... don't go?" Tony suggests quietly. "You could stay. We'd figure it out."

"You know I cannot, Tony," she murmurs soberly.

"Yeah. I know. But I had to try, didn't I?" His tone matches hers now, resigned.

"You would not be the Tony I love if you did not," Ziva grants.

That brings a brighter smile back to Tony's face. "And you wouldn't be the Ziva I love if you backed down from a challenge, no matter who asked you to." He pulls further away from her to place both hands on her shoulders, looking at her squarely. "Be careful who you pick fights with in Israel, though, okay? Not that I don't think you can handle yourself… I just don't know if I trust anyone there to have your back like we would. Make sure you're making it back to us in one piece, that's all I'm saying."

Ziva's reflexive first thought is to argue that she doesn't need anyone at her back, but if that was ever true, it isn't now. She swallows it down and nods. "I will do my best only if you will do the same. You have Gibbs and McGee, but… they cannot protect you from everyone. Pick your wars, Tony."

It's a mark of how deeply he cares for her that Tony doesn't argue any more than Ziva does herself, and he nods seriously. This feels like a commitment, and for once… it doesn't bother him. He doesn't even point out the minor flaw in the English idiom she just used. "You be safe," he agrees, "I'll be safe, and we'll meet soon, yeah?"

"That sounds alright to me." Ziva smiles and stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him; he stays absolutely still except for a very slight return kiss. "I love you, Tony."

"I love you, too, Ziva. Always will." He kisses her again and puts a little more into it; this kiss says farewell in a way that he's not brave enough to say with his words.

One more long hug and one more long kiss and then they break apart for the foreseeable future. There's several seconds of silence as they study one another's faces, committing features to memory, and then Ziva gives a half smile and starts to turn away.

"Tell your dad I said hi!" Tony calls after her sarcastically, and her tinkling laugh in reply makes him grin. She doesn't turn around, but maybe it's better that way.

Tony starts to turn, too, but he stops and turns back on his heel to watch her enter the security line. Suddenly, feeling just a little bit mischievous, he has the urge to embarrass her. "We'll always have Paris!" he yells from twenty feet away; a number of heads turn to look strangely at him, but her turning head is the only one that matters.

She grins and does something that surprises him. "Here's looking at you, kid!" she calls back, quoting the same Casablanca airport scene that he quoted.

He's at once impressed, a little bummed, and head over heels in love with her.

She winks at him from across the room and he grins at her before turning to go. It only occurs to him later that they never really said goodbye, and as cheesy and cliche as it is, its gives him the hope that this isn't really goodbye after all.

They'll be just fine.

Ziva's first flight is a long one to Istanbul; the length of the trip is good thing. She should use the time to sleep, but she feels antsy and restless and never drifts off. Instead, she uses the time to prepare herself for her professional aliyah. She's more nervous than she should be, especially considering the fact that Mossad has always been her true employer, not NCIS… but despite what she told Abby, there are many significant differences between the two organizations. She's out of practice on dealing with the very layered levels of Mossad politics—it's something she used to be able to navigate with ease.

During the flight, she also finally indulges in the urge to cry that's been threatening her composure all day. The pain is easier to let out around strangers whose opinions don't matter.

When the plane touches down in Istanbul and she's able to turn her phone back on, she sends Tony a text.

Arrived in Istanbul, she types. Hangover here then on to Tel Aviv.

It's just after 0400 back in Washington, but Tony replies almost instantly, making Ziva frown. He should be in bed. Despite her disapproval at her boyfriend's sleep habits, she opens the text to see what he has to say. The word is layover. Miss me yet?

She chuckles and shoots off a response. Maybe a little. But I will talk to you when I arrive in Israel because right now you should be sleeping.

Ziva's digging her carry on out from under the seat in front of her when the phone dings again. Trying 2 get rid of me?

No, she replies. Trying to look after you. Eat a vegetable and go to bed.

She doesn't get a reply text, but her phone rings a few minutes later as she's deplaning. "Tony, you really should be asleep," she says, amused, instead of greeting him when she answers.

"Ha, you must miss me—you're already trying to get me back in bed!" Tony teases, sounding to Ziva like he's very tired. She wishes he'd just go rest… but she'd be lying to herself if she said she didn't want the company.

"Mm… maybe that is the way to get you to sleep," she speculates, smirking and walking off of the jet bridge into Atatürk. "How about you slide under the blankets, my love, remove your pajama pants, and think about how much you miss me?"

Ziva can hear Tony's breath quicken at her suggestion, making her feel rather smug. "I'm, uh, I'm actually already in bed. But I might just do that once we're off the phone."

"Perhaps you can record a video of it to email to me. Remind me what I am missing, yes?" Her primary aim here is to tease her boyfriend, but the desire is genuine. They're going to have to figure out how to appease their mutual sexual frustrations through things like this or their relationship is doomed to fail.

A low groan and a fair amount of rustling is all Ziva can hear in response, and she laughs sensually. "I think you said you would wait until the end of the call, did you not?"

"You're too fucking sexy—I couldn't wait," Tony grunts, and the rustling sound in the background gets more regular.

"Are you picturing me there, Tony? Is it me you are thrusting into?" A woman walking past gives Ziva an offended glare and Ziva smiles blandly at her, giving a little wave.

Tony grunts again and between his vocalizations and the sounds of the blankets on top of him, Ziva is able to get a very clear mental image of what he's doing… and it's turning her on, too. It's rather unfortunate that she's in a very public place with no hope of privacy—or a bed—to take care of herself any time soon.

There's a delay in Tony's reply, but eventually he speaks again. "Oh, baby… fuck. Yes, you're all I can think about. Mm."

Ziva pays only vague attention to the airport as she navigates her way to her next gate—most of her brain power is focused firmly on making her boyfriend miss her as much as possible. "Good. Because I am the only one you are allowed to thrust into." Her voice is sultry, commanding—she knows exactly what he likes. "Now tell me, Tony… what is your imagination showing you? Where are you thrusting? My hand? My mouth? Somewhere... else?"

Tony chuckles breathlessly. "Mm… listening to you talk has got me thinking about your mouth. Love it when you go down on me, Ziva."

"Come to Israel and it will be the first thing I do," she promises before grinning. "Come to Israel and I will make sure you come in Israel. Many times."

"You know what? I'll meet you there."

Ziva can tell from the sound of his voice that Tony is really getting into it. "Well-behaved boys receive rewards," she informs him flirtatiously, her voice throaty. "The only limit is your imagination." She finds a relatively secluded corner to stand in and lowers her voice before getting more explicit. "You would like a blowjob, my love? You wish to have my lips wrapped around your cock while I suck on you like a lollipop? It will feel warm, I think, and wet. If I hum, you will feel vibrations that make your breath catch in your throat. I will lay my hands on your thighs and dig my nails into your skin, because I know you like a little pain with your pleasure. Your hands will tangle in my hair and though you will try not to, you will pull the strands—and I will moan because I like a little pain with my pleasure, too. I will keep my eyes on your face and you will get to see just how much I enjoy making you come. And finally, when you have face-fucked me as much as you can handle, you will orgasm. Remember how I said my eyes would not leave your face? I will look you in the eye as I swallow every drop."

Through her little monologue, Tony's groans and grunts have been getting more frequent and the rustling of blankets have been getting faster. Ziva knows him so well by now that just the change in his breathing tips her off to how he's feeling—he's close, no more than seconds away from ejaculating. "Come for me, Tony," she orders softly, her voice almost a purr. "Picture yourself spilling into my throat. Come on, my love. Come. Now."

She can hear it when he follows her command—his long, low groan of her name is a dead giveaway—and she has to surreptitiously squeeze her thighs together to relieve some of the ache between her legs. "That is it, ahava shelli. Good job. I am proud of you."

Tony laughs as he catches his breath. "Holy shit," he comments, his grin obvious in the timbre of his voice. "I was just calling to hear your voice, ya know, see how your flight went, but…" he whistles. "You just had to go above and beyond, didn't you?"

Ziva giggles—it makes Tony's heart soar. "I did not expect my time in transit to be enjoyable, but that was fun."

"Yeah, it was—especially for me." Tony laughs again. "You're wonderful, Ziva," he adds, his voice full of affection. "And not just 'cause of—you know."

Ziva doesn't know how to respond to that, but it makes her feel absolutely lovely, all warm and bubbly and cherished. "Thank you, Tony," she finally murmurs. "And thank you for worrying enough about me to keep from sleeping."

"I can sleep when I'm dead," Tony replies cheerfully. "I think I am going to try to really go to bed once you make it to your next gate, though. Hopefully I can get a few hours in—today is my first day back to work and I need to be at the office before too long. Gibbs'll be pissed if I fall asleep at my desk."

"Tony, please do go sleep!" Ziva insists. "It is unsafe for you to be overly tired on the job."

"Eh, I'll pull a Gibbs and get through the day on coffee," Tony counters, unconcerned. "Don't worry about it. I'd rather be talking to you than sleeping, anyway. Especially if there's phone sex involved."

Ziva snorts—Tony is nothing if not consistent—and starts moving on in the direction of her gate. "Next time," she informs him primly, "it is your turn."

"My turn for what?"

"Your turn to talk me to an orgasm," she replies imperiously.

Tony groans. "See, now I want to do that. Your layover's not long enough to get yourself a hotel room, is it?"

"Unfortunately, it is not. But you will be my first call once I am settled into my new apartment."

That leads Tony to a less comfortable topic, and he sighs. "You staying with family 'til then?" he asks soberly.

Ziva nods, even though she knows Tony can't see her. "Eli will expect me to play the dutiful daughter, at least for a few days."

"Do what you have to do, Z, but…" Tony doesn't finish the thought, sounding unhappy.

Ziva isn't any more excited about the prospect than Tony is, but the new nickname makes her smile. "I will be cautious, Tony," she vows softly.

"I know. And I know we've been over this. I just… I worry. You make me worry. How are you feeling?" The concern in Tony's voice is genuine and warm.

"I am ready." Ziva's confidence level has grown again and she's feeling bolstered.

Tony's smile is easy to hear. "I actually meant physically this time, but… glad to hear it. That's my badass little ninja!"

"Physically, I am also feeling much stronger now," she shares. "I have hardly had any pain today."

To anyone else, she might not admit to any pain or similar weakness at all, and Tony is able to appreciate her level of trust in him. "Good. You'll be ready to kick Eli's ass when you touch down in Tel Aviv."

Ziva laughs and, arriving at her new gate, she chooses a seat and settles in to wait. "I would have been able to kick an ass far earlier if not for the fact that I was confined to a hospital bed… it simply would not have been as much fun." She pauses for just a moment, enjoying the sound of Tony's amusement before sighing. "I have arrived at my gate, however, Tony. I really would like it if you went on to sleep."

"Do I have to?" he whines, mostly to be annoying, but the argument is undermined by a wide yawn at the end of the sentence.

"Yes." She smiles softly. "I will talk to you soon, alright?"

"Got it. Don't forget to text me so I know you got there safely—even if I'm asleep when I get it, at least I'll know when I wake up that you made it."

"I will."

"Thanks, Ziva. Have a good flight, and don't kick too many Israeli asses while I'm not there to see it."

"It is a deal. Good night, Tony. I love you." Saying those words still infuses Ziva with such a feeling of fortifying warmth, and in this moment, it hardly matters that they're on separate continents. She can close her eyes and imagine so easily that she's snuggled into his side, preparing to go to sleep herself.

"Love you, too. Good night."

Chapter Text

After two nights of no sleep and a fair amount of emotion and stress, stepping off the plane in Tel Aviv is surreal. Ziva robotically grabs her things and deplanes, more than ready to stop dreading the things to come and just get them over with.

She realizes that she's been in America too long when—upon presenting her documents at passport control—she answers the border control officer's first few Hebrew questions in English without thinking about it. She speaks so many languages that it isn't exactly uncommon for her to slip up and occasionally use the wrong one, but it's embarrassing when she's in her home country and her mother tongue is lost somewhere in the back of her sleep-deprived mind. Flushing slightly, she finishes the interaction in Hebrew.

As she heads out to the arrivals hall, she remembers to text Tony again. Officially back in Israel. Hope you are sleeping well. It's only around 0630 back in Washington—she would be up if she was there, but she knows Tony likes to sleep in a little more… especially since he was up most of the night worrying about her.

There's a familiar face waiting in arrivals—Malachi. He's who Ziva was expecting, but she still experiences the tiniest flash of hurt at her father's absence. She'll never be a priority in his life; that isn't news, but it's still an unhappy feeling.

"Welcome home, Ziva," Malachi greets her in Hebrew as she reaches him.

"Malachi," she acknowledges with a nod and a tight smile.

"Your father is expecting us," Malachi continues, sensing Ziva's lack of interest in making small talk.

"Then we should not keep him waiting."

"My thoughts exactly." Malachi holds out a hand, gesturing that Ziva should walk ahead, and she does so. They walk silently to the expected black SUV with dark-tinted windows that's already running, awaiting their arrival. Ziva ducks into the back seat.

As they leave the airport, she watches Tel Aviv roll past her window and feels a familiar tug of wistfulness; she may not wish to return to Mossad, and she may now consider Washington, D.C. to be her true home, but there's something calming about being back in Israel itself. She does love her country despite her conflicted feelings about everything else here.

Mossad's headquarters looks the same as always, and walking inside to go to her father's office makes her feel younger than her years. She swallows the feeling down and knocks primly on his door, waiting to hear "enter" before doing so.

She makes eye contact with her father—he smiles at her—but before she can say anything, she can feel Malachi beginning to enter the room behind her. Angry that he seems to think her father needs a bodyguard while she's around, she whips around to stare him down—he pauses and looks at her passively. "I no longer need an escort, thank you," she tells him in a hard voice. He looks over her shoulder, clearly communicating wordlessly with Eli, before holding up his hands in surrender and backing out; the office door gets closed behind him.

Now that it's just the two of them, Ziva turns back around and approaches her father's desk. He rises to greet her. "Shalom, my dear," Eli says in a warm voice that Ziva does not trust.

"Shalom, Abba." She gives him the same insincere smile she gave Malachi, and she sees something in his own expression twist in amusement. Her minor defiances have always been a source of humor for him, though Ziva can't quite suss out the reason for that.

"A kiss for your father?"

Ziva steps forward, allowing him to take and squeeze both of her hands as they kiss one another's cheeks. "It is good to have you back where you belong," Eli murmurs to her while they're close, and she nods noncommittally at him.

When they separate again, her father gestures to a chair. "Sit, sit. You have had a long journey." Ziva does so while Eli returns to his own chair behind the desk. "Now. Tell me. How are you feeling?"

"I am much recovered, Papa. Thank you for your concern." Her voice is formal, aloof, overly polite.

Eli raises his eyebrows. "Were you cleared by your doctors to go back to work?"

"I do not know," Ziva admits. "I did not ask them."

That makes Eli laugh and shake his head. "You never were one to blindly follow orders from anyone."

Ziva's face hardens at this, sure he meant it as a jab.

When she doesn't reply, Eli shakes his head. "Come, Ziva. Please relax. I am not your enemy. I was praising, not criticizing."

Ziva inclines her head in acknowledgment of this differentiation—even if she doesn't think he's telling the truth. "Of course not, Papa." She works to make her voice demure and subservient. Everything always works much more smoothly when her father believes she's entirely on his side.

Eli accepts this for now and tilts his head to one side, studying her. "I believe we have much to catch up on, do we not? I would like to hear the story of how you came to be injured."

"Jenny Shepard did not inform you?"

"I want to hear it from you, Ziva," Eli orders softly, not answering the question either way.

Ziva nods stiffly and does her best to recount the story without emotion. "NCIS has been attempting to catch the arms dealer La Grenouille for quite some time. In the process of this investigation, one of the NCIS agents working the case was captured by La Grenouille's men and held hostage. I was part of the group that went in to rescue him. I took a bullet from an enemy during the rescue."

"Bravery has always been one of your strengths," Eli praises lightly, but Ziva knows that criticism is coming, too. "Tell me, which agent was captured?"

Ziva doesn't believe for a second that Eli doesn't already know—he wants her to say it, though, in order to trap her into admitting… something. "Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," she replies calmly, refusing to be backed into a corner.

"Ah, so this was not merely a faceless agent—this was a member of your team."

"Yes, Abba."

"Your friend."

"Yes."

"Your lover."

Ziva supposes she should have seen this coming sooner, but exhaustion handicaps her. "How is my tie to him relevant?" she asks in a hard voice, forgoing the illusion of compliance for now.

"You do not deny that you have ties to him," Eli answers, his voice intentionally light as if to criticize Ziva's tone.

"Why should I deny it? Though it is not your business, I am not ashamed of who I choose to have in my life." She feels thirteen again, teenage rebellion in full swing.

"You are my business, Ziva." Now his voice is harder, too. He only appreciates her fire when it doesn't hinder him.

"Then if it matters so much to you, Father, I will tell you—yes. I have a relationship with Tony DiNozzo." She lets some of her fierce pride leak into her voice. She loves who she's with and she will not be shamed for that.

"Is it that relationship that led you to take a bullet for him?" Eli asks.

"Who said I took a bullet for him?" Ziva challenges. "I merely said I took a bullet during his rescue."

"Did you take a bullet for him?"

"Yes."

"So I thought. Please answer my question."

"I took a bullet to protect him, yes, but I would have done so for any member of my team—whether that was Tony, Gibbs, or Malachi Ben-Gidon." It's a not-so-subtle reminder that she returned under her father's orders… and so he shouldn't use this to question her loyalty. She's telling him that she's still Mossad.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket with an incoming text, and she hopes her father doesn't hear it. She's sure it's Tony replying to the message she sent him from the airport.

If he hears, he doesn't mention it, instead choosing to focus on what she just said. "Would you risk losing your job or worse for Officer Ben-Gidon?" he asks softly; there's danger in the low volume, because while he can be a yeller, he's also a politician at heart. If he's really, truly angry, he sometimes becomes so quiet that he can scarcely be heard.

"What do you mean by that?" Ziva demands, matching her father's tone.

"I placed you with NCIS in order to improve Israeli-American relations, not to harm them."

"Yes, and I made many friends among the Americans," Ziva counters, confused as to what Eli is implying.

"Friends in low places, Ziva. It does not matter how many agents you befriend if you anger the director of the entire organization!" Eli accuses.

Suddenly, Ziva realizes what he's getting at. Prior to being shot, she had a confrontation with Director Shepard about her knowledge of the La Grenouille investigation. She was accused of spying, though not in so many words, and she and Jenny left the matter at an impasse given the situation Tony was in; it fell to the wayside entirely once she was shot. Ziva had assumed that it was forgotten when she was asked to return to Mossad, but now, she wonders what exactly Jenny Shepard said to her father.

She lets the hard, emotionless mask school her features again and nods sharply, recognizing that her father has spoken without replying to what he said.

He waits for a moment for an answer before banging his desk with a palm in frustration; Ziva manages to contain her flinch at the sudden violence of the action. "Explain yourself, Ziva!" he demands angrily.

"What do you wish for me to say?" Ziva replies rigidly.

"I want to know why you risked an international incident!"

"I did no such thing," she assures him coldly.

Eli seems to realize all at once that she is entirely unwilling to say anything more on the matter and his face grows angrier. "I see that keeping your father's trust is no longer important to you. Very well. I will see to it that your assignments are adjusted accordingly."

Ziva would like to yell at him, but doing so would mean admitting more to him than she's ready to, so she merely nods once more, refusing to take the bait.

"You are dismissed," Eli answers, waving her away before looking over at his computer, immediately ignoring her.

She brushes past Malachi wordlessly on her way out, fuming. It's entirely unfair of her father to react the way he did when he doesn't understand what really happened; she could tell him, of course, but if he's angry with her for what he suspects she's done, he'll be much angrier with her if he finds out what was actually going through her mind.

She marches out of the building, intending to go to her favorite cafe and calm down over a cup of tea, but she realizes very quickly that someone is following her. Furious, she whirls around and pulls her gun out; she knows who's following her or she would point the gun at her follower. As it is, she merely wants the gun out as a warning.

"Malachi, you have always been a friend to me," she says in a low voice, "but if you continue to follow me, I will shoot you."

Without waiting to see whether or not he'll take this warning to heart, she re-holsters her gun and continues on to the cafe; though she can feel eyes on her, she can sense that Malachi is no longer actively trailing her. Right now, she'll take what she can get.

She orders a chamomile tea and sits down at a corner table to drink it, trying very hard to calm herself down. It's not like the interaction with her father was any different than she expected it to be, but she's out of practice on dealing with him; she's also out of practice on keeping her emotions in check. She has let her guard down around her NCIS family—especially Tony—so many times over the last few months in particular so many times that it has become habit. She'll need to snap herself out of that quickly if she is to survive the entirety of her return to Israel.

Drinking the tea helps some, but what helps far more is the person who unexpectedly slides in the chair across the table from her. "Adam!" she cries in shocked delight, momentarily forgetting all of her worries.

Adam grins at Ziva, clearly pleased at having successfully surprised her, and he puts his hand over hers. "It is wonderful to see you back on Israeli soil, my friend," he says warmly.

She flips her hand over to grab his for a moment before releasing him and sipping at her tea. She has missed him dearly, and she realizes all at once just how poor a job she's done in keeping in touch with him. "I am so happy to see you," she replies affectionately. "How did you know I was here?"

"Where else would you be?" he asks in mock confusion before his face molds into a light smirk. "Malachi contacted me yesterday with your flight details. I planned to be in the area as soon as possible, but he also texted me a few minutes ago to tell me he thought you would be here."

Ziva feels a small surge of guilt; maybe she was too harsh with Malachi before. "I am glad he did… he knows, I think, how difficult my relationship with my father has been since Ari's death."

Adam nods sympathetically, but he's not one to let her wallow. "You have confronted your father, and while you may both be angry, it is over for now. Do not let it haunt you. Instead, tell me all about your time in America!"

Ziva tries to do as her friend suggested—she takes a deep breath and lets it out before smiling at Adam once more. "What do you wish to know?"

Adam shrugs. "What do you wish to share?" he counters, smiling back.

Ziva has to think about that for a moment. "I was happy there," she says simply after some deliberation.

The corners of Adam's eyes crinkle as his very genuine smile widens, and Ziva realizes just how much she's missed having him around since leaving Israel. "What was the best thing about it?"

"The people," Ziva answers with no hesitation.

"Tell me about them," Adam requests simply.

"I worked on a team of four. They became my family, Adam. There were also several others with whom I became just as close, people who worked in the same building. I will miss them very much."

Perhaps Ziva has a bit of a glint in her eye or a smile in her voice, because Adam immediately tries to suppress a smirk. "Anyone you will miss more than the others?" he suggests.

Ziva knows what he's getting at, and though she tries not to give herself away, she feels her cheeks flushing. "Why does everyone want to know about that?" she demands, partly annoyed and partly happy to have something so positive to share.

Adam throws his head back and laughs, delighted. It's nice to see her a little off-kilter for a good reason for once. "Because we have been friends for a very long time, Ziva. I can read you, and even though you may be angry on the surface right now, you are happy underneath. I can tell. And you are blushing—it is unlike you. There must be a reason for it, yes?"

Ziva wrinkles her nose at him, making him laugh harder, and finally, it draws a smile out of her, too. "There might be someone," she hedges.

"Who is it?"

"His name is Tony. He was my partner at NCIS."

What Ziva can't see is the way that some of the hardness in her eyes relaxes when she talks about Tony, and she can't see the way a small, unconscious smile plays at her lips at the same time. "Partner or partner?" Adam teases, and Ziva crumples up a napkin to throw at him. It bounces harmlessly off of his forehead, and he continues to laugh at her, enjoying her reaction.

"Both," she admits, and then a slightly evil expression settles on her face. "He's an excellent partner, no matter which definition you are using. Very… considerate," she adds suggestively.

Adam puts his hands up to stop her, still chuckling. "Okay, okay, I do not need all the details!"

"You are the one who asked!"

"That I did," Adam concedes. He takes her hand once more, his laughter dying away and his voice becoming more serious. "I am glad that you are happy, Ziva."

"Thank you," Ziva replies. "Things were not always easy at NCIS, but they were good. Tony is just one part of that."

"So why did you come back to Israel?" The question is gentle. He lets her hand go.

"Because I was ordered to do so."

"Ah. Eli did not like the… fraternization?"

"Close." Ziva gives an insincere smile. "He did not like the accusations of espionage that I received from the American director."

Adam does a double take at that. "Espionage? Ziva David, what did you do?"

Ziva hesitates before lowering her voice and telling Adam the whole story. He gapes at her as she finishes, and then closes his mouth and shakes his head. "You know that I am always on your side, but I can see why your father is upset on this particular matter."

"Why he is upset!?" Ziva demands quickly. "I did nothing to him!" In fact, she hadn't given him a single thought during the entire saga.

"Ziva, you know as well as I do that your father must protect the interests of Israel before his own. I think it is on Israel's behalf that he is angry." Adam gives her a look that's part apology, part you-know-I'm-right.

Ziva huffs and sits back in her seat, crossing her arms. "He should never have even known about it. I have a relationship with Jenny Shepard, and I could have worked this out with her. Either she went to my father behind my back, or one of my father's spies has eyes inside NCIS. It does not matter which is true—it never should have come this far."

"But it did, and now you must deal with it. What is done is done."

"Wise words," Ziva says after a moment, shaking her head and deciding to forgive him for taking the wrong side.

"So how do you move forward from here?" Adam is relieved that Ziva isn't yelling at him, and he notes the changes in her personality since she first set out for America two years ago.

"I will, as always, do what I must. I will try to get back on my father's good side; I will keep my head down, do as told, and work hard. I will earn his trust back. Then I will see what comes next."

Adam inclines his head to applaud the practicality of this plan. "Do you think your father will let it go over time?"

"It is not in his nature to 'let it go'," Ziva admits, "but I believe that if I tell him the whole story, he will be even angrier. I did jeopardize my own standing with NCIS, but I do not believe I jeopardized Mossad's standing with NCIS… Regardless, he will see my behavior as a personal betrayal. I put my own interests—my relationship with a foreign man, no less—above my father's interests, which would be the continuation of my placement in Washington."

"So your plan may work, but it also may not."

"I do not see any other way forward, Adam."

"Hm." Adam sighs and gently pushes her tea across the table toward her. "Nothing more you can do today, in any case. Relax. You must be exhausted."

"I am." Ziva picks up her tea and drains it in one long swallow before rising to her feet. "I should probably go. My father will expect me to join him for dinner tonight." That promises to be a fun meal, for sure.

Adam stands, too. "Of course. But please, while you are home, remember to stay in touch."

"I will." Ziva initiates a hug, surprising her friend again, and they part ways. On the way out, she reads Tony's message: Good luck Z. Got ur 6, even if I'm far away. She smiles and resolves to reply later when she has more time and privacy.

When Tony walks into the bullpen the morning of Ziva's arrival in Israel, he appears to be the last one in. Gibbs is at his desk frowning at one of the screens on his desk—as usual, he doesn't acknowledge Tony's entrance.

McGee, on the other hands, meets Tony's eye and then jerks his head at Ziva's desk. Reflexively, Tony's follows the direction of the jerk and he frowns. There's someone sitting there, quietly filling out a form.

After Tony looks at her for a moment, he understands why he didn't notice her at first—there's little about her that draws the eye. She has light brown hair in a pixie cut, straight as a pin and held away from her face by a black headband. Her very young-looking face is pretty enough, small features dainty and symmetrical, but it isn't the sort of face that graces magazine covers. She's fairly diminutive—Tony suspects that she's no taller than 5'2 when standing.

He looks back at McGee. "Who is she?" he asks, sotto voce.

"I dunno," Tim answers in the same tone, his eyes flitting between Tony, the unnamed woman, and Gibbs. "She was here when I got in."

"Special Agent Annie Baxter," Gibbs answers in a normal voice without looking up, making Tony and Tim flinch. They hadn't realized he was listening; they should know better by now.

"Why is she sitting at Ziva's desk?" Tony demands.

"Because Ziva's gone, DiNozzo. Figured you'd know that since you dropped her off at the airport," Gibbs answers dryly.

"But… that's Ziva's desk," Tony argues lamely.

"It's mine now," the new agent says, raising her eyebrows and meeting Tony's eye for the first time. "I promise to be careful with it." Her voice is high and quiet—it has a calming, unhurried quality to it, though.

"What she said," Gibbs confirms, dismissing Tony's consternation.

Realizing that's all he's going to get from his boss, Tony sits down at his own desk and continues to study the new agent. "How old are you?" he asks.

"You're not supposed to ask that, Tony," Tim interjects. "Sorry about him," he adds, talking to the new agent. "I'd say he's not always like that, but he is. I'm Special Agent Tim McGee, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too. Annie Baxter, but everyone calls me Bax." She smiles at Tim and turns back to Tony. "I'm 20," she tells him, her tone showing no frustration at the question—it must be one she gets a lot. "And you are?"

"Very Special Agent Anthony 'Tony' DiNozzo," he answers, still thrown by her presence but now feeling very old on top of that. "Are you even allowed to work here at 20?" he demands of the room at large.

"Technically, the minimum age is 18," McGee answers, "though I'm not sure NCIS has ever actually hired someone that young."

"You're not even old enough to drink, little orphan Annie!" Tony says loudly.

"Not an orphan," Bax corrects wryly, "but nice reference anyway, Daddy Warbucks. No, I'm not old enough to drink—well spotted."

Tony grins at her retort, always appreciative of anyone who responds favorably to his movie references. "Okay, so you must have something special about you," he speculates, "or NCIS wouldn't have hired you so young. What is it?"

Bax opens her mouth to answer, but Gibbs, hanging up the phone no one realized he was talking into, cuts her off. "Got a body in Fairfax," he tells them. "You'll just have to interrogate each other on the way there. Gear up."

When their homicide in Fairfax turns into a credible bomb threat, Tony and McGee find out exactly why Jenny Shepard assigned Annie Baxter to Gibbs' team—she is, apparently, quite the bomb expert.

By the time they find the explosives, the building has already been evacuated—only Gibbs, McGee, DiNozzo, and Baxter remain. "How do you want to play this, boss?" Tony asks, looking apprehensively at the bomb as its timer counts down. There's a little less than ten minutes left—plenty of time for NCIS to get out of the building, but not enough time for the bomb squad to arrive and defuse it.

"Out," Gibbs orders, but he finds himself being gently nudged out of the way by someone who's a solid foot shorter than he is.

"No, I can disarm it." It's Bax, kneeling down next to the bomb with a look of cool confidence on her face.

"It's not a toy, Annie Hall," Tony replies derisively, but he's completely ignored. He turns around to stare at Gibbs, shocked that he's not putting his foot down.

Gibbs correctly interprets Tony's look and shrugs, a half smile on his face. "She says she can stop it from going off. I'd like to see if she can. You and McGee can go."

McGee and Tony exchange glances, and—feeling as if the possibility of coming to regret this decision is high—they nod. "No, if you're staying, we're staying, boss," McGee asserts.

"You heard the probie!" Tony cries cheerfully, rubbing his hands together nonchalantly and leaning in closer to see what Bax is doing. "Let's see what the new girl can do."

Bax ignores all three of them, carefully comparing wires and gently manipulating them to check for connections. She digs a knife out of her pocket and, never once hesitating, slices three of the wires. Tony holds his breath, sure they're all going to be blown to bits any second, but to his surprise, the timer stops immediately.

"Where did you learn to do that?" McGee asked, clearly impressed.

"Can't make bombs without knowing how to stop them, too," Bax says with such casualness that Tony at first doesn't fully catch her meaning.

When he does, he raises his eyebrows almost up to his hairline. "And why do you know how to make bombs?" he half-mutters, not really expecting an answer.

"My extremist mom taught me. She expected me to help her make the bombs—she didn't expect me to use that knowledge to disarm her attempted terrorist attack. That was—mm, four years ago now? You can look it up—her name's Eliza Baxter. It was kind of hush-hush because… well, because it never really went anywhere. A couple of news outlets in our local area reported on it anyway, though. Anyway, I've been studying bombs ever since."

Neither Tony nor McGee know quite how to respond to this, but Gibbs merely says "good work, Baxter," and leaves the room.

Back in the bullpen later in the day, there's a lull in their caseload and Tony takes the opportunity to text Ziva again. It's late evening in Tel Aviv now and with the amount of sleep—or lack thereof—that she's gotten this week, he wouldn't be surprised if she's already in bed.

Everything ok? he types. Checking n again, ok to talk 2moro if ur busy or sleeping.

A few minutes later, his phone dings with a reply, and it makes him smile. Have time to call?

No, he answers, but as soon as he sends the text, he dials her number.

She picks up on the first ring. "Hey," he murmurs, glancing around to make sure no one is paying attention to him making a personal call at work.

"Hi, Tony." She sounds exhausted.

"You alright? Ol' Daddio wasn't too tough on you this afternoon, was he?" Tony asks, concerned.

"He was not happy, but I know how to deal with him," she says, her tone abruptly turning testy.

"Alright," Tony agrees carefully. She sounds like she might be looking for a fight to get her frustrations out, but he doesn't want to be the one to give it to her. "You know best."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ziva snaps.

Tony frowns, starting to feel frustrated despite himself. "Hey. I'm not the one you're mad at, okay? Don't yell at me just because your dad's being an asshole."

There's a pause and then Ziva sighs. "You are right; I am sorry. It has been a very long day."

"I get it," Tony replies softly. "Don't worry about it. Are you okay?"

"Yes. I am. I promise."

"Good. Any warm and fuzzy feelings about being in Israel again?" he asks lightly, trying to draw a happier mood out.

"Actually, more than I expected." There's a slight smile in her voice, much to Tony's relief. "Familiarity can be a lovely thing. Much of my childhood was spent going in and out of Tel Aviv, so I have good memories here."

"Thought yet about what you'll show me when I visit?"

"I have," Ziva confirms, sounding more relaxed. "It has been a welcome distraction today. First, I will take you to my favorite kosher deli."

"I gotta say, you have increased my interest in middle eastern food. What's the best thing at this deli of yours?"

"Soup. Matzo ball soup." She gives a groan of appreciation at the mere thought of the taste.

"Sounds excellent."

"It is, and it is full of vegetables."

Tony laughs loudly. "Of course it is! You wouldn't like it, otherwise."

Ziva laughs, too. "Someday, you will see things like I do. I am only trying to protect your arteries, my love."

"Protection!" Tony cries, suddenly remembering the thing that he wanted to tell her. McGee, passing Tony's desk to return to his own, gives Tony a very strange look. "Um, from bombs," he clarifies in Tim's direction.

"Whatever you say, Tony," McGee says, shaking his head as he sits and turning toward his computer screen.

"What are you talking about?" Ziva asks in Tony's ear, bemused. It makes Tony jump—his embarrassment about what McGee heard very briefly made him forget why he spoke too loudly in the first place.

"New girl on the team," he hastens to clarify. "She's sitting at your desk, which I did not like, but she saved our asses today."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, apparently she's pretty good at bombs. The bomb squad wouldn't have gotten on the scene before it went off, but new girl got it so it was fine."

Ziva's quiet for a moment, and Tony winces. "You're better at bombs, Z, in case you're getting any ideas about being replaced. She's not replacing you," he clarifies quickly.

She chuckles. "No, Tony, that is not why I paused. I was taking a moment to say a prayer in thanks that you and the team made it out safely today. I am glad there was someone there who knew what they were doing."

Tony smiles. "Being back in Israel make you feel more connected to your Judaism?" he asks.

"Perhaps," she says, the quirk of her lips matching his. "Tell me more about the woman who is now at my desk."

"Let's see… she's practically a baby—she can't even drink yet, she's so young, sort of a kid genius—and she's shorter than you. Light brown hair cut short. That's about all I got."

Ziva throws her head back and laughs exuberantly, truly amused. "You do not have to pretend that you noticed nothing else about her, Tony," she assures him. "You are in a monogamous relationship, not dead."

He laughs, too. "She's small all around," he admits to noticing.

"Just remember to keep your hands to yourself." The warning is pure teasing, however. She trusts him.

"Pretty sure she's not interested anyway," he answers confidently.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, let me put it this way… I put a picture of you and I up behind my desk this morning, and she looked at it for, like, a long time."

"So?"

"So, she wasn't looking at me in the picture. She was looking at you… in a don't-ask-don't-tell kind of way."

"Oh." Ziva laughs, vaguely flattered. "I like this woman already."

"Me, too. She has great taste." The Ziva-directed compliment is clear, making his girlfriend smile. Unfortunately, Tony sees Gibbs emerging from the elevator and knows that personal phone call time is over. "Gotta go, though. Talk later. Get some sleep! Love you!"

"Let me guess—Gibbs?"

"Yep," Tony agrees in a rush.

"Alright. I love you, too. Good night."

Tony hangs up quickly and gives Gibbs a charming smile that melts away at Gibbs' less-than-impressed look. Correctly interpreting the nonverbal instructions he's being given as meaning "get back to work now, DiNozzo", he slaps the back of his own head and logs into his computer.

Once he's in, the new email notification sounds, and he clicks the alert message. To his surprise, it's not his NCIS email that's pinging; it's his Tony DiNardo email account, the one set up purely to give to Jeanne Benoit. The email that he was just notified about is, in fact, from her. Full of trepidation, he opens it and scans it quickly.

Tony,

We need to talk. Now. I tried to call the cell phone number I had for you, but I think it's been disconnected. Please contact me ASAP.

Jeanne

Tony thinks back and remembers that his DiNardo cell phone, like everything else case-related, has been logged into evidence. Afraid of what's waiting on the other end of the line, he pulls out his regular cell and enters in Jeanne's number, glad he memorized it a while back. Here goes nothing.

Chapter Text

The phone rings and rings, and it eventually goes to voicemail. Tony sighs as he listens to Jeanne's outgoing message, not sure exactly what to say to her but understanding that it's his duty to close the gap after she reached out first. "Hi, Jeanne," he says carefully once the beep sounds. "This is Tony—um, Special Agent Tony DiNozzo, that is." Ziva filled him in during her hospital stay on the conversation she had with Jeanne, and Tony knows that Jeanne can't be exactly thrilled with him for lying to her. He really, really wishes that so much of that case had gone differently. "I got your email, and I'm, um, returning your call. This is my cell phone number that I'm calling from—you can reach me here or at my NCIS extension." He reads her out the NCIS number and the addition that'll direct her straight to his desk. "Anyway, hope everything is okay and I hope to hear back soon. Bye."

He thinks awkwardly that he should have said more to her, but what can he say in a single voicemail after so much deception and weeks of silence? What can he say to her when he knows he's hurt her by lying so much in the course of his investigation? He'd be furious if he was in her shoes, and while he knows that she's more naturally inclined to kindness than he is, even the sweetest people have limits.

Half an hour later, his cell phone rings, and he recognizes the number as Jeanne's. He takes a deep breath and lets it out before answering. "Hi, Jeanne." His voice is measured, cautious.

"Tony." Not surprisingly, Jeanne doesn't sound happy.

"Is everything okay?" he asks hesitantly in reply.

"What a stupid question," Jeanne snaps, making Tony wince. "What makes you think anything would be okay right now?"

"I deserve that." Tony sighs. "What can I do for you, Jeanne?"

"I need your help."

Partially relieved she didn't just call to yell at him and partially concerned about her, he nods to himself. "Of course, whatever I can do. What's going on?"

"It's my dad. He's been gone since… since you ended up at his warehouse."

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding the phone. "I know. We haven't been able to track him down, either."

"Well, he called me last night. He sounded—he sounded scared, Tony." As she recounts this, Tony thinks that Jeanne sounds scared, too.

"What did he say to you?"

"Not much. The call only lasted… maybe twenty seconds. He was just calling to tell me that I need to be very careful, and that I need to trust Jenny Shepard. Who's Jenny Shepard?" She sounds less angry now that she's getting into what's going on, and that's a relief… sort of.

"Jenny Shepard is my boss's boss." Tony hesitates, but if there's anyone he owes honesty to these days, it's Jeanne. "She's the one who asked me to… get close to you. And I'm pretty sure she's not your dad's biggest fan."

"Why does he think I need to trust her, then?"

"I really don't know, Jeanne. We can protect you, have an agent stay with you until this gets sorted, but… I don't know Shepard's history with La Gre—uh, with your father." He pauses for a moment, thinking, then sighs. "Can you come to the Navy Yard? We have a guy who can do some tech magic on your phone and see if he can figure out where your dad was calling from."

"What, so you can go after him, guns blazing?" The anger is back, but this time, Tony recognizes it for what it is—it's fear more than anything else. It's lashing out.

"No. You might not believe this—and to be honest, I can't blame you for it—but we're the good guys. We don't just… kill people. At least people who aren't actively trying to kill us, anyway. And your dad may have kidnapped me, but at least he never put a gun to his head." Tony's full of pointless guilt over what happened—pointless because it doesn't change anything. As a consequence, he's willing to be a little extra generous about René Benoit on Jeanne's behalf. Personally, he's still pissed about being kidnapped, and he'll never forgive the man who shot Ziva. "Your dad does need to answer for his crimes, Jeanne, but we're not in the business of executing people. He'll get a trial like anyone else in this country."

Jeanne's silent for a minute before softly assenting. "Okay. But I'm holding you responsible for his safety, Tony Whoever-You-Are. Got it?"

Tony swallows back the answer he wants to give. "I can't make any promises. I learned that a long time ago, okay? But I'll do my best."

"And what if your best isn't good enough?" she challenges.

"Then you're free to hate me for the rest of your life." It's an answer that could sound flippant, but he says it softly, accepting that it is a possible outcome.

"Right. So long as that's settled."

Tony's not sure how to respond to that, so he doesn't try to. "So you'll come to NCIS? The sooner, the better."

"I'll come."

"Good. See you when you get here."

They murmur awkward goodbyes and Tony hangs up. "Boss!" he calls, heading to Gibbs' desk.

Gibbs looks up and waits with clear impatience rather than answering.

"Jeanne Benoit is on her way in. La Grenouille called her last night. She doesn't know where he is but she agreed to let McGee do some McMagic on her cell to see if we can't figure that out."

Gibbs nods. "Get McGee in here and then go update Shepard."

"Got it, boss." He heads down to Abby's lab (where he suspects McGee still is); on the way out, he passes Bax returning to her desk from a coffee run. She gives him a questioning look—he must look as unexcited as he feels—but he just shakes his head at her as he goes. He doesn't have time to bring the new girl up to speed.

It turns out that McGee is in Abby's lab as expected. The two are side-by-side, working on computer screens that are identical as far as Tony can tell. Whatever they're working on must not be too serious, though, because they're nudging one another and giggling as they do it. "What d'ya got, Abbs?" Tony asks in his best Gibbs impression, and it must not be too bad because both McGee and Abby whirl around, looking vaguely guilty (on Abby's part) and very guilty (on McGee's).

"Tony!" Abby scolds, holding up a threatening finger in Tony's direction. "You scared me!"

"What were you doing that you don't want Gibbs to know about?" Tony asks, pretending to be more nosy than he actually feels. He knows it's expected of him, and on a normal day, he'd be more than happy to taunt them about whatever secret they have, but this thing with Jeanne has him anxious and turned around.

"Nothing!" Abby says, immediate and unconvincing.

"Right," Tony says sarcastically, and then points at McGee, who until this point has been silent. "You. Need you upstairs."

"What's going on?" Tim asks, immediately abandoning whatever computer thing he was doing.

"La Grenouille, back to cause me problems again," Tony answers darkly, and he doesn't miss the way Abby and Tim exchange looks. It makes him feel uncharitable. "I'd get up there now before I decide Gibbs needs to hear about your little project," he snaps; he knows it doesn't matter that he has no idea what they were working on.

To his credit, McGee doesn't rise to the bait, instead simply saying "see you later, Abby" and leaving. Tony follows him out, but they head in different directions, Tim toward the bullpen and Tony up to Shepard's office.

"The director is in a meeting," Cynthia informs Tony when he walks in.

"Call her out of it," he answers shortly. "She's going to want to hear this."

"What's it about?" Cynthia challenges, used to dealing with pushy agents.

"Rene Benoit."

Tony can see by the way Cynthia's expression changes that she knows the significance of that name, even if she may not know all the details. "Wait a moment." She picks up her phone and hits a few buttons. "Director Shepard? Yes, I'm sorry, I know you said not to interrupt. Agent DiNozzo's here, though, and he says it's about Rene Benoit." A pause. "Yes. Okay. I'll do that." Then she looks back up at Tony. "Please wait here. She'll be with you in just a moment."

Tony nods, feeling impatient, and leans against the wall to wait. Within a few minutes, the director's door is opening and she's emerging, followed closely by SecNav. "Sir," Tony acknowledges quietly, straightening up and nodding.

"Special Agent," SecNav answers, heading for the outer door. "We'll talk later, Director?"

"I'll have my assistant call shortly to set up another meeting," Shepard agrees; Tony wanders into her office to give her the chance to finish with SecNav without an audience.

A few moments later, Shepard follows him in. "Sure, Tony, come on in," she comments dryly.

"Jeanne Benoit emailed me last night," Tony answers, ignoring the sarcasm. "I called her about it this morning and she told me that her father called her. He said to be careful—and more importantly, he told her to trust you."

"Trust me to do what?"

Tony shrugs. "He didn't say. Apparently it was a short call. But she's coming in to talk to us about it and to see if McGee can figure out where the call to her phone came in from."

"When is she coming?"

"She's on her way now."

Shepard nods and considers this for a long moment. "Keep me posted," she says finally. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to be there when you interview her—I can't be her favorite person right now."

"I'm not her favorite person, either," Tony points out, trying to keep blame out of his voice.

Shepard hears it anyway, though, and gives him a look he's not sure how to interpret. "Actually, on the subject, Tony… I understand why she called you, and I want you to continue to be her NCIS contact if she's comfortable with it—but other than that, I want you off this case."

"What?" Tony's surprised and offended by that. "What's the point in benching me?"

"You're too close to this. I don't want you jeopardizing yourself or anyone else by going into this with your eye on getting revenge… either for Ziva or for what was done to you."

"I'm too close to this?" Tony parrots furiously. "What about you? Do you think we haven't all guessed that you're on some personal revenge kick for something?"

He immediately sees in her face that he's crossed a serious line. "Stand down, DiNozzo," Shepard warns in a dangerous voice. "I don't know if you've noticed, but it says Director Shepard on my door out there. Director Shepard, not DiNozzo—it's not your place to question my judgment."

"Understood." Tony's voice is hard but neutral again; he may be pissed, but he's not eager to lose his job over his differences in opinion with his boss' boss.

"Go talk to Jeanne Benoit," Jenny commands, her voice under tight control again just like Tony's. "Have McGee or Baxter update me when she leaves."

"Understood," Tony repeats before turning on his heel and walking stiffly back down to the bullpen.

When he gets back, McGee is giving Bax the background on the investigation that happened before she arrived. Tony stands behind them, just out of sight to listen to what's being said. "We didn't get all the details, either," McGee is saying in a low voice. "I think Shepard wanted Tony to get this girl to fall in love with him so she'd tell him everything she knew, but Tony was already pretty much head over heels for Ziva."

"And Ziva's the one who sat at this desk before me?" Bax asks for clarification.

"Yep."

"The one in the picture behind DiNozzo's desk?"

"Yep."

"Hmm. Okay, so then what happened?"

"Well, turns out the daughter didn't know anything, or at least she didn't know much. Her dad—the arms dealer—found out, though, and had his guys take Tony hostage to get information out of him about what we knew," McGee shares.

"Was Tony okay?"

"Yeah. We tracked him to a warehouse in Baltimore and we got him out… but Ziva was hurt in the rescue. She almost died, actually. Pretty sure that has something to do with why she left."

"Enough gossiping, McChatty," Tony interrupts angrily, frustrated that his friend would speculate about things that don't concern him and that are still causing problems for Ziva. She doesn't deserve to be a topic of idle conversation—no, she should be here, helping with this current investigation.

"I wasn't gossiping, Tony," Tim retorts mildly, but he comes out from behind Bax's desk all the same. "Just giving Bax some background on the case before Jeanne Benoit gets here."

"Well, wrap it up, Elf Lord. She's here and you've got work to do." They all look up as Gibbs comes in from the elevator, Jeanne Benoit in tow.

She avoids Tony's eye, following Gibbs meekly until he gestures her toward McGee. "This is Special Agent Timothy McGee," he tells her, gruff as usual but not unkind. "He'll need your cell phone."

McGee gives a slightly awkward smile to Jeanne and gestures her toward his desk. "Here, have a seat." He pulls an extra chair over for her, waiting til she sits to go sit down himself. "I'm sure Tony told you, but if you give me your phone, I can run some diagnostics on it and see if we can find out where your dad was calling you from. It's really easy and it won't hurt your phone, I promise."

"I understand," Jeanne agrees softly.

Tony's been standing back, watching the proceedings with his hands in his pockets so he doesn't fidget, but when Jeanne glances his way again after handing Tim her phone, he realizes how creepy he must look. He strides to his desk, opening his email on his computer and trying to look like he's typing with a purpose. Not for the first time and not for the last, he wishes that Ziva was here… In addition to the usual reasons for missing her, she alone was included in the deception required by the case, and it would be nice to have someone to share the awkwardness with. He's sure he wouldn't be the only one receiving angry looks from Jeanne if they were both here.

Gibbs, as usual, seems unaffected by the uncomfortable air in the room, but so does Bax; Tony's starting to learn that very little phases her. He supposes it makes sense if she spends so much of her time around bombs.

She gets up and leaves for a minute or two, coming back with a glass of water. She pulls up a chair to sit next to Jeanne with a smile. "Here—drink this. You look like you could use it."

"Um, thanks," Jeanne answers, accepting the glass with an expression of bemusement on her face and taking a sip.

"I'm Bax. Sounds like you may know Tony, but we've never met. I'm new here."

"Saying I know Tony would be stretching it, but we've met, yes," Jeane replies cooly. Tony knows at once that her coldness is directed at him, not at Bax.

Bax still doesn't seem bothered, maybe realizing that, too. "He kind of screwed you over, didn't he?" she asks with an air of cheerfulness.

Tony throws her a dirty look before remembering that he's pretending not to pay attention to the conversation; Jeanne, on the other hand, laughs. "Maybe a little."

"This was a tough case on everyone, but it sounds like it was maybe hardest on you."

"You could say that again." Jeanne's smile to Bax is friendlier than any expression she's worn since walking in.

"You didn't have any idea what your dad was up to?" There's no accusation in the question.

"No. I wish I'd known, though."

"You couldn't have stopped him."

"How do you know?"

"Because my mother was a bomber. I tried to stop her a long time ago and figured out that I couldn't—well, I mean, I stopped her plot to blow up a building full of people, but I learned that I couldn't stop her from being who she wanted to be… whether that was who I wanted her to be or not."

Jeanne raises her eyebrows. "Where's your mom now?"

"In a prison where she belongs." Bax's voice is neutral, no more emotional than if she was discussing weather patterns.

"Do you ever visit her?"

Bax has a little smile on her face. "As often as I can. She's in Minnesota, though, so it's a bit of a drive. She's still my mom, though, you know?"

"Yeah," Jeanne says, her voice heavy with the weight of her agreement. "I know."

"Your dad is still your dad. And you're not a bad person for still caring what happens to him," Bax promises softly.

Jeanne opens her mouth to reply, but Tim awkwardly interrupts. "I'm finished with your phone now."

"Get a fix on La Grenouille's location?" Gibbs cuts in; Jeanne winces at the epithet, but no one seems to notice except Tony, who's having a hard time not watching her.

"No. Sorry, boss, I couldn't trace the call. It's a lot harder to do after the fact, sometimes impossible."

"Don't apologize, McGee." Gibbs stands and walks around his desk to stand on Jeanne's other side, studying her. "What can you tell us about that phone call?"

Jeanne shrugs helplessly. "He called from a number I didn't recognize. I'm a doctor and my cell phone is used alongside my pager to keep me in contact with the hospital when I'm on call, so I always answer calls no matter what number they're from. Anyway, my dad called late last night, when I was home alone. I didn't even have time to say much of anything to him, because he talked really quickly. Pretty much all he said was 'keep your head down and be careful, Jeanne. It's not safe. Trust Jenny Shepard.' Then I asked him where he was because he sounded really freaked out, and he didn't answer me. He just hung up. I tried to call him back and got a message that the phone was disconnected."

"That may be why I couldn't get anything on the call, boss," McGee interjects. "He hasn't turned his phone back on, and he may have destroyed it or taken the battery out."

"Did he try to reach you any other way?" Gibbs asks, ignoring McGee.

"Not that I know of."

"And do you know why he said it wasn't safe? Do you know about any specific threat to his life or yours?"

Jeanne purses her lips. "To be totally honest, I wasn't sure he didn't mean you guys… especially when Tony called me and mentioned that Jenny Shepard was his boss. Can't imagine why my dad would tell me to trust her if she was somehow involved in whatever's scaring him, though."

Gibbs shoots Tony a we'll-talk-about-this-later look, making him wince.

"Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary recently?" Gibbs continues. "Anyone who seemed like they might be following you or anything like that?"

Jeanne shakes her head.

"Okay. I'm going to have an agent stay with you for now while we look into this. You think of anything else and you call me, you got it? Me, not DiNozzo."

"Alright. But Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs raises his eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

"Don't you hurt my dad."

Gibb's lips quirk up in a partial smile. "Won't if he doesn't make me, Jeanne."

Jeanne seems to accept that this is the best answer she's going to get to that request, because she nods and stands.

"DiNozzo. Walk her out and get Agent Moreno to follow her home. Tell him I'll contact him later to set up a detail rotation."

Tony purses his lips. "You sure you don't want Baxter on that, boss? She seems real friendly with Ms. Benoit. I wouldn't want to stand in the way of a couple of gal pals."

"I wouldn't mind," Bax agrees, smiling warmly at Jeanne—Jeanne, who is currently glaring at Tony.

"It wasn't a request, DiNozzo. See her out."

Tony sighs and gets to his feet, resigned. He hadn't really expected that one to work, anyway. "Jeanne, you ready?"

"I guess." She stiffly stands and approaches him. He holds out a hand toward the elevator, gesturing for her to walk on ahead so he can follow.

Once they're on the elevator, the awkward silence becomes nearly unbearable. Tony has the unstoppable urge to say something, but for once in his life, not a single damn word comes to mind.

The elevator dings and the doors open after the longest fifteen seconds of his life, and he steps out of the car with great relief. "Wait here for just a sec," he tells her with false confidence. "I'm going to call down Agent Moreno."

She nods and looks away, crossing her arms.

The call to the other agent is quick and painless, but he promises to be down in a few minutes that are sure to be uncomfortable… Tony can hardly leave Jeanne here by herself. He's got to say something, he thinks again as he slides his phone into his pocket.

What comes out of his mouth is something that neither of them expected. "If it helps," he shares quietly, "I didn't want to take that assignment because I didn't want to hurt you. I knew how it would end and it felt wrong. There was no one way around it, though."

"You knew I'd get hurt," Jeanne says, more fury in her voice again, "you knew it was wrong, and you accepted it anyway."

"Yes, I did," Tony agrees. "I didn't like it, but it needed to be done."

"Why me, though?" Jeanne snaps. "I know my dad did some shady things, but what did I ever do to any of you?"

"Absolutely nothing. That's why I didn't like the plan. But you have to understand… your dad has sold guns and bombs to insurgents in Afghanistan. He's sold them to North Korean operatives. He's armed members of the Russian mafia. The longer his arms empire stands, the more people die. Lots of people, Jeanne. Everyone from American soldiers to Siberian villagers, okay? We've been after him for years. Getting you involved wasn't a fun plan, it wasn't a nice one, but it's what we had to do after every other plan failed. And you know what? It worked. We got closer to him than we've been for a long time. We took out some of his men, people we know helped run his operation. So yes, I'm sorry for the hurt I caused you, but I can't take it back and I'm not sure I would if I was able to. This is bigger than you and me—surely you can see that!"

Tony finds himself getting a little angry, too, and he realizes for the first time that it's not all guilt churning inside his gut when he thinks of Jeanne. He's frustrated with her, too, irritated that her shortsightedness was and still is getting in the way of NCIS doing its job. Of course it sucks that she was pulled into this, but she's still defending the man who caused so many people so many problems.

Jeanne blinks at him for a few moments, and some of the anger leaves her face. "I'm sorry for what he did, too."

Tony sighs and half-smiles, shaking his head. "Like I said, it's not your fault. You didn't know what he was doing. Just… try not to hate me so much for doing my job, okay?"

"I don't hate you," Jeanne argues, more gentle now. "But can you blame me for being hurt? You lied to me when I thought we were friends."

"Of course I can't blame you. And Jeanne?"

"Yeah?"

"We were friends. Hope someday we might be again."

That makes Jeanne smile, much to Tony's surprise, and it gives him hope that maybe not all is lost here. "Hey, Tony, I meant to say this earlier, but… I'm sorry for what happened to Zena—um, Ziva, I mean, too. I'm glad she's okay now."

Tony nods and opens his mouth to reply, but then he pauses. "Did Gibbs tell you what happened?"

"No, why?"

"How'd you know what happened to Ziva? And me, for that matter?"

Jeanne looks a little confused. "I saw it on the news. I mean, your names weren't mentioned, but given how soon after Ziva came to talk to me that everything happened, it was pretty easy to figure out who the 'federal agent' and 'foreign liaison officer' were."

Tony considers this before nodding, accepting it. "So you didn't hear about any of it from René?"

Jeanne shakes her head. "I would have told you about it if I had. That phone call last night is the only contact I've had with him."

"Alright."

"Why, did you think I was hiding it from you?"

"Not on purpose, maybe, but people sometimes know more than they know they know, if that makes sense." He wants her to understand that he's not trying to accuse her. If they're ever going to rebuild their friendship—and he really hopes they can—then they need to be able to trust one another.

"I guess so."

Tony gives her a reassuring little smile. "You're going to be fine, okay? And look—here comes Special Agent Moreno," he adds as he sees his colleague exiting the nearby staircase. "Harvey Moreno, Jeanne Benoit. Jeanne Benoit, Harvey Moreno."

"Hello, Ms. Benoit. DiNozzo, I've got it from here."

Tony nods at the other man and then again at Jeanne. "Jeanne, Moreno'll keep you safe—nothing to worry about there. And you know how to reach me if you need me."

Jeanne nods back, glancing between Moreno and Tony for a moment. "Alright," she agrees finally. "Bye, Tony."

"Bye, Jeanne. Thanks for reaching out… it was the right thing to do."

Jeanne doesn't seem to know what to say to that, but she gives Tony a friendly enough wave as Moreno ushers her out the door. It's a start.

Later that night, Tony recounts the whole saga to Ziva when she calls him on the phone; it's quickly becoming a habit to talk to her at least a couple of times a week before bed. It tends to work out nicely, because with the difference in time zones, he's usually headed off to sleep around the time she's waking up in the morning. Tony finds that talking to Ziva before bed makes him sleep easier.

Tonight, though, something feels off. She's quiet as he explains what's going on with the La Grenouille case—usually, she interjects with her own opinions or insights (or just the occasional snarky comment) but tonight, she says nothing.

Tony finishes his story and pauses, waiting for an answer. "Ziva?" he finally prompts.

"I am sorry," she replies. "There is… not much I can say."

"Why not?"

"Because Israeli law forbids it." She's hedging her words, he can tell, and the why of it makes him suspicious.

"Israeli law wouldn't forbid you from talking about it unless Mossad was also working on this case," he points out.

Ziva lets out a sigh that clearly shows Tony that she regrets telling him about her obligation to keep quiet on Mossad affairs. "I cannot confirm that."

"You don't have to," Tony answers, feeling a little stung. "You know something, don't you?"

"I cannot confirm that, either."

He snorts in reply, frustrated. "You could, but you won't."

"No, Tony, I truly cannot," she replies, her inflection matching his. She's angry with him for pushing. "It is treason to reveal information without express permission to do so."

"Pretty sure I wasn't supposed to tell you anything about this case in the first place, but I did because I cared about you." The comparison isn't quite fair, but Tony isn't feeling particularly generous right now.

"Do not put that on me!" Ziva snaps. "You and I both know that you 'butt-dialed' me on purpose, not because you thought I should know but because it suited your own agenda!"

Tony almost hangs up on her then and there. "That's low, Ziva, and you know it. Are you saying you wish I hadn't done it?"

"I am saying that both of us are still in trouble because of that decision."

"Doesn't answer my question. Do you wish I hadn't?"

"That is not a fair question to which to demand an answer!"

"Answer the damn question, Ziva."

"No. I will not. And Tony, just because you were willing to break the rules does not mean that I can do so. Personal feelings are irrelevant."

"Yeah, because you're just gonna take what Daddy says lying down like you always do," Tony snarls.

He knows at once that for the second time today, he's crossed a big line, but he's frustrated enough not to care. This has been a day from hell from pretty much the beginning to the end, and Ziva certainly isn't going out of her way to make him feel better.

On her end, Ziva wrestles with the urge to simply hang up on her boyfriend. She has to believe, though, that he's speaking only out of frustration, not voicing what he genuinely thinks. If that isn't true, she might as well cut him out of her life entirely now—it would certainly uncomplicate her life quite a bit.

She lets the silence drag on for close to half a minute before replying. When she does, her voice is very tight, controlled. She's stepping once more behind the mask that hides her emotions. "I am going to hang up now," she informs Tony stonily. "I do not wish to speak with you when you are acting like this. Do not call me back—I will reach out to you when I am ready to talk again. Good night."

Then she does ring off, fuming.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but as several days go by without talking to Ziva, Tony only grows more and more angry with her. He understands her obligation to Mossad, especially where her father is concerned, but he thinks she should at least be able to talk Eli into combining whatever investigation that's happening in Israel with the one conducted by NCIS.

Days turn into a week with no contact, though, and with little progress on the La Grenouille case, Tony starts to feel… defeated. His frustration fades and he gets quieter and more reserved at work, making his team minorly concerned about him.

When Ziva finally calls him again, he's not sure how he's feeling. "Hello?" His voice is somewhat subdued.

"Tony?"

"Yes?"

"I was not sure from your voice if it was really you."

"It's me."

"Are you alright?"

Tony lets out a breath that's almost a silent laugh. "I thought you were supposed to be mad at me."

"I am."

"Then why—"

"Because the fact that I am angry does not mean that I do not care, Tony!"

Tony processes that as he hears Ziva take a deep breath, collecting herself.

"Alright," he agrees, totally sober again. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"Why do you think I have a specific subject in mind?"

Tony emits an almost-laugh again and speaks without heat. "Because you're still pissed at me, Ziva, but you called anyway. I'm not stupid."

Ziva is quiet for a moment, and Tony thinks about how much he's missed talking to her in the last week. "I made a decision, Tony," she answers softly.

"That sounds ominous."

"It is," Ziva agrees, a bit of a smile in her voice, "but not for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I made a decision about… who I am loyal to."

This time, Tony doesn't prompt Ziva, electing to wait for her to gather her thoughts instead.

"I have thought at length about what you said, and while I am still not happy with the way you spoke to me, I believe you may have a decent point. Breaking this specific Israeli law amounts to treason, it is true, but only if my breaking the law becomes known to others."

"What does that have to do with loyalty?"

"It has to do with loyalty because I realized that my… misguided since of loyalty to Eli is part of what was driving me to withhold information from you, yes? It was not simply about betraying Israel, it was about letting down my father again. Regardless, however, I finally reached the conclusion that it is safe to tell you, because you would not tell Eli of my misdeeds, no matter what they were—would you?"

"Of course I wouldn't, Ziva."

"And that is something I should have never questioned."

"It's alright. I shouldn't have thrown that line about Eli at you, either. I'm sorry—I didn't mean it. I was just frustrated," Tony admits, regret heavy in his tone.

"Please try not to do it again. It was difficult to get past the feeling that you thought I was like him. I am not like him."

"I know you're not," Tony assures her emphatically. "You're… I don't even know how I could describe you. He's the scum of the earth, if you ask me, a real Norman Bates. But you, Ziva, you're everything he's not. You're empathetic and kind, even if you usually keep that to yourself. You're the best person I know. The only thing you have in common with Eli is a last name and, I'm guessing, a high IQ."

"You really mean that?"

"I do."

"Thank you, Tony." She sounds so warm again, loving, and Tony feels something hard in his chest melt away.

"I'm sorry you needed the reassurance, though. I was just lashing out—I had no idea you'd take it to heart," Tony confesses.

"Perhaps I should not have. Oh, and Tony?"

"Mm?"

"I do not regret what you did. It may have made things harder for both of us, but what we have gained is more than worth it."

Tony grins. "I think so, too. Thanks, Z."

"Any time."

Unfortunately, though Tony's personal life has gotten better again, his professional one hasn't. They're still infuriatingly far off from catching La Grenouille once and for all, though he's gone curiously silent. All activity they can find has stopped since Tony's abduction, and any whispers they hear about the man himself turn up nothing new.

Ziva has promised to pass along anything relevant that she learns from Mossad, but all she really knows is that her organization is after the man, too. Her father is shutting her out of the investigation.

After another few weeks—roughly a month after Ziva's departure—they hesitantly tell Jeanne that they think she's in no danger at the present time. She agrees to stopping the protection detail, promising to call them if she hears anything new. Gibbs mutters later that he hopes they're not just being lulled into a false sense of security, and Tony agrees. Surely the other shoe will drop at some point.

For now, though, they have other things to focus on, other cases that have come and gone during the renewed La Grenouille investigation.

Chapter Text

The more time Ziva spends in Israel isolated from her loved ones and the more time Eli keeps her on desk duty, the more irritable and volatile she gets. It's wearing for her Israeli friends—Adam is understanding and patient, but Malachi learns quickly to keep his distance.

It's harder on her American friends, though. Ziva responds to the stress and frustration by withdrawing, aware that she is liable to take her anger out on people who have done nothing to deserve it. It starts slowly… for the first month or so, she's decent at keeping in contact. She Skypes with Abby at least once a week—the chatty forensic scientist can always fill the silence, and her sunny disposition is a welcome distraction. Ziva talks to McGee and Ducky on the phone a few times each; with Palmer, she keeps up a continuous email thread. He's like Abby in that his cheerfulness keeps her going sometimes, though with him, it's usually in the form of cheesy jokes in their email exchanges.

She communicates little with Gibbs, though that's hardly surprising and doesn't bother her. She does receive a delicate block of wood that's clearly meant to be a decoration, a map of the United States hand-carved in loving detail on the front of it. There's neither a note nor a return address, but Ziva knows it's from Gibbs, and she cherishes it. It's a quiet reminder that no matter how poorly Eli treats her, she does have a father out there somewhere who loves her.

After her first month in Tel Aviv, though, reality starts to set in. Ziva realizes she's not moving back home any time soon; her apartment is set up, furnished, drawers and closets filled with her things. Her days become routine, long hours of desk work at Mossad interrupted by short lunch breaks and going home exhausted at the end of the day. She finds herself less willing to talk to her friends—it takes energy and effort that she just can't summon anymore.

She starts turning down Skype dates, shortening phone calls, taking longer to respond to emails. Of course, her team is persistent and they don't let her get away with complete radio silence, but after a while, the strain of one-sidedness makes those relationships suffer a little anyway. As much as Ziva doesn't much feel up to talking to anyone, she finds herself slightly hurt regardless when communication attempts dwindle. It's an unfortunate line to walk.

The only person with whom she keeps steady contact is Tony. She's been impressed over the weeks and months when he steps up to be there for her. He may put on a childish, self-centered front to most of the world, but she knows how selfless he is deep down.

He finds time every day to reach out. Keeping tabs on her moods, he backs off or pushes more in his insistence that she talk to him. On some days, that just means a few texts back and forth, but on others, it means forgoing Saturday night plans to sit in front of his laptop's webcam and talk to her (or engage in adult behaviors with her) for hours.

Tony knows that things are getting worse, though, the frequency of her irritable moods growing along with her despair. The others at NCIS talk amongst themselves and sometimes to him about how withdrawn Ziva has been; Abby in particular is hurt by the lack of contact.

Tony's mostly at a loss as to how to help, though. He knows Ziva hates to be alone back in Israel, but he can't very well control her father's actions to bring her home.

This Saturday afternoon, he's sitting on his sofa with the laptop's Skype application open on the coffee table and an array of Chinese takeout boxes around him. It's 1400 for him, 2100 for Ziva.

She's telling him about the weekend trip to Haifa that her father interrupted, making her return early to Tel Aviv. "He is punishing me, Tony," she says in a tight voice; Tony recognizes the odd tone as an attempt to fight off bitter tears.

"Are you sure?" he asks carefully after finishing a bite of kung pao chicken. "You did say he made you come back to help with… something serious, right?" Despite the progress they've made with sharing information with one another, Ziva is still hesitant to talk about Mossad operations when they don't directly impact NCIS. There's always a chance her father or someone else will hear, and it would place her in a world of trouble. As a consequence, conversations about her everyday existence are stilted at best, much to their mutual frustration.

"Yes. But there are others who could have helped, others who were still on duty, who had not chosen a holiday for the weekend, who were still in Tel Aviv! He did not need me!" She loses the battle with her tears, just a little, and a couple of drops make their way down her cheeks.

Tony sighs. "I'm sorry, Z, I really am." He wishes so hard that they could be in the same place right now; it feels awful that she's so upset and that he's too far away to offer any comfort at all.

He hesitates slightly, and she must see it, because she gives him a look as she impatiently brushes tears away with her sleeve. "Say whatever it is you wish to say," she commands him, and he knows that if he doesn't, he'll just irritate her more. There is little she hates more fervently than feeling like he's walking on eggshells around her.

"I just…" Tony trails off, thinking. He sees Ziva's face turn imperious and, knowing what she's about to say, he holds up a hand to cut her off. "Have a little patience, Ziva. I'm not holding back, I'm just trying to figure out how to say what I'm thinking." Appeased for the moment, she nods and watches him until he speaks again. "Maybe it's time to plan a vacation where you're too far away for him to interrupt. You know," he hints, "some place that's a good 12 hours away by plane, not close enough to help urgently in a 'crisis' or whatever excuse he wants to use…"

To Tony's surprise and horror, this suggestion is met with a fresh wave of tears. "Ziva, what is it?" he asks gently, concerned. It isn't like her to cry this much—she rarely does at all.

"I would not be allowed to go," she answers, her voice unsteady. "My father made it very clear that I am not to leave Israel without his express permission, and he will not give it until he trusts me again." She leaves her laptop where it is and scoots away, pulling her knees up to her chest and curling in on herself; her eyes flutter shut, though the occasional tear still finds its way out. She suddenly looks very young, and Tony's reminded of the ten year age gap between them that usually seems so insignificant. Tonight, it just makes him think of how much she's had to deal with in her short life.

He has to swallow back a surge of anger at Eli David—he'll deal with his feelings about that bastard later. For now, his girlfriend needs him. "Then you'll do what you have to do," he says, determined.

That wasn't what Ziva had been expecting, and she opens her eyes back to look at him questioningly. "What do you mean?"

"You need to earn his trust back? Do it. Do whatever you can to make that ben-zonna think you're on his side. You don't have to mean it, right?"

His Hebrew curse—meaning son of a bitch—makes her laugh appreciatively, and his absolute confidence in her ability to do what he's suggesting makes her feel a little less hopeless. "That is what I am already trying to do," she informs him, but there's no heat to her retort.

"Then try harder."

She laughs again at that. "You are not very adept at sharing sympathy, are you?" she teases, wiping her eyes one final time as her tears slow to a stop completely.

"Come on, Ziva—is sympathy really what you want right now?"

Ziva smiles and shakes her head.

"That's what I thought," Tony finishes smugly, proud of how well he can read her. "Now, let's brainstorm. Let's figure out what you can do to suck up to that bastard father of yours…"

That evening, Tony goes to Gibbs' house with a spring in his step. He's got a plan.

He finds his boss in the basement as expected. "What's the problem, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks as he spots Tony at the top of the stairs.

Descending 'til he's reached the bottom, Tony leans against the wall near where Gibbs is working. "Well, Eli David is the world's biggest jerk, but that's nothing new."

"Come here just to tell me that?"

"No. Came here because while that's a problem, I have a solution… at least a temporary one."

Gibbs looks up from his work again to give Tony a half-smile, clearly amused. "Got a time off request for me to sign?"

Tony snorts and shakes his head. "How do you always know? Don't answer that, the mystery is part of the charm, boss." He chuckles to himself and pulls the folded form out of his jacket pocket. "Yep. Five days from now. I want a long weekend."

Gibbs glances the form over once and looks back at DiNozzo. "If I sign this, are you going to end up in an Israeli prison for assaulting a government official?"

Tony smirks a little. "No. But I might end up in prison for helping my girlfriend hide a body when she assaults a government official."

That makes Gibbs laugh. "How's she doing?"

"She's frustrated, Gibbs. And she's hurt. Eli has never been the father she deserves, but now he's punishing her for what she did for me." He sighs, crossing his arms and thunking his head back against the wall. "She hates being chained to her desk, and it's my fault."

Gibbs shakes his head. "DiNozzo," he snaps in exasperation, "we've been over this! Stop it."

"Right. Anyway, you'd know all of this if you'd pick up the phone and talk to her." The admonishment is very light, but it's far more than he'd usually say. Ziva's emotional pain from Eli's behavior is making Tony extra protective, though, and he finds himself unusually willing to stand up to Gibbs on Ziva's behalf.

Gibbs gives Tony a look, unimpressed. "Phone works both ways. Ziva knows that. If she needed something, she'd call."

Tony gives Gibbs the same look he just received. "There's a difference between 'needing something' and just needing someone in your life, boss. You know how fiercely independent she is! She wouldn't ask you to make an effort even if it would save her life… and it wouldn't kill you to act like you care about her!"

Gibbs lets out a loud sigh, annoyed. "Did you come here to scold me or to ask me for something, DiNozzo?"

"I need your help," Tony admits, slightly sheepish as he realizes he may have crossed a line.

"Then ask for it."

"Right. Okay, here's the thing. Eli has pretty much grounded Ziva like she's some badly behaved little kid or something. He's not letting her do field work or go on any missions and he's basically revoked her passport. She tried to go to Haifa this past weekend—not asking for vacation time or anything, just going on her normal days off—and she'd barely been there for twelve hours when her dad made her go home. It's all of an hour's drive, and Eli wouldn't even let her go that far!" Tony lets out an angry bark of laughter. "If his head was any farther up his own ass…"

"This story have a point?"

"Yes. If I can't get her over here to visit us, I want to go visit her." Tony gestures hopefully at the time off request form.

"You didn't come here on a Saturday night just to ask for my signature." Gibbs' ever-present impatience is compounded by Tony's pushiness about staying in contact with Ziva, and he's more than ready to find out exactly what his team member wants him to do.

"No… not exactly. I need Eli David distracted while I'm there—because if he's free to focus on what Ziva's doing, I know he'll keep her so busy that she won't have time to see me. That'll defeat the purpose of the trip, obviously." Tony sighs. "I know what'll distract him, and I think it'll help us, too."

"Spit it out."

"I think we should bring Mossad in on the La Grenouille investigation."

Gibbs snorts. "You know better than that, DiNozzo. We aren't going to make this a joint investigation just so you can spend time with your girlfriend!"

Tony groans. "See, this is why I didn't go straight to the director about this. I knew everyone would take it the wrong way! It isn't just about me and Ziva, okay? We could use some help on catching Rene Benoit, and it's relevant for Mossad."

"You were taken off that case, or did you forget?" Whether he's showing it outwardly or not, Gibbs is sympathetic to Tony's plight. He doesn't trust Eli David as far as he could throw him, though, and bringing in Mossad—regardless of motivation—seems like a bad idea.

"That's why it would work so well on my end. It's a case I can't do any work on thanks to Shepard benching me, so it won't be a problem if I'm not here. And Ziva's dad is pissed about everything that Ziva did for me in this case, so if there's some interagency cooperation, he's going to make sure she's not involved, either. It's a win-win, boss. I think that if NCIS and Mossad work together, we might finally catch the bastard, and I get to go remind Ziva that she's not alone over there."

Gibbs still doesn't look convinced, and Tony feels a renewed flash of frustration. "Come on, boss! You really gonna sit there and tell me you don't want to catch the guy responsible for Ziva almost dying!?"

"Of course I want to catch him, DiNozzo," Gibbs snaps, "but are you really gonna sit there and tell me you trust Eli David? I don't want to work with him unless we have no other choice. And what do you mean, it's relevant for Mossad? Are they investigating, too?"

Tony can't help looking a little sketchy, not sure how to pass on information without risking getting Ziva in trouble. "Maybe," he hedges.

"Maybe!?"

"I have a contact who is… leading me to believe that they are, yes."

"That contact about 5'6, got dark, curly hair, and have an intimate relationship with a handgun?"

"...maybe," Tony repeats.

"Inform Ziva that if she wants us to know something, she should tell us," Gibbs replies pointedly. He's not a big fan of games of telephone.

"She doesn't know much, okay?" Tony pushes his hands back through his hair, irritated. "Anyway, just bring the idea to Shepard, please. See what she thinks."

"Maybe you should ask her yourself," Gibbs suggests, his expression carefully neutral.

"She kicked me off the case. Pretty sure I'm not in her good books right now," Tony admits with a sigh.

"And what makes you think I am?" Gibbs retorts with a self-deprecating grin.

Despite his general vexation, Tony has to laugh at that before sobering up again. "Please, boss."

"Yeah, I'll ask her, DiNozzo. And I'll sign your form. Don't get your hopes up, though."

"Got it. Thanks, Gibbs."

Ziva David is not an easy person to surprise. Tony books his flight tickets as soon as he gets home from Gibbs', and his excitement immediately starts to build. All he wants is to tell Ziva that he's coming, but she's having such a difficult time right now that he really wants to make this visit special for her. Of course, he knows she'll be thrilled if he tells her now that he's coming in a few days, but as long as he does it the right way, he thinks she'll really enjoy the shocker of suddenly seeing him in Israel.

She senses that something's up when he next talks to her on the phone… and he resolves afterwards to stick to text until he sees her again.

His phone rings as he's climbing into bed the day after he gets his time off form signed by Gibbs, and he looks at the clock—it's right around 2300, far too late for anyone polite to be calling. That means it's either someone from NCIS calling about a case or it's Ziva, who doesn't need to stand on ceremony with him.

He gets back out of bed to grab his phone from its charger and he glances quickly at the caller ID—it's Ziva. "Hey, sweet cheeks!" he says cheerfully as he answers it.

"Good morning, ahavati," she replies, sounding much happier than she was when they Skyped yesterday.

"Can I just say that you look absolutely stunning tonight?" he comments warmly, and Ziva throws her head back and laughs.

"How do you know?" she demands playfully. "You cannot see me right now."

Tony chuckles, too. "I don't have to see you to know how gorgeous you look—because you always do." He knows he's being totally cheesy, but he means it. He's never seen her look less than pretty, and when she wears the sweet smile that stole his heart, like he knows she's wearing now… well, that's the stuff his dreams are made of.

"Thank you, Tony," Ziva replies, her tone affectionate. She's never sure how to respond to his sincere compliments, and tonight, he speaks with so much conviction that she can't help believing him. It's wonderful to hear, even if it makes her feel a little bashful. "You are in a very good mood this morning," she observes. "Did you solve a difficult case today or something along those lines?"

"No, nothing like that, I'm just excited to—" He stops talking so abruptly that Ziva has to pull her phone away from her ear and check the screen to make sure the call didn't drop.

"Excited to what?" she prompts.

"Excited to… ah, to go to bed. Long day!" Tony winces, glad she can't see his face right now… what a lame lie! He has to curse himself for slipping up. If he's not careful, his surprise won't be much of a surprise at all.

To his surprise, though, Ziva takes what he's said at face value. "Oh! I am sorry." She sounds embarrassed. "If I had realized you were asleep, I would not have called."

"You're fine, Ziva, ha," he snorts, pleased by the success of recovering from his blunder. "I wasn't actually asleep yet. I was just getting into bed. It's fine."

"Still," Ziva replies, "I should let you go. We can talk tomorrow."

"You sure?" Tony queries. "I really don't mind staying up a little longer. You know I always want to talk to you," he adds sincerely.

"I am sure. I do not want to have to deal with irritable Tony tomorrow if you do not get enough rest tonight," Ziva teases. "Go on, my love. Hit the snack."

Tony laughs. "Hit the sack," he amends. "Alright, alright. You've convinced me. Getting in bed and turning the lights out now, mom."

Ziva rolls her eyes, but she's amused as usual by his childishness. "Sweet dreams. I love you."

"I'll never get tired of hearing that," Tony responds fondly. "Love you, too, Z. Hope you have a good day today."

"Starting the day talking to my little hairy butt is a good sign for today," Ziva decides happily.

"Good. Good night, Ziva."

"Good night, Tony."

The time between booking his flight and actually leaving Washington drags interminably. They get a big case in the wee hours of Monday morning and it turns out to be a tough one. There's a serial killer targeting Navy newlyweds and they can't seem to get a handle on figuring out who he is and why he's killing… he's always one step ahead of them, taunting them. There's a trail of eight bodies by the time they catch him on Wednesday evening. It's an exhausting investigation that keeps them all in the office close to 24 hours a day 'til they're done.

Then it's almost a full 24 hours left to go before Tony's flight, and he feels restless in waiting for the time to finally arrive. He goes to the movies that night, trying to distract himself so time will pass more quickly. He finds it uncharacteristically difficult to focus on the film, though.

He gets home and packs for his trip, second guesses his clothing choices, unpacks and repacks. He writes out careful instructions for McGee, who will be feeding Kate while he's gone. She's a goldfish and does not require any particularly difficult or labor-intensive care, but setting the food and instructions out and cleaning her bowl occupies a good half-hour that might otherwise be spent pacing a hole in the floor.

Ziva texts him at around 11pm again, asking if he has time to chat on the phone. As a matter of fact, he has plenty of time, but he knows that if Ziva nearly caught him the other day, she'll certainly catch him tonight. His excitement and antsiness can't be kept under wraps now that he's so close to making his trip.

He fabricates an excuse for saying no. Probably not 2nite. Finishing a big case, playing catch up on paperwork.

Ziva's reply is very quick and it makes Tony laugh. This would not be a problem if you worked on it along the way rather than doing it all at the last minute.

Lol, Ziva, we can't all b ms perfect goody 2 shoes, he replies.

Is there a Ms. Perfect Goody who does NOT wear two shoes? Is there anyone who does not wear two shoes? That is a silly qualifier, she texts back.

Just an xpression, Z.

He can't wait to hear her little English slip-ups in person again!

The next day, he takes his things with him to work, intending to go to the airport straight from the office once he's done. It's a slow day, which is both a good thing and a bad one—it's good because there's no risk of an active investigation threatening his ability to leave, but it's bad because it's just more time that he has to sit and wait.

In the afternoon, though, his desk phone rings. "Very Special Agent Tony DiNozzo," he answers.

"Tony!" It's Ziva, and he knows from the tone of her voice that something's wrong.

"Ziva! Are you okay?"

"I am angry," she replies, and Tony crosses his fingers that it's not him she's angry with.

"What happened?"

"La Grenouille may have been in Israel, or so it appears. Mossad is putting together a team to join in the investigation being run by NCIS."

"Why's that a bad thing?" Tony asks cautiously, though he already knows the answer.

Ziva exclaims something loudly in Hebrew, her voice venomous-sounding. Tony waits a beat, not sure if she was just cursing to herself or if she was saying something he was meant to understand. When she says nothing else, though, clearly waiting for a response, he has to laugh very lightly—though the sound sets Ziva off again. "Ziva, if you want me to respond to what you're saying, you have to say it in English."

Ziva had not even realized that she'd switched languages, but she doesn't skip a beat, merely repeating herself in a language Tony can understand. "I said that I am not allowed to join that team."

Tony sighs. "I'm sorry. That sucks—but if it makes you feel any better, I've been benched on this one, too."

Ziva growls under her breath. "That does not make me feel better, no. Tony, I do not think you are understanding why this is so frustrating for me."

"Then spell it out for me," Tony suggests, glad she's not asking for details on his own involvement here.

"Most of that team is going to Washington to collaborate and join forces and I do not get to go!"

"Oh, Ziva…" Tony sighs, and he nearly comes clean to her then and there. "You'll make your way back here eventually, I just know it, okay? Your dad is a nasty old bastard, that's for sure, but he can't tie you down forever."

"I know, I know!" Ziva still sounds half-furious, half-devastated. "But knowing that people I know here will be standing in between those silly orange walls while I am still here staring at my computer screen…" She can't seem to finish her sentence, making Tony wince guiltily.

"You're right, love, it sucks. I wish I had a better solution for you… but you know what?"

"What?"

"I think your week is about to turn a corner. In fact, I think you're going to have a fantastic weekend," he tells her softly.

"I appreciate your optimism, but I do not believe you know what you are talking about this time, Tony."

"Well, you're free to tell me 'I told you so' if by the end of the weekend, you're still having an awful time, but I hope I'm right." He infuses his voice with as much warmth and love as he can, trying to comfort her.

She laughs a little sadly. "As much as I enjoy saying 'I told you so', I hope you are right, as well." She sighs and changes the subject, clearly looking to distract herself. "Do you have plans for the weekend?"

Of all the questions she could have asked, why did she have to pick that one!? He hesitates slightly, not wanting to fully lie to her but also still determined not to give away his secret. "I'm planning to spend some time with an old friend, someone I miss a lot. I haven't seen her in way too long."

"Oh? Which friend?" If Tony didn't know better, he might think he hears a hint of jealousy in her tone.

He's not sure how to answer the question, but he doesn't have to, struck by sudden inspiration. "Oh, Gibbs is coming, Ziva—got to go!"

"Oh… okay. I will talk to you later, I suppose." She sounds a little put out, but Tony knows he'll fix that for her soon enough.

He hangs up the phone quickly.

He texts her from the airport that evening—she's sure to be sleeping since it's roughly 0300 in Tel Aviv, but he wants to let her know that he'll be unavailable for a while. Going briefly undercover. Will talk when I can. Love u. Hopefully that will keep her from wondering where he is if she reaches out while he's in transit and doesn't hear back.

He takes a leaf out of his dad's book and pops a sleeping pill as the plane taxis away from the gate, hoping to knock himself out for most of the flight. He lucked into finding an affordable last-minute direct flight, a bonus he hadn't been expecting, so he doesn't have to be awake and aware enough to change planes halfway through the trip. Less than 11 hours from now, he'll be touching down in Tel Aviv.

Luckily, the pill does the trick; he doesn't even stay awake long enough to take advantage of the meal service—not that he's probably missing much, anyway.

He wakes up an hour before touchdown and uses the time to get ready. He thought ahead, bringing a toothbrush, toothpaste, clean clothes, and cologne in his carry on. He wants to look his best when he sees Ziva in person for the first time in two months—is it strange that he's more than a little nervous?

Going through passport control, he feels like Abby Sciuto—that is, just unreasonably cheerful under less-than-thrilling circumstances. Everyone else in the line looks tired and grumpy, but Tony is beaming.

"Shalom," says the bored-looking border control officer. "What is the nature of your business in Israel?"

"I'm here to visit my girlfriend." He should probably be embarrassed by how much cheesy joy is in his voice, but he's not. He's thrilled and he wants the whole world to know it, too.

Luckily, it makes the experience a little easier, melting the stony expression of the officer who seems a little charmed by his romantic excitement. "How long are you staying?"

"Only five days, unfortunately."

She smiles at him and stamps his passport. "I hope you and your girlfriend have a good visit," she says, and she waves him through.

The difficult thing about visiting without warning Ziva first is that he has no way of knowing certain details—for example, is he welcome to stay with her in her Mossad-provided apartment? Not knowing the answer to that, he's booked a hotel near her office. He's been in contact with her friend Adam, confirming her normal work hours and her usual haunts. The location of Mossad headquarters is a closely guarded secret, but his connections make it relatively easy to track down, and Adam solidifies that for him.

With his plane touching down at around 1630, he's finally in a cab on his way to the north Tel Aviv office by 1715. After asking the cabbie to make a quick stop so he can buy flowers, he arrives at his final destination around 1800. He's not heading to Mossad—he has no interest in talking his way into that particular building—but rather to his hotel. There's a nearby restaurant on the beach that he asked Adam to trick Ziva into going to when she finishes work at 1830 or so, and Adam readily agreed… and so Ziva thinks she's meeting Adam for dinner, but Tony will be joining her instead.

He has just enough time to check in at his hotel, drop his things off, and freshen up one last time before heading to the restaurant. It's go time.

It's been a hard week for Ziva. First, there was the NCIS joint investigation that she was barred from, something that has caused her a lot of pain in the last few days. She misses her American family so much that it's hard to breathe sometimes, and knowing that she'd get to see them this week if things were different is hard to bear. Her father's continual cold shoulder is right in line with that emotional burden.

Then there's Tony, who has been comparatively absent all week. They've spoken a few times and texted some, but it's a lot less contact than they've had most weeks since she left for Israel two months ago. Both aware of how easy it is for a long-distance relationship to go sour, they've made a conscious effort to stay in touch as regularly as possible. Ziva's not sure why Tony's backing off now, but it makes her a little anxious and more than a little sad.

When Adam suggested earlier in the week that they meet up for dinner on Friday night, she agreed with a feeling of great relief. She needs a break and a chance to unwind—and if she needs to imbibe a fair amount of alcohol and carbs for that to happen, then so be it.

She gets to the restaurant a few minutes early and gives her name to the hostess; they seat her at a secluded little table in the back. She thinks wistfully that this would be a rather romantic place to eat at under different circumstances. Ordering a glass of wine, she settles in to wait for her friend, pulling a novel out of her bag to further unwind and to kill time before Adam gets there.

After a minute or two, though, something starts to feel… off. She feels eyes watching her, and while she knows her father's people still follow her from time to time, she hadn't sensed anyone leaving the office building after her. No, something tells her this isn't Mossad. Careful not to make any sudden movements that would give her away, she slides a hand slowly into her bag to grab her gun.

She pauses, listening hard to the low voices of people dining at the other tables—nothing sounds amiss. Then she looks up from her book, ready to confront a threat as soon as she spots it, and freezes.

Standing next to her table, a grin on his face and a bouquet of flowers in one hand, is Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.

She gapes at him, momentarily unable to understand what's happening. His grin falters slightly—is she not happy to see him?

After a few seconds, though, her brain catches up with what her eyes are seeing, and she releases her gun back into the confines of her bag in order to leap to her feet and launch herself at Tony in a hug. He grunts with the effort of catching her, but he laughs, swinging her around in a circle. The bouquet of flowers gets dropped carelessly onto the table. "Shalom, yafah," Tony whispers in her ear, and it brings tears to her eyes. Hello, beautiful.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, pulling out of his embrace just enough to look at his face.

He positively beams at her; he looks for all the world like a man who has everything he's ever wanted. "What do you think I'm doing here, Ziva!?" he asks incredulously, laughing. "I'm here to see you."

Of course, that's the obvious answer, but the question had been rhetorical. Shaking her head in amusement, she snorts and leans in to kiss him fiercely, not caring in the least that they're on full display of the whole restaurant. They kiss until someone nearby clears their throat loudly, and they break apart, laughing. "Please, Tony, sit!" Tony lets Ziva usher him into the booth next to the seat she was sitting in, and she slides in after.

"God, it's good to see your face," he murmurs.

"Likewise," says Ziva warmly. "I cannot believe you came all the way here—and you did not even tell me!" The last part is accusatory and she's frowning, but she can't really be mad at him, not for this.

He laughs and reaches out to gently run his fingers through her hair—it's straight today. "You seemed like you needed a good surprise after all the bad ones this year, Z. But if you think I was wrong to make a surprise trip, I can go ahead and leave…" Of course, he makes no move to get up, and she giggles and whacks his arm.

"Do not dare to move a centimeter," Ziva warns. "I have handcuffs and I will use them if necessary."

Tony leans in to kiss her cheek and breathe a question into her ear. "Oh, is that a promise?"

She shivers. "That depends, do you want it to be?"

Tony grins at her and pecks her lips lightly one more time. "Why do you think I flew all the way to Israel?"

The waiter comes back then with Ziva's wine, and Tony orders a matching glass. Then he leans against the wall at the back of the booth, drawing Ziva back to rest against him so he can snuggle her properly as she sips her wine. "How long are you staying?" she murmurs, feeling absolutely content for the first time in two months.

"I have to leave early morning Wednesday," he answers just as softly, winding his fingers in between hers on her free hand.

She twists back to look at him, amazed. "You flew six thousand miles to spend only four and a half days with me?"

He leans down and kisses her nose, smiling at her tone of surprise. "You really seemed like you needed a friendly face, love. And I missed you. Four and a half days is what I had, so four and a half days is what I went with."

"That makes so little sense, Tony," Ziva argues, but her voice is tender.

"Just trying to keep you on your toes." He looks up to accept his wine from the waiter and then glances back down at Ziva. "You hungry?"

The answer is yes, but stronger than the need to eat is the urge to be alone with Tony, so she shakes her head. "Can we go ahead and get the bill, please?" Tony asks the waiter with a charming smile, and the waiter departs to get it.

Tony picks up his wine glass and holds it out to Ziva. "Cheers," he says, quiet but happy, and kisses her temple.

"Tony, you are in Israel now. You should speak Hebrew. So—l'chaim!"

He chuckles. "L'chaim!" Only then does Ziva tap her glass against his, grinning.

The waiter comes back with the bill, and Tony gently knocks away Ziva's hand as she tries to hold out her card; he hands over his own. Ziva mutters "chauvinist" under her breath but doesn't protest any further.

They stay at the restaurant for a while longer, finishing their wine and enjoying each other's company. Then, hand in hand, they head for the hotel.

Chapter Text

It's a 20 minute walk to the hotel or a five minute taxi ride; when Tony asks Ziva if she wants to ride, she snorts at him. "I am not one to shy away from exercise," she informs him, and he laughs.

"Want to do a little exercising with me tonight?" he asks suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows.

She raises her own, pretending to misunderstand. "Is that not what we are doing now?" She gestures with their joined hands to the path they're walking on at a leisurely pace, clearly nowhere near breaking a sweat.

"I was thinking something a little more… active."

"Ah, you wish to go jogging with me? It is lovely to do on the beach, one of the few nice things about returning to Tel Aviv."

Tony laughs loudly, using their conjoined hands to tug her closer and then releasing her hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders. "Jogging. Sure. That's exactly what I meant."

Ziva wraps her own arm around Tony's waist, leaning in and feeling curiously drunk for someone who only had a single slowly-sipped glass of wine. "I cannot believe you are here," she replies, changing the subject.

"Good surprise, right?" Tony's tone is teasing, but when Ziva glances up at him, she can see that it's at least a partially serious question. He's nervous, she realizes, and he has no reason to be. She understands, though, that everything feels a little new again now that they've spent so much time apart.

"The best," she assures him. "I have always led a… solitary life, I suppose. I am not used to those I care for making an effort—not since Tali died, anyway." She says it matter-of-factly, not self-pitying at all, but Tony can't stop a flash of sadness on her behalf. She deserves better.

"You're just going to have to get used to it," he tells her with an I-don't-make-the-rules kind of shrug.

Ziva tightens her hold on him. "I will not have to get used to you visiting if I simply do not let you leave this time."

"That's one way to handle it. You'll have to fight Gibbs for me, though," he says in an arrogant tone, making her laugh. "I'm a hot commodity these days."

Ziva looks him up and down with a deliberately leering smirk. "Yes… hot is certainly the word I would use."

Tony grins. "Ziva! I'm scandalized. It's like you don't care about rule twelve at all."

"I am no longer at NCIS," Ziva reminds him, "so the rule no longer applies."

"Nonsense. You're just… taking a sabbatical. You'll be back." Tony squeezes her shoulders comfortingly.

"You sound awfully sure of yourself."

"You were pretty sure two months ago, too," he points out.

Ziva sighs. "I do not wish to talk about it."

"Okay," Tony agrees easily. He kisses her temple. "Let me pick a new subject—you mentioned the beach earlier, right? Just how often do you go? Do you wear a bikini when you do? What color might that bikini be?" The questions are rapidfire, one after another in a successful attempt to divert her mind from less pleasant things.

"I think it is better if we play show-and-smell, yes?" The answer comes with a snort.

"Show-and-tell," he corrects, wrinkling his face in an honest attempt not to make fun of her. She just makes it so hard, though! "And I'm happy to play with you as soon as we're not in public."

"Let us hurry to get somewhere private, then."

With no other warning, she's breaking away from him, sprinting toward his hotel. "I didn't mean this kind of exercise!" he whines, following in her footsteps as best as he can; she's fast, not that he'd ever admit it.

Reminiscent of the early days of their relationship, they barely make it in the hotel room with their clothes still on. So much on the walk involved teasing and it's been so long since they've touched one another that they're both a little desperate—luckily, Ziva changed into a dress to meet "Adam" at the restaurant, so little actually needs to come off before they can reunite in the way they both ache to.

They fuck once against the wall next to the door and once on the bed before tiring themselves out-for now.

Some time later, they lay naked in Tony's hotel sheets, tangled together and sweaty. Tony thinks privately that Ziva's previously-straight hair is getting wild from their perspiration and it itches a little where she rests on his chest, but he wouldn't tell her in a million years. He wants her to stay just where she is.

He draws lazy pictures on her back with his right forefinger, just reveling in the ability to touch her again. For now, there's nothing sexual about it.

In a similarly mindless fashion, Ziva pulls at one of Tony's chest hairs with her finger and thumb-she isn't using enough force to make it hurt, but it's enough to prickle, making him laugh out of reflex. "Subconsciously telling me you like your men less hairy?" he asks curiously, amused.

"Hmm?" She doesn't look up at him, making him wonder if she actually heard him at all.

"You still with me, Ziva?" he asks gently.

She does look up then, giving him a smile that doesn't really reach her eyes. "Yes."

"You seem a little… lost in thought there. Anything you'd like to share with the class?"

"With the class?" she parrots, momentarily confused.

Tony waves his free hand in a dismissive gesture. "Never mind. Anything you want to talk about?"

"Not really. I am just… thinking about how empty my bed will feel once you are gone again." A sad smile draws up her lips again, and she looks away, mildly uncomfortable as she so often is when admitting her feelings.

"You could come with me," Tony suggests mildly, and Ziva closes her eyes and snuggles in more.

"I believe you forget that I am not an American," she argues softly, not opening her eyes again. "I cannot simply come and go as I please like you do. I cannot stay indefinitely without NCIS as my work sponsor."

"We could change that—the whole not-an-American thing, I mean. We could get married."

She pops her head up at that, eyes wide. "What?"

Tony laughs at her expression and shrugs, not letting her move entirely out of his embrace. "People do it all the time."

"Get married? Who are you and what have you done with Tony DiNozzo?" Ziva demands.

Tony hadn't thought his suggestion was really that out there; he's been thinking about it on and off since Jenny Shepard showed up at Ziva's apartment and announced his partner's return to Israel. "It's just practical," he tells her.

"People do not get married because it is practical, Tony. They get married for love."

"Some of them do," he agrees slowly, surprised by her reaction, "and some get married for other reasons. My dad got married—how many times now? I've lost track—for money. Gibbs got married several times to forget his first family. I know people who have done it for the tax benefits. There's no reason we couldn't do it to allow you to stay in the country."

"I do not want a shotgun wedding."

Tony has to stifle a laugh again at that one. "Brownie points for trying there, Z, but shotgun weddings are the weddings that happen really quickly because the bride is pregnant. You're not, right?"

"No. I am not. What is the term for what you are suggesting, then?"

"Green card wedding, I guess. And I guess it's 'technically' illegal, but who's counting?" He makes air quotes behind her back to emphasize how little he cares for the technicality. Technically, the hacking McGee does all the time at work is borderline illegal, too, but that hasn't stopped them from doing it when necessary.

"Tony, you are a government official," Ziva points out, shocked that he'd be so cavalier about… all of this.

Tony shrugs as if to say the issue is of no importance.

"Anyway, I thought you were afraid of commitment," she continues when the most recent argument doesn't work.

He sighs. "Maybe a little. I used to be, anyway. But I just went without sex for two months for you, and if that's not a commitment, I don't know what is."

Ziva gives him a scathing look. "Romantic, Tony."

He rolls his eyes. "It was just an idea. I wasn't, like, getting down on one knee or anything. It wouldn't be a real marriage. It would just be a way to bring you back to NCIS."

She wrinkles her nose at him and lays her head back down on his chest, clearly dismissing the conversation as one that's barely worth her time, not worth the effort of making eye contact. "If I ever marry, it will not be for a green card," she tells him softly. "It will be because I love the person I am marrying."

Tony sighs. "I guess I messed up the delivery of that idea—I didn't mean to offend you. To set the record straight, just because I was proposing a bit of a sham marriage doesn't mean it wouldn't be done out of love. I do love you, very much—you know that by now, I hope. And I want to keep you around. I just don't know about the whole institution of marriage as, I don't know, an emotional thing, I guess. I've seen too many people go into it with good intentions and strong feelings and get hurt so badly when it goes wrong."

Ziva lightly kisses his chest and looks up at him one more time. "I am not demanding a real marriage," she clarifies gently, "and marriage does not always go wrong. It can be a beautiful thing, I believe... But I will find my own way back to Washington regardless. I am more than content with the relationship we have now—in fact, I am very happy with it." She beams at him suddenly and it takes his breath away. "And Tony?"

"Mm?"

"I know you love me, and I love you for it. Thank you for trying."

Tony smiles back at her, thinking that offering a green card wedding is so little a sacrifice to make in return for getting her to smile like that.

The next day is Shabbat—the Sabbath, as Ziva reminds Tony—and he's amazed at how the country shuts down. Most things are closed, the buses and trains don't run, and observant Jews don't do any work, including driving. "Welcome to the Holy Land," Ziva tells him with a little laugh.

"Why do you drive on Shabbat?" he wants to know; they're climbing into her car as he speaks.

"It has been a long time since I was truly observant," she replies, and that seems to be all she is willing to say on the subject.

They make a day trip to Jerusalem—it's only an hour away, and Ziva wants to show Tony the best of her small country. She snorts with laughter as she has to tug him away from gaping at the black-hatted men praying at the Western Wall— "I thought that was just a movie thing," he tells her, wanting to watch more.

"It is not," she corrects in response, "and you are being offensive. Come, there is more to see."

They wander the city—there are plenty of Muslims, Christians, Atheists, and non-observant Jews, and the heart of the city is bustling as usual. Ziva leads Tony through the never-ending marketplace, having him try this and that as they go. He complains that he's absolutely stuffed and can't eat another bite—at least until she gives him another thing to try.

When the sun goes down, the observant Jews rejoin the chaos, and Tony finds himself impressed as he immerses his full attention in a Middle Eastern city for the first time. He's been on trips to this region before, but they were always on official business; they consisted of completing missions and getting the hell out. This trip is different, and that's almost entirely because of the gorgeous woman pulling him this way and that. He finds that he's happy here and he wants to learn more about everything he sees.

Of course, that doesn't stop him from eagerly agreeing when Ziva suggests that they return to Tel Aviv and more importantly the hotel room that has become theirs; the hour-long drive is made much longer by Tony's hand rubbing higher and higher up Ziva's thigh as they go. She half-heartedly tells him to stop so she can focus on driving but she also complains when he listens.

That night, they snuggle and watch a movie in bed… they could almost be back in one of their apartments in Washington if not for the fact that the movie is in Hebrew with English subtitles. Everything feels so easy right now that even the ticking clock doesn't bother them for the time being… they both know that Tony has to leave in a few short days, they just don't care.

That ends in the wee hours of the morning when Ziva wakes up screaming. The noise wakes Tony, too, and he immediately leaps up to assess the threat; he quickly realizes that it's just Ziva thrashing in the bed, and he hastens to wake her. "Hey! Hey, it's me, it's Tony. It's just a dream, Z. You're fine, it's all good. Wake up. Come on, easy now."

Slowly, she comes to, though the screaming gives way to tears. Alarmed, Tony tries to pull her against his chest, but she pushes him away urgently in order to run to the toilet, almost not making it before getting sick. "Ziva?" Tony follows her to the bathroom but moves more slowly, unsure of whether his presence will help or hurt; he certainly doesn't want to crowd her. "Are you alright?"

She shakes her head, still not speaking as tears course down her cheeks. She stands back up, though, and uses the hotel-provided mouthwash to clean up. Only then does she speak, and it's halting when she does. "Bad dream," she murmurs. She pads to where Tony is hovering uncertainly in the doorway and settles into his open arms.

"I figured from the way you woke me up by bursting my eardrums," Tony replies uncomfortably. "Do you want to talk about it?" He's still a little thrown off by how much this has thrown Ziva off—she's usually so stoic.

"We should go back to bed," Ziva says instead of really answering. She pulls away and moves silently back to her side of the large hotel bed, climbing in and pulling the covers up to her chin before rolling to face pointedly away from Tony.

He hesitates again, trying to remember how to do all of this… and in the end, he curls up against her back, resting his forehead against the back of her shoulder and hoping she doesn't simply turn around and punch him. "What happened, Z? Must've been bad to shake you up like that."

He realizes that she's quivering and sighs, pulling her more definitively back against him. "I dreamed about a plane crash, your plane home," she answers finally, her voice rough, "I dreamed that it crashed right after taking off so it was on Israeli soil and the investigation was Mossad responsibility, and… there were no survivors. My father forced me to look at all of the charred bodies until I found yours. Then he pushed me to my knees next to you—I could smell your burning skin. He said to me, 'look at what happens to those who oppose me, Ziva. Is that what you want for yourself? Let this be a lesson.' Then he just walked away and left me next to you, and I knew there was nothing I could do to save you, nothing I could do to save myself."

Tony waits a few beats to make sure Ziva's really finished talking before sitting up and rolling her gently on her back to look at him. He fights down to urge to simply joke away all of these heavy feelings; he knows that's not what she needs right now, though he wouldn't be Tony DiNozzo if he didn't at least joke a little. "First," he starts, gentle but firm, "the Ziva David I know and love would never go down without a fight. Even if her super sexy, hilarious, extremely charming boyfriend suddenly died a tragic death…" He does let a little teasing into his voice at that last, and he reaches out to cup her face and wipe some of her tears away.

She gives him a hint of a smile, and he latches onto the hope he sees there. "There we go! That's what I like to see. Second, I would like to point out that for now, your wildly attractive, classically handsome, very funny boyfriend is still alive 'n kickin'. Eli might have the upper hand in a lot of situations here, but I seriously doubt he'd bring a plane down just to get rid of me."

"You really think very highly of yourself, yes?" she mumbles at him, her tiny smile growing, and he realizes with relief that she's coming back from whatever dark place that nightmare took her to.

"I was just stating the facts, my dear," he replies pompously, and she whacks him with surprising force. "Ow!" he cries. "What was that for?"

"You were describing someone so perfect," she muses, sitting up on her elbows to get closer to him. "I had to see if you were real."

He laughs hard, leaning in to kiss her. She returns it with a sigh, relaxing some and letting out most of the tension that she's still holding in her torso. "Thank you," she murmurs when they come up for air.

"Any time," he replies genuinely, and he can't help teasing her more: "but you didn't have to hit me that hard."

"Sorry," she tells him insincerely.

He just laughs at her, shaking his head. "Bad dream all chased away?"

"For the most part. I just wish I could chase away the scent of… well, I told you what I was smelling."

To Ziva's surprise, Tony lights up. "Oh, but you can!" He hops out of bed, looking like a child and making her laugh. He rifles through some papers on the room's built-in desk.

"What are you doing?"

"Aha! Here it is." He holds something up and beams at her. "Room service menu."

Ziva laughs until her sides hurt. "Tony, it is the middle of the night."

"I know!"

"I do not believe they will be serving food at this hour."

Tony gives her a grin that quickly turns into a leer. "They have a limited all-night menu, which is one of the reasons I booked this particular hotel. I wanted a place that would send me whipped cream if I needed it at 3am."

Ziva knows where he's going with this, but she loves him enough to take the bait anyway. "And why would you need whipped cream at 3am?"

He leans in and kisses her nose. "To lick off of you, of course."

Ziva gives a sultry chuckle—she knows he's worried about her, and she'll give him what he wants especially because she knows it'll assuage his well-meaning anxiety. "I prefer to be the one doing the licking."

Tony's eyes darken and he kisses her again quickly. "Be my guest." Despite his words, though, he goes back to the room service menu and calls down for a chocolate lava cake. He meant it when he said he intended to give her something pleasant to smell. The intent means more to her than the simple cake ever could.

She reaches out a hand to draw him back into the bed when he's done, and he comes willingly. "I love you," she tells him softly once he's close again.

With a warm smile, Tony drops his face down to her shoulder, giving her a kiss. "Love you, too. But you know that."

"I do, but it is nice to hear sometimes."

"I'll say it as often as you want."

Ziva suddenly snorts with laughter, and Tony sits up a little more to look at her suspiciously. "What's so funny?"

"I just imagined… if you really said it as often as I want, you would have to interrupt everything my father says to yell it like the obnoxious boyfriend you are."

The image makes Tony laugh, too. "He would murder me himself within about five minutes, I think."

"I do not believe it would take even that long!"

"He's a pretty impatient guy, isn't he?"

Ziva chuckles again, very comforted by now. "Perhaps even more so than Gibbs."

When the cake comes, Tony tips the room service boy handsomely and brings the confectionary to Ziva, still wrapped in sheets and beaming at him. The cake is delicious, or at least they think it is from the small amount they actually eat… most of it is lost to a spontaneous food fight. Tony thinks with no regrets about the charge for ruined sheets that'll certainly be appearing soon on his credit card.

Between the nightmare and the subsequent room service, the night is not a restful one, and both Ziva and Tony sleep later than usual the following morning.

They're awoken by the sound of Ziva's phone ringing, and she grabs it hesitantly; they're both still waiting for her father to find out that Tony is visiting and do something about it. His silence alone is a little ominous, but it's not Eli or one of his lackeys on this phone this time. She answers in Hebrew, smiling, and talks for long enough that Tony gives up on trying to figure out what she's discussing until he hears his name and looks up; Ziva puts the phone to her chest as he does. "It is Adam calling," she responds to his wordless question. "He wants to know if we would like to have a late breakfast with him. I told him I would ask you."

Tony sees in her expression how torn she is; as much as she doesn't want to share the short time she has with him, she also wants him to meet her oldest friend. It's that desire that leads him to nod his ascent despite having the same reservations his girlfriend does. He owes much of this visit to Adam's assistance, and he is curious to finally meet the other man.

He knows he's made the right decision when Ziva's face lights up and she brings her phone back to her ear, letting Adam know in rapidfire Hebrew what they've decided. Then she kisses Tony quickly and goes to take a shower. He wants to follow and she seems to know that, because she turns back and points a finger at him to say "we do not have time now, Tony. Get ready. We can take another shower later."

Tony laughs and does as told, and twenty minutes later, they're leaving the hotel hand-in-hand. She excitedly tells him as they catch a taxi to meet Adam at a restaurant on the beach about growing up alongside her friend. Tony's never seen her like this, and he's not sure what to make of it; it's clear that Adam means a great deal to her. He knows better than to be jealous, though, or at least he hopes he does. She's never given him any reason to doubt her affections for him, even when he knows he hasn't given her the same courtesy.

When they enter the restaurant and Ziva sees Adam, though, any lingering worries fade immediately. Ziva is undeniably fond of the man—evidenced by the way she rushes to hug him—but the way she treats him comes across as almost familial. Tony also gets the idea that she's not usually so outwardly affectionate, either, because Adam laughs in surprise and hugs her back. The look Adam then gives him makes him feel almost… proud. It makes him think that the way Ziva is behaving is mostly because of him.

"Ah, you must be Tony. It is nice to finally meet you in person," Adam says in a friendly way, holding out a hand to be shaken.

Tony accepts it. "Likewise," he says gruffly, shaking the other man's hand.

They sit down together and Tony immediately figures out why Ziva likes Adam so much—he's a very charismatic man. He finds himself laughing as the younger man lets out a tale of Ziva destroying a playground bully at the tender age of 7. She blushes at the story, but doesn't back down— "he deserved it," she insists grumpily, and her ornery demeanor and tone set both men off in hysterics again.

Ziva gives as good as she gets, though, and she has a few stories to share at Adam's expense, too. Tony finds all of this very amusing until, smirking, she lets out an unflattering (and unfortunately true) tale concerning Tony and a too-clever sex worker whose help he needed on a case.

They linger with Adam after breakfast for long enough that Tony starts to feel better about leaving Ziva here in Israel alone… because she's not alone, not really. Adam is her family, too, the only kind that matters.

"Z, can you go catch us a cab?" Tony asks when they're saying goodbyes.

"You are not coming with me?" she clarifies, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"I'll be out in a minute," he assures her.

"Mm… alright." Ziva looks as if she doesn't entirely trust her friend and her boyfriend to be alone together, but she reluctantly concedes. "Shalom, Adam. I will see you next weekend, yes?"

"Shalom, Ziva. 'Til Saturday."

They kiss each others' cheeks and then Ziva leaves. Adam sticks his hands in his pockets and looks at Tony expectantly. "You'll take care of her, right?" Tony asks once he's sure Ziva is out of earshot.

Adam laughs and starts to speak, but Tony cuts him off. "I don't mean physically. I know she can take care of herself. But, like, emotionally, you know? Don't let her dad get to her. I worry about her way more when I know she's under his thumb."

Adam nods. "I understand. I will. For what it is worth, however, I believe she would be angry with you if she knew you asked."

Tony laughs. "Fiercely independent, that one, isn't she?"

"Much like a housecat, yes," Adam agrees, laughing, too. "I will not tell her what you said."

"I appreciate that." Tony sticks a hand out, and they shake for the second time today. "Glad she has you, and thanks again for all your help in planning this visit."

"It was my pleasure. Ziva is not someone who is prone to happiness, but… she relaxes with you. Probably more so than you realize. And she laughs more. It is good to see."

The last few days together pass blissfully but quickly, and before they know it, Ziva and Tony are saying goodbye at the airport again.

Tony, tired of this whole routine, keeps up a steady stream of stupid jokes on the way to Ben Gurion, always ready to avoid any negative emotions that might arise. His flight is "stupid early", as he tells Ziva, so they never bother to go to sleep the night before. Instead, they make love one last time for now in the wee hours of the morning, getting their fill of one another while they still can.

Ziva finally shuts him up in the departures hall by rolling her eyes, shaking her head, and kissing him. "Sure you don't want to come with me?" he can't help asking one last time when they part.

"You know the answer to that," Ziva says uncomfortably, sighing and dropping her head to Tony's chest to avoid his gaze.

"Had to try, didn't I?" Tony kisses her forehead with a sigh, wrapping her up tight. "I just hate leaving you. And I hate leaving you here even more."

"I know. Believe me, Tony, I know." She nestles in, wishing like Tony does that they don't have to say goodbye. "I will see you soon." The question of when, of course, is one they can't answer right now.

"I don't know, Ziva. I have a bad feeling about parting ways this time," Tony admits darkly. "I can't explain it, but… I'm worried."

"You have no reason to be."

Tony grunts instead of answering because they've had this argument several times in the last few days and he knows they won't get any further with it this time. "I love you," he says finally, because he knows he has to go.

"I love you, too. You will let me know when your plane lands?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," he promises, and laughs when she looks up and frowns at him when she hears it. "It's an expression," he adds. "Just means I promise."

"Good, because I will not allow you to die," Ziva replies sternly, kissing Tony's nose suddenly enough to make him sneeze and laughing. "Go on. You should not miss your flight."

"I'm going, I'm going." Tony kisses her forehead, both of her cheeks, her nose, and finally her lips, holding onto her as she tries to squirm away from him. "Bye, Z. Love you."

"You have already said that part." When Tony looks wounded, Ziva presses lightly on his shoulder, laughing more. "Okay, okay, I love you, too. Now go."

"Yes, ma'am." Go he does, hoping that he's wrong… because right now, he has the feeling that something horrible will happen before they meet again. He doesn't know what it is, but he's worked with Gibbs for too long to ignore his gut.

He tries very hard not to think as he boards his plane that maybe he's seen Ziva for the last time.

Chapter Text

Despite never having the chance to fully adjust to Israel's time zone, Tony finds his sleep schedule to be very off balance when he returns. His flight is uneventful, but not restful. He lands at Dulles in the early afternoon—nighttime in Tel Aviv—and the sleepless night hits him all of the sudden. He's asleep by 5pm and awake again by 1am, and he can't get back to sleep. Frustrated, he texts Ziva.

R u busy? Guess I'm on Israel time bc I can't sleep. Would b nice to talk if u have time.

Unfortunately, he doesn't get a message back, and he tries not to let that bother him. He knows it's around 8am for her, well after the start of her Mossad workday, and it's very possible that she's simply not in a place where she can check her messages.

He still can't find a way to fall asleep again, though, and so, grumpy, he rises and starts the day. He goes to the gym, normally something that relaxes him, but today, his pounding heart as he jogs on a treadmill just makes him feel worse. He's tired and he still has what seems to be a displaced sense of anxiety; it might just be missing Ziva.

He ends up in the office behind his desk shortly after 5am; he's the first one in today, which hardly shocks him. Most of the team won't be in until closer to 8.

After his brief absence, there are emails to answer, voicemails to listen to, paperwork to catch up on, and reports to read. That kills a couple of hours, but the concentration required gives his tired head a new throbbing ache that doesn't make anything easier.

By the time the usual day shift people start trickling into the office, Tony DiNozzo is in a thoroughly bad mood.

"Welcome back, Tony," Bax greets him as she slings her bag down behind her desk across from him and settles in, yawning. "How was your trip?"

"Great," he says snappishly, then winces, aware that he's being rude to Bax for things that aren't her fault. "Sorry. It was good, I'm just tired. What did I miss while I was gone?"

Is it just him, or do Bax's little features start to look a little shifty? "Nothing much," she replies, and Tony doesn't trust something in her tone.

"See, the way you say that makes me not believe you." He stands up, grunting as the move makes his overworked and underrested muscles ache, and he goes to stand in front of her desk. He crosses his arms, intending to look intimidating but probably not succeeding because he's fighting off a yawn as he leans in. "What went down this week?" he demands. "Tell me, probie. Clearly, it was something."

Bax sighs, shaking her head. As usual, she doesn't let his bossiness and grumpiness get to her, but she does seem mildly sympathetic to his frustration. "Tony, whatever happened wasn't on one of your cases. Drop it, please. I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to talk to you about it."

'Not on one of your cases' almost certainly means that whatever happened has to do with the René Benoit problem, and his desire to know more skyrockets. He's pretty sure he won't get much out of Bax, though, since she's fairly resistant to both his charms and his self-appointed authority as senior field agent. Thinking that, he resigns himself to grilling McGee once he's in instead, and he grunts under his breath and returns to his desk. "Fine. Fine."

Bax snorts, not bothering to reply to this, and gets to work quietly on her computer.

McGee steps off the elevator a few minutes later, and Tony, who's been watching for the younger man, gets to his feet immediately.

"Good morning, Bax, Tony," McGee greets his teammates genially, but the friendly greeting quickly gives way to confusion when Tony grabs his arm and starts herding him back to the elevator. "Hey! What are you—"

"We're going to get coffee," Tony informs him pointedly, pressing the down button by the elevator door.

Tim wrenches his arm out of Tony's grasp. "First of all, I don't want any coffee. I've already had some this morning. Second, what's your problem!?"

The doors open and Tony unceremoniously shoves McGee so that he stumbles over the threshold and into the car. "What's wrong with you, Tony!? Can I at least put my stuff down first before you kidnap me?" Tim asks, straightening up and glaring at the senior field agent, but the doors are already closing behind them.

Tony ignores him, waits a beat in silence for the car to move, and then flips the emergency stop switch so they shudder to a halt. "René Benoit. Eli David. Spill. Now."

"Not your case, not your problem," Tim replies, annoyed at the abruptness with which he's being treated.

"You know that's not true, McGoo. Come on."

McGee gives him a look. "What do you think's going to happen if I fill you in? You'll solve the case yourself, save the day single-handedly despite already being in trouble for what you've done during this investigation, and everything will magically be solved? No. Let us handle this one without you."

Tony looks to the ceiling, begging some unknown deity for patience, and counts to three, trying to keep himself in check. "That's not why I'm asking, Probie," he contradicts shortly, irritation leaking into his tone despite his best efforts.

"Then what are you asking for?" Tim challenges.

"Use your head!" Tony replies in exasperation. "You know I have a dog in this fight. You know this has to do with Jeanne, and now it has to do with Ziva, too. What would you do if you were trying to protect someone you cared about?"

"Your emotional involvement here is the main thing that got you kicked off the case in the first place, Tony, and that's exactly why I shouldn't tell you anything," Tim reminds him, but his expression softens slightly.

"Please." Tony lets some vulnerability into his voice, and it's enough to finally sway McGee and change his mind.

"Look, you can't tell anyone I told you, but… I'll give you the basics, okay?"

"You've got a deal… now spill," Tony commands again, back to his usual pushy manner of communication now that he's won.

McGee rolls his eyes, but he does as told. "So, we've been getting reports from all over the world with Benoit spottings, right? You know most of the tips have turned out to be worthless, I'm sure. Half the governments in the world want this guy, but no one seems to know exactly where he is. Well, last week, someone spotted him in Be'er Sheva, Israel, and from the photos we were sent, this seems to be the first legitimate sighting we've had in weeks." He pauses and gives Tony a calculating look, obviously wondering why he doesn't already know this from Ziva, but Tony just impatiently gestures for the other man to continue. "Okay. Well, Shepard got in touch with Mossad, and apparently they received the same tip right before we did, only they had just figured out that he was already out of their country. They had reason to believe that La Grenouille was headed here."

"And then what?"

"Shepard managed to convince Eli David that we should all join forces, especially if Benoit was headed for Washington. David agreed, and the morning after you left for Israel, a team from Mossad showed up here. As usual, they weren't overly interested in sharing with us what they were doing, but they were alright with working alongside us while they were here. Problem is, Benoit is still a ghost. Each place we went to, we were reasonably sure he had been there, but there was nothing to tell us where he was going next. He's been one step ahead of us all the time, and he still seems to be."

"So if you didn't find him, why isn't Mossad around right now? You said 'while they were here', so clearly they've left."

"Well, we got new information. Rumor has it that La Grenouille has turned up in Belgrade, so Mossad left to follow that lead," McGee explains.

"Hm. When did they leave?" Tony asks, speculative.

"Yesterday."

Tony nods pensively and starts to pace the confines of the car, his thoughts racing. Some of what McGee just told him, of course, he already knew, but some of it was new information. "Did we send anyone with Mossad?" he asks after a moment.

"Not from our team, but Shepard is coordinating with a couple of our European field offices to get eyes and ears on the ground in Serbia."

"Do you know which agents they've got on it? It had better be some damn observant people, because you know Mossad isn't just going to volunteer to share whatever they find."

"No. I'm assuming we'll hear from the European field agents soon, though, because it's got to be close to the end of their workday by now. They're supposed to check in daily, or get in touch with us immediately if anything urgent happens."

Tony, still pacing, taps a finger against his lip. "Has anyone talked to Jeanne? I told her I would keep her updated, but obviously I can't do that now if I'm not officially in the loop myself."

"Don't worry about it. Gibbs went to tell her what was going on and find out if she knows anything about why her dad's been in town. She says she hasn't seen him or heard from him."

"Any word on what he's been doing? Jeanne said that the last time she talked to him, he seemed terrified."

"His business doesn't seem to have picked up, at least not from the chatter we've heard, but beyond that, it's anyone's guess. He could still be running."

"Why would he run here, McGee? He knows we're after him. Pretty sure he and Shepard have some kind of history, too, and he can't be unaware that she wants his blood."

"Maybe just because this is where his daughter lives?"

"You just said she didn't see him," Tony points out, his tone more than a little condescending.

McGee sighs, frustrated. "Look, I don't have all the answers, alright?—so please stop jumping down my throat. Maybe he came to see Jeanne but whoever he's running from got close and he had to leave before he saw her. Maybe Jeanne was lying to us about not being in contact with him, but Gibbs doesn't think so. Maybe our information was wrong and he hasn't been here recently at all. Whatever might be the case, we didn't find him, and we're virtually no closer to catching him than we have been since you were abducted."

"Fantastic!" Tony mutters with great sarcasm.

"Hey, I don't like it, either."

"Well, what are you working on now?"

"Basically the same things we were working on before we heard he was in Israel… following up on tips and leads. Working other cases in the meantime."

Tony lets out an explosive sigh, feeling awfully helpless and hating the feeling. Maybe Ziva will find out more from her coworkers, or maybe the NCIS agents on the ground in Serbia will have something useful to share soon. There's nothing for Tony to do, though, except wait.

"Did we ever get any information on what Benoit is running from?" he asks after a pause to consider.

McGee shakes his head. "Pretty much everything we have on this case at all is just… speculation and maybes. So little is definite."

"God, what a mess," Tony says to himself, running his hand through his hair and for once not caring that he's throwing his carefully coiffed style into disarray.

"You can say that again," Tim agrees, and then pauses briefly. "I swear, that's everything. Now can I please go to my desk? I have things to do this morning. I wasn't expecting to be abducted."

Tony rolls his eyes, but he releases the emergency brake and sends the car back to their floor.

Tim nudges him lightly while they wait. "How's Ziva, by the way? I didn't even get a chance to ask you about your trip before you so rudely interrupted my 'good morning'." There's no heat in Tim's voice, maybe even a little teasing, and Tony reminds himself that McGee has his six. He's not the person who deserves Tony's frustration about any of this.

"She's… alright," he replies reluctantly, following McGee out of the opening elevator doors back at the bullpen. "She's still not thrilled to be there, but spending some time with me and away from her office helped a little, I think." Though he might usually, he's not bragging or preening this time; it's simply true that him just being there temporarily alleviated some of Ziva's difficulties.

"Glad you went, then?"

Tony, feeling like this whole conversation has been all too heavy, has to make it gross. "Oh, you have no idea, McLovin'," he taunts, deliberately making his tone suggestive. "Ziva was very… appreciative of my efforts to visit."

Tim groans and stalks off. "Okay. I'm done with this conversation. Thank you very much for sharing," he says dryly as he goes, making Tony laugh.

He still hasn't heard from Ziva by the time work is over, and though he's curious as to the reason for her lack of contact, he's too tired and distracted to worry about it very much. His general plan is to return to his apartment, do his damnedest to stay awake long enough to watch a movie, and then go to bed once it's reached a more reasonable hour.

As he passes his favorite grocery store, though, he spontaneously changes plans. He swerves into the parking lot at the last minute, earning a long, angry honk from the car behind him, and heads into the store with determination.

Half an hour later, he's standing outside Jeanne's apartment with grocery bags in hand, knocking on her door. He hears footsteps and the peephole flap lifting and then, a moment later, the door unlocks and opens. "Tony? Did we have plans that I forgot about?" Jeanne asks, guarded, once they've looked one another over.

At least she doesn't look openly hostile right now, and Tony takes that as a good sign.

Wearing a wan smile and shaking his head in answer to her question, he holds up his shopping bags as evidence. "Thought we could have a drink and talk… just talk."

Jeanne considers this for a moment, maybe judging both his sincerity and her own feelings, but in the end, she nods and steps back to admit him.

Her place hasn't changed much—the furniture is the same, the art on the walls is just how Tony remembers it—and it makes him feel nostalgic as he steps over the threshold to set his bags on the kitchen counter. He has the briefest flash of longing for simpler times, because everything feels backwards and turned around and out of sorts with Ziva oceans away… but he reminds himself that he's gained a lot in losing the simplicity of months ago. For starters, back when he often spent time here, he was acting on Shepard's orders by lying to everyone he cared about. There's little he has to lie about now.

From the bags, Tony pulls out a six pack of beers and a couple of energy drinks. "Pick your poison," he tells Jeanne. "I'm tired as hell and I won't be able to stay awake if I drink a Yuengling, but I brought some for you."

Jeanne gestures to the energy drinks. "As a doctor, I think I should warn you that those things are terrible for your health," she points out, clearly aiming for stern, but there's a smile threatening at one corner of her mouth.

"Probably healthier than crashing and dying if I fall asleep at the wheel on my way home," Tony replies dispassionately, but Jeanne, shaking her head at him in reluctant amusement, goes around his energy drinks to grab one of the beers.

Tony grabs a Red Bull and follows Jeanne as she leads him to the sofa, and they sit on opposite ends. After popping the top of her beer and taking a sip, Jeanne raises her eyebrows. "Okay, we've got the drinking part down. Now what did you want to talk to me about?"

"We need to talk about your dad," Tony replies, his voice as gentle as he can make it without crossing the line into paternalistic-sounding.

Jeanne's face hardens a little, but she nods. "What about him?" Her body language tells Tony that she's expecting bad news, and he gives her a small smile to try to reassure her.

"You talked to my boss, Gibbs, over the weekend, right?" he checks.

"Yes."

"Okay, well, since then, there's been a new development. While we think your dad was in Washington, intelligence now suggests that he's in central Europe. Did anyone tell you that?"

Jeanne shakes her head, looking troubled. "Is he okay?"

"I wish I could tell you that he is, but I'm sorry, I just don't know anything for sure yet. We're still having trouble finding him."

Jeanne purses her lips. "Why are you telling me?"

"I thought you wanted to be kept updated," Tony replies, a little thrown by the question.

"I did—I mean, I do. But why are you the one telling me? Your boss said you'd been taken off the case," Jeanne clarifies.

Sheepish, Tony shrugs. "Ah, didn't know you'd been told about that." Thanks, Gibbs, he thinks wryly. "Yeah, I'm off the case, but it's still important to me to see things through. I just… I thought you deserved to know what's going on."

"How do you know about 'what's going on' if you're not on the case?" Jeanne persists, parroting his words back to him with something like suspicion coloring her tone.

Tony snorts. "To be honest, I'm not supposed to know. I bullied my coworker into telling me everything I had missed while I was out, and what I've just told you was the biggest thing that happened."

"Out?"

"Ah, sorry, it's been a long day. Of course you don't know where I've been." He sighs, annoyed with his own clouded thinking. "I got back from Israel yesterday. I was visiting Ziva."

"Visiting her?"

"Yeah, she had to move back… after she was, you know, shot." He adds the last part awkwardly since that whole sequence of events is already something of a sore spot between them.

Jeanne raises her eyebrows and sips at her beer. "Sorry to hear that," she says simply, and to her credit, she sounds like she means it.

Tony shrugs that off with murmured thanks, not wanting to talk about it, and steers the conversation back to the key things he came here to discuss. "Anyway, I'll try my damnedest to keep you in the loop."

"I appreciate that." Jeanne tilts her head to one side, considering him. She looks like she wants to say something else, but she doesn't speak further without prompting.

"What is it?" Tony finally asks, mildly uncomfortable with being studied like that.

"Do you believe me?"

"About what?"

"When I say I haven't seen or heard from my father in months, except for that one call. Do you believe me?"

"Yeah, I do," Tony tells her sincerely. He thinks he knows her well enough by now to read when she's lying, and he's backed up by Gibbs' gut. "More importantly for you, though, my boss believes you. He's a hard guy to trick."

"So you don't think I'm lying."

"No," he confirms. "Why do you keep asking?" He's sure he's missing something.

"Because you've made it hard for me to trust you," Jeanne answers frankly. "I want to make sure that you're actually here for the reason you say you're here, and not because you're trying to get information out of me again."

Tony winces, feeling as if he should have seen something like this coming. He's starting to realize that coming here might not have been the best idea he's ever had, but he can't take it back now. "I get why you might think that, given our… history... but I swear I'm not, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."

QLuckily, Jeanne seems to sense his sincerity, because she lets it go. "Alright," she agrees, gracefully accepting that he's doing his best here.

He smiles at her a little, appreciative. "Guess I should get out of your hair. Thanks for letting me in and hearing me out, though."

Jeanne hesitates slightly before coming to some sort of decision. "Do you want to stay for a little while and watch a movie or something?" she proposes.

Now it's Tony's turn to be suspicious. "Why?" It's hard not to make the question an incredulous demand.

Jeanne laughs, looking mildly embarrassed. "Because I'm trying to work on rebuilding our friendship, you dolt." She smiles at him, genuine and probably kinder than he deserves, and Tony remembers just why he liked her so much from the beginning.

He laughs, too, a little rueful. "Sure. But I can't promise I'll stay awake through the whole thing."

"Jet lag?" she asks shrewdly.

"Jet lag," he confirms.

"Then pick a movie you've already seen, and let's watch it."

Ziva's radio silence continues overnight and into the next day, and what begins as a nagging thought grows into a full-blown worry. It isn't like her to go completely incommunicado, and though Tony tries texting, calling, and emailing, he doesn't get a response on any medium. He reminds himself that she's more than capable of taking care of herself… but the concern for her wellbeing that he tries to suppress doesn't listen to his rational thoughts.

He does what he can. He reaches out to Adam to see if he knows anything about where Ziva is or why she's not answering; Adam is quick to answer, but he can't help much. He doesn't know any more than Tony does.

Two days turns into three, which turns into four. On the fifth day, Gibbs' team learns that Mossad has withdrawn from its investigation in Belgrade, though the Israelis have shared no new leads with NCIS. When McGee quietly passes on to Tony what they've learned from the field agents on the ground in Serbia, there's little he can say to answer Tony's questions... because there's just no new information to be shared. Still, there's no word from Ziva.

Tony finds himself distracted at work—he earns more than a few headslaps from Gibbs, and McGee and even level-headed Bax both get irritated with his lack of attention. When Abby, always kind and cheerful, starts snapping at him to get him to focus, Tony himself has to agree that his ability to concentrate has deteriorated worryingly.

"Calm down, Tony. The last thing you want is to piss Ziva off when you finally talk to her… you know she would shoot you if she got the idea you were afraid for her safety, right?" McGee asks pointedly as they snap photos at a crime scene on day six.

"I'm not afraid for her safety," Tony scoffs loudly in reply, but no one else believes him.

By the time he and Ziva have exceeded a week without talking, Tony is seriously considering making his own damn way back to Israel to drag an explanation out of her; he thinks that by this point, if something had happened to her, he would have already heard. If nothing has happened to her, than she'd better have a damn good reason for dropping off the face of the earth. They've been so careful up 'til now to communicate, making a great effort to mind the delicate intricacies of keeping a long-distance relationship alive; surely Ziva wouldn't abandon that.

As a last-ditch effort, one he knows might backfire on him, Tony convinces Tim to ping Ziva's phone. Tim is reluctant at best… but he, along with the rest of the team, quietly share in Tony's anxiety. None of them speak to her as regularly as Tony does, but for her to be out of touch entirely is something new.

Unfortunately, Ziva's phone is inactive. "There's no recent activity," McGee explains, using the mouse on his computer to highlight what he's looking at so it's easy for Tony to see. "I don't see anything in her call log since…" He glances quickly at the calendar and then turns back to his friend with a grimace. "No outgoing calls or texts since you got back from Israel, looks like," he says apologetically.

"No outgoing… hm. What about incoming calls?"

"None that were picked up… and they're pretty much all from you, Tony."

McGee even tries to remotely turn the phone back on with a little extra hacking, but he's unsuccessful—either the battery is dead or removed, or the phone has been destroyed entirely.

"Well, at least I know she's not just ignoring me," Tony says grumpily.

"She's Mossad, right?" Bax asks, dropping into the conversation and making her way over to McGee's desk with a green apple in hand; she munches as she talks. "Have you tried reaching out to them? Maybe she's just out on official business somewhere and she can't use her phone. Ya know, undercover or something?"

"Have I tried reaching out to them," Tony mocks, irritated. "No, Probie, of course I haven't f—"

"Hey!" Tim interjects sharply with a frown, unable to sit idly and watch Tony berate their young coworker. "Leave her alone, Tony, she doesn't know any different. Calling Mossad wouldn't be a bad idea if not for Ziva's dad."

Tony's about to turn his ire on McGee when Abby rushes into the bullpen, out of breath and wild-eyed. "Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony!" she cries in one rapid string of syllables, stopping abruptly in front of the three gathered at McGee's desk.

"What is it, Abby?" Tony replies urgently, whatever rude McGee-targeted insult he was about to use dying in his throat. "Are you okay?"

"Turn on the news!"

Tim tries asking, too. "Abby, what's going—"

"Just do it!" Abby emphasizes.

Doing as told, McGee grabs one of the clickers and turns on the screen across from his desk; they all turn to watch as a BBC newscaster appears on the screen. "MI-5 has just confirmed that earlier this evening, the body of wealthy Parisian businessman René Benoit was found in Amstelveen, an affluent suburb of Amsterdam in Holland. Foul play is suspected, but no further information has been released at this time. Stay tuned to BBC News for the latest as more details unfold."

Tony feels rather suddenly like the ground has been pulled out from under his feet, a feeling that's compounded with irritation when his three coworkers eyes' all flicker to him, watching for a reaction.

He turns on his heel and marches back to his desk, grabbing what he needs to take home for the day and yanking his bag up onto his shoulders. "I need to go," he says shortly to McGee, Bax, and Abby.

Abby's expression melts into one of worry. "Tony, don't you think—"

"Not my case, not my problem," he reminds her curtly. It's a reminder for Bax and McGee, too, who are staring at him as if he might explode. Frankly, he's not sure they're wrong, because he can't decipher how he's feeling. "Tell Gibbs I had an emergency come up. I'll be back tomorrow."

He realizes as he heads for the exit, though, that the others won't have to tell Gibbs anything on his behalf at all, because the Marine is stepping out of the elevator as Tony gets there. It's clear from Gibbs' face that he already knows what news Tony has just received.

He doesn't try to stop Tony from leaving and he doesn't try to make him talk, but as they pass one another, Gibbs lightly grabs Tony's arm. "You can't save everyone, DiNozzo," he says gruffly, quietly enough that Tony's the only one who can hear, and Gibbs lets Tony go just as quickly as he caught him.

Tony grunts in answer, jerking his arm back to his side and getting in the elevator car with no answering comment.

He makes a beeline for Jeanne's apartment for the second time in a week; he's not sure if she's been told the news yet, but she absolutely deserves to know as soon as possible if not. It occurs to him on the way there that he has very little in the way of actual information to share with her, but he can't fight down the urge to let her know the bare bones of it anyway. As many problems as he's had with his own father over the years, he'd certainly want to know immediately if anything happened to Senior.

Knocking on Jeanne's door yields no answer, though, and, at a loss for what else to do, Tony sinks down to the floor next to it. He sits on the ground, leaning heavily against the wall and dropping his face into his hands, musing darkly. He could call Jeanne, he supposes, but this isn't really a conversation to be had over the phone and he doesn't know what else he could say to her until she knows what's going on. He might as well wait for her to get home and try to sort through his tangled thoughts while he has relative privacy; the hall that Jeanne's apartment is on is empty for now.

His first concern is for his friend; he knows that this news will hurt her, as much as he thinks she might have seen it coming. They may not be as close now as they were months ago, but he's sure he can still say with certainty that this will devastate her. She loved her father deeply when he was alive, even after finding out what kind of a man he really was, and no daughter or son deserves the pain of losing a parent, no matter what… especially not someone like Jeanne, who has a gentle heart and works hard every single day to save the lives of others.

Unfortunately, he knows that there's a high likelihood that she will blame him for this development in her father's case. A while back, they spoke about it explicitly.

"I'm holding you responsible for his safety, Tony Whoever-You-Are," Jeanne had informed him fiercely over the phone. "Got it?"

"I can't make any promises. I learned that a long time ago, okay?" Tony had admitted, wishing he had something more real to offer her than empty words. "But I'll do my best."

"And what if your best isn't good enough?"

"Then you're free to hate me for the rest of your life."

"Right. So long as that's settled." They'd moved on in the conversation at the time... but that doesn't stop the words from bouncing around Tony's skull now that he thinks about them with the benefit of hindsight. She's going to hate him, and there isn't much he can do about it.

Of course, if Jeanne wasn't in the picture, Tony wouldn't spare a single regretful thought for La Grenouille's death. There's never been any lost love between the arms dealer and anyone at NCIS… and given Ziva's shooting and his own kidnapping, Tony thinks he'd be justified in being glad for the man's death. Considering the amount of damage René Benoit did to the world as a whole during his years running an arms empire, Tony's sure there will be many people celebrating tonight.

Therein lies the crux of the matter, doesn't it? Tony's own reasons for hating René Benoit may be personal, and that may be true for most of the NCIS team… but they were never the only players in the game. Many, many people had a vested interest in stopping the man. Judging by the location of La Grenouille's death, it's possible that the responsible party is the Dutch intelligence and security service, but if not the AIVD, it would have eventually been NCIS. If not NCIS, it would have been MI-5, or any one of a handful of European or South American governments… or Mossad.

That's an idea that Tony's trying hard to push out of his brain—the sinking feeling that Ziva just might have been involved in Jeanne's father's death. It would at least partially explain her absence over the last week.

While he tries to wrestle with that, though, he hears the sound of footsteps and looks up quickly—it's Jeanne, coming down the hallway. "Tony?" she asks hesitantly, holding back in mild distrust in case it's not him; her father's warning from months ago still rings in the back of her mind.

"Yeah, it's me. Hi, Jeanne." Tony gets to his feet, considering her. Clearly, she wasn't expecting to see him this afternoon, and just as clearly, she has yet to receive any major bad news today. Besides a little suspicion from finding a man sitting outside her door, her features are clear, not yet weighed down by grief or anger.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, going around him to unlock her door. "Didn't your parents ever teach you that it's rude to invite yourself to someone's house without calling first?" She's gotten over the surprise of seeing him and her question is no worse than a gentle rib; she's not angry at him for showing up unexpectedly. Of course, it's possible that will change soon.

With an attempt at passivity, Tony watches her let herself into the apartment. He stands awkwardly on the threshold until she invites him in.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asks as she goes through her normal home arrival routine, putting her purse down, taking off her shoes, and flipping through the mail she was carrying when she walked in.

"No, it's just…" It's not like Tony to be at a loss for words, but delivering bad news has never been his strong suit. He'd rather be chattering away about something unimportant; this promises to be difficult at best and painful at worst, and suddenly he doesn't want to have to be the one to do it. It's far too late for that now, though, and he owes this to his friend.

Finally, Jeanne finishes what she's doing to look up at him again, and this time, she notices his expression and looks him over with greater attention. "Tony? What's wrong?"

"You might want to sit down," he answers gravely, and she must sense his mood, because she does so without questioning it. While she does, Tony steps quickly into her hall bathroom and grabs a box of tissues before going to settle lightly next to her on the sofa. "Jeanne…" he starts, his tangled emotions finally settling on empathetic heartache as he takes in the fear flashing across his friend's features. "You need to know something. This evening, your father was found in the Netherlands."

"Is he—is he...okay?" Jeanne looks afraid to ask even as she raises the question; Tony feels a surge of guilt-ridden gratitude that she brought it up and he doesn't have to find a way to sensitively volunteer the information.

"No. I'm sorry, Jeanne, I'm so sorry, but he was found dead."

He waits for that to sink in, watching disbelief chase away the fear before it, too, is replaced by shock. Tony gently offers her the box of tissues, but she ignores it. "How?" she implores, her voice taking on a little sharpness.

"How did he die?" Tony asks uncomfortably, and Jeanne nods, tight-lipped. "We don't have the details yet, unfortunately. You'll be the first one to know when we do."

"Don't give me that!" she snarls suddenly, and though Tony was expecting this, it still makes him wince. "You're the one that knows he's dead and it's your stupid agency that was after him, so tell me what happened!"

"Jeanne, this isn't coming through official channels, okay?" he tries, not sure how to convince her that he's telling the truth. "I saw it on the news and came over here as soon as I did. I swear, I don't know any more than you do."

"But you could ask someone instead of just—just sitting here!"

Tony gets where she's coming from, but that doesn't make her accusatory tone any easier to hear. "I can't, remember? I was taken off of this case a long time ago. I'm sure my coworkers will tell me once they know more, but none of them can officially talk to me about any of this, either. They're putting their jobs on the line by saying anything at all, and they could be fired if anyone higher up even found out that I know what little I do."

"Their jobs," Jeanne growls. Tony sees with horror that her eyes are filling with tears. "My dad's life was at stake! You said he wouldn't be killed, you said he'd get a trial!"

"I know what I said. Believe me, I know! But you have to understand—"

He jerks back in reflex when Jeanne's palm connects with his cheek, the slap coming too quickly for him to evade it. His skin stings, but far worse than the physical pain is the fury on Jeanne's face and the venom in her tone. "I don't have to understand anything," she retorts coldly, "because you haven't told me anything."

"Jeanne…" Tony starts desperately, feeling as if he's lost all control of the situation.

"Get out," is all Jeanne says in reply.

Tony gets to his feet; he looks at Jeanne carefully before moving toward the door, knowing she meant it when she told him to leave. "I'm sorry for your loss. I really am," he tells her, tired and heavy, and walks out into the hall.

Jeanne wastes no time in slamming the door after him, but Tony pauses, listening. He doesn't hear her move away, and he thinks he can make out her shuddering breaths from the other side of the wood. He tries one last time because he won't be able to forgive himself if he doesn't. "There were a lot of people after your dad," he tells Jeanne soberly through the barrier between them. "We don't know for certain yet if he was murdered, but if he was, it could have been one of any number of people... I know you don't want to hear any of this from me, okay? But if I learn more—when I learn more—I'll make sure someone tells you, because you deserve to know. I'm sorry for how this ended. I'm sorry for the way I hurt you, and I'm sorry that I couldn't protect you or your family. Just know that…"

Tony sighs deeply, exhausted and full of borrowed pain. "Just know that if you ever stop hating me, I'm here. Tell me what you need and I'll do it. I'm sorry, Jeanne." As soon as the last apology leaves his lips, he's turning and marching away; he can't deal with her pain and his own guilt anymore.

He thinks he hears a muffled sob as he walks away, and it breaks his heart.

It's not five minutes later when, on the drive home, Tony's phone rings. He wrestles it out of his pocket, his mind flying through the possibilities of who it could be; somehow, each possibility is worse than the last. Honestly, he doesn't want to talk to anyone right now, and there's no one that could possibly be calling with good news this evening.

The name that pops up on the caller ID, however, makes him feel even worse, something he didn't think possible.

Ziva David.

After more than a week of silence, she's calling just hours after they found out about the death of La Grenouille, and Tony's been working with Gibbs long enough to have rule thirty-nine memorized back to front—there's no such thing as a coincidence. There's a damn good chance that Ziva had something to do with today's headliner, and Tony doesn't have a damn idea of what to say to her about it.

He stares at her name on the front of his screen for just a little too long and only realizes when he hears frantic honking that his attention has left the road; his car has drifted across the center lane, and he jerks the steering wheel back to the right, his heart pounding.

By the time he's got that sorted, his phone has stopped ringing. Maybe that's for the best anyway, he reasons silently, clenching his fists on the steering wheel in an attempt to dispel some of the tension in his muscles. This is not going to be a cheerful conversation, and it's best had when all of his concentration is firmly in one place.

He'll call her back once he's home—maybe he'll even call her over Skype instead so he can see her face when she talks. It might help him gauge how truthful she's being, and it might give him some insight into how she's feeling.

He just has to figure out how he's feeling between now and then.

Chapter Text

One week earlier…

Ziva settles in behind her desk after returning from taking Tony to the airport, stifling a yawn. It's a little early to be here, even by Mossad standards, but she doesn't have enough time to sleep or shower at home and figures she might as well be here. After all, she played looky the last few days with her boyfriend; now that she's back, she has a fair amount to catch up on. It's best if by the time her father returns, she's not behind but has rather gotten ahead. That'll take some effort, for sure, but it isn't like she isn't used to dealing with her father's high expectations.

Ziva is sure she can't keep Mossad's director from finding out that Tony was here and that she spent several days with him—in fact, there's no way they would have gotten away with it at all if her father had been in Tel Aviv at the time—but Eli will have less of an excuse to be angry with her if she proves that her weekend did nothing to hurt her work ethic.

She spends the morning working at what Tony would probably call worm speed, zooming through all assignments as quickly as she can without making errors. She's usually a fairly efficient worker, but she's on a pole today.

Partway through the day, she's almost entirely finished with Monday's workload when Malachi stops briefly at her desk and leans in. "I thought you would like to know that your father will return around 1400 today."

Ziva hadn't heard that the team Mossad tasked with finding La Grenouille—headed by her father—had succeeded, but that's the only reason she can think of for him coming back so soon. "Oh! Did they find the man for whom they were—" She stops herself when she sees Malachi purse his lips, and she knows he won't say any more on the subject. That gives her a brief flash of annoyance, wishing Malachi wasn't so hell bent on kissing her father's rear end, but the fact remains that he didn't have to warn her at all of Eli's impending arrival and he did anyway. "Okay," she says instead of snapping like she wants to, changing knacks. "Thank you for letting me know."

Malachi gives her a tight smile, maybe hearing sarcasm in her tone that she didn't mean to let in. "Really. Thank you."

That earns her a more genuine smile, and her old friend nods before moving on.

Ziva throws herself back into her work at twice the already feverish pace she'd been working at; with her father arriving back in Tel Aviv so much sooner than expected, there's no way she'll be able to finish everything. She'll plow through as much as she can get to, though. She still has two hours left in which to work, if she skips her midday meal.

It's 1415 when she sees her father arrive at his office, looking harried. Straightening up, she gives him as genuine a smile as she can muster when he meets her eye, but rather than smiling back, he raises his hand and crooks a finger at her in a clear 'come here' gesture.

Ziva feels the smile slide off her face—so it's time for her scolding already, is it? It figures that her father would make this his first order of business now that he's back.

She gets to her feet, tamping down the urge to stretch at length to get out of the hunched position she's been locked in all day, and heads to her father's office. He's behind the desk, but the door is open, and she knocks lightly on the frame. "Ah, Ziva," Eli greets, looking tired but giving her a small smile. "Come in, come in."

"Hello, Father," Ziva replies, crossing to his desk to formally exchange cheek kisses as expected before landing lightly on the chair across from him. "How was your trip to America?" Though it's tough, she manages to keep any bitterness out of her voice at the question; maybe it's easier to do because she now knows that going with the La Grenouille team would have meant not seeing Tony.

"It was not as productive as I had hoped it would be, but it is no matter." Eli waves a hand dismissively. "I would like to talk about you, my dear."

"Me?" Ziva parrots, raising her eyebrows but otherwise keeping her expression neutral. She's not going to volunteer anything about her weekend with Tony, that's for sure. She'll wait until Eli drags it out of her, word by word; anything less would make her feel like a puppy, dancing this way and that as her father tugs her strings.

He probably sees what she's doing, because an expression of mild amusement rises to his features, but he doesn't call her out on it. "Yes. You. Tell me, Ziva, what is most important to you about working at Mossad?"

The question surprises her, and she has to think about it. Rather than getting impatient with her, though, her father lets her contemplate it for a moment without demanding an answer—that surprises her even more than the question. "It is most important to me, I think, that I feel as if my work is important. I want to know that I am accomplishing something real, not simply 'poofing papers'." Perhaps it's the unexpected nature of the question, but something makes her answer honestly, up to and including adding an untranslated English phrase that feels fitting.

Eli nods as if he's seriously considering her answer, and after a moment, he throws an easier question at her. "And do you feel as if the work you are doing now fulfills that purpose?"

Again, Ziva feels compelled to answer candidly. "No, Abba, I do not."

"If you were in charge of assignments, how would you change your own to better suit your goals?"

This feels so strangely like a job interview, something she's rarely had an occasion to do, and it makes her a little extra suspicious. Where's the lecture? Where's the anger, the yelling, the pissy fits? Shaking her sleep-deprived brain out of that line of thought, she reminds herself to focus on the conversation at hand and analyze it later. "I think… I would give myself more field assignments. I am not a computer expert by any means, but the vast majority of my assignments right now require computer work almost exclusively. I believe I can make a bigger difference and be a bigger help out in the field."

Eli nods once more, looking as if he was expecting this answer. "Do you think your time working with the Americans improved your fieldwork skills?"

This is the first time he's brought up her time with NCIS since her first day back, and she isn't sure what to make of him doing it now. "Very much so."

"In what way?"

"When I left Israel, I was a good agent—mm, officer—in some ways, but I was very yellow in others. Working with the Americans, I learned things that strengthened my ability to solve problems, not just to let my weapons solve them for me." Ziva can't stop the minuscule smile that floats to her lips when her own too-forthright answer calls a memory to mind. 'I have been with NCIS for a year. I am not just a killer anymore, I am an investigator,' she remembers saying to Gibbs, Tony, and McGee. 'Now can I go home?'

If her father notices her brief moment of emotion, he doesn't comment. Instead, he focuses on what she said. "Can you apply those abilities to situations that involve Israeli law rather than American?"

"Yes, Father." Ziva certainly feels like she's falling into a trap here, but she cannot for the death of her figure out what it is.

Eli considers her for one last long moment. "Very well," he announces as if he's made a big decision. "In that case, I have an assignment for you."

Ziva tries to tamp down the excitement that this announcement sends coursing through her—surely, there's a big catch. There's no way finally getting back in her father's good graces is this easy. "And that would be?" she asks, trying to sound only idly curious.

"Come. It will all become clear to you soon."

Several hours later, Ziva has been fully read into a new assignment, and she feels as if she's waltzing on sunshine. She held onto her suspicions right up until the moment when she was able to flip through a case file and see what it is; for once, her father is not tricking her. In fact, he's doing exactly what she's longed for months for him to do—he's putting her on a major task force, and more than that, he's putting her at the head of the team.

She's now in charge of the manhunt for René Benoit.

As her father explains to her, he's been called back to Israel on urgent business. He was heading the team in question himself and now needs someone else to step in and take his place… he's leaving behind big shoes to drill, for sure, but Ziva can't wait to get started.

The remainder of the team is in Europe at the moment, and she'll be on a flight out tonight to join them. She'll coordinate efforts between the team in Serbia and the supporting officers back in Tel Aviv, and she alone will decide the direction in which the search should go. Though she's never led a team this large or important before, focusing in her past Mossad work on solo or small team assignments, she's sure she's up to the task if she pulls out her inner Gibbs.

She barely has time to grab her go-bag from her desk before she's being ushered out the door by her father; Eli has kept up a steady stream of information and background since they walked out of his office together, and he doesn't stop until she's halfway into the car that's waiting to take her to the airport. "Good luck, Ziva," her father finishes as she closes the door behind her, though her window is open and she can still clearly see and hear him. "I expect to be kept updated on your team's progress, am I understood?"

"Of course," Ziva answers quickly, trying not to sound like she's rushing him. She's ever-so-slightly afraid that if she doesn't get going, Eli will change his mind and tell her that she's not allowed to go. "I will call you as soon as—" She breaks off speaking suddenly, having been reflexively checking her pockets for her phone. They're empty. Did she leave her phone on her desk? "Oh, ben-zonna," she curses, making her father snort. "I do not know where I left my phone."

Eli gives her a look through the window and holds up a little silver flip phone. "The time it took you to notice that I had taken your phone makes me worry about leaving you in charge alone, Ziva," he admonishes lightly, but he chuckles when Ziva reaches out for it and he's able to keep it from her grasp. "Now, now, your time with the Americans has also made you impolite. I do not appreciate your snatching."

Ziva bites her tongue to keep from pointing out that it was he who had snatched it in the first place; now is not the time to anger him. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and waits, expression impassive, to see if he'll return the device or not.

He doesn't. "There is a reason I removed this from your possession. You are a smart girl—can you figure it out?"

Feeling slightly patronized, Ziva briefly considers him. "Certainly to send a message, yes?" she begins, her tone making it clear that the question is rhetorical. "It is not only to point out my failure to notice its absence, because if that was the case, you would not have already pointed that out to me." Eli nods in approval, gesturing for her to keep going. "You also want me to realize that this is a mission of the utmost secrecy. You are afraid that I will either foolishly allow myself to be tracked using my cell phone, or I will willfully use my phone to distribute information to those who you do not wish to know details of this case. Am I close?"

The look that her father gives her is as close to approving as she's gotten in a long time, and she tries not to let that make her proud. She reminds herself that beyond his ability to make her life miserable at work, she doesn't care what he thinks.

"You are close," Eli agrees, the approval on his features mixing with light amusement and something darker. "You have missed one facet of my reasoning, however—I also wish to remind you that I am aware of the people with whom you communicate. Do not make the mistake of going behind my back again, Ziva David." The warning in his voice is suddenly deadly and clear.

Ziva could just kick herself—how did she not see this coming!? Of course her father would wait until a properly strategic moment to blow Tony's visit in her face… if he means to throw her off at the beginning of her mission—and knowing him, he absolutely does—then he's succeeding.

Before she can think of a good way to reply, he's talking again, and she can see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes. "You will get your phone back when you return. In the meantime, buy a burner phone once you arrive in Europe to use to communicate with myself and with the team you are leading. Farewell, Ziva. I wish you the best on this assignment. We will evaluate your future at Mossad depending on your performance on this task, so take care to do the job correctly. You know what I expect."

With that, he walks away, and Ziva, fuming, watches him go.

Ziva's flight to Belgrade is smooth enough to allow her to nap if she wishes, and she tries to catch up on sleep while she still can. Though she far prefers field work to desk work, she knows very well that field work's biggest downside is in its chronic unpredictability; she may have a soft feather bed to sleep in every night for the duration of this mission, or she may be catching five-minute flower naps sitting against tree trunks in between bouts of running for her life. There's just no way to tell going in.

Despite this knowledge, she spends most of the flight staring blankly out the window, wishing for rest that won't come. Her thoughts are too tumultuous, each one twisting and jumping and tangling with the ones before it. She's been accused before of being emotionless or soulless, and sometimes, she knows she can certainly come across that way. Sometimes, though, like on her flight to Belgrade, she wishes for it to be true.

This mission would be far simpler if she could just push her father out of her mind! It's infuriating that even though she knows the games he's playing, she's never been able to stop herself from falling right into every trap he sets. Even worse, she can't stop herself from becoming disappointed and angry every damn time he acts like this, because for her entire life, she's longed for Eli to be the father that she needs him to be. He has his moments, to be sure, and there are memories of the Abba of her childhood that are genuinely fond now… but it seems that he's become so used to manipulating people that it's now all he knows to do. Unfortunately, Ziva, being the only one of his children left alive, is his favorite target.

She hears Gibbs' voice in the back of her mind: 'Don't forget rule thirty-six, Ziver. If it feels like you're being played, you probably are.'

Ducky's voice reminds her of something else: 'Ah, but my dear girl, Jethro's rules work best together! Might I suggest that you consider rule sixteen… if someone thinks he has the upper hand, break it!'

Tony's voice is back there somewhere, too, though, and it's his little reminder that echoes the loudest. 'But this one's important, sweet cheeks—rule number one, or one of the number ones, anyway: never screw over your partner.'

Ziva shakes her head sharply to dispel the voices of her well-meaning American (and Scottish) friends, wondering where on earth her own subconscious was going there. Now is not the time to think about it, though. If she can't sleep, she needs to spend the last half of the three hour flight preparing for the job ahead.

She opens the case file again, flipping through it a page at a time and putting herself through memorization exercises to ensure focus. It takes a little time, but it works, and by the time her plane touches down, she's absolutely ready to work. She only stops to purchase a burner phone at an airport shop before obtaining a taxi.

Once in the taxi, she makes her way straight into the city, and she meets her new team at the hotel they've been working out of. It would be rather late to begin a meeting at NCIS, but officers of Mossad are well used to work hours that are equal parts long and oddly kept. No one complains when she summons them, and they all gather quickly, ready to fill her in on what has been learned in Serbia. Ziva holds the meeting campfire-style, thinking of Tony, and though she sees a couple of secretive smiles arise when they understand her directions, her new team obeys, to their credit, without question.

She sends them to bed once she's been brought up to speed on everything; after composing a quick email message to her father via the burn phone, she goes to bed, too. She can't shake the feeling that they won't be staying at this hotel long, for better or for worse.

The next day is a busy one—mindful of her father's thinly veiled threats, she makes sure to delegate tasks that involve working with NCIS's European field agents. She refuses to give her father the satisfaction of thinking he's right about her.

Unfortunately, she's quickly able to see why this investigation has been going so slowly, not only for Mossad but for NCIS, MI-5, and everyone else that has been attempting to track René Benoit. He's as slippery as a jellyfish, and it's clear that his ability to broker arms deals is second only to his ability to evade detection. Every lead they can track down terminates in a dead end.

It's another two days before the first solid clue appears—they find security footage of La Grenouille boarding a train bound for Vienna via Budapest. Saying a quick blessing in relief, Ziva dives right into formulating a plan of action. She leaves one officer in Belgrade, ordering him to lay low, blend in, and make certain that his presence isn't made known as he keeps digging to make sure La Grenouille actually left. She's not completely sure he has, and she's not completely sure he'll stay gone if he has. The only thing she is certain of is that if he was ever headed to Budapest or Vienna, he won't be in either place for long.

Discounting the officer in Belgrade, she's left with seven other officers at her disposal, including herself; she buys a detailed train map of Europe to use in planning, a rough strategy cobbling itself together in her mind before the money used to purchase the map has even changed hands. Her knowledge of European human geography comes in handy because, following a hunch, she chooses the seven most likely destinations for La Grenouille to be traveling toward. Then, working off of both her father's notes and her own observations, she decides which officer can be most efficiently utilized in each city.

She sends one team member each to seven major nearby cities, selecting towns with easy, frequent transeuropean train service and excluding France, Monaco, and French-speaking Switzerland. Knowing that La Grenouille is too smart to return to his Parisian roots, she finds it unlikely that he'd choose a predictable endpoint at all… if it was her running away, knowing she was being followed, she would paradoxically avoid the places that would be easiest for her to assimilate into. She'd instead stick to those cities and nations where no one following would expect her to go, stops where her strongest languages weren't dominantly spoken. René Benoit may not speak as many languages as Ziva herself does, but he speaks both French and English fluently, effectively ruling out a number of nations as likely choices.

Thinking along those same lines, she adds Luxembourg, Belgium, the UK, and Ireland all to her running list of unlikely places, and completes her assignments.

She ends up with an officer each in Sarajevo, Zagreb, Vienna, Krakow, Prague, and Bucharest. Each officer has strict instructions to follow up on his or her assigned city until it becomes clear that the man they're hunting is either there or not there; following the first wave of investigations, Ziva can mobilize officers to nearby cities quickly and efficiently, herding La Grenouille in one direction or another until he's cornered.

Her biggest difficulty comes in placing herself. She has something of an advantage because of the number of languages she can speak, and it would make sense to head for one of the places where she could make use of her knowledge… she briefly considers Nuremberg or maybe Milan, but her gut is telling her that Benoit isn't in Germany or Italy. If she's right, he's not in Russia, Turkey, or Spain, either, all places she could navigate with ease.

No, if she's right and he's avoiding places that he knows would be easy on himself, she can only assume that he's done his due diligence and will be working to avoid places that will make it easy for Ziva to find him, too. That leaves portions of Eastern Europe, the Baltics, Scandinavia, and few other scattered countries as possibilities, if he hasn't left Europe entirely… and Ziva's sure he hasn't. It's not a feeling she can explain, and she tries to gloss over that part when she explains her strategy to her father, but… she knows better by now than to discount gut feelings.

In the end, she heads for the Netherlands on a whim, reasoning that Central Europe is well-covered for now and there are several agents within easy travel of Eastern Europe, should the clues lead that way. Her father instructs her not to inform the local NCIS agents of her plans, and though she hates doing it, she listens. She sends off a silent apology somewhere in the direction of Washington for intentionally foiling their investigation.

Ziva thinks her strategy is a good one, but the next several days are still very frustrating. She gets regular reports from her team members, some of whom seem to be making small leaps of progress and some of whom find little to nothing—she consults her map again, moving the Vienna officer to nearby Bratislava and the Zagreb officer to Ljubljana.

Finally, Ziva catches what feels like the lucky break that she needs—she speaks to a train conductor in Utrecht who remembers checking the ticket of a man matching La Grenouille's description on a route to Amsterdam earlier in the day. Despite not having any Dutch credentials, she manages to sweet talk an NS worker into tracking Benoit's train ticket. It takes some searching, but eventually, they use security footage and electronic time stamps from ticket barriers to conclude that Benoit alighted at Amsterdam Bijlmer ArenA.

Then it gets tricky, but Ziva can feel that she's getting close, and she won't let anything stop her. The security coverage at this station is with older cameras, and even though she successfully talks her way into viewing it again, she doesn't find much that's helpful. Not discouraged, she takes to canvassing the station, talking to anyone who will slow down for long enough for conversation but trying to focus on the workers that are there all day, every day.

Finally, finally, she's able to track Benoit down retroactively to a bus heading for Amstelveen, and she follows him there.

Amstelveen turns out to be considerably smaller than Amsterdam or Utrecht, and that further complicates the job that Ziva is trying to do. Without large train stations and bus depots, it will be much more difficult to find helpful security camera coverage, so rather than waste time looking for it, Ziva follows her intuition.

According to Mossad's files, Benoit has what Ziva would classify as classic Parisian tastes—his credit card statements show him to be an enthusiast of fine wine and pricey alcohols, French food, expensive art, and a vast array of coffee products. Most of those things, of course, would be easy to track down in nearby Amsterdam, but which of them can be found in a wealthy little suburb? Fine wine, probably, though even a Frenchman would likely not risk the wrath of the politie by drinking in public in the early evening if he was trying to stay under the radar. French food? Maybe, though it's doubtful that a Dutch take on French food would be satisfactory to a born-in-bread Parisian. Expensive art? Doubtful, except in museums. Coffee, however? That's likely to be plentiful, and it seems as logical a place as any to start.

Going on foot, Ziva moves from cafe to cafe, keeping her eyes peeped. She once again simply trusts her gut feelings, which lead her away from Amselveen's center and out in the general direction of Uithoorn. When she's just starting to doubt herself, she sees René Benoit himself.

He's clearly waiting on her, sitting alone at an outdoor table; he has an empty noisette cup resting neatly by his elbow and there's a pleasant smile on his face. He shows no surprise when their eyes meet. "Ah, Ms. David. I did wonder if you would be joining me. Would you care to sit?" His voice is polite and congenial and his spoken English is polished, but his clothes are dirty and his face is lined with exhaustion.

Ziva feels a very unexpected surge of pity as it occurs to her that he might simply be tired of running. He's not exactly a young man anymore.

Still, she has no choice but to make him move a little further, so she shakes her head, giving him a smile that matches his own. "No, but I thank you for your offer," she answers in French. "I think we should take a walk instead."

Something in Benoit's smile becomes more authentic as Ziva speaks his mother tongue, and he shrugs, rising to his feet with surprising grace despite his apparent frailty. "If you wish, my dear."

Ziva gestures in the direction she was walking before, away from more populated areas. She doesn't need any witness when she kills him, and though she's sure Benoit knows what she's doing, he seems delighted to do as she suggests… he seems to be a hard man to pin up, both in location and personality, and Ziva suggests as much to him as they walk. "Finding you was more of a challenge than I anticipated," she admits.

Benoit laughs. "Oh, the arrogance of youth," he answers fondly. "Perhaps that's why you managed when no one else did."

"You were waiting for me when I arrived," Ziva points out, mild.

"Yes, but it was only a matter of time before you caught me anyway. I rather enjoyed your plan, my dear… creating a web of officers to catch the juicy fly was ingenious. Tapping on the strands of the web to draw in your little spiders? That was inspired."

Ziva is amused despite herself. "Are you admitting defeat?"

"Yes—is that really such a surprise?"

"Well, you are French."

Benoit lets out a surprised laugh that turns into a hacking cough, which Ziva listens to a little sympathetically. "How long would you have lived, if you were not found first?" she asks; she skips directly past the question of whether he's ill, because it's clear as night that he is.

"I am told that my lungs will fail me in ninety days, perhaps a little less."

Ziva nods. "I can only hope that I remain as spry in my final days," she compliments him genuinely.

That makes Benoit laugh again, and they stop walking so he can catch his breath when that laugh inevitably gives way to a harsh cough, too. While she waits, Ziva considers his surprising level of charm—he reminds her a little of Ducky, and she can also see parts of the man that his daughter clearly inherited. He's likeable on a level that she wasn't expecting, particularly since she nearly died on his orders mere months ago.

When Benoit seems up to walking again, they resume, and Ziva asks another question. "Does it count as defeat if it is part of your plan to surrender?"

"Now, that is an interesting question," Benoit praises. "What do you think?"

"I think making deliberate choices, knowing the outcome, is not the same as being defeated," Ziva answers with total honesty.

"I'm inclined to agree. Does that mean that I won?"

Ziva chuckles. "What do you think?" she mimics.

"I think I did win, yes. If I must end, at least I will end on my terms."

"What are your terms?"

Benoit gives her a look so reminiscent of Tony's flirtiest expression that she has to laugh again. "The last face I see will be a pretty woman's. I hope it will be a quick end, not too painful. I had one last coffee, even if it was Dutch, and this is a pretty place to die." He gestures to the flower-lined canal they're walking alongside, and Ziva's inclined to agree. "I even got to see my daughter one last time, from a distance. She is the best part of me, you know."

Ziva can see nothing but sincerity in his face, and she feels compelled to kindness in a way she usually would not be. "She is a good woman, and an excellent doctor. She will do fine in life."

"Thank you for saying that—am I right in assuming that you are not one for empty compliments?"

Ziva laughs again, shaking her head. "No. I try to be honest when at all possible."

"An admirable quality, to be sure." Benoit pauses for a moment before inclining his head toward Ziva. "Now, this seems as good a stopping place as any, I think. Do what you have come to do—I simply ask that you do not draw it out. I have little taste for torture, you have to understand, and I suspected long ago that you don't have much of a taste for it, either."

Ziva draws her spare gun and screws on a silencer. "You were holding out for my father to put me in his place," she surmises as she works, having caught what he was implying.

Benoit nods. "He and I have quite a history, and if we had more time, I would tell you about it. Just know, though, that you are not the only spider in Israel capable of spinning webs. Your father's web would be a crueler place to die; he would try to draw secrets out of me that I no longer possess. He may soon do the same to you."

Of all the things Benoit has said today, this one shocks her the least. "I do not have any trouble believing you." She's been caught in that web before herself.

"Then maybe you will outsmart him yet," Benoit declares. "Well, if there's nothing left to say or do, I believe I am ready."

"I do have one more question."

"I'm happy to answer."

"When you told Jeanne to trust Jenny Shepard, who were you warning her about?"

Benoit gives her a look she can't quite decipher. "You made it this far, Ms. David. Can't you guess?"

Ziva can guess, but surely she's wrong. "My father?"

Benoit quirks his lips up in answer. "In the end, I needn't have worried, because your father never made an attempt on Jeanne's life. He promised to, though, a very long time ago when Jeanne was small. I worried when I found myself getting sicker in the last few months that he would use her to get to me once he found out how weak I was becoming. That's why I put so much effort into running. Jenny Shepard may have wanted my blood, but she wouldn't cross that line—Eli David, on the other hand, would not hesitate."

Ziva nods, digesting this, and asks a question that she hasn't planned on asking. "Do you regret any of it?" she wants to know. "All of the—the arms dealing, the war mongering, the kidnapping and shooting and killing and…" she trails off.

Benoit appears to take the question seriously, but he doesn't think about it for long. "I know you Americans have ideals about good and bad and what it means to be human… I'm sorry to disappoint, but no. We all make our own way in this world. I chose mine, you chose yours, and it is what it is."

"Hmm… Thank you for your candor. Which way would you like to face?"

"Away, I think. Toward the water, and I can imagine I'm in a Monet painting. Farewell, my dear." He gives her a smile and turns around.

"Au revoir," Ziva murmurs, then aims and pulls the trigger. It only really sinks in as she watches the body fall that he called her American, and she wonders why he did.

When Ziva calls her father after to inform him that she has done as asked, he tells her to leave the country as stealthily as possible, return to Belgrade and gather her team, and move on to Tel Aviv on the first available flight. For reasons he doesn't disclose to Ziva, Eli doesn't want Mossad getting the credit for this particular assassination; she suspects it's because Mossad never had formal permission from the Dutch government to carry out a mission on Dutch soil.

Luckily, stealth is nothing new for Ziva, and Schengen's open borders make departing the country painless and easy. She policed her brass at the scene and took the gun with her; after wiping her prints off to be safe, she disposes of the weapon in the Rhine River in Cologne once over the Dutch-German border. From there, it's a quick flight to Serbia—her team members arrive back in Belgrade one by one, ready to depart—and a slightly longer one back to Israel.

They arrive in Tel Aviv on the seventh day after leaving, and walking into Mossad headquarters feels something like receiving a subdued hero's welcome. Officially, the team set out to accomplish nothing and came back having accomplished nothing, but there isn't a single person working in the building who doesn't know what went down in Europe. Even Eli gives Ziva a quiet "I am proud of you" and seems to mean it.

Ziva lets herself enjoy the celebratory mood a little, but as soon as possible, she corners her father in his office. "Let me guess," he says lightly, looking up at her knock and waving her in. "You are eager for your performance review, yes?"

Ziva cracks a smile, but it's fake again; René Benoit's warnings are still ringing in her ears, adding to her ever-present distrust of her father. "Maybe tomorrow would be better, Abba. I am very tired and I would like to go home and sleep." This, at least, is no lie. She's exhausted. "Can I please have my phone before I go?"

It's a mark of how impressed Eli is with her completion of the case that he gives her the phone without argument. "Thank you," she acknowledges softly, and turns to go. Her father's voice stops her, though, and she listens in disbelief.

They often switch between Hebrew and English when it's just the two of them, because some things flow better in one language and some in the other. As Ziva leaves her Abba's office, however, she hears him say something in Hebrew that she has not heard since she was very small: "Laila tov, ahava shelli." It's a simple thing, but it immediately makes her feel small again. She and Tali shared a bedroom when they were very young, and Abba would come in to kiss them goodnight on the rare occasion that he was home for bedtime. That was always the last thing he said to each of them.

Good night, my love.

After an incredibly long day of travel, all Ziva wants is to burrow under the quilts on her bed and go straight to sleep, but there are things she needs to do first.

The most important one is to call Tony.

She knows he can't be thrilled with her absence, and she wishes that she'd been allowed possession of her phone during the mission. If she'd realized before she left that it would be taken, she would have warned Tony and at least left him a voicemail or a text. Instead, she disappeared for over a week. At least this isn't her fault, and she's sure Tony will understand once she explains what happened. After all, he knows enough about Eli by now to recognize the Mossad director's manipulative behavior for what it is.

When she rings him, though, he doesn't answer, and Ziva quickly thinks through the time difference—it's probably still during the workday for him, so it isn't strange for him not to answer. She'll stay up as long as she can to wait for him to call back.

Chapter Text

After Tony fails to answer her call, Ziva puts her phone on loud and hops in the shower, hoping he'll call back and she'll hear it. When she checks for notifications after getting out, though, her phone doesn't have any new missed calls to report. Still trying to stay awake so she can hopefully catch him when he calls back, she painstakingly plaits her hair and changes her sheets.

She's just pulling out a load of laundry when she hears a slightly less expected ringtone—it's not her phone, it's her computer chirping with an incoming Skype call! Even better. She settles on the couch, rearranges her laptop, and presses the answer button.

Unfortunately, the call starts awkwardly on both ends.

Ziva's video feed won't load, so while Tony can hear her, he can't see her.

Meanwhile, Ziva's entire application gets caught buffering; everything Tony says reaches her in unintelligible clips of garbled voice and his face is stuck in a strangely donkey-like expression.

They both spend a few minutes fiddling with things here and there to fix the connection, and while Tony finally manages to change a setting that fixes the problem on both ends, Ziva has long since stopped paying attention. Tired of fighting with the damn thing, she has given up and is instead pressing the heels of her hands over her tired eyes. From her mouth comes a long string of increasingly inventive curses in nine languages.

Despite his anxiety, sadness, and general vexation, Tony observes her for a minute or two, entertained and not unimpressed. Every time he thinks she's about to stop, or at least pause to breathe, she seems to get a second wind and powers through. He clears his throat to get her attention once she's reached what he thinks is Pashto.

She stops cursing abruptly and uncovers her eyes, peering at her screen. "Ah," she says meekly. "There you are."

Tony isn't much in a mood to laugh, but he does smile a little. "Here I am," he agrees.

"It is nice to see you." This is offered almost shyly, out of character for Ziva on a normal day. It somehow feels, however, that behaving normally today would be almost disrespectful. Whom or what it would disrespect is not clear, but the feeling is hard to shake.

Tony purses his lips and nods for longer than absolutely necessary. "And you," he replies eventually, and Ziva realizes that the continuous nodding was a placeholder for something he doesn't know how to say.

Now it's her turn, but she feels just as lost. She opens her mouth and closes it again, trying without success to find words in any language to express herself. Finally, she decides to stop trying to force things and just say whatever comes out of her mouth first… anything to cut through this unbearable silence. Unfortunately, it seems as if Tony has the same idea, because they end up talking over one another.

"Tony, I wanted to talk to you about—"

"Ziva, can we please just—"

They both stop talking.

"You can go first," Ziva offers, because this is agonizing and one of them needs to take charge.

"Okay, sure." Tony opens his mouth to say whatever's on his mind, and Ziva's screen promptly freezes again. This time, there's no sound or movement at all, and it only seems reasonable to flop backward on the sofa, put a pillow over her face, and yell. It helps.

Unfortunately, when she has yelled herself out, the screen is still frozen, so she abandons it, figuring she'll hear when it comes back on. Prior to the call, she'd been doing some post-travel chores, and she decides to set up a laundry sorting station near the computer to attempt some productivity while she waits.

She's been working for a few minutes when the video feed suddenly unfreezes, and with no warning, she's able to catch what Tony's saying. She instantly wishes that she still can't. "...wouldn't have killed you to send me an email or two, would it? For all I knew, you were dead! I'm pretty sure I deserve better than that after flying halfway around the world to cheer you up two weeks ago, but I guess you don't agree."

Ziva surmises that much like she did a few minutes ago, Tony has been taking the forced break in the call as an opportunity to get some of his frustration out without hurting her; she tries very hard not to hold it against him, because though the anger in his voice makes her uncomfortable, she knows it's justified.

She turns the clunky laptop around, her expression determinedly neutral, and waits for Tony to notice that she's there. It only takes him a moment, and he breaks off talking immediately. "The screen was frozen, but now it is not," she points out helpfully, gesturing vaguely in front of her to the technology that she only barely knows how to work. (She misses McGee and his ever-useful computer knowledge!)

"I can see that." Tony considers her for a moment and then slaps the back of his own head as if it's Gibbs that he has offended. "Sorry, I didn't mean for you to hear—however much of that you heard. I wasn't really talking to you, I was just..."

"Venting?" Ziva lets a half-smile rise to her lips and fall again; while she appreciates that he's trying to keep from lashing out at her, it seems fairly clear that there are things he needs to say. Maybe it'll be better for both of them if he just comes out with it. "Perhaps you were not talking to me, but you were speaking about me, yes?"

Tony shrugs a little. "Yeah, maybe." He can hardly deny it.

Ziva nods. "I am all eardrums," she tells him. "Whatever is on your mind, please say it. It might help to clear the air."

Tony's face twitches in a way that tells her she made an English mistake, but he doesn't correct her. Now is not the time for technicalities. "You sure about that?"

"I am."

"So you're ready to talk."

"Yes."

"After disappearing for more than a week."

"Yes."

When Tony senses her honesty, he nods, and some of the tension in his body seems to deflate. "Where've you been, Ziva?" he asks, running a hand through his hair and looking, frankly, old and tired. If he means to make his voice sound angry again, he fails, but somehow his tone of absolute exhaustion makes Ziva feel worse than if he'd shouted the question.

"I know this will sound… simplistic, yes? But I was working."

"For eight days?" Tony asks with a snort, unable to entirely avoid being snide.

"Well… yes," Ziva agrees awkwardly.

Tony starts to say something but stops, and the ghost of a smile floats to his lips. "I guess I could believe that, if you were with—"

"Eli," they awkwardly finish together, and they both laugh quietly, each subdued for their own reasons.

"I believe I may have… won some respect from him, though it is hard to say for certain," Ziva offers, somewhat hesitant. It's true, and she doesn't know what to make of it, but the real issue causing her hesitation is that she's trying to figure out how much to lie. Her father's threats still seem very real, and it may very well be that he's placed bugs in her flat. It wouldn't shock her, and the more she thinks about it, the more she suspects that he's probably done it. "He seemed pleased with my performance this week, and surprised by it," she adds.

"Good to hear," Tony replies, and though the words are the right ones, his tone is a little lacking.

"Are you alright, Tony?"

He rubs his temples and lets out a deep sigh, but he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's just been a… well, a rough week, I guess."

"Because you could not reach me?" Ziva guesses, a slight apology in her tone.

Tony gives her an unamused half-snort and shrugs. "Can't say that it helped, honestly. But it wasn't just that."

"I am sorry, my love," Ziva answers sincerely, not sure what else she can say to him if he's not in the mood to talk. She feels more distant from him now than she did during her silent week in Europe.

Tony shrugs again, looking uncomfortable, and casts about for a change of subject. "Can I ask you how your week was, or is that kind of… need to know?" He seems to have already decided what she's going to say, having moved past anger and into defeat, and that makes Ziva's tired heart clench.

"No, you can ask," she answers, giving him a little smile in the hopes of getting one in return. "You can always ask." The implication, of course, is that while he can always ask, she might not always be able to answer. Again, neither points that out. They've talked about it before, and Tony knows Ziva will do her best.

"Alright. How was it, then?"

"It was… mm. 'Productive' is the word to use here, yes?"

"More office work?" Maybe Ziva's hearing an accusation there because she's afraid of hearing one, but it sounds a little like Tony has his own suspicions about how she spent the week.

While that's not surprising—he's very intelligent, and making deductions is a large part of his job—she half-wishes he would just ask about what he wants to ask about… even though her Eli-imposed restrictions are still in place and she'll have to craft an answer. "No, not this week."

"No?" Tony raises his eyebrows at her answer. "Did Eli finally let you out of the doghouse, then?"

"Doghouse? No—Tony, he does not have a dog." This is one idiom that Ziva actually knows and understands perfectly, but she also knows he enjoys correcting her mistakes. Though she'd never tell him or admit to it if asked, she sometimes intentionally slips up on English phrasing to make him laugh. Maybe doing it now will help move their conversation into a more normal place.

Tony does laugh a little, and since it sounds only mostly forced, Ziva's counting this one as a win. "No, not a physical house for a physical dog, it's more like...when you get in trouble, you go to the metaphorical doghouse, right? And then when you talk your way out of it or serve your time or whatever, whoever is mad decides to let you back out of the doghouse. Get it?"

"Oh, yes, I understand. It is like when a man says something rude and his wife makes him sleep on the sofa. The sofa is in the doghouse?"

Tony laughs again, and though it's stilted, it lifts Ziva's spirits. She finds that it's worth playing a little dumb once in a blue moon, just to hear that sound. "Sure. Close enough."

"And when you say 'talk your way out of it', you are speaking from experience, yes?" Ziva gives Tony an attempt at a smug half-smile. For a second, he gives her a look of guarded affection, clearing any signs of worry or grief from his expression. For just that moment, she's reminded him of what their relationship is like when things are normal.

That feels better than receiving Eli's too-hard-to-earn pride, any day of the week.

"Something like that," Tony agrees, his voice finally infused with a hint of warmth. Maybe this is working. "So, Eli let you out of the doghouse?"

"Temporarily, perhaps," Ziva concedes. "He sent me on a single mission. He told me that he would reevaluate my future at Mossad pending the outcome of my assignment, so he meant it as a test, but if I was fired, I have not been told yet."

Tony snorts and makes a gesture to wave away that silly suggestion. It's a little stiff, a little forced, but they're both loosening up slowly as they converse. "Nah, he couldn't run that place without you."

"He did for two years when I was in America," Ziva argues, smiling a little.

"Must've been why he was so eager to bring you back," Tony concludes. "So where did he send you on that 'single mission'?"

Here's where the lying starts, because short of playing the "need to know" card, Ziva can hardly tell the truth. Do not make the mistake of going behind my back again, Ziva David. "Eastern Turkey," she invents, forcing Eli out of her thoughts. "Near the border with Syria."

Tony lets out a low whistle in response, and Ziva genuinely can't tell whether he believes her or not. "Was it safe?"

"Ah, I was probably the safest one there." She fakes a smirk and holds up her pocket knife as 'Exhibit A', making it very clear what she means.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't bet against you," Tony announces, his inflection suggesting that it would be ridiculous for anyone to do otherwise.

That makes Ziva smile. "Nor would you go against me yourself, I hope?" she teases. Keeping her tone lighthearted is easier this time.

"Not in a million years, sweet cheeks," Tony assures her with a smile. He, too, seems to be feeling more like himself, and Ziva's about to breathe a sigh of relief when that illusion is shattered. "So, no Europe this time? Just Turkey?"

"Tony, Turkey is in Europe," she argues reflexively.

"No, it's in Asia."

"Yes, and in Europe. Turkey is considered to be a part of both continents."

"I don't believe you. I'm going to look it up."

And just like that, they're play-arguing about something that doesn't matter at all. It feels like a bullet dodged. It's not a permanent fix, but it'll do for now. Bickering relaxes them both.

Once the Turkey argument is settled (with Tony sheepishly admitting that Ziva might have been on to something), a mildly uncomfortable silence falls again. Ziva wonders about the motivation behind his 'no Europe' question. "Just Turkey," she announces after the quiet becomes hard to bear.

"Hmm?"

"I only went to Turkey this week," Ziva clarifies, drawing Tony's attention back to the question that started their 'argument' in the first place. "Nowhere else in Europe."

"Oh." Tony's face clears, and Ziva correctly deduces that he's been trying to figure out how to ask the question again without making the conversation even more awkward than it already is.

She realizes all of the sudden that he's trying to figure out if she was in the Netherlands or not. She had temporarily forgotten about his complicated history with Jeanne Benoit, and she suspects that he wants to make certain that she's notthe one who assassinated Jeanne's father.

Of course, she is, but Eli's threats become a guarantee that she won't tell Tony. Luckily, he seems to believe her this time, and she muses on just how easy it is to lie when she's lying to protect someone she loves with all her heart.

"Why?" she asks lightly after waiting for a moment to see if he's going to say anything else.

"Why what?"

"Why are you asking about Europe?" If they were in the same place, she'd be nudging him—the more annoyingly, the better. She learned from the best that making jokes is sometimes the only way to get through something difficult. "Is there somewhere in particular that you want to go?"

Her teasing works, because Tony gets a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and shrugs. "I was thinking maybe Israel."

That answer makes Ziva beam at him, and it's not faked or forced at all. "Israel is not in Europe, and you are very, very idiotic," she tells him lovingly, making him laugh in triumph. "And there is a place for you here any time you would like to visit."

"That's my girl."

She's suddenly extraordinarily glad that they're catching up, regardless of how many awkward moments they're experiencing, because her life just doesn't have nearly as much humor or affection without him in it. He feels essential to Ziva, like her hands or her gun, something she relies on and would struggle to survive without.

It also occurs to her that even though she really shouldn't (and doesn't want to) ask, knowing it might bring attention to events she can't talk about, it's her job as Tony's partner to get him talking about the things that bother him. "So," she starts, mustering up all of her considerable bravery. "You heard about my week. Now tell me about yours."

Tony's bolstered mood visibly drops again, and he sighs. "I'm assuming you heard that the La Grenouille case is officially closed."

Ziva nods, feeling her heart start to beat faster but working not to show it. "Jeanne?" she guesses sympathetically. She knows she doesn't need to say any more for him to understand what she's getting at.

"Yeah." Looking away for a moment, he picks at his sleeve, his mouth set in a hard line as he tries to decide what to say. "She's… grieving. I hate that she got mixed up in this, that I made her get mixed up in this."

"Tony, none of it is—"

"My fault?" he interrupts, finishing Ziva's sentence with a bitter, disbelieving laugh that makes her heart ache. "Is that really what you think? When we saw the BBC report today, McGee and Abby and Bax looked at me like I might jump off a bridge… or maybe they just thought I should."

Ziva grimaces, deciding not to argue for now because she knows Tony isn't ready to listen to reason. "Have you spoken to Jeanne?" she asks instead.

"Yeah. I went to her apartment as soon as I heard, and… well, I'm the one who ended up giving her the news. She hadn't been notified yet."

Swiftly, Ziva realizes exactly why Tony looks like he's aged overnight, why he seems so tired and so beaten down. She had already gathered that his involvement with Jeanne caused some conflicting feelings about La Grenouille's death, but the weight she can now see settled on his shoulders is something different. His feeling of failed responsibility must not be entirely self-inflicted.

"How did she take it?" she asks in a murmur, though the answer is clear in the hard lines of Tony's expression; she wants him to talk about it but isn't sure he will.

"Not well." That's all he seems willing to say.

Ziva nods, aching for him. "Give her time, Tony. She is simply... hurting. She has no reason to blame you—she is aware that you were dragged into this mess by Jenny Shepard. Eventually, she has to remember that."

"I know," Tony replies. His voice sounds too hollow for Ziva to believe him, though, and she suspects that he just doesn't want to face the effort of arguing. "Listen," he goes on, "do you have any intel on what happened? I promised Jeanne that I'd get to the bottom of it all for her, but last I heard from McGee, NCIS doesn't have any information yet. Please tell me Mossad knows more."

"No," Ziva fabricates quietly. "When I returned to my office, I heard the news, but… details are scarce, it seems, even for us. The common theory at Mossad is that Benoit was taken out by the Dutch security service. I am sorry that I cannot help more."

Tony sighs. "It's okay. If you learn anything else, will you let me know?"

"If I can."

That makes him pause, and he gives her a look. "What happened to you being more open about what's going on at work, hm? I thought we were pretty much past the whole secrecy thing."

Ziva looks away, crossing her arms. It's all she can do not to wince. "This is not about Mossad," she says. "It is about you." Pursing her lips, she makes herself look back at her boyfriend.

"What exactly d'you mean by that?"

It's obvious from his tone that he thinks she must have decided he's untrustworthy, and she feels her face harden for a moment, remembering their last big argument. "It is not what you think."

"That's not an answer, Ziva!" Tony shoots back bitterly. "It would be great if you could stop speaking in riddles for five seconds, though. Maybe you should give that a try!"

"Enough, Tony!" The resurgence of his anger provokes Ziva's own resentment. She gets an idea, though, and before she can say something she shouldn't, she whacks the 'end call' button using more force than strictly necessary. Tony's face instantly vanishes from the screen.

Full of aggravated energy, she snatches her cell phone from the coffee table and marches to the bathroom. She turns the shower on full blast once the door is shut before sitting on the lid of the toilet to make another attempt at her talk with Tony; she's relying on the idea that if there are bugs in her flat, the sound of running water will keep her voice from being picked up by them. She still needs to avoid saying anything too blasphemous, but this will make her gag order slightly easier to work around.

Hoping he won't be too angry to answer after she abruptly ended their video chat, Ziva dials Tony's number.

Luckily, he answers after a few rings. He doesn't say anything, however, instead waiting in stony silence for Ziva to explain herself. She hastens to do so. "Hi… I am sorry for hanging up on you. My laptop was not properly charged and I did not realize that until it died," she fibs.

He sighs roughly, accepting her excuse. "It's fine. But I still think we need to talk."

"I agree."

"Good. Then what'd you mean when you said 'it's about you'?"

"I meant that there may be things I simply cannot share. It is not that I do not trust you, Tony. It is out of my hands."

"Bullshit. You just said this isn't about Mossad. You also told me weeks ago that you were alright with giving me information because you knew I wouldn't rat you out! Either it's about me or it isn't, but I'm sick of hearing half-truths from you."

That inspires Ziva to let out a vehement and colorful Hebrew curse, something Tony has heard enough times to comprehend. "I understand that you are frustrated, but I am walking a wide line here!" she barks, fuming. Then she clenches her fist and lowers her voice again. "Please do not turn this into something it is not."

"This is what it's always been, Ziva—ever since you walked into NCIS on day one! You have to decide who you're loyal to before you alienate everyone on both damn sides. Now please, can you tell me why you're suddenly censoring yourself again?"

The way he's speaking right now—infuriatingly arrogant, demanding things of her when he doesn't fully understand the situation—sends Ziva to her breaking point. She's suddenly heated enough to tell the truth: "Because I am afraid!"

Whatever Tony expected her to say, it wasn't that, and some of his irritation gives way to confusion. "Of what?"

"Of something happening to you, you fool!" Despite the depth of her emotion, she keeps her voice low; she can't forget what's at stake.

"What are you afraid will happen to me?" Tony asks, softening now that she's finally being open with him.

Ziva, however, isn't quite done snapping. "I told you I was working this week, but do you know why I did not send a message to tell you I was busy? Have you thought about why I never once got in contact?" She doesn't give him a chance to answer, continuing immediately after only a breath's pause. "It is not because I did not want to talk—it is because Eli took my phone before I left Tel Aviv, and I could not stop him! He knows about your trip to Israel, Tony. He knows. I knew he would find out and that he would punish me, but I did not know what he would do." She stands up to pace the length of the bathroom as she talks.

Now that she's started talking, she can't stop, and so much of what she's been keeping contained spills out. "This time," she presses on, "it would not be enough to scold and belittle me for behaving against his wishes—no, not for the unforgivable crime of loving someone else! Eli did not yell at me or suspend me. What he did was worse: he manipulated me into leading a mission he thought I could not do. He wanted me to fail and lose whatever autonomy I had left. Even that did not satisfy him, though! He also chose to threaten you. What would you have me do, Tony? Risk your life? I refuse to do that—not for anything, but especially not just to soothe your ego!"

There's only static on the other end of the line as Ziva catches her breath, and just as she's about to check if the call is still going, Tony finally speaks. "I'm sorry," he says evenly.

"It is not enough to be sorry," Ziva replies roughly, feeling all at once like she's taken on the weight of the world as her own personal burden. "You have to trust me. If I say I cannot tell you something, it is because I cannot. If you cannot trust, then you will only have yourself to blame, and..." She trails off with a sigh, leaning back against the sink and pinching the bridge of her nose to fight an impending headache. "I cannot keep convincing you of my loyalty," she finishes finally. She's so tired of trying to keep her right foot in one world and her left in another without leaning too much to either side and falling; the balancing act is both draining and unsustainable.

Again, Tony pauses, and when he speaks, he sounds contrite. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. I know I shouldn't have. All that frustration, all that… I don't know. It all built up when I kept trying to talk to you and couldn't get through. And I didn't really mean to restart that old argument."

"Then what were you trying to do?"

Ziva can hear the fabric of his sweater brush against his phone as he shrugs. Then he actually answers, his words forming slowly as if he's still working through his thoughts even as he speaks them. "I'm not sure I was trying to do anything. It wasn't really about the secrecy, Ziva, or about not hearing from you."

"No?"

"No," Tony decides, and when his tone switches to something more peaceful and less temporising, it's evident that he's come to understand something. "It was about the uncertainty of everything happening all at once, I think. I finally felt like we were on solid ground before all of this happened, but then you disappeared and restarted the whole secret thing as soon as you were back in touch."

"Tony, I—"

"Hang on, Ziva, I'm almost finished," he interrupts gently. "You don't have to tell me everything, okay? If I don't need to know, I don't need to know. That's not what I'm asking for. Just… please don't keep changing the rules on me. I don't want you to feel like our relationship is unstable, but I also don't want to feel that way myself."

Ziva waits to make sure Tony is actually finished, and when it seems like he is, she exhales deeply enough to draw most of the tension out of her body. "That is… fair," she answers, and she means it.

"I'm glad you think so."

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"I am sorry for yelling, too. I know I was harsh. What I said stemmed mostly from Eli, like it usually does, and I felt trapped between his threat and your anger at what he made me do."

"Actually, you didn't."

That nonsensical reply throws Ziva out of apology mode by confusing her. "Did not what?" Surely he's not correcting her when she says how she felt.

"Yell."

She laughs then, and Tony does, too. "Actually," he elaborates, "you were impressively quiet to be giving such a… passionate speech. Were you doing that thing where you get softer and scarier the more I piss you off?"

The question brings a smile to Ziva's lips—maybe he knows her a little too well. "No. I was trying not to be heard."

"Who's there? Aren't you home?"

"Yes, I am at home. There is no one here but me. I think, however, that Eli may have bugged my flat."

There's another suspiciously long pause before Tony speaks again. "He did what?" he asks, his tone darker than it was when they were quarreling.

Ziva sighs. "You seem angry on my behalf, and while I appreciate the show of support, this is not the worst thing he has done… not by a tall shot."

"Long shot," Tony corrects, but his voice still sounds off, like he's holding himself back. "Ziva, just because he's done awful things already, it doesn't mean he should get away with more!"

"I know. This is the least of my worries right now, though."

"Alright. Just know that I'm pissed, even if you're as cool as a cucumber."

Ziva chuckles. "Thank you, Tony. Anyway, I cannot prove there are bugs here—I have not found one, at any rate. I may just be paranoid, but I have a gut feeling."

"Ah, the ol' L.J. Gibbs Biological Barometer."

Ziva can tell Tony's making an effort to repress his outrage with Eli, and she feels a burst of affection for him. He may not be perfect—and they may butt heads like so many dueling rams—but to his credit, he's wonderful at being supportive, whether that means flying to Israel or just backing down from a fight at her request. "That is the one," she murmurs back, realizing that she hasn't said anything in some time.

"You alright, Ziva?"

"Yes." She sighs. "I was just thinking…"

"Ouch, that's never a good idea."

"I was thinking about Mossad ops. I think Eli will send me on more—if I can be useful to him, he will eventually make use of me. I proved this week that I work better in the field than at a desk, and I work better in the field than many other officers of my rank."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. And the reason I was thinking about that is… I cannot guarantee that he will not demand my phone again when sending me on assignment. I am not sure how to let you know that I am alright if that happens—I do not want a repeat of this week."

Tony answers warmly, clearly less concerned about it than she is. "Eh, we'll figure out some kind of Bat Signal. It'll be fine." As she had originally predicted, he lost his ire when he realized her lack of communication was Eli's fault; now he can at least guess what's happening if the same thing occurs next time she leaves.

"I am sure it will be," she agrees, the thought punctuated by a massive yawn.

Tony hears it and sighs. "Sweet cheeks, go to bed. It's got to be—" he interrupts himself to check the clock and then groans— "um, way too late for you."

"I am about to," she assures him, "but before I do, I need you to tell me— did we talk about everything we needed to? I do not want another fight somewhere down the road just because we never finished this one."

"Actually, I feel really good about it all. We were both a little wrong, we were both a little mean, we worked out a compromise, and now we're both a little happier. Did I miss anything?"

Ziva's laugh turns into another yawn. "I believe that covers it."

"Good. Anything else you need to get off your chest?"

"My bra," Ziva answers honestly, thinking of true relaxation after eight days of stress.

Tony snickers. "Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about sexy time?" he asks rhetorically. "Go on now, Z, and set those beautiful breasts of yours free. Get some rest—it sounds like you've had a busy week."

"Alright, alright. I am going. Good night, Tony."

"Night, Ziva. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Ziva spends the next day at work completing a highly detailed mission end report, always partially focused on Eli's office door. Despite knowing that she handled herself well on the Benoit case, she's more than a little apprehensive about the 'performance review' her father promised.

As the afternoon passes without seeing him, though, she starts to suspect that he's not going to be in today, and her attention eventually drifts. She's still working on her lengthy report, but it's more of a menial task than a thought-provoking one, leaving her mind to wonder.

She realizes that she answered Tony incorrectly last night when he questioned whether she had more to talk about. She had intended to talk to him more about his guiltiness in regards to Jeanne's grief—or more importantly, his lack thereof—but the long day caught up with her and she simply forgot to bring it up again. She needs to find some other way to remind him of his innocence, because he can't keep walking around trying to get rid of blood on his hands that's not really there. Guilt can drive a person crazy.

As the hands on the clock approach the number that marks the end of Ziva's typical work hours, she starts idly thinking about what she'll do for dinner. She decides that she'll get takeout instead of cooking tonight because many of the ingredients in her fridge went bad while she was gone. Maybe Italian?

The thought sets off a metaphorical lightbulb above her head, and she logs back into her computer to put in motion the plan she just formulated. Five minutes later, she's done… shortly after Tony gets home from work tonight, he'll be surprised with a large, unhealthy pepperoni pizza—his favorite. So long as the pizzeria follows her instructions from their online order form, Tony will open the box to find the words "I am sorry, and it is not your fault" written inside.

She knows damn well that the way to his heart is through food (or sex) and hopefully, he'll internalize the message she's sending him.

When she arrives at home just shy of an hour later, though, she has to laugh.

On her stoop are two packages, and though they have Israeli return addresses, she knows who they're from. The first is a temperature-controlled box holding a bouquet of flowers, and the second contains two bottles of Italian wine. Apparently, she and Tony think a lot alike.

She brings the boxes inside and finds a printed note that she missed at first in the one from the florist. She picks it up and flips it over to read the message.

Z,

Consider this our first Bat Signal—but instead of "you're okay," I hope you'll read it as "we're okay." Love you, miss you, and sorry I was an ass. Now go drink some wine and drunkenly send me sexy pictures, please.

XO,

VSAAD

The typed-out signature—which she assumes is an abbreviation for Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo—makes her smile the most. She really does miss his ridiculousness; she never thought silliness could be so endearing.

Knowing he's still at work due to the time difference, she sends him a text instead of calling to thank him for the unexpected gifts. Thank you for the flowers and the wine, VSAAD! That was a lovely surprise to come home to.

Shortly after, she gets a reply. R u drinking the wine & taking pix?

Not yet. Please pull your mind from the putter and get back to work. As soon as she shoots off that message, though, she sends another one. But I promise pictures later. ;)

Tony sends back only three winky faces and the word gutter in reply.

Last night's call put Ziva mostly at ease, but when she lays down tonight, sleep will not come.

Her brain is busy, refusing to shut down no matter what she does. At least at first, she can't identify any one trigger that's making her restless, and she thinks she's just feeling today's lack of exercise. Still in the yoga pants and NCIS shirt she laid down in, she gets back up and goes to her building's basement gym for a treadmill run.

It doesn't help, though, and by the time she has showered and gotten in bed for the second time, she's feeling even worse. Her heart is beating too fast, racing along with her directionless thoughts, and she feels almost clammy. Maybe she's getting sick. Maybe she picked up some kind of bug when she was in Europe, and once her immune system catches up, she'll be fine.

She figures out that she's wrong when she starts to see the same image playing on the inside of her eyelids every time her eyes shut. It's not an illness she's experiencing, and it's not a shortage of exercise. No, what she's feeling is guilt.

This isn't something she's ever experienced in the context of a work assignment. She's killed before, many times, and she always moves on with nothing more than a sense of accomplishment. Though she knows she sometimes seems it, she's not heartless or emotionless, and she doesn't enjoy killing. She just knows that the work she carries out is on people who deserve it; by killing, she preserves life. That hardly seems something to mourn over.

Why, then, does she see René Benoit's body falling in slow motion every time her eyelids shut? It really isn't hard to suss out the reason.

It isn't Benoit himself for whom she feels guilty; no, he told her just before his death that he didn't regret destroying some lives and ending others. Ziva has little doubt that without his impending mortality coming to call, Benoit would continue living his life in exactly the same way for a very long time. He needed to die, less as a punishment and more as a preventative measure.

It's also not La Grenouille's daughter who Ziva feels guilty about. She likes Jeanne well enough, she appreciates the friend the other woman has been to Tony in the past, and she knows very well the pain of losing a parent. On a purely pragmatic level, though, Ziva also knows that one woman's grief is a drop in the bucket compared to the collective grief of the families who lost loved ones to La Grenouille's arms empire. Genetics dealt Jeanne Benoit a cruel hand, but it's no crueler than the hand she herself was dealt.

No, it's Tony. He's the reason that she can't quite catch her breath tonight and she can't sleep.

Tony has two very different sides to him—there's the one most people know and the one he hides. The public face of Tony is gregarious, equal parts charming and off putting, and walks around quoting movies to people who don't care about movies. The rest of him, though, is considerably more vulnerable. That side of him takes her on dates to orchards so they can pick apples to bake with. That Tony sat with her in the hospital for as long as visitors hours allowed until she was discharged. The Tony that lives close to her heart flew six thousand miles to spend four days with her.

The Tony that most people don't get to see feels things deeply, and that is the Tony she hurt.

Though she considers herself a rational person, she can't find the utilitarian benefit to Tony's suffering. His pain should weigh equally to the related grief of Jeanne's that Ziva just dismissed, but to her, it weighs more. There's a little part of her that thinks it might be worth it for more people to hurt if it meant Tony didn't have to. While the rest of her is aware of how senseless that line of thinking really is, the little thought is a loud one.

It's completely irrational.

There may be something to Gibb's rule ten after all: never get personally involved on a case.

Ziva knows, however, that no matter how much she hates this feeling, she must never seek absolution. This secret is one she'll have to carry with her to the grave, because Tony can never know what she did in the Netherlands.

If he's already dealing with this much misplaced guilt over simply following orders, she knows he'll feel much worse if he realized the indirect role he actually played in the assassination; if he hadn't convinced Shepard to bring in Mossad to share investigations, Eli probably would not have discovered the clue in Washington that led Mossad to Serbia. If she hadn't defied Eli by welcoming Tony to Israel, she likely would not have been assigned the mission, and someone else may not have found La Grenouille at all. The mental gymnastics of it all is exhausting, but she thinks it through over and over again til she wants to scream.

On a more selfish level, she thinks that if Tony knew what she did, he would never forgive her, even if he forgave himself.

Ziva pictures him giving Jeanne the news, and she pictures Jeanne taking everything out on him when he did. She can see the way he would flinch almost imperceptibly if Jeanne yelled at him, and she has no doubt that he would stand there and be a punching bag if necessary. Anything to help his friend and anything to soothe his own sense of responsibility, both things Ziva can relate to.

She can also see Tony laying alone in his bed in Washington, though, staring up at his bedroom ceiling the same way she's staring up at hers now. It's so effortless to picture the grimace on his face that'll come once he's alone and public Tony is gone. The regret on his features, the waves of lapping remorse keeping him awake, and the apology on his lips are easily visible in her mind's eye; maybe those things are so straightforward to visualize because they're on her features and leaving her lips, too.

"I am so sorry, my love," she tells her empty flat.

With that, she tries to push Tony from her head and she cries herself to sleep.

Chapter Text

After the fight and the discomfort that preceded it, Tony and Ziva overcompensate a little trying to make up to one another the harsh words shared between them, and it leads to an… awkward moment.

Tony's desk phone rings in the middle of a case presentation, and after a questioning look at his boss—to which Gibbs responds with an incredulous look that eloquently says 'well, pick the damn thing up so we can move on!'—Tony accidentally hits the speaker button in an effort to pick up the handset. "Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," he answers, trying to turn the speaker off—the button, unfortunately, is jammed.

"Ah, Special Agent, I am calling to alert you to a very serious situation."

Tony recognizes Ziva's voice at once and his instincts immediately scream at him to end the call—because there's an inflection in her voice that hints at something absolutely not meant for the ears of Gibbs and McGee. He tries in a panic to stop her. "Ziva, wait, no, you're on speaker, don't—"

Ziva doesn't hear him, and Tony realizes that in trying to turn off the speaker, he has managed to mute himself. "In order to address this situation, your mission is to Skype your girlfriend as soon as you get home from work. She is very naked and waiting for you—"

Tony finally gets himself unmuted, and he hastens to cut Ziva off before she can further damage both of their reputations. "Ziva, stop talking, you're—"

Unfortunately, Gibbs interrupts. "We can hear you, Ziver, and your boyfriend has work to do."

There's a beat of silence, a slight squeak, and then the sound of the dial tone.

McGee starts snickering and Tony's about ready to jump him when Gibbs slaps the backs of both of their heads. "The case," he prompts sharply.

They both get back to work, though Tony's ears feel distinctly warm for the rest of the day.

When he gets home, he does call Ziva—who is fully clothed, despite what she said earlier, and her face is beet red. Seeing her face sets Tony off into a fit of hysterical laughter... he's far enough removed from his earlier mortification now to find the whole thing hilarious.

"Shut up, Tony," Ziva growls, her mind zipping through the best ways of killing a person from close to six thousand miles away.

"But your—your—" Tony is howling and his mirth suddenly can't be contained. "Special Agent," he cries in a terrible mimicry of Ziva's voice.

"Do you wish to go back to being single, Tony?"

"A very serious situation—"

"I know people who will not hesitate to kill you if I ask. Do not make me call in a favor."

"Your mission is to Skype your girlfriend—"

"Tony!" Ziva is laughing now, too, though, reluctantly amused even if she'll never be able to look Gibbs and McGee in the eye again.

Tony stops mocking her, but it takes him a while to finally laugh himself out. When he finally falls silent, he's beaming. "I got the biggest head slap of my life for that—it was totally worth it. Honestly, what were you thinking?" The question is one of gleeful curiosity, not frustration.

"I thought most of the office would be empty at this time of day. I was trying to spice things up," Ziva replies, grinning ruefully and rubbing her temples with the fingers of both hands.

Tony laughs again a little. "Safe to say that things cannot possibly get any spicier now that Gibbs is involved—never know you were interested in threeways, sweet cheeks."

"Ew!" she protests loudly, narrowing her eyes and briefly contemplating murder again.

Tony knows that if Ziva was here, she would be whacking him. The look on her face certainly says enough.

He stops teasing her, but he's certain that the memory of this afternoon's incident will linger for years… that is, if his girlfriend doesn't kill him before the day is out.

When she stops looking homicidal, he gives her a very warm smile that he hopes will earn him some forgiveness, and it seems to work slightly. "Under any other circumstances, Ziva, I would have loved a dirty surprise like that. I think it'd be fun to be tempted at work—I mean, intentionally tempted at work. You've been tempting me since the day you walked into the bullpen for the first time."

"Do you think that flattery will get you off the hooker?"

That threatens to send Tony into fresh peals of laughter, but he bravely swallows down the urge. "Hook," he corrects. "Off the hook. And no, I was just being honest."

Like a switch has flipped, Ziva suddenly grins, looking now just as suggestive as she sounded when she called earlier. "I know I have always tempted you. That was by design."

"Was it?"

"Yes…" she trails off without elaborating, making Tony lean forward curiously, staring at her on his computer screen.

"Sounds like you have a story to tell."

"I do not."

"But—"

"There is more to the explanation of why, but I do not think you want to hear it."

"Why not?"

"It is not very flattering to you."

Tony laughs. "Come on, try me."

"Alright, if you insist." Ziva's lips twitch as if she doesn't want to smile. "Work at Mossad has always been… fast-paced, yes? There was little down time. The pace of NCIS is often slower, and in the first few weeks and months, I found myself… understimulated, I think—bored would not be the right word. I needed something to engage my attention between moments of adrenaline."

"So you… flirted with me?"

"It was very easy to get a—" Ziva quiets for an extended pause, dragging her eyes deliberately up and down his frame— "rise out of you," she finishes eventually. "You were always eager to bicker, especially if I hinted at anything… non-workplace appropriate. It was a dependable way to keep myself occupied."

"So you flirted with me not because you were interested, but because you had nothing better to do?"

Ziva laughs. "I did not say that!" she protests. "Quite the opposite, actually."

"How so?"

"I was immediately interested, particularly because you could so effortlessly argue with me. But because I needed the distraction, I put an unusual amount of effort into tempting you, never intending to give up that outlet by following through."

"And what if you hadn’t needed that… hobby?" Tony asks dryly, amused.

The look Ziva gives him now sends a minor shock through his system—she looks hungry, but at the same time, she seems… diminutive, somehow. Subservient, maybe. It's like she's presenting herself to him as an open offer, choosing to flip around on what she did before they slept together for the first time.

"Then I would have taken you to bed at the first opportunity. It would not have taken more than a week," she promises, her fingers plucking at the top button of her shirt as if to prove that to him now.

"You sound pretty confident on that."

"Oh, I am."

Tony really can't argue with her on that one. He would have gladly had sex with her no matter when she had asked.

He sits back against the sofa cushions now, evaluating her and thinking about what she has just told him… he feels his heart race a little just looking at the expression on her face. It's only too clear that for once, she's in the mood to please.

Tony tries very hard to avoid considering why that is, not wanting to imagine that she feels she has things to make up to him after their fight; he shoves any niggling concerns aside and focuses on Ziva.

She certainly makes that a simple task, at least. She's easy on the eyes, as usual.

Presumably scarred for life by this morning's awkward encounter, she wearing a full outfit, but, well... it's Ziva; she manages to be sexy in anything. Today, she's wearing pale pink, something Tony's not sure if he's ever seen her wear in their time together. It's an unusually impractical color for someone who likes to be ready to run, but he likes the look on her. It makes her seem… softened, maybe. Relaxed.

She deserves to relax more often.

Her blush-colored button-down is tucked into a flowy-looking knee-length skirt that's only a shade darker; its fabric is draped haphazardly on the couch cushions around her, hiding her legs from sight where they're tucked under her body. Despite her earlier humiliation, she now looks happy and at ease, lounging comfortably in a way that reminds Tony of the movie nights they used to have so frequently.

Things have been stressful for both of them lately, and it comes as a welcome change to see her looking this worry-free… especially dressed as she is in shades that bring out the color in her cheeks.

Tony must study her for just a beat too long, because before he gets around to saying anything, Ziva interrupts his thoughts. "See something you like?" she asks, equal parts wry and affectionate.

"Honey, I see nothing but," he affirms, his intentionally sensual inflection and use of an unusual pet name doing nothing to disguise the fond sincerity behind his words.

Ziva smiles slowly, suggestively, considering him the way he just considered her. "If only you were here to do something about that," she comments, her voice at odds with her expression; it's airy and light as if she really couldn't care less herself. The combination comes across as devious, playful... and absolutely enticing.

"Would that I could, my dear."

"Perhaps I could do something about it for you, then."

Now Tony is beginning to understand the look she wore on her face a few minutes ago, before she started gazing at him as if she was ready to take him to bed… if he had to guess, he would say the look was part offer, part challenge, all desire.

He can work with that.

"Oh, yeah? What do you have in mind?"

One of Ziva's hands drifts back to the neckline of her top, fingers starting to trace circles around the top button but not undoing it—yet. "I have been thinking about something," she shares, still with a tone of entirely feigned innocence that makes her sound far less cunning than Tony knows her to be. "Do you remember when I left for Israel?"

"Of course I do."

"I had a layover, if you recall, in Istanbul…"

Oh, yes, Tony certainly remembers, and her reminder is enough to make his heart rate go up a bit. He often thinks about that night. "You called me when you landed," he agrees. His voice sounds off, like his airway is restricted; that may have something to do with a very physical reaction to recalling that particular phone conversation.

Ziva very obviously understands what's going through Tony's mind, and the slight smile still playing at her lips turns into a smirk; she has accomplished what she was aiming for. "I did, you are right," she praises. "And I… mm, coaxed you back to sleep, yes?"

"Mhm." It's all he can manage for now.

"Well, I was thinking… maybe it is time for you to do the coaxing."

They've had to be creative to keep their sex life going while they're so far apart, and now that they've been long-distance for a while, they've settled into certain patterns. They often sext or have phone sex, or do something similar to what they're doing at the moment and end up masturbating together, joined by webcams and an internet connection… but it's rare for anything they do to be so focused on just one of them.

That gives the idea some extra merit points for novelty, and Tony immediately warms to it. "You want me to…"

"Talk me through pleasuring myself for you, my love. Tell me what you want to see."

He nods quickly. "I, um, I can do that." If his voice sounds a little tighter than before, he doesn't let that embarrass him.

Ziva chuckles darkly, a sound that sends shivers down Tony's spine. "Then please, Tony, go ahead."

Tony opens his mouth to do just that, but then something occurs to him that draws him sharply from his haze of arousal as if he's been splashed with icy water. "But what about…" He doesn't want to mention her suspicions of a bugged apartment out loud, in case someone is listening... but he's pretty sure that Ziva doesn't want a Mossad audience for what they're about to do.

Luckily, Ziva is far from being slow on the uptake, and she shrugs.

"If the walls are thin enough for a neighbor to overhear and they decide to listen into what I am doing today, then I think they will come to regret that decision."

Her eyes flash, daring Tony to argue—or maybe daring anyone who might be eavesdropping. It makes Tony a little nervous, but it's nice to see this much fire burning behind her eyes again… he knows that she's been down since returning to the Middle East.

And if loudly and aggressively living her life makes her feel more independent, less like a puppet, then he isn't going to be the one to stop her. He just hopes that if the apartment is bugged, today's recordings make Eli or whoever he has doing his dirty work regret ever messing with Ziva.

"Alright," he agrees, shrugging slightly. "I'm game if you are."

"Excellent." And just as suddenly, the flames in Ziva's eyes have a new outlet. "I am all yours."

"Glad to hear it." Tony clears his throat. "How do you want to st—"

He stops talking at once when Ziva, not waiting for him to finish, reclines and pushes the ends of her skirt away impatiently to spread her legs and get comfortable, awaiting further instruction.

"I see," Tony responds mildly, sounding strangled. It's apparent that she's been thinking about this for quite some time, because he can see slickness between her legs—he only belatedly realizes that means she has forgone wearing underwear.

"Please, begin whenever you are ready." Ziva looks at him almost lazily, amused and waiting for him to catch up with what she's been planning.

It takes Tony a beat or two to find his footing, but he remembers how to talk dirty… it's just a combination of his favorite things, after all.

"Mm," he finally purrs, reaching over to adjust his computer screen and look at her more directly. "I can see how wet you are for me," he starts, lowering his voice half a pitch. "Do you wish I was there to take care of you?"

"Always," Ziva agrees quietly, and that draws Tony slightly away from the state of one-track determination that he's falling into, distracting him enough to inspire a warm half-smile at her.

"Soon enough, my love," he comforts her gently. "We'll get there."

"I know."

"In the meantime, why don't you tell me what your fingers are substituting for today?" Despite the suggestiveness of his words, Tony's voice is mild, making sure that Ziva wants to continue the game.

In response, appreciating his thoughtfulness, Ziva sticks two fingers into her mouth and sucks on them for a moment, watching as Tony's eyes darken and he leans forward intently, eyes on the screen. She releases her fingers with a pop, enjoying the wet sound they make. "For now, I am imagining your fingers… though I hope your mouth and your cock will make an appearance, too."

Tony clears his throat, his imagination immediately taking him in several different directions at once, and he reminds himself that this time, it's supposed to be about him talking to Ziva.

"Fingers it is, then," he agrees roughly, swallowing hard once more.

"I am ready to use them," Ziva says lightly, the look on her face just a little too smug to not be the one in charge. "Feel free to instruct me as I did for you in Istanbul."

"Oh, I intend to," Tony assures her darkly, and a different kind of half-smile rises to his lips this time. "I know what you want to do, what you want to touch, but we're not quite there yet, sweet cheeks. We're going to take our time."

Ziva raises her eyebrows speculatively, but she nods, intrigued. She'd known this would be a good idea; Tony is a creative person, especially when he's specifically challenged to do something that inspires him.

"Good girl. Now…" As Tony speaks, he shifts again to unbutton his shirt, enjoying the interest in Ziva's expression as she sees him do it. "Do me a favor and spread your legs just a little further."

Ziva doesn't hesitate.

"Gorgeous," Tony murmurs, sliding his arms out of his sleeves. "Have I ever told you how much I love those legs of yours?"

"Perhaps once or twice."

"Mm. Well, since I'm not there to enjoy them, I want you to do it for me. Run your hands along your thighs—start on the outsides—and feel how soft they are." He watches with a deep sense of approval as Ziva does what he asked, and he feels his pants tighten just a little further. He may need to rid himself of them soon.

"Perfect. Imagine that we're back in that hotel room in Tel Aviv, and I'm taking you against the wall by the door. My hands are just where yours are now, but I'm not caressing, Ziva. I'm holding on as hard as I can, keeping you propped up against the wall as we fuck for the first time in months."

Tony watches with satisfaction as Ziva's eyes flutter shut, and she bites her lower lip. Though her image is slightly grainy from the poor quality of her webcam, he can easily see how the pressure of her hands on her thighs increases.

"Oh, I know how much you like it rough, Z. What is it you said when I asked you if I was hurting you a few weeks ago?"

"I ordered you to hold me harder," Ziva recalls obediently, a breath of a moan in her voice.

"Exactly right. You told me in no uncertain terms that you wouldn't break. And I listened, didn't I? You had bruises for two days—and when I tried to feel bad about that, you dragged my hands back to the same places and had me do it again."

Tony can hear Ziva's breath quicken, and she nods, her eyes still closed. "It was in the shower that time."

Yes, it's definitely time for Tony's pants to be removed... because they're starting to feel more than a little restrictive.

"Your memory never ceases to amaze me." Tony stands, keeping his eyes glued to the laptop on the coffee table as he takes off his pants, underwear, and socks with no ceremony. He yanks off his undershirt, too. "Now," he continues, "do the same thing, but with your inner thighs…"

Ziva lets out a little groan as her fingers pass close to where she really wants them to go, and Tony licks his lips.

"Your skin is sensitive there, isn't it? I learned that the first time I went down on you… I kissed my way up your thigh, and you were squirming well before I ever reached my final destination."

Now entirely naked, Tony sits back down and takes himself in hand, starting to casually stroke his growing erection.

"I want you to use that big brain of yours to imagine that I'm doing that now… I'm kissing everywhere I can reach, stopping every now and then when I get to a place that you really like. Can you show me one of those places now?"

The fingers of Ziva's right hand drift lightly to rest near her femoral artery.

"Mm, that's one of my favorite places, too. You know what? For authenticity, your touch needs to be wet, if we're pretending you're me, because I would have absolutely gone to explore some other places by now… go ahead and use whatever natural lubricant you have at your disposal. Put your fingers back in your mouth, or maybe slide them up between your legs for just long enough to—"

Tony stops talking, snorting, when Ziva immediately shifts her fingers to her wet heat.

"Ziva?"

"Mm?"

That was a moan more than a response to Tony's question, and he tries again.

"Ziva."

"Yes?"

"Open your eyes and look at me."

It takes a moment, but then she does, looking hazy. Tony tries to fight off his smirk and look at her sternly.

"I thought we were taking our time with this."

"We are."

"Then you should probably save the 'fingering yourself' thing for later."

Ziva gives him a dirty look, but she withdraws her fingers. "Why? I did not torture you when it was my turn to give directions."

Tony barks out a laugh and sits back, still smugly pumping himself with his fist, reveling in the balance of power here. He so often feels at her mercy, and besides being just… well, hot, the role reversal itself is enjoyable since they haven't done anything like this in a while.

A certain night with handcuffs comes to mind… He's glad Ziva took the initiative here, because this is wonderful.

"I mean," he teases wryly, "if this isn't doing it for you, feel free to ignore me and do what you'd like."

"I did not say that."

"So you want me to keep telling you what to do?"

"Yes, but you do not have to be so smug about it."

Tony laughs again, more loudly this time, and shifts the way he's sitting again so that he's closer to the laptop. "I am who I am, and it's me—your smug boyfriend—who you're imagining between your legs right now, right?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Now, do you want to get back to it?"

Ziva wrinkles her nose at him, and he takes that as a yes.

"Good. Alright, as much as I love seeing your skirt all bunched up around your waist, I think it's time to show a little more skin. After all, there's a lot more of you that I'd be paying attention to if I was there. Why don't you take this opportunity to show me what I'm missing?"

...and oh, does Ziva ever. Thank God for modern technology, Tony thinks.

Unhurried, Ziva rises to her feet, moving the computer back farther so that she's still in full view of the webcam when she straightens back up. Then she pauses for a moment, watching Tony lazily masturbate, and she licks her lips in a way that makes him ready to get right back on a plane to Israel. He'll never stop loving the fact that she wants him as badly as he wants her.

Evidently thinking along the same lines, Ziva makes an expression that's somewhere along the lines of self-satisfied; she looks like the Cheshire cat, and Tony wonders if the balance of power hasn't shifted while he was busy teasing her. "I see you already remember what you are missing," she observes in a sultry voice. "Are you this hard for me every time we have phone sex?"

Tony groans—he can't help it. "God, yes," he agrees, the last word turning into something of a hiss. For a moment, he loses the power of speech—Ziva's openly self-congratulatory enjoyment of what he's doing has sent a new rush of blood to his cock. Then, after clearing his throat twice, he manages to find his voice again. "Don't try to turn the tables on me, Ziva," he warns.

"Try?" Ziva emphasizes with mild disdain, and hell if her air of superiority doesn't make things worse—well, harder—for Tony!

"Ziva—"

"Oh, do not fret, my love. I do not want to take over your game. I am the one who asked for it in the first place, yes? I am only reminding you that I can bend you to my will at a moment's notice."

"That has never been in question," Tony admits breathlessly, and Ziva gives a dark chuckle.

"You try to gather your thoughts, if you can, while I undress… I think your ability to chatter has been wasted without talking me to orgasm for too long now."

"Right you are." Tony waves vaguely with his free hand to indicate that she should proceed, and he starts to jerk his fist a little faster. If he wants to come when she does, he's going to need to pace himself, but she's just so damn attractive! It's hard not to give into the temptation she's placing in front of him yet again.

Ziva observes him for another moment before starting to nimbly unbutton her shirt. "Do you remember," she asks softly, her tone a pitch or two lower than usual—clear evidence of the fact that Tony is not the only one affected by this, "when you damaged my blouse by being too rough with the buttons? Two of them popped off, and I was very frustrated with you."

Her description pulls the memory through the haze of Tony's arousal to the forefront of his mind, and he tries to keep track of it. "Your, um, your green shirt?"

"Mhm," Ziva says approvingly, delicately pulling the now loose fabric of her shirt away from her torso and dropping the whole thing to the floor. "I thought it would not be wearable again, but then you did something that surprised me."

As she speaks, she turns around, bending over slowly and lasciviously to tug on her skirt—Tony must have missed when she unzipped it, and his breath catches in his throat as the floaty material falls gracefully to join her shirt at her feet… since she's not wearing any underwear and she's facing away from him, it gives him a very nice view of some of his favorite parts of her.

He especially likes the fact that he can see again from this angle just how wet she is; besides turning him on more, it also makes him proud. That's all for him.

"Do you remember that, Tony?" Ziva prompts, straightening back up at a leisurely pace and turning to face him. She doesn't bother to hide the amusement in her expression at the way his eyes are glazed over from staring.

Tony shakes himself briefly, and lets out a grunt when the sight of her mouth moving again puts his imagination to work. "Um, yeah." He sounds a little hoarse. "I took it to be repaired and gave it back to you."

"That is right, you did. But then I found that I could not wear the blouse anymore, even once it was mended… because when I tried wearing it to the office for the first time, you were so distracted that you nearly let yourself get shot. And watching you, knowing what you were remembering… that distracted me, too. So I stopped wearing the blouse to work."

"D'you still have it?" Tony wants to know, trying to follow the conversation but feeling helpless to do anything more mindful than simply watch as Ziva unhooks her bra and divests herself of it, putting her breasts on display.

"I do," she confirms, returning the computer to its original position and settling back down on her sofa. "It is in my closet… waiting for you. Maybe the next time you visit, you can pop the buttons off again. I will not mind this time."

"I'd be happy to," Tony assures her gruffly, deciding that it's high time to stop lightly thrusting into his own hand if he wants to have the presence of mind to take control back. It's hard to do, though, and a low moan leaves his lips as he unclenches his fingers and lets himself go.

To distract himself and get back into a more dominant mindset, Tony sits forward and straightens up.

"Are you ready to sit in the driver's seat again?" Ziva asks smugly, and the challenge in her tone is enough to seal the deal.

"Oh, you bet I am," he guarantees. "Are you ready to listen to me?"

"I am all eardrums."

Tony snorts and readjusts his laptop one more time, wanting to see her as clearly as he can. (When they're finally reunited, he won't miss the technology part of this chapter of their relationship.) "Alright, then. Spread your legs for me again, will you?"

"With pleasure." Ziva does so.

"Now, I think it's finally time for you to touch yourself, sweet cheeks. D'you think you can multitask?"

"Of course."

"That's what I like to hear. With your left hand, I want you to show me what you like me to do to your nipples—I know you like them gently bitten. See if you can recreate the feeling." Once Ziva starts, seeming perfectly docile and obedient again in a way that he knows she definitely isn't, he goes on. "With your right hand, I want to see if you can mimic what I do with my tongue between your legs. Now, I don't want you to put your fingers in yet, but I think your clit deserves a little attention, wouldn't you agree?"

Ziva's moan is a little too loud and sudden to be in agreement rather than just an involuntary vocalization, but Tony takes it as concurrence anyway. "Lovely," he praises, and he's met with another groan, this one from deeper in Ziva's throat. It's both a request for more and an appeal for mercy.

"Where your right hand is now… God, I just want to bury my face there until you scream. Would you like that, Ziva?"

She doesn't answer, and Tony's tone gets more austere when he next speaks; he's enjoying this. "I asked you a question, Ziva," he reminds her.

"Yes," she finally replies, her voice almost a whimper.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I..."

"Ziva?" Tony cues. 

When Ziva finally answers, her words are assertive, much more present than before, and they're clearly meant as a complaint for making her divide her brainpower when all the really wants is to lose herself in feeling and imagining.

"Yes," she admits impatiently, "I want you to go down on me, Tony!" 

Her snappy inflection doesn't manage to hide her breathlessness, making Tony ache to grab his cock again, but they're not quite there yet. "Glad we're in agreement," he says, clearing his throat forcefully so he can keep talking. "If I was there, I think I'd probably be generous at this point and give in to what you wanted… I'd put my lips on your clit and start sucking until you begged me to stop. I know from experience that you wouldn't do that until you'd had at least one orgasm, maybe two."

Ziva's noises are increasing in volume and frequency again, her frustration already forgotten. Tony is fairly impressed that she's managing to keep up the rhythm of both the hand on her breast and the hand that's sliding through her slickness further down. He knows that she's getting close—she must have been very aroused by the time he finally let her start touching herself—but he also knows that without at least a little penetration, she's unlikely to fall over the edge entirely.

"What do you want, Ziva? Mm?"

She shakes her head quickly, her eyes still clenched tight, telling him that she can't answer him.

Feeling a little devious, Tony pushes her to speak anyway; he can't help enjoying the way she loses much of her typical eloquence when she's this deeply invested in hurtling toward her hard-earned finish. "You can't have it unless you tell me what it is," he presses.

Ziva bites her lip so hard that Tony can see imprints of her front teeth when she releases it, and with clear effort, she forces her eyes open so she can look at him. When her answer finally comes, though, it's not the one he thought she'd give, and there's a touch of quiet vulnerability battling with the arousal already present in her voice...

"I want you," she says.

It Tony's heart clench unexpectedly, because he knows that she doesn't just mean right now.

"I'm all yours, my love," he promises; like her, he aches to share this experience in person.

Just as he was earlier, he's uncertain for a brief moment of whether her should finish what they're doing now or back off and offer her words of comfort instead... but he doesn't have to hesitate for long, because the next time Ziva's middle finger passes over her clit, she cries out sharply and shuts her eyes again. Her brief war between emotions and sexual frustration is over and the brief heartfelt moment has ended. 

Right. Time to finish this, then, if he can keep up with her shifting gears.

"Since all you have right now is your imagination, my voice, and your own two hands, what do you want to do to make up for the fact that I'm not there to take care of you right now?" Tony prompts, doing his best to keep her attention as she gets more and more vocal.

"I want…" Ziva's voice borders on a whine, and she has to swallow before she can finish her sentence. "Fingers. I want to…"

Tony takes pity on her. "You're ready to finger fuck yourself?"

Ziva doesn't answer, but she moans again, and he can see her starting to shift restlessly. She's close, and she wants that release.

Tony thinks that she has more than earned it; knowing her take-no-prisoners disposition, he's actually a little surprised that she hasn't simply abandoned the game to act upon what her body is urging her to do.

It's time to give her permission to do what she needs.

"Do it, Ziva," he coaxes intently. "Push two of your fingers in, and keep listening to me while you do it."

Ziva complies at once. "Tony!" she cries, making him proud.

"God, you're a sight for sore eyes," he tells her approvingly. "Now, keep it up, picturing me while you do, and don't forget to keep playing with your breasts." As he watches her obey, Tony finally gives into his own burning need for friction. He takes his cock in hand and times his movements to the rhythm of Ziva's noisily-working fingers. "You know that always makes it better when you finally come, sweet cheeks."

He starts moving his right hand quickly as Ziva uses her own to apparently great effect—at least, that is, if the sounds coming from her throat are any indication at all. Tony knows from experience that they are.

"I think," he continues, beginning to pant slightly from both exertion and stimulation, "that I'd just be using my mouth and my hands tonight. There's something—mm, Ziva!—there's something so nice about focusing on making you get there for me, knowing that I'm all you can think about. You're so damn gorgeous when we're having sex, you always have been. So tonight, those fingers pumping in and out of out you—rough and quick, just like you like it… those fingers would be mine. Oh, fuck, Ziva, I want to taste you. I can practically feel you in my hands right now, you're so wet."

Tony's spending as much attention as he can spare on listening to Ziva's vocalizations, because he doesn't want to find his release until he gives her her own, but keeping himself from letting go too quickly and continuing to speak coherently is almost more than he can manage. Just doing one or the other would be hard enough at this point, to be honest.

"I'd be doing just what you're doing now—playing with your breast, tweaking your nipple in that way that makes you scream, and I'd be twisting the fingers of my other hand as I did, trying to hit that sweet spot. Do that, too, Ziva, and imagine that you're feeling me pinning you to the couch. Imagine me pushing you relentlessly closer and closer to where you want to go. Don't be afraid to beg."

Ziva listens; she moans his name so loudly that disregarding her surroundings, Tony starts to think his own neighbors are going to hear her through the apartment walls. She puts a lot of pleading in that one word.

"That's exactly right. Are you close, my love? Do you want to feel your muscles clenching around your hand? Add a third finger now, and then start a rhythm that you can sustain. You're almost there, I can hear it in your voice."

It'll only be seconds now, and Tony forces his eyes to stay open so he can watch her finish.

"Imagine feeling a little unexpected warmth when I reach down to kiss your stomach—don't think I haven't noticed that you like to be touched there. There we go, you're so close… Picture it and come, Ziva. Come for me. Yell my name and remind everyone who you want fucking you."

Ziva follows his instructions immediately, her back arching away from the sofa she's lying on and the hand on her breast clenching forcefully enough that her nails scrape her soft skin. The way she cries "Tony!" is almost a benediction—what a powerful feeling.

Tony watches her for as long as he possibly can until he has to surrender to his orgasm, too, her name passing his lips just as his passed hers; then, fifty-eight hundred miles apart, he and Ziva both collapse in exhaustion, their poses and their thoughts nearly identical to one another's.

"Close your eyes and open your mouth."

"Why?"

Ziva pokes his chest, fighting a smile. "Because I asked you to."

"But why did you ask me to?"

"Because I have a surprise for you."

"God, Ziva, we're in public!" Tony says with a loud enough melodramatic gasp to draw the stare of a passerby.

Ziva whacks him, laughing. "Tube down, you idiot!"

"Pipe down."

"Whatever," she says dismissively, snorting. "It is not that kind of surprise, you absolute fool. But if you do not play along now, you may not have any more surprises like that soon, either."

"I don't know, I'm pretty sure I could convince you when we get back to the hotel…"

"Is being wrong about that really a risk you are willing to take?" Ziva challenges.

Tony narrows his eyes at her, trying to determine how serious she's being, and she sticks her tongue out at him, making him laugh.

They're in Jerusalem for the day, wandering around, and Ziva is delighting more in her own country now that she's showing it to Tony than she has in quite some time. It's nice to remember all the things she loves here… even if Tony is, as usual, being as obstinate as possible. Obviously, she can't tell him this without risking him becoming totally insufferable about it, but she has so deeply missed everything about him that even his knack for annoying her is unusually charming.

And speaking of that knack for being bothersome, he still won't open his mouth.

"Have you stopped trusting me?" she wants to know.

"Of course I haven't. I just don't trust you as much about…" he trails off, giving her a look that can only be described as 'side eye.'

"About what?"

"About food, especially Israeli food. And this is a food thing, right?"

Ziva rolls her eyes. "What else would it be?"

"You tell me, I don't know!"

"Yes, it is a 'food thing.' But why do you not—"

"Falafel meal, Ziva," Tony interrupts gravely, shuddering. "Falafel meal."

That makes Ziva throw her head back and laugh exuberantly, remembering his horror during one of their cooking lessons. Tony had complained loudly and at great length about the consistency of the meal that would eventually become fried chickpea balls, and Ziva had thought for a moment that he was going to pass out when she casually ate some of the uncooked dough.

"Squishy!" he had whined, disgusted.

"This is nothing like that at all."

"But I don't know if I can really put any stock in your opinion. You thought that was normal, too."

"Falafel meal is normal. And you liked the end product when all was said and done, yes?"

"Yes. But—"

"Please listen to me, Tony, for once," she cuts him off, snorting.

"I always listen to you," Tony mutters, but Ziva ignores him.

"I would like to cater to your sweet tooth, if you will let me."

"Oh, it's something sweet?" All at once, he seems much more interested.

"You are such a child," Ziva complains without heat. "Yes, it is a dessert—so please, close your eyes."

He finally does then, though Ziva is fairly certain he has at least one of his eyelids cracked so he can watch her through his eyelashes. 'Trusting,' indeed.

"Good," she praises, sure he can see her rolling her eyes for the fifth time today. "Now, open your mouth."

Once he does, she pushes in a piece of sfenj. Tony bites down reflexively, and almost immediately, he groans in pleasure. "Oh, this is delicious!" he says, his words garbled by the fried dough between his teeth. "It's like a doughnut!"

"Do not talk with your mouth full, Tony," Ziva admonishes, but she's giggling.

Tony opens his eyes again and grins at her, his cheeks still full of food. "Should I kiss with my mouth full instead?"

Ziva starts to back away, shaking her head. "Do not dare—"

Tony follows her, though, and with a quiet squeal of laughter that makes her seem closer to her actual age than she usually appears, she turns on her heel and scurries away from him. Laughing maniacally, Tony chases her, and before too long, he does kiss her. Being considerate, he swallows first, but the kiss is still sticky and sweet, flavored of Moroccan pastries and the happiness of relaxing together.

A few minutes later, they return to the same street vendor Ziva made a covert purchase from just prior, and they both eat their fill.

They may or may not share a few more sugary, gooey kisses along the way.

"What are you thinking about?" Tony wants to know, drawing Ziva out of her thoughts.

She looks up at her computer screen with a smile, having temporarily zoned out and missed what he said. "Hm?"

"You just looked… I don't know. Faraway there for a moment, I guess. What were you thinking about?"

"Jerusalem."

"The city itself, or…?"

Ziva shakes her head, smiling again but more softly this time. "No, I was thinking of being there with you."

"We had a good time, didn't we?" Tony recollects fondly. "With the, um…"

Rather than opting to supply the word that she knows he's looking for, Ziva watches in amusement as he struggles. It's nice to see him be the one to trip over words for once!

"The, um, the sforzando things."

That makes her crack up, and the wide, affectionate smile on Tony's face makes her think that he may have intentionally chosen the word to draw out a giggle at his silliness… and she really, really loves him for it.

"Sfenj," she corrects once she calms a little.

"Pretty sure that's exactly what I said."

"Not quite."

"Eh, potato, potahto."

"Sfenj, sforzando," Ziva mocks, grinning.

"They sound the same to me."

Somehow, their state of post-coital bliss is no less authentic or pleasant just because they're close to ten thousand kilometers apart, and as they lazily tease one another, they both lounge in front of their respective webcams, comfortably nude.

It makes the distance seem small, easily crossed, and it's so deeply comforting when Ziva spends so much of her time in Israel feeling isolated.

"Tony?"

"Mhm?"

"I love you. You are so…"

"Funny? Charming?" Tony can't resist teasing when she pauses.

"Yes, but more importantly… you are everything to me," she finally finishes.

And not for the first time, it seems like the distance between them doesn't matter in the slightest… because Tony feels exactly the same way, and it makes his throat so tight for a moment that he can't answer her. The amount that he feels for her—love, affection, longing, protectiveness, and a fierce, deep joy for her presence in his life—is almost overwhelming.

"I love you, too," he finally answers, and Ziva gives him a soft look as if she knows just why he paused before he said it.

The words hardly seem to be enough anymore, but they're all he has.

And Ziva doesn't seem to mind, anyway.