Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re just lucky,” Tony scoffs at her, trailing her through the cubicles, passed their desks, halfway to the elevator, still not willing to admit defeat.

“Oh?” She does not bother to expand on her words as Tony is more interested is being an impoverish loser than to actually listen to her when she tries to explain why he was not chosen for this case.

“Yeah, maybe if you’d listened to me when I—” she stops abruptly at the elevator, turning to face him in one brisk movement, making him stop less than half a foot from her, and for a moment, their proximity appears enough to distract him from the one-sided argument he was so involved in—a one-sided argument that she already explained to him did not matter because Vance had already chosen who was to take the lead “—are you trying to test my reflexes?”

“No, Tony, if I wanted to do that, I would do this.”

Without warning she tosses the case file at him, the one filled with instructions, the address to her safe house, the main locations she needs to familiarize herself with, a list dictating what she needs to wear, her alias, her background—everything he would eventually learn from working on the case from the office anyways. It does not matter if he learns it a few days early.

To her amusement, Tony catches the file, unfortunately the maneuver is more of a clap than a catch and he ends up dropping his coffee on the ground. But his mouth grows into a large grin as his morning caffeine absorbs into the freshly steamed carpets.

“Ah ha!” He points at her, both of his hands snapping open the file and his eyes scanning. “You’re Rose Eid.”

“The carpet has eaten your coffee.”

“Rose—Isn’t that old? Like an old woman’s name?” He briefly darts his eyes back to her, though they’re not exactly looking at her, as he squints in recollection. “Wasn’t she one of the Golden Girls?”

“I don’t know or care what that is.” She reaches for the file that he meticulously snatches away at the perfect time, enacting another game of predator and rodent.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, the file open and pinned behind his back. She does need the information back, particularly who to contact in the costume unit, but right now, she is purposefully setting him up for a bigger fall as payback for constantly haranguing her whenever she is chosen for an assignment that he wants to do instead.

This time his excuse was that he wasn’t in Vance’s good graces since he sideswiped an evidence van against a yellow-painted concrete pole which left a noticeable yellow stripe down the side. Then he lied—badly—that he didn’t know what it was from.

“You know McMopey isn’t the Boss’s favorite, it’s the only reason why—"

She makes a tactical decision to stop listening to him as he rambles, counting something on his fingers while circling her. Whatever the story is does not matter as the point is that she was never capable of earning these assignments on her own. Without another word, she leans back, depressing the button to take her down.

The point is—” Tony frantically flips through the papers in the dossier, crumpling corners and ripping edges that she cannot be sure is not intentional “—how are you supposed to be a hot ninja assassin with a name that belongs to a grandma?”

“Have you gotten to the second last paragraph of the first page Tony?” Sighing, she glances to the elevator light indicating she would need the file back shortly.

“What? No. Why?”

“Read it.” She gestures her hand with urgency as the elevator solemnly dings. “Quickly.”

“In order to draw out the suspect, Agent David will have to wear a prosthetic stomach to better match the characteristics of the known victims who were all in the third trimester of pregnancy when murdered…”

His voice trails off, leaving her in a stunning silence that she would welcome if it were not so unnatural. She does not know what Tony is thinking. Surely, he cannot be worried for her as she has proven herself capable and more lethal than him hundreds of times over the last seven years.

It must be his, hopefully waning, jealousy.

Standing in the mouth of the elevator she holds her hand to receive the file back, however, Tony keeps it close to him for another moment, his brows furrow as he looks at her. “You’re going to have to wear a fake baby belly?”

“Quicker than getting a real one.”

Gibbs rounds the corner towards their desks, easily side-stepping Tony’s spilled coffee a few feet back without even a glance at the ground.

The elevator starts to buzz, and the doors try to close on her, when she pushes them back. “Tony, I have to go.”

“You’re going after the Pregnancy Pact Killer?” His voice becomes softer, farther away, almost like a whisper in the middle of the night which clarifies his concern is now fueling him and not his envy.

Ordinarily, she would respond with irritation, at him wasting her time, at him belittling her ability to do the same job he does when she has more experience undercover than he does. Perhaps she could placate him, they have seen each other through hardships, and it is true that if he were going undercover for an extended period of time, she would be tentative to see him leave on his own.

Instead, she simply holds out her hand to receive the file. “I wanted to let you know why you were not chosen.”

“Yeah.” Almost in shock, he hands the file back to her, the tips of his fingers grazing hers, holding still momentarily. “The old genitals on the outside thing.”

Cannot think of a single sentence to not only accompany his, but to change the subject as no one can halt a conversation as completely as he can. Instead, she offers a weak smile, retreating back into the elevator, standing center so subliminally he can understand he is not along for the ride.

“Hey, maybe I can come down and judge how well they—”

The tone of his words, perhaps the urgency in which he speaks spreads a blush over her until she is certain her skin resembles that of a pomegranate. The forked relationship they have cobbled together over the years, with a malnourished spine and broken back from all their encounters, their arguments, disagreements from inconsequential to North Afrika. How did he so poetically state their relationship to her once?

Like two ships in the night, violently crashing into each other, dragging each other to shore.

She explained they were only unmoored, and he did not understand the joke.

Uncertain of their exchange as almost every conversation, stake out, interrogation, movie marathon, Paris hotel dialogue with room service is miscommunicated, mistranslated while speaking the same language. So much, too much, has happened that each are waiting for agreement from the other, while still fearing both reciprocation and the lack of it.

They live in a constant stalemate, a terra nullius, no man’s land, which historically has never resulted in overwhelming positive favor.  

“It’s undercover, Tony,” she speaks gently, reaching forward and pressing the B1 button. “You’re not supposed to see what I look like.”

“True, yeah.” His words mix, launch out of his mouth faster than he can think as emotion conquers, suppressing logic. He’s trying to regain his composure, his hands on his hips while he does a half turn, shined shoes stepping right in his carpet coffee.

When he completes his rotation, he’s more grounded. “You’re really going to be gone for three months?”

Wants to reply only if it is not successful. If there is no movement at all, if she is unable to uncover any type if lead, she could be recovered earlier, but the killer has famously dealt with women over thirty-two weeks of pregnancy, and even if she is starting at six months, it is still many days.  Discovering his abandoned turmoil, she frantically scrolls her mind for a method of communication they could use that could not be traced.

“Not if she doesn’t get downstairs, DiNozzo.”

The dull slap across Tony’s head rings through the empty floor, cubicles left gray with only a soft orange hue coming from their area. Gibbs says nothing to her, again expertly sidestepping the spilled coffee.

“Yes, Boss, of course.” Tony agrees to no one and nothing as his eyes grasp onto hers the way his hands cannot as the elevator doors start to close.

“And clean up that coffee.”

Chapter Text

She does not like the small apartment, that she immediately airs out, as whoever used this safehouse last left everything beyond filthy.

Her first day consists of her scrubbing the one bedroom, one bathroom hovel from top to bottom, tossing out rotten groceries with the maggots and cockroaches they have accumulated. All the windows are open to get the stench of rot out even though she is sure it has seeped into the floorboards at this point—like when they find bodies in advanced states of decomposition that contaminate everything around them with bodily fluids that ooze into the carpet, the delineation of kitchen tiles, the pipes, and the air vents.

By the end of the first week, she has made an appearance at all the locations including the Women’s Center near the base for prenatal yoga classes, parenting classes, labor and delivery classes and pregnancy classes—something she did not believe existed until Gibbs insisted, she attend all four.

“There is nothing to learn, you follow the instinct from your body, and you push the baby out.” Gibbs handed her the pamphlets for the offered classes showing a traditional couple on the cover holding a hand to their mouths, and another hand to the woman’s pregnant body in fear. “It could not be simpler.”

Gibbs wore a half grin, amused by her explanation as she huffed crossing her arms against her chest, against her still flat stomach. “I’m glad that you have high confidence in yourself,” he leaned forward, his hands on his desk sitting behind it but across from her. They had stayed late the last night before she officially became Rose, and he was running her through protocol again. “But a lot of these women have husbands away overseas, and they don’t have a good support system.”

She glanced to him, closing her lips together and leaning back in her chair which she had pulled over to his desk after they ordered Chinese food. “Did I ever give an indication that I was not doing my hypothetical labor alone?”

That garnered a true grin from him, and even a dry laugh as he reached across the table and patted her hand gently. “I have faith in you, that you could deliver a baby alone.”

“Well, I would not be alone, the baby would be there.”

“And now you’re starting to sound like an idiot, like DiNozzo.”

“No—” she paused, using chopsticks to collect the wad of noodles at the bottom of the white takeout carton. “Tony would lose his mind if someone in the same room has having a baby. I cannot imagine him going to a prenatal yoga class, or a parenting class and being comfortable with the number of pregnant women present.”

“Tony was a cop for years, he knows how to deliver a baby.” Gibbs chased a mouthful of noodles with a swing of stale coffee, and at her confusion, clarified, “I only know because he wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“He would probably want deliver one just to see if the parent would name it after him.”

Names.

Namesakes.

Onomastics and etymology.

How does one properly name a child. It has become a reoccurring discussion in her life, from her own name from her father’s mouth. A father who is the last living of her relatives, and who has made no attempt to contact her since he left DC almost two years ago.

Tony has stated more than once that he wants to name a son after himself, which McGee stated that he is more likely to name his child after people who have made a difference in his life. Gibbs has never talked about who or why he named Kelly.

When she asked her father why he named her as he did, he could never give a straight answer, and she never asked her mother.

Naming a person after another person is a large dedication, not only dictating how they act, but who they are. Perhaps knowing the meaning behind a name is not worth finding out, but it is easy to let her mind wander.

Anything to keep her mind off her first day in the prosthetic.

Being fitted for it was not enjoyable, but it was not a burden. She did not have any life-changing revelations while Marg, the old woman who is as gray as the pack if cigarettes she smokes every day, fitted her, and retook her measurements with each version of prosthetic.

“Ya, look so damn cute.” Her voice sounded like gravel dragging under a metal gate, but her contentment was contagious. “Thin as a stick and then you turn and your all baby.”

Marg also happened to be the best costumer for undercover agents going long term, meaning more than one month. She has been with NCIS longer than Gibbs and perhaps longer than Vance, starting back when it was NIS as well.

“Hold the tummy up a bit.”

Standing sideways, the profile of her body was the biggest she had ever seen it.

“You know back in my day we just had foam, no silicone, no molds, it was up to mama to make it look natural.” To emphasize her point, she turned away coughing harshly, before shaking her head. “Gimme a sec, Kiddo, I need some water.”

Marg disappeared throughout the rows of costumes in the room big enough to be a warehouse. Left alone for a rare moment, she untucked her purple shirt from her pants and let the loose material billow over the prosthetic, until it was hidden enough to appear viable.

Suddenly, she was a little over six months pregnant.

All to find one killer.

Definitely male, either twenty-five to thirty-five or over fifty-five based on Ducky’s profile. Married once but either widowed or divorced. Likely childless, likely once had a prospective child, and her hand grasped the material tightly to the prosthetic, trying to imagine what it would be like, to have a baby, to be enamored by their movements, annoyed by their cravings, to set up a nursery which she would never use as she would keep them close in a bassinet beside the bed.

“You look so stinkin’ cute,” Marg leaned against one of the rolling dressers that were used for more intimate undercover cases. Her eyes were wistful, and her dyed orange hair suited her round face. “This your first time being pregnant?”

The question hit like an irate parent, as if she were disobedient in taking the moment to reflect upon herself, the emptiness in her chest leaving her ashamed and yearning. “No,” she swallowed, tugging her shirt back up as Marg showed her the proper way to disengage the prosthetic. “I—uh—used pregnancy as way to hide weapons with the Mossad.”

It was not a lie, but it was not the whole truth. It was the beginning portion of the truth that she did not speak to the psychiatrist, the doctor who saw to her upon her return, or anyone that accompanied her back to America.

“Well, you would be gorgeous,” Marg set the prosthetic down and took one that was approximately six and a half months alone. “And your kid would be a little cutie.”

She nodded, not hearing many of Marg’s words, her mind more distracted by the distorted version of herself beckoning her from the mirror, but she appreciated the kindness beneath prosthetic after prosthetic measured in place to be able to withstand yoga and Lamaze.

Upon entering her first classroom, which is a corporate boardroom with the table and chairs pushed to line the wall, she knows this may be the hardest case she has ever been assigned to.

She counts nine pregnant women not including herself for obvious reasons. Carrying her gym bag slung over her shoulder, she is intimidated. Cannot count the time she has flawlessly had to slip into a new personality on the spot and how many times her creativity has saved her life, but she has nothing in common with these women.

She is not pregnant.

She does not know the first thing about being a mother other than what proceeds the moment of conception. Does not know what activities are forbidden or dangerous when pregnant and she is starting to think that she should have read the “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” book they sent with her—Perhaps Tony did not sneak it into her bag without her knowing, maybe it was given by Ducky to read up on.

The women begin to take their places, lining up the yoga mats so a place in the center is empty for the instructor, who is also male, he is spectacularly muscled and lean, wearing a blue and orange tank top and a pair of white yoga pants tightly around his thin hips.

“Good morning, ladies,” he greets with a hint of an accent worn out by years submerged in America and its culture. “As usual, I’d like to get us started out with a quick meet and greet, names, a little about yourself that doesn’t have to do with your pregnancy, and then something special to you about your pregnancy.” In an instant she remembers the background given to her. Parents died in a car accident. She keeps to herself, likes to read, is hesitant but excited to be a mother, her husband is aboard an aircraft carrier. “Marie, if you’d like to go first.”

A soft-spoken woman, her voice delicate and almost trembling, starts to speak about how this is her sixth child with her second husband, her first killed during action. How she works tirelessly to make her children feel as full siblings and that nothing is more important than family. She does not make eye contact when speaking, instead glancing down at her hands.

One by one, the women speak, one is on her third child, and another is having twins, one is a nurse who supersedes all the questions she was asked in order to explain how she is eating only organic foods and making sure that she is perfectly at the weight she should maintain in order to deliver a healthy child.

For the first time, pregnancy seems eerily terrifying. Not the idea of apprehending a murderer, or possibly being in danger from an attack, but the growing of another within her body, a little thing syphoning off her nutrients, sharing her blood, her organs, her life until the trauma of birth which opens a door for so many other occurrences to go wrong.

“What did you think of me, when you first saw me?” She and Ari were out to dinner, it was his treat as she was not yet in the Mossad and not making enough for frivolous wants like meals out.

He laughed into his drink, a very strong-smelling whiskey that he drank before every dinner, a tradition he inherited from their father. The laughter reached his eyes, lighter than her own and copied from his beautiful and kind mother. “What kind of question is that?”

His mirth was always infectious, if she did not laugh with him, he would continue until she had no choice. With a chuckle of her own, she sipped her own drink, just water tonight for training tomorrow. “I think the question is pretty self-explanatory.”

“Baby Sister,” he cooed to her in Hebrew, picking his whisky tumbler up by the rim, his fingers as claws over the glass. “I do not remember meeting you.”

“You have to.”

“You are only three years younger than I.” A grin flashed over his lips as he diverted the question. “Do you remember meeting Tali?”

“Of course I do, the world remembers meeting Tali.”

They shared the laughter.

Their baby sister was a force, was not to be grounded, was not to be told she could not, was not to be told that her father was Deputy Director of the Mossad as she simply did not care. Music, art, acting, athletics, poetry, these were gifts Tali was bestowed, and like everything she did, she did them flawlessly and roaring in her confidence.

“I am sorry, but I believe the earliest memory I have of you is in the orchard.”

Leaning in on her hand, she grinned at him, remembering the years they spent playing in through the rows of trees. “Tell me?”

“Tali was not here yet. You were little and you were wearing little overalls that were patched up because Abba could not afford new ones. They were constantly arguing back then.”

“Is it bad that I miss the arguing?”

“We miss even the wrongdoings of people after they are gone.” He raised his hand to the server, indicating that he would like another drink. “Are you sure you would not like a drink, Baby Sister?”

“You know—” setting down her water on the table, the ice cubes long dissolved in the evening heat. “You are the only one in the world who I will allow to call me that.”

“Of course, I know.” He held out his new drink, cheering to her. “This is why I must call you it.”

True to his word, she missed being called anyone’s little sister.

Any one’s big sister.

Any one’s sister at all.

“And your name?”

When she glances up, the instructor is staring at her intently, waiting for her to give him some sort of answer. To her left one of the women mutters something about her probably not speaking English.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes shaking her head. “My name is Rosie. I am just finishing my second trimester. My husband is in the navy aboard an aircraft carrier. He will not be finished his contract before our daughter is due.”

“That’s great, thanks—”

Does not know what empowers her to state that the baby is a girl. Refuses to accept that it is because she would not be able to name a son after Ari. There is no way to honor the man that he was before he became the man he did.

The same woman, sitting in the circle third to her left, one who only spoke to assume she did not speak English—leans forward for her turn, her blond hair done in the color of a golden sunrise over a field of wheat perfectly pulled into a ponytail that is not too tight or loose. She is in full makeup, and her fingers are fully manicured.

“Where are you from?” Her voice carries the kind of brass that Southern American’s speak with, although she holds no accent.

“My husband and I live in DC.” Does her best to keep her voice gentle as she does not want to take the attention away from the other women she is supposed to be monitoring, not only that, but the less she divulges, the less she must remember, and the less they have to track her on.

“Where are you really from?”

Before she can even think of an answer, the instructor quickly skips to the next person, not bothering to go into detail about what was said. He does not speak again until all introductions are done, after about twenty minutes, to begin the actual yoga class that is much harder to do than she thought with a near twenty-pound weight on her stomach.

It has been over six weeks, and she still has not gotten used to the prosthetic stomach she is forced to wear ninety percent of her day, only being able to take it off whenever she is inside her apartment—the safehouse.

The basic amenities were lacking on the first day and have only gotten worse since.

There is a small kitchenette with a portable stove top that allows for her to cook her own food, but nothing near the space or optimization she would need for a decent meal. Since she is supposed to be the wife of a marine who is out at sea, she cannot exactly treat herself to takeout every night. Not only that, but she may end up coming home with as big of a stomach since exercise is all but forbidden outside of the apartment, her daily routine whittled down to yoga and calisthenics.

So, she buys her own food from the grocery store the local navy wives shop and grins at them in the aisles and speaks with them when they approach her and just touch her stomach without warning or permission and then ask about her husband.

She tells them he is deployed, and he will be gone when the baby is born. Listens to their lamentations and their comparable stories of how disappointed they were when their husbands could not attend the birth of their children.

Every few weeks she meets up with McGee at her apartment to exchange intel and receive her next prosthetic. Already having changed the size of her stomach twice.

“Ziva, whoa, it’s—uh—”

If Tony or Gibbs were here, they would give him a hard time, pointing out the exact way that his words could be misconstrued, which is why he is hesitant to voice his perspectives sometimes. She only grins at him, a hand on her very realistic stomach. “I know, I cannot get used to it myself.”

“Yeah—” he hands her a bag with the next prosthetic wrapped up to look like a baby gift in case anyone gets the wrong opinion about his visits “—it’s a little weird,” he pauses glancing up from the next bag like an animal being hunted, “not that pregnancy is weird or you being pregnant is—”

“McGee, it is okay,” she chuckles, smiling when his speech immediately settles. “Do you have more for me?”

“Well,” he hefts the second bag forward, it is twice the size of the first and barely has any tissue paper exploding from the top. “According to Marg in costumes, you need a higher pants and shirt size now because the old prosthetic won’t really fit in.”

She barely hears him as the excitement of having a change from the main five shirts and two pants she was initially given takes precedence as he leans over to retrieve his phone to scan her apartment for bugs.

Pulling out the first shirt, it is black and white stripped sweater, the second is a pair of dark jeans that match the ones she currently wears but a size or two larger. Next is a plain black tank top, followed by a jean jacket, followed by a pair of cargo pants.

Then she lifts out the next shirt.

“What is this?” She holds the yellow shirt before her, trying to make sense of the writing on it.

From her two-shelf bookcase, Mcgee checks over his shoulder to her, and then shakes his head. “That was Tony’s contribution.”

Rolling her eyes, as it makes perfect sense, she shakes out the shirt and stares at it again. Imaging Tony scavenging through the rows of shirts while chatting to Marg, laughing with her, ignoring the smell of forty-years of chain smoking roiling off her with every movement, convincing her to send this particular shirt. “Bun in the oven? Is it a sexual euphemism?”

“No,” McGee laughs, standing from the corner and approaching her, while she flashes the shirt again. “It’s an idiom, meaning pregnant.”

“Well, of course I’m pregnant—or pretending to be.” Shaking her head, she tosses the shirt into the pile with the others.

“I know, it’s just a thing a lot of women do to kinda advertise they’re expecting.”

“Isn’t the large, cumbersome stomach advertisement enough?” Before McGee tries to apologize again, she reaches into the bag, pulling out a dark purple t-shirt with ruching, it is longer in size and will definitely be more useful. “Make sure to give Tony my thanks.”

“I will,” McGee agrees, his eyes glancing up at her quickly, and then back down to his phone. “He misses you, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does.” The next shirt is a bold magenta blouse with wide sleeves, not exactly ideal for cooking or for pulling her weapon from her ankle holster quickly.

“He does, or at least he talks about you a lot.”

Next is a white lace camisole that is quiet appealing but should not be used during close encounters as the fabric has decorative holes that could belie her belly. “Probably complaining that I have it easy while you two need to continue with work as usual. I am sorry if he has been extra irritating to you since I am not there.”

“Actually, no—” she sets down the shirt as McGee does a slow rotation in the room, coming back to her. He shakes his head, both at the answer to her question and to the indication of bugs “—he’s been spending a lot of extra time in Abby’s lab.”

“Really? That’s—” Unusual? Interesting? “—weird.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing, but when I mentioned it to Gibbs yesterday when we were in the elevator, he snapped at me.”

The bag settles on the table with a rustle of a final garment jolting around within. “For what reason?”

“I don’t know, both him and Tony have been different since you left.”

Reaching in, her hands touch what feels like lace again, though this time it is much thinner and much more intricate, and she is careful as she lifts it up. “I didn’t leave, I—”

Holding up the last of her clothing for two or three weeks both her and McGee fall into silence as a black lace sundress hangs before her, and all she can think is how relieved she is that Tony did not send her lingerie.

“Yeah,” McGee stops beside her, staring at the intricate lace cascading to the bottom in three layers and the black ribbon weaving at the sides like a corset. “This was Abby’s contribution.”

Chapter Text

“Afternoon, Rosie.”

“Good afternoon, Gus,” she greets the retired marine with a flair for baking that he picked up while stationed in Paris with recipes just as authentic.

She visits Gus, from the boulangerie at the end of the block at every in-person check in with McGee. Not only does it help to better ingrain her in the neighborhood and giving her visibility in the community, but also, she has started to feel guilty with McGee constantly bringing her coffee and offering him nothing in return.

“Your brother in town again?”

 “Yes—” she leans a bit against the front of the curved glass displaying the multitude of pastries baked fresh that morning, genuinely excited to see McGee—it is nice to speak with someone who truly knows she is not almost eight months pregnant “—he is coming to visit me today again.”

“The usual then?” Gus gruffs, standing and flipping a cardboard box together to carry her bounty.

“Yes, please.” She rests her chin on her arms, grinning as it will be nice to have a normal conversation if even for the fraction of the afternoon. Something that does not revolve around birth weights or placentas.

“It’s nice of him to come and visit you so often,” he collects two eclairs and six macarons—two more than usual—but she is more distracted by his subtext than the baker’s gift.

“He is making sure to come and see me more often since it is just me and, well,” she points down to her stomach, but her striped t-shirt is covered in the scars of dry erase markers categorizing each pastry from the glass. “Gus, I’m so sorry—”

But the old man just laughs, reaching over the counter and handing her the box, and waving her off with the other hand. “No need to apologize.”

He wipes his hands on his apron before opening the gate to her side of the counter and limping towards her. “My wife was the same way, she’d always forget just how big she was.”

“Well, your wife is lucky to have such an amazing baker and understanding man as a husband.” She pulls the cash out from her quickly disappearing jean pockets, only for him to hold up his hand again.

“Consider it my donation to the baby shower.”

“Oh, Gus, no—I must—”

“I know how hard it is to be expecting and how hard it is to have to do it alone.” He turns away from her, pulling a marker out of his apron and already rewriting which she inadvertently erased, speaking over the squeaks of freshly inking the letters. “Hopefully your husband comes back to see you soon.”

“Thank you, Gus.”

“You got a name picked out yet?” Limping back to the register, Gus lets the separator fall going back to his newspaper.

“No—” she shakes her head.

What it would be like to be truly expecting? Who would they look like? Would she be able to protect them? Would she be able to get over the memory of firing bullets, and pushing knives through skin and muscles? Would she be able to change a diaper with the same hands doused in someone’s blood.

Would she ever be able to her child what she has done?

She knows she could never have children, she could never safely settle “—My husband and I had not decided before he left.”

“You might want to consider Claire. It was my wife’s name.”

“It is a beautiful name.” It brings up the memory of her mother, of Tali, and she knows she would immediately name her after her baby sister forever stuck at sixteen. It in no way makes up for the guilt she feels, of not being there, of not warning Tali enough about the dangers, she wanted her little sister to live fear free which was not possible.

“You should get going, better to eat the macarons while they’re fresh.”

Nodding, the silver bell ringing above the door announces her leave. It is gray for midday and a little cooler than it should be for the beginning of September. Washington always makes her cold, the rain here is always freezing and incapsulating.

The walk is short to her apartment, the one-bedroom unit accessible from the back of a building above an old appliance store that went out of business years ago. The same rusty metal stairs and rails acting as her fire escape which are currently slick with raindrops from the sky that refuses to relent.

Tucking the box under her arm, she pulls out her key, pausing when she hears movement from inside the door. It could be McGee, she is running a bit late, but standing idly, the sound of a hushed conversation, more muffled and debating, and the sound of something crashing, triggers her defense.

Instinctively, she reaches down and unholsters the gun from her ankle, leaving the pastries out on the metal deck to become waterlogged, before she kicks open the door, aiming her gun for the middle of the back wall where the couch sits.

Movement stops in the room as McGee freezes from pulling coffees out of the snug tray, and Tony stops fiddling with the tissue paper on the top of her present, that she is just going to give them back at the end of the visit.

“Pregnancy hormones kicking your paranoia into overdrive, Ziva?” He settles the gift on the counter, but does not stop staring at her, like she has offended him, his eyes wide and accusing.

A moment passes, McGee questioning her with lowered eyebrows and a squint, so she lowers her gun, the rain still spitting outside, the sky and the ground and the metal balcony all the same suffocating gray, it seeps into her nostrils before the scent of coffee drowns it out, and then the familiar scent of an appropriate amount of familiar cologne.

“I heard someone inside.” Reaching down, she finds it is much harder to holster her weapon than to unholster it and with a grunt, she loses her footing for a moment. McGee gives her a nod of understanding, moving around her to close the door and grab the pastries he knows are waiting outside.

“Yeah, so kick down the door and barge in belly first.” Tony picks up one of the coffees, sips it, grimaces and closes the lid back into place before settling on another.

“You broke into my apartment,” She grunts, the prosthetic pushing into her actual stomach, increasing the difficulty of drawing in a breath, as she tries again to holster her weapon.

“This is a safe house,” he argues with her, stoic face, brows set as he watches her struggle. “You’re not actually pregnant are you, because the amount of time it’s taking you to put that away, you could actually pop a kid out.”

“The prosthetic almost weighs 20lbs, Tony.” McGee returns, shutting the door gently behind her, the pastries now tucked under his arm, as she straightens, her face red from the exertion and embarrassment.

“And yet she still hasn’t figured out how to store a gun inside of it.”

“She is still in the room,” she snaps, pre-emptively ending any arguments between the two of them. Tony quirks an eyebrow at her as she passes by him towards the couch, the gun still in hand.

“That would explain the waddling then.”

On her heel, she spins, collecting herself into his space, her brows drawn and her voice a ripping whisper. “I am not waddling.”

“Sure.” His answer comes too easy making her eyes narrow in suspect. “Whatever you say.”

She does not acknowledge his outburst, or hers, merely walking to the couch and spinning to her side to lay down.

“Well, now that all the—” Tony notices her again, and again he becomes confused, his words being spoken slowly while watching her “—fun. Is. Over—Ziva, what the hell are—”

Raising her leg in the air, she stretches her foot towards her face and slips the gun into the holster, ignoring both him and McGee as if her actions need no explanation.

“A little focus please?” McGee steps forward, unfortunately taking the coffee Tony previously drank from, cracking back the lid to have a quick gulp.

“I had a cat that moved like that,” Tony offers, gesturing with his coffee towards her.

“I have to be in Abby’s lab in less than two hours” Mcgee again raises his voice, ignoring Tony’s weak jokes, grabbing the last coffee and handing it to her. “It’d be nice to narrow down the potential suspects.”

“Well,” McGee sits on the opposite end of the couch from her, she presumes the apartment has already been swept for bugs. Usually, he does the bedroom while she cleans up from their meeting, folding the yellow tissue paper back into the bag, and folding the paper bag back down into a flat surface so he can bring it back in another two or three weeks with more clothing and another prosthetic. “We did some digging deeper on the latest victim because she didn’t match the MO of the first two.”

“Right, her husband was not out of the country on contract work during her death.”

It was a gruesome scene. All Ducky could offer was that at least the fetuses were not exorcised, signaling that they may not be the focus of the murders.

“Then why focus on pregnant women?” Palmer asked as she stood to the side, taking a break, her camera dangling at her side from the strap as Tony stopped beside her, solemnly not speaking a single word, let alone a joke, before he nudged her to start taking pictures again.

Ducky stopped moving over the body, took off his glasses, and glared at his assistant. “Because of the women, Mr. Palmer.”

“Well after we dug a little deeper, the first two women weren’t left alone with husbands on leave either.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first victim’s husband was on a last trip to Vegas that he got clearance for instead of coming home, and victim two was already separated from her husband, he was being reassigned at the time so not on active duty.”

Inhaling deeply, the dark roast in her hand overtakes the rain woven into her t-shirt and hair. “Then we have been looking for the wrong motivation this entire time.”

“Yeah,” McGee sighs, leaning over and resting his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging as if he did not tell her the worst part of the situation.

“If these women all had partners who were readily available, just absent—” the pieces quickly fit together, the new information labeling most of her interactions so far as obsolete. “—then we will need to get a husband who does not care.”

Tony flops down between them, his body hitting the couch hard, spilling his coffee down the front of his shirt, a whole macaron stuffed into his mouth, and gripping another tightly in his hand. “That’s where I come in, Roomie.”

Chapter Text

“Out of everybody, Tony, really?”

McGee left for Abby’s lab a little over two hours ago. He would be standing in there, chatting with her now while what Tony called ‘tape abuse’ played in the background.

“Oh, please.” His answer braids into the alternating pressure of the shower switching from strong to weak, from hot to cold. “Don’t act like I wasn’t your first choice.”

He was her first choice, supported by the fact that she wondered what it would be like if he was here, but there was no way she would ever let him know they finally agreed on something. Instead, she did not offer an answer towards the ajar door wafting massive amounts of steam into the room, making an already unbearable hot apartment hotter. She tries to focus on putting away the new pile of clothing while blissfully unburdened with the prosthetic, her reflection catches her in a mirror and she stands with perfect posture, much more comfortable.

The tap squeaks off abruptly, the water halting, but the steam, the heat that came with it creeping into the room like a fog. She hears the hard stomps of his feet slipping against the cracked enamel before quickly regaining composure, while the shower door slams open, then closed, then open more forcefully.

“I’m okay.”

Even though he cannot see her, she arches an eyebrow towards the bathroom—he knows what he is doing just as well as she does.

A few seconds later, he walks out into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his wet feet tracking puddles across the floor and immediately she knows ground rules need to be laid made.

“Look, Magoo was already pinned as your brother and the Boss isn’t really husband material—he’s ex-husband material—but you sort of screwed the—Jesus!”

Faltering at the bed, he points with one finger, mouth agape, eyes wide as if he is witnessing a catastrophic event. “Is that the torso?”

Without answering him, she picks the prosthetic up from the bed, and when noticing his discomfort, begins to walk towards him. “It is quite realistic, isn’t it.”

Essentially it is just a silicone corset with the realism of an expecting stomach carved into it, colored a little paler than her skin that she steps into after her undergarments and before her clothing.

“What is the matter Tony? Cat got your Tom?”

“It’s tongue. Cat got your tongue,” he snaps, his eyes never leaving the prosthetic, “and that thing is ungodly.”

“You should have tried wearing it during the August heat.” Despite enjoying the heat, the sun, the desert, and growing up in a dome of constant summer with sizzling sidewalks, she sweat more during the month she was burdened with that stomach, almost doubling her water intake to stay ahead of dehydration, it worked to help her keep her cover as well, as she was constantly fatigued.

“Yeah, well, sorry I had to miss that,” his voice drips with sarcasm, but another tone underneath catches her attention. One that denies his response, lets her know that this is an act, a hint she may have missed if she did not know him so well.  

“So—” he drops his go bag on the other side of the bed, which leaves much to be desired. This is not like the Raniers’ stay in a luxury hotel, or even two agents splitting the difference between a queen-sized bed in a Paris suite. This was the equivalent of a double, if even that. “What side of the bed do you want?”

“Tony—”

“Oh, come on,” he drops his boxers, his socks, a t-shirt and jeans, leaving his bag almost empty. Hopefully he has more clothes tucked away somewhere else. Or at least more underwear.

His grin is wide, cheeky, knowing that he is calmer about playing house than she is.

Part of her wants to match him, to play turkey like old times and see how far she is willing to take the charade before one of them crack. “You’re telling me you’d rather take the stained couch?”

But this isn’t like old times, this isn’t the Raniers putting on a great show while he does push-ups shirtless above her and she keeps her bandeau securely on, getting a little annoyed every time his nose crushes into hers and using his current exercise count to calm her ire.

This is different.

This is after Somalia, after she was held captive, strip-searched far more often then necessary, having her body be removed from herself one piece at a time over the course of days, of weeks, of months.

After Paris where after a little too much Merlot—she let herself forget those memories she willed away, did not want them to dictate her present actions and therefore her future, but that first night always hung like the star of David around her neck, influential even in her direct disobedience of them.

How the passion between them became palpable and frenetic in drunken fumblings. The friction provoking reactions, how his mouth against the side of her neck caused goosebumps to flash over her skin in a shiver, how she climbed into his lap and did not feel him until a second later.

How in the morning, he brought her a coffee and ran a hand through her hair and grinned down at her with a face full of so much emotion, such genuine happiness that she felt disgusted in having to let him know that while they shared similar feelings, she could not jeopardize her job and become exiled from yet another family.

How with somber eyes, wet and dull like he was attending a funeral, he nodded in agreement, not willing to jeopardize not having her around either, and more pieces were taken away and stored with someone else, in someone else, burned for fuel or buried from rotting.

How he kissed her one more time because he needed one for the road.

The moment was never spoke of again. Not in passing, not in a secret code they generate together, not in innuendos, and not in threats.

After that night was over, so was what happened in Paris.

Until it happened in Paris again four years later.

Currently, she is not in the right place of mind to accept a relationship that evolves into anything more than friendship, a point she has made clear despite how much it hurt her whenever he had a date or mentioned another woman.

“Tony—” when she glances back at him from her reverie both six years and three years in the past, he is fully clothed and running the same towel he used to wrap around his hips through his hair.

“It’s fine, Ziva.” Again, a tone hitchhikes with his words displaying his true emotions, the disappointment, the short-fused rebuttal in the form of a vocal strike, but just as the phantom presence becomes more corporeal, it wisps away like the diffusing steam from the washroom and he grins at her. “I was only joking.”

Giving the towel a twist, he turns back to the washroom and hangs it over the door for it to dry, an idiosyncrasy she is familiar with from repeatedly working undercover with him. “You want to put on the torso and take me for a quick walk around the neighborhood before it gets dark?”

“Tony, are you sure—”

“Yeah, Probie gave me all the details of your daily itinerary. I figure since we have to be at yoga early, now would be the best time to do it.”

“Sure.”

It is still drizzling when they leave the apartment, the sky growing darker with the setting sun and the looming evening as the wind blows the rain back into their faces.

“Well, this sucks.” Tony huddles under a large umbrella, his hands red, his knuckles white. He sacrificed his heaver jacket for her since all she has are workout sweatshirts not meant for inclement weather. Initially, she denied the leather jacket, but he argued that he would not fit the part of ‘doting husband and father-to-be’.”

“We are almost around the block,” she shifts close to him, her hand blanketing his, finding them a little damp. When he stiffens at her touch, she retreats so the rain patters off his jacket, and he closes the space between them, more likely concerned with the leather.

“During my walks, or taking the bus, I have not been trailed, or at least not very far.”

The muscles in his arm tense again, and he double steps to regain the gait they had. “McCafé didn’t mention anything like that.”

“I did not mention anything as both times it could have been explained away as a chance.”

“You know what the Boss would say,” he squeezes close to her sharing the sidewalk as they pass an older woman who grins brightly at them.

“That there are no coincidences.”

“Exactly—” he nods as an older man follows before shifting away. Is he aware of how he appears? Not to people viewing them on the street, but to her, his constant accordioning, shifting in and out, his eyes darting to windows a little more suspicious than she would like. “So, either someone was following you or someone was just walking.”

“Tony,” she grits his name out from the side of her mouth.

“What?”

Her hand pries one of his off the hand of the umbrella and holds it within her own, “relax.”

“In case you haven’t noticed—”

She considers squeezing his hand, but knowing him, he will only ask what it was for. Instead, she trails her thumb over his knuckles, hoping it does not cross too many lines.

His arguments fall silent, and he nods at her. She gives a little nod, and they stop outside of Gus’s boulangerie underneath a little blue and white striped awning, the rain picking up for a few moments, his eyes reflected in the puddles.

They still hold hands as cars drive by creating waves in the gutter water. “I know it is overwhelming.”  

He swings their clasped hands with a laugh, “Oh Honey, it’s not the hardest thing we’ve ever had to do—”

“And yet it is more overwhelming.” The thoughts that swirl around in her head, the roads not taken, the pain and sorrow explained away with brick walls of neglect, of dedication, of duty.

The rain runs off the awning like a waterfall.

“Well, Sweetie—” his hands reach over and adjust the collar of his jacket properly, and then his hand falls to her stomach tenting the jacket, stretching the leather tightly “—let’s go meet this Gus you’re so fond of.”

She grins to match his and for a moment there is a question of reality. Not the undercover work, but whatever was or is or never was between them, has she always been who she was or was she made this way by men and traumatic situations, has her life up to this point been a lie or a construction written in an undercover portfolio.

There is a piece of her, miniscule, but no matter how small, still there, tainting the sound thoughts she has, the right actions she takes, but reminding her that she would much rather be back in Paris right now.

Tony gives her a querying expression, but one that is entertained as he yanks on the shop door, only for it not to move.

“Closed?”

“Well, maybe that’s what tomorrow morning is for, prenatal yoga and delicious macaroons afterwards.”

“He usually stays open late tonight.”

“You said he’s an old marine, right?”

“Yes—” does not start her argument before she finds out what he is thinking. Something she needs to put work into, being more proactive and listening to his side before immediately defending her perspective as if it is the one singular view.

They are both so shockingly unique, two colors that clash, but in their overlapping areas they cover so much more, create so much more than both individually.

“He got a war injury or anything?”

“A limp from thigh shrapnel.”

“Well, there you go—” leaning closer to the darkened window, he cups his hands around his eyes to see in “—rain probably made his trick thigh act up.”

It is logical deduction—at least more realistic than Gus being a serial murderer—but something about the outline of dirt near the area where the boulangerie’s hours are listed, a sign that is now missing, tells her to think about it more.  

“I thought you liked Gus.”

“I did—I do—but in the last two months he has not closed the store early for any reason.” Even in the middle of the summer with that industrial oven running all the time and the only solace being a small countertop fan, slowly rotating to cover the small area.

“Okay, but it’s also only been eight weeks—”

With speed he most likely forgot she do to her being bogged down with the weighted prosthetic, she flips towards him on the bed, resting her cheek on her palm and her elbow digging into her pillow. “Perhaps to you it was only eight weeks.”

Unsurprisingly, he mimics her pose, his teeth flashing in the darkness of the bedroom, the shared comforter pulled up to the middle of his bare chest. “And maybe I just wanted you to flip back to face me.”

“Tony.”

“Ziva.”

“We cannot keep—”

“We don’t keep doing anything—” his hand tucks a strand of hair out of her face, resting with such gentleness on her cheek. After nightfall the temperature dropped, and in the darkness, she seeks warmth.

She seeks comfort.

His thumb runs over her lower lip, slowly, enticingly. “It was just Paris. Twice”

With the name of their magical city, an understanding is arranged, and his mouth closes over hers.

“And Rome,” she murmurs into his upper lip, pushing herself up to match him.

“Zurich,” he tells her chin, directing her backwards, consuming the space between them, grabbing his pillow to support her shoulders.

“Belgrade.” Her staccato exhale makes him grin against her skin.

“Jerusalem.” His lips pluck at the skin on her neck, she raises a shoulder, throwing an arm around his back as his knee slides between her thighs.

“Dusseldorf.” She presses her cheek into his neck, her fingers scratching through his soft hair.

“Cali—” Suddenly, he stops, holding his weight up with one hand and the other slipped under her shirt. His brows drawn in confusion, his hand warm on her flat navel. “It wasn’t me in Dusseldorf.”

“What?” She mocks him by copying his expression. Sitting up, straightening the strap on her pajama camisole.

“I’ve—” Tony pauses as the blood rushes upwards to his other head momentarily. “You and me—” he gestures between them “—have never been to Dusseldorf.”

“I know, Tony,” she laughs for the first time in eight weeks because he really is so predictable, only stopping sex to follow-up on a lead that she may have been with someone else. That she might be confusing him with a different man. “I am only joking.”

There is something so pure about the moment, about the contact, the joke, the response, reducing Tony down to who he really is.

Someone who desires.

Someone wanting to be desirable.

Someone who wants her full attention.

Expects that he may be a little a hurt, but he simply shares her chuckle. “What are we going to call this one?”

“Maryland?” She lifts her arms as he tugs her camisole over her head.

“Home turf?”

The words mean more than the should, they have never had sex this close to home—at least since coming to their undercover covenant. It is one of the rules crafted between them that they agreed not to break. No apartments, no houses, no hotels, no cars, and no departments. She suggested the area code must be different than work or home, but he explained the Metropolitan area is so large that they could walk a few blocks and be free.

Sometimes she wishes he never said that.

Sometimes she wishes he had never held her that night in Paris while she cried for Tali on the anniversary of her death, and coming back from the opera, another year passed and her memory fading still.

It does not make missing her any easier.

It does not make the loneliness consuming her life any easier.

The betrayal she was forced to enact, her murder if Ari, her exile from Mossad and her father.

Bit by bit her family breaking off from her as she hurdles like a rocket towards the ground.

He readies himself, hand wide and wet on her stomach, but falters before kissing her. “You’re—still on—”

“Yes,” she nods, knowing how ironic it is to be portraying a person in late stage pregnancy and be actively using the pill.

Chapter Text

“You’re just so good at it.”  McGee said at their last meeting without Tony included. Complimented her on the she conducted herself, the aura around her, apparently, she is very good at acting pregnant. Perhaps because she convinced herself to feel the part so thoroughly, to be upset at a husband who should not be present to welcome their daughter into the world together, although that has changed.

She decided it was a girl. A little girl with short brown curly hair that she could tie pink ribbons in for pig tails, one who would grow up stubborn but intelligent and carefree, who didn’t have to worry about family, or pain, or war, or navigating the dynamics between siblings and stepsiblings and playing in politics like she is playing with fire.

She would be completely free to be who she wanted.

They both would be.

She must have grinned, because the prenatal yoga instructor, a man, roughly around the same age as her, and not all together unattractive, grinned back at her, nodding in approval. “Enjoying yourself?”

Then, the baby, the idea, the family, the life she could only have for herself while being undercover disappeared, leaving the reality of tight yoga pants and a prosthetic she needed to figure out how to hide a firearm inside of.

The instructor watched her closely, almost as if he evaluated her, so she grinned again this time for show. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, you got mommy brain.”

For a second she wanted to argue with him, kick him up the side of the head in less time then it would take him to register the pain, argue women are not forgetful because of hormones, and even if that did play some minor aspect in her memory, it would be from the sheer overwhelmed feeling of housing and cultivating another person.

Wanted to scream that to him, that men are only present for the ‘fun’ part of pregnancy, and quickly take their leave afterwards, but she had reason to be here besides masquerading around like a fake pregnant doll almost everyone at the office wanted to dress up.

So, she would make McGee proud, giggled vapidly and swayed her ponytail behind her head as she returned to a seated pose. “Yes, that must be it.”

He laughed with her, mouth wide, teeth big and white, shoulder-length shaggy blond hair carried natural waves and highlights. His skin sun kissed, the kind earned from repeated weekly visits to a tanning bed.

McGee would call him ‘new-aged’.

Gibbs would call him a damn hippie.

“I didn’t mean to harsh your flow, but you just seemed so Zen there.”

“Oh,” she laughed again—a tactic to relax him—her hand played over the black-ribbed tank top smoothed out the wrinkles over her stomach. “She was just kicking.”

“Yeah?” His eyes lit up, his smile widened as—without permission—he placed a hand beside hers. “Little Princess still going?”

“No.” Clearing her throat, she straightened her back, tried not to portray her discomfort at such an abrupt show of intimacy questioning why this random instructor should be different than all the older women who have invaded her personal space in the last few weeks.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” His hand retracted, upon seeing her rigidity. “It’s you’re first time here, usually I’m so busy helping and adjusting everyone that I never ask permission. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She shrugged, as she attempted to save face, noting all the expecting mothers have brought spouses or significant people along. “My husband is deployed right now, so a little attention is nice.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, nodded in response and crossed his arms as if taking the hint for conversation, however instead he reminded, “You were supposed to bring a support person today.”

With a gentle head shake, she refuted, “I—I do not have anyone else.”

“Well, soon you’ll have a baby girl, and you gotta enjoy the time you have left pregnant. It’s such a mystic and special time, you know?” He nodded to himself, as if convinced of something and motioned to sit beside her. “I’ll be your partner then for today.”

“Oh.” She choked on the sip of water she wanted to take to end the conversation, wiping her chin as it dribbled down. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask for that.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“But—” her brain scrambled, desperately tried to find a reason for this man not to keep touching her, not only due to discomfort, but from fear of the silicone being discovered “—you need to be available to help others correct their poses.”

“Yes, but I also have to show the class how it’s done, and since I’m not pregnant…”

Now, she has to explain to Tony, some of the dumber decisions she made in judgement lapses.

“Are you sure you do not want to bring anything other than a coffee?” With her hair tied back, she pulls on the black tank top from last week, tugging out the wrinkles and shifting the center of the prosthetic.

“It’s prenatal yoga, how active can it get?” Despite her not really wanting him to come, he has been ready for much longer, sitting on the end of the bed since nothing interesting is on television.  

“It is preparation for giving birth, Tony,” she marches to the bathroom, taking off her earrings and glancing at herself in the mirror to ensure she appears as mediocre as possible.

“Yes, because for me, the birth of our unborn child is going to be very labor intensive.” Immediately after his sentence he laughs loudly, raucously, proud of himself. “Get it? Labor?”

But she does not focus on that, instead the word combination of “our unborn child” echoing through her ears ad if the apartment is only a sound chamber. The words are a joke no doubt, the words are mocking—are they mocking?—they are intimidating, they are scary, they are a joke at her expense, they are dreaming, they are status quo, they are hopeful—hopeful?

Too many words, too many branches of feelings rooted in her body, turning and twisting and confusing because they are so busy playing other people or versions of themselves that other people want to see, that again, she does not know who she is.

It buries her in conflict.

Despite what he may think, she will always be the better actor between them. Her time with the Mossad burned the idea that to give up the act would be the exact same as giving up her weapon. Though her time here accumulates, she grows the same tree roots to tell her not to let any emotion show in dangerous situations.

This is a dangerous situation.  

So small talk ensues until they get on the bus together, Tony carrying the backpack she would be carrying herself with all the accoutrement creating the perfect mask as an expecting mother complete with a fake ultrasound picture, a crumpled grocery list, her water bottle and some antinauseants.

Sitting beside each other, dressed down in sweats and t-shirts, they talk about a myriad of subjects, some sports team, the news this morning, agreeing to pay more attention with the shower as she ran out of hot water. Useless small talk anyone around them can hear and not give a second thought to.

“I should have warned you about the instructor.”

“Why?” He helps her off the back of the bus, holding out a hand for her to clasp, and she will never admit it, even under the threat of torture, but having him present to help her with the extra, genuine, physical burden is a great relief.

There is no use in dwelling how they can have sex where he climaxes inside her, but she cannot tell him she appreciates his help. She knows there are not therapists qualified enough to tell her the reason.

Why they can be so intimate in a bed or a shower or a washroom at a nightclub, but it embarrasses her to take his hand in public, to tell him thank you, to fall asleep beside him and know she is safe, and knowing where he is reassures her of his wellbeing, something she should not care about as deeply as she does.

“It didn’t say much about him when I read McGoo’s notes.”

They are only a block from The Women’s Center, and she cannot confirm why, but she does not have a good feeling. Though she controls her bodily responses, no squeezing or straining her muscles, or not keeping his eye contact, her lack of reply is enough of an indication.

Tony slows their speed, using their clasped hands to tug her back to meet him. With that idiotic grin he wears when he tries to appear nonchalant, he tucks a strand of her hair back behind her ear. “Do you think it’s him, my little incubator?”

She does not have the time to argue about the choice in nicknames as it is one that will stay between them—at least she hopes—instead grabbing his hand in hers and tugging him along. “I do not know what I think he is, but I wish he was not a lot of things, mainly the instructor.”

“Okay, so he’s inappropriate.” Tony at least starts to walk but slows his pace to more of an amble. “How is he inappropriate?”

“Oh, I would not want to taint your impression of him before you’ve even met—”

“You already have.”

“Well, then I would not want to taint it more. Come on, we are late.”

“We’re like—” He checks his watch, his eyebrows raising at the time as if he had not known all along. “So, we’re late.”

“He does not like it when people are late.”

“Okay. I—” he pauses, purposefully holding onto the sentence, the words, the moment “—don’t care?”

“Then wait out here.” It is a final effort to get him to join her. Reverse psychology which usually only works on children younger than eight.

“No way, I want to meet this goober now.”

And Tony.

Amazingly, they do not get kicked from the class, despite showing up almost fifteen minutes late, and still during a squibble, but forgot how exaggerated Tony is when he needs to prove a point.

Unfortunately, this time it happens to be over her.

“There’s my gorgeous wife and my little biscotti,” he croons over her as she returns from the washroom, playing up the act, as they have been all class to get a rise out of the instructor. Her reasons are strictly case related to give them any form of evidence in reprimands or aggression.

She does not have the heart to inform Tony that the singular is biscotto. He simply follows her lead, jogging a bit to catch up to her, holding her hand and giving her a kiss on her temple before shouting, “later, Teach.”

Only later, when they are back at the apartment, laying on the opposite sides of the bed, staring up at the same water stains on the ceiling, will they feel comfortable enough to share notes.

“He touches you a lot.” Tony offers first, his hands clasped together over his chest, his eyes still resting on the swirls of rainwater and probable mold.

“Yes—" not sure of what else to say as her mind is still reeling from the class. How the instructor attempted to separate them, to show the proper areas to help her as she stretched. There was even more touching that last week. “I do not like it.”

“I don’t like it either.” His voice is softer than she expects, not the harsh snap of him overreacting or frustrated. “I don’t think he’s our killer though.”

“No?”

“No, I just think he has a very obvious kink that the navy should’ve vetted out before they gave him this job.”

She grins, knowing exactly the right words to say. “He’s a volunteer.”

“Oh, God.” His disgust manifests physically in a twinge of revolt that elicits a laugh from her. “Next time I’m not conceal carrying.”

Turning her head only slightly, her back still pressed solidly to the mattress she holds her smile. “To be fair, Tony, you were getting quite handsy yourself.”   

“Hey.” He almost flips towards her losing the competition that they never agreed to have for bragging rights they will never use or acknowledge, but he stops short, only turning his head as far as he can and pointing at her. “I am a proud Papa Bear, I’m allowed to handle my pregnant wife if she wants to be, and especially at a class preparing me for how to help her in labor.”

“Please, you would not help me in labor.”

“How can you even say that?” His shock sounds genuine she believes him for a moment before he adds, “why are we even having a fake baby together if you don’t trust me?”

Reaching across the mattress, she takes his hand, and as always, it dwarfs hers. “I trust you for most things.”

“Most things?”

“I think unless the goal was to irritate me to the point where I just pushed the child out to be rid of your antics, you would do fantastically.”

“And—” he reaches their coupled hands over to her stomach, bouncing them on the silicone “—little baby DiNozzo comes into the world like all DiNozzos do, with her parents wanting to murder each other.”

“Hmm, then her last name should be David.”

“Umm, no my little Peach Cocktail, we’re married.” He drops her hand and shows off the plain faux gold band on his ring finger. “Kid’s got the DiNozzo tag.”

She stretches her arms above her head, cracking her wrist and her ankles, causally drawing his attention elsewhere, another way she tends to win. “She will have to be David-DiNozzo then.”

“Why do you get to be first?”

“Because I am the one giving fake birth.”

“No one listens to the second name when someone has two last names. DiNozzo goes first.”

“The mother’s surname always goes first—”

“That’s an old, stupid rule.” He leans up now on his elbow, ignoring her coy attitude. “You have to give me something better than that.”

“It works alphabetically?”

Sitting up fully, mind trying to grasp at arguments to be made, until his mouth closes and his lips purse. “I guess that works.”

“Good, I am glad it is settled.”

Before laying back down he points at her, almost with an accusation. “No hyphen though.”

“It is a hyphen that makes it a full word—if you’re worried about people dropping your name out of it—”

“The only kids who have hyphenated last names are trust fund assholes or pretentious erotic novelists, and as much as I would love my son to—”

“It is a girl.”

He stops at her interruption, tightening his jaw and speaking very firmly. “No, it’s a boy.”

“Girl.”

“Senior.” He points to the floor, indicating hell, before he points to himself. “Junior.” Finally, he points to the prosthetic. “The Third.”

Leaning up in her elbows she scoffs at him, “and you will just call him ‘Third’?”

“No. ‘The Third’. It’s cool. He has a title.”

“All names are titles, Tony.” He squints at her suggestion, possibly trying to discern if her fact is truthful or not as she has slipped a few lies by him using the power of semantics. “It does not matter anyway; I have already told most people the baby is a girl.”

“Come on!” His frustration appears real this time, his nostrils twitching before he flops to lay flat on his back again. “You couldn’t let me have this one thing? Carry on the noble lineage of my—”

“Your father named you after himself.”

“Yeah, but I could have made it cool.”

Chapter Text

The day passes without much issue. They take the bus to the nearest grocery store and collect a pitiful amount of food. When they disembark at the corner, Gus’s store is closed, but he usually takes every other weekend off, so aside from Tony complaining about the lack of macarons, there is nothing overtly unusual.

In the afternoon, he flips between the three television channels that come in clearly enough to watch, while she reads a few more chapters into “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”, stopping only as she feels her eyes growing tired from lack of stimulation, so she brings out her kit to clean her gun.

“Wanna do mine too?” He asks, his hands behind his head on the couch and the tv faltering in and out with volume. She nods and he sets his firearm on the table. “Why does it feel like we had an argument.”

“I don’t know, but that feeling is there, isn’t it?”

Again, she nods setting up the supplies to start cleaning, expecting him to go back to his movie, a black and white film from the forties, which would explain the different levels in volume, which he does, but after a few moments, he offers, “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

Ducking her head, so he cannot see her amusement, she starts to dismantle his gun first. “I am sorry as well.”

It is hot.

Too hot.

An intense heat drying up everything around her into crumbs, dots of sand small enough to rest on a pinhead buried beneath her nails, stuck to the bottoms of her palms, wedged into the corner of her mouth and planted inside of her nostrils.

She accommodates the dry air, that is not the problem.

The heat, it brings pain, but the darkness—that is where her fears rest.

The inability to navigate, rough ground cover, sharp objects, animals, people, men. Even if given a moment of respite, there would be no way her coordination would allow her to flee.

The food they gave her is tasteless, and she stopped fully eating two days ago as she understood she was to die here. The water they gave her is dirty, scum roiling on the bottom of a tin cup. She tried to stop drinking, but they forced it into her mouth.

Her arms and legs became laden with a weight that was not her own but eventually she stopped fighting too because the only thing she could smell was no longer her own presence, but everyone else’s.

“Hey, hey.” A warm hand jostles her shoulder, releasing the weights from her arms, allowing her to float upwards and out of the desert, opening her eyes to a darkened room that lights up as a car travels down the street away from her.

“Focus on me.” The hand moves from her shoulder to cup the side of her face, muss the hair out of her eyes and direct her attention. “There you are.”

The darkness creates shadows in his eyes, but she can read them just as well. Even if she was not an agent, even if she was never Mossad. His actions, his indications are as bold as black writing on a white wall.

“What happened?”

“You were having a little bit of a bad dream there,” he speaks to her evenly, calmly, his hand still on her cheek like an anchor. “It was really cute when you started, you sort of moved your arms and legs a little, your nose twitched, and you even made some little puppy sounds.”

“I could not move my arms or my legs—they would not let—” Her hoarse voice cracks while he reaches back to his bedside table, grabbing his water bottle and handing it to her. “I was being held down,” She rasps out, her brows knit as another set of car headlights drag their way over the wall. The inside of her mouth is still dry and if she tries hard enough, she can still taste the sand mixed with blood “—the pain was—”

“Okay, not puppy dog cute anymore.” His voice is distant, further away than it should be given his proximity, just as it was when they unmasked her and she saw his face, his hair shocked up in oily tufts, his lips chapped and dry, and his skin sun burnt so red.

How he was able to still give himself the satisfaction of humor during a deadly situation, how she knew these men, had known them long enough to know that they would cut his throat without a second thought because the only thing that mattered less than his life was hers.

“Ziva.”

She knows that room so well, she could draw it from memory, tell what time of day it was from the light and how it spilled across the ground, the exact number of bricks in the wall, the direction of the wind and if given a world map could pin it to within five degrees.

“Okay, you’re shaking a little too much for—”

The stench of blood coating her clothing, the grit on her skin taking more than two hours to wash out, others taking longer.

She had given up. Accepted death. It was a universal commonality. Language, culture, religion all difference, but everyone must die, and it was simply her turn. Tali would be waiting for her, her mother, and a version of Ari without hate.

It would be vindicating; it would be poetic; Eli David husband to no one and father to none. A man who dedicated himself to the Mossad and now had nothing and no one to show.

But he and McGee dragged her out when she did not want to move her legs, when her legs could not move from the abuse. She was so lightheaded from lack of food that she could not see straight.

They saved her when she believed there was nothing to save.

“Focus on me,” his voice rings out on the plane back to America. Her body starting to revolt under the lack of nutrients, of sustenance, of safety. As soon as they were off and departing overseas, a medic assessed them, does not remember, but presumes they all bowed back until she was cared for.

At that point, she could not keep down water, later finding out that permanent damage occurred to her kidneys, though thankfully, minimal. She thought the pain was just from being beaten.

He talked to her through it, held her hand when she would not listen to him, when she would not allow fluids to be administered, when she refused pain medication, when she refused to go straight to the hospital or stay in the car as they went back up to the office. How she hadn’t thought of Abby seeing her in that state and the effect it may have on her, and instead she received the closest hug from a sister in too many years.

“Ziva, come on!”

Despite informing whoever would listen that he did not go to visit her, he did. Everyday he sat beside her hospital bed and waited for her to make conversation. “Talk about anything. Nothing. Everything, I don’t care, just don’t shut down on me.”

Then he started carrying on conversations leaving spaces for her to jump in if she wanted. Topics ranged from movies he was currently obsessed with, to a new Caff-Pow flavor Abby was not sure she liked or hated, to how their case for the day was a marine who fell for an online killer who pretended to be a women and then shot men at point blank range. “I know you’re not back in the bullpen yet—” also about how she would return to the team as it was kismet “—I mean it’s only a matter of time, but we’re missing you hard, Ziva.”

He reached over and held her hand, the first physical contact she had since Abby, and she turned her attention to him, expecting him to jump at her suddenly swift movement but he only squeezed her hand, unapologetic, unashamed, and gave her that same cheeky grin. “I’m missing you hard.”

There was no longer an IV in her hand since she had been weened off the need for fluids a few days prior, and the action of him touching her, not held down by rope or cuffs or another man, was many things, some fearsome, but most familiar. “And McGee just doesn’t have the legs to pull off that green dress.”

A part of her returned to her body. Not individuality or independence or even her memory, but a piece of her soul, allowed her eyes to view specific truths that she forgot, as bright and as beautiful as headlights on a peeling painted wall, as motes of dust shining in the desert sun, and languidly she directed her vision towards him, and worked her mouth into a crook of a grin.

Their relationship is difficult to navigate with too many emotions to fit between them and neither willing to part with any—he is too stubborn and her too spurned—but they will always categorize their misgivings as something else and that is the reason they stay sexual partners without advancing to being romantic.

But in that moment, he laughed, tears pricking the corners of his tired eyes. He touched the side of her face so soft that she could not discern if she imagined it or not.

“Okay, we have to do the thing, right? Where you name shit?” He sits on the bed beside her, completely uncovered, one of his long legs bent and the other stretched out towards her. One of her hands in his in his lap which he bounces as he thinks aloud. “Shit—what is it. I’m never good at remembering it in the moment. Something like five things you can taste, three you can smell—”

“I cannot taste five things right now, Tony,” she chuckles as the only taste is sleep and the faint mint of her toothpaste from hours ago.

“Oh, Thank Christ,” he laughs, his mouth wide as he leans forward and kisses her on her lips, and then pulls away just as quickly remembering when she has these dreams it is best not to touch her too soon afterwards, but the honesty helps to ground her, like the first time he hugged her in that hospital bed, shouting he knew he should have led with a cross-dressing McGee. “I’m sorry—I just—”

Now she has enough of her personality back to consider what it was like for him to travel across the world and help her—save her—even when her own father deemed her unworthy. What it must have been like to see her for the first time, and to hear the defeat in her voice.

It has not been easy for him either.

“I am sorry—”

“No—” he holds up a hand stopping her, then places it on her shoulder, guiding her to him, embracing her, and she can hear the quiver in his voice, but she knows he gets defensive when she brings up emotions “—we agreed no apologies over this.”

“Perhaps you can do me a favor, then?”

“Anything.”

“Will you stay close to me?” Does not say hold me as it is the exact kind of word that he would use against her later when they are done feeling vulnerable. She does not add the context that it will just be for tonight since they both know how to straddle their respective edges of the bed.

She wants an open invitation.

They end up falling asleep in the middle of the bed, his arms holding her to him, his body warm and relaxing, and his nose buried in her hair. Before he falls asleep, whether he is aware of it or not, he releases a contented sigh.

Chapter Text

“Tony,” her voice low and dry from sleep, not wanting to instill panic into him, but neither of them set their phone alarms so they both slept in. If they do not hurry, they will miss prenatal yoga.

“Uhh,” he mutters, releasing her and turning back to his side of the bed.

“Tony,” she attempts again, trying to be as gentle as possible, poking a finger into the corded muscle on his shoulder.

“I just got to sleep,” he bemoans against the pillow, muzzling his full voice in a lie.

“No, you did not.”

“You snored so loud—”

“—you were the one that snored—”

“—let me just sleep for a little—” suddenly he flips back to her with an alarming speed “—unless you want a little morning fun.”

“Unfortunately, we do not have time for anything fun this morning.” It is a lament, but a very light one. Despite the truce between them, she remembers last night’s dreams with a clarity rivaling only her original ordeal resulting in not feeling very sexy. Combined with having to wear the prosthetic, she does not feel attractive to anyone.

Well, anyone aside from the instructor.

Immediately, she knows how to make him accompany her.

“I will just go to prenatal yoga by myself.”

“You enjoy it, you deserve it.” He flops back to the pillows, no longer listening when sex is not an option.

Sitting up on the side of the bed, her bare feet touch the floor which remains cold from the night despite the slashes of light cutting through the curtains. “I will have to count on the instructor to be my partner for today then.”

She can almost count the seconds before he fully comprehends. “Wait, is it done by the same—”

“Yes.”

“Give me five minutes.”

By some temporal miracle the buses are running early. When they board, there is only one seat available, and Tony stands, holding onto the metal bar, rambling about some movie on their three channels television that morning for the three extra minutes it took her to get dressed in the prosthetic. She nods along with his cadence more than his words as she cannot really hear him over the din of the packed bus.

He reaches forward, she presumes to keep stability in the cruising bus, but he touches the pad of his index finger to her cheek, and before she can protest, he pulls it away. “Eyelash.”

True enough, on the end of his long finger is a single sliver of hair.

“So?” Does not know the meaning of this, the custom, the superstition, there are different ones in every country and unless she really reads up on them, it is impossible for her to remember them all.

“So, you have to blow on it.”

“What!”

“The eye lash, Sweetcheeks,” he shakes his head at her, “to make a wish.”

Her eyes meet his for judging as this may be one of the cruel jokes he labels as practical, and she does not want to end up his next casualty.

“Trust me.”

Normally, those would be words she needs to mull over, but given the last twenty-four hours, the memories of last night, she thinks of a wish blowing a short burst of air and sending the eyelash flying off.

“What’d you wish for?”

“Oh, no.” Shaking her finger at him, she laughs, a hand resting over the prosthetic hidden away under a sweatshirt as the morning offers the first coolness of the changing seasons. “You always threatened that if you tell a wish, it will not come true; or is that some other high tales you have been spinning.”

“Tall, Zi—Rosie, my little Bunsen burner.”

The instructor’s aloofness has multiplied since their last meeting, no longer being handy with her, but every time she chances a glance to gauge where he is in the room, he is watching them.

Obviously, she cannot tell what he scrutinizes about them, so as she works through the poses with Tony’s passive help, she creates a mental list of what she would be considering.

Where Tony places his hands and where she adjusts them to, how when Marg picked out these yoga pants she adjusted for the perfect size, how she becomes too hot after holding downward dog for three and a half minutes, and her posture wavers, Tony’s hands are there for support, how he doesn’t know that it also gives her the concentration she needs by staring at his watch.

When the instructor calls for a thirty second break, she rests on her knees, her ankles pressing into her backend, and pulls off her sweatshirt to reveal the bright yellow ‘bun in the oven’ t-shirt underneath.

Tony snorts at it, which it turns into a cough, and she knows that her smug grin is not missed by him.

“Please, try not to interrupt the peace of the room as mommies and babies settle.” Donovan and his blond, choppy hair bounces as he turns to glare directly at them—she would almost feel embarrassed if the baby were real, but she knows in a few weeks, he will just be another perpetrator in jail.

Tony, never to be embarrassed, does not miss his chance to lean his head down to the prosthetic and coo, “There’s Dada’s little Cannoli.”

She does not correct him that it should be Cannolo unless she is carrying twins she does not know about.

There are a few more stretches, basic ones that she can keep her form on well, another way not being pregnant helps her excel in this class, but that does not prepare her for the mandatory ten-to-fifteen-minute relaxation period that ends all the classes.

“So, Dads, since Mom is doing all the heavy lifting, I want to give you the chance to do it.” Donovan appears to have grown from being interested in them to the one expectant parent who did not bring a partner. “Make sure you sit really close behind Mom—”

“He does realize that those aren’t our legal names, right?”

She chuckles as he follows what the instructor does, sitting behind her, facing her back, with a leg on either side of her and a hand poised at each of her hips. She jumps slightly to see if the instructor reacts, but Tony leans forward. “No surprises, it’s just me.”

The prosthetic acts as a shield, keeping his body heat from penetrating to her skin, but he gives her hips a quick squeeze for reassurance and laughs, all too aware she is trying to fight off the urge to slap him away.

It is always more difficult in public.

It is always more difficult around friends.

Privately, they can admit issues they allow themselves to forget later to keep present circumstances functional—it is why overthrowing the ordinary on rare occasions when they travel halfway around the world together is so alluring. They must ration their caring until a big gesture needs to be made and then ignore the guilt and the uneven power structure.

“At least it is you this time,” she speaks before she truly thinks the sentence through, the meaning if it. Does she want Tony to be jealous? What would that gain her? Him? Them? This operation? It only works to hinder them in many ways, but before the thought finishes she adds, “and not him.”

“Him? Captain Kink?” Tony’s chin sits heavy on her shoulder, digging onto her muscle when he speaks. “Wait, you let Captain Kink get a—”

“Yes, Walter, because if I remember correctly, we’re here for a reason,” she hisses from her barely moving lips. When Donovan glances over at them, she quickly kisses Tony’s cheek and pets the other, smiling and laughing, elbowing him inconspicuously until he laughs as well.

The instructor feigns a grin, only briefly, before turning his attention to another couple in the room.

“Okay, ow!” The complaint is immediate when they part, as Tony reaches back to where his side and her elbow met. “I thought we were over the slapstick comedy era of our—”

“Will you just—” the calmness from over the last few weeks fades in an instant, morphing into brief but intense anger, before she swallows the emotions back down “—hold the baby please, My Love.”

“Yeah—of course,” which seems to work better than any other threat she has ever uttered, his chest becomes flat against her back, his hands hooping around her from behind as she tucks his hands underneath the prosthetic.

“Okay. Am I doing it right?”

“If you have to ask then you are not.”

“Well, then help me out here, My Little Pizza Oven.”

“I don’t know how much more—”

“Am I supposed to be feeling something?”

Would like nothing more than to explain to him that perhaps if it was his real child she nurtures and not twenty pounds of silicone, that he would probably feel an open realm of emotions, but she has a better answer. “Does this conversation remind you of anything?”

The question silences him for a moment before he connects the phrases to years ago in a Paris hotel room, drunk out of their minds, they had sex for the first time—fumbling, clumsy, dirty, lazy—waking up sweating with a hang over.

It was there she made him swear it would never happen again, that she could not jeopardize her position on the team. Try to convince him the sex was suitable enough, and not a mistake as they got the tension between them under control.

He disagreed, unashamed and unable to be bargained with, but the more she tried to barter with him, the more fearful she became. It was the first time he had any leverage over her, and she knew the type of man Tony was—at least she thought she did—his arrogance started to become frightening.

Any other time a man thought he could extort her, she would just shoot him. She could not do that to Tony, aside from Gibbs and McGee possibly being upset, they would also notice his absence.

“Fine, you want to negotiate, I’m willing to settle—”

“Fine, what are your terms?”

“I’m playing hardball—”

“The terms, Tony!”

“A mulligan.”

The term sat with her a few seconds before expiring, the heat in the room palpable and humid, the back of her neck sweating, her hair crunchy and wet, her temples booming from the previous night’s alcohol, she reached her breaking point.

“Just tell me!”

“A mulligan, a do-over, a gimmie—”

“For Christ’s sake, Tony, I do not know every slang term in every body of language.”

“Yeah, but you know my body—”

“I am done,” when she stood, snatching the closest article of clothing, his dress shirt from the evening before, and tugging it on, intent for the showers. “Tell whomever—”

“It means a redo,” his head stretched over the back the chair he barely sat in, his chest bare with his undone bowtie hung around his neck, areas of his skin darkened where she paid more attention the previous night. “I want to redo last night.”

“We will not be in Paris for another—”

His hand dropped over his face more dramatically than he intended for by his brief jump afterwards, but it did not stop him from letting out a loud, annoyed moan. “I mean the sex, Ziva.”

“Tony, I know you want to have sex whenever you want but I am not going to—”

“Once—” he interrupts her holding up one finger, his face growing a bit red, she could tell the instant the hangover hit him “—One time, that is it.”

“So, to reiterate so I understand—” she padded from her area of the room, staring at the mess they had made. Flyers, papers, ripped up and tossed to the ground, furniture overturned, wall art broken, dropped to the floor with a crash of their bodies, clothes, hers, his, towels, sheets, blankets, some stained some not, cushions from the couch on the ground, a tray of raspberries half eaten hanging off the arm of the couch “—You will decide one time for us to have sex.”

“Yeah, I call the sh—”

“Fine.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“If we can pretend that this never happened, we can certainly do it again at a time of your choosing.” She shut the door on him before he had a chance to disagree with her, turning on the shower in order not to hear him speak.

“Like this.” Placing her hands under his, she lifts the bulbous prosthetic taking the weight off her body and placing it into his hands.

“Whoa, that’s heavy.”

“That’s our baby, Mon Petit Pois.” She murmurs as Donovan strides by them, barely holding eye contact.

“You know what your French does to me.”

“I do, you are holding it.”

When he releases the weight back down the tension returns to the overworked muscles in her back and her shoulders. Without wanting to, she grunts, not knowing how woman do this every day for all hours for nine months. Perhaps it becomes easier when the weight is not removed in the privacy of their apartment.

The class ends with the bonding technique, and after sliding out from behind her, Tony reaches a hand down to help her up, bracing himself at the added weight. She does not pop up as spryly as her pre-prosthetic body would have allowed her to, something he must be noticing, must be relishing in as her abilities are at a deficit.

However, he says no words, no harsh jokes, no dumb movie quotes, just reaches over and tucks the wisps of her hair back, before smoothing out the wrinkles on her shirt. “I think I picked a good one, huh?”

She scoffs, but it is more to give her a reason to turn away from him. From his piercing eyes. From his gaze. His questions. The one that she knows he has had in his head for months now, instead leaning down to pick up their shared gym bag. “I had to ask McGee if it was a sexual innuendo.”

With a gentleness, he picks up the bag off the ground for her, tucking it back around his shoulder to carry it for them. “Why do you think I would send a sexual innuendo for you to wear.”

“Because you are you.”

“Not everything I think about you is sex related.”

She stops moving towards the exit, her hands on her hips, and a raised eyebrow in challenge.

“I mean, most of the time—”

“Walter, Rosie,” Donovan greets them as the other couples start to file out of the room. He has his hands behind his back and greets Tony with a neutral voice. “How did you enjoy the class?”

“Well, hey there, Buddy.” Tony takes a step forward shortening the distance between himself and the instructor to the point where she has fallen a little behind him in position.

“Honey—” taking his large hand in hers, she attempts to guide him away, but Tony holds strong.

“Rosie, Baby, the man’s just asking how I liked the class—” she recognizes the unevenness in his voice, and she knows that he is channeling one actor or another to appear more unhinged. “Well—” he pauses, giving the instructor a once over, “Guy—”

“My name’s Donovan—”

“Of course it is.”

Again she tries to direct him to the door, to the street where there is fresh air, and a bus waiting to take them down to the boulangerie where she can use the excuse of pregnancy to eat decadent eclairs that she might have to run extra hard to work off if she was not lugging around so much extra weight every day.

“I had a wonderful day with my two girls, thank you,” Tony’s tone dictates that he is finished but from what she reads in his body language she knows he has one more punch and she hopes for the sake of the case, it is verbal.

But that does not appear to be Tony’s decision as he takes a threatening step closer to Donovan, rolling up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “Dada’s home now, and if you so much as look at—”

“And we are leaving.” She pulls again, this time on the gym bag which skitters off his shoulder and onto hers as she starts to walk.

Tony does what she expects and only a few seconds later, he trails her out of the building.

“That would have worked better if you let me finish my threat.” He must step twice as fast to keep up with her, now tugging to get the gym bag back.

“Your threat was clear, but unfortunately it only hinders our case.” She stops, twisting back to him. “You could have alienated us further from our only lead.” 

“I know, okay,” he tugs at the bag again and she slaps down his hand, which he recoils and rubs. “Look, I saw how handsy he was with that woman, and the thought of him doing that to you makes me want to get handsy with him.”

Her expression must be roughly between utter confusion and revulsion, as he clarifies, “Punch him, Ziva, I wanted to punch his stupid freegan face.”

“Isn’t it ‘freaking’.”

“What?”

“Isn’t ‘freaking’ the word you use when you cannot use fucking?”

“I said freegan. It’s a lifestyle choice people make when they have rich parents they want to piss off—look, just let me carry the bag, okay?”

“Why?” They packed the bag together, throwing in water bottles, cell phones, their bus passes, so unless he—“did you steal something?”

“No—what would I even steal?”

“I do not know, but your obsession with this bag is—”

Gently, he holds her arm still, the one that is not holding the strap of the bag and sidesteps with her into the shade under a tree while they wait for the bus. “We’re supposed to be acting like this is real, right?”

The words mix in her head due to the doubt of what he is referring to. Her initial thought is their relationship that has been amorphous for years. Friends. Benefits. Partners. Lovers. But whenever they are able to fully define what they are to each other, an innate hurdle constructs itself as neither wish to be the first to admit emotions, afraid the other will balk at the vulnerability. So afraid to change what they have already stumbled upon, that the other would deny them the full benefits of a romantic relationship instead of something sordid and hidden on the side. Is that what either of them truly wants? Having a relationship based almost completely on sex that has turned on and off? Perhaps nothing better will fit into their complicated lives.

“Pretend what is real?” Questions for clarification even though she does not want to know. There is no way to romp around the question and get an accurate answer, at least not one she can think of in half a minute.

Staring at her, his mouth a half grin and his eyebrows flat, he answers, in a tone meant to mock her intelligence. “The baby?”

“Yes.” She nods attempting to secure the idea they were speaking about the same subject the entire conversation. “We are.”

“Then—” he tugs the bag strap again, which she allows to drop a little, though still catching on her arm “—Let me carry the bag, because I wouldn’t—“”

“You would not let me carry a gym bag if I was truly pregnant?”

“I wouldn’t want you to if I was there, no.” She stares at him, trying to decipher the context, the meaning, the definition of why—does it truly matter? “I think even if it wasn’t my kid, I’d still try to stop you from doing certain things.”

The bus crawls to a stop at the curb and she steps forward, letting the bag drop from her arm to his as they stand in line to board. “How chauvinist of you—”

“Hey, no—” he shuffles around, reaching into the front part of the bag and pulling out government paid passes for them that he readies to tap for their fee. “There’s certain things you do now that give me the heebie jeebies that I don’t say a damn thing about.”

She steps up the stairs first, making her way to the back of the bus. Hearing the second beep of this pass going off and the quick thumps of his heavy footsteps following her over the metal flooring. When he plops next to her in the aisle seat, she asks, “The hippie jiffies?”

“Heebie jeebies, it’s an onomatopoeia for shivers.”

“It is not an onomatopoeia as shivers do not make a sound, but I am surprised you know that word.”

“Sometimes I catch the second half of Jeopardy.”

As always, his self-deprecation makes her laugh as it is both so in and out of character for him.

He points at her grin. “I made you smile, you can’t be angry at me anymore.”

“I am not—” she forces down his finger, which causes him to bring up his other hand in place “—I am not upset with you, but being pregnant—” which she uses as an euphemism for their undercover case “—there are many rules to factor in, and I did not think to factor in your ideals as well.”

The words appear to mean more to him than she initially intends, and he thoughtfully reaches over to hold her hand. “They’re not ideals, they’re more like aspirations,” his voice is very even, a sincere whisper as his hand grazes her cheek eliciting her to grin again. “They’re just things I would want to do if you were—Watch Out!”

Without a thought from her, his arms wrap around her, pulling her towards him just as an SUV hits their side of the bus, pushing the back end into the opposite lane to be hit by oncoming traffic fishtailing the bus back to the original lane.

“Brace,” is the only word he speaks before the bus smashes into a thick concrete electrical pole and the hydraulics hiss to drop the bus back to the ground.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

In a well discussed decision, they agreed to walk the fifteen blocks home in lieu of waiting for another bus as until they can speak with McGee again, it is not known if the accident was deliberate or not.

“Tony, I bumped my head.” His left shoulder took the brunt of the crash as he turned towards her and did his best to hold her steady. “You took more damage than I did.”

“Yeah, but you’re getting a nasty bruise there.” He taps her cheek gently, staying away from the crest of her orbital bone which went directly into the back of the chair in front of them. She turned just on time to save the impact of the crash from her neck and spine. “It’s swelling up the bottom of your eye a bit.”

“When we return to the apartment, I will put a bag of peas on it, Mon Petit Pois,” she gleams at him, causing him to huff a out a chuckle. “How is your shoulder?”

Rolling it, she can almost hear the crackles and snaps. “Oh, you know, nothing that a week at a spa in the Alps won’t cure.”

Reflexively, she tucks her hand away from him, resting it on the prosthetic so they will not make contact. There is no indication that he has a new romantic interest, but if he is intent on going to European spas, the indication is already there. “So that is what you have been saving your vacation time for.”

“Actually, I’ve been waiting for some Navy business to happen in Switzerland all year so I didn’t have to take the time myself.”

“Switzerland is landlocked, Tony.”

“Yeah, I kind of realized that too late.” He hisses, moving the gym bag off his injured shoulder and to the one closest to her.

“We should have stayed and let EMS look at you.”

The sidewalk was chaos, people hurt from the bus, people hurt from the cars, pedestrians who barely escaped being sandwiched sprawled on the concrete. The pole’s live electrical wire threatened to snap at any moment, and everyone had to disembark from the emergency door at the back making sure to jump clear of the vehicle.

A traffic jam ensued, horns started honking, some of the passengers from the cars and bus had open wounds bleeding, some held injured limbs close to their body, some were furious and screaming about suing the driver, others the city, other both.

“You okay?” He asked her once they fell into the crowd well enough not to be picked off by someone in a sniper’s nest.

“Yes, hand me one of the sweaters.” He did what she asked, handing her the plain black one she wore to yoga earlier. Quickly, she tugged it on despite the temperature picking up.

“Do you need to sit down?”

“I am not in shock,” she answered his unasked question, taking his hand and pulling him a little further into the crowd. “But if that was deliberate, a yellow shirt on a heavily pregnant woman sticks out.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

“Call McGee.” She nodded to the front of the gym bag where their phones were kept. “See if—”

“Ma’am,” an EMT approached them at a parting as the crowd started to filter to the right places for triaging. “Were you on the bus?”

“I’m fine,” she nodded to the young man, only a little older than twenty with short cropped blonde hair, pale eyelashes and blue eyes. “My husband,” she tugged on Tony’s arm, the one that was holding the cell to his face, he spun around drowning whatever angry retort he concocted to poor McGee, “he protected me.”

“Forgive me ma’am, but your husband isn’t incredibly pregnant.”

“Well, I’d hope not, or we’d really be in some trouble,” Tony joked, casually handing the cell with McGee shouting to her.

“Tim?” she questioned as Tony tried to shoo the paramedic. “It’s Rosie.”

After a long pause, McGee finally greeted her back, “Oh, hey Rose. Sorry, I thought it was Walter who called me.”

“He did. We did.” With one finger pressed into her ear, she turned back to see Tony describing the accident to the EMT, before rewinding more and asking if he knew about the creep of an instructor teaching the prenatal classes at the Women’s Center.

“Okay, is there a reason, Rose?” Another paused ensued followed by “Can you talk or is there someone there with you?”

“Just an EMT, we just wanted to call you before you saw it on the news. We were just in a bus crash coming home from our prenatal yoga class.”

The aloof aura left McGee’s voice as she heard frantic typing. “Are you two okay?”

“Yes, Walter took most of the impact with his shoulder, I am a bit bruised up, but okay.”

“I’m bringing up the traffic cams right now, I’ll scan and check license plate numbers.”

“The baby is fine, Tim.” She sighed with her best fake incredulousness.

“Uh—What?”

“Everyone here keeps asking the same thing. She is still moving around like crazy, and I have nothing more than a slight headache.”

“Okay—” he held onto the word either expecting her to automatically explain more than she already did or thinking of the next logical conclusion. Unfortunately, neither happened. “I’ll—”

“Ma’am,” the EMT engaged her again, stepping by Tony, who wore an expression of pure exacerbation “I’d like to get you on a rig and take you to a hospital for a proper examination.”

“I’m fine,” she reassured as she hung up bluntly on McGee, handing the phone back to Tony. “I am not cramping, my due date is not for another seven weeks.”

“And in the sense of keeping it that way, I strongly suggest that you let emergency services at least give you a once over here.” He jutted a gloved thumb over to a small clearing where picnic tables and food trucks had been taken over as a temporary triage area.

“I’m fine, really.” When she tried to draw on her happy, bubbly voice, the one she always pictured Abby for, she sounded too tired and too worn down to successfully convince even herself. “As I just told my husband’s brother—”

“Brother?”

“Tim?” She stressed his name the same way McGee has with his final word.

“Oh, my step-brother,” Tony nodded once and turned to the EMT. “We’re not that close.”

“You’re close enough that I wanted to tell him about the accident before he heard all about it on the news. You know how excited he us to be an uncle.”

“Good old Uncle Tim.”

“We are fine—” She dropped a hand to her stomach for emphasis while holding Tony’s hand, staring into the EMT’s pale blue eyes. “Thank you though, for your concern.”

For a moment, the EMT seemed to not accept this fact, but glanced from her to Tony, who nodded to him to accept the choice. “If you have any concerning or unusual symptoms later: vomiting, headache, loss of consciousness, extreme fatigue, or spotting—”

“You mean all the stuff she has anyway?”

She closed her eyes, giving a silent Hebrew prayer that Tony had not just fucked the whole situation up for them for a joke.

“—Go to the closest emergency room immediately.”

As the EMT marched away, searching for his next patient, Tony took her hand off the prosthetic and held it tightly as they wove through the crowd. “That was a close one.”

“If I went to get evaluated at the hospital, they would have done an ultrasound, Tony,” she reminds, as they are only a few minutes from the apartment.

“I had one of those when I had a kidney stone in college, they’re not that bad—”

She stops walking, overwhelmed by the events of the day already. Being watched like a hawk by the instructor, and Tony threatening him, the accident, the walk, and from here she can see the closed sign on Gus’s boulangerie already, sending a pang of worry through her.

“What?”

“If I had gone to get an ultrasound, they would have found a fake silicone stomach with a gun taped to the inside of it, and if they got to the point of doing the ultrasound, they would have found no fetus.”

“You finally found a way to get a gun in there?”

“It is not the most comfortable, but it stays in place for the most part.”

“When this is over,” he waits for her to catch up, and then slows his pace a little to match her tired steps “I think we should go on vacation?”

“What? To the Alps?” she laughs in doubt, but when he reaches over and retrieves her hands again, her laughter runs dry.

“Unless you want to keep waiting for some poor marine to bite it on Swiss soil.”

“You know that there are seven other countries that the Alps run through.”

His grin turns a little bitter, but he remains holding her hand, and his voice keep a congenial tone. “You know that wasn’t the important part of that sentence.”

She shrugs as they round the building to the back fire escape which he gestures for her to ascend first, though slightly chivalrous, she knows that he does not trust her to keep her balance on the stairs. “I was just offering suggestions in case you wanted to wait and save your money.”

“Oh, so I’m paying for the whole thing?”

Standing at the top of the escape, he stops a step or two below her to be even height and she tugs on the collar of his shirt. “You are the one who invited me, Tony.”

He leans in, his hand on the back of her neck as he kisses her. They both have chapped lips from depleting their water during the class and their reserves on the walk home, but she feels him grin against her mouth, and he draws a smile from her, his hand moving up to tangle in her hair.

“Come on,” she leaves a soft peck on his lips and nods towards their apartment, “let me take a look at your shoulder, and we will see if we can continue this.” He tosses her the keys from the front part of the gym bag. “I will even pretend to be a masseuse named Elsa, if that is what you want.”

She does not realize how close he is until his words touch the back of her neck, causing a field of goosebumps to roll out over her skin. “You know it’s not.”

The words suddenly mean more than they should, take on a new definition with his tone, and she has to force herself not to turn back to him, to verify his words are true, to clasp his cheeks between her hands and kiss him until they both run out of breath.

It is a precaution birthed by her inability to take what she presumes to be a very serious declaration seriously. Another hurdle of her own construction to block any progression of their relationship, leaving the definition stalemate as partners with benefits.

Though the decision is stupid, stubborn, and selfish—knowing it will hurt him to say those words with truth only to have them bounce off her indifferent exterior—it does save their jobs and perhaps his life as when she opens the door, intent on locking herself into the bathroom for the next several minutes in order to recuperate, the man who has been waiting on the couch in a dark safehouse rises from the cushions, coffee cup in hand.

If his action did not explain how upset he was, then his next words certainly do.  

“I wonder when you two would finally make it back here.”

Chapter Text

Gibbs keep all meetings, especially meetings in safehouses, monosyllabically quick.

However, today he does not appear to be giving them any shortcuts.

Tony tries his best to recap what he knows, but this exchange of information is not going as smoothly as they do with McGee. McGee is noncombative and easy to converse with. He sits, drinks his coffee while she updates him on potential suspects, then he scans for bugs while updating her about the office and leaves within the hour.  

“The instructor, Donovan—” Tony snaps his fingers in quick succession once, then twice, his face pinches as he struggles to think of their instructor’s last name.  

“Casey, DiNozzo? You even trying to catch the man going around killing marine’s wives and babies?” The judgement in Gibbs’s voice brings back the brutality of the case—something she does not like to remind herself of often.

“Yeah, there’s something off about that guy.”

“Off how?”

“He’s really—”

“He’s very handsy on, Gibbs, that is all,” she interrupts, not willing to sit passively by and allow him to take the brunt of this crash as well. “He has inquired about Tony and my status and suggested that Tony may be abusive—”

“What?” Tony turns towards her on the couch, his eyes narrowing. “You never told me that.”

“It would have only made you more upset, and I did not want you—”

But in true Tony prowess, he pivots to argue with her, his words loud in offense. “Like I would ever hit you!”

“Because you would die.”

“I don’t mean I couldn’t beat you, I mean—”

“Both of you quiet!”

It reminds her of being at the farmhouse, the pomegranate orchard out back where she and Ari played hide and seek until Tali would toddle over and cry from exclusion. How her father would blame her for not controlling Ari in his elder years, how her mother would scold her for not including Tali.

She was no parent’s favorite and as she grew older those lines became clearer, but her siblings loved her. Cherished her, Tali would bring her drawings from school, and Ari would bring her jewelry back when he went to visit his mother. They would count the rice on her plate, and until they both died, they ensured she had an equal amount.

“Ziva!”

“What!” She snaps, glancing to the man she shot Ari for as she could see her older brother, her safety and laughter, begin to change, to morph like a caterpillar to a moth attracted to the light of rebellion.

How he started to exclude her from gatherings, from trips, from runs or bicycle rides, or collecting the pomegranates in the orchard like they did when they were kids, no longer having to climb the branches of what used to be tall trees, instead just reaching up and snapping off the fruit.

All three would never again see who could eat the first fruit the fastest, or who could eat the most before returning to the house.

Her big brother had a hole in his head, and her little sister fell in pieces.

Tony’s eyes grow wide, shocked and maybe afraid of her outburst, but she will simply not sit here all evening and listen to Gibbs tell her about everything she has done wrong for the last two months.

She left that man behind once, and she can surely do it again.

But before she can explain this threat, translate it from Hebrew to English in her head, she glances down at her hands, looking at them shaking on top of the prosthetic.

Gibbs’s worn face softens as he reaches out, touching the back of one of her hands softly, and the quivering stops. “You have had a rough day.” He clasps his hand around hers briefly before standing. “If you don’t have anything new, then you don’t have anything. McGee will be back two Saturdays from now with the second last one.” He gestures to her stomach in case his point was not clear.

Tony shoots up beside her on the couch, following him to the door, promising to be more diligent with what they learn, to alert them by phone if anything suspicious rouses their attention, to just all around do better, until Gibbs grumbles some threat at the door and slams it behind him.

During the chorus of locks Tony sets into place she starts to undress, pulling the sweatshirt and t-shirt off in one tug and letting it drop to the floor, then dropping her yoga pants and panties, calling out, “I’m having a shower—” she stops in the middle of the bedroom, slowly detaching the prosthetic before stepping out of it and leaving it on the floor.

The shower has mold in the ceramics and mildew glistens in the corner. The enamel from the bottom is all but chipped away and dull. The tub spigot no longer works, leaving only the shower functional.

She does not want him to come in.

Her hair flattens under the spray of water, her eyes growing dry under the stream, her one eye painful, dizzying when the stream pounds against it. She pushes through it, thinks about what her father said about the ocean beating against rock, wearing it down over time because the rock allows it to, a simple black eye will not give her a headache she will cede to, will not give her nausea mixing with the sound of waves she hears if she concentrates enough, while resting on the sides of her feet unevenly.

If he does not come in, she will be upset.

The thundering of her heart, with the heat building up due to lack of ventilation, and the wear in her tired body that has been broken and mangled back together only to break again is overwhelming, drowning her in the undertow of the waves. She leans her head against the disgusting tiles that she will clean once she is out and her eyes grow wet, the tears threading in with the water covering her actions, not implicating her in emotions.

The wall replaces itself with a structure much sturdier, a little less dingy, but more loving as his hand starts to stroke through her hair. She wants to fight with him, tell him she did not invite him in—though she specially did not tell him to leave her alone, and to divulge that the shower is the only place she learned she could cry in peace without the ramifications of others identifying her weakness.

But her body is tired, and her face does hurt. She does not want to admit to it as she has survived much worse at the hands of her own teams, but the headache, the accident worn stiffness, the dehydration from a hot afternoon, the turmoil of the collection of people from the accident site, and she cries into his shirt while the shower water beats down over the glass door and against him to puddle on the floor.

When she regains her equilibrium, the ability to stand on her own two feet without wavering, he lets her go. Allows her independence to shower while moping up the small bathroom floor with extra towels he found in the closet. There is a fresh towel on the floor as she steps out of the shower, and two hanging on the wall. He leans over the sink, his back to her, while wringing out his shirt.

Wrapping a towel around her hair, and other around her body, she chuckles at the sheer amount of water releasing from his t-shirt. “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Expects him to tell her not to apologize as it is a sign of weakness, but he uses his shirt and wipes away the fog on the mirror so he can talk to her that way. “Sorry for what? As far as I’m concerned that shower is possessed.”

They have changed around each other, from arguing to debating, from stubborn to accepting. Little switches being flipped in another direction from the influence of someone must mean more than a simple friendship.

The shower heated up the small apartment, and he opens one of the windows in the bedroom and another in the living room. The sound and smell of other people waft into their lives, and it feels like they’re no longer alone. That someone is watching them instead of the other way around. Arguments, car doors closing, people shouting on the phone, a thick cigarette smoke infiltrating through the mesh screens, and the apartment does not even appear theirs anymore.

“Your gun still in the torso?” He questions, grabbing her clothing from the floor and stuffing it in a plastic drawstring bag they will take to the laundromat soon as they have used all the towels.

“Yes,” she answers while drying off her hair, twisting her fingers through it like Tali did when she was young, when she wanted to know how to braid like their mother.

“Okay, I put it in the closet because you know how that thing freaks me out.”

She slides under the blankets wearing panties and a t-shirt he let her borrow, since all her own clothing felt too confining, the weight of the prosthetic all day mixed with constricting clothing not helping her settle, and before he even gets into bed, she falls into an exhaustive sleep.

Chapter Text

The pain is present again, the burden on her limbs, holding her down, weighing her down, a sack yanked over her head before plunging her face first into water that she draws into her nostrils and throat, the water from the shower hitting the tiles and clearing a path through all the slime left on it before, the smell of uncleanliness, of desperation, of dishevelment, of intention.

That intention creeping closer and closer until it erupts.

She is conscious suddenly, sitting up in bed and pawing for the gun under her pillow, growing more frustrated, more frightened as she cannot find it. She still sees Somalia, hears the people bartering at the portside, feels the sand in her lung and eyes, mixing with the water, dragging her down from within, making it hard for her soul to stand.

"Ziva, hey—" his hand does not attempt to stop her from searching but instead pets back the wild hair in her face. "You're okay."

"No—he will come—I must—" sentences start and stop in her mind, words explode like firecrackers in the sky, bright against a dull backing. Thoughts flashing and then stopping. In bed. In the sand. On the ship. On the bus. The pinpoint of her mind circumnavigating the globe.

"You left your gun in the torso, remember?" He rips her pillow away, showing in the darkness that filters through their eyes, that there is nothing underneath it. "The torso has your gun."

"The torso—" In the closet on the ground. No sand this time, the twenty pound pregnant belly, to—yes. Yes, she knows. The surrounding straining back, details of the water-stained ceiling, the bathroom with the broken ventilation, the sight of the bus seat ramming at her face, Tony asking for the bag because it's what he would really do if she was pregnant.

The alps.

The spot beneath her pillow still empty when she moves her hand from the flat sheet to the side of his face, tapping gently with one finger.

"You back?"

"I am back."

"Got you back quicker this time, might even be a new record."

While she does not enjoy him using her horrible memories as a form of sport, but she is grateful he is present to help her whenever one arrives. When this was still a solo undercover mission, she did not have the remorse or regret she carries now, and even if it is Tony's presence that causing a resurgence of nightmares, at least it is his presence halts that them.

Outside the bars release, pouring inebriated patrons into the street, taxis roll slowly as they crush the leaves in the gutters, rubber wheels skimming the curb, weekend neon signs are shut off as people ready themselves for work tomorrow.

Lights crawl around on the wall as if there is an infestation.

Tony does not say another word. He pulls her to him, stroking a hand through her hair, his inhalations and heartbeat slowing as he starts to slip into sleep.

She does not know what compels her to speak. Does not want to know why she is more comfortable divulging issues to a room he is asleep in, but with awake eyes trailing the line of cars driving up the one-way street, she speaks, "Sometimes I wake up, and I do not know where I am. Sometimes I do not know which version of myself I am playing, and it is so extreme that I cannot define who I am anymore."

"Why would you want to define yourself?" The echo of his voice in the room, strong and awake, his fingertips dragging over her fingers, outlining, studying, still holding her close. "There is no one version of you. You're all versions, all the time."

"I feel like sometimes madness overtakes my life—it would be so welcoming to just wake up in my childhood bedroom and find Tali downstairs clinging to my mother and Ari out on errands with my father."

The room so visible she could grasp it, the gossamer hung from the posts of their bed, the cracked tile floor speckled with some of the autumn leaves and dried dirt from the orchard. Playing monkey with Tali and Ari until their father chided him, stating that he was too old to act in imaginary play, that he was a man and needed to act like one, the shame that grew on his face, the neglect they all felt.

Tali's twelfth birthday. She was sixteen. Ari nineteen and annexed himself to the kitchen, as balloons and ballet surrounded their baby sister, her mother did her curls up in a beautiful style, after she begged for it.

"At one point Ari left the party from the patio doors to the orchard." She knows Tony has no idea what she is talking about, but she also knows that he will not ask questions until he needs to, not as how they were before, how they are in front of co-workers to keep a seeded ruse watered. "My boyfriend was at the party, it was the only way I told my father that I would attend—" she laughs, seeing the gaunt-faced boy, Odom, she new from school, the one she was obsessed with as she had nothing else to infect her time, and would not for two more years until she entered the military.

"I followed Ari out to the pomegranates, the smell was so strong, the blossoms bloomed on the new trees already and we were not supposed to touch the fruit yet, it still needed to ripen for another month or so," the round, red fruits dotting the more mature trees as stars in the sky at night, the boughs that hung laden with a bountiful harvest, she was afraid they would break before collected but her father commanded they be left.

If the branches receive no hardships, they have no reason to try twice as hard next year.

"He was one year in the military, and I saw my sweet older brother, the one who would sneak me extra pocket change to get candy for Tali and I to share at lunch, I saw him transform into another of my father's hands."

Ari broke branches and kicked the trunks of trees, the fruit falling, the butterflies which rested on the leaves frightened, trying to fly away as he started throwing the fruit at them, crushing them.

"I pushed him back as he started pelting our chickens with the fruit, he was so angry, so violent, so unlike the brother I had—" He hit her that day. Tali's twelfth—her little sister still had some of her innocence. Their mother and father were going to take her to the opera tomorrow. She would go to the orchard with Odom and have sex for the first time. Ari would shoot a family of four in a market from a sniper's nest.

"It hurt more than any pain I've had in my life." Does not want to elaborate, cannot as it brings the painful sensation, her displaced nose, the blood pouring from her body. "When I told my father how it hurt, he slapped me in the face, and I saw those stars, those pomegranates as if I were a butterfly."

She turns towards Tony, her eyes hooking onto his, not moving, unwavering, as he scrambles to hide his emotions, though he is not as skilled as her, the cracks in the corner of his eyes, the glossiness over them, the tight dryness of his lips, like the crumbled earth around the pomegranate stumps.

"I always miss Tali, I always miss her, so deeply, so dearly. I may have cared for her in the absence of our parents and brother, but she is the only one who thought about me with no reason to, and—" her voice adopts a tremor she did not request, one that she does not need after getting almost all the way through her story, so much divulged without a so much as a sniffle of emotion.

You had better get used to the pain, your life will be full of it, Ziva, and if a broken nose is enough to break you, you will not last the day.

"I am so glad that I did not have to witness her grow into him the way I had to witness Ari." She can feel the rise in her lungs, in the pit of her stomach, in each of her cold toes. "I am glad she did not have to witness me."

When she starts crying, he leans over and seizes her lips, capturing them, his hand holding onto hers so tightly, and she reciprocates fully. His shirt discarded from her body along with her panties, and she holds onto him, tasting the saltiness of her own tears drying as he drags his lips from hers to behind her ear, settling her to sit in his lap, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, his lips pulling down her neck to her chest as she sets a rhythm for both to follow.

Afterwards, he holds her again, blows a stray bang out of her face, kisses her temple, draws his fingers up and down her arm, kisses her shoulder, each action a little removed as she falls to sleep.

"Where are you going?" He questions, his eyes closed to the sunlight streaming through the windows they left open all night. The apartment is close to freezing from the overnight drop in temperature she did not fully feel before getting out of bed.

Woke to him snoring, his head inches from hers, but face down in his pillow, one of his arms tossed across her body, buried beneath the comforter, while he remained completely exposed on top. She slid out from under the blankets and ran to the washroom to get ready for another chance to expand their case, to hopefully bring something new back to Gibbs.

"Prenatal yoga." Grabbing the gym bag, she stuffed her phone into the front pocket.

"Shit—" squirreling around on top of the comforter, Tony's bare feet finally touch the ground, and he dashes into the washroom to urinate. Glancing over his shoulder, bruised a deep green from the bus, the painful stage not even registered yet, he bemoans, "why didn't you wake me?"

"It's prenatal yoga," she shrugs her shoulders, the bag swinging at her side and by routine, she starts to make the bed, smooth out the wrinkles in the fitted sheet from where they slept, pulling it tight at the corners before grabbing the flat and fanning it out. "There will not be a lot of partners there anyway."

"You could have told me," he leans his head out of the washroom, the area around his mouth covered in foam from toothpaste, and his speech impeded by him brushing his tongue, "—nd—I—ood—o—ou—oka—or—ou."

"How many times have I told you not to brush your teeth while you talk?" She sighs, tossing down the pillows on the bed. "Do you want to choke again?"

As if on cue, he starts coughing, before hacking something up and spitting it into the sink. "I'm capable of multitasking."

"Since when?" She tries to be serious, but she cannot. Being around him gives her a joviality that she has not had since she was young, and her biggest problem was that neither of her parents seemed to care for her.

"Agent David, you are in a rare mood today." He exits the washroom, somehow wearing boxers and she does not want to think about if they were in there already. Snatching up his jeans from the corner of the room, he falls onto his back on the bed she just finished making, the wrinkles of him fighting to tug the denim up his legs wear into the comforter and the sheets below. "Did you happen to get mind blowing sex last night?"

She grins but will not look him in the eye as she starts collecting any of his discarded socks or shirts from around the room to put them into the laundry bag.

"I see that grin, Ms. David—"

"Agent David," she corrects, tossing another one of his socks from under the dresser into the bag.

"Even after last night, giving you the best—" she arches an eyebrow at him and he swallows hard before yanking on a green t-shirt "—sleep of your night—" he cocks his head at her, ensuring that she will not correct him again "—and you still make with the formalities."

Walking towards him, she leans up, kissing him softly in the lips, tasting a bit of the mint from his toothpaste, her thumb rubbing away a bit from his chin. "Thank you for listening last night, Tony."

Her gratitude seems to take him by surprise, the way that all her emotions do.

"Thank you for sharing."

She transfers the bag to him after he finishes locking the door, and they clatter down the metal stairs towards the bus stop in front of Gus's. When she gets there, she's relieved to see that the old man is inside, and when she waves at him as he sits behind the counter doing his crossword, he waves back.

"Friend of yours?" Tony questions glancing into the boulangerie. Gus stops waving, turning away to head into the back probably to check the ovens. He bakes only three batches of each pastries each day, so early in the morning he works both out front and in the back.

"That's the guy who made the macarons."

"What are macarons?"

"Remember those pastries you ate on Friday?"

"God, he made the cookie sandwiches?" His tone becoming more serious as he holds her by the shoulders, making her laugh.

"Yes, he makes them fresh each morning."

"Argh," he exclaims throwing an arm over his head. "Do we have to go to stupid yoga?"

Another pregnant woman standing a few feet away from her, turns to view them, glancing them up and down, judging, before turning and moving a few more feet away.

"If we want to attempt this case, then yes," They watch as the bus approaches, stopping to pick up the line, hissing as it falls lower on its wheels.

Neither of the say what they're both thinking—about Tony's shoulder, about her eye, as the dull pain in her face throbs.

Regardless of what they want to do and why, he pulls her closer to him, his hand holding her own as if they would get separated in such a small area and readies the passes as they step onto the bus to find it almost overflowing.

"You getting on or what?" The driver asks, staring at them through black tinted pilot glasses.

He leans over her shoulder as they climb onto the bus, and he scans the passes. "If this isn't the universe, or God, or Allah, or Scooby Doo trying to communicate with us that we shouldn't be going to this class—"

But she pays no mind to his words, pushing so they are behind the yellow line, her hand resting over the prosthetic, forgetting that it will likely garner sympathy from someone to give her a seat, but no one moves to offer one, a response she is more than capable of handling.

But Tony is not.

"Really? Heavily pregnant lady with a shiner that looks like she went a few rounds with Ali, and no one here wants to give up their seat for her?"

"Sorry Bro," a teenager standing a few people to the left of them offers a shrug. "Bus is all preggos and oldies today."

"Preggos?" She questions.

"Bro?" Tony questions.

But the bus lurches to life, pulling away from the curb lacking anything clearly defined as grace, lurching forward as gears grind with the sheer amount of people on board.

"Okay, so I'm going to position myself between you and—excuse me. Excuse me!" Tony shoves himself between her and a man she had not paid attention to, standing directly behind her, mirroring how they were standing in line moments ago.

"You did not even see that guy making a plan for you, did—" They hit a pothole, and his hands hold hers, keeping them attached to the handle for stability, swaying with her forward and then back. "Hey Mario Andretti, want to take the speed bumps with a little—"

"Finesse is the word I was thinking."

"That's a good one," he agrees before craning his neck back and shouting, "finesse!"

Though his actions seem to take root in sarcasm, she knows he is becoming upset, just as he was with Donovan after learning about his proclivities. His mood shift is obvious, as he flushes and snaps choppy answers instead of taking his time to think.

"I am okay, my love," she turns, facing him as they both dangle from the straps above. "If I can keep my balance for the ninety-minute yoga, I can keep it for the ten-minute bus ride."

"It's ninety min—" he pauses, taking in the way that she bites on her cheeks, trying not to burst out in laughter "—Well, I just don't want my baby to be born on a bus. What does that say about us?"

"That we're well travelled."

"Poor and well travelled. No kid of mine, no—" the pause this time indicates he forgot his fake surname.

"Cronk?"

"Yeah, no Cronk is going to be born on a bus."

She watches him from her peripherals, turning away from him to scan the bus for anyone she recognizes, anyone who looks uncomfortable or interested in their exchange. "At least not yet, I am only thirty-three weeks."

"That's higher than thirty-two other numbers and is very close to being thirty-six."

"Babies are born from thirty-eight to forty-two weeks."

"What! No, it's nine months."

"Yes, you carry to the end of the nineth month." She tries not to be distracted but the disappointment in his voice, perhaps at what could be an extended mission now, is palpable by the way he stiffens.

"Oh, that sucks."

She nods, knowing all he can see is her ponytail bounce up and down. "It does."

"You hear that, Speed Racer?" He shouts over the din of the crowd throughout the bus. "If your shitty driving breaks my wife's water at thirty-three weeks, I'm going to break—"

Almost in restitution for being taunted, the bus hits a large pothole on their side, and as quick as she can draw her firearm from underneath her pillow, he grabs the back of her sweatshirt, keeping her stationary until the bus settles.

"You know, after the success of Airplane there was a movie called The Big Bus that came out in 1976 about a huge luxury bus that drove across the country. At one point, Stockard Channing's character almost died in a room full of soda," he rants as he helps to fix her sweater back into the proper position.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I need you to know that I would rather die in a hundred gallons of soda than be on this bus for one more minute."

Chapter Text

Prenatal yoga entails her shifting her center of balance and holding positions with fake baby bonus weight while Tony scans the rest of the class to see if anyone is acting suspicious. Today, there are only five other couples present, leaving ample times for the instructor, Donovan, to keep a close eye on them and their sometimes-orchestrated bickering. Tony, despite his best argument, cannot multitask, and is frequently failing in offering her support for the poses.

“Okay, Mommies you know the hard one is coming, from Shavasana, we’re going to pull up into bridge pose to stretch out those tired and overworked lower back muscles right at the lower lumbar and sacrum region.”

Diligently, she listens, pushing her arms, palms, and the flats of her feet into the ground to construct herself up in an arch. Almost immediately, her arms and legs begin to wobble with the added weight, but the more that she thinks it is only twenty extra pounds, the harder it becomes to manage. With her mind distracted and her body faltering, she is about to collapse back to the mat, but Tony’s hands shoot in, one between her hips and the other between her shoulders.

“Light as a feather, stiff as a bored there, Honey,” he grunts, doing his best to keep her from falling.

“What?”

“Don’t little Israelis have sleepovers? Stay up late because you drank too much soda, and now you’re on a sugar rush, and that twelve hours seems like an eternity.” Her face red with the pressure, she manages to shake her head. “Never play Bloody Mary, or Candy Man, or put a sleeping friend’s hand in a warm bowl of water and watch as they piss themselves and then get scared that you’re going to get in trouble, so everyone flips out the lights and kicks the bowl away like it never happened.”

“Okay, Mommies relax for the most part, dad’s your turn to do the heavy lifting.”

“It sounds very much like that last situation happened to you, Tony.”

“Well, if it did, it wouldn’t have been my fault,” his face grows redder with his exertion, trying to support her back, sweat starting to bead around his temples. “Because I would have been a kid and asleep.”

“Okay, everyone, relax. Back to Shavasana for five minutes before the end of class.” The instructor walks around the dimmed conference room, the smell of sandalwood in the air as a tape plays singing bowls and monk chants. “Mommies how do you feel? Is your little one kicking up a storm? Think about them. About meeting them in only a few months! Dads think about how what you’re learning can let you help in the delivery room.”

Her shoulder blades press onto the mat on the floor beneath her, the heels of her feet stretched out and her back hurting in a good way. When she glances over, Tony lays like a starfish, all his limbs spread out as wide as possible, she shakes her head, but when his hand reaches for her during the closed eyes portion of the meditation, she clasps on to him, connecting to him as she tries not to think about what it would be like to carry a baby full term.

To give birth to a little piece of herself and treat them better than she or Tony were treated as children.

She squeezes his hand, it is because of him that she is no longer alone undercover, no longer cut off from the world that they know. Even if he volunteered to play this role for some elaborate practical joke still on the horizon, she does not mind.

When he squeezes her hand back, it may just be in support, or to copy her action, but part of her truly believes he agrees.

“Okay, so who do you think will crash on the way home, us or someone else?” Tony tucks his arm around her back, they are sitting in the middle of the bus this time, the crowd dwindling from out front the women’s center perhaps not willing to chance another crash.

“Odds would say someone else.” She taps her bottom lip several times and then glances to him, catching his slanted grin, an indication of his acceptance of her joke.

“That it would, but I’m not entirely sure that mathematical probability is enough to sway me.”

“If we do crash again, I could try to hit the other cheek.”

“Yeah, even it out a bit,” wobbling his hand to show the lack of balance from the bruise on her face. “So, do you think the police will be waiting for me when we get back, or are they going to break in when we’re in the middle of an eight-hour session of love making tonight.”

“Tony,” she laughs, retrieving her water bottle from the bag between their feet. “This is you we’re talking about.”

“So, the cops definitely going to be waiting.”

“I meant the ‘eight-hour’ comment—”

“Oh, really,” he turns towards her, his eyes shaded by his sunglasses that she hates when he wears indoors. “Because I’ve never heard you complain—”

“And I’ve never heard of you going for more than thirty minutes.”

His mouth falls wide open, and he places a hand over his heart. “Et tu Brute?”

“Fine, forty-five minutes, at the very, very most.” When he continues to stare at her, his mouth open, she shrugs, “I cannot commit to any more than that and keep truthful.”

He huffs, and she is still unsure if he is truly upset over a vast number that he created, or if he is playing her up for a reaction. “You know how to kick a man when he’s down.”

“I do, but this is about you.”

“First Donovan, the freegan who bikes to and from work and smokes weed like an epicure does pig belly—sorry not keeping it kosher—stares at us all class long, watching while you stretch, you move, you sway—”

“He’s the yoga instructor.” She insinuates all those characteristics make sense for his chosen profession, including watching her to ensure she is preforming the exercises properly, and not in any way going to harm herself.

“He was eye fucking you, Ziva,” Tony exhales in an all to serious and harsh tone that immediately makes her break into a laughter, one so genuine that she cannot even attempt to hide. “He’s in a room full of his fantasies and he picks you out of the cookie jar and he—”

“You are mixing metaphors, Mon Petit Pois.” She softly touches the side of his face, pressing down on the arm of his sunglasses so that they raise on his face and fall into her waiting hand. “Which must mean you are quite upset.”

“I just don’t like him looking at—” she waits, grinning, trying to guess how he will backtrail from here to cover his attraction to her, which is more than evident in the frequent, though not eight hour long, sessions of sex since he showed up a few weeks ago.

But it is one of their games. Who will be the first to bow out? Who will be the first to exhibit true emotions without a hint of remorse?

“—at you.”

Her heart pounds in her chest, fireworks of nervousness exploding at the word echoing in her ear. “Pardon.”

“He looks at you like you’re an object of desire for him. He doesn’t see you, he doesn’t see who you are, he just sees your very beautiful face and very, very pregnant body.” He speaks the words to her like they are as natural as the breathes she takes more frequently as the bus starts to become too small, too enclosed with no method of escape. “He wasn’t even appreciating the best part of you.”

“Tony—I don’t—I’m—uh—” this must be some form of joke, some practical game to play on her during their long undercover mission together, genuine words that he is using as bait, or to lord over her later. “I don’t know what—”

Leaning over he kisses her, his thumb and index finger holding her chin still, and she closes her eyes, smelling the sweat from his shirt, his glasses still folded in her lap. Her hand grasps his thigh in surprise, the soft cotton of his sweatpants, the hard muscle underneath.

The kiss ends when he pulls away, a delicate, sweet kiss, leaning closer to her ear he informs, “I needed to get his attention.”

A moment passes where she translates the words in her head, finally understanding that his sentimentality is to elicit a response from someone. She laughs the pang of pain away, pretending he told her something coy, and leans back to rest her head on his shoulder as he takes her hand in his, extending his index finger to the right, casually telling her to look out the window behind him.

Outside the window, glancing into the bus, standing next to his bicycle is Donovan.

“So, he has to be our guy, right?” The sun begins to cloud over as a chill picks up in the air, it did not call for rain today or tomorrow, but the sky has gone from clear to overcast in the matter of a few minutes.

“I do not know.” Her pace slows, her body feeling the strain of the workout and the added weight, the constant addition and subtraction of it to her body by wearing and removing the prosthetic cannot be healthy. “Something still does not feel right about it.”

“Right in the sense of just or right in the sense of fitting?” He pauses a few feet ahead of her, allowing her to catch up, and adds, “you know you’re waddling, right?”

“He does not fit the motive—” answering his first question, she continues to walk, her hips straining, previous injuries, dislocations, gun shot wounds, stab wounds into muscles, broken bones, all act up more easily without her daily regiment of running and working out. Only stretching only goes so far “—and I am not waddling.”

“He fits Ducky’s description: Male, 30s, no wife, no kids, and, oh yeah, a massive pregnancy kink.” HE stands a few feet behind her now, and thankfully, no one else is around to hear him shout the last part at her, which not only divulges much about their case, but also paints him in a poor light. “And you’re waddling more than Mother-fucking-Goose.”

“Who is motherfucking Goose.”

In two steps he has caught up with her, in another two he’s leaving her trailing behind him again. “Not motherfu—than Mother Goose.”

“I do not know what my—”

“Forget it,” he waves her off, officially ceding the conversation to her, though she knows he is aware she is playing dumb, employing the tactic for specific situations when she does not want to argue anymore.

 Allowing her to get a few more steps ahead he adds, “not that I don’t like to see the way your ass—”

“If you finish that sentence, you will never see it or anything again.”

“Noted.”

They round the corner to the back of the building, him having to constantly stop to appease her, and by the time she climbs the stairs her back is so stiff it might be aflame.

“I have to get this thing off,” she mutters, pushing by him and into the apartment, already undoing her the tie on her sweatpants.

Tony shuts and locks the door behind him, his voice chasing her into the bedroom. “Well, Sweetcheeks, if you’re in an amorous mood—”

“I’m not,” she clarifies with a grin as she drops her pants eager to pull off the prosthetic.

“Well that’s disturbing.” Standing in the doorway, he watches her peel the prosthetic off, sliding it over her stomach, her hips, thighs and to the floor. “Like a Cronenbergian version of Mrs. Doubtfire.”

“I have no idea what any of those words mean, Tony, and I do not care.” Flopping on the bed, leaving the prosthetic on the ground, she ignores it for a moment, even though she knows it bothers him.

Closing her eyes, the floor creeks as he walks into the room, and there’s a sound of a zipper, that she recognizes from his sweatshirt, followed by the sound of it landing into the corner of the room. The bed squeaks as he flops down beside her, a movement that bounces her back, hurting for a moment before he questions, “you okay?”

“Hmm, just tired.” Angling her head so it is even with his shoulder she repeats the question. “Are you?”

“It’s really weird seeing you pregnant.”

It is not the answer she expects.

A normal response from him would be that he’s never been better and then some innuendo that has a less than ten percent chance of leading them to sex. But not a true response. “I do not believe I am psychologically qualified enough to help you unpack that.”

The bed shakes again as he chuckles, his hand finding hers. “It’s just something I didn’t expect I would see, you know?”

Apparently, he does want to have a conversation about it, which if it involves not having to get up, she is more than happy to oblige. “Do you have a pregnancy kink?”

“What? No.” The admission comes too fast and he recollects himself, she can almost picture, if they were back at the office, him straightening his tie to help him relax. “I mean any port in a storm if it’s bad enough, but no, it’s not really my thing.”

“Does me being pregnant change anything?”

“Change anything with us being partners or us being partners?”

“Either?”

“Well, I kind of want you to walk faster.”

“Tony—”

“But I also want to hurt anyone who even looks at you.”

She grins, reaching underneath her back, and rubbing at the sore muscles with her knuckles. “Perhaps you’ve honed in on your primitive instincts.”

“Just because I want to bash every guy in the head with a large club doesn’t prove that.”

“It is also unwarranted because it is not even your baby.”

He sits up, glaring at her. “What do you mean it’s not my baby?”

“Tony, there is no baby, it is not anyone’s.”

“But the imaginary baby is mine—” she does not offer an answer to his empty line of questioning, instead focusing on trying to relieve the pain her back. “What’s wrong?”

She chuckles, sitting up slowly, to match his position. “It is nothing.”

“Does your back hurt?” He reaches a hand towards her, that she catches and places back on the bed.

“It is nothing, I will be okay.”

“Turn around.”

“It’s fine, Tony.”

“Just turn around.”

She obliges him, turning and stifling a shiver as he brushes her hair over her shoulder. He is hesitant, and her skin begins to grow cold from exposure, to the point where she is about to ask him what his plan is, before his palms rest on both her hips, his fingers spreading over her sides, and he begins to press into the hard muscles, in over the scars, the previous fractures and dislocations, without even noticing them marring her to release the strain.

“What do you mean we can’t get Fruity Pebbles?” Tony questions her decision again, holding the small box of cereal that claims to be on sale as they walk down the overcrowded cereal aisle.  “They’re fruity-licious.”

“Because we cannot afford to get Fruity Pebbles, and fruity-licious is not a real word.”

It has been over two hours.

When she used to shop just for herself, it would not take more than twenty minutes for her to speed through the store and grab a few of the items she needed; however, Tony stated yesterday that they should take their time when perusing the food in order to see if they can spot anyone from their classes or taking particular notice of them.

“You don’t know it’s not a word.” Tony keeps her dragging pace, walking alongside the cart that would barely have seven items in it if she was alone, but now is divisible in multiples of seven. “You screw up your idioms all the time.”

“I know it is not a word because there are very few native English words spark incredible imagery, and in knowing other languages, there is no word translatable to fruity-licious!” At this point her body is practically thrown over the handles of the cart, using very little momentum to keep walking as they have been up and down all the aisles three times. “Tony, can we please, go.”

“Something wrong?” Although his response is meant to be sarcastic—it is very unlikely that he wants to be here anymore than she does—his words eject as malicious.

“I’m hot and I’m tired.” The prosthetic threatens to poke out of her shirt if she dips any lower while she walking. “My lower back hurts every time I take a step.”

“Wow, it’s almost like you’re pregnant.”

“How many times do I have to remind you that there is a very real twenty pounds attached to my midsection—”

She is about to continue berating him, when a familiar voice interrupts her.

“You’d better listen to Rosie,” Gus appears at the end of the aisle, just a few feet ahead of them. “No other woman I’ve seen has handled pregnancy with as much class, but I’m willing to bet dollars to donuts she could kick your ass.”

Life sparks through her anew, as she was beginning to grow worried about Gus. “You’d better listen to him too, Gus is a tough military man.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.”

“You want Fruity Pebbles.”

“I’m sorry, isn’t Gus the guy who bakes the macaroons.”

“No, I bake the macarons, but good try.” Gus holds out his hand, and Tony shakes it, almost reluctantly. “This another brother.”

She smothers her laugh at the flat expression Tony wears in displeasure, his hand still captured within Gus’s. “No, this is Walter, my husband.”

“Husband!” Gus almost reels back, his small cart shaking and skidding as he stabilizes himself. “The husband!”

“Yes.” As if on cue, she wraps her arms around his, though Tony appears not that interested in what she does, his attention focused on Gus.

“I thought he was overseas.”

“Yeah, well, not overseas as much as on it. The naval ship I was on needed emergency repairs, we got stationed on the coast.” she presses closer to him, partly to show her devotion and partly to start making Tony uncomfortable. His hand falls to her stomach, rubbing it lightly as she presses her breasts closer into his arm under the guise of staring lovingly at him “—uh, and I—uh—had enough leave saved up that I can be here until my Little Babino is a month old.”

“You know that Bambino is for a boy, right?” Gus points to Tony, his old hand shaking, before turning back to her. “He knows that, right?”

“My—uh—father is actually Italian,” Tony begins to grow uncomfortable, not due to her proximity, but to Gus challenging him on what he knows, forcing him to straighten out facts and calling him on his poor Italian.

“Then you should know that.”

Grabbing her hand from his arm, he glances at her watch. “Would you look at the time, Sweetcheeks, we have to get home.” Without waiting for a word from her, he takes control of the cart and pushes his way by Gus and out of the end of the aisle, dragging her along as well.

“I’ll see you soon, Gus.”

“You’d better!” Fully entertained, Gus’s laugh sounds like someone jingling the change in their pocket as he waves her off.

“That was Gus,” she informs Tony once they are in line for the self checkout.

Tony rubs his forehead a little too hard, his skin reacting by changing an agitated red. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

“He runs the bou—”

“I swear to God, if you say boo-laundry, I will go back and get those Fruity Pebbles and eat them so fast I throw up a rainbow of flavors on the bed tonight.”

“Tony, are you seriously threatened by a kind old man?”

“Yes.” His eyes do not stray from hers. “I’m threatened by a lot of different things like Bridezillas, toy breeds of dogs, female wrestlers and body builders, the vampires playing baseball in Twilight, and most of all that old man.”

“What could Gus hand possibly done to give you the Himmy Jimmies?”

“Heebie Jeebies—you know fruity-licious isn’t a real adjective—again, sometimes I catch the second half of Jeopardy—but you don’t know the saying is heebie jeebies?” He flaps out their reusable bag, setting it in the packaging area, and interrupts the computer by pressing a button immediately when it speaks.

“I explained how I know about the saying—” she hands him product after product watching as he takes no care to bag them, instead intentionally tossing them in without a second shot. “—you have not given me a reason not to trust Gus.”

“Maybe he just gives me the Himmy Jimmy’s,” Tony speaks to her over his shoulder, snatching the credit card from her hand, and tapping it repeatedly at the terminal before the receipt pours out of the side of the machine.

Chapter Text

A simple a sound, a creak in the floor has her reaching underneath her pillow for her gun, twisting to the side, finding Tony clad in blue plaid boxers, his hands raising and a brief look of surprise on his face before he rolls his eyes at her.

“Is there a toll to take a leak now?—”

“Please do not tell me those are the same underwear you’ve been wearing for the last two nights.”

“—because I’m fresh out of pocket change.”

“Tony—” she mutters, one hand clicking on the safety and shoving the gun back under her pillow and the other pressing against the pressure at the bridge of her nose. “Do you know how—”

“Take it easy, Mr. Clean, I bought a pack of boxers on route when I got promoted to your ball and chain.” Clumsily, in the half dark he walks around the bed, thumping against the cheap frame, before sitting on the leg, depressing the mattress.

“It is ‘en route’.”

“That’s what I—”

“You said ‘on’,” she overexaggerates her pronunciation of the word when he glances at her, “it is French, it means on the way. En route.”

“Whatever,” he groans sliding back in bed and she has forgotten the perks of his early morning attitude. The red numbers on the alarm clock on her side of the bed are starting to lose their luminosity, some of the small rectangles making up each number fade, blinking rapidly, or just do not glow at all.

To her best guess it is three in the morning.

Tony grumbles something, yanking on the sheets and comforter to bring over his shoulder as she remains sitting up.

“Is something the matter?”  

“I’m fine.”

“You do not seem fine.”

“Oh, I don’t.”

“No, you seem cranky, like a baby who—”

“Enough with the babies.” He tenses immediately clawing at the sheets to get his freshly buried arms free. “I’m so tired about talking about babies every goddamn minute of every goddamn day.”

Does not know how he expects her to act, his hair is wildly tousled from sleeping, the sheets bunching at his stomach as he sits up, waiting for a reaction from her, so she gives him one.

Pure, unbridled laughter.

“This isn’t funny.” When she keeps laughing, he grabs her pillow and throwing it harshly at the closed bedroom door. Though it would make their space look much larger if they leave the bedroom door open, if someone happens to break in, it gives them a few more seconds being attacked. “I’m serious, Ziva.”

“Tony, you signed up for an undercover mission concerning the butchering of pregnant mothers, when did you think babies would not be the center of the conversation?” The laughter swells over her so wholly that she feels as if she has done her five am run, something she deeply misses, the solidarity in mind and body, the stillness in street and time.

“That I understood—I get that part—I just didn’t think it would be consuming my life twenty-four—”

“We are undercover,” she reminds with a scoff of a laugh, sliding out of bed, and moving towards the bathroom, knowing already to wipe around the outside of the bowl and then to put the seat down. “This is our lives.”

He remains quiet from the other room long enough for her to believe that he has fallen back asleep. That his outburst was that of an infant’s who needs gentle reassurance and a diaper change before delving back into slumber.

However, he never ceases to surprise her.

“I had a dream.”

“A dream.” She glances at herself in the mirrored cabinet hanging over the sink, trying to recognize her eyes in the darkness, trying to define her face by the weary lines worn into her skin. “You do not dream.”

“I know,” in his agreement there is a tonal shift, an octave change as he becomes more responsive to her, “but I did.”

Drying her hands off on the towel and then fixing it into place from where it would have fallen off the holder, she runs a hand through her hair, trying to straighten out her sleep flat hair. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

When she walks out of the bathroom, he clicks on his bedside lamp, the soft orange illuminates only a small area but gives her enough help for her to retrieve the pillow lost somewhere in their desperately growing laundry pile. “It was about goddamn babies.”

Focusing all her training, she manages to nod once, hoping he cannot see her quivering lips. “About one baby or all babies.”

“I don’t want to talk about it more because it’s just perpetuating that the only thing we ever talk about is babies.”

She bends over, wearing panties and a camisole, snatching up her pillow and writing a mental note to ask for warmer pajamas.  “You know, you sort of sound like that actor from that movie with the monkeys you forced me to watch.”

“Charlton Heston,” the mention of the movie, and perhaps the way she precarious picks her way across the floor towards the bed, gives him a hint of a grin. “And I didn’t force you to watch anything, you just like monkeys.”  

Setting the pillow down carefully over her gun, she pulls back the sheets immediately feeling the heat radiating of his body, and maybe the fleece pajamas can wait.

“Better than those damn dirty babies.”

Expects him to argue over the use of his now verboten word, but instead he watches her closely, analyzing like he does with his movies, his hand reaching forward touching where the threading is starting to unravel on the bottom of the camisole. “You know, I know something that can be a little dirty too.”

Does not bother to voice that sex is generally a pre-requisite for a baby, as that might turn him off it for the rest of the mission, and right now it is their main form of entertainment, of energy depletion, of adrenaline reduction, and as a way to, how did he put it? Blow off steam, which she replied she did not know that was his name.

Instead, she plays coy, as she knows he prefers her that way, always surprised by his advances even though at this point a blind man could pick up the tension between them, the way they are either at each other’s throats or each other’s pants’ zippers. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, Agent David—” leaning forward, his lips brush her shoulder softly, almost ticklish, a ghost of a connection, grinning when he hears her stuttering inhalation. “I have this game I play with you—” between every few words he drops another kiss to her skin, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh “—it’s called Undercover².”

“Oh?” She leans back on the bed, his hand coming to a stop at her hips around the band of her panties. “How do we play?”

“Well, in order to play—” he moves the strap of her camisole out of the way kissing up towards her neck. “We both have to be undercover while under covers.”

The covers are riding up his body as he gets closer to her, grows closer to her, one of her hands curls around his neck and the other brushes over his shoulder as he finds a sensitive spot near her neck. “I believe this counts then.”

“It definitely does.” He abandons the spot before placing two more quick kisses on her neck, and then finding her lips kissing her fervently, roughly, with a plan.

“Who is going to win?” She writhes against him as his lips roam once again. One of his hands yanks down her panties, while she hooks a leg around his back, edging down his boxers.

“That’s the best part of the game—” he pulls away from her momentarily to turn off the bedside lamp, before returning, rolling her camisole down to rest underneath her breasts “—everyone wins.”

For the first time since being undercover, she wakes up late, a weak headache blooming at her temples as she ambles into the washroom, pees, flushes, washes her hands, and fixes the towel, but the moment she opens the door, he jumps up from the couch.

“Have you ever actually looked at this?” He holds up the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” guide with a picture of a very content pregnant woman on the front.

“I have skimmed it, yes.” Shuffling by him, she steps onto the stained linoleum in the kitchen, grabbing one of their yoga hoodies off the back of the stools, and wrapping herself up in it, feeling cold, her stomach hurting vaguely as she fills the kettle with water from the sink’s weak stream.

“There’s shit in here right out of Alien, like did you know there’s a thing called a mucus plug? You don’t even want to know what it—”

“Is it a plug made of mucus, Tony?” Still half asleep, she attempts to hold a decent conversation with him, but there is something about him reading about pregnancy and parroting facts back at her that irritates her.

“There’s also this thing called Metformin, and—”

“Metformin is a drug to control type two diabetes.” As the steam builds from the kettle, she opens the cabinet retrieving a teabag and a mug. “Do you mean meco—”

“Are you bleeding?” He stops halfway to the kitchen, only five feet away, the book still open, the spine resting in his hand.

“What?”

“There’s a couple of drops of blood on the floor over here.” He points to the floor on the other side of the island counter that she cannot see from where she pours her water.

Without looking up, she carries on the conversation as she would with a child, pouring the boiling water into the cup to warm it, and then tossing it down the drain. Tony hates when she does this, frequently complaining that she wastes water, but he never drinks tea, so he does not understand the importance of this step.

“Hello? There’s bloo—”

“Did you have any of the fruit punch from the fridge.”

“I did,” his voice carries the character sass it usually does when she has pointed out one of his flaws, “but I know I didn’t spill it because I drank it right from the container.”

She keeps her peace, pouring a second round of water right over the tea bag and watching it inflate and bob to the top of the mug. The green begins to steep from inside of the bag into the cup and she ties the tail of the tag around the ceramic handle, her hands retreating into the sleeves of the sweater.

Still, in his best detective voice, Tony rounds the counter following a trail that could very well be fruit punch. In place of his classic film noir detective voice, he adopts an Australian accent, talking about hunting in the bush and if he touches her after using that word she might kick him directly in the crotch.

But he stops short at the end of the counter standing two feet away, the charisma erased from his voice, “Uh, Ziva?”

“What?” She glances over her shoulder, then returns to undoing her tea bag, before dipping it manually until the color of the water is one she prefers. When he does not answer, she turns back to him again. This time his face is full of concern and his skin very pale. “What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Taking inventory, she examines her hands, palm and knuckles, her arms, and unzips the sweater, lifting her shirt finding only her flat stomach. “No, I am not.”

“Not—um—” he points down with a single index finger and when she steps back there is a small puddle of blood beneath her.

“For Fuck’s Sake,” she swears in Hebrew, unzipping the sweater again and finding the bottom of it blotched with blood.

“Actually, it’s for Eve’s sake if I’m getting my Catholic schooling right—” his calmness exacerbates her anger in the situation when she finds her sweatpants and therefore, her panties, bled right through.

“Son of a fucking—”

They separate for a while, which is best, she does not know how he is spending his time, but after cleaning herself up, she gets to work with a salt scrub, and using various soaps and cleansers from the bathroom, she works a lather up, creates suds until they transform to a pink color and then runs the clothing under the hottest water her skin can handle.

It is embarrassing.

Something she should have been aware of, well prepared for, but she got lost in the lore of pregnancy and forgot true nature will continue to work in a timely manner. She does not stop cleaning until her hands are almost raw, and then she sets the clothing aside, having already changed into bike shorts that are too large without the prosthetic and a t-shirt hanging loosely from her body.  

“You okay in there?” He calls from the bedroom, though she can tell he stands directly on the other side of the door. She does not know how to deal with this and with him. He does not have what she would call an open attitude. He is a goofball who pokes fun at every one and everything and she does not need this to be added to his arsenal of one liners he can use against her.

“I’m coming in because you’re not answering.” Opening the door slowly, his eyes are adverted to the ground. “I want to give you privacy in case you’re changing still or something—”

“Tony—”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out from blood loss.”

“I am fine,” she assures with a firm nod as she kicks the pile of clothing behind the door. “I am sorry about your sweater, and the floor, I will go—”

“I cleaned the floor, and who cares.” He interrupts, grabbing her hand as she tries to walk by. “Are you sure you’re not dizzy because that was like a bullet wound amount of—”

“I am fine, that is not unordinary. I am sorry, I did not realize—”

“Things happen.” He smiles at her, and then his face becomes serious. “I don’t think I’ve ever been with you when you were on your period.”

“Tony, we have worked together for seven years—”

“You could be a late bloomer.”

“Or I could just keep it to myself.” Marching out of the bathroom, the biker shorts start to slide down, and she collects the majority of waistband to the side, pulling her hair tie out and tying the spare material in place.

“See, that’s where you’re losing the game.” Tony trails her, grabbing something off the bed quickly and when she turns, he hands her another hair tie to put her hair back up. “You should flaunt it.”

“There is no reason to.”

“You could make all three of us so uncomfortable that we will literally do anything you say out of fear of the female body.”

He makes her laugh.

That is why after everything they do with or against each other, after every disagreement, after every dead marine, after every lost colleague, and bomb threat, and broken bone, and car accident, they are able to return to each other—he is the only one who is capable of making her settle and she is the only one who can make him focus on what is important.

“I have to go to the store to get tampons.”

“See you’re doing a great job already.”

“I either have to go dressed in my eighth month of pregnancy, or I have to go without the prosthetic and risk blowing our cover—” her voice trails off as she stares at him, a weak grin on her face.

“Oh no,” he takes a large step back. “Oh no, no, no—I’m not—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t even know what tampons are really, other than shoving them in bullet holes and nostrils to stop bleeding.”

“Their utilization is transferrable—” she shrugs and with a step forward watching him reclaim their separation with a step back. “Tony, the pharmacy is less than two blocks away.”

“Right, so you can go, and grab what you need—”

“I can write it down for you—”

“No, no—that’s worse. That’s so much worse!” He scurries from the room with her on his trail, into the living room and kitchen where the floors have been mopped to a gleaming perfection.

“How is that worse?”

“Because I get like a homemade note and then I’m standing in the same aisle as all the other guys who are stuck in the same situation, and then if we make eye contact we have to do the same stupid smile to each other—” he paces around to the opposite side of the coffee table, and she honestly does not know what the issue is; his pants fit, he is not pregnant, he is not menstruating, he does not even have to pay “—then I have to take it up to the acne-riddled teenage kid at the checkout who is going to look at what I’m buying and then think I’m whipped.”

“Yes, you are so right, Tony.” Turning her back on him, she retreats into the bedroom, for a moment, tugging off the bike shorts and pulling on the prosthetic, while he still speaks words at her from the other side of the door. “I’m the one who’s cramping, I’m the one who needs to wear a prosthetic to leave, I’m the one who bled ‘enough for a gunshot wound’.” She yanks on the biking shorts and stumbles a bit because of the added weight and grabs her unsullied hoodie from the back of the door.

“No wonder I am reticent to tell you about things, to share my past with you, to let you into painful experiences, or aching body parts, when you react like this—" She flings the door open, stomping into the living room, looking for their shared expense card “—And I am so relieved that this is not our child together, that we are not and never will have a child together as I do not know what I would have to do in order to maintain my strength to take care of three people.”

The last portion of her rant is overly malicious, but it is frustrating to the levels of exhaustion to repeat the same argument with him constantly about how they cannot continue to see each other during missions, about how it is harder now than it was when he came to her after Jen’s death. How despite his suggestion, or even his aspiration, she is not going to sacrifice her job, stability, and the family she discovered, for genuine relationship with him.

His response is always the same as his introduction to the idea, hopeful but not invested, and maybe that is why she is hesitant to commit. She helped him through Jeanne. He helped her through Ray. Both probably feeling the exact same relief each time that the other was unattached. He has come closest to the declaration, but neither of them wants the rebuff, neither of them wants to be unreciprocated and still be forced stare at the other all day long.

Neither wants to be vulnerable.

It does not matter that she visits his apartment to check on him when he is sick or injured. How she pets his head in her lap every anniversary of his mother’s death while watching all the movies that remind him of his mother.

Or how after her return from Somalia, he slept on his couch for weeks so she could have his bed until she sat beside him one night, her eyes sunken, her fingers fidgeting, and the blue flare of the television sparking off his face.

“I cannot sleep in there alone,” she sniffled, trying to be strong, but her body so tired, her eyes so tired, so fed up with everyone viewing her with pity. “I know we said only undercover, but I don’t want—alone it—” she did her best to compose herself, to think of her training and not the months she spent in hell “—I don’t know where I am when I wake up.”

His hands closed over hers as she shook, quaked dangerously as the room was unfamiliar, and she had given up. Everyone knew what happened—they had to have known what happened based on criminology, based on logic, based on written reports—it made it that much harder to ask for help.

“I will do, whatever you need me to.”

Only he, Gibbs, and Ducky were able to meet her gaze. Had always met her gaze and spoken to her without a fault in his step, without worrying about tripping over a trigger word that might send her spiraling.

“Please come to bed with me.”  He turns off the television, following her into his bedroom, never releasing her hand from his.

When they laid beside each other, she wore a sweater that night, and sweatpants again too large for her, even her clothing giving her ample space, she knew that he would not harm her, that he would keep her safe from whatever happened in her mind.

The apartment is empty.

She failed to notice during her rampage, but he is not here, and when she checks for his jacket and wallet, they are gone. The guilt is immediate enough that it adds to her list of problems with him, she was too hard, and she does not want to alienate him, so she moves to the gym bag set up for their next prenatal class, fishing out her phone just as it begins to ring.

His name displays on the front and she shakes heads, the likelihood of him being kidnapped is slim, but the guilt is new, and she flips her phone open. “Tony?”

“I’m in the aisle, and I’m really overwhelmed.”

Chapter Text

The Monday morning yoga class continues their inability to participate in class without causing a scene. The instructor, Dominic, still attempts to speak with a hidden accent while prolonging the introductions of the class to over half and hour now, despite all six women—including herself—knowing each other from different classes.

Dominic stands in the middle of what he calls his ‘pregnancy petals’ with the mats and the expecting mothers circling him. During the introductions, Tony takes her hand, not for show, but to alert her. The little squeeze, the way he does it, informs her to pay attention to his side of the room, which is more than half of the pregnant women, some accompanied by partners, and others not as in the third trimester, all expecting persons are encouraged to bring a partner.

Scanning the room inconspicuously during the transition of cow to cat, she catches the blonde woman from her class more than a few weeks ago, still present, still pregnant, and still glaring at her from across the room.

“It’s all about grounding yourself,” the instructor paces around in the center of the flower, grabbing a piece of incense that is finally not sandalwood but nag champa instead, lighting it quickly, and then blowing it out, a curly smoke tail following him as he moves.

Moving to tree pose, her balance not as good as it was, her bare foot rests at her knee and with one foot she supports the weight and the prosthetic’s weight.

“I’m running interference.” Tony kneels parallel to her, his muscles stiff, his attention on her and aware, and his hands hovering in the air without actually touching her. Just enough not to be a distraction despite his constant talking. “Okay, so no football fans here?”

Her hands pray, and her thumbs push into her sternum, the bone almost igniting at the memory freefalling out of a pomegranate tree and landing flat on her chest, the incomplete fracture over her heart, the strain of breathing for a few weeks, her father’s mentality to rise above the pain and not let it win.

She was nine.

The instructor ribbons the incense around the room, spouting what he believes is wisdom and life lessons. “This is about anchoring you, that’s what pregnancy is in many ways—”

Breaking her focus at the odd choice of words, she glances over her shoulder to Tony, who shares her confusion.

“The baby is anchored to you with a placenta, with an umbilical cord,” Dominic’s voice echoes in the quiet room, confident, each step purposeful, the trail of smoke dissipating, “it anchors you to your roots, to the nutrients that you pass to it, to the history you will share with your child—”

Despite the pain in her legs, it is her chest that starts to strain, as she remembers the pain and the half snap of her bone, the cloud of dusty soil bursting into the air, Ari running in to flip her over as she screamed.

Without checking, she knows Tony is bracing himself for her impact, because he laughs as their bus conversation before the class constituted if she would allow him to yell out ‘timber’ if she fell.

They agreed to disagree.  

The incense relaxes her, the stretching gives relief to her overworked muscles, the gravity of the situation left when the instructor started to speak nonsense. However, all of her relaxation disperses when she chances opening her eyes again and witnessing the blonde woman glaring at her, her jaw set, her teeth grinding.

Tony gently cups underneath her biceps when she stretches downwards, falling into warrior one position. He gently straightens her positioning and whispers, “I don’t think she’s a fan.”

They end in child’s pose, which is very hard to do with the prosthetic which will not fold instead pushing in on her lungs, her stomach, and other internal organs. Her inhalations becoming shorter and shorter, and her feet constantly adjusting to not get a muscle cramp.

After thirty seconds into holding, her body begins to give, tottering and waving, until she releases the pose, sitting up, her hand on her stomach before trying to recollect herself.  

“You, okay?” His hand rubs up and down her arm, caressing in comfort, his head resting on the back of hers.

“Was she staring the whole time?” Her question hidden by her huff.

He nods into her whisper, like she has said something demeaning, neutral eyebrows, closed eyes, and a downturned mouth as he lays a kiss at her temple. “What did you do to piss her off?”

“Believe me, you do not want to know.”

“Great class everyone,” Dominic interrupts, undimming the lights back to full fluorescent before pulling the blinds back to reveal the same overcast sky from their ride on the bus. “I’ll see you Mommies next week.”

As the class empties, Dominic moves out into the lobby of the building to chat with a couple as they leave about the natural beauty of a water birth, an idea that seems so new-aged, so somehow obscure.

She does not remember her mother pregnant or going into labor, she does not remember much about the farmhouse where she was born before the addition of Tali, only vague scenarios, the shadow of a tree through her bedroom window, a disagreement her parents had at the dinner table where her father threw a cup at the wall, the hundreds of glass shreds twinkling like stars.

Those memories may not even be true—memory is wrong more often than it is correct, something she has experienced firsthand when interviewing suspects and witnesses. Color, height, weight, gender, all of these attributes become interchangeable as memories age.

The day her father pulled her out of Mossad training and brought her into a small room used for interrogation. He was not aggressive, but he was tense. Her mother would have called it the ‘calm before the storm’ as every one of his muscles tightened, his movements stiff, his jaw squared.

“We are going to America.”  

America.

A trip with Tali after their mother died, Abba’s way of paying penance. Little Tali had the reddest, plumpest eyes from crying, the lashes huddled together, and her amber irises clouded over, did not sparkle, and only exuded woe.

Tali was fourteen. In fifteen months, she would be dead, the only member of their family to not be murdered by another. Abba never had a problem with Tali until Ima died. Tali was the obedient daughter, the aspiring housewife who could cook a meal with minimal rations. She could stitch garments, she could remove stains, she liked to clean, loved to dance, and had the most beautifully haunting singing voice that sounded like a choir of angels.

She would give everything she owns to hear her sister sing again.  

In New York their father used the guise of the mourning trip for political matters, commandeered their period of mourning to shake as many hands as he could having recently taken over the role as Director of Mossad and in doing so, immediately orphaned his children.

Their last conversation occurred two years ago—she does not know why she tries to go back, why she allows him back into her life after all the harm he has caused. All the fires he started and walked away from, only to come back to mourn for the ashes.

The bodyguards tried to give them their space, but both those from the embassy and those from Mossad were too fearful of what might happen if they let them roam more than six feet away. So, shopping for clothes evolved into perusing a rack of dresses with four men standing at the pinnacle of each direction which then only drew more attention to them, which then made their trip more dangerous, leaving them to be grounded to the embassy.

Tali laid on the bed in the estate suite, always reserved for the Director of Mossad or the Israeli Prime Minister. There were two floors, more bathrooms than in the farmhouse, more bedrooms than people in her family now.

As much as Ima needed Tali in order to raise a child who was nonviolent, who was noncombative, who did not return home with blood on their hands, Tali needed Ima to nurture her, to tell her it was okay to be soft, to be sweet, to use the natural gifts she had and not be ashamed of her vibrant spirit.

Not even a month from their mother’s death and Tali had not been sleeping more than an hour or two a night. She was not eating meals. She was not bathing. She was not singing, dancing, or creating. She was barely communicating.

She laid on their bed, as despite the large number of rooms the suite had to offer, she could not leave her sister alone, and the moment she did, Tali became frantic. So, just as when they were younger, they would share the large bed, and talk—she would talk and try to get her sister to join. About school, about the future, about boys, about her favorite books, her favorite shows, her favorite opera.

When she sat next to Tali, and stroked her greasy hair gently, she knew she felt love. A genuine, unbridled love for this precious little girl beside her, who never did or said anything wrong, who loved without hate, who spoke to solve problems, who found the best part of every bad situation.

“Why don’t I draw you a bath, Baby Sister?” She used the same nickname Ari bestowed to her, full of love, full of unspoken promises of protection.  “The spa is big, you can wear a swimsuit, I can help you.”

Tali’s gaunt frame gave away to jagged shoulder blades and a flexed spine with each individual vertebrate palpable from the back of her neck down. Her arms, thin before appeared malnourished and the curious eyes, always searching for solutions, always studying the reasons why, were sunken in dark circles that a fourteen-year-old should not know.

“Every time I remember she is gone, Ziva,” Her sister’s voice was hoarse, groaned, straining, like pushing out the noise was a physical distress on her body but she did not dare speak a word to interrupt what Tali wanted to say. “I remember another thing she took with her.”

Ari did not come home for the funeral due to being undercover and their father could not distinguish Tali’s mourning from her acting out, instead labeling the entire ordeal as the dramatic actings of a teenage girl. No one else was there for her right now, and if Tali wanted to scream or whisper in whatever of the five languages she knew, she would listen.

“I will never taste her ginger cookies again. She will never bring a juice to me at the piano as an afternoon treat. She will not teach me how to drive as she did with you. She will not be at my wedding. She will not meet my children. My future family will not know of her—she will be only an idea to them, and the thought of her being only an idea makes me sick to my stomach, Ziva.”

The tears in her sister’s eyes were painful and appeared almost white against her irritated skin. Her hand fisted the perfectly made bed comforter, as she writhed in words that did not exit her mouth, in thoughts that smashed around in her head.

“Tell me, Tali,” she encouraged, rubbing her sister’s bony back, “do not keep it inside.”

“She will not be at my first recital as an adult. She will not be there when I become the best musician and singer in Israel, and then the world. No one will do my hair in the rings as she did. No one will know my favorite color anymore, or favorite fruit, or day of the week. It feels like a piece of myself has been ripped away—but that is too natural—no, it feels like it has been vivisected from me. Surgically removed.”

The dark undertones to Tali’s words started to translate in her mind, the connections, the connotations to what she was really wanting to say, but did not know yet, or did not realize. Her silence generated more lamentation.

“I will never smell her perfume again. It may be on someone else, but it will not be my mother’s perfume on her own body. She will never use all the makeup that is left on her vanity. She will not use the new toothbrush she bought still packaged under the sink. I will not see her in the garden anymore, I will not see her in the kitchen, or on the couch, or in her bed. I will not hear her lovely voice singing to the birds, I will forget her voice, Ziva, I will forget it.”

Her sister sat up suddenly, her heavy brows drawn in anger as she ripped the comforter off the bed on one side. “Someone took—he took—” Tali turned to her, eyes almost swollen shut from weeping “—Ziva, did he do this.”

She could not answer.

She would not open that door and let Tali into the dark side of the family when her mother worked so tirelessly to keep her so carefree and loving. To respect everyone despite gender, age, and class. To be a descent human being.

“Did Abba murder Ima?” Her voice was so small for such a big conclusion. Asking questions was one of her best personality traits, always unafraid to know more, even when it was detrimental to her health.

She cleared her throat, knowing she could not give a direct answer. Could not speak the daggered words and hurl them at her sister. Could not confirm what she already knew and did not want to know.

“Do you know what my first memory is of you, Baby Sister?” She tugged on the ponytail in Tali’s hair and even when released, her hair barely moved from the amount of oil built up. Her sister did not give her answer either upset at the subject change or to confirm her interest, so she continued, “it was in our farmhouse a few hours after you were born.”

She played with her little sister’s hair, something she never really did as a child as she was directed to be more interested in sports, in weapons, in duty.

“You were so new and fresh, I did not even know what you were.”

Tali did not speak, and she hoped that she was not disappointed.

“You were swaddled in that day’s laundry pulled fresh off the line and placed in a whicker basket that was used to retrieve vegetables from the garden.”

Tali was the best of them, smarter than her and Ari combined, but she never had the proper introduction to what she was capable of, so it never became important for her to nurture it. Tali needed to be able to care for herself in this family, she needed to know how to scope the context of a situation and translate what the real subject matter is, what are the words that are not being spoken.

“You were sleeping, and so red and so tiny. Your little face was all I could see and it was so full of wrinkles. Ima thought you looked wise, but I thought you looked like a little, loose-skinned puppy.”

Her fingers pulled through the thick locks, until separating them became easier.

“I wanted to touch you, to feel how soft of skin you had. I was four years old, and I did not understand why you were so important. What you did in order to earn so many accolades, why you were important to Ima.”

Tali spoke with a tiny voice, softer than before, one belonging to a curious teenager. “What did she do when she found you with me?”

“She wrenched my hand away from you and she hit me.” She did not stop brushing her fingers through Tali’s hair as it separated into smaller chunks and became easier to weave into braid before bed. “Then Abba came in, grabbed me by the arm and lead me to my room and told me not to come out until someone came and got me.”

“How long did you wait?”

“I do not know, but I believe, even as a four-year-old child, that Abba was waiting for me to disobey to punish me.”

“Did you leave?”

“Yes, but instead of going out of my door and running into Ima or Abba, I went out the window and off into the orchard, daring someone to find me.”

“So even as a baby you would not conform.”

“They had dared keep me in that room, shedding all their love on you, well, if they wanted my love, they would have to come to me.”

“I am sorry for—”

“They were right, Tali.” Her fingers ran smoothly through her sister’s hair. “They were both vying for your attention as a newborn, and the only difference between your birth and my own is that Abba claimed me the moment I took my first breath.”

“Ima had already lost one of her children, and she would not let anyone else lay claim to you. She saw me and used me as a diversion for Abba, so that she could keep you close and not let you fall.”

Tali straightened, her thin body the same height as her own with a difference of almost five years between them. Sharp knees dug into the mattress, and she stared at nothing, trying to calculate the words just spoken.

“Abba killed her, Ziva.”

For the second time she did not confirm the statement, though it was becoming more stable, gaining more traction. She did not want to let her sister know there was most likely a plan, that was named something metaphorical that had nothing to do with Ima, where the main target was the Director of Mossad’s estranged wife so that he could re-inherit the daughters he lost when she fled.

“He planned this.” The tears began to dry, the red rims shimmered less, as her composure became stronger. “He planned this for months ahead of time.”

She shook with emotion, with loss, with grief, with turmoil, and then with rage. Tali pushed off the bed, as if she had any power to change what occurred, as if her opinion mattered at all to Abba, who they had not seen in two days.

“Baby Sister—” she grabbed Tali’s thin, frail fingers, knowing that whatever recriminations she sought, however she decided to avenge Ima’s death, it would not matter to their father, as he would never think of her as useful as Ari. “Perhaps you should think about bathing?”

Tali read into this easily. Bide her time. Abba was not at the suite, they were not at home, and no matter what she did, Ima would still be deceased. She nodded in comprehension, and retreated to the bathroom, silently closing the door behind her.

“Excuse me, I need to talk to you.” The blonde woman appears in her peripheral vision as Tony helps her to her feet.

He smiles convivially, unsure of what the woman wants, but knowing they cannot make another scene after his run in with the other prenatal yoga instructor. “As long as it’s quick. We have a bus to catch.”

“I just wanted you to know it’s disgusting I have to be in the same class as you.” The words fly out of her mouth armed, as weapons, and unfortunately, she sees the immediate moment they hit Tony.

The gentleness from his voice removed, the professionalism of his posture receded, he answers, with the same big grin, his eyes blinking in confusion. “What?”

“This prenatal class is for navy marines and their partners only,” she shouts despite being beside him. “You are taking a spot on the roster from someone whose husband is deployed.”

“Ma’am,” Tony begins by steepling his fingers, allowing a deep inhalation practiced during class, before exhaling and in a strained, but calm voice, demands, “please leave us alone.”

Not his most subtle approach, although he could have chosen more subtle words. The woman does not seem to care, completely ignoring anything Tony says instead focusing all her ire on her.

The woman’s stark blue eyes glare at her, then fall to her stomach, then glare at her again. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Coming here, leeching off the government under the guise of being a refugee and the taxpayers have to—”

“Okay, we’re not—”

“You speak English with that filthy accent the same way your bastard child will—”

“All right, now I’m telling you—”

“Taking the jobs from the hard-working men in this country, the lives of our men, so you can raise your disgusting—"

Before she realizes it, Tony intercepts them, his eyes never leaving the blonde woman’s, his hand reaching back to shepherd her behind him, but overestimating her whereabouts and instead landing on the prosthetic as he starts prophesizing “—if you say one more thing, I will have you arrested at whatever country club you call home so ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ will never be attainable again.”

The woman shakes her head, her blonde hair expertly dyed, her eyebrows perfectly drawn on, and her powder blue jogging suit so tight, she cannot imagine how uncomfortable it is. “It’s men like you that are destroying this country—”

“Man,” Tony laughs, his face growing red, betraying the calmness of his words. “I cannot tell you how I don’t care about anything you think.”

“Sleeping with the enemy—”

“The enemy?”

Reaching forward, her hand curls around his bicep and she gives him a gentle tug. “Let’s go or we’ll have to catch the next bus.”

“—the melting pot being tainted with your disgus—”

“Good. Maybe we’ll fix it.”

“—serving your country and then desecrating the—”

“Oh my God, you sound like you’re in a cult.”

“Hey!”

Turning, Dominic stands in the doorway to the lobby, his hands on his hips, body unnaturally oily from a passive yoga class. Both Tony and the woman stop arguing long enough to glance at him. “Is there a problem here?”

“Yeah,” stooping, Tony retrieves their bag and then grasps her hand gently leading her out by the judging instructor. “There’s a racist asshole in your class.”

The bus is idling when they exit the building, and quickly she waves for it before it drives away. Amazingly, the driver waits, nodding at her as she gives her thanks, and walks to an empty two seat in the middle of the back half of the bus while Tony swipes their passes.

He flops beside her setting the bag on the ground between his feet.

Neither of them speak a word.

It has come up before during the years they have known each other, during their time as partners, during their time as lovers, where someone will make a comment, sometimes impromptu, sometimes with the intentions of segregation and marginalizing, and depending on many factors: how much they’ve had to drink, whether they are on case or not, undercover or not, the results always differ  but leave a stain between them.

The feeling of inadequacy, of worthlessness she is meant to feel but does not, somehow hurts more when done around people she cares for. As if they were not already aware of her race or nationality. The discrimination happens everywhere but happens most in America, and there is something so disconcerting, that she never thinks about the issue for too long.

They sit in silence, neither bothering to discuss a single thing about the class. Any couples they think are suspicious, how the instructor got so sweaty so quickly, how that woman is racist and that her words do not reflect the majority of opinions.

She wants to reach over and hold his hand, thank him for standing up for her, as when these situations usually arise—in bars or clubs—he sits back and watches her deal with the words through verbal fencing or physical retribution if necessary.

He does not reach for her at all, and perhaps he is just as tired of it as she is, running through memories at night, living a lie during the day, not recognizing the danger in becoming so close to him.

In wanting to hold his hand as herself, not as an undercover alias.

They climb the stairs back to the apartment, the only noise the thumping of their footfalls and the shuddering of the door when he opens it. Allows her to go through first as is their custom now, so she can rid herself of the prosthetic.

What she would not give for the freedom of a run, to tie on her shoes, place on her music, and run until her legs give out.

The solidarity.

The stillness.

But her legs already hurt from the yoga, from the extra weight, and instead she shuffles to the bedroom, closing the door silently behind her by holding the handle in place.

At the most, this case can only last for seven more weeks and with half the time over, she still has not produced a motive. Making a mental note as she pulls on a loose t-shirt, she potential subjects: both instructors, Gus, other women in the yoga class, and the racist woman.

Her sweatpants are too loose around her waist, bubbling or sagging with an open maw, exposing her skin It does not matter, as she lays on the bed to decompress from that morning, perhaps she will meditate and focus her thoughts elsewhere than this case, this false pregnancy, this apartment, this fake life, and being unable to identify a man who kills expectant mothers.

But as she pulls back the covers to their bed, one they will need to wash tomorrow as there are stains that are starting to set and others too long set to remove, there is a light tapping at the door. For a moment, she considers that she could pretend she did not hear him, after all he probably needs access to the washroom, but with the awkward silence between them, she does not want to make their communication any worse.

So, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, the waistband of her pants hanging open, she calls, “come in.”

He opens the door slowly, almost like a child in trouble, as if he is walking into this room to be disciplined, as if knocking was not his own choice. “You, okay?”

She nods, reaching up and pulling the holder from her hair, running her fingers through to work out any noticeable knots. “I am going to lay down for a bit.”

He nods, walking into the room fully and closing the door behind him. “You feel okay?”  

“Just more fatigued than usual.” There is no terseness in her voice, but this conversation would be better to have after both spend some time apart from each other. Despite their history, their partnership, their shared overenthusiasm in bed, being the bough that catches the other when relationships crumble from beneath them, they have been spending every minute of the day together for weeks.  

“I’m sorry if I got too heated back there.”

The apology, created out of thin air, is something she did not expect as any apology from Tony usually has a runway of obvious steps leading up to it, and it has happened fewer times in their years together than she can count on one hand.

A truly genuine apology is unprecedented.

“I am not upset with you,” she grins at him, at his nervousness to approach her with the thought of his wrongdoing at her defense, but she can understand his mindset as if it were a night at a bar or questioning a particularly backwards individual, she is the first to ensure that the racism towards her is not effective, but also to end it after a number of attempts.

“I knew you couldn’t say anything and the—” he closes the space between them, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to her, his eyes staring at the floor “—she was so aggressive with it.”

Leaning forward, offering him a weak smile, she reminds, “racism is not an act of love, Tony.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it that—” when his eyes meet hers, he stops talking for a second, clarity blooming within him, the question he realized he wanted to ask so obvious now. “Do people treat you like that when I’m not around?”

It is a delicate question, but he is an adult, and nothing earthshattering will be a result of her revelation. “Sometimes and sometimes people treat everyone poorly despite who they are.”

He reaches out, taking her hand, holding it in his own as if he wants to guide her somewhere, but they remain situated with the sheets wrinkling underneath them. He does not offer her any more words, but his body is tense, his mind concerned, so shifting closer to him, she softly pets a hand through his hair. “Not everyone is a bad person. Not everyone wants to hurt people.”

He stares at her, then at her lips, then at her arm, dragging his fingers over her skin. “I know it’s our job to care about the safety of everyone else, but I don’t really care about them right now.”

When he kisses her it is an act of desperation, one she has not felt since their last undercover mission when he was shot, the bullet grazing his jaw where it meets his ear. She ran to him, ripping off her scarf and shoving it at his throat, quieting his attempts to speak by telling him to shut up.

She could not face him dying and would not listen to him gurgling on his own blood as his last words. After he told her the would was not serious, she threatened to tourniquet it to make him shut up. He ended up with one of her gloves shoved against the wound and held into place with her white scarf with slowly growing red splotches.

He was taken straight to the hospital, and she had not bothered to go with him, instead she tracked and took down the man who almost ended his life, as that is what she needed in the moment for catharsis; her brain always focused on revenge.

McGee informed her during her check in that Tony was fine, would likely be discharged that night, but she could go and visit him as he could probably use help with his Italian, but she refused, instead spending their last night in Rome in their hotel room alone.

It was on her second glass of Merlot, that the door opened.

“So, my head almost gets blown off and you don’t even come visit me?” He plucked his gloves off by each individual finger and slapped them down on the couch.

“It looks like you barely cut yourself shaving,” she answered moving back into the kitchen to refill her half-empty glass.

Tugging on the blue scarf underneath his winter jacket, he started angrily undoing the top buttons before finally wrenching it out. “You didn’t even bring me a ‘get well’ card.”

She gestured at him with one hand and held the glass in the other. “You were not even in the hospital long enough for me to do so.”

“Oh, the Merlot is out,” he noticed, a smirk on his face as he shrugged out of his coat.

“I needed a drink.” She instinctively rubbed at her jaw where his injury was, closed her eyes and saw the bullet tear at his skin before it plunged into the wall in front of her.

“I don’t mind, it just means that my odds went up,” he grinned at her, toed off his boots, some of the slush from a weak snow outside dropped to the floor.

“Your odds became guaranteed the minute that bullet touched you.”

He grinned wolfishly at her, taking long strides to meet her by the kitchenette but he stopped, sensing her fear, her regret. “There was nothing you could have done; you were literally the one who saved me. You shouted for me to move and I did.”

Shaking her head, she set her glass down on the sidebar “I should have gone in first.”

“And what, combat rolled towards the guy until you could take him out.”

“This isn’t funny, Tony.”

“I’m not trying to make it funny. I got shot.” He pointed to the bandage for emphasis. It was plastered over the left side of his jaw, and although no blood leaked through, she still remembered the wetness of it on her fingers. 

With a step forward she closed the space between them to trace a finger around the margins of the gauze. “Did you have to get stitches?”

“Not real ones.” When she furrowed her brows at him, confused in her area of light drunkenness, he explained by taking her hand and placing it on the gauze. “They did the thing where they pinch your skin together and then put tape on it.”

“Butterfly stitches?”

“Sure,” he agreed with her, though his tone told of his doubt. She did not care about being correct at that moment, did not care about their mission, or the man she murdered earlier that evening as justice did not mean anything.

She ran her fingers through his hair, wet with small beads of water from the tiniest flakes of snow, before kissing him, hot, wanting, desperate, an emotion he echoed by lifting her off the ground and running her towards the separate bed.

“You’re still on the pill, right?” He asked it then as he asks it now, making sure to work it into any foreplay conversation they have. stitches

Despite her need and attempt to set the tone as sloppy and fast, he spent ample time with his fingers, nudging with his nose, kissing and licking—almost as if he needed the reassurance as well. In the afterglow, he dropped a wet kiss on her cheek catching her hand and holding it before she swatted him away with the other.

Sometimes there is nothing else she can do with him but let him win.

Chapter Text

They sit motionless in the laundromat a few blocks away, three machines going—one with towels and sheets, one with clothing, one with the comforter which they are both guilty of staining—watching the materials swirl around through the small window on the door.

Positioning their chairs in front of their three consecutive washers near the front of the small building, he chose to sit closest to the door as people move in and out with a jingle from the bell. Tony has his arm stretched behind her, his hand resting on the back of her chair, as an old woman walks by them, noticing her stomach, then predictably, searching for rings, and then smiling.

“You know, since this whole wife and baby thing, old women really like me a lot more now.” He nods to another older lady who beams at him as she exits the busy business.

“It is because they find you less intimidating now,” she mutters from the side of her mouth, the dove blue comforter sloshing in suds keeping her in a lull.

“What?” He cranks his head towards her, but she does not draw her eyesight away. “I thought all old ladies loved babies because it reminds them that even if they’re going to die soon, life carries on.”

“That too.”

“All right.” He shifts in his chair, glancing up from behind a communal magazine he picked up, and she knows he is becoming uncomfortable with her not keeping his gaze. “They must have done some sort of Mossad training where they implanted subliminal messages in films of swirling colors and made you watch them on acid or something.”

“That was MK Ultra, Tony.” She turns away from the machines to finally look at him and purses her lips together with half-lidded eyes. “And it was American.”

“We’re not getting into this again—”

However, before they can officially relaunch that argument, a middle-aged woman approaches them, purposefully standing in front of them, blocking her view of the machines. Neither has the time to ask the woman if she needs help or what she wants before she just reaches forward and starts rubbing the prosthetic.

In the same instance, Tony rolls up the magazine he is half-interested in and whacks the back of the woman’s hand. “Hands off the merchandise.”

“Excuse me!” the older woman huffs, standing straight, her mouth agape in offense.

“If it was good enough for Catholic school, it’s good enough for you.” Tony has not broken a sweat at this point, his attitude relaxed and his posture the same aside from the one quick flick of his hand. The magazine now unrolled, as he flips through it again.

“How dare—”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I just wanted—”

“This is why they’ve got to go to Hebrew school and Catholic school—you just don’t get the same violence.” He flips to the next page without a care, still not making eye contact with the woman.

“I don’t—”

“What’s my wife’s name? Is this our first? Boy or girl?” Flipping the page again he comes to a half filled in crossword puzzle taps the page with his index finger before addressing her, “do we have a pen?”

“In the bag.” Utterly confused more than anything, she reaches to collect it for him, but he places a hand on her shoulder to halt the action.

“I got it, Sweetheart.” Grabbing the bag, he rummages a bit before finding the pen with a happy exclamation. Before turning back to the woman who is still outraged. “Don’t touch people you don’t know.”

The woman gasps on more time, waving him off before exiting the laundromat with a more aggressive tinkling from the bell.

“Walter—” she stresses his name as he manically writes down the answer in some of the empty crossword squares.

“Yes, My Little Incubator—” he taps the top of her prosthetic before leaning over and stating “—no, Dada won’t let creepy people manhandle Mama just because she’s pregnant. No, he won’t.”

As nonchalant as she can, she drops her hand to the back of the neck under the guise of petting his hair, but then she grabs tightly, her teeth gritting, “Dada should not be making scenes.”

“Then mama should be more aware of a potential murderer and not let random people touch her so much.” He tenses under her hold, his words sieved through his mashing teeth.

With understanding they will have to agree to disagree, she releases unhands him. He immediately roles his shoulder and returns to his magazine as she returns to watching the washer rinse out the suds.

She has not paid this much attention to laundry since Ima tasked her to do it. Once Tali became old enough to handle the linens, it became her duty instead as her hands were ‘less careless’. In return she helped more with the orchard.

When her mother died in the car accident in Amman, she and Tali reverted to the property of their absent father again. However, he had no desire to be a parent even if he argued it was his intention—he would never allow them to live elsewhere, at least not without paying their dues.

She was eighteen already and legally considered an adult. By law, she should be able to leave the farmhouse and move out into her own apartment for privacy, for school preparation, for her life, but Tali would have to wait another four years, something she was not sure her baby sister could do.

Though Tali was delicate, molded from different clay than herself or Ari, she had changed since their trip to New York. Since their father spent all his time at the UN or the embassy, and not noticing his youngest daughter withering away.

Purposefully declining to water a plant to watch it wilt.

“Is Talia ill?” He stepped beside her while she washed the dishes—all domestic tasks reverted to her, who was out of school, starting the military, and had what Abba insisted was an ample amount of time. “Two of her teachers called my office today concerned for her wellbeing.”

She dropped the plate back into the sink, watching as it swayed to the enamel bottom, not believing her father could truly not be aware. “Ima is dead, her whole world is gone.”

“Though your mother meant a lot to all of us, the world has not stopped because her heart did.”

Ripping the towel from the cupboard door, she dried off her hands and threw it on the table.

“Ziva—” he warned, but she did not heed it, slipping around the kitchen table and towards the bedroom she shared with Tali since returning from America. Hoping to go behind the door where her little sister lay, refusing to do any homework, refusing to draw, or dance, or sing.

Existing until she did not have to.

“Ziva!” Abba now roared, far beyond apologies, and if she could slip inside their bedroom door with the latch—only Tali had locked the door, and in return their father caught her, hitting her, returning the stars.

She was so naïve before Mossad, before the army, she was still innocent, and the slap broke like being hit with a metal bat. It took her a moment to realize she was on the floor, her father looming over her, spitting his harsh words she could only half discern.

He did not hear the bedroom door open because he was not listening for it the way she was. He was not listening for Tali because he did not care. He was not aware of what Tali was capable of, as he had never given her more than a passing neutral greeting in care.

But her little sister, the one who refused to give up her beliefs, who refused to be silenced in the shadow of the Director of the Mossad, lunged at him, throwing her weak body at him, and using one hand to hang off his back, while the other repeatedly hit him anywhere she could reach.

“Tali—” she clamored to her feet, knocking over a side table with a vase of flowers on it. Her vision distorted by the pain, her equilibrium broken as she staggered like a dish in the tub of water, as the pendulum in the clock that her father and sister smashed into. “Tali, do not!”

But her step faltered, unable to open her eye from the pain, slipping and falling back onto the floor. If her mother were alive, this would not have happened. She and Tali would have been knitting or sewing or collecting figs or olives or pomegranates and her father would have been at work.

Reverting was cyclical.

It was always his fault.

Her hands clenched against the ornamental rug on the floor before she could leap up and keep herself in the equation. Before they could show their father, they were not here to be hit, screamed at, or disciplined. That they did not worship the ground he walked on, because she saw what happened to the woman who did.

Before any action altering the balance of the family could be committed, the front door slammed shut and Ari’s voice rang out, “Baby Tali, what are you doing?”

With decorum, with a gentleness their father lacked, he plucked their fourteen-year-old sister from their father’s back like she was one of the butterflies from the orchard, delicately by the wings, but when he set her down, her body lunged forward for their father.

“You killed her!” Tali’s frail voice echoed in the emptiness of the house without their mother to play piano or her records. “You killed her and you do not even care!”

“What are you going on about? You are mad, child,” Abba coughed, loosening his tie, standing straight, and keeping his composure tight, like Tali did not have a chance to bring him down. “Ziva is right there. She is fine.”

To calm Tali, she nodded, her view becoming obscured more by black dots.

“Ziva?” Ari rushed to her, kneeling in the wreckage of the music room where their mother sewed clothing and asked them to play music to keep her company in the kitchen. His hands held underneath her biceps as he helped her stand. “Are you okay, Baby Sister?”

“I will be fine,” she assured him with a shaky grin, guiding his hand away from her face.

Tali pushed their father out of the way, running to her, clinging on like she remembers her doing as a child, crying into her stomach whenever Ima would get mad at her, as she helped her sister breathe through it, and explained it would all come to an end, and that Ima loved her so dearly and could not be without her either.

“You need to leave,” Ari stared directly at their father, who was refastening his cufflinks.

“I will give you time.”

“No, you need to leave the house,” Ari demanded, with a hand he gestured to the wreckage, to Tali who was starting to hyperventilate against her shoulder, as she petted her on the back and spoke gently for her to breathe with her.

At first their father thought it was a ploy, then a joke. “This is my house. This is my family. I will go wherever I—”

“One night, Abba,” she spoke quickly before Ari stepped closer to her father who always had a gun or knife or weapon of some sort on him. With his lack of judgement so far that night, Ari did not need to be his next target. “One night, please. Ari will be here. We will talk.”

“A father is to leave his home because his children request it?” His laugh was bitter, and he took a step forward. “I own this house, where do you prefer I go?”

“Go to the apartment you have with Orli.” Ari suggested, his tone cunning, his face unflinching as he watched their father’s hand clench briefly.

After a brief pause, their father gave a stern nod. “You will have one night. I will be back in the morning, and you all will be different.”

None of them bothered to validate his demand, as their consent did not matter. They stood still, gripping on to each other until the front door slammed behind him.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Tony glances her way, his hands on his bare chest, breathing from such an athletic feat as receiving head. His skin lightly shimmering with a layer of sweat from the streetlights outside.

“I do not think you really want to know.” She wears the Bun in the Oven t-shirt and a pair of panties since her cramping is at its worse now, and in lieu of taking ibuprofen or using a heating pad that she will have to explain to Director Vance later, the loose clothing offers her a form of comfort.

He leans over on his shoulder, appearing as if he wants to reach out to her. “I said I had no problem getting you off with the fab five,” for emphasis he wiggles his fingers at her, and bounces his eyebrows twice.

She chuckles, her hand finds his cheek and when he grins, she gets the pleasure of feeling it. “It is not all about getting off.”

Pulling her closer, despite her groan of protest, he pecks a kiss onto her temple, “then what were you thinking about?”

“How my father used to be a more violent man.”

“Okay, I don’t know what’s more fucked up—that he used to be more violent or that you were thinking that while blowing—”

She slaps him hard in his arm and he hisses at the pain. “Afterwards, Tony.”

“Okay, any particular reason why you’d think about that while—” she reels back her hand, knowing she can hit the same spot twice “—in the aftermath of giving really good hea—”

“Tali once attacked him.”

His fingers instantly stop tracing on her skin. “What?”

“She launched herself at him,” she grins now at the memory, Little Tali the monkey Abba could never get off his back.

“It was after my mother passed away—” there is so much in her past she cannot discuss. It does not seem to matter to most, but few have made it their mission to find out as much as they can about her. She learned young that it is not in her best interest to let someone know completely about her. “It does not matter now.” 

“It seems like it matters.” He does not pry, more of his intent laying in his fingers as they drop from her arm to her bare thigh.

“Tony.” Collecting his hand in one of hers, she presses it to his chest as she turns in towards him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Sorry.”

At least he has sincerity.

At least he does not pry.

He adjusts further to fully embrace her, his hand resting on her bare stomach.

“Is it still bad?”

“The first and second day are usually the worst.” Again, she maneuvers around a legitimate answer so he cannot even know what her cycle is, but his hand is warm over her skin, and she holds it briefly in place. “Being unable to run and be active aggravates the pain.”

“Warmth helps?”

She only nods, already falling asleep with her nose tucked against the side of his neck.

Chapter Text

They are so many weeks undercover that they can easily recognize certain bus drivers, other riders, and other frequent fliers in their classes. So far, they cannot pin a motive for murder on anyone, including Donovan. The stress—the want to return to her apartment, her cooking, her piano, her clothing, her bath, and her exercise routine is weighing heavily on her concentration, impacting her sleep as much as her partner’s snoring.

“So, this is just like breathing yoga?” The silence between them, their usual banter dwindled by her fatigue, is awkward causing him to need to fill the silence by any means. His shoulder pillows her head and the fast-bouncing tires over potholed roads mimic a ship at sea if she concentrates hard enough.

“Hey—” his heavy hand on her thigh gives her a shake until she opens her eyes but barely sits up “—no falling asleep on the bus.”

“I was not sleeping—” she attempts to argue, but knows she will not win, and that his gloating will last all week, if not until the end of their time spent undercover.

“You were about to start your little sleep apnea snore, my little Bubble Blower—”

“Bubble Blower?”

“I dunno, I figure bubbles are round and pop.”

“So, you think that I’m going to pop?” She turns towards him, the prosthetic prominently on display under the purple ruched top.

“I mean—no.” Tony rubs the prosthetic and the more he does, the more she feels like an animal in a petting zoo. “Because this little shit isn’t real,” he leans closer to it and whispers, “you know you’re not real right?”

To anyone else it looks like he is loving talking to their child, when he is talking to silicone, her handgun and sometimes her crotch, while he tells their nonexistent child how they do not exist. “Your mom is bleeding so much that the elevator doors in The Shining are jealous.”

Blood and tissue.

DNA samples they find at crime scenes.

Her sitting on her toilet dressed in only a kimono while Michael was at the Israeli Embassy to receive new orders from her father.

She did not have a timer to set

She was impatient and checked the test, clattering it into the sink.

Three months and thought nothing of it. The constant conversations with Michael, with the team, with her father, accumulated to heavy amounts of stress.

It was not uncommon for it to happen, but for three months straight was alarming.

Afterwards, her body became numb and without emotion.

Split down the middle of being a parent and not.

Of her duty to two countries.

To different men.

To different leaders.

Make a decision.

It was easy enough for her father to have children, he did not have to shirk any of his responsibilities by impregnating someone. A father with Ari’s mother caring for him for the first three years of his life until confirmed to share Abba’s blood.

Her blood.

Her tissue.

What a shock it must have been for Ari to go from his beautiful, kind-eyed mother in Palestine, to their farmhouse in the middle of nowhere passing through a border that grew and stretched leaving scars on the soil.

“What are you thinking about?” Tony’s head is against the prosthetic, and she is unsure if he is conversing with her or her crotch, but his eyes scroll up towards her, and he offers her a cheeky grin. “You get really quiet when you’re stuck in the past.”

It is true.

Since returning from Somalia, she has a penchant for withdrawing into herself when memories consume her. McGee and Gibbs have spoken with her about it, and she has tried to keep her mind from wandering at work, but Abby has never said a word.

Sometimes they both stare in silence, not seeing the evidence or the computer screens before them, instead embroiled in their separate pasts.

“I was thinking of Ari.”

His hand stills on the prosthetic and as she inhales deeply, glancing around the bus to find that no one is observing them, he comments, “this is what it must have felt like for Grant to listen to the Triceratops in Jurassic Park.”

She should not have answered truthfully.

It would be simple enough to do, he would have no inkling of her lie, and if he did, there is a chance he would not push the issue—it is disconcerting because she is not allowed to mourn for Ari after years gone by, just as she was not allowed to mourn for him after his passing.

Her father told her to kill her brother. He was no longer useful just like his mother—like her mother, like their sister, and she refused.

Would not do it.

Then he threatened a good man who meant so much to everyone, when Ari only meant something to her, and she meant nothing to anyone.

Their last conversation was on the phone, she did not witness those gentle eyes turned grim, those doctor’s hands so skillful in saving lives put to use to mutilate and torture until whatever Abba wanted known was made clear.

“Ari, are you okay?” She spoke to him in Hebrew, outside in the rain, worried about what he might do, about how far his hatred for their father would take him.

“Everything will be okay, Baby Sister.” She heard the grin in his voice, not of a fanatic tone, or from the malicious riling. Just the love he had for her, and how being hit one to many times or saying goodbye to too many people loved can inoperably undo someone.

Michael was indifferent about the pregnancy.

What could he have said or done? She was the Mossad Director’s daughter, and whatever she wanted to happen would, though he was rougher with her and blunter than any of her other lovers.

“It is not my choice to make, Ziva,” he spoke in their language at dinner one night, sitting across from her in a romantically lit restaurant while drinking a dark red wine the same color as the shirt he wore. “Have it or do not. It does not change my path.”

“Then, I am right to interpret this as your retraction of parental rights?”

He nodded at her, unashamed, unbothered—she had always appreciated his honesty, even when it hurt more than any hand or bullet could. “It is not about what I want, but what you do.”

The insinuation obvious that their relationship would end should she choose to go through with the pregnancy. It was a monumental decision, and she was unsure of what she wanted. She could still be a Mossad liaison without having to be in the field.

It had been so long since someone looked upon her without anything but love.

“Come on, my little farfalla,” Tony speaks to her crotch actually pulling the correct word, while holding onto one of the metal poles and swaying as the bus slows. “This is our stop.”

They will never be able to talk about Ari.

They will never be able to talk about Tali.

Though he may listen, he will never know either of them enough to respect what the conversation means instead of simply listening to her tell fairytales of her life before NCIS, before the Mossad, before the Israeli Army, before the indoctrination of molding fingers that pluck pomegranates and press piano keys into weapons.

She cannot know what Tony would do if she were to fall pregnant in one of their trysts, cannot pose it on him as hypothetical, as she knows he will have more questions than answers. Perhaps that is how it would truly be, her wanting reassurance in the right choice to make, and him asking her how this happened as if he did not thoroughly enjoy the experience.

At least Michael washed his hands of the situation. Told her to make a choice and by not making one she did.

When she came home and found him dead, and flying back to Israel with his body, with Tony, the murderer of a man she knew in childhood, who knew the brutality behind her father, the only one who knew of her condition, and the day she was meant to return to DC, the first cramp came.

Unable to intervene on her own, she let it happen naturally, and when she stopped bleeding, she would start again for an entirely separate reason in Somalia.

“What’s this class again?” He waits for her, their gym bag slung over his shoulder, the weather is unseasonably hot for the end of September. “Breathing for babies, or baby CPR, or baby NPR?”

When she glances at him doubtfully, unimpressed he adds, “there are too many goddamn classes okay?”

“Believe me, I agree with you.” He holds the door for her, and sneaks in afterwards as they enter the Woman’s Health Center. “I also do not understand why they all have to take place in the same room.”

“Maybe pregnancy is hard enough without having to remember where to go all the time?” He suggests, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead from the weather. There is supposed to be a heavy rainfall that night hopefully dropping the temperature as there is no central air in their apartment.

She motions for him to turn around, which he does, and she pulls out their schedule from the bag. “Oh, this is the first l’amaze classe.”

“Lamb maize, what the hell is that?” He turns around after she finishes zipping up the bag again. “Like a delicious corn sheep stew?”

“No, it’s French, I think. They mention it in the book. L’amaze—” she shows him the pamphlet, with a pregnant person holding their stomach and squatting with a peaceful expression on their face.

“L’amaze, lamb maize, la maze—Oh, its Lamaze.” He slaps the pamphlet with the back of his hand, his lips twitching into a smile of superiority.

“What is that?”

“It’s the like pregnancy breathing thing. You know, like ‘hee, hee, hoo’—” he demonstrates what he believes is the proper technique, going as far as to hold an invisible stomach. Her expression must display her incredulousness as he snaps back into walking beside her. “What? There no Lamaze in the Mossad?”

Instead of correcting him that Mossad would not have a need for Lamaze, she explains, “Tony, if I was going to have a baby, I do not think I would need therapeutic breathing to help me through.”

“If you were going to have a baby, you’d waddle more than you do now, and your breasts would be so much more—” he lifts his hands to showcase the size, apparently basketball, that he would expect her bra to explode to as they walk into the room where several of the other couples they’ve been with throughout the weeks are already waiting.

When attention turns to them, she immediately slaps her hand hard into one of Tony’s dropping it from the groping the air, to swinging it beside her.

There are four pregnant couples left, including the woman who is not a fan of her, who scoffs as they enter, and sit at the last mat set up, immediately on the other side of the room from her, closest to the entrance.

“Good morning, everyone, the instructor steps into the center of the half circle, wearing a name brand sports bra and tights and high-end, spotless running shoes. Her honey blonde hair tied up in a ponytail meant to look like she did not try, but probably took more than an hour to get correct. “I trust we’re all ready jump into Lamaze?”

Tony stares at her the way a child stares at a wanted toy, his eyes sparkling and his attention never leaving her as she pivots around in her small space. “I want to do really quick intros and then—”

“I’m sorry,” the platinum blonde woman from the other side of the room raises her still manicured nails. “We all know each other from other classes, is that completely necessary?”

“Yes, because I don’t know you.” The platinum blonde rolls her eyes, and huffs, causing the instructor to turn her attention to their end of the room. “Why don’t we start here? Just give a brief introduction about yourselves.”

“I—”

“I’m Walter Cronk, I should be stationed on an aircraft carrier, but life intervened and gave me leave to be here to witness my little cupcake be born,” in saying the last part he wraps his arm around her shoulders and his opposite hand jostles the prosthetic. Then almost as an afterthought he adds, “and this is my wife, Rose Eid. Don’t ask about the different last names, she just wouldn’t take mine.”

The instructor nods accepting that as an adequate introduction. “Excellent, next couple?”

While the next couple speak about their online soap business she turns to Tony.  “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” He wears a wide grin, his teeth touching as his mouth does not move to form the words.

“You sniped me.”

“Snubbed you.”

“Whatever—”

“The sooner we get it done, the sooner we get out of here”

“Fine.” But cannot stem the small pang of hurt burrowing in her chest.

Three hours does not seem like a long time to be in a class. The yoga is ninety minutes and if not for the instructors, it would be more than bearable. But three hours in a cramped boardroom, in the summer heat, without the air conditioning to cool them down, repeatedly catching Tony checking out the instructor without aiding her in any of the exercises is unbearable.

Whenever the instructor, Heather, strolls by, he pretends he has a problem understanding the directions. He even let her fall backwards to the mat without his support so he could run up to be a volunteer, getting to hold the instructor’s hips from behind. If she could stand easily, she would have gone back to the apartment, but she knows the way she feels is an act, her pregnancy bump is silicone—and a handgun—she has no varicose veins, gestational diabetes, or hemorrhoids aside from the one who hit on Heather for the majority of the class.

When it is time to leave and he is still chatting up front with her, she simply turns and leaves, grabbing her pass and the apartment keys out of the bag, and as she expected, the bus she boards drives away before he even notices she is gone.

While driving through the older part of town with smaller streets, she watches people out of the window instead of keeping track of who is on the bus, distracted by children with their mothers, running to an ice cream cart and jumping up and down. Kids walking, hand-in-hand with their parents down the street, pointing things out and parents encouraging them.

She hardly received any of this when she was younger. A quiet child was a good child, and a child should be respectful of their parents’ time and not asked endless questions.

The twilight of summertime in their backyard. The rabbit in a hutch at the side of the house that was their shared pet, it was so small with such big ears, and it breathed so quickly but it settled and cuddled. For three years from when she was six to just before her mother left, that rabbit was the best thing in their world.

They would bring him branches from the pomegranate trees to chew on, and make sure that in the heat he was shaded, even if they had to do it with their own bodies.

The feel of his brown fur, the color of desert sand, so soft underneath her fingers and his little heart beating so intensely she felt it against her palm, but he would calm down and lay with them sharing their fruit then bounce up and chase them around the garden.

She undresses in the bedroom, putting the prosthetic in the closet and preparing for whoever is to visit. Making the bed, collecting the clothing delegating it to either laundry or to be taken back as it no longer fits her.

Finally, when the apartment is clean and the windows are opened with a fan running in the small living room, she sits on the couch, flipping through the pregnancy book. She does not hear him enter the apartment, or the door slam behind him, or the words he speaks with his red and sweaty face.

He tosses the keys onto the counter a little harder than normal and then mutters something, before grabbing them and setting them into the proper spot. There is no tone to his voice, no anger, no insult, no nothing because she does not hear a word.

“Hey Ziva,” he claps near to her face, that bursts out the ringing in her ears, and she glances up at him as he walks to the kitchen to get a drink. “I tried to run after your bus I think, you could have said the distress code or something if you needed to come back here.” Pulling the fruit punch from the fridge he gulps directly from the lip of the bottle. “I thought maybe the, oh, I don’t know, murderer we’re after had gotten you. I had to call off Gibbs and—”

“When I was younger, we had a pet rabbit.”

“Okay.” He sets the opened juice container back into the fridge without putting the cap back on it, and several red drops spatter to the floor when he runs the back of his hand over his mouth. “That’s great, Ziva, but right now—”

“He was a beautiful being, soft fur a dilute, earthy tone. He chased us around the garden. He would run over to Tali and jump at her and then run away. She was little, under four, and her little giggle as her chubby little hands petted him so kindly—I do not think I ever heard it in a different context.”

“Look—I get if you were upset at—”

Turning to him, she holds his gaze with intent, with the starkness of reality. “Do you know what happened to our rabbit?”

“Oh—” he sighs, perching on the arm of the couch furthest from her, showing his frustration with her “—I’m gonna guess something bad.”

“My father knew we were attached to him and made Ari kill him.”

“Hasenpfeffer for diner that night?”

“Rabbit is not kosher, Tony.” His jokes no longer welcome. His blatant ignorance about the importance of topics, of trying to pry her open and scrap the past from inside her, but when she wants to speak, he holds her with ennui, only wanting to hear about sexual escapades, about big guns and bigger explosions. “Do you know the part hurts the worst?”

“I—”

“I do not remember the name of that little rabbit, who I would hold and feel him settle with me. Teach me that I did not have to have the effect on people my father was instilling in me. That I could love and be loved without using that love as a weapon—” she pauses standing from the couch, realizing that she must change back into the prosthetic in order to go retrieve the pastries from Gus “—and what’s worse still is the two people I could call to ask the name of that poor rabbit, are dead, so I will never know.”

Tony stands, approaching her, his hands open with the usual, the congenial comfort, but she digs the heel of her hand into her eyes, clearing them of tears before anymore fall. “Do not—I’m going to go change.”

“Ziva, childhoods—look, they suck, but—”

In a better situation, she may hear him out, take his words about how his childhood was equally bad—and maybe it was to him—while incomparable to her. But tired, hot, and frustrated with lying about everything from her name to her attitude to her feelings.

Nothing will change until they allow it to—it took a moment of weakness to bring them together, and it took a moment of heartbreak to reunite them.

The sex was not as it was during their first stay in Paris, the bed large and cool, the air crisp with the scent of early morning boulangeries—this time when she kissed him, she tasted Merlot. There was none of the easy, languid exploration and sloppy appreciation.

Jen was dead.

The discomfort struck her—forced her to leave her ex-partner and friend behind.

What were we supposed to do, Ziva?! She outranked us!

When the tables were flipped, she expected the very same—to be obeyed without question, particularly if men were present.

But she knew Jen, she knew the feel of an electric atmosphere forcing the hair on the back of her neck to stick up at her coercion and she tried not to let it infiltrate her mind as she lay reading by the pool, Tony snapping pictures and blocking her sun.

The pit in her stomach that told her to press.

Tony told her not to, and she did not until it was too late.

If she had insisted on being heard, on voicing her concerns, on leaving Tony in that car to play out his fantasy alone, even just an hour earlier, they may have been able to help. Jen alone was able to put down four men, with her present all five would have been brought down.

At the time, she did not know Jen was sick, did not know why she did not trust her.

They had been in bad situations, one where it looked like only one would walk away and mourn the other, but they had always come through it supporting each other. The fact that her final act before succumbing to a bullet, murdered, slain—'gunned down’ as Gibbs put it, ‘a firing squad’ as Tony had, slamming back drink after drink waiting for her to berate him—was to take out almost all her murderers is a testament to how thorough she was.

“Sure, we’ll solve it.” Tony arrived at her door, shoving his way by her and into her apartment. She closed the silk kimono she wore around her loungewear of t-shirt and cotton shorts. “Gibbs won’t let us not solve it, but that’s not the point—hey, who’s got to die for a guy to get a drink around here.”

“Tony, you’re drunk.” She stood beside her couch, the arm in the way of allowing him direct contact to her. “You should not be here.”

“Couldn’t stay away, Sweetcheeks.” He reached for her bare thigh, instead falling into the hard arm of her couch.

She paced behind to speak with him gently, to have a private conversation though they were the only two in the apartment. Kept the tone of her voice sturdy but neutral, knowing he was struggling and if she gave him any pity, he would construe it as infantilizing him. “Did you drive here?”

“No,” he hiccupped in her face, and the sour stench of alcohol was heavy on his hot breath. “But if I did, I still would have driven better than you.”

“I’m going to make you a cup of coffee—”

“Not that African sludge—” he bemoaned into the back of her couch, his face buried into the pitted cushion as she walked to the kitchen and measured hot water for the machine. “I hate that stuff. It’s never sweet enough.”

“When you are done drinking it, I will call you a cab—” opening a cupboard she pulled out some of the leftover ground coffee, scooping it into the machine and setting it.

On returning to the living room, she found him sitting straight, his eyes still heavy, but his perception and communication increased. He managed to push himself up from the stiff couch and did his best not to stumble towards her. “I’ve been known to drink the same coffee for hours.”

“You should not be here,” she repeated, not taking any movements to keep the space between them. Instead standing straight, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I just figured I’d give you a chance to say what you need to say—” he whispered, almost unvoiced, his hand catching himself on the wall next to her head. It was not violent, but surprising, however he did not scare her “—your hair looks gorgeous down, you know that?”

“Tony,” she turned aways from him, from his proximity, planning on using the coffee as a guise for her abandonment, but he reached out and snagged her wrist firmly in his large hand. When she spoke his name a second time, there was more of an urgency, a warning to her tone.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“I need you to say it’s my fault.”

She attempted to walk away again, but his hand-held firm on her wrist. “You want to know what I think, I think five men shot her,” her eyes started to well with the tears she could not help, the emotions that were overflowing within her that she could not sanction to a different part of her mind. She did not even remember the last words she said to Jen. “And I think five men died for it—”

“It’s my fault.”

“It is not—”

“Ziva, you wanted to—”

“You did not shoot—”

“I want the do-over.”

A long pause followed, her mind late at night, broken with guilt, with pain, in a dirge of trying to process her life, the life lost, how it affected her, while also tiptoeing around the notion buried within her that if Tony trusted her more, if she did not have to prove that something was wrong first, Jen’s life may have been spared.

Perhaps there was nothing they could ever do.

With each case, with each loss of companionship, of lovers, of friends, death is predestined. There is nothing she could do to intervene or prevent it.

“The do-over?” She shook her head, her mind not unable to recall the definition of the word. “I do not know what you—”

“A mulligan, a redo, a retake—a second chance.”

The words, his stance, his fingers holding her firmly, his eyes dark with intent, all brought back their pact. Holding his gaze, her arm relaxing against his fingers, she began, “Tony, I do not think this is a good idea.”

“From what I remember, the time and the place were up to me.”

She yanked her arm from his grasp, her face as serious as her speech. This was a different Tony than who she knew. She had seen him drunk before, as he had seen her—that was how this situation started—but her concern for him overtook her logic.

“This context is not healthy.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Ziva—” he turned with raw anger, guilt fueled like an incinerator. His hand on his head before he turned back to her. “I need to feel something else. Even if it’s for one goddamn minute because it feels like I’m drowning right now—” he breathed heavily, his face red but simmered to a calmer state “—I’m drowning and if I don’t do something, I’m not gonna be able to—”

She took his face between her hands, and kissed him deeply, fervently, the touch of his feverish skin against her coolness transferred his rabid energy to her, while working to sedate him more. She tugged at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it off him, the heat of his bare chest pressing into her, as she shrugged out of the silk kimono.

He stooped while kissing her, his hands reaching behind her thighs to launch her up into his arms, the same movement as whenever she had to ride on his shoulders, in the elevator to try and climb out of the top, in the cornfield until he got a neckache, but he hiked her up to his waist, moving towards where he thought her bedroom was, his lips never leaving her skin.

They rammed together into the wall before the hallway, his head lowered to her chest, kissing, sucking over the swell of her breasts and then between.

“Left,” she moaned, arching against the wall, and his lips moved left. “No—no,” she slapped the back of his head twice, but wrapped her legs tighter around his waist.

“What? What!”

“Bedroom. Door. Left.” The only words that could escape her mouth as she kissed him, tasting the liquor, tasting his tears, tasting the pain he was in and wishing to rid him of it.

The sex was different, no exploring, no reacquainting, no prolonging.

They wanted something other than pain, they wanted quick—it was aggressive, and loud, and dizzying as they flipped from her on top, to him taking control, to her seizing it again, to him overpowering her.

It ended with a final thrust, and his shaking shoulders as he bowed his forehead to hers. She did not lean up and kiss him, she did not pet the back of his head and stare at him lovingly, she did not grin, nod, and laugh allowing him to fall onto her chest.

He pulled out, pushed off, and flopped to the other side of the bed, breathing heavily, the room growing hot under their open-mouthed pants and the sweat dripping onto each other.

When he finally settled, she stood, retrieving her shirt from the ground and pulling it back on, swaying her head to the side, collecting the hair that he had mussed up with perspiration and eager hands into a hair tie and the slickness between her thighs felt belittling—she would not truly be able to gage this until Somalia and in retrospect, it was not.

“Was it worth it?” She raised an eyebrow at him, letting him know she did it for him, which perhaps made him more upset than anything else in the situation did.  

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Gus,” she greets, the same purple shirt, the same prosthetic she hates has become an ordinary sensation for her despite an entrenched need to shred it to pieces, the silicone is soft enough, there is just too much of it.

She is wary of other’s judgement.

People judge each other constantly—it is something she grew up with. Not only the scrutiny from her parents who corrected her posture, her clothing, her written letters, her vocalizations, but also from the public, the director’s daughter meant to be more vicious, more cruel, less sensitive than most men.

A person’s final breath could not bother her, the temperature of blood on her skin, warm and staining before drying tight and flaking away could not draw her attention, sharing the bed with men she did not want to, but needed to for the sake of information, for the mission, for the greater good could not phase her.

Whenever she was allowed furlough to her small apartment not required at work or the farmhouse, could not help but dwell on what she did, on what she was capable of, as she climbed into her shower and weep while touching a body that did not feel like her own.

She felt like she had no choice.

She did not have a choice.

“Rosie, you look radiant.” Gus grins at her, crumpling the newspaper in a weak attempt at folding it. She catches that the crossword has been filled into to a certain point with pen. “I’d say the heat from the oven is bringing out a glow in you, but we both know it’s the pregnancy.”

She laughs at him, his gentle nature, his kind blue eyes, his wisdom. He reminds her of Gibbs. A hardness exterior, but a joke, a compliment, a word of wisdom hidden just underneath.

“Not much longer, huh?”

“About four weeks depending—” the words hang in the air as she does not elaborate. Reality sinking in that she will finally be recalled in the next four weeks and return home to a life she has desperately missed.

Morning runs.

The ability to choose her own clothing.

 Going to the gym.

Going anywhere but except the Woman’s Center.

Even the reports she looks forward to.

It is likely she will not be back on an active undercover case until next year, which sounds like heaven, but will become unbearable after the first week.

“You must be getting pretty excited, huh?” He starts packaging up what she normally requests for her Saturday meetings with McGee, though she wonders if it will be Gibbs this time. His arrival shocked her in a sense that he would break protocol, entering an active undercover safehouse that could be under surveillance, than his actual presence after no contact for two months.

“Right now, I’m more tired than anything.” Speaking honestly causes no harm, as the effect on her body and mind remain the same despite the origin. The surge of energy from activity—Pilates, yoga, boxing—has all but depleted from her system.

“Well, four weeks and you’ll have your body back.” He grins at her, handing her the box of pastries as she hands him a twenty-dollar bill. His hands are worn, callused, with the short, thick fingers of a man who has been made to do too much. “And you’ll have a little baby girl.”

“I will probably be more tired then,” she jokes, taking the change that he offers, dropping the coins into her cupped palm. “Thank you, Gus. I’m glad the shop was open.”

“Oh, you’re talking about a couple of weeks ago, right? I always close for one weekend near the end of the summer for one last camping trip.” He leans against the counter, grinning wistfully. “It’s why my bum leg’s acting up today. You can take the man from the marines but not the marine from the man.”

“I will have to make sure to tell my husband that, he hates camping.” Her adventure to the store complete, her alone time almost depleted, she gives Gus a thankful nod, collecting the box of pastries, intent on enjoying her stroll back to the apartment and not being preoccupied with who is waiting inside.

However, as she takes the first step, Gus speaks to her in a different tone. One that is much lower, much less jovial. “That’s one hell of a shiner.”

As if scripted, she touches the skin around her eye gently, noticing the pain has dispersed despite the yellowing color. “Yes, thankfully it is almost healed.”

“If my pregnant wife were walking around with that, I’d be furious.” The line of questioning is not unfamiliar to her, the direction through misdirection, skirting around the edge of the issue without fully encroaching into the center, expressing a point or a concern through tone instead of words. “How’d you get it?”

“Oh—” vocalizes sweetly, innocently, ignoring the subtext of his comments. “I was in that bus accident.”

“Aw, Jeez.” Gus straightens himself from leaning against the counter, a large hand rubbing at the back of his head and the sparce hair there. “The little one doing okay?”

“She is fine.” For the first time in almost nine weeks the guilt overtakes her; knowing that she cannot tell him that the little one is a handgun dug into a prosthetic. Gus expects there to be a child, a baby he will want to see, perhaps hold, in four weeks time.

Will he worry for her when she does not return?

“You been going to that bus everyday for months now, right?”

Instinctively, she tilts her head, listening to his words, trying to draw their hidden meaning. “Yes.”

“Interesting that the bus crashed after your husband came back home.”

“Yes—” she pulls a bright, sweet grin and relies on a sentence that Ari would frequently tell her growing up until the day he died “—if he did not have bad luck, he would not have any luck at all.”

Glancing down to the box, in need of a way to exit the conversation, she notes that a specific pastry is missing. “Do you have any macarons? They are my husband’s favorite.”

“Sorry, Rosie.” Shaking his head at her, he returns to his stool by the register, grabbing the folded paper again. “Someone came in this morning and bought them all up.”

The walk back is uneventful, but she enjoys it regardless. No undercover mission has lasted this long with Tony—with anyone—and they’re living in an apartment too small for a single person, let alone a couple, she needs time away to be herself.

His presence has a way of lowering her defense, speaking with him about subjects she would not if she only saw him at the office, offering him opinions which she would usually keep to herself, he relaxes her, subdues her wilder emotions, and influences her to be vulnerable with him.

Those emotions she can handle and entertain in smaller doses, but they are living together.

Truly living together.

He only brushes his teeth once a day when he wakes up, he snores if he lays on his back, he prefers sweet food in the morning, he currently has eight pairs of those blue plaid boxers, and, if she did her math right, he is not wearing any right now.

It is also impossible for him to ascend the stairs she currently is without making a sound. He stomps and clomps the sound of his large shoe soles slapping off the metal. He is not graceful, he drops items all the time like the remote behind the couch, food outside of the garbage when cleaning his plate, his socks anywhere he wants.

She stops walking, sensing the change outside the apartment door, the rise in voices from within, almost a manifestation of her current thoughts

“He was really specific in what he wanted—”

McGee speaking with Tony, berating him about their job.

Her irritation with him turns to a sudden sympathy.

They are trying, but it is not easy to integrate with people, it is not easy to not draw attention when she appears as if she is, in Tony’s words, “hogging the basketball by shoving it up her shirt” and she does not know what came first, his ability to chip away at her barriers, or her soft spot for him.

With practiced ease, she slips the keys into the door, pulling the handle towards her to muffle the sound of wood creaking when she pushes it into the apartment.

They wonder how she can pop up right beside them, but it is fairly easy as they are self concerned—with their needs, with their wants, with their orders—and rarely stop to survey even in the most dangerous environments.

This is why she usually finds the bombs.

“—if Ziva goes off alone, you have to make sure she has a way to talk to you.”

“She’s went to the boo laundry, or whatever the hell that place is called, McWorry.”

Observing them through the crack in the door, McGee paces as Tony sits without worry on the couch. The damage he does to her reasoning returns when she tries to factor away his lack of concern with keeping their cover story—their second cover story to hide their prolonged almost seven year affair—but the more logical side of her knows she cannot completely trust him to not blurt out that they have been having sex for that long just to receive acclaim.

“Plus, it’s Ziva that we’re talking about—” she notices it then, a small twitch of his lips, the most minute vocal rise “—she’s got a nine-millimeter strapped to the inside of the torso.”

“I know.” McGee stops his pacing, his back to her, his hands on his hips, his legs straight in indication. “Costumes keeps telling us to stop wrecking these things.”

“They’re not things, Probie, they’re torsos,” Tony corrects as if his words have any validation to them, “and Ziva hollowed that thing out like Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption without the Rita Hayworth poster—I think—I haven’t seen the inside of it for many reasons, all better than the next.”

“Well, Marg has been going on about how much they cost—”

Holding the door steady she steps into the kitchen, Tony would see her if he bothered to turn his head away from whatever black and white film is on the television, and McGee would if he ever checked his six, but he is faulty for it.

Instead, she simply walks into the kitchen, setting the pastries down on the small island, before reaching for one of the coffees from the tray, which now contains a third.

It is nice of him to think of Tony.

“If they cost so damn much, why can’t they get one to match her skin tone?” Tony does a quick glance at McGee, whose slumped shoulders and sigh indicate his incredulous attitude

“I thought you didn’t see it, Tony.”

“When I get up in the middle of the night to take a leak the fucking torso it there, it’s like being in a Castlerock film from the early 2000s—”

“Why are you in the bedroom—”

“There’s only one bathroom, McAbstinence, and I’m not as fond as you of taking leaks from a second storey—Jeee-sus Ziva—” he holds his chest for a second, and when McGee turns, viewing her leaning against the counter, sipping on the coffee, he jolts in surprise as well.

In a louder, sterner voice, he demands, “how long have you been waiting there?”

“Long enough to know I’ve apparently dug an escape route through the prosthetic,” she pauses for another sip of perfectly hot, perfectly sugared coffee, “and that McGee apparently has a penchant for second story indecent exposure.”

“He was making a joke—”

“I just assumed that’s how you conceal carried,” Tony interrupts, standing, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and ambling towards the counters, “I had other ideas, but they aren’t exactly workplace friendly.”

He stops at the counter, his eyes boring into hers, trying to inform her of missed information, trying to let her know that their affair remains hidden, letting her know he is sorry, but those emotions need to be secondary to their work, something she agrees with.

Plus, she likes it when he takes charge every now and then.

With a glance, a blink, and then a glance away, he comprehends as well.

Agree to talk later.

She grins at the familiarity of the connection with him, having this delicate little link that only they know about, how he plays up his chauvinism, his innuendos, his constructed frat boy aura, and she amplifies her disgust, her sexuality, her use of violence and cultural misunderstandings effectively becoming caricatures of themselves around others in order to circumvent their discovery.

Luckily, the first inadvertent time they slept together was their first trip to Paris just after Gibbs regained his memories. The second was after Jen’s murder. The third—

“This is hardly a workplace, Tony.” She raises an eyebrow at him and smiles cunningly at McGee who immediately turns away, his face flushing.

“You know what, I don’t need to know what you two do here when you’re not at baby yoga—”

“It’s prenatal yoga, Probie—” Tony snaps his neck around to correct McGee. She sips her drink again, pressing her teeth into the cardboard lip at the lid opening “—the baby hasn’t been born yet, it can’t do any yoga, it could get wrapped up in there.”

“Look, I’m just here to give you these—” ever on the subject, McGee offers them each a large baby shower gift that she takes the tissue paper out of the top of, folding it on the same creases where it’s starting to tear “—and check the apartment for bugs. Ziva, can you give me an update while I do?”

McGee takes out his phone, dragging it around the apartment as Tony viciously rips at the tissue paper, effectively creating confetti for her to sweet up in half an hour.

“List of stand out suspects are the two prenatal yoga instructors, Donovan and Dominic—the former as he definitely enjoys being close to his students—”

Tony lets out a hoarse laugh, and she believes another stupid shirt has been sent for her to parade around in as he is unpacking the clothing, but he elaborates. “You might even say that he enjoys being inside them.”

“Tony!” McGee chides as she tsks in disgust, when really it is quite a good joke.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to play a little battleship—” they both stare at him, and even she cannot interpret his sentence “—you know, sink the submarine—”

“Please do not tell me you are equating pregnant women with submarines—”

“Well, they are transporting one small person—”

“Then what does sinking the—” McGee pauses figuring out the answer to his unasked question. “God, Tony.”

“And with that update, I am going to go take this—” she points to the stomach straining against the purple shirt that she will surely have to give back “—off.”

“Make sure the new one fits,” McGee suggests, handling the prosthetic with one hand, still scanning with the other.

“If you’re going to change, can you wear this?” Tony unfolds yet another yellow shirt that says, ‘bun in the oven’. “Looks like Abby told good ol’ Marg my request after all.”

Snatching the shirt out of his hand, and yet another pair of the same dark blue jeans in a larger size, she moves towards the bedroom. “As long as you do not get any battleship ideas.”

Chapter Text

What must be the same black and white movie plays on one of the only channels enrapturing Tony who sits on the couch beside her, his ankles crossed, and his feet on the coffee table beside the two empty cartons of Chinese food. It was out of their undercover personas to afford take out, but she felt wistful for her old life and was craving a good meal. Although it was delicious, it only worked to make her more nostalgic, remembering the night before she left for undercover eating take out at Gibb’s desk.

She sits beside Tony, her feet tucked under her body as she tries to focus on rereading the “Expecting” book to help her formulate methods to garner attention or questioning from the instructors. There does not seem to be any advertisements during the movie, but he reaches over, his eyes still unmoving from the television, and his hand starts absently petting through her hair.

While she notices the action when he does not, and would normally find the repetitive movement annoying, she finds this relaxing, comforting, soothing—it reminds her of the way Tali used to play with her hair. Want to put it up, want to put baubles in it when usually, their hair was hidden away under a head covering.

At ease, her eyes start to drift shut as a black and white war room appears on the screen and she leans her head to the side to rest against his shoulder. He stops playing with her hair, his hand dropping around her and resting on her thigh, as he starts telling her about the movie, the director, the scene, the importance behind it, but she falls asleep listening to his voice grow more distant.

The first thing she notices is that she is not in Somalia which means the dream may be a better one, the air not thick with heat and sweat, the smell of rot, of elimination, of burning fires, and the slow sense of decay, her body rotting from the inside out.

Instead, there is a lack of smell, perhaps the chemical smell of alcohol and floor sanitizer. IVs prick her arm and in the back of her hand as she still refused to eat anything until they threatened to put a tube in her nose to her stomach.

If she spoke at that point she would argue.

What is the point?

When will they stop forcing her body to live through more trauma?

Why do they refuse to let her be at rest?

When will they let her go like everyone else has?

Nearing the beginning of her weeklong stay, a doctor walks into her room—they sequestered her off into a darker, smaller, room to help with her transition back to fluorescent lights and gave her extra blankets for the central air.

The doctor, a red-headed woman, holds a chart which hold numbers about what she holds. The doctor speaks about possibilities, variabilities, discusses options with her and when she asks the definitive question, striking through all the medical words, all the professionalism, all the politics, to get a clear answer, the doctor nods.

“Do it.”

The words are her first, the answer is immediate.

With a downtrodden face, the doctor attempts to give more information by speaking in circles, in cycles, following the moon and the waves, the day and the night, about classes, courses, and therapies.

She speaks five words.

“Do it, or I will.”

The same day throws her into an emergency surgery that there is no documentation of. Gibbs protected her by having the medical records redacted, a detail divulged in his basement as he sanded the hull of a new boat and she stood staring at the spot where Ari’s blood pooled.

Assured her, that only he and Ducky were aware of the full details—the full violent manifesto written upon her body—to know how to help her if she needed it, as if she could not help herself, but that is true.

She did not have to travel across the world to save him.

To save Tony sitting in the chair across from her, stinking with four months of sullen skin of unwashed hair, and of dried bodily fluids, and the stains of men’s bodies, of her own body being turned inside out and emptied.

She ensured it was emptied.

Jolting awake, she does not know where she is.

She does not know who she is.

Does not know if the rescue was a dream, if the surgery was a dream, if Tony was a dream, but he holds her wrists in his hands, and when her eyes lock onto his, his grip loosens.

Instead of asking if she is okay, if she had a bad dream, if she knows where she is, he simply states one word, “Somalia?”

She nods her head vigorously, not wanting to be touched, to be weak, to show fear, but in her dream it was him, not her, and she clings to him, bunching his t-shirt under her grip. He rubs up and down her back, trying to comfort her with delicate words, trying to calm her like she is an infant with an upset stomach, but she allows it, because he is here and not halfway around the world being tortured.

The rise and fall of his chest settles her, and he takes her hand and places it against his chest, just below his sternum.

“Try to follow the rhythm.”

She nods again, willing to do anything to keep him in that moment, and not across from her in the desert, brought in as bait with a bag on his head—her head, the bag was on her head.

Her whole body quakes now, which he does not acknowledge this time, holding her hand in place and breathing with her to get her heartrate and blood pressure to lower, which will stop her body from shaking.

With a few failed attempts, she finally finds his rhythm, breathing in when he does and holding until he exhales, and the sweat at the back of her neck starts to dissipate, but beading again when she thinks of having to rely on him.

Though she had chosen to join the Mossad, it was an idea instilled into her by her father since she completed her two years of mandatory duty in the army. Ari had his first medical degree, and she was just beginning her training. Five more years down the line and Ari had two more degrees. The number of times she saw her brother, even spoke to him on the phone were less and less with each passing year.

A week after her formal Mossad training ended, he called her into his office, and she saw him for the first time as the Director of Mossad, and not the man she must listen to out of parental allegiance.

He sat behind a large modern desk made of black wood that itself was meant to be imposing, with two black and metal bookcases lining the walls behind him, either on the side of the window that lead directly into the high-level integration room, the one no one visiting ever saw, and if they did, they did not make it back out.

The light filtered through the drawn blinds to appear so natural, bleached dust motes floating through the air around her father as he smoked, snuffing his cigarette into a ceramic bowl Tali made the year she died, staining it black with ash.

“Finally, my daughter comes to visit me.” Her father extended his arms but did not get up from behind the desk as to do so would destroy the illusion of power, of controlling pain, of infecting others’ lives with his will.

Walking to the desk, no slip in her step, no sign of fear or admiration, just the respect forced from her, she stopped. “Shalom, Director.”

“Ziva,” he chortled, stabbing out his cigarette permanently and standing now that she had approached. “Many will call me director, but only few can call me Abba.”

Less now, she thought of little Tali. Did not even think about Ari as he was deep undercover, intrenched with Hamas, the people who took their Tali from them. She knew he would get revenge, he would get retribution, but that did not mean she did not seek vengeance as well.

“Why have you summoned me here?” If he was going to drop the formality, she was as well. They both knew she was not the favorite child, that he did not use any of his influence to win her any accolades or prestige.

At her lack of reciprocating his hug, even in the midst of the guards standing at the door, even before the torture room, he chuckled again. “My little Ziva, always carving her way through the rock instead of climbing over it.”

“People will be able to use the path I’ve carved after me.” Still standing perfectly straight, she let her father walk a circle around her, judging her as he always did.

“Some people will not deserve to use it.”

“It is not my providence if they take what I have achieved and use it for—”

“But it will be, Ziva.” He stopped strolling around her, assessing her, trying to cultivate discomfort, but he cannot as she was born into his scrutiny. “For you were the one who created it.”

If he wanted her to respond, she would not, if he wanted her to openly disagree with him, she would not, if he wanted her to agree with him, save him the judgement from the guards who would spread word of her insolence, she would not.

She retained her composure by counting the seconds in her head, knowing his chosen actions, his rate of reaction, she knew that he was over the point of being upset and simply stalling to gain result.

Ignoring the passage of time, her father became blunt. “I have called you here to give you your very first mission as a handler.”

Without meeting his eyes, she answered automatically, “I will not let you down.”

He mulled over the question, as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. Perhaps he wanted to argue with her, which was exactly why she chose those specific words.

But her father was always three steps ahead, and when he fell behind it was for a reason. “I know you will not, Ziva, because you will not let Ari down.”

Chapter Text

“Today is our active labor class,” the blonde Lamaze instructor, Heather, paces before the class, her sports bra perfectly filled, her stomach chiseled, her body very much unpregnant. “I know everyone has been dreading it, but it’s something we have to do, and with a few of you—” she glances their way but lingers more on catching eyes with Tony and grins “—only a few weeks away from giving birth, it needs to be discussed.”

With now three couples in the class, including themselves, it is natural that the instructor would want to pay more attention to them, but what is strange is she does not seem interested in her, the partner with child, as much as she is in Tony.

They are mean to mimic their birthing plan—the ideal set up of a delivery. Using breathing techniques is not innovative to her, she has employed the method from calming herself while cutting the wires to a bomb, to waking up in tears from memories of Somalia.

The instructor starts walking the room, by the time she turns to Tony, thankful she has paid enough attention in these classes to at least know what to do. “Get behind me.”

“No, this part is the delivery, not the conception.”

“Tony—” she growls, the instructor more interested in the couple at the other side of the room “—listen to me, we are doing a natural home birth with a midwife, you want to be part of the delivery, therefore you’re going to be behind me supporting me.”

“Again, this is the deliver—” the expression she wears must display not only how displeased she is, but the bodily harm she is ready in enact on him “—natural deliver, midwife, support. Got it.”

She sits with her back to his chest again, and this time feels more intimate than before. His breath caresses over her bare shoulders, and even though her hair is in a ponytail, he softly brushes it out of the way.

“Tony.”

“You smell good.” His hands reach down to her thighs, gripping them to help her adjust against his back.

“Later,” she murmurs, adjusting the location of his hands so it is less salacious.

“That a promise?” He pauses his hands on her hips, where she has placed them.

“Watch the instructor.”

“I am—”

As if by poetics, the instructor suddenly appears at their side, startling him, halting any inappropriate actions his fingers may have been alluding to.

“Aww, this is so sweet. You’re choosing such an intimate delivery plan.”

Before Tony can say anything, she interjects, “Walter is such a loyal and intuitive man. He insisted on being as involved as he could be.”

“The natural method is always the best way to go.” Heather nods in agreement, a tight grin on her face before dropping a hand to Tony’s shoulder. “You’re already such a good dad for choosing it.”

“Well, I gotta protect my future investments.”

They laugh together as she stares on in disbelief, no suggestion to undertaking a natural pregnancy, no corrections in the breathing she purposely panted wrong, just a quick flirt with Tony before sauntering off to the first couple, who are having trouble mimicking a hospital delivery.

“You don’t like her, do you?”

“How did you know?”

Bringing his hands up to her shoulders, she tenses as he begins to knead into her muscles, not overly dramatic, but enough for the tenseness to settle. “I’m an intuitive partner.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I think you don’t like her the same way that I don’t like the Freegan Kinkmaster.”

“Meaning?”

When he leans closer, his breath tickles her ear and on instinct he stops he from raising her shoulder in defense. “I think we have to put aside our personal influences on each other for this class, and just try to feel her out because she doesn’t sit right with me—”

The class ends after another two hours, with the instructor announcing an upcoming weekend will be the ‘Baby Staycation’, a retreat held Friday night to Sunday morning allowing couples to have a final get away before giving birth.

This month’s event will be an outdoors camping trip held in one of the national parks, requiring a small amount of hiking and sleeping in a tent.

Without approval, she signs them up, and he protests all the way home, not understanding the value of being able to see probable suspects outside of the social constrictions of a classroom. All he hears is camping and he disagrees.

Later that evening as she finishes readying for bed, Tony in the other room waiting to check scores from some sport game with the news, or other program—she let him be as he still carried the grouchy attitude, and having to watch the news to learn the game scores only made it worse—she runs over the motives in her head again, what Ducky analyzed the murderer would be like.

Twenty-five to thirty-five or over fifty-five. Widowed and childless. The one instructor, the one she does not see quiet as often, Dominic has a wife, so that would leave the other instructor, Donovan, who frequently puts up with Tony’s threats. Heather is likely in her thirties, and has no wedding ring, but she needs to withdraw her person bias before acting on more than suspicion.

There must be evidence they have not thought of—a word, an action, a similarity between the surviving husbands which would narrow down their scope.

Lacking any reluctance, she crouches, picking up a pair of Tony’s back socks that he threw at the bed when they returned to the apartment today, instinctively separating into different rooms.

They have reached the pinnacle era of this case where too much time has been spent around each other. Years ago, she lasted a day with him in a cargo container, and has sense spent time stuck in alcoves and elevators, but never for as long as this. His ease with slipping into flirtatious conversation with every woman he finds attractive denigrates whatever feelings they have for each other and whatever emotions entrench them together have curdled.

She does not want to clean up after him. He is older than her with the responsibility of a child which creates another tier of difficulty between them as she can never relax because he is the one always relaxing.

If she lets her guard down, and he does not become aware of receiving the strain of accountability momentarily, then the results are catastrophic: losing Jen, taking the elevator during a bomb threat, leaving America for Israel, and Israel for Somalia.

During it all, he never takes responsibility for it himself. Will blame anyone, anything, any entity other than himself. Her, the job, their teammates, fate, karma, but he is never faulty in his own right.

Wants to hurl the eighth pair of the same blue plaid boxers she has seen in the last two week at the wall. Open the window and throw it into the road, but the responsibility impinges her, and when she becomes irritated in this way, she does not even recognize what made them begin having sex on undercover missions.

The first time it was the merlot.

The second it was his choice.

But their relationship received a shock of life to restore its beating heart after a near miss incident.  

An afternoon in a small outside common area, an intersection for a few different business and residential apartment buildings acting as a green space with picnic tables and food vendors.

The bomb was tossed into the garbage inside a backpack and discovered by someone seeking food.

She rode with Gibbs that day as Tony and McGee were taking a mandatory assessment due to their length at duty.

“A mental acuity test,” McGee explained.

“A waste of time,” Tony chimed in.

Police worked to secure the area as she knelt beside the abandoned backpack left where it was dropped bright sparkling patterns and pastel lilac, turquoise, and a powdered pink reminded her of Tali, and off the bag hung little baubles, cartoon characters, and sweet childish mementos.

She did not question where the backpack originated from, and if the likely eight-year-old owner was safe, instead focusing on the bundles of wires spindling around inside the bag and through compartments. One lead into two separate pockets on the sides of the bag, and when she opened them, she stopped.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gibbs’s voice was already tired as he squatted beside her, took a picture and mumbled a curse word under his breath.

“Shrapnel,” she defined, pieces of scrap metal collected from a dump or even on the street and placed into containers with enough explosive power to propel the shards through the air like bullets. They ranged in size from pencil eraser casings to quarters. “I can try to dislocate the charge to them—”

“Disarm the bomb, Ziva,” Gibbs interrupted her with an impatient sigh she knew was not directed at her. His critical nature overwhelming due to the current circumstances, she nodded once and traced a separate road of wires to the detonator, located at the bottom of the bag.

Four wires directed from it, two on each side. One on each connected to the shrapnel, one linking the explosives and one—ensuring the route was correct one, she delicately retrieved her knife, separating a blue wire until she reconfirmed, and slide the blade underneath it cutting it with a crisp snip.

The countdown clock paused with a little over five minutes left before detonation, and Gibbs gave her a clap on her back when she stood, telling her unceremoniously, “good job.”

Tony and McGee were enroute from the office as were the bomb squad to remove the now disarmed explosive, but as Gibbs nodded to the police who maintained the periphery around the park, hearing them cheer in relief, something did not feel right.

“Tell the bomb squad that—”

It was a purely emotive feeling, not based on logics at all.

“Gibbs—” when she beckoned him, he listened without complaint, approaching her near where she left the bag at her feet “—something does not feel right.”

“Bomb’s disarmed right?”

It is something she appreciates about him, discussing the problem immediately. Not wasting time by arguing the clock stopped, that she rendered the detonator useless, or any of a dozen other platitudes for debate.

“It is, but—” she paused predicting an interruption that would come from Tony if he were here, however, Gibbs only kept her direct gaze, waiting to hear her reasoning. “Why was there so much time remaining?”

“Just got lucky with the guy scavenging?” He paused waiting for her presumed interruption, but when she did not, he continued, “you thinking it’s too perfect?”

“Well, someone has a good rule about coincidences.” Under the brim of her hair, she glanced up at the nearby buildings, windows shining white reflecting the sun. The small playground to the side was empty, a slow breeze blowing a swing. The food stalls closed and evacuated. “Gibbs, there has to be a second one.”

“A failsafe?”

She nodded, spinning back to glance at the disarmed bomb near her feet, then back to the crowd. “Everyone is too close. They are too close—”

“Push them back!” His voice desperate, as he motioned with his hands, while she dropped to the ground, focusing on the shrapnel compartments. “End of the block, inside buildings.”

Back to the wires, she traced the first into the left side pocket, reaching down under the soda bottle filled with metal and finding a secondary wire that she had not visualized before, immediately cutting it, and then the wire running to the plastic explosive.

“Ziva, get you ass off the ground we’re going—”

“I am almost done.” She did not even bother to turn back to him, holding up a hand for his silence as she traced another wire, a red one to the right bottle of shrapnel reaching underneath for the secondary wire and finding a new swath of wires, four to five at least that lead—

Gibbs yanked her up by her jacket collar. “You’re as done as you’re gonna get.”

“I do not know how much time—”

“None, Ziva.” He pointed towards a ledge of concrete planters that outlined an area lower in elevation as he tugged her with him while they ran.

They did not make it all the way over the edge before the secondary bomb blew, taking the first with it, shrapnel exploding across the park piercing through umbrellas, carboard signs, plant leaves, tree trunks, and the leather seats on the swings.

Gibbs ducked over her, his arms covering her head until after the car alarms in the area started to go off.

“Ziver?”

“I am fine,” she nodded as he nodded with her, stating he was unhurt as well. “I am—”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘sorry’, you’re fired.” The dust began to settle around them thick and smelling of burnt plastic as he stood, his legs shaking a little from the impact of the jump, before offering her a hand up. “We need to do a sweep.”

She took his hand, standing and glancing around what was once a small outside bistro, and wiping the grit from her face, alarmed at the idea of more bombs, and intent on acting. “I can see if—”  

Gibbs hands clasped down hard on her shoulders, interrupting her as he turned her to the side. “Stop talking, go to EMS.”

“Gibbs, I’m—”

“I need EMS now!” His scream was more panicked than before the bomb, as he shrugged off his jacket and pressed it against her side.

“What—” Glancing down, she saw the open wound, one that she did not feel any pain from, oozing blood out of her body at a steady rate.

“Don’t look at it,” he tipped her chin up, slinging her arm around his shoulder with his other hand compacting the wound. “Shut up and move.”

She lays on the bed when Tony decides it is safe enough to approach her. The black t-shirt she wears pulled up to just above her navel as she views the bleak scar above her hip. He glances to the prosthetic that she forgot to place in the closet and then at her as she defines the margins of the scar.

“Are you waiting for that thing to pay out a second time?”

Initially, she misinterprets his question as referring to dealing with health insurance, which she wants to argue she did not receive a pay out, as she did not lose any body parts, and the hospital stay and brief occupational therapy cost more than she makes per pay, so it put her at a deficit.

But he continues when her response is not immediate. “Looking for another nickel?”

At that she grins, remembering all the jokes made for at least three months over the thought that she was coin operated after the brief surgery where they removed the foreign body. “It was also a thumbtack.”

The correction is just; the nickel and tack melded together in the heat of the explosion and hit her side as she and Gibbs dove for cover. Tony tried to get what they removed from her, stating it was evidence, before Gibbs superseded him, reminding that it was evidence and therefore it disappeared when the case was solved.

Of everyone involved, she was the most seriously injured.

Nudging off his shoes and secondary pair of socks, he lays on the bed next to her, his arms behind his head as they share the ceiling water stains again, which she equates with clouds, trying to find imagery and reason in when there is only faulty roofing.

“Did I ever tell you about how I dealt with that guy in interrogation?”

“You did not.”

He has, but she likes to hear the story anyway.

“I told him that if you died as a result of his actions, he wouldn’t even make it to the prison.”

“And McGee?” Knows that he watched Tony do this from behind the one-way mirror, that any threats and violence he would be responsible for as well.

Tony turns slightly, his body inches closer. “Told me to settle down, but he was pretty upset too.”

She matches his proximity, glancing at his lips, before catching his eyes, her left hand still tracing around the rough outline of the scar. “It’s nice you care about me enough to avenge me should I perish.”

“Ziva, I went to—” he does not like to be the one to bring up their time in Africa, will openly listen to her to a certain point, but if she starts to focus on details, on specific people and specific pain, he cannot sit still, fidgeting his discomfort. “I’ve done some—I’ve gone through some—I’d—”

She places a hand on his arm, stopping him from saying more than he wants to commit to. “I know, Tony.”

He visited her in the hospital constantly.

The surgery almost not even necessary, only muscles impacted. It hurt to stand once she returned home, and it was kind to have everyone visit on and off after her discharge to ensure she was eating, moving around, and sleeping enough.

Abby brought music, McGee brought books, Ducky brought tea, and of course Tony brought movies.

“I was going to bring Swordfish—” he did not look at her as he rifled through the bag he dropped on the ground, moving around DVDs, the oil from the hot pizza box seeped through to her coffee table, and the bottled beers he brought dripped condensation “—because they did the whole claymore thing, but then I thought that might be in poor taste—”

Still recovering, she lay on the opposite side of the couch from him and tried not to think about the last time he was in her apartment, drunk beyond his wills, and how it ended. There was nostalgia for that time—her life was better or worse, but simpler, the team was stable, her life was stable, Jen was alive.

Not that she does not love Abby, but she and Jen had firewalked together through Europe, they trusted each other because they did not have a choice not to.

Tony peeled the sweating lid of the pizza box, and it flopped bonelessly backwards. “Come on, grab a slice.”

“I am still on a restricted diet.” She did not look at him, or the pizza, but curled further into the arm of the couch overburden with tragic thoughts.

“I know, that’s why I got only cheese on a quarter of it.”

“I cannot handle dairy right now.”

He pulled two large pieces out of the box and onto one the plates he plucked from her cupboard and paused. “Like ‘can’t’ or ‘won’t’?”

“Pick.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The stiff foam on her couch arm pressed into her stitches the wrong way, and she took her right hand, holding the entry sight as she adjusted to get more comfortable. “I did not think I would have to let you know that a few days after having a foreign body removed from my abdomen that I would not be able to have full meals immediately.”

“Do you want me to run out and grab you a smoothie? That green-looking-snot one that you love?” His mouth was full of pizza with extra cheese and other toppings that diminished his ability to communicate.

“No, I am not hungry.”

“Ziva—” he swallowed the whole mouthful, barely chewing and then rubbed his mouth on the back of his hand “—you gotta eat to get better, come on we can go together, my treat—”

She does not know if she was truly considering his offer as she wanted a smoothie, or as she knew that she needed something in her empty stomach to take her antibiotics with, or if just to get him out of the apartment so the memories were not so haunting, but as she turned to accept his hand, there was a sharp pain in her side that made her recoil back.

It was a tight pull followed by a burning snap followed by relief. Tony rubbed her back, asking her if everything was okay, and she inhaled, her diaphragm shaking, and nodded. “I think it was just a cramp.”

“Just a little—” he trailed off, his eyes glued to her side and when she glanced down, blood saturated her shirt.

“This started everything.” Her thumb stops in the middle of tracing the scare, a nickel sized wound paler than the rest of her skin and so obvious that when she goes undercover in two-piece swimsuits, she must cover it up with makeup as someone who knows her more intimately may be able to deduce her identity.

“What do you mean it started everything.” Turning on his side, his elbow digging into the pillow and propping up his head, he watched her fingers outline, before glancing back to her face.

“This.” Her finger wiggled between them indicating their partnership, their undercover perks, their ability to draw each other’s bodies from memory if need be.

“I thought Merlot started it.”

“The first round, yes.”

“What round are we in now?”

“Three or four, depending on certain qualifications.” Now dragging her attention up from the wound to his face, his gaze intense but in an adoring way, as he reaches forward and cups her cheek.

“The scar that launched a thousand ships.”

His mouth covers hers marking the end of the sentence, the end of the conversation, and the end of whatever ill-feelings they have for each other for the moment. He maneuvers himself over her, his mouth closing over the nape of her neck, as she tugs his shirt over his head.

Somewhere in the heat of undressing, his face ends up level with the scar and he kisses it delicately as if instead of a hot piece of metal piercing her body, it was a tattoo or a discoloration left by sunbathing, but it causes her to shiver when he does so, and when his mouth continues lower.

Chapter Text

“You want to go camping?” The long pause after McGee’s voice indicates he wants them to elaborate on the reasoning, or the plan, or the method behind coming to this very specific result, but Tony does not speak any words that will help.

“No, Probie, no one wants to go camping.” Sitting on the couch, his arms rest against his legs, hands hanging over his knees as he rolls his eyes at the phone in the middle of their pizza and beer. “We have to go camping.”

“Okay.” Again, McGee extenuates the word, hoping to be interrupted with a purpose, but when Tony, again, does not offer one, he continues, sounding tinny over the phone. “Why do you have to—”

“The pilates teacher—”

“Lamaze,” she whispers, tapping his leg to correct him until he waves her away.

“The Lamaze teacher—”

“Instructor,” she corrects again.

“Ziva’s here, McGoo, she’ll tell you all about it.”

She scoffs, her mouth open as Tony pops up from the couch, grabbing one of the last pieces of pizza, gobbling up half of it before even reaching the counter to lean his back against.

“Ziva, how’s it going.”

“I am married to Tony and carrying his bastard offspring, every day is paradise.”

Tony points at her, swallowing another large portion of pizza relatively unchewed. “Technically, they’re not a bastard because we are married.”

“Technically, this prosthetic is composed of roughly fifty percent silicone and fifty percent handgun so—”

“Oh Ziva, that reminds me, Marg is formally requesting you stop digging ruts into the prosthetics and that if you need somewhere to accommodate a weapon, she can give you something to place in between your skin and the—”

“Hey, that sounds like something she probably should have done from the beginning,” Tony interrupts, glancing at the last two pieces and then her. When she holds up a finger warning him, he only bounces his eyebrows in challenge.

“Do not be rude to, Marg.”

“Yeah, Tony, she’s one of the original undercover costumers, and taught the NIS agents how to get lost in a crowd if they were being tailed.”

“Anyone can get lost in a crowd, Probie, it’s a crowd.” Approaching the phone, feigning that his attention is for the conversation Tony quickly grabs one of the remaining slices and silently laughs at her.

“Can you two just tell me why you need camping supplies so I can run it by Gibbs?”

“How is the Boss? We haven’t heard from him since he came here and yelled at us.” Leaning his head back, he removes the cheese and toppings from the pizza and dangles it until it is all in his large mouth.

“The same, he’s just here now instead. Ziva?”

“The Lamaze and yoga instructors run a camping trip at the end of each month in order to cultivate a holistic and natural approach to pregnancy, while also acting as a last vacation of sorts—”

“Yeah, before your life officially ends.”

“Our lives.”

“How noninclusive of me.” Tony snaps back, making a last attempt dive for the final piece of pizza, handling it by the crust, and taking a large bite out of it before she hits the bottom of it knocking it loose from his hand and into hers.

During the scuffle, McGee—the phone he is speaking from—ends up toppled on the ground and sliding underneath the coffee table.

His tinny voice is now intermittently cut through with static.

“—ill—at—bs—il—ay.”

“What?”

“I’ll give—ou—a cal—ack, but in the meanti—ou—still have the par—ing—ass tomorrow?”

“The what ass?”

“Okay, I’m hang—g—up now.”

“McRoboto, don’t hang up, what are you—” but a thick dial tone greets them in his wake.

Chewing on the last bit of crust she reaches under the coffee table, her knees on the ground, almost in child’s pose, which is much easier to do without the added weight and the bulbous prosthetic. With the silence, she knows that he is staring at her, and most likely her ass as she can see him shift over to the bedroom door to be behind her.

“Let me know if you get stuck.”

“What?”

“This is how a lot of my fantasies start—” he sneaks away from the door as her fingers connect with the phone and slide it out the other side of the table with a shove, just as his hand slides over her ass.

“Tony,” she warns removing her hand from underneath the table and pushing herself up with one hand on the couch pulling away from his touch.

“You couldn’t even pretend to be stuck for me?”

“What kind of moron gets stuck under a table?”

“The porn star kind.”

“If you ever equate me with—”

“Take the compliment, Ziva,” he chuckles, but his quick retreat to the kitchen with the cardboard pizza box and empty bottles offers a different interpretation.

“How is that a compliment?” Checking her watch, she realizes they need to leave for the bus soon if they are going to make their hands-on parenting class.

“Umm,” he sounds like her words are insane as he pours out the last inch or so of the beers and rinses the bottles. “That you have a body hot enough to be someone who has sex professionally.”

“I do not know how this conflates to a compliment in your brain.” She grabs the pizza box off the counter and crunches it until it is folded sideways and then shoves into the trash.

“I don’t know how you don’t see it as a compliment—” he sets the wet bottles on the counter and wipes his hands on his pants. “Don’t all women love being an object of desire?”

Stopping she places her hands on her hips shaking her head at him. “Yes, Tony, all women love to be objectified.”

“That not what I said—”

“It is saving time by jumping to a known conclusion.” As he tries to follow her into the bedroom, she slams the door behind her, and when he does walk in, she slams the bathroom door, locking it.

“Ziva—”

With her arms crossed, pacing around the small room only big enough for two or three steps, she hides her mouth in her hand, furiously trying to calm herself.

When he taps at the door softly, she shouts, “get ready or we are going to be late.”

Chapter Text

“Hello there all you proud mama and papa bears.”

The woman instructing the class is different from the last three, as she is not in any sense of the word, athletic. With short dark auburn curls kept close to her head, and large, thick milk bottle glasses she stands all of five feet at the front of the classroom which is thankfully taught in a local high school instead of the Women’s Center.

“First, I want to thank you for trusting yourself enough to come here and loving that little blessing inside of you enough to learn how to take care of them.” She has on a necklace with large pearls, and a long purple striped sweater that she is wearing as a dress, gray leggings sticking out of the bottom.

“I’m Marlene, and I have the absolute pleasure of training all you in the ancient art of parenting.” When some of the nervous couples let out a little chuckle at her joke she explains, “oh, don’t laugh now, being a parent is an ancient practice. Think about how you got here.”

“Is she calling me old or trying to make me think about my parents having sex?”

She rolls her eyes at Tony who sits at the desk next to her, the sleeves rolled up on his button up shirt, and the knee of his jeans torn a bit from the bus accident. “Just try to pay attention to the other couples.”

“You may be asking what qualifies me to teach you about parenting if I never had any kids of my own.” Marlene cuddles the fake baby doll she retrieved from a cardboard box at the front of the class, holding it against her chest as she rubs the back. “Well, I have been a labor and delivery nurse for fifteen years and a NICU nurse for another ten. Trust me, the stuff I’ve seen is not for the faint of heart.”

“Is she talking about babies coming out?”

“No.”

“Because I heard that some guys—after watching the lady bits stretch—”

“If you do not stop,” she hisses, her voice very low, her hand digging into his thigh, “I will raise my hand right now and tell them you need an education in women’s bodies.”

“That’s not what you said last night.” He knew his mistake before finishing the sentence, his mouth going wide in a grimace.

“Do you really want to go back to last night?”

“No.”

“Because we can have a conversation about last night.”

“I’d really prefer not to.”

“Uh-huh, I wonder why.”

The instructor at the front is showing them rules to being a parent, one of those cutesy little numbered lists on a powdered blue and pink parchment with items including ‘kissing boo-boos’ and other unimportant items that does not involve any actual recommendations on child rearing.

Tony is sitting straight, staring at the projection of the rules on the painted white brick wall. “Look—” he points to rule seven “—you gotta be their best friend and their boss, you think that’s how Gibbs came up with his—”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

After thirty minutes the instructor turns back on the lights, and Tony is beside her almost asleep, his eyes rolling back into his head, arms crossed against his chest.

She has managed to clock the other nine couples present in the class with them. Two are the remaining couples they know from the gauntlet of prenatal activities they have been forced to partake in—it is the seven other couples all stationed around them that she wants to get acquainted with.

Too bad this is a parenting class and offers nothing more than working with their spouses.

“So, it’s time you get to meet your babies,” the instructor announces from the front of the classroom, as she bends and lifts a large box, setting it onto the counter. “Why don’t you and your partner give a clear definition on what you are and are not willing to do for your child to make sure you’re on the same page, while I come and deliver them to you.”

“Would you take a bullet for the fake baby, because I don’t think I’m that far ingrained in the case yet,” Tony’s voice is quick and low as he makes the joke, and both keep their eyes on her as she passes out baby dolls to each couple.

The instructor slowly makes her way around the room, stopping with each couple to ask a few questions, but then states to the class as a whole, “now, I know that there may be an issue with skin tone—”

“Just like the platinum mega mom had with you in our other class,” Tony reminds with a sarcastic laugh.

“--But remember, these dolls are just pretend and not your real babies, so there’s no reason to get upset.”

“Does she think—” he leans over to her, though she is still not fully receptive to his conversations currently, asking, “—does she think we’re going to think the doll is actually ours.”

“I do not know.”

“How messed up do you have to be to—”

“Hi there,” the instructor interrupts, a large grin on her face and lipstick on her cigarette-stained teeth. “Do you know if you’re having a boy or girl?”

“Well, the Little Croissant in here—” he rubs the top of the prosthetic, and she will never understand his fascination with giving food nicknames to their fake child “—Is a girl, so do you think Dada can live out his fantasy and have a boy?”

Expecting the same disdain for Tony that almost everyone they have met have given him, instead the older woman grins, reaching into the box and retrieving a baby doll in a blue diaper, handing it to him. “How can I say no to that request?”

The instructor grins at Tony, who grins back at her, cradling the baby in his arms as she continues to pass out baby dolls. “She’s great.”

“That is not a real child.”

“Yeah, but by the time I got here, you already gatekept that the kid was a girl.” He turns to her, his fingers holding the immovable hand of the plastic toy. “You could have waited for me before deciding.”

“I did not know you were coming—”

“And that’s how we got into this mess in the first place, am I right?” Neither of the two couples seated near them appears amused, and one of the other expecting parents arches an eyebrow at her in disapproval.

“Fine, you take the lead on this one then.” She sits back in the chair, hearing it squeak under her added weight, and places her hands on the prosthetic.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely” Rubbing his arm reassuringly, not caring what he does, more focused on getting to know the instructor and other participants.

“This is our son, The Third and—”

“You are using an alias right now—”

“Well, we’ll just call him TT for short.”

Leaning her elbow against the table to hold up her head, her back already starting to hurt, she watches the instructor have a more serious conversation with one of the couples across the room. “TT sounds like that word for breast. What is it, teat?”

Lowering his voice, he leans into her, “are you honestly suggesting I named my only pride and joy, Titty?”

“I did not suggest it, I merely pointed out—”

“This is our son!”

Slapping both her hands to the table, she leans closer to him. “Well, currently our son is naked, not sentient, and appears to be African American.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t cheated on me—”

“How is everything going over here?” The instructor stops at their table holding her hands in front of her before reaching down and adjusting the doll’s head so the neck is supported.

“Sorry,” she grins at the older woman, leaning her head against Tony’s shoulder, hugging his arm against her again. “We were just investing ourselves in the story of our son, Teattee.”

“His name is TT for the third because he’s third in a long lineage of noble men.” He explains to the instructor who encouragingly nods at him, “and my wife is distracted by our son’s lack of clothing and darker skin.”

The woman takes one of her hands and places it on Tony’s grinning kindly at him. “What’s your name, Dear?”

“Walter.”

“Well, Walter, remember at the start of the class when I said that these dolls are not your real baby?”

Chapter Text

“I still don’t understand how you knew how to put a diaper on a baby so fast.”

Walking home from the high school in the early afternoon is a welcomed change of scenery. Lately, they have only been going to the same places, with each other, and the repetition has started to make her grouchy. Tony surprised her by suggesting they walk home since the high school is much closer than the Woman’s Center, and the weatherman implored it was going to be one of the last nice days before autumn begins.

“You have to be quick so that they have the diaper on the next time they—”

“Piss and shit?”

“Basically, yes.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you know so much.” Although he grins at her, slowing to meet her gait again as the pain in her back radiates down one of her legs.

“Well, I’ve read that book—”

“The horrifying pregnancy grimoire, yeah I did too.”

“—and I had a younger sibling.”

The wind stirs around them, collecting some of the rigid leaves and throwing them into a small tornado before dispersing them over the road.

“What did she look like?” Tony questions after a few steps, he points to the sidewalk where the concrete is not even, warning her so she does not trip.

“Tali?”

“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt when the wind picks up again over the sound of fer feet scuffing over the ground. “You talk about what happened to her, but you never talk about her.”

“Did you think there was maybe a reason for that?”

“Yeah. Maybe you didn’t have anyone to talk to?”

She grins at his tenacity before watching her feet over the uneven sidewalk. “She was so naturally talented. Always singing, dancing, painting—it was like living with a spirit, so sweet when she was younger, and so compassionate when she was older.”

“Did she look more like Daddy David, or your mom?”

Pictures Tali in her little white dress playing monkey at the orchard trees, as she and Ari hang from the branches upside down. How Ari would reach down, grabbing under her arms, and lift her up what must have seemed like storeys to her when it was in fact only a few feet.

“She was a little copy of my mother, she had large, light brown eyes, and beautiful curly black hair that my mother used to put into rings for her. It would take her hours as Tali’s hair was so thick, but my mother adored her—” remembers Tali toddling towards her barely capable on her two feet, calling her name, and holding a yogurt that she could not open with a pre-schooler’s dexterity, and hugging her tightly when she opened the cup and handed it back. “I adored her.”

“Do you remember what she sounded like?”

When she was younger Tali had a classically sweet voice, high-pitched and full of questions without the whine that some children have when they are ignored or not included. As a teenager, Tali’s voice had a lilt, the cadence of a songbird as she picked each of her words for the highest impact. But the question causes her discomfort, sentimental details she holds close to her heart right now.

Instead, she diverts the question. “She was sixteen when she died.”

“I know, you told me the first night we met.”

“I was so scared about Ari. I did not want to lose him too.” She waits for Tony to direct the conversation back to her baby sister, but he stays silent.

Instead, she clears her throat, intent on reverting their dialogue. She knows talking about Ari causes him discomfort, which she is sympathetic too. The same reason they do not talk about Ray, about Michael, about Jeanne.

“Tali was in her last year of high school before her two-year dedication to the army. She did not want to go. I remember that much clearly. My father was trying to convince her to join Mossad as a language teacher, as a translator, as an informative—but she would not.”

The statement catches his attention, causing him grin. “She said no to your dad?”

“She detested my father.” The reasoning why not pertinent to their current conversation and more information that she does not want to divulge. It is nice to reminiscence about her siblings, even her mother, without having to clarify the way their lives have woven a tapestry of trauma over her life.

She did not see Tali her last morning as since she was in her second year with Mossad, she now had a cheap apartment near the headquarters within walking distance—more likely though they would call her up to train her. Tell her where to be in Tel Aviv and how long she could have to get there.

As a result, she did not see Tali’s last outfit, her last hair style, witness her sister put on makeup in the way she taught her how, see what color she painted her nails, or if she matched her hair baubles to her outfit.

“I have not been able to watch the opera she went to go see since.” Willing the tears in her eyes to dry as they round the corner to their apartment, she absently sets her hand on the mound of the prosthetic. “She wanted me to go see it with her, and I could not due to my training.”

“Ziva, if you went with her, you would have died with her.”

“Maybe I would have been able to detect the suicide bomber before he entered the building. Maybe I would have been able to keep her safe for a little while longer.” The first of the tears runs down her face as she remembers Tali on her father’s back, her tiny, weak fist beating into him as she threatened his life for taking away her mother and then her sister.

Even exporting Tali from Israel would not have saved her. She was too much like their mother, her hatred for their father too ingrained, and he would have orchestrated another car accident, another slip up to claim the life of his own child who spoke openly against him.

Had her and Ari not found the people responsible for the bombing, happily admitting to the terrorism, she would have suspected her father.

“Yeah, and maybe you just would have blown up too, Ziva.”

“Then at least her and I would have died together. Our last moments would have been happy instead of fearful, and alone. I would have told her I loved her and held her close to me, and my father would have no living children now.” The vindication to her father feels as though it is overshadowing her sister’s death but imagining her father with no other puppets to maneuver, to use in diplomatic ways like ancient kings to garner favor from different countries, brokers peace.  “Perhaps having no remaining family would have given my father reason to reconsider.”

“Maybe he would have focused more on your brother.”

“If he did, then perhaps my brother would not have dissented.”

 He gestures for her to take the stairs first, either wanting to catch her if she slips, or wanting to watch her ass as she climbs. “Then you would have never come to America, never come to NCIS.”

“Then it is very unlikely we would have met.”

The sentence appears final as Tony offers her no rebuttal, and only the sounds of his shoes plodding against the shoddy metal stairs echoes above the street.

“Hey—” but he stops her as she reaches into the bag for their keys, his hand on the back of her arm, holding her in place even though she does not waver “—Tali dying, Kate dying, Ari dying—” he pauses, pursing his lips, holding in his words, perhaps rethinking them. “It wouldn’t have been made right by you dying.”

“Tony, we were discussing hypothetical—”

“And it’s great and healthy to talk about ‘what ifs’—” his touch on her arm becomes gentler, holding her attention, his eyes stark and serious. “—but I don’t like how comfortable you’re getting with the idea of you not being here.”

“Death happens when it happens.” Still unwavering, she observes his expression, his eyes focused and glinting beautifully in the afternoon light, the tips of his fingers releasing their grip, standing with her, not holding her in place. “We cannot stop it, we cannot change it.”

“Then stop talking about changing it.”

The key slips easily into the lock, and the ramshackle apartment greets them complete with the bent pizza box covered in grease, and the two beer bottles beside it. “You still would have lived a very compelling life without—”

“I wouldn’t have.” He does not bark the words, but he speaks them hastily, muffled against the fabric of the sweater he shucks onto the ground by the door.

The muscles in his neck tense as he stomps by the kitchen, intent on flopping on the couch again. While picking up his sweater and turning it the proper way, she questions, “what if you had never met me?”

Garnering a response of him actually halting himself from turning on the television. With a reserved confidence he digs up, his words are firm with truth. “I’d know something was up.”

Though he may not be intending to, he makes her laugh—all the time he makes her laugh, even in the worst of situations—and she folds his sweater with care, carrying it back with her into the bedroom. “You cannot know—”

“Then neither can you.” His answer is not abrasive but rapid, sensing her method of thought, and when she raises and eyebrow at him, not in challenge, but in intrigue, he sets down the remote, trailing her to the bed.

Chapter Text

She cannot sleep.

It is very rare that she is unable to calm herself enough for even an hour of sleep, her mind watching the stains on the ceiling alone, Tony grumbles and turns in his sleep, a loud snore booming from his mouth, before calming down.

With tact, she slips out from under the covers, grabbing his sweatshirt from where she hung it off the bedpost, pulling it on and shutting the bedroom door behind her without a sound. The living room is quiet and outside there are no people or headlights.

If she feels this way at home, she will go for a run, time herself, see if she can beat her record, run until her body catches up with the fatigue that shrouds her mind. Another answer would be to have a shower, relax under the soft warm stream and absorb the lavender scent until crawling back to bed tired.

She does not want to wake Tony, who is enjoying the last night he will in a bed for two days as their camping trip is this weekend. He has made the sacrifice of sleeping in a bedroll on the flat Earth, while she must sleep with the twenty extra pounds added to her midsection unable to twist or turn on her side with ease.

The fluorescent kitchen light turns on, humming as she opens a cupboard and retrieves a mug, before starting the kettle on the element and waiting for the steam to flow. This time it is chamomile tea, dyeing the water a honeysuckle color. Forgoing sugar or milk, she curls up on the far end of the couch staring outside at the bleak neighborhood.

There is a thickness to the air, a humidity that creates a soupy atmosphere.

She is still unmoored.

Now more than ever.

This case will end, whether they catch the murderer by her being the perfect victim, or not, and her and Tony will continue to be partners only in a workplace mentality.

Will he wait as longingly as she does for the next undercover mission?

Dubai? Belmopan? Sydney? Wherever did not matter as she is sure at this point they would find a way to fuck in Antarctica. Scandinavia would be a nice change, the bright houses during the velvet blue of a constant predawn.

The same blackness she stumbled around in at night after catching the ricocheted metal from a bomb. Her side ached to the point of waking her as she used a hand on the wall to drag her body to the washroom, flipping the switch allowing the white light to explode like a starburst, blinding her for a moment.

It had been almost a week since Tony insisted on the hospital trip to stitch her shut again. She did not handle it with the grace and poise she otherwise would have if she did not have to be bedbound in that sterile room again, visitors pitying her all over again, imploring her to take it easy on her release at the end of the day.

She told Tony to leave her alone, blaming pulling the stitches somehow on him. In the moment, it helped to put all the fault on him, to ban him from coming back to her apartment, a threat she expected him to take like all her other thinly veiled intimidations and not listen.

For almost seven days he had been listening.

Did not return to the hospital after she demanded he leave.

The phase of guilt was over, followed by one of shame, and now uncertainty.

It was Saturday morning and she would be back at work on Monday, unsure of how to contact him, or under what guise to repair what she had damaged from their partnership.

Her side burned and when she stood before the mirror to check the stitches, they were still in place, but the skin around them grimaced angry, raised, and red.

She took the antibiotics they gave her.

She did the bandage changes.

But that part of her body shifted with her every breath, with bending, with standing, with drinking, eating, and walking.

Judgement was judgement, and before she could think of a reason why the request was unwise, she found herself dialing his number, checking the clock and finding it almost four-thirty in the morning but as she went to depress the end call button, his voice rang out over the speaker.

“Ziva?” He sounded groggier than she expected, her name elongated as she knew he was stretching. She glanced at the phone balancing on her pedestal sink and then in the mirror at the slowly healing wound. “What’s up?” His voice echoed through the washroom as if he were there already. He grunted and static bit at the phone as she imagined him rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I mean, aside from you and me.”

“I think I need your help.” Spoke before the words could register as weak. The bags under her sunken eyes judged her from the mirror. For needing help. For reaching out to someone who could use it against her.

“Are you safe? Are—”

“Can you come over?”

There was a pause on his end, and she believed he may have remembered her unkind words at him from an infirmary bed before her wound was debrided again, a round of antibiotics run through an IV, and her pain medication dosage decreased at her request.

“I’m leaving now.”

True to his word, he arrived timely, no coffee, no food or movies, just a jacket and his wallet tucked within. He did not even bring his sidearm.

“What’s going on?” Trailed her as she walked away from the door, back to the bathroom to examine the reddened stiches again. Her fingers had trailed over the thread in her skin several times since she hung up with him.

“I think it is infected.”

“Okay, I’m going to be pragmatic here for the first time in our lives.” He dropped his coat off at her counter and rushed after her into the washroom. “And I’m gonna suggest we skip the fourplay and head right to the hospital.”

“Just look at it—”

“I’ll drive you, come—” when he turned to leave, her hand shot out and snatched his, anchoring him on the spot. “Ziva.”

“Oh, what are you going to do, Tony?” She dropped his hand as if it were hot coals and tried not to wince as she placed her hands on her hips. “Drag me back to that hospital?”

“Well, if I wanted to, I’d know exactly where to aim, wouldn’t I?” Was it a threat? Was it a weak translation of a joke? Was it a form of innuendo or idiom she did not understand? When she did not respond, he threw his hands up. “Fine, lift it up.”

She did as he asked, rolling the loose t-shirt up her body to where the scar stood out against her skin.

“Is that more stitches than last time?”

“Yes, a few more were added as they resected the deceased tissue.”

He bent before her, his eyes even on her hip, his face close enough that she could feel his hot breath on her skin as he poked around the injury. She turned away from the top of his head and towards her mirror but the sight of them caused her to turn away quickly again, stumbling in place.

“Easy, there.”

She slammed a hand down on her counter to catch herself, as he steadied her hips. “I think it’s fine, Ziva.”

“You think?”

“Hey, wasn’t I the one who drove like you to the hospital like we were on Death Race, when that hole was barfing out massive amounts of blood?”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes, her hand switching to his shoulder as his thumb stretched her skin for reactions. “And now I’m asking if something is wrong.”

“I think you just slept on it, made it a little sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive.”

“I’d never dream of telling you, you were.”

He stared at her as he stood from the inspection, eyebrows raised in challenge, waiting for her to hurl another insult at him, to coldly shove him away, tell him to go home despite him getting out of bed, dressed, and driving to her, all to investigate her injury.

When she did not offer him an answer, he continued the conversation as it is one of his strengths. If she does not speak a word, he will say all the ones he knows until she eventually either feels ready to reply or responds to get him to shut up. “If you’re really nervous about it, you could ask Ducky to—”

Then kissed him.

Closed the space between them as quickly as possible, her hands on the side of his face, and his hands taking an immediate purchase in her hair. He kissed her back without question, without worry, without any recriminations or schemes for a do-over.

His mouth found her neck, the shoulder sticking out of her large t-shirt, her collarbone, as her fingers raked through his hair, encouraging, directing, her legs starting to monkey up his body until he lifted her back to the bedroom.

“Hey?” His sleep-filled eyes peer at her from the doorway to the bedroom as he uses a fist to rub away the pain of the cheap lighting, decent enough to pull on a pair of his blue plaid boxers that seem to be multiplying throughout the apartment. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, I just cannot sleep.” She smiles weakly at him, sipping her chamomile tea, reeling in her bare feet just as he plops down beside her, his hand landing on her leg for stability.

“Jesus, Ziva, you’re freezing.” He shoves her feet under his thigh and the warmth from his body sears her skin into relaxing. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“Too full a head?”

“I’ve always said so.”

“Hmm,” she smirks at his barb, tilting the cup back, and draining the last of the liquid.

“What are you thinking about? Tali?”

“No.” She purses her lips in contemplation, setting the mug on the table, leaning back on the arm of the couch.

Unphased, he leans onto his hand, eyes closing for long moments before reopening, but still holding a conversation. “Your family?”

“No.” She pulls her feet out from under him and places them against his chest, knowing the cold will jolt him awake. “You.”

“Me?” He catches her feet, his hands easily clasping them. “What about me?”

“Remember when I texted you to come and check on me?” When he does not answer, she elaborates, pulling one foot from his hold and punts with weak exertion into his stomach. “After the bomb explosion.”

He reclaims her foot, holding it while giving her a cheeky grin. “After you took a dime to the gut?”

“It was a nickel and a tack, and it was just above—” she motions to pull up her shirt, something that would normally draw him in, but surprisingly, he holds a hand up to block the sight “—what?”

“I know where it is.”

“You came all the way over to check on me when I asked, even though I blamed you for having to go back to the hospital.” It is a question she does not ask, does not rearrange the words to make it more accessible for him, instead leaving it for him to respond to or not.

“You were feeling helpless, we’ve all been there.”

“Why did you care.”

“The same reason I care now.”

She takes his proffered hand, allowing him to help her up from the couch, and back to bed. Neither is up for sex, ironically, she is too awake and he is too tired, though if she really wanted, she could get him to wake up.

Instead, he holds her hand in the middle of the bed, each given their own separate space for ruminations and dreams. Memories so heavy between them that the middle of the bed starts to sag under the weight.

The hold of his hand loosens as he falls into sleep but not snoring yet. The fear, the unknown not about their case, but about their future, justifies her holding his hand in hers a little tighter, knowing that what they are doing cannot and will not last.

For as much as they may care for each other, by playing nursemaid when the other is injured, or not daring to leave the other in dangerous situations, or by working to exhaustion to get the other back, or how they each other from the quirks, or in the way they speak to their mannerisms to their idiosyncrasies, they will never be able to truly be together.

Star-crossed.

How her past haunts her as the corpses of her family she carries within, their deaths all fastening her in place.

How when her father told her about Tali, he did so with an accusatory tone, as if she gave her sister the approval to go to the opera.

Tali wanted to be an opera singer, she had a soprano range without any fault and perfect pitch, rhythm flowing through her as naturally as blood flowed out of her.

Then her sister was just charred bits of flesh scattered beneath behemoth concrete and limestone ruins. They barely had anything to bury, so they buried her at Ima’s grave, finally reunited.

Ari’s body was returned, but Abba would have nothing to do with him, refusing to sign for the body. Before she could make suggestions, perhaps the orchard in behind the farmhouse, he had already disposed of what was left of her brother.

It is for the best, Ziva, to not know where he is. You should not worship a man such as he.

She asked if he was not excluded from the list of worship as well, as a man who would not bury his own son.

It was one of the only times when they worked at the Mossad that he lost his temper with her, telling her to go back to America, to go spy, to lay her loyalties with the West as she wanted to, and as far as he was concerned, he had no wife and no children.

As far as I am concerned, Abba, you never did.

Were there not guards in the room, she may have been hit, although she believes if he ordered them to do it, they would follow his directions without a faulty step. Perhaps he knew that he was not going to see her for an interval of time, and decided to just let her go, before sending Michael after her, knowing that she would not be able to deny her old friend, no matter how dangerous he was.

Angling her head up, she views Tony, his nostrils dilating with each snore heavy in the back of his throat as he rests deep in dreams.

“Will we ever be able to admit it to each other?” Asks as though she expects an answer to the question he will never hear.

Asks because she wants a different answer than the one in her head, the one she wants to believe is concocted from false beliefs and unproven theories.

But even as she sits, pulling her legs to the side of the bed, not being as stealthy as she could, bouncing the mattress more than she normally would, he does not stir. Without a sound. She steps across the floor to the washroom, shutting the door behind her, and flipping on the fluorescent light, trying not to think about her own white washroom waiting for her at home, and the stitches bitten into her side like a snarl.

The chamomile aftertaste in her mouth does not function well when having to remain awake so she reaches for her toothbrush and toothpaste, finding only the former. She sighs, knowing Tony has used the last of the toothpaste and not replaced it with the extra under the cabinet sink.

Squatting down, she opens the single door, trying to remember if they purchased one during their last outing to the grocery store. She pushes aside the extra folded towels, the toilet cleaner, her hairbrush, her birth control, her blow dryer, his shaving kit, her tampons, his cologne—

She drops her movements, her crouch wobbling as she reaches for her pills, pulling out two packets that remain completely intact and one half finished. When was the last time?—her chest tightens and a fear grips her stomach so hard, she shoves them back into the box, whipping them back under the sink.

McGee will be here tomorrow with the camping equipment and to give her the final prosthetic, which would be three weeks after the previous last time they spoke with him on the phone, which was almost three weeks after—

Stealth leaves her system as she whips the door open running into the bedroom, fumbling around for her phone in order to see the calendar, unable to find the device under her pillow she chucks it through the open door to the living room and then starts to feel around under Tony’s pillow before he actually wakes up in the middle of a snore.

“Hey?” With squinting eyes, and an uncertain calmness about him, he sits up just before she wrenches the pillow from underneath him, not finding either of their phones. By the time his pillow joins hers in the living room, he is fully awake. “What’s going on?”

“Where is my phone?” Resting one leg on the bed and the other over the ground as she straddles him, she stretches her arm to the bedside table, pulling out the drawer finding nothing but one of those stupid magazines he still reads.

“That’s for educational purposes.” He grabs the magazine, and she slides off his body to stand on his side of the bed near the window.

“The phones, Tony!”

“They’re probably in the gym bag where we left—”

Vaguely recalls him dropping the bag just inside the door, and she scurries out into the front room, by the carcasses of their pillows, and to the bag collapsed in on itself from being empty.

He wails out a yawn, his feet slamming to the floor, the bed squeaking as he stands, “Ziva?”  

Tossing his used water bottle, which is starting to smell like algae, into the kitchen sink, she finds their phones huddled together in the front pocket with their bus passes.

Yawning again, he is doing his best to act concerned, but this is the second time she has woken him, and even he has his limits. He stomps into the living room, retrieving their pillows. “They’re fine, they probably don’t even need to be charged and I’m sure—”

But his voice fades away into static and then into atmospheric noise as she scrolls through the calendar on her phone, until she finds the last entry five and a half weeks ago.

“Shit.”

The first time is the disbelief. Her hand shakes staring at the small screen—she walked into the kitchen and bleed on the floor. She scrubbed, he mopped, he got her tampons, she went down on him, then laundromat.

“Shit.”

The second is the actual realization. Sharing a bed, sharing an apartment, and sharing bodily fluids almost daily—sometimes twice—it is not hard to discern how it could happen. Even now he is watching her a little unsure, but fully amused and a little aroused.

“Shit!”

The last is the anger. She raises her arm to hurl the phone across the room, crush it against the wall, punish it for her misdeeds. How could she have been so stupid? She purposefully brought a three-month supply with her in case he wanted to celebrate her return, they could safely. Ironically, from almost the day he showed up as her partner undercover, she stopped taking them—too distracted, too enamored, in too deep with her undercover persona?—it does not make a difference now.

“Okay, no need to spike the phone.” He grabs it from her hand before she smashes it into the wall, his height and strength working against her as he snoops, checking out the calendar, trying to put together why she is overreacting. “Did you miss Tali’s birthday?”

“Tali’s birthday?”

“Yeah. Last year you said you always booked it off and went to the opera.” All the frustrations she feels towards him—towards his insatiable libido that is a bad influence on hers, towards his arguments with all the instructors, and his nagging request to have a boy—she sets it aside because she has to set it aside.

He directs her back to bed again, touching her forehead gently with the palm of his hand. “Do you have a fever or something?”

“I’m—” not fine, not okay, definitely losing control, scared out of her fucking—“fine.”

“If we go back to bed, are you going to stay in bed?” She feels his eyes on her in the dark, watching her as he reaches over and pulls the covers up to her chest from where they were abandoned at the bottom of the bed. “If you’re not, that’s fine can you at least give me a heads up on what to expect?”

“Tony—”

“Are we going full Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or—”

“I do not know what that means.”

“Oh, it’s a great—” Cupping her hand over his mouth, successfully keeping the shaking out her fingers, she hushes him with a single finger to her lip.

“We need to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

Chapter Text

McGee stops by in the morning to deliver their camping materials. A single tent, with two separate sleeping bags, along with a few survival necessities, like two new empty water bottles for those who have not washed theirs for the last six weeks, some matches, a compass that Tony immediately states is wrong though it works perfectly fine.

“We brought the instructors in for questioning like you suggested, but aside from some unpaid parking tickets there’s nothing we can bring them up on.” McGee sips his coffee, trying and failing to hide his disappointment at the lack of pastries from Gus’s.

Despite the need to keep her cover, she could not muster the strength to get up early and waddle down to the store to grab their usual snacks. Tony woke up before her and did not bother to grab them either.

“Any of them figure us out, Probie?”

“No, no one knows anything about you two not being undercover.” With a large swig, McGee finishes his coffee, finally accepting that she is not going to produce pastries from one of the kitchen cupboards. “Gibbs wanted me to remind you he doesn’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“Yeah, well, if you guys interviewed him—”

“We did, Tony—I literally just said that.”

“He is just trying to rail you up, McGee.” She speaks like the words are preprinted in her head and she is following a script. Without any thought or emotion, instead responding how she would if there was not a large ‘maybe’ inhabiting her body right now.

“Rile, Ziva—” McGee answers quickly as Tony starts to chuckle. “That means something completely different.”

“Did I not say rile?” Her voice is distant, even to herself as she gazes out the window. The sky is a light gray overcast, the same as the first day she started undercover. Time both seemed to stand still and pass all too quickly. Anytime from almost six weeks ago to now. Too many times to count. 

“No.”

“You also didn’t drink your coffee.” Tony holds the still full cup out to her, swishing it back and forth for emphasis, but she does not bother reaching for it, her appetite depleted.

“I’m not hungry.”

Whenever she gains a modicum of hunger, she thinks about holding a baby and a gun at the same time, trying to run from the large number of enemies she has made with a baby strapped to her chest, their little feet dangling.

“You sure?”

If that fails she thinks of Tony holding the baby without supporting their head, not changing the baby, dropping the baby, leaving the baby in the car on a hot day while going to the movies, naming the baby TT no matter what gender they are, no matter what name she supersedes him with, writing that name on the birth certificate before she gets a chance.

Exchanging their child with him on alternating weekends.  

“Yes.”

Is it better to grow up in a family with both parents present, even if they detest each other? Even if they are abusive to all other people in the house? Or is it better to be split down the middle and shuttled to different households, not knowing why love no longer exists where it once did.

Popping open the lid, Tony starts to drink both coffees at the same time, and at ten or so tonight when they lay down on the earth structured solidly from the drop of temperature attached to the change of seasons, and he complains that it is too hard for his back and that he cannot sleep, she will remind him that he drank two large coffees.

“You two okay?” McGee asks as he pulls his coat back on, sensing something amiss between them even when Tony did not, though in his defense McGee does have to watch all their flirtations and death threats as a third person experience.

“What’s up McGruff, you sniff out something off?”

“No, you’re just acting—different.”

“I’m fine,” she mutters, standing from the couch to see McGee out when Tony continues to focus on both coffees.

When she opens for the door, McGee pauses before stepping through. “You sure you’re okay?”

She nods, this time with a reassuring smile for him, one that if looking in a mirror, she would not be able to tell is fake. “Yes. Just tired.”

“Yeah, you probably want to get back to your own life, right?” The words strike in a way they are not meant to, McGee simply concerned for her lack of interaction, her lack of conversation.

Her own life. Singular.

Did she want it to remain that way?

For the moment, yes.

Happy to live by herself with a place that encapsulated everything she cared for. Childhood pictures, letters from Tali and Ari, a dress her mother stitched together when she was still a teenager which no longer fit, but she could see the individual threads, the area where the linen was cut, the time and dedication it took to create, and remembers her mother’s thin fingers with a need and thread.

Her father with her child.

Another child to warp and mold into his own image, teach the proper way to succeed, how to harm, how to lie, how to gain the upper hand with their sexuality, abandon them when they have no way of returning home, when they have sacrificed everything they possibly could in order to be loved and are still denied.

McGee is halfway down the stairs before Tony gets up from the table, a single coffee in hand, and shuts the front door.

“Are you going on a hunger strike or something?”

After greeting the instructors in a sort of common area, they were given coordinates of where to pitch their tent for the night, and less than an hour to do it in. That was before Tony needed a bathroom break, and another to fill up his water. By the time they actually got hiking through the park, the other two sets of expecting parents were long gone.

“I’m just not that hungry.”

“I haven’t seen you eat anything today.”

“I ate while you were in the washroom.”

“Uh-huh, and what did you eat.”

“I do not need to inform you of my daily caloric intake—” Normally, she would snap such a statement at him, offended by his hand reaching into her private life and trying to pull pieces of her out for him to collect, but she is becoming too distracted for her own good.

“You don’t have to tell me everything—”

“Good, I am glad we can come to that civil understanding.” They crunch over fallen leaves. Not so long ago there would have been new grass, new buds, new life on the landscape bleeding its color with the changing of seasons. Petals swirling and falling in soft pink waves from the cherry trees in the capital.

People admire the beauty in death.

Words her father spoke to her upon their last meeting, walking briefly with only two bodyguards, the spring wind still held the cruel desolation of winter.

Notice how no grass grows beneath the trees.

Knew better than to speak, an entire lifetime teaching her not to interrupt, not to care enough, not to hold any importance to the words he dictates as they will never be genuine. Will never mean anything more to her than noises made from an old man’s mouth.

For all their beauty, when the petals melt, they are acidic, eradicating the ability of anything else to grow.

All death is that way. Acidic and bitter, abducting any means of hope from survivors in the form of guilt, in shame, in loss, in the same barren landscape of knotted, arthritic trees free of petals and leaves.

“Do you want to talk about what the fuck is going on with you? Or do you want me to keep guessing?” Despite the change in color, in flora, the sun still hangs high in the sky, bright enough to cause sweat to start to bud at his temples, even as he shoves his hands in his jean pockets.

“There is nothing—”

“—cause I could argue I should at least get a phone-a-friend, but I don’t even think that’s fair because I don’t think there’s anyone that knows you much better.”

“Do not flatter yourself.”

“I’d never dream to, Ziva.”

Blatantly ignoring her, he continues with his diatribe of detection, the same method he uses on career criminals, on subjects to get them to admit to what crime they have committed by parroting back all their moves and motives since discovering them.

Despite his words, there is no edge of harshness to his tone that is discernible over their steps, over the crisp air and the crunching leaves, over the bird calls from the wooded area around the periphery of their location. “But we went to bed fine, and somewhere in between the morning and the other two times you woke up, something spooked you bad.”

“I am not spooked.”

“Please, if you were a horse you’d be doing whale eyes and careening around the campgrounds.”

“‘Whale eyes’?” The doubt she feels drips into her words as whenever he attempts to get her to overshare, and she will not oblige, he falls back on the pretense that English is not her first language, and therefore he has a form of superiority over her.

“It’s a term for—”

“I do not care, Tony.” She breaks protocol, using his name, not caring as unless they have bugged the bushes, or the trees, or the birds flying overhead, there is no way in which anyone is privy to this conversation aside from themselves.

“Well, I do and if this is something that—”

“What?” She stops walking, her hips already hurting from the short trek from the camping area’s visitor’s center where they met up with the three instructors from the bus they took in. “Something that will jeopardize the case? Something that will let a murderer run free because anything else right now is not as important.”

He grins at her, one of his hands shooting out of his pocket to point at her. “You’re protecting me.”

“What?” This time the question is more incredulous, as if withholding information is protecting anyone but herself from his overreaction and his eventual apology.

Despite never speaking about it at length, he is aware of what happened in Somalia, just as she is, and in using investigative minds, it is simply enough to connect the abuse with the effect on her body. He never shares more than the carnal emotions wrapped around her in her nightmares, but he must know.  

“So, who does it have to do with? The handsy instructor? He do it and you know? You don’t want me to—”

Does not know if it is the implication that she would only withhold information from him to protect him and not herself, or the pure evidence that his brain cannot multitask. The case brings him to the instructor, brings him to the man’s proclivities with pregnant women, brings him to his handling of her, which stirs up jealous, envy, and inferiority, which of course will lead back to sex as they have agreed it is the best method for handling intense disagreements with each other.

At this point she starts to suspect that he no longer does this on purpose, but it is an unconscious action, an adaptation between the two of them to shift from the ignited irritation of petty squabbling to sex to continue with their regular activities.

He is not a difficult person to read, even after sharing both terse and tender moments with him.

“So, I figure that if he does make a move, I can—”

“I’m late.”

“—approach the blonde bombshell instructor, what’s her name again? Deborah?” he pauses to glance at his watch and then back to her. “We still have half an hour and according to your unprecedented cartography skills, the site should be just around this bend. What was the blonde’s name again?”

“Her name is Heather, and that is not what I meant by being late.”

“Heather! That’s right.” He snaps his fingers at her with a chuckle. “Like the 1988 movie with Christian Slater, Winona Ryder, Shannon Doherty—”

She begins walking again, unconcerned by his inability to comprehend the importance of what she disclosed as she knows that within the next week she will take a test, it will be negative, and this exchange will have never mattered.

But there is a part of her that sinks with fear over the possibility of a pregnancy. To distract herself, she glances down to check for tracks in the dust path worn through the meadow and  being greeted with a large prosthetic stomach is not exactly a healthy method to deal with the trauma.

“—the dig at all the John Hughes movies of the 80s with a dark look at what it’s like being a highschooler without—”

He rambles behind her, talking to her but mostly for himself as they round the bend and find the campsite cut into the thicket, with a metallic sign for confirmation. It is not large enough to accommodate more than one tent but has a well used firepit.

Did any of the three victims make it this far?

Have a night out under the stars in the orchestra of crickets unaware it would be their last?

Tony stops expounding on the different methods in which the movie he mentioned eliminates the expected tropes of the era when he views the site. “So, when they meant camping—”

“Did you not understand the definition of ‘tent’, Tony?”

“No.” He drops the pack on the ground, kicking dust up to his knees as she walks forward and sets hers gently beside the sign. “But they have ‘glamping’ now, it’s a—”

“Portmanteau of camping and glamor?”

“Yeah, and I thought maybe—”

“In a pregnancy class endorsed by the navy, you thought that they would offer glamping?”

“I thought due to the number of pregnant chicks—”

The word no longer sits well with her, so she turns away from him, trying to mentally organize the site not only for the ease of their next two days, but also to create a homebase best set for protection.

She still has her handgun strapped to the inside of the prosthetic, and Tony obviously brought his, but aside from the two singular weapons, their backup is at least forty minutes away on a day with decent traffic.

“We need to set the tent up facing the forest.”

“Judging by the marks on the ground, most people set it up facing away from the forest.”

“Well, most people are not here to play victim to a murderer.”

The joviality drains from his face as her statement, though harsh, seems to anchor him to the seriousness of the situation and the very real possibility that within the next two days they may be the direct targets of the murderer.

While she uses the tip of her shoe to draw the outline of the tent location, making sure the distance of it from the firepit is safe, he drops his pack onto the ground beside her when she stops. “I don’t think you should go anywhere alone.”

“And how are you going to talk to Heather, if I never leave?” She is still more focused on keeping them safe at night. With the tent opening facing the treeline, they have full view of the area, by adding a slit in the back they can not only have a view of the pathway, but also with a quick tear they can escape from within.

His pack is the one with the tent and poles as he insisted on carrying everything heavy despite him not having experience setting up a tent and not enjoying being a ‘pack mule’. Glancing up from rolling out the material, he clarifies. “I don’t think you should go off alone with them, like mingle at dinner, but don’t go to a second location with them.”

Instead of glaring at him as his answer places lack of faith in her ability as an agent she decides instead to ask, “do you have the water?”

“Yeah.” His hands cease with the material, instead dipping into his large pack, and pulling out her bottle of water. “Work up a sweat with the torso?”

Settling on being congenial to complete the mission, she hopes they will not be sent undercover for the next few months. “Something like that.”

“At least you’re still drinking.”

Sometimes working with him is like working with a child, somewhere around the age of eight to ten. Just a boy starting to understand the way the world works, to know the world does not revolve around him as much as his parents care for him, but there is an innocence about it.

How would she feel not knowing a fact this important?

This information belongs to both of them. They are both responsible.

So, she tries again to define the situation for him.

“Tony,” she caps her water, after taking small gulps to not upset the rock in her stomach. “I’m late.”

“What’s this obsession with time?” He stops constructing the tent wrong long enough to check his watch and then lean up on his knees, staring at the different sets of poles and the tent skin before him. “We still have twenty minutes.”

With a grin, she crouches in front of him, separating the poles of the tent into proper piles, then taking the longest and starting to weave them into the tarp. “You have no idea what I am doing or what I am talking about, do you?”

“I was waiting for you to help.”

“You could have just asked.” Her legs start wobbling with the prolonged crouch and the added weight, but she continues to thread the poles through.  

“Okay, so what are you late for?”

She will never have a more perfect opportunity than that moment to explain to him what is going on, and he watches her, his eyes staying pinpointed on her as she hands him the next bar to weave through.

“My period.”