And Now We Have Come Full Circle
Okay. So. Here goes a new oneshot never before seen by anyone ever (aside from myself). Yes, if anyone is actually reading, you get to see something before it goes up on FFN. Huzzah! No? Maybe? Okay.
AND NOW WE HAVE COME FULL CIRCLE
It starts like it always does, with death and bullets -or lack thereof.
A random drop, falling down from the sky, a merciless shot landing directly between her eyes and she ignores it, continues walking because she refuses to accept . . . . It certainly cannot be . . . . Another drop lands on her forearm, further evidence of what could only be considered an unfortunate turn of events.
They have to be at least three blocks away from the Charger.
Her eyes wander upwards to regard the sky contemptuously as if daring the darkening clouds to shatter. She’s not being careful where she’s walking and bumps into something solid and firm and it goes, “Hey,” indignantly.
She halts.
Dark eyes meet curious green and he informs her bluntly, “It’s raining.”
“No,” she says, beginning to move forward again, brushing past him as she shakes her head stubbornly, “it’s not.” And she will not acknowledge the fact that there is irrefutable proof that the weatherman was, not shockingly, wrong.
“Denial will get you nowhere, Ziva,” and his voice draws her back to the reality that they are standing on a sidewalk in downtown D.C. facing the prospect of inclement weather without an umbrella. She tosses an annoyed glare over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, daring him to ascertain the obvious, her scorn at something out of her control projected onto him. Denial will get her nowhere and nor will it keep her dry.
He mirrors her irritation perfectly and she thinks idly that taking her frustration out on him is unfair, but any semblance of a truce is interrupted by the heavens breaking loose and water pouring forth from the sky. Tony curses, closing the span of concrete separating them in a few strides, and grabs her hand, tugging her along briskly.
They take refuge beneath a hotel awning, watching, momentarily mesmerized, as cool rain pelts the hot asphalt, steam rising lazily off the scorching streets. The entire district seems to take a collective sigh of relief as the sweltering heat wave is quenched in the torrential downpour.
They’re thoroughly soaked considering they spent mere seconds in the sudden onslaught of rain. Tony’s hair is spiked with droplets and the shoulders of his suit are damp. Ziva has a stray curl pasted to her cheek and the olive green of her shirt is marked with dark splotches of wayward raindrops. They stand there silently, huddled under the awning, watching as a wall of water seems to blur out the other side of the street. A car zooms past, sending a miniature tsunami cascading over the curb, the red glare of taillights disappearing in the haze of rain and steam.
Ziva retreats to stand up by the entrance to the ritzy hotel where they’ve taken shelter, warm light spilling through the frosted glass doors, effectively illuminating their little nook. And Tony sighs, following her back a few feet, coming to stand a step below her, propping himself up against the building façade. She breaks the silence, saying lightly, “You were right. Denial gets me nowhere.”
“It’s an inconvenient truth.”
“So much for a ten percent chance of rain.”
“Well, if you think about it, we could just be standing in that ten percent area, you know?”
She pauses to think this over, but honestly doesn’t put forth much effort, replying with a noncommittal, “Mhm.”
And he just shrugs.
Then, “Tony?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know where we are?” And she moves around behind him, scrutinizing the space with barely suppressed astonishment.
He wants so badly to tell her that they’re in D.C., to take her inquiry literally, but there’s something about the way her face has lit up, something about the brightness in her eyes that stops him. So with an amused quirk of his lips, he wonders politely, “I don’t know, Zee-vah. Where are we?”
“The Embasero.”
And she waits with bated breath as the significance sinks in. The dawning comprehension that overtakes his countenance is endearing and, honestly, hysterical.
“I followed you here.”
“Yes!”
“That was what? The second conversation I ever had with you?” The first serious conversation.
Ziva is smiling now, their current predicament cast aside in the wake of nostalgia. “I brought you coffee and you gave me the last slice of pizza,” she remembers.
“You’d gone swimming and I went outside to meet up with Gibbs and then you came out and I apparently underestimated your ninjaness . . . .” And his voice tapers off as the darker aspect of the memories are recalled, tainting the delightfulness of coincidence. “I had just lost my partner,” he says quietly, continuing with mild horror as he puts to words his first impression of her, “And you were Mossad and I hated you.” The confession leaves his lips before his brain can censor it and the regret that floods him dwarfs the rivers of water running down the sidewalk.
But she surprises him, agreeing softly, “Me too.” And then, “I told you about Tali.” And why did sadness always seem to ruin happy moments?
He nods, “Yeah . . . It made me hate you more. It made you human, just like me, because it meant you were grieving, just like me. I resented you for that.”
She can only offer him a weak grin as the ghosts associated with this particular hotel make themselves known. Tali and Ari and Kate.
“It’s funny,” he says quietly, a smile toying at his lips. “It’s funny how we’re right back where we started, but under different circumstances. For one, you’re my partner now.”
“And no longer Mossad. And I am an American,” she adds.
He offers her a disarming smile, turning to face her with a lopsided grin, “And I can honestly say I do not hate you.”
She casts a sideways glance at him, peering up through her lashes, smirking, “And I do not hate you . . . Most of the time.”
“Ziva, you wound me.”
“Not always,” she chides, “And rarely intentionally.”
They go silent for a handful of heartbeats, the rain still pelting the streets and drumming against the canvas awning. The air has lost its humidity, taking on a refreshingly cooler temperature. Ziva opens her mouth to mention something about the pleasant change when Tony says suddenly, “I never did thank Jenny.”
Her brows knit together and she finally asks, “For what?”
“For a lot of things, actually,” he replies and she can hear it in his voice that he’s thinking aloud. “If you think about it, had you of not known Jenny, then we never would have met.”
“Had Jenny not have been in Cairo, I never would have met Jenny.”
“Cairo?”
“Egypt. She and I were the go-betweens for Mossad and NCIS.”
“Huh. You know, had Jenny not have had that thing with Gibbs, she probably wouldn’t have stayed with NCIS.”
“So really, we should thank Gibbs?”
Tony seems to ponder this over for a moment. “I don’t think I’d want to bring that up.”
“Good choice.”
Then, “All we’re missing is the pizza and coffee.”
And Ziva chuckles, and watches the rain fall, and contemplates at how, now, they are the still the same people, but not. Because there are nearly eight years lived since that time and today, and they’ve had close calls, and not-so-close calls, and they’ve shared secrets, and lunch breaks, and a bed on a handful of occasions. And she can speculate how her life would have played out had she not had pulled the trigger in Gibbs’ basement all those years ago, but she’d rather not. Her future has completely changed from what it was when she was twenty-two. She now has a future.
And yes, she supposes they have come full circle, but the circle looks different on the other side . . .
AND NOW WE HAVE COME FULL CIRCLE
It starts like it always does, with death and bullets -or lack thereof.
A random drop, falling down from the sky, a merciless shot landing directly between her eyes and she ignores it, continues walking because she refuses to accept . . . . It certainly cannot be . . . . Another drop lands on her forearm, further evidence of what could only be considered an unfortunate turn of events.
They have to be at least three blocks away from the Charger.
Her eyes wander upwards to regard the sky contemptuously as if daring the darkening clouds to shatter. She’s not being careful where she’s walking and bumps into something solid and firm and it goes, “Hey,” indignantly.
She halts.
Dark eyes meet curious green and he informs her bluntly, “It’s raining.”
“No,” she says, beginning to move forward again, brushing past him as she shakes her head stubbornly, “it’s not.” And she will not acknowledge the fact that there is irrefutable proof that the weatherman was, not shockingly, wrong.
“Denial will get you nowhere, Ziva,” and his voice draws her back to the reality that they are standing on a sidewalk in downtown D.C. facing the prospect of inclement weather without an umbrella. She tosses an annoyed glare over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, daring him to ascertain the obvious, her scorn at something out of her control projected onto him. Denial will get her nowhere and nor will it keep her dry.
He mirrors her irritation perfectly and she thinks idly that taking her frustration out on him is unfair, but any semblance of a truce is interrupted by the heavens breaking loose and water pouring forth from the sky. Tony curses, closing the span of concrete separating them in a few strides, and grabs her hand, tugging her along briskly.
They take refuge beneath a hotel awning, watching, momentarily mesmerized, as cool rain pelts the hot asphalt, steam rising lazily off the scorching streets. The entire district seems to take a collective sigh of relief as the sweltering heat wave is quenched in the torrential downpour.
They’re thoroughly soaked considering they spent mere seconds in the sudden onslaught of rain. Tony’s hair is spiked with droplets and the shoulders of his suit are damp. Ziva has a stray curl pasted to her cheek and the olive green of her shirt is marked with dark splotches of wayward raindrops. They stand there silently, huddled under the awning, watching as a wall of water seems to blur out the other side of the street. A car zooms past, sending a miniature tsunami cascading over the curb, the red glare of taillights disappearing in the haze of rain and steam.
Ziva retreats to stand up by the entrance to the ritzy hotel where they’ve taken shelter, warm light spilling through the frosted glass doors, effectively illuminating their little nook. And Tony sighs, following her back a few feet, coming to stand a step below her, propping himself up against the building façade. She breaks the silence, saying lightly, “You were right. Denial gets me nowhere.”
“It’s an inconvenient truth.”
“So much for a ten percent chance of rain.”
“Well, if you think about it, we could just be standing in that ten percent area, you know?”
She pauses to think this over, but honestly doesn’t put forth much effort, replying with a noncommittal, “Mhm.”
And he just shrugs.
Then, “Tony?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know where we are?” And she moves around behind him, scrutinizing the space with barely suppressed astonishment.
He wants so badly to tell her that they’re in D.C., to take her inquiry literally, but there’s something about the way her face has lit up, something about the brightness in her eyes that stops him. So with an amused quirk of his lips, he wonders politely, “I don’t know, Zee-vah. Where are we?”
“The Embasero.”
And she waits with bated breath as the significance sinks in. The dawning comprehension that overtakes his countenance is endearing and, honestly, hysterical.
“I followed you here.”
“Yes!”
“That was what? The second conversation I ever had with you?” The first serious conversation.
Ziva is smiling now, their current predicament cast aside in the wake of nostalgia. “I brought you coffee and you gave me the last slice of pizza,” she remembers.
“You’d gone swimming and I went outside to meet up with Gibbs and then you came out and I apparently underestimated your ninjaness . . . .” And his voice tapers off as the darker aspect of the memories are recalled, tainting the delightfulness of coincidence. “I had just lost my partner,” he says quietly, continuing with mild horror as he puts to words his first impression of her, “And you were Mossad and I hated you.” The confession leaves his lips before his brain can censor it and the regret that floods him dwarfs the rivers of water running down the sidewalk.
But she surprises him, agreeing softly, “Me too.” And then, “I told you about Tali.” And why did sadness always seem to ruin happy moments?
He nods, “Yeah . . . It made me hate you more. It made you human, just like me, because it meant you were grieving, just like me. I resented you for that.”
She can only offer him a weak grin as the ghosts associated with this particular hotel make themselves known. Tali and Ari and Kate.
“It’s funny,” he says quietly, a smile toying at his lips. “It’s funny how we’re right back where we started, but under different circumstances. For one, you’re my partner now.”
“And no longer Mossad. And I am an American,” she adds.
He offers her a disarming smile, turning to face her with a lopsided grin, “And I can honestly say I do not hate you.”
She casts a sideways glance at him, peering up through her lashes, smirking, “And I do not hate you . . . Most of the time.”
“Ziva, you wound me.”
“Not always,” she chides, “And rarely intentionally.”
They go silent for a handful of heartbeats, the rain still pelting the streets and drumming against the canvas awning. The air has lost its humidity, taking on a refreshingly cooler temperature. Ziva opens her mouth to mention something about the pleasant change when Tony says suddenly, “I never did thank Jenny.”
Her brows knit together and she finally asks, “For what?”
“For a lot of things, actually,” he replies and she can hear it in his voice that he’s thinking aloud. “If you think about it, had you of not known Jenny, then we never would have met.”
“Had Jenny not have been in Cairo, I never would have met Jenny.”
“Cairo?”
“Egypt. She and I were the go-betweens for Mossad and NCIS.”
“Huh. You know, had Jenny not have had that thing with Gibbs, she probably wouldn’t have stayed with NCIS.”
“So really, we should thank Gibbs?”
Tony seems to ponder this over for a moment. “I don’t think I’d want to bring that up.”
“Good choice.”
Then, “All we’re missing is the pizza and coffee.”
And Ziva chuckles, and watches the rain fall, and contemplates at how, now, they are the still the same people, but not. Because there are nearly eight years lived since that time and today, and they’ve had close calls, and not-so-close calls, and they’ve shared secrets, and lunch breaks, and a bed on a handful of occasions. And she can speculate how her life would have played out had she not had pulled the trigger in Gibbs’ basement all those years ago, but she’d rather not. Her future has completely changed from what it was when she was twenty-two. She now has a future.
And yes, she supposes they have come full circle, but the circle looks different on the other side . . .