Fic: A Goat for Azazel, (Tony, Ziva, Team), [15/15] COMPLETE
Title: A Goat for Azazel, chapter 15/15; COMPLETE
Authors: Hagar and Sailor Sol
Category: gen
Rating: overall M for captivity elements and intense emotional content
Summary: Goes AU after Aliyah. When Tony disappears two days before the Saleem op is a go, the team scrambles to find him - and to understand what an associate of La Grenouille and Israeli domestic intelligence have to do with it.
Chapter Title: Grace
Chapter Rating: T for canon-typical situations
Chapter Summary: Guilt can go to Azazel but responsibility remains.
AO3 | DW | LJ Below:
Hebrew note. There are two ways to express an apology in Hebrew. In female-singular-first person, those are "Ani mitzta'eret" and "Ani mitnatzelet." These translate roughly as "I'm sorry" and "I apologize", respectively. The meaning is about what you'd expect: the former expresses affect, and the latter a formality.
The interrogation room was long empty. Gibbs took Ziva to get a change of clothes and a hot shower. Yael had seen Eli's daughter killed; it was Gibbs' place to resocialize her. They hadn't talked about this: it was the kind of thing Yael could leave to Gibbs' instinctive behavior.
So the adjoining interrogation room had been empty for a while, but Yael was sufficiently confident that she'd be left be in the observation room. Quiet was good. She'd rather run back to back interrogations until she collapsed from sheer physical exhaustion than repeat the morning's performance.
The door creaked open.
The chair was angled to the glass, requiring her to tip her head ever so slightly to the side to get a full view of the newcomer.
She hadn't expected Dr. Mallard. Yael didn't so much work out the implications, as she already had contingencies prepared beforehand. She watched him move - careful and contained, not so much keeping her in his line of sight as allowing her to keep him in hers - as he pulled himself a chair and sat down, but not - she noticed - as if he intended to stay very long.
"Jethro said I might find you here," he said.
He was watching her carefully, but there was nothing more for him to observe beyond what he already would have. There was no reason for her to expect harm from Dr. Mallard knowing that she was curled up in a chair, alone in the dark.
"He didn't have the time to say much, but from the looks of it, you've all had quite the morning."
She didn't look at him, exactly, but she wasn't avoiding him, either.
"It's usually quiet in Autopsy as well. Well, peaceful." He threw in a small chuckle that was quite obviously fake, if a sincere attempt. "I do tend to fill the silence. There's also a bottle of cognac that could use some company." He dropped the mellow front; the look he gave her was quite sharp, and probably meant to appear that piercing. "You could use that, from the look of you."
She only didn't physically startle because she'd lost those instinctive reactions years before. There was nothing out of character in his demeanor or proposal, but she was surprised that he'd drawn her into his circle of care.
"It's Atonement Day," she said. Instinctively she cast back, searching through her photo-sharp memories of the morning: yes, these were the first words she spoke since she'd entered the interrogation room hours earlier.
He waived it off. "Medical reasons."
This was neither easy nor obvious for him. The signs of anxiousness were there, if expertly concealed: relative abruptness of his gesticulation, slightly increased tension in his posture and the way he sat, as if he wasn't sure he'd be staying or - she amended her earlier interpretation - as if wondering whether he should've come at all. She didn't want to have to turn down anything, if he was offering; and she knew she could use being soothed. Her backup, loaded, burned against her leg.
And yet.
She turned her head. She knew that he followed her gaze and when he noticed the water pitcher and glass because he uttered a soft, "Oh," which was promptly followed by: "You fast together."
She turned back her head, and found him already looking at her, considering her. "Yes," she said simply.
"You do feel responsible," he said, as if it was a revelation.
That hurt. She wasn't sure if it showed.
"Her blame," she said, electing to use the odd-sounding structure as it was closer to the Hebrew, to what she meant, "my responsibility."
"Interesting distinction," he said, and she almost wanted to smile because that was the aspect of him that acted as a therapist.
"A necessary one," she replied. After a moment, she said, "In ancient times, the priests would take a billy goat, and perform a ritual to transfer the People's sin unto the goat. Then the goat would be taken to the desert and chased there, to the demon of the desert, to Azazel."
"A scapegoat."
She shrugged. "Another billy goat carried the People's good deeds. That one was killed at the altar. Nowadays people wring the neck of a chicken in kaparot, in atonement, or give money to charity. Either way, though, the ritual does not stand in the place of the fast." Guilt can go to Azazel but responsibility remains, she meant, and Mutual responsibility does not preclude personal responsibility; Dr. Mallard could be trusted to pick up on those. Then she continued, just as factual but more quietly: "And nothing done before the Presence can atone for a sin done unto another person. Only that person holds that power."
Gibbs led her to the decontamination showers. It made sense, as the gym showers were never not busy but, even exhausted as she was, Ziva was not unaware of the irony. Decontamination, indeed. The duffel bag he'd handed her had almost certainly been packed by Yael, though. Ziva realized that as soon as she opened it and saw the stark whiteness of the hoodie. She got lost for a few minutes staring at it, and then shook herself, took the shower kit and the towel and headed into one of the stalls.
She came back to the clothes later. They were new. She should have realized that - she and Yael were not the same size - but it didn't quite occur to her until she touched the cotton. She spread the clothes out before dressing. Everything but the jeans was white, fitting of the day, and the newness of the clothes made it feel like Passover, like spring and freedom.
She dressed slowly.
Gibbs was waiting for her in the staging area outside the showers. Ziva was unsurprised at being allowed only the minimal privacy to shower and dress. She was acutely aware of her not being able to raise her eyes anywhere near his face, but if there was ever a time for not being able to meet someone's gaze then this one was it.
She didn't deserve any kindness, any compassion from Gibbs. She was still struggling to process the unloaded gun, but this she knew.
"I am sorry," she said. Her voice was too quiet, but that was just as well. "I am sorry for many things." She took a deep breath. Gibbs grunted, but he did not tell her to not apologize. That, too, was just as well.
She started from the beginning, as much as she knew where that was. "I am sorry for what I said to you in May and," she had to stop for a moment, "for the choice I made. My reasons - my reasons were wrong. My -" she couldn't make herself say my father. "He made it about loyalty, loyalty to Israel. I think, now, that he was," envious, like I was, "scared of you. I gave in without thinking, without," she closed her eyes, even though she was looking at the tile. "I should have known better. Should have trusted better. Grief is no excuse for that.
"Grief is also no excuse for what I did -" she pressed her palms to her mouth on instinct, breathing hard. It was a long moment before she could remove them. She opened her eyes. "Tony," she said, letting his name carry everything. "I - I do not -" Another long moment. "I was wrong for being angry with him. I understand that, now. Grief does not excuse that and it does not excuse -" She was trembling, hands clenching and unclenching futilely at her sides, head still bowed. "Something is wrong with me," she said, and this time her voice came much clearer, somewhat louder. "Something has been wrong with me for a very long time. I'm only beginning to - " The words tasted of blood and gun metal as she said: "I can only believe I should not be dead now if I trust Yael's judgment over my own completely."
There was a moment of silence before Gibbs finally spoke. "Not me you need to apologize to."
She swallowed hard. "Not only you," she said, voice too soft again.
His footsteps on the tile were clear, but she didn't realize he stepped towards her and not away from her until he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. She couldn't help the flinch, light as his touch was. She was still trembling.
"Hey," he said. His voice was as gentle as his touch. It made as much sense as Yael handing her an empty gun after going to all that trouble. "One step at a time."
She opened her mouth to say something - perhaps a confirmation - but no words came out. Her throat was blocked, her mind empty, the tremors only increasing. Her eyes burned. Mutely, tears began streaming down her face.
Gibbs' hand travelled up from her chin to her cheek, touch still light as his thumb brushed some of her tears away.
"C'mere," he said, and for a moment Ziva did not understand but his hand that was at her face moved around her head, cradling the back of it, the other one tugging gently at her waist as he pulled her close. It still took her another moment to understand, and then it was just his hands and the weight of him that held her up as she collapsed against his chest, silently crying.
The sound from the television drifted out into the street, but barely. The curtains had been thrown open to let the sunlight in, so Yael knew that Tim and Tony were on the couch and that lunch had been sandwiches and - most likely - tomato soup. Neither of them noticed her approach before she pushed the front door in, grocery bags hanging off both arms.
The movie was paused before she was through the door. Tim - who was closer to the door - shot to his feet, shoulders squaring back in a nervous gesture that in Yael's experience was reserved for brass and in her opinion deserved for no one; Tony - tucked into the far corner of the couch but sitting straight - barely shifted, but his attention focused and zeroed in on her. He looked better, healthier, despite the worry pinching his face.
"Where's Gibbs?" Tim asked, the nervousness also evident in his voice.
"With Ziva," Yael said, letting the door close behind her. Tony got promptly to his feet. Both he and Tim followed her to the kitchen. "They'll be around later," she added as she put the bags down on the kitchen table and began unpacking. She pointed Tim to the soft drinks. "Put these in the fridge, would you?"
Tim did so, but not without half-frowning and asking: "Did Gibbs ask you to do his grocery shopping for him?"
"It's for fastbreaking," she said evenly as she put the cookies and crackers away for the time being.
"Who's been fasting?" Tim asked, still confused.
This warranted raising her eyebrows at him. "Seven of ten non-observant Israeli Jews fast on Atonement Day," she informed him. She has not fasted since the year she'd turned twelve and was first allowed to, but there was no need to tell him that.
His cheeks flushed pink. "Oh. Sorry. I just thought... well, Ziva never fasts."
Yael deliberately considered the stack of high-calorie, easily digestible foods, clearly too much for a single person. "This year she does, too." Tony has been standing slightly to the side, watching her intently, more present and seemingly clear-headed than she'd seen him yet. She turned to him, forcing her body out of the professional stance. "How was your Sunday?"
"What happened?" Tony asked instead. His voice a little too rough - he might have not said more than half a dozen words since morning, if Tim was the one with him - and the edge of worry evident. It was almost like a concern for a friend, though, and much less like the stark desperation of a week before.
"The traffickers and the 2J were apprehended by the FBI," she said, "as were Oren Shimoni and Daniel Singer, though they will be extradited to Israel later. The rest of the Shema group will be apprehended in a few hours, when the fast has ended in Israel. The country's effectively shut down for now." She paused, but continued before he could ask again. "We retrieved Ziva. Gibbs and she should be here before sunset."
There were words she didn't say in that pause. There are some things I need to tell you, and This was my op, Tony. I put her there. I didn't pull you out. I didn't okay this, but I put intelligence gain before your safety. I am sorry. And words she knew better than to want to say, though they were true: I'd do it all again, but I am sorry. She wouldn't say any of it, though, not this year; not when it was I need to tell you and not yet You need to know. In a year, if they would still be in each other's lives then, or in two: however long it would take. And then she would apologize for the delay and the omission as well.
Tim startled. "He's bringing her here?" he asked, shooting a concerned glance at Tony, who failed to notice, still locked on Yael.
"For fastbreaking," she said, not looking at Tim. Her focus hasn't wavered, either. Tony had already gained some minimal ability to protect his emotions by Saturday, and had improved since. The first, overall impression was nervous engagement. Reserve was the top layer - in his shoulders, around his mouth - and then either guilt or shame, closely tied to it; his balance shifted forward, spine straightening and stretching in engaged attention that was for Yael's words, not Yael herself - curiosity; and under that, closely guarded against in his chest and in the crow's feet around his eyes, that naked need. It would take long to recover, she knew, but this was good, this was better.
"Your call, Tony," she told him gently. "You get to call the breaks, at any point."
It was more choice than he expected and more power than he felt ready for: it was evident in the way his posture softened and hunched in, like a small child, and in how wide his eyes became.
"At any point, Tony," she repeated, still soft and gentle. "You don't need to decide now."
He nodded once, slowly and hesitantly, but not - she thought - tentatively. He still looked off-balance and on edge, but not pleading and not as vulnerable.
Good enough, she thought. Tim was in the room, but to hell with that. She'd been away from home too long; even daily phone calls were only a poor substitute, and the brightness of Autopsy and the sunlight outside - always unseasonably warm, on Atonement Day - hadn't done a thing to thaw the cold of interrogation that got lodged under her skin like shards of ice.
It was for her as much as it was for him, to stand on tiptoe and wrap her arms around his neck in the first half of a hug. It took Tony a moment to put his arms around her but there was no stress in the delay, no fear; it was just the pause of recalling something long disused. This was all right.
In this one thing, at least, there was no harm.
Tony was fairly certain that McGee was cheating, but he didn't care enough to call him on it. He was more focused on the front door; he wasn't sure how deliberate it had been that his chair at the kitchen table had a clear view of the front entryway, but he'd come downstairs from his shower to find the game set up and McGee and Yael already sitting. He was only half paying attention to the game anyway, and if Yael hadn't figured out that Colonel Mustard had killed Mr. Boddy in the the lounge with the rope in the first five minutes of game play, Tony would swallow a game piece whole.
He fiddled with the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt, only half-listening to McGee and Yael. The sun would be setting soon; Yael had said that Gibbs and Ziva would be coming home before dark. There was no way of knowing what would happen, but a hundred different scenarios still plagued him.
"Your roll," McGee said, handing Tony the die. He took it.
Your call, Yael had said earlier. His call; yet another choice he was supposed to be making. Which movie do you want to watch, Tony? Do you want eggs or waffles, Tony? He still mostly didn't care, but he was getting less likely to balk at being asked. This choice, he was still tempted to ask Yael to make for him. He couldn't think clearly about what would happen when Ziva was there.
His last clear memory of Ziva was of her hand, carding through his hair; he still had to fight off the impulse to reach up and retrace the path of her fingers with his own. He remembered leaning against Ziva, Ziva sitting with him, speaking softly, and he could almost taste the chocolate whenever he thought of that. Before that had been the long darkness, though, and before that the sharp prick of a needle in his arm and Ziva, Ziva angry, Ziva slapping him hard, calling him a liar again and again, and before that there was the strain in his neck and gravel under his knees in a dark alley, and more darkness, and his eyes watering in the harsh Israeli sun with the concrete hard and warm against his back and a gun pressed to his chest, his leg. It had been Ziva between him and the sun, Ziva holding that gun.
Ziva backlit by the sun, in the entryway of Gibbs' house.
He blinked several times but she was still standing there; still just standing there, gaze fixed on the floor, hands curled loosely at her sides and her shoulders slightly raised. The curly mess of her hair and the clean, white hoodie made her seem young. Younger.
Gibbs stepped back from the living room, casting a glance towards the kitchen. Ziva's shoulders hitched higher, but she still hadn't looked up.
Gibbs was just a shadow in his peripheral vision. Tony felt frozen, fixated, unable to look and see anything but Ziva until a hand touched his shoulder lightly, startling him into remembering that McGee and Yael were also there. McGee excused himself, the scraping of chair on tile and then footsteps filling the room. Yael was fixed on Tony with a piercing intensity, but that was a question - just a question. Nothing behind it but care.
He looked away from Yael and again at Ziva, but he put his hand below the edge of the table and took Yael's. You get to call the breaks, she'd said. He squeezed her hand, telling her that he remembered, that he understood.
He barely registered her returning the squeeze or Gibbs touching Ziva's shoulder because these took maybe a split-second and then Ziva looked up. He was caught off-balance first by the eye contact, and then by how human she seemed. This wasn't the woman who'd carelessly sat down at Kate's desk or the one who'd struck him down and held him or even the one he'd missed like breathing all the past summer.
Then her eyes slid sideways and Tony had to struggle to breathe, as if he'd just nearly drowned. He had maybe a second to try and get a grip before Ziva looked back again from Yael to him. This time she didn't quite make eye contact and Tony tried to focus on breathing, to keep breathing and not too shallowly.
Ziva moved, and only then Tony noticed that Gibbs had disappeared, too. Ziva's first steps were hesitant but her last three steps up to the kitchen table could have been a stride if they weren't so small. Her shoulders were too straight, forced, back stiff and tilting her chin up, just a little. It was like seeing double, half his mind seeing the Mossad spy he knew and half insisting that this was just a show, brittle and this close to snapping.
Her eyes skidded to Yael, again, and when they found his it was still like seeing a stranger: no anger directed at him, no hatred, no venomous and inexplicable resentment. There had never not been a coat of bitter resentment clinging to Ziva's every action and every word; he'd built up a thousand different women under her shell, but this was like facing a stranger.
"I know it isn't -" she began, and then paused and held in a breath before speaking again. "I'm not seeking forgiveness," she said, slowly and carefully. "I'm so- ani mitzta'eret, I'm so sorry."
He would probably never be able to understand all of the intricacies of her language, but he'd had four years to learn some of the basics. Usually when Ziva apologized in Hebrew she was being sarcastic, but that was a different phrase, even if it sounded nearly identical. This was a phrase she'd only used when she was so tired as to slip into Hebrew.
Today was Atonement Day. Yael had reminded him earlier. He understood just enough to know that Atonement Day was a whole lot more complex than he'd thought before Ziva had tried to explain it, but that was also enough to know that this was wrong. Asking forgiveness was part of the package, and it wasn't just God you were supposed to be talking to. It was an alien concept to wrap his mind around, having grown up with the idea of confession being between a person and God with a priest as an intermediary, but the Old Testament God wouldn't forgive where it was a person's place to do so.
Was Ziva not asking for forgiveness because she didn't think she needed it, or because she thought she had no place asking for it?
Maybe he wasn't breathing okay despite trying; things felt unreal. "Ziva," he said, and stopped. Her name had been a prayer just a few weeks before, and lately it had become a curse. Now it was just a name, though, magic stripped away like with this woman that was and wasn't Ziva. He had no idea what it meant, anymore.
Yael's hand tightened around his, just enough to remind him that she was there and that he wasn't alone, that he was the one calling the shots, this time.
It still took a moment to find any words at all, and he still had to swallow before he could speak. "Sit?"
It wasn't forgiveness. He didn't know if he could do that; wasn't even sure what he would be forgiving her for. This, though, this was tangible. This he could do.
Ziva didn't move, her eyes going wide in shock. Just as he was about to say Please, though, Yael muttered "Oh, lema'an hashem," and stood up, letting go of his hand. She walked over to Ziva and pulled her in for a fierce, brief hug before guiding her over to the chair across from Tony and crashing into the chair between them, putting her elbows on the table - knocking Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum off the game board in the process - and putting her face between her hands.
"For the record," she said after a moment, "we're all idiots."
"Speak for yourself," Tony said. The words were out of his mouth before he had even thought about saying something. His breath caught and his body tensed as he waited for a reaction that never came. Ziva didn't even blink.
Yael laughed wryly as she reached out towards both of them. Her hand was warm as she took his left hand into her right, bringing it up to her forehead. She did the same with Ziva's right, and Tony started when his and Ziva's fingers brushed against each other. The laughter cut off abruptly with a shaky inhale, and Tony realized just how close to tears Yael was.
Ziva startled for some reason, eyes going from Yael to him and then back to Yael. She just looked at Yael for several seconds and then, moving very slowly, leaned forward to rest her forehead against Yael's temple. He continued to hold Yael's hand, steady and solid, and a long moment passed before Tony realized he was crying.
Ziva had gone 36 hours without food, before; she'd gone even longer. She'd never gone this long without water, though. Her head had already been pounding when Gibbs had woken her up from that nap, before they came here. By the time Yael got up from the kitchen table, put both their hands down - still next to each other - and went to bang on the basement door, things had long begun to feel as if she had not slept in seventy hours. At least the headache didn't bother her as much, floating as she was.
Gibbs had sent Tim away, and the three of them to the couch. Yael fell asleep as soon as they settled down, her back leaning against Tony and her legs pressed against Ziva, who let her own head roll back. She didn't even notice that she was humming until Tony said, "Yael sings that."
"She loves to sing," Ziva said. She spoke without thought, but she'd seen the way Yael moved next to Tony, and he just said that she sang for him. Singing was intensely intimate, for Yael. She would sing with family and their basic training company, but Ziva had never heard her sing for anyone else.
She wanted to tell Tony that, what it meant. Watching the way Tony's arm cradled Yael and how they rested against each other, Ziva thought that she didn't have to.
"She says it's a prayer," Tony said.
Ziva had always tried to pretend away the song's first words. "I suppose that it is."
"There's another song she sings a lot." Tony fiddled with the edge of Yael's sweater; Yael, unsurprisingly, didn't stir. He began to hum the song but then cut himself off. "I think she said you don't like the singer -"
"Tony," she said. She couldn't hear that from him, that tone of voice - anxious, afraid. She forced herself to say "It's all right," and forced her voice to be steady, waited until his body relaxed again and the fear drained away from his face. Yael had certainly nearly woken at that.
Tony calmed down enough for Yael to not wake - Ziva's growling stomach clenched harder at the thought of what would've happened if Yael had woken up to Tony upset and Ziva the cause of it - but some concern remained. "She wouldn't say what it's about," he said, nearly inaudible.
Ziva swallowed. The few notes he'd hummed were enough for her to recognize the song. She could try and explain, but -
It took her a few moments to organize the words inside her head. "Far, far away, where both sky and desert end, there's a place full of wildflowers. It's a small place, miserable and mad, and it's full of worry. It's where they speak of what will be and think of what had been, where God sits and watches and worries over all that He has made. Don't pick the wildflowers, don't -" Her voice broke. She'd dug her nails into her palms as she forced herself to watch Tony, to see each and every emotion that flitted across his face as she recited the words.
"Oh."
Too many emotions; Ziva couldn't begin to decipher his voice. She swallowed, but did not let herself look away. The metaphor brought up another song, For man is like a tree; like the tree, he thirsts, and she latched on to that before the angry, scared impulse to make the onslaught of someone else's emotions stop could return.
When Gibbs came to fetch them Yael was still asleep, Tony nearly so and Ziva long hoarse.
It was only barely sunset when they sat at the table, but that was Yael's call, and Yael put a large juice bottle by Ziva's plate and cracked her own open, draining half a liter in the first, long gulp. Ziva did the same and then started on the garlic bread, slowly, waiting to see how her body would react before she tried the pasta.
The food would take at least half an hour to be sufficiently digested, but the effect from the juice was almost instantaneous. By the time they finished eating - Tony ate as slowly as her - her head had been clear for a while. Ziva glanced around the table, though it was still easier to not look directly at anyone. If someone had told her the day before that this would happen, she would have laughed at them; a month before and she would have scoffed and wondered why she would want it.
It felt good, though. Despite the skittishness still writ large all over Tony, despite the suspiciousness that occasionally broke through Gibbs' permanent scowl, despite Yael slipping into invisibility and only pulling herself out when Tony would flinch at it. They were still sitting at the same table, and it was the table that Tony had invited her to sit at and Yael had led her to - metaphorically as well as literally, Ziva thought.
The table in Gibbs' kitchen, but she was tired, too tired to think of that right then.
Yael got up - touching Tony's arm absentmindedly, idle reassurance - and began gathering the dishes.
"Leave them in the sink, I'll deal with them later," Gibbs ordered.
Yael didn't even bother to turn her head as she placed the dishes in the sink and opened the tap. "You cooked," she pointed out.
"I'd noticed," he said, tone dry. "The dishes can wait."
"Is that code for being a bad guest and leaving you the dishes?" she replied, just as dryly.
Gibbs' tone was deceptively mild as he said, "My house, my rules."
Yael turned off the tap, toweled off her hands and turned around to regard him, leaning back against the sink. "Accepting help may not be a bad behavior to model," she said, very dryly.
"Probably," Gibbs replied just as dryly.
They were being ridiculous, and Ziva was fairly certain that they could go at it all night. "One washes, one dries," she said, waving her hand at them. "Simple, yes?"
For a second she wondered if she'd done something wrong, but then Tony snorted and put his head down on the table, over his crossed arms. It could have been a defeatist gesture but Tony's shoulders were straight and relaxed, and that made the posture seem more amused than anything.
Tony picked his head up again and looked at Ziva. "Them? Simple?"
She wanted to retort, to not let this fragile thing drop, but Tony and she were looking straight at each other and it was easy, like the banter and the muscles around Tony's mouth that were very nearly a smile, and she couldn't breathe. Her eyes burned.
Gibbs pushed himself up, walked over to the sink and attempted to nudge Yael away from it by shouldering her aside. One and a half times her weight or not, she absorbed the force of it without shifting. "Sit down before you fall down, Dunski."
Ziva still couldn't breathe. She knew that tone of Gibbs', that stance of his: he acted this way with other soldiers, when he was on their side. Yael was fundamentally an officer, but the IDF and the US military were so different -
Yael didn't budge. She bumped Gibbs' shoulder in return, but the gesture was light, playful. "I thought we were being good role models?"
Gibbs, surprisingly, seemed thoroughly amused. "Not a chance in hell."
That was off, somehow. Since when did Gibbs -
Tony stared at them and snorted, but the snort morphed at the tail end of it, turning into a chuckle.
Yael turned her head to Gibbs, and so Ziva could see that her lips were twitching. "Aren't you supposed to be the responsible one?"
Gibbs smiled again and shrugged.
Yael shook her head, opened the tap and picked up one of the plates. "Just grab a towel."
"I wash, you dry," he said.
Yael's lips twitched again, but she stepped aside. "And people say I'm bossy."
Ziva caught Tony's eye as she coughed out a chuckle. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.
A second later, they were both laughing.
The song that Yael sang in ch.13 and which Ziva translates here is The Place of Worry (which in Hebrew is ambiguous with "Room enough to worry"), here in the Riki Gal-Matti Caspi duet, which is one of the canonized versions alongside their solos. (The vid genuinely has nothing to do with the song; it's just the only decent online copy.)
Authors: Hagar and Sailor Sol
Category: gen
Rating: overall M for captivity elements and intense emotional content
Summary: Goes AU after Aliyah. When Tony disappears two days before the Saleem op is a go, the team scrambles to find him - and to understand what an associate of La Grenouille and Israeli domestic intelligence have to do with it.
Chapter Title: Grace
Chapter Rating: T for canon-typical situations
Chapter Summary: Guilt can go to Azazel but responsibility remains.
AO3 | DW | LJ Below:
Hebrew note. There are two ways to express an apology in Hebrew. In female-singular-first person, those are "Ani mitzta'eret" and "Ani mitnatzelet." These translate roughly as "I'm sorry" and "I apologize", respectively. The meaning is about what you'd expect: the former expresses affect, and the latter a formality.
The interrogation room was long empty. Gibbs took Ziva to get a change of clothes and a hot shower. Yael had seen Eli's daughter killed; it was Gibbs' place to resocialize her. They hadn't talked about this: it was the kind of thing Yael could leave to Gibbs' instinctive behavior.
So the adjoining interrogation room had been empty for a while, but Yael was sufficiently confident that she'd be left be in the observation room. Quiet was good. She'd rather run back to back interrogations until she collapsed from sheer physical exhaustion than repeat the morning's performance.
The door creaked open.
The chair was angled to the glass, requiring her to tip her head ever so slightly to the side to get a full view of the newcomer.
She hadn't expected Dr. Mallard. Yael didn't so much work out the implications, as she already had contingencies prepared beforehand. She watched him move - careful and contained, not so much keeping her in his line of sight as allowing her to keep him in hers - as he pulled himself a chair and sat down, but not - she noticed - as if he intended to stay very long.
"Jethro said I might find you here," he said.
He was watching her carefully, but there was nothing more for him to observe beyond what he already would have. There was no reason for her to expect harm from Dr. Mallard knowing that she was curled up in a chair, alone in the dark.
"He didn't have the time to say much, but from the looks of it, you've all had quite the morning."
She didn't look at him, exactly, but she wasn't avoiding him, either.
"It's usually quiet in Autopsy as well. Well, peaceful." He threw in a small chuckle that was quite obviously fake, if a sincere attempt. "I do tend to fill the silence. There's also a bottle of cognac that could use some company." He dropped the mellow front; the look he gave her was quite sharp, and probably meant to appear that piercing. "You could use that, from the look of you."
She only didn't physically startle because she'd lost those instinctive reactions years before. There was nothing out of character in his demeanor or proposal, but she was surprised that he'd drawn her into his circle of care.
"It's Atonement Day," she said. Instinctively she cast back, searching through her photo-sharp memories of the morning: yes, these were the first words she spoke since she'd entered the interrogation room hours earlier.
He waived it off. "Medical reasons."
This was neither easy nor obvious for him. The signs of anxiousness were there, if expertly concealed: relative abruptness of his gesticulation, slightly increased tension in his posture and the way he sat, as if he wasn't sure he'd be staying or - she amended her earlier interpretation - as if wondering whether he should've come at all. She didn't want to have to turn down anything, if he was offering; and she knew she could use being soothed. Her backup, loaded, burned against her leg.
And yet.
She turned her head. She knew that he followed her gaze and when he noticed the water pitcher and glass because he uttered a soft, "Oh," which was promptly followed by: "You fast together."
She turned back her head, and found him already looking at her, considering her. "Yes," she said simply.
"You do feel responsible," he said, as if it was a revelation.
That hurt. She wasn't sure if it showed.
"Her blame," she said, electing to use the odd-sounding structure as it was closer to the Hebrew, to what she meant, "my responsibility."
"Interesting distinction," he said, and she almost wanted to smile because that was the aspect of him that acted as a therapist.
"A necessary one," she replied. After a moment, she said, "In ancient times, the priests would take a billy goat, and perform a ritual to transfer the People's sin unto the goat. Then the goat would be taken to the desert and chased there, to the demon of the desert, to Azazel."
"A scapegoat."
She shrugged. "Another billy goat carried the People's good deeds. That one was killed at the altar. Nowadays people wring the neck of a chicken in kaparot, in atonement, or give money to charity. Either way, though, the ritual does not stand in the place of the fast." Guilt can go to Azazel but responsibility remains, she meant, and Mutual responsibility does not preclude personal responsibility; Dr. Mallard could be trusted to pick up on those. Then she continued, just as factual but more quietly: "And nothing done before the Presence can atone for a sin done unto another person. Only that person holds that power."
Gibbs led her to the decontamination showers. It made sense, as the gym showers were never not busy but, even exhausted as she was, Ziva was not unaware of the irony. Decontamination, indeed. The duffel bag he'd handed her had almost certainly been packed by Yael, though. Ziva realized that as soon as she opened it and saw the stark whiteness of the hoodie. She got lost for a few minutes staring at it, and then shook herself, took the shower kit and the towel and headed into one of the stalls.
She came back to the clothes later. They were new. She should have realized that - she and Yael were not the same size - but it didn't quite occur to her until she touched the cotton. She spread the clothes out before dressing. Everything but the jeans was white, fitting of the day, and the newness of the clothes made it feel like Passover, like spring and freedom.
She dressed slowly.
Gibbs was waiting for her in the staging area outside the showers. Ziva was unsurprised at being allowed only the minimal privacy to shower and dress. She was acutely aware of her not being able to raise her eyes anywhere near his face, but if there was ever a time for not being able to meet someone's gaze then this one was it.
She didn't deserve any kindness, any compassion from Gibbs. She was still struggling to process the unloaded gun, but this she knew.
"I am sorry," she said. Her voice was too quiet, but that was just as well. "I am sorry for many things." She took a deep breath. Gibbs grunted, but he did not tell her to not apologize. That, too, was just as well.
She started from the beginning, as much as she knew where that was. "I am sorry for what I said to you in May and," she had to stop for a moment, "for the choice I made. My reasons - my reasons were wrong. My -" she couldn't make herself say my father. "He made it about loyalty, loyalty to Israel. I think, now, that he was," envious, like I was, "scared of you. I gave in without thinking, without," she closed her eyes, even though she was looking at the tile. "I should have known better. Should have trusted better. Grief is no excuse for that.
"Grief is also no excuse for what I did -" she pressed her palms to her mouth on instinct, breathing hard. It was a long moment before she could remove them. She opened her eyes. "Tony," she said, letting his name carry everything. "I - I do not -" Another long moment. "I was wrong for being angry with him. I understand that, now. Grief does not excuse that and it does not excuse -" She was trembling, hands clenching and unclenching futilely at her sides, head still bowed. "Something is wrong with me," she said, and this time her voice came much clearer, somewhat louder. "Something has been wrong with me for a very long time. I'm only beginning to - " The words tasted of blood and gun metal as she said: "I can only believe I should not be dead now if I trust Yael's judgment over my own completely."
There was a moment of silence before Gibbs finally spoke. "Not me you need to apologize to."
She swallowed hard. "Not only you," she said, voice too soft again.
His footsteps on the tile were clear, but she didn't realize he stepped towards her and not away from her until he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. She couldn't help the flinch, light as his touch was. She was still trembling.
"Hey," he said. His voice was as gentle as his touch. It made as much sense as Yael handing her an empty gun after going to all that trouble. "One step at a time."
She opened her mouth to say something - perhaps a confirmation - but no words came out. Her throat was blocked, her mind empty, the tremors only increasing. Her eyes burned. Mutely, tears began streaming down her face.
Gibbs' hand travelled up from her chin to her cheek, touch still light as his thumb brushed some of her tears away.
"C'mere," he said, and for a moment Ziva did not understand but his hand that was at her face moved around her head, cradling the back of it, the other one tugging gently at her waist as he pulled her close. It still took her another moment to understand, and then it was just his hands and the weight of him that held her up as she collapsed against his chest, silently crying.
The sound from the television drifted out into the street, but barely. The curtains had been thrown open to let the sunlight in, so Yael knew that Tim and Tony were on the couch and that lunch had been sandwiches and - most likely - tomato soup. Neither of them noticed her approach before she pushed the front door in, grocery bags hanging off both arms.
The movie was paused before she was through the door. Tim - who was closer to the door - shot to his feet, shoulders squaring back in a nervous gesture that in Yael's experience was reserved for brass and in her opinion deserved for no one; Tony - tucked into the far corner of the couch but sitting straight - barely shifted, but his attention focused and zeroed in on her. He looked better, healthier, despite the worry pinching his face.
"Where's Gibbs?" Tim asked, the nervousness also evident in his voice.
"With Ziva," Yael said, letting the door close behind her. Tony got promptly to his feet. Both he and Tim followed her to the kitchen. "They'll be around later," she added as she put the bags down on the kitchen table and began unpacking. She pointed Tim to the soft drinks. "Put these in the fridge, would you?"
Tim did so, but not without half-frowning and asking: "Did Gibbs ask you to do his grocery shopping for him?"
"It's for fastbreaking," she said evenly as she put the cookies and crackers away for the time being.
"Who's been fasting?" Tim asked, still confused.
This warranted raising her eyebrows at him. "Seven of ten non-observant Israeli Jews fast on Atonement Day," she informed him. She has not fasted since the year she'd turned twelve and was first allowed to, but there was no need to tell him that.
His cheeks flushed pink. "Oh. Sorry. I just thought... well, Ziva never fasts."
Yael deliberately considered the stack of high-calorie, easily digestible foods, clearly too much for a single person. "This year she does, too." Tony has been standing slightly to the side, watching her intently, more present and seemingly clear-headed than she'd seen him yet. She turned to him, forcing her body out of the professional stance. "How was your Sunday?"
"What happened?" Tony asked instead. His voice a little too rough - he might have not said more than half a dozen words since morning, if Tim was the one with him - and the edge of worry evident. It was almost like a concern for a friend, though, and much less like the stark desperation of a week before.
"The traffickers and the 2J were apprehended by the FBI," she said, "as were Oren Shimoni and Daniel Singer, though they will be extradited to Israel later. The rest of the Shema group will be apprehended in a few hours, when the fast has ended in Israel. The country's effectively shut down for now." She paused, but continued before he could ask again. "We retrieved Ziva. Gibbs and she should be here before sunset."
There were words she didn't say in that pause. There are some things I need to tell you, and This was my op, Tony. I put her there. I didn't pull you out. I didn't okay this, but I put intelligence gain before your safety. I am sorry. And words she knew better than to want to say, though they were true: I'd do it all again, but I am sorry. She wouldn't say any of it, though, not this year; not when it was I need to tell you and not yet You need to know. In a year, if they would still be in each other's lives then, or in two: however long it would take. And then she would apologize for the delay and the omission as well.
Tim startled. "He's bringing her here?" he asked, shooting a concerned glance at Tony, who failed to notice, still locked on Yael.
"For fastbreaking," she said, not looking at Tim. Her focus hasn't wavered, either. Tony had already gained some minimal ability to protect his emotions by Saturday, and had improved since. The first, overall impression was nervous engagement. Reserve was the top layer - in his shoulders, around his mouth - and then either guilt or shame, closely tied to it; his balance shifted forward, spine straightening and stretching in engaged attention that was for Yael's words, not Yael herself - curiosity; and under that, closely guarded against in his chest and in the crow's feet around his eyes, that naked need. It would take long to recover, she knew, but this was good, this was better.
"Your call, Tony," she told him gently. "You get to call the breaks, at any point."
It was more choice than he expected and more power than he felt ready for: it was evident in the way his posture softened and hunched in, like a small child, and in how wide his eyes became.
"At any point, Tony," she repeated, still soft and gentle. "You don't need to decide now."
He nodded once, slowly and hesitantly, but not - she thought - tentatively. He still looked off-balance and on edge, but not pleading and not as vulnerable.
Good enough, she thought. Tim was in the room, but to hell with that. She'd been away from home too long; even daily phone calls were only a poor substitute, and the brightness of Autopsy and the sunlight outside - always unseasonably warm, on Atonement Day - hadn't done a thing to thaw the cold of interrogation that got lodged under her skin like shards of ice.
It was for her as much as it was for him, to stand on tiptoe and wrap her arms around his neck in the first half of a hug. It took Tony a moment to put his arms around her but there was no stress in the delay, no fear; it was just the pause of recalling something long disused. This was all right.
In this one thing, at least, there was no harm.
Tony was fairly certain that McGee was cheating, but he didn't care enough to call him on it. He was more focused on the front door; he wasn't sure how deliberate it had been that his chair at the kitchen table had a clear view of the front entryway, but he'd come downstairs from his shower to find the game set up and McGee and Yael already sitting. He was only half paying attention to the game anyway, and if Yael hadn't figured out that Colonel Mustard had killed Mr. Boddy in the the lounge with the rope in the first five minutes of game play, Tony would swallow a game piece whole.
He fiddled with the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt, only half-listening to McGee and Yael. The sun would be setting soon; Yael had said that Gibbs and Ziva would be coming home before dark. There was no way of knowing what would happen, but a hundred different scenarios still plagued him.
"Your roll," McGee said, handing Tony the die. He took it.
Your call, Yael had said earlier. His call; yet another choice he was supposed to be making. Which movie do you want to watch, Tony? Do you want eggs or waffles, Tony? He still mostly didn't care, but he was getting less likely to balk at being asked. This choice, he was still tempted to ask Yael to make for him. He couldn't think clearly about what would happen when Ziva was there.
His last clear memory of Ziva was of her hand, carding through his hair; he still had to fight off the impulse to reach up and retrace the path of her fingers with his own. He remembered leaning against Ziva, Ziva sitting with him, speaking softly, and he could almost taste the chocolate whenever he thought of that. Before that had been the long darkness, though, and before that the sharp prick of a needle in his arm and Ziva, Ziva angry, Ziva slapping him hard, calling him a liar again and again, and before that there was the strain in his neck and gravel under his knees in a dark alley, and more darkness, and his eyes watering in the harsh Israeli sun with the concrete hard and warm against his back and a gun pressed to his chest, his leg. It had been Ziva between him and the sun, Ziva holding that gun.
Ziva backlit by the sun, in the entryway of Gibbs' house.
He blinked several times but she was still standing there; still just standing there, gaze fixed on the floor, hands curled loosely at her sides and her shoulders slightly raised. The curly mess of her hair and the clean, white hoodie made her seem young. Younger.
Gibbs stepped back from the living room, casting a glance towards the kitchen. Ziva's shoulders hitched higher, but she still hadn't looked up.
Gibbs was just a shadow in his peripheral vision. Tony felt frozen, fixated, unable to look and see anything but Ziva until a hand touched his shoulder lightly, startling him into remembering that McGee and Yael were also there. McGee excused himself, the scraping of chair on tile and then footsteps filling the room. Yael was fixed on Tony with a piercing intensity, but that was a question - just a question. Nothing behind it but care.
He looked away from Yael and again at Ziva, but he put his hand below the edge of the table and took Yael's. You get to call the breaks, she'd said. He squeezed her hand, telling her that he remembered, that he understood.
He barely registered her returning the squeeze or Gibbs touching Ziva's shoulder because these took maybe a split-second and then Ziva looked up. He was caught off-balance first by the eye contact, and then by how human she seemed. This wasn't the woman who'd carelessly sat down at Kate's desk or the one who'd struck him down and held him or even the one he'd missed like breathing all the past summer.
Then her eyes slid sideways and Tony had to struggle to breathe, as if he'd just nearly drowned. He had maybe a second to try and get a grip before Ziva looked back again from Yael to him. This time she didn't quite make eye contact and Tony tried to focus on breathing, to keep breathing and not too shallowly.
Ziva moved, and only then Tony noticed that Gibbs had disappeared, too. Ziva's first steps were hesitant but her last three steps up to the kitchen table could have been a stride if they weren't so small. Her shoulders were too straight, forced, back stiff and tilting her chin up, just a little. It was like seeing double, half his mind seeing the Mossad spy he knew and half insisting that this was just a show, brittle and this close to snapping.
Her eyes skidded to Yael, again, and when they found his it was still like seeing a stranger: no anger directed at him, no hatred, no venomous and inexplicable resentment. There had never not been a coat of bitter resentment clinging to Ziva's every action and every word; he'd built up a thousand different women under her shell, but this was like facing a stranger.
"I know it isn't -" she began, and then paused and held in a breath before speaking again. "I'm not seeking forgiveness," she said, slowly and carefully. "I'm so- ani mitzta'eret, I'm so sorry."
He would probably never be able to understand all of the intricacies of her language, but he'd had four years to learn some of the basics. Usually when Ziva apologized in Hebrew she was being sarcastic, but that was a different phrase, even if it sounded nearly identical. This was a phrase she'd only used when she was so tired as to slip into Hebrew.
Today was Atonement Day. Yael had reminded him earlier. He understood just enough to know that Atonement Day was a whole lot more complex than he'd thought before Ziva had tried to explain it, but that was also enough to know that this was wrong. Asking forgiveness was part of the package, and it wasn't just God you were supposed to be talking to. It was an alien concept to wrap his mind around, having grown up with the idea of confession being between a person and God with a priest as an intermediary, but the Old Testament God wouldn't forgive where it was a person's place to do so.
Was Ziva not asking for forgiveness because she didn't think she needed it, or because she thought she had no place asking for it?
Maybe he wasn't breathing okay despite trying; things felt unreal. "Ziva," he said, and stopped. Her name had been a prayer just a few weeks before, and lately it had become a curse. Now it was just a name, though, magic stripped away like with this woman that was and wasn't Ziva. He had no idea what it meant, anymore.
Yael's hand tightened around his, just enough to remind him that she was there and that he wasn't alone, that he was the one calling the shots, this time.
It still took a moment to find any words at all, and he still had to swallow before he could speak. "Sit?"
It wasn't forgiveness. He didn't know if he could do that; wasn't even sure what he would be forgiving her for. This, though, this was tangible. This he could do.
Ziva didn't move, her eyes going wide in shock. Just as he was about to say Please, though, Yael muttered "Oh, lema'an hashem," and stood up, letting go of his hand. She walked over to Ziva and pulled her in for a fierce, brief hug before guiding her over to the chair across from Tony and crashing into the chair between them, putting her elbows on the table - knocking Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum off the game board in the process - and putting her face between her hands.
"For the record," she said after a moment, "we're all idiots."
"Speak for yourself," Tony said. The words were out of his mouth before he had even thought about saying something. His breath caught and his body tensed as he waited for a reaction that never came. Ziva didn't even blink.
Yael laughed wryly as she reached out towards both of them. Her hand was warm as she took his left hand into her right, bringing it up to her forehead. She did the same with Ziva's right, and Tony started when his and Ziva's fingers brushed against each other. The laughter cut off abruptly with a shaky inhale, and Tony realized just how close to tears Yael was.
Ziva startled for some reason, eyes going from Yael to him and then back to Yael. She just looked at Yael for several seconds and then, moving very slowly, leaned forward to rest her forehead against Yael's temple. He continued to hold Yael's hand, steady and solid, and a long moment passed before Tony realized he was crying.
Ziva had gone 36 hours without food, before; she'd gone even longer. She'd never gone this long without water, though. Her head had already been pounding when Gibbs had woken her up from that nap, before they came here. By the time Yael got up from the kitchen table, put both their hands down - still next to each other - and went to bang on the basement door, things had long begun to feel as if she had not slept in seventy hours. At least the headache didn't bother her as much, floating as she was.
Gibbs had sent Tim away, and the three of them to the couch. Yael fell asleep as soon as they settled down, her back leaning against Tony and her legs pressed against Ziva, who let her own head roll back. She didn't even notice that she was humming until Tony said, "Yael sings that."
"She loves to sing," Ziva said. She spoke without thought, but she'd seen the way Yael moved next to Tony, and he just said that she sang for him. Singing was intensely intimate, for Yael. She would sing with family and their basic training company, but Ziva had never heard her sing for anyone else.
She wanted to tell Tony that, what it meant. Watching the way Tony's arm cradled Yael and how they rested against each other, Ziva thought that she didn't have to.
"She says it's a prayer," Tony said.
Ziva had always tried to pretend away the song's first words. "I suppose that it is."
"There's another song she sings a lot." Tony fiddled with the edge of Yael's sweater; Yael, unsurprisingly, didn't stir. He began to hum the song but then cut himself off. "I think she said you don't like the singer -"
"Tony," she said. She couldn't hear that from him, that tone of voice - anxious, afraid. She forced herself to say "It's all right," and forced her voice to be steady, waited until his body relaxed again and the fear drained away from his face. Yael had certainly nearly woken at that.
Tony calmed down enough for Yael to not wake - Ziva's growling stomach clenched harder at the thought of what would've happened if Yael had woken up to Tony upset and Ziva the cause of it - but some concern remained. "She wouldn't say what it's about," he said, nearly inaudible.
Ziva swallowed. The few notes he'd hummed were enough for her to recognize the song. She could try and explain, but -
It took her a few moments to organize the words inside her head. "Far, far away, where both sky and desert end, there's a place full of wildflowers. It's a small place, miserable and mad, and it's full of worry. It's where they speak of what will be and think of what had been, where God sits and watches and worries over all that He has made. Don't pick the wildflowers, don't -" Her voice broke. She'd dug her nails into her palms as she forced herself to watch Tony, to see each and every emotion that flitted across his face as she recited the words.
"Oh."
Too many emotions; Ziva couldn't begin to decipher his voice. She swallowed, but did not let herself look away. The metaphor brought up another song, For man is like a tree; like the tree, he thirsts, and she latched on to that before the angry, scared impulse to make the onslaught of someone else's emotions stop could return.
When Gibbs came to fetch them Yael was still asleep, Tony nearly so and Ziva long hoarse.
It was only barely sunset when they sat at the table, but that was Yael's call, and Yael put a large juice bottle by Ziva's plate and cracked her own open, draining half a liter in the first, long gulp. Ziva did the same and then started on the garlic bread, slowly, waiting to see how her body would react before she tried the pasta.
The food would take at least half an hour to be sufficiently digested, but the effect from the juice was almost instantaneous. By the time they finished eating - Tony ate as slowly as her - her head had been clear for a while. Ziva glanced around the table, though it was still easier to not look directly at anyone. If someone had told her the day before that this would happen, she would have laughed at them; a month before and she would have scoffed and wondered why she would want it.
It felt good, though. Despite the skittishness still writ large all over Tony, despite the suspiciousness that occasionally broke through Gibbs' permanent scowl, despite Yael slipping into invisibility and only pulling herself out when Tony would flinch at it. They were still sitting at the same table, and it was the table that Tony had invited her to sit at and Yael had led her to - metaphorically as well as literally, Ziva thought.
The table in Gibbs' kitchen, but she was tired, too tired to think of that right then.
Yael got up - touching Tony's arm absentmindedly, idle reassurance - and began gathering the dishes.
"Leave them in the sink, I'll deal with them later," Gibbs ordered.
Yael didn't even bother to turn her head as she placed the dishes in the sink and opened the tap. "You cooked," she pointed out.
"I'd noticed," he said, tone dry. "The dishes can wait."
"Is that code for being a bad guest and leaving you the dishes?" she replied, just as dryly.
Gibbs' tone was deceptively mild as he said, "My house, my rules."
Yael turned off the tap, toweled off her hands and turned around to regard him, leaning back against the sink. "Accepting help may not be a bad behavior to model," she said, very dryly.
"Probably," Gibbs replied just as dryly.
They were being ridiculous, and Ziva was fairly certain that they could go at it all night. "One washes, one dries," she said, waving her hand at them. "Simple, yes?"
For a second she wondered if she'd done something wrong, but then Tony snorted and put his head down on the table, over his crossed arms. It could have been a defeatist gesture but Tony's shoulders were straight and relaxed, and that made the posture seem more amused than anything.
Tony picked his head up again and looked at Ziva. "Them? Simple?"
She wanted to retort, to not let this fragile thing drop, but Tony and she were looking straight at each other and it was easy, like the banter and the muscles around Tony's mouth that were very nearly a smile, and she couldn't breathe. Her eyes burned.
Gibbs pushed himself up, walked over to the sink and attempted to nudge Yael away from it by shouldering her aside. One and a half times her weight or not, she absorbed the force of it without shifting. "Sit down before you fall down, Dunski."
Ziva still couldn't breathe. She knew that tone of Gibbs', that stance of his: he acted this way with other soldiers, when he was on their side. Yael was fundamentally an officer, but the IDF and the US military were so different -
Yael didn't budge. She bumped Gibbs' shoulder in return, but the gesture was light, playful. "I thought we were being good role models?"
Gibbs, surprisingly, seemed thoroughly amused. "Not a chance in hell."
That was off, somehow. Since when did Gibbs -
Tony stared at them and snorted, but the snort morphed at the tail end of it, turning into a chuckle.
Yael turned her head to Gibbs, and so Ziva could see that her lips were twitching. "Aren't you supposed to be the responsible one?"
Gibbs smiled again and shrugged.
Yael shook her head, opened the tap and picked up one of the plates. "Just grab a towel."
"I wash, you dry," he said.
Yael's lips twitched again, but she stepped aside. "And people say I'm bossy."
Ziva caught Tony's eye as she coughed out a chuckle. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.
A second later, they were both laughing.
The song that Yael sang in ch.13 and which Ziva translates here is The Place of Worry (which in Hebrew is ambiguous with "Room enough to worry"), here in the Riki Gal-Matti Caspi duet, which is one of the canonized versions alongside their solos. (The vid genuinely has nothing to do with the song; it's just the only decent online copy.)