Transitional States II, Ch39
Author's Note: Rated M for language, sexual situations, violence, and Mossad being portrayed as the good guys for a change, something the canon show seems incapable of doing, just like they lie about Tony & Ziva's relationship "rapidly evolving" in the first five episodes of season 7 unless their definition of of evolving is synonymous with 'rushing back to last year's status quo and stagnating while Tony turns into a complete & utter jackass.'
This chapter takes place about a week after the previous one.
Ziva
Her apartment felt too empty.
Nothing appeared to have changed in the almost four months since she’d last stood in the living room, but it no longer really felt like home. Every single room was ominously silent, so much so that she made a careful sweep throughout the entire apartment with the service pistol Gibbs had given her along with the discharge orders from the hospital. She checked all of the potential hiding places inside the apartment before making sure that the windows and doors were safely secured. This led to another, more intensive sweep throughout each room, during which she uncovered no less than four bugs. Three were of American manufacture - probably Central Intelligence, although she did not entirely rule out the FBI, the NSA, or Homeland Security - but the fourth she recognized as originating from Mossad.
Another hour passed while she ripped apart her apartment in an attempt to find more recording devices, which was no easy task with one of her arms in a cast. No piece of furniture was safe and, before she realized it, Ziva had torn apart her couch and disassembled all of the lamps. Suddenly horribly embarrassed and unable to look at the mess she had wrought in this moment of weakness, Ziva retreated to the bathroom where she crawled into the empty tub and let the tears fall.
An eternity later, she limped out of the bathroom, her muscles stiff and sore from the awkward position she had been sitting in. Her broken arm and still-healing jaw ached, reminding her that it was long past time for one of the painkillers she’d been given upon release from Bethesda earlier this morning, but Ziva pushed the discomfort down. This pain was nothing compared to past injuries and she was already calculating the best way to use the cast as a weapon should it be necessary. She had earlier concealed a thin knife in it, one constructed from ceramics so it would not set off a metal detector.
She crawled into her too wide bed - had it grown while she was away? She did not recall having this much room when she went to sleep and it frankly disconcerted her - and spent another few hours tossing and turning in an ultimately failed attempt to get comfortable. Even with the thick comforter that Abby had given her at her last birthday, she couldn’t seem to get warm and all the ambient noises sounded wrong. Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she rolled out of the bed and retraced her steps to the bathroom where she fumbled through the various medicines that she’d been prescribed. One of them was a mild sedative, and she swallowed it dry before making another circuit through the apartment to double-check the doors and windows. When she finally dozed off, it was a restless sleep filled with uncomfortable dreams and dark memories.
The knock at the front door startled her out of one such nightmare, and she reacted instantly, swinging the pistol out from underneath her pillow to point it toward the noise. Her heart pounded loudly and, for the span of an impossibly long moment, she was back in the Russian gulag, waiting for the next of her would-be rapists to enter her cell. She swallowed a bitter curse as the knock repeated, this time accompanied by a familiar voice.
“Ziva?” Michael Rivkin called out.
“Hold your cows,” she replied, raising her voice so he would be able to hear her. The moment the idiom left her lips, Ziva frowned. That wasn’t right. It was horses, not cows. But why would someone hold horses? Stupid Americans and their stupid idioms.
When she opened the door, Michael gave her a quick, appraising look, worry and guilt lurking in his eyes. He looked exhausted, with dark circles underneath his eyes and a three-day beard on his chin. When she gestured for him to enter, he did so hesitantly. The moment he caught sight of her ruined living room, he glanced at her. She shrugged.
“I was looking for more recording devices,” she admitted sourly as she pushed the door shut and locked it without thinking. The moment she realized what she had done, Ziva blushed.
But she didn’t unlock the door.
“Your father asked me to stop by and see how you were doing before I leave,” Michael said in Hebrew. He kept his eyes trained on a spot exactly three centimeters to the left of Ziva’s face.
“I am … as well as can be expected,” she replied. “You are being reassigned?” Rivkin nodded.
“Deputy Director Ayalon has been making … noises about the misuse of Kidon operatives in recent weeks,” he revealed. “I believe he is trying to sway the prime minister to give him your father’s job.”
“Ayalon’s idea of subtlety is an air strike,” Ziva remarked wryly. “He would make a poor director of Mossad.” She frowned in sudden comprehension of Rivkin’s obvious discomfort. “Michael,” she said carefully, “you are not to blame for what happened to me.”
“Am I not?” he asked sharply. “It was my job to keep you and Tony safe and I failed!” Ziva winced at the raw self-hatred she could hear in his voice and reached out for his hand. She did not bother pointing out that no one knew how Drantyev discovered the truth about their identities, even if the safe gamble - or was that safe bet? Stupid English - was on the CIA agent, Trent Kort.
“We are alive,” she pointed out. “You found us and saved us.” Michael’s shoulders drooped and he pinned her with a look so intense it almost caused her to recoil.
“I was not fast enough,” he said. Ziva smiled.
“Then in the future,” she said, “be faster.” Michael forced a grin on his face and Ziva allowed her hand to drop. “I have been barred from driving by my doctors,” she said. Rivkin nodded in understanding.
“Yes,” he replied to the question she had not yet phrased, “I will drive you to Bethesda.”
To her secret relief, Michael stepped outside the apartment so she could change clothes and offered no comment when she locked the door behind him, even though Ziva hated herself a little bit for needing the extra security. It was something she knew she would have to face in the future, but at the moment, she was more worried about Tony. Even though he had pretended to be fine last night when he joined the doctors and Gibbs in ordering her home for a night in her own bed, she had seen how he was rapidly withdrawing into himself by internalizing all of his misplaced guilt and trying to deflect notice behind his mask of humor. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to get him to stop blaming himself for things that were out of his control.
“I have some photographs I need you to examine,” Michael said glumly when they climbed into his rental car. Ziva flinched - she had been expecting this, although not so soon - and nodded. He handed her a digital viewer before locking his eyes on the road ahead of them. With a sigh, Ziva powered the device up and began cycling through the images of corpses. She reached the end of her mental list long before they ran out of photos.
“All of them are dead,” she remarked in a dull voice, suddenly unsure about her emotions. She had wanted to kill some of these men herself for what they had done to her - and Tony - but her father, in his zeal to prove that he was not the monster she had begun to think of him as, had already had them killed. Violently. Most had died at the gulag, killed by SEALs or Hadar’s Kidon team, and a pair of them had died in Los Angeles. She didn’t know where the last two had been killed and honestly did not care. As she reached the last photo - a man named Dmitri Shuvalov - she caught sight of Michael frowning. “What?” she demanded.
“That man,” Rivkin said slowly, hesitantly. “When Tony saw his photo …” He trailed off, uncomfortable and visibly unsure how to continue.
“I know,” Ziva murmured. She knew exactly why Tony reacted to this man’s image, even though she had not been meant to overhear the doctors discussing the unmistakable evidence of sexual assault. “Who killed him?” she asked in a clear change of subject. Michael’s relief was tangible.
“Gibbs,”he said.
“Good,” Ziva said, even though she wished that it had been her who had killed this man. It would not have been quick and it would not have been painless.
Abby was sitting in one of the chairs outside Tony’s hospital room when they arrived, looking so bored that she seemed to be on the verge of spontaneously imploding. She visibly perked up at Ziva’s approach, gave Michael an approving look that had more than a hint of interest in it, before smiling brightly.
“The nurses threw me out so they could change his bandages,” she said. “They should be done in a few minutes.” Ziva nodded and accepted the hug her friend offered. “He’s not doing so well today,” Abby whispered. “Gibbs swung by earlier and they just stared at each other for like an hour.”
“Was he angry?” Ziva asked.
“Gibbs?” At Ziva’s nod, Abby shook her head. “No, he’s as worried about Tony as the rest of us. He just sucks at actually communicating in real words.” Ziva smiled. Before she could reply, Abby let her go and stepped closer to Michael, offering her hand. “Nobody’s bothered to actually introduce us,” the Goth said with another friendly smile, “so … hi! I’m Abby Scuito.” Rivkin accepted her hand and returned the smile.
“Michael Rivkin.”
“Are you on an expense account for Mossad?” Abby asked, the non sequitur causing Michael to blink. “Because I’m starving and I think Ziva would like to be alone with Tony for a while.” Rivkin chuckled.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I am.”
“Great!” Abby looped her arm through Michael’s and began steering him toward the elevator. “And while we’re at it,” she said, “you can give me all sorts of blackmail material on Ziva!” Rivkin laughed before shooting Ziva a quick, mischievous look.
“I think I have just the thing, Miss Scuito.”
They vanished around the corner and, for a heartbeat, Ziva was unsure what had just happened. She shook it off and sank into the chair so recently vacated by Abby.
When the nurses emerged from Tony’s room long minutes later, Ziva ducked through the doorway, pausing just long enough to see that he was actually conscious for a change. With his arms and legs encased in casts, he looked like a stereotypical bad skier from countless bad comedy movies, many of which he had forced her to watch or at least recommended to her. The blank, listless expression in his eyes, however, shattered that image and reminded her that he had been brutally beaten and tortured for almost a week straight. By comparison, she had gotten off relatively lightly. She moved closer to him, noting how he immediately reacted to her approach with something like caution or wariness. To her relief, he relaxed once he recognized her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she leaned over the bed and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“I hurt everywhere,” Tony replied. He closed his eyes. “Ducky talked the doctors into dialing back on the drugs,” he revealed with a grimace, “so at least I’m not totally insane tonight.”
“Good,” Ziva replied. “I was concerned that I might need to smother you with a pillow before escaping through the window.”
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” Tony identified with a smile that almost touched his eyes. “You have learned well, my apprentice.” He let his eyes drift away and the good cheer waned. “Gibbs was here,” he said. “He didn’t say a word but I could tell he blamed me for Jenny.”
“Stop it,” Ziva ordered, the sharpness of her words causing him to look at her. “You are not to blame, Tony.” He opened his mouth to disagree, but she pressed on. “Agent Decker was murdered by Chernytskya’s operatives the day you and I were captured,” she pointed out. “They planned this for a long time.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tony muttered. “I couldn’t hold out.”
“No one can,” Ziva whispered. She used her good hand to tilt his face back toward her. “You are the only one who thinks you are responsible, Tony. Gibbs is just worried … how did Abby put it? He sucks at communicating with real words.” To her delight, Tony responded with a real smile that lit up his face for a moment.
“Abs said that?” At Ziva’s nod, Tony shook his head. “Just when you think you know somebody…” He closed his eyes and was silent for long seconds. “I spoke with Vance today,” he said. Ziva hooked the chair with her foot and dragged it closer so she could sit.
“And?” she asked.
“I asked for a reassignment,” Tony said. “I just want to go back to being a Navy cop. No more undercover crap for me,” he continued before smirking. “Though apparently, your dad offered to give me a job with the Institute.” Ziva blinked, well aware of Tony’s eyes on her and completely unsure how to respond. She struggled daily with the knowledge that Eli actually liked DiNozzo and could not shake the memory of the gentle, amused smile her father gave her when she refused to return to Tel Aviv with him for her convalescence. He had even laughed when she tried to explain that Tony needed her before kissing her lightly on the cheek and reminding her that the man in front of her needed to be Jewish if they planned to have a traditional ceremony.
She shook her head to clear it.
“He likes you,” she said.
“Guess I’ve got a way with your family,” Tony replied in a tone that was a touch too light.
“Ari thought you were a fool,” Ziva said automatically, wincing the moment the words left her lips. “I’m sorry,” she started.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said in response. “He doesn’t really count ‘cause he was a Haswari, not a David.”
“If my mother or Tali were alive,” Ziva offered, “they would have loved you.”
“Well my dad would hate you,” Tony replied with another forced smile, “and that’s probably the best compliment I can think of at the moment.” He stared at her for a long moment. “What happens now?” he asked softly, and Ziva could hear all of the unspoken questions in his voice. Their undercover assignment was over so they no longer had a legitimate excuse to hide behind in regards to their relationship. “At the risk of sounding girly,” Tony said, “I’m not sure if I can do this without you.” Ziva smiled.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said before leaning forward to kiss him again.
A/N #2: While I'm normally dissatisfied with my "Abby voice," I was pleasantly surprised at how she turned out in her tiny little scene here.
And there's only one more chapter to go with Part 2...
This chapter takes place about a week after the previous one.
Ziva
Her apartment felt too empty.
Nothing appeared to have changed in the almost four months since she’d last stood in the living room, but it no longer really felt like home. Every single room was ominously silent, so much so that she made a careful sweep throughout the entire apartment with the service pistol Gibbs had given her along with the discharge orders from the hospital. She checked all of the potential hiding places inside the apartment before making sure that the windows and doors were safely secured. This led to another, more intensive sweep throughout each room, during which she uncovered no less than four bugs. Three were of American manufacture - probably Central Intelligence, although she did not entirely rule out the FBI, the NSA, or Homeland Security - but the fourth she recognized as originating from Mossad.
Another hour passed while she ripped apart her apartment in an attempt to find more recording devices, which was no easy task with one of her arms in a cast. No piece of furniture was safe and, before she realized it, Ziva had torn apart her couch and disassembled all of the lamps. Suddenly horribly embarrassed and unable to look at the mess she had wrought in this moment of weakness, Ziva retreated to the bathroom where she crawled into the empty tub and let the tears fall.
An eternity later, she limped out of the bathroom, her muscles stiff and sore from the awkward position she had been sitting in. Her broken arm and still-healing jaw ached, reminding her that it was long past time for one of the painkillers she’d been given upon release from Bethesda earlier this morning, but Ziva pushed the discomfort down. This pain was nothing compared to past injuries and she was already calculating the best way to use the cast as a weapon should it be necessary. She had earlier concealed a thin knife in it, one constructed from ceramics so it would not set off a metal detector.
She crawled into her too wide bed - had it grown while she was away? She did not recall having this much room when she went to sleep and it frankly disconcerted her - and spent another few hours tossing and turning in an ultimately failed attempt to get comfortable. Even with the thick comforter that Abby had given her at her last birthday, she couldn’t seem to get warm and all the ambient noises sounded wrong. Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she rolled out of the bed and retraced her steps to the bathroom where she fumbled through the various medicines that she’d been prescribed. One of them was a mild sedative, and she swallowed it dry before making another circuit through the apartment to double-check the doors and windows. When she finally dozed off, it was a restless sleep filled with uncomfortable dreams and dark memories.
The knock at the front door startled her out of one such nightmare, and she reacted instantly, swinging the pistol out from underneath her pillow to point it toward the noise. Her heart pounded loudly and, for the span of an impossibly long moment, she was back in the Russian gulag, waiting for the next of her would-be rapists to enter her cell. She swallowed a bitter curse as the knock repeated, this time accompanied by a familiar voice.
“Ziva?” Michael Rivkin called out.
“Hold your cows,” she replied, raising her voice so he would be able to hear her. The moment the idiom left her lips, Ziva frowned. That wasn’t right. It was horses, not cows. But why would someone hold horses? Stupid Americans and their stupid idioms.
When she opened the door, Michael gave her a quick, appraising look, worry and guilt lurking in his eyes. He looked exhausted, with dark circles underneath his eyes and a three-day beard on his chin. When she gestured for him to enter, he did so hesitantly. The moment he caught sight of her ruined living room, he glanced at her. She shrugged.
“I was looking for more recording devices,” she admitted sourly as she pushed the door shut and locked it without thinking. The moment she realized what she had done, Ziva blushed.
But she didn’t unlock the door.
“Your father asked me to stop by and see how you were doing before I leave,” Michael said in Hebrew. He kept his eyes trained on a spot exactly three centimeters to the left of Ziva’s face.
“I am … as well as can be expected,” she replied. “You are being reassigned?” Rivkin nodded.
“Deputy Director Ayalon has been making … noises about the misuse of Kidon operatives in recent weeks,” he revealed. “I believe he is trying to sway the prime minister to give him your father’s job.”
“Ayalon’s idea of subtlety is an air strike,” Ziva remarked wryly. “He would make a poor director of Mossad.” She frowned in sudden comprehension of Rivkin’s obvious discomfort. “Michael,” she said carefully, “you are not to blame for what happened to me.”
“Am I not?” he asked sharply. “It was my job to keep you and Tony safe and I failed!” Ziva winced at the raw self-hatred she could hear in his voice and reached out for his hand. She did not bother pointing out that no one knew how Drantyev discovered the truth about their identities, even if the safe gamble - or was that safe bet? Stupid English - was on the CIA agent, Trent Kort.
“We are alive,” she pointed out. “You found us and saved us.” Michael’s shoulders drooped and he pinned her with a look so intense it almost caused her to recoil.
“I was not fast enough,” he said. Ziva smiled.
“Then in the future,” she said, “be faster.” Michael forced a grin on his face and Ziva allowed her hand to drop. “I have been barred from driving by my doctors,” she said. Rivkin nodded in understanding.
“Yes,” he replied to the question she had not yet phrased, “I will drive you to Bethesda.”
To her secret relief, Michael stepped outside the apartment so she could change clothes and offered no comment when she locked the door behind him, even though Ziva hated herself a little bit for needing the extra security. It was something she knew she would have to face in the future, but at the moment, she was more worried about Tony. Even though he had pretended to be fine last night when he joined the doctors and Gibbs in ordering her home for a night in her own bed, she had seen how he was rapidly withdrawing into himself by internalizing all of his misplaced guilt and trying to deflect notice behind his mask of humor. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to get him to stop blaming himself for things that were out of his control.
“I have some photographs I need you to examine,” Michael said glumly when they climbed into his rental car. Ziva flinched - she had been expecting this, although not so soon - and nodded. He handed her a digital viewer before locking his eyes on the road ahead of them. With a sigh, Ziva powered the device up and began cycling through the images of corpses. She reached the end of her mental list long before they ran out of photos.
“All of them are dead,” she remarked in a dull voice, suddenly unsure about her emotions. She had wanted to kill some of these men herself for what they had done to her - and Tony - but her father, in his zeal to prove that he was not the monster she had begun to think of him as, had already had them killed. Violently. Most had died at the gulag, killed by SEALs or Hadar’s Kidon team, and a pair of them had died in Los Angeles. She didn’t know where the last two had been killed and honestly did not care. As she reached the last photo - a man named Dmitri Shuvalov - she caught sight of Michael frowning. “What?” she demanded.
“That man,” Rivkin said slowly, hesitantly. “When Tony saw his photo …” He trailed off, uncomfortable and visibly unsure how to continue.
“I know,” Ziva murmured. She knew exactly why Tony reacted to this man’s image, even though she had not been meant to overhear the doctors discussing the unmistakable evidence of sexual assault. “Who killed him?” she asked in a clear change of subject. Michael’s relief was tangible.
“Gibbs,”he said.
“Good,” Ziva said, even though she wished that it had been her who had killed this man. It would not have been quick and it would not have been painless.
Abby was sitting in one of the chairs outside Tony’s hospital room when they arrived, looking so bored that she seemed to be on the verge of spontaneously imploding. She visibly perked up at Ziva’s approach, gave Michael an approving look that had more than a hint of interest in it, before smiling brightly.
“The nurses threw me out so they could change his bandages,” she said. “They should be done in a few minutes.” Ziva nodded and accepted the hug her friend offered. “He’s not doing so well today,” Abby whispered. “Gibbs swung by earlier and they just stared at each other for like an hour.”
“Was he angry?” Ziva asked.
“Gibbs?” At Ziva’s nod, Abby shook her head. “No, he’s as worried about Tony as the rest of us. He just sucks at actually communicating in real words.” Ziva smiled. Before she could reply, Abby let her go and stepped closer to Michael, offering her hand. “Nobody’s bothered to actually introduce us,” the Goth said with another friendly smile, “so … hi! I’m Abby Scuito.” Rivkin accepted her hand and returned the smile.
“Michael Rivkin.”
“Are you on an expense account for Mossad?” Abby asked, the non sequitur causing Michael to blink. “Because I’m starving and I think Ziva would like to be alone with Tony for a while.” Rivkin chuckled.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I am.”
“Great!” Abby looped her arm through Michael’s and began steering him toward the elevator. “And while we’re at it,” she said, “you can give me all sorts of blackmail material on Ziva!” Rivkin laughed before shooting Ziva a quick, mischievous look.
“I think I have just the thing, Miss Scuito.”
They vanished around the corner and, for a heartbeat, Ziva was unsure what had just happened. She shook it off and sank into the chair so recently vacated by Abby.
When the nurses emerged from Tony’s room long minutes later, Ziva ducked through the doorway, pausing just long enough to see that he was actually conscious for a change. With his arms and legs encased in casts, he looked like a stereotypical bad skier from countless bad comedy movies, many of which he had forced her to watch or at least recommended to her. The blank, listless expression in his eyes, however, shattered that image and reminded her that he had been brutally beaten and tortured for almost a week straight. By comparison, she had gotten off relatively lightly. She moved closer to him, noting how he immediately reacted to her approach with something like caution or wariness. To her relief, he relaxed once he recognized her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she leaned over the bed and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“I hurt everywhere,” Tony replied. He closed his eyes. “Ducky talked the doctors into dialing back on the drugs,” he revealed with a grimace, “so at least I’m not totally insane tonight.”
“Good,” Ziva replied. “I was concerned that I might need to smother you with a pillow before escaping through the window.”
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” Tony identified with a smile that almost touched his eyes. “You have learned well, my apprentice.” He let his eyes drift away and the good cheer waned. “Gibbs was here,” he said. “He didn’t say a word but I could tell he blamed me for Jenny.”
“Stop it,” Ziva ordered, the sharpness of her words causing him to look at her. “You are not to blame, Tony.” He opened his mouth to disagree, but she pressed on. “Agent Decker was murdered by Chernytskya’s operatives the day you and I were captured,” she pointed out. “They planned this for a long time.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tony muttered. “I couldn’t hold out.”
“No one can,” Ziva whispered. She used her good hand to tilt his face back toward her. “You are the only one who thinks you are responsible, Tony. Gibbs is just worried … how did Abby put it? He sucks at communicating with real words.” To her delight, Tony responded with a real smile that lit up his face for a moment.
“Abs said that?” At Ziva’s nod, Tony shook his head. “Just when you think you know somebody…” He closed his eyes and was silent for long seconds. “I spoke with Vance today,” he said. Ziva hooked the chair with her foot and dragged it closer so she could sit.
“And?” she asked.
“I asked for a reassignment,” Tony said. “I just want to go back to being a Navy cop. No more undercover crap for me,” he continued before smirking. “Though apparently, your dad offered to give me a job with the Institute.” Ziva blinked, well aware of Tony’s eyes on her and completely unsure how to respond. She struggled daily with the knowledge that Eli actually liked DiNozzo and could not shake the memory of the gentle, amused smile her father gave her when she refused to return to Tel Aviv with him for her convalescence. He had even laughed when she tried to explain that Tony needed her before kissing her lightly on the cheek and reminding her that the man in front of her needed to be Jewish if they planned to have a traditional ceremony.
She shook her head to clear it.
“He likes you,” she said.
“Guess I’ve got a way with your family,” Tony replied in a tone that was a touch too light.
“Ari thought you were a fool,” Ziva said automatically, wincing the moment the words left her lips. “I’m sorry,” she started.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said in response. “He doesn’t really count ‘cause he was a Haswari, not a David.”
“If my mother or Tali were alive,” Ziva offered, “they would have loved you.”
“Well my dad would hate you,” Tony replied with another forced smile, “and that’s probably the best compliment I can think of at the moment.” He stared at her for a long moment. “What happens now?” he asked softly, and Ziva could hear all of the unspoken questions in his voice. Their undercover assignment was over so they no longer had a legitimate excuse to hide behind in regards to their relationship. “At the risk of sounding girly,” Tony said, “I’m not sure if I can do this without you.” Ziva smiled.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said before leaning forward to kiss him again.
A/N #2: While I'm normally dissatisfied with my "Abby voice," I was pleasantly surprised at how she turned out in her tiny little scene here.
And there's only one more chapter to go with Part 2...