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Case File: Allegiance [Classified]
These aren’t the Tony & Ziva we know. In this reality, they’re hired assassins - sometimes rivals, sometimes associates given joint contracts, & known to share both a mutual attraction and antagonism toward each other (the latter rarely getting in the way of the former). When Ziva’s father is killed, the pair join forces to find his killer and bring him to justice.
See this post for more info and the original concept video! Or, you can always find the video here.
Also, there’s another snippet here, and for inquiring minds: “Angel Eyes” is a reference to The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly. :)
I. Israel
"I still don’t like it," Tony reiterates later. He twirls a lock of her hair around a fingertip and adds, "I just think it’s too risky, considering the payoff."
Ziva huffs. “How many times must we go over this?” She kicks tangled bedsheets away from her legs. “Last I checked, it was I who am in charge of this operation - not you.”
She rises angrily to her feet, ignoring the painful tug on her scalp as Tony fails to release his captive curl in time, and stalks over to the window. Looking out at the Israel sunset she tries to marshal her thoughts.
"Oh, I’m well aware," Tony’s voice says from behind her. The sarcasm colouring his tone sends Ziva’s back shooting ramrod straight. "God forbid a day goes by that you don’t remind me. But last I checked, the guy putting his life on the line for you should get some say in how he kicks the bucket.”
"No one asked you to be here," she snaps, whirling around to face him. She cuts a hand through the air. "No one. And buckets have nothing to do with it."
"They will if you go ahead with this plan." The mattress squeaks as Tony shifts higher on one elbow. "It’s a gamble - a bad one - and you damn well know it."
"I also know that it is all we have, and it has taken us this long to get it."
"There’ll be other leads - we just have to keep digging." He fixes her with an imploring stare. "So let’s keep digging. You’re smarter than this, Angel Eyes."
"Do not -" Ziva clenches her jaw, resets her feet - "do not try to manipulate me."
”Manipu-“
"This is the reality, it is what it is. Two days from now I will be boarding a plane to Stockholm - whether you are on it or not is entirely up to you."
She crosses her arms and waits. Tony stares for a beat - equal parts incredulous and defiant - then flops heavily onto his back. Beneath him the bed lets out a groan of protest. “Fine,” he says. “Fine.”
It should feel like victory, but Ziva registers only unwanted relief. She jerks her head in a short nod. “Good.” Never thank you; gratitude is just another word for debt.
"I wanted to be a basketball player," Tony says in response, eyes on the ceiling. "Why aren’t I a basketball player?"
Though a snippy response springs to Ziva’s tongue, it sticks when she realizes she does not, honestly, know. “Can you even play basketball?” she asks, padding a few halting steps closer.
"Can I play basketball," he scoffs. "Won three championships at my boarding school, two of them as Captain. I could be living the high life, right now: cushy NBA spot, model on my arm -" he turns toward her once more "- though I have to say the view from here isn’t anything to complain about."
"Ugh." Ziva closes the remaining distance between them and snatches up the sheet she discarded earlier. Holding it in front of her she searches the room for her clothes.
"Seriously, though," Tony says, "it used to be all I ever wanted. Going pro." He gestures lazily to where Ziva’s shirt hangs from a lampshade. "You must’ve had something like that, too. Some dream from another lifetime."
The cotton fabric slips in her grasp; she catches it, draws it back up too quickly and her fist connects with her chest in a resounding thump. With a single blink she forces her face smooth. “No. Nothing.”
"Oh come on, when you were a little girl you dreamed of doing hits for a living?"
"Of course not," Ziva says. And this is easier, more familiar - she drops her blank mask to arch a brow. "I am an assassin, not a psychopath."
Letting the sheet fall to the floor, she goes to get her shirt.
II. Stockholm (a few days later)
Ziva threads the needle through fragile skin - in, and out; in, and out - in a ritual she’s memorized by rote: to survive as a killer, you must also know how to heal.
She says, “I am nearly done,” an eternity after she begins, and finds her voice hoarse from disuse and the scars of clawing fear. “Just a few more stitches.”
"Thank God," Tony tries to laugh. He ends up wincing. "Afraid I was going to end up looking like Frankenstein."
"Frankenstein was the Doctor," Ziva responds, eyes never leaving the still too-wide swath of red before her. In, and out; in, and out. "Not the monster."
Tony releases a whistling grunt. “Really? You’re going to quibble with the injured guy? I’ve beenshot.”
"You were winged."
"A bullet hit me: I was shot. OW, seriously? I’m not a pincushion."
Ziva pauses to glare up at him. “I liked it better when you were silent.” She slides a soothing hand over his abdomen nonetheless. Repeats, “Just a few more.”
Tony nods dumbly, brow creased in pain.
"It is a deep wound," Ziva says. In, and out. "I hope I cleaned it well enough."
Another attempt at a wheezing chuckle. “Sure as hell felt like you did, trust me.”
"I am," she says, again stopping in her ministrations, "very sorry that this happened. You told me it was a bad idea, and I didn’t -"
"Hey," Tony interrupts. He runs two shaking fingers down her cheek, where - she knows - a bright purple bruise has begun to blossom. "I told you it was a bad idea, and I decided to come anyway. No apologies necessary."
There’s a bloody towel on the floor by her knees.
"Alright." Ziva readies the needle, and beneath her other palm - the one still resting on Tony’s stomach - she feels his muscles tense. "A ballerina," she says, and drives the gleaming silver down and through.
"What?" he chokes out.
In, and out.
"I wanted to be a ballerina."
He doesn’t respond right away; Ziva thinks he may stop breathing entirely. Heat prickles across her cheeks and she redoubles her concentration on weaving his torn side back together. Tries not to regret speaking the words aloud, simply be thankful that they may have managed to distract him even a little.
"A ballerina," he says at length. He sounds deep in thought, experimenting with the concept as he rolls it off his tongue. "I can see it."
Suspicions arising, she asks, “You are picturing me in a leotard, aren’t you?”
"Maybe now," Tony allows. "But mostly I was just thinking it makes sense…" He inhales sharply when Ziva tugs on the thread a little too tightly. "…what with how graceful you are…s’the first thing I noticed about you."
Ziva finishes the final stitch and - unsure what she will find when she does - meets his eyes. They’re glassy, yet intent upon her, and rich with an emotion she can’t quite interpret.
Maybe doesn’t want to interpret.
"All done," she says instead, sitting back on her heels.
"All done," Tony echoes. "I’d ask you to hand me the pain meds, but I’ve clearly had enough."
It’s Ziva’s turn to force a laugh because all they have is aspirin. “Perhaps.”
"I can, though. See it."
And the smile that pulls at her lips is not forced at all.