Dark Chocolate and Red Wine [5/5]
Sep. 18th, 2009 11:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snowdarkredTony drove his crap car to the office as fast as the piece of junk could take him. He got pulled over half way there for going thirty miles over the speed limit, but he (only slightly, dammit) abused his badge and got out of it with a warning. He drove away, waiting until the traffic officer was out of sight before pulling out the special lights and flashing them all the way to the base.
He arrived at work eleven hours after he heard Abby's message. Stumbling from fatigue and worry, he made his way up to his team's floor. He wondered why, exactly, he was rushing to see Ziv—her. She had torn the team's world apart, made him deal with Kate-parallels and murdering boyfriends, giant metal boxes and team dinners without his presence.
Tony waited for the elevator doors to open, his stomach a bundle of raw nerves. Guilt, Resentment, Hope, and Gratitude tangled with Anger and a dash of Despair until he wasn't sure he'd be able to do anything by throw up, again and again, until the awful burning in his lungs went away. The elevator pinged, announcing his arrival and he stepped out of the doors--
He froze, his muscles seizing of their own accord at the sight of Ziva, a scar on her face and a tenseness that hadn't been there before hovering around her brows, framed between the team. His team.
Ziva sat at his desk, a small smile listing to the side at the people around her. Gibbs leaned on his own desk, angled perfectly to watch Ziva like a hawk, worry in every military-straight line of his body. McGee smiled, open and inviting while Abby bounced around a talkative Ducky. Palmer stood next to McGee, laughing at a wiry comment from Ziva. Kacia stood to the side, the outsider for the first time in a long time.
Kacia turned when the elevator opened and spotted him. Tony swallowed hard and nodded once to her before turning around and pressing the button for the lobby. He left.
----
Fuck off. Don't leave a message.
(Beep) Anthony David DiNozzo, where the hell are you?!! Ziva came to the office today. I know you've had time to fly back and be here two times over! Don't be a dick, you dick! Seriously, she's still a part of the team, that mess doesn't mean anything! It was totally hinky! Please, Tony, jus—[message has been deleted]
----
Tony would like to say that the sound of someone pounding at his door that night surprised him, but while he knew lying came naturally to him, he was getting tired of feeling like a fake. The mess with Jeanne and Jenny had sent him on a downward spiral, mixing him up in the head so bad that even now, over year later, it was still spinning in his head. God, he was such a fuck up.
Liar, lair, FUBAR pants on fire, he thought as he opened the door, revealing....
It wasn't Abby, or Gibbs, or anyone else Tony had been expecting. Seeing as the last time they had seen each other had been full of pain, sweat, and unbearable crushing heat, the last person Tony thought would be standing in front of his door was Ziva David. Her cheeks were red, the color sharpening the contrast between her smooth face and the jagged scar that ran down her cheek. Tony couldn't tell if the blush was due to the exertion of charging up the stairs to his apartment on the third floor or embarrassment.
Whatever. It didn't matter now.
Ziva stood, framed in the doorway to his dark apartment, glowing in the light from the hallway, and Tony couldn't stop his eyes from following the puffy scar down from her hairline to the corner of her left eyebrow to even father down to her exposed collarbone. It looked angry and raw and matched the haunted look in her eyes.
“Tony,” she said, hr eyes looking past him into his apartment, taking in the boxes and empty shelves, and Tony could see her brain churning out a logical—and completely wrong—conclusion. “What—”
“Come in,” he said, cutting her off. He didn't want to have this conversation with her standing outside his door like a desperate ex-girlfriend, not to mention the scar....
She hesitated before complying, her expression stiff and uncomfortable. The easiness she had gained while at NCIS had slipped away, leaving her grasping at her background for strength. It made him pity her, just a little, that she was apparently going through what he had these past few months, but then he remembered “team” dinners and terrorists and secrets that kept piling on, and how she had been so mad when he revealed his undercover assignment and keeping secrets when she had been doing so all along.
Hypocrite.
Ziva stepped carefully into his apartment and turned, keeping her back to the wall while looking around. She paused a moment and said, “I have not ever seen your apartment before now.”
“I never invited you,” Tony said, his words meant to cut. He felt like an asshole immediately after, but he held strong. He wasn't just going to roll over for her; he was done doing that, for anyone. Even Gibbs. Even Ziva. He didn't know what had happened to her over the past few months, and he couldn't bring himself to lie and say he didn't care, but he wouldn't let it affect him. She had made her choice. She would live with it, even if it had been painful, and violent, and lonely.
Ziva only sighed at his words and looked at his piano situated in what was supposed to be the dining room. “You told me once that your music teacher used to hit you when you made mistakes,” she murmured, stepping closer to it. She moved until her back was to Tony and then she stopped, deliberately, exposing herself to him, making herself vulnerable.
“She did,” he answered, staring at her. What was she up to? Ziva did everything for a reason.
“I was half in love with you, you know,” she said suddenly, still not facing him. He heard her swallow wetly. “I wish that was enough of an excuse. I did not.... I did not mean to hurt you like that, but Michael....”
Tony didn't say anything. Ziva wanted to be absolved, but he wasn't a priest, and she wasn't Catholic. He held his silence as she continued.
“I know that I have messed everything up, and I am sorry. Apologies may be a sign of weakness, but I am currently feeling weak, so it seems appropriate.” She took a shuddering breathe. “What happened....”
Tony stopped himself from falling into old habits and comforting her, stopped himself from whispering it's okay, I know you didn't mean it, and everything will be okay, because it was useless and because it never works. Like Boy Scouts putting band-aids on bullet wounds. God, how pathetic.
She turned to face him, the faint light from the streetlamps outside outlining the scar. She stepped forward a little, but he backed away, his body remembering what had happened the last time she had gotten close. She stopped, reading his movements in the dim twilight.
“What has happened to the team, Tony?” she asked, her voice soft. “What happened while I was away? Everyone tensed when I said your name. I know I don't have the right, but I want back on the team. Our team.” She paused and then seemed to try for a lighter mood. She made another faulty assumption. “Who was that woman at my desk? She acted like a zonah. She seems as flat as a—”
“Ziva,” he said, “shut up before you embarrass yourself.” He breathed deeply and said, “Is that all you have to say? If so, get the fuck out.” He was reminded suddenly of Gibbs' Totally Not Cool and Invasive Apartment Raid, and how Trent had sounded when he threatened to shoot Gibbs if the man didn't leave. He would not shoot Ziva, even if she did refuse to leave, because he really didn't want to have to deal with another dead Mossad officer, but he was prepared to call Gibbs. He fingered the cellphone in his pocket, expecting her to bite back with a rush of insults.
“What is up with you and Gibbs?” she said instead. Tony stared at her, wondering at the change in spoken topics and whether she really could read minds. Then his brain caught up.
“Huh?”
“It is obvious that there is something going on.” She hesitated again, her eyes flinty as they focused on him. “You two have always been close.” Was she fishing? She seemed so sure....
Fuck it. If Ziva, who had been doing God knows what and God knows who during her absence, had figured out that something was not right between Gibbs and Tony than the whole damn world knew, and Tony might as well put up a goddamn billboard.
Tony didn't answer her. There was anger welling inside him, looking for an outlet. What did Ziva know about anything? What gave her the right to question him? To try and squeeze back into the place she had vacated. He thought about Kacia, left to the side as the team hovered around Ziva, no one even bothering to attempt to include her in the proceedings. Anger. Resentment. Guilt that he had left Kacia there alone. Tony ushered Ziva to his door, not saying a word, and then laid it on her when the stiff silence became too much.
“My girlfriend died, I fucked your replacement, and I just got back from having kinky sex with Trent fucking Kort in Italy. Also, Kacia Noor is twice the agent you ever were.” And then he slammed the door in her scarred, apathetic face.
----
After he was sure that Ziva was gone, he sat on his couch and wondered what to do. He felt like going out and getting hammered and picking up a nameless partner from a seedy bar to have anonymous sex. He felt like curling up in a ball and not ever leaving his apartment again. He felt like catching a plane back to Italy.
The only thing that stopped him from going that last one was the knowledge that Kort was already long gone. The CIA agent wouldn't have stayed in one place after Tony left; it was against training. So Tony had no outsider to run to, no one who wouldn't judge him for not wanting his partner back. Tony sank his head into his hands and wondered when his life became so damn complicated.
----
Eventually, he grabbed his keys, his wallet, and his badge and gun and left, walking down the stairs to his crap car. The only good thing about having his precious Mustang blown sky high was that he no longer had to worry about someone stealing his mode of transportation. He scowled at the POS and wished his goddamn '66 Mustang had survived, because it was so much cooler and full of awesome than this thing.
Tony realized that his internal rant was leaning toward the hysterical. With a shake of his head, he climb into the (dirty, horrible, so uncool) seat of his car, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out of his slot. He told himself that he didn't have a destination in mind.
Liar, liar, FUBAR pants on fire.....
----
Gibbs' house looked exactly the same, an outward icon of suburban bliss. But Tony wasn't fooled by the normalcy of the exterior, knowing that Gibbs had lost his American dream a long time ago. He paused, half expecting his boss to appear in the doorway, outlined in silvery light, just like last time.
No one appeared at the door.
Tony cursed himself for cowardice. He couldn't assume that Gibbs would make it easier for him. That wasn't the man's way. Tony rested one slightly shaking hand on the manual window roll up, remembering all the times Gibbs had been framed in the window of his crappy car. The first time, he had come to Tony and Tony had run away. The second time, Tony had come to Gibbs and Gibbs had met him partway. This was the third time and it was all in Tony now. It should have been easy, should have been a breeze. Tony could face down drug dealers, serial killers, and celebrities. He could get out of his car, open the unlocked door, and talk to his boss. To his....
He got out of the car and walked to the door.
----
The smell of sawdust and bourbon mingled in the air. Tony listened to the creaks of the steps as he descended down into the basement. He heard Gibbs pause in his sanding and listen to his footfalls. The silence from the lack was almost deafening for all its brevity. Gibbs resumed sanding just before Tony's feet met the concrete floor. He didn't stop, even when Tony walked to his side and ran his hands over its already smooth surface.
“Ziva came by my apartment,” he said to the boat. He felt Gibbs hesitate again, and Tony felt his heart flutter in an utterly senseless manner. They were standing close enough that the movement of Gibbs' hands brought his arms brushing gently against Tony's side. He was more aware of Gibbs than he had ever been before, back when everything was simpler.
“How'd that go?” Gibbs asked, picking up his rhythm again. Tony echoed the motions again, recalling Gibbs' hands over his years ago, saying, sand with the grain of the wood, don't stop until it's perfect.
“While I admit my Hebrew is rusty, I believe she called Kacia a bitch. Or a whore. I couldn't tell.”
Gibbs didn't turn to stare at Tony, or anything so dramatic, but he did heave a sigh of regret. “I see. What did you do?”
“I lost my temper,” Tony admitted, still mirroring Gibbs' work on the boat. The wood felt real under his hands, real and solid and there. More there than anything had been these last few months. “What right did she have to judge Kacia like that?”
“She's been through a lot, DiNozzo,” Gibbs said, and for some reason that made Tony almost as angry as Ziva had.
“Well I've been through a lot too!” he snapped. It was all messed up in his head, Baylee and Bailey, Kate and Paula and Michelle and Ziva, fuck, Ziva. “I trusted her,” he whispered, hating how broken his voice sounded. He hadn't felt this weak since he realized that his father had to be reminded that he left his son alone in a hotel room in a strange city. “I trusted her....”
There, he'd said it. He had trusted Ziva, maybe even loved her, though not in the way that she had loved him. Half, he thought, she was half in love with me. It wasn't supposed to matter, he knew, but here, in the Gibbs' basement with the scent of sawdust thick in the air, here he could break down. He sucked in a shuddering breath and leaned on the boat, strong and sturdy and real. Like Gibbs. Like Gibbs, who had been willing to met him half-way, to stumble through this mess together.
“Gibbs,” he said, as Gibbs set his sanding equipment aside and turned towards him. Tony looked at him, at his boss, his friend, his everything. “Jethro....”
“Let's go upstairs,” Gibbs murmured. He placed his hand at the back of Tony's neck, and Tony revealed in the realness, the here-ness, of the gesture.
“Yeah,” Tony agreed.
----
Tony made omelets in the morning.
----
He and Gibbs sat down in Gibbs' rarely used living room. Tony wiggled as he leaned back in an armchair, loving the way he felt. Gibbs' style in bed was the perfect blend of gentle and rough, demanding and giving. He eyed the way Gibbs filled out that white button up and felt inappropriate thoughts creeping up.
No, bad Tony, he scolded himself. You have to concentrate.
“We broke Rule Number Twelve,” Gibbs said to the silence. The man was upset with himself, Tony could see it in his stiffness.
“I think we shattered Rule Number Twelve,” Tony purred. Gibbs didn't back down. Shit. “Okay then, how about this: Fuck Rule Number Twelve. We've been dancing around this for too long.”
Gibbs regarded him severely, his blue eyes piercing through Tony's brashness. “DiNozzo, you work for me. We just had sex. That changes things.”
“Well, Jethro,” Tony said. “What if I didn't work for you any more?”
----
The meeting with Vance was awkward and stiff, but Tony came prepared. He laid out the paperwork and stared the Director down, using every silent intimidation technique he had learned over the years. The other man scowled at him, but Vance had nothing on Gibbs, so Tony didn't even pretend to feel anything other than smugness. Vance couldn't deny his point, though, so the papers got signed, and Tony left with a grin and a casual hand wave.
----
“Hey Kacia,” he said early that Monday. His teammate looked up from her desk (when had it become her desk instead of her desk, anyway) and raised her eyebrows at him. He saw Ziva look up from the corner of his eye. She was sitting at the desk usually reserved for visiting FBI agents and people Gibbs didn't want to deal with. Usually one and the same.
“What,” Kacia replied, short and to the point as ever.
“Want to be on my team?” he said, ignoring the turning heads from around the office. He heard frantic typing from the field agents closest to him, and he mentally snorted, figuring that the entire NCIS staff would know about it within the hour. Kacia regarded him closely and then glanced at the surrounding agents.
She didn't bother merely snorting mentally. “Sure.”
“Excellent,” he grinned, ignoring the shock on Ziva's face. He nodded at Kacia and walked away, ready to go see Human Resources about sending out applications for the new Major Case Response Team (the Sequel).
----
They sat in Gibbs' basement, two narrow mouthed wine glasses, a pound of dark chocolate, and an open bottle of Henry Block 7 Zinfandel between them. It Happened One Night played on the tiny TV in the corner. Tony poured the wine into the glasses and snorted fondly at Gibbs' suspicious glare at the drink.
“It's sad that you've never experienced this before, Jethro,” he smiled, enjoying the uneasiness his—lover? Boyfriend? Soulmate?—showed at the idea of being asked to judge a bottle of wine. Gibbs preferred the harder stuff, but Tony was determined to broaden Gibbs' horizons and show him that slow and sweet was just as effective as fast and hard. Tony picked up the glass and swirled it gently.
Tony's mind liked taking that thought straight to the gutter.
“I prefer drinks that put hair on your chest,” Gibbs retorted, but he obediently copied Tony's movements with the wine glass.
“Hmf,” Tony sniffed. “More like burns it off. Now sip it slow,” he instructed. “It's not a tequila shot.”
Gibbs turned his glare from the wine to his—lover? Soulmate? “I know how to drink wine, Tony.” But his words lacked bite and he did as Tony said, keeping the liquid on his tongue rather than gulping it down.
Tony broke off a piece of the chocolate, glad that he had splurged and bought the obscenely expensive imported kind. Perfect. He slipped the piece in his mouth and watched while Gibbs copied him. Then—
It was too much to resist, watching that surprised expression flicker across Gibbs' face. Tony leaned forward, arching over the space between them, and kissed his lover, his friend, his soulmate.
God, he loved the taste of dark chocolate and red wine.
END
Rotten Bastard (Trent Kort)-->>
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Drop a line and let me know what you think! I'm dying to know!
(I think I've got all the formatting stuff fixed. We'll see.)
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2009-10-10 12:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-10 01:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-10 01:31 pm (UTC)(Y-you do? *runs around and flails* ... Does that mean I'm famous? ;D)
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Date: 2009-10-10 01:41 pm (UTC)Some of the best stuff just comes out of no where! And then it happens, and you're stuck staring at it going, huh? But it works, so you can't change it. (This happens to me a lot. My muses are rather persistent and chaotic.)
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Date: 2009-10-10 01:45 pm (UTC)Absolutely. I love when that happens, when the character(-muses) just take over and you just sit there going "did I really just write that?"
... Unfortunately, that hasn't happened to me in quite a while now.
Also, that icon is gorgeous.
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Date: 2009-10-10 02:07 pm (UTC)I hope you get struck by incredible inspiration soon!
Thanks! It was made by
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Date: 2009-10-10 03:55 pm (UTC)Hm, my main problem is that I am just entirely way too busy - even if I did get struck by inspiration, I probably wouldn't have time to write it. (And silly me for trying to write a Big Bang again this year... *facepalms*)
It does indeed go very well with your name :D
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Date: 2009-10-10 04:06 pm (UTC)Example post: Today, I asked my boyfriend what he would do it I turned into a zombie. I expected him to say he would regrettably have to kill me and mourn my death. He said he would keep me as a pet. I love him more than ever. MLIA.
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Date: 2009-10-10 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-10 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-11 01:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-13 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-13 11:33 am (UTC)